Well that was that

10 inches of snow, -15°C at night, very untypical for Paris. This time it's not climate changes fault. The reason for this absurd phenomenon is quite simple actually: I am back in Germany.
God, how I missed it. Especially after being welcomed back by a winter where even mammoths trampling down the backyards of the whole neighbourhood would be only a mediocre surprise.
My time in Paris, especially towards the end, went by very quick. Being the serious literate, scholar and keen observer of the human condition that I am, it is now time for a resumé ( = french word I've learned).
Looking back at my first post and the ambitious goals I set myself from the outset, I have to say that I did pretty well all things considered. After all I did live in a very shady room (might have actually been overachieving here). The mouse infested dark little place underneath the apartment of an eighty something year old ex prostitute would have impressed even Charles Beaudelaire.
As far as the consumption of cheap red wine goes, I can say I tried my best, but “cheap” is a very relative term in Paris. So let's just say I drank the worst there was.
The dark thoughts about the misery of mankind turned out to be a little problematic I must say. Despite meeting quite a large number of rather unpleasant people, humanity as a whole seemed pretty alright. So I guess those individuals should be considered exceptions proving the rule.
A cunt, is a cunt, is a cunt....
Overall you could say that while being as bohemian as could be on the outside it was my mindset that prevented me from becoming an "authentic boheme" whatever the fuck that means. After this failure, however, I set a new goal for myself. Next stop: Bad boy, and I guess using the word “cunt” three times in a row would be a decent start.
So long, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it at least a little bit, even though you should definitely question your use of your freetime

Greetings from the exwannabebohemian and future badassmotherfucker

Chinatown

Chinatown

The faster you move, the slower time passes. Now you're probably asking yourself: Why is a discovery by a brilliant mind like Einstein being quoted in blog by a guy who still doesn't fully understand why the apple fell on Newton’s head?

The reason is simple: I believe it to be true. Since the semester is over and I'm moving even slower than I already did before, time is just flying by. February is already half over. This means I only have a few more weeks left here which really is a shame since there is still so much to do and discover.

A few days back I went to Belleville – the Chinese district of Paris. I had only heard about it after asking an Asian friend where he lived. The answer: “Belleville – like the rest of us”.

The centre of this little enclave is a long street scaling a steep hill towards the highest point of Paris. The pavements are cobbled with little merchants. I'm not saying little because they're Asian, but because most of them only have one styrofoam box that they use as a table, on top of which they mostly place odd assortments such as 4 bananas, 15 lighters, 2 Pairs of socks and a fish. And this is not an exaggeration! All around me there were hardly any signs or conversations that I understood. Even ordering food by pointing at things proved rather difficult since I really couldn't tell what all these weird things were. I still don't know what I had, but it tasted better than it smelled.

Arriving at the top of the hill I felt suddenly out of breath. Physics again – well played Mr. Newton. Although a terrible biological constitution due to a lack of training definitely did play its part. Apparently the view from up there is a great one. Should have thought of the fog before. The so called Panorama reminded one again of Bejing in the smog. Definitely not worth all the hard work.

Even though I'm leaving pretty soon, my French is definitely not where I thought it would be by now.

The reason for that? Hard to say!

Might be the fact that, contrary to popular belief, Italian does not turn into French if you just raise your pinky while drinking. It might be a certain degree of frustration at the ludicrous velocity at which the Parisians speak, maybe it’s just lazyness on my part. Or perhaps it could simply be the overestimation of one's own capabilities mixed with a certain degree of narcissism. Pick one! I blame the Parisians!

Greetings from the narcissist physicist  

The bad kind of snow

 14°C, the sun is out, the jacket is off and the jumper is only on so I don't seem too German.

Sitting here one the île-de-St.-Louis on the banks of the Seine blinking in the sun, it's kind of hard to imagine that last week it was all covered in snow. Not much, just enough to slow the whole city down. After the obligatory snowball fight that really brought together all generations, the streets were almost empty.

Though the white dress looks great on Paris, the problem remains the same as with everything pure: it spoils very easily. So after one afternoon of strolling around the sugar-coated city and a night during which the absence of a howling siren for more than 15 minutes almost made you feel like something was wrong, the next morning came. Paris spoiled its dress and it spoiled it good. Streets, sidewalks, houses, even the sky, all the same colour. A dirty grey that got darker as the days went by. And still there was hardly anybody on the streets, which makes you wonder: Where the hell is everybody? They can't all just sit at home watching TV, playing cards ranting about gays and taxes.

The solution is actually quite simple: The metro.

It's an almost surreal feeling going down the stairs from the empty and quiet streets to the station and all of a sudden you are standing in a hectic and noisy sea of people, an underground society that reminds one of dwarfs in their mines. Seems there is no need to buy winter tires but somehow a lot of people decided it was inevitable to purchase full body Eskimo costumes so they wouldn't freeze to death on the way from the metro to work, which in Paris, by design, is never more than 500 meters away.

Well, now the whole spook is over. The streets are black again. You can tell the dark grey of the sidewalks apart from the light grey of the houses and the sky is actually blue. Even the Eskimo invasion is over and everyone’s clothing went back to normal: Tight jeans, striped shirts with a neckerchief and a beret framing the moustaches. I prefer it that way!

Greetings from the Arctic Circle

                                      

                                       

New years and apocalypses

 First things first: Happy new year everybody! I hope it's going to be a great one for all of you, although I have to say, since I don't know who is reading here, I don't even know if I want this year to be great or even decent for you. Just imagine if LeBron James were to read it...

I should have probably posted this on FB where it's only read by my real friends but it's too late now.
I have to say I never quite got the concept of New years resolutions. I might even go as far as saying that they probably are the reason for all the evil in world. Let me explain:
The idea to decide the direction you want your life to go on the probably drunkest night of the year just doesn't seem like a good plan to me. Make January 2nd resolutions! This way you can avoid resolutions loaded with the aggressiveness of alcohol, which quite possibly account for racism, genocide and Bayern Munich, and all the ones related to the death wishes of the New Years day hangover.
To give you an example:
My personal plan for New Years Eve was apparently to enthuse some American friends with my love of German Old School Hip Hop. This plan was obviously doomed to fail and was definitely only possible with an alcohol level that would have made my personal hero David Hasselhoff proud. Thinking about it now, the only way to top that level of naiveté of my New Years Eve would have been trying to explain the beauty of german lovesongs to a heartbroken Italian woman in her late 50s.

With that off my chest the only thing left to say is: Enjoy 2013 and be proud that not only did you survive the apocalypse of new years eve 1999 but also the Mayan doomsday this year.
Oh one more thing: Say “old Mexicans” instead of “Mayans” and no one cares when Old Mexicans think the world is going to end.

In Memoriam

I'm really not in the mood to write. These last few days have been tough, but at this point I think enough time has past for me to acknowledge that chasing my sorrows away with vodka and painkillers, hasn't made anything better. So, against all urge, I've decided I should write about the situation. This is not only for my own sake but also for Jerry, because the great man that he was certainly deserves a eulogy. Here it is:

Jerry,
I didn't get to know you quite as well as I hoped. We spent a lot of time together but we both know you weren't really the open or eccentric type. This was one of the things I dearly loved about you. I know that in your culture showing vulnerability is looked down on, so you decided to run instead. And I still feel somewhat guilty for not trying harder to stop you. I shouldn't have let you pick your own destiny.
Still what I'll remember and cherish forever are the great moments we had. They were never long but were always of great intensity. Although I only knew you for a few weeks I still always had the feeling that we understood one another tacitly. Like the time I got angry at you for sitting on the fridge, the very same fridge at which we met for the first time. Just one look from me and you understood I just needed some time on my own and left. Thank you.
Then there was the time I first met you and even I know that this moment will forever be among the most memorable in my life. It happened when I spotted you across that room, just sitting there on the fridge. You spotted me on the other side, sitting on the bowl. I was so excited to see you I got up a little too quickly, hit my head on the boiler and fainted. When I woke up you were gone but I knew: I met someone very special.
And now you are gone forever. Just like that. Because of one instant of weakness. You resisted the white powder for a long time. Kept your head straight! Then you couldn't help it anymore. You had to know. I've spent many sleepless nights hazed in booze, lamenting that I ever let that woman give it to you. Now it's too late and I'll have to live with what I've done. Carry my burden.
But I want you to know: You were the most special, intelligent, sweet and stronghearted mouse I ever got know. And don't forget: You were my first.

In loving memory

Your best friend

PS: Maybe my assumption that there was but one Jerry was a little naive. He's back...

Top-notch heavyweights

I haven't written for a while now, and that's mostly for two reasons: A lack of motivation, and a lack of material.
But now with a true highlight and an afternoon off, here we go:
The following is the story of a legendary face off between two self appointed members of the literary intelligentsia at the Sorbonne, both of whom are my classmates.
Currently, I am taking a great class on literary criticism with a quite nerdy but really nice guy who publishes science fiction utopian books in his free time. And it was in his class that this literary clash took place - one that was so dramatic it made the “Thrilla in Manila” look like Mexican backyard wrestling.
It all started with a harmless presentation. What made it great wasn't its subject ( Roland Barthes vs. Raymond Picard, for those of you who care about content...) but rather the presenter: a misunderstood literature genius with a weird unplaceable aura somewhere between Woody Allen and Jack the Ripper. He always has a kind of neurotic, restless look on his face, definitely knows his shit, but you can't help but think that it's only a matter of time before he brutally slaughters someone, or everyone. As he finished, his opponent - an English choirboy, erasmus student just like myself, with slight nervous tics - jumped in the ring.
Unlike myself, this student is a very religious man, which is evident by his consciously wearing a golden necklace and angel pendant and equally so as well by his unconsciously blessing himself with the sign of the cross every 3 minutes. His french is close to perfection and he definitely knows about literature, as he is hardly ever without a book.
All of this set the scene for a vivid argument over two very firm, well informed and conflicting opinions. Again the discussion itself wasn't the essential part. Maybe it was groundbreaking, but I have to admit they lost me about 4 minutes in. Either way, half an hour of these two characters taking perfectly worded swings at each other, left the professor in utter desperation, and that was just priceless. And as if that wasn't enough, both of them having quite large heads gave the whole situation the flair of an intellectual real life Beavis & Butthead episode making for an incredible experience.
Although I have to say the fact that I am the only guy in that class, apart from those two raises more questions than I ever needed answers to.

Greetings from the still uninformed but very amused critic

"The smoking dog" 

Champs Elysées

Zidane vs. Materazzi

Why would you put something like that up in Paris?

That's what he thought too: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-2228004/Marco-Materazzi-tweets-picture-Zinedine-Zidane-statue.html

Centre Pompidou

A bit of the "Strawinsky fountain" and a lot of photo editing.... 

And finally a proper picture of the Eiffel tower