I don’t know if this is a Paris-wide phenomenon, but we can see and hear absolutely everything our neighbors do. I can usually tell what the next-door neighbors are having for dinner just by going into our bathroom (I like it when they make the beef with pan-fried onions), figure out when a dog has walked past the building based on the downstairs neighbor’s dog barking, and understand the feelings behind the gardien’s wife’s surly looks based on the fight she had the previous night with her husband. I also know that the man that lives across the street eats dinner on his couch while watching TV (he puts his feet up on the coffee table, too), that a pretty good pianist and a less good vocalist live nearby, and that the hunched over little old lady I see walking around the neighborhood has some nice antique furniture. And based on the version of Knocking on Heaven’s Door one of our neighbors likes to play, I also know that I like Eric Clapton’s version much better.
Diego has a theory that people here care more about their looks than people in the US because everyone can see what you are doing. A lot more of your life also takes place in the public sphere, as opposed to in the privacy of your own home. For example, if you are wearing sloppy sweats around the house, the neighbors will know for sure. Also, you won’t typically spend a Saturday night watching a movie on your home entertainment system. Instead, you’ll be out at the movies where others will see you. Likewise, you might not have big dinner parties or barbecues at home if you live in a small apartment and will instead meet with friends for dinner at a restaurant or a picnic in a park.
Which makes me wonder: what do the neighbors see and hear about us? They can probably tell that we like wine by the number of bottle we throw into the recycling bin every couple of days and that Diego is not stingy with the garlic when he cooks. They also probably know that laundry days are Tuesdays and Fridays and that we use (thankfully for them) the “short” cycle on the washing machine (if you have one of the European front-loading washing machines, you know why I put the word “short” in quotation marks). They might be confused by the fact that we listen to music from the Caribbean, Latin America, and Africa while speaking a weird mix of a number of languages. As for anything else the neighbors might be able to see or hear, well, let’s just say I’d prefer not to think about it too much.
mercredi 30 janvier 2008
mardi 22 janvier 2008
Obsesión arácnida
Bueno, primero mil disculpas por no actualizar el blog en tanto tiempo. Me faltaba inspiración. Será la oscuridad del invierno. Ahora que los dias se hacen más largos, la creatividad renace.
Bueno, aquí les muestro una foto de mi gran compra de hace unos meses. Teniamos unos cables horribles colgando del techo y un dia caminando por el "marché aux puces" vi esta preciosa araña antigua y pensé que iría bien con nuestros muebles antiguos.
Maki quedó de lo más impresionada con que nuestra arañita parece una version miniatura de las que hay en los palacios y restoranes paquetones por ahí.
La vendedora enchufó a la araña andes de que yo la comprase para mostrarme que sí funcionaba.
Al llegar a casa, yo me puse en onda "bricolage" e instalé la araña en el techo, hice las conexiones eléctricas y todo.
Voy a prender la luz, y encienden tres de las seis bombitas. Me imagino que será un problema de bombitas quemadas, entonces salgo y compro tres bombitas nuevas, pero igual no funcionan.
Entonces pensé que los cables viejos dentro de la araña estarían gastados o mal instalados.
Hace una semana le pedí prestado al portero del edificio su escalera para ver que se podía hacer. Vi que la araña solo estaba conectada a dos de los cables que colgaban del techo. Según leí en internet, el tercer cable sería tierra y no es necesario conectar la tierra, pero enfin, por las dudas, reajuste los cables de la araña para que hubiesen tres en vez de dos. Hice una conexión nueva de los cables (la vieja estaba bastante gastada) y conecté la araña a los tres cables del techo.
Resultado: ahora funcionan la seis lamparitas, pero dan una luz muchísimo más debil de la que daban antes. Tan debil que no tiene sentido tener la araña prendida: no da suficiente luz.
La volví a desconectar, jugué un poco más con los cables, pero nada. Seguimos en la misma. No soy muy experto en temas eléctricos, pero la verdad es que no entiendo como una conexión eléctrica puede funcionar pero más debil. A mi criterio, o la conexión está bien y funciona, o está mal y no funciona. La electricidad no es algo más o menos: es absoluta. O funciona o no funciona. Esto de funcionar pero con pocas ganas me resulta muy extraño y frustrante. Por eso lo pongo aquí, a ver si alguno de ustedes que sea más "bricoleur" que yo no tenga alguna idea. Ayuden, por favor, no puedo dormir de noche y a Maki la tengo media saturada ya con el tema!
Bueno, aquí les muestro una foto de mi gran compra de hace unos meses. Teniamos unos cables horribles colgando del techo y un dia caminando por el "marché aux puces" vi esta preciosa araña antigua y pensé que iría bien con nuestros muebles antiguos.
Maki quedó de lo más impresionada con que nuestra arañita parece una version miniatura de las que hay en los palacios y restoranes paquetones por ahí.
La vendedora enchufó a la araña andes de que yo la comprase para mostrarme que sí funcionaba.
Al llegar a casa, yo me puse en onda "bricolage" e instalé la araña en el techo, hice las conexiones eléctricas y todo.
Voy a prender la luz, y encienden tres de las seis bombitas. Me imagino que será un problema de bombitas quemadas, entonces salgo y compro tres bombitas nuevas, pero igual no funcionan.
Entonces pensé que los cables viejos dentro de la araña estarían gastados o mal instalados.
Hace una semana le pedí prestado al portero del edificio su escalera para ver que se podía hacer. Vi que la araña solo estaba conectada a dos de los cables que colgaban del techo. Según leí en internet, el tercer cable sería tierra y no es necesario conectar la tierra, pero enfin, por las dudas, reajuste los cables de la araña para que hubiesen tres en vez de dos. Hice una conexión nueva de los cables (la vieja estaba bastante gastada) y conecté la araña a los tres cables del techo.
Resultado: ahora funcionan la seis lamparitas, pero dan una luz muchísimo más debil de la que daban antes. Tan debil que no tiene sentido tener la araña prendida: no da suficiente luz.
La volví a desconectar, jugué un poco más con los cables, pero nada. Seguimos en la misma. No soy muy experto en temas eléctricos, pero la verdad es que no entiendo como una conexión eléctrica puede funcionar pero más debil. A mi criterio, o la conexión está bien y funciona, o está mal y no funciona. La electricidad no es algo más o menos: es absoluta. O funciona o no funciona. Esto de funcionar pero con pocas ganas me resulta muy extraño y frustrante. Por eso lo pongo aquí, a ver si alguno de ustedes que sea más "bricoleur" que yo no tenga alguna idea. Ayuden, por favor, no puedo dormir de noche y a Maki la tengo media saturada ya con el tema!
dimanche 13 janvier 2008
French Accounting Reminds Me of Mayan Math
Before launching into today’s blog post, we want to apologize for our lack of blog postings lately. One of our New Year’s resolutions is to update the blog more consistently. So, here is today’s post:
Mayan Math is a term that we made up in Placencia, Belize, a sleepy beach town of about 500 residents. We were on the last leg of our honeymoon and wanted to send postcards from Belize to thank all of the lovely people who gave us wedding gifts. When we saw that we did not have enough postcards, Maki reluctantly put down her planter’s punch and went in search of more postcards. It was a Sunday, and not many stores were open (for that matter, there are not that many stores in Placencia), but Maki found one small tourist shop selling handmade Mayan artifacts and – importantly for the day’s only mission – postcards.
We needed a total of 30 postcards, and each of the postcards cost 75 Belizean cents. After gathering up her postcards and a few souvenirs, Maki approached the counter, where the shop owner, a young Mayan woman, rang up her purchases.
Although Maki was not sure how much the total should have been, she was nevertheless surprised when it came to about $160 Belize (about $80 US). Mentioning her surprise to the owner, the owner breaks down the bill for Maki. It turns out that the postcards alone accounted for over $40 Belize! Although Maki was not sure how much the postcards really should have cost – she went to Law School, not Math School, after all, and she had drunk two tall glasses of planter’s punch before venturing out for postcards – she knew for sure that since each card cost less than $1 Belize dollar, the 30 cards should cost less than $30 Belize. Law School, after all, taught Maki to think in terms of analogies.
As Maki and the shop owner were discussing the price of the postcards, the owner (obviously not believing Maki’s wild tales of multiplication and postcard prices) offered to show Maki how she arrived at her figure of about $43 for the 30 postcards. The owner laid out the postcards and divided them into groups of four, and for each group of four postcards tapped in $6 into the cash register; she also tapped in 75 cents for each of the postcards that did not fit into a group of four.
Earlier in the trip, we had visited the town of Caracol and learned about the Mayan counting system, which is based on the number 20 and uses a series of dots (each representing one unit) and lines (each representing five units) to write numbers. Maki assumed that the saleswoman’s decision to divide the postcards into groups of four was based on ancient Mayan counting techniques. Which would have been fine, except that, apparently, in the Mayan counting system a group of four postcards that cost 75 cents each somehow adds up to $6, rather than $3.
Considering the sophistication of the Mayan calendar, we believe that our shop owner simply did not know how to add. Granted, this is odd if your livelihood consists of owning and running a shop, but hey, the Math calculations always worked out in the shop owner’s favor. We want to clarify that we don’t think she meant in any way to trick us, since she made the same mistake when we returned to buy additional cards (our Math is also not that great and we could not seem to figure out how many postcards we really needed).
Alas, it’s not just the balmy Placencia air that dulls mathematical skills. France, an entire continent away, seems afflicted with an appalling lack of proper accounting procedures. And, like the Mayan shop owner’s calculations, the Math never works out in our favor. French accounting is worse than Mayan Math, though, because it is all fully automated. Absolutely everything here is done by automatic debit straight from your checking account.
As a result, we’ve been overcharged by our bank, which cannot seem to figure out how much our monthly fees really should be, for the last few months (luckily, our account manager is quite nice and manages to get the charges reversed when we complain). The company that manages our apartment building also does not seem to have a solid accounting system, and in November, sent us a bill for thousands of euros of allegedly unpaid rent. And before you start to think (based on our inability to figure out how many postcards we really need) that perhaps we forgot to pay our rent bill, our rent gets debited automatically every month. France Telecom has also managed to make some euros out of us: although we only had phone service with them for about three days before switching to a much cheaper phone provider, they charged us for two full months of service (they have kindly offered to credit us some of the money if we decide to go back to their service in the future).
Like the Mayan shop owner, French institutions are also very nice about fixing their bills when we complain. But it would still be nice if they got the bills right from the get go.
Mayan Math is a term that we made up in Placencia, Belize, a sleepy beach town of about 500 residents. We were on the last leg of our honeymoon and wanted to send postcards from Belize to thank all of the lovely people who gave us wedding gifts. When we saw that we did not have enough postcards, Maki reluctantly put down her planter’s punch and went in search of more postcards. It was a Sunday, and not many stores were open (for that matter, there are not that many stores in Placencia), but Maki found one small tourist shop selling handmade Mayan artifacts and – importantly for the day’s only mission – postcards.
We needed a total of 30 postcards, and each of the postcards cost 75 Belizean cents. After gathering up her postcards and a few souvenirs, Maki approached the counter, where the shop owner, a young Mayan woman, rang up her purchases.
Although Maki was not sure how much the total should have been, she was nevertheless surprised when it came to about $160 Belize (about $80 US). Mentioning her surprise to the owner, the owner breaks down the bill for Maki. It turns out that the postcards alone accounted for over $40 Belize! Although Maki was not sure how much the postcards really should have cost – she went to Law School, not Math School, after all, and she had drunk two tall glasses of planter’s punch before venturing out for postcards – she knew for sure that since each card cost less than $1 Belize dollar, the 30 cards should cost less than $30 Belize. Law School, after all, taught Maki to think in terms of analogies.
As Maki and the shop owner were discussing the price of the postcards, the owner (obviously not believing Maki’s wild tales of multiplication and postcard prices) offered to show Maki how she arrived at her figure of about $43 for the 30 postcards. The owner laid out the postcards and divided them into groups of four, and for each group of four postcards tapped in $6 into the cash register; she also tapped in 75 cents for each of the postcards that did not fit into a group of four.
Earlier in the trip, we had visited the town of Caracol and learned about the Mayan counting system, which is based on the number 20 and uses a series of dots (each representing one unit) and lines (each representing five units) to write numbers. Maki assumed that the saleswoman’s decision to divide the postcards into groups of four was based on ancient Mayan counting techniques. Which would have been fine, except that, apparently, in the Mayan counting system a group of four postcards that cost 75 cents each somehow adds up to $6, rather than $3.
Considering the sophistication of the Mayan calendar, we believe that our shop owner simply did not know how to add. Granted, this is odd if your livelihood consists of owning and running a shop, but hey, the Math calculations always worked out in the shop owner’s favor. We want to clarify that we don’t think she meant in any way to trick us, since she made the same mistake when we returned to buy additional cards (our Math is also not that great and we could not seem to figure out how many postcards we really needed).
Alas, it’s not just the balmy Placencia air that dulls mathematical skills. France, an entire continent away, seems afflicted with an appalling lack of proper accounting procedures. And, like the Mayan shop owner’s calculations, the Math never works out in our favor. French accounting is worse than Mayan Math, though, because it is all fully automated. Absolutely everything here is done by automatic debit straight from your checking account.
As a result, we’ve been overcharged by our bank, which cannot seem to figure out how much our monthly fees really should be, for the last few months (luckily, our account manager is quite nice and manages to get the charges reversed when we complain). The company that manages our apartment building also does not seem to have a solid accounting system, and in November, sent us a bill for thousands of euros of allegedly unpaid rent. And before you start to think (based on our inability to figure out how many postcards we really need) that perhaps we forgot to pay our rent bill, our rent gets debited automatically every month. France Telecom has also managed to make some euros out of us: although we only had phone service with them for about three days before switching to a much cheaper phone provider, they charged us for two full months of service (they have kindly offered to credit us some of the money if we decide to go back to their service in the future).
Like the Mayan shop owner, French institutions are also very nice about fixing their bills when we complain. But it would still be nice if they got the bills right from the get go.
mercredi 28 novembre 2007
I'm cooler than you because I know Le Chat's cousin
Recently, our friends Will and Erica were in town. Walking around the neighborhood with them, they noticed a piece of graffitti on a building just down the road from us which features a cute, grinning cat. I had never noticed it before, but now I see it all around Paris. Here's a picture of the one at Place Jules Joffrin:
Last weekend another friend, Angela, was visiting. We were at Gare du Nord and she noticed a girl carrying a big cardboard cutout of the cute, grinning cat. I went up to the girl and asked her what was the deal with the cat and she said her cousin was the cat's creator. Indeed, her cutout cardboard cat was autographed "Le Chat est mon cousin".
I was excited, kind of like if I had just met some minor celebrity: the cousin of a prolific graffiti artist.
Hey, I don't get out much.
But I know Le Chat's cousin and you don't, so there.
But from now on, I will carry around my camera and try to capture any "Le Chat" spottings to post on this blog. Watch this space!!
P.S. I just saw this website that talks about "Monsieur Chat"
Last weekend another friend, Angela, was visiting. We were at Gare du Nord and she noticed a girl carrying a big cardboard cutout of the cute, grinning cat. I went up to the girl and asked her what was the deal with the cat and she said her cousin was the cat's creator. Indeed, her cutout cardboard cat was autographed "Le Chat est mon cousin".
I was excited, kind of like if I had just met some minor celebrity: the cousin of a prolific graffiti artist.
Hey, I don't get out much.
But I know Le Chat's cousin and you don't, so there.
But from now on, I will carry around my camera and try to capture any "Le Chat" spottings to post on this blog. Watch this space!!
P.S. I just saw this website that talks about "Monsieur Chat"
"Toll Free" French style
In the States, I, like so many others came to complain about calling customer service numbers where you're made to spend ungodly amounts of time listening to recorded voices telling you to punch on keys, only to then be put on eternal hold and eventually transfered to some call center in Hyderabad where a thickly accented "Bob from Atlanta" will ask you to repeat all the information you just spent the last half hour punching in to the automated system.
But hey, at least they don't make you pay for it.
Here in France, the concept of "toll free" isn't very widespread. Most customer service numbers start with 08. 0800 numbers are free to call (but good luck finding a company that actually has one). Other 08 numbers are special rate.
A few weeks ago, our phone service was cut off. I wanted to call the company to check on the status of the line, but I can't call "special rate" numbers from my cell phone. I tried calling from a public phone on the street, but that wouldn't work, either.
Every time I call IKEA to check whether a sofa we want is in stock yet, I have to call a special rate number that starts with 08.
Virtually every customer service number in France is a special rate number starting with 08. Some of these numbers are "local rate", meaning that theoretically you will be charged the cost of a local call no matter what part of the country you're calling from. Our phone plan actually includes unlimited free calls to all land lines in France, but of course, that doesn't include 08 numbers, so we would still have to pay to call "local rate" numbers.
I can kind of understand customer service helplines making you pay for the call (as long as I get to speak to a human being promptly, I don't really mind). But the French carry this idea to lenghts which seem, well, a little absurd.
Even numbers you call to BUY stuff are special rate. Who is going to want to call one of those?
Some of the more extreme examples are pictured here:
That's right, if you want to order a pizza from Pizza Hut, you don't just call a local number, you call a special rate number that charges 0.15 Euro per minute (more expensive than most international calls! I might as well call and order my pizza fresh from Napoli!)
Even more surreal is the following: a public service ad posted on a cigarette warning label.
"Get help to quit smoking: call 0825 809 810" That's right, 0.15 Euro per minute. Hmmm, maybe I'll just keep smoking! Or I could call my mother in Miami and get her to make me stop smoking: it will cost significantly less than calling the number advertised on the cigarette package.
Oh, and phone bills in France are sent out every two months...so if you're the sort of person who likes to call tech support, just imagine what a nice little surprise might show up in your mailbox after two months.
But hey, at least they don't make you pay for it.
Here in France, the concept of "toll free" isn't very widespread. Most customer service numbers start with 08. 0800 numbers are free to call (but good luck finding a company that actually has one). Other 08 numbers are special rate.
A few weeks ago, our phone service was cut off. I wanted to call the company to check on the status of the line, but I can't call "special rate" numbers from my cell phone. I tried calling from a public phone on the street, but that wouldn't work, either.
Every time I call IKEA to check whether a sofa we want is in stock yet, I have to call a special rate number that starts with 08.
Virtually every customer service number in France is a special rate number starting with 08. Some of these numbers are "local rate", meaning that theoretically you will be charged the cost of a local call no matter what part of the country you're calling from. Our phone plan actually includes unlimited free calls to all land lines in France, but of course, that doesn't include 08 numbers, so we would still have to pay to call "local rate" numbers.
I can kind of understand customer service helplines making you pay for the call (as long as I get to speak to a human being promptly, I don't really mind). But the French carry this idea to lenghts which seem, well, a little absurd.
Even numbers you call to BUY stuff are special rate. Who is going to want to call one of those?
Some of the more extreme examples are pictured here:
That's right, if you want to order a pizza from Pizza Hut, you don't just call a local number, you call a special rate number that charges 0.15 Euro per minute (more expensive than most international calls! I might as well call and order my pizza fresh from Napoli!)
Even more surreal is the following: a public service ad posted on a cigarette warning label.
"Get help to quit smoking: call 0825 809 810" That's right, 0.15 Euro per minute. Hmmm, maybe I'll just keep smoking! Or I could call my mother in Miami and get her to make me stop smoking: it will cost significantly less than calling the number advertised on the cigarette package.
Oh, and phone bills in France are sent out every two months...so if you're the sort of person who likes to call tech support, just imagine what a nice little surprise might show up in your mailbox after two months.
vendredi 9 novembre 2007
A smuggler, a lesbian, a racist African, a stowaway and two tourists are in a train compartment...
Sorry for the long absence. As some of you may know, we were away in Italy for my brother Seb's wedding, and after we got back the whole tribe descended on Paris and I showed them around.
So, some observations: it's COLD in Italy. I took a bathing suit but no warm jacket. I had to purchase one of questionable quality from a street hawker in Florence. Italians are much better looking and much better dressed than the French: so much for the world capital of Chic and La Mode. On the other hand, are they ever temperamental. I can't count the number of times I was yelled at and told to "va fanculo". The reserve and indifference of the French was a welcome relief on our return.
The title of this post is not the introduction to a bad joke, it is a description of our return journey on the overnight Rome-Paris train. As soon as we take our seats in our couchette compartment, a large group of Africans laden with ridiculously oversized luggage comes into the comparment, places as much of the aforementioned luggage as they can squeeze into our compartment's luggage rack and then disappears to the neighboring compartment to stow the rest of it. Their senior member, who shall from now on be referred to as "el coyote" took his seat in our compartment briefly and then disappeared. Then came the butch French woman who was chatting up a storm, and then a fellow from the Cape Verde islands. Soon after leaving the station, the conductor came around and asked for everybody's tickets and passports (they keep these until you arrive in Paris, supposedly so when the Swiss border officials come on board in the middle of the night, they don't have to wake you up). He asks "el coyote" for his passport and he replies "I don't have one", laughing the whole while. Some sort of discussion ensues outside our compartment and all is apparently resolved.
The Cape Verdean then decides to lie down in one of the top couchettes, scooting a few suitcases out of the way in the process. A while later, el coyote comes back to the compartment, sees the Cape Verdean lying in "his" couchette, and proceeds to kick up a stink. "Hey, what are you doing there? That's MY bunk, look at my ticket. Did you move my bags? Why did you move my bags? How dare you touch my bags without my permission, what's wrong with you? I don't go around touching your bags without your permission". Maki, Butch and myself exchange nervous glances, wondering whether a fight is about to break out and we should scram. Cape Verdean moves out of the bunk. You would think, at this point, that El Coyote would take his place in the bunk he fought so ardently for, but no, he closes the door and goes back to the compartment next door. Cape Verdean man goes on a rant about how "these Africans think they own everything and they should all be sent back to where they came from" (like Cape Verde?) I reach an accord with our cabin mates that if Swiss customs comes and asks us questions about the ownership of the bulky suitcases in our compartment we will all shrug and look the other way.
The train stops in Florence and a stinky young backpacker is added to this bizarre menagerie. He takes his position on one of the top bunks. The train conductor comes to our compartment and asks "anybody boarded in Florence?" Silence. He then looks at Mr. Stinky and asks him: "did you get on at Florence?". Mr. Stinky replies "no". Conductor takes out a piece of paper and starts counting and recounting us. El Coyote wasn't there, so we were only five. His paper said five, so he figured it was all right and left. Is it just me, or does anybody else suspect that Mr. Stinky doesn't have a ticket to ride this train? Mr. Stinky leaves and doesn't return. Cape Verdean tells us a story about how a stowaway bribed the conductor on the train he took to Italy.
In the dead of the night, I am woken by the sound of banging on the door of the next compartment. "Swiss border police, your papers please!" I look out the window and we are stopped at a place called "Brig". El Coyote is nowhere in sight. A loud discussion ensues: "what do you mean no passport? No residence permit? Sorry, you have to get off the train. Hurry up and get all your things, now. The train is leaving." More loud discussion. El Coyote enters and leaves our compartment repeatedly. The train starts moving. I fall asleep.
The following morning, El Coyote is soundly asleep in his bunk. All the bulky suitcases are there. I take a look at the neighboring compartment and all the Africans (along with their bulky suitcases) appear to be there, too. How that was resolved, I have no idea, but apparently nobody ended up in the Brig. At this point, El Coyote is christened thus as Maki and I conclude that he's probably a smuggler of humans rather than goods.
There ends our little adventure. Stay tuned for more craziness when we visit Amsterdam next weekend.
So, some observations: it's COLD in Italy. I took a bathing suit but no warm jacket. I had to purchase one of questionable quality from a street hawker in Florence. Italians are much better looking and much better dressed than the French: so much for the world capital of Chic and La Mode. On the other hand, are they ever temperamental. I can't count the number of times I was yelled at and told to "va fanculo". The reserve and indifference of the French was a welcome relief on our return.
The title of this post is not the introduction to a bad joke, it is a description of our return journey on the overnight Rome-Paris train. As soon as we take our seats in our couchette compartment, a large group of Africans laden with ridiculously oversized luggage comes into the comparment, places as much of the aforementioned luggage as they can squeeze into our compartment's luggage rack and then disappears to the neighboring compartment to stow the rest of it. Their senior member, who shall from now on be referred to as "el coyote" took his seat in our compartment briefly and then disappeared. Then came the butch French woman who was chatting up a storm, and then a fellow from the Cape Verde islands. Soon after leaving the station, the conductor came around and asked for everybody's tickets and passports (they keep these until you arrive in Paris, supposedly so when the Swiss border officials come on board in the middle of the night, they don't have to wake you up). He asks "el coyote" for his passport and he replies "I don't have one", laughing the whole while. Some sort of discussion ensues outside our compartment and all is apparently resolved.
The Cape Verdean then decides to lie down in one of the top couchettes, scooting a few suitcases out of the way in the process. A while later, el coyote comes back to the compartment, sees the Cape Verdean lying in "his" couchette, and proceeds to kick up a stink. "Hey, what are you doing there? That's MY bunk, look at my ticket. Did you move my bags? Why did you move my bags? How dare you touch my bags without my permission, what's wrong with you? I don't go around touching your bags without your permission". Maki, Butch and myself exchange nervous glances, wondering whether a fight is about to break out and we should scram. Cape Verdean moves out of the bunk. You would think, at this point, that El Coyote would take his place in the bunk he fought so ardently for, but no, he closes the door and goes back to the compartment next door. Cape Verdean man goes on a rant about how "these Africans think they own everything and they should all be sent back to where they came from" (like Cape Verde?) I reach an accord with our cabin mates that if Swiss customs comes and asks us questions about the ownership of the bulky suitcases in our compartment we will all shrug and look the other way.
The train stops in Florence and a stinky young backpacker is added to this bizarre menagerie. He takes his position on one of the top bunks. The train conductor comes to our compartment and asks "anybody boarded in Florence?" Silence. He then looks at Mr. Stinky and asks him: "did you get on at Florence?". Mr. Stinky replies "no". Conductor takes out a piece of paper and starts counting and recounting us. El Coyote wasn't there, so we were only five. His paper said five, so he figured it was all right and left. Is it just me, or does anybody else suspect that Mr. Stinky doesn't have a ticket to ride this train? Mr. Stinky leaves and doesn't return. Cape Verdean tells us a story about how a stowaway bribed the conductor on the train he took to Italy.
In the dead of the night, I am woken by the sound of banging on the door of the next compartment. "Swiss border police, your papers please!" I look out the window and we are stopped at a place called "Brig". El Coyote is nowhere in sight. A loud discussion ensues: "what do you mean no passport? No residence permit? Sorry, you have to get off the train. Hurry up and get all your things, now. The train is leaving." More loud discussion. El Coyote enters and leaves our compartment repeatedly. The train starts moving. I fall asleep.
The following morning, El Coyote is soundly asleep in his bunk. All the bulky suitcases are there. I take a look at the neighboring compartment and all the Africans (along with their bulky suitcases) appear to be there, too. How that was resolved, I have no idea, but apparently nobody ended up in the Brig. At this point, El Coyote is christened thus as Maki and I conclude that he's probably a smuggler of humans rather than goods.
There ends our little adventure. Stay tuned for more craziness when we visit Amsterdam next weekend.
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