That's the style

Tomorrow marks the 105^th anniversary of the cessation of fire that everyone hoped would end what was then known as the Great War.

It wasn’t really great, but people didn’t know what else to call a conflict of that magnitude, enveloping most of Europe from Russia to the Atlantic and sucking in peoples from around the world before it was done. It was an imperial war fought for imperial reasons; it resulted in the destruction of four empires (Russian, Ottoman, German, Austro-Hungarian) and prepped the ground for the collapse of another (British).

The subsequent treaties that officially ended the proceedings—constructed carefully to support new imperial gains (for Britain, France and the United States)—also planted the seeds of a century of discontent and conflict, the fruits of which we’ve seen in the Balkans and Middle East for decades.

High-level sweeping statement: the imperial victors drew arbitrary new maps of territories encompassed by the defeated empires that failed to take into account ethnic, religious or tribal connections. (“Bosnians, Croats, Slovenes, Macedonians, Kosovars, Serbs, Montenegrins, Herzegovinians—we’re going to lump you all into one country called South Slavia, and here, here’s a Serbian king for you!”) Particularly in the Mid-East, they carved out mandates for the French and the Brits, ignoring not only the desires of the inhabitants who’d built sophisticated societies for centuries but also wartime promises made to Jews of a homeland for them.

At the end of the following war (seeds of which also sown in those very same treaties), a new set of empires (Soviet Union, American; then British and French) had another go at appropriating peoples and lands to serve ideology, and here we are.

We didn’t bother with a descriptor this time; just called it World War II.

I was looking for songs from the First War, and was struck by the clear distinction drawn between the battle front and the home front (unless, of course, you lived in Northern France; then you were subsumed). That dynamic has changed, as we see today in Ukraine and Israel-Gaza. There is no buffer zone in those wars; civilians and civilian institutions are targets right along with military installations. We haven’t progressed as a species in the past century, that’s for sure.

Well, back to the earworm. So very many of the songs from that war were relentlessly upbeat and optimistic about defeating the Hun in a snap. (Yes, I’m looking at the English-language corpus.) I mean—of course; everyone wants to focus on the positive when they think their world has gone bananas. Along with a boatload of super sentimental things.

I rather fancied “Keep the Home Fires Burning”, but couldn’t find a decent recording of it. So I’m going with “Pack Up Your Troubles”. Trying to imagine the size of a bag that would hold our troubles at this juncture, but it’s a nice thought.

I have no idea who the performer is, but I appreciate the film of civilians being recruited and undergoing the training it takes to build a fighting unit.

 

 

Espace chiens

Some (first world) problems are universal.

Such was my thought when I came across this dog-poop bag in the Sixth Arrondissement (a very upscale district) of Paris:

It takes a unique personality to go to the trouble of bagging your dog’s excrement—thus fulfilling the letter of the law—but then leaving it on the street. Especially when there are plenty of trash bins all around.

I see it all the time in the People’s Republic of Reston.

But then there was this:

Interestingly, I never saw either bags or crap on the streets of either Dubrovnik or Sarajevo.

 

 

Lights underground

Even though le Métro tried to kill me, I don’t hold a grudge.

This was the first time I’d ever experienced a subterranean mass transit system (when I first visited in 1979), and I’ve always really loved it. (I’m from LA; I am fascinated by railed mass transit that actually works, and I will ride anything calling itself a subway, metro or light rail just to be able to say I did. There was a tram line in Istanbul that ran maybe a couple of kilometers; I rode it just because.)

So here’s a clip from Odéon station, where things were colorful:

 

La vie parisienne

A few miscellaneous shots around Paris.

This e-bike owner is serious about theft prevention:

And I guess these couples think they’re serious about each other:

(Seriously—get a life, people.)

I’ve noticed that taggers are active all over Europe; this one was kind of impressive for being a mobile target:

(Although in Sarajevo it was the rare tram car that was not grafitti’d.)

I wasn’t sure whether this was an art installation or the morning after a very special night; I suspect the former:

This tree looked like it was in jungle camouflage:

And here’s something you might recognize:

 

Gratitude Monday: all of it

Another Gratitude Monday on the road. And I’m really grateful that I took this trip. Which I probably wouldn’t have done except for the credit from Air France.

I’m grateful that the snotty Swiss deflected me from their poker-up-ass country and over to the Balkans and to Sarajevo in particular.

I’m grateful that my replacement knees have handled thousands of steps a day through streets ancient and modern, including a squillion stone stairs in Dubrovnik.

Even though I’ve had to be patted down at every airport I’ve gone through, those knees are da bomb. I’m going to save a bundle on NSAIDs.

And I’m grateful, once again, for Paris.

 

 

No good deed

Yeah, okay—this happened:

I was on a jam-packed Métro car Friday, standing near the door. At the Cité station an old guy with a cane was trying to make his way from the back to the door and the doors-closing alarm sounded. It wasn’t my station, but I stepped off, while still holding on to a rail to make way. If I thought at all, I was thinking I could block the door until he got out (and I did wonder what was up with no one making room for him to move).

On the DC Metro system, the doors stop closing if they encounter an obstacle.

On the Paris Métro, they don’t.

Interestingly, my forearm puffed up like a snake that swallowed a fat rabbit within seconds. I mean, the train hadn’t pulled out of the station before it ballooned. There was no pain, and nothing felt broken (although I acknowledge that I’ve called this kind of thing wrong before), so I proceeded to the musée du Luxembourg to see the exhibition on Gertrude Stein and Pablo Picasso.

It did occur to me that I might want to ice it, so when I got back to the hotel, the food and beverage service manager gave me a pack of ice (pneumatically sealed plastic bag) and I spent a couple of hours balancing it on my arm.

It does seem to have helped; here’s how I looked yesterday:

Let me emphasize: no pain, and everything is working. I’m already supporting an entire orthopedic practice; I really don’t want to have to start all over again.

Oh—the old guy got off at the next stop, and his son—who’d also tried to hold the door for him—reunited with him.

All’s well.

(Except—hotel housekeeping: I’m sorry about the blood on the bedding.)

And if you see this sign in the Métro, pay attention: