Même si tu escalades la montagne le plus haute,Tu ne peux pas rester là toujours.

Car tu dois retourner au monde ce que tu vois d’en-haut,

Au monde où tu appartiens, le monde d’en-dessous. 
La couronne de la Victoire ne reste pas 

Définitivement sur une seule tête.

Défaite peut chante ses ballades tristes à voix basse

Pendant que la Victoire chante ses hymnes clairets. 
Le goût du Triomphe est doux 

Comme le lait avec le chèvrefeuille. 

Défaite est un pichet de médecine amère,

S’attardant écoeurante aux papilles.
Mais cher âme abattu et battu, 

Aujourd’hui il y aura une blessure, il y a de l’épreuve,

Demain il y aurait seule une cicatrice, une mémoire. 

Je m’oppose à ce que tu émeuves. 



For what, I ask, do you waste yourself 

Raining on a beautiful canvas while it’s drying?

Decanting your acid into my spring waters? 

Destroying what you haven’t created?
My happiness, does it counteract yours?

Does breaking bridges gratify your appetite for destruction?

(But all you can hope to achieve is a non-calamitous dent.) 
I’m a leaning tower that defies 

The gravity of your acrimoniousness 

That persistently but futilely labors to 

Cause my fall, my breakage. 

But the integrity of my substance 

Exceeds the strength of your pull,

Keeping me from shattering,

Keeping you from triumphing. 
The hand that holds the knife is not

Guaranteed against being cut by its own blade. 

The arm that swings the hammer of destruction

Will itself debilitate, courtesy of its weight. 

French Kissing 

George Mikes, humorist, satirized Great B for drinking and offering tea more times during the span of one single day than one can count on one’s set of fingers. He wrote that in England, “you have tea for breakfast;… at 11 o’clock in the morning; then after lunch; then you have tea for tea; then after supper; and again at 11 o’clock at night.”

Now France and England may as well be the world’s worst enemies who played war with each other for more than a century, but there is no denying that they have a lot more in common than one would think. In England, you get tea; in France, you get kisses.

Now tea and kisses aren’t even slightly synonymous, but in France, you get kisses when a stranger meets you for the first time (and also the second, the third, the hundredth and every time in between and after); when your boyfriend runs into you (or a friend of your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s friend), when your grand-mère comes over (with her brood of a dozen and their broods as well), when you’re being wished “bon voyage” (or “bonjour” or “bonsoir” or “bonne nuit”) and in myriad other situations. (See the similarity between England and France now – at least vaguely?)

In India, you can tell if someone hails from Kerala if her hair reeks of coconut oil and her lunchbox reeks of fish; you can tell if someone’s native soil is Tamil Nadu if she suffixes every sentence with “da” or “di”; you can tell if someone is an Anglo if she constantly prattles about her new stilettos and her “strap-dress” that she bought in October for the Christmas Ball in December; if she is Punjabi, the only dance step she will most likely know is the one with arms bent at the elbow and two fingers up on each hand – the bale bale.

In France, you should be good at math to predict which part of the country the beaus and the belles come from. If you find yourself in Bretagne, the bagpiper of the Lann-Bihoué will give you a kiss; if you happen to be in Lyon, the waiter in the bouchon might give you your duck pâté, your wine, a kiss on your right cheek and another on your left (note that you only have to pay for the duck and the wine – the last two items are gratis); if you end up in Montpellier, the jazz singer you meet in L’Arena will give you a trio of verses, but before that, a trio of kisses; in the City of Love – to reinforce its moniker – you get four kisses (discounting all the spit-swapping under the world’s biggest tower with no purpose other than serving as a silent spectator that has watched more romance than Roger Ebert and the entire diaspora of film critics and romance buffs ever did); end up in Corsica and some descendant of Napoleon Bonaparte may generously give you a fivesome of pecks.

If you have a sadistic streak or if you’re a germophobe (either way, your motive is to evade being French kissed), you could just say, “I am a direct descendant of Edward II, King of England, who cheated on his French consort with a gentleman named Piers Gaveston,” or “Your Burgundy wine tastes like dishwater.”

They might put you on trial and have you guillotined in La Place of Concorde or scorched at the stake in Rouen (this is called giving one’s enemies a taste of their own medicine) for your heretical incivility, but on the brighter side, no more French kisses guaranteed!


Les Vacances Inoubliables 

En Grèce, je n’ai pas pu dire le différence entre le ciel et la mer. On peut regarder les sommets des falaises et s’imaginer Hélène de Troy là – la femme mythique qui s’est enfui avec un homme qui s’appelle – maladroitement – “Paris”.
Il était dû à une coïncidence que je suis allée à l’heure prochaine à Paris. Là, j’ai vu la Tour Eiffel, qu’était comme une aiguille exagéré. Heureusement, je suis restée innocente car je n’ai pas vu des couples manifestent leur vie amoureuse là.
Ensuite, je me trouvé en Angleterre. Le seule chose qui France et Angleterre ont en commun est La Guerre de Cent Ans – les “vacances” prolongées d’Angleterre en France. Un monsieur anglais m’a donné du thé et il m’a dit: <<Des gens d’Angleterre ont eux à France avec ses chevales dans un bateau, et France était tant belle qu’ils ont décidé à rester pour 116 ans.>> J’ai répondu: <<Ou peut-être les chevales ont aimé le goût des herbes et les gens ont aimé le goût du vin en France.>> Il a continué: <<Ils ont échangé des mots avec nous. Pour leur souvenir, nous avons prendu ces mots et nous avons les mis dans notre “Dictionnaire Oxford”.>> Et il m’a donné une autre tassé du thé.
Puis, je suis allé en Russie où j’ai rencontré un homme politique et scientifique. Il m’a dit sur les bombes nucléaires et leur amitié bizarre avec les États-Unis. Je n’ai pas voulu discuter de la Troisième Guerre Mondiale, alors, je me suis plainte de gelure et je me suis enfui. 
Subitement, j’ai vu un écran noir. J’ai pensé que je suis été dans un laboratoire russe, mais il était seul mon portable. Je me suis endormie en lisant un livre des mythes grecques et je suis eu les vacances inoubliables – et gratuits! 

Things are Getting “Cheesy” Around Here

Since I have already thrown the spotlight on apples in one of my recent posts, I’d decided to blog about a food item whose taste has long ebbed away from my tongue, but whose savory image has etched itself on my mind.

If you happen to be looking for calcium, protein, phosphorous, fat and a good treat for your taste buds, look no further than cheese! And if you’re looking for a hub that offers you cheese as cheap as candy or as expensive as your whole outfit (don’t dare think for a second that it’s cheesy), you might want to consider booking a flight ticket to France.

France is responsible for introducing to the world four hundred odd varieties of cheese and it is so said that each day of the year is graced by a variety of cheese.

Now we all know that Carolus Linnaeus was the brains behind the Kingdom System of Classification of Organisms, and coincidentally, cheese here has also been painstakingly classified into around eight families that are further subdivided resulting in a whopping 1000 types of cheese.

Said Charles de Gaulle, one-time President of France, “How can you govern a country which has 246 varieties of cheese?”

The type of cheese is characteristic of the region it comes from.

Camembert is a softer variety that was first made in the northern territory of Normandy and surprisingly enough, it has its own signature packaging—round, wooden containers fashioned from poplar. Suitable if your jaws are tired and your tongue requires the rest it deserves.

Emmental is a harder variety that traces its birth back to its namesake city, Emmental in Switzerland, however, variations of this medium-hard variety had evolved in France. This type is preferable for those whose jaws could use a good workout with the mastication.

And now let’s add some color to our platter, shall we? Our Frenchmen- along with our microscopic companions Penicillum, are also credited with the original production of Bleu d’Auvergne, veined cheese as some folks like to call it with its characteristic pungent taste.

I don’t know if writing this was a good idea, because now that I have, the thought of cheese and the sight of cheese (from the image) make me want to rob cattle and start my own dairy farm (no kidding!).

A Frenchie would understand!

Pourquoi J’aime le Français Aujourd’hui.

Peut-être, les natifs de la France seront détester moi si je dis que je n’aimai pas leur langue au début. Mais, sans savoir pourquoi, tout a changé. Il y avait une personne spécial qui a modifié ma perception de la cette langue dont les mots poussèrent ma tête à tourner dans le désespoir.

Cette personne était mon enseignante au début, mais avec le temps, elle est devenu mon amie. Elle a enseigné moi comme a aimer elle et la langue. Elle ne se plagnait jamais quand je lui a dit que j’aime seulement l’anglais. Elle ne pas me forcé a aimer le français, mais quelque chose dans mon cœur a dit moi que si je commence à aimer la langue, je ne regretterai pas ma decision.

Et vraiment, je ne regrette pas que j’ai fait pour quelqu’un qui est totalement en vaut la peine. Le français a devenu une sujet étonnante à cause d’un personne étonnante.