Date: Wed, 31 Dec 1997 20:07:35 GMT Server: Apache/1.2.4 PHP/FI-2.0 Last-Modified: Wed, 26 Nov 1997 19:53:38 GMT ETag: "26018-4401-347c7e42" Content-Length: 17409 Accept-Ranges: bytes Connection: close Content-Type: text/html Body

International Focus

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Travel Diary
Notes from a Footloose Law Firm

From time to time our practice takes us to some interesting places, and, through the miracle of e-mail we are able to share our impressions with those who have stayed behind to practice more mundane forms of law. Much of our e-mail consists of dull stuff about telephone calls to return, and contracts to draft -- you know, law stuff. But not always

One reason why we travel is to form impressions of the conditions and the people we are dealing with, and a portion of our e-mail is intended to convey these impressions, so that everyone in the office can glean the same insight which has struck us. In honor of summer's end, therefore, we thought we would share some excerpts from our footloose lawyers' electronic correspondence this year. International Focus will return to its regular, "law stuff" emphasis in its next edition.

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SHANGHAI--I must look like the circus has come to town. Children walk up to me and say "hi", and giggle. I think the two best potential avenues for getting into trouble will be jay walking and currency....

Interestingly, there are a lot of ads on TV for air fresheners, usually paired with a commercial for insecticide. They seem to be made by the same companies, which suggests that it is the manufacture of spray cans, rather than spray products that is involved. Lot of ads for different tea as well, which can be hard to decode, since they are mostly people sitting around talking, drinking tea. The product is displayed in its box. They sort of look like ads for feminine products, except sometimes there are men in them.

MONTPELIER, France--Still nowhere near a phone I can hook up to. Tonight I'm in Montpellier, which is about as not like Vermont as it is possible to be. It's a beach resort, and, of course, we are on the eve of another long holiday weekend. This is a decadent and dying culture, I'm telling you. Close to 12% of the population of Europe is unemployed. My question is, how can they tell?

Spent the early afternoon in Lyon, which was lovely. France is just easier to get around in than Germany (forget about Switzerland). I can get in and out of the cities without even swearing.

An old black and white television show is on, dubbed in to French-- "Ivanhoe" staring, of all people, Roger Moore. In French, apparently, "Ivanhoe" is pronounced to rhyme with "Illinois". Of course, this begs the question of why they bothered dubbing it at all. I'll bet that it is every bit as funny in English.

BARCELONA, Spain--I am in, as you know, Barcelona. J. had told me to call when I was about 20 klm outside the city, and I did so. He conveyed what sounded like comparatively simple directions to his office, which I then made a hash of. He had said that it would be a good idea to park when I thought I was nearby, so I parked in the ramp of a large, modern shopping mall. When I emerged, I realized that there was simply no way that this was a neighborhood where a Spanish law firm would have its offices. Other than the mall itself, there just wasn't anything around which corresponded with what he had described.

Two young looking guys were walking down the sidewalk approaching me. They were carrying books, so I figured them to be university students, which would mean, in turn, that they would probably have enough English and or French to make rudimentary communication possible. "Excuse me, " I started, and showed them Jan's address on a scrap of paper. This set off an animated discussion between the two, who had, it seemed, enough English to indicate affirmance or dissent, and a bit more. French proved impossible -- too fast for me, and with an accent that I could probably work with a little better today, but which was just impossible first half hour on the ground. After some false starts, it developed that Rambla de Catalunya was far, very far, too far to walk, that they were going that way, that they were taking the bus, that I should take the bus, that they would accompany me, that I had a car, that I would leave my car parked where it was, that we would get my car, that they would go with me in my car to Rambla de Catalunya. This last series of developments seemed to me to be sort of a bad idea, so I was somewhat surprised to discover that we were in the parking garage, then in the car, then driving around in the parking garage trying to get the card readers to open the gates. The machines kept rejecting the receipt, which I had sort of gathered from the entrance signs were good for two hours free parking.

Finally the taller one, whose English seemed the strongest, had me pull over, and engaged himself in conversation with someone walking towards his car in an effort to ascertain how to satisfy the recalcitrant card readers and gain egress from the ramp. This also seemed to be a more lengthy negotiation than the complexity of the problem would have suggested was necessary, and at length he sprinted off, I assumed to the machine to add money to the card, leaving me with his essentially non-English speaking buddy. "Et's okay," he assured me, and when the tall one sprinted back he reiterated this assurance. "Es valid," he added, and, sure enough, this time we were able to open the gate.

I then found that although the boys were certainly capable of saying, "Rambla de Catalunya", they seemed less sure about other details. They said, "Rambla de Catalunya" quite a bit; also, "No, no, Rambla de Catalunya," and quite a bit more, which was not very encouraging at all. Meanwhile, we were bombing down the road, because, of course, in Europe you cannot just pull over. If you could do this, then people would, I guess, park there, and commerce would grind to a gridlock halt.

From time to time I would interrupt the debate about Rambla de Catalunya to ask if I should turn. It was growing increasingly apparent that we were rocketing down the street in a completely wrong direction, and my misgivings were not assuaged when we turned and started navigating side streets. The sixth sense that is supposed to alert you to potential trouble had, of course, been ringing all along. Now it was a screaming siren, and I began to wonder what these guys were going to do with the body. It was clear that something was wrong: were they lost, were they arguing about whether to take me to Rambla de Catalunya before killing me, were they still discussing whether to take me there or hold me up? This last seemed kind of plausible. The one in the back seat seamed to be the one who was insisting, "No, no, Rambla de Cataluna," now, and it was the guy in the front seat who was giving the directions. My body tensed. Neither of these guys would be cast in a high school production of "West Side Story". Maybe I had a chance here, if I was ready when it came.

Then, suddenly, "Rambla de Catlunya," they both chorused, then, "Right, right." I turned, found parking, exhaled. We parked, exited. I thanked them. They offered to show me to a bank, so I could change money. I declined, and offered them some money for their help. They declined, and the one who had been in the back seat put his hand on my shoulder and said, warmly, "Welcome to Barcelona." We shook hands, and they walked off.

SINGEN, Germany--I think the autobahn is cool. You can drive faster with greater comfort than I would have ever thought, and it is sort of hard to know why this is so. V. says he can make Stuttgart to Munich in an hour -- a physical distance of over 200 klm. The guys on Star Trek don't travel that fast. Part of it is, I think, roadway engineering. The autobahn is, mostly, three comfortable lanes wide, with no real hard curves (the curves are there, I think, to keep you from taking off altogether), and no grades, uphill or down, to speak of. Part of it is cultural. People who are driving more slowly just keep right. You pass the trucks here, not the other way round, and the trucks, as a result, seem friendlier. Part of it is that with everyone going hell for leather, you are seldom near another driver. I think, though, that the biggest reason for driving at this sort of speed is subtler: it is German radio, which is of an awfulness I could never have imagined. Man, the extra hour in the car on the way to Munich which it would take me to drive would, over a very short period of time compel me to gnaw off my own forepaw. Bad doesn't begin to cover it. Some of it seems to be German language covers of pop hits, and that is pretty bad, but where it gets excruciating is when they play stuff in English. The BeeGees-- not just the Saturday Night Fever disco stuff that, rightly or wrongly, is experiencing a renaissance now, but the pre-falsetto stuff. "I Started A Joke." The one about the mining disaster. All of it. Tom Jones. Tom Jones. honest to goodness, I heard "Suspicious Minds" a half a dozen times. I never knew what the words were before. (I thought he was saying, "We'll call it a trap," like it was something they were negotiating.) Of course the Partridge Family. Ordinarily I don't care for classical music when I'm driving, but I'd have made an exception. Nope, none. These people put Bach on their money, but on the evidence presented I would say that he must be as obscure a cultural figure in Germany as Salmon P. Chase is in ours.

The blame for this, I believe, rests with the United States, as, of course, these people would have you believe about everything from the failure of the asparagus crop to the law of entropy. There seems to be some basis for it in this instance, however. I lay the blame on Radio Free Europe, and that D.J. from the old commercials who only had one record. Incessant repletion of "On Broadway" must have developed in these people a massive threshold tolerance for oldies that American tourists now must pay the price for. Something similar seems to have happened with the cars themselves. I started the trip with a VW Golf, but am now driving a little Opel. What's up with Opel? Is this some sort of revenge on the German population by General Motors? On a long, straight downhill I can push this cracker box to 140, but only if I crouch down in my seat to decrease wind resistance. Germans, of course, don't drive them. They just rent them to us, on the theory that if we're so tough, we'll manage out there in the world of BMWs and Mercedes and, of course, Hitler's little motorcar, ze Volkswagen.

It is a whole different set of driving skills. What is in front of you is of little consequence, because you are about to pass whatever it is. Instead, you keep constant vigilance on what is behind you, because they are coming on a hell of a lot faster than you can imagine, and you don't want to be in their way. They can't slow down for you, because tapping the brakes at these speeds will shatter your headlights when your car starts doing somersault.

NANCY, France--In Germany, the bus stop advertisements and billboards all show women in bikinis, sometimes engaging in some mildly sportif activity, usually not. The text is blunt: "Bikini 24.4". "Pushup 45.5". In France, the same spots are reserved for lingerie ads. The text is usually some sort of jejune quote about how this particular brand of underwear is the model's life. She is usually on the phone, although some times she is just lounging. Price is not discussed. When underwear is this important, price is no object.

I can understand why she would be on the phone. Finding one on this continent is an adventure, and if I saw one while I was in my underwear, or buck naked and barefoot for that matter, I would hasten to try to use it. Of course, try is the operative word here. Although I have had some success with the AT&T card, as a rule one must have a local telecom card before the AT&T thing will work. These are generally sold in Tabacs, which generally close at 6:00 (18:00).

Why phones should be such rare and exclusive objects is hard to know. Everyone has a cell phone, but this seems to be a response to the general shortage, not the root cause. I have yet to stay in a hotel which has a phone in the room. Tonight's is unusual: there is one in the lobby. This has the look of a business hotel, and the phone seems to be one of the features. I can imagine the advertisements: "Villages Hotel-- Pay phone in the lobby!" The illustration depicts an obviously road weary gaul, standing on one leg, balancing his laptop, yellow pad and appointment book. In his mouth there is a pen. A cigarette burns on the ledge under the phone. "Pour l'homme d'affaires".

I am in Nancy, which seemed like the best place to stop, and although it seems to have its charms, I am in an utterly soulless quarter. Hotels in Europe seem to come in two varieties: 5 star, and the rest. Within the second category there seems to be some variation: no toilet or shower; toilet, but no shower; shower but no toilet; or all amenities. These include a futon type mattress, and, sometimes, an electrical outlet that isn't in the bathroom. Sometimes there is soap in the shower, sometimes not. Shampoo? Ques que sai? I suppose that it shouldn't surprise me, but the question of whether I will be having petit dejuner seems of great importance. I won't be, merci.

Last night was a bit more charming, although there seems to be a distinct ratio between charm and the possibility of reaching the outside world short of employing a ouji board. Little town in Provance (sp) which seemed to specialize in the production of nougat and nuclear power. Shower with soap, toilet down the hall. Nice people, good meal (perfectly sautéed trout, duck Provincial, nice cherry gateau after the cheese course). Watched "Bonanza" in the sitting room with the other guests for a while. I didn't know the Cartwrights were French. Show takes on a whole new meaning when you realize that it is a Gallic family saga.

These people eat a lot more pork than I would have guessed. Seems to be true pretty much everywhere. Spanish food had a hearty amount of it, I suppose to provide variety from the heavy, heavy amounts of olive oil they put on everything else. Plain grilling is unheard of, and the result, across cuisines, while quite good, is somewhat heavier than I am used to, even in the context of American prepared "Continental Food". Nothing could have prepared me for the thing that confronted me tonight. No clean plate ranger I, not this evening. My menu French failed me. I went into town (my Montpelier meal warned me off hotel dinning rooms that look like this one did), and went to a brassarie. I kinda knew what I was ordering -- charcutarie is sausage and/or smoked meat, but I didn't realize I'd asked for the Babe Ruth Special. Whoa. Lot o' Vitamin C in the kraut, I suppose, but still....

By way of reassurance, I am so relaxed that when I found myself on the autoroute on the way to Paris tonight after dinner I didn't swear or nothin'. I got myself back into Nancy, and asked for directions.

The whole experience is something like being in a "Lassie" movie. "What is it, Bill?" "I think he's trying to tell us something!" "You want to go to the hotel?"

The difference is that sometimes the people I am trying to communicate with use incomprehensible barking, and sometimes we understand each other. Lassie always got through, and although she couldn't speak, she had at least bilingual understanding.

Empirical evidence of Germany's historical claim to Alsace-Lorraine: when I crossed the boarder from Bourgone to Lorraine, "I Started A Joke" came on the radio. Hadn't heard from the Gibb brothers the whole rest of the time I was in France (French radio isn't so bad, if you don't mind "La Vie En Rose"). Don't know why the BeeGees are so popular in Germany, but from what I've heard (I've picked up enough German to pick out words in songs) they are a grotesquely sentimental people. Funny. German literature is like that too. The romantic French produce the unblinking existentialism of Camus and that fraud, Sartre. The Germans give us Goethe's "The Sorrows of Young Werther", and the unreadably maudlin Herman Hesse. And Tom Jones. Lots of Tom Jones. He and Barry Gibb must be honorary citizens. They'd put them on the money if they weren't throwing their lot in with the Lire. Talk about your romantic gestures....

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