9 strangers meet in a brasserie. Salutations. Drink orders. Reshuffling of chairs. A Thomas Hobbes quote is lobbed into the circle and discussion ensues. Is man a wolf to man? Would we destroy one another without societal structures (government, religion, taught morality) in place? Is there a place for every human on the earth? What role do wars, rebellions, colonizations play into it? What can we learn from the savage vs civilized man?
After a long and energetic banter of French debate (that I can’t quite keep up with), the question is posed: Did God create man, or did man create God? Immediately the answer is given than man created God. Around the table 7 heads nod in agreement, adding their own reasons for the simple response. I nod for the opposition, and another inquisitive mind asks questions like “who is God to you?” and “don’t we all have our gods whether we create them or they choose us?”
Later, the question is raised of why a creator God would make things like jungle parasites that do nothing but feast, kill, and destroy. I admittedly have often wondered about why God had to make mosquitos, I can’t stand those things; do they do anything good? One man shares that when he was 13 he left the church after dissatisfaction with his priest’s answer to the question of why God allows suffering and disasters. The table generally agrees that the notion of God is outdated, silly, and insufficient.
The discussion eventually moves to the topic of old age, disease, and death. Should we be able to choose our time to leave this world behind? Is it better to give up than to endure oncoming sufferings? Does the medical community have a responsibility to save lives, ease suffering, or follow patients’ wishes? Finally a topic with disagreement... but the depressive nature of the topic is too heavy and the group starts to dissipate as the bar closes down.
This is the world in which we live. And right now, there’s no place I’d rather be.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
About town on a bike
With Mama's new freedom to leave the apartment and walk, we picked up a helmet and hit the streets and sidewalks of Marseille with Sawyer on his bike. To us, it was a walk to the pharmacy and bakery. But to him, much much more.
First taste of free outdoor air on his bike and he took to it like a fish in water. A little boy on his bike in France reminded me of watching sea turtles hatch and head into the Indian ocean a couple years ago. I'm not gonna say that God designed little boys to ride bikes... but I won't say it's impossible either!
All smiles. Let's do this!
No surprise to us, the girls came running. That's pretty much what always happens when the cute blonde kid gets let loose out of the house. His reactions vary though. This time, he dismounted, smiled back, and then started running in large sweeping circles while yelling at the air. Man of mystery, I tell you.And then there's this. Ham.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Dr visit that made me smile
This morning I accompanied my wife to her OBGYN doctor’s appointment. It was a good day, as the 35th week of her pregnancy and a good report marks no more bed rest! But the best moment of the appointment came when the doctor’s cell phone rang. After a brief pocket vibration, the ringtone cut brutally into the silent air with the sweet sound of the BeeGees:
“Well you can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk.”
Nice. Real nice. I’m still grinning thinking about it.
Today’s appointment went well. In addition to the no-walking/cooking/working/sitting/thinking-too-hard restriction being lifted, our doctor showed us some abnormal care and interest. To be honest, he’s always seemed a little aloof. And though the French medical system is super-thorough and over-protective to a fault, it can also seem impersonal. Like looking at our file and past prescriptions each week as if he’d never seen us. Or listening to our concerns and preferences and giving 0 response. We know the way things are, and there’s a few things we’d like different. We’re a family that likes a little freedom (can you tell?). So when this week he told us that he’d contacted the hospital and talked to them and they agreed to quite a few of our requests, I was a little shocked, and appreciative. I assumed I’d have to fight our battles in the heat of the moment. Another fun part of the French system is that everything’s separate. Yeah, we have a doctor, but it’s really the hospital, the nurses, and the midwives who do all of the delivery and post-natal care (though he says he’ll come by for the birth, “unless I’m on vacation”). So what we say to our doctor may or may not ever translate to the delivery at the hospital.
Back home now, we have a list of about 50 things the hospital requires us to bring for the delivery. It’s worse than the first day of school. Like our own thermometers, 6 long-sleeve onesies+socks+pajamas+hats+blankets (all for the baby, and we’re told one of each to be worn at the same time), towels, and adult cotton mesh underwear (we have no idea why).
Experience tells us we’d better bring pillows and any snacks we want that’s not cheese and coffee.
First thing to do off bed rest: shopping. 2nd thing: clearing trunk space for the luggage.
And there’s a baby room to put together.
“Well you can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk.”
Nice. Real nice. I’m still grinning thinking about it.
Today’s appointment went well. In addition to the no-walking/cooking/working/sitting/thinking-too-hard restriction being lifted, our doctor showed us some abnormal care and interest. To be honest, he’s always seemed a little aloof. And though the French medical system is super-thorough and over-protective to a fault, it can also seem impersonal. Like looking at our file and past prescriptions each week as if he’d never seen us. Or listening to our concerns and preferences and giving 0 response. We know the way things are, and there’s a few things we’d like different. We’re a family that likes a little freedom (can you tell?). So when this week he told us that he’d contacted the hospital and talked to them and they agreed to quite a few of our requests, I was a little shocked, and appreciative. I assumed I’d have to fight our battles in the heat of the moment. Another fun part of the French system is that everything’s separate. Yeah, we have a doctor, but it’s really the hospital, the nurses, and the midwives who do all of the delivery and post-natal care (though he says he’ll come by for the birth, “unless I’m on vacation”). So what we say to our doctor may or may not ever translate to the delivery at the hospital.
Back home now, we have a list of about 50 things the hospital requires us to bring for the delivery. It’s worse than the first day of school. Like our own thermometers, 6 long-sleeve onesies+socks+pajamas+hats+blankets (all for the baby, and we’re told one of each to be worn at the same time), towels, and adult cotton mesh underwear (we have no idea why).
Experience tells us we’d better bring pillows and any snacks we want that’s not cheese and coffee.
First thing to do off bed rest: shopping. 2nd thing: clearing trunk space for the luggage.
And there’s a baby room to put together.
One man's trash...
There’s an evening phenomenon in Marseille that I don’t quite understand, and I’m beginning to dislike. It’s the dumpster divers. I’m amazed everyday at what I see. Literally every evening in which trash is put out for pick-up, across the city hundreds (thousands?) of people will walk their route and dig through the trash of every container out there.
We’re on the first floor of our apartment building (2nd floor in American counting), and thus our building’s garbage bins sit not too far from our living room window when they go out to the curb. Twice a week at dusk I watch the odd ritual go down. Someone walks up to our dumpsters, pops them open, and then goes through the trash, bag by bag. Each bag is ripped open and scattered, pieces looked through and rarely something pocketed. But here’s the part I don’t get: the people who go through the trash don’t typically have the lowest socio-economic look about them. I know some of the homeless folks in Marseille, and it’s not them going through our trash. The trash diggers are usually guys in their 20s/30s, often wearing designer jeans and manpurses with decent haircuts.
The part that irritates me is that they open up all of the trash bags and make a total mess. Every night trash gets scattered on the ground (not in the dumpsters) and is never picked back up. Then the giant man-eating rats come out to play. Is it wrong that I’m contemplating dropping the refuse of my son’s diaper open in our trash bags rather than in our toilets? And opening all containers of molded food before tossing? Perhaps such a surprise gift on the tearing open of a trash bag is needed. Maybe that’s not nice. But neither is scattering trash all over our city!
Either way, I’d better get a shredder.
We’re on the first floor of our apartment building (2nd floor in American counting), and thus our building’s garbage bins sit not too far from our living room window when they go out to the curb. Twice a week at dusk I watch the odd ritual go down. Someone walks up to our dumpsters, pops them open, and then goes through the trash, bag by bag. Each bag is ripped open and scattered, pieces looked through and rarely something pocketed. But here’s the part I don’t get: the people who go through the trash don’t typically have the lowest socio-economic look about them. I know some of the homeless folks in Marseille, and it’s not them going through our trash. The trash diggers are usually guys in their 20s/30s, often wearing designer jeans and manpurses with decent haircuts.
The part that irritates me is that they open up all of the trash bags and make a total mess. Every night trash gets scattered on the ground (not in the dumpsters) and is never picked back up. Then the giant man-eating rats come out to play. Is it wrong that I’m contemplating dropping the refuse of my son’s diaper open in our trash bags rather than in our toilets? And opening all containers of molded food before tossing? Perhaps such a surprise gift on the tearing open of a trash bag is needed. Maybe that’s not nice. But neither is scattering trash all over our city!
Either way, I’d better get a shredder.
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