I just finished reading The Mythical Man-Month. Overall it’s an interesting take on the field of software engineering that still seems to apply today, with a few exceptions. The author mentions that it took some criticism for not being technical. To me, that’s a little bit ironic, since the technical parts at this point are totally obsolete and not helpful, but the larger sense of how to build software, schedule, etc. still seems accurate.

My personal favorite part was a chart of exciting products.

Who knew Fortran was so exciting? Certainly not I, but it says so in a book, so it must be true.

Rosie tagged me to answer this book survey.

MEME Rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book of 125 pages or more.
   Eh. Bad timing. This one’s a bit… difficult.
2. State the title and author of the book.
   Walden by Henry David Thoreau.
3. Find page 25.
   Okay.
4. Type in the first 5 sentences.
   

   The luxury of one class is counterbalanced by the indigence of another. On the one side is the palace, on the other are the almshouse and “silent poor.” The myriads who built the pyramids to be the tombs of the of Pharaohs were fed on garlic, and it may be were not decently buried themselves. The mason who finishes the cornice of the palace returns at night perchance to a hut not so good as a wigwam. It is a mistake to suppose that, in a country where the usual evidences of civilization exist, the condition of a very large body of the inhabitants may not be as degraded as that of savages.

   This guy has quite a chip on his shoulder. g-r-u-m-p-y.

5. Find page 100 and type in the first, second and fifth word on the page.
   some, and, in.
6. Tag 5 people
   There are probably about five people who look at this site except for Rosie. Soooo, have at it. You know who you are.

I’m back in SF, by the way.

The time zone difference between Paris and California is a little more difficult than I expected it would be. A 10am meeting in California (nearly unheard of!) is a 6pm (18:00) meeting in Paris (nearly unheard of!). When Europe hits daylight savings time this weekend, that’ll become even more exaggerated, so that 10am PST becomes 7pm CEST (19:00).

Two nights ago, I had trouble getting to sleep because of my first case of real and actual jet lag. I was laying in bed, listening to the neighbors play Madonna through the walls, and suddenly I felt a little bit feverish. I had been tired only 10 minutes earlier, and now I couldn’t even quietly lie down. My stomach felt heavy, like my dinner was just sitting in my stomach. Crazy thoughts started to go through my head, and somehow I kept coming back to the idea of how much fun it would be to work as a barback. I thought that I was delirious with food poisoning.

Perhaps it was the four cups of coffee that morning. Maybe all the wine, bread, and cheese. Hard to say.

The next morning, I decided that I would try to shift my schedule to be more in line with California. I doubt it really helped, but I took advantage of the expected late day to head to Musee d’Orsay in the morning.

The museum opened at 9:30. I got to work around that time, then walked to the museum, starting down the street from the big church past the other big church, where Napoleon had himself painted into the fresco behind the cross, down to the obelisk that was a “gift” from Egypt, and over the bridge to the Left Bank towards the Museum of the Legion of Honor, and then next door.

At 9:50 or so, I got into line, and it was already 7 or 8 lines deep.

The woman in front of me said, in English, “It says in the guide book they stop selling tickets at 17:45. I hope they don’t run out soon!”

Idiot.

Her son, a 14 or 15 year old boy, continually held up the line as tries to finish up a game on his gold Dolce & Gabbana cell phone. It seemed excessive to me, but then I noticed the Diesel shoes. I suppose that brand has really gone down in quality and exclusivity lately, so I’m still unimpressed. The jeans, though. G-Star Raw. I thought that was mostly a gay/hipster SF thing, but maybe I was wrong. That’s when I noticed the gold tinted Versace glasses. His mother may have been an idiot — can’t subtract 12 from 17!! — but she at least seemed like she could be nice. This kid though.

I did not like this kid. I considered heading back to work.

But, I was on vacation. For the moment. I took a deep breath and waited my turn in line, carefully staying behind, but not too close to, the spoiled Americans. Eventually I made it into the museum.

And, it was pretty great. The museum is a converted train station, so it’s kept some of the architectural elements that identify it as one. The ceiling is arched, and the central entryway is filled with classical sculptures, some of classical Gods and figures, Napoleon, and nudes. Musee d’Orsay picks up where the Louvre ends, in the early 1800s to the early 1900s, and it has some of the most famous impressionist pieces in the world. Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Sisly, Pissarro, Cezanne, Toulouse-Latrec, Degas, Boudin, Rodin, and many others. It’s shocking to turn a corner in a gallery and see Van Gogh’s Starry Night over the Rhone ahead. Head downstairs and see Manet’s Olympia. They look better in person, where the texture of the paint and scale of the painting add something that you can’t capture in a print. Dare I say, aura?

After that, it’s back to work. I stop outside and order a “Caesar Tortilla,” then head across the bridge to the Right Bank and through the park next to the palace by the fountain up past the church towards the other church.

I slept well the next night.

Yesterday I went to brunch at Ladurée, on rue Royale by the Place de la Concorde, with my host and his friends visiting from Nantes. Overall the meal was excellent, but maybe a little too much to eat: orange juice, hot chocolate, viennoiserie, bread, yogurt, fruit salad, macaroons, scrambled eggs, and club sandwiches. Quite delicious.

At one point during the meal, I asked woman sitting next to me if she could please pass the pastry. (She spoke English.)

“What?” she asks back, and I point to one of the croissants. “I would like a croissant.” She looks at me, disappointed. Her shoulders drop.

“This is not pastry. Pastry is something completely different. This is viennoiserie.”

I apologized and thanked her for the correction, and then got the croissant.

I asked my friend about it later, and he explained that viennoiserie is typically pastry that you eat for breakfast.

So now I know. I think that the French people may have evolved as many words for bread as the Eskimos have for snow. Be aware.

I got to Paris. It was kind of slow going getting here.

Yesterday I needed to pick up a few things — toothpaste, soap, etc. — so I walked towards the Pompidou Center nearby and found a supermarket. I went through and got my things, and waited in line to pay.

That’s when it hit me that I don’t speak French. If the cashier needed to ask me anything, I would have no idea what he’s saying to me. That wouldn’t be good. When I finally got to the cashier, I started to place things on the belt carefully in such a way that my items won’t get confused with the next person in line’s items, to try and avoid the situation of having to explain it. I hoped none of my items are sale items that require one of those stupid grocery store cards. There are so many things that could go wrong.

Finally, the cashier got to me. “Bonjour.” I said hello back to him, and then I started to carefully watch the price as he scanned. When he finished, he looked and me and told me the price. I looked at the scanner. 9.66. I gave him a 10 euro bill.

Then he looked at me and said something, at least 30 syllables, I have no idea how to even fake it. “Uhhh…” is all I can let out.

He looked at me in the eye, and then said “Do you have one cent?” with a crisper ‘t’ than I would have expected.

“Oh. No, that’s all I have.”

He nodded, and gave me 34 cents back.