The Uncanny Valley

Bob sent me “the most fucking terrifying instance of the ‘uncanny valley’ ever” which is, as advertised, fucking terrifying. But it’s this Wikipedia entry, combined with a mildly disagreeable encounter with an old harpie in the pharmacie, that has got me thinking: am I on the cusp of the “foreigner’s Uncanny Valley”?

(I think that sounded quite Sex In The City. I should buy more shoes.)

Wikipedia:

At first, when the foreign person acts significantly differently enough from native people, the foreigner will be praised for trying to fit in (e.g., he or she will be at the top of the first curve), and when the foreigner has adapted to the native culture completely, he or she will fit in. But, before that time, there is an awkward area in which the native people expect the foreigner to act like them, but the foreigner is not yet completely able to do that: the uncanny valley.

This raddled old crow, all fur and fallen facelift, had butted in front of us in the queue dribbling pills of all colours and sizes from her filthy, blooded claws. Feeling the Great British Spirit Of Fair-Play and Queue-Abiding Righteousness well strong within me, my chest swelled, I grew a head taller, flexed the suddenly swollen biceps in all four arms, and cleared my throat. Quite loudly, in fact.

She turned around, glared, and spat incomprehensible chips of fire, instantly shredding my face and hands. As a tiny, crimson, mouse, I squeaked “D’accord“. She stared a moment longer to make sure I was thoroughly crushed, and turned back to continue her business with the smirking cashier.

As I’d absolutely no idea what she had said, a snappy response had been out of the question. And even if I had understood, I really should master “stammering” and “sluggish” before trying to work “cutting” into my verbal French armoury. The worst part is, I was at least semi-in-the-wrong – it’s not uncommon here to consider it poor form to show resentment when honestly bettered in the race to the shop till. I went looking for trouble, and found it at the bottom of the étranger’s Uncanny Valley – too foreign to be out the other side and fighting back, but not foreign enough to keep my mouth shut and eyes wide when something falls a hairsbreadth outside of my familiar social norms.

My next trick: tutting loudly next time some young blade with dead-fish eyes spits near my feet in the street. Stay tuned!

Lick My Meat

Who told me about the meat sweats? It was years ago, I didn’t believe a word of it, and am now paying for my hubris – after putting away more than my fair share of a Côte de bœuf last night, urban myth has become 4am trembling sheet-soaked reality. Since arriving in Paris, I have come to enjoy huge bloody chunks of cowflesh beyond what is sane and, it seems, healthy. It’s one easily observable manifestation of my all-permeating hypocrisy that I’m convinced vegetarianism is ethically and environmentally spot-on the right thing, yet I still persist in consuming the deceased flesh of pretty much any animal I can get my filthy couverts on. And above all others, beef. Beef. Beef.

Thinking back, this isn’t the first time I’ve been stung by excessive beef consumption. Last winter in Brighton, a beef fondue evening developed into a red wine frenzy and I ended up redecorating my hallway, bathroom and parts of Toby with Beaujolais Village and partially digested chunks of raw beef. I could have taken this as a warning.

I’m beginning to think my innards just aren’t cut out for this kind of raw-meat abuse. Maybe it’s an English thing. You remember last summer’s toilet-bowl-referencing barbeque safety advert? Here, they have an ad for a particular brand of steak haché (a kind of burger that looks and tastes like it’s actually made out of minced beef – strange concept, I agree), in which a young boy takes said raw-meat product out of the freezer and gives it a hearty lick before passing it over to mum to cook. For this act of mishygiene, roughly equivalent in English food-safety terms to smearing your chicken drumsticks in human faeces, he recieves the sort of gentle chiding I’d expect for dipping a finger in the pasta sauce.

All this talk is making me feel rather peculiar. Please excuse me. I may have an urgent appointment with the téléphone de porcelaine.