The thoughts & opinions of Sassarella, the Queen of Sass as she cavorts in 's Gravenhage & beyond. Brought to you by CES's (Chief Executive Slaves) of Big Skanky Ho Inc.
I am bored and cranky, so no blogging. posted by All at 9:41:00 a.m.
Monday, July 19, 2004
Well, well. Here we are again.
I was intending to write a big long entry about Normandy, but dammit, my laziness has caught up with me, and today I decided to accept the fact that it's not going to happen. So, to tide you over until the next time I have something interesting going on, here are some of the pictures I downloaded off my camera today.
This is where we were staying in Belgrade. "Airy, industrial loft-style apartment, formerly home to government ministers," was how they described it to me. Bastards.
The year is 1943. You are a German soldier, sitting at Point du Hoc in France, bored out of your skull, sucking on your damn Nazi cigarette, wondering when your next leave is so you can go to the nearby town and molest some French girls, instead of having to sit in this stupid bunker and be cold and wet, preparing for an Allied invasion that you're sure will never come. This is your view.
I got this for Gosia's mom in Zurich while we were at the airport. It's a creamer, in the shape of a cow. You put the milk in the back and pour it out the mouth. Brilliant.
Self-explanatory, really. Nobody ever listens. Though doesn't Jewels look cute?
This is Juno Beach where the Canadians landed in Normany on D-day. Down the beach a bit is a centre built by Canadians and manned by some Quebecois kids who seem genuinely enthusiastic about Canadian history. There's also the remains of a bunker. Other than that, I have to say, not much to look at. I don't know that guy in the middle.
Who says there's nothing tacky in France? KJ here was greatly amused by the singing bass, singing happily along to "Don't worry, Be happy," much to the irritation of the bar owners, which I thought was pretty lame because they must have bought the damn thing in the first place. Bastards.
When they say the tide goes out in Normandy, man, they're not kidding around.
This is Omaha Beach, where some Americans landed. They have a centre too (or center in American), but no Quebecois kids. Bo-ring.
This is part of about a kilometre of beach that's uncovered everyday when the tide goes out. I forget what town we were in, but I have the feeling it's Granville.
