Toulouse: The Seattle of Europe? Part 1

Today in my cross-cultural management class the professor mentioned offhand that Toulouse is ‘the Seattle of Europe’, and I had no idea what he meant by that. Maybe I would’ve had some clue if I’d ever been to Seattle, but alas that is one place in the US (and the only region of the US, actually) that I’ve yet to visit. I’d like to – Adam Young’s lyrical invitation would suffice, but I also know that Starbucks is from Seattle, and Starbucks is one of a few things that make me feel cool, ambitious, and full of potential. With these sentiments as a backdrop I naturally wanted to know what the professor meant by his statement, but like a 21st century university student I, rather than simply asking, resolved to Google it when I got home.

(Kids, whenever you find yourself resolving to Google something when you get home – or more likely, Googling it right then on your handy-dandy smartphones, while my dumbphone looks on exressionlessly – that you could actually ask someone, get your nose out of that screen and ask them. You need the practice.)

I have just Googled it now, and though the answer is proving recalcitrant, the search phrase ‘toulouse “the seattle of europe'” seems to have yielded some fruit. The top hit apparently ‘may harm my computer’, but seeing as only four results have appeared and two are about Norway, it’s tempting. The second hit is a thread about south France on a hot springs forum – how unexpected, and potentially gratifying on other counts than my current objective – in which the OP describes Toulouse as “a 2000 year-old city that still has plenty of buildings that are really ancient. It is also the Seattle of Europe, since that’s where Airbus is located. I did not go on a tour of the plant since I am a Boeing fan, especially since they located their new facility here in coastal South Carolina, and I might have slipped and said something and gotten ejected.” Nice aviation pun.

You might think ‘since that’s where Airbus is located’ is a fairly straightforward phrase, and perhaps to you it is, but it took me further Googling to fully flesh out this hot spring soaker’s meaning. As usual Google did not disappoint; in fact, I didn’t even have to click on a hit, so capable are their data-gathering bots these days.

Are you ready? Toulouse is not just host to an Airbus plant, it is the headquarters of Airbus. The headquarters of Boeing is in Chicago (gotcha!)…but only since 2001, before which it was in Seattle; in fact, Boeing was founded in Seattle. I suppose that excuses the seeming outdatedness of the expression, as presumably (read: if Wikipedia can in this instance be trusted, and I believe it can) Airbus, being only  about forty years old as compared with Boeing’s near-century, was founded in Toulouse. Not to mention that Chicago is already known for plenty else, the esteemed deep-dish pizza among the foremost, and anyway ‘the Chicago of Europe’ sounds farcical. [If you have a comment on this last point, you may want to save it until you’ve read Part 2 as well.]

So there you have it. Rival airplane manufacturer – and it was only after coming to Toulouse that I learned how strong the rivalry is (and that classifications such as 737, 747, and 777 apply only to Boeing models; Airbus uses A320, A350, A380 and the like, and yes, I did learn that from an Airbus employee here) – homes make Toulouse ‘the Seattle of Europe’, and of course the European is named after the American, though in this case considering the corporate age difference I can’t really complain.

If you are satisfied with that explanation and in general enjoy resolution, read no further. I myself am not satisfied and intend to delve further, with no guarantees of ultimate resolution.

It’s probably just that part of me that screams, there’s always a deeper meaning! Everything is connected, everything can be explained! that is egging me on now as always. But you see, we weren’t talking about Airbus and Boeing in my cross-cultural management class. We weren’t talking about airplane manufacturing. I suppose we were talking about globalisation and, at that specific moment, tourism, which is connected to the decrease in flight prices, but our focus was people, I thought. Maybe my memory fails me. Someone said something, and it was in reply to this that the professor said, ‘Yes, well, they do call Toulouse the Seattle of Europe,’ but I can’t remember the comment that led to this reply. Still, bad memory or no, I can’t shake the lack of final-puzzle-piece-falling-into-place feeling from all I’ve said thus far. Perhaps the professor’s comment was truly offhand, as I flippantly wrote at the start. It’s those kinds of comments that drive people like me crazy.

Beyond that, I don’t find the existence of the factory or even headquarters of a rival in a duopoly adequate grounds to refer to one city by the name of another. The Airbus HQ is not the defining characteristic of Toulouse nor, I think I’m right in saying, its sole sustenance. As the aforementioned bathing traveler noted, it has over two thousand years of history, and even now, there is much tourism, shopping, and other commerce, not to mention my university-dominated immediate environs. And I’m sure there’s more I have yet to discover.

Okay, as I’m basically talking out of my- well, just talking, I suppose I should go looking for some sort of evidence. Google once again avails itself, and I find this very knowledgeable-sounding blog entry. I know blogs aren’t the most reliable of sources – after all, if I’d left the previous paragraph alone, you might’ve departed being disastrously misinformed! – but on this one I’m flying by the seat of my pants. Said blog informs us that in the US, “for every aerospace job there are 1.9 indirect jobs created and 1.5 induced jobs; thus one aerospace job creates 3.4 jobs.” Taking into account the 21,000 Airbus/EADS employees in Toulouse and its population of about 1.1 million (the figures are all probably a bit higher now), 9% of the metropolitan area population, or 25-30% of families here depend on this activity for a job. So it’s a little more essential than I thought.

That’s a lot of data you probably weren’t that interested in, but I think we can both agree it’s a lot better than me rambling about shopping and drunken student life. At the Toulouse Wikipedia page, which I should’ve visited far sooner than this, it says that Toulouse is the centre of the European aerospace industry, with the headquarters of not only Airbus but also a major positioning system, a satellite system, the largest space centre in Europe (visit-worthy?) and several other satellite subsidiaries (it also calls the ‘world-renowned’ University of Toulouse “one of the oldest in Europe (founded in 1229) and, with more than 97,000 students, the third-largest university campus of France,” so, holla). This is all starting to make more sense. Now it’s Seattle’s turn.

I’ll spare you the nitty details of that search. I think it’s fair to say that Seattle, while perhaps not the centre of the American aerospace industry – other cities such as Wichita, Kansas, claim a share of it – is certainly a major centre, with Boeing, involved in both air and space, and defence, formerly and still at its heart. According to one website (not Wikipedia, in fact, though as this is not an academic paper I’m not refraining from citing that notorious fountain of knowledge), the Seattle metropolitan area has the highest concentration of aerospace industry jobs in the world.

This is all far more satisfying. Seattle is a centre of aerospace industry in America with Boeing at its core; Toulouse is a – and even the – centre of aerospace industry in Europe with Airbus at its core. So to call Toulouse ‘the Seattle of Europe’ is, I must say, fair enough.

(If you sensed a looming ‘but’ at the end of that sentence you are correct, but I shall save said looming butt for Part 2. You could head straight over there, or you could take a brief interlude to listen to some of what has formed my conception of Seattle.)

I Get Close To Finished (Another Essay Post-Op)

But then my perfectionist nature retorts, “But you’ve got an entire night ahead of you of empty hours, surely you can make your essay better than that.”

And I comply, and stay awake, and trudge through, and produce another what-my-sleepy-surreal-semi-consciousness-deems-a-masterpiece.

You don’t have to tune in for the battle, you just get to enjoy the fruits: another dark-of-the-night post-essay blog entry. I do so enjoy these.

Even though I put it off and put it off, I probably get more than the average person’s share of fulfilment out of completing an essay. To me, almost regardless of the topic, it’s a work of art – words are clay to be crafted into a sturdy yet attractive sculpture that is not too weak at any point and yet not ugly in any way either (blog posts, on the other hand, are rarely more than the spewing ground for disjointed thoughts).

Bradford’s essay submission process (at least the Peace Studies Department’s) consists of an online Turnitin submission, then a paper submission of two copies of the essay (plus official filled-in cover page) to the undergraduate office. Not wanting to risk the library printing queues I’ve heard horror stories about but never actually seen, I took a four-in-the-morning trip to the library to get my two copies.

(Here’s a hugely entertaining video about four in the morning. Watch it. It’s great. )

Oh, and before I redressed- er, re-dressed…and left my room, as I was filling in the cover page, I realised that it was 3:33 a.m. on 3/3/11. Cool. What to wish for? Well, I thanked God that He was nice enough to get me through another one, and, well, my clock wishes (11:11, 22:22, and whatnot) are always the same, so I didn’t take much time on that. It’s funny, though…

And I set out. The cool quiet feels great. Clear. And the birds chirping…wait what? Don’t birds only chirp in the daytime? Stupid Bradford birds. But have you seen the rats…oh my oh my. This actually scares me. I live here.

I quite enjoy going to the library in the middle of the night, though I don’t do it much. I love that it’s open all night on week nights. In addition to the security guard, there’s always at least a few people there. I bet every night there’s at least one person pulling an all-nighter, or at least close to it. We should do a library sleepover sometime. Ha ha!

Tonight was no exception, and there were even two guys from Peace Studies there working on their essays. I couldn’t do that. I’ve found that I have to get out of my room, to the library, in advance of deadlines so that I don’t get distracted by the Internet, but when it comes down to the final stretch, I need to be in my room with ample snackage, break-time entertainment, and music on tap. It’s a fine-tuned science that the perfectionist voice in my head puts me through. I do intend to do better for the next deadlines, just like I intended to for this one. But this one wasn’t actually as bad as the last one, which was two essays. But I wrote about that; you can read about it.

After struggling with the technology a bit I extracted my eighteen pages (two copies), had a short chat, returned home. Home. Something like that.

Hey, I say it’s home if you walk in, press play, and have the opening notes to ‘Fireflies’ waft comfortingly out of the speakers (the aggressive notes of Slash’s solo on Daughtry’s ‘What I Want’ are ‘wafting’ out of it right now. Yes).

So I rest in the music. Not feeling much like sleep after the victory and the stroll in the crisp last-vestiges-of-winter air. I use hyphens too much. But I do use them properly…I would give you a link to explain that comment, but I can’t remember the name of the article. No matter.

You know, I think Planet Earth does turn slowly. And though it is hard to say I’d rather stay awake when I’m asleep, on nights like these it’s easy to say I’d rather be awake than asleep. For a while.

But he’s right, of course – nothing is ever as it seems.

Sometimes I like to revel in lines. Something you’ve heard a hundred times can bound up in new meaning on nights like these.

Because my dreams are bursting at the seams.

(Let’s pretend I ended with that line, and that everything below was actually somewhere above it, ate?)

I’m going to Nottingham tomorrow! Er, today. In twelve hours. Oo. I should sleep if I want to work out, do laundry, pack, and go to seminar.

Yeah, Robin Hood, bla bla bla. Going to see a friend from Japan. Will be the first person from outside the UK sphere for me to meet since coming here.

I guess I’ll go to bed now. I don’t wanna be one of those unfulfilled-life people who operate by feeling. Wake up tomorrow at…say…9:30ish, gym. Yay!

Oh, and I get to shave tomorrow (‘get to’ shave? Going to shave. And be all soo-waaave). Double yay!

I only say yay at four in the morning.

Fireflies – Owl City

[Originally published 8 March 2010. Updated 7 November 2010.]

[Reading a commentary showed me why no one reads commentaries. Writing one showed me why they should be read, if only to see something through eyes other than one’s own.]

(Don’t read this.

Not if you want to keep your perceptions intact concerning any of the existences referenced herein.)

You asked for it (one of you, at least), so here it is. My interpretation of Owl City’s Fireflies, for all who care or are mildly interested, though it would likely be far more appropriate to call this ‘thoughts incurred by Owl City’. I am by no means declaring this the definitive interpretation of what Adam Young means to say; this is merely what I get from the songs, through my deeply tinted lenses. Several of you protested my classification of it as ’emo’. I stand by my word, but it may not be that for you seeing as you are quite a different person from me.

I’m not calling myself a true fan, either – I agree, amazingly, with a particular angered iTunes reviewer – that takes time. I only found out about Owl City a week ago thanks to Thursday Hi-B.A. Godfather and Pandora (which, true, is not available in Japan, but for a price, I do share secrets). I heard The Saltwater Room playing and, quite honestly, hated the sound of it. Ugh, not another acoustic indie whiny voice, I thought. But then I heard the line: If this is what I call home, why does it feel so alone? And that got me. Because I will definitely check out any group that can resound with me so completely and so instantaneously. I listened to more of their (his) songs, among them the much-celebrated Fireflies, which I later learned is his flagship song, but apparently ‘true fans’ like other songs better.

I fell in love with Owl City around this time. I can’t exactly say why, only that his lyrics resonated with me and where I’ve come from. For one, there’s no way he didn’t listen to Relient K during his formative years. I did too, so I don’t mind that tongue-in-cheek rhyme-at-every-corner style, and electronic, well, I’m all for it. In fact, I remember thinking that this was exactly the style I would’ve made if I’d spent more time messing around with Garageband. Clearly, I’m not saying it’s anything deep, profound, or incredibly talented, but it gets me where most other music doesn’t. To put it simply, anything that makes my head do [read the analysis below] is a winner in my book. If I might dare to be so presumptuous, I think this is called inspiration – the gateway to marvels ever greater.

Enough intro. I first intended to do three songs that I particularly like, but after finishing Fireflies, the one I feel I have the best handle on, I decided to call it for now and possibly return later. That’s the one most of you care about anyway, I presume. The others are a little less accessible and, to my over-analytical mind, much more time-consuming.

Now, before any discussion of meaning, it’s important to understand that Adam Young is an insomniac who first began making music in the basement of his house as a diversion during sleepless nights, so nearly all of his songs suffer from overtones of longing for the dream world and everything else that runs through our heads on those long nights. It’s wonderful. He’s snagged two of the greatest figures of imagery, sleep and water, in nearly every song, every line, and I’m a sucker for imagery.

Yes, I do realize that this is far more about me than Adam Young. And I do realize that in just a few years my “interpretation” will very probably be completely different. All I can say is, welcome to the twisted wrought-iron gates through which all external input must pass to reach my innards. I’ve tried to write it in the form of thoughts flitting by as one listens to the song, just like my experience with it, and probably failed, but here you have it. I apologize for the switching of perspective, but when you think about it, it’s only fitting for an analysis of dreams, eh?

I warned you once, I’ll warn you again. If you’re satisfied with your own interpretations of his songs (and several other things) and don’t want to be influenced in any way, go no further. I assure you that, speaking from my own experience, regardless of your opinion of me or the ideas presented throughout this note, there will be at least something you take away that will shade your thinking every time you listen to these songs hereafter.

If you’re fine with hearing other opinions, opinions that, while sounding crazy or convincing, could be very right and very wrong, then read on, read on. Just bear in mind that analysis is painful and, in some cases, mutilates that which is being scrutinized. I hope you can emerge still able to enjoy these songs simply for what they are. I do! (says my already-deranged-beyond-the-ability-to-hold-any-sort-of-‘normal’-interaction mind)

 

Fireflies

You would not believe your eyes

Because I’ve waited for this moment of falling asleep for so long (who but one with experience can imagine how much an insomniac longs for the comforting arms of sleep, and the escape from harsh reality into fantastic dreams?),

If ten million fireflies

this moment at which I say good-bye to this world and hello to that of dreams, a joyous greeting bursting with light (fireflies are magical, and romantic, what better way to light the passage into long-awaited realms beyond consciousness?),

Lit up the world as I fell asleep.

and because you could not possibly imagine the wondrous things I dream could happen.

‘Cause they’d fill the open air

Freedom.

And leave teardrops everywhere.

Even if you don’t accept ’emo’, surely you must admit that overtones of sadness string through all of his cheery-sounding music, and here is one such instance. Though the light is beautiful and healing, in its wake is left cold, real tears – each dream reflective of some real-life sorrow. To be blunt, I submit that each firefly is a unique dream, and each tear some instant within each dream that sticks with us through waking, making us long for something we can’t quite put our finger on.

You’d think me rude

But I would just stand and stare.

Observers – that’s all any of us really are in our dreams, isn’t it? Barring a few rare cases, we have no power, we can only watch strange events unfold and, just when we’re most glad we’re above and not within these horrible happenings, be plummeted into the passenger seat and swept along in them. Someone watching us play these parts in our own dreams might wonder what we’re thinking, how we could possibly be making these choices. We’d be more than rude. But choice is an illusion – in the dream world.

I’d like to make myself believe

In the dream world, it is not fact that matters but what we believe, consciously, subconsciously, or unconsciously.

That planet Earth turns slowly.

Because then the sun’s rays would be delayed, the night would stretch a little further. There’d be time to sleep, to reach the dream world, and to see the story to its conclusion, rather than be rudely pulled away to a groggy mind and impatiently expectant new day.

It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay

Awake when I’m asleep,

It’s so easy to stay awake, eh? We hold our eyes open doing who knows what, wasting time, like I most likely am right now, and never fail to regret it in the morning. However, when we finally acquiesce to the bidding arms of sleep, or, in some cases, the reluctant embrace of sleep, we don’t regret and we see what we were missing out on.

‘Cause everything is never as it seems.

Because we never know what’s good for us until we’re force-fed it, and even then we’re slow to return after scampering away foolishly once again. But when pure grandeur is staring one in the face, it’s nigh unto impossible to turn one’s back – the truth speaks for itself when superficiality is torn away.

‘Cause I’d get a thousand hugs

Someone cares,

From ten thousand lightning bugs

even if it’s only the illusion of hopes attained, voids filled, life fulfilled,

As they tried to teach me how to dance.

because I believe there’s a better life to be grasped if only I knew how – how to dance the dance, how join in the magic that binds what is to what could and should be.

A foxtrot above my head,

[I am just about the least qualified person to comment on this section, because I couldn’t tell the difference between a waltz and a salsa, and have no desire to be able to, but Wikipedia and YouTube do shed some light in cases such as this. The ‘foxtrot’, a ballroom dance, emerged in the early 1900s and for the first half of the century was the most popular fast dance, being fitted to all different types of lively music, ranging from ragtime to disco and even some rock and roll.]

Note that it’s a pair dance.

A sock hop beneath my bed,

[A ‘sock hop’ is not a particular style but an event – an informal sponsored dance at American high schools, usually in the gym or cafeteria. Its hay-day was in the 1950s; now we simply call it ‘a dance’, unless of course you’re from CAJ, in which case you’re more accustomed to the word ‘banquet’, with quite a different mental image. For a shockingly in-your-face demonstration of the general structure and reason for its demise, get a load of <a href=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ENn6v5S_Sk”>this</a&gt;. Blech. Okay, sorry, back to the reverie.]

The sock hop needs no partner, simply a moderately uninhibited group or a very uninhibited individual. Might I point out that while the sock hop could represent general sociality, which he certainly seems to be wishing for, it is relegated to beneath the bed, whereas the pair dance takes place above. There’s one who stands out in his mind from the rest.

A disco ball is just hanging by a thread.

But this exhibition of youthful frolicking spanning the decades could so quickly come crashing down, for it hangs on the thread of belief, of dreams of something better…

I’d like to make myself believe

That planet Earth turns slowly.

…if only I had time to find that something better before morning.

It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay

Awake when I’m asleep,

Sleep is grateful for itself, which cannot always be said of wakefulness. Upon awaking we may wish for or regret the false fulfillment of dreams, but for the duration of that sleep the dream was fulfilled, with a promise of more to come in just a bit – if we could only, the next time, find our way back!

‘Cause everything is never as it seems

Sadly yes, the achievements and acquisitions of the dream world are limited to just that, and slip away quicker than the haze from our eyes on the pillow – or is it that in reality we are closer to the realization our dreams than we realize? Nothing is ever as it seems, after all,

When I fall asleep.

in that peculiar moment (of traveling among worlds).

Leave my door open just a crack

There must be some escape from this prison of darkness, the bars being either my eyelids or the blank bedroom walls, even if it means denying what I so desperately need and venturing back through the known and futile to any sort of diversion from my deepest physical and emotional needs/wishes so clearly not being fulfilled [remember the basement, making music to pass the sleepless time, thing].

(Please take me away from here)

However, the preferred route by far is not down the stairs but up into the clouds of rest and fantastic wonderment.

‘Cause I feel like such an insomniac.

(Please take me away from here)

Here it is, flat out, what is wrong with me?

Why do I tire of counting sheep

Any desperate measure to get to that place

(Please take me away from here)

When I’m far too tired to fall asleep?

failing in the face of a barrier transcending logic and physical necessity, laughing at suffering, dragging on…and on. How could I not be asleep by now?

<rueful snicker>

To ten million fireflies

Dream-filled sleep cycles (or perhaps half-awake dreams of sleep?) pull away as another bright morning dawns far too early.

I’m weird ’cause I hate goodbyes.

Why is it that though everyone dislikes parting words, they all still insist on going through with them, and the strange one is he who refuses to observe these empty and petty traditions? But some of us know the pain of said and unsaid good-byes a little better than others, and hate them a little more. [This is the line in this song, similar to that one in The Saltwater Room, that “had me at hello” – this line would have been enough to make the song, for me.] But the fireflies, the dreams, promise to return – what’s to hate about this moment? What’s so hard about “good-bye”? It’s only ever “see you later”. We tell ourselves.

I got misty eyes as they said farewell.

So that’s where that crusty gunk on my eyes when I wake up comes from – the dried tears cried at the departure of my dreams, or rather my departure from them for my day-job. As good as dreams are, we’re forever separated just before the good part, the climax, the happy ending.

But I’ll know where several are

I won’t let go.

If my dreams get real bizarre,

What could be more bizarre than a dream becoming reality? Not all, but for some dreams, especially their undertoned promises, that is the final goal. And it could happen yet,

‘Cause I saved a few and I keep them in a jar.

because I keep a firm grip on them as I come crashing down through the misty layers of waking, and they do not escape my mind as I proceed through the day, for though they’re far from the present, they’re very close to some distant future, close to being set free on this side of the clouds.

I’d like to make myself believe

That planet Earth turns slowly.

And that it’s not rushing towards disaster, spiraling downwards, but gravitating upwards. It all takes time – do I have enough time? Certainly none to waste.

It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay

Awake when I’m asleep,

Because my sleep is so good, but could it be that the time awake could hold some promise comparable to the joy of dreams? Could the one actually be experienced in the other – pure, unbridled joy in achievement – and actually seen through to the end?

‘Cause everything is never as it seems

The morning should be glorious, and welcomed, not dreaded for the fear of what it bears tidings of, or lack of spirit to survive another cycle. Still, there’s no denying that ultimate triumph comes not in the world of the night but in the day. We just have to find that way to merge the undeserved fulfillment of dreaming with the reality of choice, and taste success amidst our human weakness. Is this possible?

When I fall asleep.

When I no longer have to fight my selfish self.

I’d like to make myself believe

That planet Earth turns slowly.

Surely this isn’t too much to ask, when once it stood still.

It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay

Awake when I’m asleep,

But for you, I’d stay awake forty days and forty nights. For you, I’d stay awake all night.

‘Cause everything is never as it seems

When I fall asleep.

What, is, this, love?

I’d like to make myself believe

Please.

That planet earth turns slowly.

We would have time.

It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay

Awake when I’m asleep,

There is time, not because I’ll hold myself awake, but because there is outside of time (everything is never as it seems).

Because my dreams are bursting at the seams.

It is possible, because ultimately and fortunately we are not the ones in control of realizing that success, only the blessed players in this waking dream. However, this merging will not come by a forceful sewing together of opposites on old seams, but by a rending, a curtain torn from top to bottom, a bursting open, an explosion of furious opposites weaving together in flight, a new scheme, to create a breathtaking panorama of real-AND-happy-ending-story, like fireflies in evergreens against the dark blue starry sky.

[And this is why I fell in love with Owl City. You could say, “You don’t love them, you only love your own ideals,” and I would reply, yes, but certain things remind forgetful me of them.]