Sunday, 14 January 2018

The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 57

Mr. Honour was not amused.  His high status gave him the power to manipulate the lives of others, but at the same time it also put him under the scrutinizing eyes of his opponents, eager to expose him.   We are both impressed and suspicious of those who gained fame on the moral ground.  It is not as clear cut as making a great invention or discovery, or winning medals at the Olympics, etc.  Mr. Honour had won accolades for being the champion of the minority and yet he had hands in the life-or-death ordeal of an Asian woman.  Granted indirectly, but he knew his favourite Mme. Empathy had been convicted of running unregulated business before and yet he intervened so she could continue her dark ways. 

Now, I have no illusions that my life mattered as much as a rat floating along the river Seine to Mr. Honour or anybody for that matter, but his opponents may pretend to care.   Neither the police nor my lawyer had enough proofs to make a case against the restaurant for my first ordeal, but Mr Honour knew that if I sought sanction at the police again from electricity exposure, things may be different.  I would be able to report to the Japanese Embassy.   I cannot claim to know the thoughts of Mr. Honour, but only he could have persuaded Mme. Empathy to do redo her kitchen.   She finally contacted the architect employed by the Syndic of the building.  I happened to walk in when the architect was instructing her to insulate the kitchen ceiling too.  Would she finally come to do the right thing?

Weeks later I returned to check things out.  The vibration noise from the ventilation had significantly dropped, however, Mme. Empathy had not yet insulted her kitchen ceiling.  Other decent restaurants in Paris would either install their noisy machines in the basement, or rent or buy the first floor above the kitchen to protect their neighbours from the noise.   Of course, Mme. Empathy would install her kitchen on the ground floor directly under the residential apartments.   This meant I would continue to be exposed to the mechanical noise during the night.  The restaurant had ameliorated just enough so that Mr Honour would not be linked to my near death ordeal.  I could still perish from insomnia for all they cared, the restaurant from Hell.  

I was not her only casualties.  If you do not remember the American young man in the episode 48 who was beguiled by the pretty waitress Natalie into helping the restaurant, here is the link to that episode.  http://www.thethirdredapple.com/2017/11/the-bullied-takes-on-goliath-in-true_11.html
The young man thought the restaurant would respond to his kindness by being considerate to him who lived right above the client area.   No such luck.  Once he had done his part, the restaurant responded by turning up the volume of the stereo to the max every night that the floor shook literally for the poor man.  Our misled American hero shortly left the apartment he had loved and stayed for a long time.   I blamed Natalie for going along with the scheme of Mme. Empathy…until that day when Mme. Empathy approached me with a dazzling smile.   To be continued.
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Saturday, 6 January 2018

The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 56

At the risk of disrupting the suspense of this horror story, I have to upload this episode to add reality to justify the claim of ‘True story’ after having linked my ordeal to supernatural.  I was in distress, but part of me still refused to believe that my near death encounter had been premediated…until my new acquaintance enlightened me as to the harsh reality of lives of workers in France.

My host was a French couple in a cozy apartment in Montmartre.  The man spoke several languages and his conversation revealed his intelligence.  He seemed a reliable character that I was not a bit surprised that he had once been elected as a union leader.  However, that was the beginning of his ordeal.  He fell victim to a horrendous power harassment from his superiors.  The French laws have, in fact, factored in this scenario and provide legal protection for union leaders, but the employers would always find a loop hole.  Of which details I cannot write here to protect his identity but the harassment got so cruel that he too sensed murderous intention.  Thus he had no difficulty believing my ordeal to be premediated.  He did not even blink when I recounted the rumor of the corruption of Mr. Honour who may have pulled a few strings to protect Mr. Pride and Mme. Empathy.  The host continued in a resigned manner, ‘France is divided into two sectors: the privileged elites and the workers whose lives mean very little to the elites.’

It was not the first time I heard this sad phrase.  There had been another French young artist who said the same thing to me at a party.  I had just arrived in Paris with high hopes while he was uprooting himself so that his family could start a new life in USA.  So long as he stayed in France, his ideas would forever be crushed by the rich brats who are protected by the extensive connections of their fathers.  His talent was, however, appreciated in USA.  He was scouted and thus he left the elitist system that let him down behind.  I thought it was an isolated case, but one could not remain naïve for long in Paris.  I was already suffering Sound Hyper Sensitive condition which triggers palpation at hearing any noise of high or low frequency because Mr. Pride and the restaurant from Hell did not give a toss about my well-being.  My host, the former victim of power harassment, was also left with a permanent condition which disables him to work at his peak level. 

This encounter has changed my views on the infamous frequent strikes by the French workers.  I realize that they were NOT lazy bunches making demands at the expense of the commuters or tourists.  They were desperately fighting for their life, literally.  And their carelessness for details is not because they are inept, but because the system has robbed them of any hope for a better life.  Promotion is only for the rich or privileged, no matter how well you do your work.  To make their situation more exhausting is the immigrants who continue to hit their work place.  I am aware that my poor French speaking and hearing make it difficult for the French people who have to deal with me.  Had I been at a work place, the tasks of teaching me and fixing my mistakes would have been arduous for my work mates.  I vowed to remember this if I ever caught French people on their bad days.  I would still be hurt but this new ‘understanding of their reality’ would help me forget the pain quickly.  And if someone like Mme. Landlord showed me kindness, I would be grateful forever. 

I am glad that I can start the new year of 2018 with a post in a grateful tone.  To be continued.
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Saturday, 30 December 2017

The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 55

My good FB friend made a valid comment last week.  I agree with him that I should not have made myself visible to the chef from Hell, Mr. Sincere, before the electrician arrived, but believe me I had it planned very differently.  Probably the first harsh lesson the expats have to learn is that ‘France does not give a rats about your plan.’  Perhaps I ought to have changed the title of this post to “pulling hair out until you go bald in Paris. 

My electrician had gone to a different address and despite the urgent nature of my predicament, he left without calling me on my mobile because he had misplaced my number.  The appointment was rescheduled after some difficulty but I knew it might all be for nothing because of what I witnessed while I waited for the electrician for his first visit that never took place.  I was watching the front door of our building from a distant when an ambulance siren was heard.  Then out came from the restaurant from Hell a man whose face had gone blue being carried out by the staff.  Mr. Sincere looked agitated as he knelt beside the man who was clearly unconscious.  It was still in March so they could not blame heat.  The ambulance pulled up.  I did not mention this incident in my last post because I do not have the full facts of what caused the man to pass out.  Was it something that the hospital would be obliged to contact the authority, I do not know.  However, I was not surprised when the electrician later found nothing in my apartment. 

It was not a total waste, the second visit of the electrician, because he discovered that our building lacked the earth tower to prevent a leakage of electricity related elements.  The architect of the restaurant would have known of this, but yet Mr. Pride and Mme. Empathy continued to allow the installation of machines after machines while putting the health of everyone around at risk.  Mme. Landlord immediately contacted the Syndic, but even they could not organize the expense for the earth tower without the consent of the other landlords…which included Mr. Pride whose reaction would continue to stupefy us.  He would oppose it until his restaurant was given more advantage.  I was almost impressed that he could totally ignore my predicament.

So I had to continue my stay in this Airbnb room in Montmartre because the danger was recurring.  It was hardly fair, but valuable lessons can be found everywhere if one keeps an open mind.  Instead of living as a full time victim of the restaurant from Hell, I decided to make the most of my situation.  
To be continued.
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Friday, 22 December 2017

The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 54

The compassionate Major came out to meet me himself at the police station. French people are aptly described as ‘fire and ice.’   There are those with warm hearts and the others who can cut you off instantly.  I was most grateful to the warm words of this Major who was aghast by my predicament.  He gave me the name and contact address of his superior because things were getting out of his hands.  I went to seat myself on a bench but the major arranged to have a secured detention cell to protect me from the criminals and drug addicts.  I was given full privacy for the night.  The reality did not hit me until I smelt the unusual odour of the cell.  However, this was the only safe sanctuary in the whole Paris to me that night …while Mr. Pride and Mme. Empathy each relaxed in their own fluffy bed: one was counting profit and one was planning another loud parties.

The following morning, as soon as a library opened I used their computer to book a room because my laptop was in my apartment.  After securing a room, I contacted Mme. Landlord who was horrified by the crisis.  She immediately complained to the Syndic who in turn would have informed Mr. Pride.  Did we hear anything from him?  Of course not.  In fact it was up to Mme. Landlord to book an electrician to check her apartment and it was again me who has to wait in my apartment to provide access because Mme. Landlord was not in Paris.

I opted to wait outside the building for the electrician...near the restaurant.  Then he came out.  The chef from Hell, Mr. Sincere.  He had come out for a smoke but when he saw me his eyes widened.  Now this was the man being criminally prosecuted for multi-frauds.  It took him a lot more serious accusation than a fraud to startle him.  He gave me an awkward smile and murmured ‘We will use more wood so that electricity does not go into your room.’  So Mr. Pride had contacted him to cover his track.  As you may imagine, 2 hours later when the electrician came…late which is usual in France, electricity leakage was no more.  The electrician found no fault with the system of Mme. Landlord, of course. 

There is a list of codes by which Samurai warriors lived by and one of them was ‘let the opponents cut your muscle so that they would come close enough for you to clash their bones.’  I guess, the last several months of my suffering was the process of letting the restaurant cut my muscles.  Now, in order to cover their track, the restaurant was forced to re-install their ventilator in the regulated way.  To ensure this I wrote a letter to the superior of the Major as advised.   I knew I still had a long way to go.

To be continued.
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Saturday, 16 December 2017

The bullied takes on Goliath in the true horror stories in modern Paris part 53

Under the early morning sun, if felt like the fatal nightmare did not really happen.  But the machines in the restaurant were still there plugged on and the air in my apartment seemed heavy and dark.  I marched in and opened the windows.  It may at least release the electromagnet.  I quickly gathered things I would need to stay elsewhere and then contacted my lawyer.  My mobile was not working so I needed to rely on my fixed phone.  In Paris there is hardly a public phone around.

Following the advice of my lawyer I made a booking at a hospital and arranged an electrician to check my apartment.  The police may be witness to excess noise but they would have no device to measure electricity flood.  Mr. Pride, Mme. Empathy and Mr. Justice would claim there may have been the failure of the electric system in my apartment.  I may have been inside my contaminated apartment for just 30 minutes, but already I started to feel the effect of the electric contamination.  By the time I reached the hospital my palpation had jumped to 98 per minute.  The hospital recorded high fever too.  I was absolutely sick that they did blood test on me.  They found nothing.  And yet after 4 hours all the symptoms subsided all of sudden.  I was convinced that my room was contaminated, but I had to return for my computer in order to book a room.

I knew the stairs and the corridor was safe so I brought my chair out and started searching for a room on my laptop.  One neighbor, a Parisian man passed by.  I explained and apologized for using the public space.  He shrugged his shoulder and told me ‘Bon courage’ meaning good luck.  However, another neighbors reacted differently.  A couple was having a party and guests were coming soon.  They did not want a weirdo sitting in the corridor.  They knew of the contaminated state of my room, but the young man shouted ‘Go back!’ in English with a heavy accent.  He then tried to seize my chair.  Too afraid of what he might do with it I quickly agreed to their demand.  I returned to the contaminated room with tears on my cheek.  The couple saw it as they went upstairs but they still put on party music.  I grabbed my things and left the building.  It is after all their country, which I must respect.

However, I had not yet found a room and it was quickly getting dark. I felt so miserable that my imagination once again took me to the butcher near Notre Dame Cathedral who sold the human flesh of medieval tourists…and the bystanders who let him continue with his diabolical business.  How he was stopped I do not know, but a police station was built on the cursed place.  Then it occurred to me to go to the Police.  I asked for the Major who had been compassionate.  I wished to be allowed to sit inside the police station for the night.  The move which may have turned things around in hindsight.  
To be continued.


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