Six-Months War; Take 4

Joseph sat at a table in one of the many street cafes in downtown Quebec, his feet resting on the table top and a notepad in his hand. Under the brim of his hat, his eyes followed the rush of people moving up and down the street. He had arrived the opening day of the Montreal Expo to find the city packed, the local Québécois vastly outnumbered by foreign visitors, tourists from the four corners of the earth. His days had been spent visiting the various exhibits and sitting in these French-style cafes, struggling to pump out articles to wire back to his newspaper in Berlin. He had particularly enjoyed the exoticism of the Andean pavilion, which stirred a sense of adventure within him, but he had been unable to translate those feelings into words. The editors were already hounding him for more stories, as every paper in Europe was rushing to showcase the grandeur of the Exposition.

As his eyes swept the street, he glimpsed one of the new Swiss luxury cars, likely owned by a member of the burdening American millionaire class, speed around the corner and left off a sharp honk before grinding to a halt in front of a Bedouin tribesman leading a camel. The Arabians had brought several of the beasts from the Middle East and had taken to riding them around the city, much to the annoyance of everyone else. The motorist continued to honk, but was unable to displace the camel and its handler, who let fly a string of curses in Arab. Chuckling, Joseph turned back to the empty page before him. Just as he was preparing to really settled in and write, a familiar face detached itself from the crowd and walked towards his table.

“Joseph, my friend,” the man said, pulling up a chair. “Where have you gotten yourself off to? I haven’t seen you since we landed.”

“Oh, I’ve been here and there. Not that you’d have time to notice a mere journalist,” he joked “I expect you’ve been keeping yourself busy. The word is that the German pavilion’s still undergoing last minute touches.”

“Give me time Joseph. I am trying to display the wealth and glory of the world’s largest empire after all. Anyway, you must be busy yourself. I haven’t had a chance to see any of the other exhibits yet, but I hear the Expo’s coming together nicely.”

“It’s wonderful Max, breathtaking. If only I could write about it. Four different universities and a PhD in literature and I can’t seem to put together words worth a danm. This is practically the only decent thing I’ve written.” With that, he pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and slid it across the table.

Fronted by a traditional garden, the Japanese pavilion contrasts the differences between the Japan of the past and the Japan of the present. Sleek Mitsubishi fighters share a roof with displays of ancient samurai and Japanese culture. Everywhere, the ingenuity of the Japanese empire is trumpeted, from the famed Tokyo System to elements of regional industry and science. Despite the official emphasis on today’s modernized Japan, visitors are still most attracted by reenactments of tea ceremonies and a demonstration of a duel between two warriors. The exhibition was not without its troubles, as a group of Chinese nationals briefly clashed with several military pilots before order was restored by local security. Still, those who visit find it hard to completely forget the headlines of Japanese aggression in the East, even in the face of such a monumental display.​

“Not bad,” Max nodded after scanning the page. “I didn’t recommend you for this job because you couldn’t write. You just need to get into the swing of things. Luckily I have a surprise for you.”

With that, he stood off and motioned for Joseph to follow him into the crowd. Squeezing their way through without being swept away in the current, the two reached the curb, where Max signaled the German diplomatic car that had been waiting for him. Once they were inside, the car speed off towards the limits of the fairground, a massive park on the city limits that housed pavilions from the dozens of nations at the Exposition. Eventually, they pulled up in front of the German exhibit, a large orderly pavilion which was all but deserted, in sharp contrast with the throngs of sightseers who had packed the pavilions along the car ride. Yet even as they emerged from the car, Joseph could make groups of visitors making their way across the lawn, some walking uncertainly, others running, but all to some point behind the pavilion. His curiosity aroused, Joseph was prepared to follow the crowd, but instead Max motioned him forward towards the entrance of the still unopened pavilion. The man at the door recognized Max and waved the two of them in. They entered a side hallway that seemed to circumvent the main hall, and were walking for what seemed like a quarter hour before they reach a door at the other end of the building.

Stepping out of the hall, Joseph froze for second as his eyes adjusted to the light and took in the scene before him. There, not a hundred yards away from the building, hovered a zeppelin, descending slowly towards the ground while a growing crowd of onlookers gathered around. Joseph had taken several flights in Germany when they had first became popular after the war, so he knew that the airship before him was not a full-fledged passenger zeppelin. And yet what it lacked in size it made up for in grandeur. This had been perhaps the last thing he had expected to find in Quebec.

“How?” was all he could mutter at first. “I don’t remember there being a zeppelin in storage on the ship, and you couldn’t have had time to ship one over since we landed.”

Max smiled and began walking towards the monstrous ship, just beginning to make a landing, Joseph in his tow. “You’re missing the obvious answer my friend. We flew it over.”

“You mean across the Atlantic?” Joseph stuttered. “Impossible. It’s never been done.”

“Exactly. It’s never been done, and now we’re the first to do it. This is just a test run, you understand, for the real thing, but it still has the dramatic effect. Just think. By the end of the decade DELAG will be running flights from Europe to America as easily as the shipping companies do. All the same luxuries in a fraction of the time. It’s the future of travel.”

Just as the two reached the edges of the crowd, the zeppelin came to a rest on the ground and a ladder was lowered from the hatch above. Max pushed his way through the crowd and passing by the guards pulled Joseph along with him to the bottom of the ladder where a middle age man in a uniform was finishing the decent. As his boots touched the ground, a cheer erupted from the crowd and Max rushed forward to shake his hand.

“Joseph, this is Dr. Eckener, Captain of the ship and president of DELAG. Dr. Eckener, this is my young friend Joseph Goebbels.


OOC: Hope you don't mind me using this event TLK, but it seems reasonable that it would happen soon considering the progression in RL.
 
Nothing wrong with historical irony. ;)
 

"... of the ideology the Partido Falangista Nacional ascribes to, I say this. We are not capitalists, nor are we communists, and neither are we socialists in your traditional sense. No, in the Latin, we are of the fasces -- fascists. All men to which logic and reason is apparent will recognize that might, economic and military, determines the success and failure of nations... and we are determined to succeed." - Miguel de Unamuno, on the International Hispanidad and the Falange

One, two three, one two three, one two three, one two three... "Halt!" Fernando De Guya was an Argentine. Fernando De Guya had watched his country ruined by the British minority government when they prosecuted a war in the name of the Anglo-Saxon tyrants in London and destroyed his country in the process. Argentina was ruined in the Great War by its neighbor Brazil, and who was to blame? The British. So as soon as Fernando De Guya was old enough, and strong enough, or just plain crazy and angry enough, he fled Argentina. He knew where was going, and what he was going there for. Fernando De Guya had bought his way with the change in his pocket and the shirt off his back all the way from La Plata to Spain to be a legionnaire. The Hispanidad Legion, everyone knew, was the way forward for relations between the Spanish-speaking world that wasn't Spain and the Spanish-speaking world that was. And there were plenty of things to be unhappy about back home.

"Company... present arms!" Fernando De Guya was only sixteen. Fernando De Guya's mother used to make the best chocolate pudding. Fernando De Guya was his father's eldest child, his only son. Fernando De Guya had three sisters, the youngest of which he would walk to school everyday on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. It wasn't a large school, in fact it was one of those pigsties reserved for la falta de cooperación -- the uncooperative ones. Of course, no one was ever given much of an opportunity to be either cooperative or uncooperative until British businessmen tried to buy out your house from under you. And when you weren't selling, they'd use government eminent domain to take it. They said Argentina was for Argentines, not for "La Platans". They were wrong. British businessmen still controlled nearly all facets of the economy, they still did what they pleased with the Spanish-speakers. They were just helped along by the acquiescent Iberian collaborators, those Argentines who became rich and powerful after Britain seized La Plata from Spain, the ones who made filthy rich off the backs of their country and their patria. If Argentina was so free, why was its prime minister an "earl", an Englishman, this Stanley Baldwin. He wasn't even an Inglés, just a convenient puppet the British had dropped off and arranged La Platan citizenship for so that they could have one of their own running the country after the Brazilians and their Yanqui masters arranged for it to be "independent".

It was a good, steady rifle. American guns were flashier, but they were cheap and ineffective. This was Spanish-made steel, from the furnaces of Vizcaya and Bilbao where the Basques made everything that was worth having in the Second Empire. Ferdinand De Guya was surrounded by like-minded men, all the sons of the disappointments and failures of Latin America. Along with Argentines, Bolivians, Peruvians and a sparse handful of Ecuadorians. They had all come to Spain to taste the freedom of what the Spanish called falangism. They had all come to Spain to be legionnaires. Why won't they move?

With the same air of urgency, but with far less certainty and confidence, one of the blacks was talking with another in English. English, the language of tyranny and despotism. Fernando De Guya grew up hearing English, grew up speaking English until he knew better than to speak the language of the Tyrant of London. He understood their barbarian tongue, so what was different about these men in rags? They didn't look like Englishmen -- they were black, and they looked humble. They spoke with a strange and constrained accent, fast and in deep tones which stood in stark contrast to the odd emphasis they placed on their syllables. Sounds in English that Fernando De Guya had heard all his life pronounced one way were spoken by these men in another. Around them crowded women and children who didn't say anything.

This was Alfonsia, the model colony, the model society of Africans who the enlightened people of Spain were making into upright, civilized men. So why weren't they cooperating? The two men began trying to talk in their strange pidgin English with the captain, but he wasn't listening. He stared off into the distance, and remained resolute. The few yards or so that separated the legionnaires from the crowd of Alfonsians seemed like a massive gash in the earth. Fernando De Guya nearly dropped his rifle -- one of the black girls could have been his youngest sister if she wasn't so... black. That was what made her different.

The captain raised his hand, bearing the cavalry whip he had used only a few minutes earlier to beat one of the impertinent blacks. He cried, "Fire!"

It was like thunder. Of course, soldiers didn't stand in lines anymore with their rifles leveled at the enemy only a few feet away. It was deafening, and they just started dropping like flies. So this is what death smells like. The little girl that looked like Ferdinand De Guya's sister was dead like the rest of them. The two men at the front went first, and the crowd started to disperse and flee. That was when Fernando De Guya remembered the armored car behind him, with the machine gun mounted on it. They stopped firing their rifles, and let the gunner atop the car finish the work off. The women and children who were at the very back fell into the dust and dirt.

Fernando De Guya was a legionnaire.
 
The Quebecois Exhibition​


The Windsor station will be the heart of the Montreal Expo. The Train station will be expanded and refurbished into a completely modern building with all the amenities necessary for a modern city.

Windsor Station[/IMG]

Windsor Station



The Current Quebecois Cabinet, in Windsor station




Windsor station on october 3rd



Waitresses from Brasserie Les Naufrageur on August 23rd at the Expo


The Quebecois exhibition will display art from Native Indians from Quebec, as well as Quebecois of European Descent.



Iroquois Mocassins from Southwest Quebec



Mohawk Ceremonial Dress from Montreal Region



This exhibit will also display regular Traditional Dance of the Various Native groups. (Pictured here: Mohawk dancers.)



Cree art from Northern Quebec



Carved walrus Skull from Nunavik (northern Quebec) (OOC: my own picture!)


Quebec is also proud to present our two main industries, Brewing and Maple

Quebecois Beer draws heavily on the beer brewing traditions of Belgium, resulting in more flavorful and stronger beer than the beer commonly produced in most of the world, which is derived from German/British beer tradition.




Shipment of Molson beer, the Oldest brewery in Montreal.



Molson Factory



Don de Dieu Brewerie Vats



Bottling in the Brasserie Les Habitant


The Second industry: Maple products.

The Nationalized maple industry has put together a presentation outlining the production of Maply Syrup.


Step 1: Tapping the tree

Step 2: Evaporating the sap to make it into syrup

Step 3: Letting the syrup sit a little bit






The syrup can be enjoyed a number of ways, as a condiment, In drinks, as a cooking ingredient, in candy, or simply on snow as “Tire sur la Neige.”


Finally, the Booming Quebecois Film Industry has developed many new technologies!
 
I'm glad to see everyone has been writing since I've been gone. It's going to be hard to chose the "winner" of the exposition, for sure.
 
The South African delegation can no longer make it to the Montral Expo, due to financial constraints.

(OOC: I'm too busy to write anything for it, due to multiple other commitments, before the update.)
 
I still have quite some work to do on it, but so far; a major political leader has died, leading to a lot of instability in that particular country and two wars (so far.)
 
The South African delegation can no longer make it to the Montral Expo, due to financial constraints.

(OOC: I'm too busy to write anything for it, due to multiple other commitments, before the update.)

Just write up something quick! Look at Crimea, they at least made the effort. ;)
 
TLK, does Gangon style not deserve an encyclopedia post? :p

(Edit: Considering it's TTL's Jazz)
 
It will get one post update. I am done all the "peace" aspects of the update (save for the Montreal Expo. I will go into discussing it, but I also don't want to simply reiterate everyone's stories) and am working on all the war, of which there are a lot. Hopefully, the update will be up sometime tomorrow late afternoon, though if it's not, I know it will be up late tomorrow night, if not early Sunday morning (I have a habit of finishing updates around 3:00 AM). Just to keep everyone up to date.

Also, if people do see other things they think should be put into the Encyclopedia, let me know, and don't hesitate to write a (short and sweet) explanation. That way I can just copy and paste. :p
 
"... of the ideology the Partido Falangista Nacional ascribes to, I say this. We are not capitalists, nor are we communists, and neither are we socialists in your traditional sense. No, in the Latin, we are of the fasces -- fascists. All men to which logic and reason is apparent will recognize that might, economic and military, determines the success and failure of nations... and we are determined to succeed." - Miguel de Unamuno, on the Hispanidad Internacional and the Falange

...Fernando De Guya had bought his way with the change in his pocket and the shirt off his back all the way from La Plata to Spain to be a legionnaire. The Legión Hispanidad, everyone knew, was the way forward for relations between the Spanish-speaking world that wasn't Spain and the Spanish-speaking world that was...

...It wasn't a large school, in fact it was one of those pigsties reserved for los que no cooperan -- the uncooperative ones....

...Fernando De Guya was surrounded by like-minded men, all the sons of the disappointments and failures of Latin America....

...Fernando De Guya grew up hearing English, grew up speaking English until he knew better than to speak the language of the Tyrant of London... Sounds in English that Fernando De Guya had heard all his life pronounced one way were spoken by these men in another...

...Fernando De Guya nearly dropped his rifle -- one of the black girls could have been his youngest sister if she wasn't so... black...

The little girl that looked like Fernando De Guya's sister was dead like the rest of them... That was when Fernando De Guya remembered the armored car behind him, with the machine gun mounted on it...

Fernando De Guya was a legionnaire.

Doing my best to make sure that an English-hating Argentinian does actually have a Spanish name, and to correct any and all mistakes when trying to write a Spanish word and actually write it with the English word order.

LoE, and anyone with a Spanish-speaking nation, if you have trouble with words, ask me.
 
Doing my best to make sure that an English-hating Argentinian does actually have a Spanish name, and to correct any and all mistakes when trying to write a Spanish word and actually write it with the English word order.

LoE, and anyone with a Spanish-speaking nation, if you have trouble with words, ask me.

I should probably stop butchering your native tongue, Milarqui. Google Translate lied to me. :(
 
"But I am le tired..."
 
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