Not Quite French

Le Mont St. Michel

2009-09-01T04:02:00.010+02:00

Arresting view of Mont St. Michel from the road.

My second visit to Mont St. Michel, one of France’s most visited attractions and teeming with tourists in the summer, came unexpectedly, unplanned, and seven years after my maiden voyage during college. Our group was an international mix of French, Mexican, and American. None of us knew one another well at all. Some of us had trouble communicating, but we managed to conquer northern France’s sacred beast of an abbey sitting on a rock in the middle of Normandy’s colorless windswept mudflats, just fine.

The giant abbey in the sky

Claude opted out of touring the abbey (which by the way is absolutely essential if making one’s way all the way out there) because she lives conveniently close and for her, a trip to Mont St. Michel is like a jaunt to the skyscrapers and lakefront of Chicago for me. Almost comparable. While the Mexican couple did an audio guide tour in Spanish, I surrendered to a guided tour in English by a French man who’d lived in England for seventeen years and had the most wicked sense of humor.

Surprisingly tourist-less cloister

Somberly enough, I’ve just learned today from an alumni magazine that the university professor who had taken a group of us to France and Mont St. Michel in 2002 had died this past February. He had been 85 on that trip and had walked everywhere with us. I think, even at 22, I was too young to realize the enormity of the history behind the 1,300 year construction of Mont St. Michel. I wonder if he’d been frustrated with our naïve attitudes, our surface-level comprehension of this extraordinary architectural wonder.

As I embarked on my second guided tour, I couldn’t help but be slightly annoyed at my younger self, idiotically having seen the rooms more through a camera lens rather than my own eyes and fantasizing about the bus ride back and being able to rest, rather than imagining sleep deprived pilgrims who had come from far away, risking their safety to cross the temperamental tides and mud flats dotted with quicksand traps.

This time, I let it all sink in. The guide’s humorous anecdotes certainly helped. We learned that the abbey is in the shape of a cross, so as to remain stable and not crumble down the pyramid-like granite base on which it’s perched. Miraculously, either in order to convince myself that I had grown up a little and could maintain a longer attention span, or because of an unfaltering desire to get my 8.50 EUR worth, one month later, I still remember several “fact or fiction?!” tales from our guide. Because he was so good, I tolerated his perma phrase: ‘you know, the truth is usually stranger than fiction.’

Dragon slaying Saint Michael, after whom the abbey and surrounding bay are named was thought to weigh souls on a balance to decide who went to heaven or hell. Making a pilgrimage to the rock would surely grant one passage into heaven, right? If anything, all that walking would rid the soul of a few pounds. Everyone’s favorite new fact and sure to be story at the first barbecue of the summer was where the word barbecue had supposedly originated. Jumpstarting the snoozing mood from a discussion on the daily habits of the Mont St. Michel monks, our guide led us to a grand fireplace and explained that pigs were roasted from head to toe or more intimately from beard (barbe in French) to ass (cul). When the English speakers arrived, their anglicized pronunciation of “barbe cul” morphed into “barbecue,” unknowingly coining a phrase that is not only practiced, but recognized just about everywhere on earth.

I've become addicted to learning word origins as their birth sometimes occurs so haphazardly. One would think a new word develops from hours of contemplation, brainstorming, and running one’s tongue over its syllables in a kind of scientific trial and error method before announcing the final product. As in the origins of barbecue, this appears not to be the case.

After a quick multilingual picnic lunch on the back doorstep of a tourist shop with a superb view of horse-led guides into the bay, our group made our way down the Mont with the intention of doing something similar. In fact, anyone can wander into the bay or surrounding mud flats sans guide, but as it’s easy to become stranded on an island of quicksand, sneakily enveloped by a strong current of water that seems to appear from nowhere, guides are recommended.

View of the rock from the bay

I wasn’t about to nearly finish my time in France, then end up being stuck there, literally. We departed from the base of Mont St. Michel in rain jackets, shorts and bare feet. My child-like excitement to hike to a distant island 3 km resulted from having no shoes. I was giddy to let my toes and feet sink into Normandy, then pull them out, creating all sorts of onomatopoeic fun.

The bay hike begins

Our guide tested the surprisingly strong bands of water current arbitrarily shaping the mudflats. Bouts of wind blasts and sheets of rain subsequently shaped and re-shaped the looks on our faces like clowns full of expression in a slow motion cartoon. The solitary island turned out to be a bird sanctuary, useful for the birds in case they needed a break from flapping their wings. The wind would easily keep them floating motionless in air.

As desolate as the mudflats appear to be, they are perfect terrain for horse racing. The ground is neither too hard nor too soft. This is convenient, seeing as Normandy has the most horses of any other region in France. They seem to fit into the landscape, the old fashioned mode of transportation giving Mont St. Michel a timeless feel. That is, until a glance at the parking lot pops that imagination bubble.

Horse and rider on the mudflats

Maybe that's why days of bay hikes, races, and getting stuck then helicoptered out are numbered. In order to make Mont St. Michel more aesthetically pleasing, the government wants to permanently fill the bay with water, making the abbey adorned rock a true island, with a bridge providing access rather than the causeway. Considering this idea has existed through Chirac's presidency and that the speed at which the French "get things done" has never been record-breakingly fast, I'm fairly certain we all have a little more time to pretend our feet are being eaten by quicksand in the bay of Mont St. Michel.

Beachcombing and St. Malo

2009-08-16T01:17:00.011+02:00

I couldn’t believe this was called work. By now, I knew I had lucked out big time with the family that had chosen me to help them. I was their first WWOOFer ever and they were my first WWOOF hosts. While they were audibly worried that they’d work me too hard after hearing reports of poor drifting kids subjected to 12 hours hard labor each day on Spanish farms, I was silently worried I wasn’t working enough and vowed to do whatever I could to compensate for my trip that was slowly becoming a cultural excursion week.

Getting up, Catherine, Michel, Claude, and François, and I made our way to St. Malo for the sole reason that I’d never been there and needed to see it. Feeling a little guilty, but also secretly excited about my Tour de Bretagne, we happily scuttled westward in the family’s anti-GMO van, picnic lunch and all.

Our one pit stop was at Michel’s parents’ house, situated in a one-lane village, comfortably sidled up next to an Atlantic beach guarding masses of mussels and oysters. While François ran off to photograph birds and the rising tide with his tripod, the rest of us headed for the muddy bay, which unashamedly squelched with each bare footstep, making me giggle every time. Armed with violently flapping plastic bags, our mission was to collect as much salicorne, a green plant that sprouts in the bay, the sea water giving it a salty taste, as we possibly could. When low tide hits, it’s time to pick.

Salicorne can be used with garlic, parsley, and butter to accompany fish, poultry, and red meat. When it's soaked in vinegar, salicorne is a great substitute for pickles used with cold meats, fish, and raclette. Catherine sells the popular plant to campers and market-goers. It remains a very popular sale for her as I assume it's hard to find in stores.

That night, Catherine and I stuffed glass jars full of the crop. I got this one to take home.

While the family got straight to work, grabbing at the stalks like they were in a competition to see who could procure the most disappearing currency, I stood like a motionless fool awed by the jaw-dropping silhouette of Mont St. Michel in the far distance. Apparently cultural excursion week had become infectious making my work ethic even harder to find.

This vast, and I mean vast, windswept beach had been the childhood playground of Catherine and Michel’s children. The postcard perfect balcony from the grandparents’ house looked directly out onto the beach, a blinding turquoise band of water filling the window. Lungs inflated with sea air carried in by assertive winds, I didn’t know how life could get any better.

After comparing my pickings to the rest of the family, it was obvious that I hadn’t been as greedy, or more likely, not as efficient. Whatever the case, we eventually washed our mud caked feet in buckets of water supplied by grandma, while her toy-sized dog Zazie ran ladders for entertainment in the grass. Fueled by the juice boxes and the pre-packaged cakes that grandparents can always be counted on to have, we set off for our final destination, St. Malo.

As stunning as St. Malo is, a fortified city planted on a sandy beach, it’s a tourist trap, almost guaranteeing shoulder-to-shoulder contact with strangers inside the ramparts during the summer. When we arrived, it was nothing of the sort. It was early evening, the sun was a giant orange peach sinking slowly toward the horizon, and we’d just splashed about in the warm water for a bit, something that never fails to give me a natural high.

Waves on a St. Malo beach. The posts are there to break the momentum of the waves so they don't damage houses nearby.

On a lovely act of decisiveness by Catherine, we ate our picnic dinner right on a concrete dock behind a line of parked cars and a massive ship tied to land by a rope the size of a human thigh. Spotted with seagull droppings and stained with oil, it was certainly not the most picturesque setting, but we laughed ourselves to tears as tourists walked by and gave us strange looks for eating our dinner in what was really a seaside parking lot. Later, we made up for it by stopping at a gourmet ice cream shop that had a flavor available in saffron.

Rampart walls hug the city and act as sightseeing loop. Here, one can easily imagine how the fortifications blocked both strong sea winds and English attack. We ended our night in a circle. And undoubtedly slept well.

Market Day and Homemade Cheese

2009-08-04T00:46:00.008+02:00

In order to remember details heard and seen on the farm in Bretagne, I made notes every night in a red journal stuffed with Greek paper, a gift from Leslie who gave it to me after returning from her trip there.

For me, the farm was one of those experiences that really make you think, enthusiastically opening the mind in a new direction. On the train ride home, I honestly thought I might be able to change the world. I love that feeling. I don’t love the fact that it’s so short lived.

So to continue the tale of my final farm days, weeks later, from a dying, dysfunctional laptop in the US, mental images not burning so bright, yet with the evidence from a small journal:

As a happy frequenter to markets in Europe, it’s easy to become overwhelmed by the sounds, colors, smells, and sometimes unconventional displays of chow that turning into a meandering tourist who can’t walk a straight line complete with wobbly head looking here and there almost always happens no fail.

When Catherine invited me to help her set up the stand at the Fougères market, I quickly agreed. There would be jam, honey, eggs (that we had collected days earlier), salad, and pigeon for sale. Once I had lined up the display, as shoppers hovered by, the eggs went the fastest. Promises were made, broken, prices forgotten, deals were made for early morning home delivery. It was a flurry of activity that I sat back and watched in awe. All around me villagers had come for miles to sell their wine, herbs, vegetables, cheeses, and meats.

Thinking I might be bored there, Catherine handed me a map to wander around Fougères. I thought it better to be out of the way, but secretly wished I could have worked the market myself.

For lunch, we had galettes, square-like crêpes popular in the northwest made from blé noir (black flour) or what Michel referred to as poor man’s flour. A combination of the fresh air, speaking in French, and navigating the hilly town of Fougères on foot had left me exhausted, but there was still work to do. Picking blackcurrant, I found, was rejuvenating rather than stiffening and monotonous. My thoughts wandered everywhere while I watched the clouds for a possible burst.

Dinner was a bolognaise and afterward the work didn’t cease, at least for the family. Jam cooked on the stove, Michel pitted cherries with a machine, and Catherine stirred milk on another burner to make cheese, a process that takes days. While the milk was heating, she added a few drops of some kind of solidifying agent. The mass was then put into a bowl with tiny holes and left to mutate.

The next day, the cheese was turned over, while a milky white liquid drained away. This is of course added to the chicken feed. Once the mass has completely drained and been flipped, it becomes cheese. The type or name of the cheese depends on the size and shape of the mould it’s put in. Unfortunately, I didn’t stay long enough to taste it, but it was an interesting process to observe.

The little things are really becoming the important ones. One of my favorite parts of the day was taking a shower, rinsing off the day’s work, the skylight open to reveal silhouettes of owl inhabited trees leaning gently in the dark breeze.

Following Le Tour de France

2009-07-24T13:08:00.002+02:00

As a result of packing to return to the US and following a few stages of Le Tour, I have to postpone my farm entries until I get back to Chicago.

I will be in Mont Ventoux on July 25th and in Paris on July 26th for the final stage! Vive le Tour!!!! Flying home the 27th...

Ce n'est pas encore la fin.

Day Two: Le Travail Commence

2009-07-18T07:04:00.007+02:00

The heat that's been plaguing the Rhone-Alpes really makes me miss the cool mornings in Bretagne and the fresh country air. Opening my windows in Chasse lets in the faint odor of factory pollution and slightly burns my nostrils. I never realized it existed until I left for a farm in the paradise that is northern France.

A glimpse of the farmhouse

Catherine tapped on my door at 8:00am and we had a breakfast of baguette, butter, and jam...the standard French breakfast. Very bready and leaving one hungry again 30 minutes later. Not wasting a crumb, Catherine showed me how to put most of one's leftover food in the bucket for chickens. Chickens, she told me, eat just about anything, while rabbits have very fragile stomachs and will die if they eat the wrong plant. From that moment on, I was terrified to feed the rabbits.

I began by picking cassis or blackcurrant from the dozens of bushes that bordered the donkey pen. It was an incredibly calming activity, making me feel zen-like within minutes. Michel eventually wandered by and told me it was even more serene if done barefoot, the sensation of the earth on the bottom of the feet. He was right. I returned my knee high rubber boots to the shed and disappeared into a world of berries and my thoughts for a few hours, until Claude came out to see the donkeys.

My blackcurrant harvest, Pitchoun keeping me company

She spoke rapid-fire French and I have to admit to nodding and smiling when I couldn't pick up what she was saying. Then, she surprised me by getting on one of the donkeys bareback. The next thing I saw was the donkey bucking and kicking rodeo style, Claude screaming doucement! and seconds later, she was thrown from its back, groaning on the ground. Shocked, I stood still for a good three seconds before reacting. Then dropping my tub of berries, I ran to fetch Catherine who came to her daughter's aid. Saying that Claude was prone to tomber dans les pommes, an expression that means 'to faint,' I tried to explain that she had been at the donkey's mercy instead. After that was eventually cleared up, Claude went inside to rest, while Catherine and I went to go feed the animals.

The guilty holds his head low.

The one thing that bothered me was that every animal we went to go feed would later be killed as food themselves. In fact, we ended up eating an old rooster with chickpeas that night for dinner. It pained me to look at the warbling grey geese and ducks that paddled around in the water, knowing their lives had a foreseen expiration date. Catherine showed me the specific breed of duck that's used to make foie gras. A canard/dinde, or duck with a turkey face that doesn't make any noise when it tries to quack.

After feeding the rabbits and chickens, I spread the dirty hay full of rabbit droppings over a patch of garden, then went upstairs and took a really long nap. The fresh air had happily infected me.

I woke up to the smell of jam cooking on the stove. The scent of the fruit of my labors emanated from the kitchen up the wooden spiral staircase and into my bedroom. Catherine was making jam from the berries that I'd picked that morning. They'd go into glass jars to be sold at the Saturday market in Fougères. Not only was the jam homemade, but so was the glue that held the labels to the jars. Catherine made her own glue with a mix of flour and water heated over the stove.

Groggy from my earlier work, I couldn't believe how she hadn't yet taken a break. After lunch, we'd taken to the garden and removed sick or dead potato plants, then called it a day.

During the evening, I watched a live music program on TV with Michel. Tracy Chapman came on and although Michel hadn't ever heard of her, he was impressed. But as soon as a punk band followed with a Fleetwood Mac cover of White Winged Dove, he turned it off, shaking his head. From there, he unveiled a cabinet full of jazz records and was surprised when I wasn't familiar with the American artists. Not a huge fan of jazz myself, I told him I was open to listening to some it, wondering how he'd gotten into it himself.

The soundtrack for the sunset that evening became Argentinian, Gato Barbieri and Brazilian, Astrud Gilberto. Michel told me that he used to live and work in Lyon during a time of economic prosperity, so he'd treat himself to a concert every week. He'd meet people who introduced all kinds of musicians to him.

I went to sleep that night with jazz notes dancing in my head, wondering what the next day would hold...

Day One at the Farm: Fougères

2009-07-11T11:06:00.026+02:00

I owe my reason for WWOOFing to my good friend Kathrin who has done it several times and suggested that I try it while in France. She told me that it was a great way to get to know a different part of the country in an authentic way that's easy on the wallet. I paid for my somewhat expensive train tickets (as they were last minute), packed a bag and set off for Bretagne. The map below gives an idea of my train journey. I left from Lyon in the Rhone-Alpes (17) and traveled to Bretagne (1).

The TGV from Paris sped west through territory unchartered by me before. Leaving the heaving crowds of tourists, the train rolled past open meadows and hills that became brighter shades of green by the minute. My final destination was Fougères, a small ville fleurie with an astonishingly complete medieval castle. From there, the family picked me up in their white van, sporting stickers against chemicals and pesticides. My organic experience was about to begin.

Stone houses in Fougères. The difference of architecture in the north made it feel as though I were in another country.

We drove along small winding roads towards their farm. The family's two children who were in their early twenties had come along for the ride and within twenty minutes we arrived at a large stone farmhouse draped in colorful bursts of flower. I was greeted by a friendly black caniche (poodle) named Pitchoun, a provençal word meaning small, and a cat named Pirate. The interior of the farmhouse glowed from the light wood cupboards, and tables. Jars of medicinal herbs and dried fruit were lined up on the shelves.

The shelf above my bed.

Catherine, the mother, showed me my room, which I absolutely loved as soon as I stepped into it. I especially liked the skylight and the wood paneled ceiling. In order to have total darkness in the room, the woman showed me how to put a painting of Mont St. Michel she did on a piece of wood over the skylight.

After getting settled into my room, Michel, the father, took me on a tour of the farm, and after dinner, the daughter, Claude took me on a stroll through Fougères. She was pretty well-informed on the city, explaining the castle's long history to why the windows were so low to the ground on many houses (so pigs could eat the trash off the streets).

A view of the Fougères castle with stone and timbered houses in the foreground.

Stream running through the neighborhood. To the left are a couple wells (hidden by the flowers) in which women used to wash clothes.

View of Fougères castle from ramparts.

Claude told me that this was one of her favorite places in the city, perfect for watching un coucher du soleil. As you continue ascending the stairs, you can see more and more of the castle, which used to be made entirely of wood until it burned down and took a lot of the city with it. The stone towers were rebuilt, but interestingly enough all during different time periods.

Yellow timbered houses

These houses look like they've come straight out of a fairy tale, but are still inhabited. Michel informed me that the reason why the houses are top heavy or jut out more on top is because the higher one lived, the less taxes one had to pay. As most people weren't rich enough to pay taxes to live at street level, more people lived higher up, needing more space than below.

By the time we got back to the farm, I was exhausted...and hadn't yet worked! That would come the next day...

Gone WWOOFing

2009-07-01T22:53:00.004+02:00

From July 2-9, I'll be volunteering on an organic farm in northern France in Bretagne. I have no idea what to expect, but I'm excited to be working outdoors where it'll hopefully be cooler than here in the Lyon area. I'm looking forward to hiking, reading, and escaping Chasse for a week. Will report back soon...

La Fête des Voisins

2009-07-01T00:42:00.003+02:00

A mix of all kinds of food is currently sitting in my stomach willing itself to digest. Ok, well the reason I'm sharing is because of a comment that "colleague x" made tonight at our "neighbor party" translated literally from above.

There was a sign-up sheet for "un repas" or meal in the lobby of my building. It seemed casual. We would set up a table outside near the laundry lines and parking lot. I figured it couldn't be much more than pizza, chips, and pop. I figured wrong. This isn't America, it's France, where eating is an art, a regime, a scheduled event with courses, magical baskets of apéritifs, cheeses, bottles of wine, and fresh desserts. Being my last day of teaching, I decided to go easy on myself, and got an apple tart from the grocery store. My dessert never got eaten. Why? There was so much food, so much home-made fresh, delicious food that no one even touched my store bought cake. It's currently sitting in my fridge. It got beat out by an identical apple tart, a home-made apricot cake, and cream puffs drizzled in warm chocolate.

I thought the first course of home-made pizza and salmon/aubergine quiche was it, so I filled up on that, only to turn my head to see taboule, vegetable salads, chicken wings, and bread landing on the table. Cheese was to follow, along with a steady "taste this, taste that!" from whoever was sitting beside me.

Colleague X, a normally quiet man, turned and said to me, "now, you need to tell your new President how much food we fed you here in Chasse so that we have good relations between the U.S. and France."

La Fête de la Musique

2009-06-21T22:33:00.007+02:00

Hurrah for the French government! Every June 21st is a musical celebration in France. The streets of every city in the country are open to anyone who'd like to perform. Music goes all day long until 2 a.m and it's all free!

Hearing this, I pictured amateur bands crammed up next to each other, a motley crew of classical, rock, punk, reggae, indie, and pop knocking elbows, their musical equipment tangling and mixing. I suppose it could be like this, but I didn't stick around long enough in Lyon to find out. Sadly, my last train home left at 8.22 and apparently the music really gets going at night.

I met up with some friends in Lyon's Parc de la Tete d'Or to have a picnic. As I was the first to arrive, I planted myself next to a Jamaican music tent filling the cool morning air with happy reggae. We camped out and lazily rocked back and forth to the music until evening when we went to explore whatever musical discoveries were to be had.

It was easy to find music. One just had to perk one's ears up like a dog, listen for music, and walk towards the sound until they became louder. We found a stage next to the Hotel de Ville. The band there was doing a cover of a famous French band called Noir Désir . I had never heard of them before, but someone told me that everyone in France knows who they are. Well, not everyone.

Above: me, Patricia, Indira, and Mia-Lisa in Lyon right before I hopped the metro to get home.

In order to make up for not being able to see bands staked out on every street corner late into the night, I'm watching a live coverage of the Fête in Paris on TV.

Running French Errands

2009-06-10T16:18:00.008+02:00

Well, French errands are really just the same as ordinary errands, but generally create a little bit more stress than errands in one's native country.

When I first arrived to France in September, going to the bank, post office, doctor, city hall or even the grocery store were all new to me. Even though I could speak French before arriving and had lived in Hungary and Spain beforehand, these things all required me to pump myself up before stepping out the door and silently recite what I needed to say over and over again in French. A pocketsize dictionary was like a secret talisman in my bag. I would over prepare, bring any paper or identification card even slightly related to the visit, at least four passport photos of myself, and several photocopies of all of this. Okay, maybe not for the grocery store.

This all took time, therefore what would be a short and simple visit to the bank in the U.S. became an entire morning's worth of energy in France. There was the paperwork preparation, the looking up of French bank lingo in lifesaver dictionary, the walk there, the nervous constricting of stomach muscles before approaching the counter, the bizarre look from the clerk at the sound of my first words, then the problem that I forgot one paper, the going back home to get that paper, photocopy it, laminate it, and sign it in gold pen, and repeat.

Now that it's June, I still over prepare and form at least one introductory line in my head, but my stomach muscles no longer constrict in anxiety. After almost nine months of being here, I've either gotten used to it or just don't care if the French freak out at my foreign accent anymore.

Upon finally receiving my green carte vital (medical card), I decided to finally take care of the vaccination suggestions that the doctor in October had recommended I get. My tetanus shot had expired and I had put off getting it in the US, because I had no health insurance. An idle Wednesday morning was the perfect time to discover the Chasse medical building, perched on top of the pharmacy in a neighborhood I rarely venture to.

Sounding the bell, I entered, wondering how it would compare with doctor's offices in the US and Hungary. It resembled both in different ways. The French medical building was more modern than Hungary's as in the US, but the doctor's desk, computer and examination area were the same room as was the case in Hungary. A man that looked to be in his young twenties with a stethoscope around his neck greeted me and was extremely kind, using gestures even when I could understand everything.

An older man, the doctor, appeared full of smiles. They told me to go to the pharmacy to get the "elixir" that would go into my vaccination. It was the first time I've ever had to go retrieve the liquid that was to be my shot. I got a standard check-up and the younger guy took my height and weight while the doctor tried to guess them. It was all very pleasant, and luckily I didn't mind about the weight guessing. When asked why I didn't come earlier for the vaccination, I told him that I had just received my medical card a few weeks ago. He nodded his head in understanding, "ah c'est la France."

Un déjeuner à la campagne

2009-06-06T16:58:00.004+02:00

Last weekend, I was invited to have lunch at a colleague's house. Monsieur C, my colleague, picked me up and asked if I had a bathing suit. His family has a pool, and later I was to discover that there was so much more to their nook in the forested slopes just outside of Chasse.

We pulled onto a gravel road that led into the woods and ultimately their house. We were surrounded by trees, not a neighbor in sight.

Although I never got around to swimming, I did make some other observations (ten to be exact):

1. Monsieur C's 18 year old son runs his own chicken business at the house. The boy was so passionate about raising chickens, ducks, geese, and chicken/duck hybrids that I couldn't help but not be impressed. Some of the birds I saw in those forested coops looked like nature's outcasts, never meant to be seen by the world. I saw ducks with chicken faces and a monster pigeon who looked like the head of the bird Mafia roosting in a barn.

2. A goat was roped to a tree nearby the table where we ate lunch and roosters crowed every once and a while, making periodic awkward silences slightly more bearable.

3. Inside the house were stuffed foxes, badgers, and immortalized snakes kept in fluid-filled jars.

4. No matter how hard one tries to fit in as a foreigner at a French lunch, those around will always seem to maintain that regard of parents looking at a child incapable of serving or putting food in his/her mouth.

5. While the French deem it necessary to mix certain foods together in each fork bite, others are not to be mixed. Meat, salad, and pickle can all go together in one stab of the fork, but when faced with an array of cheeses, it's necessary to taste the lightest cheese first, like Brie, then finish tasting with the strongest.

6. There exist tiny treasures called fraises des bois (wild strawberries) that grow to be the size of a peanut and taste like candy. They flourished within the thickets all around the house and while taking a tour, became an instant snack.

7. Pastis with Grenadine syrup is much more tolerable than the pure stuff.

8. L'eau de vie, or water of life, which is used to make cognac and tasted dangerously close to Hungarian palinka, rested in apricot filled jars on windowsills, until Monsieur C's wife got one down for us to try. Tasting the alcohol spiked apricots that seemed to rest innocently in my glass caused my face to contort in odd ways much to the amusement of Madame C.

9. As their house rested on a slope with a lovely view of the Rhone and an enormous factory on the other side, Madame C. informed me that the old stone paths alongside the river were built for horses to pull boats down the river. I was amused by this image, then immediately felt sorry for the horses of yore.

10. When I left, Madame cut me some salad from their garden, so fresh that it still had ants from the earth crawling over its leaves, some potatoes, and cherries. She invited me back saying that she'd make frog legs for lunch next time.

La fête du basket

2009-05-31T18:50:00.005+02:00

One day, during la grisaille of the December winter, a colleague named Serge asked me if I would be available May 2nd for a basketball game. Why would my presence need to be secured that far in advance? I thought it a bit bizarre, but then he told me that a professional basketball player from Villeurbanne (Tony Parker?) would be there and could I help with interpreting? With nervous laughter and a sceptical glance, I agreed. I can never be sure if he's joking or not.

The months passed, and eventually a hot and windy May 2nd rolled around. Thankfully, my friend Leslie was visiting that afternoon, so I pleaded with her to come with me. We ventured over to the Chasse gymnasium wondering so many things. Who would the player be? Would I actually have to interpret with a microphone in front of loads of people? My French is nowhere near good enough to interpret, especially with a huge crowd. So I tried to adopt the attitude that is necessary with most situations in foreign countries, which is to shrug, go with it, and hope for the best.

I learned so many things about Chasse that day. Number one being that the nondescript, weathered building attached to the gymnasium is actually a bar. Leslie and I were escorted in and served hot tea in beer mugs. Sipping the tea slowly, I questioned whether or not I should have asked for an alcoholic drink instead. Before I could change my mind, a car rolled up and Serge screamed, "He's here!" A stampede of my students scurried after him, while Leslie and I set down our half-full tea mugs and followed the mass.

Originally from the USA, Chevon Troutman, plays for the professional team ASVEL based in Villeurbanne, France. Serge led Leslie and me to Chevon's car for introductions. The only interpreting I was to do for the entire event occured in that moment. It consisted of me telling Chevon that I was a colleague of Serge and there to help interpret. At that moment, Chevon's interpreter stepped out of the car. I was done, even though I didn't know it at the time. While we were talking with him, I glanced to my left and saw a half-moon of parents, kids, and other townspeople snapping pictures of us.

As Chevon was ushered into the gymnasium, everyone followed. Leslie and I weren't sure of the itinerary, so we simply sat on the bleachers with some of my students, teenagers, parents, and other randoms. Chevon responded to most questions in French (did he even need an interpreter?) and was presented with a medal by a tiny little blonde girl. His interpreter and I received one as well. That was the hardest "bisous" (double cheek kiss) I've ever had to give, as this girl couldn't have been more than five years old and so short. Meanwhile, I got a double thumbs up from Leslie on the bleachers.

Yes, this pic is slightly lame, but they went through so much trouble to give it to me, that I thought it deserved some limelight in cyberspace.

We watched Chevon pose with my students, shoot hoops in flip flops with some older men, and then sign autographs. Leslie and I observed, trying not to breathe in the acrid odor of a French gymnasium. Below, he's high-fiving the girls' basketball team. Chasse is in green!

At the time, the whole afternoon seemed chaotic and awkward, but I realize now how important and special it was for some of the kids to see an athlete who plays on a professional French basketball team. As there is not much going on in Chasse, any event that comes, be it the circus, a fair, a flea market, or a basketball player can be inspirational to the kids.

I left the scene to walk Leslie to the train station, then returned a few hours later to see the end of a basketball match between two girls teams. It brought me back to high school, seeing the scoreboard and parents in the bleachers. I don't remember who won, but I do remember it being quite unexpectedly enjoyable to watch my students run around the gym shooting hoops, swing on ropes, and see them outside the classroom. And best of all, I wasn't in charge of controling them.

I sat alone on the bleachers, because I didn't know anyone. Returning without Leslie was like walking into a battlefield without a gun. But all of a sudden I didn't care and silently laughed at the uncensored Eminem song lyrics coming from the speakers while kids ran around and no one had any idea what awful words were filling the gymnasium.

My worst behaved students were the ones that came up to me, did the "bisous," said hello and ran off. I found it interesting how polite they are outside of class, but not when in it. For quite some time, I sat on my own, sometimes dribbling a small basketball, smiling and waving at my students, until one mother finally took pity on me and walked over. Her son was in my class and she asked why I had such a small basketball. I guess all you need is a prop for someone to come over and talk to you.

When the gymnasium finally got boring, I headed to the bar, where as soon as I walked in, everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at me. I didn't think it could get any more awkward, but somehow it had. The only person I recognized was Serge. With a simple bonsoir I tried to integrate myself into his group. I was offered a drink and took it willingly, knowing that a drink in hand can only make things less awkward.

After the men had run out of things to say, I wandered over to the slideshow set to music that was playing on the TV screen on the other side of the bar. I was slightly appeased by seeing a picture of Leslie and I giggling on the bleachers while Chevon shot hoops with the kids. Then, after seeing the entire thing about three times, I started to get restless. A random person walked over and brought me another drink, then left. First, I was suspicious, then just drank it. All drinks at the bar cost one euro and were served in plastic cups. I suddenly loved the small town feel to the place.

It took another awkward half hour before people started getting drunk enough to talk to me. I was just waiting for dinner, which was supposed to have started two hours earlier. And which was why I came back. But instead of forks, knives, and plates being set up, dance lights started turning and music started blaring. A disco was stealing all hope of me eating anytime soon.

After the music started, I started making friends. I met the old director of the school who started telling me stories of my colleagues, began planning a going-away party for me, and discussed the differences between a dromedary and camel for way too long. Finally dinner came, and I met Serge's wife who was incredibly sweet and invited me to their house for lunch. I had barely finished dinner when I saw Serge in a hula skirt and gold tinseled wig, while many of the parents were on the tables chanting and cheersing to something I couldn't understand.

I tried to leave after dinner at 12:30, but a mother of one of my students grabbed me by the arm and led me out onto the dance floor where Yelle's "A Cause des Garçons" was playing. Suddenly I was dancing with my nine year old students and their mothers, then the old director of the school, who insisted on waltzing around the floor with me.

I enjoyed the familial atmosphere of the party, where mothers were dancing with their children and everyone was having a good time, but the whole thing had me exhausted and after my waltz, I walked across the street back to my apartment and a good night's sleep.

Une Semaine en Provence: La Fin

2009-05-21T11:26:00.008+02:00

It's been over a month since les vacances d'avril, meaning warmer weather, and the month of May, which may not have its own two week vacation, but a handful of individual holidays that have come to be charmingly referred to as ponts. If a holiday lands on a Thursday, the Friday then becomes a day off too, constructing a "bridge." This makes "four day weekend" sound so unoriginal.

On a late morning walk today past the Chasse cemetery, post office, and train station, I crossed a bridge over the highway. It was the same road that my parents and I took down to Provence. Unlike today, we hadn't faced lanes of nearly stopped traffic all heading south. The news has warned travelers of the bouchons (the word in French is "cork" or in this case, stoppage) that all the "bridge" traffic has created.

As for me, I'm heading north for the weekend, but conveniently by train. Not as if I have a choice. I'm really anxious to see Strasbourg and a different region of France, unexplored by me.

But before I jump into the future, I'll revert back to the past in order to close the saga that has become "A Week in Provence" with my parents. Our final destination on a whirlwind tour of Provence was the walled city of Avignon.

After finding a parking place in a pitch black garage (parking in Avignon during Easter week is no easy feat), we made our way to Les Halles or Avignon's indoor market. I personally like the wall flora that makes the building look more like the entrance to a botanical garden than a mecca of charcuterie, olives, cheeses, and provençal sweets. It was here, that our trio met Allison and her parents, thus beginning our combined effort as tour guides.

Taking away a bag of black olives, some cheese, and calissons, an oval-shaped sweet made from almond paste, we snacked outside while taking in Avignon's sights.

We all had lunch at an outdoor cafe that offered une formule du jour consisting of either steak or simply "aioli" which I took to mean the garlic/olive oil sauce combined mixed with spaghetti. At least that's what it was in Spain. In France, it arrived in the form of a fish, vegetables, and snails with the aioli sauce. Complete surprise. But I don't mind culinary adventures as long as what's on my plate is not moving. Or, in this case if I stuff it in the bread to mask the slimy texture. This is precisely how I ate my first snail. My tastebuds just aren't that mature yet.

From lunch, we went to Le Palais des Papes or the Pope's Palace, of which a camera absolutely cannot capture its monstrous size. It takes quite a long time to see the entire place, and the view of Avignon and its pont from one of the towers is a nice breather from the string of enormous rooms. According to About.com, the 14th century palace (home of the pope in the Middle Ages) is the size of four French cathedrals.

Above is a view of Le Palais from Le Pont d'Avignon or Pont Saint Bénézet. There is a combined ticket that visitors to Avignon can get that permits one to see both the palace and the bridge at a discounted price. Therefore, unlike my earlier visit to Avignon in the fall, we walked out onto the bridge, still windy as ever, but beautiful, as storm clouds were floating nearer and nearer. I learned that villagers did not actually dance sur le pont (on the bridge) but sous le pont (under the bridge). I can see how the two words could sound similar when sung, but from what I read, the bridge was too small and narrow to be danced on.

Avignon is unique, because it's a walled-in city, seemingly medieval, yet still a functioning city with modern stores where people live and work. I'm lucky to have had the chance to visit it several times and never lose interest in its charm. That afternoon, my parents and I said au revoir to Provence and drove approximately two hours back into the Rhone-Alpes, where we'd stay in hotel chez moi for the night in Chasse.

One of my favorite things about France is being able to discover a new part of the country so easily. Within an hour, it's possible to go from the prairie, to the mountains, then to the sea. In the U.S., especially in the Midwest, it's too far to find that much diversity.

Hike to L'Abbaye de Sénanque and Borie Village

2009-05-11T14:22:00.021+02:00

One of the things that I couldn't wait to do once I got to France was hike. Unfortunately I haven't had a chance to do much, as good hiking areas are a bit far from the factory choked section of the Rhone where I live and it's almost necessary to have a car in order to reach trailheads.

Equipped with our diesel-only-eating rental car, my parents and I had decided to do a hike from the center of Gordes through the undulating hills, still greyish lavender fields, past the Abbaye de Sénanque, and back into Gordes. Unfortunately, even though the guidebook gave almost step by step directions, we still managed to get lost and turned around every few feet. I'm still not entirely sure we went the way we were supposed to.

After going for what seemed like hours of walking uphill past people's yards and through fly infested forests, we broke into a wonderland of lavender puffs and mountain views.

This is what lavender looks like in April. It's at its most purple in July and August. One of our most repeated comments was, "yeah we're not here when the lavender's purple, but at least we are avoiding the crowds and heat. Can you imagine what that would be like?" We didn't pass another soul until lunch time and yes the provencal path did feel like our own, even if we had to search for the washed out lavender fields that seemed to blend with the mountains.

The lavender-keeper's house?

L'Abbaye de Sénanque

After some wrong turns and lunch we reached a view that I've seen many times before on a wall in my parent's house in the form of a painting. The Abbaye de Sénanque was built in the above valley by Cistercian monks in 1148. While taking a break from hiking in the gift shop, I tried to get some information on the place by reading some of the guides. I particularly liked how much the monks rely on the earth and let nature dictate the ideal place to build a monastery. Valleys are usually chosen because of the fresh resources found there.

The sun shines down upon L'Abbaye de Sénanque.

Our hike continued along the road leading up one side of the valley, giving us a phenomenal bird's eye view of the place. It's barely visible from the picture above, but it was laundry day in the back courtyard.

Village des Bories, Gordes

After returning to our car, we drove to the Borie Village, just outside of Gordes. This is essentially a preserved village of rural homes that date back 3,000 years. And people actually still inhabited them up until the 19th century. The stone huts were built without any kind of mortar. This is amazing and scary. I wouldn't have wanted to be sleeping in my borie bedroom worrying about the strong mistral blowing the rock roof out of place and onto my head.

"I'm Sunny Tired"

2009-05-08T14:33:00.004+02:00

At the beginning of every class I teach, I ask, "how are you?" to my students. This way, they get used to one of the most common questions used in everyday dialogues. Looking over the fact that they're twelve years old in a town where no one save l'assistant américaine would speak English with them, someday they may need to answer this question correctly.

It's one of the most boring parts of class, because mostly the students tell me that they're 'appy. Let's face it, sometimes happiness is boring. After a string of these, and me overexaggerating the aspirated 'h' in what looks like teacher having an asthma attack, the first five minutes of class have disappeared.

Yesterday, I got one of those answers that will forever be a gem of a response. It was one of the first hot days of the year and the kids looked winded. (Thank you heat for draining their energy) One girl responded, "I'm sunny tired" to my usual question. I asked her to repeat, not following. And when she told me in French, "je suis fatiguée à cause du soleil" I got it. Having retrieved the only word for "sun" that she knew from our daily weather reports "It's sunny, cloudy, blah blah blah..." she was able to tell me that she was tired from the heat.

I was proud of this girl, for even though my students don't know how to communicate very well in English, they try. And that makes me 'appy.

Heading West: Aqueducts, Cassoulet, and Castles

2009-05-03T21:37:00.022+02:00

After a few days in Provence, my parents were ready for a change of scenery, so we set out early in our car to spend the morning at the tallest of all Roman aqueducts, Le Pont du Gard (The Bridge of the Gardon River) and continue on to Carcassonne, one of France's finest preserved medieval cities, in the afternoon.

A drive-by shot of vineyards along the road.

Because a good map can help orient, this mediocre one should give you an idea of Carcassonne's whereabouts in France. The region of Provence is to the slight northeast.

Before cruising to Carcassonne, we made our way to Le Pont du Gard, somewhere between Avignon and Nimes. The aqueduct itself provided water from fountain springs near the town of Uzes to the Roman city of Nimes. I was never before interested in aqueducts until I saw some. Segovia's aqueduct in Spain is smack in the middle of the city and really shows that juxtaposition of old and new. Whereas, France's Pont du Gard lies in the middle of a sprawling forest over a river. The symmetrical wonder of aqueduct arches that act as a leggy support sometimes blind the viewer to what it actually does. It must be slightly tilted toward the place where the water needs to go so to keep the canal of water moving at the very top.

We had to walk quite a way down the path to fully capture it.

My mom, dad, and I couldn't resist hiking up a rocky path that stemmed from the main one. It was so peaceful here in the morning that anticipation of an amazing view guided us easily into the woods.

Voila, the water canal in the sky. I was surprised to find the very top of the Pont du Gard from the trail. I took this picture through a gate that stopped people from walking any further. The park also contains a garden trail where vegetation and farming techniques used centuries ago are still in practice. Separated chunks from the remainder of the aqueduct can also be found along the way.

Even though we were content to stay in the Pont du Gard park for longer, we had to move on in order to reach Carcassonne that afternoon. Driving out of Provence, the temperature dropped as we skirted Montpellier and got a view of the Mediterranean from the road.

The walls of Carcassonne's fortified city.

We had to be quick as not to miss déjeuner. In France, it's possible to completely miss lunch, never to get it back that day. The window of lunchtime exists from between roughly 12:00-2:00 to 2:30. And we were close to missing it. Parking the car, running out of the parking lot and into the medieval city, allowing ourselves a few gasps of wonder at the castle towers, we flew through the streets in an attempt to find a relatively non touristy place that would serve a good cassoulet, a hearty regional specialty made with white beans and duck or goose meat.

Finding anything non touristy in the medieval city proved impossible as the entire place exists for tourists, however we did manage to find what appeared to be a family run restaurant that had a good priced menu. In other words, a starter, main dish, and dessert set at a fixed price. We ordered salads, cassoulet, and slices of cake for dessert. The cassoulet arrived boiling hot and warmed our stomachs. That day was strangely freezing and part of me had wanted to stay in the underbelly of the restaurant where my empty bowl of cassoulet sat instead of braving the cloudy skies and bitter wind outside.

Distant view of Carcassonne's fortified city

We pulled ourselves from our chairs and went to the extremely fortified castle (Château Comtal) that was built inside the fortified city. Carcassonne once protected the French border. Despite the freezing wind, it was nice to simply walk around the city and look up at the lurking towers and spot all the different types of defense systems built into the architecture. The entire fortified city was restored in the 19th century.

After seeing a dog who was tied up to a pole outside the Basilica shivering, and not being able to escape the unprepared for cold inside the gothic building, we decided it was time to return to the more friendly temperatures that we had experienced in Provence.

However, before leaving, I persuaded my dad to drive into the non medieval part of Carcassonne so that we could get a distant view of the fortified city. I especially liked the old bridge with lamps hanging overhead. Below is the bridge from the side.

Stops in Arles and St Rémy

2009-05-01T19:22:00.021+02:00

By the middle of the week of our family trip to Provence, everyone was starting to establish routines, particularly with food. We adopted the Fromenterie on the corner of a street in L'Isle sur la Sorgue as our breakfast go-to. My dad had his croissant and orange juice every morning, while my mom and I varied our choices, but ultimately stuck with les triangles amandes (croissant-like and triangle shaped with powdered sugar and almonds spread on top).

After a day spent touring little villages, we decided to explore Arles, well-known for its Spanish influence, Arènes, ancient theatre, and various scenes painted by Van Gogh. The train station attendant in Chasse had recommended that I go to Arles before leaving France, because it's an ideal place for taking photographs, due to the light. Just as Van Gogh had first arrived to Arles covered in clouds and snow, we arrived in the midst of on and off rain showers. No infamous arlesian light in sight.

However, the yellows and oranges in this ex-hospital courtyard that Van Gogh painted during his stay there definitely brightened up the atmosphere. This was one of my dad's favorite places in Arles. Copies of the artist's paintings are set up next to the corresponding scenes, creating one of those games where the goal is to find the tiny differences in two very similar pictures: the painting and the current landscape.

After some sufficient wandering, we found Van Gogh's Night Cafe. I nearly got plowed down by a bicycle while getting this shot. Unfortunately, the actual scene, which is busy and touristy, is a bit of a let down compared to the painting, where the cafe appears so much more quaint and personal.

Above is the disco bull we found in an exhibit off of la Place de la République. There were several creative bull heads here, including a purple fuzzy one and a zebra bull among others. Because of Arles' close proximity to Spain, there exist some customs like bullfighting that take place in the Arénes (below). Bull lovers will be happy to know that the animal is only killed during the Easter season. Otherwise, the sole objective of the "matador" is to grab jewelry from between the bull's horns with a long fork.

From Arles, we drove to St Rémy, not really knowing what to find there. The first challenge: finding a place to park. After several circles around the city center, we found a cramped space. The couple seated on a bench right in front of our spot informed us in a combination of French/Spanish all of the parking rules in the city. We were safe. With reassurance that our car would not be towed, we set out to explore the place. Sometimes it's nice not to have a sightseeing plan, but just happen upon things instead. This is my preferred method of seeing somewhere new, especially after trying to find so many sights in Arles.

Wouldn't it be great to walk to school on this street?

I just liked the red color of this patisserie/glacerie and its name, "A Summer in St. Remy of Provence."

We stumbled upon the birthplace of Nostradamus...

...and some bears people-watching from a window.

Although we didn't stay long in St Rémy, it was a nice stop to simply wander, look in shops, avoid stepping in piles of dog crap, and notice the little things. I got the idea that that's what Provence is about.

Une Semaine en Provence: Le Début

2009-04-27T18:23:00.023+02:00

Provence, southern neighbor to the Rhone Alpes, home of colorful flora, Roman ruins, and its own collection of delicious cuisine, made the cut as choice destination for my parents' visit during the first week of April vacation. It was where we were to spend the majority of our time with a few days in Lyon and Carcassonne.

I met my parents in Lyon's St. Exupery Airport, and we began day one of our trip exploring Lyon on foot. Not in us to take any form of public transportation, save the funicular to the hill of Notre Dame de la Fourviere, our feet were swollen and sore by the end of that day and the next. My parents seemed to be simply excited that spring had arrived in France since it hadn't yet in Chicago. The blossoming redbuds, glowing tulips, and green grass illuminated the Parc de la Tete d'Or, even as grey rainclouds floated overhead. The park was almost entirely ours as Lyon's population was still at work or in school. I probably learned the names of more plants and flowers than I ever have in my life thanks to my mom pointing out each colorful burst we passed.

Salads and Côte du Rhône in Lyon

We walked through markets, ate at a bouchon lyonnais (my parents have already tried to replicate la salade lyonnaise at home!) and strolled through Vieux Lyon. The weather was perfect and I could tell that my parents were experiencing sensory overload, taking in the people, cars, dogs (who are apparently better behaved in Europe than the U.S.) buildings, streets, and sounds of France. It was nice to show them the city that has become my second home and to see it again through appreciative eyes.

Banks of the Rhône, Lyon

From Lyon, we picked up our rental car and intended to head south tout de suite. Unfortunately, not used to the abundance of one way streets, we drove around Lyon in circles, sometimes skittering on the edges of its banlieues. Behind the wheel, I felt as if we were in one of those hedge mazes trying to find the right avenue out of the city and onto the A7 going to Marseille. I had to admit, even though I probably broke a handful of traffic laws, it was kinda cool to drive through the city I normally walk through.

Tension lifted when we finally escaped the gridlock of Lyon and I excitedly pointed out Chasse's church from the highway. Vineyards and hilltop castle/fortress ruins dotted the landscape into Provence. My mom and I had read up on our Peter Mayle literature and were ready for our own version of the region.

L'Isle sur la Sorgue, the Venice of Provence

We arrived in L'Isle sur la Sorgue, our base for the trip, before sundown. The busy Sunday antique market was in its last hour of flurry, lit in the sunset. Shoppers were adorned in shorts, skirts, and t-shirts. It was already warmer in Provence. After getting settled in our hotel room, we headed to L'Isle sur la Sorgue's claim to fame antique market and browsed ourselves. There were petanque (a Provencal style of bocce ball) sets, silverware, frightening looking dolls, and as much antique furniture as anyone could want. This market was slightly classier than the midnight one in Chambery this past weekend, where people brought all their junk (old magazines, underwear, and heaps of Barbie dolls with tangled hair) to the street in an attempt to make a little change, while people with miner's lights and flashlights searched for treasures.

View of the sunset from our balcony in L'Isle

The next day, our first stop was Fontaine de Vaucluse, a tiny village that pleasantly surprised all three of us. A fifteen minute drive from L'Isle sur la Sorgue, Fontaine is set in a mountain valley, the Sorgue river cutting through its small center. A path leads from the village's sole roundabout up to the the Sorgue's source.

The unknown source of the Sorgue River

Apparently, no one has been able to figure out where the water comes from, such is the geological make-up of the canyon. Instead, there exists a pagan legend of a nymph who presented herself to three villagers of L'Isle sur la Sorgue, hoping to escape the provencal summer heat in the river. Supposedly, the river sprung from one of several diamonds that the nymph produced in her hands to help the bewildered heat-exhausted villagers. Part of me doesn't understand how no one can figure out the source even to this day, but the other part of me likes that Fontaine holds this mystery. Then again, maybe it's just the leisurely Provencal attitude to getting around to doing things...

Fontaine de Vaucluse

The sound of the river and water rushing is ubiquitous. The slowly turning waterwheels and towering mountain faces make for a peaceful morning. My parents and I found an 11th century church near the river that was so simple that it must have done wonders for clearing the mind. These are my favorite type of churches. The ones with stained glass windows made from unconnected shards of glass, no more than one cross, and modest benches. There's nothing to distract and it radiates calm. Apparently this church used to be a pagan temple sometime before the 6th century dedicated to the Source of the Sorgue, but later it was torn down and turned into L'Église Saint Veran.

Statue in courtyard of L'Eglise Saint Veran

We had crepes and pizza for lunch at a cafe on the river and had a view of the silohuette of castle ruins on a hill, the sun shining brightly from behind it. Fontaine was our first village visit and remained one of our favorites at the end of the trip.

Mom and Dad exploring Gordes

From Fontaine, we drove to Gordes, a spectacular village spilling over a hillside, and holiday home locale for wealthy Parisians. My dad drove us around a corner and all of a sudden, an otherworldly view of Gordes smacked us in the face. We explored its steep cobblestone streets, and although there weren't many sights to see, it was Gordes itself that was the sight. From the village were panoramic views of the provencal countryside, rolling hills and snowcapped peaks in the distance. We would be returning to Gordes later in the week, to start a hike from its center and to visit a nearby borie village. More on that later.

Gordes

During our surveillance of the landscape around Gordes, we spotted the ochre cliffs of Roussillon just several minutes drive away. The reddish orange soil stood out in patchy spots among the forests surrounding it. The night before, we had flipped through a guidebook that my mom had purchased. I'd seen the ochre cliffs and told my parents that we couldn't miss it.

Red walls and vase in Roussillon

So off we went, the afternoon was in full swing and a hike on Mars was still ahead of us. When we reached Roussillon, we had to walk through its streets to reach the cliff park or Sentier des Ocres. The buildings were all the warm colors of a painter's palette, reddish pink, yellows, and oranges. We were walking through the walls of a sunset as the sun was setting. It appeared to be the most perfect provencal setting and helped to stave off our approaching exhaustion.

In the Sentier des Ocres in Roussillon

The pictures I had seen in my mom's book couldn't do justice for what we were about to set foot in. I felt like I was eight years old again with my parents walking into a natural playground. The Ochre Footpath is essentially a trail that leads the visitor through a coniferous forest sprouting out of the unique soil found on the colorful cliffs that were formed under the sea a long time ago. The plant life found here is not usual to Provence because of the minerals in the soil. We saw French families walking barefoot covered in red. Thankfully, my trusty Goretex shoes kept my white socks pristine. Obviously I had not retained all of my eight year old enthusiasm and had refrained from rolling around in the red soil.

Pinks and yellows of Roussillon

The village of Roussillon itself is an artist's haven, seeing as the park is the source of many earthy colored pigments. As we walked its streets, we saw an artist at work through the window of a sandy pink wall and many paintings of the natural wonder on display.

We left Roussillon late afternoon to head back to L'Isle sur la Sorgue for dinner on our balcony and an early night. When I closed my eyes to go to sleep, I saw ancient churches, the sunlight on a clear Sorgue river, and bright orange cliffs.

Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé...

2009-03-31T23:12:00.024+02:00

Going to Marseille was supposed to mean sun and warm sea breezes, yet the exact opposite awaited us: rain, rain, cold, and more rain. It rained so much that several pairs of our socks were soaked, shoes waterlogged, and for some: umbrellas pushed to the limit.

There's definitely a thrill to going somewhere new, especially to the city that gave France's national anthem, "La Marseillaise" its current name. The first lines will forever be in my head, because my friends and I did a skit while singing it for extra credit in high school French class.

And even though I'd been to Marseille on a whirlwind study abroad trip in college, we'd only stopped for the afternoon to have lunch. Apparently, it was long enough for me to decide I'd wanted to be a teacher.

Six years later, I was back in Marseille for two days, wanting to give teaching a break, and with a different band of traveling companions. I've really learned that traveling and seeing places isn't really all in the sights themselves, but the people you see them with. The sights are just an added side bonus.

AJ, Jamie, Allison, Leslie, Maria, and I got on really well and I think that made our trip so good, good enough to laugh at the rain in its face.

Vieux Port (Old Port) as seen from Fort Entrecasteux. The boats give you an idea of Marseille's seafaring vibe. So will the variety of fish flopping around in plastic buckets on the dock. No one can say they aren't fresh.

View of Fort Saint Jean, marking the entrance to Vieux Port. I read that this fort was not intended to provide defense from the sea but instead from the city itself and uprisings against the governor. In the background is striped Cathedrale de la Major.

Here's Notre Dame de la Garde on a hill at night in the distance. Little did we know, AJ would take us on a hike through puddles and stone steps-turned-gushing waterfalls throughout the streets of Marseille. We thought she was leading us somewhere. She just wanted to walk around in the rain. Surprisingly, we all thought it was hilarious at the time.

Scene from our rain walk.

View of Marseille from Chateau d'If, a fortress made prison made museum, and setting of Alexandre Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo. Visiting France's version of Alcatraz, made me want to read the book, having known nothing about it beforehand.

Chateau d'If from the boat dock.

The island was relatively easy and cheap to get to, save the cold rain. Unfortunately, we sat inside the boat and not on top. This choice probably saved our limbs.

Below is a view of the other islands from the top of a tower.

Inside the Cathedrale de la Major and proof of my black and white photo experimentation. Apparently I was getting bored of color.

Hiking around the top of the hill on which Notre Dame de la Garde is situated, then watching the sunset while eating our gourmet cookies was probably one of my favorite parts of our weekend. I like being up high on hills, mountains, or even up on tall buildings. It's like coming up for air from the city or confined spaces below.

The view was spectacular.

Sunset (and that's got to be Chateau d'If in the distance) I'll just pretend it is..

Olive tree in the park of Palais Longchamp. Our last day was the sunniest and most gorgeous.

At least we had the morning.

Return of the Mistral in Valence and Tain l'Hermitage

2009-03-18T21:47:00.018+01:00

Maybe it wasn't the mistral in full force, but a tributary of it definitely swept through our hair and chilled our bones the Saturday a group of us met in Valence.

Valence assistant, Allison kindly met Leslie, Jamie, Gearoid, and I at the train station and from there we strolled the streets of what seemed to be a very nice-sized city. At times Valence felt big, when we stood overlooking the park that gave a postcard picturesque mountainous skyline. And at other times, it felt quaint, like a small town you just stumbled upon sans touristes, complete with outdoor market.

I am obsessed with parks. This is a view from within the park looking up at a grandiose Versailles-esque fountain and stairways.

This is a courtyard of a Valence building in which Rabelais supposedly once lived.

A view of Tain l'Hermitage from the town of Tournon sur Rhone. If only Chasse sur Rhone could be this picturesque. I particularly like les vignobles et collines. Allison led us to Tain's hidden secret, a Valrhona Chocolate Store that had bowls and bowls of free samples. These weren't just ordinary pieces of chocolate, but glorious bits that came in flavors such as peanut butter, nougat, and pistachio. Needless to say, I made myself sick on sugar before we left without purchasing anything. Tastes that good don't come cheap.

Blue sky and church in Tournon sur Rhone.

Sometimes, there's nothing more enticing than a trail curling around a bend. This trail led us up some steep hills that were more difficult to get down than up. Great way to work off all that specialty chocolate...

Quaint church at the top of the hill. I believe that people once made pilgrimages to this church in the past. We never made it over there, but I wondered, if we had, would we have had the chance to sample some of the hill's wine like pilgrims of days yore? Unlikely.

View of the river from our highest point.

The mistral left us alone on the hills, while the sun shone down in our favor. Walking the vineyard trails made me want to get outside more and hike. It also made me respect the workers who venture out onto the steep hillsides and not so sturdy soil.

Lastly, it also made me a little thirsty for some wine...

Les bobos

2009-03-12T23:44:00.003+01:00

Les bobos were the focus of tonight's culturally enhanced French class. Otherwise known as the bourgeois-bohême or bourgeois-bohemian social class of society, they've not only taken over the city of Lyon, but a lot of France as well.

Our substitute teacher gave us a survey of questions with which we were supposed to pretend to answer as a member of this particular social class. Both of the 'b' words bring forth stereotypes, but not many people in the class were entirely confident of this hybrid group's make-up, many of whom were apparently wandering the streets just outside of our classroom.

To shorten a ninety minute class into one long digestible sentence: les bobos are (for the most part)...

Thirty years old, married with kids who go to private school, living in a loft in the suburbs of a city, working at a white collar job or liberal profession, like to get around by either bike or Range Rover, like going to museums, Japanese restaurants, seeing Korean movies, and supporting PSG football matches, generally wear designer clothes, and vote for the green party but are generally moderate right politically.

All of this information comes from French singer, Renaud's song, Les Bobos, which we listened to in class on YouTube. Here are the lyrics in French.

From this description, maybe everyone has a little bit of "bobo" in them, but the sort of person that most comes to mind is "celebrity." Who's got loads of money and certainly spends it, but feels guilty enough to be somewhat ecologically minded?

Football

2009-03-12T21:17:00.002+01:00

This'll be a quick one...

I'm not a huge football (soccer) fan, but in Europe, it's definitely some people's version of religion. I've tried to get into it, but to no avail. I still like the sport...any sport that can bring so many nationalities together and get people who otherwise might be on the street dealing drugs to kick a ball around sounds good to me. Also, in a time when eight year old kids are at a risk for carpal tunnel syndrome after playing too many handheld digital games, seeing them get together for a post lunch game in the schoolyard is refreshing.

Right now, there is a match on TV between Marseille and Amsterdam. I knew there was a match even before I turned on my TV. How? Because I have a new neighbor who's currently living in "la petite chambre" aka my residence for the month of October. There must be at least three people over there including the guy who lives there. How they fit in that tiny cramped space, I don't know. But it feels like I'm actually there, these people are so loud. Chanting, screaming, pounding the walls. I don't mind, as long as this finishes before I go to sleep.

Yoga en France

2009-03-05T23:18:00.006+01:00

After waiting for my cold to go away, come home from vacation, and get paid, I was finally ready to take on a yoga class in Chasse.

Without an idea of where exactly the class would be held, what I would need to bring, or even if the instructor would let me participate without paying, I walked through the silent alley next to the schoolyard to the building where I was told the classes would be held. Not a thing stirred in Chasse. It seemed as though everyone was asleep.

Wandering around the building, I found a door, walked in, and followed noise and light upstairs. People were waiting outside the door to a large room. Inside the dim lit room was a circle of red mats, mirrors and a sparkly mural of Paris scenery, Eiffel Tower and all.

The first thing I noticed is that everyone had blankets or towels that they put over the mats. Did they think the mats were dirty?

After introducing myself "je suis nouvelle", the instructor let me participate and hoped I'd be able to understand everything.

How hard could it be? If I couldn't understand, then I could just look at everyone else and copy their moves. This proved to be more difficult when lying down on your back or being face-down on the mat. Also, not being familiar with French yoga lingo, I could barely relax, while trying to concentrate on what things meant.

Did this disturb me? No. I went to yoga not only to relax, but to better my listening comprehension in French. Also, it was a great workout. Afterwards, I couldn't even lift my shaking arms. And although the instructor had to help me a lot, I felt like a part of the class within no time. The class consisted of two girls who looked about my age, two older couples, and another older woman. It's the first time I've ever seen men in a yoga class.

The move that made my arms shake was something another woman described as a "cauchemar" or nightmare. While I did struggle with the moves and the language, I came home feeling great that I'd accomplished something. Then completely sore the next day.

6 au choix

2009-03-01T21:55:00.003+01:00

The above picture is one of my favorite discoveries in France. Made just down the street at my grocery store. Instead of selecting candy from different bins, the lucky grocery shopper can choose any six miniature cheeses from several boxes. This is perfect for a foreigner who wants to sample a little bit of everything and take it home in a tiny bag, especially when the cheese aisle of the store can be overwhelming and slightly stinky.

Le soleil de février en Espagne

2009-02-24T23:53:00.020+01:00

After some traveling, I finally found the sun. It was in Madrid for the two and a half days that I wandered its streets and laid in its parks. It was a refreshingly pleasant 17 degrees Celsius and jacketless weather when walking uphill.

From the moment I sat down in a cafe to finally re-unite with my friends from IH Valladolid, Maggie and Kathrin, I knew I wanted to come back before my time's up in France (and I had barely taken the backpack off my shoulders).

The free bowl of olives and chips on the table tasted so good, acting almost as a flowery lei would welcoming one to Hawaii.

Not concerned with sightseeing, but instead playing the role of weekending madrileñas (at least in our eyes), we strolled the streets, sipped cava, browsed outdoor markets, picnicked in the park, sampled tapas, and actually spoke Spanish. I reveled in trying out my old favorite phrases with Kathrin to punctuate moments of silence on our walks, then later with my old roommate and his band of friends.

The Spanish I had picked up in Valladolid had crawled to the darkest depths of my brain after a few weeks in France and getting it to come out of hiding was surprisingly easier than I thought, though not as gloriously smooth as I would have wanted it to.

Below is a close-up of an exhibit in el Palacio de Cristal in Retiro Park

El Palacio de Cristal

"La Vaca Guernica" The Guernica Cow outside of Retiro Park

My wonderful friends, Maggie and Kathrin, who are too far away!

Book tables in Madrid's Plaza Mayor.

Arch in Plaza Mayor. I love them, because they act as a frame to whatever's happening on either side (even if it is loaded with tourists).

Kathrin and I in the Royal Park.

Egyptian temple donated to Madrid.

Another newly discovered park. This park has its own teleferico that takes passengers to a wooded area with trails. I never realized how much green space lay oustide of Retiro Park. I liked this park because everyone looked so relaxed on the grass taking in the late afternoon rays.

View of Madrid from the teleferico.

This is my "pollo con mole" or chicken with "mole" sauce. A Mexican girl in my French class had described "mole" to us as a sauce made with chilis and chocolate. When we decided to have our last dinner in Madrid at a colorful Mexican restaurant, I had to try it. It got better after each bite.

Plaza Mayor por la noche.

Mi amigas y yo, Plaza Mayor.

Not only did the sun make my weekend a little brighter, but so did the overall demeanor of the Spanish, who are generally loud, open, friendly, and always want to have a good time. Although we didn't see any huge Carnival events, we did see many amusing costumes on a walk home from a late night. One of which was a very scary and very realistic looking Michael Meyers.

Post vacation blues have dimmed slightly, thanks to the still vivid memories of getting my "regular breakfast of 'barrita de tomate' and tea" with Kathrin at our "regular cafe" every morning, the tingle of sun on my face, grass blades in the hood of my coat from our picnic in the park, and of course knowing I have plans to go back.

Conduire à gauche en Irlande

2009-02-18T16:33:00.056+01:00

Roundtrip airfare from Grenoble France to Ireland: 35 Euro

Hertz rental car for 7 days: 270 Euro

Informative and thorough tour of Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin: 6 Euro

Three second-hand English books from Galway: 22 Euro

Touring Ireland by car, belting out 'bad' music with G, AJ, and Leslie: Priceless

Renting a car in Ireland was one of our best decisions. Three of us who hadn't driven in a long time gradually found our sea legs and felt comfortable on the left hand side of the road and car in no time. Being on the open road taking in Ireland's beautiful scenery with G's iTrip providing the soundtrack to our holiday was almost more refreshing than the sea air coming off an Irish beach.

After making friends with G's cousin Paddy and friend in Killarney, we hit the road the next morning to conquer the Ring of Kerry. Leslie took the driving reigns and successfully completed the five hour journey, which included stopping to take photos, run on beaches, climb hills looking for sheep, hike around stone forts and of course, lunch in Sneem.

Below: Ring of Kerry map

I like this picture of myself, because I look really happy and the sun is shining on my face.

G and Leslie stretching their legs on the beach after being in the car for a while.

A sun trail on the sand.

Great view of the Atlantic from a hill along the Ring of Kerry.

We found him perched at the top of the hill. He didn't like anyone too close though and started to walk away when I got nearer.

This is Staigue Fort, located at the end of a road one might mistake for a hiking path. It wasn't easy driving "Tilda" our car through these narrow, bumpy roads.

G, Leslie, Sam, and AJ at the entrance to Staigue Fort.

Sam, AJ, and G hiking the top of the wall of Staigue Fort. We (or maybe that was just me) pretended that it was good luck to walk the fort in a complete circle.

Ross Castle in Killarney. If you look closely, you'll see that there's snow on the mountains.

G, AJ, Leslie, and Sam at the lake's edge near Ross Castle. We took a walk out to the castle after finishing the Ring of Kerry.

We arrived to Bunratty Castle a little late, but got a discount on the tickets as long as we agreed to hurry through our tour. Because we were late, the guards had already started locking up rooms, so we didn't get to see much, but got a quick blurb of information from a guide. He described the defense system of the castle and pointed out that spiral staircases were used so that swordfights were less possible.

The blue house in the Bunratty folk park. The guide told us that the old preserved houses on the site were home to different classes of society. You were able to tell who was rich and who was not just by the smell from the fireplace. If the house had a smokier smell, the inhabitants were usually poorer.

Here's the inside of one middle-class house. The kids slept upstairs and if the parents were annoyed with them, they could just remove the ladder, leaving the little ones trapped up there...hehehehehe

The rich, pink house

Inside each house is a piece or symbol of religion. Even the simplest of rooms had a portrait of the Virgin Mary or a statue of Jesus Christ along with a toilet bucket, shoes, a blanket, and bed.

AJ and G in the maze.

The schoolhouse

The great thing about having a car is being able to stop whenever something looks interesting. We saw this Rapunzel-like tower from the road and decided to walk around for a while. Being the only ones there, it was peaceful walking around the cemetery. While AJ delighted in finding a field of baaaing sheep, G and I marveled at the fact that there was no way to get into the tower. There was no door at the bottom. Ladders? Was it really Rapunzel's hair that allowed others in?

The Cliffs of Moher looking out onto the Atlantic Ocean.

We could see the rain coming towards us in sheets. It was only a matter of time before it hit, but the clouds next to the cliffs were beautiful.

There was a puffin colony somewhere, but the puffins weren't in that day, so unfortunately we didn't get to see their adorable faces.

This statue was found in a forest path going towards a cave.

Imagine running into this guy alone at night...

I like the orange tinge of tree branches together with the dark storm clouds.

We met up with G's friend James in Connemara, an Irish speaking region of the country. James is an interpreter and interpreted one of our conversations in English into Irish. It was fascinating. He took us to an isolated area where we were told the sunset was absolutely breathtaking.

Galway Bay in the morning. We walked on the promenade and saw some brave men take a morning dip.

The Fitzmaurice Pub (aka G's family's pub) in Ballinlough. AJ, Leslie, and I screamed with delight when we saw our dear friend's name on the side of the building. Parked up front is our lovely rental car, Tilda.

Leslie pouring a pint of Guinness. G's dad taught us how to pour properly and then we had the opportunity to work the bar for a few hours, serving the locals their (as AJ puts it) "chocolate milk of beer."

Trinity College in Dublin, G's alum and full of tourists. Students actually live in those buildings off to the side.

I was walking around in St. Stephen's Green by myself while the others went to the Guinness Brewery (I had seen it during my first trip to Ireland). Since the four of us had been together for almost a week straight, it was nice to have some alone time in the park to rejuvinate: sitting on a park bench and staring at a fountain for twenty minutes. This red door framed by the trees at a park entrance caught my eye.

Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin. The big Swiss window was put in at the end of the hall to create some light in the dark dank halls of the prison. Prison reformers believed that it wasn't good for the already deteriorating mental state of prisoners to be held in a completely desperate, window-less hell-like environment, so the windows were installed to shed some light.

This is the men's wing of the gaol. It looked so familiar to me and then I realized that a film I'd seen, "In the Name of the Father" had been filmed here, along with several others.

This is where public crowds would gather to see hangings from the balcony above.

AJ and I posing with Molly Malone and her cart of fish.

This is one of Trinity's dining halls. Sure beats the ones we had in college. G told us it kind of resembles Hogwart's dining hall in Harry Potter. I could definitely see some decorations, owls flying to and fro, and kids casting spells on one another here. But instead of drinking butter beer, we had soup and sandwiches for lunch.

Even though I'd been to Ireland about two years ago, it was great to go back. This time we had an Irish guide, telling us historical blurbs, helping to translate "the craic" sometimes, introducing us to family and friends from all over the country, and providing us a wonderful place to stay for a few days with cozy fireplaces, home-cooked meals, comfortable beds, and fresh Guinness.

Les vacances d'hiver

2009-02-06T14:31:00.005+01:00

Winter vacation takes place in February in France. This is not to be mistaken with Christmas vacation in December/January, nor with spring vacation in April.

There is no school during this time. The actual dates vary by region, but overall, students and teachers get a little over two weeks off. This is an ideal time for families to go skiing.

As for me, I may just be skiing in Ireland. Currently, snow is blanketing the Emerald Isle. The Dublin airport was shut down days ago. I fly to Kerry tomorrow where my friends and I will rent a car to see the winter wonderland that is Ireland.

I've been mentally preparing myself for driving on the other side of the car and road. This could prove even more cumbersome with ice slicked roads and Irish drivers unaccustomed to wintery road conditions.

After a two day rest/break from break in France, I'll be hopping another plane to Madrid to visit two of my wonderful colleagues from last year in Valladolid, Spain. Much of my Spanish has disappeared into the back corners of my brain, although words here and there can still be retrieved. I hope.

See you in March...

American Under Fire

2009-02-01T21:27:00.005+01:00

A few weeks ago, I gave a presentation on Chicago at a seminar for French English teachers. Essentially it was just a slideshow that I spent several hours putting together. I realized that my casual shots from summers past didn't really capture all that was Chicago. And as I am fond of the city, I wanted to represent it well, so I scoured the Internet for a diverse group of shots that included Obama, Biden, and the new Secretary of Education with school children, a sketch of the Great Fire of 1871 and the Chicago River dyed green for St. Patrick's Day.

The final shots of my slideshow consisted of deep dish pizza and polish sausage. One of the women in charge of the seminar is Polish and she was a little horrified at what we do to her culture's food. An Americanized sausage resembles a hot dog with neon green relish, bright mustard, ketchup, onions, and whatever else you can find room for.

That led the group of French teachers to ask me to spell the word "doughnut." Wondering if I'd fit their stereotype of a typical lazy American and spell "donut?" No way. Thankfully I passed that test.

After that I mentioned something about Obama's inaguaration on France's basic cable channel TF1. As soon as I said, "TF1" did the teachers flail their arms up in disgust. Not at me, but at that particular channel. Apparently, TF1 is the most American of French channels and none of them watch it. I briefly thought about FOX in the U.S., but then shrugged. I only have five channels in my French apartment so I can't really be picky.

It just so happens that TF1 is airing the Superbowl tonight at 12:25 am... I guess they're right.

Les cours du soir de français

2009-02-01T20:33:00.004+01:00

I've been taking evening French courses for about two months now at a language school in Lyon. They take place on Tuesdays and Thursdays, conveniently the same days I teach English. Those are exhausting days, but I come home feeling great.

The teacher, Sandra from Nice, is excellent. She's got all the grammar explanations, can throw up phonetic symbols on the board in a clin d'oeil, and manages to involve everyone in the class. I think back to the days when I taught adults at night in Spain and how much more "off" I was as a teacher. My adult class was sometimes the fifth class I taught in a row, the preceding ones being those of eight year olds and indifferent adolescents or "ados" as the French call them. I never had any energy for my adults and they didn't seem to have any in return. Fueled with bottles of Coca Light, I'd try to make conversation for as long as possible until we had to get to the lesson in the book.

However my adults seemed content to simply converse and tell me about Spain. In my French class, Tuesdays are dedicated to grammar and Thursdays are set aside for conversation.

The class dynamic is similar to that of the first day of class as freshman high school students. Everyone waits en masse outside the door until Sandra arrives, greeting each other politely, then putting their heads down, taking phones out to text or check the time, waiting for the door to be unlocked. This happens every time. Sometimes a group of Spanish speakers form in the corner and clutter away in espangnol. At one point, there were two Hungarians who conversed quietly while we waited.

Mostly people don't say much because the class changes every week. People come and go and with each new face, one is never certain how much French anyone can really speak, therefore it's just easier to remain silent. With all the different nationalities, languages, cultural backgrounds, it seems easier and more interesting to watch from a distance.

During class, I sometimes have trouble understanding my classmates. Because a lot of words in Spanish are the same in French, the Spanish speakers will sometimes just pronounce the words in Spanish, a constant 'sssssssss' punctuating their paroles. The Vietnamese girl speaks very choppily like she's cutting each word with an axe. The Dutch girl speaks French with an American accent. The Iranian girl has an accent I've never heard before, and the English woman speaks in a rhythm as though her words floating from cloud to cloud. Up and down, up and down.

This is not to say, I speak perfectly, because obviously I don't. It's allowed me to see the difficulties French speakers have understanding foreigners. There are so many nasal sounds that at first, sound exactly the same, but can mean two completely different things.

I've been told I can write very well in French (thanks college education for all those French essays on Voltaire) but I have difficulty with grammar when I speak. It makes me think what it would be like if college professors focused more on "oral expression" in French. Something useful so that years down the road when we actually want to go to a French speaking country, we don't have to teach ourselves how to speak...

Things Are Not Always What They Seem

2009-01-28T19:08:00.008+01:00

Chasse is my roost for 9-10 months in France. No matter how often I travel or for how long I'm gone, I come back to Chasse. It's where two suitcases of my stuff is. It's where my job is, but it isn't completely where my heart is.

Chasse and I have a rollercoaster relationship.

One day, I'm on a pleasant walk up the forest road that leads to farms that sit on the edge of small cliffs overlooking Chasse and I see a baby lamb looking at me curiously from behind a fence on a green hillside with a chateau-esque building in the distance. Someone might drive by thinking I might like a ride down into Chasse so I don't have to walk. The thought is very kind, but my purpose is to walk. On days like these, I'm content to be there.

View from the top of my walk up the forested road leading to the countryside in the hills above Chasse.

Another day or possibly that same day, someone will stop their car and ask for directions while I'm wandering around and when I don't know where something is, they shake their heads, maybe even giving me the hand and a sigh as if they've already wasted enough of their time. Then, the train that I've planned on taking to get out of there, has either been "deleted" or leaves later due to more railway construction. Two or more of these tiny little events can cause a downward spiral so steep and fast that I've completely forgotten about the baby lamb.

As a fairly patient and adaptable person, this comes as a surprise to me. I had one of those days today. A black and white day, one with sun and rain, one with so much positivity and so much negativity that today seemed like two days.

I woke up to chainsaws trimming the trees in the schoolyard. It was okay, they started at 9, not extremely early. I decided to get up. With not enough food for breakfast, I got dressed, grabbed my huge plastic bag and walked to the grocery store. As I was shopping, my stomach growling, I ran into a colleague from school. Caught off guard while admiring my cheese options, I was at a loss for what to say. One of the nicest of my colleagues, she seemed pleased to see me and started chattering away. Some people I find easier to speak to in French and for some reason unknown to me, she is not one of those people. It's almost as if she doesn't completely hear what I say and therefore, I'm more likely to put my verbs in the past rather than the present or vice versa.

After my debaucle of awful French conversation, I walked home with my groceries feeling a bit down on myself for not being able to hold a smoother dialogue. I kept telling myself, that I was having an off-couple of days. I could barely concentrate in French class the previous night either. By the time I got home, I'd fallen onto the couch, leaving my grocery bag by the fridge. Feeling a little down, I just lay there until forcing myself to get to the post office where I had to mail my rent money.

It was a refreshing January afternoon. Not warm at all, but certainly brisk. I wandered around slowly, not yet wanting to go home after the post office. Walking past a huge building on the way to the train station, I decided to walk up some stairs to see what it was exactly. It's not possible to see from the street. I stumbled upon a miniature park, then found a sign for a music school and the youth and culture house. Most every city, village, or town in France has a maison des jeunes et de la culture or M.J.C. These centers usually have programs for children, adolescents, and adults, like artistic and sporty activities.

I went into the building, but no one was there, so I took a brochure. Chasse's M.J.C. offers:

judo, modern dance, shooting, badminton, gymnastics, hiking, art and decoration, yoga, ftness classes, gym "douce" (I can't translate this) 'soft or easy gym', and aqua gym. I had no idea Chasse had a pool or a M.J.C. I was also excited to learn that I could sign up for yoga classes on Wednesday nights. Just the particular night I was looking for some kind of activity, something to do in this sleepy town of 4,000 people. I plan on heading back there after pay day to sign up.

A bit more cheerfully, I walked home and ran into one of my students and his family. He was really excited to see me and greeted me with a chipper hello, baguette under his 9 year old arm. Seeing my students on the street is a fresh reminder that I'm here to help them with their English. A reminder of my purpose for being where I am.

Just as I entered the parking lot of the school, I saw an old-ish map that I'd never really looked at before. It said, Pays Viennois: Balades et Promenades. I did a double-take. After scouring my tiny seeming desolate town for places to walk, trails leading into forests, I had given up on local hikes. This map had a list of at least ten hikes, their length, and what one would see (chateaus, rolling hills, ancient churches, wildlife). There was only one that seemed reachable by foot from Chasse. The others were scattered and would require taking a bus or train to get there, hence a hassle.

I could see that the one hike nearest Chasse appeared to stem from the forest road walk I generally take past the baby lamb. Immediately I began daydreaming of spring morning hikes. And I wouldn't even have to leave Chasse (like I've had to for the past four months to see anything 'seemingly' noteworthy).

It appears that I should have looked a little closer and not just quickly scan over the place I call home for my 9-10 months here.

Un Week-end Dijonnais

2009-01-25T21:04:00.019+01:00

Dijon, minus the rainy subzero temperatures, was unexpectedly pleasant. Not given much international credit other than it's flair for mustard, this gothic city presented me and my fellow travelers with a walk through an age past, towering cathedrals with gothic spires, silent but knowing gargoyles, cobblestone alleys leading to hidden doorways.

Because the winter weekend made the city quiet, every little discovery felt like our own.

Have we stumbled into one of Grimm's fairytales? Almost, if only the pharmacie du miroir hadn't ruined the essence.

We had drinks and breakfast in this appealing strawberry shortcake colored maison. Not much is open on Sundays in France.

Anthropomorphs guarding Dijon's Notre Dame. Supposedly, centuries ago, one of the gargoyles fell and killed someone.

Notre-Dame de Dijon

"La chouette" (owl) leading tourists to touristy sights.

Legend has it that it's good luck to touch the owl on Notre-Dame's wall with your left hand.

Voila la chouette sans visage (here's the owl without a face)

My first cheese fondu

Fancy mustard shop that was too expensive for the likes of us. Instead, we tried a more "english assistant" friendly priced shop to do a mustard tasting with pretzel sticks from the friendly owner. He let us try "tarragon mustard" which was green in color and "black currant mustard" which was pink in color.

Inside the lower level of the archaelogical museum. We only had ten to fifteen minutes in here to warm our feet and explore the underbelly of the Abbaye St-Bénigne.

Gothic Cathedral of St. Benigne (1280 - 1314)

Studying the sarcophagi near St. Benigne

Polar bear spotting in Jardin Darcy. We saw a miniature version of this guy in the Musee de Beaux-Arts.

Dijon's version of the Arc de Triomphe

Les choses sucrées que j'adore en France

2009-01-10T20:52:00.009+01:00

If there's one thing the French do absolutely right, it's their cuisine...and that which comes from just about any pâtisserie. In honor of sweet French desserts everywhere, here are some that I've already digested (not all at once, of course)...

La tarte au chocolat avec un fruit d'amour

Chocolate cake (it was warm and gooey too) with a love fruit (the fruit has a very tart yellow berry center with inedible leaves surrounding it). All four of us ordered it and the waitress smiled in understanding, saying, "of course chocolate for the girls."

Un arc-en-ciel des macarons (rainbow of macaroons). These were from Carrefour (the huge grocery store) and weren't very good. However, these little guys have been known to adorn the sides and tops of cakes in pâtisseries everywhere and are absolutely divine when they are freshly made.

Finally, in the center is AJ's favorite tarte aux framboises (raspberry tart) and la tarte aux pommes (apple tart) next to it. And no, I didn't polish these off all by myself. I had a team of champion sweet tooths helping me out.

Hopefully more dessert snapshots to come...

20 Things I Miss About England...

2009-01-10T20:00:00.013+01:00

1. Gaining one hour upon my arrival

2. The BBC, keeping up with Eastenders

3. Pub lunches and ales

4. Savoury pies (Sweeny Todd's in Reading)

5. Mr. Cod

6. Stone churches

7. Overly polite strangers

8. Tea with scones, clotted cream, and jam

9. Thames walking paths

10. London and it's Eye

11. The atrium pub where Christmas exploded and where Maggie and I had wine

12. Pub names like "Pavlov's Dog," "Great Expectations," and "the Hobgoblin"

13. Speaking English

14. Seeing James Bond in English at the cinema

15. Restaurants of all ethnicities

16. Cozy fireplaces, cushy chairs, and hot drinks after a long walk

17. Green grass during winter

18. Tiny English robins

19. The Globe Theatre

20. And above all, my friends there...

Bonne Année 2009

2009-01-05T19:04:00.003+01:00

Another year is here, and with each one that comes, I get a little less enthused about celebrating New Year's Eve. It's not that I don't like it, but I'm starting to dislike the hype and the commercialization that comes with every holiday. Perhaps that's because New Year's Eve is at the end of a long string of holidays that started with Halloween. It's exhausting.

I spent NYE '07 and '08 standing in the freezing cold streets of Budapest and Madrid respectively. It was definitely something I'm glad I experienced, but in Budapest I had mono, so I couldn't have celebratory champagne or anything else for that matter. Regardless it was thrilling to be in the heart of Budapest, hurled fireworks nearly missing my head. In Madrid, I learned that the Spanish stuff grapes into their mouth during the countdown for good luck, a grape for each second. It was amusing to see their squirrely pouched cheeks. Not amusing to know that after an all-nighter in a crowded coffee shop, the next train home was at five in the afternoon.

This year, I spent the holidays in England. My friend and I spent New Year's Eve afternoon turned evening in a cozily dark Dickensian pub playing pool and quiz games for hours. After that followed one of the best dinners that I've ever had at an Indian restaurant. We fell asleep until ten till midnight and watched the fireworks along the Thames and London Eye on TV. It wasn't the most exciting New Year's Eve, but I must say it was genuinely pleasant and enjoyable.

I'm back in France now and tis the eve of my first day back teaching from the holidays. I think I've forgotten how to teach (then again, I feel this way every Sunday night) and I may have become a little rusty with my French.

It was worth it. I loved England and will post more about my time there soon....

In the meantime, here are my photos...

La Raclette

2008-12-17T18:52:00.004+01:00

Tis the season for work Christmas/Holiday get-togethers, parties, or dinners. Always necessary, often awkward, sometimes interesting, but usually never without someone getting too drunk.

I was invited to my school's raclette party on Tuesday evening in the teacher's room. I was a little nervous about going, as I haven't been able to feel completely comfortable around my colleagues. But I was also very curious to see what it would be like and how differently they'd act at a Christmas dinner.

Because I have French class in Lyon on Tuesday nights, I had to miss the beginning of it, but arrived at nine, just missing apéritifs. This proved to be an important part of the night and when Sylvie, the directrice sat me next to two normally serious colleagues that don't generally say a whole lot to me, I noticed that most of the table was quickly on their way to drunk.

As I was getting settled in, the charcuterie plates were passed my way and those sitting next to me began to put slices of meat, rolls of meat, and potatoes on my plate. They shoved the cheese plate into the raclette grill and told me to wait a few minutes. The cheese heats up, bubbles, and then is poured over meat, potatoes, vegetables, or whatever is on the plate.

The American cracks began when the man next to me asked if I liked eating the skin of the potato. When I said I did, he exploded into cheer shouting, "an American who likes potato skins! A normal American!" another tipsy fellow responded with, "yeah, the only one!" I just smiled politely while I watched the bottle of red slowly empty.

The night was interesting, because I don't know how to read my colleagues. They seem to be friendly and warm at one point, then at other times, they seem to whisper and ignore me. Maybe this is just my over-paranoia, but I was completely thrown off when someone turned off the lights and everyone started singing "Happy Birthday" in English. Sylvie brought out a gorgeous tarte aux fruits with presents. My birthday had been a few weeks ago, but Sylvie had been sick and wasn't at school. I had no idea how to react. I was stunned. I'm not really fond of that much attention, especially at a huge table of French elementary teachers. Even more challenging was reacting in French. Do I act all giddy? Do I act reserved, but grateful? I tripped over several "merci's" and "c'est trop gentil's" and hope that sufficed.

The number 28 lit with a candle stood on the cake and the man next to me said that normally it's not polite to acknowledge a woman's age. I guess all the rules go out the window with a foreigner. Thank God. The presents turned out to be two stainless steel mugs with coasters and even more interestingly, what I think is a set of Chinese table settings with chopsticks (baguettes in French) sauce bowls, and bamboo placemats. We all had trouble figuring out what it was at first and had to ask Sylvie. I have absolutely no idea when I'll use chopsticks in my kitchen in France. Nonetheless, I'm grateful for the thought.

My birthday cake topping

As the night wore on and I managed to cut the tarte aux fruits horribly, the more wine disappeared and the louder my colleagues got. At one point, the man next to me returned to his chair with a ribbon on his head and just sat there smiling. The next minute he was laughing so hard that tears were running down his red cheeks.

I learned that many of them can speak English, but the man next to me doesn't want to teach it to his students. This is the first time I've heard some of them speak it. With alcohol came the English sputtering out of everyone's mouth.

After coffee and chocolates, we all got up to clean up and go home. Suddenly this party-atmosphere, table with champagne, pastis, wines, and raclette grills was transformed back into the teacher's room, where everyone is usually serious and busy. And so went the hysterics.

I got a glimpse of a different side to my colleagues, a real side. They can loosen up and be "salty" as I believe the French would say.

How to Pull an All-Nighter at La Fête des Lumières

2008-12-09T22:54:00.014+01:00

1. Try to get as much sleep during the day, or at least lie in bed, thinking that the more time spent in close proximity with bed will make you less tired (thanks Leslie).

2. As pénible and annoying as it may be, stay amongst the crowds. The jostling, families who refuse to unlink their five body chain as you walk into them like a game of Red Rover, icy glares, and drunks will most certainly keep you awake.

3. Ride the ferris wheel. The fresh air (aka biting winter cold air) will keep those eyes open. Not to mention the flashing lights from Place Bellecour and the screams of people who don't want you to rock the car while at the top.

4. Stop to see the spectacular sights. The constant changing of lights on the St. Jean cathedral keep any tourist camera ready, but remember to warm up with some vin chaud.

5. Be utterly awestruck at the front of the same cathedral. A good time is also guaranteed if you look the other way, at the crowd and their gaping mouths and huge eyes. Everyone, children and adults alike are captivated by the detailed light projection.

6. Spend a good two and a half hours to three hours eating dinner. Bonus points if you have to wait to get into a restaurant, which is quite likely seeing as though "tout le monde" is in Lyon at the festival. It's wise to order the menu (an entree, a main course, and a dessert). Try to close down the restaurant if you can, because after that, you're out on the streets again.

7. Find a bar or better yet, a discotheque that's open until 5am. If not, roam the streets with the rest of the all-nighters.

8. If you're lucky, find a local that will show you the secret boulangerie that opens at 4 am everyday of the week. (Was it rue Prefecture something?) Open the door to what looks like an apartment entrance and knock on a pale blue door with no sign. No indication of baked goods. A very small, very old woman will open a small window, and you can see men with pants dusted with flour, huge ovens, and stacks upon stacks of baguettes. Order a croissant, pain au chocolat, quiche. Munch and savor the feeling that you ate something you shouldn't have.

9. When all else fails to entertain, ride the metro around when it opens and until you reach the terminus. At least you can snooze for a little while and be warm.

10. Camp out at the train station cafe until the earliest train can take you back to bed. When that train undoubtedly gets canceled (supprimé) or delayed, go back out into the city and shop to soothe your tired soul. By this point you've reached your 5th or 6th wind and can stand to peruse the shopping streets of Lyon but immediately get envious at every passerby and their shining bright eyes, knowing that they've probably slept the night. You catch a glimpse of the bags under your eyes, mussed up hair, and grouchy scowl. Head back to the train station and wait it out with a Snickers bar. This should give you enough sustenance until you make it home.

The Joys of Teaching 10 year old French children

2008-11-26T21:23:00.003+01:00

French children:

They begin school at 8:30 Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. No school on Wednesday. They finish school at 4:30.

They get three recesses. One at 10:00, a two hour lunch between 11:30-1:30, and one at 3:00.

That pretty much leaves one hour stints of class broken up by a half hour of running around in the courtyard screaming, jumping in sand, playing football, jumping around, and hiding behind columns.

These kids really get to know the meaning of "childhood."

I like my students. I have no problems with them. Some don't listen. Some chew on their glue. Some throw their rulers around like javelins, but they're just kids.

Sometimes I complain about teaching. Maybe because it's the knowledge that I'll have to be "on" for the entire day. But once I'm teaching, it's okay.

I like witnessing how they learn and handle a foreign language.

My favorite:

Me: "What's your name?"
Student: "What's your name Kevin."

By this particular student's logic, all you need to respond to someone is to repeat what they just said.

I can teach them that this is not right. And when I see them next time, sometimes they make the same mistake. But sometimes they don't. And this is what's great about teaching.

Le Mistral Provençal

2008-11-24T17:47:00.017+01:00

A band of assistants decided to head south for the weekend, in search of Roman ruins and warmer weather. We got the ruins, but instead of delightful Indian summer breezes, we got caught in the path of Provence's notorious mistral, a strong, wind that sweeps down from the northwest through the Rhône Valley, particularly cold and biting in the winter.

Between sightseeing, we made frequent/emergency stops for chocolats chauds/hot chocolate, making sure to warm our hands with the mugs. We met in Orange and headed to the Ancient Roman Theatre, one of Orange's biggest claim to fame. One of the benefits of going to Orange at the end of November was the lack of crowds. Besides us, there was one other couple roaming around the theatre. It was peaceful. The wind howled down the aisles and the clouds glided through the bright blue sky like cars driving down the street.

The Ancient Roman Theatre of Orange is one of three in the world that still have its stage wall.

The wealthy sat up front, while the lower classes of society sat in back and were therefore more boisterous. The acoustics were important so that everyone could hear. Also, the costumes, masks, makeup and colors that the actors wore were exaggerated so that everyone could see. Just like we enjoy Seinfeld and The Office today, the ancient audiences also preferred performances that focused on the simple humor of everyday life.

The head of the Emperor was detachable, so it could be changed when there was a change of emperor.

Les Palais de Papes, Avignon

Evidence of the mistral's power. No one really bothered to fix these plants.

Roofs of Avignon and Le Pont d'Avignon in the distance.

View of Les Palais des Papes from our "Bates Motel" hostel on the opposite side of the Rhône.

View of Le Pont d'Avignon (Le Pont Bénézet) from a park. The other half was destroyed in a massive flood and never rebuilt. Not many people had ventured out onto the bridge that day. The risk of being blown off was probably too high.

Here's the chorus of the famous song, "Sur le Pont d'Avignon"

Sur le pont d’Avignon

L'on y danse,

l'on y danse

Sur le pont d’Avignon

L'on y danse tous en rond

On the bridge of Avignon

We all dance there,

we all dance there

On the bridge of Avignon

We all dance there in a ring

I had gone to Avignon six years ago when I was studying abroad in Grenoble during college and our group had walked out onto the bridge. Our 85 year old Armenian professor had made us make a chain, sing and dance. At the time, I was recovering from food poisoning, so I hadn't put forth my best effort, but still danced.

It was nice to go back to both Orange and Avignon years later. Six years ago, the July weather had made us sluggish, sweaty, and (because of my food poisoning) a little delirious. The crowds were huge and it was difficult to see the city. But this time, with the cold Provençal winds clearing out the majority of tourists, both Avignon and Orange had a more local, peaceful feel.

Beaujolais Nouveau: France's version of Thanksgiving?

2008-11-20T16:35:00.003+01:00

Last night, on a train ride home from Lyon, I saw a black poster with the words, "Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé!"

Practically salivating for a fall wine festival, I turned my head around as the train pulled away trying to get more details. Was it a festival? Was it a party? What was it??

Thanks to the Internet, I've learned that Beaujolais Nouveau is a wine that's allowed to be sold in France at 12:01 on the third Thursday of November each year. From what I read, the race to get a bottle first and throw a party during the earliest hours of Thursday has become huge. The wine itself is very young, sweet, and is as close to white wine as you can get for a red wine. It's known as a party wine, not something with which you'd spend minutes savoring the flavor.

Oh, and it was either sold out at Géant, or they just don't sell it at hypermarkets, because I couldn't find any.

Vienne (It's in France)

2008-11-15T19:51:00.020+01:00

Cathédrale Primatiale Saint-Maurice/Saint Maurice Cathedral

Vienne, not to be confused with "Vienna, Austria."

Vienne is the second largest city in the department of Isère behind Grenoble and conveniently a nine minute train ride away from Chasse.

However, because the trains are not running regularly due to the strike, I hopped a bus, which took 20 minutes.

And just because it's the second largest city in the department, doesn't mean it's necessarily huge. Although I'd been there before for paperwork and to see a movie, this time I went by myself for an afternoon of solitary wandering and to discover the things that I briefly saw on my previous visits, but didn't really get to see.

Well, not too much was open or lively, because I was there at lunchtime on Saturday. It was peaceful, but cold and I was getting tired. I managed to take a few pictures. Here's what I saw:

Passerelle Pietonne/Pedestrian Pass
(This bridge reminds me of the Chain Bridge in Budapest,
and I was disappointed it has such a cop-out name in French).

View of the Rhône River

Distant view of Le Mont Pipet/Mount Pipet, home of ex-fortress
and present day place of Christian worship.

Boat along the river

Roman ruins in the Jardin Archéologique de Cybèle/
Cybele's Archaeological Garden.

Tiny tower windows

Had my lunch along the Quai du Rhône

View of Mont Salomon (the remains of
a chateau stand at the top)

Jardin Archéologique de Cybèle

I like to think of this as "tiki-guy," master of the pond

Steep street in Vienne with Mont Pipet in background

Oranges on a leaf-less tree in a Vienne park

I figured out that I missed a lot of sites, but then again I didn't refer to my map/guide until after I got home. I got up this morning wanting to walk around somewhere new and I knew the train schedules have been "dodgy" (for lack of a better word) lately. So, I had planned on going to whichever town popped up first on the train station screen. That's either Vienne or Lyon. Vienne won.

I like the idea of discovering things on my own without the help of a map, then figuring out later what it was. I know it's not the most logical thing to do, but I like to come up with an explanation for something on my own, guess what it is, what is was used for, then figure out the real deal later, and see how close I was.

I completely missed the famed Roman Theatre, Pyramid, and Augustus/Livia Temple, but had been pretty damn close to them at certain points on my wanderings. I just happened to turn a different corner.

On the bus back home, several people wanted to know if the bus went to another train station in Lyon, which it didn't, therefore making a lot of people do that clipped French sigh. One man found the humor in the situation saying, "Monsieur, vous faites Le Tour de France pour aller à Part-Dieu?"/"Sir, can you do the Tour de France to get to Lyon's Part-Dieu?" Everyone had a good laugh at that one and the tension lightened slightly.

I'll have to go back when it's a little warmer and when I'm a little less tired, now that I've read the guide.

Pas de soucis/No worries....Vienne's only 9 or 20 minutes away, depending on if there's a strike or not...

Les grèves partout

2008-11-13T23:28:00.005+01:00

Sunset in Chasse from my kitchen window

Slowly but surely, I'm finding my way back into the loop (aka what's going on in the world) now that I have a television. Although I can't understand everything as perfectly as I would in my native English, I'm working on getting the gist for now.

At the moment, the gist has been strikes. Maybe I'm not used to the frequentness of strikes and demonstrations in France, but they seem to be everywhere right now. There was a strike at SNCF, France's train system, then another at Air France (giving starting and ending dates: how thoughtful), and to my genuine surprise, an upcoming strike at my school next Thursday.

I was making small talk with one of my colleagues at the copier, saying that it barely feels as though I've been working, what with all of the holidays we've been having. And she responded by summing up all our glorious days off, "first Toussaint, this week we had Armistice Day and next week, the strike." At first, I thought I hadn't understood, but when the colleague noticed my confusion and said, "ah you didn't know," with a giggle, I thought she was joking. This was getting to be too much. I haven't worked a full week (full week being 2 days of 12 teaching hours) since the middle of October. (Not that I'm complaining).

I also thought I heard her say that just a few people wanted to participate in the strike, but the whole school was going to go anyway. However, she advised me to sleep in, because the school would be closed. When I apparently made too big of a deal about it, she waved my shock away by saying that strikes are normal in France, in fact common.

The schoolyard (sans enfants) as seen from my kitchen window

Oh la la, ces histoires des filles...

2008-11-10T21:36:00.007+01:00

View of Lyon

The flower tree

Usually, when I walk through a foreign city, I can't understand passing dialogues, the blips of conversation one catches while walking past several people down the street. In France, I don't always know the context, but I can finally eavesdrop a little.

Two teenage girls skitter by,

"....tu dis rien..."

A middle age couple talking with their hands,

"oui, c'est ça..."

Then, my favorite: two women my age, looking a little fed up,

"oh la la ces histoires des filles!" (something which I loosely took as girls being drama queens)

But then again, I could be completely off and lost in translation. Is that so bad though?

It was nice to walk around in the city and in the park where the trees were bright with fall and snowing leaves. And for half of my walk, I went iPod-less, and therefore able to catch the blips. Maybe I should do that more often. Maybe that's the way to catch the street slang, on the street.

After a weekend where "nous n'avons fait rien" (aka watched movies, ate tons of soup and truffles) AJ, Leslie, and Jamie left after a relaxing few days in Chasse. I decided to make a quick trip to Lyon in order to see about getting myself enrolled in French language classes.

My train timetable said there'd be a train at 11.14, so I hustled up the hill and back down to the train station only to read that there was no train going to Lyon, but a bus leaving fifteen minutes later. Ok, fine. I'm getting used to this.

Only, the bus took nearly an hour, whereas the train takes 20 minutes. The bus went through the back streets of Lyon's lovely outskirt towns like a giant lurching through a tiny maze. The bus ride actually felt awkward. The streets were too narrow, the other cars were micro machines and the huge bus still huffed on.

I couldn't get off the bus faster in Lyon. From there, I learned how to take the tram, use my new bank card, and found the language school I was looking for without a hitch. And to top it all off, it was a gorgeous autumn afternoon, with big pizza pie size leaves drifting down from the sky like November confetti.

Walking into the school, I felt like I was going to work. It reminded me of working in Spain last year. The same little classrooms with desks, teacher area scattered with paper, the reception area bustling, young teachers walking around with Cokes and coffees. Only, the French versions of me glanced over and walked away.

I was playing the role of student this time.

My visit was slightly pointless, but I'm still glad I went. The woman told me that I'd need to take an online test to gage my level and then she'd contact me by email. But, the good news was that I could start as soon as possible if things worked out.

And on the way back, I got a nice 20 minute train ride.

Some more pictures of Lyon:

Ham, mushroom, and cheese crêpe for lunch

The little red bridge

Leaving for Lille

2008-11-07T00:34:00.004+01:00

Lille's Main Square

After a couple of frustrating incidents involving a five hour journey home from Chambery (three hours too many), neighborly laundry stealing (I got it all back in the end), and a fake-out move-in (oh you can move into your new apartment...wait, just kidding, it's raining, so we won't bring the furniture, therefore, you'll have to stay in "la petite chambre" for the night)...after all that, I was ready to just, leave Chasse.

So I packed my bag, and hopped a train to Lyon, met Leslie, and we boarded my first TGV to Paris. In Paris, we met AJ and completed our traveling trio. From Paris, it was onto Lille where we'd spend two nights in a two star hotel with an amazing shower (paradise compared to the shower head in "la petite chambre," its water spraying out in every which way like snakes from Medusa's head). The hotel also had a TV. We spent most of our time in Lille, well, shopping. It seemed bitterly cold, like the first cold day when you're not yet used to biting winds. Coming home early at night to a warm shower and episodes of Desperate Housewives and Nip/Tuck in French was our idea of heaven.

And so began our week long Toussaint/All Saint's Holiday. Next stops: Belgium and Luxembourg

Halloween in Luxembourg

2008-11-06T23:40:00.017+01:00

While in Brussels, AJ, Leslie, and I hopped a train to Luxembourg City for the day. Why not? We thought. Brussels had been rainy, cold, windy, and we were metro dependent everywhere we went. An unorganized E.U. Parliament tour combined with the "ugliest square in Europe" (deemed so by a humorous map we found in the hostel) left us feeling a little down.

The train ride took close to three hours one way, with many stops, and many loud children, teenagers included. However, the city of Luxembourg made up for all the annoyances of getting there. The sun poked its rays through the clouds long enough for me to put my sunglasses on, then take them off five minutes later. Luckily, we spent a good chunk of our time scaring ourselves straight in the Casemates, a series of winding and sometimes narrow tunnels that protected over 35,000 people from attacks during World War II. A comment made by AJ got my heart beating a little faster and from there, my imagination got the best of me. "If I take a picture and there's a face, I'm going to scream," her voice wavered. She stayed brave enough to take a picture down a small dark cave carved out of one wall in the tunnel.

For the next twenty minutes, all of us were a little nervous, not wanting to be the one left behind or grabbed by a ghoul. AJ was convinced that someone would be playing pranks on the tourists in the tunnels on Halloween and local teenagers would jump out to scare us. To be honest, I was a little bit more scared of actual monsters.

We emerged soon after that, our bodies in flight or fight mode. I would have liked to see our faces upon exiting the Casemates. Outside, fall exploded all around us in the form of orange, red, and yellow leaves on trees, floating in the sky, and scattered on the ground. We found a park where I felt the urge to run up a huge green hill, only to be semi-chased back down by three vicious looking daschunds.

Although we didn't spend our Halloween night in Luxembourg City, we got our scare there.

Bridge reflection

Me at the bottom of the stairs in the Casemates.

Hillside garden

Monastery

Fairytale-like street

Luxembourg in full autumnal splendor

Church steeples

Raindrops

Park stream

Pieces of Belgium

2008-11-06T22:22:00.027+01:00

We encountered mist, fog, rain, clouds, umbrella wind walks, chocolate hangovers, new Flemish vocabulary, weird hostel roommates, and plenty of boot shops. Doors opened, stairs were climbed (366 in the Brugge Belfry to be exact), umbrellas used, trains chased, feet blistered, chocolate devoured, sipped, and stewed. Another corner of Europe discovered..

Me biting off the arm of my complimentary chocolate from the Chocolate Museum in Brugge. I learned a lot of random facts about chocolate and also endured some blatant advertisement pushing. "Chocolate does not make you fat," cried the sign. "If you are slim and eat plain chocolate, you will not get fat." Does that mean I can't slather my plain chocolate with peanut butter? "If you are overweight, slim down first, then you can eat chocolate."

Chocolate dinosaur in Brugge chocolate shop window. There was also a skeleton head made of chocolate in honor of Halloween. Belgian chocolate is so good because it's refined more than ordinary chocolate, so that it tastes smoother (info courtesy of Chocolate Museum).

Brugge canal

Brugge Markt, main square

Brugge buildings in Markt

View from Brugge Belfry

My Costa Rica hot chocolate. The best one I've ever had.

Leslie, AJ, and I in Brugge

Here's the aftermath of the "morning rush" in Brugge. We were almost mowed down by biking commuters, cruising by expertly on their bike path located centimeters away from the actual sidewalk. I'd rather be hit by a bike than a car. Less dangerous and the culprit would undoubtedly be more environmentally saavy.

Me in Ghent. It was cold and rainy here for most of the day, so we hung out in shops and cafes, but did manage to catch this view on a bridge. I had to pose a little to punch up the dreary view.

Here's the view again. Looks like it did just fine without me.

The chocolate beef stew that AJ, Leslie, and I ordered for our last dinner. (This was the same place we went to for our hot chocolates). The stew actually had tiny little chocolate chips in it. Think of that the next time you don't think it's possible for two unlikely foods to merge. Not bad, not bad at all.

My not so permanent souvenirs

The E.U. building in Brussels

The entrance to Parc du Cinquantenaire Brussels

Main square of Brussels at night.

Here's What Happened in October

2008-11-06T21:52:00.005+01:00

While living in "la petite chambre" as my French colleagues referred to it, I wrote a little bit on Microsoft Word, hoping to post, but never did. Until now. Here are my candid thoughts from my first full month in France.

9/26 – 9/27/08 – Vendredi et Samedi

After two long days at our assistant program orientation in Autrans, a mountain village near Grenoble, I hopped a train to Lyon. From there, a woman from the school and her husband picked me and my nine month’s of luggage up from busy Part-Dieu station. We drove through downtown Lyon on a Friday night listening to Rihanna’s “Disturbia” on the radio. I saw cafes, monuments lit by blue light, and restaurants half wanting to remain there in civilization. While we drove, the woman and her husband did their best to speak to me in English, but as tired and shaky as I was, I still wanted to speak French.

Every time I spoke, I realized how much I needed to learn. We eventually arrived to Chasse-sur-Rhone in the dark driving by the train station and the school in which I’ll teach. I met the directrice of my school and was shuffled to my room, attached to an apartment building ten feet from the schoolyard. I was told it’d be temporary and I’d be moving into a bigger place in November.

As I entered my new living quarters for the final days of September and October, I felt very tired. Even though the bed didn’t have any sheets or pillows and sported a prison-like steel bar from underneath, I wanted to dive into it and fall into a deep slumber. The kitchen is two feet away from my bed. The toilet is one foot away from my refrigerator. The shower is inches away from where I lay my head to rest on a pillow. Water from a shower I took crept under my bed last night. There is a window, but the shutters won’t open, so it’s pitch black during the day. I can’t see outside which makes me slightly anxious.

The husband looked at me with an expression that matched my own apprehensive one and said, “isn’t it a little sad? It’s dark outside, you’re alone, and in a new place.” I still don’t know why people need to emphasize the negatives while in situations like these. At least he wouldn’t let me carry my luggage and helped me practice using my keys. All around me, French flew in the air and finally the husband said, “she needs to sleep.” They left, but I needed to unpack and so didn’t go to sleep until midnight.

The positives? The directrice showed me the school the next morning, told me I could use as much paper as I wanted, and showed me my large classroom with all the materials I could ever need. She spoke a lot, made me feel comfortable, and I could understand most of what she said. After seeing my “emploi du temps” or timetable, I was shocked. French children don’t go to school on Wednesday and because of Monsieur Sarkozy, they now have Saturdays off too. Even stranger, I teach on only two of the four days of school per week. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Comment?????? Before I could say that there was some mistake, the directrice asked me if I was interested in taking French classes in Lyon at a university there on my days off. Suddenly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I quipped, bien sûr!

From the school, we went to Géant, one of France’s hypermarkets. Slightly overwhelmed with the mustard and cheese aisles, the directrice helped me so much that I couldn’t believe how full the cart was with food for my little kitchen. She assumed things that I needed or things I might like and we threw them in the cart as though I was a regular there.
After the supermarket, I ate lunch and headed out into the town for a little walk. It was nice to finally be alone and walking after three days of being surrounded by hundreds of people and my luggage. I found the train station, the post office, a cemetery, and the Rhône River on foot. Brick houses with shutters, sometimes, bright purple created a distinct French feel throughout the town. I got the goose bumps while crossing the highway, seeing signs for Strasbourg, Lyon, Paris, Marseille. I’m in France and happy to be here.

9/28/08 - Dimanche

It’s hard not having the Internet. I keep wanting to check my email. All I can do is listen to music, look at pictures, watch DVD’s, or write, so I’ve decided to keep a journal on what happens each day here. Then I can post them in my blog later.

I slept in until about noon today. Part of me doesn’t want to get out of bed, because my living space feels filthy and I don’t want to live in it. Another part asks, “what am I going to do when I get up besides shower with the shower head that sprays water in all directions tres fort, so much so that it can actually scratch my back with its power?”

Did some Pimsleur and am waiting for Sylvie to get me. Apparently, we’re going to the mountains today for some kind of outing. What it is exactly, je ne sais pas. Who is going to be there? Je ne sais non plus. I’m a little nervous, but I need to put myself out there. I’d be angrier with myself for not trying to speak French and holing up in my hole of a room. Bring it on.

The mountain excursion wasn’t really an excursion, but more of an “escort” to a mountain center where the 5 and 6 year old kids would stay for a week. Almost all of them cried while the bus pulled away. They made the appropriate animal sounds when we passed them and I got a kick out of hearing “coco-ri-co” when we went by chickens. I had my first “Kir” from the bartender at the center and a great dinner of lasagna, salad composee, cheese plate (of course) and ice cream. The best part was talking to Sylvie the entire way home (2 hours) in French. She’s been so great and helpful and she understands my situation, as she too learned English in the U.S.

9/29/08 – Lundi

Met the other teachers at my school today. Seem nice, but some are hesitant to talk with me. Went on the Internet and got a tea/coffee kettle thing. Went back to Geant to get slippers, sticky tack for class, shampoo, and tissues. Started planning where I want to go for All Saint’s Holiday. Belgium? Germany?

9/30/08 – Mardi

Spent virtually the whole day with Corrine in both Chasse and Vienne dealing with paperwork/etc. She seemed concerned with Chasse. The teachers, she said, don’t seem very nice and/or willing to speak English. (which is fine with me BTW…the less English, the better). It was cool to practice speaking with her in French, but by the end of the day I was exhausted.

Some observations:

French bread is hurting my mouth. It’s ripping up the roof of my mouth and it’s a little worse each day.

I shouldn’t buy a whole slice of Brie. It’s going to put on extra pounds and I can’t eat it all before the expiration date.

The slippers and actual shower gel (non hotel kind) have made my day.

The Office has also been a savior.

10/01/08 – Mercredi – Dad’s Birthday!

Tried to get a bank account today at the post office of all places. Everything seemed to be going well until Sylvie and me received word that I can’t get one after all, because I’m not a citizen of the European Union. From there, we went to Geant where we set up an appointment with another bank for tomorrow. This all seems a bit too much. I keep telling myself that I have to make this year worth it.

I have been extremely tired (only in phases though) throughout the day and had to collapse into prime napping form at about 3pm. Sylvie talks so loud and so much that it’s kind of an effort for me to respond sometimes. She’s been the most helpful person to me here by far, so I guess that’s a small price to pay. As I was getting out of the car, she asked if I was going to come to the school tomorrow. I said, yes, imagining that’s what she would want to hear. She responded with, “good…last year the assistant didn’t come out of her classroom, never smiled, and didn’t say a word to anyone. That’s why her French didn’t progress at all.” On that hint, I think I’ll be putting on my friendly face tomorrow and trying to make friends with my colleagues.

Today, Sylvie told me that it’s obligatory for everyone in France to put those bright yellow safety vests on the seat of their car. She said it’s even more enforced in Spain. I always wondered why people put them on the seats of their car.

Trucs to note:

I now have an address 118 rue Jean Moulin and a boite de lettres.
And a fresh jar of Nutella.
Went for a short walk until I was too tired and too hot to go on. The scenery is beautiful here. There are vineyards, gardens, and stone houses with bright violet shutters.
My eyes teared up a little bit when I looked at the U.S. section of the International aisle and there was peanut butter, oreos, Pepperidge farm cookies, and marshmallows. Weird. I’ve only been here a week.

10/2 – 10/8

I’ve finally gotten my first day of teaching over with and feel better about having worked at least one day in the past three months. Time off is so much better when you’ve worked for it…that’s sure.

So, I’ve been to Grenoble this past weekend and had a great time with Lindsey, Leslie, Liza, Allison, Gearoid, Paul, AJ, and Rory. There were tons of people there, and we all intermingled at London Pub Sat. night. We went up in the Telepherique, or balls, walked around, had some kir and fromage blanc in a café, had kebabs, walked around, and went out.

Teaching was kind of uneventful. I woke up and didn’t feel the slightest bit nervous. I just wanted to be prepared because everyone’s been so helpful. Some of the kids were too noisy, but I tried to take care of that by establishing the sticker system right away. And then taking away their stickers. It seemed to work better with the younger kids. I’ve got a full day ahead of me tomorrow. We’ve just been doing name tags, English names, faces, and “What’s your name?” dialogues.

I was proud of my morning errand running today. I got up, took out the trash, went to the post office, then to the library (where everyone is incredibly nice) to get a card and some books. I got “A Year in Provence” by Peter Mayle and a book on Lyon and the countryside around it. I was going to go for a run as well, but it’s been raining since I got up this morning. And it’s coming down harder now.

Vendredi October 24, 2008

Long time no freaking write. I’ve not been in the greatest mind set to write lately. I’m a little frustrated with my living conditions and life in Chasse in general. I kind of expected people to be a bit more hospitable, but that really hasn’t been the case. I’m trying to be friendly, but it’s hard when I’m so not confident with my French.

On my walk a la poste, puis la gare, I noticed that people were cleaning the tombstones in the cemetery with mops and buckets. I mean, really scrubbing. For most European countries, the Fall Holiday encompasses visiting lost loved ones, lighting candles by their tombstones and remembering. Will be in Belgium over “Toussaint.” And Leslie and I are going to Chambery tomorrow to visit G and AJ.

Cemetery in Chasse

I'm still alive

2008-11-05T11:36:00.002+01:00

My poor blog has not seen much action, which is sad now that I'm actually in France and have French things to write about.

The problem is my Internet connection, and lack of one.

Things are however, looking up. I'm getting internet installed in my brand spanking new pad in Chasse, so posts will be flying in from all angles....eventually.

Merci for your patience!

The Learning of Languages

2008-09-16T03:56:00.002+02:00

On a walk today, I got to thinking about languages. I was listening to French music on my iPod and with less than a week until I leave for France, I realized how awful my French is for having earned a college degree in the study of it. I can barely speak it, yet I have a certificate of Oral French Proficiency from my university professors. How is this possible? In my defense, it has been about five years since I've studied it, but even five years ago, I'm not sure I could've held my own in an ordinary conversation.

Thanks to a friend in Spain, I've got a language speaking program for my computer that focuses less on grammar and spelling, but emphasizes speaking in "language chunks." I've been dutifully sitting down to speak with my "computer" for about two hours a day trying to better my pronunciation and recall old phrases and basic expressions that have scarily escaped me.

This makes me think about my French classes from both high school and college. Yes, we did speak, but with rote phrases never used in context like, "J'aime voyager" or "je n'aime pas travailler." They gradually became more difficult as classes progressed, but I never felt comfortable when speaking. In college, we read, analyzed poetry before feeling anywhere close to fluent. There were never any conversational exercises, just reading passages and questions. In class we simply read what we had written as an answer for homework when the teacher asked us the questions.

There was a huge gap in my language learning. Sometimes I think I would've been much more interested in reading French poetry and novels had I a verbal command of the language. I could kind of read it, but barely had a chance to discuss it.

The best French lesson I ever had was during 12th grade of Madame Thorsen's class. She supplied food: chocolate sandwiches and pop (not entirely French, but satisfactory for high school students). We put our desks into a square of four, so it transformed into a dinner table instead of the usual droll rows and columns. Then, for the next thirty minutes, we were to eat and socialize in French only. We made mistakes, asked questions, but the more we spoke, the more I got into it. So much so, that when I left class, I was thinking in French. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. That day, I had loved French class.

I think language teachers need to break up the lessons in the book with some fun conversational activities every once and a while, even with beginners. Students need variety and a chance to use the language. What good is knowing a language when you can't speak it?
One easy way is to act out situations using key phrases learned from previous lessons. When acting out dialogues in pairs or groups, students shouldn't read off of cards, but just submit themselves to making mistakes and becoming familiar with hearing the words come from their mouths.

As for me, it's high time I finally learned how to speak French properly after all those years of studying.

Lance Back in France

2008-09-10T23:00:00.000+02:00

He's coming out of retirement, pulling a Brett Favre. Lance Armstrong is looking to race in 2009's Tour de France beginning in Monaco next July.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. He did get me interested in the sport after all, but I have a weakness for underdogs and I truly enjoyed watching 2008's almost dope-less race. It was nice to see different stage wins, no-names get their claim to fame and their lion. In other words, not one person dominated the entire Tour and we were kept in suspense until the near end.

However, on that note, it would be interesting to see if Lance can pull himself together and compete against all these young hopefuls.

À toute à l’heure Lance...

Headlines

2008-09-03T00:51:00.000+02:00

Whatever John McCain's reason for choosing Sarah Palin as his vice presidential pick, the subtle difference in two international headlines got me thinking...

In France's Le Monde, the headline read, "McCain choisit une femme pour la vice-présidence." In other words, "McCain chooses a woman for vice-presidency."

In the New York Times I saw, "McCain Chooses Palin as Running Mate." Variations of this were similar in other U.S. newspaper headlines.

I don't think the majority of people knew who Sarah Palin was before McCain made her famous and it may be safe to say that "woman" was the first thing that came to the minds of many when they heard the news.

It seems very typically U.S. to be as politically correct with headlines, in this case, omitting any hint to Palin's femaleness. On the other hand, France's headline has nothing to hide. In regards to our first thoughts on McCain's decision, is the headline chauvanistic or simply blatant and honest?

Just to be clear...

2008-08-28T06:00:00.000+02:00

...I'm not anywhere close to being French, nor do I really want to be. Even as a somewhat closeted francophile, I will not take on the impossible task of trying to be someone I'm not. As the blog, states, I'm not quite there. Now, days after it's begun, "not quite there" brings to mind a turtle slothing it's way to a non-existent finish line. The name comes solely from my lack of originality and my tendency to twist around the names of books I've recently read to title my blogs.

The book in question is Sarah Turnbull's "Almost French," of which I highly recommend to anyone. Upon picking it up at the library and glimpsing the cover, I thought that the pages would contain a fictional romance on the streets of Paris, couples lounging in candlelit cafes, then later slothing down magnificent cobblestone alleys like the aforementioned turtle. While thinking the book would be much better if the couple happened to step in a grotesque pile of dog shit, I happened upon the summary. Critics had written exactly my thoughts. I took it home and there wasn't an ounce of sap in the entire book. A non-fiction piece, it gives the reader a glimpse of Paris from a foreigner's eyes. The humiliating moments everyone stuggles with in another country, and the minor successes that become huge. It's humorous, well written, and informative.

Maybe this blog is my way of being a wannabe after all. Other than the fact that I like to write, my two other blogs, Hungarian Lessons, and Spanish from Scratch, functioned well in a few ways.

* HL was a great way to complain about the horrid students I taught in Budapest and have random Hungarians write comments like, "why don't you try smiling at them? You sound very angry."

* Writing on SFS helped me block out all the excess noise in the teacher's room, not to mention the incessant drama that incessantly occured there.

* Both blogs kept my parents aware that I was still alive as I can't seem to get over this telephone "allergy" of mine. Saying that I HATE talking on the phone is an understatement. I think I'm actually scared that it will bite me.

Adventure Looms

2008-08-25T04:36:00.000+02:00

I spent the past weekend with two of my closest friends, one of whom drove more than 4 hours north to Chicago from St. Louis. These are the kind of friends that will always be there *sigh.* We ate Japanese food, ice cream, and gummi bears. We trolled the aisles of Super Target giggling, some of us snorting. We sprayed perfume in each other's faces...by accident. We went out and danced. We stayed up until 4 in the morning chatting, munching on Triscuits and cream cheese. We took pictures...hundreds of them. We only stopped laughing to eat.

The high from this kind of weekend left me wanting to stick around longer. Make the summer drag out a bit more. Stretch the days, even though they are getting consistently shorter each day. Instead of traversing the continent of Europe, I increasingly find myself wanting to stop wandering and be around those with whom I'm closest.

Going to France is hugely important to me. I've studied French, it's culture, and history for 9 years and as much as I've wanted to give up and slam my phonebook size dictionary shut, it's always haunted me. And I've always stuck with it. I love the sound of French, the people and culture intrigue me. I intend to get the most out of my time there. And I'm secretly hoping the Gallic air will clear my head and I'll be able to figure out what I'm going to do with myself next.

Although I'm excited to get to France, it's always sad to say goodbye to family and friends. While some wonder why I continue to bounce from one place to the next, others think it's great and want to visit. No matter what anyone thinks, everyone's still supported me. Sometimes, I think of my time teaching abroad as a second college experience. This means I'm coming up on senior year and ready to graduate soon.

International Adaptation

2008-08-22T05:34:00.000+02:00

It's been almost two months that I've been in the U.S., back from Spain desperately trying to jog off all the tortilla, chorizo, and zapatillo cookies I ate while there. It might be working, but man could I go for a combination of all three right about now.

During my first week back in Chicagoland, I felt like a fish out of water. The doorknobs seemed lower on doors, the toilets seemed like alien spaceships, too many people wore shorts, the Coke bottles appeared bloated: they just didn't have that European hourglass shape. Everyone sounded overly nasal when they spoke (hello Midwest). There were too many cars, not enough pedestrians, bikers, walkers. Not to mention the cars were too big. Too many plazas and definitely not the Spanish sort. Parking lots framed with Walgreen's, Al's Beef, Payless Shoes, T.G.I.Friday's, PetCo. The dollar was too long, thin, and drab unlike my wad of short, wide, and colorful bursts of Euro.

I may have gotten lost in the local Meijer, somewhere between the boulevard of waxy, shining apples in colors that never seemed entirely natural and a brigade of pop bottles, an army of caffeinated soldiers lining mile long shelves. I asked my Dad if he had weighed all the produce he'd "carelessly" thrown into the cart, then realized that the cashiers do it at checkout after catching a bewildered fatherly stare.

Those first days were an adventure. I felt like a foreigner in my own country. Treading carefully, looking at everything as if I were seeing it for the first time. This is how I lived? I kept thinking.

And now, I feel entirely at home. It only took several weeks and I'm driving like a pro, tearing through Walgreens for all my drug store needs, and distinguishing quarters from nickels no problem.

I've just realized that I'll be leaving fairly soon and it hit me how quickly I've re-acclimated to my own country. It also makes me think how I'll have to go through the same but different sort of experience again in France.

The first day in a different country always throws me off my feet, even if it's just a slight stumble. Even so, I usually adapt within no time. How? Because I realize that no one's going to feed me and I'm just going to have to rustle up dinner on my own. Clutching an old bag of airport trail mix, purchased in departure city that seems seasons ago, this is the moment it hits. I can't eat peanut shells or lick the bag. Not because I wouldn't, but because that will not get me through the night. Not surprisingly, when hunger hits, your powers are limitless. Call it primal instinct, call it jet lag delerium, time zone lagerium, whatever. Something gets you into that foreign grocery store coming out with a bag full of a mixture of whatever looked good at the time. Then, you're officially in. Everything after that is just a little bit easier. Getting those first jitters over with is essential. And to think you can do it with a triangle sandwich in a plastic box containing whatever meat the country is famous for.

Even with all of the inevitable "uncomfortable" moments that are synonymous with traveling abroad, the good ones make up for them in a heartbeat.

And there's absolutely nothing like coming home after a long time away.

August Checklist

2008-08-20T18:54:00.000+02:00

I'm leaving for France in almost a month.

I have:

* fresh passport pages,
* a one-way ticket to Lyon,
* cocooning caterpillars that will soon grow to frantic butterflies in my stomach.

I don't have:

* a visa,
* a place to live,
* any idea what to do when I get there.