Drunk on Life

Getting Caught Up

2011-05-16T00:49:00.000+02:00

I haven't updated this blog in about a year, so it goes without saying that there's a lot to catch up on. In fact, that's the primary reason I haven't updated it...too much pressure to write down archival items, to go back and search my sieve-like memory in order to document everything that has happened in fascinating detail. And wow, that's just too damn much pressure. So, sorry 'bout it, but we're just going to have to do a minimal round-up and move on!

Last May, I spent an amazing weekend in Krakow with Magda and Kama. I also spend about a third of my monthly paycheck, mostly on great food and about 30 mixed cocktails. Particularly the Pink Mohito at Shanti, the best Thai restaurant in Poland. Sitting in the rynek listening to drunk Scottish women hit on every man going by was also another highlight. Ah, youth. And by youth, I mean they were in their 40s.

In mid-May, I returned home for about two weeks in order to witness my cousin Catherine walk down the aisle. It was lovely seeing all of my family together (and my friends-including Adam and Jennifer-whom I hadn't seen in ages!), and the party was pretty damn kickass. I also had the chance to enjoy some of my favorite foods that I couldn't get in Poland, such as bagels, Maid-Rites, and reuban sandwiches. Mmmmm...

The school year ended in June, which didn't come soon enough, frankly. I think everyone was sick of school at that point. Plus, the weather started getting insanely hot and humid. I taught an independant (read: under the table) class at a local business throughout the summer, and walking home every day pretty much rendered me a moving puddle. It was not pretty. However, on the recommendation of one of those students, I found a pierogi shop right near my apartment that made the lightest and most delicious pierogi that you took home to cook. I still think of them even now. I also think about the raspberries, cherries, and strawberries that I got all summer. It was a red-smeared berry fest at my place for at least two months. I even made my first-ever batch of sour cherry preserves. Mixed into silky, thick Greek yogurt for breakfast, they were an enchantment. Less enchanting was how hot it was in my apartment. I spent large parts of every day simply sitting on my couch/bed in front of my exhausted fan, reading the "Girl With The Dragon Tattoo" series feverishly and spooning marscapone (with a touch of brown sugar & vanilla) and berries into my face. It wasn't pretty, but it also wasn't work. I was happy.

During the summer, Georgina's cat had kittens, and I made the big decision to adopt one. She was ready to come home the week of my birthday, and she made a most excellent present to myself. Ava. Oh, she is lovely (and sleeping soundly on top of my wardrobe as I write this). Supremely cuddly and yet a little vicious with her claws...just like her mother.

Right before my birthday, in mid-August, my boss called me into her office to discuss something important. I was nervous, envisioning all manner of horrible transgressions I may have unwittingly committed. But, as it turned out, she merely wanted to offer me a promotion! To be the head teacher at the branch of our school in Wroclaw. Wow. I was shocked and flattered. Terrified to uproot myself from my comfort zone in Gliwice, but eager to see what might happen for me in the big city. Well, sort of big city. Average city, really. But, bigger than Des Moines and so beautiful, with many cultural offerings and decent shopping. I was in. They also asked Magda if she wanted to move there, too. The whole staff had basically quit. No comment on that, but it basically gave me the chance to start from scratch, and that was appealing. Another great thing is that they offered a position there to my friend Daniel, with whom I had worked in Korea. It all happened *very* quickly, but it was really exciting. One day Magda and I went to Wroclaw to have a look around and see if we could live here, and the next we were sitting on a train with suitcases and a wailing cat. Once we got here, we had to spend two weeks at the school's tiny studio apartment, waiting for the one we eventually found to be ready. (That's a whole other story I can't get into, but suffice to say, we found an amazing apartment by shear luck and I am grateful every day.) Living there was a real test, but it was over soon enough, and we finally moved into our 150 year old apartment building overlooking the moat. Right in the city center, near public transport, and lovely. The inside anyway. The entry way and stairwell look and smell like they belong in a well-graffitied bomb shelter. Speaking of stairs, we're on the top floor, so there are 72 of them to climb every day. But no matter.

The school year started, with new teachers to get to know. It was not as social of an atmosphere as we were used to from Gliwice. On the one hand, it's sad not to go out as much with your colleagues, but on the other hand, I'm saving a lot of money from decreased consumption of beer. The school itself is in the center of town, so it's also a vintage building. Creaky wooden floors, high ceilings, crown molding details. Lots of gorgeous light, but now that summer is coming around, I can see where all that light is going to turn the school into a vintage oven. The students are nice, but not quite as eager to get to know the teachers as the ones in Gliwice. This is possibly owing to the fact that there are more than 3 things to do of an evening in Wroclaw. At any rate, we all settled in and got to the business of another school year.

In October, we went back to Gliwice for Halloween. It was so much fun, and it truly felt like going home. Seeing everyone again made me want to cry with happiness! Introducing Daniel to all my friends there was fun, and he got along great with them. The pictures from that weekend were a riot and will definitely not be published here! *sigh* That was such a wonderful weekend...

In November, I hosted another massive Thanksgiving party. It was a lot of work, as usual, but since it's my favorite holiday, I wasn't complaining. We had about 25 people for dinner, and everyone brought something to share. So, as you can imagine, there was a metric shit-ton of food on offer. We put everything on the terrace for storage and two days later it snowed enough to bury it all. And then proceeded to stay so cold that it didn't melt for over a month. Needless to say, we had a turkey carcass living on our terrace for a good part of the winter.

In December, I went home for three weeks to spend the holidays with my family. It was great being back, as usual, even though I didn't have a car to drive the whole first week I was there. Three weeks was a good duration. I had enough time to see everyone, and I only started going a little crazy.

After Christmas, nothing particularly interesting happened other than that my job started getting very stressful due to the owner of my school being extraordinarily inconsiderate in not hiring a sorely-needed additional teacher. Consequently, we were all over-worked and pissy about it. It was not a fun time.

Oh, one great thing that happened during that time was that I bought a car. On Valentine's Day. A 20 year old Mercedes, but an automatic, which was the most important feature. It's in great shape, so I'm really hoping it'll last at least until I decide to move on to another continent.

For Easter, we stayed home this year (instead of going to the mountains like last year) and made a nice dinner for each other. I cooked a traditional Easter ham and a coconut cake. Magda made potatoes and carrots, and Daniel made curry and a roasted chicken. It was tasty and a lot less annoying than spending 7 hours on public transport to get to a mountain town where all the restaurants were closed for the weekend.

May 1st weekend, a year after that expensive trip to Krakow, my friend Katie came back for another visit! We decided to spend the first weekend of her trip in Prague. Prague is my favorite city in the world, so it was like a homecoming for me. For the others, it was an eye-opening experience that showcased how wonderful Europe can be. Personally, I consider Wroclaw to be like a smaller Prague, at least in terms of architecture. Kraków is really more like Prague in terms of atmosphere and diversity. So for me, walking around Wroclaw makes me happy and grateful to live in a place that's so beautiful and yet not crammed with tourists like Prague. In fact, the tourist aspect made me really annoyed, but it was still lovely to be there with my friends. Driving there was a little stressful for me, particularly the part where we got pulled over by the Czech police for not having put our road pass in the window. Thankfully, I had all the necessary documents hiding in my purse, and they let us go.

The next weekend (last weekend, in fact), Katie and I took a day trip to Germany. I drove again, and managed not to get too lost. Katie was an excellent map reader for both trips, it must be said. We went to the border town of Gorlitz, which was pretty and quiet and very orderly. I began to see the appeal of living in Germany versus Poland. Still, we had to spend Euros, so I was happy to cross the border back into Poland within short order! The next day, Katie had to leave. Since she apparently attracts travel drama (at least when attempting to leave Poland), there was naturally a bomb threat at the airport just as we arrived there. Consequently, we got stopped in a massive traffic jam that left us parked in the middle of the street for at least 30 minutes while the building was inspected. Thankfully, the airport here is even smaller than Des Moines', so it didn't take too long. Even better, she didn't miss her flight and was soon on her way back home.

Now, there we are. All caught up!

Summer is fast approaching and I'm weighing my options. Stay here for another year and the possibility of being shit on again by my boss, or try to move to Italy to finally finish my Italian citizenship application? I love this city, I love being here with my friends, I love this apartment, plus I totally heart inertia and not having to pack up all my shit and start over somewhere brand new. At least for right now. I do have notoriously itchy feet...but I might be able to powder them and stay here for now. Being settled is a delightful feeling, I must say.

New Year's Festivities

2010-01-02T22:41:00.001+01:00

"Youth is when you're allowed to stay up late on New Year's Eve. Middle age is when you're forced to."

Bill Vaughn

It has been quite some time since I felt the need to present myself at an obnoxiously busy club on New Year’s Eve, ready to get jostled by a pack of strangers and drink one glass of free “champagne” at midnight of a quality that could be used to clean floors if strictly necessary. No, those days are long past and good riddance. There is no joy in being crushed on a dance floor, sweaty and desperate to sit down thanks to your painfully sexy new shoes. New Year’s Eve is almost always more hassle than it is worth. Still, there is the pressure. The pressure to have plans, to be going somewhere nouveau and cool, to be doing something more exciting than sitting at home in front of the television with a bag of chips, some knockoff champagne, and your mother.

This past New Year’s, I managed to acquire some respectably exciting plans that didn’t make me want to curl up in a ball at the very idea of them. Jazz Club Hipnoza in nearby Katowice was having a special evening, complete with jazz performances, buffet, and requisite glass of champagne. Matt, a friend and fellow teacher, plus his girlfriend (Kasia), her friends, Magda and I all planned to go. Katowice isn’t far from Gliwice, so Kasia’s dad offered to drive us there, and we decided to get a taxi for the trip back, thereby eliminating the issue of parking/walking that so often plagues nights on the town.

At Matt's house for pre-party

We were told that we should dress in a casually nice style, so I chose to wear my favorite gray wrap-around sweater with black pants. Unfortunately, upon arrival, it was apparent that most women had received a “Skimpy Black Dress” memo that had clearly passed me by. Having no skimpy black dress, or the figure to wear one, perhaps it was for the best. And anyway, there’s no use trying to look nice around Polish women dressed to the nines; it will inevitably end in failure and humiliation for a plump American girl such as myself. They are usually tall and lanky, with supermodel bodies. I have an hourglass shape, which is really more of an hour and a half, to be honest. In a room full of anorexic giraffe women, there’s no point in putting on airs.

The jazz, itself, wasn’t entirely bad. It started off vintage and hoppin', but soon segued into modern jazz, which does nothing to inspire me and mostly sounds like elevator music. Eventually, we retreated from the main room to one down the hallway, which was filled with tables and a buffet. The food on offer was a tasty assortment of salads and pasta dishes, so we hung out in there for quite a long time. As the night wore on, we decided to get some dancing in, so we headed back to the main room once the music changed into DJ selections. They played a crazy mix of hipster favorites, from 60s to disco to punk and back again.

Hipster really was the word of the night. Every person within 5 miles wearing black-rimmed glasses was present, including me. The purposely-ironic outfits, the smattering of English and other languages being spoken throughout the crowd…clearly, we were in a happening and painfully-hip venue. At one point, a man in the crowd pulled out a trumpet and started playing along with the music. Nice.

At midnight, we drank our disgusting-but-free “champagne”, and toasted the New Year with glee. Then, casually, as though I could barely be bothered to care, I adjusted my black-rimmed glasses and got back to the very serious business of dancing the night away.

Yuletide Musings

2009-12-30T20:02:00.238+01:00

"Christmas - that magic blanket that wraps itself about us, that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance. It may weave a spell of nostalgia. Christmas may be a day of feasting, or of prayer, but always it will be a day of remembrance - a day in which we think of everything we have ever loved."

Augusta E. Rundel

This past Christmas was only my second one away from home, and really only the second Christmas which was substantially different from those of my youth. It is something truly special to have had more or less the exact same holiday experience for 30 years. For some, this might be stifling, but I always took comfort in the sameness. It was always so reassuring to know that my family's traditions were intact. I know that some people choose to avoid family madness around the holidays, but I embrace it. That I have consciously chosen not to return home these past two years has made me deeply sad, and were choices mostly born out of inadequate funds rather than desire to strike a purposely different path from my most cherished loved ones. Those who are able to celebrate with loving families, and yet choose not to...I frankly don't understand that decision. For one so far away from her family, and without means to return home, it just seems so wasteful. Of time, of history, of love, of tradition. Of really good food, at the very least!

My Christmas this year was spent with a fellow teacher, Magda, and her family at their lovely home in the Polish countryside. They were incredibly gracious and made my Christmas a memorable and happy experience. But before we could get to the warmth and comfort of their homestead, we first had to endure 5 hours of wretched Polish public transportation.

As ever in Poland, all bus journeys are a torture, and this was no exception. It started with a steady drizzle and having to elbow our way ahead of a pack of snarling grandmas. I, being a semi-pro at elbowing old ladies, quickly got to the front of the line, acquired a ticket from the driver, and went to claim two seats near the front of the bus. Oh, what a mistake! No sooner were Magda and I ensconced in our row (across the aisle from one another, with our voluminous bags occupying the seats next to each of us) but two old women started shouting at us, waving fingers in our faces and chastising us loudly. Magda, who speaks Polish, told me that these women apparently had reservations for the very seats I had chosen (natch), and they were telling us to basically get the hell to the back of the bus where we belonged. I was more than happy to move, but the bus was quite full at this point, including the aisle, with people trying to get on and get situated. Unless we suddenly managed to sprout wings and fly over everyone's heads, we couldn't go more than one foot up the aisle towards the back. This didn't stop the old women from pushing us and doing some more shouting. Well, I never! If I could have spoken Polish, I would have told them to go get fucked. Magda, evermore polite than I, simply told them, "Sorry, but we can't move!" while they continued to harumph in our general direction. Eventually, we got to the back of the bus and squeezed ourselves and our bags into two seats. I have never been so happy to get off a bus in my life.

Once we were at Magda's house, things rapidly improved. Her mother, Grace, was a thoroughly charming woman. She was busy preparing food for the onslaught of the many meals to be had over the weekend. There were piles of fresh meat, steaming pots of soup, and veggies to be chopped as far as the eye could see. And the homemade currant wine! Ooooh, that's a happy memory, and it quite inspired me to make some of my own during the next berry season.

Magda and I were put to work more or less immediately and quite happily. Chop chop chop, into the night! Magda's mom is also a whiz at preserving things, so we were able to feast on spiced pears and plums from the last harvest. (They have a farm, with a proper root cellar that's filled with jars of delicious goodies and baskets of fresh eggs.) Speaking of the root cellar, I could never go down the steps (backwards, please!) without feeling like I was going to tumble down or crack my head on the midget-low ceiling, but Magda's grandpa fairly bounded up and down them, despite having the use of only one arm. A true wonder.

The first real night of cooking, we helped to make Greek Fish (which is white fish, covered in layers of sautéed veggies and then baked) and Polish-style cheesecake (which is softer and less dense than American-style). We also knitted a bit with grandma and drank half a jug of the homemade wine.

For Christmas Eve, we enjoyed this delicious food, along with mushroom soup, carp (super-traditional Polish Christmas dish, either loved or loathed by the natives), something akin to a veggie-packed American potato salad, mushroom/cabbage pierogi, a cabbage/bean dish, and borscht with mushroom dumplings. Wow, it was all so great! I particularly loved the borscht, which I discovered I could eat by the gallon.

A new tradition for me was the breaking of bits of Eucharist Host with each other, and individually wishing each other good things for the new year. Quite cool. Also cool was when some random boys showed up at the front door, dressed in scary masks and odd outfits. They were apparently telling some story, after which they sang a bit. Polish Christmas carolers, evidently!

After dinner, we naturally had to attend Midnight Mass. I have never been in such a ridiculously frigid church. I could see my breath. Other than that, it wasn't too different from American Catholic Masses, although there were 19 alter boys. Seriously. And they were all wearing different styles of flowy, poofy capes/gowns. I mean, with all the sex scandal problems the church has these days, putting an old man on an alter surrounded by 19 teenage boys in mini-dresses might not be the best image to send folks home with. Just sayin'.

Once done with church, I introduced Magda to my family's post-Midnight Mass custom of making breakfast. I cooked up some shredded hashed browns, which had apparently never been seen in that house before, so even grandma and grandpa had to give them a try. I think they'll be passing in future years, however. Too bizarre for them.

It's worth noting here that Magda's grandparents must have thought I was an incredibly odd person, based on my food preferences (if nothing else). For starters, like most Americans, I prefer very cold beverages. Why this should be a trait particular to Americans, I don't know. Post-War electronic appliance boom? Cold beverages a symbol of easily-attainable wealth? It's an interesting subject, and it inevitably comes up every time I ask for ice outside of the States. Europeans seem to be suspicious of cold drinks, and can usually only be pressed to provide a maximum of two ice cubes at a time, no matter how much you beg. But Grace has a giant refrigerator with an *ice dispenser*, so if you think I was going to pass that opportunity up, then you are absolutely out of your mind. The consequence, however, was that the grandparents looked at me like I was an alien with three heads most of the time. Grace, having lived in South Africa and the US, was quite understanding. She was also understanding of my desire to eat potatoes with the skins on, another moment that earned me stares of shock and horror from the grandparents and Grace's friend who had come 'round at feeding time. In Poland, Grace kindly pointed out, the eating of potato skins is something mostly reserved for pigs. Literally. sigh

Christmas Day was spent with Magda's uncle and his family, and was mostly a feast combined with endurance drinking. I held my own, proudly. The English was flying fast and loose, since her uncle works for the UN. It was quite amusing. Some girl carolers also showed up, with much better costumes and song numbers than the boys, naturally. The day passed with a bit of drama, a lot of booze, and much fun.

All too soon, it was time to leave behind the comforts of Grace's gorgeous house and generous hospitality (not to mention the enormous TV with English cable channels). The bus ride home was uncomfortable, but uneventful. After many days of pure Polish food, we decided to stop at the McDonald's in Katowice before getting on the train back to Gliwice. I hadn't been to a Mickey D's since coming to Poland, but WOW. It was the single nicest McDonald's I have ever seen in my life. It was luxurious, and I know that sounds ludicrous, but it's true. They had big, flat screen TVs hanging on the walls, dark wood, chrome, pay bathrooms. And the food was the freshest I've ever enjoyed at a fast food joint. Unbelievable. (I've since been to the one in Gliwice, and it is nearly as nice. Why don't these exist in America??)

I had an amazing Christmas, so thank you again to Magda and her family!

Kraków, Redux

2009-11-26T12:57:00.000+01:00

“You can always tell a Midwestern couple in Europe because they will be standing in the middle of a busy intersection looking at a wind-blown map and arguing over which way is west. European cities, with their wandering streets and undisciplined alleys, drive Midwesterners practically insane.”

Bill Bryson

Bill Bryson might be right about most Midwesterners, but not me. I'm fairly certain that 90% of my mother's family would spend a maximum of 10 minutes squinting at a map, gesticulating broadly, and arguing passionately about which street leads to the Colosseum before eventually flagging the nearest taxi and calling it a day. I, on the other hand, find the narrow, twisting streets of European cities to be mostly irresistible and charming. Unless I'm lost and in a hurry, in which case I tend to curse them aloud in the manner of a crazy person. Even then, though, it's hard to argue against the loveliness of cobblestones and the immense variety of life and shopping to be found in a European back alley. Do you need a cobbler? A viola? Half of a calf's head? It's right there, waiting to be "discovered" by you, the naïve tourist. Never mind that the locals have been getting their calf heads there for 100 years.

Kraków is exactly the kind of European city in which I would dearly love to live. It's fully stocked with wandering streets, Baroque architecture, parks peopled with wrought iron benches and lampposts along fine gravel pathways, and enough excellent restaurants to keep me occupied for a considerable length of time. I envy the people who rush across the rynek every night on their way home, taking the rows of elegant buildings for granted as the facades soften to pastels in the twilight.

While my friend Katie was visiting, we naturally decided to venture to the city. I had been there once before, with Alice, but we hadn't done anything touristy whatsoever. Being French, Alice had seen her share of castles and cathedrals, so we mainly focused on shopping and wandering aimlessly. Katie, on the other hand, had never seen a castle in her life. Our mission was clear: tourist day!

I have to say that my favorite part of bringing a newbie to Kraków is seeing their face light up when we walk into the square outside the train station. It is so lovely, and it's not even the nicest one in town. Katie and I lingered, taking photos amidst all the travelers and shoppers rushing around us. She had been in Gliwice for some time at that point, but this was really the "Welcome to Europe" moment.

After capturing those first moments on film, we headed for the nearest tram stop, keen to get on to the Wawel Castle and accompanying cathedral. I love the trams in Kraków. Some clanky and ramshackle, others sleek and new. And always going where you need them. So, we hopped aboard and were quickly at the foot of the castle.

As castles go, it doesn't look too intimidating or grand. It perches there casually, a bit top-heavy, on a hill overlooking the river. It doesn't make your heart beat faster, doesn't make you want to invade it. It just exists in a bit of a time warp, not quite removed from the city, but not exactly a part of it the way ancient Roman buildings are inseparable from everyday Roman life.

We hiked up the path to the castle and took in the view from the ramparts. I had heard rumors of dragons in the area, but sadly, none were out and about during our visit. The castle grounds were lovely and the day was fresh, perfect for a stroll towards the cathedral, where we indulged in guided audio tour headsets to maximize our experience. There was a lot of history and art in such an average-sized building, so our time and money were quite well spent.

After the cathedral, we attempted to get into the castle, but the guards turned us away for not having the appropriate tickets. In the end, it turned out to be extortionately expensive, so I, being a vetern of castle-viewing, left Katie on her own to visit one of the set of rooms (all priced separately, absurdly enough!) and repaired to an outdoor cafe on the grounds where I could write postcards and admire the castle from afar. For free. I mailed the postcards from the little post office right there at the castle--and as an interesting side note--they took over two months to arrive in the States. Not that I knew it at the time, of course! Such are the benefits of updating this blog so far in arrears.

The rest of our afternoon was spent making our way to and around the rynek. We stopped in the Hard Rock shop so that Katie could buy her boyfriend a t-shirt, and I wrangled a restaurant recommendation from the clerk. He directed us to an Italian place where the food was gorgeous and so delicious. The waiter was even happy to practice his English on us. Thank you Hard Rock guy! A bit of shopping at the mall near the train station followed, and so ended our lovely tourist day in the big city.

I'm really happy I got to introduce Katie to her first "real" European city, and I can't wait to see her again over here! We're already planning a "Soup Tour, 2011". I, for one, can't wait!

Arbeit Macht Frei

2009-11-24T23:44:00.000+01:00

"We know that a man can read Goethe or Rilke in the evening, that he can play Bach and Schubert, and go to his day's work at Auschwitz in the morning."
George Steiner

The sun should never shine on a place like Auschwitz. There is simply no call for it; it would be insulting to the memory of the 1.1 million people who were murdered there. It is fitting then that last Tuesday, when Katie and I ventured to the Polish town of Oświęcim in search of the Nazi concentration camp, that the day was gray, rainy, and miserable in all regards.

The journey to Auschwitz was long and taxing, involving many linguistic missteps and rude Polish citizens who refused to help out a couple of confused foreigners. The fact that it started raining as soon as we began our journey didn't help matters or my mood. But eventually, we found the right combination of trains and buses, and were dropped off at the entrance to the camp/museum.

Walking up the long driveway towards the visitor's center, before actually entering the camp, you feel a solemnity overtake you. This is no place for joking or kidding around. It was a bit of a jolt, then, to see teenagers running around and posing for pictures outside near a random food stand. But, I guess everyone is an asshole when they're a teenager.

Once inside, we checked the map to see which direction to head off in. We were running late thanks to the public transport shennanigans, so our time there was limited, eventually prohibiting us from going to the nearby Birkenau camp.

The first thing you see upon leaving the visitor's center is the entrance to the camp. It's a wrought iron gate, with the motto "Arbeit Macht Frei" inscribed above. "Work Makes One Free". You cannot look at it without shuddering and wishing you could be doing anything else other than standing there at that moment. It is impossible to not to put yourself in the shoes of those who didn't stand in front of the gate of their own volition, who had very little chance of ever walking back out the gate as a free person. It's humbling. It's appalling. And you haven't even walked through it yet. Once inside, there's a sign stating that an orchestra of prisoners was made to play just inside the gate as other prisoners walked through it after a day of working outside the camp. Disgusting.

I was surprised to see that the bunkhouses where prisoners were kept were actually solid brick buildings. I'm not sure what I imagined, but something more ramshackle and less well-preserved, I suppose. The buildings are now all two stories, but they weren't all so originally. The prisoners were used to build them by hand, of course, and there are photographs showing the torturous work.

For the beginning of our visit, we went into one of the bunkhouses which featured an exhibition on the involvement of Poland in World War II, and the treatment of the Poles by the Germans. I honestly had no idea that Germany was so intent on simply exterminating the Polish people at large. They systematically destroyed their cities, their education system, their culture, their food sources, their morale, and their way of life. Still, the Polish people persevered and very few ever collaborated with the enemy. The Germans marched off groups of teachers and students to concentration camps; underground schools at every level of education popped up. People were killed in mass public executions, advertised afterward on posters as a warning; citizens still fought and rebelled in cities all across the nation. Warsaw was absolutely leveled, something not done to any other major city during the war; citizens used trams as blockades to attempt to protect themselves and the city. From start to finish, the Germans attempted to destroy the Polish state and the Polish people. Thankfully, they did not succeed.

The pictures in this exhibit were shocking. A German soldier casually holding a gun to a woman's head, ready to shoot her as she clung to her baby. Men lined up against street walls, waiting their turn to be executed like the men laying beside them on the ground. Children starved into skeletons and then murdered in the streets. Everywhere the most disgusting examples of inhumanity, and all of it so well-recorded by the efficient Germans that it's amazing to me how some lunatics claim it never happened. One thing is clear after looking at all of the German documentation of their own atrocities: they were proud of what they did and never doubted for a moment that they would be victorious.

Thanks, perhaps, to the time of year and the day of the week, Katie and I had this enormous exhibit almost entirely to ourselves. It was so quiet, we could hear the constant thrumming of electricity through the lights as we walked along the hallways, looking at pictures and reading all of the signs. Eyes welling up at the worst pictures and descriptions. Hummm-hummm-hummm. It was unnerving. The only room in which there was a total absence of sound was the one in which prisoner uniforms were displayed, hung up on headless dummies, in rows as though they were walking together as a troop of soldiers. The pictures in the room showed some of the resistance fighters and detailed how they were all killed. It was freezing cold, even though we were both wearing heavy coats.

In fact, the whole of the Auschwitz camp was absolutely freezing. Every building gave me shivers...I couldn't stop the hairs going up on the back of my neck. The worst building, other than the gas chamber/crematorium, was the prison within the prison. We went down into the basement, where the special torture cells were kept. In this area, there were several types of cells used to punish misbehaving prisoners. Standing cells, tiny squares where four men were put at once, overnight, so that none of them could sit down. Starvation cells, where prisoners were given no food or water until they eventually died. Dark cells, where there was only one tiny window and a solid door; prisoners there would eventually use up all the oxygen in the room and suffocate to death. I walked up to one of the doors to look through the peephole, and I instantly jumped back as my nose touched the wood and I could smell it, rotten and musty. I imagined an SS officer looking through that same peephole with a sense of satisfaction, and I wanted to vomit.

Back outside, we walked around for a bit, seeing the execution yard/wall, where prisoners were executed en masse. We stopped in the exhibit for French victims, which had a recording playing of a train arriving at the camp that echoed through the whole building and made my skin crawl. There was a room there that had every wall lined with pictures of children who were shipped off to Auschwitz. It even had each child's address and everything, right down to the arrondissement.

Eventually, as closing time was near, we made our way towards the gas chamber and crematorium. At first, we didn't see it, as it's built into the side of a small hill. But, as we came around the side, we saw the entrance. Again, we had it entirely to ourselves, which was good because I started crying almost as soon as we went in. The sense of dread and death and desperation is almost palpable...you can feel the terror just hanging in the air. It is one thing to have seen this place represented in movies and documentaries; it is another thing entirely to be standing where so many people were purposely gassed and burned. Generally such a thing is unimaginable, but there is nothing unimaginable about it when you're standing right there where it happened, looking directly into the ovens.

Why go to Auschwitz? Why put oneself through the nauseating experience of accepting the reality of this place and what happened here?

To bear witness to history. To say, this happened, and I'm here to add my voice to the millions who are outraged. To make sure it never happens again.

I'm not sorry I went to Auschwitz; I wish I had been able to see all of the exhibits there and at Birkenau. I'm sure I'll go back at some point...but not anytime soon. I don't think I could bear it.

Thanksgiving Gluttony

2009-11-22T23:38:00.000+01:00

"The funny thing about Thanksgiving, or any huge meal, is that you spend 12 hours shopping for it and then chopping and cooking and braising and blanching. Then it takes 20 minutes to eat it and everybody sort of sits around in a food coma, and then it takes four hours to clean it up."

Ted Allen

Thanksgiving has come and gone, as has my most recent guest, Katie. Katie and I worked at the library together in college and have been friends ever since. She had never been to Europe, so I was really excited when she said that she wanted to come here for her first-ever visit. I regarded it as both a tremendous opportunity and responsibility to introduce her to the place I love, even though I wouldn't normally pick Poland as a traditional starting point for European adventures. Still, she was keen to come, and didn't mind that Poland was to be her introduction to European life instead of, say, Paris.

Almost immediately after her arrival, I hosted an early Thanksgiving blowout feast. I invited everyone from work, 16 of whom came. Everyone was charged with bringing a dish and beverage of their choosing. There were lots of great Polish food items, and some other random dishes, as well. I was charged with cooking the traditional Thanksgiving goodies.

So, I went for an apple cider-glazed 22 pound (10 kilo) turkey, with a big pan of traditional stuffing (no oysters, sausage, or cornbread for me!), 10 pounds of mashed potatoes, apple cider gravy, soft pull-apart rolls, and two pumpkin pies with homemade whipped cream. A lot of work, but Katie helped me prepare as much as possible the night before and throughout the day on Saturday, including sawing off the neck of the turkey. (I find it's nice to keep an experienced surgeon on hand at this time of year.) Really, everything got done on time, except the damned turkey, which delayed the stuffing (only room for one giant thing at a time in my small oven) and the gravy. But, since everyone had brought something to eat, no one was sitting around twiddling their thumbs and starving. Thankfully!

I sweated it out in the kitchen, getting things ready at the last moment, but Katie was really good about bringing me bits of food to eat and helping to clean as we went along. I feel it was as successful as it could have possibly been under the circumstances! Instead of brining the turkey, as I normally would, I opted to salt it overnight (as recommended by Cook's Illustrated for those who don't have the space or inclination to brine). It worked a treat, and the turkey was incredibly moist.

My friends hung out until about 1am, listening to music and drinking a bit too much. Having lots of fun, to be sure. It was a great party, and I'm so glad I took the time to share the spirit of Thanksgiving with all my new friends.

I also have to say a special word of thanks to Katie, who came to Poland with an entire suitcase filled with goodies for me. Three enormous cans of pumpkin, for a start! Not to mention chips, sugar, and spices that I couldn't find here. Jeans, a Barefoot Contessa cookbook, and on and on. What an amazing woman! So, thank you again for your incredible generosity and kindness, Katie!

The day after the early Thanksgiving party, we mostly just laid around my apartment, bloated and exhausted--as is traditional to the Thanksgiving celebration.

This year, I'm thankful for many things, but especially for the friends in my life. You make the world an amazing place to be!

More stories from Katie's visit to follow...

From Here to Kraków

2009-11-16T22:51:00.014+01:00

I’m happy to report that I have had my very first visitor, the estimable Alice (of French extraction). She arrived October 29 in Katowice, which meant that I had to go and collect her. This was to be my first time using the train here, as well as my first time taking the airport shuttle from the Katowice train station. As we will see, one would prove significantly more difficult than the other.

Prior to leaving, I used the internet and one of the Polish secretaries to draw up an exact itinerary for the day’s adventure. Train times and shuttle times, both coming and going. Key words translated into Polish. I felt confident and keen to get out on the tracks, as well as excited to see Alice for the first time since I left France.

Come the big day, I was, naturally, running late to catch my train to Katowice. I also left my sheet of key Polish words on my dining room table, along with my Polish dictionary. My rudimentary explanation of “train station” to the taxi driver seemed to work, until he started going in the wrong direction, wasting precious seconds. I got to the train station with about 2 minutes to spare, ready to make a running leap onto the train if need be. Thankfully, the train was still humming in place, and I was spared the humiliation of a failed jump and messy death.

Unfortunately, I was not spared the humiliation of needing to buy my ticket from the train conductor. No electronic pre-purchased tickets available here, sadly, and I was too late to buy one at the station. I had plenty of money, but no small bills because it just didn’t occur to me that it would be a problem. All I had was a 50 złoty note ($18) to pay for a 9 złoty ($3.25) ticket. Of course, the guy didn’t have adequate change and kept questioning me in increasingly colorful Polish. Just when I thought I was going to be hoisted from the train at the next stop, he started shouting something in Polish to all the other passengers. Fortunately, he was asking if anyone could break a 50, and one of the teenage girls was able to help out. Whew! Crisis averted, but my status as a foreigner was revealed, and I hate that. When I use public transport abroad, I keep my mouth shut and try to blend in. Having the conductor shout, “Can anyone break a 50 for this ignorant foreigner?!” doesn’t really line up with that goal.

The rest of the train ride was uneventful, and soon I was at the station in Katowice. I had heard that the station would be thoroughly wretched, and it didn’t disappoint. Imagine a bomb shelter coated in graffiti and soaked in the urine of thousands. Once I scouted out the airport shuttle pickup location, I retreated back into the building to kill 30 minutes until the next bus. Starving and cold, I decided to order my favorite Polish soup from a dismal-looking food stand. After I placed my order, the woman looked at me in surprise, but quickly retrieved a frozen bowl of żurek from her dorm-sized fridge to warm up. I was dubious, but honestly, it was the best I have yet had here. I love this soup…it’s made from a base of fermented rye flour, so it’s a bit tangy. Plus, it’s got potatoes and kielbasa in it, which lends a lovely smoky flavor. It occasionally comes with half of a hard-boiled egg in it, which is vomitous. Thankfully, this one was egg-free and lusciously thick, as well. Pure yum.

So, I ate up and scurried out to the shuttle bus as soon as it arrived. The man, despite being charged with the constant transport of foreigners to the airport, spoke no more than 5 words of English. I already knew from the shuttle’s webpage that the price was 25 złoty for a roundtrip ticket, so I thought I was good to go. He said the price in Polish, which I only recognized as containing the number 2. So, I started to take money out of my wallet, and he said OK once I got to 20 złoty. Uh, what? I asked for a ticket (to have for the return journey) and he basically said he couldn’t give me a ticket. At this point, my tourist bullshit detector was going off, but I paid him the money and got on the bus anyway. Then, using his remaining 3 words of English, he attempted to tell me that the bus would not be leaving for another 25 minutes, 25 minutes later than stated on their official website. I was really wishing at that point that I knew the Polish for “What the fuck??” I wasn’t worried about getting there on time since I had deliberately chosen an early time in case things didn’t work out as planned; I was, however, worried for the return journey because we had a very tight window in which to make our train back to Gliwice.

I was pissed and felt like I was getting ripped off in the bargain, so I phoned school to have one of the Polish secretaries speak to the guy. I explained what was going on and then handed the phone to Mr. Driver. He seemed very confused, and soon started getting pissy. We had to pass the phone back and forth a few times, and each time, he got madder and madder. Eventually, he printed me out a receipt for my payment, but made me pay him 5 złoty more. He refused to budge on the return ticket thing, so I ended up having to pay 25 złoty each way. Assholes.

Anyway, I got to the airport with plenty of time to spare. Alice’s flight arrived a bit early, so we were able to catch an early shuttle bus back to the train station. It was really nice to get caught up on the journey home. Once back in Gliwice, we went back to my place to put our faces on, then it was out to my favorite bar, 4 art, to have drinks and dinner with Magda and Georgina. Good times!

The next day it was off to Kraków, a city I had been dying to see ever since I knew I’d be coming to Poland. Oh, it was lovely…so lovely. Its architecture is similar to Prague, which happens to be my favorite city in the world. There was also a great vibe in the city, such positive energy. Since Gliwice could hardly be described as vibrant, it was nice to be in a place that practically thrummed with culture and history. We took our time walking around the city, heading slowly but surely towards the rynek (town square). Eventually, we went to a Georgian restaurant for lunch, where I had a traditional Georgian cheese pie and Alice had a chicken kebab. It was a cozy spot to rest for awhile out of the cold, and the food wasn't bad, either!

Mostly, our trip was spent just getting to know the place. Everywhere you go, the city invites you to take her picture. Picturesque around each twisting street, with colorful facades, leafy parks, and cobblestone streets, Kraków is genuinely lovely. I wanted to snap my fingers and live there instantly. I especially wanted to live there after visiting Massolit Books, an English language bookstore. What heaven! The warm beverages and homemade cakes, the decent selection of Bill Bryson books, what more does a girl need? I could have spent hours just loitering in the wandering rooms of floor-to-ceiling books. You would never guess from the outside that the small storefront hides a veritable maze of English treasures.

After hunkering down in a back room for an hour or so, Alice and I headed back in the direction of the train station. Once there, we did some browsing in the enormous attached shopping center. I was looking for a new purse, but the only ones on offer were suitcase-sized fringed numbers beamed in from 1987, so I declined to make a purchase. I did, however, strike gold in the pantyhose/tights store. Patterned tights seem to be a national obsession here, so I was keen to find a pair of my own. But, since most Polish women look more like anorexic giraffes than actual human beings, I was doubtful that I would be able to find a pair of tights in anything resembling my size. The saleswoman, not wanting to lose a sale, assured me that she had something which would be more than adequate. To demonstrate, she grabbed a pair of tights from a low drawer and pulled them out of the package. In loud English, she said, “SEE!” as she put both hands in the panty section and stretched them out as far as they would go. “BIG!” Well, I couldn’t disagree with her; they did seem suitably voluminous. So, I bought a brown pair to go with a couple of my skirts. Happily, once I got home and did some creative wiggling, they mostly fit. If I go back, I’ll make sure to buy the extortionately expensive patterned pair she tried to sell me.

By this time, my never-ending headcold was coming on full force, so it was time to go home. The train back was warm and cozy, much better than the drafty, Communist-era train on the way there.

Saturday was Halloween. In the morning, Alice and I helped out at the little kids’ Halloween party at school. Some of the kids went all out with their costumes and looked great. None looked better, though, than a student of mine named Viktor. Viktor is a total nut muffin. Just lunatic in every way. I don’t particularly enjoy this trait as his teacher, but it served him well on Halloween. In the midst of all the other kids dressed up as witches and vampires, here comes Viktor down the hallway, wrapped head-to-toe in gauze bandages. What a mummy! I have never seen such a skinny kid! He could barely move, but he looked great. Not so great later, though, as the bandages started to unravel and he was left wearing little but his tiny blue underpants. I took a bunch of pictures that day, but somehow managed to miss him, damn it.

In the evening, the teachers indulged in a Halloween Pub Club at NOT. I didn’t really have a costume, so I just dressed in a nice outfit, teased my hair up a bit, and put on a little too much makeup. Alice didn’t have a costume, either, so she decided to go as a man. We spent an amusing hour or so trying to get her pot belly just right, after which she oiled down her hair and drew on a pencil-thin mustache. Magda came over for dinner before hitting the club (my first-ever attempt at chicken piccata-yum!). She was going as a *really* desperate housewife, so she was mostly naked. We made a classy threesome. So classy, in fact, that we decided to take a taxi instead of show ourselves to the world by walking to the bar.

The night was pretty crazy. Some of my fellow teachers got very creative with their costumes, although I think Matt took the cake with his transvestite lumberjack zombie outfit. It was hilarious. I had a great time, as ever.

Sunday, we were supposed to go to Auschwitz, but I was feeling too ill. Plus, it was All Saints’ Day, which is an enormous holiday here. So, rather than deal with bizarre public transport changes, we just stayed home and relaxed. Monday was a full day of work for me, so Alice hung out at school in the teacher’s lounge.

Tuesday, I took Alice to the train station in Katowice to catch the shuttle to the airport. We each got a bowl of the amazing żurek and ate it, steaming, while standing in the freezing cold next to the shuttle bus. Her driver was much nicer than mine had been, although the bus did still leave 25 minutes late. With sadness, I waved goodbye to her as the bus drove away.

The days have sped by, and now it’s almost Thanksgiving. My friend Katie, from the States, will be arriving on Thursday. I’ll be hosting a gargantuan Thanksgiving feast next Saturday, the 21^st. We’re talking a 22 pound turkey, people…with stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and the works. Almost every single teacher from school will be there, about 15 at last count. Where will they all fit?? Anyway, I’m looking forward to the challenge.

Details to follow!

I Love the Nightlife

2009-10-17T02:08:00.018+02:00

"I'll stick with gin. Champagne is just ginger ale that knows somebody."

~M*A*S*H, Hawkeye, "Ceasefire," 1973

Lest you think I've been sitting on my hind-end, doing nothing but working and tidying my apartment, let me tell you a bit about my social exploits here in Gliwice. Fair warning, Grandma!

It must first be said that I really shouldn't be drinking. I suspect it makes my pancreas act all sorts of crazy (which is quite a long story that I shan't be going into here). I had grand plans, when I first arrived in Gliwice, that I would go out with any new friends I might make and just not drink booze. A tonic water with lime for me, please. Ah yes...those were simpler days, days before I had actually met the motley and alcohol-soaked crew of folks with whom I so enjoy working.

Never forget that teachers have an appetite for alcohol which rivals even that of priests. People who teach small children are especially voracious drinkers; I suspect it's to quiet the voices, to drown out the haunting tune of the "Hello Mickey" song and to try to forget that they dance around like a retarded Barney for a living. If there's anything that could drive a person to drink, it's being shut up in a room with a bunch of 6 year-olds all day.

So, in light of the fact that I work with both children's teachers and people from England, it was really inevitable that I would end up drinking on the regular. Not that I get drunk often, because I only usually have a couple beers in a sitting.

Notable exceptions include the first "Pub Club" organized (and paid for) by my school. Yeah...free drinks. I drank 2 dark beers before realizing that they were 8% alcohol. After standing up and nearly falling over, I drank 2 more dark beers because they were 8% alcohol. Had an absolutely spiffing time.

The second exception was at the joint birthday celebration for Chris (fellow American teacher) and Iza (office secretary extraordinaire). This was held in the same venue as the Pub Club, a pool hall/bar called NOT. I drank mostly vodka that night. Bad vodka. It was loads of fun, but I was shit at pool. I was even drunk enough to try my hand at foosball for the first time, but I lost spectacularly. Polish women are vicious foosball players...don't say I didn't warn you.

Other than organized parties and Pub Club, I mostly just go out for drinks with a few teachers at a time. There are some rather excellent bars around here, of the candlelit and cozy variety. Huge on atmosphere, with lots of dark wood and brick, and excellent music. My favorite bar is called "4 art". It's a music/piano bar, but they only have live music on a sporadic and expensive basis. The first night I went there, the stereo was playing all American oldies. I hadn't heard Elvis' "It's Now or Never" in ages, but it is an amazing mood-setting tune. They were also playing Ella Fitzgerald and Shirley Bassey, even "Son of a Preacher Man", which happens to be my all-time favorite oldies song. That bar made an amazing first impression, and it hasn't disappointed yet.

It was at 4 art that I had my first taste of real Polish vodka, specifically "Żubrówka". This is a special vodka that's made from rye and flavored with an extract of grass grown where bison graze. Check out the link for more info. In any event, its flavor is a bit like mild cinnamon. They mix it with apple juice, and the result is like drinking a glass of apple pie. Freaking delicious. A side effect of Żubrówka and apple juice is that you can drink about 10 glasses without realizing how much alcohol you've consumed, so it's best to enjoy it in moderation.

Another cool bar is Gramophon. Similarly candlelit and cozy, it's an awesome place to share a few expensive beers and eat some tasty international food. The scalloped potatoes we ate there last time were really quite good (despite having kielbasa in them).

A new, alcohol-free, find is a tiny coffee shop that I was introduced to by my Italian friend, Guisy (Jo). She took me and Magda there for coffee and cake a couple weekends ago, and it was really quaint. I think there were about 5 tables, total. I got the cappuccino because Jo said it was the best in town (and she's Italian, so I'll take her word on that). Magda got the hot chocolate with cinnamon, but ended up not drinking most of it because it was more like a thick chocolate sauce than a drink. You could just about have stood a spoon up in it. The cup was approximately the size of a thimble, but even that was too much for Magda's taste (and it was fairly bitter, as well). I helped out a bit, but without milk to wash it down, I was soon defeated.

Last week, Magda, Jo, and I went to hear some live blues music at a local bar. Smoking isn't yet banned here (and smoke-eaters seem to be nonexistent), so we were fairly choking the whole time. Still, the music was better than I expected. The first group did a damn fine cover of "Kansas City". Throughout the night, an obnoxiously drunk old man in a Xerox cap kept trying to mess with the band, walking up close to them (no stage) and even trying to touch their instruments. But the real low point of the evening was when a 70 year old man tried to hit on me in Polish. He was wearing a jaunty kerchief around his neck, but a girl has to draw the line somewhere.

I suppose that just about covers my boozy exploits on this side of the Atlantic. More to follow, I'm sure. This coming weekend is Halloween, and the school is having another Pub Club at NOT. No free drinks this time, but there will be a costume contest, and the winner gets about a $10 bar tab. Here, that would buy you at least 3 beers. Not too shabby. I still haven't decided on my costume. I'm thinking of using face paint from the kids' party in the afternoon to paint my face like a cat. Then, I'll dress nicely and buy some kind of whip to carry with me. What will I be? A kitten with a whip, obviously. :-) Not that anybody will understand, but it's a fairly simple costume, and I just can't be bothered to craft something more elaborate. No costume shops in Poland!

Winter Wonderland WTF?

2009-10-15T16:52:00.005+02:00

"Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns."

George Eliot

Autumn is my favorite season, so when it only lasts three and a half weeks, I get a bit cranky. Personally, I think that snow before Halloween should just be illegal. Where are the golden and russet leaves crunching underfoot? The homey whiff of woodsmoke in the air? Cheeks glowing red from the pleasant bite of the wind at a high school football game and the crappy concession stand hot chocolate throughout? And let's not even talk about the Norman Rockwell escapades to apple orchards and pumpkin patches, sipping hot spiced cider before taking a hay ride with your family. These things were as traditional to the Midwestern autumns of my youth as State Fair corn dogs were to the summers.

Yesterday, it started snowing here in Gliwice. Sleet, at first, eventually shifting into fat flakes by nightfall. I've been told that this will be it...nothing but winter from this day forward. I refuse to give in; surely, there's a bit of autumn left in this place. Just melt this snow and give me a couple more weeks of air that's crisp instead of frigid, bright blue sky mornings instead of dishwater gray clouds, and let me wear a scarf because it's cute instead of needing to wind it around my head to keep my face from freezing off.

Two more weeks of fall is not too much to ask when it's only October 15th. Just sayin'...

"Bittersweet October. The mellow, messy, leaf-kicking, perfect pause between the opposing miseries of summer and winter."
Carol Bishop Hipps

Happy Teachers' Day!

2009-10-15T16:12:00.005+02:00

Yesterday, through the ceaseless sleet and bone-chilling gusts of wind, there shone a ray of simple happiness. Teachers' Day. Yes, they take a day here to honor teachers with presents, flowers, and songs. The secretaries bought us cookies and candies, while the students bashfully presented roses. We even had one duet of "Happy Teachers' Day" (sung to the tune of Happy Birthday, of course). Smiles abounded. Even on the face of yours truly, despite having to teach my babies.

In fact, one of said babies brought me a rose! Out of all of my students, it was the least likely one, in fact, who shyly handed me a red rose just before class.

Joanna. The first day I met her, I was just observing the class as part of my training. She refused to come in from the hallway; her father had to beg and plead with her, eventually giving up and just dragging her inside. The teacher, Ania, told me that she was always like that. I thought, oh great...so, I'll get to deal with her every week once I start teaching. Nice.

Once I took over the class, Joanna would be brought into the classroom by her mother, but not need to be dragged. She still wouldn't talk during class, but I did notice her following along. I could tell that she was learning colors and numbers along with the rest of them, even if she wouldn't answer any of my questions.

Then, last week--a breakthrough. She actually talked in class. And not just to me, but to another girl, too. I could have jumped up and down. Her mother had occasionally asked me if she was participating, so when I told her that Joanna had finally spoken up, she was ecstatic. So, perhaps I did really earn my rose. Regardless, it was very nice to be included, even though I'm so new to all of the kids here.

Happy Teachers' Day to all teachers, especially those of us sweating it out in the trenches!

Work: The Curse of the Drinking Classes

2009-10-10T15:10:00.013+02:00

"Early to bed and early to rise probably indicates unskilled labor."
John Ciardi

When I first decided to come to Poland, I resolved to find a job which would allow me to develop my skills as a teacher. My previous teaching gigs were all of a slightly odd nature, nothing too typical. In Seoul, I taught at a combination school/camp, where kids came for a week at a time and classes were experiential. So, for example, I would spend a week working in the "Bank" or "Talk Show" classrooms, teaching the kids all the vocab needed to make a bank deposit or accuse someone of being their baby daddy. Fun, but not real teaching. In France, I was contracted to work 12 hours each week, but only averaged about 8. I taught masters-level university students, and my job was to be a native accent that they could listen to when the urge struck them. During my 6 month contract, I was treated to 6 weeks of vacation. It barely qualified as real work, and I thoroughly enjoyed the break from reality.

Since I'd like to make teaching my career, I figured I'd best get on the stick and acquire some real teaching practice. Hence, my decision to find a normal, 9-5 teaching job in Poland. Um, yeah. The job I finally found isn't exactly normal, and it certainly isn't 9-5, but I will be getting lots of practice. Let me tell you a bit about it...

I will refrain from using the actual name of the school (since I will likely want to bitch about them at some point in the future), but it's one of several in a popular chain located throughout southern Poland. It uses a specific teaching style known as the Avalon Direct Method. In short, this requires trained teachers, such as myself, to forget everything they've learned about the popular and effective communicative method (student-centered) and switch back into a teacher-focused, lecture type style. I have my doubts as to the effectiveness of this method, but teachers who have been here awhile say that it is successful. I think it will take a significant time for me to come around to this opinion, but I'm willing to be open-minded.

Basically, for my adult classes, I have to stand at the front of the room and ask students questions from the coursebook they're following (there are 4 levels of coursebooks). Each lesson is 80 minutes, usually with a 5 minute break in the middle. For the first 40 minutes, I ask them questions that they have covered in previous classes. Students usually end up reviewing each question about 4-5 times. I ask the questions randomly, so students have to listen constantly in case they're called on to answer. An example: "Where is the most exciting place you have ever traveled to?" Answer: "The most exciting place I have ever traveled to is Lithuania." The students practice target vocab and grammar by imitating the structure they hear in the question.

Some of the questions are really ridiculous, though. "Is it good to be alive?" is one of my favs, along with, "Do you have anything expensive in your bag?" Whenever I ask something like that, I make sure to add, "Because I want to steal it later." Always gets a laugh. There are lots of questions that I consider invasive or too personal, like "How much was your last phone bill?" "Have you gotten a raise recently?" and ones on religion and other somewhat taboo topics.

The second 40 minutes is typically spent doing new work, which involves actual teaching. Although, again, it's teacher-centered. So, I have to just talk them through things like new vocabulary and grammar structures instead of giving them tasks to do in order to learn the material. Then I ask them the new questions that go with the new work. It can get a bit tedious, as I'm sure you're imagining. I've found that it's significantly more enjoyable if the group I'm teaching has good chemistry. If they are easy to laugh or to make fun of themselves, and there's a good vibe in the room, then it makes my job a lot more fun. If they all sit there stony-faced and bitter...well, it makes for an excruciating 80 minutes, let me tell you.

We constantly rotate groups, so I never teach the same group twice in a week. Working hours vary enormously. I can have a lesson at 7:15am (the taxi to the company where the lesson is held leaves at 6:55, which means I have to be conscious at 5:45 in order to throw on some clothes and make it to school on time) and then not have another until 6:20pm. Days like that are fairly rare, though. Usually, I have at least one lesson in the early afternoon, at 3:20. Still, it is possible to have to work until 9pm. Split shifts are an undeniably annoying aspect of this job.

In direct contrast to my adult lessons, I also teach children. Thankfully, their curriculum and the expected teaching methods to be used with them are much more communicative and student-centered. This still doesn't mean that every class is a treat, unfortunately.

I have two groups that I refer to as "my babies." They are 6 or 7 years old, and each group has about 8 kids on a good day. I dread these classes as much as one can possibly dread 40 minutes of anything. I am simply not a lover of small children, it must be said. There is nothing in my history or personality which indicates a desire to sing the "Hello, hello!" song while dancing around like a retarded Barney. Every time I walk into that classroom, I feel like a giant fraud, like one of the students is going to call me on my shit and say, "Who the hell do you think you are, clapping like an idiot like that? If your friends could only see you now, they would never stop mocking you. Ever." I need students that I can take out for a drink, not students that are only a few years off the tit.

Other than the babies, I also have a group of 12 year olds. I actually enjoy teaching them, even though they occasionally get on my nerves with their constant urge to chatter and annoyingly pubescent attitudes. I often feel like a real teacher when I have them, so that's good for both my resume and self-esteem.

I've only been observed once since starting to teach, and it was, naturally, one of my baby classes. I have each group for 40 minutes, and they're back-to-back. I was going to be observed for only the second half, so I figured that the first lesson would be like a run-through. Oh no, not to be. First, only about half of the kids showed up, and the ones who did come didn't feel like getting out of their damn chairs that day. There is no sadder sight to see than a 32 year old woman dancing alone to the "Hello, hello!" song, let me tell you. The rest of the lesson was like pulling teeth, but the lesson plan did last until the very end of class. Unlike the lesson for which I was observed, where the kids were hyperactive and the lesson plan was finished with 15 minutes left to go. 15 minutes is an eternity with kids this young, especially when one is being observed! So, we ended up playing a couple games with flashcards and the realia I had brought with me to class (basically hide and go seek with the glue stick and pencil case). It was a torture, and I was sweating buckets of frustration and embarrassment by the end. I won't get my feedback until Monday morning, so I guess we'll see how much I'm to be punished.

But, before you start thinking that I must hate my job, I have to say that I really don't. Mostly, I don't hate it because I work with some really excellent people. My fellow teachers and the staff are all my age or younger, from England, America, South Africa, and Poland. It makes for a great working atmosphere, and I do really love just hanging out with them, either at work or some pub (as we seem to do quite a lot, actually).

I feel positive about my job, overall. I'm sure I'll get the hang of the kids' stuff one of these days. But if I ever turn into someone who actually enjoys dancing around like a retarded Barney...please, just shoot me.

Home Sweet Poland

2009-09-26T18:09:00.013+02:00

"Ever since my first trip to Europe. . .my profound desire for home, for the profoundly beautiful nest, the kitchen garden, the friends gathered at my table, for the candlelit baths, and the objects arranged and the books in order, and most of all the sense of *this is my place* -- all that has been at the mercy of an equal force, the desire to shut the door, turn the key, and go."

~Frances Mayes, "A Year in the World"

Frankly, it's as though Frances Mayes was channeling my heart at the moment she wrote that passage. I couldn't possibly have written a better summary of how torn I feel between wanting to create an ideal home, surrounded by those I know and love best, and quenching my urge to immerse myself in a totally foreign culture. Finally, I feel I'm old enough to try combining the two. Poland might not be my dream destination, but for the time being, it's my home. For once, I'm going to settle in.

My apartment in Gliwice isn't as gorgeous as "The Flat", a turn-of-the-century apartment I rented last year in Des Moines. Well, nothing is ever going to live up to the splendor of that apartment, so it's worthless to compare the two. Still, I suppose it is worth mentioning because that apartment was essentially my ideal. Vintage, lots of decorative details like crown molding and built-ins, hardwood floors, and a maid's quarters. Wrought iron elevator. Nice. Here, my apartment is large, but not as sprawling. It has hardwood floors in the bedroom, tile in all other rooms. No decorative anything, but the windows are enormous and let in tons of light. I feel cheerful when I walk in the door, and that counts for a lot.

My first day in Gliwice, the owner of my school brought me here, and I had the privilege of meeting my landlord and lady. They are an elderly Polish couple who speak about 10 words of English between them. She kept calling me "Madame". But it was clear, through the interpretation of my boss, that they are very friendly and quite concerned that I should like the flat and enjoy my time here. Apparently, the previous teacher who lived here ended up treating them rather shabbily, so I am starting from a bit of a deficit.

That day, the introductions and explanations seemed to go on forever, and if you'll recall, I hadn't slept all the way to Poland. All I wanted to do was pass out face first on the nearest piece of furniture, but they just kept talking endlessly with my boss. There was a lot of information to take on board about how things in the apartment worked, such as how to not kill myself by taking a bath with the bathroom door closed (natural gas-powered water heater in the bathroom). After awhile, I was unable to keep smiling and acting thankful, so they got the hint that it was time to leave. But not before Kasia (landlady) made me a cup of instant fruity tea. sigh

In my bedroom, there are actually two twin beds. I have them pushed together to make one bed. I almost fell over when Kasia showed me the bed that first day. The comforter cover and pillowcase on my bed are *Alf*. Yes, Alf, that alien rascal from the 1990s (80s?) tv show! And, even better, it's covered in Alf cartoons where Alf is speaking in German. If you had told me that, as a grown woman, I would sleep with Alf bedding, I would have laughed in your face.

The furniture in the living room is even more out-dated. It's clearly leftover from a buying spree, circa 1975. Green. Shag. On the furniture. Yeah, I don't generally favor carpeting on my chairs and couch, so I took those covers off as soon as I woke up the day after I arrived. Everything is still green, but significantly less itchy. The couch isn't that bad to look at, but it's about as comfortable as a rocky outcrop. I'm going to buy a couple cute pillows for it and call it a day. The two armchairs will require throws of some variety. The previous tenant had two cats that scratched the hell out of them, as well.

Naturally, the curtains in the living room are of the white lace variety that seem to be hanging from every window between here and Poitiers. They make me ill. It's illogical, but I detest them, and have for ages. That I now have them in my home is vomitous, but I'll make do. In fact, my major complaint, as an owner of these wretched things, is that they don't actually block anything out! Sun comes in, great. The people who are always leaning out their windows across the street to ogle everyone, not so great. These curtains have certainly cut down on any naked midnight trips to the fridge I might have been planning.

In my bedroom, there are some more 1970s holdouts for curtains. I wouldn't mind the green, gold, and brown pattern so much if it weren't printed on what looks like very loosely woven burlap. Again, they let in light and the neighbors, although to a lesser extent than the living room curtains.

I have a balcony just off my bedroom where I can hang up laundry. Did I mention I have a new washing machine in my bathroom? It works a treat, and in only 30 minutes (Poitiers washing machine took about 90 minutes). There are lots of wooden furniture pieces around here, so there's a semi-lived in feel, even if they are a bit mismatched. I have a brand new, stainless steel stove. Gas stovetop, electric oven. With a rotisserie, oh yes.

I have a table, no small luxury after living in France for 9 months without one. In fact, I actually have two. One in the dining room/living room and one in my kitchen nook. I also have a full-sized fridge and freezer, also no small luxury.

Overall, I'm extremely happy with this apartment, and I intend to fill it up and decorate it so that it truly reflects me and not the swinging 70s bachelor who apparently decorated it. Once I get paid, a trip to the Ikea down the road will definitely be in order.

I'll leave it at that for today. Details on work to follow!

On the Road Again

2009-09-23T21:12:00.016+02:00

After a summer of waiting and wondering, I have finally arrived in my new home. Poland. Gliwice, to be exact. Wondering how to pronounce it? Yeah, so was I until I got here.

Repeat after me: "Glee-VEE-tsa".

I'm feeling a little irked right now because I wrote out a whole list of topics for this first Polish blog, only to leave the list, along with key school notes, on a shelf near the butcher's counter at my local supermarket. So, I guess I'll just improvise, and we'll see how we go!

My journey began with a long and boring drive to Chicago with my mother. Don't ever let anyone tell you that driving across Nebraska is more boring than a trip through Illinois. They are either a liar or so easily amused that you really shouldn't trust anything they say. It was a misery.

After our long drive, we had the privilege of spending the night at the nicest hotel I have enjoyed outside of a Ritz-Carlton. It was the Hyatt Regency Airport, in case you're in need of a place to stay in the Chicagoland area. The beds were out of this world comfortable and luxurious. It was a wonderful send-off, and a reminder that I was likely to be spending the next year sleeping on a bed of criminally minimal luxury.

Once at the airport, I was humiliated at the check-in desk when one of my bags turned out to be a whole 2 pounds over the limit. I was told to remove 2 pounds or else receive a vicious flogging. Alright, they didn't mention a flogging, but the over-the-limit fee was $150, which is pretty damned close to a flogging...especially for a measly 2 pounds. So, I opened up my suitcase in full view of a long and winding line of annoyed people, looking for something that was both heavy and unimportant. Not a likely combination, really. In the end, I was able to wedge my curling iron and flat iron into my carry-on bag, leaving the suitcase only 1 pound over the limit. The woman grudgingly accepted it, mollified perhaps by my willingness to show all my belongings to the world in order to avoid a $150 fee.

Sweaty and demeaned, I made my way to my flight. And then proceeded to sleep not one single second of its 8 1/2 hour duration. Classic. Even more classic was that my second flight, from Munich to Krakow, was leaving from a gate approximately a mile and a half from my arrival gate. After a refreshing jog through the airport in order to make the boarding call, I was thrilled to discover that the ticket agent had assigned me to a middle seat. So, on a plane the size of my Ford Focus, I had to squeeze myself in between two businessmen, neither of whom looked overwhelmingly happy to see the sweaty fat girl stopping at their aisle. I attempted to use meditation and sheer will to reduce my girth by half, but trying not to breathe for two hours is really a little much. I have never been so glad to get off a plane in my life.

Once in Krakow, I was met by the director of studies from my school. She drove me to Gliwice, where we went immediately to the school. I looked like warmed up ass, and I had to meet my colleagues. Fantastic. In any event, I really only ended up meeting a few people, so all was not lost. The secretaries were so very nice. They had even bought me a little welcome package of groceries to stock my apartment until I could figure out how to go shopping for myself.

After getting keys and a brief orientation, the co-owner of the school drove me to my apartment. I was really keeping my fingers crossed that it was going to be a nice place since I had heard about it in emails from one of the secretaries before I arrived, but hadn't seen any pictures. In the end, it turned out to be a great apartment. The location is quite near to school (a 20 minute stroll), and it's in a nice neighborhood on a quiet street. There are a few grocery stores nearby, including a convenience store on my corner that's open until 11pm (a concept that was literally non-existent in Poitiers). A highly-recommended bakery is at the corner, as well. Bakeries seem to be everywhere here, actually. There must be at least 5 between my apartment and school, but probably more.

At this point, I could write about 10 more pages of stuff about getting settled in here, but it's almost my bedtime. 10pm. Yikes, how the hell did that happen? It's almost like I'm an adult or something...geez. Anyway, I'm sorry to cut this short, but a girl needs her sleep!

In my next post, look for detailed info about my apartment, and my first days at work. Hopefully, I'll have that up quite soon.

Take care everyone!

Modest Accomplishments

2009-08-09T21:13:00.033+02:00

Here follows a list of the things I dreamed about doing while in France, which I have now accomplished upon returning home:

#1 Eat real Mexican food

I arranged to be consuming Mexican food as soon as I walked off the plane, more or less. My family met my mother and I at El Aguila Real about an hour and a half after my plane landed. Oh the enchilada goodness...

#2 Eat a reuben sandwich from The General Store

My favorite reuben sandwich in the history of all sandwiches is made by the lovely folks at The General Store Eatery in Valley Junction. Since I could never find corned beef in Poitiers, I couldn't even begin to make a substitute for this. I had been jonesing for quite some time. It's steamed instead of grilled, as well. Also difficult to imitate. Amazing! This goal was accomplished on Day 2.

#3 Get a pedicure

I went 9 months without a pedicure, and while some people might be saying "Who gives a shit?", for those who usually have a pedicure once every month (or every other month, even), 9 months is a LONG TIME. My feet were looking more like hooves by the time I got home. So, on Day 2, immediately after reuben consumption, it was off to the nail salon.

#4 Eat a Maid-Rite

If you're not from Iowa, you've likely never heard of this tasty treat. It's also called a "loose meat sandwich", which does not sound at all appealing. Basically, it's very finely ground beef on a bun, topped with mustard, onion, and pickle. Ketchup is blasphemous (but I get it anyway). You can get cheese, too, but that's gross. Maid-Rite started in Iowa, but you can find them in a couple different states now, too. Soft and delicately flavored, they are divine.

#5 Bake something--ANYTHING

I didn't have a real oven while in France, so I was desperate to make a baked good of some variety. Baking is a true love of mine, so being without an oven was a special kind of torture for me. I had also been obsessing over a blueberry pie recipe that I saw on the Cook's Illustrated website. In fact, I would conservatively estimate that I watched the video for making that pie about 20 times. Since I arrived in the US just before the 4th of July, I was able to finally make it about a week after returning home. Sweet success!

#6 Get my hair cut

Oh my hair was a wild mane by the time I returned home. In fact, I didn't get it cut once in the 9 months I was gone. Why? Who the hells knows...I mean, I was in France, not Korea. At any rate, I was very pleased to have some of it shorn off on Day 3.

#7 Hang out with my friends

Derek hosted a Welcome Home Shannon Bulgogi BBQ, and it was a cozy good time. Just the way I like it. I really missed hanging out with people who know me of old.

#8 Eat my grandma's spaghetti and meatballs

The smell of my grandma's spaghetti and meatballs cooking is the scent that permeates more of my childhood memories than any other. I can make it on my own, but it's never quite the same as hers. I tried to make it in France once, but the meatballs refused to stick together and became more of a "meatball crumble". Not exactly the effect I was hoping to achieve.

#9 Road trip to eat at Farmer's Kitchen and to get the best cream horns in the world

I read about Farmer's Kitchen while in France, as this supposedly amazing hole-in-the-wall place where the food is all made from scratch with local ingredients. This is somewhat hard to come by in Iowa (with a few notable exceptions in Des Moines). Also, I was dying to have a cream horn pastry from this tiny shop in a little nothing town, known only for its antique shopping (which is how I found the bakery in the first place).

So, my mother and I drove about an hour and half to get to these towns (right next to each other, as luck would have it). The Farmer's Kitchen was just as amazing as promised. I had their famous hot beef sandwich with a cup of their award-winning chili to start and a slab of chocolate peanut butter pie to finish. Not that I actually finished the pie. It weighed about 3 pounds and contained more sugar than 4 humans should consume in one day. I took home more than half of it, and never even finished it in the end. What a waste...it was so good.

The cream horns were amazing, as ever. Good thing we pre-ordered some because they were all sold out by the time we got there. Another pure sugar treat, but this time light as air. Yum.

#10 Go to the farmer's market

The farmer's market in Poitiers was pretty beast, but I love the markets here. For starters, we have a farmer's market somewhere in the metro area on almost every day of the week, and several of those are in the evening. This is perfect for working folks and lazy people--like me--who don't fancy getting up with the roosters in order to buy tomatoes. I haven't yet been to the enormous downtown market on Saturday morning, but I have been to the Thursday evening market in Valley Junction. It's just as nice, but less chaotic. Also, it has my favorite random market treat, a vegetable cutlet from the Indian lady's booth. It's always my first stop.

The Too Rapid Passage of Time

2009-07-28T05:36:00.021+02:00

Well, it's been a little over a month since I arrived in Des Moines, yet it feels as though I just got off that United flight from Paris only yesterday. I've been filling my days mostly with the comforting things that I missed while in France. Satellite TV, favorite foods, driving too fast on the freeway with my stereo blasting, spending time with friends and family...but not necessarily in that order.

The weekend in Paris was a great send-off. I had been really sweating it out that last week in Poitiers, getting ready to vacate my apartment, making arrangements to get rid of all my shit, meeting up with friends one last time. Frantic would be an apt description. Also sweaty.

Eventually, Friday rolled around and it was time to check out with my realtor, Sylvie. She was so great with helping me to secure the apartment, and she was equally great on that final day. Sad to see her go. And sad to walk out of that apartment for the last time. I looked over my shoulder at the little river, the blank walls, the tiny kitchenette. For a moment, I felt the pang of what it meant to give this place up. The dreams left behind there. But then I remembered that I'd be on a plane back home in three days, seeing my family, eating real Mexican food...and the thought cheered me immensely.

After leaving my apartment, I headed straight to Alice's apartment, relatively unencumbered by crap to carry. Thankfully, I had moved my two behemoth suitcases to her place earlier in the day. Or rather, I had alternately pushed and pulled them up her hill, in constant danger of either being flattened by them or dragged to a messy end.

That evening, we went to a concert of centuries-old classical music, held in a small chapel near the cathedral. Two cello-like instruments and a harpsichord. I'm not the biggest fan of the harpsichord, but it was actually quite lovely. A sweet end to my time in Poitiers.

We barely got any sleep that night. Alice went to a second classical concert just outside of Poitiers, so she didn't get back until around 11pm (and the sound at the concert was distorted and too soft, so that was shitty for her since she was so excited to hear this particular artist). Then we had to be up around 5:30am in order to get ready to catch the bus to the train station. Breakfast featured a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for each of us. By the way, I have never seen a non-American scarf up a PB&J sandwich so quickly in my life. Nice work, Alice!

And so, to Paris.

It's no secret that I'm not a particular fan of the City of Lights. It's a bit too mad for me. Frenetic, really. I'm certainly too provincial for Parisian standards, but as I said to Alice at one point, there are so many hideous tourists there, I don't stand out in too mortifying a manner.

I really had no specific plans for the weekend, other than that I wanted to go to Poilâne, the world-famous bakery so highly recommended by the likes of chef Ina Garten (of Barefoot Contessa fame). Beyond that, I was open to suggestion--up to a point. I had no intention of hiking around the city, getting blisters and detesting every moment. In the end, Alice and I kept it pretty low key. We were staying at the apartment of my Danish friend, Birgitte, who had very generously loaned it to me while she was gone that weekend. So, while we were happy to stay in and play cards and just chat, there were a few activities out in Paris that were on our list.

First thing on Saturday, we met up with her brother at the train station on his way to Belgium. We only enjoyed a brief visit, but it was nice to meet this elusive brother, especially since he's as big of a "West Wing" fan as Alice and I! After meeting Giles, we navigated the Métro to Poilâne. I have a tremendous hatred of the Paris Métro, but that day it was actually nice to us. Not too many steps, no hiking through a stadium's worth of tunnels to get to our train, fairly short waiting times. My best experience with that bitch yet.

Poilâne was overflowing with a lunchtime crowd, their tiny dining room spilling would-be customers out into the street. We waited cheerfully in line behind them, killing time by studying the menu posted in the window. Poilâne's café specializes in "tartine", which is a toasted, thin slice of their famous sourdough bread covered in a modest array of toppings. I ended up ordering the tartine with roasted tomato sauce, goat cheese, and basil. It was also lightly broiled in order to melt the cheese. Pure heaven. Alice got hers with guacomole and shrimp. Not so heavenly for a non-seafood person such as myself, but it did look like a work of art.

On Sunday was the real highlight of the trip: The Musée d'Orsay. As a fan of the Impressionists, I had been wanting to go there for quite some time; but it was actually Alice who had the idea to go that day. The Louvre gets all the fame, but if you like Impressionism, the best stuff is honestly at the d'Orsay.

As we came up out of the Métro, we could see the entrance line winding around in front of the building, and I definitely had a moment of "Fuck this." But, we had come all that way, and I really did want to go in, so we sweated it out in line. As luck would have it, we were right behind an older American couple from Phoenix. [I know they were from Phoenix because, as is the way with most Americans, we got to chatting rather quickly. That is definitely something I love about my fellow countrymen; we are usually friendly and tend to open up quickly, even to strangers. And, in most circumstances, we can call each other by our first names more or less immediately, not always a given in other parts of the world (even France). I really love how Americans can be so unreserved...it makes me rather proud, I must say. It can have its downsides, but for the most part, it's a positive aspect of our nature.]

After waiting in line for only about 20 minutes, we were in the door and ready to sit at the feet of the masters. Well, I was. Alice isn't so much a fan of Impressionism, so she accompanied me to all of the gallery rooms, but was not particularly engaged in seeing the actual art (also, she had been there before). For me, it was a surreal experience to walk down a hallway--not even an actual gallery--and see one of my absolute favorite Monet pieces ("Poppies, Near Argenteuil") just hanging there as if it were in my grandma's living room. I mean, I had a poster of it in my room in Seoul. It was my poster come to life...unbelievable! It immediately reduced me to a yammering tourist. "Do you see that?? It's Monet! I had that as a poster!! Holy shit!"

It just got better from there, if that's even possible. We kept walking past masterpiece after masterpiece; it simply never ended. In one room, I turned a corner and was suddenly face to face with Whistler's Mother. In another, I saw a small semi-circle gathered around a painting; as I got closer, I could see it was Van Gogh's "Starry Night". Other than Monet's Poppies, that was my favorite painting of the day. No poster could ever do it justice. It was enchanting, pure brilliance. I could have stood there and stared at it for an immeasurable length of time. It was luminescent and instantly drew one in. I have perhaps never seen such a perfect definition of "work of art."

After ooing and aahing my way through the museum, it was time to complete the final errand of the day. My Uncle Pete had made me promise to have my picture taken drinking an aperitif at a café on the Left Bank. I think he was imagining a café overlooking the river, but none really exist. So, once Alice and I left the museum (itself a former train station located on the Left Bank), I posed for a picture by the Seine river, and then we walked for awhile until we saw an acceptable café in which to have an aperitif (and lunch). Lunch wasn't too bad, and I got the required photo. Mission accomplished!

Since we had mostly hiked around all day, I volunteered to pay for a taxi back to the apartment. Naturally, we ended up getting stuck behind a massive cycling race. Still, it was cool to drive right next to the Eiffel Tour and the Arc de Triomphe. We were soon back in the apartment, where we played some more Nertz and talked until it was time for Alice's train home and a teary farewell.

The next morning, I was up at the crack of dawn to catch the shuttle I had pre-arranged to take me to the airport. There I was, sitting on my suitcase outside of Birgitte's apartment...waiting. And no one was showing up. Of course. Luckily for me, Birgitte had come home late the night before, and was also up that morning to go to work. So, when she came outside and saw that I was still sitting there, getting increasingly nervous, she called the company for me. Turns out that they had no idea where the driver was, and that I would be reimbursed for my ticket. But in the meantime, how was I going to get to the damn airport?? Birgitte called for a taxi, which meant that I'd have to pay about 40 Euros to get to the airport (as opposed to just 28 with the shuttle). But, as goes the story of my life, once the driver got there, he said he couldn't take me all the way to the airport. Instead, he said he had to meet his daughter in 30 minutes, so he could only take me to a taxi stand. Naturally. He didn't charge me for the trip to the taxi stand, thankfully, and I was soon into another taxi and on my way to the airport. What sweet relief.

At the airport, I was terrified of my bags being over the limit (fee: 150 Euros per bag for being over), but they both just barely squeaked in under the line. I hadn't been able to check in online the night before, and had thus been relegated to a middle seat. As a big girl, that was never going to work for me (or my seatmates), so I had to pay 60 Euros extra to upgrade to an aisle seat in Economy Plus. Totally worth it for the extra legroom, I must say.

I almost died carrying my backpack around with me that day. Good thing they never weigh your carry-on baggage, because my backpack must have weighed an easy 40 pounds. I had 5 pounds of French raw milk butter in there with me, for starters! Plus tons of shit that I was afraid would put my suitcases over the limit. By the time I made the plane transfer in Chicago and then at home in Des Moines, my shoulders were stippled with broken blood vessels from carrying the weight of that damned bag. Never again. Oh, and one favorite moment from the airport in Chicago: I wanted to call home, but didn't have a working cell phone. So, I tried to use a payphone with some of the quarters I had left over from when I came to France. Except the payphones wouldn't except money! I would have had to use a phone card or credit card! These weren't even fancy new payphones where you could put the card right into the machine. Oh no, these were straight out of the 80s. And still, wouldn't take actual money. I had to call collect and then have my mother call the phone back. Ridiculous.

But, I was soon home in Des Moines and happy to see my family and friends. Being away from home for so long makes me appreciate them even more. Although...as the summer is wearing on, so is my patience for family life. I'm looking forward to the move to Poland, even though I know I'll miss them all again as soon as I'm on the plane. Just one of the paradoxes of living a life so far from your loved ones...

Sultry Iowa Days

2009-07-10T18:53:00.001+02:00

So, I've been home for almost two weeks, and time has been passing in alternating waves of snail and lightening speed. My family welcomed me with open arms and a list of shit they needed done. Apparently, my mother doesn't trust herself to change the lightbulb in the hallway, and so has been living with it dark for god knows how many weeks/months. *sigh* So, I've been used and abused by her and my grandma for doing odds & ends jobs...but nothing too back-breaking. The weather, although gorgeous when I first arrived, has segued into cool mornings and sultry days. With my mother's stubborn approach to running the air conditioning, I'm having flashbacks to my time in aircon-free, sweaty France. Ugh.

Another thing that's been driving me to the brink of alcoholism is my mother's incessant need to know where I'm going and what I'm doing and who was that who just called me and was that my email notification that just went off and on and on and on. I'm finding it extremely difficult to abandon my usual freedom to the demands of my snoopy mother. Which is not to say that I think I should abandon it; on the contrary, I'm fighting it tooth and nail. And while I hate being subject to the Mom Inquisition, I also hate feeling like I'm ready to snap at any moment. I just want my peace and quiet and autonomy back.

On a more positive note, I've really enjoyed hanging out with my friends. Derek had a "Welcome Back Shannon" dinner, for which he made his famous bulgogi (Korean BBQ). I've really missed hanging out with all of those guys, so it was a real treat to be able to interact with them personally, as opposed to just on Facebook.

My weekend looks to be fairly interesting, with a cookout tomorrow (making my new favorite tomato dish, Tomato Crumble [recipe from a cookbook I got at a chateau near Saintes]) and an outing to a special dance club in the evening. Sunday will be a movie with my dad, grandma's spaghetti dinner, and then another movie with dad.

Fun times ahead. Also, need to update on here about my last days/nights in France. Coming soon. :-)

Changes abound...

2009-07-01T05:54:00.002+02:00

So! I'm officially back in Des Moines. Lots to share about my last days in Poitiers, my last weekend in Paris, the trip home, and my re-entry into midwest living. But, too much jet lag at this particular moment to concentrate on writing it all! More to follow soon...

Fête de la Musique

2009-06-22T01:23:00.006+02:00

Every June 21st, France has the good sense to celebrate the art of song with a day dedicated to music. This year, the 21st happened to fall on a balmy Sunday, so the streets were thronged with revelers.

The general idea is that various music acts perform at random locations throughout the city. There are large displays in the major gathering spaces and small ensembles dotting the streets. One is at leisure to wander as one may, enjoying different performances and then moving on at will.

As all of my friends were either out of town or holed up in preparation for the most important exam of their lives, I was on my own for this year's fête. I decided to start off with the 4:30pm acrobatic performance (accompanied by a wailing ensemble of various orchestra instruments) at the Hôtel de Ville. I got a seat at a sidewalk café and settled in for some people watching--and the people did not disappoint. I saw a woman in the most ballooning pair of parachute pants I ever care to witness, as well as stilt-walkers and an 80 year old lady who looked as if she were dressed up as Marilyn Monroe for Halloween but was clearly just in her normal attire (curly blond wig included). Heavens.

Eventually, the performance started and was more or less over in the same breath. After much preparation of microphones and tightropes and the French version of "testing, testing, 1,2,3", the entire show consisted of one man doing some tightrope walking. It was interesting, and certainly admirable, but not astounding. Many people, including yours truly, were videotaping the 10 minute experience on their various pieces of electronica...and I couldn't help but think that we were all imagining how much cooler it would be if we managed to be shooting at the exact moment his foot made an unfortunate slip. sigh Better luck next year, I guess.

After all that excitement, I decided to walk around a bit in the general direction of my apartment. I was happy witness to a grunge band, a jazz ensemble tooting out "When the Saints Go Marching In", and an emo singer wailing mournfully, with Notre Dame la Grande as his backdrop. The larger shows weren't going to be starting for a couple hours, and I hadn't eaten dinner, so I hightailed it home at that point. Pausing to be a shameless tourist with my camera as I went, happy to have an excuse to get last minute pictures of this city I have come to truly love.

I got home and made some dinner (packaged mushroom ravioli and a salad). Unfortunately, I got sick almost immediately afterward (damned food poisoning) and ended up staying home the rest of the night. I could hear reveling in the distance, so I really regret not being able to go to the concert by the cathedral that I had planned to attend. Perhaps next lifetime...

Also accomplished today--the submission of my signed contract to the school in Poland. Plus, I've been doing more research on Gliwice, and everyone seems to have great things to say about it. And I found out that they have both a TESCO and a Géant, so I should be able to get most of the "foreign" ingredients I require...a major factor in my day-to-day cooking happiness.

Things are looking up!

Gainful Employment

2009-06-20T19:04:00.008+02:00

After searching for months, turning over every stone, and existing in a state of continual disappointment, I have--at last--secured a job. Is it my dream job? No. Is it in my dream location? Hardly. Will it provide me with cheap and easy access to Europe while paying me a livable wage? Yes. Well...just.

Poland.

The name doesn't exactly call up a flickering reel of winsome images and a rollicking good time. In my mind, Poland is most quickly associated with war. And pierogies. And bad jokes. Still, Poland is one of a bare handful of European countries still happy to employ the occasional American. I feel profoundly lucky to have been granted an extension of my European life, through whichever channel it has come.

Tomorrow afternoon, I will submit the signed contract and required accompanying documents that will bind me, for 9 months, to an English-only school in Gliwice. That's the name of my future home, and I admit that I'm not quite sure how to pronounce it. I think it's like Gli-vits-uh. Maybe. At any rate, it seems nice...rather like Poitiers in size and scope. Probably not as appealing, but still medieval and charming in its way. I've combed through the relevant online forums at eslcafe.com and most people have good things to say about it. And about the school (although there is considerable debate over the teaching methods they use...more on that once I actually have to start using them myself!).

So, I've notified my family, and they all seem to be taking it pretty well. My grandmother, infamous for her crazy, anti-travel comments, came up with real gem. As if I could ever doubt that she would. Upon hearing that my newest adventure will be taking place in Poland, she said, "Poland! Why do you want to go there? What if they try to keep you there because they think you're a spy??" Classic. Almost as good as when I told her I was in the running for an island job in Mexico. For that one, the first words out of her mouth were, "An island! They're going to want you to go swimming in the ocean and a shark could bite off your leg!!" I would never have thought of that scenario if I had purposely sat for five hours trying to conjure up horrible things that might befall me in Mexico. And it was the very first thing that sprang to her mind. I'm telling you people, that woman exists in a whole other-terrifying-dimension.

But god love her, she only wants what's best for me. Which, to her mind, would include moving back to Des Moines (preferably right next door to her) and never leaving again, ever. My grandmother's dream job for me begins and ends with a cubicle at Wells Fargo. No thanks. I have lived the life of a cubicle dweller in Des Moines. I don't feel the need to repeat the experience.

So, onwards and upwards! In one week's time, I'll be heading to Paris to spend the weekend there before catching my flight to Des Moines on Monday morning. But, I have a lot of shit to do here before I can even start dreaming of being home.

The most important thing is that I now know my next step...and that is such an ungodly relief!

American Brunch

2009-06-15T19:05:00.011+02:00

Yesterday morning, I had the pleasure of making an American brunch for one of the Indian girls I've come to know here in Poitiers. The idea was first put forth by a mutual friend, a fellow Iowa lady, in fact. Whether or not one can truly make an American brunch in France is a point to be debated, but we certainly did the best we could.

Yours truly made hashed browns (cubed, not shredded, with onion and parsley) and cream biscuits. The hashed browns turned out beautifully, if I do say so myself (and without a picture), but the biscuits were definitely on the squat and dense side. I like to blame the differences between American and French flour whenever something like this happens...or possibly the baking powder. Or the humidity. Some force other than myself was clearly responsible for those leaden biscuits! Actually, they weren't all that bad...just not as light and fluffy as they are when I make them back in the States. Still, since the Indian girl had no previous experience with biscuits, she thought they were great. And did I mention that I made homemade apricot jam to go with them? That definitely helped wash them down, in my opinion.

After we scarfed down my hashed browns and biscuits, it was time for the other ladies to make their contribution: pancakes. Of course, these were the Iowa girl's suggestion. The Indian girl had never made them before, so it was a bonus for her to both make and eat them. They did a great job, and the pancakes were very fluffy (different baking powder, aha!). I haven't had American style pancakes since coming to France, so just the smell of these was heaven. We also had real maple syrup to top them off. The little pancake shown in the picture even had corn in it. (Can you tell that two of us are from Iowa?) For drinks, we had milk and grape juice, but the juice was just a little...odd. Dark violet rather than blackish purple. Certainly, it didn't hold a candle to the punch-in-the-mouth, intoxicatingly tart-velvet experience of Welch's grape juice. Gotta love those Concord grapes.

Aside from the blasphemous absence of bacon (the other two ladies are vegetarians-but you can't get real American bacon here, anyway), and some would say eggs (I don't like them, myself), I think we did a damn good job of showing off some of the finer points of a traditional American morning feast. It made me feel nostalgic for home, which is good, since I'm going back there in exactly two weeks.

And you can bet I'll be trying those biscuits again once I get home, this time with the right flour!

One of those Jane Austen days...

2009-06-10T14:53:00.002+02:00

"...it was a quick succession of busy nothings till the carriage came to the door..." ~Mansfield Park

Sometimes it seems as though I spend my life doing exactly that: killing time while waiting for something better or more interesting or more valid to come along. I call it "treading water". I've done it with jobs, with school, with love interests. And although it has sometimes paid off in the end (going to Korea after languishing in a call center job for 9 months, moving to France after spending a year in Des Moines at another call center job), I can't seem to get myself into a frame of mind where I am moving perpetually forward toward a goal which satisfies me.

Right now, for example, I'm busy applying for teaching jobs in Europe. And busy getting rejected either on the grounds of not having EU working papers or enough experience. This has been an almost overwhelmingly dispiriting process, but I struggle on because the only real alternatives I can see are either finding another shit job in Des Moines or going back to Korea. There are schooling options in there, too, I guess. But I really don't need any more school loans! So, staring down the reality of Korea, I must continue hoping that some job in Europe will come through.

And yet, I don't really want to teach. That goal does not satisfy me for the long term. I want to write. Travel writing, obviously. I have enough material (as cataloged on this website) that I could put together a book proposal, or even just some magazine article proposals. But I don't. Fear of success? Hard work? Rejection? Probably all three. Although, I do feel much closer these days to actually making progress on the writing front. Just collecting all of my stuff together in this blog has helped me feel more prepared to take on the challenge of chasing my dream job.

I suppose I'm feeling a bit on the melancholy side today because it's raining. Again. Pissing down rain all day. Naturally, I have plans for tonight, so all I can hope at this point is that the rain will move on sometime in the next 4.5 hours. I hate walking in the rain, and I don't have a car. Perfect combo. I can't even be a lazy bum and cancel because it's a special Indian dinner for which I pre-registered and must pay 12€. Anyway, fingers crossed that the rain lets up long enough for me to find my way to the Indian girl's apartment...

Even as I write this, I see rays of sunshine poking out of the clouds, so hope springs eternal!

Veni, vidi,vici

2009-06-08T19:17:00.003+02:00

Wow, today I actually left my apartment and got some shit done! This isn't always the case, sadly. In an unemployed state, I tend to stay home and be a lazy bum as opposed to using my abundant free time to accomplish goals and develop new hobbies. No gardening and book clubs for me...more like sleeping 15 hours a day and watching reruns of Law & Order.

Still, I had no choice but to leave my apartment today as my rent was slightly past due. Mind you, it's the last rent I'll ever pay here, so I could give a fuck if it's three days late. Luckily for me, it stopped raining by mid-afternoon, so I actually felt chipper as I stepped out into the Poitiers sunshine and headed into town.

I almost enjoy paying rent as it gives me a chance to chat with my real estate agent, Sylvie, who helped me tremendously when I first arrived here. She was equally sweet today. Rent paid and final check-out appointment set up, I stopped at one of my favorite bakeries to get a loaf of bread for dinner (and a pain au chocolat for a pre-dinner treat). I never feel more French than when I'm walking around in the late afternoon with a baguette in hand like everyone else here. It always makes me smile. I also stopped at the tabac to buy an envelope and stamp so that I could mail a bill while I was in town. I was just getting all kinds of shit done.

Once I got back home, I decided to really kick it up a notch and investigate my options for canceling my internet and electricity. As luck would have it, I'll be able to do both of those online. Thank god. I thought for sure I'd have to phone in (let's not lie--have one of my friends call for me because my French is shit, particularly my phone French) and calling customer service lines here is always costly. It is, no kidding, about .30 euro cents/minute. That's almost .50 cents US. WTF?? Anyway, it appears there will be no need to submit myself to mugging by telephone.

Needless to say, I've just been kicking ass and taking names today. In fact, I think I'll finish up by making a Tomato Crumble for dinner. I found the recipe in a little cookbook I bought at a château a couple weeks ago. Only good recipe in the whole damn book, but I'm glad I got it. I would never have thought to do a savory crumble, but this one is amazing.

Yum yum yum...

Snow Day

2009-06-07T01:47:00.010+02:00

So, in addition to being a currently unemployed ESL teacher, I'm also a part-time grad student. I'm doing an online master's in curriculum design and ESL, and I have a little less than a year to go. I suck at making myself do the work. There are a million other bullshit things I'd rather be doing than writing a paper about the transferability of curriculum or horizontal articulation issues. Christ. Do you really expect me to waste my time on this drivel?? Days of Our Lives is on!

[Ok, I'd like it to be known that I categorically deny watching any Days of Our Lives episodes since about 1998.]

Anyway, tonight I have a paper I'm supposed to be writing. I have no job, I do mostly nothing but computer shit all day...why didn't I do this paper like a week in advance? I have no earthly idea. But, I think it all comes down to the theory of the "snow day".

Remember those? I grew up in Iowa, so we had plenty. Snow days were like gifts from god, and hopefully delivered on a big test day. It was always such a glorious experience... Waking up in the pre-dawn, exhausted and already defeated just by having to be awake at such an ungodly, sunless hour in the dead of winter. Then, gradually hearing the morning news playing on the living room TV, my mom watching to see if we would have to struggle to school that day. (She was a teacher, so her excitement for snow days almost rivaled that of me and my brother.) Eventually, I would sit up and peek out my window to inspect the carnage and then join my mom in the living room. Waiting, waiting, waiting as the alphabetical list of closed or delayed schools scrolled along the bottom of the screen. Then, a whoop of joy when my school's name finally appeared!

Of course, by this time, we were all awake enough to be hungry. So, my mom would make us some breakfast (a rarity, as we usually ate at my grandma's while my mom headed to school early). She might even make us hot chocolate, from scratch, if we promised to be quiet and let her go back to bed for awhile.

Eventually, around noon, we would usually walk to a nearby diner for lunch. What shitty, greasy food. But the fun of tromping through knee-high snow, in the middle of the street no less, was too much of an adventure to miss out on. And we were young enough to enjoy the pleasure of hanging out with our mom in the middle of the day on a random winter Tuesday.

I miss those times now.

But getting back to my theory of the "snow day" factor, the bottom line is that there is no greater pleasure than being told one need not do what one was anticipating must be done. You had a big test today? Forget about it, it's a snow day! Therefore, when I'm in a situation (such as having to write an annoying paper) in which I can create an excuse for myself as to why I can put the required action off, even for a short period of time...well, then it's like having a snow day! It's such a relief to not have to do what I was dreading, it actually becomes quite an addictive feeling.

Sadly, I have mastered the art of the snow day, as evidenced by my shocking lack of personal motivation in my studies. Even as I write this, I'm considering just going to bed and waking up early to write my paper in order to turn it in by 9.

*sigh*

Brand spanking new

2009-06-04T20:49:00.000+02:00

I am a blogging failure. I love to write, I'm good at it, and yet I cannot seem to keep at it for more than a couple months at a time. I don't know why that should be, honestly. I think it must be something to do with the fact that I subconsciously demand perfection in my writing these days. Well, not perfection, exactly, but I just have a more heightened consciousness that writing is how I enter the world. Therefore, my brain shouts out that my writing should be a pure and true reflection of me, and it had better damn well be type-o free. Of course, no one is perfect, but my innate Virgo tendency toward perfection keeps me from just writing whatever comes out of my brain on a daily basis. I don't like being judged. And yet it's impossible to show one's writing to the world and not be judged. I manage the pain; I don't relish it as others do. I like to take my time, craft lovely turns of phrase, and proofread everything about a dozen times until I'm sure that my writing can be criticized as little as possible. Not exactly conducive to producing reams of material.

Still, I am always thinking about what I'd like to write. I experience a situation and immediately think of how I could describe it to my friends or family. I've had the enormous privilege of living and working in France for the past 8 months, and so many truly magical moments have passed by me, never captured in writing. Since I tend to have a memory like a sieve, I think it's best if I sucked up my embarrassment at not being able to hold down a steady blog, and just tried to keep writing for the sake of memorializing my own history.

No promises. No pressure. No perfection required.

In fact, as of right now, I've told no one about this blog. Not my best friend, not my mom. And I think I'll keep it that way for awhile. I'd like to get my blog legs under me before I let everyone in on the secret. If you've stumbled across this blog somehow...welcome. I don't regret your being here, not at all. You might even be witness to a miracle. The miracle of me writing here on a regular basis, and not quitting in two months' time. Feel free to send me comments if you like, but please be gentle!

France Pictures--Alice's House

2009-05-20T18:56:00.002+02:00

I recently took a trip to the home of my French friend, Alice. Here are some pics:

Alice's House

Alice's House, part 2

Italy Pictures

2009-03-07T17:11:00.002+01:00

Click here to see my best pics from Italy:

Italy Pictures

Arrivederci Roma‏

2009-03-06T15:09:00.002+01:00

So, as I recall, I was rudely cut off by the Internet cafe man at the end of our last email together! And then, I didn't have any time the following morning to finish up. Consequently, I'm actually writing this final email from the comfort of my futon in sweet, sweet Poitiers.

We left off at St. Peter's Basilica, so just to sum up: WOW. UNBELIEVABLE.

I walked around the church for quite awhile in quiet contemplation of the staggering majesty. Eventually, I decided that I wanted to go down into the tomb area so that I could see the tomb of Pope John Paul II. Unfortunately for me, this is the precise moment that the weather kicked into a high gear downpour, and there was a 100 foot uncovered expanse of slippery marble to navigate in order to get there. I tried to wait it out, but the wind was as fierce and unrelenting as the rain. Eventually, I rolled up my pant legs, opened my umbrella, and just took the beating, mumbling "this had better be worth it" over and over again as I swam my way to the door. In fact, it was worth it to see the tomb of the pope I grew up with, but the others weren't particularly interesting. I was sad to note that the modern popes don't get intricately carved designs like the old popes, but rather very simple marble slabs. It was nice to be able to personally pay my respects to Pope John Paul II, though. I wanted to stand by his tomb for awhile and mentally scan through my memories of him, but there was a guard there who eyed me like I was a creepy pope stalker, so I moved on sooner than I would have liked.

After the Vatican, I was thoroughly exhausted, both mentally and emotionally. I decided to catch the bus back to my hostel and free pasta/wine night. The pasta was wretchedly dry and flavorless, but again, free. That day had been notable for two reasons: seeing wonderful historical marvels and getting completely ripped off at the restaurants I had ventured to for breakfast and lunch, so I was due a little free food, even if it was horrible. In fact, let's take a moment here to discuss restaurants in Rome.

I had intended great food to be the centerpiece of this trip. I mean...Italy=Great Food, right? Well, sometimes, but not necessarily great service. This was one of the most stunning realizations for me, actually. The wonderfully friendly and charming Italian-Americans I grew up with were not much like the modern Italians I encountered on this trip. Particularly in Bologna, but even in Rome, there was just a lack of good customer service and an all-pervading sense of trying to squeeze as much money out of tourists as possible.

Case in point: the morning I went to the Colosseum and Vatican, I stopped at the pasticceria that I saw on my first day in Rome, the one with the cannoli shrine. I decided to have a cappuccino, a cannoli, and then I thought I ordered another sweet but must have pointed incorrectly and ended up with a disgusting marzipan confection. At other cafes I had been to, a cappuccino and pastry cost about 5 or 6 Euros total. At the fancy pastry shop where I had gotten a cannoli and another pastry, it was 4.50 for the two. So, imagine my surprise when the elderly waiter brought my bill for 12 Euros!! For a cappuccino and 2 pastries. 4 Euros apiece. I was fuming. 12 Euros on breakfast! And a shitty one at that. The cannoli were not nearly as tasty as the window shrine would lead one to believe, let me tell you!

Another case in point: the same day, I went to lunch at a small trattoria just outside the Vatican. They didn't have a printed menu, just a handwritten menu, in Italian, on a blackboard. I got the squash risotto and was forced to also get a bottle of mineral water (again with the no tap water). The waiter asked if I would like some bread, and so I said sure. I ate one slice of the four that came in the basket; it was stale and crappy bread. The risotto was delicious, though, so I was busy congratulating myself on finding a nice restaurant for once when the waiter brought my bill, which included a 3 Euro charge for the bread. My head almost blew off my shoulders when I saw that. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach, taken for a fool, and slapped in the face. I flagged the waiter down and asked him about the charge, which he had neglected to mention. I was pissed I had even eaten one slice of it because then I couldn't even demand he remove the charge due to my not eating it. He told me that they have to charge for the bread because the owner requires it. I told him, "I understand that you want to charge for the bread, my problem is that you didn't tell me there would be a charge at all. You just offered the bread to me. In America, bread is given for free, and I think you know that, and you use that to take advantage of tourists." He just shrugged and said, "I'm sorry." I said, "I don't think you are, but oh well." I was fuming. Still, I had eaten out of the basket and felt I had to pay for it. Not wanting it to go completely to waste, I offered it to the only other table of people in the room, a sweet young Japanese couple. They were surprised and happy to have it. However, I walked out of that restaurant feeling like the world's biggest idiot, practically near tears. It absolutely affected my mood for the rest of the day.

To top it all off, I got back to my hostel to discover that the maid that morning had somehow gotten the impression that I had vacated the premises (I suppose it might be difficult to keep track when there are 4 beds in a room) and threw away my 2.50 Euro International Herald Tribune newspaper that I had only read 1/4 of and was saving for my late night layover in Paris. After how much I had been cheated that day, it just made me lose it. I was on this trip on a fucking shoestring budget, and here I had blown so much money so stupidly, and then the maid threw away my $3 newspaper!! I just cried like a baby. And as I was crying, I was saying to myself, "Shannon, you are one step away from completely losing your mind. Crying over a fucking NEWSPAPER. If you are so fucking poor, get your ass back to Korea and quit complaining." sigh It was not a banner moment for me. After I regained my composure, I went to the internet cafe to write you guys and then came back to take a steaming hot shower (I had finally secured a towel from the owner, as the front desk chick still had no clue about anything other that her Facebook status). After my shower, I was slipping around the bathroom floor, so I went to put my sandals on. And realized they were gone. The maid had taken them, too. I was so stunned, I didn't even know what to do. I have had those sandals for years, they have traveled the world with me, they have tremendous sentimental importance for me. And they were gone. I imagined them rotting in some landfill somewhere and my stomach turned. I pictured having a violent come to Jesus meeting with the owner, Frank. Or screaming at the maid, who obviously had a complete lack of common sense. But, it was late, and all I had the strength to do was fall into bed and hope for a better tomorrow.

In the morning (Tuesday), I took my sweet time getting ready. Makeup, pinning up my hair with a mass of bobby pins (which, Jennifer, turned out pretty sweet, if I do say so myself--even though I cheated by holding up half of it with a ponytail holder), the works. Thank god I did, because the maid showed up early, and I was able to interrogate her as to the whereabouts of my newspaper and sandals. After a moment, it clicked in her mind and she started saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry! The sandals are in the office! I'm sorry, I threw away the newspaper. I'm so sorry! I'll bring the sandals back today!" What sweet relief... After that heartwarming experience, my luck with customer service really turned around, and from that point forward, the rest of my time in Rome was spent being helped mostly by friendly and courteous people.

Tuesday was my last day in Rome, for all intents and purposes, so I wanted it to be good. I started off by going to the Campo di Fiori, the main farmer's market. It was drizzling, but not in an overly-annoying way, so I happily walked amongst the stalls. It was mostly vegetables on sale, and not too many vendors, but there were a few cheese and meat booths. I decided to buy some Parmigiano Reggiano off this old lady. Well. I asked her, "Parmigiano Reggiano?" And she (translation) said, "Yes, how much?" I said, "200 grams." This is just a small wedge; I'm going home in the morning, after all. I just want it for the pasta dinner I'm planning to make myself that night. So, she cuts off a piece and weighs it, "400 ok?" she says. "No, 200 please." Cuts it again, "350 ok?" No, but at this point, she won't cut it anymore and I'm forced to buy it. Jump ahead to that night when I get home and unwrap it, only to discover that this bitch sold me Grana Padano, a kind of poor man's Parmigiano. Argh. Anyway, the other vendors who sold me gorgeous tomatoes, basil (the whole plant, roots and all, which I brought back here with me), baby artichokes, and a spice mix for arrabiata pasta sauce, were charming and very helpful.

On my way out of the market, I stopped at a bakery and bought another one of those cream-filled pastries and found out that they are a special treat for the feast of St. Guiseppe. This was the best one I had while I was in Rome, so I was especially pleased. After this brief treat, it was off to the Piazza Navona. Really not much to see there, except that it seems like it would be lovely on a warm summer's night. The fountains were great.

Next stop was the Pantheon. Frankly, after seeing St. Peter's Basilica, I was vastly underwhelmed by the Pantheon. I know that it's exceedingly ancient (126 AD, compared to St. Peter's 1626), and that alone makes its construction a triumph...but I just had a feeling like, "Well, isn't that nice..." as opposed to, "Take me home now, Lord." I took the requisite pictures, waited to see if it would rain through the giant oculus in the roof, and then went off to my next stop: gelato.

I originally intended to go to the exceptionally famous "San Crispino" gelatteria, but it didn't happen. Couldn't find the bastard, even though I had its exact street address fresh off their website. But, no matter because I had a backup gelato plan--Giolitti. This place is just as high-end and famous as San Crispino, but I hadn't heard about it until a girl at the youth hostel in Bologna recommended it. Wow, I'm so glad she did.

I got the medium cone, which includes three flavors of your choice. Mine: aranciata (orange) sorbet, caramel, and cannelle (cinnamon). First, orange doesn't begin to describe the flavor in play here. It is like the definition of orange, the universal origin of orange, the perfection of orange soul. Orange of the gods, with candied bits of orange peel thrown in for good measure. The caramel was muted but luxurious, buttery and soft. The cinnamon was intense and spicy, the best version of my favorite ice cream flavor that I have ever had. Previous to this gelato experience, my favorite ice cream was Blue Sky Creamery's in Ankeny/Des Moines. Still is, mostly for its incredibly thick consistency and strong flavors. But this gelato...it was ethereal, on another playing field altogether. I sat outside the shop, in the cold, happily licking at this giant cone of ice cream before it could melt and run down my arm. Perfection.

After this, I realized I should probably eat some lunch before heading to the Borghese Gallery for my 3pm viewing appointment. I took the recommendation of one of my favorite travel writers and ate at a tiny place near the Trevi Fountain called Piccolo Arancino. The Little Orange. On my way there, I got a bit lost (it's on a tiny side street) and ended up walking along a few narrow alleys. I had to walk by a group of guys, doing the classic standing on the corner, watching all the girls go by thing. I got a couple catcalls, and I thought, "Now I'm in Rome!"

Lunch was delicious, as was the customer service. Small glass of free prosecco to start the meal (nice touch!), carciofi alla guidia (fried artichoke) as an appetizer and strozzopretti homemade pasta for the entree. The waitress brought a basket of bread and crunchy bread sticks to the table while I was waiting for the appetizer, but thinking of my previous bread encounter, I didn't touch it. I figured it was free, because of the free champagne, but in the end, there was a 1.50 Euro charge on my bill for it. I didn't even ask for the bread, she just put it on my table! So, feeling totally justified this time, I asked her to remove the charge. Which she happily and quickly did. It's so odd to me, this practice of charging for something without asking if someone wants it, or without telling them the price. I guess it's an easy way to pad a bill, and they hope that the customer won't care or won't notice. 1.50 (or 3 in the case of the other place) on table after table after table must really add up.

After that, I hustled to the bus stop, eager to not be late for my appointment at the Borghese Gallery. Apparently, there is so much interest in this place, and it has such limited space, that only 360 people are allowed in at a time, and only for a two hour window. I got there early, so I had about 20 minutes to sit in the gardens and absorb the calm and refined atmosphere. There was a man playing the lute down a pathway that lead deep into the Borghese grounds, and it lended an enchantingly Renaissance air to the day. Later on, when I saw that no one was giving him any money (he wasn't an official employee, just a busker), I made sure to give him a handful of coins in appreciation for his talent and atmosphere enhancement. Eventually, it was time to go in and stand in the presence of artistic masters.

Well, that's what they want you to think, anyway. In reality, there were very few paintings that I particularly loved. Caravaggio was well represented, although I'm not a fan. The other paintings were from that dark and hazy school of Renaissance art, not particularly moving, but I'm sure they're masterful to a skilled eye. The one thing I did truly love about this gallery was the amount of breathlessly stunning sculpture, quite a lot of it by the ubiquitous Bernini. You just stand and look at his sculptures, such as "David", and you cannot imagine how it is that someone could make marble look exactly like human flesh. The sculptures are detailed to the point of showing the veins in their arms and the flexing of their muscles. Unbelievable.

Finished with my artistic obligations, I retired once more to the gardens and spent a lovely hour just enjoying the fresh air and sunshine, occasionally imagining the grand things I would do as mistress of this gorgeous estate. It was a heady hour, let me tell you. Away from the bustle and traffic of Rome, it was pure luxury to sit in quiet reflection, surrounded by beauty. I also got to enjoy some water from their fountain, said to be the best in Rome. A perfectly lovely end to my time in the Eternal City.

Once back at the hostel, I made myself a dinner of tagliatelli (from my pasta course) with spicy arrabbiata sauce. It was the best meal of my trip, hands-down. LOL :-) After that, it was time to start the packing process and get to bed so that I would be fresh for my journey home. I took the train from Rome to Pisa, and then a flight from there to Paris. My flight was delayed, naturally, and so I arrived in Paris at midnight. My train home to Poitiers wasn't until 6:50am the following morning. I had thought to myself, well I'll just spend the night at the train station reading a book or something. The cab driver who took me to the Montparnasse train station asked when my train was and then casually stated that the station closes at 1am. I almost fainted. I imagined myself sitting outside the station on my backpack for 6 hours, getting robbed or molested in some way. Fuck. And once I was in the station, the departures board listed the last train at 12:30am and the following at 5:30am. I couldn't believe that they would really be closed! So, I asked at the information desk and was told that I could wait there overnight, as long as I had a ticket. Which I did, thank you baby Jesus. The night passed with no excitement, and I was soon headed home to Poitiers.

Which is where I am now, and also, unfortunately, where our story ends. For the time being, anyway. I hope you enjoyed these emails; I know I enjoyed writing them. Take care everyone!

Ciao!

Walking Through History or How I almost decided to start going to Mass again‏

2009-03-03T15:05:00.000+01:00

It is an odd thing, indeed, to spend a day walking through a city that has masterfully combined an ancient past with a high-tech present. Around every corner is either a crumbling monument or an internet café. It is an amazing juxtaposition that never ceased to impress me during my visit in Rome. That I could, in one moment, be sitting on the foundation wall of an ancient Roman temple, and in the next, be catching the "Electronic Bus" to the Vatican. Still, that's what I did all day yesterday...shuttled back and forth between history and the future.

To begin, I thought the Colosseum should definitely come first. It's iconic, it's on every postcard, it's just...first. Well, when you come out of that Metro stop, there is absolutely no denying that you're in Rome. Right in front of you, smaller than you had perhaps expected, is IT. The Colosseum. There's definitely a bit of wow factor involved in seeing it in that first moment, but I have to admit that, once I was inside, I had a little difficulty maintaining my wow. I suspect that, having seen it so many times in movies and History Channel specials, I was a little "over it". Also, let's not forget that all of our modern stadiums are modeled on this thing, so it's not as though we're unfamiliar with it as a general concept. I was bummed not to be walking around with my mouth gaping, but I have to say, nobody else seemed to be too staggered, either. In all honesty, I walked around and took pictures with more of a sense of obligation than joy. My favorite parts were the little details. The written carvings being worked on behind roped-off areas, the brown and white cat that snoozed in the sun while being photographed by a gang of squealing Japanese girls, the stairs covered in moss and leading to nowhere. My most un-favorite part? Climbing the steps to the second floor. Oh god, those Romans knew how to build a step. A tall step. By the time I had climbed all 500 of them (well, it felt like 500), my legs were on fire and I was ready to hurl myself off of some ramparts. The view wasn't even that much improved, goddamn them. I was out of there in short order.

Time to head over to the Roman Forum, something I had been looking forward to seeing much more than the Colosseum. It was a bit of a trek to the Entrance to Roman Forum and Palatine Archaeological Area, and once inside, it quickly became obvious that one was required to first enjoy Palatine Hill before heading down to the Roman Forum. Yes, a hill, a huge hill, after all those steps at the Colosseum. Not to sound like whiny, out-of-shape, misery of a baby, but well...FUCK. I didn't want to climb any fucking hill. sigh However, since the ancient Romans neglected to invent an elevator as part of their magnificent contribution to history, there was nothing for it but to s l o w l y climb the stairs up the hill. Once I gaspingly reached the top, I staggered over to the nearest railing for a breather, and stretched out beneath me was a lovely interior field of a villa. Or something like that. I didn't bother with any guidebooks on this trip, figuring I'd just wing it, with common knowledge and high school social studies as my guide. I'll probably just spring for a guidebook next time, all things considered. :-)

Anyway, after taking in the view, I sat on a bench for awhile and then filled my water bottle from one of the ancient fountains built into the mountain. One of the things I had also really been looking forward to on this trip was drinking from some of the fountains around Rome. Apparently, their water is considered to be some of the best in the world, and there are fountains all over town where local people go to fill up large water bottles for their house. If this is true, and I know it to be, then someone should explain to me why restaurants never offer you tap water. In fact, tired of paying 2.50 Euros for a bottle of mineral water with every meal, I once asked the waiter for some regular water and he REFUSED. Said it wasn't possible. But, my frustrating restaurant experiences are a chapter in and of themselves.

Back to the enormous Palatine Hill. It was lovely, quite serene after the bustle of the city, but I could have lived my life without seeing it, to be frank. There were various ruins scattered around it and a nice garden. Gorgeous view into the distance and down into the Forum. Speaking of the Forum, it was there I was trying to get, and after consulting with a similarly hill-hating family from New York, we finally found the stairs down the other side of the hill. Since it had been raining off and on all day, the stairs were wet, and, as some of you know, I am terrified of falling down steps. It was a bit of a nightmare getting down all those steps, let me tell you, but it wasn't as slow-going as it could have been since they weren't too slippery. Once down those first steps, there were more steps, and then more steps, and then a few more just for good measure. The Roman Forum is, after all, a good 25 feet below the modern street level of Rome.

Once I had made it down to the lowest level, it was nice to just be able to stroll from ruin to ruin, pillar to pillar, temple to temple, and imagine the ancient Romans doing exactly the same thing. This was downtown Rome for Caesar, if you can imagine it. The temple of the Vestal Virgins was here! It was, in short, ground zero for the ancient Romans, and that just took my breath away. I sat on a building foundation for a long time, watching everyone come up the path, trying to picture them wearing togas and generally failing.

One thing about the Roman Forum, I am sad to inform the less-coordinated members of my family is that, if you make it up the hill steps and then down the other hill steps, you are still not out of the woods. The ground is sometimes paved with a mix of chunked up red rock sticking up at odd angles, and sometimes with broad slate stones that are usually uneven and certainly not currently remaining in any uniform system. If you stare too long at a passing temple and forget where you're walking, you are, essentially, just begging to fall and crack an ankle. I saw several people nearly accomplish that feat while I was sitting there. I suspect this is why well-to-do Romans would be carried around on a litter by their devoted manservants. OK, maybe I've just seen that in movies, but the idea certainly did cross my mind as I was leaping from stepping stone to stepping stone.

The day was wearing on, but not nearly as fast as I had thought. All that work, and I had only just made it to noon! So, with the focus on history, I decided to head over to the Vatican on one of the cute electronic buses. Thank god I spent the extra 2.50 on that bus map because it has been invaluable to me. There seem to be hardly any tourists on the buses, either, which is another huge perk. Anyway, this was my first time riding the bus, so I was kind of excited to see parts of town far from the Metro. It certainly didn't disappoint. Around the first bend was an enormous monument at the Piazza Venezia that just took my breath away. Enormous, white marble, statues of flying horses on top...it was a gargantuan building that looked like it would be the world headquarters in an alien-invasion movie. As in, they wouldn't even need to ask to be taken to our leader; they'd just show up at this place and expect him (or her) to be there.

Riding on this bus was a pure visual feast, but certainly not an auditory or kinesthetic one. The streets in this part of town seem to be as ancient as the Forum itself, and are consequently totally uneven. The bus shook and slammed and banged with every forward roll of the wheels. It was akin to being in the business end of a jackhammer. There were moments when the front bumper would actually seem to slam onto the street. It was madness, but I enjoyed every minute. Especially when we drove by the river. By then, things had evened out so it wasn't quite as noisy of a thrashing. The river area was just achingly beautiful. I wished I could be strolling across the bridge right then, taking a moment to drape myself across the railing and watch the river swish by.

But, 383 years of Catholic history was calling me...yes, that's right. St. Peter's Basilica. There really are no words to describe the smack in the face that waits for you as you walk into St. Peter's Square and see the Basilica in the distance. It's a place you've seen a thousand times on tv, but it's absolutely staggering in person. The scale, the grandeur, the overwhelming feeling of being somewhere important and vital to history...it's more than a little overwhelming. You can see the Sistine Chapel, the building where the Pope lives (how well I remember when Pope John Paul II was dying and all the news stations kept a sort of death-watch camera focused on his window), and just the amazing structure of it all. I didn't know this at the time, but apparently the amazing Bernini was the architect of this outdoor space. It is as masterful as any of his sculptures, but probably even more so due to its scale.

After standing around with my eyes as big as saucers, I took a bunch of photos and then headed straight for the Basilica. Nothing prepares you for it. Nothing possibly ever could. Nothing in all your previous life experiences can prepare you for the vast feast for the eyes that is St. Peter's. It swallows you whole, fills a space in your heart that you didn't even know was empty, and makes you want to convert to Catholicism that afternoon. It is the grandest church in Christendom, and that is no fucking joke. I'll be honest here, folks, I walked in the Basilica and more or less instantly choked up. I'm choking up right now just thinking about it. I'm sure that this has a lot to do with my history as a fallen-away Catholic, but it's also just the building. No, this cannot even be called a "building"...that's far too simple of a word. It needs its own word.

In any event, I walked throughout the church, my jaw scraping the floor as I went. Everywhere you look, things are just in the most massive scale you could ever imagine. It should be the 8th wonder of the world. You will just have to look at pictures of it, because my vocabulary doesn't include enough words to do it justice.

And now, after all this writing, the internet cafe man is telling me that it's time to close up shop. So, I guess that means I'll be finishing this up tomorrow morning before I hit the road back to Poitiers! Argh!

Leave the gun...take the cannoli

2009-03-02T15:01:00.001+01:00

Today's update begins right where we left off last time...Roma. Sigh Is it even possible to say the word Roma without sighing immediately afterwards and then imagining yourself zipping past the Colosseum on the back of some modern Roman god's Vespa? Yes, even you guys out there. You know you can't deny it... :-)

So.

I first saw Rome on a sunny afternoon. A sweet and gentle breeze was blowing, the smell of fried dough wafting along the street. I put on my new uber-chic sunglasses (a Roman must) and walked in that direction like I was on a cannoli mission, though, in fact, it was just along the route to my hostel. As I walked by the giant pasticceria, and saw the cannoli shrine in the window, I made a solemn vow to return to this tourist trap as soon as possible.

I say tourist trap, of course, because it was about 100 feet from the train station parking lot. In fact, my hostel is only about a 5 minute walk from the Termini station, in a neighborhood settled mostly by south Asian and Indonesian immigrants. I don't feel unsafe here, but it's definitely a neighborhood set up for the tourist trade that pours forth from Termini on an hourly basis. Every third store is an internet cafe, pizzeria, or cash exchange shop.

I feel the confident walk and icy demeanor I assume when walking the streets here has been key to my success as a single traveler. Were I traveling with a group of friends, I would instantly be recognized as a tourist; on my own, I look just Italian enough to blend into the crowd. Add the sunglasses (when I'm feeling ambitious) and the confident walk (with my serious face on) and I'm a virtual ghost. In fact, I'm proud to report that I have been stopped 3 times by actual Italians asking me for directions, as well as a few fellow tourists! Success!

Anyway, after checking into my hostel, I discovered that I was actually being housed in another building the hostel owns, just around the corner. The clerk lead me over there, where I immediately dumped my bag and headed back to the train station to buy my "Roma Pass", the 23 Euro investment which would get me into the first two museums of my choice for free and then get me discounts all over town. I couldn't find the kiosk when I first came into Termini, possibly due to the fact that it is the most frustratingly organized, and yet huge, train station that I have ever been in. There are about 30 tracks, which is enormous, but, as one small example, I could only ever find one location of bathrooms, hidden clear out in the boonies by track 24--and in the basement. And they cost .80 cents to use, naturally.

So, let us just say that finding the tourism office where I could buy the Roma Pass was almost impossible. Here it was, my first afternoon in the city, and my feet were already steaming from walking around the train station. Around and around in circles, out to the parking lot, back inside, upstairs, downstairs, nowhere to be found. Eventually, I gave up and asked for directions at a ticket counter. The ferocity with which the man barked "Track 24!" at me clearly indicated that I wasn't the only one in the conversation wishing I could have just found that out from a fucking sign. Once at the Roma Pass desk, though, I had a happy little moment when the TV near them started playing an advertisement that used a snippet of the Edith Piaf song, "Tu Me Fais Tourner La Tête", which happens to be my very favorite song of hers. I felt an immediate and intense longing to be home in Poitiers, as well as an irresistible urge to sing along. Happily, the girls sitting at the desk also burst into song, so I wasn't the only weirdo singing along to a tv commercial. Pass in hand, I limped my way out of the train station and back to my hostel, eyeing those cannoli in the window along the way. We would have our reckoning soon enough.

That night for dinner, I decided to play it safe and eat at the pizzeria across from the first hostel building. What a mistake. I mean...I knew better, but I didn't yet feel confident enough in my knowledge of the bus system to really head out into the city to less touristy areas. So, deep breath and in I went, table for one please. I was seated right by the kitchen, which is fine, but at a table that was almost on top of the French couple next to me. They were about as pleased to welcome me into their personal space as I was to be there. Still, this seating trick came in handy when the tourists started flocking in and the staff were able to shamelessly wedge people into every available nook and cranny. The waiter was of the charming variety that stands three feet from your table and glares at you until you indicate that you're ready to order. The pizza I randomly stabbed my finger at on the menu was serviceable, at best. So, spying a dish of grated Parmesan on a fellow diner's table, I had the inspiration to ask for some of my own. The waiter looked at me as though I had asked him to personally defecate in my lap. His upper lip curled back and he snarled, "Parmigiano??" in disbelief. He then looked down at my pizza, as if to verify that it hadn't morphed into some pasta dish which would actually warrant Parmesan. "Si!" I said, brightly, with a broad--and hopefully irritating--smile. With barely contained disgust, he returned with the Parmesan and tossed it onto the table. Unfortunately, it was about as flavorful as sawdust, giving my pizza no help whatsoever. Should have known...

The next day, Sunday, I had planned to go on a tour of Rome's famous fountains and such. This was inspired by the fact that one of their two subway lines more or less goes right by them. The Triton Fountain, Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps, the Piazza del Popolo. It wasn't raining when I left the hostel, so I stupidly left my umbrella in my room. It was, naturally, raining by the time I got to the subway entrance, about a 10 minute walk away. Still, I was unconvinced that I would need an umbrella because it was just sprinkling, and in Poitiers, people try to avoid using umbrellas if at all possible. I don't know why, exactly, but I have adopted the habit. People here, however, pop open that umbrella at the first sign of a sprinkle. So, I became an instant target for all the Bangladeshi umbrella hawkers that were suddenly every 25 feet. I couldn't even escape them in the subway.

The metro was falling to bits, but I genuinely loved it. So simple. So easy. So relaxed. Utterly unlike Paris' sprawling madness. In Rome, people stroll through the hallways of the metro, quite casual about reaching the platform. In Paris, the people race through the Metro tunnels with such urgency of purpose that you soon find yourself wondering if there has perhaps been an outbreak of war or typhoid, and everyone is trying to get on the last train out of town. I unequivocally detest the Paris Metro. The Roman metro is so ruinous, and yet, so wonderful in its simplicity.

Once out of the Metro, I was immediately by the Triton fountain. In the drizzle, it wasn't much to behold. So, quickly on to the Trevi Fountain, with a stop for lunch at a small trattoria along the way. Had my first plate of bucatini all'amatriciana, a famous Roman pasta dish. The service was friendly (the first I'd had in Italy). As I came out into a more forceful rain, it quickly became evident that I would have to cave and buy an umbrella from one of the 200 men offering them to me. I bargained one guy down to 3 Euros for a small umbrella. Not a bad price for something that broke about 45 minutes later. I walked down the street toward the fountain, hearing it long before I saw it. I felt a child-like sense of anticipation at seeing my first "real" Roman attraction...something I had been looking forward to seeing for years. And wow. It did not disappoint. It's at the end of a side street, not in the middle of some grand piazza, so you really have the sense of just finding this stunning fountain in the middle of a random neighborhood. You and about 500 of your closest friends, because of course, every other tourist within a 5 mile radius is there to be dazzled, too. I stood around for quite awhile, gaping and taking the occasional photo, just absorbing the scene. Then it was time for me to do the inevitable coin toss over the shoulder and get a move on.

Next up--The Spanish Steps. In the rain. Blah. I couldn't have been less impressed if, well, if they'd just been a bunch of steps. In the rain. I took a few obligatory photos, and promised myself that I would return on a bright and sunny day, to sit on the steps and eat gelato while mocking my fellow tourists.

I then continued on to the Piazza del Popolo, which might have been interesting if I knew anything about it and the sun had been shining. But, being woefully ignorant of its history, and carrying about 3 pounds of rainwater on the lower half of my jean legs, I decided to just take a few pictures and head home.

Getting out of the Metro at my stop, I impulsively decided to pop into this shopping area called the Gallery something or other, in search of a towel. I didn't bring one with me (only have my backpack), and the other hostels I had stayed at either offered free towels or towel rentals. When I had asked at my hostel the night before, the vapid girl behind the desk managed to tear her eyes away from her Facebook page just long enough to tell me that she didn't know anything about towel rentals. Unfortunately, this Gallery place didn't have towels, but quite happily, they did have a fantastic pastry shop. I was unable to resist the lure of cannoli and other various sweets, eventually settling on one cannoli and one other Sicilian pastry that was like a giant puffy donut pouch filled with sweet orange flower custard. They wrapped it up all fancy for me, and then I promptly walked back to my hostel and devoured it like a savage. After taking some lovely photos, of course.

For dinner, I decided to eat near to home (my feet were ready to explode from walking all across the city), and ended up at the Rosticceria two doors down from my hostel. I had originally thought I'd get a roast chicken or something, but I ended up getting a pizza, two giant suppli (tomatoey rice balls, with mozzarella in the middle, rolled in crumbs and deep fried), and a wedge of cherry tart. For 9 Euros, not bad. What was a little odd was having to wait for this while being forced to make conversation with this guy who was standing in there drinking wine and chatting with everyone like he owned the place, which he patently did not. Tall, black, well-dressed, and with good English, I couldn't imagine what on earth he was doing in this dive of a place. Still, it was annoying that he wouldn't leave me alone to just wait for my pizza in peace. Instead, I had to hear about how this was the best cafe in town and how he knows the original guy from CSI. "The one with red hair!" When I said, "David Caruso?" he just said, "Who???" LOL Anyway, someone came in just as my order was up, so I was able to flee while he was momentarily distracted.

I ate at the hostel, and shared some wine with two of my roommates. Lilly and Szaby from Hungary. Their English was almost completely fluent, a product of having just spent a year living in Scotland. What is it with everyone wanting to live in Scotland?? ;-) Anyway, it was truly lovely to chat with them that night and this morning, as they were both very friendly and outgoing.

So, that takes us up through today, Monday. I'm afraid I just can't type anymore, and you probably want a break yourself! Today was very interesting, though...the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, Palatine Hill, and the Vatican. What a fucking day. My feet are about ready to fall off. But, I did manage to finally get a towel (more on that next time), so I'm off to have the hottest shower of my life.

I hope all of you are well! Buona Sera!

Ciao da Roma!

2009-02-28T14:57:00.001+01:00

I thought I'd do what I haven't done in quite some time...write an update of my travels via email! Of course, I have much to write about everything that's been going on for me in France since...oh, about Thanksgiving! But, in lieu of the full update, I thought I would just directly write an email to give you the dirt on my trip to Italy. It isn't over yet, but I've been on the road for 3 days now, and I do have some stories to share. So, go get yourself a cup of your favorite warm beverage and let's get started...

The plan for the beginning of my trip was to fly into Pisa airport around 11:30pm last Wednesday and then be whisked away (free of charge) to my hostel. This is almost what happened, except for the 11:30 part. In fact, my flight was around an hour late. Now, I didn't really care about the time of night...what I really cared about was how this affected the atmosphere at Beauvais airport in Paris. It was almost unbearably fraught with tension and stress. Because my flight was being constantly pushed back, those of us on the flight were repeatedly lining up at one of the three check-in desks, only to have the name of another flight come up on the screen and be forced to disband. And, as I was waiting with a room full of Italians (flights into Pisa and Rome), Spaniards (Barcelona), and even a few utterly incomprehensible Scots, people did not take being disappointed very quietly or patiently. Once, toward the beginning of my three-hour wait, I noticed that a very large mass of swarthy-looking folks was beginning to form in the direction of gate B. Just as I was considering moving to the back of that line to check the departures board near it, the whole group of them shifted, en masse, in the direction of gate D (which was just down a hallway). When I say shifted, really I should say stampeded. In fact, had I been standing about 10 feet to the right, I would no longer be alive in order to write this email. So, as they ran toward me, I impulsively decided to join the heard, almost like running with the bulls at Pamplona. As we all jogged along, I asked an old Italian lady near me, "Is this for the flight to Pisa?" to which she responded, "No, I *hope* it's the one for Rome!" So, I jogged off the right, before I could get all the way down the hallway, and slowly made my way back to the waiting area. Where, it should be said, the overwhelming amount of people were sitting around on the floor, on their luggage, on any available surface whatsoever, looking more like Ellis Island refugees than people on vacation. The one exception being a woman who was on my flight to Pisa, complete with an almost floor-length mink coat and a giant Louis Vuitton bag. At first I was confused as to why such a well-to-do woman would need a 15 Euro flight to Pisa, but then I realized that when you've spent $15,000 on your coat and bag, you could do with a little economy class.

Anyway, my hostel in Pisa was absolutely tiny. In fact, it was little more than a two-bedroom apartment that had been converted into one double room and one room with 3 bunk beds. It was tidy, which was nice, but what was not so nice were the two chicks in my room who were partying all night downstairs at the bars and then coming up every hour for a very giggly pee session. They were Australian and LOUD, although pleasant enough when they talked to me as I was checking my email. Still, sleep was quite elusive for me that evening.

The next morning, sleep deprived, I decided to just skip the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Yes, I know. I was in a town that's basically famous for one thing and I couldn't be bothered to go. Sue me. I just didn't care, to be honest! All I could think about was walking to the train station and getting on a train for Bologna. Still, as I walked from the hostel towards the station, I crossed a bridge and saw an extraordinarily lovely expanse of water and riverfront houses looking exactly like a Pisa Postcard. Pictures to follow as soon as I'm home and able to upload them! It certainly put a smile on my face and some much needed pep in my step.

Buying the ticket to Bologna was absurdly easy thanks to the invention of fancy automated ticket machines with directions available in your choice of about 6 languages. The train between Pisa and Florence was not quite as advanced as the ticketing machine, unfortunately. It rather reminded me of a train one might expect to find in India, the only obvious difference being that no one was hanging off the side or sitting on the roof. The doors were rickety and banging open and closed, the seats were dirty and uncomfortable, and its windows probably hadn't been washed in my lifetime. At any rate, it was cheap. The train from Florence to Bologna was a vast improvement, requiring a seat reservation and the works. Unfortunately for me, my seat was already taken by an exceptionally snotty woman who looked up at me when I pointed out this error with a face that clearly said, "You're actually going to make me move, you worthless piece of trash?" And she was right, I was. With a giant sigh, she heaved herself out of MY seat, and moved her ass and belongings to their rightful place.

Once in Bologna, my nightmarish encounters with the Bolognese bus system began. The hostel I chose (for reasons of economy and high ratings of other tourists) was not in the center of Bologna, but rather about a 15 minute bus ride away. This isn't terrible if the bus system can be managed. Now, Bologna's is incredibly comprehensive, but also incredibly poorly marked. Not to mention the fact that I was working with an abysmal set of directions from the hostel people themselves. I went first to the bus office to procure a bus map, but the guy didn't really speak English. He did understand me enough to help me figure out where the bus stop was that I wanted. Then I went back into the tourist office to find a map of the city so that I could figure out how to get to that bus stop. In between the two stops, I was walking on the sidewalk by an old lady who slipped and fell and suddenly had blood spurting out of her face. It was almost like fake blood, it was so red and squirting...I almost wanted to laugh. In fact, if I hadn't been afraid that passersby would think I pushed her, I might have. Instead, I, with others, helped her to her feet. She tottered off with her friends to find some medical attention, and I fled the scene as quickly as possible.

Once I had the directions to the bus stop, I set off. It was about a 15 minute walk, alongside noisy traffic and bothersome crowds. Not a great first impression. Still, I found it with little difficulty. The great difficulty began when I got on the bus and then had to figure out when to get the heck OFF the bus again. I was so lucky, in retrospect, that this was the only bus in all my time in Bologna where there was a verbal announcement of each stop. Never happened again. Still, I couldn't really understand the announcer, so it was almost a wash anyway. I was able to read the bus stop signs (when there was a sign, it was not a guarantee) and the little schedule I got from the bus office. Eventually, I figured out that I missed the stop. By about 5 minutes worth of driving. Yeah, oops. So, with the heavy knowledge that this was inevitable in the story of my life, I got out at the next stop and waited for the bus going in the opposite direction. It came in short order and I was eventually able to get the right stop.

Anyway, I followed an Asian-looking woman across this vast field towards what looked like the Hostelling International sign on a fence. It was indeed the right direction, and I was soon settling into my room. It was nice, clean, and bright. The bathrooms were really decent, too. I was pretty exhausted from my afternoon exertions, so I just sat around for awhile, rubbing my feet, until I was rested enough to go out on the town in search of dinner.

I got off the bus in the center of town and immediately headed towards a bread/pastry/pizza shop for a slice of margherita. It was a revelation. The crust was puffy and yet so light that it almost melted in my mouth. With a better sauce, it would have been perfection. Anyway, from that point on, I rambled aimlessly, looking vaguely for a homey establishment to enjoy a nice pasta dinner. I eventually found a trattoria, but it wasn't open for another hour and a half. So, with time to kill, I ended up stopping for a 1.50 Euro glass of wine at Gino's Vinos. I had the pleasure of drinking this wine in the company of a grouchy old woman and scowling Gino himself, so it was a real treat. I tried to stretch it out as long as possible, though, thinking of that pasta dinner and the lack of benches in the vicinity. Still, I could stand the scowls no longer and eventually retreated to the street. Walking through the busy urban neighborhood, I crossed the street only to be accosted by a crazy reggae-themed man who stopped next to me in the street so that he could laugh and shake his booty at me. I am not joking. He was clearly mentally unhinged, as I saw him laughing and pointing at every person he passed on the street. I was the only one he danced for, though. :-)

Eventually, I walked by a gelateria, so I decided to have my dessert before dinner in the name of killing time. The bitch behind the counter was clearly angry to have chosen customer service as a career, and decided to take it out on me. Still, the chocolate was tasty. Not earth-shatteringly delicious, but tasty. I sat on a chair out front, eating my cone and watching people go by for as long as was decent. After awhile, however, it dawned on me that I was a fat girl sitting in front of an ice cream shop. Alone. And so I moved on.

The trattoria, once open, proved to have a great atmosphere and quite good gnocchi, but horribly curt service. It occurred to me that I hadn't really had friendly service since arriving in Bologna...which made me sad, to be honest. Anyway, I ate up quickly to get the heck out of there, and then I caught the last bus back to the hostel with a feeling of dread. Got the right stop, though, so it was all good. I got into my hostel room to find out that the Asian-looking lady I had followed earlier was now, in fact, my roommate, and also Italian. And about 50. She had skinny legs like a flamingo, and clearly a lot of problems in her life if she's living at a hostel in the middle of nowhere. God bless. My other roommate was a pleasantly chubby Italian girl closer to my own age, and thankfully, she spoke a little English. It should also be noted that, at this point, my Italian was coming back to me. So, I was able to confidently tell her my name and the fact that I like spaghetti and eggplants. Very useful stuff.

The next day was my pasta-making course, and frankly, the thing I was looking forward to the most on this trip, bar none. It did not disappoint, thank god. I got there early, to suss out the location, and so ended up getting a cappucino and pastry from a local caffè, where I *finally* had pleasant and helpful service. Then, I headed straight to the school and about 4 hours of grueling, back-breaking work. It was fantastic. Stefania, my teacher, was a girl a little younger than me, and I had seen her on the episode of "Passport to Europe" where I had first seen this school. What a personality! Anyway, she immediately put me and the older couple, Donna and Frank, to work making our dough. The egg yolks were so orange that the dough came out a deep, deep yellow. Just beautiful. I found it fairly easy to follow her directions and please her as a teacher (as ever, the teacher's pet!). It wasn't exactly hard to do in comparison to Donna and Frank's bumbling, I must admit. Still, she did comment on the fact that she could tell I was a good cook. :-)

The really hard part was rolling out the dough. What an amazing talent one must have in order to do this correctly. Stefania showed us how to do it step by step, with these very long rolling pins on huge boards. It's a three-step process, and it took us about 20 minutes to roll our dough out to a medium thickness. When she showed us later how she rolls it out to an incredible thinness for making tortellini, it took her all of about 2 minutes. I got it on video; it was shocking after all our hard work.

Still, we didn't even understand the meaning of hard work at that point because we hadn't yet started to make the various pasta shapes with our dough. First, was tortelloni. Big, stuffed with a ricotta filling, and tricky to shape and pinch closed correctly, even as big as they are. Then were bowties (very tricky to pinch) and then another one that I can't remember the name of, which uses a board and stick to make. I really liked that one. Finally, we used Stefania's ultra-thin dough to make tortellini stuffed with a pork filling. Wow. They are so tiny, and you have to have such nimble fingers to make them. Let alone to make them well!! It was so hard to figure out a good method for my fingers, but once I did, I was able to make them well and at a modest pace. Nothing like the speed with which Stefania and the members of the professional class that were working in there with us, but still pretty good. After we were finished making them, it was time to sit down for a bit while Stefania's mother made us lunch. What a lunch... I felt like a farmhand being fed after the morning's chores. Huge, steaming bowls of our freshly-made pasta, vegetables in various forms, bread, mortadella, and a tureen full of tortellini in broth to start everything off. Amazing. With a chocolately dessert to follow and wine throughout. I took bunches of pictures and videos, so I'll get them out to you as soon as possible. Anyway, after that day, I was too exhausted to do anything else, not to mention tired of dealing with Bologna, in general. I high-tailed it back to the hostel and ordered pizza with some of my roomies.

The next morning, today in fact, I headed to Rome. Unfortunately, I'm using the free computer at my hostel in order to write this, and I'm getting dirty looks for being on here so long. So, the story of my Roman holiday will have to be told another day. Besides, it's really just beginning, anyway!

I hope all of you are doing well. I really missed everyone today. I was on the train to Rome this morning, and I thought about how excited Grandpa would be to know that I was sitting there on that train...and knowing that I wouldn't be able to tell him all about it made me cry a little. Since I've been in France, actually, I feel like he's been watching over me, and never more so than today. Anyway, enough of that moping around. Grandpa wouldn't allow it!

New Year's in England--Pics!

2009-01-01T19:00:00.001+01:00

New Year's in England!

England

Christmas in Denmark--Photos

2008-12-24T18:58:00.003+01:00

Christmas in Denmark. Story to hopefully follow!

Denmark

Christmas in Denmark--Photos

2008-12-24T18:58:00.002+01:00

Christmas in Denmark. Story to hopefully follow!

Denmark

France Pictures, take 2

2008-12-06T18:51:00.000+01:00

CAPES Students Christmas Party

CAPES Christmas Party

CAPES Students BBQ from April

BBQ Party

CAPES Students BBQ from May 29th, 2009

BBQ Take 2

France Pictures

2008-12-05T18:47:00.003+01:00

Pictures of my apartment:

Apartment

Pictures of some of my friends:

Friends

Pictures of various churches around Poitiers:

Church Tour

Pictures of a student demonstration:

Manif!

Pictures from my Obama Inauguration Party:

Obama Inauguration Party

Adventures in Teaching

2008-12-04T13:08:00.001+01:00

Well, is it about time that I updated this thing, or what?? Unfortunately, the internet connection in my apartment was more of a myth than a reality until very recently, and that made me particularly lazy about getting stuff posted. But, I finally got hooked up, so here we are!

OK, I think the first subject to tackle is my teaching. As I described before, I have two sets of students, most easily differentiated as “Beginners” and “Advanced”. To be honest, I’ve really hardly taught them at all due to the school vacation in October/November, but I have had some good (and not so good) experiences I can relate.

So, the first students I met were the advanced ones. It was the day before my orientation, and I honestly wasn’t expecting to have to meet them until the following week. It was all a bit of a surprise for me, but I had no choice but to roll with the punches because the other teacher is, in fact, the head of the whole program (Mr. Duchet). Actually, I didn’t need to prepare anything for them; it was just a chance for me to meet them and observe Mr. Duchet in action.

OK…“in action” might be a bit of a stretch for the elderly Mr. Duchet. He should, by all rights, be retired. Why he’s still working is beyond me (and most others), but oh well! So, I showed up 10 minutes early for class. At first, only 3 students were there. Eventually, Mr. Duchet showed up 5 minutes late for class. Still just 3 students. Mr. Duchet showed me the new computer lab setup where we’ll be taking turns working with the students. (It’s very cool, actually…each student has a computer equipped with an enormous pair of airplane pilot headphones that have a mic attached. The teacher has a computer that he/she can use to monitor what each student is doing and communicate with them via microphone. Cool.) Mr. Duchet had no real idea how to use these new computers as it was the first day of class, so it was lucky that my tech-savvy ass was there to figure it out for him.

Eventually, after about 15 minutes, the rest of the students showed up. Turns out they had a class immediately prior and they aren’t given a passing time to get to the next class. Once they got in there, I was made to stand up and present myself. I was pretty nervous about this, but it turns out that they were very friendly and seemed to take to me right away. I made them laugh…whew!

So, I hung out and watched how Mr. Duchet handled class. He had a copy of the T.S. Eliot poem (the title of which I can never remember) upon which the musical “Cats” is based. Now, Mr. Duchet has an incredibly thick British accent. I would never think that he was French, actually. He sounds like he’s from Bristol or something. So, he’s got this Shakespearean actor thing going on as he reads the poem for them as an example. The only problem was that he would start out each line very loud and strong and then, by the end of it, his voice would be nothing but a quiet mumble. How the students understood him, I have no idea; it was a struggle for me!

Another thing about Mr. Duchet is that he constantly talks to the students in French, which led to him speaking constantly to me in French. Naturally, I could only understand him about 45% of the time. Needless to say, I found myself doing a lot of head nodding and saying, “Uhh…oui!” without having any idea what I had agreed to. I had assumed that, like in my French classes in America, the teacher would speak to the students exclusively in English. Otherwise, what’s the fucking point? But no, not here! So, this will remain an issue for me, I’m sure.

The funny thing is that by the time I had the second lab class with these students and Mr. Duchet, I had had them by myself for the casual Tuesday morning class, and I mentioned to them that I could rarely understand Mr. Duchet. So, during the second lab class, whenever Mr. Duchet talked to me in French, they would all crack up as I nodded and kept saying “Oui!”. Then, after we split the class and I took my half to another classroom, I had them translate what Mr. Duchet had been rambling on about. Very amusing.

I really love these students. They’re so much fun to teach because they’re almost fluent (so I don’t really have to “grade” my language with them) and they’re studying for an incredibly hard exam in order to become English teachers, so they’re quite motivated to learn. Excellent combo! Plus, they’re very nice people, too. Several volunteered to call the asshole internet company here on my behalf. A girl named Alice has been especially helpful, calling places for me and even translating my birth certificate into French!

I particularly enjoy the Tuesday morning class with these students. One week, I brought in an article from the International Herald Tribune about an alternative fuel road race in Berkeley, California. We read the article together, then I broke them up into three teams and had them design an alternative fuel vehicle of their own, which they would then present to the class. They worked really hard on it, with lots of debate on the design and drawing of the vehicle, and the results were hilarious. One of the cars ran on “flower petals, perfume, and horse or camel shit”. This was presented by the team of dainty girls, so it was particularly amusing. I saved all of their drawings because they were so great.

Just before the Toussaints school break at the end of October, they had a class outing to a local Irish pub, and they invited me to come with them. What a great time! I think they were a bit surprised when I showed up with my hair down (for the first time) and makeup on, but they quickly recovered themselves and we set about the very important business of getting schnockered.

The best part about that night, aside from it being my first night on the town since I got here, was that they taught me quite a few naughty (but oh-so-useful) French phrases that you just never learn in school. Among these were several ways of saying “I’m drunk”, “I’ve got a hangover” (my favorite of those is “Je suis dans le paté” which means “I’m in the paté”, paté being a fancy type of processed meat mixture, of course), and naturally, many variations on “Fuck you” and how to call someone a bitch or bastard. Here are a couple good ones–bitch: “poufiasse” which sounds like “poofy ass”; blonde bitch: “blondasse”; bastard: “con”. Alice wrote them all down for me so that I could study later (when I would have a better chance of remembering them). Oh, another good one! For something very expensive: “ça coute la peau de cul!” (It costs the skin of an ass!) And something that’s cheesy: “C’est cul cul la praline.” (It’s ass ass the praline.) LOL

At first, my beginning students provided very few experiences as entertaining as this. In fact, the first class I was supposed to have with them ended up being cancelled, although no one thought to inform me of that fact. So, all revved up and sitting there, waiting…not even the other teacher showed up. In the end, I had to ask at the office. I felt like such a dope! Still, my job requirements don’t include being psychic, so everyone was very apologetic, especially Michel (my supervising teacher).

Once I finally got around to teaching these guys, it turned out to be not nearly as bad as I had feared. In fact, we usually laugh a lot and have a good time, in general. The level of English varies wildly between them, which makes for interesting classes, to be sure. Since Michel takes half for the first hour and then we switch, and the students are allowed from week to week to decide on their own how they will divide themselves up, it can often mean that one half will be all intermediate-level kids who love to chat my ear off, and the other half will sit in stony, false-beginner silence, hoping I won’t call on them, requiring me to drag the participation out of them. It’s no wonder that after my second round of classes with them, I nearly lost my voice.

Still, there are a few gems among these students, the ones I look forward to seeing. Mostly these are boys, as the girls seem to be, in general, much less apt to be the ones to speak up. Fred, Charles, Alexandre, Denis, Sylvain, Nicholas, Thomas, Stephane, and a few others whose names I haven’t yet memorized. These guys are really funny or really charming or really sweet. They make the day go faster, to be sure!

The most fun I’ve ever (inadvertently) had with the beginning students happened just this week, in fact. It all started because I had been a lazy ass over the Thanksgiving weekend, and didn’t feel like preparing their class material ahead of time. Since the prep only involves making photocopies of an article and then writing up a few questions about it that we can discuss in class, I decided just to come in a bit early on Tuesday morning to get it handled. The article that I chose came from a group that Michel had given me that were apparently tried and tested. “Don’t reinvent the wheel” he told me when he gave them to me. Nice and easy, just like I like it. So, I looked through them Tuesday morning, chose one more or less at random, and went on about my day.

Well, my mistake was that I didn’t read it out loud before class. I have to read the article out loud during class, so the students can hear my pronunciation before they take a turn with it themselves. Usually, I read through it once beforehand just to see if there are any words I need to emphasize, etc. Of all the times for me to slack off…

So. There I am, casually reading this boring article out loud (on the subject of declining reading scores in Great Britain’s primary schools) when I get to a quote from the Education Secretary, Ed Balls. That’s right. Ed Balls.

I think you imagine my surprise at suddenly finding myself saying the name “Ed Balls” out loud in front of my students, so then it is no great leap to imagine me immediately starting to giggle like a Beavis and Butthead extra. I took a deep breath, apologized to my students, and soldiered on. Until the beginning of the next paragraph which began with the phrase, “Mr. Balls stated that…”

Frankly, at that point, I just burst out laughing like a lunatic. My students (a particularly low level group to start off the day) looked at me like I had three heads. And the thing was, once I started laughing, I couldn’t stop! I just kept thinking about how horrible it was that I was laughing in the first place, and then I’d think about the horrible name, and I was off again! The giggle loop in action (for any “Coupling” fans out there)! It took many deep breaths, four or five tries, and pinching my hand as hard as possible to sober me up enough to finish reading the article.

After I was done, I tried to explain to the students that the name was very funny in English, and please forgive me for being such an idiot. Well, they were laughing at me quite a bit by then, so it was no big deal. At the end of class, however, one of the higher level students asked me, “What this name Mr. Balls means in English?” I happened to have a dictionary at hand, and no remaining dignity, so I looked it up and told him. They were all most amused.

For the next class, I decided that there was absolutely no fucking way I was going to read that name out loud again. In the interim, I had spoken to my friend Jennifer over Skype, and in telling the story to her, I started laughing so much that I couldn’t breathe. I could barely get through the story at all! I mean, Mr. Balls has to be absolutely the worst name in the history of the world!! I defy you to come up with one that can compare. So, yeah, no way I’m reading that again.

I decided to just fess up before I read the article. I explained to them that the name was very funny in English, and that I wouldn’t read it because otherwise I would laugh like crazy. I also explained what it meant, so that they would understand my reasoning. They all thought it was funny, and so the class passed with little to no drama. Sylvain suggested that I say “Mr. B” instead, and used that name himself when writing up his summary. Very cute. Also cute was in the next class when Fred, one of my best students (and a very-nearly-Brad Pitt look alike) was unable to complete his summary as he wanted because, as he said, “I was searching a word play for Mr. Balls, but I was unable to find it.”

The last class of the day, with a couple of the loud-mouth boys who love to go back and forth with me, was really a lot of fun. As they were silently reading the article to themselves at the beginning of class, I noticed that Charles and Alexandre started laughing. So, they were already ahead of the game. When it came time for me to read, I gave my little “It’s a funny name” speech and said that I wouldn’t be reading it out loud. Charles volunteered to read it for me! Ok, no problem. I started reading and then paused for Charles to say the name. He said, “ED BALLS” with a deep, resounding voice…much like you would say “JAMES BOND”. Well, we all died laughing. More of the same on “MR.BALLS”. Then, when they had to write up their summaries, both Alexandre and Charles naturally managed to work in the name “Mr. Balls”. Oh, the little joys of teaching!

And thus ends the blog on my students. In general, school things these days are clicking along with very few issues, but if anything along the lines of Mr. Balls happens again, I’ll be sure to fill you in!

In the next update, look for stories about my first trip to La Rochelle. Holiday blogs to follow!

A bit cheesy...

2008-10-19T13:07:00.001+02:00

OK, where did we leave off? Ah yes…amusing or interesting stories. I think I’ll just write these up in a random fashion, if you don’t mind.

First, let me just say that in a land which is home to over 400 different cheeses, it has been a real bitch to find some cheddar. American supermarket aisles are clogged with every possible incarnation of cheddar cheese, but at the two markets I frequent, there is only one piece of cheddar cheese on offer at each. At LeClerc (the ungodly huge grocery store with 100+ yogurt choices) there is one package of pre-packed white cheddar, a chunk of “Sharp Scottish Cheddar” that weighs about 8 ounces and costs about $4. At Monoprix, the grocery store in the center of town that is relatively small (compared to LeClerc, anyway) but oh-so-convenient, there is a large block of white cheddar at the cheese counter. 18.50 Euros per kilo, which works out to about $11.50/pound. The unfortunate thing is that the most popular cheese here is emmentaler (a basic swiss style cheese), and it just does not work as a substitute for cheddar. C’est tragique.

Another food item that is abundant in America and mysteriously absent here is pepperoni. When I was living in Korea, just getting a pizza was an ordeal, so I’m not bitching too much here. But still, pepperoni is my favorite topping, and it’s practically nowhere to be found. Eggs, however, are a common and quite popular pizza topping, so it’s no wonder that I’m getting screwed on the pepperoni (I hate eggs).

At any rate, there is a Dominos Pizza here, and, as you all know, they are required by law to offer pepperoni as a topping. :-) So, when I received their flier advertising “Crazy Week!” wherein they were offering any sized pizza with any combination of toppings for only 6.99 Euros (about $9, carry-out only), I decided that the time was ripe for my first pizza here in France. Tragically, I neglected to remember that my life’s story is filled with heartbreak and unfulfilled longing.

So, it was with a hopeful heart and growling stomach that I impetuously lept off the bus one drizzly school night at the stop just across from the Dominos. It was 5:45, which meant that I had 15 minutes to sit at the bus stop, staring longingly at the Dominos until the doors were unlocked. Once 6 o’clock hit, I casually strolled inside. I explained in bad French that I was American and in desperate need of a pepperoni infusion. The man was friendly and happy to take my order for the largest pizza possible with a mountain of pepperoni and cheese. For only 6.99, it was going to be a pizza miracle. Until I went to pay, and his motherfucking credit machine would only take French credit cards. I could have thrown that machine through the fucking window and then set the place on fire. And of course, I only had 4 Euros cash on me, so I was basically totally fucked. The man smirkingly suggested going to the ATM at the very bottom of the hill, which I was not keen to do in the increasingly vigorous rain. At this point, the man became a bit too smarmy, so I huffed my way out of there, muttering various curses against the man, specifically, and France, in general.

Remembering that there was a pizza place just down the street, I walked until I came to the “Pizza Box” (I forget the French spelling). The boy who helped me there was exceptionally nice and even spoke some English. No pepperoni, but they did have chorizo. Much more expensive, but they were doing a two-for-one special on carry-out orders. So, for $20 I got two small pizzas and a carton of Ben & Jerry’s to mend my wounded soul.

But let us not forget that I still had to get home. In the rain. Carrying two pizza boxes and a sack of ice cream, in addition to my purse, computer bag, and umbrella. It was way too far to walk, even if it wasn’t raining, so I waited at the nearest bus stop. When the bus finally did arrive, it was packed to the rafters, so I literally stood at the very front, hip to hip with the driver, my pizzas basically resting on the dashboard, trying not to fall over with every sudden braking or turn. It was a misery.

By the time I walked home from the bus stop by my apartment, a pool of water had collected on the topmost pizza box. But they must really know how to make a pizza box here, because not only wasn’t my pizza soaking wet, it was still mostly hot and definitely delicious. The chorizo wasn’t like at home; it looked and tasted almost exactly like large pepperoni pieces. Perfection!

What wasn’t perfection was the night I decided to phone up this same pizza place to have a pie delivered. I’ll admit I was nervous to place an order over the phone, but I had practiced what I was going to say and studied up on the relevant vocab from a flier of theirs I got in the mail. But, naturally, the man who answered the phone had an accent that I could not understand for the life of me. I tried to tell him what I wanted, but every time he asked me a question (presumably the typical things like address, phone number, pizza choice) it was like he was speaking in some sort of Martian dialect; I was at a total loss. Eventually, he got fed up with me and passed the phone to a fellow employee, who, I am proud to say, I was able to understand with absolutely no issues. (I’d like to think that he hung up the phone and said, “I don’t know what the fuck your problem was, but she seemed fine to me!”) The whole thing just reminded me of every time I’ve heard a fellow call center employee bitch about a customer whose accent they couldn’t understand, and they’d say something along the lines of “Fucking foreigners…learn some fucking English.” Since I’m not one of those people (and I was really trying my best to both speak and understand the native language) I don’t feel I should be getting stuck with their bad karma, but what are you going to do? At any rate, I don’t think I’ll be going through that experience again in a hurry.

Another thing which I will not be doing again in a hurry is having my mother ship me stuff via DHL (or really any private shipper, for that matter). The day I left for France, I stupidly forgot my brand new coat at my mother’s. Since it was an insulated raincoat that I planned to wear during the late fall/winter season, and we were running late to the airport, I decided to just have my mom ship it to me. Never again. First of all, my mother didn’t know how much the coat cost, and not wanting to undervalue it in case it was damaged or lost during shipment, she put on the customs declaration that it cost $200 (it was really only half that expensive). I can hear the more internationally experienced among you groaning right now. Yes, that’s right, I had to pay a duty on the package. Plus, unbelievably, I also had to pay a private shipping fee for using DHL. ??? So, when the DHL delivery guy showed up at my door, he required a payment of—get this—60 Euros!! before I could have my fucking package. I, of course, don’t keep this kind of cash on hand, so I had to tell him to bring it back the next day. Unbelievable.

A long-overdue update

2008-10-19T13:05:00.000+02:00

There could have been no finer day for a stroll along a medieval river than this past late-autumn Sunday in Poitiers. The sun, streaming brightly through yellow and russet leaves, was warm enough to chase off the late afternoon chill, while the slight breeze carried a hint of wood smoke in the distance.

The constant tinkling of the petite rivière beneath my balcony reminded me of the time I had walked along the river Clain a few weeks ago. I had it almost entirely to myself, and it was an exceptionally beautiful and peaceful experience.

So, feeling cooped up in my studio, and with nothing much to occupy my time (having beat every possible piece of laundry against a rock yesterday) I decided to buy a sandwich at the bakery around the corner and then enjoy it while sitting on one of the many benches along the river, throwing the occasional piece of crust to my Mallard friends. (I refer to them as my friends, of course, because they have taken to napping every afternoon on the bank of the petite rivière, just across from my balcony. I quack hello to them when I open up my balcony door.)

As always goes the story of my life, I had the inevitably embarrassing moment at the bakery, during which my credit card wouldn’t work because their machine was only for French cards. This was only revealed after my entire order had been prepared and bagged up, naturally. I was reduced to scrounging through my purse for enough coins to barely cover the cost of the specially-prepared sandwich, and was therefore forced to leave behind the bottle of water and the croissants for tomorrow’s breakfast. The woman behind the counter was no friend of mine by the time I hightailed it out of there, let me tell you. Still, what kind of establishment doesn’t have a credit card machine that will allow you to swipe a card? These French cards have a “plus” sign (pronounced “ploose”, of course) that allows the card to just be inserted into the machine. Most credit machines have the option to either insert or swipe, so this has only happened to me twice: at this bakery and at a Domino’s Pizza [story to follow].

After taking my sandwich of shame and getting the hell out of there, I headed toward the river, keen to repeat my peaceful and isolated experience. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one with the idea to walk along the river on such a gorgeous day; I would have realized that had I given it about half a minute’s thought. Still, it wasn’t quite overrun with squealing brats or yipping dogs, so it was satisfyingly peaceful and inviting. The river was calm, glassy, tinged green like an old Coke bottle. The gravel path snaking alongside the river was dotted with white wooden benches, the best ones already taken by elderly couples (the rest mysteriously not even facing in the direction of the river). All sorts were out for a stroll, including families, couples, men with dogs, women with babies, and one little girl trying to rollerblade through the gravel with very little success. It was lovely.

I know I’ve been slacking these past couple weeks, in regards to keeping this page updated. Please accept my most sincere apologies. Having very little to do in the way of actual work, I should have been posting something every day, but it never really seems to work out that way. When I’m somewhere with internet access (such as my school), I tend to want to goof around online and not do any actual work. I’ve discovered that unless I have 24/7 access to the internet, my productivity once actually connected to it is significantly diminished. I guess I just need to get that goofing-around time out of the way before I can really get down to business. Thankfully, I have at last been able to submit the order for internet in my apartment, and I should be online full time by mid-November. God willing, of course.

Speaking of business, I do have several stories I’d like to share in order to get you all up to date. There’s a lot to report, so I’ll do it in two separate postings. Let us go forth chronologically…

October 1st was a day of orientation for the assistants in my school district, conveniently held right here in Poitiers. I was nervous that the whole day would be in French, and I would be lost for most of it. Of course, it turned out to be mostly French, with brief interludes in English. I got by alright, but not without sounding like an idiot on several occasions which I want to forget and so won’t be repeating here.

I was also nervous that I would be like a grandmother (age-wise) compared to all the other assistants, and I wasn’t far off on that, either. Most of them were clearly in their early or mid twenties. I felt ancient, which was worse than not understanding the French, to be frank. I did make a few “friends”, so at least I had someone to eat lunch with and stand next to at the post-orientation reception.

At this reception, the man in charge of our whole region gave a little speech, and then circulated throughout the crowd, chatting in French with lots of my fellow assistants. Yours truly saw what was going on, and in a desperate bid to save herself from a surely-humiliating scenario, kept one eye on him and the other on various escape routes. Unfortunately, during the one second my eyes wandered over to the drinks table, the man was suddenly at my side and reaching out to shake my hand. Accepting my fate, I plunged in headfirst, speaking very bad French and bringing shame upon not only my ancestors but also all of my fellow countrymen. When did I end up living in a horribly trite American sitcom? *sigh*

At any rate, now orientated, I was ready to begin teaching. My first week only consisted of teaching a small group of advanced students (about 20 in total). Let me tell you a bit about them:

First of all, they already have an undergrad degree in English and some experience living in an English-speaking country. What they’re doing now is studying to become middle or high school-level English teachers, so they must pass a comprehensive and frankly terrifying exam at the end of this school year, called the CAPES (pronounced “Cap-ez”). My job is to help them prepare for the oral section of the exam, wherein they will be graded on the authenticity and consistency of their accent, as well as on their ability to extemporaneously synthesize written and visual material into an oral presentation. It’s nowhere in the same ballpark as easy, and if they don’t pass, they have to wait another year to take it again. It’s also a nationally competitive exam, so it’s all about what percentile you fall into, not about passing with a B+ or some such system. In short, it’s hard as hell, and they need a lot of oral practice.

So, I’m there to give them practice speaking, basically. On Tuesdays, from 9-11am, I get to do fun activities with them, entirely of my choosing, where the goal is to get them to use advanced vocab and to correct them every time they make a mistake. On Wednesday afternoons from 5-7, they have a language lab, where half the time is spent with the other teacher (Mr. Duchet) using computers to record themselves speaking, and the other half with me, using examples from last year’s exam in order to practice their accents and their ability to answer questions about the material.

I like these guys a lot because they’re mostly fluent in English, and I can speak to them pretty much like I’d speak to anyone back home. Some of them have been very nice to me, inviting me to go out for drinks or helping me call the internet company to find out why I’m getting screwed over. I really enjoy my time with them, even though I was warned by my supervising teacher that last year, the CAPES students rarely showed up for class (they’re not actually required to be there, as this is just seen as exam prep), so I shouldn’t put any energy or thought into what I prepare for them.

Of course, this was said by the supervising teacher of my *other* set of students. His name is Michel (pronounced Mee-chelle), and he’s a great guy. Very friendly, very welcoming, very gay (or at least that’s what my gay-dar is telling me). I like him quite a bit, but he does seem to be very prejudiced against the CAPES students (or possibly he just has a personal conflict with my CAPES supervising teacher, Pierre…I can’t quite tell). At any rate, I’m sure I’m going to enjoy my time with him, if not his students.

Unlike the CAPES crew, these students (about 120 in total) have not decided to dedicate their lives to teaching English. In point of fact, they seem to hate English, and only speak it because it’s required in class, and often not even then. Why are they studying English? Well, apparently the French government passed a law a few years ago saying roughly that all primary school teachers must be able to teach basic English to their students (I’m not an expert on French law, so I’m just repeating what’s been vaguely explained to me). These students are required to pass an exam to become primary school teachers, and part of the exam covers their knowledge of English. The portion of the exam which I help them prepare consists of reading through a short text, summarizing it, and then being able to answer questions about it.

I would frankly be shocked if the majority of these students could read an entire English text aloud in an intelligible accent; I would probably fall over dead if they were able to *comprehend* what they were reading and then spend 10 minutes adroitly answering questions on the topic. Now, if I were able to teach these students for several hours every week for the next 5 months, I think we would see a definite improvement; however, I am scheduled to teach these students approximately once per month. For an hour. In December and March I meet with them twice. Oh yeah, they’re gonna do great on that exam! Michel and I have had several discussions on the absolute futility and ridiculousness of this situation, but the fact remains that the French government, while increasing expectations of the students, has simultaneously cut down on school funding. So, not enough teachers, and definitely not enough time. It’s crazy.

Anyway, these are the general descriptions of my students; I’ll relate personal experiences of my teaching later on. I think this is a good place to end my update for right now, don’t you? Seems like a good time to make a cup of tea, enjoy a small snack of some variety, and pick up with some random stories in, shall we say, 20 minutes? Lovely!

Happy happy, joy joy!

2008-09-27T13:04:00.001+02:00

Let the word ring forth from the mountain tops…I have secured an apartment! In fact, I moved in yesterday and am all unpacked. But before you begin to think that I arrived at this point with the greatest of ease, let’s back up a couple days and review the contortions I performed in order to swing things my way.

As you’ll recall, I had found an apartment through a real estate agency and the good grace of an English-speaking agent named Sylvie. At that point, an unfortunate and inevitable problem reared its ugly head: I had to have a guarantor, a co-signer of sorts. Someone who would promise to pay the rent in the event I decided to scarper. If I were under 30, the bank would gladly help me out with this, but as I’m now apparently in “Older Than Dirt” demographic, I was out of luck.

My bank agent, an absolutely wonderful chick named Emilie, advised me to ask for help at one of the administrative offices of my school. This seemed perfectly reasonable to me, as it was the school which got me into this mess in the first place (no room at the inn, if you’ll recall). Oh, if only it were that easy… With that simple advice from Emilie, I embarked upon a Sisyphean struggle [yes, I’m aware you might have to look it up, but I guess I just don’t care] that was eventually resolved only through the luck of the devil, I assure you.

As you’ll again recall, the first office I went to was closed (but the woman there gave me a phone number to call to make an appointment). The second office I went to was also no use because the woman I wanted to see (the one who had told me there were no rooms for me at the university) had already gone home. So, I was screwed for that day and the following, as government workers don’t have to be in on Wednesdays, apparently.

So, Thursday morning, I was up with the dawn and out to the nearest internet café. No response to my desperate email from the chica at the IUFM, so I decided just to call her. Oh joy, her secretary told me that she wasn’t there, but would be in tomorrow. At this point, I started to freak out, I don’t mind telling you. I emailed every administrative person at the university with whom I had had contact previously, and a couple I hadn’t.

[I would like to state here, for the record, that I am as far from impressed as one can possibly be with the University of Poitiers in regards to their handling of me as the new Assistante d’Anglais. You’d think that I was the first one they’d ever had, when in fact this program has been in place for *decades*. At this point, all I should have to do is show up to one particular office, speak to one particular person who is in charge of me, and receive a detailed packet of information that includes a comprehensive list of everything that I need to do in order to function here as a teacher and resident. I know that I am far from the über-regulated business mindset of the United States, but fuck! Get it together people! At this point, I have no idea which of the approximately 15 different offices around town I should be going to, and even less of an idea who I need to speak to, or even who is directly in charge of me. Argh! Thinking about this makes me want to pull my hair out, so I shall cease this bitching immediately.]

Anyway, not getting any emails back in a hurry, I decided to call Sylvie the real estate agent to advise her of my predicament. She was understandably concerned, but I told her that I would call her before she left work in order to let her know the outcome of my struggle.

I called one of the school’s offices (the one that had been closing up when I went on Tuesday), and the secretary there gave me a couple phone numbers to try that were for social agencies designed to help poor people who needed a guarantor, one of which was particularly for government employees such as myself. Terrified to call them on my own, I decided to first try the bank again. It had occurred to me that when I was at the bank, I had said that I needed a “caution”, which is like a deposit, when in fact Sylvie had just said “un garant”, which is a co-signer of sorts. Thinking that I had perhaps not communicated my needs correctly, I rushed across the plaza to speak with Emilie again.

Well, much to my disappointment, Emilie explained to me that a caution and a garant are basically the same thing in France—a promise to pay if the person skips out on rent. Damn. Sensing my impending insanity, and perhaps not wanting me to start crying right there in her office, the incomparable Emilie then offered to call all of the phone numbers I had been given in an attempt to fix this problem for me. What unexpected service from a bank employee!! :-)

She called and called, and explained the situation over and over again, but it seemed that no one could help me. Eventually, as it was now noon and people just weren’t in their offices, she made a last ditch effort and called a lady she knew in the international student department at the university. This Maryvonne had the unenviable task of finding housing for international students and dealing with their various issues. In short, someone perfectly suited to helping me! Emilie told me that Maryvonne should be able to help me find an apartment, but maybe I wouldn’t be able to get the one I already wanted because of the caution requirement (apparently, some apartments don’t have that requirement).

So, to kill time until my 2 o’clock appointment with Maryvonne, I decided to drown my sorrows at my favorite café, Le Gil. I had just placed my order when suddenly I realized that my mobile phone was ringing. It was Sylvie! She had discussed my situation with her boss, and they decided that it would be safe to rent me the apartment without a caution, but just until the end of my contract. If I wanted to keep the apartment after that, it would be on me to find someone to be my “garant”. In fact, this arrangement is quite perfect, as it relieves me of needing to use my psychic skills to figure out in January if I want to keep the apartment past March. (You have to give 3 months notice to vacate an apartment here.)

Needless to say, after hearing this news, I did a little happy dance right there in my seat at Le Gil! I even celebrated with a dish of ice cream (I originally thought I would get one of the enormous sundae creations I saw others eating, until I reviewed the menu and saw the prices were $9-$12!) When I ordered the salted butter caramel ice cream [a revelation!], I told the ever-hustling waiter that I was celebrating because I had found an apartment that day. He seemed as happy for me as a stranger could possibly be. ;-) After lunch, I hurried back to Emilie’s office to tell her of my good luck, and she seemed equally happy for me (or possibly just happy that I wouldn’t be having any more breakdowns in her office for the foreseeable future).

I decided to celebrate my unbelievable luck by going shopping for a bed. After all, I might be lucky enough to have gotten the apartment, but it was unfurnished, and I wasn’t about to spend my first night there on the fucking floor!

The cheapest store in these parts is called “Conforama”, and it clearly fancies itself a French Ikea. But it is not as cheap as Ikea, and the woman who “helped” me was a total bitch, so it’s definitely down a peg or two in my book from the Swedish superstore. In any event, it’s a long bus ride away from the city, but probably worth it if you’re looking to furnish a house on the cheap, as I am. The one thing they have on Ikea is that they deliver; however, this advantage is totally negated by the fact that they currently have a delivery delay of 15 days, of which the bitch in the bed department was all too happy to inform me.

So, in the end, I went with my second choice of the inflatable mattress. Please stop groaning…I can hear you all the way over here in France! Un matelas gonflable. Yes, it’s true. But, it’s like an automatically-inflating Aerobed that actually comes up about two feet off the floor. And it’s queen-sized. And it was only $120. And I could take it home right then on the fucking bus. Deal with it.

In fact, because the mattress looks really awesome, I almost busted it out for my last night at the hostel. The beds here are truly awful, and I was on my own for my last night. Still, the idea of having to wrestle the bed back into its little bag come the morning was more than I could handle. So, since it will be my only furniture for the immediate future, I hope it works when I get to the apartment this afternoon!

After dealing with the bed situation, I had an appointment with the previous apartment dweller to see about buying his washing machine off him. Turns out it’s the tiniest washing machine I’ve ever seen in my life, possibly designed to be used only by midgets or supermodels. But it’s typical for France, and it’s a Bosch, so I went for it. $150 bucks (100 Euros). Literally, I think I’ll be able to wash one pair of jeans and maybe two shirts at the same time…unbelievable. But I had scoped out washing machines at the Conforama, and they were about the same size for twice the price. So, good deal. Plus, Julian told me that it was “15 minutes by foot” to the nearest laundromat, and no way was I about to lug my dirty linens halfway across town “by foot”.

Also for sale by Julian was his portable heater. He explained to me that electricity is really expensive in France, and as the apartment uses electric radiators, I would be advised to find another solution, preferably the one he was selling. As I explained to a shocked Julian, his little heater would probably get you booted from any US apartment complex, as it’s essentially a little fireplace that runs on butane…rather like an enormous Zippo. Open fire–not exactly encouraged by American landlords. Still, this is France, and not wanting to rack up the heating bills, I bought it for $50. Julian was also nice enough to show me the little ins and outs of the apartment and how to get the electricity and internet set up. Looks like it’ll be at least 2 weeks on the internet, goddamn it.

Leaving the apartment, I walked to what will now be *my* bus stop, line number 11. Arret: Pont Neuf. It was almost 8, so twilight was falling upon the city, and as I turned around to take a look back at the apartment, I could see the buildings across the bridge. The sunset had lit the stone-colored buildings to a nice rosey hue. Glowing pink houses in the distance, *my* apartment within view, and a permanent bus pass in my pocket…I just thought to myself: I live here now. This is real, and it’s good, and I’m going to have a great time.

I decided to celebrate by having a lovely pasta dinner; however, the walk-up window pasta shop that I spotted just off the town square was being manned by a girl who clearly cared more about singing along with the radio than about tending to the long line of exasperated customers. Not wanting to exchange my buzz for the customer service blues, I kept walking until I got to the small modern-age shopping mall, Cordeliers, which is squeezed in between all the ancient buildings. I often cut through this building to go between the two main squares, Place Charles de Gaulle and Hôtel de Ville. I knew there was a pasta shop in there, too, so I headed straight for it.

The man there was very nice (even offered to speak English with me), and I had my dinner to go in short order. Keen to catch the bus back to the hostel before the last one at 8:30, I hustled to my usual bus stop all the way over at the Place Charles de Galle. In fact, I hustled so superbly that I made it in time to catch the 8:07 bus. As I got settled in for the ride back to the hostel, I noticed that the bus was stopping at the next stop: Cordeliers. That’s right…I could have just stayed right where I was, instead of speed-walking to the other stop. It was then I realized that, no matter how much this feels like home right now, I still have a lot to learn. That made me smile, because I know that I’m going to have days of utter frustration ahead of me (and some behind me, as well), but at least I know enough to know when I’ve fucked up. And that’s half the battle.

Now, I’d love to go on and tell you all about moving into the apartment and my trip to “LeClerc”, a one-stop shop that offers everything a person could ever need in order to live their whole life (including a mind-blowing grocery department that puts to shame every single grocery store I have ever seen in person–or my dreams), but I need to get out of this internet cafe in order to catch my bus.

Until next time! I'll leave you with some apartment pics...

Front Door, moving in day

Backyard, river included View to the left

Introducing...Poitiers!

2008-09-24T13:01:00.000+02:00

It seems an absolute eternity since I was able to write an update on here, even though it’s really only been three days. But, as you all know, when one is without the internet, time moves at a snail’s pace. In fact, I haven’t been wholly without the internet, as there are several internet cafés in the center of Poitiers…it’s just that most of them have ancient computers that more or less operate by crank shaft and the luck of the draw. I have recently, quite happily and accidentally, stumbled upon a modern age internet café that even has, of all things, Skype! So, it’s from there that I’m posting this update.

I’m not writing this update from there, of course, because it’s probably going to take me more than an hour to write this, and it would take much more than three hours if I had to do it on a French keyboard. Their keyboard is similar to ours, except the “A” is in the place of the “W” and the “W” is in the place of the “Z”. Also, the “M” is in the place of the semicolon. You wouldn’t think that this would be hard to remember, but 20+ years of keyboarding (and the ability to type about 60 words a minute if I really want to) means that I type without thinking about it, and that just doesn’t work when the keys are different. So, on the French keyboard, I end up having to hunt and peck and do a lot of erasing. And, naturally, all of the punctuation keys are also completely batty. The period is on the same key, but you have to hit the shift in order to get to it! The exclamation point is where the shift key is. And you have to hit shift to get to all the numbers. Of course, this is but the barest sample of the differences in punctuation keys.

So, to avoid having to type on a French keyboard, but being without WiFi internet service (it’s practically non-existent in this town, outside of the university), I have come to the solution of typing everything on my own computer, and then using a newly-purchased flash drive to save the stuff and post it at an internet café. Now, after such a gripping introduction as the one I just provided you, I’m sure you’re eager to hear exactly what the hell I’ve been up to in my first real days in Poitiers. :-) When last we spoke, I was stuck at the hotel from hell, waiting to hear if the university would be able to provide a room for me…

Monday morning, I was finally able to get a hold of the woman to whom I spoke last week about the possibility of the university having a dorm room or apartment or anything with a roof with my name on it. The sad, and yet inevitable, news was that there was no room at the inn. Absolutely no rooms available at one of the largest universities in France. Right. But there was no moving her from this point, and so it then immediately fell upon my shoulders to find a place to live, and with a quickness. Since the hotel from hell was charging me $50/night for the privilege of sleeping in a fucking bunk bed, I figured I could save a lot of money and be just as uncomfortable at the local youth hostel. So, to the Auberge de Jeunesse I went!

For $15/night, I was still sleeping in a bunk bed, but I had to share the room with up to three other people (and also share the bathroom and shower facilities). Being 31 and not 21, this wasn’t exactly the most ideal situation, but for the price, it couldn’t be beat. I brought my bags there at noon, but since the hostel is closed from noon to 4, I had to leave right away. But, no matter, because I hadn’t yet explored the center of town (“Centre Ville”), and I was eager to get out and have a look.

I stopped at the “Tabac” (tobacco and newspaper shop) on the way to the bus stop to buy some bus tickets (a “tabac” is one of the only places to buy such tickets) and get a bus schedule. Luckily, there’s a bus stop very near to the hostel, and that bus makes a stop in the town center. I wanted to buy a month’s pass, but the tabac lady told me that I could only do that at the bus company (“Vitalis”) main store near the town center. Ok, another thing to add to my list!

I found the bus stop and sat down to wait. Eventually, an old man came and stood there next to me, and after him, a middle-aged African man showed up and said “Bonjour Madame! Bonjour Monsieur!” Very friendly. Then he asked me a question in French which I couldn’t understand, so I had to explain that my French is crap, which of course led to a discussion of where I’m from, la la la. As soon as I said that I spoke English, the man immediately says that I will have to teach him English because he has relatives in England, etc. And I couldn’t be rude, but this prospect didn’t interest me in the least. He kept insisting, and tried to speak in the little bit of English that he already knew. I believe he even invited me to stay with him and his wife if I couldn’t find an apartment!

Eventually, the bus came, and we got on. He wrote down his name and number so that I could call him to set up English lessons! Gabriel was his name. I won’t be doing this anytime soon, but it was nice to know that I already had a lead on private lessons. :-)

On the bus drive into town, I couldn’t help staring open-mouthed at all of the amazing buildings. I had gotten a glimpse of some as I came into Poitiers on Saturday, but nothing like what lies at the heart of the city. The bus crawled along, making a spiral around the town, gradually getting closer to the middle. We drove up the ramparts along the edge of the city, and I could clearly see the narrow slits in the wall that would have been used by archers in an incredibly distant past. The streets were narrow and lined with buildings that alternated between intricate stonework with wrought iron balconies and timber-framed houses older than the very idea of my country. I was like a fish gasping for water, looking like a damned fool, I’m sure…mouth just gaping.

We got to my stop, the “Marché Notre Dame” (market of Notre Dame [their big church]), and I pressed the button to request the driver to stop. Well, even though I was standing at the door, of course, the doors didn’t open. I didn’t know if I was supposed to push a button right there or what, but needless to say, I was left standing by the door as the bus started to pull away again. I freaked out and started saying, in English, “Wait! I need to get out!” etc…you can imagine. My French utterly failed me in this moment of crisis. :-) The driver didn’t hear me, of course, but the very nice lady sitting by the door did, and she SHOUTED at the driver to stop and let me out. My god. But I was very thankful anyway. Humiliated, but thankful. (Since this experience, needless to say, I am quite conscientious to make it obvious that I’m getting off the bus, and so it hasn’t happened again since, thankfully.)

After I got off the bus and collected myself, I started walking towards the church. Holy moly…it is beautiful. Smaller than I thought it would be, but very striking. It’s in a beige-colored stone, and has quite intricate carvings and huge wooden doors. None of the doors were open, so I didn’t dare to go in. Still haven’t, actually! Anyway, I was too busy absorbing the scene around the square, and desperately trying to blend in. Did I mention that because I could only leave my big suitcases at the hostel until I could officially check in at 4, I was obliged to carry my heavy-ass backpack and computer bag with me all afternoon long? Yikes! That was a literal pain in the ass, let me tell you. So, of course, I looked like a gypsy (in a sassy new black and white coat), hauling all my possessions with me.

As it was lunch time, I looked around the square for a place to eat, being careful not to turn my ankle on the ancient cobblestones as I craned my neck to see all the different shops and buildings. Eventually, I settled on “Le Gil”, a bar/café/restaurant that looked particularly inviting. And it was. Very friendly and efficient wait staff (they appeared to only have one main waiter, who was responsible for serving both the inside tables and the multitude of outside tables across the little street. He was an utter blur of activity the whole time I was there). The owner, a very nice woman, helped with the inside tables. She couldn’t have been more pleasant to me and everyone else, despite the fact that I was clearly a foreigner. Of course, I did speak only in French, but I’m sure it was painfully obvious that I didn’t belong.

[I would like to interject at this point that one of the most useful French phrases I’ve learned is “une carafe d’eau”, which means “a pitcher of water”. If I didn’t know this phrase, I’d be paying $3 or more for a bottle of Evian everywhere I went.]

Not wanting to be too American, I settled on ordering the “Croque Monsieur”, which is the French version of a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, except that it has a little creamy white cheese sauce on top of it before being put under the broiler. I thought I was being crafty in ordering this instead of a burger or something, but after I ordered it at a different café today, I think it’s really something that only tourists get. When I ordered it today, the waiter’s attitude instantly changed, and when he brought it to me, he asked if I wanted ketchup or mayonnaise…oops! Of course, I said, in French, “No, just some mustard please.” [very French] I noticed then that a table of 4 Brits had ALL ordered the croque monsieur, and I realized my mistake. From now on, I shall strive to order something more French and less touristy.

One very French menu item that I am coming to love is the “Café Crème”, essentially a strong black coffee with cream in it, sugar always on the side. I’m more of a tea girl, usually, but this stuff is addictive. Since the weather is kind of chilly here, I’ve been defying convention and ordering it at the beginning of my meal, just to warm up. Mmmm…delicious! “Une deca crème s’il vous plait!” [decaf, naturally].

After filling my belly, I walked around some more, and eventually decided to go back to the hostel to check in before I went to my appointment with the real estate agency. This was going to be a close call, time-wise, but I didn’t want to fuck up my hostel reservation. So, I tried to take the same bus I arrived on, but [and we can surely all see this coming] I got on going in the wrong direction. Naturally. The problem was that I couldn’t find the bus stop for the correct direction, so I figured I had to ride the bus in a circle or some shit…god only knows what I was thinking, to be honest.

Anyway, I was on the bus for about 15 minutes when I realized the futility and stupidity of my plan. Paying attention as we went by other bus stops, I could see how they were set up, and decided to alight at a bus stop and then wait for the bus going back towards the city. This meant scrapping my plan to check in at the hostel, but time-wise it was now completely impossible to go there and still make my real estate appointment on time. So, I got off the bus, got on the right one, and essentially ended up exactly where I had started. The good news is that I made my appointment with a few minutes to spare, so I was able to check out the decrepit internet café nearby.

At 4:30, I went to the real estate agent’s office where I had an appointment with Sylvie. She was the nicest agent of all those I had spoken with last week, plus she spoke English. Big plus. She showed me all of the available apartments she had in my price range, and we settled on one that seemed quite nice, only about 280 Euros/month, and one the 1st floor, as opposed to the 4th like several of the others. We made an appointment to go see it the next afternoon. Before I left, Sylvie asked me if I might be able to teach English to her 16 year old daughter. She wanted to send her to England to study, but it was just too expensive. I said sure, no problem, and asked her where I could go to get some business cards printed up!

After leaving the agency, I was so exhausted from all the walking walking walking I’d been doing, that I decided to head straight back to the hostel to get checked in and pass out on a lower bunk somewhere. I got a key to a room with no one in it, and the place didn’t seem that busy. Of course, I thought I was going to luck out and have the room to myself. But, we all know better than that!

Shortly after I checked in, a girl slightly younger than me came in the room and introduced herself as Marie. Turns out she’s a podiatrist-in-training, and also in search of an apartment. She had had an appointment in Poitiers that day, and was on her way to Toulouse in the morning to visit her sister. She was very friendly, and spoke great English, so naturally we got on quite well. In fact, I was just going to go to the corner store to buy something crappy for dinner, but she invited me to go into town with her to have a real meal. Hesitant to wrangle any more buses, I was going to decline, but then she said she had her car with her, so I immediately leapt at the invitation.

We ended up eating at a pizza joint, of all places, but it was pretty tasty. She wanted to go see “Mamma Mia” at the nearby cinema, but I was completely bushed at that point, so we headed back to the hostel. Since she’s moving to Poitiers within a couple weeks and doesn’t know anyone here either, we exchanged numbers and are hopefully going to hang out again. She even offered to take me grocery shopping with her in her lovely car…great success! :-)

Sleeping at the hostel was a bit of a torture, I can’t lie. The beds are covered in some kind of rubber just-in-case-they-get-drunk-and-wet-the-bed kind of material that squeaks and pops every time you so much as even think about turning over (which I do-a lot). If I hadn’t been so tired, I’m not sure I could have slept at all for fear of disturbing everyone else with my bed squeaking and probable snoring. Also, another French girl came in around 11, so that made another person to have to think about. Ugh.

Tuesday, I got up and out of the hostel and made it to my apartment viewing appointment with time to spare. I had stopped at a little bakery by the hostel to grab a “croissant au chocolat” and the owner told me I had a great accent, which made me feel very happy and quite satisfied with my choice of bakeries.

At the real estate agency, Sylvie was running late, so I had time to do some emailing at the decrepit internet café. The middle-aged owner was becoming like an old friend, since I had been there a couple times the previous day. Even he was trying to talk to me in English, although he hadn’t specifically asked for lessons. :-)

Back at Sylvie’s office, she and I went to look at the apartment. Well, it was lovely. In a perfect location, halfway between the university and the center of town, right next to a major bus line. It’s a studio in an old building, not furnished, but it does have a little fridge and a small cooktop. The best part, by far, was the fact that it has a balcony overlooking a small stream near the river. Just lovely. And it also has a full-sized bathtub, not a given in most apartments, so that was nice. For only 280 Euros/month, it’s a good deal. So, I took it!

This being said, it’s not really that easy to get an apartment when you’re a foreigner. I had to go back to Sylvie’s office and fill out paperwork. I didn’t have info to put in most of the boxes on the form, but she didn’t seem to really care. [The most amusing part of this visit was that Sylvie referred to me to one of her colleague’s as “her English girl”, to which I said, “Actually, I’m American.” They were both shocked! Apparently, I speak French with a clear enough accent that I sound British instead of American. Very funny to me…]

After the paperwork there, I had to go to the bank to open an account and hope that they would be able to be a “guarantor” for me [something you have to have if you’re a foreigner, so that someone will guarantee to pay the bills if you skip town]. Well, the lady at the bank was super nice, and opening an account was incredibly easy. But, the bank wasn’t able to act as a guarantor because I exceed their age limit of 29. Fuck. Without this piece of paper from them, I can’t get an apartment. The bank lady told me to try the school.

So, I hiked all the way out to the school’s administrative office, to no avail because it was about 4:30 and everyone had gone home for the day. Then to the IUFM to talk to the woman face to face who had told me there was no room to be provided by the university, but she was also gone. And, no surprise, this type of government employee doesn’t work on Wednesdays for some unimaginable reason. Thus, it is now Wednesday, and I have no idea if I’ll actually be able to get my apartment until tomorrow.

After being turned away at the IUFM, I had to find a bus back to the city center because I was way too fucking exhausted to walk back. I couldn’t find the bus stop recommended by the secretary, but I did see the entrance into Blossac Park. Well, it looked so lovely from what I could see through the gate that I was irresistibly drawn inside.

There was a large spraying fountain, surrounded by an enormous space laid out in walkways and lawns. It was very renaissance in its design. Some of the walkways were like shaded boulevards, with incredibly tall trees lining the path on each side. Benches everywhere. Even a petting zoo area with a few small goats being fed by an old woman. Very calm, very relaxing.

So, I parked myself on a bench and rested my feet while taking in the idea of this semi-ancient park in the middle of this utterly ancient city. Sylvie had told me earlier that we were actually living on the 7th level of this city, meaning that the city had been rebuilt upon and rebuilt upon until it was currently 7 levels high. That’s why they can have parking ramps that go so far underground…they just dig down through history.

Eventually, it looked like it might start raining, so I hoofed it out of there. Slowly, I strolled down one of the boulevards toward a large wrought iron gate at the far end of the park. As I was walking, the wind blew some seed pods down from the trees above me. At home in Iowa, we have a tree near my mom’s house that lets out seed pods in the fall that come down in a twirly motion, almost like a miniature helicopter. These here were similar, except that they were like helicopters that had a parcel of goods hanging below it [army rations?]…at any rate, it was surprising and delightful to see them, and they reminded me that even though I was having a bad afternoon, I was still lucky to be having this bad afternoon in France.

At the bus stop I eventually found, I was chatted up by this old French man who kept speaking to me in rapid-fire French even after I explained that my French was crap. At one point, a troupe of teenagers dressed as wild animals, with their faces painted and wigs on, came walking by. After they passed, I asked him, “What was that??” And he said, “Maybe they are going to the children’s hospital. I hope!”

Back at the town center, I ended up eating dinner at “L’Istanbul”, a Turkish restaurant [duh]. The owner, an old man, was very funny and very welcoming. He asked me if I was English [again with that great accent!] and when I said, “No, I’m American”, he said, “Oh well, it’s all the same!” I then ate one of the most delicious dishes I’ve had since I got here, which was an eggplant and beef dish with some type of grain as a side dish, and a lovely salad with feta. Yum! I’ll definitely be going back there.

In fact, when I first arrived, the man was chatting with me [and the other couple customers, and people in the street, and cars that were driving by…in fact, his gregariousness reminded me of my grandfather], and he didn’t give me a menu, just some tea. Eventually, his wife came in the door, and he said, “Aha! The cook has arrived!” LOL So, once she was there, I was presented with a menu, and the food arrived quickly thereafter.

Today, I’m taking it easy, since there’s nothing I can do in regards to the “guarantor” situation. Doing a bit of the touristy thing. :-) Of course, this is the first day that it’s rained since I’ve been here…naturally. Still, there is plenty to do and see.

I hope all of you are well! I’ll let you know when I’ve finally got my own internet set up and can talk again with Skype on a regular basis.

Ciao!

Purgatory, aka "The Etap Hotel"

2008-09-21T12:57:00.000+02:00

So, I can’t decide which is worse: watching TV in a country where you can’t understand a damn word they’re saying (e.g. Korea), or watching TV in a country where you can understand about every 4th word, leading to a perpetual state of frustration and brain engagement when you’d rather just be able to relax and watch it mindlessly (making up your own amusing dialogue if you so desire). This debate was raging in my mind last night as I was trying to fall asleep with the TV on (yes, I’m one of *those* people) and my brain just would not LET GO. Of course, it was a dubbed episode of Law & Order SVU, so all the more impetus to try to understand what was going on. (And can I just say that dubbing has to be one of the worst inventions of the 20th century?! Thank god it never caught on in the States.)

Eventually, I had to turn off the TV and focus on falling asleep on my rock-hard hotel bed. Yes, I’m at a hotel in Poitiers right now. The “Etap Hotel”, to be specific. I chose this hotel based on its cheap rate and Wi-Fi access (pronounced WeeFee in French LOL), so it seems unfair that I should be bitching about the rock-hard bed and sleep-away-camp room décor, but I can’t help it. A newly built Motel 6 would put this place to shame. The toilet is like a port-a-potty cabin–and no, that’s not a joke. It also boasts a BUNK BED. I took the lower one, naturally. The top was a twin, and the bottom is almost queen-sized, so it was an easy pick. Still, the hotel’s website didn’t pretend to offer anything other than cheap and basic accommodations, so I’ll just stop my complaining now.

I had a bit of an interesting journey here yesterday on the train from Paris. First, let us remember that I have two enormous 50-pound suitcases to wrangle, plus my heavy backpack and somehow even heavier computer bag. So, Anne drove me to the Montparnasse train station and helped me with my bags. I had bought my ticket online the night before, and supposedly all I had to do was go to a conveniently automated kiosk to print it out once I got to the station. Well, I think we all know how that was going to end up. Naturally, it wouldn’t read my foreign Visa card (despite having a sign that clearly listed Visa as being one of the only credit cards it *would* take). And, without it being able to read the card, it couldn’t validate the purchase and give me the ticket. We weren’t really running late or anything, but it was just that much more stress in my life to be unable to get my $60 ticket to print. After talking to a station employee (who kept saying that the machine wouldn’t take American Express, to which I kept replying, “Ce n’est pas un American Express! C’est un VISA!!” But hey, I guess American=American Express…), we ended up waiting in line at an “Immediate Departures” window to see if an agent could print the ticket for me.

We got in line at a window where there were three people ahead of us, and the electronic sign said the window would be closing in about 10 minutes. But, we felt our chances were good to get in under the wire. It was looking fine until the old lady ahead of us got up to the window. At first, she seemed to be doing something very cut and dried, but once she had her ticket, she suddenly remembered that she had 27 different questions to ask the agent. At this point, the window only had about 5 minutes left on it. I wasn’t too concerned, but the middle-aged lady standing behind us was huffing and puffing with exasperation at this old biddy.

Eventually, Granny finished up her interrogation and waddled off to find her train. As Anne and I stepped up to the window, the agent spoke to the woman behind us and told her (from what I could understand) that the window would be closing very soon, so she should piss off and find another line. She argued back and forth with him for a bit, insisting that she had been waiting several minutes already in *this* line and shouldn’t have to move. But he was having none of it, so she stomped off, cursing him and the granny both. Anne then told the agent about my situation, and he printed off my ticket with no problem (explaining that the machines won’t take foreign cards…something that it wouldn’t hurt for them to put somewhere on their 1. Fucking website and 2. Fucking ticket machines). So, we only used up about 2 minutes of the remaining 5, leaving the agent plenty of time to help the man who was now standing behind us. I didn’t see her, but I imagined that the middle-aged lady was probably watching from a nearby line with smoke coming out of her ears.

Crisis averted, Anne and I went off to find the train track. My train arrived within just a few minutes of getting my ticket, so it all timed out very nicely. I was concerned about getting on ASAP so that I could find a place for my robust luggage. That ended up being a cinch, though, as no one else in my compartment happened to be moving their life to Poitiers that day.

My seat was by the window, thankfully facing the right way (riding backwards makes me nauseous). At first, I was totally alone in this seating block (two seats, with a table and two more seats opposite, so you’re face to face with the person across from you). But, in the long tradition of suffering that is my life, I didn’t remain alone for long. In fact, after I was settled in and starting to eat the delicious packed lunch Anne had made for me (just like my Grandma would…except Anne didn’t also bless the train with Holy Water), this 90 year old near-deaf woman and her bitchy daughter got on the train. Somehow, they didn’t have seats right next to each other. The daughter sat in a window seat in the row behind me, but Grandma Moses was assigned to sit directly across from me. The daughter amused herself by shouting at the old lady in broadly accented French. “Are you hot??” “Are you thirsty??” “Do you want some bread??” Half the time, the woman wasn’t paying attention and had to be prodded by the hot French guy who had taken the seat next to her.

Had I not heard them speaking French, I would have actually thought this old woman was Italian. She had the hook nose, hunched back, and caved-in toothless mouth of a woman whose husband— Giovanni, probably—died in WWII. Or WWI, possibly. She was *that* old.

So, Grandma Moses and I sat Roman nose to Roman nose for an hour and a half. Thankfully, she slept most of the way, and I ignored her with the help of my iPod. It really is disconcerting to be so near, and face-to-face, with a total stranger. We exchanged a few small smiles when she first got on the train, especially when the hottie sat next to her (her smile had a hint of “I might be old, but I could teach him things he never learned in school!”), and I did say “Bonjour!” when she first sat down. I, however, was not eager to give away my foreign status, so I sat mostly mum for the whole journey.

Eventually, the train pulled into the station at Poitiers, and I scrambled to retrieve my massive amount of luggage. Thankfully, there was a spry young man standing right by the baggage area, and I was able to beg him in my nicest schoolgirl French to help me take my two suitcases off the train. And by help, I mean he did it for me. :-) So, I was soon through the station and off to the taxi stand, where I managed to acquire a taxi driven by an exceptionally ripe French grandpa. I literally had my head practically hanging out the window for the whole drive to the hotel, just so I could breathe some fresh air. Still, he loaded my heavy bags into the cab for me, and helped me lift them up the few stairs at the front of my hotel, for which he definitely earned the 5 Euro tip I gave him.

And now I’m at the Etap Hotel, much further away from the city center than I had thought. This means that last night I had nowhere to eat but the restaurant at the hotel next door. It’s a steakhouse, so it could be worse. I ventured over there last night after carefully scrutinizing the menu that was left in my hotel room. I had thankfully been able to ask Anne a few menu-clarifying questions when she called me that evening. (“What the hell is “Steak dans le hampe??”…turns out it’s just a regular and cheap cut of steak). The dinner was pretty good, and didn’t cost me an arm and a leg. About $15 for a steak, baked potato, salad, apple tart, and coffee. This was their “Petite Grill” menu. I love the European way of buying a “menu” that includes everything for one price. Anyway, it was tasty and economical.

This morning, I had the hotel’s continental breakfast buffet. It was OK, but not overwhelmingly satisfying. There’s just something about having bacon and hashed browns for breakfast that will always leave me disappointed with cereal and yogurt. Anyway, desperate for more protein, I decided to take a walk in search of a grocery store that might somehow be open on a Sunday (it’s decidedly rare for *anything* to be open on a Sunday here). In addition to which, I couldn’t face spending the morning in my padded cell, uh, I mean hotel room. So, I walked down the mostly industrial stretch of road near my hotel for about 15-20 minutes before I got to this big supermarket that was miraculously open. It was pretty chilly, so at that point, I was just happy to be able to go indoors for a bit.

As luck would have it, this was a full-on grocery store with a section of household-type goods (kind of like a Target or Wal-Mart, but smaller). I was able to buy a street map of Poitiers, as well as various and sundry food products that wouldn’t be too heavy to lug all the way back to the hotel. I was quite pleased with myself, I don’t mind saying, especially after the front desk chick had told me that no stores would be open anywhere near the hotel. When I walked in the door of the hotel to find her vacuuming the hallway, I wanted to put my grocery bag right in her face and say, “What? Did you think I couldn’t walk that far?? Eat it!” But, I refrained.

Now it’s just a matter of killing time until I hunt down the university lady tomorrow morning who will hopefully be able to release me from this hotel prison. And, just like in a prison, I’m getting totally screwed. The Wi-Fi that the hotel boasted about (albeit vaguely) on their website is charged for by the fucking MINUTE. .25 cents/minute!! I have hardly heard anything more ridiculous than that in my life. I thought $15/24 hours at the hotel in Chicago was expensive…good grief. So, needless to say, I won’t be online much between now and when I get the hell out of here. My apologies to those who have tried to Skype me!

OK, I’ve written just about as much as possible, and it’s only 3:00 in the afternoon on Sunday. Lord let this time pass with exceeding swiftness…

Had we but world enough, and time...

2008-09-09T12:54:00.000+02:00

As the month of August draws to a close, and my 31st birthday looms large on the horizon, I have found myself becoming introspective and more than a bit melancholy.

I know it sounds crazy to be melancholy when my trip to France is just around the corner, but I’ve found that I have a tendency to get this way whenever I’m about to pick up my life and move far away from friends and family. The idea of starting over is exciting, but it also means having to make new friends at a time when you could really use the old ones. And because I’m moving for work, it also means that I have to maintain structure in my daily life at a time when I’d rather have no commitments beyond getting to know unfamiliar streets and figuring out where to buy the best produce.

Contributing significantly to this melancholy are some major events that have been going on in my life this summer, including but not limited to: the undermining and eventual disintegration of a seemingly-solid friendship; classes for my masters that have tested my patience and will to continue onward with my degree; and the wedding of one of my best friends to a wonderful man. (This last one is only melancholy-inducing in that it made me wish that I was in such a state of bliss as the blushing bride.)

On a more positive note, I have found out exactly where I will be posted in France. It’s exactly what I wanted, so be very happy for me! I will be teaching at the IUFM (teacher training college) at the University of Poitiers. This means, of course, that I will be living in Poitiers, itself, which was my top choice. I will be spending my time surrounded by approximately 30,000 university students and the culture they engender. I couldn’t imagine a better way to live out my time in France! Paris is too huge; a random village would be too small. Poitiers is just right! Plus, it’s on the TGV train line, which means that I have fast and frequent access to the rest of the country (and, hence, all of Europe), something I plan to thoroughly take advantage of in my abundant free time.

Yes, I said abundant free time! Although I will be moving to France for work, my contract is only for 12 hours per week. I’m hoping that my schedule will be something like 6 hours per day, two days per week, rather than a couple hours each day. I’d love to be able to spend long weekends riding the rails (or taking cheap RyanAir flights) to wherever the mood moves me.

Just last weekend I saw the movie, “Vicky Christina Barcelona” (fantastic), and it brought to mind what a great time I had in Spain, and how much I want to go back. So, that will be tops on my list. San Sebastian, here I come! I passed through there once on the train from Paris to Madrid, and I have always meant to actually get off a train there. All the beautiful buildings! Beyond that, I’m sure I’ll spend most weekends exploring France.

Of course, there’s also northern Africa to consider. Morocco (Marrakesh and Tangiers, in particular) have long been exotic destinations on my to-experience list. I’ve actually considered spending my two-week Toussaints vacation in Marrakesh, but a lot will depend upon finances. 12-hour work weeks do not a fortune pay.

By the way, please feel free to give me any suggestions for little-known places anywhere in Europe that I should visit. I would greatly appreciate it!

Anyway, that’s the update for now. Time is ticking away, so I think I’ll be spending my remaining time here boning up on my French and relearning how to walk for miles at a time. :-)

Heart attack moment

2008-07-06T12:52:00.000+02:00

So, since I created this page, I’ve been fairly going out of my mind waiting to hear more info on my French job…in particular, to which city and school I will be assigned. Since I feel like my whole happiness for the next year is dependent upon this information, my patience has begun to run dry. But, I guess hope does spring eternal. I’ve been eagerly checking my mailbox every day (or bugging my roommate to see if she has checked the mail), waiting for the moment that I forget to be hopeful (because surely the letter will come on the day I’m least expecting it, right?).

I had a bit of a heart attack moment the other day. I was at my dreaded Blackberry job, and it was a little slow. I took advantage of the down time to check in on the Assistants in France website, which I hadn’t been able to check for about a week. Well–the shit I had missed!! Apparently, one of the guys assigned to my region had gotten ahold of the email address of the man who’s in charge of us over in France, and had emailed him to ask where the hell our “arrêtes de nomination” were (the docs that tell us our school/city and allow us to apply for our visas). He got an email back in short order saying that our papers had been submitted that very day and should be finding their way to our mailboxes by July 15th-ish. Woo-hoo!! This was very exciting to hear, although not very heart attack-inducing.

The heart attack moment came when I looked further around the website and landed on a page where, after reading the chat, it was obvious some people from my region had apparently gotten a sneak peek of the assignments list. So, they were all whooping it up that they had been assigned to La Rochelle (a seaside resort that is my #2 city choice). Where the fuck did they find this info?? They were just suddenly talking about it on the discussion forums, with no indication of where they had seen the info. I was more than a bit frantic in trying to figure out their source. Eventually, I determined that the list was leaked on our Poitiers 2008-2009 Facebook group page. I immediately violated my company’s internet policy in order to take a quick look at the page. Unfortunately, it was only a list of those who had been assigned to primary schools in La Rochelle.

Crazily enough, the very next day, I got an email from Marjorie (the woman in charge of our program through the French embassy in America). Apparently, she was tired of getting bitchy emails along the lines of “Where the fuck is my letter??”, so she decided to throw all of us a bone and let us know what level of contract we have. I am so happy to report that I will definitely have a *university* level contract, my #1 preference!! I was so worried that I would get a primary level contract and end up being in charge of a writhing mass of snot-nosed French brats every day. Whew! Bullet dodged!

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now…more after I get my letter!

Bit of an oops moment

2006-12-15T01:20:00.001+01:00

So, as I mentioned in my last post, last night I was going to take my brother and others out for Korean BBQ. It's a little ironic how excited I was, considering I just fled Korea like I was on the lamb. Still, I do love me some galbi, not to mention kimchi chigae, both of which were available at the restaurant I picked. Needless to say, I was really looking forward to sharing that part of my Korean experience with some of my loved ones.

When taken in that light, the way the evening unfolded was especially tragic.

The day got off to a rocky start, so I should have known the gods were against me. My Uncle Max and Aunt Sets picked me up around 2 so that I could get out of the house for once and pay a visit to this super-cool travel bookstore. My brother had discussed the location of the bookstore with Max, so I assumed that my brain could just check out on the whole process. Right before we left, I had a brief moment of, "Hmmm...maybe I should write the address down..." which I quickly ignored in our haste to leave. Mistake.

We drove to the intersection that Stephan had told Max was nearest to the bookstore. It was the correct intersection, but we weren't sure which way to go to find the bookstore since it wasn't just right there. Well, we went in every direction but the right one, unfortunately. So, for the time being, we decided to just carry on to the travel agent's office that Max and Sets needed to visit for their upcoming trip to China.

This travel agent has an office on one of the busiest streets I've seen since I got here. Needless to say, no parking. Plus it was pissing down rain, which does nothing to improve one's mood even when not desperately searching for a parking spot in heavy traffic. Eventually, Uncle Max vetoed the whole idea and decided that we'd have another search for the travel bookshop.

Once we were back in the right area, we parked near the intersection and went to look in a phone book at a nearby motel. Lo and behold, we had just not driven up the street far enough. OK, problem solved, so we skipped off to the bookstore. It was pretty neat, although not as big as I had imagined. I got a couple books on Turkey, foregoing a cool book I had seen on their website ("Vroom with a View" a story of driving a '61 Vespa through Italy--how cool!) in the spirit of financial moderation.

After spending close to an hour there, it was time to either feed the meter or find another place to kill time until our 7pm dinner reservation. The crappy weather, and my never-ending headcold, prompted me to suggest that I'd like an Irish Coffee. Unbeknowst to me, Irish Coffee was actually invented in San Francisco. So, fast as sin, we were on our way to try the original at The Buena Vista.

Located near Fisherman's Wharf, this place was too too adorable. Quite cozy and inviting, I must say. Through the windows, we could see tables of businessmen and women enjoying a post-work drink, the ring of camraderie in the air. Not to mention the twinkling white Christmas lights doing their bit to set the scene.

The Irish Coffee turned out to be a whole lot of Irish and not much Coffee, which was just fine by me. But, even though we had ordered potato skins to kill some time and a bit of our appetites, we couldn't sit there forever. So, back into the van for the drive over to the restaurant, an hour ahead of time. Figured we'd get some drinks and just hang out in the restaurant until our reservation time came up. Ha.

We were driving down the street, looking for the sign for Brother's Korean BBQ... Finally, we spotted it, and--lucky us--there was a parking spot right in front. We got out of the car, practically singing at our good fortune, only to find that the place was locked up tight and black as midnight. Chain on the front door. But no note indicating why they would have taken my reservation that morning, only to be shut down that night. Did the health inspector get them in the interim? Was there a death in the family? Peering through the windows didn't help, because everything looked alright inside, not torn up or anything. Menu in the window, hours sign posted up. Baffling. And goddamn fucking horrible. I was SO mad, I cannot even tell you. I wanted to throw a brick through the window, with a note saying "Thanks for nothing." Grrrr...

But, we still had to wait for Stephan and Julie to get there so that we could decide what to do next. (Max and Sets didn't have a cell phone, and pay phones are non-existant here, so we no choice but to wait.) Sets had noticed an Irish pub just before we came to the restaurant, so we headed back there. Wow, what a nice place. Totally mellow, great imports on tap, Irish music playing in the background, old wooden furniture. It was a place I would definitely visit with my friends on a regular basis.

Eventually it was 7, so we returned to the vacant restaurant to wait for Stephan and Julie, but they never came. We waited like 15 minutes and then decided to eat at the Vietnamese place right next door, where we could see them walk by. But they never came. I was getting seriously worried by the time we were done at 8.

Driving down the street after dinner, Sets spotted a Korean BBQ place across the road, and we decided to check it out in case they had gone there by mistake. Nope. I thought I had seen a sign for Korean BBQ too, so we turned around and checked that one out. Goddamnit. There it was. Not two blocks from where we had been waiting was the NEW Brother's Korean Restaurant. Oh, I wanted to set the place on FIRE, let me tell you. And, of course, there were poor Stephan and Julie, who, like us, had been waiting all night, worrying about where the hell we were. Unlike us, though, they didn't eat anything, which made me feel double bad. What a fuck up from start to finish. I would like to say, however, that it would not hurt for the Brother's people to put a note on their old door to direct people to the new restaurant. How could one guess that there would be another one just down the block???

Today has been much less of a fuck up. I actually got some errands accomplished, and Stephan and I enjoyed some Vietnamese food *together*. We did cut it close on the time, though, so I'm sitting here typing this in the library of his college while he's in class. Not so bad. It reminds me of my own time at university. :-) At least *I'm* not the one with all the papers due (or past-due, as my own college experience went). That's at least one good point about being almost 30!!

Bay Area goings-on

2006-12-14T01:17:00.000+01:00

The jet lag has its grip on me, so I might as well take advantage of being awake at the crack of dawn and write a bit here.

So far, I've been having a great time in San Francisco, hanging out with my brother, Stephan, and his girlfriend, Julie.

I suppose the one, not-so-great thing about being here is the hill by their house. It's fucking ridiculous. When I spoke with Stephan about staying with him, he told me that we would take the BART from the airport to his house, and that the BART station was at the bottom of the hill he lives on, a hill which is pretty steep.

Do you know what a switch-back is? If you've ever driven in the mountains, you know that you cannot just drive straight up a fucking mountain; you have to zig-zag back and forth across the mountain because it's so steep. Well, Stephan did mention that he sometimes has to switch-back up the hill to his house, so I was mildly prepared. I was not prepared, however, for the series of hills that one must climb in order to get to the final, switch-back hill!

It was a nightmare walking up those hills with all my luggage. Stephan pulled the big suitcases, and I carried my heavy-ass backpack and computer case. Jesus. He's in great shape; I am not, despite all my walking in Seoul. Still, I did better than I thought I would, and I know this is because I am fresh from a stair-ridden, walk-everywhere city.

The switch-back hill was insane, worse than the steep hill by where I lived at SEV. Falling over backward is a serious consideration. As soon as I can, I'm going to post a picture of it. Good grief.

Anyway, on my first night here, I decided to take advantage of being in America for once, and ordered pizza, subs, and wings for everyone right off the internet. Sweet. And for only $30, it seemed like a miracle.

Last night, we went to this amazing grocery store. It's strictly vegetarian, and it was so cool. If you've ever been in a health food store, or hip grocery store, you know that bulk food sections can be limited to things like a few dried beans, some rice, and dried fruits. Well, this place was bursting with the most incredible selection of bulk goods I have ever seen. Jars of dried roots, herbs (I bought some mugwort--thought to increase dreams of your past lives if put in a sache near where you sleep), teas, not to mention a never-ending selection of beans, rices, and mixes (like the hummus mix I bought). Just truly fantastic. This isn't including the other areas of the huge store, which has a specialty cheese section, where the cheesemonger helped me select a lovely goat cheese gouda. Or the produce section, with piles of the freshest California goodness. As I have said before, California truly is the land of milk and honey... It's stores like this that make me wish I lived here.

After the vegetarian grocery store, we decided a little juxtaposition was in order. So, we ate dinner at a burger joint said to be the best ever, the In-n-Out. Holy crap, this place was good. I was dying for a real cheeseburger after being away so long, and I was not disappointed. Yikes, that was a damn good cheeseburger. Better than Seoul's Kraze Burger, to be sure. After sucking down our burgers and fries, it was a quick stop over to the Krispy Kreme for one of their fresh, hot doughnuts that essentially melt in your mouth, and then home again. What a lovely evening out.

Tonight promises to be just as fun. We're going to a Korean BBQ place with my Uncle Max and Aunt Sets. It's supposed to offer delicious and bountiful food, so we'll see how it compares to galbi in Seoul.

A little backtracking

2006-12-13T01:13:00.001+01:00

OK, so I know I've made it safe and sound back to the old country, but I do want to take a moment to write about my last few days in Seoul. Time flew by so quickly...before I knew it, I was waking up Monday morning in a bare room, my 6 month existence completely erased from the surface, as though I'd never called it my home. I hope, though, that all the happy moments that happened there will live on and bring positive experiences for the next person. Goodness, why am I being so new-agey? Could it be the San Francisco air is taking its toll? Entirely possible.

Anyway, I wanted my last weekend in Seoul to be spectacular, but, as ever, when you really want something to happen in a certain way, it invariably never does. As I think I already wrote, graduation was weird and a bit of a let down. Kane's show was great, but he didn't win, and the dancing afterwards was in a near-dead bar. sigh

Saturday night, I went for dinner at a Greek restaurant, called Santorini, in Itaewon. I'd been there before, and I was dying to snork up a gallon of their tzatziki one more time before I left. So, I made plans to go with Daniel, Bron, John, Mary, and Kyle. Tragically, Kyle ended up having a dental emergency and wasn't able to come with us. He really missed out.

When we had been before, the restaurant decor was charming and the food delicious. This time, the atmosphere was just impossibly romantic, decorated with twinkly white lights and lanterns. The food was equally delicious, if not romantic (hard to find garlic dip romantic). :-)

In spite of Kyle's absence, we had a really good time. :-) Our waitress was super-sweet, in addition to being one of the biggest Korean women I saw in all my time there. (Which is honestly not saying much, considering that the rest are mostly the size of a bicycle spoke.)

Sunday was my designated day for packing and room cleaning. God, what a fucking trial. I truly didn't realize how much stuff I had acquired until I attempted to pack it all. Thankfully, I was able to foist many things off onto my generous co-workers. Daniel took the brunt of the foisting, though. :-) Thank you Daniel!! And thank you to everyone who stopped by to say goodbye. You guys are great!

Too soon it was Monday morning, and time to say final goodbyes. I hate goodbyes, almost as much as gym class and shrimp. But, they had to be done. It was really hard to say goodbye knowing that, more than likely, I won't see most of my friends again, despite our intentions. The statistics are just against us, even though I don't want them to be. Here's a note to all of my SEV friends: you are welcome to look me up at any given time, whether it's when you're done at SEV, or 10 years from now, and I will be ecstatic to get together or have you come for a visit wherever I am. Even if we've lost touch--no hard feelings, promise.

Kyle called for a taxi to take me, Ryan and Daniel to the stop for the airport bus. Unfortunately, when the taxi arrived, the driver had, shall we say, a mentally challenged look about him. And, unbeknownst to us foreigners, he had discussed my bus plans with one of the security guards while we were loading the car, and they had made new bus stop arrangements for me!

So, we take off, Daniel and Ryan in the back, buried under the luggage that Kyle artfully arranged. Soon, it becomes evident that the driver is not taking us to Suyu station, the nearest airport bus stop. We tell him "SUYU please" and many other varients, all involving the word SUYU being stated quite clearly and at varying degrees of panic and volume. All the man does is laugh and say "Gireum!" Which is a station further away, and a place where we have no idea how to get to the airport bus.

We assume there must have been some misunderstanding. We're a bit panicked. I remember shouting something about being hijacked. And all the while, the man just kept laughing at us and shaking his head, like, "Boy, are you guys some fucking foreign idiots or WHAT?!" Eventually, Daniel got Kyle on the phone and had him talk to the man. Lo and behold, the man knows where the airport bus stop is at Gireum and it's a much better choice than Suyu because it's not on a busy road. Well! If only someone had told us that, I wouldn't have been shouting at a mentally challenged cabbie!

The real tragedy of the story is that Ryan was there, when he should have clearly been in bed, mending his flu-like symptoms. Instead, he had generously made the journey with me specifically because of his knowledge of the Suyu bus pickup spot, knowledge rendered entirely useless by the change of plans. I'm sorry Ryan, and I hope you didn't catch your death standing out in the cold!

Eventually the bus came and it was time to say the saddest goodbye. Daniel, I'm going to miss you so much!

Then I got to enjoy a bus ride through the ugliest parts of the city. I remember thinking, "Could I come back here? Make a life here?" The answer, surprisingly, was yes, depending on the circumstances. It was unfortunate to have that revelation on the bus to the airport, but there it was, unbidden.

And then, thanks to my flight being delayed, I had 4 hours to kill at the airport.

Plenty of time to eat at the Ritz-Carlton of airport restaurants, where I paid W12,000 for the privilege of eating the most delicious kimchi chigae (or however you spell it) that I had in all my time in Korea, as well as an extortionate W5,000 for a tiny glass of milk to help quell the spiciness. It was wonderful. :-)

Plenty of time to sit and think about all the things I would have done differently in Korea, given a second chance. Risks I would have taken, words I would have said, things I would have done...all the wasted time. Images floating through my mind of good times, and bad, and thinking about how they've changed me. The people I've met, and how I hope we're all able to keep in touch, beat the odds. Just enough time spent reminiscing to make me wonder if I've made an enormous mistake.

Damn it all.

The 9 1/2 hour flight was pretty decent, despite my complete inability to sleep and the occasional random crying fit. But, as I said to Bron, I don't mind people thinking I'm a tragic international woman of mystery. It's all in a day's work.

Now I'm in San Fran, and my outlook is brighter. Sort of. Seeing my brother is really nice. But, I'll write more about that next time. Right now I need to sleep... Goodnight!