Originally posted January 27, 2004
So after two weeks of rain every single solitary day, this weekend the sun came out. I hadn’t been horribly affected by the rain, it didn’t prohibit me from going about my daily activities, just made everything dreary. I like to think that this will only help to make me appreciate sunny spring days all the more.
I explored the Bastille area with some friends on Friday night and we found a great bar that made fantastic mojitos and had a nice ambiance. Fittingly, we had an encounter with the French resistance… to Americans. This one guy sitting at a table behind us heard us speaking English and then commenced making fun of us to his friends and throwing “yee-haws” into the conversation making sure we would notice. I was close enough to catch bits and pieces of his commentary, and it was not nice. It just goes to show that prejudices go both ways. So many people have asked me “why are you going to France??” and then explained reasons why I should choose another country. Well, for every stereotype we have of them, there’s one for us. Cowboys, incompetence, violence, obesity… it’s an extensive list. The relationship between the two countries is in such scrutiny right now. But we are geopolitically linked for better or worse. Though there are rough spots, the relationship will ultimately endure. I'm told in books and documentaries that going through something like World War II with someone creates unbreakable ties. It seems plausible that would apply at the national level.
Even if this city was full of anti-American sentiment, which it is not, I would still be enamored with it. I went to a play this weekend which consisted of the poetry of François Villon set to music and acted out. I went to the Chinese New Year parade on the Champs Elysées, I walked down winding streets in the Latin Quarter finding esoteric shops that make you wonder how they survive. I saw “Lost in Translation” which I highly recommend. If you see it, keep your eyes wide open and notice the beautiful images featured, like moving canvases of urban light. The soundtrack is incredible too. Even just normal life activities take on an air of romance and adventure simply for having taken place in this beautiful city.
I spent a lot of time planning trips for the semester this week and coordinating with people who are coming to visit. I found a ridiculously cheap flight to Naples for next weekend so I’ll be climbing up Mount Vesuvius and exploring the glowing blue grotto of Capri in a week’s time. And if I’m not done traveling there’s a thousand and one plays, art exhibits, sporting events, or outings to go on. The resources are inexhaustible. I was at the Centre George Pompidou today and the strangest thing happened. If you recall from a journal entry I wrote in October, I was out exploring museums in Grenoble when I came across a video exhibit of an artist named Orlan. She had half black, half white hair, outrageous glasses, black lipstick, no eyebrows… So, I’m waiting outside the Centre Pompidou for the rest of the group to arrive and who do I see but ORLAN standing directly in front of me. She’s not an easily forgettable face. She was all in black and white with a huge black and white umbrella, those enormous glasses and that crazy black and white hair still in the huge single wave on top of her head. I guess you could say it’s my first famous person spotting in Paris. I thought it was so weird to see her here. She should have just stayed in the museum standing against a wall somewhere because she’s definitely a piece of work all by herself.
I had the interview for my internship at the American Chamber of Commerce in France. At first, I was not too pleased with this option because I don’t want to speak English all the time. I am obviously here to speak French. I spoke with the director of the Chamber this morning. He spoke to me only in French and he reassured me that the better part of the communication I would be doing would be in French. He also said I would be involved in conferences, meetings, and numerous other activites and they would make every effort to make it interesting. Of course, as an intern, there will be some clerical work to be done, database entry and the like, but I think it will be a good place for me. It’s in a beautiful building and it would be about a 40 minute metro ride every morning, but that would be the case anywhere. I think this will complement nicely my experience (however trivial) at the French-American Chamber of Commerce in DC. We’ll give it a go.
One of the best things to do here is just to walk around and take in the beauty. Instead of saving 20 minutes, walking 5 metro stops adds 20 years on to your life for the things you take in and the sights you see. Everything here is pleasing to the eye. Even the metros have a charm about them. In any given tunnel or car, at any given time, there will be puppet shows, opera singers, mandolin players, string quartets, mariachi bands, or just plain crazy people who are expressing themselves and hoping to get a few centimes in return. There are some aspects of the metro which are not so charming, like the corners that you encounter not infrequently that smell overwhelmingly of urine, or stale beer, or both. There are the crowds and within those crowds there is being pressed up against someone who obviously is not a fan of personal hygiene. But I can’t help but smile at it all. I look up at people’s faces when I’m walking against the flow of traffic and think each one has a story. I don’t know if it’s just something about France, or I never noticed it in America, but I feel like there’s more life here, that people are not so consumed with their business and success. How could they be with 35 hour work weeks, 8 weeks paid vacation, and 2 hour lunch breaks as standard practice? They look up, they stop, they notice.
So maybe I’ve slightly romanticized the Paris transportation system, and those Parisians who use it. But this city is such an appealing exception to every rule, I like to muse on it. Even when the transport system fails me (strikes, poorly marked or wrong signs, buses that never come, misleading information…) I forgive it readily.
I'm definitely doing that that new-relationship thing where I'm bringing up my new boyfriend (that is, Paris) every chance I get and can't shut up about him and my friends are happy for me but starting to hate it a little, too. Apologies in advance: I think this one's a keeper, so expect more gushing. I am hoping that Southern Italy will be kind and show us some good weather next weekend, and will abstain from any volcanic eruptions. Right now it’s snowing and slushing, freezing cold, and showing no signs of relenting. Pompeii and Herculaneum, here I come.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Welcome to the City of Light
Originally posted January 14, 2004
An inhabitant's (not a tourist's!) first impressions.
An inhabitant's (not a tourist's!) first impressions.
I’ve been living in Paris for two full days now. Well, technically, I live on the outskirts. When (not if) you send me letters you will see that my address is not a 75--- address, it’s 94160. If you don’t have a 75--- address, then you’re not actually in Paris proper. But, I beg to differ. Regardless of the technicality of my zip code, I open one of the person-sized windows in the living room and I can see the Eiffel Tower. I look just to its left and I can see the dome of the Hôtel des Invalides where Napoleon lies. It doesn't seem that far, but I’m about a 35 minute metro ride from the BU center. It is 1 block from the Eiffel Tower. There is a metro stop right across the street from the apartment I live in. It’s a good line too, the #1, which goes directly to the heart of Paris. I can be at the Louvre in less than 20 minutes. From the Louvre you can get pretty much anywhere walking. I can’t wait until spring. I have dreams of taking books into the Tuileries Gardens and soaking up the sun amidst a wide array of flowers in full bloom. Those dreams are a long way off though. It has rained non-stop here since I arrived.
I was a little reluctant to leave the states because being at home is so easy. There’s a car to take you everywhere. You know where everything is. You always know how to behave correctly. I don’t have to think how to say what I mean. Being here I’ve also missed Grenoble. There are a few things I need to buy and I can envision the stores and where they are located and how I would get there if I were in Grenoble. I miss walking Boulevard Gambetta to get to the center of town. I miss the mountains and my running trails. Paris’s own Boulevard Gambetta is actually right by me so there’s a little piece of Grenoble to remind me.
I am on my own for food this semester. The program does it that way because most of the people who we stay with lead very busy lives. I just went grocery shopping for the first time and felt very French with my basket of cheese, bread, couscous, fresh veggies, tea, jam, and milk in a box. My hostess, Madame Arnal, a fiery redhead with a knowing smile and a matter-of-fact way of speaking, is single with no children, never married. She is an architect and she spends most of her weekends in the countryside. Our apartment building is early 20th century so we have high molded ceilings, big windows, and creaky wooden floors. We also don’t have an elevator and we live on the 5th floor, 200 stairs to the door. Getting my luggage up those things was a horrendous experience, though not as bad as lugging it from Charles de Gaulle Airport to the RER station, to the Metro station (with numerous stairs, long and winding corridors, and no elevators either), then through 3 city blocks to reach the BU center. There is no TV, only radio, which I don’t know if I can use yet. Mme Arnal said she has a “friend” who comes over sometimes and I surmise he was here last night because when I returned home there was someone snoring uproariously and this morning I heard a man’s voice in the hall when I woke up. That is a little weird for me but I guess there’s not much I can do about it. Other than the stairs and this man-friend, the living situation is pretty good. It’s definitely not as personal and integrating as last semester’s program. I don’t eat dinner with Mme Arnal usually. I don’t see her that much. My living here is cordial acknowledgement and respect for another’s space. Example: I get the kitchen from 7-8 for dinner and need to be cleared out afterwards. Also, I am not allowed to bring people over. Grenoble, I was like a foster daughter. Mme Arnal is nice enough though, and willing to talk.
The people at BU placed me well. I live right near one of two wooded areas around Paris, the Bois de Vincennes on the east end of the city, which surrounds a historic monument, Chateau de Vincennes. It provides a perfect venue for running. On my questionnaire they asked if I was more independent or family-oriented. I said independent and I think that will go well this semester. It is too bad that I won’t interact as much with my hostess. I got most of my practice speaking and listening last semester at dinner with Madame de Tarragon and from watching the news on TV, now I have little of one and none of the other so I’ll have to get creative.
I start my classes this week. I have been placed in level 2 so I get to take two option classes and I chose Art and Architecture in Paris (what better place to take an art class?) and Paris Politique which studies Paris’ role in modern politics and international relations. Some student organizations that BU is affiliated with had a party last night and we ended up meeting a lot of French students and salsa dancing and having a pretty good time. The BU program director is a character. He would have more fun if he was allowed to wax poetic about each neighborhood, classic French cinema, and the romance of rain. He’s a funny man who always holds the lapel of his jacket with his right hand and puts his hand on his waist holding back his jacket with the left. He seems uptight and makes little quips all the time that don't make me laugh. But he takes the program seriously and it seems very well-run and well-staffed. I met the internship coordinator last night as well and he seems very kind and very knowledgeable. I am looking forward to the semester. I feel like this one will go faster than the last one. I only have seven weeks of classes. In my art class we take a field trip to a museum every week.
I talked to Madame Arnal at dinner and she told me all the places to take weekend trips. I am planning to do Prague, possibly St. Petersburg, Amsterdam and Budapest. So if I take a trip every other weekend it would work right? I don’t have classes on Fridays again so I can take nice long weekends. I think the secret to not feeling lonely and getting homesick is to surround yourself with and profit from everything that you have at your fingertips. You’re so busy being amazed you don’t have time to miss anything (except toilet paper that comes in rolls). Today the whole program was split off into groups of three or four and we all had assignments to discover an area of Paris, to be shared on Friday. Our group had Belleville, and we found a gorgeous park, the Edith Piaf museum, and Père Lachaise cemetery, all of which were treasures. Especially the cemetery, I thought. I saw the tombs of Jim Morrison, Chopin, Molière, La Fontaine, Oscar Wilde, Camille Pissaro, Géricault, Délacroix, and many others. Even if a ton of famous people weren’t buried there, it's beautiful and interesting, even though it's somewhat morbid.
Despite the rain and the fact that I got lost in those gigantic woods on my run today, I love Paris. Like I said last semester, this city is magic. You can come back as many times as you want and there’s always something new, something you missed, something amazing. I am anxious to see the presentations of the other group’s discoveries so I can see more places I want to go. This is Karla, happy to be settling in to Parisian life, signing off.
I was a little reluctant to leave the states because being at home is so easy. There’s a car to take you everywhere. You know where everything is. You always know how to behave correctly. I don’t have to think how to say what I mean. Being here I’ve also missed Grenoble. There are a few things I need to buy and I can envision the stores and where they are located and how I would get there if I were in Grenoble. I miss walking Boulevard Gambetta to get to the center of town. I miss the mountains and my running trails. Paris’s own Boulevard Gambetta is actually right by me so there’s a little piece of Grenoble to remind me.
I am on my own for food this semester. The program does it that way because most of the people who we stay with lead very busy lives. I just went grocery shopping for the first time and felt very French with my basket of cheese, bread, couscous, fresh veggies, tea, jam, and milk in a box. My hostess, Madame Arnal, a fiery redhead with a knowing smile and a matter-of-fact way of speaking, is single with no children, never married. She is an architect and she spends most of her weekends in the countryside. Our apartment building is early 20th century so we have high molded ceilings, big windows, and creaky wooden floors. We also don’t have an elevator and we live on the 5th floor, 200 stairs to the door. Getting my luggage up those things was a horrendous experience, though not as bad as lugging it from Charles de Gaulle Airport to the RER station, to the Metro station (with numerous stairs, long and winding corridors, and no elevators either), then through 3 city blocks to reach the BU center. There is no TV, only radio, which I don’t know if I can use yet. Mme Arnal said she has a “friend” who comes over sometimes and I surmise he was here last night because when I returned home there was someone snoring uproariously and this morning I heard a man’s voice in the hall when I woke up. That is a little weird for me but I guess there’s not much I can do about it. Other than the stairs and this man-friend, the living situation is pretty good. It’s definitely not as personal and integrating as last semester’s program. I don’t eat dinner with Mme Arnal usually. I don’t see her that much. My living here is cordial acknowledgement and respect for another’s space. Example: I get the kitchen from 7-8 for dinner and need to be cleared out afterwards. Also, I am not allowed to bring people over. Grenoble, I was like a foster daughter. Mme Arnal is nice enough though, and willing to talk.
The people at BU placed me well. I live right near one of two wooded areas around Paris, the Bois de Vincennes on the east end of the city, which surrounds a historic monument, Chateau de Vincennes. It provides a perfect venue for running. On my questionnaire they asked if I was more independent or family-oriented. I said independent and I think that will go well this semester. It is too bad that I won’t interact as much with my hostess. I got most of my practice speaking and listening last semester at dinner with Madame de Tarragon and from watching the news on TV, now I have little of one and none of the other so I’ll have to get creative.
I start my classes this week. I have been placed in level 2 so I get to take two option classes and I chose Art and Architecture in Paris (what better place to take an art class?) and Paris Politique which studies Paris’ role in modern politics and international relations. Some student organizations that BU is affiliated with had a party last night and we ended up meeting a lot of French students and salsa dancing and having a pretty good time. The BU program director is a character. He would have more fun if he was allowed to wax poetic about each neighborhood, classic French cinema, and the romance of rain. He’s a funny man who always holds the lapel of his jacket with his right hand and puts his hand on his waist holding back his jacket with the left. He seems uptight and makes little quips all the time that don't make me laugh. But he takes the program seriously and it seems very well-run and well-staffed. I met the internship coordinator last night as well and he seems very kind and very knowledgeable. I am looking forward to the semester. I feel like this one will go faster than the last one. I only have seven weeks of classes. In my art class we take a field trip to a museum every week.
I talked to Madame Arnal at dinner and she told me all the places to take weekend trips. I am planning to do Prague, possibly St. Petersburg, Amsterdam and Budapest. So if I take a trip every other weekend it would work right? I don’t have classes on Fridays again so I can take nice long weekends. I think the secret to not feeling lonely and getting homesick is to surround yourself with and profit from everything that you have at your fingertips. You’re so busy being amazed you don’t have time to miss anything (except toilet paper that comes in rolls). Today the whole program was split off into groups of three or four and we all had assignments to discover an area of Paris, to be shared on Friday. Our group had Belleville, and we found a gorgeous park, the Edith Piaf museum, and Père Lachaise cemetery, all of which were treasures. Especially the cemetery, I thought. I saw the tombs of Jim Morrison, Chopin, Molière, La Fontaine, Oscar Wilde, Camille Pissaro, Géricault, Délacroix, and many others. Even if a ton of famous people weren’t buried there, it's beautiful and interesting, even though it's somewhat morbid.
Despite the rain and the fact that I got lost in those gigantic woods on my run today, I love Paris. Like I said last semester, this city is magic. You can come back as many times as you want and there’s always something new, something you missed, something amazing. I am anxious to see the presentations of the other group’s discoveries so I can see more places I want to go. This is Karla, happy to be settling in to Parisian life, signing off.
Christmas Fever
Originally posted on December 8, 2003
Christmas Fever is sweeping this European nation as I’m sure it is in the States. All the decorations are up, just about every city in France has its own “Marché de Noël”, Père Noël (Father Christmas, what they call Santa Claus) is listening to the requests for Bob le Bricoleur (Bob the Builder) dolls and karaoke machines, advertisements are full of snow and sleigh bells- it truly is the most wonderful (and by that I mean commercial) time of the year. Not that celebration here is completely without meaning and survives only for its profitability, but as is apparent in much of the culture, the true roots have been forgotten.
I am finally finished with both my papers as of Sunday night. I sat there, staring at the screen with a satisfied smile as I hit the save button, and then it hit me: what am I going to do with over two weeks of free time? All I have to do now is show up for class, which ends this Thursday for me, and my exams. I don’t have a lot of studying to do, the way the system works here you study as you go along. A sudden panic took hold of me. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being bored. And it’s even worse being bored when you’re waiting for something. I am anticipating Dec. 19th, the day of my return.
Monday night is Fête des Lumières in Lyon which will occupy all afternoon and into the wee hours of the morning. It’s in gratitude to Mary, mother of Jesus, and the festival started in 1643 when a plague struck Lyon and the city promised to pay her homage if the town was spared. To celebrate, there are light shows and amazing fireworks and candles everywhere. I’ve been told its one of the best fêtes that France has to offer and the fireworks are even better than Bastille Day. I’m looking forward to it. The rest of the two weeks will go by quickly, I think.
In my panic I made a list of things I wanted to do before I leave Grenoble and found there was a lot. I’ll be able to stay busy. Last Tuesday night I went to a hockey game. Grenoble’s team, Les Brûleurs des Loups (translated it means wolf-burners…I don’t know what the significance is *). I have to say, it was better than the soccer game I went to for a few reasons. One, I was almost warm the whole time. Two, we were right behind the glass, although there are two layers of glass, one right on the rink and then another about 4 feet behind it which is where the audience starts. And three, the fans were even more out of control. Instead of just one group of fanatics there were two groups of about 60 people strong, equipped with megaphones, face paint, flags, scarves, cheers, baguette pieces to throw at the other team, and, of course, gigantic drums.
The rules of French hockey are a little different. There isn’t supposed to be any fighting, but that goes out the window pretty fast. Refs break it up and then the more traditionally French verbal battles ensue (replete with words and phrases your teacher tells you never to use when you ask what they mean in class). They are also allowed to use their hands in some cases, and they are allowed to use their skates to deflect the puck. I don’t know much about North American hockey, but I don’t think that the hand usage or the skate deflections are sanctioned. **
Anyway, I had a great time. I got into it and I was all about the wolf-burners by the end of the game. It turned out to be a 0-0 tie in OT which left me rather disappointed. A friend of mine who had gone the week before said the score was 9-4 which is, as I understand, unheard of. Nonetheless, it was fun and it was an AIFS “cultural activity” so my ticket was already paid for.
I have once again taken to long, leisurely walks through the town in spite of the cold, to enjoy the window displays in stores and the seductive montages of the chocolatiers. Last weekend I went to biological products exposition called “Naturissma” at a big showroom outside of town. They had some really good food and beautiful crafts. This weekend there was a Christmas exposition which I went to but it wasn’t nearly impressive, except in the foie gras department. There were at least 12 different booths for foie gras. And there was a booth that sold cups of hot chocolate with spice bread which was to die for. Best cup of hot chocolate I’ve ever had, hands down. Today I went to a city-wide garage sale which they call a “brocante” here. Everyone brings out their knick-knacks and you rummage and bargain. It was bitterly cold today so after about an hour I retreated to the Grenoble Art Museum who was having a free admission day today. It was nice and warm inside and I was glad to have a chance to walk through and visit it myself without being rushed by a guide. Then I came home, Marie-T went out so I made dinner for myself, and then I watched Lilo and Stitch in French. Thanks to the grandkids, Marie-T has a little collection of Disney movies. They’re easier to understand since the vocabulary is less elevated than, say, the news.
I took some nice pictures of the sunset on the mountains and the moon rising this evening. The sun sets at about 4:30 and it’s completely dark by 5:30. Every time I look out my window I think of how I’ve grown to love this town, and how I will miss it. I have to think of what awaits me in Paris though. I am truly lucky to have such opportunities. One regret: I wish I had tried to ski here, but it's still pretty early in the season for that. Once again, for the students: study hard, finals will be over soon, for everyone: travel safely, and if you don’t already live there, come to Fairfax between Dec. 20th and Jan 10th.
Christmas Fever is sweeping this European nation as I’m sure it is in the States. All the decorations are up, just about every city in France has its own “Marché de Noël”, Père Noël (Father Christmas, what they call Santa Claus) is listening to the requests for Bob le Bricoleur (Bob the Builder) dolls and karaoke machines, advertisements are full of snow and sleigh bells- it truly is the most wonderful (and by that I mean commercial) time of the year. Not that celebration here is completely without meaning and survives only for its profitability, but as is apparent in much of the culture, the true roots have been forgotten.
I am finally finished with both my papers as of Sunday night. I sat there, staring at the screen with a satisfied smile as I hit the save button, and then it hit me: what am I going to do with over two weeks of free time? All I have to do now is show up for class, which ends this Thursday for me, and my exams. I don’t have a lot of studying to do, the way the system works here you study as you go along. A sudden panic took hold of me. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being bored. And it’s even worse being bored when you’re waiting for something. I am anticipating Dec. 19th, the day of my return.
Monday night is Fête des Lumières in Lyon which will occupy all afternoon and into the wee hours of the morning. It’s in gratitude to Mary, mother of Jesus, and the festival started in 1643 when a plague struck Lyon and the city promised to pay her homage if the town was spared. To celebrate, there are light shows and amazing fireworks and candles everywhere. I’ve been told its one of the best fêtes that France has to offer and the fireworks are even better than Bastille Day. I’m looking forward to it. The rest of the two weeks will go by quickly, I think.
In my panic I made a list of things I wanted to do before I leave Grenoble and found there was a lot. I’ll be able to stay busy. Last Tuesday night I went to a hockey game. Grenoble’s team, Les Brûleurs des Loups (translated it means wolf-burners…I don’t know what the significance is *). I have to say, it was better than the soccer game I went to for a few reasons. One, I was almost warm the whole time. Two, we were right behind the glass, although there are two layers of glass, one right on the rink and then another about 4 feet behind it which is where the audience starts. And three, the fans were even more out of control. Instead of just one group of fanatics there were two groups of about 60 people strong, equipped with megaphones, face paint, flags, scarves, cheers, baguette pieces to throw at the other team, and, of course, gigantic drums.
The rules of French hockey are a little different. There isn’t supposed to be any fighting, but that goes out the window pretty fast. Refs break it up and then the more traditionally French verbal battles ensue (replete with words and phrases your teacher tells you never to use when you ask what they mean in class). They are also allowed to use their hands in some cases, and they are allowed to use their skates to deflect the puck. I don’t know much about North American hockey, but I don’t think that the hand usage or the skate deflections are sanctioned. **
Anyway, I had a great time. I got into it and I was all about the wolf-burners by the end of the game. It turned out to be a 0-0 tie in OT which left me rather disappointed. A friend of mine who had gone the week before said the score was 9-4 which is, as I understand, unheard of. Nonetheless, it was fun and it was an AIFS “cultural activity” so my ticket was already paid for.
I have once again taken to long, leisurely walks through the town in spite of the cold, to enjoy the window displays in stores and the seductive montages of the chocolatiers. Last weekend I went to biological products exposition called “Naturissma” at a big showroom outside of town. They had some really good food and beautiful crafts. This weekend there was a Christmas exposition which I went to but it wasn’t nearly impressive, except in the foie gras department. There were at least 12 different booths for foie gras. And there was a booth that sold cups of hot chocolate with spice bread which was to die for. Best cup of hot chocolate I’ve ever had, hands down. Today I went to a city-wide garage sale which they call a “brocante” here. Everyone brings out their knick-knacks and you rummage and bargain. It was bitterly cold today so after about an hour I retreated to the Grenoble Art Museum who was having a free admission day today. It was nice and warm inside and I was glad to have a chance to walk through and visit it myself without being rushed by a guide. Then I came home, Marie-T went out so I made dinner for myself, and then I watched Lilo and Stitch in French. Thanks to the grandkids, Marie-T has a little collection of Disney movies. They’re easier to understand since the vocabulary is less elevated than, say, the news.
I took some nice pictures of the sunset on the mountains and the moon rising this evening. The sun sets at about 4:30 and it’s completely dark by 5:30. Every time I look out my window I think of how I’ve grown to love this town, and how I will miss it. I have to think of what awaits me in Paris though. I am truly lucky to have such opportunities. One regret: I wish I had tried to ski here, but it's still pretty early in the season for that. Once again, for the students: study hard, finals will be over soon, for everyone: travel safely, and if you don’t already live there, come to Fairfax between Dec. 20th and Jan 10th.
* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Br%C3%BBleurs_de_Loups Thanks, Wikipedia, for existing!
** My little brother and male friends would be groaning and slapping their foreheads right now because I'm so woefully uninformed about sports and their many and varied rules.
Turkey and Stuffing: Translation, interpretation, Ben Franklin and my first Thanksgiving away from home.
Originally posted December 1, 2003
Last night AIFS threw the students their own Thanksgiving celebration. All day it rained steadily and it had turned very cold, a sharp contrast from the warm spell we’ve been having. I kept thinking about everyone packing up to go home, piling laundry and all sorts of stuff into the trunks of cars on Tuesday afternoon as I rode the bus to campus. This week went slower than usual despite the lovely weather due to papers I had to complete and tedious things of that nature. Marie-T and I didn’t get to talk a lot this week because she had dinner meetings twice and babysat her grandkids once. And I was always working on my papers before and after dinner. We watched the World Rugby Championship together last weekend. I was for England and she was backing the Aussies. I told her I would eat Roquefort if Australia won, so I’m glad they didn’t. I got a special “tarte aux pommes” (French apple pie) because England won. But her grandkids were there so she was preoccupied with them, and I was busy as well. I did complete my French research paper however, so now all that stands between me and Christmas shopping and Disney movies in French every night is my European Union class paper, which is in English and much less daunting.
The last Thursday in November is just like any other day here. Halloween is recognized for its commercial properties, but Thanksgiving is altogether ignored. It’s natural, I wasn’t expecting any special concessions, but it seemed so strange to be away from my house, helping my Mom cook, and the smells of my dad’s yeast rolls and the turkey roasting. It was unfamiliar to be in class when I should have been watching the Macy’s parade. There was no football game to watch, no relatives to see, no fire to sit by; just a little room on the outskirts of town where all the students in the group, our host families, and some significant others and families from the States gathered to share the holiday.
We got to the dinner around 7:45pm and started off with some pastry appetizers and rum punch for the aperitif. All 37 of the guests had arrived by 8:10 and at that point we sat down around a formation of tables for the salad course. There was marinated eggplant with feta cheese, baby corn and heart of palm, cucumbers in cream sauce, potato salad, and mushrooms in a tomato sauce. Then we moved to the main course, turkey with chestnut stuffing, cranberry sauce, no mashed potatoes due to a kitchen mishap, and a squash and nutmeg puree. The puree was probably my favorite. We finished off with the French equivalent of pumpkin pie, a thin pie with a substantial crust, solid pumpkin filling with a heavy cinnamon flavor, and some French vanilla (not just vanilla) ice cream on the side. All in all, it was an endearing adaptation of the classic American meal.
I sat next to Marie-T and across from my friend Kara’s family who was visiting from Vermont. Basically it was 4 english-speakers and one French person at our end of the table. Kara’s family speaks about 6 words of French and Marie-T the same amount in English. I started thinking how to include everyone in the conversation. Kara was sitting on the end of her family, farther away from me, and she was occupied with her host parents. At first I was just talking to Kara’s family, but I could tell that Marie-T was well aware of the language barrier. I would turn to Marie- T and we would talk for a while, but then Kara’s family would fall silent. A curtain of awkwardness was drawn around our half of the table. Then, finally, Kara’s dad asked me to translate a question for Marie-T. I posed the question and she seemed to light up and to delight in an American taking interest in her. The tension lifted immediately and we all began to converse together with me translating. I really enjoyed it and Marie- T told me that she has been to a lot of these dinners (she’s hosted students for the last 8 years), but she has never spent one outnumbered by Americans. The idea of an authentic Thanksgiving surrounded by foreigners seemed to tickle her. She gave Kara’s family advice on what to eat in Lyon when they travel go, she told them what it’s like to have students living with her, and she ventured a few words in English. Translating was fun and gave me a little more confidence in my speaking and comprehension capabilities.
Aside from the squash purée, the food was nothing special and certainly no substitute for the undoubtedly grand affairs that were taking place stateside, but that mattered less and less as the evening progressed. Ben Franklin wanted America’s national bird to be the turkey. He thought it a very noble representation of our nation. Ben Franklin was also a Francophile. He was adored in the French royal court and he was fascinated with French culture. I thought about good ol' Ben when I was sitting at the table and when I was walking home. The American turkey- the dinner, the tradition, the reason for us all being brought together, was filled with a rich French stuffing that brought out a new flavor in all the guests and opened our eyes more to each others culture. And everyone knows turkey and stuffing go together, you can’t have one without the other. France is beginning to be a part of me, not just an extended vacation.
The meal also brought Marie-T and I a little closer together as she had to depend on me to help her communicate and understand the traditions and conversation. We talked the whole way home and just before we arrived, we passed a car that was covered in snow, (the higher elevations in the surrounding mountains got about a foot yesterday) and we had a snowball fight. I spent my first thanksgiving away from my house in Virginia in my home away from home. Plus I know there will still be left over turkey when I come home for Christmas, so I didn’t totally miss out.
Last night AIFS threw the students their own Thanksgiving celebration. All day it rained steadily and it had turned very cold, a sharp contrast from the warm spell we’ve been having. I kept thinking about everyone packing up to go home, piling laundry and all sorts of stuff into the trunks of cars on Tuesday afternoon as I rode the bus to campus. This week went slower than usual despite the lovely weather due to papers I had to complete and tedious things of that nature. Marie-T and I didn’t get to talk a lot this week because she had dinner meetings twice and babysat her grandkids once. And I was always working on my papers before and after dinner. We watched the World Rugby Championship together last weekend. I was for England and she was backing the Aussies. I told her I would eat Roquefort if Australia won, so I’m glad they didn’t. I got a special “tarte aux pommes” (French apple pie) because England won. But her grandkids were there so she was preoccupied with them, and I was busy as well. I did complete my French research paper however, so now all that stands between me and Christmas shopping and Disney movies in French every night is my European Union class paper, which is in English and much less daunting.
The last Thursday in November is just like any other day here. Halloween is recognized for its commercial properties, but Thanksgiving is altogether ignored. It’s natural, I wasn’t expecting any special concessions, but it seemed so strange to be away from my house, helping my Mom cook, and the smells of my dad’s yeast rolls and the turkey roasting. It was unfamiliar to be in class when I should have been watching the Macy’s parade. There was no football game to watch, no relatives to see, no fire to sit by; just a little room on the outskirts of town where all the students in the group, our host families, and some significant others and families from the States gathered to share the holiday.
We got to the dinner around 7:45pm and started off with some pastry appetizers and rum punch for the aperitif. All 37 of the guests had arrived by 8:10 and at that point we sat down around a formation of tables for the salad course. There was marinated eggplant with feta cheese, baby corn and heart of palm, cucumbers in cream sauce, potato salad, and mushrooms in a tomato sauce. Then we moved to the main course, turkey with chestnut stuffing, cranberry sauce, no mashed potatoes due to a kitchen mishap, and a squash and nutmeg puree. The puree was probably my favorite. We finished off with the French equivalent of pumpkin pie, a thin pie with a substantial crust, solid pumpkin filling with a heavy cinnamon flavor, and some French vanilla (not just vanilla) ice cream on the side. All in all, it was an endearing adaptation of the classic American meal.
I sat next to Marie-T and across from my friend Kara’s family who was visiting from Vermont. Basically it was 4 english-speakers and one French person at our end of the table. Kara’s family speaks about 6 words of French and Marie-T the same amount in English. I started thinking how to include everyone in the conversation. Kara was sitting on the end of her family, farther away from me, and she was occupied with her host parents. At first I was just talking to Kara’s family, but I could tell that Marie-T was well aware of the language barrier. I would turn to Marie- T and we would talk for a while, but then Kara’s family would fall silent. A curtain of awkwardness was drawn around our half of the table. Then, finally, Kara’s dad asked me to translate a question for Marie-T. I posed the question and she seemed to light up and to delight in an American taking interest in her. The tension lifted immediately and we all began to converse together with me translating. I really enjoyed it and Marie- T told me that she has been to a lot of these dinners (she’s hosted students for the last 8 years), but she has never spent one outnumbered by Americans. The idea of an authentic Thanksgiving surrounded by foreigners seemed to tickle her. She gave Kara’s family advice on what to eat in Lyon when they travel go, she told them what it’s like to have students living with her, and she ventured a few words in English. Translating was fun and gave me a little more confidence in my speaking and comprehension capabilities.
Aside from the squash purée, the food was nothing special and certainly no substitute for the undoubtedly grand affairs that were taking place stateside, but that mattered less and less as the evening progressed. Ben Franklin wanted America’s national bird to be the turkey. He thought it a very noble representation of our nation. Ben Franklin was also a Francophile. He was adored in the French royal court and he was fascinated with French culture. I thought about good ol' Ben when I was sitting at the table and when I was walking home. The American turkey- the dinner, the tradition, the reason for us all being brought together, was filled with a rich French stuffing that brought out a new flavor in all the guests and opened our eyes more to each others culture. And everyone knows turkey and stuffing go together, you can’t have one without the other. France is beginning to be a part of me, not just an extended vacation.
The meal also brought Marie-T and I a little closer together as she had to depend on me to help her communicate and understand the traditions and conversation. We talked the whole way home and just before we arrived, we passed a car that was covered in snow, (the higher elevations in the surrounding mountains got about a foot yesterday) and we had a snowball fight. I spent my first thanksgiving away from my house in Virginia in my home away from home. Plus I know there will still be left over turkey when I come home for Christmas, so I didn’t totally miss out.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Le Beaujolais est arrivé!
Originally posted November 21, 2003
Almost all institutions for French language study organize student excursions which explore the most important and interesting aspects of France and its culture. Université de Grenoble’s C.U.E.F. sector is no different. I have gone on a number of the outings and have enjoyed every one. The two guys who run it are consummately knowledgeable and provide volumes of good information on every place we go.
The third Wednesday of every November the little town of Beaujeu, north of Lyon and the capital of the region of Beaujolais, holds a huge celebration to welcome in the year’s harvest. The first day of the season is actually Thursday, but it resembles New Year’s festivities in the US in that you do most of your partying the night before, and they had killer fireworks.
The festivities begin around midday with a mountain bike race that goes from the top of a nearby peak all the way into the town. The cyclists finish and by that time the town is filling up with people. fireworks start an hour after sundown (around 6:30pm) and continue sporadically until a little after midnight. Around 10 pm everyone lights torches and marches through the streets of the town up to the caves where the wine is produced. There everyone gathers around 4 gigantic barrels filled with the wine of the new season.
We left from Grenoble around 9pm. We got off the bus and were immediately swept into the throng of people with torches all headed towards the wine caves. The narrow streets lined with old, semi-dilapidated buildings seemed full of character and life with thousands of light bearing, slightly intoxicated natives and foreigners walking through them. We arrived at the center of town just before midnight. The torches were all piled together into a gigantic bonfire and just beyond it everyone crowded around the barrels.
Almost all institutions for French language study organize student excursions which explore the most important and interesting aspects of France and its culture. Université de Grenoble’s C.U.E.F. sector is no different. I have gone on a number of the outings and have enjoyed every one. The two guys who run it are consummately knowledgeable and provide volumes of good information on every place we go.
The third Wednesday of every November the little town of Beaujeu, north of Lyon and the capital of the region of Beaujolais, holds a huge celebration to welcome in the year’s harvest. The first day of the season is actually Thursday, but it resembles New Year’s festivities in the US in that you do most of your partying the night before, and they had killer fireworks.
The festivities begin around midday with a mountain bike race that goes from the top of a nearby peak all the way into the town. The cyclists finish and by that time the town is filling up with people. fireworks start an hour after sundown (around 6:30pm) and continue sporadically until a little after midnight. Around 10 pm everyone lights torches and marches through the streets of the town up to the caves where the wine is produced. There everyone gathers around 4 gigantic barrels filled with the wine of the new season.
We left from Grenoble around 9pm. We got off the bus and were immediately swept into the throng of people with torches all headed towards the wine caves. The narrow streets lined with old, semi-dilapidated buildings seemed full of character and life with thousands of light bearing, slightly intoxicated natives and foreigners walking through them. We arrived at the center of town just before midnight. The torches were all piled together into a gigantic bonfire and just beyond it everyone crowded around the barrels.
 |
| Marching through the streets to get our wine |
The mayor of the town came out along with the proprietors of the main vineyard and together we all counted down to midnight. At precisely the moment the clock on the old cathedral struck midnight, little stands that lined all the streets began opening bottles of the new wine and giving them out to everyone. It’s all free and you can have as much as you want. You take your glass (or bottle as the case may be) and walk through the streets enjoying the lights, the boozy revelry (which never got too rowdy), and the smells of fresh crêpes and roasted chestnuts.
I was with a bunch of people from school and we all walked around together. When you get too tired, too cold, or the booths run out of wine, you make your way back to this gigantic heated tent where the wine continues to flow (you have to pay this time), and there is music and dancing and tables to sit at and chat… or pass out. We ended up at the tent around 2:00am and danced until the celebration ended at 4:00.
I think the best part of the night for me was seeing the French people dance. They may be very savvy when it comes to food, wine and general charm, but they cannot dance to save their lives. There was a stout middle aged blonde woman who was doing high kicks, crazy hair whips, and spinning around and around, punctuated with select disco moves (I remember a Saturday Night Fever tribute sequence at one point) during “I Will Survive” and I had to sit down I was laughing so hard. As in most cases, the greater the amount of alcohol consumed, the fewer the inhibitions. This made for some memorable encounters. A wide array of ages and nationalities came up to the group I was dancing with and began either talking or dancing with us like we had known them all our lives. They were all nice enough, just a little “dodgy” as the Irish guide from the Paris trip would say.
As a general note, mostly directed at my parents who are probably the only people that read this, I would like to put to rest any concern for my responsible handling of alcohol. I had two glasses of the wine, enough to make the cold less apparent and raise my glass a few times with others. You say in French “je suis un peu gaï” (pronounced “gay”. It is an expression used when you have had just a little to drink and you feel good.) I haven't changed all that much since you dropped me off at the airport, guys.
The next day, the official day of the new Beaujolais, there were little “dégustations” set up all over town and posters everywhere announcing the arrival of the new wine. On my way into town that afternoon, I passed numerous bars advertising celebrations that evening with free tasting. But I had done what celebrating I was going to do the night before. I was going into town for a language exchange with some French students that AIFS had set up. It was a great opportunity to compare cultures and practice speaking. We talked about the Beaujolais and they told us that the wine is only popular for the opportunity it creates to have a party. It’s still much too young to be any good (though when it is more mature, it can have a rich, robust flavor), but it’s cheap and accompanied by a chance to drink and party all night, so it’s popular. It’s a lot like Halloween in that sense. I mentioned before that it is mostly a commercial holiday, celebrated by bars and with no cultural roots. The Beaujolais Nouveau is different in that it has true French roots- those of the grape vine.
Now as I sit in my cheerful yellow room looking out on the snow-capped peaks on a gorgeous, unseasonably warm, late November day, I am thinking about the spirit of camaraderie walking through the streets with my torch in hand, singing traditional French chantys, drinking the cheap and cheerful wine, listening and dancing to a bad French cover band, and the glaringly apparent lack of rhythm in the natives. It’s been a long time since I was out until 6:30 in the morning. Cavalier Cruise (high school all night graduation party) maybe? But it was definitely worth missing out on some sleep. Wine is one of the strongest cultural threads that runs through the colorful tapestry of this country. I am grateful to have been able to celebrate this area of pride and joy for my adopted countrymen in a fashion steeped in tradition and community.
*Now that YouTube exists, I can link to this video of the event from 2012 to help illustrate the event for my readers:
I was with a bunch of people from school and we all walked around together. When you get too tired, too cold, or the booths run out of wine, you make your way back to this gigantic heated tent where the wine continues to flow (you have to pay this time), and there is music and dancing and tables to sit at and chat… or pass out. We ended up at the tent around 2:00am and danced until the celebration ended at 4:00.
I think the best part of the night for me was seeing the French people dance. They may be very savvy when it comes to food, wine and general charm, but they cannot dance to save their lives. There was a stout middle aged blonde woman who was doing high kicks, crazy hair whips, and spinning around and around, punctuated with select disco moves (I remember a Saturday Night Fever tribute sequence at one point) during “I Will Survive” and I had to sit down I was laughing so hard. As in most cases, the greater the amount of alcohol consumed, the fewer the inhibitions. This made for some memorable encounters. A wide array of ages and nationalities came up to the group I was dancing with and began either talking or dancing with us like we had known them all our lives. They were all nice enough, just a little “dodgy” as the Irish guide from the Paris trip would say.
As a general note, mostly directed at my parents who are probably the only people that read this, I would like to put to rest any concern for my responsible handling of alcohol. I had two glasses of the wine, enough to make the cold less apparent and raise my glass a few times with others. You say in French “je suis un peu gaï” (pronounced “gay”. It is an expression used when you have had just a little to drink and you feel good.) I haven't changed all that much since you dropped me off at the airport, guys.
The next day, the official day of the new Beaujolais, there were little “dégustations” set up all over town and posters everywhere announcing the arrival of the new wine. On my way into town that afternoon, I passed numerous bars advertising celebrations that evening with free tasting. But I had done what celebrating I was going to do the night before. I was going into town for a language exchange with some French students that AIFS had set up. It was a great opportunity to compare cultures and practice speaking. We talked about the Beaujolais and they told us that the wine is only popular for the opportunity it creates to have a party. It’s still much too young to be any good (though when it is more mature, it can have a rich, robust flavor), but it’s cheap and accompanied by a chance to drink and party all night, so it’s popular. It’s a lot like Halloween in that sense. I mentioned before that it is mostly a commercial holiday, celebrated by bars and with no cultural roots. The Beaujolais Nouveau is different in that it has true French roots- those of the grape vine.
Now as I sit in my cheerful yellow room looking out on the snow-capped peaks on a gorgeous, unseasonably warm, late November day, I am thinking about the spirit of camaraderie walking through the streets with my torch in hand, singing traditional French chantys, drinking the cheap and cheerful wine, listening and dancing to a bad French cover band, and the glaringly apparent lack of rhythm in the natives. It’s been a long time since I was out until 6:30 in the morning. Cavalier Cruise (high school all night graduation party) maybe? But it was definitely worth missing out on some sleep. Wine is one of the strongest cultural threads that runs through the colorful tapestry of this country. I am grateful to have been able to celebrate this area of pride and joy for my adopted countrymen in a fashion steeped in tradition and community.
*Now that YouTube exists, I can link to this video of the event from 2012 to help illustrate the event for my readers:
Reawakening Intrigue in the City of Light
Originally Posted 11-18-2003
After a non-stop trip in Italy, I had just a little over 24 hours to go to class, do laundry, grocery shop, mail post cards, attend a mandatory meeting, call internship coordinators for next semester, fax credit approval sheets, pack, and write my Italy journal entry before leaving for Paris. Wednesday was as hectic as a full day of sightseeing in Italy. I wasn’t even looking forward to Paris all that much. I had been there before, I am going to be there all next semester, I felt like I was wearing it out before I even got there. But AIFS paid for the trip, and it was a good excuse to miss class, so I went.
Our itinerary was very different from the other two AIFS trips. Very unstructured, it provided options for day trips and excursions, but we could break off at any point or not join up at all. We were given our train tickets, an unlimited metro pass, some spending money, and three nights in hotel; the rest was up to us. I had coordinated with my “uncle” (technically a second cousin, I think) who lives just outside of Paris and he invited me to come spend a night out at his home in the suburb of Boran-sur-Oise. I figured if nothing else, at least I’d be able to escape the city for one night.
Thursday morning after staying up very late trying to get caught up with things I needed to do and writing about Italy, I was tired, but ready to go to Paris. Christi and I were rooming together by luck of the draw and I was worried we’d get sick of each other after 5 days of non-stop company. I was also worried about facing my fears of living in such a huge, cosmopolitan city like Paris. I love the mountainous, lively city of Grenoble. I feel like there’s a little bit of everything and I’ve made a home here. Going to Paris would be like a foretaste of next semester and I was afraid that picturing myself living in the city, I wouldn’t fit.
I got on the TGV and we began the three hour, non-stop journey to Paris. It was uneventful and peaceful. I slept for some of it, the rest I used to look through a 300 page, weekly publication of things to do in Paris. Clearly we wouldn't lack for options. It was full of operas, theater, concerts, clubs, parties, exhibitions, parks, fairs, antique shows, and countless other varieties of diversions that are found within the city limits.
Our AIFS coordinator has a 4-month-old which prohibited her from coming with us so she sent two colleagues of hers to guide us. The two of them had been to Paris before, but neither of them really knew what they were doing and they weren’t really guides at all. They were just reading maps that Miranda (the coordinator) had marked, regurgitating information they had photocopied about monuments, and information Miranda had told them. Our first activity was a walk around the Quartier Marais. It’s an eclectic and wealthy section of Paris with lots of artsy shops, and also the house where Victor Hugo lived. Our guides, a naïve and funny newlywed Irish woman, and her savvy, sarcastic Californian best friend led us through the streets haphazardly and without any real sense of purpose or direction. I was getting frustrated and wanted to break off. We stopped for tea at which point Christi and I decided to go on a walk along the Seine. We alerted our leaders who told us that was fine, and we had the rest of the afternoon to do as we pleased. We were going to a play that night for which we would meet everyone at the theatre. I was up for a stroll, so stroll we did. We walked two miles to the center of the town where Christi got her first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. We walked past the art and used book vendors that line the quays. As we were walking, the magic of Paris slowly started to draw me under its spell. There’s a reason that people flock there. There’s an intangible mystery and romanticism that is wholly unique to Paris. Walking past the Napoleonic architecture, the countless monuments, the Louvre, through the gardens and parks, seeing the Arch de Triomphe stand solidly smack in the center of a gigantic swarm of tailights and street lamps on the Champs Elysees; these are sights that cannot be claimed, nor imitated, by any other town. Even if they could be, something about Paris makes it the only place in the world where it all works. I knew walking along the Seine as the sun began to sink low on the horizon that Paris was the place for me next semester. My fears of fitting in began to fade with the daylight.
After a non-stop trip in Italy, I had just a little over 24 hours to go to class, do laundry, grocery shop, mail post cards, attend a mandatory meeting, call internship coordinators for next semester, fax credit approval sheets, pack, and write my Italy journal entry before leaving for Paris. Wednesday was as hectic as a full day of sightseeing in Italy. I wasn’t even looking forward to Paris all that much. I had been there before, I am going to be there all next semester, I felt like I was wearing it out before I even got there. But AIFS paid for the trip, and it was a good excuse to miss class, so I went.
Our itinerary was very different from the other two AIFS trips. Very unstructured, it provided options for day trips and excursions, but we could break off at any point or not join up at all. We were given our train tickets, an unlimited metro pass, some spending money, and three nights in hotel; the rest was up to us. I had coordinated with my “uncle” (technically a second cousin, I think) who lives just outside of Paris and he invited me to come spend a night out at his home in the suburb of Boran-sur-Oise. I figured if nothing else, at least I’d be able to escape the city for one night.
Thursday morning after staying up very late trying to get caught up with things I needed to do and writing about Italy, I was tired, but ready to go to Paris. Christi and I were rooming together by luck of the draw and I was worried we’d get sick of each other after 5 days of non-stop company. I was also worried about facing my fears of living in such a huge, cosmopolitan city like Paris. I love the mountainous, lively city of Grenoble. I feel like there’s a little bit of everything and I’ve made a home here. Going to Paris would be like a foretaste of next semester and I was afraid that picturing myself living in the city, I wouldn’t fit.
I got on the TGV and we began the three hour, non-stop journey to Paris. It was uneventful and peaceful. I slept for some of it, the rest I used to look through a 300 page, weekly publication of things to do in Paris. Clearly we wouldn't lack for options. It was full of operas, theater, concerts, clubs, parties, exhibitions, parks, fairs, antique shows, and countless other varieties of diversions that are found within the city limits.
Our AIFS coordinator has a 4-month-old which prohibited her from coming with us so she sent two colleagues of hers to guide us. The two of them had been to Paris before, but neither of them really knew what they were doing and they weren’t really guides at all. They were just reading maps that Miranda (the coordinator) had marked, regurgitating information they had photocopied about monuments, and information Miranda had told them. Our first activity was a walk around the Quartier Marais. It’s an eclectic and wealthy section of Paris with lots of artsy shops, and also the house where Victor Hugo lived. Our guides, a naïve and funny newlywed Irish woman, and her savvy, sarcastic Californian best friend led us through the streets haphazardly and without any real sense of purpose or direction. I was getting frustrated and wanted to break off. We stopped for tea at which point Christi and I decided to go on a walk along the Seine. We alerted our leaders who told us that was fine, and we had the rest of the afternoon to do as we pleased. We were going to a play that night for which we would meet everyone at the theatre. I was up for a stroll, so stroll we did. We walked two miles to the center of the town where Christi got her first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. We walked past the art and used book vendors that line the quays. As we were walking, the magic of Paris slowly started to draw me under its spell. There’s a reason that people flock there. There’s an intangible mystery and romanticism that is wholly unique to Paris. Walking past the Napoleonic architecture, the countless monuments, the Louvre, through the gardens and parks, seeing the Arch de Triomphe stand solidly smack in the center of a gigantic swarm of tailights and street lamps on the Champs Elysees; these are sights that cannot be claimed, nor imitated, by any other town. Even if they could be, something about Paris makes it the only place in the world where it all works. I knew walking along the Seine as the sun began to sink low on the horizon that Paris was the place for me next semester. My fears of fitting in began to fade with the daylight.
At five o’clock we had made it all the way to Place de la Concorde, which is in the heart of downtown Paris, right on the Seine River with a good view of the Eiffel tower from the big bridge. I stood looking at the icon of Paris waiting for Christi to get a drink at a nearby stand, when all of a sudden the tower began to sparkle with thousands of flashbulb-like bursts of light coming from every side. It was like there were 6 million tourists positioned all over the tower, frantically photographing at once. It lasted for 10 minutes and I wondered if I’d ever see it again. There are so many random acts of beauty in France, you never know when you will come across them. Fortunately, this one occurs for ten minutes every hour on the hour from 5pm until midnight every night. This time will forever be remembered by me as “sparkle time”.
After that lovely sight, we decided to make our way to a pasta restaurant recommended to us by Miranda which was right across the street from the theater where we would end up that night. We got there before it opened so we went to a bar across the street, met up with some other girls, got a drink and chatted about how much we love Paris. We ate well and cheap at the restaurant and then headed across the street to the theater to meet up with everyone else for a musical comedy called "Frou-Frou les Bains”.
It was about a group of hapless employees at a resort/spa in the early 20th century that in the course of the evening have to hide the fact that the water which made the spa famous had stopped running, and sort out a number of humorous love triangles between them. The main character, the director of the spa, was played by the same actor who was Monsieur Colignon, the mean grocer, in Amélie. He was fantastic and he can sing and dance, as well as act. I enjoyed myself but was so tired I began to nod off at the end. After the play I went straight back to the hotel to sleep.
The next day, I went running along the Seine and past all the famous landmarks before the town was truly awake, had a great breakfast, then started out the day with a trip to the National Opera. The group was all together at the beginning but I knew I couldn’t handle an entire day with the guides so Christi and I again broke off and decided to tour all the museums we could in one day. You can buy a one-day museum pass which will get you into any museum or monument in Paris. We made it to Saint Chapelle, Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay, Hôtel des Invalides, and the Grand Palais. We only had time to hit the main points of each, with such an ambitious lineup. I knew I would have time all next semester to go see all the little things that I missed. It almost became a game to see how many we could squeeze in.
The Grand Palais was closed but they have two temporary exhibitions on display, one of which is a nearly exhaustive collection of all of Gaugin’s paintings from his two séjours in Tahiti. Gaugin and Cézanne run together for me but this collection made the disctinction of Gaugin's brighter colors, human subjects, and tighter perspective a little clearer to me. But the shared techniques from the Post-Impressionist school are apparent in both artists' work.
We were really tired after all the museums closed for the night and we wanted to get something to eat, but we met up with some other friends from the group and decided to take the Bateaux Mouches tour of the Seine at night before dinner. It was nice, but we were all really cold and ravenous by the time it was over, so we didn’t enjoy it as much as we could have. We found some food at a bar and while it was good, it was overpriced, like everything in Paris. After that I was again ready for bed, so I retired to the hotel, but Christi decided to try to go see the Moulin Rouge. She’s a machine.
The next day I exercised the option to take an excursion to Chartres, the most intact medieval cathedral in France (thanks a LOT, WWII). The stained glass windows are among the most celebrated in the world. It was a worthwhile trip. We got to hear a detailed explanation from an old Brit who has spent his life studying the church. After listening to all the amazing things he had to say about Chartres, even the most disinterested and indifferent person would have been intrigued. He spoke for an hour and a half and only made it through a brief architectural overview, one door, and two windows. He never turned around to look at what he was describing to us because he could recite every panel of every window by heart.
We walked around the town for a while afterwards and that was nothing special. We sat down for some tea to warm up from the damp, foggy cold on the outside, and then got back on the bus. I was going straight back to the hotel to collect my things and catch a train out to my uncle’s house. His directions were easy and I got to the station no problem. He picked me up and took me out to their quaint little house in the northern French countryside. Being there, you’d never know you were 40 minutes from Paris. You are “en plein de campagne” in Boran-sur-Oise. They made a wonderful dinner and it felt good to be around family, even ones I don't know all that well. I enjoyed getting to know Tom and Margaret better. Family is an amazing thing. You can barely know someone, share their last name, and end up spending a weekend with people who have only seen baby pictures of you in a foreign country.
I spent the next morning at church with them, then we went out to lunch. Before dropping me off at the train station they drove me around the town. It’s the horse capital of France and they have an 18th century chateau which has been turned into the jockey’s club and stables for thoroughbred racing horses. There was a lake and a lush green racing course. Everything exuded wealth and opulence. After the tour, it was time to bid the city and the suburbs of Paris goodbye and get back to Grenoble. After almost 10 solid days of travel, I was looking forward to staying put for a while. I have no more trips planned that will take me away from overnight. I will spend a day in Lyon, a day in Geneva, and a day in wine country celebrating the new season before I depart on Dec. 19th. In the interim between those small excursions, I hope to enjoy my last month in this lovely city and linger on the memories it has given me.
I know I've written a lot here, so thanks for reading if you've made it this far. I also know finals are coming up for kids in the states so good luck with that and I hope to see the better part of all of you at Christmas. A la prochaine!
Italy: Four Churches and the Cities They Define
Christi, a member of the AIFS cohort, had her birthday the day before mine and since the beginning of the semester we had been planning to travel somewhere to celebrate. We decided to go to Italy over the weekend before Armistice Day, giving me 5 full days to travel, and Christy 4 (she has class on Fridays). At Christi’s suggestion we planned to hit all the main cities: Rome, Florence, Venice, and Milan, in that order. Everything came together smoothly. I decided to fly to Rome solo and spend Friday on my own. I left Grenoble with high expectations, and also doubts about how well I’d hold up under such intense traveling. My flight over was smooth and so was the train from the airport to Rome. The only turbulence came when I got to the hostel. I had picked one close to the gigantic train station in the middle of Rome called Termini. I arrived and was greeted by a nice British guy with red hair who showed me to the room. It was dorm-style with 8 beds and we discovered at that point that they were all occupied. Alas, the hostel had overbooked the room! He explained in a very distressed tone that it was only his second day working there and he would tell the manager everything in the morning and amends would be made. It was closing in on 1am at this point and I was tired, I was happy just to see him pull out a mattress and set it on the floor.
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| The Forum |
I woke up the next morning to the snoring 40-year- old man in the corner and the group of Ecuadorian girls who had to catch an early flight. This was at 5am. I stuffed my head further into my pillow and went back to sleep. I woke up again at 7am, this time ready for the day to begin. I laced up and headed out the door for a tourism run, map in hand. I learned 2 things quickly: 1) even in the low-season, Rome is brimming with tourists and people, and 2) drivers there are absolutely mad. There are no pedestrian lights, you have to literally walk into oncoming traffic and hope they will stop in order to cross the street. Scooters dominate the roads and it is not uncommon to encounter one barreling towards you at 35mph on the sidewalk. I chose a route that took me past the Coliseum and a couple of famous fountains, hoping to knock out a few of the thousands of famous landmarks within Rome’s city limits early. This was a mistake. All I encountered were street names that weren’t on the map and lots and lots of people. An hour and a half later, after getting lost a few times and becoming overly frustrated with the hoards of people inhibiting my stride, I returned to the hostel. The 40-year-old snorer was awake and inquisitive about my story, why I was in Rome, etc. I met a really nice Aussie named Nayla who invited me to go on a walking tour of the city with her that morning. I had originally planned on going to the Vatican City that day but I decided to go with her to have some company, thinking I would have plenty of time later. We left together and started chatting about our travels and what we are doing with our lives at the moment. She is living in Dublin and working as an au pair of sorts for friends of her family.
A few minutes into our walking tour, I felt compelled to break off and follow my original plan, feeling I’d regret it if I didn't. I told Nayla and she was very understanding. She travels alone most of the time and is used to wanting to do her own thing. So I hopped on the Rome metro and headed out to the Vatican City.
I arrived at the Vatican around 11:30 am and went straight to the museums. They include 12 rooms of Raphael’s work, 3 huge rooms of Michelangelo’s sculpture, an impressive collection of Egyptian Art, the Vatican library, and, of course, the Sistine Chapel. You start at one end of the long building and you follow a trail from which you may not deviate unless you want to skip the anti-chambers and go straight to the Chapel. I wanted to see everything I could so I explored all the rooms and saved the Chapel for last. I saw the School of Athens, haunting rooms devoted to chiaroscuro depictions of biblical scenes, a room painted with maps from the époque, and that famous ceiling which stole Michelangelo’s youth. Each room opened onto another famous work, another astoundingly perfect production. It was like reliving my World Civ class from high school, only I was seeing it all with my own eyes. Pictures were permitted in certain areas, but I couldn’t bring myself to take any because they just don’t do it justice. I spent a few hours in the museums and the chapel then worked my way over to St. Peter’s church. I went up to the famous Bernini dome, which provides an unparalleled view of the city of Rome, the Piazza San Pietro, and the main sanctuary from the inside. Definitely worth the 700 steps it takes to climb up there. (If you want to skip the stairs, you can pay an extra 2 euros and take an elevator.)
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| Piazza San Pietro |
Everything inside St. Peter’s, down to the very last tile in the floor, is designed with glory in mind. Everything is the height of its craft: the mosaic floor, the gigantic wooden altar piece, the ceiling, the dome, the carvings, the sculptures, the organ. The immense size and the awesome beauty of the building are hard to handle. There is so much to take in. I passed Michelangelo’s Pieta, and craned my neck to see the frescoed cherubs looking thoughtfully to the heavens in the smaller vaults of the chapels and narthex. I left the Vatican almost not believing what I had just seen. I had to sit down for a while and reflect on it, plus my legs had turned to jelly after all those stairs and my inadvertently extended run in the morning. *
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| Bernini's alter in St. Peter's Basilica |
After St. Peter’s and the Vatican, I had planned to see the Galleria Borghese and the Catacombs just outside the ancient city walls. It had started to sprinkle a little so I just went to the Gallery, as it was closer. It is situated in an old Medici villa in the middle of a beautiful park in the northern part of the city. It is rather hidden and you have to venture through a number of twisting trails to get there. I finally did after asking for directions from a kindly doorman, and waited to be let in to the exhibits. You are only allowed in with groups of 90 or less and you are given 2 hours maximum to explore. The gallery is not very big and is mainly devoted to Bernini. It houses his most famous work, Apollo and Daphne. After viewing this, I believe that the mark of a great sculptor is to make the stone come alive. I could feel the wind blowing Daphne’s robes and hair, I could sense the tension between the two figures. The sculpture had so much movement even though it is still: every fold, every strand of hair, every ruffle was perfectly detailed. I marveled in front of this piece for a while then explored other rooms full of Caravaggio, Donatello, and Titian.
I returned to the hostel exhausted, visually and physically. I was simply overwhelmed with everything I had seen. Nayla and I had promised to meet up for dinner, and she was at the hostel when I returned. We traded stories about the day and the 40-year-old man joined in on the conversation (What did he even do all day?). I learned he is an ex-army soldier who was on three weeks holiday from an assignment teaching English in Belgium. He is recently divorced and rather flamboyant. I have reasonable doubts about his heterosexuality, though my suspicions were never confirmed. Nayla and I decided to go look for food after she took a nap and I wrote postcards. Two other girls who had been there the night before, one of Spanish origin who is studying in Florence and another from New Jersey with the same program, returned and took naps as well. We invited them to get dinner with us and they agreed. After naptime, all us girls and Andy, the ambiguous snorer, headed out in search of a good pizza. We found it and Andy decided it would be fun to order champagne. He ended up drinking the better part of two bottles and paid for dinner. I wasn’t going to complain because I had eaten a lot. He’s a nice enough guy, just maybe lonely and more than a little confused about his life. The girl from Jersey and the Spanish girl, Christine and Anna respectively, kept making fun of each other. Nayla was just laid-back with a dry, hilarious sense of humor. A master of one-liners and mischievous to the core, she provided many a good laugh throughout the meal. ** It was also this adventurous soul who suggested we walk around Rome and see the city at night. I was tired, but I had just eaten very well, and what could be more interesting than exploring the Eternal City under the cover of night with four complete strangers?
I returned to the hostel exhausted, visually and physically. I was simply overwhelmed with everything I had seen. Nayla and I had promised to meet up for dinner, and she was at the hostel when I returned. We traded stories about the day and the 40-year-old man joined in on the conversation (What did he even do all day?). I learned he is an ex-army soldier who was on three weeks holiday from an assignment teaching English in Belgium. He is recently divorced and rather flamboyant. I have reasonable doubts about his heterosexuality, though my suspicions were never confirmed. Nayla and I decided to go look for food after she took a nap and I wrote postcards. Two other girls who had been there the night before, one of Spanish origin who is studying in Florence and another from New Jersey with the same program, returned and took naps as well. We invited them to get dinner with us and they agreed. After naptime, all us girls and Andy, the ambiguous snorer, headed out in search of a good pizza. We found it and Andy decided it would be fun to order champagne. He ended up drinking the better part of two bottles and paid for dinner. I wasn’t going to complain because I had eaten a lot. He’s a nice enough guy, just maybe lonely and more than a little confused about his life. The girl from Jersey and the Spanish girl, Christine and Anna respectively, kept making fun of each other. Nayla was just laid-back with a dry, hilarious sense of humor. A master of one-liners and mischievous to the core, she provided many a good laugh throughout the meal. ** It was also this adventurous soul who suggested we walk around Rome and see the city at night. I was tired, but I had just eaten very well, and what could be more interesting than exploring the Eternal City under the cover of night with four complete strangers?
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| The Coliseum at night |
Nayla and I planned a route past the beautiful Fontana di Trevi, the Capitol, the Forum, and the Coliseum. I planned to see all of those the next day with Christi, but I thought they would be beautiful at night. The moon was full and reflected off the light cloud cover, casting eerie shadows on the ruins of Rome’s oldest street, the Via Sancta, at the Forum. The Capitol was lit in all its Roman pride and glory atop its commanding hill, the Coliseum’s flaws and renovations were carefully hidden in the darkness, and the Fontana di Trevi was a bustling center for nightlife, street performers, and Pakistanis selling cheap touristy souvenirs. Nayla and I were approached by two Italian guys, one of whom knew English well and began to tell us about how great Italy is, and the other stood there and smiled, supremely confident and resplendent in his Italianness. They bored us to death, talking about Italian perfume and leather and didn’t let us get a word in edgewise. They had us almost cornered against one of the railings by the fountain. All hope of a graceful and easy exit abandoned, we cut the guy off mid-perfume rave, made up an excuse and got out of there.
We walked around past some bars but never went in, and by the time we made it back to the hostel, it was close to 1am. I was completely exhausted and needed to rest up for another big day, and the arrival of Christi. Thankfully, the hostel had refunded the first night’s stay, and I got a real bed that night.
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| Fontana di Trevi |
I enjoyed Rome much more at night. Things were more calm, less hectic, not so crowded. The metro during the day was overflowing with people. I had to push my way on and I started to get claustrophobic so I had to get off a stop early. I have never been so tightly packed in all my life. Not even after Tibetan Freedom concert at RFK when all of the DC metropolitan area was riding the orange line home at the same time. I enjoyed the dark, cool calm of the evening and the solitude of the monuments without all the crowds around them. I had begun to dislike Rome, but that evening changed my mind. I woke up Saturday morning, went running in the tranquil park I had explored the day before, and headed out. I had wanted to see the catacombs of San Callisto, but I wasn’t sure if I would have time before Christi arrived. I decided to go for it, knowing that I wouldn’t have time later in the day. I caught a bus and headed out beyond the old city walls to the place where the ancient roman government mandated that the Christians be buried. The catacombs date back to the 2nd century and are over 75 meters deep. The oldest are at the top because they worked from the top down. I saw the grave of St. Cecilia and a number of frescoes and etchings thousands of years old. By the time I was finished, Christi had landed and was about to arrive at the train station. I hurried back and met up with her. We dropped off her baggage and then set off to the see the Forum, the Palatine Hill, the Capitol, the Pantheon, the Coliseum, Piazza Novana, and the Fontana di Trevi. The Forum is a collection of ruins in the heart of the city where all the politics used to take place. You can see the remains of the room where the senators used to meet, you can see the arch of Septimus Severus which honors Julius Cesar’s victories in the Middle East, and you can also see the place where Romulus was supposedly murdered.
The Palatine hill offered unparalleled panoramas of the city, serene green spaces, and other walks through the history of the most powerful city in the ancient world. I couldn’t get over the fact that I was walking under the warm Tuscan sun through the places that lay at the heart of modern civilization. Rome was the center, and it still holds on to that pride and power today. Christi and I grabbed a not-so-great dinner near the station, picked up our bags, and caught our train to Florence. In less than 8 hours, we had seen most of the big monuments in Rome. The train ride was relaxing and I was looking forward to meeting the proprietor of the hostel in Florence, who personally e-mailed me upon my reservation to welcome me and express his delight in our choosing his establishment. He calls himself Leonardo.
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| Pallatine Hill |
I was glad to
leave Rome. The hostel was great for the people I met but
not so great for the actual sleeping arrangements. It’s always
hit or miss. The city was too crowded and though I
am eternally grateful to have seen everything that I
saw, it is too grand, too caught up with its glory days and
with its reputation as the center of the world. You can see this in its people as well. Italy as a whole is a very proud culture, but
Rome is the most
representative of this. The taxi drivers solicit you the
second you step off the train “Where you want to go, I take
you, very fast, I know city very well. Where you want to
go?” The restaurant owners come out and confront you if they
see you looking at the menu: “Tea? Coffee? Best Tiramisu
in Rome? Come in, we have table for you right now.” Italy is in your face. I noticed immediately the difference between
its arrogance and French
arrogance. In Italy, it’s evident and they
actively vocalize their pride in their country, their
products, and what they have to offer.
They advertise it, like
those guys in front of the fountain. In France, the arrogance
is more subtle. It is a quiet, albeit apparent,
arrogance in which they let the renowned beauty of the culture, art and specialties speak for themselves. Those who don’t understand are not enlightened; they are
brushed aside as unable to comprehend, and thus unfit to enjoy, the greatness that is
France.
Florence
We arrived in Florence, made our way to the hostel and met Leonardo, a very kind middle aged businessman who welcomed us and showed us to our beautifully decorated room. He also gave us a map and told us what we should see and what would be open the next day. We went to sleep with our day planned out. We awoke the next morning very early. I opened the large glass doors in our room and walked out on our private terrace into a picturesque Italian morning: birds chirping, orange roofs with little trails of steam rising from them, and brightly painted ceramic tiling. My legs were very sore and my feet were hurting from walking so much so I skipped the run, plus we only had until 1:30pm in Florence. This weekend being a holiday weekend, everyone in Europe was traveling which made train reservations difficult. We took what we could get. A small little adventure in the morning occurred when the luggage lock I had been using suddenly refused to open. I verified the code 4 times and tried and tried but it didn’t open. I didn’t have time to worry about it then, so I decided to put it off until Venice. But it was in the back of my mind. “What am I going to do if I can’t get it open…?”
We started off at the open-air market full of leather- goods, scarves, t-shirts, and other touristy trinkets. We wove through those streets glancing at the display windows, and then made our way to the Accademia museum. It was there that I fell in love.
I saw him first from a distance at the end of a long hallway. He was very tall with a boyish, but regal stance. His heroic body and flawless proportions drew me closer. As I walked towards him, I surveyed his thick, curly locks and emotive face, betraying the fear and also the fortitude in his heart. He is perpetually frozen in a moment of reflection, daunted by the challenge that awaits him, yet determined to triumph. His name is David. I suppose I should state that the object of my adoration (if you hadn’t guessed already) is made of marble and is a little less than 500 years older than me, created in 1503 by Michelangelo. It goes without saying that I was completely enraptured by him. I understand now Michelangelo’s idea of releasing the living character he saw within each stone that he carved. The precision of the contours, the features, down to the veins in the hands and the wrinkles on his thumb joint left me utterly speechless.
Florence began and ended with David. We visited the large church which is the heart of Florence, the Duomo. It is a notable structure mostly because of its architectural hodge-podge of gothic spires, roman domes, and ornate mosaic. It was colorful and lively, especially in the context of the busy square full of tourists and natives catering to tourists, trying to sell overpriced postcards and souvenirs. Christi and I took the necessary photos and walked through the streets to the Ponte Vecchio where we gazed at the picturesque canal and gawked in the windows of the jewelers that line both sides of the bridge. We then went to see the tombs of Galileo, Machiavelli, Michelangelo, and Dante at a church east of the bridge. There was a mass going on so we couldn’t see them up close, but being in the presence of their remains provided a ghostly but noble atmosphere.
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| Duomo in Florence |
Venice
We caught our train to Venice with no problems and took the time to relax and plan our activities. We arrived around 4pm and checked into our hostel, situated right on the Grand Canal. We installed ourselves in the clean, homey room which we shared with three other people, two American guys and a British girl, and then headed out to find dinner and explore the intricate puzzle of waterways that is Venice. I went next door to find a concierge who spoke English, I asked for a pair of pliers, and jimmied the lock on my suitcase open. I was so thankful at the prospect of being able to change clothes the next day. To get around in Venice you take a “bus” which is actually a boat. It works just like a bus, it’s just on water. We took that to the end of the Grand Canal, Piazza San Marco, which is the center of action in Venice. We found a restaurant where we received bad service and mediocre food. Tourists beware, many traps abound. We were overcharged and not satisfied. To soothe our anger, we bought our first gelato of the trip. It’s amazing what a little ice cream can do. I got “myrtillo” which is blackberry, and Christi got chocolate and hazelnut. If there’s something better than gelato in this world, I don’t want to know about it. We walked along talking and getting lost on purpose with our velvety textured, richly flavored cones. We finally headed back to the hostel around 11pm and got a good night’s rest, dreaming of the day’s successful bargaining, and the next day’s gelato selections.
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| So happy with gelato! |
After Murano, we went back into Venice to Piazza San Marco and visited the Palazzo Ducale. This ornate structure housed the chief political leader of Venice and was the center of the Venetian government. It also houses the world’s largest oil painting, Tintoretto’s Paradise. The palace consisted mainly of room after room of vast canvases, gilded molding, mosaic floors, and demonstrations of the power and wealth of the government. It was truly an impressive and imposing building. It demands respect, like so much of Italian art and architecture.
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| Piazza San Marco, Venice |
We visited the Basilica di San Marco next where we viewed the tomb of St. Mark, and the jewel-encrusted golden alter screen that acts as a partition between the main sanctuary and the Holy of Holies. The ceiling of the basilica is all glittering gold mosaic interspersed with meticulous depictions of biblical characters and saints. The tiles are so intricately placed that you can’t tell that they are not painted, you have to see the detail photographs on display to pick out the separate tiles. When you look to where the light from the windows hits the vaults, it resembles the sun sparkling on a giant golden wave.
We left the Basilica on a mission to find a restaurant in the guidebook we had with us. We went halfway across town to find this hole-in-the-wall pizza place and it was worth every effort we made. The pizza was cheap, and the best I’ve ever had in my life. I got a white pizza with mozzarella, eggplant, corn and asparagus, Christi went with the classic red sauce and pepperoni. I had never had corn on pizza before, but it was by far the best ingredient. The sweet yellow kernels accented the garlicky sauce sandwiched between the crispy, airy, thin crust and the melted cheese. Christi’s pepperoni was spicy and sliced very thick. We ended our meal with gelato, of course. This time I went for yoghurt and strawberry. The yoghurt was incredible. With its more firm texture and slightly tart taste it accented the fresh, sweet strawberry flavor.
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| Canals of Venice |
After that satisfying meal, we headed to the Accademia gallery which, we found, closes early on Mondays. We thought about going to another gallery close by, but instead we decided to go back to the hostel, put on warmer clothes (the sun goes down early and with it, the temperatures), and go to the Ponte Rialto, the center of commerce and nightlife for Venice.
By the time we got to the bridge, it was dark and the area was brimming with sparkling lights and hordes of tourists. Same as Rome, Venice was packed with travelers. We walked up and down the narrow lanes, browsing the artisan crafts and buying some fresh fruit from a local producer. Marie T. loves pasta so I bought her some from a store that makes it fresh every day. We just took in the sights and sounds of Venice at night. We had to pull ourselves away from the charming city and catch our train to Milan.
By the time we got to the bridge, it was dark and the area was brimming with sparkling lights and hordes of tourists. Same as Rome, Venice was packed with travelers. We walked up and down the narrow lanes, browsing the artisan crafts and buying some fresh fruit from a local producer. Marie T. loves pasta so I bought her some from a store that makes it fresh every day. We just took in the sights and sounds of Venice at night. We had to pull ourselves away from the charming city and catch our train to Milan.
Milan
We arrived around 11pm and tried to decipher the directions to our hotel. They said 5 minutes from the train station. It was more like 20, and they didn’t bother to give street names or where to turn. We got there without too much delay and went immediately to sleep. The next morning I awoke and went running in a lovely park that was ablaze with autumn colors. Then Christi and I packed up our gear and got ready for our last day in Italy.
Milan turned out to be a disappointment. We wanted to see the Last Supper by Da Vinci, but the tickets for the day were all sold out. We tried to “faire de la charme” as the French say, but the Italian museum employees were not having it. We didn’t let it get us down. We decided we would go see the La Scala, the world famous opera house. Wouldn’t you know it… closed to visitation for renovations, even though they are still putting on productions. That was another blow. We decided to try the Duomo. The front of the church was covered over by renovation cloths, thus blocking the best view of this striking example of gothic architecture. I am convinced that all of Milan is under construction. Every corner we turned we saw another crane or set of scaffolding. All of Grenoble is under construction too. I guess it’s sort of a metaphor for me right now. I am under construction, a work in progress, tearing down and rebuilding. ****
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| Gloomy Milan Duomo |
We started to get hungry so we went to a pizza and pasta place and ate very well. I had been yearning for an insalata Caprese...fantastic. We then went to the famous Milan fashion district. The streets are lined with private fashion houses that you have to make appointments at just to go inside. We also walked past swanky Cartier, Armani, Dolce & Gabanna, and Valentino boutiques, to name a few. But all we did was be in their presence. You can't go into them, they all have imposing doors and there are no displays. We made our way up the boutique-lined streets and back to the hotel where we picked up our bags and headed to the train station for the 5 hour ride back to Grenoble. I was so happy to come back. This town has become my home away from home. Being out of the French culture and language for 5 days made me miss my real home even more and made me feel out of place. It’s hard work to be in another country, even harder to travel outside your established foreign realm. Though, it was full of adventure, both good and bad, and I have seen things that I will never forget.
Each city’s character is manifested in the main church. Rome with St. Peter’s (technically it’s the Vatican, but it’s all within the city limits) and its overwhelming beauty and richness, the grandeur and size of everything. It’s almost too much to take in. It shows the glory and power of Ancient Rome, the wide influence of the Catholic church throughout the ages, and how those days are still present in the modern culture. That pride and former leading of the known world will forever be a part of the Roman character. The colorful and smaller Duomo in Florence emulates the small town and its diverse inhabitants - muted but beautiful on the outside, warm and welcoming on the inside. The glittering San Marco in Venice brings to mind the sun sparkling on the canals and the intricate plan of the mosaics are just like the city, jewels in and of themselves. And Milan with its cold and unwelcoming Duomo warns of the exceptionally fast-paced and unfriendly atmosphere that the city holds.
I am glad that I got to see all the cities, and though it was a lot, I don’t think it was too much. I only scratched the surface, but I believe I got a good look into Italian culture. Now I am packing for Paris, even though I have been home for less than 24 hours. I hope you all are doing well. The semester is flying by and each week goes faster than the last. Christmas will be here before I know it. But there’s still 5 weeks to go. Keep in touch! Ciao!
*I mention this later on, but in Paris I read Irving Stone's The Agony and the Ecstasy and I think the part that struck me then and has stuck with me is Michelangelo's singleness of purpose. "I saw an angel in the marble and I carved until I set him free". It is only with this level of passion and devotion to an art that it can be brought about with such results as Michelangelo achieved in the Pieta.
** I have a particular memory from that night of her seeing some guys at another table staring at us, and in response, Nayla made inappropriate gestures with one of the empty bottles of champagne.
*** It is hilarious to me reading this now how quickly I talked myself into buying a leather jacket, and making it a priority. This thought had not crossed my mind seriously prior to this trip but quickly became a primary goal.
**** Guess what, 21-yr-old me... it never ends.
***** Isn't it crazy that was my FALL BACK plan in Italy? Yeah, we can't do that other thing, so let's go see more outrageously beautiful works of art... oh alright.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Hunt for the Red October
Originally posted November 6, 2003
This will be a short update as I am leaving for Italy tomorrow and I will have a lot to talk about when I get back, I’m sure.
First things first: I bought my red shoes, the ones of my dreams, literally. Let me say first that I’m really not that much of a clothes horse, and I’ve never considered myself as a shoe fetish girl. * But this mission really took a hold of me. What has Europe DONE to me???
In order to complete my euro-look, I knew I needed some funky shoes. I kept my eyes focused on the ground in buses and in town, I did a lot of window shopping, and I decided on red, as you know. I really liked this one style of Pumas that I had seen versions of on people around town. I couldn’t find this particular shoe I had in mind ANYWHERE. I looked in every shoe store in every town I visited, I’ve gone to about 7 in Grenoble, and finally, on a whim I ducked into a store at a bus stop near campus. There they were, sitting on the wall in all their European perfection: Bright red, uniquely styled, exactly how I had pictured them to be. But at over $125, no matter how perfect the shoe, I can’t justify that kind of money for a pair of sneakers. Running shoes, maybe… but not casual. I left the store thinking I would go back to another place in town where I saw a few pairs that were a lot cheaper and pretty cool. I found a pair that I liked, and I probably would have bought them, but they didn’t have my size. After my classes I went back to Intersport, and tried on my dream shoes. They really were perfect. I couldn’t pass them up. So I sucked it up and handed the Visa card over to the cashier. The price that showed up was 30 Euros less than was marked. I walked out of the store on air. I couldn’t be happier with my purchase, and what a surprise to have them so significantly marked down! I can’t believe I just wrote half a page about shoes….
Another new development from this week: a few weeks ago I sent an e-mail to this language exchange program that promised to set up language exchanges between students on campus who want to learn or practice other languages. I feel that I don’t speak enough French outside the class room and home, so I decided this would be a good way to meet French people and practice. I didn’t hear anything back until Monday when a guy called me and after a little bit of confusion (he had a very thick, non-French accent) we set-up a rendezvous for Tuesday after my classes. It turns out he is an economics professor on campus who is from Chad. He speaks French and Arabic fluently and has just recently been married. He is a devout Christian, his father is a minister in Chad, and he is the only in his family who has been able to get out of the country and get a higher education. Starting this week, and recommencing after I return from Italy and Paris, we will spend about 4 hours a week conversing, half the time in French, half the time in English. He tells me about his articles and I talk about my family and my friends and how I like France. It’s really amazing to talk with someone who’s from Africa and to hear them talk about their country and culture. It’s so different. He talks about his wife a lot, as I suppose is normal for a newlywed. He’s publishing a few articles and would like to end up as an analyst or an advisor for African economic affairs in an international organization.
In order to complete my euro-look, I knew I needed some funky shoes. I kept my eyes focused on the ground in buses and in town, I did a lot of window shopping, and I decided on red, as you know. I really liked this one style of Pumas that I had seen versions of on people around town. I couldn’t find this particular shoe I had in mind ANYWHERE. I looked in every shoe store in every town I visited, I’ve gone to about 7 in Grenoble, and finally, on a whim I ducked into a store at a bus stop near campus. There they were, sitting on the wall in all their European perfection: Bright red, uniquely styled, exactly how I had pictured them to be. But at over $125, no matter how perfect the shoe, I can’t justify that kind of money for a pair of sneakers. Running shoes, maybe… but not casual. I left the store thinking I would go back to another place in town where I saw a few pairs that were a lot cheaper and pretty cool. I found a pair that I liked, and I probably would have bought them, but they didn’t have my size. After my classes I went back to Intersport, and tried on my dream shoes. They really were perfect. I couldn’t pass them up. So I sucked it up and handed the Visa card over to the cashier. The price that showed up was 30 Euros less than was marked. I walked out of the store on air. I couldn’t be happier with my purchase, and what a surprise to have them so significantly marked down! I can’t believe I just wrote half a page about shoes….
Another new development from this week: a few weeks ago I sent an e-mail to this language exchange program that promised to set up language exchanges between students on campus who want to learn or practice other languages. I feel that I don’t speak enough French outside the class room and home, so I decided this would be a good way to meet French people and practice. I didn’t hear anything back until Monday when a guy called me and after a little bit of confusion (he had a very thick, non-French accent) we set-up a rendezvous for Tuesday after my classes. It turns out he is an economics professor on campus who is from Chad. He speaks French and Arabic fluently and has just recently been married. He is a devout Christian, his father is a minister in Chad, and he is the only in his family who has been able to get out of the country and get a higher education. Starting this week, and recommencing after I return from Italy and Paris, we will spend about 4 hours a week conversing, half the time in French, half the time in English. He tells me about his articles and I talk about my family and my friends and how I like France. It’s really amazing to talk with someone who’s from Africa and to hear them talk about their country and culture. It’s so different. He talks about his wife a lot, as I suppose is normal for a newlywed. He’s publishing a few articles and would like to end up as an analyst or an advisor for African economic affairs in an international organization.
In short, my week was very successful on a personal and interpersonal (and, sadly, material) level. I look forward to Italy and the visual smorgasbord that awaits. I have Rome all to myself on Friday because Christi couldn’t get out of class. I think I’m going to try and see the Vatican. There’s so much to do. I will send an update with photos and the grand history of my travels next week. Until then!
* Although I'm realizing reading back over this that I talk about shopping a LOT. Hmmm.
* Although I'm realizing reading back over this that I talk about shopping a LOT. Hmmm.
Birthday Girl
Originally posted 11-3-2003
It’s crunch time. I have two papers to start and finish essentially by this coming Thursday. At that point I will leave for Italy, come back for one day, then go to Paris. Three days after that, I’m supposed to turn in my papers for their first draft corrections. Is this a joke?? All I know is that I’m going to Italy and Paris and we’ll see where the papers are after that.
Aside from that everything’s going well. The rain and cold we suffered through at the beginning of the week lifted later on to reveal true autumn temperatures and sun. Due to the heat this summer, a lot of the trees in France are dead or dying so the colors aren’t especially brilliant, but it’s nice, especially when it’s not raining. Thanks to everyone for their birthday wishes. It was hard to be away from home and the inevitable fun of a 21st birthday. It softened the blow to hear from people, and receive your thoughtful packages and flowers.
It’s crunch time. I have two papers to start and finish essentially by this coming Thursday. At that point I will leave for Italy, come back for one day, then go to Paris. Three days after that, I’m supposed to turn in my papers for their first draft corrections. Is this a joke?? All I know is that I’m going to Italy and Paris and we’ll see where the papers are after that.
Aside from that everything’s going well. The rain and cold we suffered through at the beginning of the week lifted later on to reveal true autumn temperatures and sun. Due to the heat this summer, a lot of the trees in France are dead or dying so the colors aren’t especially brilliant, but it’s nice, especially when it’s not raining. Thanks to everyone for their birthday wishes. It was hard to be away from home and the inevitable fun of a 21st birthday. It softened the blow to hear from people, and receive your thoughtful packages and flowers.
 |
| Birthday flowers in my living room |
Last night my friend Christi’s host
family had a few of us over for dinner. Her birthday is on Halloween and we were invited over to help
her celebrate. We went over around 6:00pm and carved a pumpkin that her family bought for us. We named him Méchant le
Terrible (pronounced ter-EE-bluh). They had a fire in the fireplace and it
was a real house, not an apartment. They made fondue à la
Savoyard for us, which was fantastic. I learned it's a fairly simple dish:
you take three kinds of cheese: (they used comte, emmental, and I think gruyère) and
you melt them in a good heavy saucepan with a bottle of white wine and garlic. We had black forest cake
for dessert. The family made me give a speech for Christi which they filmed. Thankfully, the whereabouts of this tape are unknown. * It was the perfect way to spend a birthday/Halloween. French kids went out and trick-or-treated
last night, but only in certain neighborhoods. No one came to the house. Most of the bars were
having some sort of Halloween themed fête and offering free
drinks if you came in costume. It’s apparently only in the
last 5 years that France has started to celebrate Halloween. Now, my professor said, it’s declining. It’s a commercial holiday and since there’s
no meaning behind it for
the French, it hasn’t lasted very long. Nevertheless, costume shops popped up, Halloween
candy was sold in mass quantities in stores, and lots of
places decorated with pumpkins and witches. All the stores had Halloween themed display windows, especially
the chocolatiers.
 |
| Brooke and Jordan carve la citrouille. |
 |
| Méchant le Terrible |
I've been dying to go to a game since I got here. Our local team is League 2 and dead last in it. Not so much a hot ticket, but I thought it would be fun. It was pretty cold and I could only get three other people to go with me, so we bundled up and caught the bus to the stadium.
A fun cultural exercise, I learned how to heckle in French, express outrage, cheer, and I learned that no matter how bad the team is, there is always a “Club des Fanatics” to support them in France. The Association Grenoblois des Fanatics (A.G.F. - they have offices, official meetings and weekly get-togethers, aside from going to games) was out in force that evening. They were stationed behind both goals with gigantic banners that said FIER D’ETRE GRENOBLOIS. They were jumping and cheering the entire match. They moved together with coordinated swaying and singing- literally hundreds of people moving as one united mass. For a non-tournament match against two inconsequential and not especially talented teams, it was well-attended. I loved every minute of it. We bought the cheapest tickets they offer, which provide you entrance to the stadium but not a seat, so we spent the first half lined along the fence with a bunch of old men who yelled at the ref and commented all throughout the game. A couple of them threatened to leave when we were down 2-0 but then we came back with 2 near the end of the first half. At halftime we snuck up into the bleachers and watched Grenoble blow numerous scoring opportunities and get a couple of lucky saves. We ended up losing 3-2.
The European game seems much more dramatic. People grab their knees and fall to the ground doubled over in pain when someone slide-tackles them.When players make mistakes like a bad corner kick or they trip over themselves, they get crucified. When the players take the field, both teams bow together to all sides of the stadium, like a cast from a play.
After the game, we caught the bus back into town and some teenage boys were fighting on the back of the bus, semi- playfully, and singing the fight song. Thankful to escape the rambunctious adolescents, we headed to a café situated near the town cathedral and ended up trading bad American jokes for bad French ones with some locals. I told my favorite joke but unfortunately it’s a play on words and those never translate right.
The birthday celebration chez moi the next day was a little bit hectic. Every weekend Marie T. watches her grandkids, Kelly and Roxanne, 4 and 2 respectively. The morning was pretty quiet but once they woke up… oh man. Roxanne was crawling around and took to hitting anything that would make noise. Kelly kept coming in to my room and asking me what I was doing (true response: avoiding you, given response: I’m studying). Roxanne is almost able to talk, but she still uses a piercing scream when she wants something, to express delight upon receiving it, or resentment that it has been taken away. She went through this cycle about 50 times during the course of the day so I got a pretty good idea of her vocal capabilities. Carole, another of Marie T.’s lovely daughters, came for lunch and to pick up her kids. The two women ended up getting into a couple of spats about how to cook the meat and how to parent. I entertained Roxanne and Kelly mostly. The meal itself went well. Things calmed down relatively, though I was tired after they left.
In spite of all the noise, it was nice to have a little celebration with my adopted family. Marie T. even bought me a present. I keep thinking how different life in Paris will be. I think it will be more impersonal and a lot more fast-paced. I will miss Grenoble, for sure.
* ....though I haven't ever searched for myself on YouTube.
The European game seems much more dramatic. People grab their knees and fall to the ground doubled over in pain when someone slide-tackles them.When players make mistakes like a bad corner kick or they trip over themselves, they get crucified. When the players take the field, both teams bow together to all sides of the stadium, like a cast from a play.
After the game, we caught the bus back into town and some teenage boys were fighting on the back of the bus, semi- playfully, and singing the fight song. Thankful to escape the rambunctious adolescents, we headed to a café situated near the town cathedral and ended up trading bad American jokes for bad French ones with some locals. I told my favorite joke but unfortunately it’s a play on words and those never translate right.
The birthday celebration chez moi the next day was a little bit hectic. Every weekend Marie T. watches her grandkids, Kelly and Roxanne, 4 and 2 respectively. The morning was pretty quiet but once they woke up… oh man. Roxanne was crawling around and took to hitting anything that would make noise. Kelly kept coming in to my room and asking me what I was doing (true response: avoiding you, given response: I’m studying). Roxanne is almost able to talk, but she still uses a piercing scream when she wants something, to express delight upon receiving it, or resentment that it has been taken away. She went through this cycle about 50 times during the course of the day so I got a pretty good idea of her vocal capabilities. Carole, another of Marie T.’s lovely daughters, came for lunch and to pick up her kids. The two women ended up getting into a couple of spats about how to cook the meat and how to parent. I entertained Roxanne and Kelly mostly. The meal itself went well. Things calmed down relatively, though I was tired after they left.
In spite of all the noise, it was nice to have a little celebration with my adopted family. Marie T. even bought me a present. I keep thinking how different life in Paris will be. I think it will be more impersonal and a lot more fast-paced. I will miss Grenoble, for sure.
* ....though I haven't ever searched for myself on YouTube.
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