The Sights...
The Duchess Anne castle has finally reopened after nearly a year of construction. Ever since I have been in Nantes, the Castle, which sits in the center of town, has been covered with blue tarps, freshly dug mud, and yellow hatted construction workers. It is quite an interesting building - roughly oval with high brown stone walls and approximately five towers. From the far side of the moat, you can make out many bleach-white spires peaking out from above the ramparts. Every time I past it, I wondered what the inside looked like. While my extended family was visiting I finally got the chance to see for myself. The huge inner courtyard is surprisingly bare with six or seven buildings flanking the walls. Each building looked as though it belongs to a separate century - there is every era of Gothic you can imagine making for a quilted blanket of towers, spires, stone, arches, etc. The most interesting part is that the ramparts still exist and you are able to climb up and walk around the entire castle, looking out on the many different views of downtown Nantes. (The Duchess Anne castle is famous because it is the location where the houses of France and British royalty were united).
...and (unfortunate) smells of France.
Many Americans have a stereotype about French people. Okay, there are many types of stereotypes; however, one I am often asked about is body odor. Sure, at the schools I work at, I often want to hand the occasional pubescent student a stick of Sure, but overall the population smells fine. Actually, I should say this is true of the younger generations. The older members of society tend to offend the nose more than most. It falls into two categories: unwashed or over perfumed. Generally I can handle offending body odor well, but when there is an unwashed gentleman next to you at a buss stop who reeks of cheep tobacco it can turn your stomach. Perfume was created here and they do amazing eau de toilettes, but there are many who over do it. Many more than you would find in the states. These I can stand perfectly well with barely a flinch to cross my face I switch to mouth breathing and carry on with my day. Nevertheless, when both types of odors melt into one, the result is toxic. Toxic is not an overstatement. Yesterday an elderly woman, well dressed, slowly boarded the bus. She selected the seat in front of mine and gingerly sat down. Within seconds I began to get a whiff of some undefinable smell... Was the bus leaking gas? Was there engine trouble? Slowly I began to realize where the smell originated from, the woman in front of me. After a few stops, I found myself doing the unthinkable: holding my hand over my nose. Each time I breathed with my nose, the smell would go straight to my stomach and make me wish I had gone easier on the roast beef at lunch. Then, after a few minutes of breathing through my mouth, my throat began to sting. Seriously, sting. I couldn't take it any more and my hand went casually to my nose. I felt horrible! I began to notice soon after that I was not the only one with a hand at my face. Everyone seemed to suddenly have a very runny, itchy, or cold nose. Remarkably, every time the door would open the entire bus would take a huge fresh breath of clean, non-toxic air. There was a decided inward moan as the doors closed and the bus would continue. In the end I got off the bus a stop before my own and walked, enjoying every lung full of air.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Friday, March 02, 2007
February 21st - The day Heather became legal!!!
At one thirty, a comfortable 15 minutes early, I arrived at the massive neoclassical building of the Nantes' Prefecture. Waving my appointment conformation paper, I was directed a machine where I took a number - 47. In the familiar waiting room (this was my third time waiting in this particular room) I wondered why I was given a rendez-vous if I still had to take a number. A few minutes later the middle-aged, brightly lipsticked lady at the desk asked if anyone had a certain paper which she then held up. One look at the paper on my lap confirmed that I did. For the first time I was able to bi-pass the long lines and I relished those dirty looks with every fiber of my being (as I had given people the same look many times before). The desk she directed me to was staffed by a good-looking, thirty-something man with a freshly shaved head. Some weird spasm contorted his face when I walked up - was that a smile? I had never seen one of those in the Prefecture before. After handing in my documents he began to ask the lipsticked lady some questions. He was new! That was why he smiled, he was too new to be jaded! He verified my documents and handed me my EU ID card. I have never seen anything so ascetically perfect in my entire life, with its intricate pink and green design backing my picture and strong black lettering. At that moment I felt like laughing, but I restrained myself long enough to smile broadly, ask "C'est tout?," and respond to the handsome man's reserved tip-of-the-head with an entirely too ecstatic "COOL!" As I left, giggles started escaping my throat. They weren't even stopped by my graceless tumble down the stone steps. I must have looked the picture: laughing while laying sprawled on my back, half on the steps and half on the sidewalk, laughing as I struggled to get upright clutching my sprained thumb, and laughing as I narrowly avoided an incident with an irate Vespa driver. I was never so happy! I will NEVER have to stand in the Nantes prefecture again!
At one thirty, a comfortable 15 minutes early, I arrived at the massive neoclassical building of the Nantes' Prefecture. Waving my appointment conformation paper, I was directed a machine where I took a number - 47. In the familiar waiting room (this was my third time waiting in this particular room) I wondered why I was given a rendez-vous if I still had to take a number. A few minutes later the middle-aged, brightly lipsticked lady at the desk asked if anyone had a certain paper which she then held up. One look at the paper on my lap confirmed that I did. For the first time I was able to bi-pass the long lines and I relished those dirty looks with every fiber of my being (as I had given people the same look many times before). The desk she directed me to was staffed by a good-looking, thirty-something man with a freshly shaved head. Some weird spasm contorted his face when I walked up - was that a smile? I had never seen one of those in the Prefecture before. After handing in my documents he began to ask the lipsticked lady some questions. He was new! That was why he smiled, he was too new to be jaded! He verified my documents and handed me my EU ID card. I have never seen anything so ascetically perfect in my entire life, with its intricate pink and green design backing my picture and strong black lettering. At that moment I felt like laughing, but I restrained myself long enough to smile broadly, ask "C'est tout?," and respond to the handsome man's reserved tip-of-the-head with an entirely too ecstatic "COOL!" As I left, giggles started escaping my throat. They weren't even stopped by my graceless tumble down the stone steps. I must have looked the picture: laughing while laying sprawled on my back, half on the steps and half on the sidewalk, laughing as I struggled to get upright clutching my sprained thumb, and laughing as I narrowly avoided an incident with an irate Vespa driver. I was never so happy! I will NEVER have to stand in the Nantes prefecture again!
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Day 5: The Tate Modern - my home away from home! Modern Art museums are where I could spend days, let alone hours. My favorite artist of all time is Mark Rothko who was prolific in the 1940s-1960s. Overall, his paintings are not paintings but "washes" - a technique that involves using layers and layers of diluted paint over a canvas. He belonged to the school of abstract expressionism and his works attempt to pull the viewer in and overwhelm them with the subtle differences in color (colour). Each large canvas evokes an emotion and takes up one's entire field of vision. Anyway, it is rather rare to see Rothko's work because he worked on commission for hotels, restaurants, individuals, etc, most of whom still retain the art in their private collection. So - I hope I have conveyed my passionate obsession with this guy, because I entered a room in the Tate Modern and my eyes fell upon an ENTIRE ROOM of maroon, rose, lavender, and blood red washes. Each so absorbing. The rest of the world class museum fell to the wayside as my memories are mostly devoted to that one room. After that sensory overload, Amber and I enjoyed a walk around the amazingly ideal quarter of Greenwich where there is huge white-columned and red bricked University campus and a castle favored by the Tudors.
Day 6: On my own, I took the tube to Paddington Station and boarded the train to Windsor Castle. I won't bore you with my extensive notes on the Church and the Castle itself, but I was very impressed. I'm not a souvenir buyer, in fact there are a few people who can vouch for my impatience with that kind of tourist. However, there was some sort of magical pull about the many stores within Windsor. It was either the massive amounts of British monarch history objets or the very friendly, elderly knights and ladies who maned the till, but I wanted to buy everything! I managed to whittle it down to a hand forged pewter jam spoon. When I returned home with my proud purchase, Amber laughed.
Day 7: Westminster Abbey was SO COOL (for lack of a better word). One of my favourite parts was the "Poet's Corner" where you will find Chaucer's tomb and monuments to people like Alfred Lord Tennyson, Lord Byron, Shakespeare, etc. The most startling addition, in my opinion a glaring oddity, was Oscar Wilde's name on the stained glass window memorial. When I visited his grave in Paris, I was struck by the sadness that marked the end of his life. He was discovered having a homosexual affair with a Lord and was forced into a de facto exile by the same Church that is now claiming his genius. This event caused him so much pain - being removed from his beloved country and separated from his beloved wife and child(ren) - that many speculate it caused his premature death. I just question what the people who put his name up their were trying to accomplish: acknowledging the unfortunate role the church played in these events or just claiming him as a British national resource regardless of their actions. From there I walked along The Strand, into St. Paul's, and around the Tower of London before collapsing in a pub.
Day 8: I helped Amber move to her new (and much improved) dorm room which was followed by a walk around Oxford Circus and a pint of ice cream.
Day 9: Back to Waterloo station, through the (still awesome) Chunnel, and back to Nantes. Someone told me that leaving France would improve my French because it would have solidified in my mind or something... what a load of crap! While I was waiting for the bus, a gentleman asked if the 10:30 bus had come or not. I could not understand him to save my life. After asking him to repeat himself a few times he switched into English and I felt like an idiot. However, in the past few days I can boast that my French is back up to the pre-London level of moderate to fair.
Day 6: On my own, I took the tube to Paddington Station and boarded the train to Windsor Castle. I won't bore you with my extensive notes on the Church and the Castle itself, but I was very impressed. I'm not a souvenir buyer, in fact there are a few people who can vouch for my impatience with that kind of tourist. However, there was some sort of magical pull about the many stores within Windsor. It was either the massive amounts of British monarch history objets or the very friendly, elderly knights and ladies who maned the till, but I wanted to buy everything! I managed to whittle it down to a hand forged pewter jam spoon. When I returned home with my proud purchase, Amber laughed.
Day 7: Westminster Abbey was SO COOL (for lack of a better word). One of my favourite parts was the "Poet's Corner" where you will find Chaucer's tomb and monuments to people like Alfred Lord Tennyson, Lord Byron, Shakespeare, etc. The most startling addition, in my opinion a glaring oddity, was Oscar Wilde's name on the stained glass window memorial. When I visited his grave in Paris, I was struck by the sadness that marked the end of his life. He was discovered having a homosexual affair with a Lord and was forced into a de facto exile by the same Church that is now claiming his genius. This event caused him so much pain - being removed from his beloved country and separated from his beloved wife and child(ren) - that many speculate it caused his premature death. I just question what the people who put his name up their were trying to accomplish: acknowledging the unfortunate role the church played in these events or just claiming him as a British national resource regardless of their actions. From there I walked along The Strand, into St. Paul's, and around the Tower of London before collapsing in a pub.
Day 8: I helped Amber move to her new (and much improved) dorm room which was followed by a walk around Oxford Circus and a pint of ice cream.
Day 9: Back to Waterloo station, through the (still awesome) Chunnel, and back to Nantes. Someone told me that leaving France would improve my French because it would have solidified in my mind or something... what a load of crap! While I was waiting for the bus, a gentleman asked if the 10:30 bus had come or not. I could not understand him to save my life. After asking him to repeat himself a few times he switched into English and I felt like an idiot. However, in the past few days I can boast that my French is back up to the pre-London level of moderate to fair.
Friday, February 23, 2007
A week in London/Londres...
Day 1: Starting out around noon, I took the train from Nantes to London. I cannot describe how much I anticipated the Chunnel! Everyone says that it is a disappointment, but they are so wrong. For an entire 20 minutes you are flying underground in a dark tunnel that just keeps going and going. After that excitement, my old college roommate, Amber, met me at Waterloo Station. Then we took the metro (while I insisted on humming Waterloo Sunset by The Kinks) to Amber 's dorm in Barking, a bit east of London.
Day 2: When we woke up and saw the sun shinning brightly, we knew we had to take advantage of this rare situation (meaning no rain). After we emerged from the Tube station we followed St. James Park towards Buckingham Place. Actually, we had perfect timing (we think). There were hundreds of people looking and soldiers marching rhythm in ridiculous ensembles. Changing of the guard? Then on to Piccadilly where we stopped for tea and Amber showed me the most spectacular bookstore with old oak shelves and squeaky floors. On to Piccadilly Circus... the square itself was great, but I believe I was more excited about the Virgin Mega Store where you can find any CD you want. It was particularly exiting because I listen to random British bands whose CDs are not available anywhere in the States. Think kid in a candy shop (though that could be used to describe me during this entire week). On to Harrods, Covent Garden, and China town for dinner. There is just a great vibe in this city. There is a "what you see is what you get" attitude here. All of the unique districts that blend into one another - plus not a hill in sight so you could just keep walking all day!
Day 3: Museums, museums, museums. I have to give it to the people who decided that the massive London museums should be free. It is a good way to bring art and history to the masses, but also the poor student. We started our day at the Victoria and Albert Museum... we went from the Mongols to the chair in which Queen Victoria may have sat in the course of two hours. My favorite part was the Egyptian section where I came to an important decision. A friend and I had a conversation about hobbies a while back... we came to the conclusion that hobbies are those things you do after you graduate to fill the time homework and a social life occupied in college. Wandering through the artifacts I decided that my future hobby would be "arm-chair Egyptologist." Amber laughed. After my first pub lunch of beer and fish and chips, we headed to the British museum where my Egyptology dreams were cemented. After waiting for the picture-taking tour-groups to clear from in front of the Rosetta Stone, I pushed my way through. Even though I was standing there, they kept taking pictures - of the back of my head. Also, mummies are so cool... sorry, but after hours of intellectual activity and thousands of artifacts, that is the most enlightening thought I could muster.
Day 4: I love art museums! Love, love, love. Day 4 was reserved for Trafalgar Square with the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery. The latter is such an interesting concept. Just as the name suggests it is reserved for portraits and is displayed in a manner that puts forward the subject more than the artist. It was fun reading about the lives of the smiling faces and trying to imagine what it had been like to be them.
Day 1: Starting out around noon, I took the train from Nantes to London. I cannot describe how much I anticipated the Chunnel! Everyone says that it is a disappointment, but they are so wrong. For an entire 20 minutes you are flying underground in a dark tunnel that just keeps going and going. After that excitement, my old college roommate, Amber, met me at Waterloo Station. Then we took the metro (while I insisted on humming Waterloo Sunset by The Kinks) to Amber 's dorm in Barking, a bit east of London.
Day 2: When we woke up and saw the sun shinning brightly, we knew we had to take advantage of this rare situation (meaning no rain). After we emerged from the Tube station we followed St. James Park towards Buckingham Place. Actually, we had perfect timing (we think). There were hundreds of people looking and soldiers marching rhythm in ridiculous ensembles. Changing of the guard? Then on to Piccadilly where we stopped for tea and Amber showed me the most spectacular bookstore with old oak shelves and squeaky floors. On to Piccadilly Circus... the square itself was great, but I believe I was more excited about the Virgin Mega Store where you can find any CD you want. It was particularly exiting because I listen to random British bands whose CDs are not available anywhere in the States. Think kid in a candy shop (though that could be used to describe me during this entire week). On to Harrods, Covent Garden, and China town for dinner. There is just a great vibe in this city. There is a "what you see is what you get" attitude here. All of the unique districts that blend into one another - plus not a hill in sight so you could just keep walking all day!
Day 3: Museums, museums, museums. I have to give it to the people who decided that the massive London museums should be free. It is a good way to bring art and history to the masses, but also the poor student. We started our day at the Victoria and Albert Museum... we went from the Mongols to the chair in which Queen Victoria may have sat in the course of two hours. My favorite part was the Egyptian section where I came to an important decision. A friend and I had a conversation about hobbies a while back... we came to the conclusion that hobbies are those things you do after you graduate to fill the time homework and a social life occupied in college. Wandering through the artifacts I decided that my future hobby would be "arm-chair Egyptologist." Amber laughed. After my first pub lunch of beer and fish and chips, we headed to the British museum where my Egyptology dreams were cemented. After waiting for the picture-taking tour-groups to clear from in front of the Rosetta Stone, I pushed my way through. Even though I was standing there, they kept taking pictures - of the back of my head. Also, mummies are so cool... sorry, but after hours of intellectual activity and thousands of artifacts, that is the most enlightening thought I could muster.
Day 4: I love art museums! Love, love, love. Day 4 was reserved for Trafalgar Square with the National Gallery and the National Portrait Gallery. The latter is such an interesting concept. Just as the name suggests it is reserved for portraits and is displayed in a manner that puts forward the subject more than the artist. It was fun reading about the lives of the smiling faces and trying to imagine what it had been like to be them.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
An unfortunate cultural lesson... in poor taste.
I have had a run-in or two with one particularly high-strung teacher at one of my schools, but this one takes the cake and provided an unwanted cultural lesson.
She took over for one of the teachers a few months back, and just before Christmas break her and I had a discussion about me assisting in some classes. Now that things have settled into the new year and I have been re-introduced to the classes, yesterday was to mark my first independent teaching with one of the groups. Last week we talked about where the class was and that I would be taking half of the class for half the time and then switching. She promised to contact me over the weekend (by e-mail because I don't have a phone). Well, she didn't. It really didn't matter - after all I knew what she wanted and I am used to creating lesson plans from nothing. On Thursday I went to the school to talk with her, excited about my lesson plans. The moment I mentioned the lesson, she pulls out these papers and says that I should do these activities. She will be doing the same activities with the other class. Strange, I think. What is the point of doing the same lesson? But it was what she wanted. She makes me a copy of the material and I head home. After reviewing the papers and making a few changes, I felt confident and ready for the class.
An hour before the class started, I am sitting in the salle des professeurs (teacher's lounge) when she comes in. From across the room she asks if I'm ready. "Absolutely," I reply. "Really, do you have the dominoes cut out?" "No, I thought the children could handle that." "Well you have all of the materials, right?" "Everything but the copies." "Then you are not ready." "Yes I am. I just need the copies." "You should have made them by now." "I don't have the code for the copier." "You are sitting in a room of people who have codes, ask them." Now at this point I was getting too mad and had to switch into English. Also, other teachers were streaming in because it was morning break and the teacher's voice was getting louder and louder. "I didn't know how many students I was going to have. You never told me." "You are an assistant. Your job is to make my life easier. All you are doing is making me more stressed." "I'm sorry, but your directions were unclear." Here I became aware that we were attracting the attention of my co-workers. These are intelligent people. Besides the fact they often speak better English than I, they could tell by our voices that there was something wrong. "I have a lot on my plate. I am a full teacher and you are my assistant." Honestly, I stopped listening at this point but I remember something about being overwhelmed... seriously concerned about my effectiveness... doing my job... etc. Anyone who knows me well is probably marveling at my reserve. I know I did. I think it was not from a change in temper, but from the twenty sets of eyes I felt staring at us. Yes all of the teachers were there and the room had quieted. That is why I did not mention how long I worked on my original lesson (which involved strips of paper, a hat, and tongue twisters) and how her anger at me was just displaced stress and that there was no way I could have mad the copies for the reasons she failed to appreciate. Luckily, the bell rang and she headed to class.
Later that morning, during a particularly angry journal entry, I remembered something my high school French teacher mentioned. In France it is considered normal and proper to scold your children in public. More than that, if your child is misbehaving it is your duty to spank or punish them right then and there. The same thing applies to bosses and subordinates. If your boss has a reason (or at least think that they do) to be upset with you, they will find you and deal with the situation then and there. So, this teacher, under the misapprehension that I was a subordinate, was doing something normal and excusable. However, I don't think that she realizes that from my American point of view this public verbal flogging was unacceptable. That is why she was unhindered by the presence of the others and why they really took no notice (I was just assuming they were).
In hindsight, this may have been a valuable cultural lesson. Nevertheless, it is one that I hope never to have repeated.
Heather
I have had a run-in or two with one particularly high-strung teacher at one of my schools, but this one takes the cake and provided an unwanted cultural lesson.
She took over for one of the teachers a few months back, and just before Christmas break her and I had a discussion about me assisting in some classes. Now that things have settled into the new year and I have been re-introduced to the classes, yesterday was to mark my first independent teaching with one of the groups. Last week we talked about where the class was and that I would be taking half of the class for half the time and then switching. She promised to contact me over the weekend (by e-mail because I don't have a phone). Well, she didn't. It really didn't matter - after all I knew what she wanted and I am used to creating lesson plans from nothing. On Thursday I went to the school to talk with her, excited about my lesson plans. The moment I mentioned the lesson, she pulls out these papers and says that I should do these activities. She will be doing the same activities with the other class. Strange, I think. What is the point of doing the same lesson? But it was what she wanted. She makes me a copy of the material and I head home. After reviewing the papers and making a few changes, I felt confident and ready for the class.
An hour before the class started, I am sitting in the salle des professeurs (teacher's lounge) when she comes in. From across the room she asks if I'm ready. "Absolutely," I reply. "Really, do you have the dominoes cut out?" "No, I thought the children could handle that." "Well you have all of the materials, right?" "Everything but the copies." "Then you are not ready." "Yes I am. I just need the copies." "You should have made them by now." "I don't have the code for the copier." "You are sitting in a room of people who have codes, ask them." Now at this point I was getting too mad and had to switch into English. Also, other teachers were streaming in because it was morning break and the teacher's voice was getting louder and louder. "I didn't know how many students I was going to have. You never told me." "You are an assistant. Your job is to make my life easier. All you are doing is making me more stressed." "I'm sorry, but your directions were unclear." Here I became aware that we were attracting the attention of my co-workers. These are intelligent people. Besides the fact they often speak better English than I, they could tell by our voices that there was something wrong. "I have a lot on my plate. I am a full teacher and you are my assistant." Honestly, I stopped listening at this point but I remember something about being overwhelmed... seriously concerned about my effectiveness... doing my job... etc. Anyone who knows me well is probably marveling at my reserve. I know I did. I think it was not from a change in temper, but from the twenty sets of eyes I felt staring at us. Yes all of the teachers were there and the room had quieted. That is why I did not mention how long I worked on my original lesson (which involved strips of paper, a hat, and tongue twisters) and how her anger at me was just displaced stress and that there was no way I could have mad the copies for the reasons she failed to appreciate. Luckily, the bell rang and she headed to class.
Later that morning, during a particularly angry journal entry, I remembered something my high school French teacher mentioned. In France it is considered normal and proper to scold your children in public. More than that, if your child is misbehaving it is your duty to spank or punish them right then and there. The same thing applies to bosses and subordinates. If your boss has a reason (or at least think that they do) to be upset with you, they will find you and deal with the situation then and there. So, this teacher, under the misapprehension that I was a subordinate, was doing something normal and excusable. However, I don't think that she realizes that from my American point of view this public verbal flogging was unacceptable. That is why she was unhindered by the presence of the others and why they really took no notice (I was just assuming they were).
In hindsight, this may have been a valuable cultural lesson. Nevertheless, it is one that I hope never to have repeated.
Heather
Friday, February 02, 2007
Alright, alright. I'm back (Dad)...
Actually, there is a very good, legitimate reason for not writing a post - I've done nothing. Quite literally, metaphorically, etc. Nothing. It was not out of slothfulness or an overwhelming fear of everything French, but a lack of funds. Yes, the school system forgot to deposit my January paycheck. Normally, I receive a healthy 752 Euro cheque de paie around the 18th or 20th of the month. By January 23rd, I was starting to squirm and by the 25th I had a word with the secretary. She made a call or two and said that they lost the paper work. I had to wait one to two weeks. Well, at this point, I had 60 Euros and no real payday on the horizon. Rice and buttered noodles ensued. Finally yesterday I saw a wonderful balance and promptly boarded the bus and headed to E. Leclerc, French Walmart. An hour later I trudged home with so much food and drink, though no rice or noodles!
With the lack of flow, dough, or green backs (really, pink, blue and green backs) I did a lot of reading... umm... I watched YouTube for hours a day... oh! there were many walks in there... I stared out my window... I avoided e-mailing, like normal... played tag with the kids for a bit... fed the rabbits. Worry not, I now have money and I will be heading to the great ile to the north in a week or so. Hopefully, that will give me an interesting antidote or two.
Heather
Actually, there is a very good, legitimate reason for not writing a post - I've done nothing. Quite literally, metaphorically, etc. Nothing. It was not out of slothfulness or an overwhelming fear of everything French, but a lack of funds. Yes, the school system forgot to deposit my January paycheck. Normally, I receive a healthy 752 Euro cheque de paie around the 18th or 20th of the month. By January 23rd, I was starting to squirm and by the 25th I had a word with the secretary. She made a call or two and said that they lost the paper work. I had to wait one to two weeks. Well, at this point, I had 60 Euros and no real payday on the horizon. Rice and buttered noodles ensued. Finally yesterday I saw a wonderful balance and promptly boarded the bus and headed to E. Leclerc, French Walmart. An hour later I trudged home with so much food and drink, though no rice or noodles!
With the lack of flow, dough, or green backs (really, pink, blue and green backs) I did a lot of reading... umm... I watched YouTube for hours a day... oh! there were many walks in there... I stared out my window... I avoided e-mailing, like normal... played tag with the kids for a bit... fed the rabbits. Worry not, I now have money and I will be heading to the great ile to the north in a week or so. Hopefully, that will give me an interesting antidote or two.
Heather
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The best day of the week... Tuesday.
I live an a quiet residential area of Nantes, just off the busy star-shaped Plaza Zola. On my road, about a block closer to the plaza, is a large supermarket with a parking lot around back and a moderate blacktop in front. Most mornings this blacktop is home to renegade shopping carts and the occasional beggar. However, Tuesday is different. Sometime before dawn, the Abid family park their large van there. It is not a normal white van, but one of those you see at fairs where the side flap opens up to reveal the counter of a food vendor. The Abid family sells one of the most important foods from this particular region of France: crepes and galettes (whear, savory crepes). On two huge crepe cookers (they look like a large skillet turned upside down) they keep cooking the crepes all day. For less than 15 cents you get the basic building block of the crepe dinner - the cooked batter. People line up, in fact I rarely see any less than three people in line at any given time. In general, I buy three huge crepes (31 cents) each week - in the afternoon, when the wife is working. She is really nice and likes to small talk... anyway... Each week I plan on saving them: eating one when I get back, one after dinner, and one for breakfast the next morning. Nothing fancy, mind you. Just butter, lemon, and sugar. No matter how forcibly I remind myself about the planned rationing, I have yet to have a crepe remaining after two hours. They smell too good to leave on my shelf for too long. I end up eating them in rapid succession - usually ending in a stomachache. However, this never stops me from buying three crepes each week from my favorite crepe-mobile.
Bon Appétit!
Heather
I live an a quiet residential area of Nantes, just off the busy star-shaped Plaza Zola. On my road, about a block closer to the plaza, is a large supermarket with a parking lot around back and a moderate blacktop in front. Most mornings this blacktop is home to renegade shopping carts and the occasional beggar. However, Tuesday is different. Sometime before dawn, the Abid family park their large van there. It is not a normal white van, but one of those you see at fairs where the side flap opens up to reveal the counter of a food vendor. The Abid family sells one of the most important foods from this particular region of France: crepes and galettes (whear, savory crepes). On two huge crepe cookers (they look like a large skillet turned upside down) they keep cooking the crepes all day. For less than 15 cents you get the basic building block of the crepe dinner - the cooked batter. People line up, in fact I rarely see any less than three people in line at any given time. In general, I buy three huge crepes (31 cents) each week - in the afternoon, when the wife is working. She is really nice and likes to small talk... anyway... Each week I plan on saving them: eating one when I get back, one after dinner, and one for breakfast the next morning. Nothing fancy, mind you. Just butter, lemon, and sugar. No matter how forcibly I remind myself about the planned rationing, I have yet to have a crepe remaining after two hours. They smell too good to leave on my shelf for too long. I end up eating them in rapid succession - usually ending in a stomachache. However, this never stops me from buying three crepes each week from my favorite crepe-mobile.
Bon Appétit!
Heather
Discovering the joy of Socialism...
In general, I am a healthy person. As my mother may proudly boast, I have used antibiotics less than ten times in my entire life; however, the weather and the climate in my new home caused an interesting health condition. Nothing serious - just a circulation problem in my toes - common in old men. This brought about an interesting situation: Heather had to go to a French doctor.
After putting off the inevitable for two weeks, I attempted to get up the nerve to make "the call." I hate talking on the phone in French. Much of my ability to understand the language is based on context clues and facial expression, all rendered impossible by the phone. After the first dial-and-quickly-hang-up call, I managed to control my irrational nerves long enough for the nurse to answer. In halting French I explained that I wanted an appointment with Dr. Tauty for a problem with my feet. She gladly (and speaking in wonderfully slow French) gave me an appointment for the following morning at noon.
Figuring I would have many forms to fill out and with my dictionary in tow, I arrived at the office a comfortable 15 minutes early (as the receptionist in the States tells you to). The nurse showed me into the waiting room, though I am missing the paperwork. I sat there for 20 minutes, along with the typical crying babies and sneezing businessmen. When the door opened and my name was called, I was surprised to find that the doctor himself had come to fetch me. Dr. Tauty is a short, balding Dutch-South African man who was dressed in a perfectly tailored three piece green tweed suit and white doctor's jacket. Plus, I was still concerned (obsessed?) that there was a mistake - I had yet to fill out any forms.
After the traditional and mandatory French introductions, he (he himself, mind you) directed me into his office and motioned for me to sit in the comfortable leather chair opposite his desk. I wasn't weighed, wasn't measured, wasn't asked to sit awkwardly in an empty closet-sized room silently waiting. None of these. Before we began he asked me where I came from and why. Then he got down to business... after I explained he directed me to the examining table on the far side of the room and took a look at my feet. Then he told me to put my shoes back on and to return to the comfortable chair where he explained the problem. Dr. Tauty even took the time to translate the diagnosis into English.
Now I was sure that the paperwork would come, but it didn't. He handed me a prescription and a form I had to send to the Social Security office because I only have a temporary number. Then his face became grave and apologetic. Because I only have a temporary number, I have to pay him the full amount and be reimbursed later. Alright, I was ready. Before I went to the appointment I purposely went to the ATM and withdrew a decent amount of cash for such an occasion. With down cast eyes, he asked for 21 Euros. I had to have him repeat the sum, I thought I hadn't heard correctly. But he assured me that it was 21 Euros. I let out a hardy laugh which elicited a perplexed look from Dr. Tauty. After explaining that a similar visit in the States, without insurance, would cost at least 60 Euros if not 100, he joined me in laughing. "Thank goodness for socialism then," he chuckled.
As he guided me back through the hallway, he shook my hand and kissed my cheek. Then he said, "If I ever see you with anything less than two pairs of socks and thick boots on, I will hit you upside the head with my Hippocratic oath." Out the door I went.
And that was my cultural experience for the week. When I tried to explain to my Danish landlady how weird and bizarre the doctor's visit was, she explained that much of it was the same in Denmark; however, nothing prepared her for the first time a doctor volunteered a house call when her youngest had the flu. Apparently, the house call is a uniquely French custom - I am glad that I did not have to have that cultural experience. If one appointment at the doctor threw me for such a loop, I cannot imagine what it would be like to see the doctor chez moi!
A Votre Santé! (To your health)
Heather
In general, I am a healthy person. As my mother may proudly boast, I have used antibiotics less than ten times in my entire life; however, the weather and the climate in my new home caused an interesting health condition. Nothing serious - just a circulation problem in my toes - common in old men. This brought about an interesting situation: Heather had to go to a French doctor.
After putting off the inevitable for two weeks, I attempted to get up the nerve to make "the call." I hate talking on the phone in French. Much of my ability to understand the language is based on context clues and facial expression, all rendered impossible by the phone. After the first dial-and-quickly-hang-up call, I managed to control my irrational nerves long enough for the nurse to answer. In halting French I explained that I wanted an appointment with Dr. Tauty for a problem with my feet. She gladly (and speaking in wonderfully slow French) gave me an appointment for the following morning at noon.
Figuring I would have many forms to fill out and with my dictionary in tow, I arrived at the office a comfortable 15 minutes early (as the receptionist in the States tells you to). The nurse showed me into the waiting room, though I am missing the paperwork. I sat there for 20 minutes, along with the typical crying babies and sneezing businessmen. When the door opened and my name was called, I was surprised to find that the doctor himself had come to fetch me. Dr. Tauty is a short, balding Dutch-South African man who was dressed in a perfectly tailored three piece green tweed suit and white doctor's jacket. Plus, I was still concerned (obsessed?) that there was a mistake - I had yet to fill out any forms.
After the traditional and mandatory French introductions, he (he himself, mind you) directed me into his office and motioned for me to sit in the comfortable leather chair opposite his desk. I wasn't weighed, wasn't measured, wasn't asked to sit awkwardly in an empty closet-sized room silently waiting. None of these. Before we began he asked me where I came from and why. Then he got down to business... after I explained he directed me to the examining table on the far side of the room and took a look at my feet. Then he told me to put my shoes back on and to return to the comfortable chair where he explained the problem. Dr. Tauty even took the time to translate the diagnosis into English.
Now I was sure that the paperwork would come, but it didn't. He handed me a prescription and a form I had to send to the Social Security office because I only have a temporary number. Then his face became grave and apologetic. Because I only have a temporary number, I have to pay him the full amount and be reimbursed later. Alright, I was ready. Before I went to the appointment I purposely went to the ATM and withdrew a decent amount of cash for such an occasion. With down cast eyes, he asked for 21 Euros. I had to have him repeat the sum, I thought I hadn't heard correctly. But he assured me that it was 21 Euros. I let out a hardy laugh which elicited a perplexed look from Dr. Tauty. After explaining that a similar visit in the States, without insurance, would cost at least 60 Euros if not 100, he joined me in laughing. "Thank goodness for socialism then," he chuckled.
As he guided me back through the hallway, he shook my hand and kissed my cheek. Then he said, "If I ever see you with anything less than two pairs of socks and thick boots on, I will hit you upside the head with my Hippocratic oath." Out the door I went.
And that was my cultural experience for the week. When I tried to explain to my Danish landlady how weird and bizarre the doctor's visit was, she explained that much of it was the same in Denmark; however, nothing prepared her for the first time a doctor volunteered a house call when her youngest had the flu. Apparently, the house call is a uniquely French custom - I am glad that I did not have to have that cultural experience. If one appointment at the doctor threw me for such a loop, I cannot imagine what it would be like to see the doctor chez moi!
A Votre Santé! (To your health)
Heather
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Christmas Day...
Around 12:30 a knock on the door roused me from my coffee and alternate news reading. I opened the door to find a very large Danish man who informed me that I should head to the "main house" around 1:30.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning. Camilla and Guillaume invited me to have Christmas dinner with them and their family. You have no idea how excited I was - a real French Christmas! Guillaume's mother (Mdm. Micheal), father (M. Micheal), and brother Matthieu from the coast were coming in along with Camilla's brother and mother from Copenhagen would be there as well.
I walked in through the back door a comfortable five minutes late (as French custom requires or at least as close as I can come) and Guillaume was ready with a glass of Drappier Champagne and began introductions. I was happy to learn that Camilla's mother and brother spoke perfect English, because my Danish is a bit rusty or nonexistent. We all stood around the fire as the children were jumping out of their skin to open presents. Apparently, this was their second Christmas. The Danish tradition is to open presents on Christmas Eve while the French celebrate on Christmas Day. As we all enjoyed our second and third glasses of Champagne, presents were handed all around. I even got some - a beautiful plume pink scarf, Danish chocolates, and a potted flower! I gave the kids those Lifesavers Storybooks from the States.
After the gifts were given, we all continued to chat and enjoy the fire. Guillaume and I discussed the wine selection for the evening - he comes from a classic gastronomic loving family and knows my interest in wine. He even agreed to introduce me to his merchant. I can't wait!
Dinner/Lunch started promptly at 2:43 and, from what Guillaume's father said, it was THE traditional feast that they have been having in Breton for centuries. The first course was fresh oysters... plates and plates and plates of them. French oysters are usually rough shelled and large, everyone was impressed with my skills which started a conversation about Seattle sea food. Along with this they served a local Muscadet wine (light, dry, easy to drink) which is produced by a friend of the family 20 miles outside Nantes. M. Micheal is an avid clam hunter and provided me with a lesson on how to eat live clams. You have to surprise them or they clam-up (too bad the joke doesn't work in French) and slip a thin knife in through their shell. Then you scrape them out and enjoy like an oyster. They taste like the sea - iodine.
Second course was foie gras. No, that doesn't even do it justice - it was the most creamy decadent foie gras I have ever had, even M. and Mdm. Micheal were impressed (and they have eaten foie gras their entire life!). To drink with this, we had a very sweet Cote de Rhone wine whose name I have forgotten. I am not generally a sweet white kind of gal, but with the foie gras I felt as though I was eating/drinking the most decedent thing in the world. So rich, so sweet, so lovely.
Following this we had the main meal - duck with potatoes and red beets. I believe that my dad is laughing to himself - I hate beets. However, if he had made them like this growing up I think I would have had a permanently red-stained mouth. They were cubed and lightly pickled in a sweet vinegar. With the beautiful duck and amazing potatoes they served a Crozes Hermitage Papillon 2005. A bit of a shock after the Cote de Rhone, but it brought out the duck very nicely.
Salad and cheese were a nice way to fill in the gaps after such a rich and exciting meal, although I still don't understand eating the salad after dinner... but oh well.
Desert was a homemade Bouche de Noel, a rolled cake that looks like a log. But the wine, in my opinion stole the spotlight at this point. We has a Loire Valley sparkling wine from DomaineChevrot, Cremant de Bourgogne. A little sweeter than champagne, but still dry - many light fruits and a touch of oak. If I could only take one wine home - it would be this one.
Over coffee we had some Danish marzipan candies, and great discussion. I loved talking to Camilla's mom, but my main accomplishment was the small talk with Mdm. Micheal. She was the only one who didn't speak English and my French is better than Camilla's family's French so, from time to time, I felt bad because we were speaking mostly in English. At one point she came back to the table where the ladies were lingering over coffee and candy. The moment the conversation dropped for a second, I took the opportunity to switch the language. I am not a small talker, but we did have something in common - the sea. Mustering all of my nerves (I still get a bit nervous to have a chat in French), I started by confirming that she lived by the sea. To my great relief, I could see that her face lit up - she liked the sea. We chatted for quite a while, going over all aspects of the ocean, Pacific and Atlantic, and she even invited me to Sunday dinner at her house sometime in the future.
When the party was breaking up, I realized that, next to being with my family, I really enjoyed myself. By the time I returned to my petite maison it was 7:30. In true French style, lunch lasted six hours! Experiences like this are why I decided to spend time here!
Joyeux Noel!
Heather
Around 12:30 a knock on the door roused me from my coffee and alternate news reading. I opened the door to find a very large Danish man who informed me that I should head to the "main house" around 1:30.
Perhaps I should start at the beginning. Camilla and Guillaume invited me to have Christmas dinner with them and their family. You have no idea how excited I was - a real French Christmas! Guillaume's mother (Mdm. Micheal), father (M. Micheal), and brother Matthieu from the coast were coming in along with Camilla's brother and mother from Copenhagen would be there as well.
I walked in through the back door a comfortable five minutes late (as French custom requires or at least as close as I can come) and Guillaume was ready with a glass of Drappier Champagne and began introductions. I was happy to learn that Camilla's mother and brother spoke perfect English, because my Danish is a bit rusty or nonexistent. We all stood around the fire as the children were jumping out of their skin to open presents. Apparently, this was their second Christmas. The Danish tradition is to open presents on Christmas Eve while the French celebrate on Christmas Day. As we all enjoyed our second and third glasses of Champagne, presents were handed all around. I even got some - a beautiful plume pink scarf, Danish chocolates, and a potted flower! I gave the kids those Lifesavers Storybooks from the States.
After the gifts were given, we all continued to chat and enjoy the fire. Guillaume and I discussed the wine selection for the evening - he comes from a classic gastronomic loving family and knows my interest in wine. He even agreed to introduce me to his merchant. I can't wait!
Dinner/Lunch started promptly at 2:43 and, from what Guillaume's father said, it was THE traditional feast that they have been having in Breton for centuries. The first course was fresh oysters... plates and plates and plates of them. French oysters are usually rough shelled and large, everyone was impressed with my skills which started a conversation about Seattle sea food. Along with this they served a local Muscadet wine (light, dry, easy to drink) which is produced by a friend of the family 20 miles outside Nantes. M. Micheal is an avid clam hunter and provided me with a lesson on how to eat live clams. You have to surprise them or they clam-up (too bad the joke doesn't work in French) and slip a thin knife in through their shell. Then you scrape them out and enjoy like an oyster. They taste like the sea - iodine.
Second course was foie gras. No, that doesn't even do it justice - it was the most creamy decadent foie gras I have ever had, even M. and Mdm. Micheal were impressed (and they have eaten foie gras their entire life!). To drink with this, we had a very sweet Cote de Rhone wine whose name I have forgotten. I am not generally a sweet white kind of gal, but with the foie gras I felt as though I was eating/drinking the most decedent thing in the world. So rich, so sweet, so lovely.
Following this we had the main meal - duck with potatoes and red beets. I believe that my dad is laughing to himself - I hate beets. However, if he had made them like this growing up I think I would have had a permanently red-stained mouth. They were cubed and lightly pickled in a sweet vinegar. With the beautiful duck and amazing potatoes they served a Crozes Hermitage Papillon 2005. A bit of a shock after the Cote de Rhone, but it brought out the duck very nicely.
Salad and cheese were a nice way to fill in the gaps after such a rich and exciting meal, although I still don't understand eating the salad after dinner... but oh well.
Desert was a homemade Bouche de Noel, a rolled cake that looks like a log. But the wine, in my opinion stole the spotlight at this point. We has a Loire Valley sparkling wine from DomaineChevrot, Cremant de Bourgogne. A little sweeter than champagne, but still dry - many light fruits and a touch of oak. If I could only take one wine home - it would be this one.
Over coffee we had some Danish marzipan candies, and great discussion. I loved talking to Camilla's mom, but my main accomplishment was the small talk with Mdm. Micheal. She was the only one who didn't speak English and my French is better than Camilla's family's French so, from time to time, I felt bad because we were speaking mostly in English. At one point she came back to the table where the ladies were lingering over coffee and candy. The moment the conversation dropped for a second, I took the opportunity to switch the language. I am not a small talker, but we did have something in common - the sea. Mustering all of my nerves (I still get a bit nervous to have a chat in French), I started by confirming that she lived by the sea. To my great relief, I could see that her face lit up - she liked the sea. We chatted for quite a while, going over all aspects of the ocean, Pacific and Atlantic, and she even invited me to Sunday dinner at her house sometime in the future.
When the party was breaking up, I realized that, next to being with my family, I really enjoyed myself. By the time I returned to my petite maison it was 7:30. In true French style, lunch lasted six hours! Experiences like this are why I decided to spend time here!
Joyeux Noel!
Heather
Saturday, December 23, 2006
As I was reading the NY Times this morning I came across an article about Paris... It is about the man who is in charge of creating the lighting for the City of Lights. There is something so French about having someone in charge of creating a unified lighting plan for a city.
What to you think?
Read it at
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/23/world/europe/23jousse.html?ex
=157680000&en=425464c7421e0f40&ei=5124
&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink
What to you think?
Read it at
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/23/world/europe/23jousse.html?ex
=157680000&en=425464c7421e0f40&ei=5124
&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink
Thursday, December 21, 2006
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Day 3:
The morning was foggy and damp. There was only one thing to do: go to the graveyard. The Pere Lachaise Cemetery is located on the Northeastern corner of Paris proper, and it is situated on acres of hilly rocky land. The fog was even heavier on the hill, and I was one of the first people to arrive. For the majority of the time I spent there, it was just me and thousands of massive stone graves emerging from the fog. Pere Lachaise is important because it is a grand example of a Northern European graveyard - with above the ground crypts and chapels. However, what most people come to see are the graves of some of the world's most important people. As a publicity stunt, the first person to be entombed there was Moliere. The oldest inhabitants are Heloise and Abelard who are interred together forever. (Abelard was a famous Professor who came to Paris and opened what became the University of Paris. Heloise's uncle hired him to be her tutor, but they fell in love and secretly married. When she became pregnant and their marriage was exposed, her uncle had his lackeys break into Abelard's home and castrate him. Abelard then took monastic vows and Heloise followed suit; they never again lived as husband and wife but wrote some of the world's most beautiful love letters.) There are also Chopin, Delacroix, Ingres, etc. My main reason for the voyage was three-fold: Gertrude Stein, Jim Morrison, and Oscar Wilde. Gertrude Stein, the American ex-pat author, is in a very unassuming grave along one of the main roads. There are no flowers and very few mementos, with the exception of a set of dominos. After 25 minutes of searching alongside of a nice German hippie, I/we found the hidden grave of Jim Morrison. Unlike Stein's, Morrison's grave is covered in flowers and cards. Devoted fans have etched lyrics from his most famous songs on the surrounding tombs. I don't know if he would like it, any of it. He came to Paris for a break, but... anyway. My most anticipated grave was that of Oscar Wilde, who sought refuge in Paris after a scandal involving a male lover came to light in London. His wife took their child(ren?) and he was forced into exile. His time in Paris, I imagine, was not happy. After his death, he has become a martyr for gay men the world around. I was excited because I think The Picture of Dorian Gray is the best example of a truly perfect gothic novel - The Importance of Being Ernest isn't bad either. The grave itself is very tall and supported by an art nouveax (anatomically correct) male angel. Transvestites apply copious amounts of lipstick and kiss the grave - it is a melange of light pink and vibrant red lip marks. Just being there I felt like I was a part of something. I think, unlike Morrison, he would be happy with his legacy.
The next stop was the Centre Pompidou - the mother of all modern art museums. The building itself is built completely inside out. The Parisians hate it (but if they didn't hate something I think they would shrivel up a bit). The grand courtyard is brimming with the young and too-artsy sitting enjoying a cheap lunch or sleeping. It is hard to evaluate the quality of the exhibits itself. On one hand, I was a bit disappointed. The Centre Pompidou has an amazing permanent collection featuring, well, everyone. However, being a cutting edge museum, they have very few examples of this on display. On the other hand, they had a brilliant cinema (as a place and concept) exhibit that incorporated Picasso and Leger which made me giddy. Also I discovered a new-to-me artist called Robert Rauschenberg who created the concept of "combines"(a type of collage mosaic thing, of course - I had no clue). It was brilliant with 3-D paintings incorporating textiles, wood, and sheep. He is also known for helping invent modern dance. The whole exhibit was quite fun!
Lunch in the Jewish quarter, walk through the Marais district, a stop at Dumas' Paris home, and I had to head to the train station. Back home to Nantes. What a great trip! It was the first time I was able to bond with the city itself. Both times before, I was only there for a day. This gave me time to really enjoy the parts of Paris I have been longing to see - since the early days of my French obsession.
~Heather
Day 3:
The morning was foggy and damp. There was only one thing to do: go to the graveyard. The Pere Lachaise Cemetery is located on the Northeastern corner of Paris proper, and it is situated on acres of hilly rocky land. The fog was even heavier on the hill, and I was one of the first people to arrive. For the majority of the time I spent there, it was just me and thousands of massive stone graves emerging from the fog. Pere Lachaise is important because it is a grand example of a Northern European graveyard - with above the ground crypts and chapels. However, what most people come to see are the graves of some of the world's most important people. As a publicity stunt, the first person to be entombed there was Moliere. The oldest inhabitants are Heloise and Abelard who are interred together forever. (Abelard was a famous Professor who came to Paris and opened what became the University of Paris. Heloise's uncle hired him to be her tutor, but they fell in love and secretly married. When she became pregnant and their marriage was exposed, her uncle had his lackeys break into Abelard's home and castrate him. Abelard then took monastic vows and Heloise followed suit; they never again lived as husband and wife but wrote some of the world's most beautiful love letters.) There are also Chopin, Delacroix, Ingres, etc. My main reason for the voyage was three-fold: Gertrude Stein, Jim Morrison, and Oscar Wilde. Gertrude Stein, the American ex-pat author, is in a very unassuming grave along one of the main roads. There are no flowers and very few mementos, with the exception of a set of dominos. After 25 minutes of searching alongside of a nice German hippie, I/we found the hidden grave of Jim Morrison. Unlike Stein's, Morrison's grave is covered in flowers and cards. Devoted fans have etched lyrics from his most famous songs on the surrounding tombs. I don't know if he would like it, any of it. He came to Paris for a break, but... anyway. My most anticipated grave was that of Oscar Wilde, who sought refuge in Paris after a scandal involving a male lover came to light in London. His wife took their child(ren?) and he was forced into exile. His time in Paris, I imagine, was not happy. After his death, he has become a martyr for gay men the world around. I was excited because I think The Picture of Dorian Gray is the best example of a truly perfect gothic novel - The Importance of Being Ernest isn't bad either. The grave itself is very tall and supported by an art nouveax (anatomically correct) male angel. Transvestites apply copious amounts of lipstick and kiss the grave - it is a melange of light pink and vibrant red lip marks. Just being there I felt like I was a part of something. I think, unlike Morrison, he would be happy with his legacy.
The next stop was the Centre Pompidou - the mother of all modern art museums. The building itself is built completely inside out. The Parisians hate it (but if they didn't hate something I think they would shrivel up a bit). The grand courtyard is brimming with the young and too-artsy sitting enjoying a cheap lunch or sleeping. It is hard to evaluate the quality of the exhibits itself. On one hand, I was a bit disappointed. The Centre Pompidou has an amazing permanent collection featuring, well, everyone. However, being a cutting edge museum, they have very few examples of this on display. On the other hand, they had a brilliant cinema (as a place and concept) exhibit that incorporated Picasso and Leger which made me giddy. Also I discovered a new-to-me artist called Robert Rauschenberg who created the concept of "combines"(a type of collage mosaic thing, of course - I had no clue). It was brilliant with 3-D paintings incorporating textiles, wood, and sheep. He is also known for helping invent modern dance. The whole exhibit was quite fun!
Lunch in the Jewish quarter, walk through the Marais district, a stop at Dumas' Paris home, and I had to head to the train station. Back home to Nantes. What a great trip! It was the first time I was able to bond with the city itself. Both times before, I was only there for a day. This gave me time to really enjoy the parts of Paris I have been longing to see - since the early days of my French obsession.
~Heather
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
-----
Day 2:
After a less than refreshing night of sleep, I woke-up early and headed to the famous Musee d'Orsay. Housed in a decommission train station along the Seine, this museum was created to house all of the city's impressionist art. This is where you go if you want to see Monet, Degas, Renoir, etc. Alright, I admit that I am labeling myself as one of the world's biggest dorks when I say this: as I was waiting in line for the museum to open I was shaking with excitement! It took three and a half hours, but I did it. The first hour went well, but when that third hour hit and I realized I was barely halfway through and only just getting to the "good stuff," I had a significant mental moment. All I could do was plop down in the nearest chair and stare at the painting across the way. It took ten minutes to realize that I had been staring at Manet's "Le dejeuner sur l'herbe" (the one with the two naked ladies eating lunch with the two guys in black suits). I can say with complete sincerity that this is the best museum EVER! I wont go into my notes on the individual paintings (not being an artist, many of my scribbles read "So cool!" and "Bigger than I thought!") saving you any more boredom.
Then it was time for a break - off to lunch in the left bank. I found a restaurant near-by called Polidor (actually, it turns out, this restaurant is suggested in Rick). I was a bit nervous because I wanted the menu de midi (lunch menu) and the special was kidney of some sort. However, after eating the lovely starter salad and half of my petite caraf of wine, I was ready for whatever they put in front of me! Actually, it wasn't half bad... anything would taste good in that sause. The restaurant itself was great - there are many long tables where you find any empty seat. The room itself seems unchanged since it was opened in 1845, with tobacco stained walls and dark beams on the ceiling. Lots of noise, lots of wine. In fact, I am sure that I was the only foreigner there! Yeah! For desert I had the caramel custard and a coffee. All of this for only 15 euros - I can't get that kind of deal in Nantes.
Following this large lunch, I wandered through the sights of the left bank - Luxemburg (sp?) Gardens, churches, theatres, the hotel in which Oscar Wilde died, and the cafe where Dumas wrote Les Mis which stands next to the cafe where Hemingway wrote A Farewell to Arms while looking at a third cafe where Sartre, Beauvoir, and Camus came to create existentialism. In the fading light I headed in the direction of the Eiffel Tower just as the clock struck 7pm . All of the sudden, thousands of strobe lights started flashing manicly on the tower itself. From the top view-point the entire city and its famous lights spread out before you. From there everything is clean and beautiful. Around 9 I headed back to the hostel, a cheap gyro in tow, for a well deserved break and sleep.
Day 2:
After a less than refreshing night of sleep, I woke-up early and headed to the famous Musee d'Orsay. Housed in a decommission train station along the Seine, this museum was created to house all of the city's impressionist art. This is where you go if you want to see Monet, Degas, Renoir, etc. Alright, I admit that I am labeling myself as one of the world's biggest dorks when I say this: as I was waiting in line for the museum to open I was shaking with excitement! It took three and a half hours, but I did it. The first hour went well, but when that third hour hit and I realized I was barely halfway through and only just getting to the "good stuff," I had a significant mental moment. All I could do was plop down in the nearest chair and stare at the painting across the way. It took ten minutes to realize that I had been staring at Manet's "Le dejeuner sur l'herbe" (the one with the two naked ladies eating lunch with the two guys in black suits). I can say with complete sincerity that this is the best museum EVER! I wont go into my notes on the individual paintings (not being an artist, many of my scribbles read "So cool!" and "Bigger than I thought!") saving you any more boredom.
Then it was time for a break - off to lunch in the left bank. I found a restaurant near-by called Polidor (actually, it turns out, this restaurant is suggested in Rick). I was a bit nervous because I wanted the menu de midi (lunch menu) and the special was kidney of some sort. However, after eating the lovely starter salad and half of my petite caraf of wine, I was ready for whatever they put in front of me! Actually, it wasn't half bad... anything would taste good in that sause. The restaurant itself was great - there are many long tables where you find any empty seat. The room itself seems unchanged since it was opened in 1845, with tobacco stained walls and dark beams on the ceiling. Lots of noise, lots of wine. In fact, I am sure that I was the only foreigner there! Yeah! For desert I had the caramel custard and a coffee. All of this for only 15 euros - I can't get that kind of deal in Nantes.
Following this large lunch, I wandered through the sights of the left bank - Luxemburg (sp?) Gardens, churches, theatres, the hotel in which Oscar Wilde died, and the cafe where Dumas wrote Les Mis which stands next to the cafe where Hemingway wrote A Farewell to Arms while looking at a third cafe where Sartre, Beauvoir, and Camus came to create existentialism. In the fading light I headed in the direction of the Eiffel Tower just as the clock struck 7pm . All of the sudden, thousands of strobe lights started flashing manicly on the tower itself. From the top view-point the entire city and its famous lights spread out before you. From there everything is clean and beautiful. Around 9 I headed back to the hostel, a cheap gyro in tow, for a well deserved break and sleep.
Monday, December 18, 2006
A week ago I made reservations at a hostel and bought train tickets to Paris. Ever since I was a child, I have loved (obsessed about?) Paris - in elementary school I had already memorized the pocket map I was given one Christmas. The rest of the week seemed to drag on and on and on with the exciting prospect of three full days in Paris.
------
Day 1:
I arrived at the Paris train station, took the metro, and found the hostel with out any real problems. After claiming a bed and getting my stuff settled, I put Rick (as in Rick Steves, author of amazing city guides, host of a great T.V. show, and my most frequent travel companion (in book form)) my camera, some Euros, and a pack of gum in my satchel, I headed out into the great city. Up, up, up, to Montmartre. How beautiful this district is! The hilly streets lead up to the imposing, bleached facade of the Sacre Coeur. People say that the interior of the church, being less than a hundred years old, is not that impressive; however, I beg to differ! It lives up to its post-WWIness with bold geometric lined stained glass windows casting amazing colors on the white stone and the powerful outlined mosaic is truly an impressive testimony to the Parisians who built this church (after their humiliating defeat and occupation, many Parisians blamed this on their wayward ways and built the church so that it would never happen again - maybe they should have built a bigger church - don't tell any French people I said that). After the Sacre Coeur, I ambled along the country-turned-artistic-haven of Montmartre. Every time I rounded a corner I either saw a scene from a well-known painting or the studio/home of one of Montmartre's famous inhabitants. I wanted to whip out my canvas and start painting everything - despite my lack of artistic talent. By the time I meandered down to the Moulin Rouge, darkness had settled on the city and all of the bordellos and sex-shops had turned on their amazing neon lights. Despite the unfortunate anatomy lesson along "Pig Alley," I really enjoyed my walk in the area. There is a green way down the middle of this famously seedy street where kids are riding their bikes and soccer balls were flying. All of this amidst signs for the "Sexodrome," "Erodic Souviners," and all of the amazing sparkling lights.
------
Day 1:
I arrived at the Paris train station, took the metro, and found the hostel with out any real problems. After claiming a bed and getting my stuff settled, I put Rick (as in Rick Steves, author of amazing city guides, host of a great T.V. show, and my most frequent travel companion (in book form)) my camera, some Euros, and a pack of gum in my satchel, I headed out into the great city. Up, up, up, to Montmartre. How beautiful this district is! The hilly streets lead up to the imposing, bleached facade of the Sacre Coeur. People say that the interior of the church, being less than a hundred years old, is not that impressive; however, I beg to differ! It lives up to its post-WWIness with bold geometric lined stained glass windows casting amazing colors on the white stone and the powerful outlined mosaic is truly an impressive testimony to the Parisians who built this church (after their humiliating defeat and occupation, many Parisians blamed this on their wayward ways and built the church so that it would never happen again - maybe they should have built a bigger church - don't tell any French people I said that). After the Sacre Coeur, I ambled along the country-turned-artistic-haven of Montmartre. Every time I rounded a corner I either saw a scene from a well-known painting or the studio/home of one of Montmartre's famous inhabitants. I wanted to whip out my canvas and start painting everything - despite my lack of artistic talent. By the time I meandered down to the Moulin Rouge, darkness had settled on the city and all of the bordellos and sex-shops had turned on their amazing neon lights. Despite the unfortunate anatomy lesson along "Pig Alley," I really enjoyed my walk in the area. There is a green way down the middle of this famously seedy street where kids are riding their bikes and soccer balls were flying. All of this amidst signs for the "Sexodrome," "Erodic Souviners," and all of the amazing sparkling lights.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
"It is beginning to look a lot like Christmas..."
Having no day-after Thanksgiving as a bench-mark to the beginning of the holiday season, the French people have reserved December 1st as decorating day. This is the day when tensile, garlands, trees, and Santa Claus make their first appearance of the season. Most importantly, however, December 1st is the official day for every city in France to turn on their Christmas lights. For weeks now city workers with cranes and mighty trucks have been hanging beautiful strings of lights across the majority of the city streets. I have been so disappointed walking through downtown around dusk to find all of these luminaries dark. What is the point of hanging them if you are not going to turn them on? Well, I found the answer to my question: on December 1st a famous person (whose fame is proportional to the city's importance) and the mayor climb a podium, flip an abnormally large cardboard stitch, make speeches to a clapping crowd, and officially declare the Christmas season open. All in all, a very festive event - though I may have just been happy to have my first cup of hot spiced wine of the year as December 1st marks the first day of the Christmas market too.
Earlier in the day I braved the elements (rather warm rain) to the super mall, with Christmas cheer in my heart (really, I was rather giddy) where I purchased a very small plastic Christmas tree, some very small gold and red ornaments, a very small star, and a very small pearl garland along with a set of Christmas lights. When I returned, I commenced decorating. Alright, it looks rather pathetic, but it is cheerful (just don't look too hard at the tree as the ornaments are attached with waxed mint dental floss). Plus, the children of my landlady knocked on my door with mouths dropped and eyes wide open - just staring at my Christmas tree that stands a foot and a half tall and the twinkle lights on my window. Astonished, they declared my room one of the most beautiful things they've ever seen. Though they are only 7 (and a half!) and 5 and, thus, haven't seen much of the world, I will take their praise as a rousing compliment!
Other than the quickly spreading Christmas cheer, nothing else out of the ordinary has occurred. I'm just waiting for my first true Bouche de Noel and my next cup of hot spiced wine!
Heather
Having no day-after Thanksgiving as a bench-mark to the beginning of the holiday season, the French people have reserved December 1st as decorating day. This is the day when tensile, garlands, trees, and Santa Claus make their first appearance of the season. Most importantly, however, December 1st is the official day for every city in France to turn on their Christmas lights. For weeks now city workers with cranes and mighty trucks have been hanging beautiful strings of lights across the majority of the city streets. I have been so disappointed walking through downtown around dusk to find all of these luminaries dark. What is the point of hanging them if you are not going to turn them on? Well, I found the answer to my question: on December 1st a famous person (whose fame is proportional to the city's importance) and the mayor climb a podium, flip an abnormally large cardboard stitch, make speeches to a clapping crowd, and officially declare the Christmas season open. All in all, a very festive event - though I may have just been happy to have my first cup of hot spiced wine of the year as December 1st marks the first day of the Christmas market too.
Earlier in the day I braved the elements (rather warm rain) to the super mall, with Christmas cheer in my heart (really, I was rather giddy) where I purchased a very small plastic Christmas tree, some very small gold and red ornaments, a very small star, and a very small pearl garland along with a set of Christmas lights. When I returned, I commenced decorating. Alright, it looks rather pathetic, but it is cheerful (just don't look too hard at the tree as the ornaments are attached with waxed mint dental floss). Plus, the children of my landlady knocked on my door with mouths dropped and eyes wide open - just staring at my Christmas tree that stands a foot and a half tall and the twinkle lights on my window. Astonished, they declared my room one of the most beautiful things they've ever seen. Though they are only 7 (and a half!) and 5 and, thus, haven't seen much of the world, I will take their praise as a rousing compliment!
Other than the quickly spreading Christmas cheer, nothing else out of the ordinary has occurred. I'm just waiting for my first true Bouche de Noel and my next cup of hot spiced wine!
Heather
Friday, December 01, 2006
Thanksgiving, with a dash of France for good measure, makes for an interesting evening.
In the weeks leading up to November 23rd, I spend the majority of my in-class time describing the voyage of the Mayflower and attempting to purge the word "Indians" from the students' English vocabulary (No, Indians are people from India. The country India. They are called N-A-T-I-V-E A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N-S: Who knew Christopher Columbus could cause so much trouble for an American English teacher in France in the 21st Century?). Never have I been so informed on the ins-and-outs of the harvest feast of the Pilgrims - honestly, never have I cared so little. One can only take so many questions about why Indians (No Clare, Native Americans) wore feathers in their hair or why we stuff a turkey. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I took very little notice. I worked all day, talked to Mom and Dad online, ate a bag of rice and some cider, and watched many episodes of Jeeves and Wooster on my computer. An all around normal day. I didn't realize that I really missed the holiday until the following Saturday night.
As I have mentioned before, one of my schools is comprised of mostly young teachers who like to socialize together. So, in part to say good-bye to Camilla (my landlady who is now on house-rest for the rest of her pregnancy and former colleague) and in part to experience the holiday right (read: make use of the resident expert, moi), most of the English teachers came over for a true Thanksgiving dinner... well, as true as one can get in France.
Camilla and I put our heads together - alright, she planned and I confirmed that she was on the right path - to create a real feast. Each teacher brought a "traditional" Thanksgiving dish; we had a stuffed turkey, cranberry sauce, candied yams, gravy, pumpkin pie, mushroom quiche (?), corn crepes (??), and pate (???).
I had one responsibility: pumpkin pie. This caused me one real problem: how the heck do you make a pumpkin pie without pre-made pumpkin pie mix in a can? In this situation I did what any sensible, mildly kitchen skilled, modern girl would do - find a recipe on the internet and pass it off as Grandma's. In the end, it turned out perfect and wasn't too hard. It just required advanced prep. You have to put the pumpkin in the oven for six hours until the top flops in, cut it into quarters, scrape out the insides, and freeze the remainder. The rest is just like with the canned mix, only I had to find out what is included in "all spice." A piece of cake! My only critique came from one of the children present (6 years-old) whose face squinched into a tiny little ball of disgust almost the instant the pie hit his inexperienced tongue. But I will chalk this up to the exotic-ness of the pie in general and safely declare a victory.
Before heading to the main house I reflected on the event that would soon occur. For having celebrated Thanksgiving faithfully and well every year of my life, I had never had home-made cranberry sauce, stuffing, or pumpkin pie. Let's face it, I and most Americans use boxed stuffing (yum!), canned pumpkin mix (yum!), and canned gelled cranberry stuff that you giggle out of the can and slice (yum!); however, I did not have the heart to spoil the traditional image of Thanksgiving to the room full of excited French people. Again, I resorted to cries of "that's exactly like Grandma's" and "wow, you made that perfectly." It was not a lie - they all made amazing food that would put many people's Thanksgivings to shame! But when they wanted me to comment on the normalcy of the meal I grinned and responded, "Of Course!"
The party itself was good, except I have a problem understanding the French language when there are many people speaking at once. I mean, my French has improved exponentially, but much of my comprehension is based on hand gestures and mouth movements. Then after five hours of full-on French (not to mention a full belly), I hit a wall. You could say "Bonjour" and I would not be able to wrap my mind around this word's meaning! As the party was breaking up - just after midnight - I returned to my room and just flopped on the bed, unable to mentally process the need for pjs and blankets. All capacity for language, even English, was exhausted.
Overall, the party was a success and I will always cherish it as the most unique in my experience. Geoff, a British DJ on VirginRadio.co.uk, said (I paraphrase) "If the whole country is worried about celebrating religious holidays and isolating certain groups, we should just adopt all secular and religious holidays from every country and people." His point is that we would have enough vacation days to always be celebrating something, but after this experience I realize how much fun it is to celebrate your holidays with others and visa versa.
Salut!
Heather
P.S.: A general notice: next year, if you invite me to your Thanksgiving dinner, you can expect a home-made pumpkin pie. Just to put that out there, keep it in mind.
In the weeks leading up to November 23rd, I spend the majority of my in-class time describing the voyage of the Mayflower and attempting to purge the word "Indians" from the students' English vocabulary (No, Indians are people from India. The country India. They are called N-A-T-I-V-E A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N-S: Who knew Christopher Columbus could cause so much trouble for an American English teacher in France in the 21st Century?). Never have I been so informed on the ins-and-outs of the harvest feast of the Pilgrims - honestly, never have I cared so little. One can only take so many questions about why Indians (No Clare, Native Americans) wore feathers in their hair or why we stuff a turkey. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I took very little notice. I worked all day, talked to Mom and Dad online, ate a bag of rice and some cider, and watched many episodes of Jeeves and Wooster on my computer. An all around normal day. I didn't realize that I really missed the holiday until the following Saturday night.
As I have mentioned before, one of my schools is comprised of mostly young teachers who like to socialize together. So, in part to say good-bye to Camilla (my landlady who is now on house-rest for the rest of her pregnancy and former colleague) and in part to experience the holiday right (read: make use of the resident expert, moi), most of the English teachers came over for a true Thanksgiving dinner... well, as true as one can get in France.
Camilla and I put our heads together - alright, she planned and I confirmed that she was on the right path - to create a real feast. Each teacher brought a "traditional" Thanksgiving dish; we had a stuffed turkey, cranberry sauce, candied yams, gravy, pumpkin pie, mushroom quiche (?), corn crepes (??), and pate (???).
I had one responsibility: pumpkin pie. This caused me one real problem: how the heck do you make a pumpkin pie without pre-made pumpkin pie mix in a can? In this situation I did what any sensible, mildly kitchen skilled, modern girl would do - find a recipe on the internet and pass it off as Grandma's. In the end, it turned out perfect and wasn't too hard. It just required advanced prep. You have to put the pumpkin in the oven for six hours until the top flops in, cut it into quarters, scrape out the insides, and freeze the remainder. The rest is just like with the canned mix, only I had to find out what is included in "all spice." A piece of cake! My only critique came from one of the children present (6 years-old) whose face squinched into a tiny little ball of disgust almost the instant the pie hit his inexperienced tongue. But I will chalk this up to the exotic-ness of the pie in general and safely declare a victory.
Before heading to the main house I reflected on the event that would soon occur. For having celebrated Thanksgiving faithfully and well every year of my life, I had never had home-made cranberry sauce, stuffing, or pumpkin pie. Let's face it, I and most Americans use boxed stuffing (yum!), canned pumpkin mix (yum!), and canned gelled cranberry stuff that you giggle out of the can and slice (yum!); however, I did not have the heart to spoil the traditional image of Thanksgiving to the room full of excited French people. Again, I resorted to cries of "that's exactly like Grandma's" and "wow, you made that perfectly." It was not a lie - they all made amazing food that would put many people's Thanksgivings to shame! But when they wanted me to comment on the normalcy of the meal I grinned and responded, "Of Course!"
The party itself was good, except I have a problem understanding the French language when there are many people speaking at once. I mean, my French has improved exponentially, but much of my comprehension is based on hand gestures and mouth movements. Then after five hours of full-on French (not to mention a full belly), I hit a wall. You could say "Bonjour" and I would not be able to wrap my mind around this word's meaning! As the party was breaking up - just after midnight - I returned to my room and just flopped on the bed, unable to mentally process the need for pjs and blankets. All capacity for language, even English, was exhausted.
Overall, the party was a success and I will always cherish it as the most unique in my experience. Geoff, a British DJ on VirginRadio.co.uk, said (I paraphrase) "If the whole country is worried about celebrating religious holidays and isolating certain groups, we should just adopt all secular and religious holidays from every country and people." His point is that we would have enough vacation days to always be celebrating something, but after this experience I realize how much fun it is to celebrate your holidays with others and visa versa.
Salut!
Heather
P.S.: A general notice: next year, if you invite me to your Thanksgiving dinner, you can expect a home-made pumpkin pie. Just to put that out there, keep it in mind.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
It is a difficult thing to be the tour guide for a trio who have no opinion and are truly content to just be in France. But so it was these past ten days when my parents came to visit me here in Nantes...
I was at work when they arrived, but when I called to let them know that I was on the tram heading their direction my father's slightly frantic/tired voice responded by saying, "We're lost." After figuring out where they where and giving them the wrong directions, we all eventually made it to their hotel.
Chez L'Huitre (House of Oysters) is a restaurant highly recommended in every book about Nantes and now by my family as well. This was not the first time I had tried to eat here, but their first night in town was the first time I found it open - ever! During the off season there is only indoor seating at six tables for a grand total of twelve people and one waiter maximum. Also, there is no menu. Just four or five green chalk boards with today's three course menu, the suggested wines, a la carte items, etc. The waiter/owner's son/essential-charming-handsome Frenchman stands behind the bar in the back seeing to every detail of the meals while enjoying wine and cheese himself (he needs to know what to suggest, of course). This restaurant became that place that you talk about and compare others to at every other meal. Bon appetit!
As far as our days were concerned, we spent them driving through the countryside (ie vineyards). Actually, our first day did not go as planned as it was 11/11 (Armistice day) and the Maison du Vin and Wine Museums were closed. After realizing that we needed to change our plans a little, we stopped at a random small village. Minutes after parking, a small parade of veterans came marching from the town hall to the cemetery with flowers for their fallen comrades. It was quite a touching little celebration at 11:11, 11/11. We also went to Paris for the day (first class! - the benefits of traveling with parents!) and I occupied myself by trying to find the perfect flat. I will live there someday!
In summary, by the request of my Uncle Tom:
My mom and dad visited and it was fun.
We ate fish and drank wine. It was tasty.
We went to Paris. It was pretty.
They left. It was sad.
Yours,
Heather
I was at work when they arrived, but when I called to let them know that I was on the tram heading their direction my father's slightly frantic/tired voice responded by saying, "We're lost." After figuring out where they where and giving them the wrong directions, we all eventually made it to their hotel.
Chez L'Huitre (House of Oysters) is a restaurant highly recommended in every book about Nantes and now by my family as well. This was not the first time I had tried to eat here, but their first night in town was the first time I found it open - ever! During the off season there is only indoor seating at six tables for a grand total of twelve people and one waiter maximum. Also, there is no menu. Just four or five green chalk boards with today's three course menu, the suggested wines, a la carte items, etc. The waiter/owner's son/essential-charming-handsome Frenchman stands behind the bar in the back seeing to every detail of the meals while enjoying wine and cheese himself (he needs to know what to suggest, of course). This restaurant became that place that you talk about and compare others to at every other meal. Bon appetit!
As far as our days were concerned, we spent them driving through the countryside (ie vineyards). Actually, our first day did not go as planned as it was 11/11 (Armistice day) and the Maison du Vin and Wine Museums were closed. After realizing that we needed to change our plans a little, we stopped at a random small village. Minutes after parking, a small parade of veterans came marching from the town hall to the cemetery with flowers for their fallen comrades. It was quite a touching little celebration at 11:11, 11/11. We also went to Paris for the day (first class! - the benefits of traveling with parents!) and I occupied myself by trying to find the perfect flat. I will live there someday!
In summary, by the request of my Uncle Tom:
My mom and dad visited and it was fun.
We ate fish and drank wine. It was tasty.
We went to Paris. It was pretty.
They left. It was sad.
Yours,
Heather
Saturday, November 04, 2006
SO, I'm rather adept at travelling cheaply and happily; however, not really this time and I regret nothing! It may have to do with travelling alone or with the region... either way I ate and drank my way through Carcassonne, Toulouse, and Bordeaux... oh, and there were some great museums too. This past week was All Saint's Day holiday at my schools. Rather than being bored here in Nantes, I gathered the rest of my dwindling savings and headed south.
Carcassonne is a beautiful Medieval castle near the Pyrenees that is complete and perfect. My hostel was actually in the heart of the Medieval town, but when I arrived it was dark, the information center was closed, and I had no taxi fare. After a guided wandering to a bank in what looked like the old part of town, I was told that this was the new town and the old town is to my left, across the river and I will see the ramparts way up on the hill. Up I went!. In the morning I was one of the first people/tourist up and about - giving the impression of being totally alone in the beauty of Carcassonne. The rest of the day I was happily entertained by walking the tiny streets, ramparts and dirt roads of this magnificent town.
Toulouse is where the gastronomic tour-de-force began. This part of France is where much of the quintessential French food originated. At 8pm exactly, I was seated at the last table in Benjamin's and ordered the expensive Ménu (24€ = 35 dollars-ish). Everything I ordered was a Toulouse classic recipe: fois grois de canard, cassoulet, and pistachio cremé brulé. The fois grois was the creamiest, most luxurious thing that has ever passed my lips - it easily makes you forget to ask about ingredients. Cassoulet is a long-cooked casserole dish of beans and unidentified meats of every kind. This was the hardiest dish I have ever eaten in France - it puts hair on your chest for sure. The end was sweet with a very burnt desert and strong coffee. Lovely. A day trip to Albi, Toulouse-Lautrec's hometown, was also in order as well - which was completed by sitting across from the museum at a grand café eating one of his favorite foods - red wine (he was quite a lush and often went for days without solid food, but, as someone put it, he never lacked calories/sustenance).
Bordeaux was described by Moliére and Montaigne as a city that far surpassed Paris as the center of culture, beauty and commerce. And, at the time, it did; however, after a series of misfortunes, Bordeaux sunk into disrepair. Nevertheless, they are pulling themselves out of this and making the city grand again. What is a girl to do in Bordeaux? Take a wine tour! Through the Tourist Center you can participate in just such an adventure (as long as you are willing to put up with picture happy people, stupid question asking people, and people who thought taking a 3 and 5 year-old to a vineyard was a good idea). Médoc region! The low-cut vines are turning red and yellow and the fermentation of the future wine makes the entire countryside smell of ripe dark fruit and warm bread. The number of grand Chateaux lining our route was unbelievable - each with their individual charm and unique beauty. At each of the two stops we were supplied with "tastings" - as our guide informed us, in France to do a proper tasting you have to fully appreciate the subtle tonalities and aromas, which might take a few glasses to discover!
That is a brief overview of my past week and a half. Beautiful weather and fine food, what a trying life I lead.
Salut!
Heather
Carcassonne is a beautiful Medieval castle near the Pyrenees that is complete and perfect. My hostel was actually in the heart of the Medieval town, but when I arrived it was dark, the information center was closed, and I had no taxi fare. After a guided wandering to a bank in what looked like the old part of town, I was told that this was the new town and the old town is to my left, across the river and I will see the ramparts way up on the hill. Up I went!. In the morning I was one of the first people/tourist up and about - giving the impression of being totally alone in the beauty of Carcassonne. The rest of the day I was happily entertained by walking the tiny streets, ramparts and dirt roads of this magnificent town.
Toulouse is where the gastronomic tour-de-force began. This part of France is where much of the quintessential French food originated. At 8pm exactly, I was seated at the last table in Benjamin's and ordered the expensive Ménu (24€ = 35 dollars-ish). Everything I ordered was a Toulouse classic recipe: fois grois de canard, cassoulet, and pistachio cremé brulé. The fois grois was the creamiest, most luxurious thing that has ever passed my lips - it easily makes you forget to ask about ingredients. Cassoulet is a long-cooked casserole dish of beans and unidentified meats of every kind. This was the hardiest dish I have ever eaten in France - it puts hair on your chest for sure. The end was sweet with a very burnt desert and strong coffee. Lovely. A day trip to Albi, Toulouse-Lautrec's hometown, was also in order as well - which was completed by sitting across from the museum at a grand café eating one of his favorite foods - red wine (he was quite a lush and often went for days without solid food, but, as someone put it, he never lacked calories/sustenance).
Bordeaux was described by Moliére and Montaigne as a city that far surpassed Paris as the center of culture, beauty and commerce. And, at the time, it did; however, after a series of misfortunes, Bordeaux sunk into disrepair. Nevertheless, they are pulling themselves out of this and making the city grand again. What is a girl to do in Bordeaux? Take a wine tour! Through the Tourist Center you can participate in just such an adventure (as long as you are willing to put up with picture happy people, stupid question asking people, and people who thought taking a 3 and 5 year-old to a vineyard was a good idea). Médoc region! The low-cut vines are turning red and yellow and the fermentation of the future wine makes the entire countryside smell of ripe dark fruit and warm bread. The number of grand Chateaux lining our route was unbelievable - each with their individual charm and unique beauty. At each of the two stops we were supplied with "tastings" - as our guide informed us, in France to do a proper tasting you have to fully appreciate the subtle tonalities and aromas, which might take a few glasses to discover!
That is a brief overview of my past week and a half. Beautiful weather and fine food, what a trying life I lead.
Salut!
Heather
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Looking over my past posts, I notice that there is a glaring omission. Mainly, what about the classes I am supposed to be teaching? It is, after all, the reason I am here (and getting paid). Actually, this is something that is going to a bit difficult... I teach at two Collèges which house students who are 11-15 years old and are roughly equivalent to junior high/middle school in the States. Both are so disparate in student makeup, economic condition, and faculty that I will address each independently:
Ernest Renan
I will always remember walking up to this school my second full day in France. Wandering lost through the forest of high-rise apartment buildings thrown together in the mid-eighties and having 14 year-old kids asking me for a cigarette until I found a large gate in the stone wall. Renan is a large school, but, as the vice principle told me at our first meeting, one that can be very trying. The children who go here are not violent or scary, they are not very interested in learning and enjoy getting expelled from class. You see, Renan is located in the immigrant quarter of the region (in this case mostly of an Islamic background). For the most part their parents are either unemployed or barely able to make ends meet, they are socially marginalized, and often distrusted by the general population (which, I'm sad to report, sometimes infects their teachers too). As a result, Renan is under financed and is making do with staffing problems and out-dated technology. The teachers are very dedicated, but also very young. I have to admit that I am closest to the staff here because they are younger and more interested in talking and hanging-out. Here I teach six (boring) hours a week where I sit in the back or front of the class reading aloud occasionally but mostly sitting. Not that I would agree to teach more than four or five of the students by myself; however, it would be nice to be of more use to the children. They are good kids, but they are just very... loud.
L'Herault
Everything I said about Renan take and flip it on its head. This school, though located in the same suburb, is economically well-off, the students are attentive, and the staff are very experienced. The "ideal" school. Here I teach five hours a week - one first year class and two advanced classes. The first years are so cute! I am amazed how much growing (physically and mentally) children do in these three years. Anyway, their teacher takes about eight of them each week to review what they learned and I am left to play whatever games or sing whatever songs I think reinforce what they were learning. The other two classes are two hours long - I take half the class for half the time and then we switch. With the fourth year students I just try to get them to speak as much as possible, and with the fifth year students I correlate with their lessons with what they are studying at the time (they are better served by hearing me speak in a normal fashion, whereas the others need to speak themselves). Everything here is easy and straight foreword, except, being a first time teacher it is overwhelming to be told to teach whatever you want for an hour.
Albert Einstein said something like - It is nothing short of a miracle that the modern methods of instruction have not entirely strangled the curiosity of inquiry. I can be a bit of an idealist; however after three weeks I think that I have abandoned this guiding sentiment for one that will get me through the next hour. I hated junior high school, as every sensible person does, and now I am back teaching students who really don't want to learn. Don't get me wrong, I can't see myself doing anything else right now. I am a good teacher and entertain the students well. Also, it does have its benefits : I am getting rather good at British English. "I went to university, etc. And I have learned that in the UK you ask "Have you got a pencil;" whereas to American ears this sounds a bit awkward. Who knew?
Overall, I have had my frustrations and miss-communications with both schools. Yet I am glad I can help (how much my help is worth we will have to wait and see).
Yours,
Heather
Ernest Renan
I will always remember walking up to this school my second full day in France. Wandering lost through the forest of high-rise apartment buildings thrown together in the mid-eighties and having 14 year-old kids asking me for a cigarette until I found a large gate in the stone wall. Renan is a large school, but, as the vice principle told me at our first meeting, one that can be very trying. The children who go here are not violent or scary, they are not very interested in learning and enjoy getting expelled from class. You see, Renan is located in the immigrant quarter of the region (in this case mostly of an Islamic background). For the most part their parents are either unemployed or barely able to make ends meet, they are socially marginalized, and often distrusted by the general population (which, I'm sad to report, sometimes infects their teachers too). As a result, Renan is under financed and is making do with staffing problems and out-dated technology. The teachers are very dedicated, but also very young. I have to admit that I am closest to the staff here because they are younger and more interested in talking and hanging-out. Here I teach six (boring) hours a week where I sit in the back or front of the class reading aloud occasionally but mostly sitting. Not that I would agree to teach more than four or five of the students by myself; however, it would be nice to be of more use to the children. They are good kids, but they are just very... loud.
L'Herault
Everything I said about Renan take and flip it on its head. This school, though located in the same suburb, is economically well-off, the students are attentive, and the staff are very experienced. The "ideal" school. Here I teach five hours a week - one first year class and two advanced classes. The first years are so cute! I am amazed how much growing (physically and mentally) children do in these three years. Anyway, their teacher takes about eight of them each week to review what they learned and I am left to play whatever games or sing whatever songs I think reinforce what they were learning. The other two classes are two hours long - I take half the class for half the time and then we switch. With the fourth year students I just try to get them to speak as much as possible, and with the fifth year students I correlate with their lessons with what they are studying at the time (they are better served by hearing me speak in a normal fashion, whereas the others need to speak themselves). Everything here is easy and straight foreword, except, being a first time teacher it is overwhelming to be told to teach whatever you want for an hour.
Albert Einstein said something like - It is nothing short of a miracle that the modern methods of instruction have not entirely strangled the curiosity of inquiry. I can be a bit of an idealist; however after three weeks I think that I have abandoned this guiding sentiment for one that will get me through the next hour. I hated junior high school, as every sensible person does, and now I am back teaching students who really don't want to learn. Don't get me wrong, I can't see myself doing anything else right now. I am a good teacher and entertain the students well. Also, it does have its benefits : I am getting rather good at British English. "I went to university, etc. And I have learned that in the UK you ask "Have you got a pencil;" whereas to American ears this sounds a bit awkward. Who knew?
Overall, I have had my frustrations and miss-communications with both schools. Yet I am glad I can help (how much my help is worth we will have to wait and see).
Yours,
Heather
Sunday, October 15, 2006
After many unfruitful meetings with gruff landlords and countless miles put on my poor shoes, I have found a place to live! Things just seemed to fall into place, and in order to fully appreciate the joy this house gives me you need to know the events that led up to its discovery...
I had been living in a hotel for a week and I still had not found a suitable domicile (and I really was not all that particular). One day one of the English teachers mentioned that she was letting a room but someone was looking at it that night. If they did not want it I could take a look sometime over the weekend. I cannot describe how much I wanted this place - and I hadn't even seen it yet. Later that week I received an e-mail from the teacher saying two other people were taking a look at it, would I like to join them? Absolutely! The day of our rendez-vous came. The rain was pouring and the wind was whipping, but I trudged through the adverse conditions towards certain victory (I am a pushy American after all). I arrived a comfortable five minutes early to a beautiful if small stone row house in an upper middle-class neighborhood. Low and behold, one of the people cancelled their appointment. The teacher and I chatted, waiting for the other person. Twenty minutes later she called to discover he was caught on the bus, stuck in traffic. Well, she decided to let me look at the "room." I was expecting to head upstairs or towards the basement (like all of the other rooms I had seen). Alas, she put her shoes on and took me into their extensive (for a city) garden to a separate little house - la petite maison. After less than five minutes I took it! This was two weeks ago, and I moved in this past Monday.
My petite maison, as I said, resides in an overgrown British style garden. It has one window that overlooks a beautiful rose bush, a tuft of lavender, and an ivy and moss covered stone wall. I enter the property from the musty garage in the back, walk up the stone path past the rabbit hutch, garden shed, and office to my door. Using my brass key and a lot of force if it is humid I enter a rather large room with 12-foot ceilings. Ahead is a small refrigerator and microwave, to the left a large table, upon the far left wall my small bed sits, and slightly to the right of the bed stands a large shelf/closet unit. The bathroom is through a very small door on the right - there is enough room to walk sideways from the sink to the shower, but it is clean and everything works efficiently. As of now, everything is rather spare and the white washed walls are glaringly sparse. Nevertheless, I have quickly made it my own and I look at it with a mother's eye - I cannot see the draftiness of the door, frequency of spiders, or the strange thudding noise five or six times a day.
My landlords, who live in the "main house" are very sweet. The woman is an English teacher, but she herself is Danish (and we have started sharing French bureaucracy horror stories). She is young, creative, and very driven. Her husband, a Frenchman, is also very nice, speaks English well (but we converse in French most of the time). They have two children and she is pregnant with their third. They are active noisy boys, normal. Actually, I babysat the younger one last night. We drew pictures and I read him a story (he had to pick the hardest and longest children's book ever - I barely understood most of the words, let alone know how to pronounce them): overall one of the easiest babysitting gigs I've ever had, plus it is an excellent way of subsidizing my already low rent.
Now that I have overcame this hurtle, I am ready to face the next... getting a bank account and having a physical from the immigration office (no TB here). In addition, I can start travelling a bit more. I think I have walked every street in Nantes so it is time to expand my walking options.
Love,
Heather
I had been living in a hotel for a week and I still had not found a suitable domicile (and I really was not all that particular). One day one of the English teachers mentioned that she was letting a room but someone was looking at it that night. If they did not want it I could take a look sometime over the weekend. I cannot describe how much I wanted this place - and I hadn't even seen it yet. Later that week I received an e-mail from the teacher saying two other people were taking a look at it, would I like to join them? Absolutely! The day of our rendez-vous came. The rain was pouring and the wind was whipping, but I trudged through the adverse conditions towards certain victory (I am a pushy American after all). I arrived a comfortable five minutes early to a beautiful if small stone row house in an upper middle-class neighborhood. Low and behold, one of the people cancelled their appointment. The teacher and I chatted, waiting for the other person. Twenty minutes later she called to discover he was caught on the bus, stuck in traffic. Well, she decided to let me look at the "room." I was expecting to head upstairs or towards the basement (like all of the other rooms I had seen). Alas, she put her shoes on and took me into their extensive (for a city) garden to a separate little house - la petite maison. After less than five minutes I took it! This was two weeks ago, and I moved in this past Monday.
My petite maison, as I said, resides in an overgrown British style garden. It has one window that overlooks a beautiful rose bush, a tuft of lavender, and an ivy and moss covered stone wall. I enter the property from the musty garage in the back, walk up the stone path past the rabbit hutch, garden shed, and office to my door. Using my brass key and a lot of force if it is humid I enter a rather large room with 12-foot ceilings. Ahead is a small refrigerator and microwave, to the left a large table, upon the far left wall my small bed sits, and slightly to the right of the bed stands a large shelf/closet unit. The bathroom is through a very small door on the right - there is enough room to walk sideways from the sink to the shower, but it is clean and everything works efficiently. As of now, everything is rather spare and the white washed walls are glaringly sparse. Nevertheless, I have quickly made it my own and I look at it with a mother's eye - I cannot see the draftiness of the door, frequency of spiders, or the strange thudding noise five or six times a day.
My landlords, who live in the "main house" are very sweet. The woman is an English teacher, but she herself is Danish (and we have started sharing French bureaucracy horror stories). She is young, creative, and very driven. Her husband, a Frenchman, is also very nice, speaks English well (but we converse in French most of the time). They have two children and she is pregnant with their third. They are active noisy boys, normal. Actually, I babysat the younger one last night. We drew pictures and I read him a story (he had to pick the hardest and longest children's book ever - I barely understood most of the words, let alone know how to pronounce them): overall one of the easiest babysitting gigs I've ever had, plus it is an excellent way of subsidizing my already low rent.
Now that I have overcame this hurtle, I am ready to face the next... getting a bank account and having a physical from the immigration office (no TB here). In addition, I can start travelling a bit more. I think I have walked every street in Nantes so it is time to expand my walking options.
Love,
Heather
Thursday, October 05, 2006
When you think of France and French people, often a less than attractive picture comes to mind. One of snotty waiters and people on the street who would rather get their teeth pulled than direct you to the Place de la Concorde. However, like all stereotypes, this is simply not true.
As one of my fellow assistants put it, "If someone's only experience with France is in Paris, then it is no wonder they never want to come back."
Nantes, on the other hand, is quite the opposite. In fact I have never met with nicer people in my life. It is your essential French city - men carrying baguettes under their arms, women navigating cobble stone roads in stilettos, and children playing soccer in the streets on a Wednesday afternoon. Yet is is quite a large city complete with an excellent metro system, a dodgy part of town, and a modern quarter. I think that Nantes has been able to retain its old-world beauty because of the lack of tourists. True, there is a Chateau and an old Cathedral, not to mention one of the best Beaux-Arts Museums in this region (one of the best Kandinsky's, and a ton of Gordins), but they are far surpassed by the other Chateaus and Cathedrals that line the Loire.
A perfect example of this is the Creperie that I visited this past week. In a less than picturesque part of town sits a forgotten string of restaurants in their original buildings. For example, this particular creperie is housed in an old house, were there has been a restaurant/tavern in continual operation for more than four hundred years. When you enter, and cut your way through a curtain of smoke, a friendly Frenchman escorts you up a flight of creaky old stairs to the first landing (nonsmoking, surprisingly) or up to the third floor. In each floor there is seating for twenty people which is more than ample for the spattering of lunch patrons. For 8 € 50 (about 11 dollars, an amazing deal) you can buy the menu de midi (lunch menu): choice between an onion, ham, or cheese savory crepe, choice between a lemon, chocolate, sweet cheese, or orange crepe for desert, and a choice between coffee, water, or french cider (sparkling apple juice). All of this is served with a smile and a small "how's your mom" kind of chat. I cannot remember a friendlier meal in Europe, let alone France.
There is only one truly visible scar to this city, one annoying blight for any romantic American - the unimaginably ugly brown tower that forces its way into the otherwise unspoiled neo-classical skyline. The majority of Nantes sits along the north shore of the Loire river. It was a rich and beautiful city thanks to the fishing and the near-by salt flats. This is where the merchants who became wealthy chose to build their magnificent town houses. Many of these homes escaped the bombings of WWII and continue to lend Nantes a stately beauty. However, in the mid 80s, some bank somewhere decided to destroy a block of these buildings and build a beacon of modernity in the heart of Nantes. After they finished and the people realized that it was ugly, the city banned any further destruction of their old-town. Too late for that. The bright side is that if you are standing underneath the awning of this brown thing, your view of the medieval part of Nantes is unparalleled and unspoiled.
Yours,
Heather
As one of my fellow assistants put it, "If someone's only experience with France is in Paris, then it is no wonder they never want to come back."
Nantes, on the other hand, is quite the opposite. In fact I have never met with nicer people in my life. It is your essential French city - men carrying baguettes under their arms, women navigating cobble stone roads in stilettos, and children playing soccer in the streets on a Wednesday afternoon. Yet is is quite a large city complete with an excellent metro system, a dodgy part of town, and a modern quarter. I think that Nantes has been able to retain its old-world beauty because of the lack of tourists. True, there is a Chateau and an old Cathedral, not to mention one of the best Beaux-Arts Museums in this region (one of the best Kandinsky's, and a ton of Gordins), but they are far surpassed by the other Chateaus and Cathedrals that line the Loire.
A perfect example of this is the Creperie that I visited this past week. In a less than picturesque part of town sits a forgotten string of restaurants in their original buildings. For example, this particular creperie is housed in an old house, were there has been a restaurant/tavern in continual operation for more than four hundred years. When you enter, and cut your way through a curtain of smoke, a friendly Frenchman escorts you up a flight of creaky old stairs to the first landing (nonsmoking, surprisingly) or up to the third floor. In each floor there is seating for twenty people which is more than ample for the spattering of lunch patrons. For 8 € 50 (about 11 dollars, an amazing deal) you can buy the menu de midi (lunch menu): choice between an onion, ham, or cheese savory crepe, choice between a lemon, chocolate, sweet cheese, or orange crepe for desert, and a choice between coffee, water, or french cider (sparkling apple juice). All of this is served with a smile and a small "how's your mom" kind of chat. I cannot remember a friendlier meal in Europe, let alone France.
There is only one truly visible scar to this city, one annoying blight for any romantic American - the unimaginably ugly brown tower that forces its way into the otherwise unspoiled neo-classical skyline. The majority of Nantes sits along the north shore of the Loire river. It was a rich and beautiful city thanks to the fishing and the near-by salt flats. This is where the merchants who became wealthy chose to build their magnificent town houses. Many of these homes escaped the bombings of WWII and continue to lend Nantes a stately beauty. However, in the mid 80s, some bank somewhere decided to destroy a block of these buildings and build a beacon of modernity in the heart of Nantes. After they finished and the people realized that it was ugly, the city banned any further destruction of their old-town. Too late for that. The bright side is that if you are standing underneath the awning of this brown thing, your view of the medieval part of Nantes is unparalleled and unspoiled.
Yours,
Heather
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