Did You Feel That?

Well, did you? That was the power of the Internet whooshing by!

Last we left my sad, Stephen Fry-less existence, I was bemoaning the loss of his wit and candor. Cursing the Twitter Fates!

The next morning, still blurry-eyed with a cup of coffee in my hand and wearing my disheveled pajamas, I blindly groped for my computer. Distracted by my bagel, I missed the message reading "Stephen Fry is now following you on Twitter" the first time around. It took a few minutes for that to sink in... humm... Stephen. Fry. Following. Twitter.

HOLY CRAP! I almost dropped my coffee then and there!

For those of you who do not Twitter, this is kind of a big deal. To follow someone means that every time they login, their homepage may display one of your comments. This is an act saying "I would like you to know that I think enough about you to condescend to give you an inch of my homepage for an hour or two."

I hurried to the Twitter-verse and there he was, unblocked and just as good as I remember.

Then I sat back, thinking about how this all came to be.

I discovered, a few days before, that the problem was a result of Twitter randomly blocking a few hundred of his followers - myself included (shucks, I was hoping I did something to piss him off!). But, in order to be reestablished, I had to (and this gets very complicated and convoluted) have a friend of mine who also followed Mr. Fry tweet him with the tag #fryblocked and @HeatherVM. The problem is I do not know anyone else in the greater Seattle area that feels the same way about him, so I was left in the dark.

So the question remains: how did he learn I was blocked, and why did he, rather than unblocking me, actually start following me?

Both questions I am alright not knowing the answer... unless of course they involve Stephen Fry reading my blog, finding it humorous, and feeling bad for the whole Twitter catastrophe... I'd be fine with that answer!

Now all is right in the world, and I have an email that is (sort of) from Stephen Fry, starred in my Gmail inbox. The Twitter Fates are happy again.

My Thoughts on Twitter: or How I Learned Stephen Fry Blocked Me

Twitter is something that I have been actively avoiding for a while now. Sure, I facebook. Sure, I blog. Sure, I know a lot about the different Google Apps (my latest experiment involves Google Notebook as a way to organize recipes I find). However, Twitter seemed a bit outside of my purview.

But then something changed. Stephen Fry started Tweeting.

As one of the original followers of his eloquent, insightful, intelligent, and humorous blog, The New Adventures of Mr. Stephen Fry, when he became more excited about the prospects, do did I. I followed excitedly as he reached his 100,000th member and requested more. There is even a T-Shirt: "I Tweeted @StephenFry and all I got was this lousy T-shirt."

Between Pogue's exploration , the work libraries are doing with the technology, and Stephen Fry, I was ready to take the obsessive plunge.

In the end, what really got me were Mr. Fry's words: "Most of all. Welcome to my twitterworld, I am delighted to have you as a follower. Let’s enjoy ourselves and to hell with those who don’t get it." Right then and there, I wanted to be part of this world!

It took a while to get used to it - to remember to post things and read the posts of others (especially since I have no mobile technology from which to tweet). Though, once I started keeping up with people, it was fun! Sure, I am just feeding the need for external validation - who really cares when I say "During my 'weekend,' the entire library seems to have moved to my desk - why are all these books here?" or "Watching a scary movie alone at midnight with a bottle of rose... what else would I be doing on a Thursday night?" - but then you read other people's tweets. You realize that you do care, that you follow their links, and laugh at their wit.

Then I discovered the tantalizing dark side: being blocked. Not only was I blocked by someone (meaning someone did not want me to follow them, ever), but I was blocked by my Twitter mentor, guru, and teacher - Stephen Fry.

Thousands of things ran through my head as frantically scrambled to find him again... what had I done?... what had I said?... did I not qualify as intelligent, witty or loquacious enough to count myself among his followers? Confusion reigned - I had never tried to make contact with him, never even mentioned him outside of a ramble about how he and Geoff Lloyd (the only other famous person I follow) were following each other. I swear! That is it!

I know it is hard to believe, but it brought about an existential crisis - rivaling that of the time I discovered they were discontinuing the light tan M&Ms! I mean, light tan is such an unappreciated color!

But what to do? What could I say to Mr. Fry as an apology? Nothing.

Twitter is a new format with new rules, not all of them clear. The role it can play with businesses, friends, and fame is still being tested. I like Pogue's insight when he wrote, "This was it: harnessing the power of the Web, the collective wisdom of strangers, in real time!"

For now, I will content myself with playing around and not set my standards that high. Getting blocked and blocking is where my excitement comes from. Trying to see how I can use this and, as Mr. Fry wrote, enjoy myself!

But I still miss your tweets, Mr. Fry. The Twitter world is fun, but a little quieter.

Winter Storm: 2008 (aka My Half Snow Day)

"We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
The blue walls of the firmament.
No cloud above, no earth below, -
A universe of sky and snow!"
~John Greenleaf Whittier
"Snowbound"

The cold came first this time, as if in preparation for the snow I thought would never materialize. Then one morning, I opened my front door and did not recognize the landscape below my balcony. Quickly I closed the door behind me and hurried to my car - reliving the old routine of Grand Rapids winters (turn on car, click on the rear defroster, dig the ice-scraper out of the trunk, start on the passenger side window and move counterclockwise around the car, bang the tires to get the accumulated gunk off, etc).



Already though, I can feel that this is different. My eyes are used to looking upon the sidewalks of Calvin College as a treacherous ice-paths of bitter cold, but this is Seattle for heaven's sake. Experience here does not allow for all of this!

After many failed attempts of getting off this hill, I had to make the call - "Sorry, I can't make it in." Then I sat down in my living room and I was suddenly faced with a snow day! Well, I still had to go to the Library in the evening (when you can easily walk to work, there is no excuse) - but a half snow day is just as amazing!

Snow days were made for walking around and giving respect to that which gave you an unexpected break. So, armed with my snow boots, long-johns, massive wool scarf, and hobo gloves, I waddled (much like a toddler) to the grocery store.

It is wonderfully shocking how friendly people are when there is a snow day - is that why people in the Midwest are known for their hospitality to strangers? I suppose you never know who is going to be around to help you push your car out of a snow drift - you might as well be friendly to everyone! But I think it is more than that. Snow forces you to walk and remember how close (or how far) people, places, and things are.

Everyone took to the streets, all smiles and falls.

Later that night while I was walking back up the hill, I was startled by the silence. As if the snow was absorbing the sounds of the freeway, of the dogs barking, and of the nighttime world. Never are there more stars overhead as when the snow has already fallen. And, because of the sky's sharp clearness, I could see the Christmas tree bedecked Space Needle - over the lake and peaking between the trees. What joy I felt!

Now the snow is disgusting - brown sludge, being the better name for it. The hike up and down the hill is a chore, with so much snow! Everyone is now cranky. We've missed so much work, so much Christmas shopping time, have had too many close calls, and are sick of being cooped up. Yep, I too fall into this category!

However, there are still Christmas lights turning the snow into a festive mirror of color and the coldest nights have the most stars. Now my challenge is to keep this in mind over the next few days or, dare I say it, weeks. Sigh.

Devil and Details

My mind keeps wondering today... and to nothing in particular. I am sitting at the Cafe, trying to study "Урок но. 1" and having no luck at it. My goal is to write a summary a day for each chapter - forcing myself to read every single word.

Wow! How many details slipped through my fingers. Did I just not read that one detail about "in cases other than the nominative or the accusative, the quantifying words... decline like plural adjectives and agree" the first time around? I don't remember that at all! Now, I am convinced that is the one piece of the Russian puzzle that I have been missing.

Have I had my detail-filtering glasses on this whole term? Is that my problem?

One of the most shocking things about Istanbul, was the detail. Every wall covered in hand painted tile, and each wooden shutter carved with ornate design that seemed to be based on a Fibonacci understanding of craftsmanship. It got to the point where I was unable to focus by the end of the night. My brain was so caught up in attempting to process all of these bits of images, that I would sit up on the terrace, drink a beer, and stare out into the darkness for hours - lime green and sea turquoise, flashing in strobe before my tired eyes.

It is only now, after a few months, that my mind is truly able to appreciate and process all of those details that caused me such a headache before. And it is exactly those bits and pieces that stand in sharp relief in my memories. Time is all I needed - time and space.

Not that that is going to help me with my final. If only I could take a photo of the particular details I need to remember, then sit and process them, drink a beer and stare into the dark, come back to the photo in two months - then it might have the chance of lodging itself somewhere between genitive plural case and Куда constructs.

Nope - I'm just going to have to focus. Humm... my coffee has gone cold.

Thoughts on Carl Sagan

"I believe it is very difficult to know who we are until we understand where and when we are."

This is the first thing that caught my attention in Carl Sagan's The Varieties of Scientific Experience: A Personal View of the Search for God, and it is a question that I am still not equipped to answer. When and Where are we? If Carl Sagan does not know, how in the world am I going to figure this out? Thankfully, Sagan spends the rest of the lectures trying to put this in context. His conclusion is to exclaim: How short-sighted we are! That is the most shocking and wonderful conclusion that I could have expected from this random impulse buy - and it is something I cannot stop thinking about, though I am no closer to drawing my own conclusion.

Sagan asks us to think about three things: 1) our smallness, 2) our lack of imagination, and 3) coming to terms with our limits. It is the second and third conclusion that interested me the most. After all, the first, our smallness, is something everyone has pondered while looking at the stars. "Many religions," writes Sagan, "have attempted to make statues of their gods very large... We need only look up if we wish to feel small." (28) It is the natural human tendency to bite and claw our way to a grander importance - a type of vainglory for our species. Sagan sees this in the conservative Christian assertion that shortens the history of Earth eons to concord with the time line of the Bible: "The shorter the age of the Earth, the greater the relative role of humans in the history of the Earth." (39)

This is a solid conclusion, but it is not the reason I am returning to this idea. He focuses more on our lack of imagination, in both secular and religious understandings of our surroundings. We have locked ourselves and, more importantly, God in a terrestrial plane of existence. This is true "...whether [or not] we have any idea of the possible range of life, of what could be elsewhere." (67) After all, "[t]he universe is not responsive to our ambitious expectations." (37)

My! That is a concept! If we remove ourselves from the center of the universe, then we become incidental - much like any character in any novel by Camus. Nothing matters beyond this search for more. This existential break was not something I was expecting from Sagan; however, it was a short lived interlude.

What does this mean for human history? I believe that Carl Sagan offers some ideas, but was unable or unwilling to stand behind any of them. He writes, "Extinction is forever. Extinction undermines the human enterprise. Extinction makes pointless the activities of all of our ancestors..." (204). This calls to mind something that C.S. Lewis addresses in From the Silent Planet, in which the notion that humans want to explore other planets because they seek to preserve their species, is ridiculed for being short-sighted. The beings of Malacandra see the extinction of their species as an inevitable part of life, and that no being or species was meant to last forever. This is exactly the point Sagan is making!

So, what is his conclusion and why have I wasted your time talking about this book?

"Tradition is a precious thing, a kind of distillation of tens or hundreds of thousands of generations of humans." (191) What an interesting notion for someone who constantly pushes us to look to the future! The implications of this are not immediately apparent - at least they weren't for me. The search for answers is an exercise that naturally forces us to look upwards, says Sagan. As someone whose main efforts are political or philosophical in nature (at least that is what like to tell myself), this is a hard pill to swallow. I focus inwards, brainwards, but Sagan is telling us that the quest cannot happen without upward motion.

What if, in the above quote, the word "tradition" is replaced with "history"? History, human history, becomes something valuable and is what roots us in time, our when. Remembering that "Extinction is the rule. Survival is the exception" (66), he does offer hope and validation to people like me - studying ourselves proves to be as valuable as studying the stars. As long as this is tempered with remembering our smallness and lack of comprehension (something that seems to be cured by a quick look at the stars), the study of tradition, or, as I would have it, history, places our humanity in terms of where and when. And that is the ultimate goal.

Curses! All Sagan did was pose a new question, that I never thought about before, and offer no real answers. New question - no answers - blah!

People have been pestering me for over a year now to start posting things to my blog again. I just don't think I have anything terribly interesting to talk about, but I am sick of the e-mails and think that it will be best to give in.

Part of my struggle is to define, redefine rather, what my blog is going to be. After reading many blogs and giving it a lot of thought, I have decided not to decide. I am going to use this as a forum for talking about things I enjoy and sharing bits of information.

Because this was originally created as a place for my travel stories, I am planning on doing a retroactive reflection on my trip to Istanbul. So there is that to look forward to.

Till then - STOP COMPLAINING! (I say that with love in my heart!)
~HJ

What can I say. My father visited me in Europe and all we did was drink beer, wander through trenches from WWI, cheer on Tom Boonen in bike races, and, did I mention drinking beer? BORING! One can only take so much walking through the picturesque streets of Flanders, eating at the best restaurants (like legendary Tom's Dinner), and perfectly sunny 70 degree weather! It is just too much for two people to bear.

I arrived, by train, and met my father in Bruges, Belgium, which became our headquarters for the next week and a bit. Our hotel was located on a quiet street across from one of the main churches in Bruges. For anyone who has never had the opportunity to visit this city, allow me to paint a picture... all of the three storey buildings are either brick or pastel plaster with one unique feature - the attic window is framed by a stepped pyramid faux-front that gives the illusion of another floor. The streets are all cobbled and the churches are crowned by tall towers with "wooden" roofs. Throngs of British tourists window shopping and hundreds of people crowding the outdoor cafes which overlook the Bell Tower (which rests at a wonky-angle) complete the picture. Honestly, one of my favorite places in the world.

The Spring Classics are the BEST day races. Why, do you ask? It is a bit hard to explain really...They are some of the earliest in the season, a place where riders can test their stuff. They twist and curve their way through beautiful fields and meadows. Did I mention they have hundreds of riders flying at break-neck speeds through narrow cobble streets and curvy ascents lined with crazy European fans who crowd the riders? Translation: there is a good chance you are going to see a spectacular crash. We picked some great spots to watch them coming, but no crashes. Although we were almost on television, twice.

My favorite, non bike day, was spent doing something I usually don't like: tour group. This one, however, was different in every way. Dad and I, along with an Irish mother and son and an elderly Scottish couple, piled into the mini-van for a day-long tour of Flanders's WWI battle fields, museums, and cemeteries. Our guide, a middle-aged Belgium with floppy blond hair, was crazy excited about everything WWI - including the spent artillery that farmers still find in their fields. On a funny aside: the Irish boy, who was around 14 years-old, was obsessed by WWII and moderately excited about WWI. As we were barreling down the one lane dirt roads, our guide was talking about how farmers come across live mustard gas shells and corroded, unexploded hand grenades and pile them along side of the road where army collection personnel will see them on their next pass. Just as he said this, he spotted such a collection in front of a barn and pulled to the side of the road. The Irish boy asked if he could hop out and get something and the guide enthusiastically allowed him. He was picking up a grenade when the mother cautiously asked, "Is that grenade still live?" "Oh yeah," responded the unconcerned guide. The mother jumped out of the van yelling, "Son! Put the grenade DOWN!" In the back of the van, where the Scottish couple sat, one said to the other, "Its just like the Irish, they like blowing up things." Ah! Culture. One of my favorite parts of the day was the In Flanders Fields Museum, in Ieper. It is a new museum, built in the rebuilt market of a small town. Ieper, in my opinion, became the unfortunate example of what modern war could do to a civilian city - the first town to be destroyed by bombs, air raids, and machine guns. It is here the Belgians made their last stand against the invading German army. They were able to hold their position until the British, American, and Canadian soldiers could arrive and entrench themselves. Anyway, the museum is very interactive and allows the visitor to explore many different facets of the war - poetry, individual lives, quotes from soldiers, actual effects from the war, etc. Very informative overall, enabling me to get a better understanding of the Belgium front. The whole day we drove through the fields, piecing together troop movement and gaining an understanding the role a "ridge" (a mere 20 feet above sea level) played in this first modern war.

Later in the week we journeyed to the coast, to Oostand, to see a preserved WWII bunker and trenches that were built to keep the British out. This Atlantikwall was interesting to compare to the first trenches built. These were more solid, more entrenched, and had bigger guns; however, the general theory was the same as the originals... dig a hole and hope no one comes.

One part that I realized I have neglected are the breweries and beer museums. I thought I would save the best for last, of course. We visited the Brugse Zot brewery which is the last remaining one in Bruges proper. During the tour, we got to see the old cooling rooms and old equipment as well as the new and improved techniques. What surprised me the most was the fact that what used to take five floors to do now is contained in one room not much larger than my college apartment. The beer itself was a nice malty beer, amber in color, with a light wheat fog. Later, in Brussels, we went to the old brewer's guild which now houses a small museum and tasting room. What is interesting here is that you don't know what you are tasting. They ask if you want light or special (dark). The special was AMAZING and we think that it was the Westmalle Tripel ("Tripel" meaning it was made in an actually Abby, only 7 of which still exist, vs. Abby beer which isn't). Our last real beer trip was to the Hops Museum which was one of the best museums we went to the whole week. It was "interactive" meaning Heather can touch everything. The museum explained the history of hops and then followed it from planting to processing to shipping. Too bad there wasn't any tasting here though.

Overall not a bad way to spend a week. I got to spend time with my Dad and enjoy the unique Belgium atmosphere... I believe that a summer home in Bruges would be an amazing idea (**hint**hint** Dad).

Arriving in Dijon, I fell in love with the city itself tout de suit and during the following week the love spread from the city to the whole region of Burgundy. It is more than mustard and expensive wines, but a je ne sais quoi that rolls in from the countryside. (Too much???)

Day 1: After an interesting train ride involving a not-quite famous actor, I wandered the beautifully Medieval streets of Dijon. I found myself on a pedestrian-only street surrounded by half-timber houses, staring up at my quaint hotel. Three narrow, steep flights of stairs later, I found myself in a comfortable single room with a sink and toilet down the hall.

Day 2: I decided to spend my first full day in Dijion enjoying the atmosphere... although, nothing went quite right all day. I set out at 9am with a stop at a pastry store where I ordered a pain au lait chocolat but got a pain au chocolat instead. I tried to find an open cafe, but all were closed tight. I wondered the maze of perfectly French streets (meaning dirty and poop-filled) of some half-timber homes... many leaning at awkward angles. Then I walked to the old convent, but, to my embarrassment, I couldn't find my way in - so I quickly gave up; however, after some lunch I returned determined. The sad part is that it was quite easy... you open the door that says "Museum." The set of the museums - Musee de la Vie Bourguinonne (Burgundy Life Museum) and Musee d'Art Sacre (Sacred Art Museum) - were surprisingly well done. The first, like all small local museums, had wax statues wearing traditional clothing. The second story was designed to look like Dijon in the 1800's with copies of old store fronts. The Sacred Art Museum had all of the artifacts from the Convent. There was one huge room dedicated to goblets... I tried to guess which one I would choose if I were Indiana Jones and needed the Holy Grail. Finding a place for lunch was a trial. I wondered for an hour, passing some places, going in and leaving others right aways, and, meanwhile, my stomach was speaking its own language. That was until I found a Moules et Frites place that, as its name suggests, serves only mussels and fries. You order the sauce you want, and they serve you a HUGE cast iron pot of mussels in sauce and a plate of french fries. So delicious and a great French option.

Day 3: Cluny!!! Anyone who studied Medieval history can understand my excitement about traveling three hours to see a building that doesn't exist anymore. At one time, Cluny monastery housed the largest structure in Europe and was the seat of religious power that rivaled that of Rome. I wont bore you anymore with my thoughts on the really cool Cluny III church... but the bus ride from Maron to Cluny was beautiful. Burgundy architecture is unique in France. Each manor has a square tower rising above the main part of the home that is topped with an intricate iron weather vane. Some with roosters, but many more have flowers, geometric designs, or clover. The rough, rocky hills are topped with rustic stone castles that are older than any others in France. The original "capital" of the very, very first Kings and Queens of France was in this region. In fact, this is where the concept of "France" came to be.

Day 4: I don't have a car, nor can I rent one. This is fine, until I want to tour the vineyards. So when I visit such wine-rich areas, I pay a lot of money for the ability to ride in a bus with people who are wine illiterate and who ask stupid questions just to see the vines and taste the wines. This tour wasn't so bad. Very small (8 people total) and I sat shot-gun so I was able to talk to the guide in detail about the differences in wine regions and the particular problems with wine making in Burgundy. By far, this was the best wine tour I've ever done! The region is unique because it is very small. Half a mile wide and 15 miles long, to be exact. Also, there have been pinot noir grapes planted on this land for more than 1000 years. Many of the cellars used today were build by monks in the 10th century. The growth of the villages is limited by the vineyards and the vineyard growth is limited by the villages. I was able to see the plot of land (20 ft by 40 ft) that produces the most expensive bottle of wine in the world - bottles start at $4,000 dollars and have been sold for ten times that amount. It looked like every other plot of land to me, but apparently it has the perfect blend of sand, slope, and limestone. I settled for a 59E bottle of Grand Cru and a 58E bottle of Premier Cru. The only problem was I wasn't really in the mood for robust reds at 10 o'clock in the morning, but what can you do? Suffer through.

Day 5: I followed a hiking path 6 k through forests, pastures, and fields to a monastery hidden in a valley. Actually, this monastery is the only intact monastery still in existence from the Medieval period in France. What a peaceful, beautiful place to sequester yourself in? Grow some grapes, eat some cheese and mustard, and walk in the garden. Forgetting, of course, that only one room was heated and the rest were completely open to the elements. I was the only one on the path that day which gave me the opportunity to peacefully and leisurely walk among the wild flowers.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

-----
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 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.