Christmas eve 2008
LOCATION
Onex, in the city of Geneva, Switzerland
CAST
Me
Trajtenberg family:
- Liliana (aunt, i.e. my father's sister, currently living in Montevideo)
- Mario (uncle, married to Liliana, currently living in Montevideo)
- Cecilia (cousin, native Genevoise, currently living in Madrid)
- Michel (cousin, native Genevoise, still living in Geneva)
Anneliese's family:
- Anneliese (friend of Liliana's and Mario's, apparently knew me when I was teensy-weensy, hard to imagine, I know)
- Stefan (first son of Anneliese)
- Vincent (son of Stefan, grandson of Anneliese)
- Laetitia (daughter of Stefan, granddaughter of Anneliese)
- Fanny (daughter of Stefan, granddaughter of Anneliese)
- Joachim (a.k.a. "Jojo," second son of Anneliese)
- Wolfgang (Anneliese's boyfriend - also, potential name for my next puppy)
LANGUAGES
French, Spanish, and German
I was inordinately grateful to Stefan for having the good sense to start the night off with three bottles of champagne (and a couple of bottles of non-alcoholic cider for the kids). I don't usually drink 2 and a half glasses of champagne before dinner, but paired with foie gras, it set a festive atmosphere right off the bat. Nothing like champagne on an near-empty stomach to get me smiling and feeling at ease. Also, nothing like watching Fanny, a round faced 11-year old, work through about a half kilo of pistacchios in 10 minutes flat to get me feeling, well, something.
Three months ago, Fanny took a nasty spill off her scooter, the traces of which are still evident on her face.
Cecilia: What happened to your face, Fanny?
Fanny: I feel off my scooter.
Cecilia: But how? Did you try to brake?
Fanny: I forgot to brake.
She still has a bit of a black eye, and her left cheek is still slightly chubbier than the right one, lending her an air of someone older and perhaps wiser, someone who's taken a beating but fought back.
Let me interrupt, for a second, and explain that Fanny, Laetitia, and Vincent have, in fact, taken a beating this holiday season. Stefan, too. Just a couple of weeks ago, his wife left him for another man. The whole family, Anneliese included, has taken it very hard. Joachim's wife also left him a few years ago, so you can imagine that for grandma Anneliese, these have been trying times.
But the kids are such troopers. It could be because Stefan and his soon to be ex-wife have worked out an arrangement where the kids stay put in the same house while the parents rotate weeks living with them. This may be a temporary arrangement, but you get the intention: to make sure the kids feel the least possible disrruption and the least possible instability under the circumstances.
No matter what the parents do, though, the fact remains that they are separating. And as a child of divorced parents, let me emphasize how much this sucks. It sucks a lot.
And yet, the kids were cheerful and gracious, Fanny especially ebullient after she received her Christmas present - a small, fold-up futon, for general lounging and having friends sleep over. I watched them all night for familiar signs of resentment, of anger, of depression, and was relieved to see none. Even Stefan seemed to have a good time, for which I was very glad. He jovially offered to refill my wine glass about ten times throughout the evening, and when the wine ran out, he brought me a white Swiss beer, none of which I could possibly refuse.
We sat down to dinner after opening the presents. Yes, even I got presents! I made out pretty well, if you ask me: a box of Lindt truffles, a ring from Mexico, a hooded shirt, a wheel of Spanish turrón, and a bottle of perfume (courtesy of Wolfgang, who used to work as a chemist for a perfume company - the perfume he gave me happened to be the exact same one I almost bought in Lisbon when I was bumming around the airport's duty free shop - talk about lucky).
Dinner began with lemon-soaked lotte (monkfish) served on an avocado mousse. Following, we tucked into the honey and orange infused Christmas ham and gratin dauphinois (one of my favorite dishes from this area, essentially just a whole bunch of sliced potatoes baked with gruyère and béchamel sauce). At this point, the evening became a blur with a few distinguishable moments. I'm sure I could have remembered more if I had drunk less, but what's the fun in being the only sober person at a Christmas party?
I remember my aunt, increasingly talkative and animated as the evening passed, prompting me to talk about my days of competitive horse-back riding. I have no idea why it occurred to her that this might be an interesting topic to me and to everyone gathered at the table (although in retrospect I think it may have been because Laetitia, too, is passionate about horses).
The only cogent contribution I muster for the conversation was, "Moi, j'adore les chevaux."
Me, I love horses.
To which most of the group added, "Oui, j'aime bien les chevaux!"
All but Wolfgang, who announced very amiably, "Moi, je mange mes chevaux."
Me, I eat my horses.
Everyone burst out laughing, me especially, and I observed Wolfgang through my wine-goggles. Wolfgang is, well, he's a catch. At least I think so. Granted, he is 68 years old. Not in my target age range, not by any means. But he's got one of the most magnetic personalities I've ever seen in a near septuagenarian. Always smiling, always joking. And he has aged as gracefully as one can hope to age: he still has most of his hair, a shock of white, which he wears on the longer side, letting it cascade over his weatherbeaten brow and frame his crystal blue eyes. He is fit, too. An avid outdoorsman for whom a visit to the Grand Canyon last year was not complete without hiking down the Canyon. One of those people who tells you that you only get one go at life, and by the look of the deep creases on his face, wrinkles caused by smiles and laughter, and his air of being at peace with the world, he's made his count.
But enough about Wolfgang.
The kids' black-and-white kitty made an appearance towards the end of the night, after we'd all finished our second helpings of mousse au chocolat. The kitty was picture perfect: black all over save for his white belly, and a perfectly symmetrical white triangle down his face. He immediately (instinctively, one might argue) made for Michel, a self-proclaimed cat-lover.
Michel: I love cats. And they always seem to love me.
Michel works as an aeronautical engineer. He loves extreme sports. He has every issue of National Geographic that features sharks. He is one of my most badass cousins. I still remember two years ago, when I was last in Uruguay, he came out on my uncle Mauricio's boat with some other family members. On leaving the dock, Michel somehow managed to slice his index finger almost neatly in two with a wire. He turned a bit pale, drank some whisky, and clamped down on the mangled finger until he could treat it with some first aid materials. And that's about it. Not a peep of agony.
It's with this finger, and its neighbors, that Michel set to work on the kitty (forgive me for not remembering the cat's name and referring to him as "kitty"). Scratching gently behind his ears, down his spine, under his chin. The kitty never looked so happy and at ease. Watching Michel, with his rough, veiny hands, caressing him so tenderly and so sweetly, I have to say I felt about the same as the kitty. Happy. At ease.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
Friday, December 26
Eurochristmas Part I
When I was younger, Christmas was my favorite holiday by a longshot. And not for the reason you might assume (although I won't lie to you and tell you I disliked getting presents). Riding on the coattails of Thanksgiving, which my Uruguayan parents dutifully observed every year, Christmas felt more natural.
Don't get me wrong: I have some excellent memories of Thanksgiving. Like my mother waking me and my sisters up early on Thanksgiving Thursday so that we might "reflect" and compile a list of "the things we were thankful for." Or senior year of high school, when my friend Mikey came over and we smoked a joint outside the house before tucking into the turkey and trimmings. Mikey also brought over one of his trademark chocolate-pecan pies, of which I devoured approximately a third that night. I spent Thanksgiving, 2006 with four non-American friends washing down plates of jamón serrano and manchego cheese with bottles of Rioja and Malbec. And this year I reinvented my mother's "wheel of grace" by improving on our old family tradition of giving thanks: all of the French guests at our Thanksgiving celebration in Saint-Etienne were instructed to give thanks for one thing and down a shot of whisky. Before dinner, no less (Ma, I know I make you proud).
But, Christmas. Where to begin?
Christmas has Christmas carols and Christmas trees and Christmas cookies. Christmas has Handel's Messiah. More than anything, though, Christmas has no nationality. My parents, my whole family in Uruguay, they know Christmas. And you better believe it's a big deal. The entire family gets together on Christmas eve to eat and drink and talk for hours on end. Oh and also to "welcome the birth of Christ our Savior," although since my grandmother's passing, our Christmas has become more and more secular (my family is a mixed bag of hardcore Catholics and "take it easy" agnostics).
I haven't always been able to be in Uruguay for Christmas (although if I'm not mistaken I spent almost every Christmas between the ages of one to ten in Montevideo). Miami Christmas is the other Christmas I know, typically involving a Fondue on Christmas eve, followed by candlelight service at a Congregational Church (at which, growing up, I typically played or sang). In contrast to the Uruguayan celebration, we tend to eat our big meal on Christmas day - big meal for us being either the standard Christmas ham, potatoes, etc., or a full blown Uruguayan asado featuring a provoleta (grilled provolone seasoned with oregano, salt, and pepper), chorizo, chorizo parrillero, morcilla, morcilla dulce, mollejas, chinchulines, vacio and entraña.
Regardless of the minor differences between Christmas in Uruguay and Christmas in Miami, the common theme has always been family. Even after my parents' divorce, we'd typically have at least one parent present, and always me, Stephie, and Line. Which was great. Nothing like being surrounded by tens of relatives, near and distant, to bring three sisters closer together (like, really really close together - like cling-to-each-other-for-dear-life close together).
So you can imagine that spending my very first Christmas away from both the rents and my sisters seemed a bit daunting.
Christmas for me can be a time of great joy, joy at being with those closest to me. But it's also time of great sadness. Because Christmas is about being with family, the older I get, the more I feel the absence of those I long to be around. And I'm wracked by this deep yearning for something both nameless and familiar.
But I'm lucky. Lucky enough to have a Swiss side of the family, at this very moment residing in Geneva. And lucky enough to have been taken in by their German friend, Anneliese, who very generously opened up her home and family to me this holiday season.
-continued in next post
Don't get me wrong: I have some excellent memories of Thanksgiving. Like my mother waking me and my sisters up early on Thanksgiving Thursday so that we might "reflect" and compile a list of "the things we were thankful for." Or senior year of high school, when my friend Mikey came over and we smoked a joint outside the house before tucking into the turkey and trimmings. Mikey also brought over one of his trademark chocolate-pecan pies, of which I devoured approximately a third that night. I spent Thanksgiving, 2006 with four non-American friends washing down plates of jamón serrano and manchego cheese with bottles of Rioja and Malbec. And this year I reinvented my mother's "wheel of grace" by improving on our old family tradition of giving thanks: all of the French guests at our Thanksgiving celebration in Saint-Etienne were instructed to give thanks for one thing and down a shot of whisky. Before dinner, no less (Ma, I know I make you proud).
But, Christmas. Where to begin?
Christmas has Christmas carols and Christmas trees and Christmas cookies. Christmas has Handel's Messiah. More than anything, though, Christmas has no nationality. My parents, my whole family in Uruguay, they know Christmas. And you better believe it's a big deal. The entire family gets together on Christmas eve to eat and drink and talk for hours on end. Oh and also to "welcome the birth of Christ our Savior," although since my grandmother's passing, our Christmas has become more and more secular (my family is a mixed bag of hardcore Catholics and "take it easy" agnostics).
I haven't always been able to be in Uruguay for Christmas (although if I'm not mistaken I spent almost every Christmas between the ages of one to ten in Montevideo). Miami Christmas is the other Christmas I know, typically involving a Fondue on Christmas eve, followed by candlelight service at a Congregational Church (at which, growing up, I typically played or sang). In contrast to the Uruguayan celebration, we tend to eat our big meal on Christmas day - big meal for us being either the standard Christmas ham, potatoes, etc., or a full blown Uruguayan asado featuring a provoleta (grilled provolone seasoned with oregano, salt, and pepper), chorizo, chorizo parrillero, morcilla, morcilla dulce, mollejas, chinchulines, vacio and entraña.
Regardless of the minor differences between Christmas in Uruguay and Christmas in Miami, the common theme has always been family. Even after my parents' divorce, we'd typically have at least one parent present, and always me, Stephie, and Line. Which was great. Nothing like being surrounded by tens of relatives, near and distant, to bring three sisters closer together (like, really really close together - like cling-to-each-other-for-dear-life close together).
So you can imagine that spending my very first Christmas away from both the rents and my sisters seemed a bit daunting.
Christmas for me can be a time of great joy, joy at being with those closest to me. But it's also time of great sadness. Because Christmas is about being with family, the older I get, the more I feel the absence of those I long to be around. And I'm wracked by this deep yearning for something both nameless and familiar.
But I'm lucky. Lucky enough to have a Swiss side of the family, at this very moment residing in Geneva. And lucky enough to have been taken in by their German friend, Anneliese, who very generously opened up her home and family to me this holiday season.
-continued in next post
Sunday, December 21
The ANAEM and Falling in Love
The ANAEM is the Agence Nationale de l’Accueil des Etrangers et des Migrations. Translated roughly to English, it stands for the National Agency for the Welcome of Foreigners and Migrations. The ANAEM has a dual mission: to welcome and support aliens when they move to France, and to assist French nationals and workers when moving outside France.
This friendly and welcoming agency is where all of us non-European language assistants are required to pass a medical exam. The exam is one of the requirements for our carte de sejour, which allows us to remain in France for the duration of our work contract.
I don't need to devote much time to how the purported importance of this medical exam escapes me, given that I've been in France since late September, and I only just received my summons to the ANAEM two weeks ago. Let's just say that if me and the other American assistants had arrived in France with tubercular lungs or smallpox, our students would already have been irreversibly exposed to whatever horrible disease we might be carrying. And having our lungs x-rayed at the ANAEM in December would do little to save the poor little buggers.
Kim, Corinne, and I were all schedule for the exam on the day of our first major snow storm in Saint-Etienne. Our little city was receiving a healthy dusting of snow when we boarded the train, and everything looked pristine and white. You can imagine our chagrin when stepping off the train and onto the platform in Lyon only to discover cold, wet rain.
Unfazed, we popped by Lyon's Marché de Noël for a warm cup of vin chaud before heading to the ANAEM. The irony of drinking before a medical exam is not lost on me. However, I wasn't particularly concerned that I would have to pass a sobriety test in order to be allowed to remain in France.
The ANAEM was closed when we arrived at about 20 minutes before 1:30 PM. We stood at the entrance as employees returned from their lunches, huddling close and rubbing our hands together for warmth on the off chance that they might let us into the building early. Apparently, rain, wind, and cold are not good enough reasons to let "foreigners" into an empty building before reopening time.
Once inside, I was reminded once more of how much being inside French government buildings feels like being in hell. Or being in a scene out of the movie Brazil (not that there's a difference).
"Sorry, I'm a bit of a stickler for paperwork. Where would we be if we didn't follow the correct procedures?" And such.
The bureaucracy alone makes my head explode, and the architecture seems intentionally designed to intensify the explosion.
The exam was simple and brilliantly executed. One doctor asks you questions about your health, another doctor x-rays your chest, and a final doctor reviews the x-ray and signs the form that will enable you to go downstairs and obtain a final signature before taking the form back to the Saint-Etienne Préfecture. Which will then enable you to wait a month before passing once more by the Préfecture to pick up your shiny, new, plastic-wrapped carte de sejour.
Only we were all rather nervous about the x-rays. Or sex-rays as they were dubbed. Being left shirtless in a room with an unfamiliar French woman spewing commands at you rapid and only semi-comprehensible French (almost as if on purpose) is not the most comfortable experience.
We all came out with our forms signed and varying tales.
On my turn, the x-ray doctor had me lift and hold my hair up off of the nape of my neck, leaving me in a topless pose that I tend to reserve for bedroom seductions.
Corinne, wearing a necklace, was told to put the necklace in her mouth (shocking, I know).
Finally, Kim, topless Kim, Kim who also had on a necklace, was told to take it off while the doctor wrapped the protective lead pouch around her waist.
"You guys, when she wrapped that thing around me, it felt like we were in love!
This friendly and welcoming agency is where all of us non-European language assistants are required to pass a medical exam. The exam is one of the requirements for our carte de sejour, which allows us to remain in France for the duration of our work contract.
I don't need to devote much time to how the purported importance of this medical exam escapes me, given that I've been in France since late September, and I only just received my summons to the ANAEM two weeks ago. Let's just say that if me and the other American assistants had arrived in France with tubercular lungs or smallpox, our students would already have been irreversibly exposed to whatever horrible disease we might be carrying. And having our lungs x-rayed at the ANAEM in December would do little to save the poor little buggers.
Kim, Corinne, and I were all schedule for the exam on the day of our first major snow storm in Saint-Etienne. Our little city was receiving a healthy dusting of snow when we boarded the train, and everything looked pristine and white. You can imagine our chagrin when stepping off the train and onto the platform in Lyon only to discover cold, wet rain.
Unfazed, we popped by Lyon's Marché de Noël for a warm cup of vin chaud before heading to the ANAEM. The irony of drinking before a medical exam is not lost on me. However, I wasn't particularly concerned that I would have to pass a sobriety test in order to be allowed to remain in France.
The ANAEM was closed when we arrived at about 20 minutes before 1:30 PM. We stood at the entrance as employees returned from their lunches, huddling close and rubbing our hands together for warmth on the off chance that they might let us into the building early. Apparently, rain, wind, and cold are not good enough reasons to let "foreigners" into an empty building before reopening time.
Once inside, I was reminded once more of how much being inside French government buildings feels like being in hell. Or being in a scene out of the movie Brazil (not that there's a difference).
"Sorry, I'm a bit of a stickler for paperwork. Where would we be if we didn't follow the correct procedures?" And such.
The bureaucracy alone makes my head explode, and the architecture seems intentionally designed to intensify the explosion.
The exam was simple and brilliantly executed. One doctor asks you questions about your health, another doctor x-rays your chest, and a final doctor reviews the x-ray and signs the form that will enable you to go downstairs and obtain a final signature before taking the form back to the Saint-Etienne Préfecture. Which will then enable you to wait a month before passing once more by the Préfecture to pick up your shiny, new, plastic-wrapped carte de sejour.
Only we were all rather nervous about the x-rays. Or sex-rays as they were dubbed. Being left shirtless in a room with an unfamiliar French woman spewing commands at you rapid and only semi-comprehensible French (almost as if on purpose) is not the most comfortable experience.
We all came out with our forms signed and varying tales.
On my turn, the x-ray doctor had me lift and hold my hair up off of the nape of my neck, leaving me in a topless pose that I tend to reserve for bedroom seductions.
Corinne, wearing a necklace, was told to put the necklace in her mouth (shocking, I know).
Finally, Kim, topless Kim, Kim who also had on a necklace, was told to take it off while the doctor wrapped the protective lead pouch around her waist.
"You guys, when she wrapped that thing around me, it felt like we were in love!
The Biennale Internationale Design (and a valuable lesson in moderation)
A few weeks ago, Saint-Etienne held the 2008 International Design Biennial, intended to "make design more accessible by bringing about meetings, exchanges of ideas and discussions between audiences of all kinds." Knowing little about design myself (but having numerous design-inclined friends for whom I am writing this post), and enticed by the prospect of "interacting" with design, I headed to the Biennale during its last weekend, Kim and Corinne in tow.
We hit up the Crousty Sandwicherie (or "sandwich hole," as I accidentally called it) on our way to the expo. The Crousty is a a metal shack in Place Jean Jaures, situated practically on top of the Tram road. It's always crowded, with people descending from the Tram and elbowing each other to get their hands on any number of different sandwich permutations, crêpes, and galettes (savory crêpes).
So, why the Crousty? For starters, it's on the route that I tend to run around Saint-Etienne, which has given me the opportunity to scope the place out. And every time I pass it, I observe the same phenomenon: a throng of customers, and the almost unbearably sweet and warm smell of fresh made crêpes (when I run on cold nights, I summon my deepest reserves of inner strength in order not to cave to the smell, order a crêpe, and take the Tram back home). I'd finally tried a Crousty crêpe a few days before the Biennale. As I had waited there, holding my breath and biting my lip, I observed the sandwich that would haunt me for the next few days until I had the chance to return and sample it for myself.
The Crousty man, wearing a smudged white apron, tossed what looked like close to half a kilo of Emmenthal cheese straight onto the hot plate. That is, the hot plate which is typically used to prepare crêpes. I watched the Emmenthal melt and crisp, breathing it in, before he tossed on another half kilo of sliced chicken. The cheese and the chicken merged into a solid block that could well have been eaten as a sandwich sans bread. But he quickly transferred the mixture into a pre-sliced baguette, slathered on some mustard, and placed the sandwich onto a panini press. Five minutes later, he slid the flattened sandwich into a a flute-shaped paper bag and handed it off to one happy looking customer.
Emmenthal and chicken. Emmenthal and steak. Emmenthal, steak, and egg. Le Parisien. Le Lyonnais. Le Roma. L'Allemand. Le Volcan. Le Campagnard. Each sandwich featuring a variation on cheese (Emmenthal, Provolone, Mozzarella), meat (ham, steak, salami, tuna, egg, pâté), and miscellaneous items (tomatoes, cornichons, anchovies). Etcetera.
All for the bargain price of under 5 euro.
"You guys, you guys! We HAVE GOT to eat at the Crousty!"
Which we did. Very enthusiastically. Until we made it through a little over half of our sandwiches. In our hungry and excited state, we'd failed to process a rather challenging problem with the Crousty sandwiches. They are, in fact, served in a baguette. Not a part of a baguette. Not a half-baguette, or a flute. A whole, Crousty baguette.
I am a champion eater. I have an iron stomach. I can eat an entire bar of Lindt milk chocolate and still have room for dinner.
But I'd never eaten this much cheese and bread in one sitting before. Not even on fondue nights back home.
We rallied, bursting at the seams, but determined to make our way to the Biennale.
Sexy design chairs.
This reminds me of Ikea.
Lego chair! I used to have a Lego phone!! Remember, Zac?
We hit up the Crousty Sandwicherie (or "sandwich hole," as I accidentally called it) on our way to the expo. The Crousty is a a metal shack in Place Jean Jaures, situated practically on top of the Tram road. It's always crowded, with people descending from the Tram and elbowing each other to get their hands on any number of different sandwich permutations, crêpes, and galettes (savory crêpes).
So, why the Crousty? For starters, it's on the route that I tend to run around Saint-Etienne, which has given me the opportunity to scope the place out. And every time I pass it, I observe the same phenomenon: a throng of customers, and the almost unbearably sweet and warm smell of fresh made crêpes (when I run on cold nights, I summon my deepest reserves of inner strength in order not to cave to the smell, order a crêpe, and take the Tram back home). I'd finally tried a Crousty crêpe a few days before the Biennale. As I had waited there, holding my breath and biting my lip, I observed the sandwich that would haunt me for the next few days until I had the chance to return and sample it for myself.
The Crousty man, wearing a smudged white apron, tossed what looked like close to half a kilo of Emmenthal cheese straight onto the hot plate. That is, the hot plate which is typically used to prepare crêpes. I watched the Emmenthal melt and crisp, breathing it in, before he tossed on another half kilo of sliced chicken. The cheese and the chicken merged into a solid block that could well have been eaten as a sandwich sans bread. But he quickly transferred the mixture into a pre-sliced baguette, slathered on some mustard, and placed the sandwich onto a panini press. Five minutes later, he slid the flattened sandwich into a a flute-shaped paper bag and handed it off to one happy looking customer.
Emmenthal and chicken. Emmenthal and steak. Emmenthal, steak, and egg. Le Parisien. Le Lyonnais. Le Roma. L'Allemand. Le Volcan. Le Campagnard. Each sandwich featuring a variation on cheese (Emmenthal, Provolone, Mozzarella), meat (ham, steak, salami, tuna, egg, pâté), and miscellaneous items (tomatoes, cornichons, anchovies). Etcetera.
All for the bargain price of under 5 euro.
"You guys, you guys! We HAVE GOT to eat at the Crousty!"
Which we did. Very enthusiastically. Until we made it through a little over half of our sandwiches. In our hungry and excited state, we'd failed to process a rather challenging problem with the Crousty sandwiches. They are, in fact, served in a baguette. Not a part of a baguette. Not a half-baguette, or a flute. A whole, Crousty baguette.
I am a champion eater. I have an iron stomach. I can eat an entire bar of Lindt milk chocolate and still have room for dinner.
But I'd never eaten this much cheese and bread in one sitting before. Not even on fondue nights back home.
We rallied, bursting at the seams, but determined to make our way to the Biennale.
This is the first exhibit we flocked to. The City Eco-Lab, which seeks to explore and (potentially) answer the following series of questions:
1. What would life be like in a sustainable city? How can design help us to achieve this?
2. What kinds of sustainable food flows can we achieve?
3. How can we achieve sustainable mobility in an urban environment? What means of transport - whether existing or requiring improvements - can we use to bring about truly intermodal uses and services?
4. How can we suggest the presence of water in the city? What new (and less new) practices should we be moving towards?
The Eco-Lab was, hands down, my favorite part of the expo. Of particular note were its interactive components: a Germoir, or Seed Tray, and the "Tool Shed," in which all visitors could reference and contribute to books, maps, cards, films, high environmental performance materials, regional know-how, and a choice of software platforms and matrices for new economic models.
"La cantine moins de 80 km de City Eco Lab:"
City Eco Lab's cafeteria, serving strictly local food and drinks.
Big and meaty mushrooms growing in the Germoir.
As I strolled around the Eco-Lab, taking in exhibit after exhibit on moderation and sustainability, I considered the growing pangs in my stomach. In fact, after about 20 minutes, the pangs were all I could think about.
I would love to report back on the details of the many, fascinating projects on display, and how they made me reflect on my carbon footprint, etc.
Instead, I reflected on how foolish I'd been to consume all of that cheese and bread. I contemplated how my stomach was struggling to digest about a kilo of cheese and chicken, and an entire baguette. And I meditated on how likely it was that I would be able to lie down somewhere, anywhere, in the near future.
The remainder of the expo was a blur of furniture and random objects whose purpose was all too often unclear. I managed to sneak a nap on a comfortable but lumpy sofa (not pictured here, because frankly, I don't need another photo of me passed out in an unfamiliar place).
Sexy design chairs.
This reminds me of Ikea.
Lego chair! I used to have a Lego phone!! Remember, Zac?
In conclusion, this post was really much more to do with my overly ambitious feasting than the Biennale. But maybe you'll be happy to know (although you probably won't give a shit) that when I run by the Crousty now, I feel nothing.
Wait, actually no. That's a lie, and it plays down the roller coaster emotions that the Crousty and I shared.
Perhaps it would be more fair to say that I feel a slight temptation, inevitably followed by a twinge of nausea.
Wait, actually no. That's a lie, and it plays down the roller coaster emotions that the Crousty and I shared.
Perhaps it would be more fair to say that I feel a slight temptation, inevitably followed by a twinge of nausea.
Friday, December 12
Some days are better than others, and viceversa
Today was viceversa.
I'm in Paris right now, in the 15th arrondissement. Writing from my uncle Mario's laptop in the Ikea-furnished apartment he and my aunt Liliana have rented for their weeklong stay. Which just so happens to have coincided with my taking the GRE. In Paris. (If you take it in Paris, it's more glamorous. Okay, not really.)
This morning, at 11 am, I walked over to the Plaisance Metro station and hopped the M 13 over to Saint-Lazare. From there, I took a grimy Transilien (trains that go to the Parisian banlieue) in order to get to my test site in Courbevoie.
I don't usually listen to my mp3 player when I'm heading from point A to point B. Like all the pod people that have taken over cities. You see them everywhere, on buses and trains, on sidewalks, sometimes even on bikes, telltale wires dangling from their ears, and zoned out looks on their faces. Each insulated and quarantined from their fellow man. Who said technology would bring us all closer together?
But today, I took my mp3 player. I wanted to be in my own blissed out bubble before the exam. I wanted to get pumped by listening to ABBA and Prince. I did not want screaming babies and annoying conversations to fuck with my cool. Only I forgot that the downside to cutting yourself off from your environs can prove risky because, well, you're cut off! And you don't notice when, for example, your somewhat aggressive handling of the ticket machine and curses muttered under your breath (which, as it turns out, are actually much louder than you had intended) draw the attention of a swarthy train operator. Who proceeds to give you a withering look before lecturing you on the correct way to purchase your train ticket (the French really, really love to lecture you on how to do things correctly).
At last, sitting on the Transilien, I tuned in to Cat Power and tried some deep breathing exercises. Breathe in for five seconds, exhale for five seconds. I got about as far as 2 cycles of these before I realized that the air I was inhaling had a strong hint of stale amonia. More likely than not derived from human piss. I then decided I'd rather smell myself for the remainder of the ride and drew the top of my sweater over my face.
My arrival at Bécon-les-Bruyères, the final stop on my pilgrimage to the GRE test site, was marked by an intense desire to buy something to eat. I knew I wouldn't have time for lunch beforehand, so I'd counted on buying a Snickers bar to munch during the exam. Snickers bars being packed with chocolate for energies and peanuts for proteins. Lucky for me, there was a vending machine selling Snickers by the pair, right at the train station! Two euro would buy me two whole Snickers, to keep my belly full and my mind at ease. I parcelled out two euro in assorted coins, and dropped them into the vending machine. Made my numeric selection. And then, I lost it. Because the machine ate my coins, delivering nothing in return but a bruised fist (as previously mentioned, I have a tendency to ¨get aggressive¨ with inanimate objects that disappoint me).
I left the train station, my mood already dampened, and discovered that I was lost. The directions to the test site were clear as far as transportation. But once in the right neighborhood, there was nothing specifically directing me towards the Rue Armand Silvestre. I wandered around, trying hard to bolster my spirits with positive observations ("Look at the cute creperie," "My God, I'm in the city where Borges and Cortázar wrote, a Mecca for writers!"). Until I finally asked a young épicier to help me get my bearings. Which he did very succesfully.
Once oriented, I looked for a grocery market to buy a snack. And I found one! Kind of a dirty looking store, selling disheveled products under the glare of fluorescent lights. I grabbed an assortment of nuts and fruits marketed as Apperifruits! and made a dash for the cash register. I was third in line, behind a gray-haired man sporting crazy eyes. That he kept fixing on me. I avoided eye contact, but to no avail. He kept turning around and looking at me. And then he opened his mouth to speak.
I couldn't understand a word coming out of his mouth, only that he was making sounds that aren't usually characteristic of human speech. Whizzing sounds. And clucking sounds. Yes, like a chicken.
I think this was the first time in France that I've felt truly alone. Standing in line, next to this strange man who would not stop looking at me and clucking in my direction, I almost cried.
It dawned on me he most likely had Tourette's. And, glancing at the contents of his grocery basket which consisted of nothing more than a head of lettuce, canned ravioli, and a couple of green apples, I felt the saddest I've been in a while.
The day is over, and I'm late to meet a friend at the Bastille. The important thing to keep in mind is that the GRE is over. No more standardized tests. Ever! I hope.
Who needs a drink?
I'm in Paris right now, in the 15th arrondissement. Writing from my uncle Mario's laptop in the Ikea-furnished apartment he and my aunt Liliana have rented for their weeklong stay. Which just so happens to have coincided with my taking the GRE. In Paris. (If you take it in Paris, it's more glamorous. Okay, not really.)
This morning, at 11 am, I walked over to the Plaisance Metro station and hopped the M 13 over to Saint-Lazare. From there, I took a grimy Transilien (trains that go to the Parisian banlieue) in order to get to my test site in Courbevoie.
I don't usually listen to my mp3 player when I'm heading from point A to point B. Like all the pod people that have taken over cities. You see them everywhere, on buses and trains, on sidewalks, sometimes even on bikes, telltale wires dangling from their ears, and zoned out looks on their faces. Each insulated and quarantined from their fellow man. Who said technology would bring us all closer together?
But today, I took my mp3 player. I wanted to be in my own blissed out bubble before the exam. I wanted to get pumped by listening to ABBA and Prince. I did not want screaming babies and annoying conversations to fuck with my cool. Only I forgot that the downside to cutting yourself off from your environs can prove risky because, well, you're cut off! And you don't notice when, for example, your somewhat aggressive handling of the ticket machine and curses muttered under your breath (which, as it turns out, are actually much louder than you had intended) draw the attention of a swarthy train operator. Who proceeds to give you a withering look before lecturing you on the correct way to purchase your train ticket (the French really, really love to lecture you on how to do things correctly).
At last, sitting on the Transilien, I tuned in to Cat Power and tried some deep breathing exercises. Breathe in for five seconds, exhale for five seconds. I got about as far as 2 cycles of these before I realized that the air I was inhaling had a strong hint of stale amonia. More likely than not derived from human piss. I then decided I'd rather smell myself for the remainder of the ride and drew the top of my sweater over my face.
My arrival at Bécon-les-Bruyères, the final stop on my pilgrimage to the GRE test site, was marked by an intense desire to buy something to eat. I knew I wouldn't have time for lunch beforehand, so I'd counted on buying a Snickers bar to munch during the exam. Snickers bars being packed with chocolate for energies and peanuts for proteins. Lucky for me, there was a vending machine selling Snickers by the pair, right at the train station! Two euro would buy me two whole Snickers, to keep my belly full and my mind at ease. I parcelled out two euro in assorted coins, and dropped them into the vending machine. Made my numeric selection. And then, I lost it. Because the machine ate my coins, delivering nothing in return but a bruised fist (as previously mentioned, I have a tendency to ¨get aggressive¨ with inanimate objects that disappoint me).
I left the train station, my mood already dampened, and discovered that I was lost. The directions to the test site were clear as far as transportation. But once in the right neighborhood, there was nothing specifically directing me towards the Rue Armand Silvestre. I wandered around, trying hard to bolster my spirits with positive observations ("Look at the cute creperie," "My God, I'm in the city where Borges and Cortázar wrote, a Mecca for writers!"). Until I finally asked a young épicier to help me get my bearings. Which he did very succesfully.
Once oriented, I looked for a grocery market to buy a snack. And I found one! Kind of a dirty looking store, selling disheveled products under the glare of fluorescent lights. I grabbed an assortment of nuts and fruits marketed as Apperifruits! and made a dash for the cash register. I was third in line, behind a gray-haired man sporting crazy eyes. That he kept fixing on me. I avoided eye contact, but to no avail. He kept turning around and looking at me. And then he opened his mouth to speak.
I couldn't understand a word coming out of his mouth, only that he was making sounds that aren't usually characteristic of human speech. Whizzing sounds. And clucking sounds. Yes, like a chicken.
I think this was the first time in France that I've felt truly alone. Standing in line, next to this strange man who would not stop looking at me and clucking in my direction, I almost cried.
It dawned on me he most likely had Tourette's. And, glancing at the contents of his grocery basket which consisted of nothing more than a head of lettuce, canned ravioli, and a couple of green apples, I felt the saddest I've been in a while.
The day is over, and I'm late to meet a friend at the Bastille. The important thing to keep in mind is that the GRE is over. No more standardized tests. Ever! I hope.
Who needs a drink?
Monday, December 8
Do you like bananas?
Okay. I'm stressed about the GRE on Friday, so I won't be posting this week.
Except for the following. Which I will keep short and sweet.
I had a new class last Wednesday at Portail Rouge. Initially, I was le pissed off about having to wake up at 6 am to make the trek over to the school in time for an 8 am class, after which I was to turn right back around and go home.
That's right, one hour of class. They asked me to come in at 8 am for one hour of class. My schedule will only get worse come January, but I grin and bear it in the hopes that it will pay off when I want some wiggle room for my vacations.
Back to class. A group of quatrièmes (the equivalent of 8th grade). A boisterous crowd, with tons of questions:
"Have you got any brothers or sisters?"
"Have you got any pets?"
"Have you got a car?"
"Have you got a flat (apartment)?"
The teacher had asked them to be prepared to quiz me on my background, and boy were they on their game.
Only there were a few "troublemakers" in the crew. Les pénibles. One, in particular, who decided it would be appropriate to tell me what he thought about me. You know, physically.
Kid: Madame, you are verrrry beautifullll and sexiii.
Me: awkward laughing
Teacher: angry yelling in French
Following this, I got questioned at great length about my relationship status:
"Are you married?"
"Are you single?"
"Why are you single?"
"Why haven't you got the boyfriend?"
I took it all in stride, smiling and laughing as I tried to explain that I am very happily on my own in France.
Until I was asked if I like bananas.
Other kid: Do you like ze, em, bananes?
Me: awkward blushing and incredulity
The teacher refused to let me reply.
(She also apologized profusely after the bell rang and the students vacated the classroom).
Thursday, when I returned to Portail Rouge to school more chillun, the Assistant Principal approached me and assured me that each of the students responsible for the "inappropriate behavior" had been sentenced to a lengthy detention. And that I should not hesitate to report this type of behavior should I ever encounter it again. And that this type of behavior is rare, so to please not worry (as if the kids' behavior would drive me away from my teaching job).
I graciously accepted his regrets and decided not to admit the part about how the kids' "inappropriate behavior" had made for, quite possibly, one of my favorite classes thus far (by virtue of the pure ridiculousness they had demonstrated). I'm not sure such an admission would be considered "appropriate."
Except for the following. Which I will keep short and sweet.
I had a new class last Wednesday at Portail Rouge. Initially, I was le pissed off about having to wake up at 6 am to make the trek over to the school in time for an 8 am class, after which I was to turn right back around and go home.
That's right, one hour of class. They asked me to come in at 8 am for one hour of class. My schedule will only get worse come January, but I grin and bear it in the hopes that it will pay off when I want some wiggle room for my vacations.
Back to class. A group of quatrièmes (the equivalent of 8th grade). A boisterous crowd, with tons of questions:
"Have you got any brothers or sisters?"
"Have you got any pets?"
"Have you got a car?"
"Have you got a flat (apartment)?"
The teacher had asked them to be prepared to quiz me on my background, and boy were they on their game.
Only there were a few "troublemakers" in the crew. Les pénibles. One, in particular, who decided it would be appropriate to tell me what he thought about me. You know, physically.
Kid: Madame, you are verrrry beautifullll and sexiii.
Me: awkward laughing
Teacher: angry yelling in French
Following this, I got questioned at great length about my relationship status:
"Are you married?"
"Are you single?"
"Why are you single?"
"Why haven't you got the boyfriend?"
I took it all in stride, smiling and laughing as I tried to explain that I am very happily on my own in France.
Until I was asked if I like bananas.
Other kid: Do you like ze, em, bananes?
Me: awkward blushing and incredulity
The teacher refused to let me reply.
(She also apologized profusely after the bell rang and the students vacated the classroom).
Thursday, when I returned to Portail Rouge to school more chillun, the Assistant Principal approached me and assured me that each of the students responsible for the "inappropriate behavior" had been sentenced to a lengthy detention. And that I should not hesitate to report this type of behavior should I ever encounter it again. And that this type of behavior is rare, so to please not worry (as if the kids' behavior would drive me away from my teaching job).
I graciously accepted his regrets and decided not to admit the part about how the kids' "inappropriate behavior" had made for, quite possibly, one of my favorite classes thus far (by virtue of the pure ridiculousness they had demonstrated). I'm not sure such an admission would be considered "appropriate."
Monday, December 1
Marché de Noël: First Impressions
Today is December 1st.
As of this past weekend, the countdown to Christmas has begun. While Americans raced to the stores on Black Friday to shop for presents (or, you know, trampled an ill-fated Wal-Mart temp), the French celebrated a quainter, more charming tradition.
C'est le Marché de Noël! The Christmas Market!
From what I've gathered, the killer Christmas Markets are in the Alsace region: Strasbourg, Mulhouse, and Haguenau, to name a few towns. Tourism is strong this time of year in the Alsace: to pass by any travel agency or tourism office is to be tempted by glossy photos of snow-frosted pines and half-timbered houses with triangular, red brick roofs.
But, and here's the good news for moi, we have our very own Christmas Market here in Saint-Etienne!
I've already been there twice since the weekend.
So here's what I'm thinking: I need a recreational goal for the month of December. Next Friday I take the GRE in Paris, and I'll be rid of standardized tests forever! Or at least for a good long while, although I said the same thing back when I had to take the FCAT - Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test. And then the PSAT. And then the SAT, and then the SAT IIs. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: standardized tests are crap. You can't measure intellect through a tool designed for the sole purpose of testing your ability to produce an outcome, correct or incorrect, with no regards for the process whereby you arrive at your answer.
Goddamnit I've gone off topic again. My recreational goal. I've decided that in the coming weeks, I will sample every food product that is available for purchase at the Christmas Market.
But Katie, isn't the Christmas Market about buying, well, Christmas presents?
Yes. But this doesn't really interest me in the slightest.
Yes, you can find artisan-made crafts like glass mosaic plates, wood carved wine holders, wool knit scarves, gloves, and berets, and ceramic salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like a pair of intertwined lovers. And while I appreciate the time and skill (and in most cases, the tradition) that goes into manufacturing these articles, I'm more enticed by products that I can smell and taste.
Like churros.
What you see above is a paper wrapped bouquet of sugary churros, fresh out of the frier. The clown's sentiments echo mine exactly: HUMM...C'EST BON! The last thing I expected to see at a French Christmas Market was churros, but I'm definitely not complaining. They even serve them with a small container of Nutella (for dipping, of course), perhaps in an effort to mimic the Spanish tradition of dipping churros in hot chocolate.
I opted to dip my churros in an authentic French specialty: vin chaud.
Oh, dearest vin chaud lady! By the end of December, you will know my face as well as your own flesh and blood! Vin chaud, or mulled wine, is something I've built up since middle school French class. In it, you'll typically fine red wine, lemon, orange, sugar, and cinamon. Some recipes call for the welcome addition of nutmeg, cloves, and ginger. This concoction is heated up and ladled out on chilly nights. Although I could easily make this myself, I like having an excuse to go to the Christmas Market for a 2 Euro cup of vin chaud. This particular booth also sells marron grillés (roasted chestnuts), crêpes, and homemade preserves and marmelades.
What haven't I tried yet? A lot more than you might assume. I have as of yet to déguster the crêpes at the Market. The waffles, too (these are gauffres of the Belgian persuasion - yes, Boston crew, like the ones at the Belgian Beerfest).
Then there are the more region-specific delicacies, like the Tartiflette.
Tartiflette combines three of my all time favorite ingredients: potatoes, cheese (reblochon), and ham (or bacon). My friend Rebecca has told me repeatedly that she can't justify eating Tartiflette unless she has been out all day hiking Mont Blanc or skiing or running a marathon (or some comparable activity outdoors). I say, Rebecca, suck it up and put on your eating pants. The saucepan you see above is about as long as me. This particular booth also provides fresh made Raclette, the very simple and delicious combination of boiled potatoes with Gruyère cheese, popular in Switzerland and the French alpine region.
Then there are the bite-sized treats, like candied fruits and Christmas chocolates, featured below.
Candied kiwis, pinneaple, strawberries, figs, apples, pears, bananas, and apricots, to name about half of the fruits represented. Then there's the marzipan (or almond paste). And the artisan-made chocolates filled with gianduja, pistacchio, milk chocolate, chestnut cream, and more, each finely wrapped in shimmering gold, silver, green, pink, purple, and red-colored foil.
Last, but certainly not least, is the Ferris Wheel of Saint-Etienne.
Stay tuned for updates!
As of this past weekend, the countdown to Christmas has begun. While Americans raced to the stores on Black Friday to shop for presents (or, you know, trampled an ill-fated Wal-Mart temp), the French celebrated a quainter, more charming tradition.
C'est le Marché de Noël! The Christmas Market!
From what I've gathered, the killer Christmas Markets are in the Alsace region: Strasbourg, Mulhouse, and Haguenau, to name a few towns. Tourism is strong this time of year in the Alsace: to pass by any travel agency or tourism office is to be tempted by glossy photos of snow-frosted pines and half-timbered houses with triangular, red brick roofs.
But, and here's the good news for moi, we have our very own Christmas Market here in Saint-Etienne!
I've already been there twice since the weekend.
So here's what I'm thinking: I need a recreational goal for the month of December. Next Friday I take the GRE in Paris, and I'll be rid of standardized tests forever! Or at least for a good long while, although I said the same thing back when I had to take the FCAT - Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test. And then the PSAT. And then the SAT, and then the SAT IIs. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: standardized tests are crap. You can't measure intellect through a tool designed for the sole purpose of testing your ability to produce an outcome, correct or incorrect, with no regards for the process whereby you arrive at your answer.
Goddamnit I've gone off topic again. My recreational goal. I've decided that in the coming weeks, I will sample every food product that is available for purchase at the Christmas Market.
But Katie, isn't the Christmas Market about buying, well, Christmas presents?
Yes. But this doesn't really interest me in the slightest.
Yes, you can find artisan-made crafts like glass mosaic plates, wood carved wine holders, wool knit scarves, gloves, and berets, and ceramic salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like a pair of intertwined lovers. And while I appreciate the time and skill (and in most cases, the tradition) that goes into manufacturing these articles, I'm more enticed by products that I can smell and taste.
Like churros.
What you see above is a paper wrapped bouquet of sugary churros, fresh out of the frier. The clown's sentiments echo mine exactly: HUMM...C'EST BON! The last thing I expected to see at a French Christmas Market was churros, but I'm definitely not complaining. They even serve them with a small container of Nutella (for dipping, of course), perhaps in an effort to mimic the Spanish tradition of dipping churros in hot chocolate.I opted to dip my churros in an authentic French specialty: vin chaud.
Oh, dearest vin chaud lady! By the end of December, you will know my face as well as your own flesh and blood! Vin chaud, or mulled wine, is something I've built up since middle school French class. In it, you'll typically fine red wine, lemon, orange, sugar, and cinamon. Some recipes call for the welcome addition of nutmeg, cloves, and ginger. This concoction is heated up and ladled out on chilly nights. Although I could easily make this myself, I like having an excuse to go to the Christmas Market for a 2 Euro cup of vin chaud. This particular booth also sells marron grillés (roasted chestnuts), crêpes, and homemade preserves and marmelades.
What haven't I tried yet? A lot more than you might assume. I have as of yet to déguster the crêpes at the Market. The waffles, too (these are gauffres of the Belgian persuasion - yes, Boston crew, like the ones at the Belgian Beerfest).
Then there are the more region-specific delicacies, like the Tartiflette.
Tartiflette combines three of my all time favorite ingredients: potatoes, cheese (reblochon), and ham (or bacon). My friend Rebecca has told me repeatedly that she can't justify eating Tartiflette unless she has been out all day hiking Mont Blanc or skiing or running a marathon (or some comparable activity outdoors). I say, Rebecca, suck it up and put on your eating pants. The saucepan you see above is about as long as me. This particular booth also provides fresh made Raclette, the very simple and delicious combination of boiled potatoes with Gruyère cheese, popular in Switzerland and the French alpine region.
Then there are the bite-sized treats, like candied fruits and Christmas chocolates, featured below.
Candied kiwis, pinneaple, strawberries, figs, apples, pears, bananas, and apricots, to name about half of the fruits represented. Then there's the marzipan (or almond paste). And the artisan-made chocolates filled with gianduja, pistacchio, milk chocolate, chestnut cream, and more, each finely wrapped in shimmering gold, silver, green, pink, purple, and red-colored foil.Last, but certainly not least, is the Ferris Wheel of Saint-Etienne.
Stay tuned for updates!
Tuesday, November 25
"Teacher, I lost my shit."
Some of you might recall the magic baguette episode.
Since then, I've had some pretty solid French-to-English mistakes. Like earlier this week, during a lesson on Thanksgiving.
Me: What do we eat on Thanksgiving?
Yasmin (student): Dinde!
Me: In English?
Yasmin: Ze dinde!
But what do you say to your 14-year old French student when he very seriously proclaims:
"Teacher, I lost my shit."
Some might veer away from confronting his obvious error and simply offer, "You mean your sheet?"
Not I. I've decided I've got nothing to lose. Since I've already made a few pretty explicit and, some might argue, inappropriate choices in class.
Like when I played "Celebrity" with my quatrième class at Terrenoire and thought, mistakenly, that it would be a good idea to place all the names of American celebrities in my cupped hands, so that the students had to resort to inserting their fingers into the small opening produced between my thumbs in order to pinch a slip of paper. This strategy worked just fine until we reached the end of the game, and, left with only 3 slips of papers in my cupped hands, the last student was forced to plunge his fingers forcefully into the gap between my palms, resulting in a pretty explicit gesture for the enjoyment of the entire class.
Or when a student tried to describe Pamela Anderson's larger-than-average breasts in English, and I found myself mocking "large breasts" with hands gesticulating all too wildly in front of my own chest.
So when Ferdy, a student in my troisième class at Terrenoire, announced to me that he had lost his "shit," I met his challenge head on. I wrote both words on the board, and told the students to repeat each with their distinct pronunciation. If you're gonna say a word, even if it's a bad word, you may as well say it right and use it in context.
Shit or sheet? Like bitch or beach, this is an important question for French speakers of English. One that I've addressed twice already in the past week. I'm looking forward to more, since adolescents already know as many or more bad words than I do. Besides, who am I to spare them English curse words? Most of you know I curse like a drunken sailor. Even when I'm not drunk or sailing.
Since then, I've had some pretty solid French-to-English mistakes. Like earlier this week, during a lesson on Thanksgiving.
Me: What do we eat on Thanksgiving?
Yasmin (student): Dinde!
Me: In English?
Yasmin: Ze dinde!
But what do you say to your 14-year old French student when he very seriously proclaims:
"Teacher, I lost my shit."
Some might veer away from confronting his obvious error and simply offer, "You mean your sheet?"
Not I. I've decided I've got nothing to lose. Since I've already made a few pretty explicit and, some might argue, inappropriate choices in class.
Like when I played "Celebrity" with my quatrième class at Terrenoire and thought, mistakenly, that it would be a good idea to place all the names of American celebrities in my cupped hands, so that the students had to resort to inserting their fingers into the small opening produced between my thumbs in order to pinch a slip of paper. This strategy worked just fine until we reached the end of the game, and, left with only 3 slips of papers in my cupped hands, the last student was forced to plunge his fingers forcefully into the gap between my palms, resulting in a pretty explicit gesture for the enjoyment of the entire class.
Or when a student tried to describe Pamela Anderson's larger-than-average breasts in English, and I found myself mocking "large breasts" with hands gesticulating all too wildly in front of my own chest.
So when Ferdy, a student in my troisième class at Terrenoire, announced to me that he had lost his "shit," I met his challenge head on. I wrote both words on the board, and told the students to repeat each with their distinct pronunciation. If you're gonna say a word, even if it's a bad word, you may as well say it right and use it in context.
Shit or sheet? Like bitch or beach, this is an important question for French speakers of English. One that I've addressed twice already in the past week. I'm looking forward to more, since adolescents already know as many or more bad words than I do. Besides, who am I to spare them English curse words? Most of you know I curse like a drunken sailor. Even when I'm not drunk or sailing.
The castle, the feast, and the ear plugs
Prelude
I am an incredibly lucky person. For various reasons.
To name a few, I am blessed with good health. A good education. A supportive and loving group of friends. Two fabulous sisters with whom I actually get along. And parents from whom us Ferrari girls inherited some invaluable traits. Nature has been good to us, bestowing more than adequate athletic abilities, a refined palate and healthy appetite, a sense of humor, two languages, and musical talent. Our parents had the good sense to nurture the latter from a very young age, and all three of us grew up studying the violin, piano, and voice.
I'm proud to say that once upon a time, me, Stephie, and Line could all sing the Queen of the Night Aria from Mozart's "The Magic Flute." Perfectly, I might add.
What I'm getting at is that my parents must have had an inkling as to how their gifts would serve us throughout our lives. Especially music. Otherwise, why would they have insisted on such an extensive musical education?
They were right, as it turns out (funny how parents have this annoying habit).
But did my father know, as he spent night after night accompanying me on Mozart violin sonatas or playing left hand to my right hand on Bach French Suites, that I would someday wind up in France where I would find an orchestra to play with? And did my mother foresee that, thanks to her insistence on my being able to attend music programs at home and abroad, I would become sufficiently accomplished on my instrument, enough to be invited to a French castle for a weekend of orchestral playing?
Probably not.
Before going on, thanks are due. So thanks, Monica and Gerardo, for making my world a bit bigger.
The castle
Pictured below.
So, I was invited to a French castle! Le Château de Goutelas. Located in the Forez province of the Loire department, the château dates back to the Renaissance. It fell into ruins until the sixties, when a good samaritan decided to lead its reconstruction. Thanks to 150,000 hours of pro bono work (farmers, construction workers, intellectuals, and artists all chipped in), the château was rebuilt in the hopes that it would serve as a place of free speech and culture. In 1966, the château welcomed Duke Ellington for a concert. A few years later, he would compose the Goutelas Suite (I tried to find a recording of this without any luck; instead, check out "Take the A Train", one of my favorites).
All in all, it's a pretty f-ing cool place.
The group I'm playing with, Ensemble Musica, is a ragtag assortment of players of different ages, levels, and backgrounds. I landed in their midst thanks to Corinne, who works with one of the violists in the orchestra (a History/Geography teacher at the Lycée Claude Fauriel). Me, Corinne, and Gemma (my Australian, violin-playing neighbor at the Facotel) have all joined.
I won't bore you with rehearsal tales. Let's just say I haven't played this much since I was 18. We rehearsed 3 hours on Friday night, 6 hours on Saturday, and another 6 on Sunday. It was intense. And probably not all that necessary since this is an amateur group (professional musicians and music students are the minority). At any rate, I can now play a mean viola part for Beethoven's 6th Symphony, and I've reconnected with my passion for classical music. I'm also toying with the idea of traveling to Switzerland this summer to stalk my old viola teacher and beg him to let me study at the Detmold Hochschule with him next year, but that's another story.
The feast
I may have omitted the fact that we slept and ate at the château all weekend. More eating than sleeping, I'm afraid. But oh, the eating! I'd forgotten how playing my arms off does wonders for my appetite, expanding it from already hearty to downright savage. We ate in the dining hall, fully equipped with a fireplace (sized approximately for roasting of wild-boar-on-spit) and long wooden tables.
An exemplary meal at the château, or Saturday's lunch -
First course: salad. Naturally. Giant bowls of lettuce and heaping plates of tomatoes, eggs, and beets (or "beet-fruit," as they say in Australia). Complemented by baskets of warm, crusty baguette.
Second course: pepper-crusted roasted pork loin with champignons in a cream sauce. And another giant bowl of overflowing ziti, prepared with butter and Emmental cheese. Plus, more baguette.
Third course: le fromage. Cheese, cheese, and more cheese. I sampled the blue cheese, but mostly stuffed my already engorged cheeks with the Saint-Félicien, a gooey cow's milk cheese.
Dessert: a yellow, custardy bread pudding with sweet prunes.
I should add that the entire meal was accompanied by a juicy Côtes du Forez. Of which I drank less than the Côtes du Rhône I've consumed while writing this post. Three-quarters of the bottle, to be precise. I think the French way of life suits me.
The ear plugs
Eating this much food can disrupt your sleep. As evidenced by our loud snoring neighbor who kept it up all freaking night long. At least it was rhythmic.
Gemma had the foresight to bring French-bought ear plugs. Which are apparently wax. All wax, all the time. They come wrapped in cotton, and after you peel away the hairy tufts, you're left with hard little balls of wax to warm and mold between your fingers before inserting them delicately into your ears. Only I have slight to moderate paranoia about inserting foreign objects into my ears, especially when they have a tendency to melt.
I lasted about 10 minutes with the wax plugs before I took them out and tried to sleep to the sound of nearby wheezing and snorting. Perhaps it was the practicing, or maybe the heavy eats, probably the wine as well, but it didn't take me long to pass out.
I am an incredibly lucky person. For various reasons.
To name a few, I am blessed with good health. A good education. A supportive and loving group of friends. Two fabulous sisters with whom I actually get along. And parents from whom us Ferrari girls inherited some invaluable traits. Nature has been good to us, bestowing more than adequate athletic abilities, a refined palate and healthy appetite, a sense of humor, two languages, and musical talent. Our parents had the good sense to nurture the latter from a very young age, and all three of us grew up studying the violin, piano, and voice.
I'm proud to say that once upon a time, me, Stephie, and Line could all sing the Queen of the Night Aria from Mozart's "The Magic Flute." Perfectly, I might add.
What I'm getting at is that my parents must have had an inkling as to how their gifts would serve us throughout our lives. Especially music. Otherwise, why would they have insisted on such an extensive musical education?
They were right, as it turns out (funny how parents have this annoying habit).
But did my father know, as he spent night after night accompanying me on Mozart violin sonatas or playing left hand to my right hand on Bach French Suites, that I would someday wind up in France where I would find an orchestra to play with? And did my mother foresee that, thanks to her insistence on my being able to attend music programs at home and abroad, I would become sufficiently accomplished on my instrument, enough to be invited to a French castle for a weekend of orchestral playing?
Probably not.
Before going on, thanks are due. So thanks, Monica and Gerardo, for making my world a bit bigger.
The castle
Pictured below.
So, I was invited to a French castle! Le Château de Goutelas. Located in the Forez province of the Loire department, the château dates back to the Renaissance. It fell into ruins until the sixties, when a good samaritan decided to lead its reconstruction. Thanks to 150,000 hours of pro bono work (farmers, construction workers, intellectuals, and artists all chipped in), the château was rebuilt in the hopes that it would serve as a place of free speech and culture. In 1966, the château welcomed Duke Ellington for a concert. A few years later, he would compose the Goutelas Suite (I tried to find a recording of this without any luck; instead, check out "Take the A Train", one of my favorites).
All in all, it's a pretty f-ing cool place.
The group I'm playing with, Ensemble Musica, is a ragtag assortment of players of different ages, levels, and backgrounds. I landed in their midst thanks to Corinne, who works with one of the violists in the orchestra (a History/Geography teacher at the Lycée Claude Fauriel). Me, Corinne, and Gemma (my Australian, violin-playing neighbor at the Facotel) have all joined.
I won't bore you with rehearsal tales. Let's just say I haven't played this much since I was 18. We rehearsed 3 hours on Friday night, 6 hours on Saturday, and another 6 on Sunday. It was intense. And probably not all that necessary since this is an amateur group (professional musicians and music students are the minority). At any rate, I can now play a mean viola part for Beethoven's 6th Symphony, and I've reconnected with my passion for classical music. I'm also toying with the idea of traveling to Switzerland this summer to stalk my old viola teacher and beg him to let me study at the Detmold Hochschule with him next year, but that's another story.
The feast
I may have omitted the fact that we slept and ate at the château all weekend. More eating than sleeping, I'm afraid. But oh, the eating! I'd forgotten how playing my arms off does wonders for my appetite, expanding it from already hearty to downright savage. We ate in the dining hall, fully equipped with a fireplace (sized approximately for roasting of wild-boar-on-spit) and long wooden tables.
An exemplary meal at the château, or Saturday's lunch -
First course: salad. Naturally. Giant bowls of lettuce and heaping plates of tomatoes, eggs, and beets (or "beet-fruit," as they say in Australia). Complemented by baskets of warm, crusty baguette.
Second course: pepper-crusted roasted pork loin with champignons in a cream sauce. And another giant bowl of overflowing ziti, prepared with butter and Emmental cheese. Plus, more baguette.
Third course: le fromage. Cheese, cheese, and more cheese. I sampled the blue cheese, but mostly stuffed my already engorged cheeks with the Saint-Félicien, a gooey cow's milk cheese.
Dessert: a yellow, custardy bread pudding with sweet prunes.
I should add that the entire meal was accompanied by a juicy Côtes du Forez. Of which I drank less than the Côtes du Rhône I've consumed while writing this post. Three-quarters of the bottle, to be precise. I think the French way of life suits me.
The ear plugs
Eating this much food can disrupt your sleep. As evidenced by our loud snoring neighbor who kept it up all freaking night long. At least it was rhythmic.
Gemma had the foresight to bring French-bought ear plugs. Which are apparently wax. All wax, all the time. They come wrapped in cotton, and after you peel away the hairy tufts, you're left with hard little balls of wax to warm and mold between your fingers before inserting them delicately into your ears. Only I have slight to moderate paranoia about inserting foreign objects into my ears, especially when they have a tendency to melt.
I lasted about 10 minutes with the wax plugs before I took them out and tried to sleep to the sound of nearby wheezing and snorting. Perhaps it was the practicing, or maybe the heavy eats, probably the wine as well, but it didn't take me long to pass out.
Wednesday, November 19
In which I realize that going to the market is kind of like going to the circus
SERIOUSLY, people, take a look at this purple cauliflower:
Saturday mornings in Saint-Etienne are all about the farmer's market. I've been lazy and stuck to the one by my house which occupies what normally serves as a parking lot. But on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and yes, Saturdays, the lot, framed by apartment buildings and a lone bar named "Le Pub Fiction," is overrun by farmers peddling their wares. Potatoes, apples, pears, lettuce, fresh herbs, pumpkins, radishes, cucumbers, berries, broccoli, cauliflower (in white, green, and purple varieties), are among the produce selection. Dairy products ranging from briques of pure cow's milk cheese, chèvre and brebis (goat and sheep's milk cheeses), homemade yogurt, and eggs can be found on the perimeter. Pork, beef, and poultry farmers also represent, with an emphasis on pork (pork-based products being a regional specialty). These ruddy-faced stéphanois sport blood-tinged aprons and meat cleavers, serving customers from caravans with hanging hams and rows of sausages.
Which brings us to my point about markets being like circuses. It could be the presence of caravans that first gave me a circus-y feeling. Or it could be the sights to behold, e.g. mutant strains of cauliflower or oddly shaped vegetables - Corinne adopted a cucumber that looked like it was sprouting two more cucumbers. Interesting sidenote: Europe recently relaxed its rules on the sale of "ugly" fruits and vegetables (thus explaining the curious absence of "overly curved, extra knobbly or oddly shaped produce from supermarket shelves," and the abundance of said deformed bounty of nature at the farmer's markets).
Mostly, though, I think it's the farmers themselves. I can easily picture one of the pig farmers as a circus strongman, wrestling with a massive side of ham. In some cases, though, no imagination is necessary.
Take my favorite fruit farmer, whose name I still don't know even though I see him every week to buy a kilo or so of his Gala apples. And by buy a kilo or so of his Gala apples, I also mean chat with, admire, and generally oggle him.
Corinne: You mean that guy? He looks kind of like a goat...
Yes, apparently I have a thing for goat-like men. My apple man is tall and broad-shouldered, with charcoal hair and a really becoming goatee (trust me). His eyes crinkle and twinkle when he smiles, which is often. He wears the same sweater every time I see him, a faded navy blue wool knit that looks worn and mended.
So he's a dreamy goat-like man. I think if he headlined at a circus, his act would be entitled "Mephistophelian goat man." He would probably hypnotize hapless young women by juggling apples and dazzling them with his smile. The women, in turn, would stand zero chance of escaping his charms (and not buying his fruit).
My favorite circusesque farmers are the dairy duo from whom I buy my goat and sheep cheese. A married couple (presumably, though they might well be brother and sister) they are as old as their caravan, which looks like a throwback to gypsy wagons of yore. Round and plump, their rosy cheeks contrast with the snow white color of their sheep (yes, they have photos of their sheep lining the walls of the caravan). Their leathery hands with neatly clipped fingernails take great care when packing bricks and patties of all sorts of fresh cheeses in sheets of wax paper.
Usually, though, I can't help staring at their faces. The man has a glass eye that always trips me up when he looks past me asks me with grandfatherly warmth, "Qu'est-ce que vous désirez, mademoiselle?" The woman has more facial hair than he does, but the mustache suits her, as does the furry mole that dots her left upper lip. Both are missing teeth but don't seem to mind as they smile their gap-toothed smiles and move on to the next customer.
I'm not sure what act they would do. She could definitely play the part of the bearded lady (perhaps modfied to be "heavily mustached lady"). He might be the man with the magic eye?
I'm open to suggestions.
The market
Vegtastic
Saturday mornings in Saint-Etienne are all about the farmer's market. I've been lazy and stuck to the one by my house which occupies what normally serves as a parking lot. But on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and yes, Saturdays, the lot, framed by apartment buildings and a lone bar named "Le Pub Fiction," is overrun by farmers peddling their wares. Potatoes, apples, pears, lettuce, fresh herbs, pumpkins, radishes, cucumbers, berries, broccoli, cauliflower (in white, green, and purple varieties), are among the produce selection. Dairy products ranging from briques of pure cow's milk cheese, chèvre and brebis (goat and sheep's milk cheeses), homemade yogurt, and eggs can be found on the perimeter. Pork, beef, and poultry farmers also represent, with an emphasis on pork (pork-based products being a regional specialty). These ruddy-faced stéphanois sport blood-tinged aprons and meat cleavers, serving customers from caravans with hanging hams and rows of sausages.
Which brings us to my point about markets being like circuses. It could be the presence of caravans that first gave me a circus-y feeling. Or it could be the sights to behold, e.g. mutant strains of cauliflower or oddly shaped vegetables - Corinne adopted a cucumber that looked like it was sprouting two more cucumbers. Interesting sidenote: Europe recently relaxed its rules on the sale of "ugly" fruits and vegetables (thus explaining the curious absence of "overly curved, extra knobbly or oddly shaped produce from supermarket shelves," and the abundance of said deformed bounty of nature at the farmer's markets).
Mostly, though, I think it's the farmers themselves. I can easily picture one of the pig farmers as a circus strongman, wrestling with a massive side of ham. In some cases, though, no imagination is necessary.
Take my favorite fruit farmer, whose name I still don't know even though I see him every week to buy a kilo or so of his Gala apples. And by buy a kilo or so of his Gala apples, I also mean chat with, admire, and generally oggle him.
Corinne: You mean that guy? He looks kind of like a goat...
Yes, apparently I have a thing for goat-like men. My apple man is tall and broad-shouldered, with charcoal hair and a really becoming goatee (trust me). His eyes crinkle and twinkle when he smiles, which is often. He wears the same sweater every time I see him, a faded navy blue wool knit that looks worn and mended.
So he's a dreamy goat-like man. I think if he headlined at a circus, his act would be entitled "Mephistophelian goat man." He would probably hypnotize hapless young women by juggling apples and dazzling them with his smile. The women, in turn, would stand zero chance of escaping his charms (and not buying his fruit).
My favorite circusesque farmers are the dairy duo from whom I buy my goat and sheep cheese. A married couple (presumably, though they might well be brother and sister) they are as old as their caravan, which looks like a throwback to gypsy wagons of yore. Round and plump, their rosy cheeks contrast with the snow white color of their sheep (yes, they have photos of their sheep lining the walls of the caravan). Their leathery hands with neatly clipped fingernails take great care when packing bricks and patties of all sorts of fresh cheeses in sheets of wax paper.
Usually, though, I can't help staring at their faces. The man has a glass eye that always trips me up when he looks past me asks me with grandfatherly warmth, "Qu'est-ce que vous désirez, mademoiselle?" The woman has more facial hair than he does, but the mustache suits her, as does the furry mole that dots her left upper lip. Both are missing teeth but don't seem to mind as they smile their gap-toothed smiles and move on to the next customer.
I'm not sure what act they would do. She could definitely play the part of the bearded lady (perhaps modfied to be "heavily mustached lady"). He might be the man with the magic eye?
I'm open to suggestions.
The market
Vegtastic
Sunday, November 9
Yes, we did.
I spent election night in Lisbon, glued to the television in Juan Manuel's apartment and watching the returns on cable. I made it to the point when CNN finally called Pennsylvania for Obama - by then, the five hour time difference was too much to bear, and I succumbed to sleep.
I woke up at 5 am, and Obama had won.
It's hard to put words to the feeling I had in that moment. A feeling that has stayed with me all week. Eirene put it perfectly in a chat I had with her on Friday:
Eirene: it was the happiest day of the last 8 years
it was sort of like being in love, and just really really happy
liberated?
In love, yes. Really really happy, most definitely. Liberated, of course. Of one of the most shameful administrations in American history. One that has repeatedly tarnished what "America" should and can represent.
I've cried every day this week since. Out of joy, pride, inspiration, and hope. And out of gratitude to the American people. For reminding me of why I'm proud to call myself American, in the fullest sense.
Wish I could have been there with you all to celebrate!
I woke up at 5 am, and Obama had won.
It's hard to put words to the feeling I had in that moment. A feeling that has stayed with me all week. Eirene put it perfectly in a chat I had with her on Friday:
Eirene: it was the happiest day of the last 8 years
it was sort of like being in love, and just really really happy
liberated?
In love, yes. Really really happy, most definitely. Liberated, of course. Of one of the most shameful administrations in American history. One that has repeatedly tarnished what "America" should and can represent.
I've cried every day this week since. Out of joy, pride, inspiration, and hope. And out of gratitude to the American people. For reminding me of why I'm proud to call myself American, in the fullest sense.
Wish I could have been there with you all to celebrate!
Thursday, October 30
The best mistake
The other day, I made the best mistake.
Without really consulting the weather, I decided to sample the "New Berlin" walking tour. Sandemans "New Europe" tours are all the rage in European cities: at present, they serve Amsterdam, Berlin, Edinburgh, Hamburg, London, Jerusalem, Madrid, Munich, Paris, and Tel Aviv, marketing themselves as the FREE city tour. Their logic? Everyone should be entitled to a city tour, and no one should have to pay for it without knowing what it's going to be like. Obviously, they encourage tips, which most patrons are happy to provide.
The "New Berlin" tours also took me out to Sachsenhausen, the concentration camp on the outskirts of the city, and I'm happy to sing their praises. The guides are intelligent, well-spoken, and posses very deep knowledge of the city. They are also its greatest advocates, excitedly pointing out what a "new" city Berlin truly is (18 years, to be exact, since reunification), and how the Berliners have made a commitment to understanding and remembering the past, viewing themselves and the city itself as agents of memory to ensure that history doesn't repeat itself (nations of Latin America, take note).
But I've veered away from the story I want to relate. The best mistake. And no, I'm not referring to the walking tour, which was, unfortunately rained on throughout the entire three and a half hours ("New" tours operate in any and all weather). Our guide, Em, a Scot from Glasgow who had majored in German history (bonus for us tour-goers), made the much appreciated choice of stopping for warm drinks and food two hours in.
I stood in disbelief at the cafe to which she led us. Aroma espresso bar, clearly a chain, with a trademark red, black, and white color scheme, Ikea furniture, and sleek menus. I'm not sure if my disappointment showed (Why a chain?? Why-eeeeee!), but Em made a point of recommending the food with the same enthusiasm she'd devoted minutes before to the Checkpoint Charlie museum.
"Try the hot chocolate - it's really really something else," she intoned, rolling her "rr"s à la Scottish speak. Now, it's not that difficult to persuade me that I need to order a hot chocolate. In fact, it's what I had planned to order regardless. That, and a croissant to stave off my hunger until lunchtime. The croissants were beckoning to me even before I set foot in the cafe. They looked all too perfect, magazine croissants, cook book croissants, a toasted brown color and precisely crisped look to them.
So where did I err? And why did it prove miraculous?
I stepped up to the cashier to order in stilted German.
Me: Ein heiße schokolade und ein croissant, bitte.
Cashier lady: GermangarblegarblegarblegarblegarbleSCHOKOLADEgarblegarble?
Me: Uh... Ja. Schokolade. Bitte
Thinking I had reaffirmed that I wanted a hot chocolate, I mistakenly ordered a chocolate croissant. Along with my hot chocolate.
That's a lot of chocolate. Even for me. Especially considering that I'm not big on chocolate croissants. Never have been, to the mystification of several family members and friends. I'll happily scarf down pretty much any food product that incorporates chocolate, but not the chocolate croissant, and I've never really understood why.
Until now.
I collected my hot chocolate and chocolate croissant (still, gasp, warm from the oven!) and took a seat.
The hot chocolate: a generous mug of steamed milk. Good and steamy. Inside, a bar of milk chocolate, melted upon contact with the milk. A quick stir brought up a spoonful of velvety chocolate that I dunked back in for further melting.
The croissant: never, and I do mean never, have I sampled such a thing. The croissant itself was as perfect as it looked. It flaked where a croissant is supposed to flake. It crisped where a croissant is supposed to crisp. It held where a croissant is supposed to hold. And inside, the chocolate, warm, melted, and milky. That's it. Milk chocolate. The magic ingredient. The element missing from all previous chocolate croissants, which are typically laden with a more bitter chocolate. Not so at Aroma. It was like eating a Milka croissant sandwich.
It had been a while since something chocolate-based had surprised my taste buds. So much for the language barrier proving a handicap in Germany.
Without really consulting the weather, I decided to sample the "New Berlin" walking tour. Sandemans "New Europe" tours are all the rage in European cities: at present, they serve Amsterdam, Berlin, Edinburgh, Hamburg, London, Jerusalem, Madrid, Munich, Paris, and Tel Aviv, marketing themselves as the FREE city tour. Their logic? Everyone should be entitled to a city tour, and no one should have to pay for it without knowing what it's going to be like. Obviously, they encourage tips, which most patrons are happy to provide.
The "New Berlin" tours also took me out to Sachsenhausen, the concentration camp on the outskirts of the city, and I'm happy to sing their praises. The guides are intelligent, well-spoken, and posses very deep knowledge of the city. They are also its greatest advocates, excitedly pointing out what a "new" city Berlin truly is (18 years, to be exact, since reunification), and how the Berliners have made a commitment to understanding and remembering the past, viewing themselves and the city itself as agents of memory to ensure that history doesn't repeat itself (nations of Latin America, take note).
But I've veered away from the story I want to relate. The best mistake. And no, I'm not referring to the walking tour, which was, unfortunately rained on throughout the entire three and a half hours ("New" tours operate in any and all weather). Our guide, Em, a Scot from Glasgow who had majored in German history (bonus for us tour-goers), made the much appreciated choice of stopping for warm drinks and food two hours in.
I stood in disbelief at the cafe to which she led us. Aroma espresso bar, clearly a chain, with a trademark red, black, and white color scheme, Ikea furniture, and sleek menus. I'm not sure if my disappointment showed (Why a chain?? Why-eeeeee!), but Em made a point of recommending the food with the same enthusiasm she'd devoted minutes before to the Checkpoint Charlie museum."Try the hot chocolate - it's really really something else," she intoned, rolling her "rr"s à la Scottish speak. Now, it's not that difficult to persuade me that I need to order a hot chocolate. In fact, it's what I had planned to order regardless. That, and a croissant to stave off my hunger until lunchtime. The croissants were beckoning to me even before I set foot in the cafe. They looked all too perfect, magazine croissants, cook book croissants, a toasted brown color and precisely crisped look to them.
So where did I err? And why did it prove miraculous?
I stepped up to the cashier to order in stilted German.
Me: Ein heiße schokolade und ein croissant, bitte.
Cashier lady: GermangarblegarblegarblegarblegarbleSCHOKOLADEgarblegarble?
Me: Uh... Ja. Schokolade. Bitte
Thinking I had reaffirmed that I wanted a hot chocolate, I mistakenly ordered a chocolate croissant. Along with my hot chocolate.
That's a lot of chocolate. Even for me. Especially considering that I'm not big on chocolate croissants. Never have been, to the mystification of several family members and friends. I'll happily scarf down pretty much any food product that incorporates chocolate, but not the chocolate croissant, and I've never really understood why.
Until now.
I collected my hot chocolate and chocolate croissant (still, gasp, warm from the oven!) and took a seat.
The hot chocolate: a generous mug of steamed milk. Good and steamy. Inside, a bar of milk chocolate, melted upon contact with the milk. A quick stir brought up a spoonful of velvety chocolate that I dunked back in for further melting.
The croissant: never, and I do mean never, have I sampled such a thing. The croissant itself was as perfect as it looked. It flaked where a croissant is supposed to flake. It crisped where a croissant is supposed to crisp. It held where a croissant is supposed to hold. And inside, the chocolate, warm, melted, and milky. That's it. Milk chocolate. The magic ingredient. The element missing from all previous chocolate croissants, which are typically laden with a more bitter chocolate. Not so at Aroma. It was like eating a Milka croissant sandwich.
It had been a while since something chocolate-based had surprised my taste buds. So much for the language barrier proving a handicap in Germany.
A Night at the Philharmonie
God, I love the orchestra.
There was a time, I remember, when this was the only future I could envision for myself. The smell of rosin, horsehair, and sweat. An A droning relentlessly while brass, woodwinds, and finally strings tune their instruments. The restrained energy when the conductor lifts his baton, bows hovering over strings, fingers tensed, trembling in anticipation, waiting, waiting for that down beat. And then, the outpouring of sound as bow meets string, breath meets reed and mouthpiece.
I think a higher power really wanted me to see the Berlin Philarmoniker during my stay here. Concert tickets are typically sold out months in advance. And yet, I managed to get my eager hands on a 20 euro ticket for a spot in the nosebleed section at the Philharmonie. Saturday October 25, 2008. Section G (left), seat 24.
The Philharmonie is renowned for its perfect acoustics. Before coming to Berlin, I'd heard that no matter where you sit inside, you can hear perfectly. If I were to go hear Shostakovitch's 11th, for example, the English horn in the last movement would sound just as ethereal in Section A (right) as it would in Section K (left).
I was excited, to put it mildly.
The concert hall itself is fully round. Audience members are seated in front, to the sides, and behind the orchestra. They literally surround the orchestra on benches and seats that are as comfortable as movie theater seats. Why shouldn't this be the case, I've often wondered? Tucking into a great piece of classical music should, like leaning back for the latest thriller or action flick, be a comfortable experience. Sinking into a rusted gold seat cushion and up against the polished wood panel seat back, I took in the view.
Not pictured is the Philharmonie's organ, off to the right, which I was ecstatic to have so close. Organs are one of my favorite architectural and musical phenomena, and I seldom enter a church without scrutinizing its organ. This one was massive and built straight into the hall. Its shiny silver pipes resembled a metallurgic cactus garden from the future.
Before the concert, orchestra patrons promenaded outside of the concert hall in the waiting area. Distinguished men and women, dressed in tailored suits and minimalist dresses, stood around high tables sipping champagne and wine out of tapered glasses. The older members of the audience smelled of rich perfume.
When I bought the ticket, I hadn't even bothered to see what they were performing. I could have cared less at that point. But leafing through the program at the concert, I was glad to see that they were performing Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra, a piece that gives each section of the orchestra a chance to shine. And surprised and wowed to see that Gil Shaham was joining them to play the Elgar violin concerto. Gil Shaham, for non-classically inclined readers, is something of a celebrity in the classical violin world, a wunderkind turned acclaimed adult performer. I wasn't familiar with the Elgar, but seeing both the Berlin Phil and Shaham play was a pretty amazing coincidence.
So, how to describe the concert? The orchestra exceeded my expectations. Shaham, not so much.
Gil Shaham's sound felt thin the whole way through the Elgar, and he got excrutiatingly sharp as the piece progressed. I tend to be extremely critical of soloists (chalk it up to the influence of an ex-boyfriend who fancied himself a music critic and a painfully exigent violin teacher), so maybe I was too hard on him.
But the orchestra! Elgar writes so beautifully for strings, and the Phil's string section reveled in the lush and supple texture of the music. I know it's mixing metaphors, but hearing the strings felt like eating bar of really top-quality chocolate. The chocolate spreads everywhere, it sticks to the roof of your mouth, fills every nook and cranny with an almost unbearably rich taste. My entire body was coated by the sound, radiating everywhere from my toes to my ears to the inside of my eyes.
The Bartok was really just breathtaking. I've played it twice, once as a violinist and the second time as a violist. Both times, it was a shitshow. That piece is written to reveal where the weaknesses lie in your orchestra. If one section, or even one player falters, the entire thing will come crashing down on you. The Phil blew me away, and everyone shone (of particular note, the woodwinds in the second movement: perfect rhythm, perfect intonation, perfect unity in one of the most tortuous movements ever written).
And, upon leaving the Philharmonie, I was greeted by the cold night air and a duo of street musicians playing folk songs on the bouzouki and accordion.
There was a time, I remember, when this was the only future I could envision for myself. The smell of rosin, horsehair, and sweat. An A droning relentlessly while brass, woodwinds, and finally strings tune their instruments. The restrained energy when the conductor lifts his baton, bows hovering over strings, fingers tensed, trembling in anticipation, waiting, waiting for that down beat. And then, the outpouring of sound as bow meets string, breath meets reed and mouthpiece.
I think a higher power really wanted me to see the Berlin Philarmoniker during my stay here. Concert tickets are typically sold out months in advance. And yet, I managed to get my eager hands on a 20 euro ticket for a spot in the nosebleed section at the Philharmonie. Saturday October 25, 2008. Section G (left), seat 24.
The Philharmonie is renowned for its perfect acoustics. Before coming to Berlin, I'd heard that no matter where you sit inside, you can hear perfectly. If I were to go hear Shostakovitch's 11th, for example, the English horn in the last movement would sound just as ethereal in Section A (right) as it would in Section K (left).
I was excited, to put it mildly.
The concert hall itself is fully round. Audience members are seated in front, to the sides, and behind the orchestra. They literally surround the orchestra on benches and seats that are as comfortable as movie theater seats. Why shouldn't this be the case, I've often wondered? Tucking into a great piece of classical music should, like leaning back for the latest thriller or action flick, be a comfortable experience. Sinking into a rusted gold seat cushion and up against the polished wood panel seat back, I took in the view.
Not pictured is the Philharmonie's organ, off to the right, which I was ecstatic to have so close. Organs are one of my favorite architectural and musical phenomena, and I seldom enter a church without scrutinizing its organ. This one was massive and built straight into the hall. Its shiny silver pipes resembled a metallurgic cactus garden from the future.
Before the concert, orchestra patrons promenaded outside of the concert hall in the waiting area. Distinguished men and women, dressed in tailored suits and minimalist dresses, stood around high tables sipping champagne and wine out of tapered glasses. The older members of the audience smelled of rich perfume.
When I bought the ticket, I hadn't even bothered to see what they were performing. I could have cared less at that point. But leafing through the program at the concert, I was glad to see that they were performing Bartok's Concerto for Orchestra, a piece that gives each section of the orchestra a chance to shine. And surprised and wowed to see that Gil Shaham was joining them to play the Elgar violin concerto. Gil Shaham, for non-classically inclined readers, is something of a celebrity in the classical violin world, a wunderkind turned acclaimed adult performer. I wasn't familiar with the Elgar, but seeing both the Berlin Phil and Shaham play was a pretty amazing coincidence.
So, how to describe the concert? The orchestra exceeded my expectations. Shaham, not so much.
Gil Shaham's sound felt thin the whole way through the Elgar, and he got excrutiatingly sharp as the piece progressed. I tend to be extremely critical of soloists (chalk it up to the influence of an ex-boyfriend who fancied himself a music critic and a painfully exigent violin teacher), so maybe I was too hard on him.
But the orchestra! Elgar writes so beautifully for strings, and the Phil's string section reveled in the lush and supple texture of the music. I know it's mixing metaphors, but hearing the strings felt like eating bar of really top-quality chocolate. The chocolate spreads everywhere, it sticks to the roof of your mouth, fills every nook and cranny with an almost unbearably rich taste. My entire body was coated by the sound, radiating everywhere from my toes to my ears to the inside of my eyes.
The Bartok was really just breathtaking. I've played it twice, once as a violinist and the second time as a violist. Both times, it was a shitshow. That piece is written to reveal where the weaknesses lie in your orchestra. If one section, or even one player falters, the entire thing will come crashing down on you. The Phil blew me away, and everyone shone (of particular note, the woodwinds in the second movement: perfect rhythm, perfect intonation, perfect unity in one of the most tortuous movements ever written).
And, upon leaving the Philharmonie, I was greeted by the cold night air and a duo of street musicians playing folk songs on the bouzouki and accordion.
I Heart Berlin
I arrived in Berlin Friday morning, courtesy of an Easy Jet flight that deposited me at Schönefeld Airport. Schönefeld, as I discovered once I stepped off the tarmac, is about an hour away from Alexanderplatz, the commercial center of East Berlin and the closest train station to my sister's apartment. Line was a trooper and managed to drag herself out of bed by 10 in order to get to Schönefeld by 11 and pick my ass up, only to turn around and repeat the one-hour journey in reverse.
First thoughts after I dropped my pack off at Line's apartment: I love German. And damn, the Germans (in Berlin at least) love their bikes.
First, the bikes. They're everywhere. As ubiquitous as cars in Miami. What's more, the city is designed for them. I've heard of such cities in Northern Europe (Copenhagen comes to mind), but this was my first time in a true biker's city. Bikers rule, and boy don't they know it. Line schooled me pretty well in Berlin's pedestrian rules of navigation ("Don't ever, EVER step into a bike lane without checking for bikers.") But given the fact that I pretty much live my life in a perpetual state of blissful unawareness, I'll confess that each time I set food outside, I was haunted by visions of me catapulting some poor biker off the bike lane. Accidentally, of course.
No such misfortune, thankfully. Although I drove Line a bit nuts walking around Berlin.
Me: Watch out! That's a bike lane!
Line: No, Katie.
Me: Wait, but then are we on the bike lane now? Shit, move, there's a biker behind you!
Line: No, no! Just relax!
And few minutes later, crossing a street...
Me: No one's coming, let's go!
Line: Katie, no! It's the bikers' turn now!
Me: They get their own turn?
Yeah, I was confused most of the time. But at least I wasn't the target of an irate German biker's German curses and insults.
Second, and briefly, the German. I love it. I know many people will disagree with me and argue that it is an ugly-sounding language, filled with harsh "rr"s and "sch"s. To you naysayers, I blow a raspberry and beg you to rent a German film like "Das leben der anderen" ("The Lives of Others") or "Lola rennt" ("Run, Lola, Run") to remind yourselves of what German actually sounds like (it is NOT, as most imagine, best represented by old film reels of Hitler and his Nazi brethren orating and spewing hatred; instead, think Goethe, think the poetry of Schiller, the music of Beethoven).
So yes, I want to study German again. And not just for the sake of the language. I sort of fell for Berlin the first day I arrived, and what sort of love affair can I hope to have without speaking the language of the object of my affection?
That first night, I was invited out by a friend who is currently on leave from Harvard and living in Berlin. It was all the product of happenstance. I happened to be in Berlin, and I happened to post my location on Facebook. My friend, Clara, happened to also be in Berlin, happened to be on Facebook at the same moment as me, and happened to chat me before I signed off (an aside: I will no longer moan and groan about new Facebook features: Facebook chat IS, in fact, a useful tool). And my sister happened to have other plans, so I was free to go.
I left my sister's place on Prenzlauer Allee (say it!) with some beer already in my system. I hadn't realized, yet, that there was no need to limit my pre-gaming to her apartment. When I wobbled into the train station, it hit me: everyone, and I mean everyone, was drinking beer. Out of bottles, not brown paper bags. Pilsners, weiss biers, even Smirnoff Ices.
Berlin really is this tolerant.
The train ride to Kortbusser Tor is kinda hazy at this point; the only memorable moment occurred when I got off at my stop and encountered the biggest, hairiest dog-creature I've ever seen. More bear than canine, just chilling at the station with its owner. Not seeing a muzzle (which I think may be mandatory in France, since all dogs hanging out in public sport them), I pumped my legs hard and fast to get by. I swear the animal had dreadlocks.
And then, something else I'd never seen. A group of animated young people, all probably early to mid-twenties. It took me a few seconds to figure out why they had caught my eye. They were talking like they had parrots for hands. It hit me: they were deaf. They stood around in a varied formation, signing away with excitement, patting each other on the back, smiling, reveling in the promise of a Friday night. I watched them for a minute or two before continuing on to the party.
In retrospect, I have mixed feelings about my reaction. It's not like I would usually stop and stare at a group of friends hanging out in a train station. But what can I say, I found this unusual and therefore interesting. I think most societies tend to keep its members with disabilities out of sight and out of mind. I was glad and grateful for another reminder of how diverse we are as a species, and how very much alike.
I arrived at the party location, a club in a predominantly gay area of the city, and headed straight to the bar to refuel. I wasn't sure what to expect at a celebration for the Berlin Porn Film Festival, and I am easily intimidated by men in leather with nipple rings, topless waitresses, outfitted in S&M garb, selling lube and condoms in old fashioned cigarette and candy trays, and the effortlessly cool ambiguous artist crowd.
Oh yeah, did I forget to mention this was a party for the Berlin Porn Film Festival?
Headlining the party's musical entertainment was Azukita, an Argentine duo with pretty craptacular music but one of the kitschiest, campiest, most bizarre performances I've ever seen. I'm still deciding if I liked it.
In what I can only describe as porn karaoke, the two members of Azukita (a boy and a girl) performed the soundtrack of porn vignettes they had filmed of themselves together, as the short films were projected onto a screen in the dance hall. The films were linked by the presence of an evil, bloodthirsty masked man. This villain, in classic, scary movie style, would creep up and (literally) cut short the couple's fornication by slash, slash, slashing at their flesh and splattering blood everywhere. The live soundtrack provided a level of mediation tantamount to the dubbing in camp classics like Godzilla. In short, it was sexual, sickening, and hilarious all at once.
Azukita drew Argentines out of the Berlin woodwork: the party was teeming with them. I asked Clara, why so many argentinos, to which she replied:
"Katie, if you do theater, if you're an artist, if you are creative and you want to study and party with the best, you come here. To Berlin."
Sign me up!
First thoughts after I dropped my pack off at Line's apartment: I love German. And damn, the Germans (in Berlin at least) love their bikes.
First, the bikes. They're everywhere. As ubiquitous as cars in Miami. What's more, the city is designed for them. I've heard of such cities in Northern Europe (Copenhagen comes to mind), but this was my first time in a true biker's city. Bikers rule, and boy don't they know it. Line schooled me pretty well in Berlin's pedestrian rules of navigation ("Don't ever, EVER step into a bike lane without checking for bikers.") But given the fact that I pretty much live my life in a perpetual state of blissful unawareness, I'll confess that each time I set food outside, I was haunted by visions of me catapulting some poor biker off the bike lane. Accidentally, of course.
No such misfortune, thankfully. Although I drove Line a bit nuts walking around Berlin.
Me: Watch out! That's a bike lane!
Line: No, Katie.
Me: Wait, but then are we on the bike lane now? Shit, move, there's a biker behind you!
Line: No, no! Just relax!
And few minutes later, crossing a street...
Me: No one's coming, let's go!
Line: Katie, no! It's the bikers' turn now!
Me: They get their own turn?
Yeah, I was confused most of the time. But at least I wasn't the target of an irate German biker's German curses and insults.
Second, and briefly, the German. I love it. I know many people will disagree with me and argue that it is an ugly-sounding language, filled with harsh "rr"s and "sch"s. To you naysayers, I blow a raspberry and beg you to rent a German film like "Das leben der anderen" ("The Lives of Others") or "Lola rennt" ("Run, Lola, Run") to remind yourselves of what German actually sounds like (it is NOT, as most imagine, best represented by old film reels of Hitler and his Nazi brethren orating and spewing hatred; instead, think Goethe, think the poetry of Schiller, the music of Beethoven).
So yes, I want to study German again. And not just for the sake of the language. I sort of fell for Berlin the first day I arrived, and what sort of love affair can I hope to have without speaking the language of the object of my affection?
That first night, I was invited out by a friend who is currently on leave from Harvard and living in Berlin. It was all the product of happenstance. I happened to be in Berlin, and I happened to post my location on Facebook. My friend, Clara, happened to also be in Berlin, happened to be on Facebook at the same moment as me, and happened to chat me before I signed off (an aside: I will no longer moan and groan about new Facebook features: Facebook chat IS, in fact, a useful tool). And my sister happened to have other plans, so I was free to go.
I left my sister's place on Prenzlauer Allee (say it!) with some beer already in my system. I hadn't realized, yet, that there was no need to limit my pre-gaming to her apartment. When I wobbled into the train station, it hit me: everyone, and I mean everyone, was drinking beer. Out of bottles, not brown paper bags. Pilsners, weiss biers, even Smirnoff Ices.
Berlin really is this tolerant.
The train ride to Kortbusser Tor is kinda hazy at this point; the only memorable moment occurred when I got off at my stop and encountered the biggest, hairiest dog-creature I've ever seen. More bear than canine, just chilling at the station with its owner. Not seeing a muzzle (which I think may be mandatory in France, since all dogs hanging out in public sport them), I pumped my legs hard and fast to get by. I swear the animal had dreadlocks.
And then, something else I'd never seen. A group of animated young people, all probably early to mid-twenties. It took me a few seconds to figure out why they had caught my eye. They were talking like they had parrots for hands. It hit me: they were deaf. They stood around in a varied formation, signing away with excitement, patting each other on the back, smiling, reveling in the promise of a Friday night. I watched them for a minute or two before continuing on to the party.
In retrospect, I have mixed feelings about my reaction. It's not like I would usually stop and stare at a group of friends hanging out in a train station. But what can I say, I found this unusual and therefore interesting. I think most societies tend to keep its members with disabilities out of sight and out of mind. I was glad and grateful for another reminder of how diverse we are as a species, and how very much alike.
I arrived at the party location, a club in a predominantly gay area of the city, and headed straight to the bar to refuel. I wasn't sure what to expect at a celebration for the Berlin Porn Film Festival, and I am easily intimidated by men in leather with nipple rings, topless waitresses, outfitted in S&M garb, selling lube and condoms in old fashioned cigarette and candy trays, and the effortlessly cool ambiguous artist crowd.
Oh yeah, did I forget to mention this was a party for the Berlin Porn Film Festival?
Headlining the party's musical entertainment was Azukita, an Argentine duo with pretty craptacular music but one of the kitschiest, campiest, most bizarre performances I've ever seen. I'm still deciding if I liked it.
In what I can only describe as porn karaoke, the two members of Azukita (a boy and a girl) performed the soundtrack of porn vignettes they had filmed of themselves together, as the short films were projected onto a screen in the dance hall. The films were linked by the presence of an evil, bloodthirsty masked man. This villain, in classic, scary movie style, would creep up and (literally) cut short the couple's fornication by slash, slash, slashing at their flesh and splattering blood everywhere. The live soundtrack provided a level of mediation tantamount to the dubbing in camp classics like Godzilla. In short, it was sexual, sickening, and hilarious all at once.
Azukita drew Argentines out of the Berlin woodwork: the party was teeming with them. I asked Clara, why so many argentinos, to which she replied:
"Katie, if you do theater, if you're an artist, if you are creative and you want to study and party with the best, you come here. To Berlin."
Sign me up!
Tuesday, October 21
Snapshots of Saint-Etienne: Place du Peuple
But during the day, if you live in Saint-Etienne, you inevitably find yourself passing through the Place to get to where your going. So it is a predictably good observation point. The stéphanois seem fond of lingering around the Place by day: businessmen and women alike, young mothers with their strollers and babies swathed in blankets, hunched over old ladies, even skaters. Especially skaters.
The Place du Peuple is a skater hot spot. I still haven't figured out why. It's teeming with people (except during nocturnal hours), and it's not like there are any particularly hair-raising stairs or ramps. You know. For a wicked awesome obstacle course. Perhaps it's because skaters, like all others, are tolerated at the Place.
The other day, I was privileged to an unusual spectacle. I was walking by the Place at around 5 in the afternoon, en route to Paul to restock on bread. Did I forget to mention that there is a Paul is located directly across from Place? Good bread and good people watching might explain why I'm so irresistibly drawn to the Place du Peuple.
Anyway, I noticed a wizened man sitting in the Place. Actually, he was more than sitting. He was drinking. Heavily. The man held a bottle of white wine in his knotted hand and was taking swigs of the stuff like it was the goddamn water of life. I slowed down to get a better look: I've seen a lot of things in public spaces before, but this was the first time I'd encountered an old man, clearly a drunk, with such a classy poison.
And then it happened. A lone skater careened by the Mr. Drunkles, flipped off his board, and landed back first in front of our classy friend. It was a nasty spill, and everyone in the Place du Peuple started visibly, some people even getting up in the skater's direction. To sort him out, make sure he was alright. They needn't have bothered. Old drunk had the situation covered. He eyed the skater with concern, looked down at the bottle in his hand, and immediately proffered it without hesitation.
I didn't stay around long enough to see if the skater accepted. Instead, I smiled and walked on.
Anyway, I noticed a wizened man sitting in the Place. Actually, he was more than sitting. He was drinking. Heavily. The man held a bottle of white wine in his knotted hand and was taking swigs of the stuff like it was the goddamn water of life. I slowed down to get a better look: I've seen a lot of things in public spaces before, but this was the first time I'd encountered an old man, clearly a drunk, with such a classy poison.
And then it happened. A lone skater careened by the Mr. Drunkles, flipped off his board, and landed back first in front of our classy friend. It was a nasty spill, and everyone in the Place du Peuple started visibly, some people even getting up in the skater's direction. To sort him out, make sure he was alright. They needn't have bothered. Old drunk had the situation covered. He eyed the skater with concern, looked down at the bottle in his hand, and immediately proffered it without hesitation.
I didn't stay around long enough to see if the skater accepted. Instead, I smiled and walked on.
Monday, October 20
The magic baguette
If there is such a thing as a magic baguette, I think I've found it.
Let me explain.
Last Wednesday, I had my first demi-groupe at Portail Rouge, a half group of students entrusted to my care for a 30-minute language section.
I wasn't prepared. At all, really. At Collège Terrenoire, I've been enjoying my "observation period," shadowing teachers and learning students' names and language levels. Not so at Portail Rouge, it would seem, since I showed up to my 9 am class and was informed that 15 students would follow me into a classroom of my own to receive their "lesson."
So I improvised. What with? Well, I wracked my brain for something simple and relevant that might engage the students. The election? Maybe for high school English, but the middle schoolers I've met so far have lacked the vocabulary and grammar necessary to debate "Obama v. McCain." Let alone learn about the American electoral system.
I flashed back to a chat I'd had earlier in the week with Kristin. Kristin has been good enough to ship me a few extra things I left behind in Boston (I apparently overlooked many, many important items during my manic packing spree).
Kristin: You may have other American candy soon. You just may.
Me: Are you my American candy?
Kristin: Just that Halloween is coming, and you might get some American candy for Halloween.
Halloween! Of course! Brilliant!
I improvised a Halloween language activity: first, review Halloween vocab (words like Pumpkin, Ghost, Vampire, Trick or Treat, etc.), and then reinforce with a Halloween scary story game.
And so it went. Lucky for the students (and for me), French Halloween vocab is remarkably similar to English Halloween vocab. All except one term in particular. One which a hefty cinquième student in my 9-10 section (perhaps named Thibault?) presented with great enthusiasm.
Thibault: Madame! Une baguette magique!
Me: What? I'm not sure I know what that is. Can you try in English?
Thibault: Bahhhh... Yes! It is a magic baguette!
Me: hysterical peals of laughter
The other students, encouraged by my uncontrollable giggles, chimed in, laughing generously for a good thirty seconds. I think they were just enjoying my violent reaction, not actually mocking their poor Thibault, since it seems unlikely that they could fully comprehend the levity provoked by his comment.
It took only a few more seconds before I was able to understand: Thibault had very correctly tried to translate the French term for magic wand (prompted by our previous conversation about Harry Potter, obviously).
The magic baguette.
It got me thinking. Or rather, probing my memory. With the tip of my tongue. The baguette may have esoteric connotations in French, but to me, it has always conjured a certain texture, a thick crust cracking beneath my hands, giving way to soft, dense insides that taste of real butter and flour and yeast all together, and it just smells like my fantasy kitchen in the country on a Saturday morning! To me, the baguette's magical properties have always revolved around its versatility: whether it's butter and jam, emmenthal and ham, tomato, basil and mozzarella, or paté and pickles, the baguette complements, nay, it elevates your food selection. You can even harness the baguette's power for dessert by simply slathering it with Nutella. Granted, Nutella can make anything taste good. But thanks to the baguette's unique texture and hearty taste, it can both play second fiddle to a culinary prima donna (like Nutella), or headline its own show (I mean, who hasn't emerged from a bakery, baguette in hand, only to discover ten minutes later that they have already consumed half of it?)
Magical indeed.
Well I've found the magic baguette in Saint-Etienne. And I'm somewhat embarassed to admit that it is baked by a CHAIN! That's right, Paul's pains rustiques et de fantaisie (rustic and fantastical breads) have won me over.
Paul officially dates back to 1889; it currently serves around 5 million customers each month. The owner, Francis Holder, is involved as much in the baking of Paul's breads as in the growing of the raw materials: all the wheat he uses is grown sustainably by French farmers, who follow his strict specifications to harvest the perfect grain. The breads are also all baked with traditional methods. Even the aesthetics of Paul's stores, built of brick and wood, serve to mimic a "country style," emphasizing tradition and the baker's place within it.
Paul offers a dizzying selection of breads: the Camp Rémy, country bread, wholemeal bread, rye brea, six grain bread, white bread, bio (organic) bread, faugasse, and of course, the baguette. Seasonal delicacies (which I will soon sample) include bread with figs and bread with chestnuts.
Did I mention Paul's is also a patisserie? Craving a pain au chocolat? Want a macaron au praliné? Need a gourmand fix with a gourmandise?* Have no idea what I'm talking about, but still bewitched by the seductive French words for just about anything edible in a bakery? Just walk into your local Paul franchise, take a deep whiff, and follow your nose. When in doubt, you can always summon your magic baguette.
*A macaron is an elevated version of the American whoopie pie. Only French. So, yeah. And the gourmandise is my new favorite: imagine a flattened croissant filled with cream and bits of chocolate.
Tonight, I will dream in bread.
Thursday, October 16
A brief political interlude
This morning, before school, I woke up as usual, took a shower, drank some warm milk, and went downstairs to check my email. There, waiting for me, was the following forwarded message:
All I wish to express, as a former exiled Cuban, is that Barack Obama and Fidel Castro share many personality traits, ie:
Firstly, comparing Obama to Castro is like comparing apples to bananas. Fidel is a white communist hailing from privilege who believes in violence as a means to an end, as evidenced by his leadership of the violent Cuban Revolution. Obama is a black democrat hailing from humble and disadvantaged roots, a living example of the American Dream, who believes in peace and diplomacy, who embodies all the things that we hold to be American.
Both were abandoned by their fathers at an early age.
So wait, hold on, by your logic you're saying that if your father had abandoned you as a child, you would have grown up to be like Fidel, is that right? Might be good to look up the following words: association versus causation.
Both are charming, eloquent lawyers that say exactly what people want to hear at the right time and place.
See last point. Also, that's blatantly untrue, or don't you remember that Obama was among the few members of Congress who stood up and voiced their objections to the Iraq war when everyone voted to go? A war that has set this country back in terms of our military and economic prowess, not to mention tarnished the reputation of America all over the world...
One never led the nation to suspect he was a communist at heart, the other doesn't mention the word socialism when in reality this is exactly what his agenda stands for.
Let's review: socialism and communism are not the same thing. I don't understand why this is so hard to grasp: it's the same as when people very ignorantly equate capitalism to fascism (as we know, this happens frequently in Latin Amerca). Chile is a socialist country, in our Latin American backyard, and it is light years ahead of countries like Venezuela and Bolivia (that also call themselves socialists). It has managed to both reduce poverty and expand their economy. WITH SOCIALISM! Do not equate Socialism with Fidel, or Chavez, or Evo Morales!! Remember that some of the most free and successful countries in the world are governed by a socialist model (e.g. France, Sweden, etc.) Socialism is not a dirty word - it happens to work in many countries.
Also, Obama is a DEMOCRAT - socialism, as a political affiliation, does not exist in U.S. mainstream politics, and Obama is pretty mainstream. He is the democratic party's nominee for president! Just because Obama points out the fact that the poor have become poorer under Bush, and that we as a nation aren't looking after our sick and unhealthy, doesnt mean you can draw a direct parallel to Fidel (who as I've already pointed out came from privilege and is something of a hypocrite). Just because someone has a social agenda, doesn't mean they are Fidel Castro!!
It's easy enough for you to forget and ignore the marginalized groups in the U.S. and abroad when you sit comfortably in your home, your table overflowing with food for you and your loved ones, enjoying your privileged lifestyle. Isn't it?
Let us not forget what is carved on the Statue of Liberty: "Give us your tired, your poor, your hungry, your huddled masses yearning to be free."
Obama has, to borrow your quaint expression, "gotten his hands dirty" with civil rights movements, with community organizations, and the U.S. Senate. Meanwhile, Bush and McCain's hands are dirty with the blood of thousands of Americans and tens of thousands of Iraqis who have perished for a war waged out of corporate greed.
And frankly I'm sick and tired of hearing attacks about Obama's experience when Republicans back Sarah Palin, who has even less experience and has also been found guilty of abusing her power in Alaska. You also backed Bush - a rich white guy who could barely manage a C-average at the school he was accepted to based purely on legacy, a former Cocaine addict, an alcoholic who received a DUI...any of this ringing a bell? But this is the man who you saw fit to represent our nation (instead of someone like Obama who represents our multiethnic, multiclass society, someone who got into Harvard on MERIT and excelled, going on to become an advocate for change at the very real grass roots level...)
Both were virtually unknown until they began to use the word "change" as their main political motto.
Wait, McCain has used the word change too. SO HE'S A COMMIE!! Right?
Change is also much needed in the U.S. at present, just like it was needed in Cuba at the time of the Cuban Revolution. Castro was not the answer, as history has shown, but change is not inherently bad.
Both have egos as tall as the twin towers, yet they manage to present themselves humbly, one in soiled military fatigues and the other sweating , rolled up sleeves and with an undone tie.
In what capacity exactly are you familiar with Obama's ego? Exactly? Are you his shrink? His mother??
Give me a break. If you want to attack anyone for having a big ego, look at Sarah Palin. Even prominent republicans (including writers from the very conservative National Review) have gone on record saying that if she really cared about the country, she would pass the vice presidential torch to someone more qualified who might actually help McCain win the election and run the country semi-decently.
Also, nice way to invoke the image of 9/11. Really very tactful.
Both have the unique ability to distort truth and lies as if they were the same.
Examples, please. Yes, I want a concrete example.
Both have the ability to hypnotize the ignorant and fool the wishful thinker and to divide a nation in classes, (divide and you shall win) In Fidel's case he divided the rich against the poor, the illiterate against the educated and the black against the white. In Obama's case even if by omission, he's de-facto dividing the races already.
No no, BIGOTS, HATEMONGERS, and RACISTS are the ones dividing the races. Like those fools who have shown up at McCain rallies spouting hateful racist verborrhea, and even touting racist dolls.
Another resemblance between Obama and Fidel and one that shall never be forgotten is that the American media supported the "Twentieth Century Latin American Liberator" (Time Magazine) with the same degree of irresponsibility devoted to Barack Obama today.
Yeah, um, so, because Time backed Fidel Castro, Barack Obama is, in effect, Fidel Castro?
...that's a rhetorical question...
And lastly I'll use the words of Jorge Santayana to finish my case in point: "Those who can't remember the past are condemned to repeat it."
Great quote. Let's hope you can all remember what George Bush led us to - the brink of bankruptcy.
And in the words of Sir Winston Churchill: "The inherent vice of Capitalism is the unequal distribution of blessings, the inherent vice of Socialism is the equal distribution of misery."
Like Churchill said, the problem with Capitalism is oftentimes the unequal distribution of blessings - of wealth and such. Which is directly related to distribution of misery. Of course, only the poor are miserable, so I guess it's okay...
Jesus. I'm not advocating socialism over capitalism. What I AM advocating is the end to such black and white thinking. And drawing on what works, regardless of what its political affiliation (again, see example of Chile - a country that has blended capitalist values and socialist values to the great benefit of its citizens).
GOD SAVE AMERICA !
Yes, God. Or Allah. Or Buddha. Or the GREAT SPIRIT. Or whatever you subscribe to, if anything. That is, of course, another one of our nation's laudable values.
And to end on a general note, I'm not saying Barack Obama is a saint. He isn't perfect because, well, no one is. Anyone who appears to be is deceiving themselves and those around them. To expect perfection is to set ourselves up for hypocrisy and lies. Perfection is an unrealistic and unfair burden for anyone to bear.
But he has integrity. A quality that has been noticeably absent from the republican presidential tickets in the past decade.
All I wish to express, as a former exiled Cuban, is that Barack Obama and Fidel Castro share many personality traits, ie:
- Both were abandoned by their fathers at an early age.
- Both are charming, eloquent lawyers that say exactly what people want to hear at the right time and place.
- One never led the nation to suspect he was a communist at heart, the other doesn't mention the word socialism when in reality this is exactly what his agenda stands for.
- Neither Obama nor Fidel ever held a real job either in government or in private enterprise for they think of themselves as demigods unworthy of soiling their hands when their destiny is much larger than their own realities.
- Both were virtually unknown until they began to use the word "change" as their main political motto.
- Both have egos as tall as the twin towers, yet they manage to present themselves humbly, one in soiled military fatigues and the other sweating , rolled up sleeves and with an undone tie.
- Both have the unique ability to distort truth and lies as if they were the same.
- Both have the ability to hypnotize the ignorant and fool the wishful thinker and to divide a nation in classes, (divide and you shall win) In Fidel's case he divided the rich against the poor, the illiterate against the educated and the black against the white. In Obama's case even if by omission, he's de-facto dividing the races already.
- Another resemblance between Obama and Fidel and one that shall never be forgotten is that the American media supported the "Twentieth Century Latin American Liberator" (Time Magazine) with the same degree of irresponsibility devoted to Barack Obama today.
And lastly I'll use the words of Jorge Santayana to finish my case in point: "Those who can't remember the past are condemned to repeat it."
And in the words of Sir Winston Churchill: "The inherent vice of Capitalism is the unequal distribution of blessings, the inherent vice of Socialism is the equal distribution of misery."
GOD SAVE AMERICA !
Signed: Andrew J. Rodriguez,
Author of "Adios, Havana ," a memoir
Now, I don't usually dignify this garbage with a response, but I've been itching to talk politics this past week, especially as the election draws nearer and nearer.
So here goes.
Firstly, comparing Obama to Castro is like comparing apples to bananas. Fidel is a white communist hailing from privilege who believes in violence as a means to an end, as evidenced by his leadership of the violent Cuban Revolution. Obama is a black democrat hailing from humble and disadvantaged roots, a living example of the American Dream, who believes in peace and diplomacy, who embodies all the things that we hold to be American.
Both were abandoned by their fathers at an early age.
So wait, hold on, by your logic you're saying that if your father had abandoned you as a child, you would have grown up to be like Fidel, is that right? Might be good to look up the following words: association versus causation.
Both are charming, eloquent lawyers that say exactly what people want to hear at the right time and place.
See last point. Also, that's blatantly untrue, or don't you remember that Obama was among the few members of Congress who stood up and voiced their objections to the Iraq war when everyone voted to go? A war that has set this country back in terms of our military and economic prowess, not to mention tarnished the reputation of America all over the world...
One never led the nation to suspect he was a communist at heart, the other doesn't mention the word socialism when in reality this is exactly what his agenda stands for.
Let's review: socialism and communism are not the same thing. I don't understand why this is so hard to grasp: it's the same as when people very ignorantly equate capitalism to fascism (as we know, this happens frequently in Latin Amerca). Chile is a socialist country, in our Latin American backyard, and it is light years ahead of countries like Venezuela and Bolivia (that also call themselves socialists). It has managed to both reduce poverty and expand their economy. WITH SOCIALISM! Do not equate Socialism with Fidel, or Chavez, or Evo Morales!! Remember that some of the most free and successful countries in the world are governed by a socialist model (e.g. France, Sweden, etc.) Socialism is not a dirty word - it happens to work in many countries.
Also, Obama is a DEMOCRAT - socialism, as a political affiliation, does not exist in U.S. mainstream politics, and Obama is pretty mainstream. He is the democratic party's nominee for president! Just because Obama points out the fact that the poor have become poorer under Bush, and that we as a nation aren't looking after our sick and unhealthy, doesnt mean you can draw a direct parallel to Fidel (who as I've already pointed out came from privilege and is something of a hypocrite). Just because someone has a social agenda, doesn't mean they are Fidel Castro!!
It's easy enough for you to forget and ignore the marginalized groups in the U.S. and abroad when you sit comfortably in your home, your table overflowing with food for you and your loved ones, enjoying your privileged lifestyle. Isn't it?
Let us not forget what is carved on the Statue of Liberty: "Give us your tired, your poor, your hungry, your huddled masses yearning to be free."
Neither Obama nor Fidel ever held a real job either in government or in private enterprise for they think of themselves as demigods unworthy of soiling their hands when their destiny is much larger than their own realities.
Obama has, to borrow your quaint expression, "gotten his hands dirty" with civil rights movements, with community organizations, and the U.S. Senate. Meanwhile, Bush and McCain's hands are dirty with the blood of thousands of Americans and tens of thousands of Iraqis who have perished for a war waged out of corporate greed.
And frankly I'm sick and tired of hearing attacks about Obama's experience when Republicans back Sarah Palin, who has even less experience and has also been found guilty of abusing her power in Alaska. You also backed Bush - a rich white guy who could barely manage a C-average at the school he was accepted to based purely on legacy, a former Cocaine addict, an alcoholic who received a DUI...any of this ringing a bell? But this is the man who you saw fit to represent our nation (instead of someone like Obama who represents our multiethnic, multiclass society, someone who got into Harvard on MERIT and excelled, going on to become an advocate for change at the very real grass roots level...)
Both were virtually unknown until they began to use the word "change" as their main political motto.
Wait, McCain has used the word change too. SO HE'S A COMMIE!! Right?
Change is also much needed in the U.S. at present, just like it was needed in Cuba at the time of the Cuban Revolution. Castro was not the answer, as history has shown, but change is not inherently bad.
Both have egos as tall as the twin towers, yet they manage to present themselves humbly, one in soiled military fatigues and the other sweating , rolled up sleeves and with an undone tie.
In what capacity exactly are you familiar with Obama's ego? Exactly? Are you his shrink? His mother??
Give me a break. If you want to attack anyone for having a big ego, look at Sarah Palin. Even prominent republicans (including writers from the very conservative National Review) have gone on record saying that if she really cared about the country, she would pass the vice presidential torch to someone more qualified who might actually help McCain win the election and run the country semi-decently.
Also, nice way to invoke the image of 9/11. Really very tactful.
Both have the unique ability to distort truth and lies as if they were the same.
Examples, please. Yes, I want a concrete example.
Both have the ability to hypnotize the ignorant and fool the wishful thinker and to divide a nation in classes, (divide and you shall win) In Fidel's case he divided the rich against the poor, the illiterate against the educated and the black against the white. In Obama's case even if by omission, he's de-facto dividing the races already.
No no, BIGOTS, HATEMONGERS, and RACISTS are the ones dividing the races. Like those fools who have shown up at McCain rallies spouting hateful racist verborrhea, and even touting racist dolls.
Another resemblance between Obama and Fidel and one that shall never be forgotten is that the American media supported the "Twentieth Century Latin American Liberator" (Time Magazine) with the same degree of irresponsibility devoted to Barack Obama today.
Yeah, um, so, because Time backed Fidel Castro, Barack Obama is, in effect, Fidel Castro?
...that's a rhetorical question...
And lastly I'll use the words of Jorge Santayana to finish my case in point: "Those who can't remember the past are condemned to repeat it."
Great quote. Let's hope you can all remember what George Bush led us to - the brink of bankruptcy.
And in the words of Sir Winston Churchill: "The inherent vice of Capitalism is the unequal distribution of blessings, the inherent vice of Socialism is the equal distribution of misery."
Like Churchill said, the problem with Capitalism is oftentimes the unequal distribution of blessings - of wealth and such. Which is directly related to distribution of misery. Of course, only the poor are miserable, so I guess it's okay...
Jesus. I'm not advocating socialism over capitalism. What I AM advocating is the end to such black and white thinking. And drawing on what works, regardless of what its political affiliation (again, see example of Chile - a country that has blended capitalist values and socialist values to the great benefit of its citizens).
GOD SAVE AMERICA !
Yes, God. Or Allah. Or Buddha. Or the GREAT SPIRIT. Or whatever you subscribe to, if anything. That is, of course, another one of our nation's laudable values.
And to end on a general note, I'm not saying Barack Obama is a saint. He isn't perfect because, well, no one is. Anyone who appears to be is deceiving themselves and those around them. To expect perfection is to set ourselves up for hypocrisy and lies. Perfection is an unrealistic and unfair burden for anyone to bear.
But he has integrity. A quality that has been noticeably absent from the republican presidential tickets in the past decade.
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