Never say no to a free lunch

Today marks my last day in Lyon, or better said, my last day between Lyon and St. Etienne. Yesterday morning, Rapha and Martin accompanied me to a handful of student résidences to beg for housing. I thought that having Martin would be an asset since most of the student housing managers are women. Martin has wispy blond hair that curls around the backs of his ears and serious dark brown eyes, a knockout combination. Women are already swooning over him, and he's only two years old. Unfortunately, even he couldn't help me seal the deal.

Me: Bonjour, Madame!
Housing Madame: Bonjour. Oh my, what a lovely boy!
Me: Yes, he is lovely.
Housing Madame: Can you tell me your name, mon petit?
Me: Yes, Martin, tell the nice madame your name.
Martin: ...
Housing Madame: He is precious.
Me: I know. So do you have any apartments available?
Housing Madame: No. We're all booked.
Me: ...
Martin: ...

The morning can be summed up in one word: frustrating. But Rapha outdid herself. She walked me to a final résidence, Le Facotel, and I resolved to come back that afternoon after speaking to one of the lodgers who thought "Christophe" still had some apartments available. Rapha then invited me home for lunch.

I'd resolved very early on that I would not turn down a single meal (or drink) during my time abroad. I can't tell you what a fantastic resolution it has proven.

When we arrived at Rapha's apartment, she assembled an incoherent set of ingredients: crème de montagne (some sort of heavy cream), a few slices of ham, uncooked rice, honey, and tomatoes. "I have too many tomatoes," she announced after putting 7 or 8 of these red beauties on the kitchen counter (note: these are tomatoes like I've never had in good ole USA). Rapha was headed to Lyon later that day for a week long vacation, and, worried that they would go bad and to waste, she proceeded to chop them all up for our déjeuner.

What happened next I still don't fully understand. Rapha had me pour out some cream and mix in two spoons of honey. While I tried hard to dissolve honey into cream, she poured some olive oil into a pan and tossed in the chopped tomatoes. She let them simmer for a while, throwing on some salt, pepper, and herbes de provence for good measure. She also cut up the ham slices into smaller pieces and dropped those in.

Rapha then put the rice to boil. As I sat on a high chair by the counter, I watched her pour the cream and honey mixture over the tomatoes in the pan. She stirred the pan for a bit longer and proclaimed that lunch was ready. "On mange?" she asked. Shall we eat? "D'accord," I replied, dying to try what she'd prepared.

You see the simplicity in these ingredients. But you cannot imagine the explosion of taste in my mouth when I ate the first forkful. The sweet cream served as a perfect counterpoint to the salty ham and tomatoes, and under it all, the herbes de provence added what I can only describe as the way a meadow tastes. Not that I've ever grazed in a meadow.

After lunch, I ran to meet Christophe, the final housing manager, at the Facotel. Christophe, as it turned out, was young, attractive, charismatic, kind, and most important: in posession of a few empty apartments. And so, I have a new home and will be residing in a studio at 47 rue Desirée Claude. I had to make a couple of trips back and forth between Lyon and St. Etienne, but now I can make with the settling in. I'll be back on line as soon as I've cosied up to my new appartement.

Joyeux Anniversaire, Martin et Marie Hélène (or how I soiled on my to-do list but had the Frenchiest day)

If you know me well enough, you'll be the first to recognize (or bemoan) my dogmatic passion for organization. I revel in dusting off my books and storing them in alphabetical order, I can pick myself up by aligning every item on my desk and night table, and I can spend hours creating a to-do list. If you really want to get under my skin, the simple act of misplacing a sheet of paper on my work space (the "mis" being at anything other than perfect 90 degree angles) will leave me visibly unsettled.

So last night I mapped out a plan of attack for my first day in Lyon. I arrived without an apartment, without a cell phone, and without a bank account. Today, my intention was to obtain all three. Oh, and since the pair of glasses I bought before leaving Harvard is still pinching the back of my left ear, a trip to the optical shop was my extra credit.

I'll give you a hint as to how my day panned out: I didn't accomplish a single task I had set out for myself.

What, then, did I do today?

I have the great fortune of currently residing with Maria Reinita and Gérard Guenot on the Boulevard des Tchecoslovaques in the center of Lyon. Maria Reinita is a vetrinarian from Uruguay with an eye condition that causes her to tear uncontrolably (when she picked me up from the airport yesterday, her glasses were sprinkled with tears that I mistook for her great emotion at seeing me again after twenty-some years). She also happens to be, in some magical, legal way, my aunt. Her husband, Gérard, collects old film reels and the machines that play them. So far, the only questions he's asked me are "Do you think Barack Obama will win the election?" and "Would you like some more wine?"


Their eldest daughter, Éleonore, is my "cousine française," and a friend of mine from when I lived in Buenos Aires (she was doing the French equivalent of study abroad in Montevideo at the time). I think she has appointed herself my guardian until I'm settled in, or "installée" as people keep telling me ("Bonne installation!") Éleonore is one of the sweetest and most giving people I know, and you would be hard pressed to find someone with such generous qualities. Except that she happens to date such a person - her boyfriend, Benjamin. So when they offered to give me a ride to Saint-Etienne this morning, I smiled and accepted with an enthusiastic "Oui, oui, merci BIEN!"

Éleonore and Benjamin actually live and work in Grenoble which is a little under a 2-hour drive from Lyon. Their reason for being in Lyon on my arrival was, coincidentally, a family gathering in Saint-Etienne. Benjamin's older sister, Raphaelle, lives in the center of Saint-Etienne with her husband, Ferréol, and her, as of today, two-year old son, Martin, who shares his birthday with his grandmother, Marie Hélène. Ferréol looks like his name sounds: he is a thin, balding thirty-something with round red-rimmed glasses and small teeth that endear you to him immediately.

And so, I hitched a ride with Benjamin and Éleonore, who followed Marie Hélène, Daniel (Benjamin's father), Marie (sister), amd Laurent (sister's boyfriend) to my soon to be new home.

I get very mixed reactions when I tell people I will be teaching (and living) in St. Etienne. The general consensus seems to be that it is a primitive town ("Saint-Etienne? Bah, c'est primitif.") I was comforted when Marie Hélène described it as a quiet town of very kind and friendly people and a certain quaintness that bigger-city dwellers tend to dislike. I assured her that this sounded exactly like where I wanted to be this year (and hopefully that will prove true).

We arrived a bit before one and made our way up the three flights of stairs to Raphaelle's apartment. Initially, the plan was to get a map and get me oriented so that I might venture forth and find some place to live. I figured I would come across a bank and a cell phone provider en route. Only the entire clan of Benjamin insisted that I stay for lunch, which is just as well since I later discovered that none of these tasks was feasible on a Saturday. Banks close, as do cell phone stores, and the student residences I hoped would open their rooms to me were also unavailable (all four of them).

But none of this actually mattered to me. The minute I bit into the fig and foie gras toasts appetizers Rapha served as an opening to the birthday lunch, all I could think about was how I'd tasted just about the most delicious morself of food that has ever passed my lips. That is until I tried the mozzarella and basil. And then the blue cheese, honey, and balsamic vinegar. All washed down with a sparkling wine that made me question why I've all but forsaken wine for beer in the last couple of years.

When I wasn't stuffing my face with French delicacies, I was trying to translate my belly's affinity for all things French into my tongue's ability to mobilize on behalf of the French language. Which went more or less well until jetlag caught up to me and I began to fuse Spanish words into French. The entire family still understood when I used the word "compartir" instead of "partager," and "orientacion" instead of "information." At least I didn't confuse my neck with my ass ("cou" versus "cul"). I'm sure something like this will inevitably happen to me in the next month, so stay tuned for "quand je fais la cagade."

I've failed to mention that Marie Hélène's father (Benjamin's grandfather) is a pâtissier - a pastry chef. He'd prepared a tarte de poires (pear tarte) and home made vanilla ice cream in honor of the birthdays. Rapha made the cake, built like a train with licorice wheels and licorice train tracks.

In conclusion, Martin is one lucky two-year old. And if I continue to neglect my to-do lists for my other great passion, I won't be able to button my jeans.

Bye Bye Boston

I really really love how Boston looks from the air. I remember when I arrived seven years ago to start school, I nearly missed the view as we flew over and into Logan Airport. I was completely absorbed by my brand spanking new Dell laptop, back in the day when playing solitaire and pinball on a computer seemed to me the most logical (and entertaining) way to kill a few hours on a flight. It weighed a ton, but I was so excited to own a LAPTOP, I didn't care that I'd essentially bound myself to a really expensive pain in the ass for the next four years. Anyway, there I am, mindlessly clicking away on the virtual deck of cards, when I glance over to the window for no reason other than to give my eyes a rest. And there's Boston, revealing itself to me in its full autumnal glory. I remember the greens, golds, and reds of the turning leaves. I remember brick buildings and thinking how very different it all looked from Miami, how much older. Boston is an old city, a city with so much history, I felt overwhelmed watching it from up top.

It's funny what happens when you fly. How being suspended in space and time, we can tune into ourselves in ways that are near impossible to realize when we're weighed down by solid ground. How within seconds of takeoff, as we gain altitude and put so much distance between ourselves and our terrestrial environs, our perspective is completely altered as we are forced to fasten our seatbelts and consider the bigger picture. If you happen to be from, say, Boston, you might look out the window and try to spot your house or search for familiar buildings, landmarks. The Hancock building. Boston Common. Harvard and M.I.T. I always overhear parents playing this game with their kids and think, as if the rest of us aren't doing the same thing!

But when the city is new, it's an entirely different experience. Looking out of my window that day in September of 2001, I wasn't sure what to look for. I think if I'm honest with myself, and as much as it makes me cringe, I was looking for the cheesiest things. Where I would study for exams. Where I would go for picnics with my COLLEGE friends. Where I would fall in love and where I would steal kisses before class. Would I even make friends? Would I be happy?

In continuing my tradition of laying the cheese on thick during moments of transition, I'm going to answer that question with a resounding yes and follow up with a laundry list of what I see now as I fly over Boston (en route to Lyon, by way of Dublin):
- Winthrop House. Working on my thesis in our senior year room while Phoebe fiddled with her record collection before landing on "Graceland."
- Sledding on dining hall trays in the MAC Quad.
- Harvard Square after the first snow of winter, the streets all quiet and shimmering.
- Veggie Planet. Basta Pasta. Spice. Indian brunch. The Cellar.
- Charlie's Kitchen.
- The bathroom of Charlie's Kitchen.
- DRCLAS. DRCLAS people. DRCLAS parties.
- Harvard in the spring. Trees, flowers, and smiles in bloom.
- 45 Walker Street back in the day.
- Running on the Charles.
- Max, his car, and blasting Britney Spears as we drive through Copley.
- Lazy Saturdays with the Dartmouth crew.
- Razzy's. Quizzle tearing it up at Razzy's.
- Sketchy Saturdays at Phoenix Landing.
- Kristin, and more smiles.
...and many more.

I suppose what I'm leading up to in a pretty self-indulgent way is the fact that I could not be more grateful for the experience of my life right now. And that life has been Boston for so many years, it's not without a heavy heart that I look down and say, "Bye bye, Boston." To Boston, and to my Boston family, I say thank you for being so generous and good to me, and know that I will miss you dearly over the next seven months. I could not be in a better place than I am now, at peace, and so content. For this I also thank you.

Oh and to any of you who may be reading this, come visit! I promise the only cheese I'll serve up will be on a plate, preferably in the form of a ripe Brie or Camembert.