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.

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.

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!

Snapshots of Saint-Etienne: Place du Peuple

Place du Peuple literally translates as "Place of the People." In Saint-Etienne, the Place du Peuple is democratic not only in name but also in nature. It holds together the triangulated intersection of the Rue Gambetta, Denis Escoffier, and the self-titled Place du Peuple street. Three tram lines converge at the Place, one traveling to Hôpital Nord, another to the Gare Chateaucreux (our main train station), and the third to Bellevue. At night, the Place is a dead zone, with few if any people idling by. When it gets late enough, the trams stop running, and the Place starts to resemble a small town mock-up at Disney World. You wouldn't be at all surprised, for example, if a mustached Donald Duck poked his beret covered head out of the brasserie across the street. "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!"

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.

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.

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:
- 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.

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."

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.

Orientation

Yes, people, I’ve been oriented. As of this past Thursday, as a matter of fact. Now, I realize it defies logic that the French government would schedule an orientation for language assistants after we’ve already begun classes. But there you have it.

I awoke bright and early on Thursday morning (I’m averaging a 7 am rise and shine on most days here) and met Corinne and Matt downstairs to take the tram together. Corinne and Matt are two other American English assistants living at the Facotel. We actually met two Mondays ago, all of us happening on the Facotel at the same time to beg for housing. There’s quite a few of us language assistants here: a mix of Chinese, Germans, Italians, Scots, Aussies, and Americans.

Arriving at the lycée where our orientation was to take place, we took our seats among the other assistants in the school’s grande salle. There are twenty-three English language assistants in the Loire department which includes the great city of Saint-Etienne as well as smaller towns like Firminy, Saint Chamond, and Rive de Gier (to name just a few). As I sat in my seat, not particularly enjoying the flashbacks to high school assemblies, I took in the other faces, trying to determine whose were American, English, Scottish, Australian.

And then we began the introductions. Monsieur Guillin led the meeting, a tall and well-built French man with a roguish grin and a palpable sense of humor – one of those people you find yourself nodding and smiling with for no special reason. After presenting ourselves to the group, we absorbed Monsieur Guillin’s detailed Powerpoint presentation, chock full of important information like how to best keep the French bureaucracy happy and ensure that we get paid. Or how to get our “Green Card.” It’s not what you think.

Here, the “Green Card” is what you receive when you’re enrolled in Social Security, which provides you with health insurance. In an amusing anecdote, Monsieur Guillin recalled how assistants in Lyon usually never get their card. “Sometimes, you never get it, and we send it to your home country as a souvenir,” he chuckled as we shot distressed looks at each other. He went on to explain that the card is not actually needed as proof of coverage during our time here, but that upon arriving at our schools, we would be required to sign a packet of forms that would register us for our Social Security (regardless of whether we ever managed to lay our hands on the physical card).

At this point all of us have signed forms at our schools, one girl asked, but how do we know we’ve signed the correct forms? “You have,” Monsieur Guillin answered without hesitation. When pressed by the girl, who was clearly unsatisfied by his terse answer, he sputtered on. “It is not only the problem of health. Anything can happen inside the class. Your school would not let you into the classroom without social security.” This is no joke. Anything can happen in the classroom. At College Terrenoire, where I spend six hours a week, one student spat on a teacher last year. The student is still enrolled at Terrenoire.

Monsieur Guillin’s Powerpoint also lingered on the impressive range of language assistants hired by France’s Department of Education each year: English, German, Russian, Hebrew, Spanish, Chinese, Italian, Portuguese, and Arabic, all are present in the French school system. I would probably have been more impressed if it weren’t for the mediocre reputation that precedes language learning in France. (In addition to my responsibilities to the French government as what Monsieur Guillin called an assimilated fonctionnaire, I’ve taken on private English and Spanish lessons with Alex, a stéphanois high school student. Alex is the very precocious 15-year old daughter of Jean Luc Garcia, my supervisor at the College Portail Rouge. It is she who has already briefed me on the many shortcomings of language learning in French schools which, I suppose, I am about to observe for myself.)

And then, in walked the VIPs. The VIPs were all high-level French representatives from the European Union, which happens to be residing in France until the end of December. They surveyed us in gray suits and glasses while we waited with bated breath, not quite sure what was expected of us.

It was weird. My French, pretty decent in most situations, had ostensibly failed me during Monsieur Guillin’s presentation. I tend to zone out when people lay administrative verborrhea at me in English, so you can imagine what was going on in my head during the less dazzling parts of his discourse. I felt better when, looking around, I encountered the same blank stares on the other assistants’ faces.

I understood later that the VIPs were at the school for a EU-related inspection. Or something like that. It was a great honor, them taking the time to meet with us language assistants. Only I’m convinced that they had even less of an idea of what they were doing meeting us then we did.

Eventually, they said a few words. Sounded like the usual diplomatic drivel to me. One suit, with pencil thin lips that seemed permanently turned down at the sides, broke his frown to congratulate us on our contribution to French education and emphasize France’s commitment to foreign language learning. Another with a bulbous, fleshy nose and a bristly goatee, simply grinned the entire time. One woman, her face framed by that short and severe haircut so many French women favor, stepped forward and, in pitch perfect British English, thanked us for our service. Her colleagues all broke into wide smiles after her words, obviously proud of this perfect French example of foreign language mastery.

We applauded heartily and were then invited to join the VIPs for an aperitif buffet. I can’t say that I knew what to expect, but I followed the other assistants into a classroom a separate building where I encountered something of a dream come true.

A spread of appetizers, or small plates, grouped by European nationality, covered every table in the room. French, Swedish, Portuguese, Irish, German, Spanish, Italian, most of the major European cuisines was represented in this banquet of national delicacies. I struggled to reign in my excitement. And my appetite.

The buffet had been prepared in anticipation of the VIPs visit to the school. Each dish, according to the principal, was painstakingly researched before being prepared in honor of the European Union. We were generally encouraged to try every single one.

I needed no additional encouragement.

It’s too bad that the only non-French dish that truly impressed me was the Portuguese fish ball. The Spanish paella and gazpacho left much to be desired, as did many of the other dishes: the Tiramisu from Italy was a tad too sweet and lacking in mascarpone richness, the meat and gravy from Sweden proved on the rubbery side, and so on.

The French delicacies, in addition to being spot on, also happened to be local. Fruits of the Loire: an assortment of wines, breads, cheeses, and charcuterie that delivered with every bite. I always say I’m not the best cook, but I’m an excellent eater. “Tete de cochon?” one of the chefs offered. Pig’s head? A specialty of the Loire. Absolutely!

In the heady atmosphere of unlimited wine and food, I took up a conversation with Corinne about her co-teacher, a sweet Scotsman named Chris. We’ve both admitted to being surprised by a Scottish English teacher, given that, as native English speakers ourselves, even we have difficulty understanding him when he speaks. The accent is totally sexy and totally incomprehensible. It is easier to understand him when he speaks French.

We also admitted that we find him attractive, although he brings out the Mary Kay Letourneau in all of us (i.e. he looks much younger than he is. Like, much, much younger.) Corinne, who has a boyfriend, seemed bent on setting him up with one of us. “One night!” were the words she repeated with pleading eyes over our unanimous objections.

Corinne was then paired up with Chris for our post-lunch activities.

We spent the afternoon discussing teaching strategies. This turned out to be the meaty part of orientation, the practical portion that would guide us as we struggle this year to deliver quality language teaching to students of all levels and backgrounds. Monsieur Guillin imparted a memorable tip before excusing himself for the day and leaving us in the hands of a seasoned English teacher. “All the world’s a stage,” he proclaimed. In class, it’s constant theater, and as a teacher, you are constantly acting. “On passe le message avec le théâtre,” he added, "You pass the message along through theater," before winking goodbye and stepping out.

My favorite morsel of advice for the day, by far.

Well, that, and the following ad I found for “the female condom” in one of the classrooms:

Back to school

When I was a kid, and I mean during that heinous period of time spanning from about age 12 to 18, I remember swearing to myself that I'd never grow up to be one of those adults who somehow forgets what it's like. To, um, be a kid. Flash forward to now, at 25 years old, still much closer in age to my students than to their parents, and I have to say that I've failed miserably.

Perhaps it's because I've managed to block out the memories so successfully. Why would I hold onto embarrassing moments, like the time in seventh grade when I was asked to identify with one of the two, cool subcultures that my classmates subscribed to -

Badass 7th grader: Hey Katherine...so, are you, like, a rocker, or a rapper?
Me: I'm neither! I'm a citizen of the world!
Badass 7th grader: ... You're such a loser.

Or maybe it's just inevitable that as we step into adulthood we lose touch with that awkward, insecure adolescent inside of each of us.

The point is, I have no idea what's going on in the students' heads. Do they like me? Do they want me to like them? Do they even give a damn about the new presence in their classroom, or am I just another lame teacher? Who doesn't even speak French all that well and can't understand if and when they're making fun of me?

Wait a minute this is EXACTLY what it's like to be an awkward, insecure adolescent! The constant second guessing, the fragile ego and self-esteem.

But there's one important difference: I don't actually care. I know that at the end of seven months there will be kids who love me and kids who despise me, kids who have improved their English and kids who still can't form a simple sentence. Hell, their reactions thus far have ranged from marriage proposals to total indifference ("This is Katie, the new English Assistant!" one teacher proclaimed to the blank stares of her students. She might as well have introduced me to a herd of cows chewing their cud in an open field).

One student managed to ask for my phone number in English.

Another, a titchy boy in quatrième (the equivalent of 8th grade) complimented me on my shoes. "Kei-ti, yourr shooz arr verry beauteefull." He also did a demonstration of "tectonique" for me in front of the class. "Tectonique" is big in France right now: for a demonstration courtesy of youtube, check Tectonique Explosion.

I know I will learn just as much from them as they do from me. Maybe even more.

And I have a renewed chance to make good on that promise I made to myself, way back when I was a "citizen of the world."

My life in France: the basics

This is my apartment, 47 rue Désirée Claude, number 107:

This is my school, Collège Terrenoire:

I'm also teaching at the Collège Portail Rouge. I work Monday through Thursday, as follows:

Mondays 10-3 at Terrenoire
Tuesdays 10-2 at Terrenoire
Wednesdays 9-12 at Portail Rouge
Thursdays 8-12 at Portail Rouge

If you come visit me, I will meet you in Lyon, the big city 40 miles east of Saint-Etienne.

Lyon is framed by two rivers - the Rhône and the Saône.

Lyon, also called Lugdunum in Latin, was also a major city in the Roman Empire. Consequently, there are many ruins in the area.

People also really like to roller blade in Lyon.

Like, a lot.

I'm using my spare time to read, write, practice, run, and study for the GRE.

Any questions?

How to embarass yourself in a French bar

Saint-Etienne is what some might consider a small town. Population wise, there are close to 200,000 inhabitants in the city proper (300,000 if you include the whole metropolitan area). The stéphanois, as residents of Saint-Etienne are called, are very warm and friendly. They love their football and are respected for their tramway. Saint-Etienne also draws many students, both French and international, to its universities, the largest of which is the Université Jean Monnet.

Which is why I expected that finding somewhere to go out and knock back a few on a Friday night would be a simple matter. Living two blocks from Jean Monnet, I assumed I could walk out my door, stroll down the Grande Rue and find a bar packed with students and other young people looking to blow off some steam and drink in the weekend.

Let me be clear: I didn't come to France to party. As my good friend Gabriel recalled this week over email, "Cocotte, I'll remind you that your idea was to go to a small town to lead a somewhat monastic life, to think, write, get in touch with your inner life, etc." (On an totally unrelated note, Gabi is also abroad this year doing a post-doc in Cologne, Germany. He has alerted me to the fact that each day he is looking more and more like Karl Marx because he cannot shave: his razor is American, that is, it operates on 110 volts, and he doesn't know where to buy an adapter. Gabi, you need to get your shit together.)

Still, though, I hoped to enjoy a night on the town every now and again. I run the risk of driving myself crazy if I don't.

But finding the hot spots in Saint-Etienne has proved a difficult task. All week I've been on the lookout for any bar that has more than 4 or 5 people, and all week I've become more and more concerned that such a bar does not exist. What's more, Fridays appear to herald a max exodus out of Saint-Etienne to Lyon. The train station, Gare Chateaucreux, is packed with students carrying backpacks and small bundles, chatting on cellphones, presumably to their families who await their weekend visits.

I resolved to go out anyway. It was impossible, I reasoned, that the young stéphanois wouldn't be as eager as me to venture out on a Friday night.

It turns out I was right.

I've met a handful of the other American assistants in Saint-Etienne this week, but the only one I could motivate to come out was Rebecca, a master's student in Romance Languages and Literatures at Boston College. Rebecca is originally from New York and spent an undergrad term studying abroad in Grenoble (where she, like any student, enjoyed going out to the pubs during her down time). In short, she was as anxious as I was to find something resembling nightlife in Saint-Etienne.

The night didn't exactly bode well. It was raining, this cold, wet, trickling rain that slowly but inevitably penetrates clothes, skin, and bone. We met at Riv Pizza, a pizza joint by my house, and decided immediately to forego looking for places in the neighborhood. Earlier this week, on our quest for my apartment, Rapha had pointed out a narrow pedestrian street in the Centre Ville where, she claimed, young people tended to congregate. And so, armed with that bit information, and pretty keen to get out of the rain, we walked the 15-20 minutes down the Grande Rue until arriving at our destination.

Rapha was dead on – the street, lined with bars advertising Guinness, Leffe, Murphy's Stout, and Grimbergen beers, was crawling with stéphanois, most of them in the twenties to thirties age range. With new hope, Rebecca and I wandered around, taking it all in, before settling on Le Petit Soba, a posh little bar packed with a raucous group of drinkers.

From the minute we strolled in and dried off a bit (I shook the wet out of my hair which has grown to a challenging length), Rebecca and I stood out. The crowd was on the better-dressed side, while I sported jeans my five-year old red Adidas sneakers. We took two stools by the bar and ordered a couple of Guinness's – gaffe number two, it seems, since everyone in sight was drinking champagne. That is until the bartenders, young, balding, and sporting hip glasses all around, prepared two things I had never seen before.

The first was test tube shots, something that Rebecca, a former bartender, assured me is quite common. "It's very 'spring break,'" she said. The second was somewhat harder to describe. We watched, with incredulous smiles, as one of the bartenders handed a group of men what Rebecca instantly referred to as a beer bong. I'm not sure that would be the correct term, but it was essentially a glass container with two openings – one that jutted out diagonally and tapered to a very thin spigot, and the other a vertical cylinder through which the bartenders had poured the drink.

The drink was the color of pale honey. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was, or why it was served in such a particular vessel. So I asked. The bartender who brought us our Guinness explained: a blonde Belgian mixed with vodka and citron, this drink is known (if my bar memory serves) as a Peronne. The bartender had one for himself in addition to the one he'd prepared.

"T'en veux?" he asked. Want some?

Like I've already said, I won't be turning down any food or drinks.

"Bien sur!" Of course!

And here we get to my grand christening of French bars. And French men. Peronne is not only served in a particular way, it is also drunk in a particular way. It hit me this morning that it makes perfect sense that a group of men would order it. In a sort of bar-friendly pissing contest, the men last night passed the drink around and, holding it up and at an arms-length from their mouths, proceeded to "drink" the Peronne. Only it takes great skill to aim the spigot correctly and pour the thin stream of liquid straight into your mouth. "Drinking" Peronne is more about theatrics and performance than actual consumption and enjoyment. The greater the distance from which you can pour the libation down you throat without spilling it all over yourself, the cooler you are.

As most of my friends and family can attest, I am neither coordinated, nor am I all that cool.

On my first try with the bartender's Peronne, the spigot was barely an inch away from my mouth. It was a great (if not all that impressive) success, since I managed to aim it properly. A while later, one of the men from the increasingly jovial and boisterous group next to us, offered both Rebecca and I a taste. I went first, already having practiced a bit. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of grabbing the Peronne by the spigot end instead of by the vertical cylinder. The glass, wet from all the liquid splashing out, slipped right out of my hand, nearly smashing on the floor. Mad props go to the French man for his reflexes, since he made the quick save. But not before a good deal of the drink flew out of the vertical cylinder and all over his buddy, Monsieur Leather Jacket, who was none to pleased with me. Turns out, Monsieur Leather Jacket was a champion Peronne drinker, and as if to reinforce what a novice I was, he grabbed it from his buddy and shot a three-foot long stream into his mouth.

Rebecca and I stayed out until midnight, watching the ebb and flow of people at the bar. Aside from one drunken girl who tried to serve herself a Guinness from in front of the bar (the bartender seized the glass, emptied it out, and gave her a withering look that made even me cringe), the crowd behaved well in spite of the quantity of alcohol being served and consumed. Oh, and on our way out, the bartenders, who warmed up to us and turned out to be pretty friendly guys, prepared us a surprise: two test tubes filled with neon blue shots of something minty and fresh.

All in all, a solid first night out in Saint-Etienne.