Eurochristmas Part II

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.

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

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!

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.

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.

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?

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."

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.


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