The Lisbon Sugar High

When I told Mathilde I was going to Lisbon to run the half-marathon, she looked at me, incredulous, and said the following:

"Qu'est-ce que t'es originale comme fille."

What an original girl you are.

I told her it wasn't my idea. Another American assistant had proposed the idea to me back in November. Notwithstanding the fact that I'd just returned from the city of azulejos after Toussaint holiday, I agreed to run with her. The Lisbon half-marathon is allegedly one of the fastest 13.1 mile-courses out there and boasts a huge level of participation (30,000 runners to be precise). For me, what really cinched the deal was reading about the crossing-of-the-bridge: the race begins and runs over the Ponte 25 de Avril (25th of April bridge), Lisbon's shout out to the Golden Gate Bridge. I decided I wanted to run across that bridge.

So I went back to Lisbon.

This time, I stayed at the Lisbon Lounge Hostel, quite possibly the best hostel ever. Located in the Baixa neighborhood, it occupies an old four story building that has been extensively renovated. And by renovated, I mean it has clean and polished hardwood floors, private and public bathrooms with spotless white tiles and automatic air freshners, wooden cabinets for each guest (they lock!), plush bedding, and Ikea-furnished lounges on each floor. Also, a daily Happy Hour featuring 50-cent beers, free breakfast and wi-fi, and a live-in chef who prepares a three-course dinner every night for the bargain price of 8 euros. I'm sorry for the plug, but this hostel has earned it.

I arrived on a Friday afternoon and dove immediately between the sheets of my bunk for a nap. On waking, I showered, freshened up, and stepped outside to take in the neighboring pedestrian streets before sunset.

I didn't get very far before being assaulted. By window display after window display of pastries.


I'm not sure how I could have missed this my first time in Lisbon. Perhaps my mind actively blocked the pastries out as a means of protecting me against my will. I focused, instead, on the varieties of fish: bacalhau (codfish), linguado (sole), salmonete (red mullet), peixe espada (swordfish), savel (shad), eiroz (eel), or sardinha (sardine).

This time around, though, there was no escape.

I had heard about the insatiable Portuguese sweet tooth. This is a country where you can find at least two hundred different types of pastries. Where customers walk into pastry shops and enjoy fast, counterside service, much like a bar (only instead of pounding a pint, they pound a pastel de nata). Where the pastry shops open at 7 AM and close at 2 AM the next morning.

However, I had not heard of the pastry displayed below. A special, Easter pastry that is prepared in the weeks leading up to Easter.


No, your eyes are not deceiving you. Evidently, you don't have to go outside to hunt for Easter eggs in Portugal. You can find them in your bread.

The Folar de Pascoa originated in the convents and monasteries of 18th-century Portugal (along with most pastries and other sugary Portuguese treats, curiously enough; hence, awesome pastry names like toucinho do céu - heaven's lard, or barriga de freiras - nun's belly). The Folar wields strong symbolism: it's often associated with Jesus' sharing of bread at the last supper. The eggs you see baked into it are actually hard boiled. They are meant to symbolize rebirth.

As I oggled the Folars and their sugary neighbors, I forgot to consider my environment. To notice if I, myself, was being oggled, and to watch where I was going. And that is how I walked straight and hard into a fellow and his group of friends on the street.

It being a latin country, the fellow and his friends felt it necessary to take advantage of my misstep and goad me for a bit. Although it took me a few seconds to process. I was still on the pastries. And to be perfectly honest, although I can understand Portuguese quite well and speak it at a mediocre level, Portuguese Portuguese sounds more like an unfamiliar Slavic language than the sweet samba cadence of the Brazilian Portuguese to which I'm accustomed. It wasn't until the group closed in on me that I took full stock of my surroundings.

Me (in Spanish): Ay, disculpa! Mil disculpas! Apologies! A thousand apologies!
Fellow (in Portuguese): Menina bela! Tem que da-me um biejo. Lovely girl! You must give me a kiss.
Me: Ta bom, ta bom, disculpa! Okay, okay, I'm sorry!

After which I quickly kissed him on both cheeks, spun around, and walked onward.

Paolo, as the fellow's name turned out to be, wouldn't leave it at that. He walked after me and stopped me once more, and I lost track of the pastries. We spoke for a few minutes, him in Portuguese and me in Portuñol (a Portuguese-Spanish hybrid). He asked if I wanted him to show me the city the next day, and I said maybe. He told me about the magnificence of Portugal. I nodded and smiled. He asked what my favorite part of Portugal was. I smiled wider and replied:

"Os pastéis!"

The pastries.

Snapshots of Saint-Etienne: The crêperie that broke my heart

The perfect crêpe is an enigma.

The idea behind it is simple enough. A thin, light, delicate pancake made of wheat flour. Its name derives from the latin crispa, meaning "curled." The crêpe is a specialty of Bretagne, the northwestern French region reknown for other such gastronomic delights as cider and chouchen (a liquor made from wild honey). It's considered a national dish.

But take a closer look at the crêpe, and you'll discover the deception behind its apparent simplicity. It is more than a French pancake. It's breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. It's 1 cup flour, 2 eggs, 1/2 cup milk, 1/2 cup water, 2 tablespoons butter, and a pinch of salt. Or 2 cups flour, a pinch of salt, 3 eggs, 2 and 1/4 cups milk, and 1/4 cup butter. Or 2 cups flour, 3 eggs, 1 cup milk, 1/3 cup sugar, 2 teaspoons vanilla extract, 2 tablespoons vegetable oil, 2 tablespoons rum, and 1 cup still mineral water (this last one courtesy of food goddess Clotilde at Chocolate & Zucchini).

The crêpe can be savory or sweet. If sweet, it's a crêpe sucrée. Of these there are endless varities: nutella crêpe, strawberry crêpe, crêpe à la crème de marron (a sweetened purée of chestnuts), crêpe with chocolate-coconut-banana, crêpe Suzette (prepared with orange peel and Grand Marnier, and lit on fire). My personal favorite remains the crêpe beurre-sucre, made with salted butter and sugar.

If it's savory, it's referred to as a galette and is typically made of buckwheat flour. Galettes, too, enjoy a wide array of possible fillings. Emmental cheese, Emmental and ham, steak and Emmental, chicken and Emmental, feta-tomato-and-spinach, egg-ham-and-spinach, egg-ham-and-Emmental. And so on. (Emmental is extremely popular in France; it is one of the top two most consumed cheeses in the country. The other is Camembert.)

There is even a kebab galette. A crêpe filled with kebab meat, tomato, lettuce, onions, harissa, and yogurt sauce. I was really excited about this when I first got to St. E. On one of our kebab outings, I remarked to Corinne that these kebab galettes reminded me of burritos. They come wrapped in tinfoil, which you peel back as you eat them in order to avoid them getting cold.

Those of you who know me well can see where I'm going with this.

Corinne immediately shot down my brilliant idea for "French burritos."

Me: See, you use the crêpe, but you fill it with, like, red beans, rice, and carne asada and stuff.
Her: ...
Me: Frex-Mex!
Her: Um, no.

And then, there's the matter of the crêperies. Which are ubiquitous in France. Conveniently located on street corners, charging no more than 2-3 euros for the most basic crêpes. But since there is no universal crêpe recipe, there is zero guarantee that the crêperie you happen upon, as you make your way to the movies or come back home from work, will be any good.

I've learned this lesson the hard way. Through trial and error, I found the best place to get a crêpe fix in St. E., just two blocks away from Place du Peuple (and a mere 10 minutes from my studio).


Since January, I've bought at least a crêpe a week at this little tin shack. And always the same one: a crêpe beurre-sucre. One euro and eighty centimes. Something about the batter kept me coming back. The crêpes managed to be soft and doughy while maintaining their lightness. I'm not a fan of crispy crêpes, nor do I enjoy heavy Hummer crêpes that you regret eating about halfway through. My perfect crêpe tastes rich and filling but leaves you feeling light enough to eat another. And then another. This crêperie delivered with admirable consistency. To such a degree that, to be perfectly honest, I've actually gone about three times a week in the past month.

Until just recently. When ownership of this crêperie changed hands. From a kindly brunette crêpe master to an equally kindly but woefully inept blond crêpe novice. Gone is the batter I've grown to depend on. And it isn't just me. Corinne, too, has been deeply affected by the loss. Between the two of us, we've sampled the other streetside crêperies, to no avail.

Corinne 5:34 PM: I just tried the last crepe place that i know of, not that great. what am i going to do!?

Somewhere, I read that you need to let the batter rest for a couple of hours before frying up the crêpes. Or maybe it's a different ratio of eggs-to-flour-to-milk. Or a lack of some secret ingredient.

The situation remains unchanged. And my belly remains brokenhearted.

Bergen: The Thai Curry House

Okay. I'll come clean.

I haven't technically eaten anything Norwegian since I arrived in Bergen.

No lutefiske, no.

No fiskesuppe, either.

No salmon, smoked or otherwise (interesting to note: apparently, here in Norway, fresh smoked just means fresh).

No cod, or as it's known, "beef of the sea."

I tried some Norwegian chocolate. Well, lots. Freia is the most ubiquitous brand, peddling their own take on Kit-Kats which I quite like, as well as the garden variety chocolate in bar form: melkesjokolade (milk chocolate), nut, fruit and nut, and aero. The melkesjokolade is wrapped in alluring gold paper. It came highly recommended by a Scotsman passing through my hostel. It did not disappoint.

I took a massive block of the aero variety on my hike up Mount Fløyen - I think, sometimes, I hike to eat and not the other way around. Each piece is imprinted with a motif composed of different words and images. My favorite motif: the word "Cow! Cow! Cow!" spelled out repeatedly and framing the image of a cow holding a guitar.

I tried Hansa, a cheap Norwegian beer. More pints than I care to remember (more on that later).

That same unfortunate Hansa night, I gave into 4 am munchies and (I'm not proud of this) bought a ham-and-cheese calzone from 7-Eleven. I don't really want to consider the amount of preservatives that I ingested for the sake of a doughy and delicious fix; I'll simply chalk my folly up to the Hansa. Damn that Hansa.

I ate very well at a charming coffee shop/pancake house called "Capello" on Skostredet. The place is decorated with all sorts of old Americana: vinyl record players, signs, postcards, and an antique cash register. I ordered a spinach-feta-and tomato pancake and a strawberry milkshake. The pancake, served with chili-sprinkled sour cream, was a bit thicker than a crêpe and perfectly cooked. The milkshake, so creamy I had to use a spoon to eat most of it.

But the best food I've had wasn't in any guide book I read. I discovered it my first night, wandering around the streets near my hostel, Jacob's Dorms (cheap, clean, and comfortable - I highly recommend).

The Thai Curry House, on Nedre Korskirkeallmenningen near the Torget.

A small place, seating no more than twenty customers at any given moment. The decor is on the kitschy side: bamboo stalks line the main window by the entrance, while the ceiling and walls are crawling with fake green vines. The waitress (yes, there's only one) is a young Asian woman with a mouthful of braces. I assumed she was Thai, but since I don't speak any Thai or Norwegian, it's difficult for me to pinpoint her precise origin. The chef: miraculous.

So far, I've sampled three of their dishes. The red curry, served with tender morsels of chicken, is as rich in flavor as it is in texture and color. The green curry, with veggies, surpasses the red curry only with its welcome addition of spiciness (in its defense, the red curry is not meant to be spicy).

But the best dish is a dish I will dream of for the duration of time I have left before returning to Boston. (St. E. is sorely lacking in non-French food; the only Indian restaurant I've found, so far, has an "indian" mannequin set out front as a promotional tool - a "Native American indian.")

As I wallow in French food, deprived of any ethnic dishes, I will remember that I ate the best Tom Yum soup of my life at the Thai Curry House in Bergen. A fragrant concoction that seamlessly blended the silkiest of broths with red chilis, chicken, oyster mushrooms, aromatic lemongrass, and ginger.

Spice, in Harvard Square, could learn a thing or too from the Thai Curry House.

Happy Birthday...over, and over, and over, and over again...

Last week, in anticipation of my 26th birthday, I made a pact with Kim.

"We're gonna celebrate every night that I have left as a 25-year-old."

She put up zero resistance.

After all, me "celebrating" my birthday night after night meant that she, too, would be celebrating. And who doesn't enjoy the occasional week-long bacchanalia?

We began Wednesday night at the Dirty, gulping down Snakebites as we played drinking games with the pack of cards Morgan managed to score from the bartender.

A pack of Tarot cards.

First, I taught them how to play one of my favorite childhood card games, Culo Sucio (Dirty Ass in English). Essentially, I explained with animation as I had, by then, already been topped off for the third time, we leave one Joker in the deck, distribute all the cards, and discard them as we accumulate pairs. One player draws a card from his neighbor, and around and around we go until only the Joker remains - in the hands of the unfortunate player who is henceforth dubbed "el culo sucio." When I used to play this game with my father, he insisted on maintaining a roll of toilet paper at the table in order to give the "dirty ass" his or her due - "Anda a limpiarte el culo," go wipe your ass, he would exclaim to peals of laughter from all players save the poor, mortified "culo sucio."

After my detailed explanation, Kim deadpanned:

"Katie. That game is called Old Maid. It exists in the U.S. too. It's the lamest card game in the world."

Feeling just a bit deflated, I nonetheless insisted that we had to, HAD TO play it.

Which we did. For about three rounds, all of which Kim lost (Kim, as it turns out, has a fierce competitive streak hidden behind that doe-eyed goodness of hers).

After that, the night exists only in bits and pieces.

We played Ride the Bus, a brilliant suggestion of Kim's. Morgan and I squared off while Kim observed, horrified either by our butchering of the game or our extreme consumption of alcohol (likely both).

Then I attempted to teach Morgan a hand-slapping game.

One, two, three

My momma takes care of me

Ooo, ahhh

Wanna piece of pie

Pie too sweet

Wanna piece of meat

Meat too tough

Wanna ride a bus

Bus too full

Wanna ride a bull...

The night led us to la Mine (the Mine), the most happening non-techno club in St. E. It is appropriately named, as you have to climb down a set of dark and vertiginous stairs into a basement to enter (also, St. E. is, or at least was, a mining town).

Dancing ensued. Among the fifteen people out at la Mine at 2 am on a Wednesday. One of whom, quite magically, turned out to be Nico, a bartender at...you guessed it. The Dirty! Nico is a native stéphanois who "knows people," including the resident DJ at la Mine who is actually a Smiths fan and played "This Charming Man" on my request. Nico and I danced like teenagers (awkwardly but furiously), and I managed to avoid the usual embarassing music-related commentary (e.g. "I wanna DJ my own wedding!").

Friday night, we drank in (what else) my birthday at Kim's apartment in what turned out to be the most memorable night of crazy yet.

The company: 3 parts American (me, Kim, and Corinne), 3 parts French (Mathilde, Jean, and Morgan), and 1 part German (Ilka).

The drinking event: a power hour using a Snakebite-inspired concoction, not beer.

The power hour is a treacherous drinking game. Minutes stretch into hours, you lose track of your shot count and wind up drinking double or triple. Neither the Frenchies nor the Germans had ever seen, let alone done, anything like it before (oh, American drinking culture, be still my heart, by strong my liver). But Math, well, Math was the star.

After seven minutes: Yous a slut beach! (her attempt at "slut bitch")

After eleven minutes: Putain! Ça fait combien d'heures qu'on joue ce jeu? (Fuck! How many hours have we been playing this game?)

After twenty-six minutes: (singing and playing the guitar)

Mr. Jones and me tell each other future.

We steer at ze beautiful womens.

She lookin' at you?

Ay, nah nah, I don't fink so, she lookin' at me.

Ladies and gentlement, I give you the Counting Crows' "Mr. Jones," covered by Mathilde Grand.

That night ended, once more, at la Mine. With a brief stop at the Dirty because, well, it's become a compulsion.

Finally, on Monday night, I was surpised with the birthday cake of my dreams. Corinne baked me one of the most magnificent and truly personalized cakes I've had the pleasure of devouring in my adult life. If you want more details on how it was prepared, check out her blog.

Yes, what's that you see on top? Nothing other than Kinder Buenos! The crispy wafer, chocolate-covered, hazelnut-filled candy bar that haunts my thoughts when they turn to chocolate.

And that frosting? Could it be? Well, yes, it's clearly chocolate. But what sort of chocolate, you might inquire. There's chocolate and then there's chocolate. Corinne made her ganache frosting out of Lindt milk chocolate. Only the finest (in my opinion) milk chocolate in the world.

The ganache also served as filling to the cake, yellow cake to be precise, found underneath the blanket of milk chocolate. Moist and dense, the perfect consistency.

Snapshot of Paris: Barbès - Rochechouart

The Barbès - Rochechouart Metro stop is on the 2 and 4 lines which appear, respectively, as blue and hot purple strips on the Plan de Metro. Populated in large part by immigrants (seemingly north African), this is not the Paris of the Trocadero or Champs-Élysées. The streets are mobbed with vendors peddling wares that range from cheap Malboro cigarrettes (smuggled by the Eastern European mafias) to Dolce and Gabbana purse knockoffs. It provokes the sensory overload you might expect at a giant outdoor flea market, with men shouting "Malboro! Malboro!" and pressing the red and white boxes on you, while others stalk you for a full block trying to sell you a fake Fendi watch. I had an older man, cloaked in the charming scent of alcohol and stale cigarrettes, approach me without anything to sell. Nonetheless, he struck up a slurred conversation. Upon learning that I was American, he bent over and confessed that he loved me.

"I loooove youuu."

I thanked him and went on my merry way.

I had made my way over to Barbès on my friend Gaby's suggestion. Gaby, having spent a year living in Paris recently, was chock full of good ideas for exploring the "other side" of Paris, the part that tourists rarely see or even imagine. Me, having already done the tourist circuit of Paris, well, I was favorably inclined towards his suggestions.

So after finally dragging myself out of bed at 1 pm, I ambled over there last Tuesday with Linda, who was visiting for New Year's. We decided to make a lunch of it and enjoy some delicious and cheap ethnic food while in the neighborhood. Which we did, entering a small establishment (read: hole in the wall) that promised a 6 euro menu consisting of just about every food group.

Of course, we were the only women in sight. But aside from a few surprised looks and modest head turns, the attraction we drew was most welcome, offered by the only waiter (and, perhaps, owner) of the joint.

He launched immediately into an explanation of the menu which I tried to decipher with little success. Fast and truncated, Parisian street French is hard enough to understand when it is spoken by the French. When the speaker is an immigrant with a heavy accent, it is near is possible. I repeated the few words I could make out - couscous, soupe, et poulet - and hoped for the best.

The waiter then brought out a heaping plate of couscous, a steaming bowl of vegetable stew, and a roasted chicken leg. I ladled the stew onto the couscous, adding some harissa for a kick, and tucked in. The food, served in generous portions and prepared like a home cooked meal, was excellent.

I washed it all down with an ice cold Coke.

Linda and I parted from the restaurant after thanking our waiter. Warm and stuffed, we waddled back to the Metro station, where I was accosted not once but twice in the span of about 2 minutes.

First, a group of men and women bearing palms full of Metro tickets approached me, offering to sell the tickets at a greatly reduced price. The word "offer," however, falls short of describing their gestures and cries. And of how they actively cornered me by the ticket machines, where I remained until Linda rescued me.

As it turns out, I didn't need the ticket after all. In the crowd of people trying to squeeze through the bottleneck that is the entrance to most Paris Metro stations, one particularly aggressive gentleman behind me decided not to wait for me to insert my ticket. He simply popped his in and pushed us both through the turnstyle. I can't say I was displeased.

Following the turnstyles, a series of stairs leads down to the trains. I flitted down the stairwell, and in a most becoming and graceful moment, lost my balance and took a tumble.

In less than 5 seconds, a herd of Malboro men flocked to me. I had picked myself up, dusted myself off, and was about to thank them for their concern and wave them away. But they beat me to it and opened their mouths first.

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle... Malboro?"

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.

Marché de Noël: First Impressions

Today is December 1st.

As of this past weekend, the countdown to Christmas has begun. While Americans raced to the stores on Black Friday to shop for presents (or, you know, trampled an ill-fated Wal-Mart temp), the French celebrated a quainter, more charming tradition.

C'est le Marché de Noël! The Christmas Market!

From what I've gathered, the killer Christmas Markets are in the Alsace region: Strasbourg, Mulhouse, and Haguenau, to name a few towns. Tourism is strong this time of year in the Alsace: to pass by any travel agency or tourism office is to be tempted by glossy photos of snow-frosted pines and half-timbered houses with triangular, red brick roofs.

But, and here's the good news for moi, we have our very own Christmas Market here in Saint-Etienne!

I've already been there twice since the weekend.

So here's what I'm thinking: I need a recreational goal for the month of December. Next Friday I take the GRE in Paris, and I'll be rid of standardized tests forever! Or at least for a good long while, although I said the same thing back when I had to take the FCAT - Florida Comprehensive Assessment Test. And then the PSAT. And then the SAT, and then the SAT IIs. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: standardized tests are crap. You can't measure intellect through a tool designed for the sole purpose of testing your ability to produce an outcome, correct or incorrect, with no regards for the process whereby you arrive at your answer.

Goddamnit I've gone off topic again. My recreational goal. I've decided that in the coming weeks, I will sample every food product that is available for purchase at the Christmas Market.

But Katie, isn't the Christmas Market about buying, well, Christmas presents?

Yes. But this doesn't really interest me in the slightest.

Yes, you can find artisan-made crafts like glass mosaic plates, wood carved wine holders, wool knit scarves, gloves, and berets, and ceramic salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like a pair of intertwined lovers. And while I appreciate the time and skill (and in most cases, the tradition) that goes into manufacturing these articles, I'm more enticed by products that I can smell and taste.

Like churros.

What you see above is a paper wrapped bouquet of sugary churros, fresh out of the frier. The clown's sentiments echo mine exactly: HUMM...C'EST BON! The last thing I expected to see at a French Christmas Market was churros, but I'm definitely not complaining. They even serve them with a small container of Nutella (for dipping, of course), perhaps in an effort to mimic the Spanish tradition of dipping churros in hot chocolate.

I opted to dip my churros in an authentic French specialty: vin chaud.


Oh, dearest vin chaud lady! By the end of December, you will know my face as well as your own flesh and blood! Vin chaud, or mulled wine, is something I've built up since middle school French class. In it, you'll typically fine red wine, lemon, orange, sugar, and cinamon. Some recipes call for the welcome addition of nutmeg, cloves, and ginger. This concoction is heated up and ladled out on chilly nights. Although I could easily make this myself, I like having an excuse to go to the Christmas Market for a 2 Euro cup of vin chaud. This particular booth also sells marron grillés (roasted chestnuts), crêpes, and homemade preserves and marmelades.

What haven't I tried yet? A lot more than you might assume. I have as of yet to déguster the crêpes at the Market. The waffles, too (these are gauffres of the Belgian persuasion - yes, Boston crew, like the ones at the Belgian Beerfest).

Then there are the more region-specific delicacies, like the Tartiflette.


Tartiflette combines three of my all time favorite ingredients: potatoes, cheese (reblochon), and ham (or bacon). My friend Rebecca has told me repeatedly that she can't justify eating Tartiflette unless she has been out all day hiking Mont Blanc or skiing or running a marathon (or some comparable activity outdoors). I say, Rebecca, suck it up and put on your eating pants. The saucepan you see above is about as long as me. This particular booth also provides fresh made Raclette, the very simple and delicious combination of boiled potatoes with Gruyère cheese, popular in Switzerland and the French alpine region.

Then there are the bite-sized treats, like candied fruits and Christmas chocolates, featured below.

Candied kiwis, pinneaple, strawberries, figs, apples, pears, bananas, and apricots, to name about half of the fruits represented. Then there's the marzipan (or almond paste). And the artisan-made chocolates filled with gianduja, pistacchio, milk chocolate, chestnut cream, and more, each finely wrapped in shimmering gold, silver, green, pink, purple, and red-colored foil.

Last, but certainly not least, is the Ferris Wheel of Saint-Etienne.


Stay tuned for updates!

In which I realize that going to the market is kind of like going to the circus

SERIOUSLY, people, take a look at this purple cauliflower:


Saturday mornings in Saint-Etienne are all about the farmer's market. I've been lazy and stuck to the one by my house which occupies what normally serves as a parking lot. But on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and yes, Saturdays, the lot, framed by apartment buildings and a lone bar named "Le Pub Fiction," is overrun by farmers peddling their wares. Potatoes, apples, pears, lettuce, fresh herbs, pumpkins, radishes, cucumbers, berries, broccoli, cauliflower (in white, green, and purple varieties), are among the produce selection. Dairy products ranging from briques of pure cow's milk cheese, chèvre and brebis (goat and sheep's milk cheeses), homemade yogurt, and eggs can be found on the perimeter. Pork, beef, and poultry farmers also represent, with an emphasis on pork (pork-based products being a regional specialty). These ruddy-faced stéphanois sport blood-tinged aprons and meat cleavers, serving customers from caravans with hanging hams and rows of sausages.

Which brings us to my point about markets being like circuses. It could be the presence of caravans that first gave me a circus-y feeling. Or it could be the sights to behold, e.g. mutant strains of cauliflower or oddly shaped vegetables - Corinne adopted a cucumber that looked like it was sprouting two more cucumbers. Interesting sidenote: Europe recently relaxed its rules on the sale of "ugly" fruits and vegetables (thus explaining the curious absence of "overly curved, extra knobbly or oddly shaped produce from supermarket shelves," and the abundance of said deformed bounty of nature at the farmer's markets).

Mostly, though, I think it's the farmers themselves. I can easily picture one of the pig farmers as a circus strongman, wrestling with a massive side of ham. In some cases, though, no imagination is necessary.

Take my favorite fruit farmer, whose name I still don't know even though I see him every week to buy a kilo or so of his Gala apples. And by buy a kilo or so of his Gala apples, I also mean chat with, admire, and generally oggle him.

Corinne: You mean that guy? He looks kind of like a goat...

Yes, apparently I have a thing for goat-like men. My apple man is tall and broad-shouldered, with charcoal hair and a really becoming goatee (trust me). His eyes crinkle and twinkle when he smiles, which is often. He wears the same sweater every time I see him, a faded navy blue wool knit that looks worn and mended.

So he's a dreamy goat-like man. I think if he headlined at a circus, his act would be entitled "Mephistophelian goat man." He would probably hypnotize hapless young women by juggling apples and dazzling them with his smile. The women, in turn, would stand zero chance of escaping his charms (and not buying his fruit).

My favorite circusesque farmers are the dairy duo from whom I buy my goat and sheep cheese. A married couple (presumably, though they might well be brother and sister) they are as old as their caravan, which looks like a throwback to gypsy wagons of yore. Round and plump, their rosy cheeks contrast with the snow white color of their sheep (yes, they have photos of their sheep lining the walls of the caravan). Their leathery hands with neatly clipped fingernails take great care when packing bricks and patties of all sorts of fresh cheeses in sheets of wax paper.

Usually, though, I can't help staring at their faces. The man has a glass eye that always trips me up when he looks past me asks me with grandfatherly warmth, "Qu'est-ce que vous désirez, mademoiselle?" The woman has more facial hair than he does, but the mustache suits her, as does the furry mole that dots her left upper lip. Both are missing teeth but don't seem to mind as they smile their gap-toothed smiles and move on to the next customer.

I'm not sure what act they would do. She could definitely play the part of the bearded lady (perhaps modfied to be "heavily mustached lady"). He might be the man with the magic eye?

I'm open to suggestions.


The market



Vegtastic

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.

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.

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:

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.