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.


Stay tuned for updates!