Espranglais

Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME VI, Part C

2010-06-28T14:19:00.023-04:00

I ♥ travel. I ♥ writing. When engaged in the former, I have no time for the latter, which makes me :o{

I've just spent ten days in San Francisco and the Pacific Northwest and am itching to post about all the bibliophile nerdiness that took place there. Unfortunately, a group of wily gremlins have tethered my wrists to the base of my keyboard until I complete ALL 13 VOLUMES of my Euro series. The longer I write, the more elusive the finish line becomes. I feel like the blogger version of this girl:

If you don't recognize the above image, this means you've never checked out the trippy 80s classic The Labyrinth. Shame on you.

Eager for those pesky gemlins to restore my freedom, I press on ... to Tuscany.

Touring Toscana

Six nights in Florence afforded us plenty of time for Tuscan day trips, of which Becca and I took four. Below are brief descriptions and accompanying photographs of each town.

SIENA:

Welcoming visitors to Siena is a statue of a she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus – abandoned babies who were raised by a wild animal but somehow managed to found one of history's biggest empires anyway. Myth is crazy-awesome.

What first struck me about the town was the color palate: peach, brown, beige. The earth tones have a soothing effect.

Then, bang! Pink church. That's what's up.

Thought that was festive? Check out the bright blue dome from the inside.

Lastly, Becca and I were transfixed by Siena's pigeon fountain. I'm no particular fan of pigeons, and I don't know anyone who isn't either terrified of – Moira, that's you – or indifferent to the aviary rats. But watching these guys drink water spewing out of the mouth of a lioness sculpture was an entertaining sideshow as we enjoyed our daily gelatos.

Speaking of sculpture, I've often wondered what people are thinking placing valuable works of art outdoors. I love picnicking in a sculpture garden as much as the next pretentious Europhile, but, let's face it, those statues are asking for it (pigeon poop, that is). I mean, Italian pigeons have literally shit on Michelangelo.

VOLTERRA:

I did NOT visit this tiny hill town because it was heavily featured in the Twilight book series. (I did read the series, though. Don't judge me!) I chose Volterra because my research indicated that tour buses wouldn't take me there. Instead, they all head to the neighboring, touristy San Gimignano. (Say that five times fast.) To visit Volterra, Becca and I would have to take two commuter buses (like locals!). Excited to bypass the tourist trap, we:

1) hopped on a local bus in Florence,
2) happily rode to the middle of nowhere,
3) asked the bus driver which bus we should take next,
4) watched the bus driver point to it across the street,
5) watched it rev its engine,
6) ran like hell,
7) were left stranded in the middle of nowhere,
8) discovered that the next bus to Volterra would be arriving in five hours,
9) contemplated playing charades for entertainment and hunting for nourishment,
10) spotted another bus going somewhere (ANYWHERE!),
11) gleefully hopped on said bus, and
12) ended up in San Gimignano.

Still, we would not be deterred. We would find a way to Volterra from San Gimi-whatever-its-name-is. We would take a cab. Trying to take a cab from San Gimigimini consists in the following steps:

1) Wait at a taxi stand for 25 minutes.
2) Wonder why a town would have a taxi stand but no taxis.
3) Venture to a nearby bar and inquire about taxis.
4) Be assured that help is on the way.
5) Watch as a friendly Italian woman exits the bar, tilts her head up, and yells.
6) Be all confused.
7) Watch an elderly man pop his head out of a fifth-story window, yell back, and make a "give me a minute" signal.
8) Ask your travel partner, "Is this our 'cab' driver?"
10) Be greeted by the elderly man offering you a ride to Volterra.
11) Talk him down a whole 10 €. Go me!
12) Still feel like you're getting embarrassingly ripped off.
13) Become worryingly nauseous on the jet-fast, curvy, hilly "cab" ride.
14) Make it to Volterra, damn it!

It was all worth it. Luckily, I beat the Twilight film crew there; I would imagine there are quite a few more cameras snapping pictures of unsuspecting Volterrans these days. They don't like that, as is evidenced by this lady:

Having survived her icy glare, I wandered around for a few hours and was again taken by the nakedness of all the neutral tones, which serve as a wonderful backdrop for the occasional splashes of color.

Volterra's clock tower is widely considered to be perfection itself; so say the world's foremost clock tower experts.

When not trying to save vampires from their suicidal, emo selves at the clock tower, head over to the giant entrance archway. The structure, as well as the walls that still surround the ancient town, dates back to the Etruscans. Totally impressive.

Roman ruins your thing? Volterra's got those, too.

The town is also known for crafting beautiful ornaments out of alabaster, so those looking for an authentic Volterra souvenir should head to the large alabaster store in town.

We headed back to Florence with our heads held high, for in Volterra we had not been tourists, but travelers!

PISA:

What a difference a day makes. Not gonna lie. We went to Pisa, saw the leaning tower, took ridiculous pictures of it (or with it, or in it, or on it), and trotted back to Florence. Zero attempt was made to experience the "real" Pisa. Perhaps the Volterra mission had left us too weary to be true travelers anymore. Whatever the reason, we gave in and became shameless tourists for the afternoon.

On an extensive tour of Europe, giving in to this weakness is sometimes necessary, for delirium becomes a real danger after visiting the 17th or so historic cathedral. Once they all start to look the same and you can't tell the difference between Renaissance and Baroque anymore, you'd better find a way to unwind before you start losing it Kafka style.

Pisa was that moment for us. So here I am, mightily pushing the Leaning Tower of Pisa back into place:

Here I am, striking a nonsensical pose in front of the tower.

And here I am, making my way up the tower, a victim to the war being waged between my high-heeled boots and the tower's treaterous lean.

Shameless Tourist Day was a total success.

CORTONA:

Of all the towns we were fortunate enough to visit in Tuscany, Cortona was the highest (altitude-wise, not drug-wise). As a result, we enjoyed very impressive views of the surrounding countryside.

We chose to visit this little known town, though, for a less noble reason. This is where Diane Lane's character in Under the Tuscan Sun ends up when her marriage falls apart. Here, she meets colorful characters around the lively, central fountain; befriends Polish construction workers who are helping her to restore a rundown villa; and has mind-blowing sex with a tall, dark, and very handsome Italian man. We found none of these things on our visit.

Given the expectations, Cortona was kind of a let down. I mean, not finding a Tuscan villa to buy and friendly Polish construction workers to join you at the dinner table for pleasantries every night? That much I can accept. But I'm still disappointed about not having met a young, gorgeous Italian with black hair and blue eyes. Also, there was no fountain. Okay there was, but it was not in the central plaza and bore no resemblance to the one in the film, and there was a tennis ball stuck in its stone seashell sculpture.

WTF?

I'm joking, of course. Cortona was lovely. A few highlights below:

Still, it would have been nice if anyone in Cortona had looked anything like this.

Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME VI, Part B

2010-05-15T17:19:00.031-04:00

Fanciful Florence

Renaissance art, picturesque bridges, Italian wine, and mouthwatering ravioli. What's not to love? Florence is a truly enchanting city worth visiting more than once. My first trip there (in 2003) barely lasted two days – totally inadequate. This time around, I made sure to give myself ample time (six nights) to wander the cobble-stoned streets.

Our first objective upon arrival was lunch. Famished, Becca and I entered a nondescript little restaurant near our hotel, where I had a simple chicken dish with a delectable sauce.

Reinvigorated by our meal, we decided to pop into a couple of the shops lining the unembellished street while waiting for our ~~crappy~~ accommodations to be readied. "Hello, 30-euro shiny red pumps!"

I don't impulse-buy often, so I welcomed the serotonin high as I bounded into the city center, where Brunelleschi's grand Duomo (cathedral) was waiting to greet me.

"Hello, Duomo!" (I was still under a slight shoe-induced delirium at this stage, and all that green and pink marble wasn't helping). The Duomo's accompanying, equally colorful baptistry boasts the Ghiberti Doors (also known as the Gates of Paradise), a 15th-century work in bronze by Lorenzo Ghiberti. It is widely considered to be the first artistic production of the Renaissance (omigod!). Ghiberti built the bronze doors for a competition, which he of course won. The doors on display today are an exact replica of the originals, which are now housed in the Duomo Museum. The photograph below is of the replica.

Closely scrutinizing every detail of those door panels is an exhausting enterprise, so we later rewarded ourselves with fresh air and enchanting vistas of Florence at the Boboli Gardens, which are located behind the Pitti Palace, former home of the Medeci Grand Dukes.

The Boboli Gardens seemed to me notably different from typical French gardens in that they weren't as meticulously manicured. Although nowhere near wild, they did seem more natural. This held a particular charm for me, as I'm accustomed to the "pelouse interdite" (forbidden grass) signs of Parisian gardens. Speaking of which, there's no better infraction to commit in France than frolicking on "forbidden" grass. Ahh ... to have been a wayward child in Paris!

*Espranglais does not hold itself responsible for any reprimands incurred as a result of illegal lawn activities.

As the afternoon began to fade, it seemed the perfect time to stroll around aimlessly. We stumbled across a street market as we headed to the Piazza della Signoria. The famed statues on public display were especially captivating in the waning daylight.

Once night falls, I like to head to the Ponte Vecchio, Florence's beautiful medieval bridge. Pedestrians hop in and out of little jewlery shops full of glittery gold and ornate cameos; scooters swoosh by haphazardly; the Arno River reflects the old bridge's arches. This landmark is so remarkably charming that it wins Espranglais' first ever "Bestest Bridge In Ze World Award." This is ultra prestegious, as Espranglais is a bit of a "bridge whore." Congratulations, Florence! Espranglais' photographs celebrate thee.

Also, there was food. LOTS of cheesy, sinful food. And wine! Grazie, Ristorante Il Latini, for offering us a free bucket of wine on Becca's birthday. We could never have taken silly pictures sitting atop other people's parked scooters without it.

Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME VI, Part A

2010-05-02T17:43:00.009-04:00

It was March before we knew it, and the fragrance of spring flowers was in the air. What we smelled most keenly, though, was the alluring aroma of Easter Break. It smelled of slowly melting mozzarella cheese, or freshly made gnocchi, or stracciatella gelato (wait, that doesn't actually smell like anything). The point is, we were off to tour Italy and gain weight! The beautiful view of the Alps from my airplane window struck me as a good omen for what was to be an exhausting but memorable (and yummy) trip.

Roman Holiday

News flash: the Vatican is not quite as holy as it purports to be. Well, at least its architecture is still celestial. This trip marked my second visit to Rome, and Saint Peter's Basilica was as awe inducing as I remembered. For me, the impact of the cathedral lies in its shear size. When Jesus said to Peter, "upon this rock I will build my church," I wonder if he intended to make followers feel like liliputians. At 136 meters (over 400 feet) tall from the floor to the tip of its dome, Saint Peter's Basilica is imposing.

The Vatican Museums are equally impressive, not only for all that Raphael on display, but also for the frescos adorning the walls and ceilings of every room.

Already suffereing from a sore neck, you finally proceed into Michaelangelo's Sistine Chapel, which is easy to appreciate despite the massive crowd of people exclaiming things like, "Dude! The 'curtains' are, like, totally painted! They look so real, man! Awesome." Photography is prohibited inside the chapel, but I can assure you that the curtains do indeed look, like, totally real and that the effect of this truly is, like, so cool.

Gazing upon iconic art by the Ninja Turtles? Check. On to "gladiating" at the Colosseum. Films and popular culture in general have largely influenced our perception of what exactly took place in this ancient Roman amphitheater, but, for a westerner, being physically there evokes a sense of history ... and of cultural continuity. It's not too difficult to picture a college football game taking place at the Colosseum. After all, what could be more Roman than watching broad-shouldered men in skintight pants violently tackle each other to the ground? Actually, scratch that comparison; the ancient Romans didn't wear pants.

From ancient architecture to baroque. Stroll along Rome's Via dei Condotti, past Gucci, Valentino, Armani, and other boutiques at which you (that is to say I) can't afford to shop, and you'll be rewarded with a climb up the beautiful Spanish Steps (Piazza di Spagna). From atop the broad steps, couture shoppers look like busy ants haphazardly making away with pricy shoes and handbags.

Turn in the other direction, however, and harmony is thankfully restored.

More quiet charm can be found at the Piazza Navona, where artists set up shop, flanked by two gorgeous fountains: Neptune Fountain (Fontana del Nettuno) and Moor Fountain (Fontana del Moro). In the center of the city square lies the third, most famous fountain, Bernini's Fountain of the Four Rivers (Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi), which was unfortunately covered with scaffolding on the day I was there.

While on the subject of fountains, no trip to Rome is complete without tossing a coin into the majestic Trevi Fountain (Fontana di Trevi), which, according to legend, ensures you will one day return to The Eternal City. Here's hoping.

Rome was striking, as always, but Becca and I had only just begun to live "la dolce vita." More of our Italian adventures to come in Parts B, C, and D of the endless Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME VI.

Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME V

2010-04-18T18:33:00.004-04:00

Everything's Coming Up Bruges

Less than a month after our little jaunt through Eastern Europe, the wanderlust began stirring anew. Given Belgium's proximity, Brussels seemed the most practical place to visit over a long weekend. As we began researching Belgium, though, Becca and I made the impulsive decision to forget Brussels altogether and instead head to Bruges.

Bruges (or Brugge) is a Flemish little cupcake of a city known for its perfectly preserved medieval architecture, pleasant canals, chocolate, and handmade lace being produced since at least the 15th century. What's not to love? The cuteness meter is through the roof on this place. Skeptical? Scan the photographic evidence below and then name somewhere more adorable. Go on, I dare you.

Proof of Cuteness

Exhibit A - cute window view:

Exhibit B - cute triangular rooftops:

Exhibit C - cute waffles!:

Exhibit D - cute hostel:

Exhibit E - cute pedestrian street:

Exhibit F - cute triangle roofs (revisited):

Exhibit G - cute central plaza:

Exhibit H - cute horse carriage:

Exhibit I - cute tower:

Exhibit J - cute pink building:

Exhibit K - cute bike culture:

Exhibit L - cute medieval architecture:

Exhibit M - cute cheese!:

Exhibit N - cute nightlife:

Exhibit O - cute beer:

Exhibit P - cute church:

Exhibit Q - cute lace:

Exhibit R - cute shop window:

Exhibit S - cute lace shop named after me:

Exhibit T - cute tower view:

Exhibit U - cute city:

Exhibit V - cute chocolate art:

Exhibit W - cute chocolate ad featuring cute girl eating chocolate:

Exhibit X - cute Michaelangelo:

Exhibit Y - cute doll shop:

Exhibit Z - cute canals:

The ABCs of cuteness. Don't you wish you could just miniaturize it all, stuff it in your purse, and take it home to display on your dresser? . . .

You can!

Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME IV

2010-04-17T14:40:00.003-04:00

The travel trio united once more on New Year's Eve in Paris for a fun-filled night of getting all dressed up, having our asses grabbed on the metro, watching the Eiffel Tower light up at midnight the same way it lights up year-round, finding all bathrooms on lockdown on the Champs-Elysées, and miraculously hauling a cab after a strenuous two-hour effort. Memories . . .

The Gateway to Eastern Europe

January 1st: new year, new travels. We decided in October that we would spend the latter half of our Christmas vacation in a winter wonderland – Austria. We took a flight to Vienna and settled in at our cozy little hilltop hostel surrounded by snow. We were charmed.

Once settled, we wasted no time in hitting the city, which lived up to its reputation of grandeur and elegance.

Come nightfall, however, we glanced at a map of Europe and felt stupid for booking five nights in Vienna when we had never been closer to Hungary! At the train station the next morning we promptly bought tickets to Budapest for January 5th. We would spend two full days in Vienna and two in Hungary. In between, we would take a day trip to Salzburg where we could ponder the eternal question: “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” (If that reference eludes you, please watch Sound of Music now. Like right now.) As it turns out, a trip to Salzburg would cost us over 70 euros, while an hour train ride to Slovakia came in at a mere 14! Bratislava had never sounded more appealing.

The excitement of "a mere 14 euros" quickly gave way to the dread of "a mere 19 degrees F., minus windchill." My fellow travelers from Boston and Toronto happily trotted along as this Miami girl prayed Hail Marys to distract her freezing mind. Looking at the photos now, I think, "that was pretty!" At the time, however, I was half conscious.

Freezing temperatures make me delirious, at which time I begin speaking to statues.

I began to recover my marbles as we headed to Budapest, where the snow was melting. This means we were spared the bitter cold but greeted by icy slosh, which doesn't feel great when seeping through your faux suede Payless boots. Trust me. We spent most of our two days trying to navigate through the rain and taking hazy pictures of city views through foggy bus windows.

The highlight of our Hungarian adventure, though, was our decision to take a dip in the famed thermal baths of Budapest. As none of us considered bringing a swimsuit to Hungary in January, a trip to the local H&M became a priority. Running through the frigid Eastern European winter air half naked would have been worth it had the water been hot rather than lukewarm. Turns out, as we were kindly informed by a local, that the "hot" pool was the other one – over there! Running through the frigid Eastern European winter air half naked and wet is even worse. Troopers that we are, though, we lived to tell the tale.

I am eager to visit Eastern Europe again, particularly Prague, but next time I'll be sure to book for spring or summer. This trip marked the first time I fully experienced snow. Although I had watched it fall a few times before, I'd never seen it "stick." It's as pretty in person as I had envisioned, but – and I know this is obvious – it's freaking COLD. It also gets your socks and feet all wet even if you bothered to buy thick rubber-soled, faux fur-padded boots in a hardcore "outdoors" store in Paris. In the battle of Cold vs. Me, Me holds her own, but Cold wins hands down.

Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME III

2010-03-13T14:44:00.002-05:00

A French Noël

My North American friends headed home for the holidays as I made my way to the countryside for a traditional French Christmas dinner with Elodie and her family, who were incredibly hospitable throughout my séjour.

Guests included Elodie’s sister, three married couples, seven children, and an American girl wearing impossibly high heals. (C’est moi!) As soon as the loud, obnoxious cousin entered the door – and we know it’s not a family affair without a loud, obnoxious cousin – he announced grandiosely that smoking indoors mustn’t be prohibited on this holy of days, which got me thinking ... What would Jesus do?

Theological ponderings aside, I spent the evening eating turkey, wondering how many years the cloud of toxic smoke would shave off my life, and trying not to be disturbed by the three-year-old son of the loud, obnoxious cousin expertly holding a (thankfully unlit) cigarette between his index and middle finger and pretending to inhale and exhale.

I also played with the children (read: allowed a ten-year-old artiste to use my face as her personal canvas).

After the kids had opened their gifts at midnight and we had finished our feasting, I was off to bed. On Christmas morning, Elodie swore to never invite the loud, obnoxious cousin over for Christmas again. We cleaned up, ate leftovers, and watched two films: one, a hilarious French Christmas flick form the 1970s; the other, an incredibly depressing Italian movie about a castrated operatic singer. (Fun!) Christmas cheer was restored when my cousin called from her house in Miami to announce she was having a baby! She won’t be letting the little one play with any cigarettes.

I spent another night at Elodie’s before heading back to Angers to pack up for my next world-travel adventure. Details to come in Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME IV.

OCD Attack

2010-03-08T12:15:00.001-05:00

Do you experience most of your light bulb moments while taking a shower? I do. Well, as I allowed the steaming water to awaken my brain yesterday, I came upon a shocking realization regarding my blog profile. In it, I explain why I suffer from Incessant Travel Disorder. Apparently, I also suffer from Illogical Acronym Letters Disorder. While writing my profile, my thought process must have gone something like this:

I should say that traveling is a compulsive thing for me, almost like a disorder. I could even give it, like, an "official" name. Incessant Travel Disorder! Ooo, that totally sounds like a real medical thing. I'll give it an acronym to make it extra "medicalish": Incessant Travel Disorder (INS).

Quoi? Upon recognizing my mistake, I almost collapsed in the shower. My Obsessive Compulsive Disorder freaked out about my Incessant Travel Disorder being incorrectly acronymed. (Is that a verb?)

I would give myself a pass if I had absentmindedly used the first three letters of the first word, but that would make the acronym INC, not INS. Where did the "S" come from? Was it "S" for syndrome? "S" for symptom? "S" for stupid? Well, in any case, I have now corrected the gross error. I suffer from ITD. ITD!

"Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: Volume III" coming soon.

Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME II

2010-03-02T14:03:00.002-05:00

Miami Girl Freezes, Then Thaws Out

The rest of November is now a haze of teaching French teenagers about the American Civil Rights Movement, strolling about Angers, visiting Becca in Nantes, and eating at crêperies. Come December, the Christmas spirit was in the air. Early in the month, I took a quick trip to Madrid for the weekend to visit my dad, who hops across the pond every so often. Little did I know that France was preparing a winter smackdown for me.

In truth, only about one week felt unbearable; coincidentally, it was the same week that Moira, my friend and “compinche,” came to visit. We spent our days either braving the cold – it would not keeps us from our crêpes, damn it – or caving in – cheese, bread, wine, and dubbed episodes of The Nanny would do.

Then on Saturday – hyperbole alert – a miraculous thing happened! The weather warmed just as we headed to Paris, where we visited my favorite crêpe stand, the Rodin Museum, the Louvre bookstore, Galeries Lafayette, a fondue restaurant, and the Champs Elysées. The Louvre and the Champs Elysées are of course must-sees for anyone traveling to Paris for the first (or second, or third) time; I could blog endlessly about them. Instead, I'd like to focus on the lesser celebrated sites Moira and I visited that day: the Rodin Museum and Galeries Lafayette.

What is now the Musée Rodin is an early eighteenth-century mansion that was once a hotel. Artists like Auguste Rodin and Henri Matisse rented rooms there, which they used as art storage or studio spaces. Rodin saved the building from demolition by offering his art to the state under the condition that the mansion would become a museum. And so it did. I love visiting the building and its accompanying gardens, and I never tire of photographing Rodin's sculptures, which are some of my favorites anywhere.

From the sublime to the commercial. Galeries Lafayette's ten stories of fashionable clothes, accessories, perfumes, and furnishings can keep a girl occupied for HOURS. Shopping is not what draws me to the Galeries, though. The department store is a gorgeous building featuring a glass and steel dome and Art Nouveau staircases, and the giant Christmas tree it shows off every December renders it that much more magnifique.

Paris is the kind of big city you want to be in at Christmastime; it’s the European New York of Christmas, I always say. (Huh?) To make up for this lack of eloquence, I give you two Parisian icons:

As you can see, Moira and I made the best of our one day in Paris. We said farewell the next morning, at which time I had to settle for watching dubbed episodes of The Nanny on my own.

Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME I

2010-02-21T18:47:00.001-05:00

Long after returning from my eight-month séjour in France, I posted an absurdly brief account of my experiences living and traveling in Europe. A typical guilt-ridden Catholic, I am still feeling remorseful that I did not properly document my time as a teaching assistant in France. So, in the spirit of Lent, which officially began on Wednesday of this week, I have made it my mission to write in more detail about my life during this time (September 2006 to May 2007). I will not proceed, however, without first providing a litany of excuses for my sins.

Top 5 excuses – legitimate or otherwise – for not having kept up with my blog:

1) It was too cold to think.
2) I had to undergo a root canal.
3) French wine numbed my senses.
4) I was busy traveling.
5) I adopted the French laissez-faire attitude.

Having atoned, I trust all will be forgiven. *Drumroll* Here goes!

Greece, George, and Gyros

I had met Stephanie on a Facebook group for teaching assistants in France. The first time we met in person, she introduced me to Becca, another assistant who was living 40 minutes away in Nantes. That afternoon we casually decided we should book a flight to Greece. Little did we know we had just constituted a relentless travel triumvirate that would one day set foot in Bratislava. (Further details to come in Volume IV.)

I got to play tour guide in Paris for two days.

Then it was off to Athens where we spent the first week of November seeing the sites, getting to know the city, purchasing legit Greek jewelry and contraband wallets with misspelled designer names, and eating gyros.

Our hotel, situated 45 minutes from the city center by bus, was perfect. For a mere 14 euros a night we had a charming, spacious room with balcony and all. But much more notable a commendation was its proximity to Pita Time, George’s extraordinary gyro stand.

Words cannot express the magic of his pork gyros. (Stephanie would argue in favor of the chicken, but Becca and I outvoted her, which makes Stephanie wrong. That’s how democracy works.) Night after night we were drawn to Pita Time as if by some preternatural force. Acknowledging our loyalty, George began to offer us free gyros by day 3. Never again did we pay for dinner. In fact, we didn’t pay for pretty much anything around George. He took us out Friday night and insisted on buying all our drinks. We were treated to a live performance by Nikos Vertis, a very popular Greek singer, at a traditional Greek bouzoukia in the Posidonio. Here’s a clip of him performing at that very spot, perhaps that very night! (Long Live Youtube.) Then we headed to a club where we danced to some Greek music and then got down to Ricky Martin (who lives la vida loca) and Celia Cruz (who has tumbao). When I say “we” I mean the girls, for George, ever the gentleman, stood by the bar and let us have our fun before escorting us back to our hotel.

Sugardaddy? Perhaps. But let me say in our defense that we always tried to pay. One time we left a tip that amounted to a greater sum than the actual cost of his ridiculously affordable gyros. And besides, George had no ulterior motives. As a cynic in such cases myself, I was rather surprised that he genuinely just wanted us to have a good time in Greece and appreciate the culture; he would have personally shown us around Athens had we befriended him sooner. We left him our email addresses but later decided to call Pita Time from France to say hello because he seemed a little puzzled by the concept of emailing.

Here we are getting ready for our night out on the town with Gyro Man:

It’s too bad we didn’t know at first that George could have given us a tour of the Greek islands because it would have spared us 93 euros and the cheesiest cruise in the history of tourist traps. If the Greek drag queen singing ABBA and impersonating Elvis was any indication, this was going to be a memorable experience indeed. Much as I tried to channel Odysseus while gazing at the rocks that protruded out of the Aegean Sea, wind blowing in my hair, I must say that knowing Japanese tour groups were probably doing the Macarena downstairs diluted the experience. We tried to make the best of our paltry hour or two on each of the three islands, veering away from the touristy port areas and heading uphill along little winding streets, and we succeeded to some degree, particularly in the lovely and cat-filled island of Hydra. But 93 euros! Even mighty travel triumvirates make mistakes, no? In any case, we did make a vital purchase of wine and Nutella at one of our stops, and the saxophone player saluting us goodbye from the ship deck upon our decent was worth its weight in gold in my opinion.

We fared better in Athens, though, where the still-standing temples interspersed throughout the city evoked every feeling of history and myth I hoped they would. (Make fun if you will.)

By the end of our trip my fellow travelers and I were complaining that we had to return to France before we realized what complete snobs we are.

When You Go to San Francisco ...

2009-12-18T18:57:00.000-05:00

- Pretend to be imprisoned in Alcatraz.

- Pretend to be visiting an Alcatraz prisoner.

- Pretend Alcatraz is Azkaban.

- Pick fruits and flowers illegally at the Alcatraz (Azkaban) gardens.

- Subsequently get arrested.

- Play prison guard.

- Crane your neck and gasp in awe at the badass fighter planes swooshing around the SF skyline.

- Escape Azkaban – I mean Alcatraz – once and for all and rejoin civilization.

- Photograph phallus-inspired architecture. (Actually, do this in all your travels.)

- Choose a building to obsess over and consider it your future dwelling place complete with private library.

- Wonder at the ironic address of the cathedral.

- Pretend you're in China.

- Be patriotic.

- Seduce a soldier.

- Pretend to be a wine connoisseur in Sonoma.

- Have fun with murals.

- Sing the theme to Full House in front of Danny Tanner's home.

- Be introspective at the Golden Gate Bridge.

- Experience a California wildfire, sort of.

- Prance around the roof of a Frank Lloyd Wright building after reading a sign expressly forbidding it.

- Get drunk at a Mexican restaurant, and take pictures of bizarre actions you won’t remember later.

- Kick ass.

- Oh, and be sure to wear flowers in your hair.

At long last I have ventured to the West Coast. I had longed to visit San Francisco for years and am happy to report that it did not disappoint. Thank you to Priscilla, my fellow traveler, and Andrew, our gracious host.

And Now ... The French Mr. Bean

2009-12-17T19:10:00.001-05:00

Following my trip to Ireland, I enjoyed an overnight layover in Paris. It was a warm but breezy June evening, and Parisians were dancing gracefully along the banks of the Seine, as Parisians are wont to do.

I was treated to a lovely "bateau mouche" ride on the river complete with buffet and DJ. Thanks again to my former students, Vincent and Elise, for their hospitality. Merci mille fois!

Nothing like an Eiffel Tower on one's head, I always say.

An Irish Farewell

2009-09-27T13:43:00.000-04:00

By day, it's quaint and cozy; evenings are quite another story. Our night out in Galway left me so dazed that I forgot how to combine words into coherent sentences. Having recovered at last, I offer a brief overview of the magical mystery tour we experienced that memorable evening.

If you can picture a frat party crossed with a gay pride parade (take your time ...), you are looking at Galway nightlife. Bar-lined streets packed with women donned in hot pink leopard print dresses and men sprouting angel wings; street percussionists heightening the euphoria of drunken, costumed (sometimes unintentionally) Irish youth; Samuel Beckett watching over you creepily as you ingest your dinner. These are just a few of the reasons the evening now plays a bit like a dream sequence. Had I no pictures to document the phenomenon, I'm not sure I would believe it had actually taken place.

Back to Normalcy

Following our trippy evening, we headed back to Dublin for the final two days of our Irish journey and hit all the sites that we could. Here are the highlights:

- A snooty wine drinker, I have never been able to make myself like beer, try as I might. In Dublin, however, I was offered a "lady pint" of Guinness at an old, decidedly untrendy pub and was determined to drink it all. Two Irish senior citizens decided I could use a lesson and thus trained me in the art of Guinness drinking. Rule #1: DO NOT SIP. This encouraged me, and I finished my half pint with relative ease. It does taste smoother in Ireland. I was enthusiastic enough to down another half pint at pub #2. By the time we arrived at the trendy (although empty and suspiciously odd smelling) establishment, we were ready for our cocktails. I had three, and beer before liquor ... well you see where this is going.

- Trinity College boasts the library of my dreams. Old books rock.

- Taking pictures of myself with literary figure statues is my favorite corny tourist thing to do in Ireland.

You might then imagine how disappointed I was to find Oscar Wilde perched atop an impossibly high rock or how old I felt when a bunch of 10-year-olds climbed it with no difficulty whatsoever.

- William Butler Yeats bothered to answer a trite questionnaire about where his artistic inspiration comes from. This is amusing to lit geeks.

- The historic Temple Bar district is highly touristy, but the old John Gogarty pub and restaurant is worth visiting anyhow for some traditional Irish tunes.

- The Guinness brewery, with its accompanying Gravity Bar and complimentary pint, is well worth the visit. The tour is very thorough, and the bar on the top floor offers an expansive view of Dublin. Walking about the more seedy industrial neighborhood is interesting in itself. I particularly loved the Catholic church's placement directly next to the enormous beer tanks, factory smoke billowing above the steeple. How Irish.

Thank you, Republic of Ireland

A week is never long enough in any country, but it was long enough to begin feeling at home in Southern Ireland. For a capital city, Dublin feels neither fast-paced nor sleepy; people are friendly; and places are relatively easy to get to (notwithstanding the bus system's insistent lack of punctuality). As for Northern Ireland, time constraints and the cost of the pound made it impossible for me to visit on this trip, but it will not escape my incessant traveler disorder for long.

Sick and Tired

2009-06-20T13:41:00.001-04:00

I mean that literally. Ireland has been lovely so far; I, however, am sick (if carrying around a roll of toilet paper for blowing my nose is any indication) and tired. After writing in Dublin about my jet lag, Moira and I proceeded to walk aimlessly around the city for many more hours and didn’t hit the bed until midnight. The next morning, we took a train to Cork at the God forsaken hour of 7:00 a.m.

Blarney Babble

Once in Cork, we met up with Jen and took the requisite trip to Blarney Castle, where I underwent the infamous death defying experience of kissing the Blarney Stone. It goes like this: an elderly, loveable Irishman jokingly comments, “let’s see how you pucker up”; he asks you to lay on the ground and proceeds to pull you back, at which time you arch so that your head is dangling from the back of the castle tower precipice; just when you think you’ve completed the required task, the cheery old man calmly encourages you: “Further.” Finally, you reach the stone, you kiss it, and you are rescued from immediate danger. The enchanted stone has now awarded me the “gift of eloquence,” which I have not yet unleashed on my blog.

Note: I heavily over-dramatized the Blarney experience, as I was not actually frightened, and the metal bars underneath the stone would have saved me had I slipped, although hitting them would probably result in serious injury to the head.

The Blarney Castle grounds were absolutely gorgeous and fairytale forest-like.

See? I wasn't kidding.

Jen’s Birthday Blues-Turned-Green

Moving on, Friday began sans the famous “luck of the Irish,” as Jen tripped with her luggage and sprained her ankle … on her birthday! She carried on like a trooper as we all headed to Galway and took a day trip to the ancient Aran Islands, where we all rode bikes for hours, talked to horses and cows, and suffered from windburn (we’ve got the red foreheads to prove it). It was worth the trouble, though, even for Jen. See for yourself why:

Aran Islands - beautiful; rocky hills and bicycles - exhausting. Birthday dinner consisted of Papa John’s Pizza and chocolate birthday cake from the grocery store … in our PJs … at the guesthouse. We watched Friends and South Park and passed out.

Taking it Easy

By today, we had had it with the freaking tours. So, although we wanted to see a picturesque abbey in Connemara, we decided to walk about the Galway city center and browse. It’s adorable here, and I took pictures with Oscar Wilde (in statue form, of course). Also, for once, it’s not really cold and windy, which is about time. Ireland, meet the month of June.

We’re headed back to the guesthouse for a little down time before returning to the city center. We plan to wear our “cute going out clothes,” so Moira and I are going to endure our impossibly skinny jeans, which we slightly fear. Wish us luck.

Tomorrow it’s back to Dublin for the remainder of our trip. We hope the weather will stay fair so that we have an opportunity to wear all the “cute going out clothes” we brought in our luggage. For is that not, after all, what travel is all about?

Irelanding

2009-06-17T11:19:00.000-04:00

When my friend Moira and I stepped down in Dublin, it was a rainy, dreary day, which echoed (echoes) my jet-lag tainted mood.

It's now bright and sunny outside, but I'm afraid my next stop - *pauses, yawns* - may have to be the hotel. A few moments of interest so far:

- The cab driver was the stereotypical Irish storyteller.
- I saw a James Joyce statue but have not yet the energy to take corny pictures with him (it).
- I have one minute left on my allotted time at the internet cafe, so ... Gah!

But in All Seriousness, Folks

2009-05-27T20:10:00.000-04:00

I’m heading to Ireland for a week on June 16, so I’ve decided to continue updating this site as an actual travel blog (i.e. a site not full of dribble that interests no one but myself). It’s a tough order, but I’m quite determined. Or somewhat determined. Well, I am determined to some degree is what I’m saying. So expect future postings to be not complete nonsense. That is my goal. Pulitzer, here I come.

A Year-and-a-Half Later ...

2009-05-27T19:54:00.000-04:00

GUILTY.

I was too busy barely working in France to document my life there. In an effort to resuscitate this blog, what follows is a sadly feeble attempt at summation and conclusion – CRINGE.

Espranglais’ Guide to Europe in 200 Words or Less

Although I have explored most of the following destinations for less than a week, my keen eye for detail and powers of perceptiveness allow me to intuitively capture their essence. Who needs travel journalism, guides, or narratives when you can learn all you need to know about a place wrought with a complex history and cultural contradictions in one succinct sentence (or fragment, for that matter)?

GREECE – The temples will leave you in a state of awe, but not so much as the gyros.

SPAIN – Olé!

AUSTRIA – Swanky palaces with a dash of, “God, it’s freaking cold here.”

SLOVAKIA – If you thought Vienna was cold, sheesh!

HUNGARY – When visiting the thermal baths, DO NOT forget your shower shoes; I repeat: DO NOT forget your shower shoes.

BELGIUM – Remember, waffles are fattening, and so are fries.

ITALY – Forums, sunflowers, leaning towers, gondolas, and pasta – that about covers it.

SWITZERLAND – They make watches and chocolate here; also, they worry about world peace.

HOLLAND – Turns out the Sex Museum is NOT a serious institution dedicated to the study of sexual philosophies in different cultures over a vast historical time span … TULIPS!

So What About France?

THINGS THAT SUCKED:

- Paris. Metro. Luggage. Gun. Head.
- Doing laundry outside my apartment. With God as my witness, I will never go washing-machine-less again!
- Rain. Darn it, Anjou region and your proximity to London!
- No 24-hour Walgreens. The horror!
- Waiting for the Eiffel Tower to display something spectacular at midnight on New Year’s Eve and, instead, watching it do the same light flicker thing it does every hour of every night of the year.
- Drunk, hormonal men shoved up WAY too close to me in the metro on New Year’s Eve.
- Running around in heels for hours in search of a Paris cab on New Year’s Eve.
- Fitting two girls into one twin-sized bed and getting three hours of sleep before a flight to Vienna on New Year’s Eve.
- New Year’s Eve.

THINGS THAT ROCKED:

- Sneaking a bottle of wine into church on Ash Wednesday and showing up to a party after mass with ashes on our foreheads.
- Clubbing on Good Friday (Catholic guilt – gah!) followed by a.m. McDonald’s run.
- Imprisoning myself in and subsequently releasing myself from the eerie Château d’If.
- Cheese and wine by the Seine.
- Cheese and wine in general.
- Eating other French stuff … and kebabs. KEBABS!
- Parle à ma main: click
- CAF (i.e. French government paying nearly half my rent).
- Invites to visit teachers’ houses in the country where I was encouraged to play with goats and froggies.
- New Year’s Eve.

Unconclusion

Life was generally pretty sweet: three extensive vacations, 12-hour work weeks, and fellow travel enthusiasts to watch Zoolander with. What more can one ask for? I would do it all again if I didn’t have to suck it up, face reality, and start at least attempting to earn some … money. But then I judge money by how many weeks of travel it can buy me, so who am I kidding? Three weeks and I’m off to Ireland. May mayhem and facebook albums ensue.

Staying Afloat and Looking Ahead

2007-10-28T07:12:00.000-04:00

France has been home for over a month now, but I have yet to fully emerge from the “settling in” phase. I have neglected my blog in favor of trying to keep from collapsing under the weight of French rental agency demands. The following is a selection of the most significant stories (to me, anyways) and the most random anecdotes from the last four weeks or so – the good, the bad, and the French.

The Castle Beckons

When I wrote last month that I hoped to find a studio in the city center with a view of the château, I didn't expect to find a studio in the city center with a view of the château. Stroke of luck? Yes. Unfortunately, the "finders keepers" rule does not apply in France.

I had not realized until now how easy I had it in Paris four years ago. I had found my fully-equipped and fully-furnished apartment online, called a New York office to reserve it, sent a check, showed up in Paris, and stored my clothes in the closet. My American roommate and I paid the owner once a month in cash withdrawn from our bank accounts back home.

This time I’ve actually had to do this the French way, which consists of the following steps:

1) Fall in love with an apartment facing a centuries-old fortress.
2) Find a cautionnaire/garant. Definition:

a) someone who makes three times your monthly rent figure
b) someone willing to foot the bill if you spend all your money on wine and crêpes and can no longer pay for your 27 meters of living space
c) someone who pays French taxes (i.e. not my parents)
d) someone who doesn’t mind sifting through files for loads of paperwork
e) someone with the patience to read, sign, and initial every page of a 22-page contract

3) Send all required official documents (yours and the garant’s) to the agency officials.
4) Buy insurance to assure you won’t be charged if your 4th-story studio floods.
5) Verify that your “dossier” (folder) has been “approved” by the rental regime.
6) Transfer a disturbingly large sum of money to your French bank, which will never have heard of an international swift number and will have to call half of France to figure it out.
7) Write THREE checks to the rent nazis.
8) Breath a sigh of relief when your money is no longer in electronic limbo, your checks will not bounce, and you will not end up in French debtor’s prison.
9) Visit your apartment (you’re certain it’s yours now, right?) with the realtor and point out every tiny crack in the wall to ensure that seven months from now you will be handed back your deposit money. God knows you will need it.
10) Freaking move in already.

And so I did!

A Curtain Story (and related events)

The apartment is mine! (Insert Dr. Evil laughter here.) I had won the first battle, but little did I know that the war would wage on.

My studio was barely furnished when I moved in. There was a sort of triangular book-slash-other-stuff shelf, a little table who’s fourth leg wishes to succeed, and a “clic-clac” (or is it “clique-claque”?). This is a couch that opens into a bed with a “clic” and a “clac.” The Cuban equivalent is of course the world famous “ping-pang-poong.”

A photograph of my rebellious table and its secessionist leg:

Teachers have loaned me all sorts of stuff, including bed linens, chairs, and stools. I’m expecting a microwave and possibly a toaster oven. If someone doesn’t loan me a TV I will be buying a used one somewhere because I now religiously watch the dubbed version of Prison Break. I’ve also somehow convinced myself to buy a 99 euro convertible couch from Ikea. Despite the hodge-podge of stuff, the overall décor is actually coming along nicely.

The only real problem is the shower. Living on the top floor has its quirks. I think all the awkward angles on the roof give the place character, but they also prevent me from properly installing a shower curtain for my tub. I purchased a curtain and some adhesive hooks from the local Monoprix, trusting in my creativity and problem solving skills. The curtain has been through several unstable transformations and has finally evolved into a transitional form that is certain not to collapse, but sure to look a little ghetto. Suffice it to say the solidity of the structure largely relies on a bright green hanger.

Curtain Stage Un:

Curtain Stage Deux:

Curtain Stage "I'm so done with this curtain":

Shower dilemma #2: My hot water lasts a paltry five minutes. This is where the rent officials become rent nazis. They cannot guarantee me, or so they say, that I will not have to pay for the electrician. Everyone and their French mother agrees that this cannot be so, that French rental agencies are wicked, and that they are attempting to steal my money. I’ve already had some tough words for them, but I have three French citizens in line to tell them off for me some more, which I’m sure is bound to make them cave. I cannot do battle now, however, for the first extended vacation of the French school year begins today, and I’ll be busy traveling.

Travel Triathlon

I’m writing this from my school in Segré, but I’ll be posting it from somewhere in Paris, where I’ll be spending the weekend. Then I’m going to Greece! As I trod the fictional steps of Odysseus, trace the history of Greek theater, and worship Athena at the Parthenon – I think I’ve made it clear I’m a geek – I will take a staggering number of pictures on my specially-purchased-for-France digital camera. I’ll be back in Paris on November 5th, and on the 6th I head home to Miami for my cousin’s wedding. I’ll return on the 12th, mentally and physically exhausted, at which time I will again post way too many paragraphs for anyone to read.

Notes of a Random Nature

- I’ve met several other teaching assistants in town (two of whom I’m going to Greece with), and they’re all lovely.
- The neighbor and his girlfriend and his friends are charming, too. Would have gone for a drink with them tonight were I not getting up at the crack of dawn tomorrow for my travel triathlon.
- Once I’ve purchased and assembled my Ikea convertible couch I will play host to my new French, American, and Canadian friends.
- I purchased and assembled a rolling, clothes hanging and shelf contraption, so I am up for the couch challenge.
- I recently watched Under the Tuscan Sun on my laptop, and the main character’s impulsive decision to buy a completely rundown Tuscan villa made me feel better about my shower trouble. Of course, I can’t hire Polish workers to fix my shower.
- No matter how many times you tell a French student to pronounce the letter H, he or she will inevitably forget the next time.

France Fun Facts

- The exchange rate sucks, but euros are pretty.
- Everyone is obsessed with Desperate Housewives, Prison Break, and Les Experts de Miami (CSI Miami).
- There is a 2-euro store in Angers! (I now own wine glasses and a retro cutting board.)
- French teachers are nice.
- French bank tellers are nice but clueless about swift numbers.
- French realtors are the scum of the earth.
- My students are for the most part sweet, attentive, fascinated by my high school yearbook, and pretty bad at English.

Conclusion

Despite French realtors and faulty showers, I like it here. So, a "bonne nuit" to you all, from my private little château.

La Petite Américaine

2007-09-28T01:39:00.001-04:00

That would be me. “The American is in town. She’s from Miami: La ville qui fait rêver (the city that makes one dream).” It’s kind of fun to be a novelty. One student at my assigned high school asked me excitedly if I’d been to Los Angeles, as though it were a step and a hop away from my hometown.

I’ll do my best in this post to recount my first week in France without drowning you in boring details, but I make no promises.

One Night in Paris

Last Thursday at 8:10 a.m., a jetlagged, mutant version of myself arrived in Paris. Discovering that my hostel room would not be ready until – *gasp* – 2:30 p.m., I stored eight months worth of luggage in a closet, prayed it would be there upon my return, and headed straight for my crêperie stand. (I consider it personal property.) My butter and sugar crêpe was as delicious as ever.

With renewed vigor, I hopped over to the SNCF, czar of all train transport in France, to pick up my ticket for Angers and to purchase a youth discount card for train travel. Then it was off to the Charlemagne statue at the Notre Dame to meet with fellow jetlagged language assistants headed to towns and cities all over France. It wasn’t difficult to spot the Americans. When is it ever? After lunch at the Latin Quarter, three of us chose to do some more walking and fight the jetlag. We stumbled around the ridiculously picturesque Ile Saint Louis, ate a gelato, listened to an organ concert in a God-knows-how-old church, and headed back to the Norte Dame by 6:00 p.m., just in time to meet with other assistants who could not make the earlier hour. By that time, my aching need to sleep and never more awaken had taken over any other considerations, so I rushed back to the hostel. After taking a quick shower and tending to an unfortunate shampoo spillage accident, I was finally able to sleep.

First Impressions – Angers

My train left Paris at noon the next day and was in the city of Angers by 1:32 p.m. I waited at the train station until 6:00 p.m., at which time Stephane, husband to one of the English teachers at the school, was to pick me up. He did so and gave me a brief tour of Angers, which is small but so charming you want to put it in your pocket, take it home, and display it on your dresser. It’s a medieval city full of narrow cobblestone streets and artisans at work. It’s also a university town with a disproportionately large number of young people and a lively bar scene. A striking fortress-like château lies in the city center by the river Maine, which divides the area from the even older neighborhood, La Doutre. (“Outre” derives from old French and means “other” or "beyond.") As my impromptu tour guide recounted the rich history of the city, thoughts of strolling to and from my Angers apartment over scenic bridges danced in my head. Those 30-to-45 minutes remain all I’ve thus far experienced of Angers.

Food and Family . . . and Food

Following my brief dalliance in the little city, Stephane drove me 12 kilometers away to his aunt and uncle’s house. I would be staying with the Garniers for the weekend because Stephane’s home in the country is under construction. When I arrived, I was greeted by Stephane’s wife, Elodie; her children, Lilian (a six-year-old boy) and Olivia (a two-year-old girl); Sirius (a golden retriever named after the constellation, not the Harry Potter character), and the Garniers (Tonton and Tatate). Stephane’s other aunt and uncle, whom I have since also met, go by the names of Mimi and Bibi. It’s all very sweet but a bit like naming Pandas, but I digress. Tonton and Tatate were overcome with relief to find I spoke French and proceeded to give me a grand tour of the house, which they purchased for their retirement years. M. Garnier had been a printer, and he had quite a number of treasured items on his shelf to show me, including a letter personally handwritten to him and signed by Charles De Gaulle himself. Not kidding.

Then it was dinner time. The appetizer: an assortment of nuts and Tostitos with, of all things, Mexican salsa, and an accompanying rosé aperitif champagne that cannot be called champagne because it’s not from Champagne. First plate: raw salmon with a side of toast accompanied by a regional red wine. Next: regional pork pâté spread on French bread along with, again, the red wine. Main plate: roast chicken and delicious homemade French fries. Don’t forget the wine. Post main plate: an assortment of cheeses with, if you weren’t drunk already, some more wine. Dessert: a lime and orange tart and accompanying dessert wine. Then came the Cointreu: straight, no chaser. I might have exploded.

The four-hour-long feast come to a close, it was off to bed in my very pink guest room.

I spent the next day, Saturday, with the Garniers talking about WWII (i.e. “the war”), Bush, and the fraught history of African Americans. We also watched an episode of Walker, Texas Ranger in French, which was interesting. And we ate . . . and ate. By the time Elodie and the family had made it back for dinner #2 I was stuffing food under the tablecloth.

Espranglais in Action

For Sunday, Elodie and Stephane had arranged a picnic at their unfinished country home. The couple, the kids, the dog, the goat, and I were accompanied by three Spaniards who were in town for apple-picking season. By the end of the day, Elodie was calling me “dictionary.” Languages were being flung around like Frisbees at an Australian cliché convention. When I started speaking to Stephane in Spanish, I knew it was time to throw in the towel.

Translation duties notwithstanding, I enjoyed plenty of free time for loitering around. This was my first glimpse of French country life, and, although I am and will always be a city girl, there's no denying the charm of the lifestyle depicted in these pictures:

The French Are Nice?

Elodie drove me to the school in the little town of Segré bright and early the next morning. The town bridge is as old as ice, which in my world of nerd equals awesome.

Everyone at the institution, from the teachers to the administration, has been incredibly helpful and accommodating. I’ve been driven into town to open a bank account; driven to the grocery store to purchase some necessities; invited to observe classes and introduce myself to students; and invited to the zoo, the movies, and to dinner. Spanish teachers want me to speak about my family’s exile experience in their classes, and everybody has tried to make me feel at home. I have a little dorm room at the school with my own bathroom for free! It has a TV, a little fridge, and a microwave.

I can’t possibly live there, of course. Having already explored the entire adorable town, I’m convinced I would die of boredom. But I’ve been very grateful for the warm welcome. I don’t yet have an official teaching schedule, but it looks as though I will have Mondays and Wednesdays off, which is exciting. And quite a few teachers carpool to the school from Angers, so I won’t have to take the lonely hour-long bus ride three times a week either.

I feel lucky to have thus far encountered nothing but friendly, obliging people, but part of me longs for big city anonymity. A little Parisian indifference is good for the soul.

Angers and I to Meet Again

I’ve been frantically making calls to rental agencies, trying to score an apartment in the city. I’m headed there this morning right after I finish this eternal post. I planned on taking the bus there and back, but someone has of course offered to drive me there, and I’ll be staying at her place tonight so that I can continue the search on Saturday. I’m looking forward to escaping the town for a couple days, and I’m hoping to have some success in my quest for the perfect furnished studio in the city center with a view of the château, or something like that. Good luck to me.

Homesick

It has been smooth sailing since I arrived, and I’m certain I will leave here with plenty of great memories (and photos!). But of course I miss my family, my friends, my big room, my dog, The Daily Show, and not feeling cold. I can’t wait to have a place in Angers so that I can move about on my own and explore and go to the movies and find a place to do some yoga. I’m not yet occupied enough, but soon I’ll be working; commuting; dare I say cooking; traveling; and, to my detriment, shopping. Oh, and now that my French is up to snuff, finally taking on Les Miserables.

From Turmoil to Takeoff

2007-09-07T17:06:00.000-04:00

The last two weeks have consisted of the following: stress, hospital visits, fear, stress, exhaustion, heavy lifting, stress. Then … relief. As my world slowly reconstructs its natural order and my brain recovers its treasured sanity, I can once again turn my attention to preparing for eight months in France, which are now a mere 12 days away. Stress.

I have about 257 things to take care of and about 49 minutes in which to do them. I assure you those are accurate estimates. This will be tough, but I welcome the challenge. My “Which Hogwarts House Would You Be In?” Facebook quiz says I’m a Gryffindor, after all.

Besides, I recently received fantastic news – someone at my school knows I exist! Valérie, one of five English teachers, is “very happy happy” that I will be working at the high school, and I’m even happier to hear from her. She confirmed there is some kind of room available for me and mentioned twice that it has a TV. She may be French, but she knows what my American priorities are.

So, with a worryingly crazy two weeks behind me, I can look forward to the excitingly crazy two weeks ahead. First order of business (and by first I do not mean most important): find and purchase adorable slash affordably priced black clutch purse.

On the Joy of Passports

2007-08-16T16:21:00.000-04:00

I've always loved passports. They grant entry into exotic places (minds out of the gutter, gentlemen), and there is something reassuringly official about them. Although today’s obsession with compulsory identification and perpetual surveillance is rather creepy, a part of me finds comfort in orderly discipline – a consequence, perhaps, of many rigorous years of ballet training.

Passports are also distinctly personal, though, at least for the avid traveler. They remind me of my sticker collection in the 5th grade. The little Hello Kitty notebook slowly became flooded by my most favoritest stickers, which I could then peruse and admire at my leisure. (Note: I am by no means suggesting that passports are as nauseatingly girly as sticker collections.)

There are fewer and fewer empty pages in my passport these days. Just yesterday, a perky young woman in glasses at the French consulate in Miami stamped one of them with a shiny new language assistant visa. It sits alongside my now four-year-old student visa. By May 2008, I will have officially lived abroad twice. I intend to find a real job and become a grown-up when I return, but my passport doesn’t expire until 2011. There are pages yet to fill, so although my intentions may be honorable, I think I had better not trust them.

Side-note: I am a little more than disturbed by the fact that I only just realized, upon writing the above, that the word “passport” is composed of the words “pass” and “port.” I thought I couldn’t possibly feel more gloriously stupid than the time I recognized the New York Yankees logo as an overlapping “N” and “Y,” but alas I underestimate myself.

Beulogy*

2007-07-26T17:02:00.000-04:00

When I purchased you at the airport moments before embarking on my first trip to Paris, I could not have guessed the immeasurable impact you would have on my life, nay, the world! The following year, you traveled with me to the City of Lights once more (in the form of your fourth installment, hardcover). Now I venture to France yet again, but this time I travel alone. I must come to terms with the daunting reality. It is over, all secrets revealed, the candle extinguished. What have I left to live for? Sure, I have family and friends and Cuban food. But what does it all mean without Harry Potter? I knew this moment would come, knew with the turn of each page that I was one page closer. But, like a blinded Hippogriff in mid-flight, I sped on with reckless abandon. And now it is done. Goodbye Harry Potter Book Series. I am off to France, and, as you rest in the graveyard of my bookshelf, I will try to soldier on … and read some Proust.

* book eulogy © 2007

Quarter-Life Crisis

2007-07-17T16:02:00.000-04:00

I'm 25. Help!

Fatigued, Bemused, and Elated

2007-07-17T15:44:00.000-04:00

11:00 a.m. : “Has the mail arrived yet?” 12:30 p.m. : “How 'bout now?”

My eagerly anticipated placement letter would surely find its way to Miami while I was out of town, right? Wrong. Or so I thought until I returned from New York City on July 11 at 3:30 a.m. (a few hours after my birthday), exhausted and peeved by a thrice delayed flight. I found birthday gifts on the dining room table and, magically, a mid-sized brown envelope from France!

A Very Merry Unbirthday To Me.

I opened it up with ravenous enthusiasm, spotted the word Angers somewhere, and jumped for joy. A sizeable city one hour and a half from Paris, young, vibrant, and gorgeous by all accounts. I happily opened my presents, took a shower, and went to bed with my envelope in hand. Now I could meticulously read every detail.

***
My school is not in Angers after all. It’s in Segré, a tiny town 40 km from the city, population 7,155. According to the official website, it’s name comes from the Latin “secretum,” which means “isolated.” I figure moving across the ocean is isolation enough. So now I’m looking at an hour-long commute because, while the town does seem very charming – see it for yourself by clicking vue 360º on the website – I don’t think I could cope with the boredom.

If all goes to plan, I will get to experience small-town France while living in a lively city. And – *nerd alert* – think of all the novels I’ll have read on busses in the seven-month span!

Here is the website for Angers. Click on En 360º (bottom of left-hand column) for virtual tours of the city.

Oh, and wish me luck.

Limbo

2007-07-02T14:57:00.000-04:00

Here's what I do know: 1) For seven months in France, I'll be teaching English conversation to middle school and/or high school kids. 2) I'll be somewhere in the Nantes académie, which is one of the 24 French school districts and loosley corresponds to the Pays de la Loire region, a map of which you can find here.

The French bureaucracy is conducting its first test of my patience. It may be late August before I can point to a particular spot on that map and decidedly say, "this is the city/town in which I will gain ten pounds on butter and sugar crêpes." Or it may be tomorrow. It's absolute torture. I would humiliate myself at an American Idol audition for that precious letter. Perhaps the postal workers in Nantes are on strike. Or the school administrators have decided they are overworked and underpaid. Who do they think they are? No one is allowed on strike until I am paying French taxes and can join in on the "protest" (vacation).

The waiting is playing tricks with my head (ME : WAITING :: PARIS HILTON : JAIL). Once freed from this Sadistic purgatory (de Sade was French, naturally), I will post pretty pictures of my pretty town and rave about how perfectly picturesque my life in France will be. I'll spare you the alliteration, though.

So, here's hoping I get my letter some time in July. *Sprinkles anti-jinx dust*

Done Deal

2007-06-21T16:17:00.000-04:00

$849. As STA Travel Lady charged my Mater Card this afternoon, it became official. On September 20 I will set foot in France, homeless and (nearly) broke. But then I will devour a baguette, and all will be right in the world.