And Now ... The French Mr. Bean

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

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

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

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

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 ...

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

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.