Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME IV

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

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.

Confessions of a Europhile in Thirteen Volumes: VOLUME II

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

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.