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.

La Petite Américaine

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

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.