From Nightmare to Nirvana

For me, this Christmas was the most special one I've had so far. While I've known that the holidays are not just about presents, Santa, and decorations for a long time, this year in particular I really recognized and appreciated how important family is not only during Christmas, but also throughout the rest of the year. If not for the love and support of my family I'd be without the emotional and financial means to make it home. I never would have had the drive to fight so hard to be here if I didn't know and appreciate exactly what it was that I would be coming home to. So for those of you that I haven't seen over the past couple of days, I'm going to give you the CliffNotes version of the adventure that was me coming back stateside.

I could hardly sleep on the 20th, knowing that the airports in London and Paris had canceled all their flights that day, yet I still had hope that my flights would leave the next day and that I'd be able to make it home. I had a taxi booked for 7.30 AM because I didn't know if the buses would be running because of the snow and black ice, but at 6.00, a half-hour before I wanted to get up, I picked up my phone and saw a text message from my cousin telling me that both of our flights had been canceled. Immediately, I jumped out of bed, flipped on the lights and started up my computer. I got on the phone with Katie and we scrambled to find a flight home. After several calls back and forth to one another, as well as 3 or 4 to my parents (who I woke up in the middle of the night), I was able to secure a ticket home. However, the only catch was that it left from Geneva, Switzerland and went to Rome before ultimately ending up at JFK. At that point, now that I had a ticket that was the least of my worries because I still wasn't sure if I could make it to the train station. Still in my pajamas, I ran down the steps, went outside and slid down the street to the bus stop to see if the buses were running. Luckily they were so on my way back I called and canceled the taxi and once I was back at the school I started looking for a room with a printer so that I could print my confirmation emails. Thankfully I have the master keys for the school so after visiting a couple of classrooms, I sprinted through the darkened hallways and down the steps to the teacher's lounge where I was able to open and print what I needed to.

I tried to order my train tickets to Geneva online, but my French debit card was denied and I knew I didn't have enough money in my American account, so I knocked on the door of my Chinese neighbor to see if she could come to the train station with me so that I could use her card to buy the tickets. Together we slid down the street trying not to face-plant on the pavement or get hit by a car while carrying my massive suitcase. We made it to the train station in plenty of time and my French card was accepted, and I was glad to be able to sit down for a while on the hour-long ride to Paris. Once in Paris, I got on the metro to Gare de Lyon and waited for my track assignment to Geneva.

I only dozed off for a couple of minutes during the 4 hour ride down thanks to the enormous old man next to me who smelled like sour milk, pig manure and litter box. I was starving, but couldn't stand to eat while sitting next to that. I breezed through customs in Geneva before I took yet another train to the airport. At the airport I decided to see if I could get on an earlier flight since mine wasn't until 11.30 AM the next day. I handed over my confirmation email, and after a couple of minutes of eyebrow raises and "je comprends pas" I finally asked what was wrong, and the woman told me that I had no ticket and my reservation had been canceled. Stupefied, I asked the woman how that was possible; I had the confirmations from the airlines, they'd taken the money for the tickets and no-one had notified me that the reservation had been canceled.

Three hours later thanks to a phone call to an American representative at Delta, a nice lady who let me use her iPhone and gave me a phone card, my reservation had been found, I had a boarding pass and my suitcase had been checked. Spending the night at the airport was no treat since I only had 6 juice boxes, 2 apples, 2 pears and a stale baguette to eat and my glasses were in my suitcase, but I made my way through 2 books and 3 different playlists. I didn't sleep out of fear that my stuff would be stolen or I wouldn't wake up in time for my flight, so when Katie finally got to the airport the next morning, I looked terrible and felt worse; especially when I found out that she didn't have a spot on her flight home.

As it got closer to boarding time, Katie and I had to go our separate ways and I had no news of her until I saw my mom and brother some 13 hours later. When I got to Rome I had to do that awkward speed walk from one terminal to another 15 minutes away because I still needed a boarding pass for the second leg of the journey. I pushed my way to the front of the line (yes, I was one of those people that everyone hates) and after my boarding pass had been printed, I was told I could get it in 5 minutes. Even though I thought that was kind of odd, after what I'd been through already 5 minutes wasn't the end of the world. However as minute 4 came and went, I looked around me and noticed the flock of passengers on stand by. I inched my way back to the counter where a guy was printing and exchanging tickets of Italian passengers. He picked up my seat-less boarding pass and looked at it before another Italian came up to exchange tickets. Realizing that if I didn't speak up soon, I wouldn't be going home, I interrupted him as he started to work on the next passenger and asked if he could get back on mine since all I needed was a seat. The next 30 seconds were the longest 30 seconds of my life and as he handed me my boarding pass it took a huge effort to not cry out or jump or something. I was going home.

I slept on the plane and inhaled the food, and as we circled JFK I enjoyed the high of being back in America. Even though I still had 3 train rides ahead of me until I got home, at that point I was just happy that everything was in English again.

After that day, I've got a new appreciation for what it means to be an American. I know the rest of the world thinks we're loud and obnoxious, fat and arrogant, but there's honestly no place that I'd rather come from. At the beginning of this experience I thought it'd be so awesome to be French (or European in general), but now that temporarily - for all legal intents and purposes - I am a French citizen, it's not what I thought it would be. Sure the French have some things working in their favor, but at the end of the day, America rules. End of story. Just like people, no country is perfect, but I've got a newfound admiration for both the people and the places in this country I call home.

"There's that French blood!"

Tonight, I learned an interesting French saying that (roughly) translates to, "spending time with good friends is like eating a steak." At first I didn't get it, but once Sylviane motioned to her cheeks and continued to explain - she must have picked up on the deer in the headlights look on my face - it really does make sense. So when you spend time with good friends and family, like I did tonight at our "soirée crêpes," you do a lot of talking and laughing, which causes your cheeks and stomach to be sore. Similarly, when you're trying to chew your way through a good steak, by the time you're finished your jaw is tired and your stomach is full. C'est sympa, non? 

Sylviane invited Lisa and I over for crêpes and I was told last week to prepare myself for a competition, as we would have to cook and flip the crêpes ourselves. While I am confident in my cooking abilities, my last encounter with blueberry pancakes didn't exactly turn out as planned, so I was a little apprehensive. But after a demonstration by Jean-François, as Sylviane said, my French blood came through and I'm now a crêpe-flipping master. Granted, Lisa also got hers on the first try and they're not that complicated to make, but she had a hole in hers, so I win by default.

Seven days until I return stateside and I've got to say I'm looking forward to eating lots of steak with everyone.

Noël à Paris

Sacré Coeur.

Christmas tree inside Galeries Lafayette.

Again.

The façade.

Ferris wheel at the the entrance to le jardin des Tuileries. Eiffel Tower on the left.

The Louvre.

Lights along the Champs-Élysées.

Printemps.

The Land of the Ch’ti

Last Saturday and Sunday a group of assistants and I visited Lille, the land of the Ch’ti. The word “Ch’ti” designates not only the people who live in the region called “Nord,” but also the dialect that they speak and a brand of beer. It’s very difficult to understand, even more so than Québécois (which the French enjoy making fun of). It snowed the whole train ride up, and because of the weather we arrived later than expected so we weren’t able to drop off our bags at the hostel before it closed for the afternoon. After trudging around in the snow for 45 minutes we found a restaurant that was open for lunch and warmed up. I didn’t think that France would be cold, but for the past week or so it has been colder than normal. Just to give you an idea of how cold that is, on the news last week they talked about how it was warmer in Greenland than in France.

Once we got into the hostel and dropped our bags off we headed out to the Christmas market where we browsed the selection of 100+ booths while sipping on onion soup and vin chaud. After we’d seen all that there was to see, we headed to the main square where a 150 foot Ferris wheel was waiting for us. Why we thought it was a good idea to go on an open Ferris wheel when it was freezing cold, windy and sleeting I don’t know, but once it had finished loading passengers and we weren’t stuck at the top it was actually really fun.

One of many vin chaud booths.

The Ferris wheel.

View from halfway up.

The weather improved on Sunday and we spent the afternoon walking around Vieux Lille. I had planned to go to the Christmas market in Strasbourg – which supposedly is one of the top 5 best in the world – but when I saw that a one-way ticket is 97€ even with my 12-25 discount I decided to pass. Tatiana, one of my teachers at the collège, is from Strasbourg and while she said that it is really nice, the market isn’t that great because it’s all the same stuff. But the real reason it’s so popular, she said, is because of the lights… maybe next year.

The best I ever had.

As anyone who has shared a meal with me knows, I can put away quite a bit of food. But tonight - sorry Mom,  sorry relatives and friends who have cooked for me - I had the best meal I've ever had. Lycée Decrétot is a professional high school for students that want to work in restaurant and hotel management and they are lucky enough to have a restaurant d'application that they lovingly call "Le chateau." It's here, at the chateau that the students are able to practice what they learn in the classroom. They do everything here - from checking your coat and making cocktails, to cooking, serving and cleaning.

I was invited to eat there with one of my professors and a couple of her friends and all I can say is that it was unreal (I've almost exhausted my supply of appropriate adjectives to describe how first-class everything is here). In France meals last at least two and a half hours, and let me tell you, they do things right.

So we started with an apéritif, I chose the alcoholic version, a Cocktail Calypso, made with tequila and kiwi. Then came the "mise en bouche," which tonight was a quenelle (remember those salmon things I told you about in an earlier post), with roe and chives on a grillette de pain (think of a toasted slice of thin garlic bread). After that was a "déclinaison au foie gras" served with potatoes, sauteed mushrooms and a broccoli flan, followed by "marmite de canard en Trois mouvements et ses garnitures." This dish featured duck cooked three different ways - sauteed, braised, and steamed - all of which were indescribably good. An assortment of cheeses followed; all four were made from raw milk, three were cow and one was goat. Next came the dessert, "manège de sorbets" made from bananas, mangoes, berries, passion fruit and apples. The five scoops were served in a pastry shell (think of what a coffee filter looks like, but made out of pastry crust), garnished with mint, powdered sugar and fresh fruit. And after almost three hours of gluttony came the coffee and tea and some more pastries. 

I didn't think to bring a camera, and it wouldn't have been appropriate in the chateau anyway, but just so you can get an example at how "haute cuisine" the food actually is, this is the link to the cuisine moleculaire blog. It hasn't been updated recently, but it gives you an example of some of the awesome things that these students have done with food.

SNOW DAY!

Il en faut peu pour être heureux moi c’est tout ce que je sais. Today was a day that proved that the simple things in life are often the best. This morning I had a new class for the first time, which I think will probably turn out to be my favorite. The kids were all really nice and when their teacher put me in charge of them for the second hour (he had a meeting to go to) they were really cooperative and did what they were supposed to do. I took turns with each of them being a disgruntled customer who has a bunch of complaints about charges that have appeared on his hotel bill. I think I like them the best not only because they did really well, but also because they actually tried to figure stuff out and asked me questions if they needed help rather than just saying, “Ben, j’sais pas.”

After class, I headed back up to my room to email myself the worksheets I had prepared on prepositions for my afternoon classes at the collège. When I opened my email I saw the title of one that my teacher sent me: “cours annulé.” Involuntarily, I jumped out of my chair and got caught mid-celebratory dance by my Chinese neighbor who came over to read the email and see what all the excitement was about. After almost 5 years without a snow day, I was long overdue.

The Musée.

In all seriousness though, it was completely ridiculous that they cancelled school. There was, at most, an inch of snow on the ground and all the roads were clear, but the buses weren’t running, which means that the kids couldn’t get to school. In my morning class at the lycée the kids were asking me if it snowed much where I live and I told them about last winters’ storms. “In France,” one of them said, “we panic when there is anything more than 3cm.” And it’s true; half the départments (counties) in France are in “vigilance orange” because of the weather, and just like at home the news sensationalizes the impact of the storm.

One of the many "ruisseau" that run through Louviers.

In Normandy we have palm trees too.

I took advantage of my day off and caught up on sleep, but not before my neighbor and I took a walk around Louviers to appreciate my favorite type of precipitation.

The Venice of the North

This past weekend was spent exploring the canals of Amsterdam, which connect about 90 islands using some 1,500 bridges. Even though I left Louviers in plenty of time on Friday to make it to the airport, I hadn’t anticipated that the traffic in Paris would be so heavy. I was only waiting at the gate for 10 minutes before boarding started and the trip began. The flight was only 45 minutes (so glad I didn’t take the train, which was ~15€ cheaper, but takes 3 hours) and after a train and tram ride I dropped my stuff off at the hotel and headed back up to the train station to meet the others.
After everyone was checked in we set out to explore the infamous Red Light District, which to my surprise (and slight disappointment), was a lot tamer than I had anticipated. I’d imagined a street along the canal filled with seedy people, sex shops, and drug paraphernalia; and while it had all those things, it still wasn’t as wild as I’d expected.

On the way into the Red Light District.

The next day we wandered around the rest of the city. In lieu of the Anne Frank House, whose line was way too long only an hour after opening, and the over-priced van Gogh Museum, we headed back into the center of town to explore the rest of our options.

I amsterdam.

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Ice skating rink at the Winterplaza.

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All things considered it was a great trip.

And then it finally hit me.

I’m not sure what caused it because today started like any other. I didn’t have class until the afternoon, but I had to get up early to finish my Thanksgiving presentation. After speed-walking to the collège to print and make photocopies of Turkey Bingo and a Thanksgiving vocabulary worksheet, I was greeted with a gift from one of my students. Last week was Eid al-Adha, a Muslim religious holiday known as the “Festival of Sacrifice,” and Zerifa brought in a traditional cake that they eat to celebrate. She was not in school last Tuesday because of the holiday, and I’m not in that class on Thursdays, so she saved some for me and gave it to me today. It’s kind of like baklava, but so much better than any baklava I’ve ever had. I helped their teacher grade their presentations on William the Conqueror and after class was over, I spent the next hour discussing American food and prices with the teacher. I had a menu from my favorite deli in the Bronx and one in Orlando that I’m going to use for a presentation on American breakfast and lunch next week.

My Thanksgiving lesson with the 6èmes went really well - they were amazed that all that food goes on one table. They especially liked the floats and balloons in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Maybe it was when an 11 year-old shouted “Wow! He’s so lucky!” or the sun setting on the walk home; maybe it was the swans in the canals that wind their way through Louviers, or The Temper Trap’s “Sweet Disposition” coming on at exactly the right moment. Or it could have been the fact that the only time I spoke English today was in the classroom. I don’t know what it was, but Gaëtan was right, I am really, really lucky. And while I will miss my family come Thursday, when I take a good look at where I am and what I’m doing there’s no point in being anything but happy - I have a lot to be thankful for. And I know I’ve already said it, but Happy Thanksgiving à tous! Enjoy a nice, long food coma for me!

Pa Panamericano!

Saturday night blew away 10/10/10. While in France I’ve realized I’m steadily breaking myself of an old habit and finally starting to put play before work. Yeah I haven’t done any of my lessons for this coming week, my ears are ringing and I still can’t hear, but would I have rather been home planning lessons or out in a club until 5.00 AM? Not a tough call.

After prelashing at James’ studio, we met up with some French kids and made our way to the discotheque on the Rive Gauche. We weren’t sure what to expect since it was free for everyone before 1.00 AM, but once we got to the door we realized that the bouncer was screening the people trying to get in. In this instance, speaking English worked in our favor because the bouncer was excited to talk to us. Considering the bizarre mélange of music on French radio, the DJ was actually really good, with only a couple of out of place songs.

Thankfully we were able to get a taxi back to Caoimhlin’s, who put Alex, Sam and I up for the night. After binging on brie and baguette, we managed to get to bed without waking up any of her other roommates. After a couple of frog-in-the-holes and tartines with nutella and peanut butter, everyone was good as new and we made our way back to Louviers.

This week is going to be another good one; Wednesday I’m going to see Harry Potter (in English!!!) and then Friday after classes I’m heading to Amsterdam for the weekend. If I don’t get on here to update this again before the holiday, Happy Thanksgiving to everyone at home!

Food Baby

I’m not one to congratulate myself often, but I was genuinely impressed with how everything turned out. The cranberry sauce was perfect, as was the stuffing and the Waldorf salad (which I had never eaten before I made it). The menu included: a rooster that served as the “fausse dinde” and gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows and brown sugar (the kids’ favorite), green bean casserole, peas and carrots, corn, Waldorf salad, and cranberry sauce. For dessert, a fresh pumpkin pie (or some kind of squash that looked like it’d be a pumpkin) made by one of the British assistants and an apple tart made by my neighbor who kindly let me make a mess of her kitchen.

The spread.

The first helping.

Pumpkin (?) pie.

I don’t remember the last time I ate so much – it was actually painful and even unbuttoning my pants provided only minimal relief. I’m glad we spent a couple hours sitting at the table after the meal because I wouldn’t have been able to move comfortably anyway. At around 11.30 after cleaning up and doling out the leftovers, the British assistants and I worked our way through the wine that we hadn't drank at dinner. They headed home at 6.00 and now I’m up just in time for lunch to enjoy my chef-d'œuvre all over again.

The First Thanksgiving (with chicken)!

Thanksgiving is in the wrong season for turkey in France. After going to all the supermarkets within a 30 minute radius, I had to ultimately abandon my search for dinde. French turkeys don’t start appearing in supermarkets until December, and there aren’t frozen turkeys year-round like at home. Franchement, turkey is the scarcest meat in supermarkets – usually you can only find cutlets, but if you’re really lucky they’ll have a couple of legs. Corinne even called the local butcher for me, to see if he or any of his butcher friends had a turkey for me to buy. Pas de chance.

So, I’m going to have a Thanksgiving with chicken. The birds here are much smaller, more along the lines of a large pigeon, which means I’m probably going to have to buy at least two. I’m heading to the supermarket again in a couple of hours to buy the last of the ingredients. I’m surprised that I found cranberries, although they’re tiny and in liquid, so I have to buy pectin to try and make it into a jelly. Stuffing, gravy and pumpkin pie are likely going to be the biggest challenge…the pumpkin pie is probably going to be scratched altogether since even regular pumpkin is next to impossible to find.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and find a turkey at the last minute, but I’m not getting my hopes up. Of the 8 other people I’m cooking for, four are French and two are British so they don’t know what Thanksgiving is anyway, the only other American is a vegan and my Chinese neighbor has never even had turkey. Eh bien, je n’ai rien à perdre!

"Ouah! Ils sont massifs!"

Out of fifty some kids, mine were the biggest and most impressive ("magnifique," actually) pair that he’d seen all day. “He” being the doctor and my lungs being the source of all the excitement. I guess years of singing and cross country have left me blessed. On Thursday I had to go into Rouen for a chest X-ray and an immigration appointment so that I could get my titre de séjour and stay in the country legally. In ten minutes I had my X-ray in hand, and set out to see some more of Rouen before my immigration appointment at 12.45.

I arrived 20 minutes early, only to find that I was the last person in line. Thinking that I’d be in and out, just like my earlier appointment, I calmed down as the line started to move at a decent pace. When I finally got up to the receptionist and checked in, I was directed into an adjacent room where everyone that was just in front of me was now sitting. I soon found out that several of these people had been waiting since 10.00 or 11.00 to see the one doctor and get their titre de séjour. From what I’ve experienced so far, the French are remarkably efficient when they want to be (i.e. train and bus schedules when there’s not a grève), otherwise (at least when it comes to administrative procedures) they’re painfully inefficient. I ended up waiting 3 hours for a 10 minute visit with the doctor and a 45 second meeting to get a sticker put in my passport. I came in just after lunch and the sun was setting as I was walking back to the train station. It was a necessary visit, however, so I sucked it up and just went along with it. Admittedly, my day went more smoothly than for some of the others. At both offices the receptionists perked up at seeing my name and were noticeably nicer to me because of it. I didn’t even realize it until other assistants commented that they weren’t that nice to them. At the immigration office, the receptionist was so interested that while having a conversation with someone else on the phone she proceeded to ask me where I’m from, where my family is from in France, when they came over etc., recounting the details to whoever was on the other end.

Friday night I went into Rouen to meet up with some of the other assistants. Keeping it classy, we each white-plastic-bagged a bottle of wine and stationed ourselves in front of O’Kallaghan’s, which draws more of a crowd you’d expect to find in SoHo than at an Irish pub. We were caught by our waiter, but thankfully he didn’t really care, it was packed outside so he was busy, and we did actually order other drinks.

For the next two weeks I’ll only have a three-day week; this Thursday is a holiday and the following Thursday I’ll be in Rouen for yet another stage. Oh and just so you don't feel left out:

Scaled back to 62% and they keep going...don't act like you're not impressed.

Living in a Dreamworld

Vacation is coming to a close and I’m back chez moi for at least the next week or so. I’ve been pretty busy, but I’m going to do my best to try and recap the past week. After spending Tuesday afternoon exploring the traboules of Vieux Lyon, I went out with Katie and one of her roommates to a bar to meet up with some of their friends. It got late pretty quickly and since the métro stops running at midnight we biked home. The Vélo system is massively convenient, as there are 340 stations around the city where you can rent a bike to get you from one place to another for less than a single ride ticket on the métro. It’s free for less than a half hour, and 1€ for up to an hour. Even though it was cold, it was a great experience riding alongside the river illuminated by the occasional bridge or boat. It’s a shame a similar system doesn’t exist in the United States, although I’m not sure it’d work out even if it did.

I ended up leaving Lyon on Wednesday because I didn’t want to be stuck there and miss my immigration appointments. Thursday was a national manifestation, so there were no trains at all. The law raising the retirement age did pass, and thankfully the aftermath isn’t at all what I expected to be. I guess they realize that there really isn’t anything that they can do about it now, and thankfully things are predicted to be back to normal by the end of this week. Unfortunately, Wednesday was a travel nightmare once I got to Paris; my train (as well as every other one leaving from Saint Lazare) was delayed, so I ended up getting to Val-de-Reuil just in time to catch the last bus.

From Thursday to Saturday I hung around Louviers. I did some food shopping and some serious collaging, making posters for my classroom. I’ve got three done so far and I’ll probably work on some more before the week is through. Daylight saving time came a week early to France, and the extra hour was definitely appreciated. The mobile phones here don’t change automatically, so at 4.00 AM I had to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood the commercial that told me it was DST by turning on the TV and checking the news. On the 31st I headed to Fécamp, a town up along the coast, to visit and stay with some other assistants. I couldn’t help but look out the window the entire ride up, taking in the rolling hills, fall foliage and farm animals of the Norman countryside. I found myself occasionally laughing to myself and shaking my head as I appreciated that this is my life.

After an hour and a half layover at a train station literally in the middle of nowhere (there was no bathroom and only two platforms), I finally made it to Fécamp. Alexia and Elizabeth met me at the station and gave me a tour of their town. After checking out several churches, a palace from the 10th century, the beach, the cliffs, and a waterfall, we headed to the Bénédictine Palace where they make the stupidly delicious Bénédictine liquor. Smell-wise it kind of reminded me of Becherovka, in that it smells like Christmas, but it tastes so much better. Bénédictine was invented in the 19th century and based on a medicinal aromatic herbal beverage that the monks at the Benedictine Abbey of Fécamp used to make. Their recipe was lost when the abbey was destroyed during the French Revolution and while the recreation may not be exactly the same, it is delicious nonetheless.

The marina in Fécamp.

Les falaises de Fécamp.

After the tasting, I was thankful that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast because it made the Ithaca-esque 30 minute walk uphill more tolerable grâce à my buzz. We had planned to go to Étretat, a nearby town famous for its cliffs, the next day, but one of Elizabeth’s professors – Patricia – invited us to go with her to a town called Honfleur. I had never heard of it, but both Alexia and Elizabeth said that all of their teachers had told them they had to go there. Not knowing what to expect, the next morning Patricia drove us there, and as soon as we crossed the bridge into town, the fly catching began. My jaw dropped and I must have said “Oh wow!” a dozen times in fifteen minutes. Walking around in Honfleur was like being in a fairy tale, or a Copenhagen/Bruges hybrid. Unfortunately, it’s only accessible by car, so unless I get driven there it’s unlikely I’ll be able to make it back.

Patricia treated us to lunch after we left a museum dedicated to French composer and pianist Erik Satie. The museum itself was definitely a little bizarre (a little too avant-garde for me to understand or appreciate), but the music was good. After lunch we went our separate ways; Patricia headed to another museum and I explored some of the stores of Honfleur. I sampled calvados (apple brandy) almost as old as I am, and wandered in and out of other specialty shops. Patricia drove us back to Fécamp around 6.00 and I headed back to Louviers this morning.

In spite of my travel plans being disrupted early on in the vacances, in the end comme d’habitude everything worked out. Now I’ll be collaging again until my appointments on Thursday and then I’ll have two hours of lessons on Friday and it’ll be the weekend. Pinch me.

Groundhog Day

So for the past couple of mornings it has been like the movie “Groundhog Day,” except here in Lyon it's not Groundhog Day again and again and again, but rather the strike. Each night after cleaning up the kitchen, Katie and I have made plans for where we'd like to go. Two nights ago we decided to check out Pérouges - a medieval town with buildings dating back to the 1100s where the 1961 version of “The Three Musketeers” was filmed - because it's only a half hour away from Lyon. It seemed easy enough to get there, until we were waiting for more than an hour for a bus that never came, asking drivers and other hopeful passengers which bus was which and where each was going. No one knew a thing, so it wasn't just us. Finally, we had enough so we decided to forget it and Katie took me to see some of the sights of Vieux Lyon. We visited a bunch of different cathedrals and churches, each of which was a welcome relief from the cold and gusting wind. I thought Lyon would be warmer than Normandy because it's in the south, but apparently not. Once we got down into the center of town, we stopped at a pâtisserie where Katie got a praline tart and I got an apricot pistachio tart. We had hoped to stop at one of the boats along the river to get something hot to drink, but all of them were closed (at 3.00 PM on a Monday). 

View of Vieux Lyon coming down from the top of the hill.

Finally we headed back to the apartment, where we did our best to recreate a favorite from home – fajitas. Either the French don't like spicy foods or they really just have no idea what Mexican food is supposed to taste like because our Old El Paso seasoning tasted more like barbecue sauce than anything else, and the medium salsa was weaker than the most watery mild.

Today we were supposed to go to Grenoble, only to wake up and find that all of the trains to Grenoble had been canceled. It was the same story for Beaune and Annecy, two other towns where we really wanted to go. However, the old adage of “everything happens for a reason,” proved itself to be true today; only after we realized we weren't going anywhere did Katie decide to clean her room, during which she found her paperwork reminding her that she has her doctor's appointment tomorrow. If she had missed that (which she would have because we were planning to go to Marseille) she would have been kicked out of the country.

Hopefully there's an end in sight, no matter how far away it seems at the moment. At least the French are consistent in their rule of “tous pour un, un pour tous.”

Chokogou!

Well the Vacances de la Toussaint got off to a rough start. After I got out of classes on Friday it took me only 20 minutes to pack up my bag and get out the door. I made it to Gare de Lyon in plenty of time, successfully navigating the Paris metro, which is actually clean and doesn't have that pee and pollution smell. I was surprised how crowded the train station was, especially after making it through rush hour at Penn Station the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, but I guess it's because they're much more reliant on public transportation here.

I didn't have enough money on my carte bleue (debit card) yet so I had to find a guichet to buy my ticket with cash. After I finally found the line, there was a guy blocking the entrance who asked me where I was going. Once I told him he said that half the trains were canceled and the other half were booked. I stared at him for at least 10 seconds while that sunk in, after which he told me that I could try and buy a ticket for tomorrow. Shocked and not having any idea what to do, I walked away, called my cousin to tell her the bad news and tried to decide whether I should just go back home or try and stay over in Paris. I opted for the former, since I am only an hour away from Paris, and left with my ticket for Saturday afternoon.

Round 2 was a success, and in two hours I was in Lyon. Katie and her roommate Tania met me at the train station and gave me a mini tour before we headed to their apartment so I could drop off my bag. After dinner we did some planning for what we want to do while I'm down her; we decided that Italy and paragliding in Switzerland will have to be postponed because 1) we haven't been paid yet and 2) the weather isn't supposed to be that great this week. Plus there's plenty of stuff to see around here, considering Lyon is in the heart of wine country and is the gastronomic capital of France.

This morning it was raining, so rather than walk around in the rain we decided to go to Chokogou, an annual chocolate exposition that they have at the convention center in Lyon. It was only 7€ to get in, and after one booth it was worth it. They mix some strange things into chocolate here – ginger, rose petals, red pepper, chili pepper, etc. – however, by far the best combination we tasted was lavender chocolate. I don't know if the bars I bought are going to make it home.

The display of one of the vendors.

C'est si bon.

After Chokogou we headed back into the center of town and went to the Musée des Beaux-Arts. While we didn't have a lot of time to spend there, it was free and we did manage to see a lot of stuff.

Ivory carving.

There are a couple of cities around Lyon that we're going to visit in the next couple of days (Beaune, Grenoble, Annecy) in addition to visiting some of Katie's French friends in Marseille...foutrement génial.

Welcome to France! Now try and leave…

Oh la la, the grève is getting out of hand. This morning, a quarter of the students in my high school classes were absent because they weren’t able to get to school because the buses have stopped running. Why? Because there’s no gas. Teachers from both of my schools have told me that they’ve had to drive to towns more than an hour and a half away to find gas, only to wait in line for two to three hours (if and) when they finally get there. On some streets, abandoned cars are lined up waiting for tow trucks that might not come for a while; else they risk breaking down on the side of the road as well.

My teachers have advised me to get out of Louviers while I can. They themselves are worried that their travel plans for the vacances might fall through, especially those flying on AirFrance. Planes coming into France have been advised to bring enough fuel to get back to where they came from because airports here can’t refill their tanks. On Monday, Charles de Gaulle only had enough fuel to last until Wednesday. Although the trains do not use gas, the SNCF still has to support those on strike, just in case something happens to them. What’s more, they’re not even affected by this proposed law; they can retire at 50! Marianne, one of my colleagues at the collège promised me that I’ll see at least three SNCF strikes before I leave. “Oh there’s a leaf on the track! Let’s go on strike,” she said. Or “oh it’s too windy today, let’s go on strike!” We laughed as if she was kidding, but part of me believes she wasn’t exaggerating that much.

This week marked my first “official” week of lessons. This past Monday, I had to laugh to myself as I finished my first day at 10.30 after only two hours of restaurant role-play. I get paid to talk to kids about what’s on a menu. Best job ever. Now I get to go on vacation for 12 days, during which I’ll also be paid. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I work with the younger kids at collège. My PowerPoint presentation was a hit, especially the section on pets and Philly foods. I’ve found that the 11 and 12 year-olds are better at English than a lot of the high schoolers, mostly because they participate and are excited to learn.

Tomorrow morning I have three classes, but I should hopefully be on my way to Lyon via Paris by 12.30. Southern France, Italy and Switzerland? Yeah, I think I can manage. Impeccable!

Dans grève il y a rêve

Just as I was starting to get used to daily life in France, la grève (strike) disrupted any trace of an established routine. People young and old throughout France are going on strike to voice their grievances against the government’s proposal to raise the retirement age from 60 to 62 by 2018. From an American perspective this is completely ridiculous considering how good the French have it. They have a 35 hour work week, social security pretty much covers any medical expense they could ever have and they’re able to enjoy 5 weeks of paid vacation. Conversely, my Mom will have to work well into her 60s and my Dad will essentially never be able to retire since he’s self-employed. Furthermore, my generation can pretty much kiss social security benefits goodbye. Here in France la grève is a normal part of French life. This particular strike, however, is different than most in that it is indefinite. Upheaval of both public and private transportation is the most widely felt impact of the strikes; trains and buses run less frequently and now a gas shortage has become so serious that President Sarkozy has sanctioned the use of the National Guard to control riots at gas stations.

Even here in Louviers I’ve experienced a taste of the grève. On Tuesday morning I got up at 8 only to get to class and be told it’s not worth observing because they’re not going to do anything today. There were only 4 kids in a class where normally there are about 20. Similarly, on Wednesday I was scheduled to be in classes from 8.00 to 12.00, yet the professor never showed. That afternoon, however, I was able to attend cuisine moleculaire again where I watched students use a nonconventional way of making Hollandaise sauce – the sauce, which would normally take around 30 minutes to make, took less than five because they use gas to whisk the mixture instead of doing it by hand. I helped make quenelles (used in haute cuisine as a garnish, but can be served by themselves) made of salmon, butter, crème fraîche, salt and pepper, and watched as students prepared a pear flan with a chocolate center, and a kiwi sorbet. Both the flan and the sorbet were unique in that the flan contained methylcellulose to help the flan hold its shape and eliminate the need for fat in the mixture. The sorbet was made using a machine similar to the one that makes Wawa milkshakes, which makes it possible to get 1-10 servings from a single container.

Salmon quenelle

This morning I finally went to the “typically French” open air market, held every Saturday morning. Simply put, it was amazing. They had everything, from fresh scallops and fish to all kinds of fruits and vegetables, cheeses, meats, and flowers. I had already been to the supermarket earlier in the week, but I bought some grapes and a half of a roasted chicken to eat for lunch. After lunch I did some serious cleaning in my room, which I’m sure will merit a comment from my Mom considering that when I left for France I still had not completely unpacked from college.

For the rest of the weekend I’ll be busy making collages and posters to deck out my classroom and planning for next week’s lessons and my upcoming vacation.

10/10/10

Yeah that’s the date, but it’s also the score I’d give this past weekend. The weather has been perfect these past couple of days (if anything it’s been pretty hot) and it’s supposed to continue into this coming week. The other English assistants and I decided to take advantage of the nice weather and headed to Rouen for the weekend.

On Saturday morning Alex, Liz and I navigated our way from Louviers to Rouen via the bus and the train. I don’t think any of us were aware of how simple it would be, and now that all is said and done pretty much all of France is open to us on the weekend. Rouen is only 20 minutes away, and Paris is just under an hour. We hadn’t booked a place to stay, so when we arrived that was our first goal. However, we were sidetracked as we made our way further into the center of Rouen in search of a map at the Bureau de Tourisme. After wandering around for a half hour or so following the signs that proved to point us in the wrong direction, I stumbled upon a group of older women who were just as lost as we were. Since English now a foreign language, their conversation caught my ear and I went to ask them if I could look at their map, or if by chance they might be able to point us in the right direction. Turns out one of them did grab and extra map before they left their ship and she gave it to us to use.

From there on out we pretty much covered all of Rouen’s points of interest including the Rue du Gros Horloge, a street that features one of Rouen’s best-known sights, the “Great Clock-Tower” built in 1527.

This street led us to the Place de Vieux-Marché where Joan of Arc was martyred, and now the spot where she was burned at the stake is marked by a 65-foot-high cross. We also checked out Rouen’s Notre Dame Cathedral, which features a 16th century spire 490 feet tall and a gothic edifice dating back to 1140.

Part of the ceiling of Notre Dame.

We did visit a few other churches whose names and significance I don’t remember, but I’m sure I’ll be in Rouen again soon to take more time to appreciate them.

Church of Saint Ouen, currently being used as an art gallery.

Once we had finished all of the touristy stuff we made our way across the Pont Corneille to the Rive Gauche (aka the left side of the city) where we found a hotel to spend the night in. After a power-nap we got up in search of food, which has proven to be the most difficult thing to get used to in France. Most cafés it seems, in spite of having prominently displayed menus out front, do not serve dinner. For the most part it’s pretty difficult to find a decent place to eat after 3.00 PM because the whole “restaurant” concept we have in America doesn’t exist. Eventually we did stumble upon a brasserie that served dinner, although not until after 7.00 PM and I had the most amazing piece of pork I’ve ever had in my life: “Filet mignon de porc” with caramelized apples on top covered in a cidre cream sauce. Wow…just wow. Although I seriously appreciated the deliciousness, it was kind of a shame because I was so hungry I finished the entire meal and sopped up the sauce with a roll in about 7 minutes; that and it didn’t even make a dent.

Afterwards, we headed to a bar in the Place de Vieux-Marché to have a couple of drinks before we met up with some other English assistants. In Louviers, the Americans outnumber the English so we enjoy making fun of the accent, but last night we were outnumbered 8:2 by kids from all over England and Ireland. While listening in on their accounts of “Uni” life and “Freshers week” I picked up some new vocabulary that might get mixed in here every now and then. We went our separate ways after getting booted from the bar at 2.00 AM and got back to the hotel around quarter of.

This morning we left Rouen and headed back to Louviers, after which I went to the Fête de Pomme (Apple Festival) in a neighboring town with Sylviane and Jean-François. There I had all things apple/cheese/honey/cidre-related including the incredible "beignets" or apple fritters. It’s nice to be able to eat whatever you want, because I had 15. Once we had made a couple of tours of the grounds, they took me on a tour of Normandy’s countryside. The fields reminded me of home, although here, with the exception of the plateau, everything is much hillier.

They explained the unique characteristics of Norman architecture and we stopped at a couple of medieval chateaus and homes that were built before the Americas were even discovered. Ridiculous.

" 'ello! What eez yo'r name? You 'ave a nize bee'ind"

Well I haven’t started teaching anything yet, but I guess I’ve already made some sort of impression. This week was spent observing classes, with the exception of Monday when I had orientation in Rouen. The 40 km (25 mi) drive usually only takes about 35 minutes from Louviers, but because of all the traffic it took an hour and 15 minutes. If the weather is anything but clear and sunny, the French have difficulty driving. It was barely raining and there were signs cautioning drivers to slow down because of dangerous conditions. I sat through introductions in Arabic, Chinese, German, English, Portuguese, Russian and Spanish before the meeting got underway in French. The Teaching Assistant Program in France this year is represented by 5,678 people from 51 countries speaking more than 15 languages. In the Académie de Rouen there are 163 assistants from 26 different countries, so basically I’m an honorary member of the UN.

During our break for lunch I met some other assistants, one of whom is from Voorhees and we bonded over South Jersey. Staff from the Office of Immigration and Integration collected our paperwork – which I didn’t know I was supposed to bring – after lunch. Luckily I had thrown everything in my backpack before I left and plenty of other people didn’t have photocopies of their visa or entry stamp either, so I was able to make copies and hand everything in. On my way back from the photocopier I walked with the “Inspecteur” for the Académie and found out that I have two of the best teachers that they’ve got, alors quelle chance!

On Tuesday I had my first day of shadowing, during which I sat in on an English class of 6èmes (11 year olds), 4èmes (13 year olds) and a history class of 4èmes. I also met some of the other teachers at the collège over lunch. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but I was when they started passing around wine and cidre; why drink water when you can have something alcoholic? Although I can’t blame them for needing a drink; there’s never complete silence in the classroom, if anything it’s always the exact opposite. The teachers were more or less yelling over their students for the entire lesson. The 4èmes in English class didn’t understand my introduction (where I only mentioned my name, age, where I’m from and what I’m doing at their school), but thankfully in the other classes I at least had a map to show them where Philadelphia is. Now, when I only get blank stares after I say I’m from Philadelphia, I ask them if they know Rocky and when they all come to life I just tell them that that’s where I’m from.

Overall, the kids seem to be much more behaved at the lycée (high school). I got to sit in on an “Économie Touristique” lesson during which students gave presentations on the different regions of France. It was pretty interesting, and I took some notes because they discussed some places I’d definitely like to visit. Earlier in the day on Wednesday I observed an English class of secondes (14-15 year olds) where I was asked a lot of questions about myself and what I think of France so far. They had a lot of questions for me, but a lot of them they didn’t know how to ask in English and I was told not to answer them in French. They were kind of annoyed about that, especially since I understood what they were saying, and complained to their teacher who ultimately ended up translating my answers for them anyway. English teachers here all learn British English and consequently have British accents and some difficulty understanding my American accent. A lot of the time in class I have to infer what the American equivalent of certain things are, i.e. “green grocer” = produce stand/market, “chemist's” = pharmacy, Z = Zed, etc.

Probably the most interesting class I saw all week was “cuisine moleculaire.” I’m not really sure what that would be in English, but basically it was a course where the students try to manipulate the chemistry of food and cooking to help improve nutrition and digestion. For instance, one of the professors was working with different kinds of flour to cut down on the amount of butter and sugar that they have to add to cakes to help people with dietary restrictions. It was a really awesome class, one in which the professor described everyone as being like a patient in a mental institution because everyone has these crazy ideas of things to do with food. Case in point: take a normal cheese soufflé, but rather than add herbs and spices to the mixture, why not make an “infusion,” mix it with agar, and make spheres with the liquid infusion inside to put in the soufflé. Not exactly how the average Phillipe would make a cheese soufflé. The infusion was the most interesting part of this experiment; Phillipe (the student I was working with) got basil, mint and parsley, put them in three different pots with some water and garlic and boiled them so that some of the oils would be released. Once he had the liquid he mixed it with agar (the stuff that they make the gel in Petri dishes out of), and using a tiny melon scooper he put it in a salt solution where “sphérification” occurred, forming spheres with a skin surrounding the infusion. These spheres went inside the soufflés, which we prepared from flour, egg whites, hazelnut oil, and three kinds of cheese. For fans of Muenster cheese in the US, it’s completely different here: it smells terrible (I can pinpoint exactly what it smells like, but I’ll spare you the details), but tastes amazing.

Speaking of smell, this week I must have self-checked myself at least a dozen times. I guess they’re immune to the smell of hoagies with extra oregano and vinegar, but I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to it. Thank you Old Spice for doing what you were made to do.

"Oh! An American with taste!"

For anyone thinking of traveling in France for an extended period of time, I would highly recommend reading Stephen Clarke’s Talk to the Snail. I finished most of it while still in the US, and I admit that I found Clarke’s descriptions of both the French and the French lifestyle to be a bit far-fetched. In Talk to the Snail Clarke, an English journalist who has spent half of his adult life living in France, presents to his readers the 11 commandments for understanding the French.

Already, after less than a week in France, I’m glad that I read it as it has helped me realize that the French mindset is in many ways completely different from ours. For one, whereas Americans live to work, the French work to live. Case in point: most shops are open only 9 to 5 with at least an hour and a half break in the middle of the day for lunch and everything is closed on Sunday. Work overtime? Ha, c’est rigolo!

On Saturday, I experienced both the Second Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Work and the Tenth Commandment: Thou Shalt Be Polite (and simultaneously rude), while opening a bank account. After buzzing my way through a series of doors and waiting in line, I get to the counter and explain that I am the “assistant d’anglais” for Decrétot and that I would like to open up a bank account today if possible. As soon as I said “if possible” I realized that would immediately nullify my request. Sure enough, Madame looked at the other woman at the desk, who really wasn’t working but rather talking with some guy chatting her up, and asked her when she could help me. After a couple of sighs and eye rolls, Madame asked her again, didn’t she help another assistant on Tuesday already, to which she finally replied, “Bennn I can’t remember what I did on Tuesday. It’s not possible for me to help him today.” Awesome. Their only suggestion was that I come back Tuesday between 5.00 and 6.30. Now here’s where Clarke’s wisdom came into play; she asked if that would work for me and I told her no, that would be impossible for me as I’ll be in Rouen (which was a lie, I’ll be there tomorrow all day and observing classes on Tuesday).

She looked up at me, slightly annoyed because she had already started to write the date and time of my appointment on a card, sighed and asked if I had my carte d’identité with me so that she could make a copy. Already prepared, I pulled out a photocopy of my passport that I had made beforehand and she went back to see if anyone could help me. Thirty seconds later et voila! I wasn’t sitting down for more than a minute when a woman came out of her office and helped me set up my account.

It has been much warmer here than I thought it would be; in the mid to high 60s in the daytime, but it has rained for at least a couple of hours each day since I’ve been here. This weekend was the Foire Saint-Michel, basically a giant Cowtown/yard sale/carnival. This was the 199th year that they’ve done it, and supposedly there are more than 650 stalls that bring in more than 80,000 people. There were a lot of different rides and carnival style games (unfortunately most of them catered to little kids) and pretty much anything you could ever think of was on sale somewhere: from jackets and boots to fireplaces, sausages and cars. Today was the yard sale part of the weekend and I spent a good part of the day with Sylviane, Jean-François and their neighbors. I met the most awesome old French man, Tony, le corse. He not only makes his own sausage from Corsican pigs (which I was told are different from regular pigs because they are black and more delicious), but also makes his own wine, three kinds of which I was lucky enough to sample. If he was selling it I would have paid 30€ for his vin de noix in a heartbeat, mais alors he only brought one bottle with him and we drank it all. I was also treated to some other specialties from Normandie including two kinds of pâté, one made from duck, the other pork, pork with a mustard mayonnaise, and several “cakes” with a variety of meats, cheeses and vegetables baked into them. And of course, there was fromage. Sylviane wasn’t sure if I would like the one since it was strong, but it was delicious and she commented, “Oh! An American with taste!”

At the foire, people make a killing it seems selling all of their stuff. Last year Tony made over 500€ and this year Sylviane and Jean-François made more than 150€ in about four hours. Unfortunately, the party got cut short as it started to rain. I helped everyone pack up, performed the necessary bisous and headed out to do one final tour.

Tomorrow is orientation in Rouen, where all the assistants in the académie will come together for a giant meeting. Tuesday I'll start my week or two of observing classes and before I know it it'll be the Vacances de la Toussaint. C'est la vie, hein?

What's in a name?

Well yesterday was a day of firsts. I went 4/4 on not getting charged for overweight luggage, survived my first argument with a French person (two actually, and they were police officers), found my way to the Roissy bus - which took me directly to l’Opera in Paris - and made my way to Gare St. Lazare without even looking at the directions that I had printed out.

From the 45 minutes that I was there, I felt like I was in an older, more crowded New York, where the key to not standing out (even though you have a 61 pound red suitcase and two massive backpacks) is to look angry, walk quickly and act like you know where you’re going. At the train station I tried in vain to use my credit card to buy a ticket at the kiosk, only to have it beep loudly and tell me my card wasn’t working. I knew that French credit cards have a chip in them, but I thought maybe, by chance, I’d be able to get away without one. Bon effort.

So I had to go to the ticket counter where I ordered a one-way ticket to the train station closest to my town and my carte 12-25, whose discounts I am looking forward to benefitting from. When the woman asked for my “carte d’identité” I told her that all I had was my passport and handed it over to her. While she was looking at the front page she asked me,
“So when did you move to the United States?”
Confused, I replied, “Uhh I’ve always lived there.”
“But you are French no?”
Thankful for the 11 letters that I used to hate having to practice writing in kindergarten I smiled and said, “No I’m not, but my last name is.”
So far everyone I’ve met at my school seems to appreciate the French-ness of my name, probably because it makes it much less painful for them to pronounce than a “typical” American surname. They’ve even Frenchified my first name, since “Matt” requires an awkward emphasis on the double t.

The contact person at my high school came to meet me at the train station with her husband and took me to my room at the school. A surprise that I had not anticipated was the accent. Until this point I hadn’t had much difficulty understanding the majority of what was said to me, but she and her husband were a different story. Granted, it probably would be easier if they slowed down a bit, which they do, in fact, do after I’ve run out of my allotted number of blank stares and “Pardon?” I thought it might just be them, but today as I was walking around town after getting my phone and some groceries I had a group of little kids ask me what time it was and I had no idea what they were saying to me until their third attempt. I’m hoping that eventually it’ll be easier for me to understand them once I get into French mode, but for now, merde.

What it feels like to be an immigrant

So being in Germany these past couple of days has given me some sympathy for immigrants, as I now know what it feels like to be one. I don’t think I will feel as out of place in France as I do here since (hopefully) I’ll be able to understand most of what they’re saying. But while walking down the streets, looking at the signs and trying to listen in on conversations, I have no idea what is going on. Yesterday, I spent the afternoon exploring the grounds of Nymphenburg Palace, which was the main summer residence for the rulers of Bavaria, and found myself drifting between the American and European mindsets. The grounds of the palace are massive – almost 500 acres – and a lot of it is wooded. Now I was there from 5-7.30 PM, and while in the woods it was pretty dark. If I was at a similar park in Philadelphia or New York, I would have been worried that at any moment someone would jump out of the trees and shank/mug/murder me. Here, however, I’ve never felt safer. That’s a big statement, considering that sometimes at home when I’m taking the trash out and it’s dark I still sprint from the pole barn to the garage. Here, I get the impression that everyone is much less guarded.

I was thankful for Rachel and Dario picking me up at the train station on Saturday; even with directions I’m sure I would have gotten lost. On the first night here we went out to eat typical Bavarian food at a restaurant near Dario’s apartment. I noticed that they’re not big fans of vegetables, unless it’s potatoes, onions, or cabbage. Even on the vegetarian menu they had meat: pasta in some kind of sauce with turkey.

On Sunday afternoon we headed to the Wiesn to check out Oktoberfest: the “Largest Volksfest in the World.” I don’t really know how to describe it other than a giant carnival filled with people wearing lederhosen and dirndl. So, to sum up what I can’t explain, here are some pictures:

Entrance to the Wiesn.

PDA.

Because we got there in the afternoon it was impossible to get into one of the beer tents, but I’m glad that I at least got to see what it’s all about.

Today I had planned to go visit the first concentration camp – Dachau – which is only a half hour away, except when I got there I saw that it is closed on Monday. So, the only thing I saw was the main gate to the camp that promised prisoners Arbeit macht frei or work will make you free.

"You go to Bláa Lónið já?"

So thanks to Icelandair I learned two very important things this past week: 1 – Even though I drank at least a liter and a half before boarding, always have a bottle of water for yourself on the plane. Forget trying to sleep when you’re so thirsty that you wake up every 15 minutes because your mouth is on fire. 2 – Smile and act surprised when you see how much your luggage weighs; with any luck the person at the counter will feel bad for you and send your bag through without charging you. Not to jinx myself, but so far I’ve lucked out ¾ times. Although when I first checked in at JFK my bag weighed 61 pounds, and I did have to take out a few things and jam them in my carry-on, but when all was said and done I was still hovering around 54 pounds.

The flight to Iceland took a little under 5 hours, putting me at Keflavik (rated best airport in Europe 2009) at around 6.30 AM. In desperate need of a nap, I made my way through border control and out to the exit to meet Magnus.

As we turned onto the exit off of the main highway, a dead-animal-esque aroma crept its way into my nostrils. I thought for sure that Magnus had an accident, which combined with the heat on full-blast created a potent cocktail. I shook it off and stopped breathing until the first wave passed. Then, as we got closer to the Blue Lagoon and I could see the steam rising, I was assaulted by a more caustic second round. It was only then that I realized that it was the sulfur from the water that I smelled and not Magnus.

I was able to settle in and gorge myself on an Icelandic breakfast, complete with Skyr (Icelandic yogurt, although technically it’s considered a very soft cheese), bread, pickled fish, smoked meats, and fresh fruit. It was still early, around 7.00 AM, so I had breakfast and the private lagoon to myself. After settling in, I took a 3 hour dip, and reminded myself how awesome the silica mud is. If I look like I’m still in high school already, once I washed that off I probably looked like I was 12. I took a series of naps before I made my way over to the main lagoon via a 600m path through the Icelandic moss-covered lava fields (basically a giant moon-bounce).

This is pretty much what most of Iceland looks like: lava covered with spongy moss.

I spent a couple of hours over at the main lagoon and grabbed a bite to eat before I headed back to my room to re-pack and go to bed. I took another swim in the private lagoon that was supposed to only last a half hour, but once I got in ended up lasting closer to an hour and a half.

One corner of the massive public lagoon.

Part of the private lagoon.

I hardly slept at all that night; I think that I spent too much time in the lagoon. If there was ever a time to experience osmosis in a hypertonic solution (nerd alert) that was it. I had to drink non-stop and consequently was back and forth to the bathroom. I was up at 5.00 AM and on my way to the airport by 5.30 headed for Paris and then Munich. It’s almost 1.00 PM in Munich now, I’m finally over my jet lag and we’re heading out to explore the city.

Tschüß!

P.S. Some fun facts, courtesy of the napkins provided with on-board drinks: geothermal power meets 99% of Iceland’s energy needs; Icelandic is so similar to “Viking” that Icelanders can read ancient Viking texts that are more than 1100 years old.