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.

Faith in Mark Twain

Well surprisingly enough I actually finished packing two days early, rather than my usual 10 minutes after I already should have left, so that weight has been lifted. Speaking of weight however, I'm sure I'm not even close to the 50 pound limit,which means that right off the bat I'm out at least $250. But all things considered, that's a small price to pay for all the globetrotting I'm going to be doing in the next few days. First stop: Iceland, then onto a quick layover in Paris before Munich - where I'll be eating as much pretzels and pork as humanly possible - and finally back to Paris to somehow find my way to Louviers.

While I find myself oscillating between excitement and nausea, I don't think the magnitude of what I'm about to do will hit me until I get on the plane. Yesterday, I was in Philadelphia with my cousin (who is also teaching in France) and while we were eating our last cheesesteak for a while at Reading Terminal Market, it hit me that we're not those two little kids anymore with the same missing front tooth, beaming in our Easter gear. We're all grown up, about to do grown-up things.

For the past 21 years I've had an incredible life; one where I've accomplished more than I ever would have thought possible. But with this year I hope to achieve and experience even more. One of the main reasons that I wanted to do this program - beyond the fact that I get to live in France for a year - was to force myself to step out of my comfort zone and try new things, because over the years I've learned (and unfortunately have not always exercised) that nothing is worse than missing an opportunity that could have changed your life.

As a result, I'm going to put some faith in the wisdom of Mark Twain who said, "Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines, sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

On y va!

The Final Countdown

Seven days.
Anxious? Yes. Excited? Absolutely. Packed? Good one.

I've got champagne taste and a Natty Light budget, but with a little luck and the help of some discount airlines, it'll be the 7+ month long adventure I've dreamed of.

Grab your bag. It's on.