Coming home

Looking back at this whole experience is crazy: there were some very tough times during the year, but there were also plenty of good ones too.

Reflecting back, I realize how seeing another culture enables me to understand my own better. More than ever, especially with Fourth of July just around the corner, I identify myself as an American, recognize the distinctness of our culture (both the good and the bad) and see the bonds that unite us.

Here’s some hodgepodge lists to finish things up:

Things I’m looking forward to back in the States…

1. Ice cream versus gelato. Gelato is denser and less creamy. Granted, both are good, I’m just in the mood for ice cream.
   
2. “Caffe americano” versus espresso. Europeans look down on the American version as weak and watered-down. But I’ll take my Dunkin Donuts coffee, thank you very much.
   
3. Turning right on red. You can’t do it here.
4. Not feeling like such a mother all the time. It’s sad how now I can totally relate to parenting articles in magazines…I am waging a war against crumbs; they seem to breed underneath the dining room table at night. The ritual of unbuckling and buckling the carseat when running errands; having extra tissues and wipes and hair elastics in my purse at all times. In short, I want to delay parenthood a number of years until I am ready for all that it brings.
   
5. Handshakes rather than kisses when meeting people for the first time. By now I’ve kissed bunches of people that I had only met a couple of seconds ago. When I first arrived, the exchange of “bisous” made me anxious. I didn’t want to mess up and cause an awkward situation. Technique is important: generally you don’t actually kiss the person on the cheek, but rather put your cheek next to theirs and kiss the air beside it. Another thing is that a different number of kisses is expected depending on the region of France—a lot do three, Parisians do two, and some even do four. Forgetting can mean awkwardly getting someone’s nose jabbed in your face, or jabbing your nose in the person’s face.

Things I'm going to miss...

1. Outdoor markets in Europe. Whenever I go to a city I make a point of visiting one where the locals go, to see the goods that are sold there, the interactions between the people, a little piece of the culture.
   
2. Taking the TGV high speed train to get around France.
   
3. Door handles versus door knobs. Here in France you open the door with a flattened piece of metal (une poignée) rather than a round one. The advantage is that you can open them up by pressing down with your elbow—extraordinarily handy for those times when both hands are occupied, carrying a heavy box or grocery bags, for example.
   
4. The ubiquity of boulangeries (bakeries) everywhere. It seems like you are never too far from one.
   
5. The slower pace of living—having two whole hours just to eat lunch, and no school on Wednesdays. My speed of life especially slows down when I’m with the three-year-old. I start seeing the world through her eyes, where the simplest of things are still new and therefore interesting. A walk down the street can take us an hour because we stop every couple of steps to look at the blueness of the sky and the thickness of the clouds, to collect some pebbles, to inspect the dirt and the critters that are crawling in it.
   
6. My bathroom: It has two sinks, side by side. What a luxury to get to choose left or right before brushing my teeth.
   
7. Feeling like I am in an Evian commercial when the skies are clear and the Alps can be seen everywhere.
   
8. The popularity of soccer. Europe is really futbol frenzy land. Traveling around, I find that the soccer schedule colors the atmosphere of a city. It was always pretty easy to locate a stadium when I could hear cheers and boos from blocks away. When I was in Rome, there was a game against Scotland, so when I went to see the Pantheon I was surrounded by men in kilts. In Milan, there was an important game against Barcelona, so all the trams on the way to the stadium were jam-packed with fans singing songs in Spanish at the top of their lungs. Oh yeah, and then there was the time I was babysitting two little boys. They had lots of energy, so I thought it would be a good idea to go outside and play some sports. We tried volleyball, baseball, and basketball. All were miserable failures; their movements were totally uncoordinated. Playing catch, dribbling the ball, forget it—I was feeling like Michael Jordan in comparison. Then we found the soccer ball and I was a goner. They were able to maneuver themselves and the ball up and down the field so easily. My legs were tripping over themselves.
   
9. Being shrilly corrected on my French grammar by a precocious three-year-old. “No, no, no, Ali! It’s not de la voiture, it’s à la voiture.”
   
10. The lengthened relativity of history. I realized this last week when I was talking to my French teacher. Our conversation was in French, but the rough translation is something like this: She asked how old the church in the town where I live is, and I said “Oh, it’s pretty old, I think it was built in 1826…” She laughed and joked, “Oh, you are such an American! You think that’s old? That’s not old.” and reminded me how many churches there are that go back from much further—while in the US, I think something built in 1826 would be generally considered quite old.
    
11. Traffic lights that turn from red-to-yellow-to-green AND green-to-yellow-to-red (that is, there is always a yellow light in between a switch from red and green).
    
12. Driving stick shift. I was complaining about it at the beginning of the year, but now I absolutely love it.

Things I'm not going to miss...

1. Seeing European men wearing man-capris all the time.
   
2. Occasionally getting the feeling that I’m surrounded by a bunch of sheep. Instead of saying, “Ummm,” the French say, “Baaahh..oui” or “Baaaah…non” for that second of pause in which they are thinking. It’s hilarious.

It's all Greek to me

Maybe it’s because my name (Alexandra) has Greek roots, maybe it’s because I love the cuisine so much (spanakopita, hummus, sigh…), maybe it’s because I did a research project on their ancient mythology in fourth grade, maybe it’s because I used the letters of their alphabet so many times in my math and science classes, but for whatever reason, I have always felt deep ties to Greece and wanted to visit there.

I thought I might get sick of seeing ruins, ruins, ruins, but I found Athens to have lots of charming nooks and crannies, like little groves of olive trees or vines of honeysuckle growing alongside a house. Being located on a large plateau, the Acropolis felt like the real heart of the city to me. As I traversed and navigated the streets I sought it out to get my bearings and see it from all different angles.

The best was seeing the city from the top of Lycabettus Hill. I could see little rugs of forest among the grid of city buildings, all wrapped around the natural shape of land, with its hills and rock cliffs. I thought how interesting it would be to see the city develop in fast forward motion, starting with ancient times and moving along to the Romans, Byzantines, Ottomans, World War Two, all the way to modern times. Indeed the city presented interesting contrasts in time, with all the right angles of a modern building juxtaposed to the round dome of an ancient Byzantine church.

Luckily I had the most amazing weather: sunshine and warmth, with a nice breeze flowing through the air. It felt so good to be restocking my stores of Vitamin D. Aside from the warmth of the weather, I also found the Greek people to be the nicest in all of Europe. Everywhere I went, shopkeepers in stores or little old ladies on park benches were ready to strike up a friendly conversation.

Au revoir, Paris!

Leaving Paris, I couldn’t help but thinking of…

• the smell of crepes from street vendors sizzling with the sweet scent of melting Nutella


• street performers with their violins and accordions in the hallways of the Metro


• the whiz of the subway as it picks up some speed

Well, the last two things exist in other cities as well, but Paris really has a magic of its own.

New York? No, Paris. Funny story: After France gave the US the original Statue of Liberty, the US reciprocated the gift with a mini version (that is located on one of the islands of La Seine).

Cote d'Azur

Nice is nice. Actually, it’s more than that. It's downright gorgeous.

The train ride there alone was beautiful, going through the hills of Provence. Red tile roofed houses are built into the face of the rock alongside the ocean, which then descends down to the Mediterranean. The vividness of the blue water is so striking, and the sunshine bathes all the buildings in a lovely light. No wonder it has been favored by so many painters over the years.

I even passed by Le Pont d’Avignon (from the famous song) but was disappointed to find out that it wasn’t in fact the original.

One of my favorite memories: eating dessert before eating supper, something I’ve always been tempted to do. We were roaming around the streets looking for a good restaurant when we came across the most impressive gelato stand. Being on vacation, we thought why not mix things up and reverse the normal eating order? They had some of the craziest flavors I have ever seen: rosemary, tomato basic, black olive, or vanilla/pepper/rose (see below):

I was a little less adventurous and tried a scoop of “gianduja,” which is a delicious blend of hazelnut and chocolate.

The famous flower market of Nice

Looking out on Nice's rooftops

Yes we Cannes!

Cannes is a great place for one of my favorite activities of all time: people watching. There was a film festival going on while I was there, but not the big one that is renowned throughout the world (it actually took place a couple of weeks after the days I was visiting). So I didn’t spot any celebrities, just saw a lot of important-looking people who work behind-the-scenes jabbering away on their cell phones. I caught peculiar snippets of conversation, in French and English, and tried to guess at the context they were coming from.

Oh by the way, know that stereotype that the French are always on strike? Well, it’s true. Every day on the radio I hear of how one industry or another “font la grève.”

On one hand I sympathize with the workers, but on the other, I wish they would take into consideration the extraordinary inconvenience they put onto the rest of the population: air traffic controllers are super important. Most recently, workers for France’s high speed train, le TGV, went on strike. The result? My trip was extended an extra day. Not the end of the world, as I got an extra day of sun and beach, but not so great that I had to pay another day at the hotel.

Me & George

My yacht

Hot dog, French-style

On a trip to Chamonix, the ski town of Mont Blanc, we stopped by a little restaurant for a quick bite to eat.

One of the girls ordered a “hot dog américain”—that is, a hot dog explicitly labeled as American. When it came out, I was tickled to see that it was encased in a hollowed-out French baguette, rather than snuggled between the two flaps of a hot dog roll. Apparently the restaurant’s suppliers don’t offer them, so they had to improvise.

When I asked Ar if she had ever seen a hot dog roll before, she said “No, what does it look like?” Just another thing I took for granted!

Hildy comes to Europe!

No doubt about it, I am a very lucky girl. During the month of March, when it was still winter and not yet spring, my best friend Hildy rejected a more tropical location such as Florida or Mexico for her spring break in favor of coming to visit me in ice-cold, blustery-wind Geneva.

The day of her arrival, I woke up hardly able to hold my excitement, dashed in some breakfast, and drove straight to the airport. I was ready. The night before I had made a sign with her name, so she would see me right away among all the people. Just in case. But it turns out I needn’t have bothered, as a normal person probably would have predicted. The very second that I passed through the sliding doors of the airport, my eyes met hers, like magic, and I unvoluntarily burst out with a scream/yell/shout of excitement while running towards her. I think she likewise did the same. I just remember I was so happy.

But really, trust us to make quite the scene: the people around us were definitely staring. Not that I really cared. An older man came up to us and said, “It’s good to see such happiness! When was the last time you saw each other?” Hildy’s and my eyes met and we grinned. It was clear, given the hulabaloo that we had just made, that he was expecting us to say somewhere in the span of two to five years. I counted on my fingers: one, two, three….Seven months. But really, it felt like an eternity.















Hildy got to see me au pairing in action (not so exciting) before we headed out for our weekend in Madrid. We quickly settled upon what I found to be an excellent arrangement: Hildy was in charge of all matters of communication, with her knowledge of the Spanish language. I, on the other hand, was in charge of navigation, with the map in hand.

For dinner our first night there, we bravely decided against any restaurant whose menu was translated in English. We wanted a real local joint, not a tourist-y place. So poor Hildy had to give me translations for over half the menu. Another matter of consideration was Hildy’s vegetarianism, meaning we wanted to bypass all the meat options. Definitely didn’t want to unknowingly order a Spanish meat specialty, and have pig eyeballs on our plates.

As we finished up our meal, the waitress asked us if we wanted to wrap up our food. “What?” I thought to myself. Contrary to common custom in USA, in Europe you never get doggy bags. Except apparently at this little restaurant in Madrid. It turned out to be excellent, as we were able to make a picnic lunch out of our leftovers at the park the next day, watching people pass by and soaking in some heavenly sunshine.















Later in the day we got a little tired from all of our sightseeing and decided to take another rest at the park. Lying down on the nice green grass, with sunshine everywhere, my eyelids quickly got heavy and I fell into a deep slumber. I was reaching REM when in the corner of my brain I detected a persistent snippet of Spanish coming from somewhere. I opened up one eye, then the other, and headed directly into the stern gaze of a police officer, leaning towards me with an angry look on his face. Quickly I jolted up, still disoriented. What was going on? I poked Hildy nervously with a finger, who was still asleep a couple of feet beside me. She stirred a bit, and I poked her again, this time more insistently. Meanwhile the police officer was jabbering away at me in an angry jumble of words. I didn’t understand until Hildy had the chance to translate to me that we had installed ourselves illegally on a patch of grass that was forbidden to be sat upon. Luckily, the story ends happily, as the police officer didn’t give us a fine, and we were able to resume our nap on a park bench a couple feet away.
















El Rastro Market















La joie de vivre! (from a museum exhibit we visited)















“Museo del Jamon” (Museum of Ham) restaurant—We stopped by here upon the recommendation of a local but quickly decided it was definitely not a vegetarian-friendly place! There were cuts of pig meat hanging around everywhere inside.

Hildy, however, was not able to evade meat entirely during her trip to Europe. The evening before her departure, my host mom S planned a surprise meal, so that Hildy and I could experience one of France’s most famous specialties together.

On the menu: Escargots! Yes, that’s right, we--the two (ex-)vegetarians--ate SNAILS. Yum, yuck. Don’t believe it? Here’s the video of us and my first bite so you can witness it for yourself:

Roma

List of things I love about Rome:

• Constant rumble of traffic in the background.


• Birds flying around everywhere: Seagulls by the Tiber. Pigeons in piazzas, pecking and cooing with their wobbly heads.


• Big, sturdy architecture.

• Crazy drivers living up to their stereotype and not respecting the pedestrian right-of-way.


• Hearing church bells ringing in the distance.


• Eavesdropping on conversations in Italian, even if I don't understand what they're saying. I love the air of mystery, the beauty of the way it sounds, its gusto.


• The oculus of the Pantheon, like a gigantic eyeball staring down at me. I imagine it was quite imposing when Caesar was there and rays of sunshine were filtering through.

• Walking along the sidewalk and making a game of what we were smelling--fresh baked dessert, something with vanilla? roasted nuts, sauteed garlic. Or the unmistakable whiff of fresh ground coffee beans wafting from a caffe...making my mouth water and kicking in an instant caffeine craving.


• Looking at laundry hanging to dry outside on apartment balconies and dreaming up stories about the people who own them.


• Italian men not afraid of wearing purple sweaters, in various shades of eggplant.


• Campo dei Fiori--a big market set in a large piazza. Visiting makes for a very sensual experience, lots of mingling scents. Roasted meats. Fresh-cut flowers in a rainbow of colors. Fresh vegetables in different forms, varieties I've never seen before. Wanted to take them home with me, drizzle some olive oil on top and sprinkle with a dash of salt and pepper and put them in the oven for a bit to roast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

PS. If you go to Italy, try their cornflakes. Really. Italians have the best: thicky, sturdy flat tiles with a pronounced corn flavor.

Les traditions françaises

Part 1 of 3
Carnaval

Holiday traditions are interesting—of course their customs are totally evident to the people who celebrate them, because they have been doing them since birth. They couldn’t imagine not doing them.

But a stranger to the culture brings an outsider perspective. Many times I relate to French traditions and find them similar to my own. But then there are those times when I find them totally foreign. That’s when I am compelled to do some research (aka a Google search) to find out more about their origins.

I realized that Carnaval, the day before Lent begins and otherwise known as Mardi Gras, is in many ways the French equivalent of Halloween when I dropped the kids off at school that day. All the kids, big and small, were dressed up in costumes: princesses and pirates galore!

When I came again to pick them up that afternoon, they took my hand and tugged me over to the auditorium hall, noisy and jam-packed with people. It was a big FÊTE being hosted by the school, with music and food and dancing.

But the real star of the show is the BONHOMME CARNAVAL. Who is he? Well, his form changes every year, but basically it is a statue construction made out of papier mâché and various recycled materials. This year, it was a bright green spider, painted with acrylic paint, complete with bright red lips and toilet paper rolls sticking out of its head.

If you’re thinking this sounds kind of weird, you’re not the only one. When I saw it, I didn’t really know what to make of it. But to everyone else it seemed perfectly normal.

Around dusk, as the sun sank down, the bonhomme was transported outside—and what did they do? Light him on fire! Then all of the kids made snowballs and pelted him in an unsuccessful effort to diminish the flames. I found it quite violent. The parents stood ceremoniously, supervising, talking amongst themselves with their arms braced against the cold wind and observing as the fire gradually overtook its frame. By the time it had burned down, night had fallen and everyone headed home for supper.

When I inquired to know more, I was told that this sort of event is something that takes place in many or most French elementary schools. The origins are that the bonhomme is a figure meant to represent everyone’s sins from the past year, and by burning him, everyone gets a fresh start. Particularly important symbolically just before La Carême (Lent) begins.

A quick online research revealed that Quebec City also has a bonhomme for their Carnaval celebration. He takes the same form every year, as it is in fact a person dressed up in costume.












Luckily he isn’t lit up on fire!

Image credit: http://klimbo.bangbangblog.com/2008/05/03/colorado-2-quebec-0/

Part 2 of 3
Epiphany

Another French tradition I partook in this year was the celebration of Epiphany, celebrated January 6th.

As I was chewing down the last bit of my dinner that night, my host mom S took something out from a dark recess of a kitchen cabinet.

She took off its wrapping and unveiled a round beauty of a cake, une galette des rois (kings’ cake—named after the Three Magi), with crisscrosses of golden dough revealing almond cream frangipane underneath. After being bought at the town boulangerie that afternoon, it had been hidden for good reason. Wouldn’t want any slices to magically disappear beforehand!

Before I quite knew what was happening, the kids scurried underneath the dinner table, ducking beneath the tablecloth, with plenty of giggles and a noticeable air of excitement. What was going on? I kept my mouth shut and observed.

S took out a knife, cut a sizable triangular slice, and demanded “Cette tranche? C’est à qui?” Then the kids yelled out the name of a household member, and S set it down at their place setting. This happened for all of us in procession, so that the cake was evenly divvied up between us.

The kids scampered back up from their hiding place and started attacking their slice with the tongs of their forks, breaking into the pastry filling with the gusto of archaeologists digging in the dirt. Their object of desire? La fève. Originally it was as the word in French would suggest—a bean, but nowadays it is typically a miniscule figurine.

A couple seconds later and one of the girls yelled out “Trouvé!” (Got it!), unearthing a little ceramic cowboy. As tradition dictates, whoever has the feve is pronounced the king or queen, and gets to choose a fellow king or queen. Lucky me, I was selected. I was coronated with a gold paper crown (similar to the one you get at Burger King, actually) and blessed with good luck for the rest of the year.

Part 3 of 3
La Chandeleur

In France, at the same time that we in America are celebrating Groundhog Day, there is La Chandeleur. Of course it has religious origins, but for me the important thing was that we were eating CRÊPES for dinner.

As the tradition goes, you have to perform the tricky little maneuver of a one-handed crepe flip, as the other hand holds a coin. Its successful completion brings prosperity to the family for the rest of the year.

My host mom S can practically whip up a batch of crepes in her sleep, so for her it was no problem. Mission accomplished, and good luck for the year. Phew.

I gave it a go, and realized the logistics. First you have to pour in the batter (not too much, not too little), let it cook properly on one side, take the coin in one hand and the handle of the skillet in the other. Then you have to give it enough of a jiggle that the crepe turns over, but not so much that it hits the ceiling and/or lands on the floor.

Like with all things of this nature, it’s all in the wrist. I haven’t quite got it down yet, but hey, it’s fun to try and it gives me an excuse to make crepes. I am thinking by next year I’ll have it, so I can bring good luck back home with me.

Gingerbread!

The French might have become famous for fancier, more delicate desserts such as crème brulée or mousse au chocolat, but if you ask me what my favorite is, I would say a nice slice of pain d’épice. The keystone ingredient is good-quality, thick, gooey honey, to which the bread owns its sticky texture and more subtle sweetness.

One weekend in November, I looked out my window and was seeing the passage of autumn to winter right before my eyes. Most of the leaves had fallen off the trees, and the ones that were lying on the ground were turning brittle and brown. Adding to the whole effect was the weather. It was raining like a vache qui pisse (like a cow pissing), as the French say…not one of their more poetic expressions.

What did I want to do? Spend the afternoon baking. And what better, I thought, than a pain d’epice?

The traditional French blend of quatre épices (cannelle, noix de muscade, clous de girofle, gingembre), that is, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves and ginger, brings a gentle spice that blossoms on your tongue. One bite warms you right up!

I decided to give my host mom S some advance warning, and she was instantly enthused with the idea. She hurried over to her recipe file and pulled one of them out with excitement. I already had a recipe, but with her cooking expertise and French heritage, I was curious to see hers. We glanced over the ingredient lists and techniques, lining them up side-by-side in comparison. Hmmmm. I wanted to try her recipe, but she wanted to try mine. How could we decide?

We couldn’t. Alas, it was decided upon that we should conduct a pain d’epice bake-off, a competition of sorts. The whole family joined in as taste testers and the result? Well, it was too difficult to decide. S’s recipe makes for a light and fluffy cake with a looser crumb, while mine is substantial and moist.

Want to give it a go yourself?

Traditional Pain d’epice

Note that it is a European-style recipe, requiring a scale to measure out the ingredients.

225 g butter
225 g sugar
360 g flour
150 g honey
3 eggs
1 tablespoon baking powder
1 teaspoon mix of cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and ginger
360 mL water

Cream the butter and sugar together. Beat in the honey. Add eggs alternatively with flour, baking powder, and spices, and then stir in the cold water.

Clotilde Dusoulier’s “Honey Spice Loaf”
From Chocolate and Zucchini. New York: Broadway Books, 2007.

It tastes even better the day after it’s baked, once all the flavors of the spices have had a chance to blend together.

1 ½ cups milk
2/3 cup honey
1/3 cup molasses
1 cup flour
1 cup whole wheat flour (substitute: all-purpose)
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons mix of cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and ginger

1. Preheat oven to 350º F. Grease loaf pan and line bottom with parchment paper.

2. Mix milk, honey, and molasses in a small saucepan over medium heat, and stir until dissolved but don’t let it boil. Set aside to cool.

3. In large mixing bowl, combine the flours, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and spices. Make a hole in the center of the mixture, and pour in the milk mixture while stirring with a whisk. The batter will be thin. Pour into the loaf pan and bake 40 to 50 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

4. Let cool on wire rack for 20 minutes, run a knife along the sides of the pan, and flip the loaf out gently. Let cool completely before wrapping it in aluminum foil to keep.

Petit Nicolas

Have you ever heard of Petit Nicolas?















Image credit: http://www.iconovox.com/blog/2009/03/06/le-petit-nicolas-de-sempe-et-goscinny-exposition-hotel-de-ville-de-paris/

They are a series of French classic children’s stories. Basically, all of the kids here know them and love them and read them all the time.

I got acquainted with them before I got to France, when we read them in my high school French classes. We would put on class skits based on the stories, or carefully note the distinction between l’imparfait and le passé composé verb tenses. They are really cute. Each tale tells the misadventure of a little boy, Nicolas, along with his gang of buddies at school. Each character has his own personality. There is Agnan, the chouchou (teacher’s pet) and Alceste, who unfailingly has some food in hand to eat, and Eudes, who always wants to get in a fight. All of them are loveable. And they always manage to get into trouble before getting out of it.

When I heard they were making a movie based on the books, I got super excited. But as is always the case with film adaptations, I worried that the authenticity would be compromised and that the charm of the books wouldn’t be translated to the big screen, etc, etc.

Thankfully all these worries amounted to nothing, when I finally got to see it in the movie theatre one weekend with the girls. The set-up of the film is clever, as the essential outline of the film is based on Nicolas’s fear that his maman is pregnant and that he is therefore going to have a little brother soon. But other anecdotes from the stories are weaved into the plot. The total effect is super funny, cute, and heart-warming.

Here’s the link to the movie trailer (in French, no English version to be found):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5mquUT7jCI

Fevrier!

My Mom and younger cousin Meghan came to visit me in February, and we decided to embark on a grand European adventure to visit our ancestors’ roots in the Naples region, explore the ruins of Pompeii, and see some of the gorgeous Amalfi coast.




















Our flight was to and from Naples. Having a long history with the Mafia, it’s a tough city. But of course it is only there that you can get an actual Neapolitan pizza. Flat-crust pizza perfection, crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside, grace to the high temperature fire oven it’s cooked in.

Our attainment of that pizza, (ie, the ordering process at the restaurant) turned out to be quite an adventure in itself. We went to a real neighborhood pizzeria rather than a tourist joint, meaning that none of the people there spoke English. And unfortunately our knowledge of Italian doesn’t extend much beyond Grazie (as much Italian I speak in my dreams). So we communicated our words rather telegraphically, channeling our inner Italian with lots of hand gesturing, and threw in plenty of smiles in between. Our waitress was considerably less amused. But how else would we have gotten to taste some foods we had never heard of before? We were offered something as an appetizer, and we weren’t sure exactly what it was, but we said yes (si!!) anyways, and got a delicious fried potato and cheese concoction.

An hour-long ferry ride from Mount Vesuvius and we landed on the island of Capri. The geography of the island is gorgeous—sheer rock cliffs, on which all of the conglomerations of houses and buildings have been built.

The island’s public transport system consists of a fleet of mini orange buses, small but sturdy, designed for climbing the narrow, windy inclines of the island. When our bus finally came, it was already extremely crowded with people, and despite our cumbersome luggage, we decided to squish inside. Little did we know that as the bus climbed up the island, it made stops to let even more people on. I kept thinking to myself that there was no way that a single more person could possibly fit, and then somehow, miraculously, there would be three more new arrivals.

Oh but luckily I had a spot next to a window, so I could see as the bus made its hairpin turns that there was only a skimpy medal fence between the road and the blue ocean, a couple hundred feet down below the ragged rock cliffs.

Our arrival was timely—the day after Carnival—so when we stepped off the bus (I was feeling relieved after the nausea and claustrophobia), we were greeted instantly with a celebratory party vibe, as there were lively bits of multi-colored paper confetti everywhere on the streets.

This is a bad picture, but you can see the little dots of confetti on the side of the road, and down below a bit of the orange and lemon trees that grow all over the island.

Native Capri citizens’ transport of choice, if not the bright orange buses, are mini pick-up trucks, well-suited for the island’s narrow corners. Walking along the sidewalks, you can the purrs and growls of the motors as they pass by.

We got super lucky with the hotel where we stayed. Not only was it charming, but upon check-in we discovered that we were staying in the same exact room where Queen Vittoria of Sweden had stayed many many years ago. Even though I had never heard of her before, it felt historical to know that the room had previously been occupied by royalty.

The Italians’ faithfulness to the gospel of fresh food is legendary. In this regard we were not disappointed, as we read a small note at the bottom of our menu for dinner that night that we would be “told preventatively” if any of the fish had the “unfortunate circumstance” of having been frozen, as the English had been interestingly translated from the Italian.

Later, on our walk back from the restaurant, we stopped at a convenience store and bought a package of confetti for ourselves, throwing it up in the air and celebrating la dolce vita as we walked along Capri’s narrow streets.

After Italy, we made a stop to PARIS, the city of light…

Of course our trip would have been incomplete without a visit to the Eiffel Tower. I’m proud to say we got a good glutteal workout and mounted it by foot, staircase after staircase, pausing every once in a while to admire the view, catch our breath, and/or read the historical information posted.

It was cold and windy at the top, but the sight of Paris’s rooftops was nothing short of éblouissant.

Then we warmed ourselves up with some very delicious food, at the sort of French café that I had always expected to find in Paris. I had pumpkin cream soup that was just as good as it sounds, accompanied by a salad with chèvre (goat cheese) melted on top.

Now introducing a guest writer…my Mom! as she recounts the rest of our day:

We had a lovely early evening walk to Notre Dame across the Seine. Notre Dame was very dramatic at night - the gargoyles seemed to be leaping from the cathedral as we looked above us from the street.

We watched a street performer twirl a stick lit with fire at both ends. We made like tourists and bought postcards.

Meghan needed to use la toilette. Luckily there was one of the futuristic contraptions that dot the streets of Paris. A woman emerged from its sliding door and Meghan entered. Before it could close, the woman explained that it would self-clean. Meghan jumped out. The door closed. We laughed as we heard water sloshing and ultraviolet lights destroying all germs. The doors reopened and Meghan entered again to relieve herself.

Quelle experience!

More Americanisms

Going to the supermarket in France, I am tickled whenever I see a food product explicitly labeled “AMERICAN” because prior to coming here, I had seen it as ordinary and absolutely normal. But for the French, of course, it is something particular to America.

What American food products make it over to France? Let’s see, there are sweet potatoes and peanuts from the South, grapefruit from Florida, and cheddar cheese from Wisconsin.

Chocolate fudge brownie and cake mixes, too. But if you want the real deal, that is, imported Betty Crocker, you have to be prepared to pay dearly for it.

Price tag: 7 euros (over 9 US dollars) per box!

But I discovered what I think to be the most iconic American food item during the last French class I had before Christmas vacation.

We had a little potluck holiday party, where everyone brought a dish. Indeed, as the people in my class come from all over the world, it turned out to be a multicultural affair. Everyone brought something from their country of origin: cookies, bread, pastries, crackers, and cakes from Russia, Spain, Germany, Romania, Poland, and Brazil…and plus the most amazing coffee from Costa Rica.

What did I bring? Well, I wasn’t even aiming to bring something particularly American. I was just thinking they were quick and easy to make, and hoping that they would be enjoyed by all.

When I unveiled the aluminum foil cover from the plate, my teacher let out a big gasp. “Biscuits americains!” she proclaimed excitedly. What were they? Homemade chocolate chip cookies.
I was surprised that they were such a novelty for everyone, but perhaps I should have guessed it when I had to fabricate the chocolate chunks myself, breaking up little pieces from a candy bar, because I couldn’t find a bag of chocolate chips anywhere.

Upon reflection, it is suitable that I made them, given that I hail from their place of place of birth. Good old Toll House cookies. It makes me proud to be from Massachusetts!

….I love how I am learning more about the culture and cuisine of my country being apart from it than I did when I was living in it!

Barcelona

My weekend trip to Barcelona was extremely well-timed. By the end of January, I didn’t want to bundle up any longer with hat, scarf, and mittens, and I didn’t want to see any more ice or snow. An hour-long airplane ride and I went from arctic tundra to a sparkling, diamond-flecked ocean, complete with palm trees, sunshine, bright blue sky, and a Mediterranean sea salt breeze. Just what I needed!

On Barcelona’s sycamore-lined boulevard Las Ramblas, there are always a daily assortment of human statues—that is, people who dress up in crazy, elaborate costumes and then stay perfectly still for hours while people walk by. Pretty cool, but I couldn’t help but to think how uncomfortable they must get after awhile!


Fruits and veggies! (Imagine holding that smile on your face for longer than two minutes.)

Speaking of which…food-wise, I was less impressed with the typical Spanish specialty dishes (paella, tapas, etc), delicious as they were, than by the abundance of super fresh produce available. It was here that I ate hands-down the best orange of my life: perfectly ripe, so fresh and tart and yet not too sweet. But a bit messy, with rivulets of juice running down my hands and making my fingers sticky.

Without a doubt my favorite place in the city was Parc Guell, designed by Art Nouveau architect Antoni Gaudi. The instant I walked passed its gates, I felt that I had somehow landed on a completely different planet.



All the greenery makes for a nice oasis among the city, a little gem set among the cement buildings. As I explored the looping paths of the park, I loved listening to the background music—a continual symphony soundtrack of bird hoots, twitters, and chirps.



The best part of the park was its benches—or rather, it’s one bench (singular). Looking out from the city’s rooftops, it’s long and curved, and and ornately inlaid with broken pieces of multi-colored ceramic pottery. So cool!


Afterwards I was inspired to go home and start breaking dishes and plates so that I could make some mosaics of my own!

It's okay, I'm American...

French and American cultural differences aren’t too grand, but if I had to characterize one thing in particular, I would say that Americans are more germaphobic. A couple of months ago I read an article in the newspaper written by a fellow American living in France expatiating on some of his daily life experiences supporting this generalization. Ever since then, my own personal observations have been accumulating.

For example, take the good old, quintessentially French baguette.

Here’s the problem: when I buy a baguette at the supermarket, the bag that holds it only reaches a bit past the three-quarters mark, leaving the tip exposed. Certainly it’s nice to be able to see the contents of the wrapping. Yet this means that when I place it into the shopping cart and put it onto the conveyor belt to pay for it, it is inevitably vulnerable to the microbes of its surroundings. And if I am not very careful with the transport of it home in the car, it could get scrunched (crumbs in the trunk) or soggy (if it’s raining outside). To me the simple solution would be making the bag a bit longer or the bread a bit shorter.

The other day when I went food shopping, I observed a four-year-old running his fingers along the ends of the bread, touching them with his presumably grubby hands, meaning that future customers’ immune systems would unknowingly be subjected to his personal collection of bacteria and viruses. Maybe that sounds a bit harsh. Granted, no one is going to die from it, it just doesn’t seem hygienic.

Being cognizant of my dilemma, all this made a humorous experience for me when I went to the local convenience store in town the other day to pick up a baguette.

The arrangement there is a bit different: the baguettes are held in a straw basket and the bags to place them in are right next to it, so that customers can do it for themselves.

The store is a small, cramped place, and the bread is located right in front of the cash register. There was no one else in the store, and I could sense the eyes of the owner looking at me. He’s an older Frenchman, completing the archetype with a robust gray moustache that he twirls in his fingers as he waits for customers to come by the counter.

Knowing that one bag would present the aforementioned problem, I took two, sheathing one on each tip so that my baguette was completely covered. The whole time it was dead quiet, except for the crinkly rustlings of the paper wrapper as I completed my maneuver. When I turned around, the facial expression that greeted me was priceless: eyebrows raised, perplexed and quite suspicious that I was up to no good.

Clearly, I was a foreigner. But I didn’t mind so much, because I was coming home with an in-tact, clean loaf of bread for supper.

Luge d'hiver

I was so excited for the Winter Olympics. But it wasn’t till just recently that I came to appreciate the grand discrepancy between watching winter sports seated on a couch as opposed to the actual practice of them.

After Christmas I visited one of Switzerland’s winter sport capitals: Grindelwald. (Doesn’t it sound like a name straight out of Harry Potter?) It’s a winter sport-lover’s paradise. Nestled among the majestic mountaintops, the center of town almost exclusively consists of assorted ski shops. But its real claim to fame? Sledding trails.

Ah, sledding, the idyllic childhood winter pastime. Growing up, any decent-sized slope could provide hours of amusement, well-nourished by bites of crispy crunchy snow, without a single thought of the chemicals or pollution it could have contained.

Little did I know that sledding in Grindelwald is an entirely different breed of the sport. There with my aunt, uncle, and cousins, we bundled up one morning in our jackets and scarves, and loaned our sleds from the hotel. They were sturdy, wood-hewn contraptions, but also really heavy, especially when I had to trudge uphill with one hitched on my shoulder. We hopped on a little train, sardine-packed with skiers, snowboarders, and fellow sledders, which slowly made the treacherously steep climb to the top of the mountain. Along the way there were snow-sprinkled evergreen forests and storybook Swiss chalets that I couldn't help but to sigh over.

Finally we made it to the summit and started the descent. I was sledding like never before, making my way through the miles-long route that winded down the mountain. I was seriously zipping around the slides and bends, feeling as though I was getting the sort of exhilaration Olympic bobsledders must experience. The only difference is that they have some expertise on what they’re doing, while as I had none. My control over the direction of the sled was not exactly well-tuned. The sled was outfitted with a strap, that when pulled may or may not turn in the direction that I was aiming for. The guy at the hotel made it seem so simple, pointing to explanatory stick-figure diagrams on the wall. To turn left, pull the strap to the right. But I was not having much luck. Half of the time I got the desired effect and the other half I was crashing into a snow bank.

At one point, I hit a bump. My bum landed in the snow, but the sled kept going, where it slid and crashed down a cliff. I had to go through knee-high snow to go get it again. And yes, there were onlookers laughing at me. I was laughing at myself.

Then at one curve I got a little too much acceleration and lost total control. Cruising down at a dangerous speed, I wanted to warn the fellow sledders around me of my impending arrival, but with people from so many different nationalities around I didn’t know which language—English? French? German?--to say “watch out!” I finally skidded to a stop, but not before nearly having a rear-ending accident into the sled of a German lady. Needless to say, she wasn’t very happy and presumably reprimanded me for not being more careful, but not knowing German I didn't understand what she said.

As I progressed downward, my comfort was likewise in decline. Head, hand, and feet warmth are the most important for well-being in cold outdoor winter conditions, and here I was, striking out on all three accounts. The problem was that I just wasn’t adequately equipped for this caliber of sledding. My boots weren’t water-tight, so ice cold moistness gradually seeped into my socks and made my toes painfully numb. I was feeling prickles, as though little knives were stabbing into them. I immediately started envisioning pictures of the pioneers who first explored Antarctica and had limbs become black with frostbite.

Perhaps even worse, I didn’t have proper ski pants, so as I sat down on my sled, sheaths of snow wedged themselves to my lower back and then slid, half-melting from my body heat to a sort of slush that made its way to my underpants. Basically, my butt felt like it was going to freeze off.

Finally, feeling good about the distance I had covered, I decided that I had had enough. Luckily there was a train going in the other direction back down the mountain. With a change of socks and a hot steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup, I felt like a new person. It was only until I referenced a map that I realized I had only covered a tiny section of the overall trail. Oh well. The little section I traversed made for quite the adventure.

Foodsick

For me to be complaining about the food here in France is pretty undeserved, because true to its reputation, French cuisine is delicious. And it certainly helps that my host mom S is an excellent cook. I am amazed how quickly she can whip up béchamel sauce without referencing the recipe, or cook a steak to medium-rare perfection. And yet…I really miss the food back home, for the fact that it just isn’t the same.

In France, they have some sort of foods so right. Bread, for example. What would be considered “gourmet” or “artisan” bread in the US can be bought at a gas station in France.

But like they say, you can’t win ’em all. The French fail miserably on a suitable sandwich bread. Not the just-baked fresh kind, but the one you find on supermarket shelves, something with density and fortitude when you want something that holds all the innards inside.

The French don’t seem so keen on the concept of a sandwich in general. For me it’s a cultural demarcation. The sandwich is reflective of the American, eat-on-the-run lifestyle. In US schools children get a half-hour to eat their lunch; in France the kids get two hours.

It’s not that the French don’t eat all the ingredients of a sandwich, it’s that they eat everything separately. Sandwiches are convenient and easily portable. You get everything in a single bite—meat, cheese, vegetable, bread.

Another food item that is hard to come by in France is peanut butter, which is why I was so ecstatic when my parents mailed me some jars for my birthday. Three months without peanut butter? You probably don’t think it would be a big deal. Oh but it was. I tried to save it, resisted as long as I could from popping open the jar. But finally at long last when I did, a couple of weeks later, it was the most incredibly satisfying experience. Nothing beats the tactile and gustatory experience of the smooth rich blend of creaminess and crunchiness, sticking to the roof of my mouth.

Shortly afterwards, I mentioned a “PBJ” in conversation with the girls, and saw a look of confusion cross over their faces. They didn’t know what it was. As I explained, they were absolutely epoustouflées by the concept, while I was astonished that they had never tasted my childhood staple of nourishment. Ar (the oldest girl) is seriously disgusted by the idea of sandwiches, while the younger girl agreed to try her very first one if I were to make it for her. Her first bite was cautious and she proclaimed it bizarre, but by the end, I observed her from the corner of my eye, munching and chomping away contentedly on her last bits of crusts.

Stockholm Syndrome

Before departure, whenever I told someone that I was going to Stockholm in the middle of January, I was unfailingly given a default look of incredulity. Stockholm? In January? Are you crazy?

When I stepped out of the airport, thinking about how I was currently the most northward I had ever been on the planet, and in the middle of winter, no less, I was fully expecting to be hit by gusts of icy cold freezing wind. Rather, I felt that I had somehow landed in the middle of a black-and-white movie. The landscape was entirely a monochromatic variant of gray, white snow glued onto the black tree branches with ice.

Actually, I would say that the weather was nice the whole weekend. It was the crisp, refreshing sort of cold that makes the lungs feel good and hearty. Someone explained to me that the little humidity accounts for why it doesn’t feel so bad. I was grateful that the air was dry, except for one thing…

Know that feeling that you’re forgetting something important before going on a big trip, but you can’t think of it, even though you’ve checked your suitcase a million times? For me it’s unavoidable as I’m heading out the door. And normally it’s nothing, but this time I really was forgetting something important: my chapstick. Granted, not so grave, but now I can attest that chapped lips for a weekend aren’t so much fun.

For purposes of full disclosure regarding my impressions of the temperature outside, I will admit that as a precautionary measure I dressed myself in more layers than an onion. (It was quite the ordeal getting dressed in the morning; my movements were on the stiff side and I was feeling a bit like a snowman.) But the important thing was that I wasn’t cold.

One place I visited was the world’s very first H&M. I probably shouldn’t have bothered, because it isn’t too different from the one at home. The only thing is that it is easily five times bigger, and it’s even spread out among separate buildings. I decided that I could never actually go shopping there; it’s too overwhelming to be surrounded by so many clothes.

I had also considered going to the origins of Sweden’s other big claim to fame, Ikea, but it involved a bus ride to the outskirts of the city, which would have been tricky time-wise.

But if you’re acquainted with the vibe of Ikea, it gives a good idea of the vibe for the rest of Sweden. There is a focus on modernity, practicality and utility. The buildings and architecture are more simple and straightforward. Another representative example would be Stockholm’s omnipresent font, Futura (also available for viewing in any Ikea catalogue):













Reading a tourist brochure, I couldn’t help but groan when I saw printed, “Stockholm, Venice of the North,” as EVERY European city with bodies of water flowing through it loves to compare itself to Venice. Stockholm is in fact built on a cluster of close islands that has been linked together with bridges.















An enormous congregation of swans and ducks (a bridge in the background)

Yet on all fronts, Stockholm met or exceeded my expectations. For instance, in surveying the crowd, there were indeed a disproportionate number of blonde people. And the majority of cars parked along the road were Volvos.















Volvo Land

Practically the whole time I was there I had an Abba song stuck in my head, as I kept overhearing them on the radio or playing on the background music of stores. And there was a nice accumulation of slush and snow on the sidewalks, meaning my hip flexors got quite the workout.















Sand = very important for anti-slippage















Cursed toilets.

On a side note, I am in love with the Swedish language and its charming orthography, eg coffee = kaffe, and how some vowels have little bubble or dot accents on top of them. Although I was intimated in trying to pronounce some of the longer words, with all their multi-syllable clumps.















Judging by the selection at the supermarket, Swedes like putting pureed meat in a tube, caviar and shrimp flavors included.

Paris, Part II: Christmas edition

Ah, Paris.

Not as magical as when I was seeing everything for the first time, but nonetheless there is no denying the city has charm.

Champs Elysees at dusk, with light-stringed trees

One thing I just love about Paris is walking on the sidewalk right before dinner time and passing by all sorts of people, of all ages and backgrounds—little stooped-over old ladies, shoe-polished businessmen, Maghrebian immigrants, teenagers on bicycles—all with one thing in common: they’re in midst of coming home for the evening after picking up a fresh-baked baguette from the boulangerie. It just seems so quintessentially Parisian to have a golden thin loaf tucked under an arm or peaking out from a bag.

Another thing I love in Paris? Spotting Boston Red Sox caps amongst the crowds. Of course in Massachusetts they’re a dime-a-dozen, but whenever I see one on the Metro I get a pang of MA pride. Speaking of which, I am sad to report my observation that Yankees baseball caps undeniably win on the international scene among European youth (most likely to be explained by their highly unfortunate recent World Series win).

Museum hopping

Versailles

Certainly the most ornate place I’ve ever seen. Beds, mirrors, chandeliers, sumptuous velvet walls, marble busts and statues, paintings, finely tufted rugs, inlaid furniture…everything. The gardens are not much to see in December (except for an expansive puddle of slush) but in the summer I imagine they are extraordinarily pretty.

Musee d’Orsay

I liked the Musee d’Orsay right off the bat for its location in an old train station, and its prettily vaulted ceiling.

At first, as I was passing by all the famous chefs d’oeuvres, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Am I really seeing what I am seeing?

But then honestly, so many pastel Monets got a little…vanilla. Reaching a point of idyllic overload, I started channeling my inner interior designer as I circulated among the exhibition halls, hypothetically considering which tableaux I would use to furnish a house. For example,

Pissarro's Femme Etandant du Linge would suit a laundry room

And Degas's Le Tub for a bathroom

Lastly, I made it to the architectural wonder that is the Centre Pompidou, with all of its buildings pipes exposed on the exterior.

I had to wait in line for an honest-to-goodness eternity for my ticket, but it was worth it when I got to the top of the building—the view was awesome. All the rooftops of Paris, the Eiffel Tower, the Sacre Coeur, all out there in the distance…

As for the actual art inside the building, practically the whole time I was wondering, Is this really art? A lot of Modernist pieces challenge my conception of what constitutes art (maybe as intended) and make me wonder at what point a piece is worth hanging up on the wall of a museum.

For instance, I finally got to see up close and in person what I find to be one of the most ridiculous pieces of art on the planet. I thought it was atrocious when I first laid my eyes on a picture of it in the third grade, and I continue to do so, regardless of the philosophy behind it. A canvas, Monochrome Bleu (IKB 3), painted all blue by Yves Klein:

Seriously?

But there were also some really good things. My favorites were the Matisse collages, and Robert Delaunay’s very nicely entitled piece, “La Joie de Vivre.”

Smile and Say Cheese

My Christmas dinner was a multi-course, five-hour (no joke!) affair including jambon en croute, purée de marrons, and crème de chocolat. I even tried some foie gras, which I’ve decided is nowhere close to becoming my favorite food, as the whole time I was chewing I was thinking less about the flavor and more about the poor little geese.

The ultimate test came towards the end of the meal, an evaluation of my introduction thus far to French cuisine, in the form of the all-important cheese course. The French will tell you that the bacterial ferments aid with digesting the meal; I just think they’re stupendously delicious.

For the special occasion, an enormous platter of multi-hued, multi-shaped, multi-textured, multi-stinking cheese had been ordered from the fromagerie. Really quite impressive. All eyes were on me as it was placed on the table. Each specimen was pointed to in succession, and I was to name them.

The results? Perfect marks; I know my Roblochon from my Morbier. In recompense I got a couple little cheers of “Bravo!” and a nice hunk of camembert.

Speaking of which, when my aunt and uncle came to visit me after Christmas, they were inquiring what the peculiar smell in the fridge was. I spent a good minute digging through the leftovers looking for something that had gone bad, and yet was still unable to find a culprit. Turns out, it was the cheese dish all along.

So it’s official. I’ve become immune to even the most particularly fragrant varieties of cheese; it no longer registers in my system as offensive.

All I can say is that my brother William, who detests the faintest scent of the mildest and most harmless of cheeses (such as cheddar or feta or parmesan) had better watch out for when I get back home.

Mini Photographic Exhibit

Various Metro signs of Paris