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