Stuck in Paris

Cutest Baby on Earth

2011-05-05T09:14:00.000-07:00

Snowy Paris

2010-01-30T02:15:00.000-08:00

Paris in the snow. Doesn't usually happen. But when it does, it's beautiful. It gives a new perspective to old monuments, ones you don't usually see under a blanket of white. Please enjoy these photos with some hot cocoa.

Snowy Paris

A Weekend in Normandy

2009-10-05T05:34:00.000-07:00

Two weekends ago, we traveled by train and bus to the Upper Normandy coast, known for its falaises (cliffs). We started out in Fécamp, a resort town in an inlet with a small harbor and rocky beach. On the western side of town, we hiked up a campground and began our backpacking along the steep white cliffs. Here we were a bit inland, walking through cornfields and past grazing cows, with only a distant view of the sea blending into the gray-blue sky, only the occasional tiny white triangles of sailboats marking the extent of the horizon. It was a sunny early autumn day, and small red-orange poppies dotted the grass between the gravel road and the browning cornstalks. Happy cows on small farms watched us pass close by, just on the other side of the barbwire fence.

After about three miles we descended into Yport, a smaller town constrained by a smaller inlet than that of Fécamp. The houses were built in a pattern of red brick and gray stone, and the small yards were filled with the fading colors of recently deep pink hydrangea. We discovered that the town's boulanger (baker) was away on his annual vacation, so the neighboring boucherie (butcher shop) had become the temporary "depot de pain." That afternoon we stocked up camping provisions, including a pre-packaged Alsatian choucroute and a bottle of regional cider.

Our campground was in the same position as the one we walked though in the last town, on the western edge of town and most of the way up the steep hillside. With only a few other fellow campers braving the cool nights in late September, the normally communal style of French campgrounds was made a little more private. We pitched our tent in a clearing overlooking the town, the beach and the sea. The campground office was located in an old farmhouse-turned-inn, which apparently also functioned as a cocktail bar for local weddings. (That's right, just a hundred yards away from us in our hiking boots cooking on our camp stove, a wedding party took pictures and drank champagne under a small tent. It certainly wasn't fancy but the view was spectacular.) The evening was cool and a bit misty, but upon waking late that night I was rewarded with something you just can't find in Paris -- a star-filled sky and the soft sound of the sea below us.

The next morning we descended to town to pick up a baguette from the butcher shop, and back at camp, while Rob made breakfast, I observed the dozen or so perfect webs the spiders had spun in the adjacent field that night. The day was just as promising as the day before -- bright blue sky and just a hint of an autumn breeze.

Today was a longer hike, about six miles from Yport to Etretat. It started with such similarity to Saturday's hike that I have a hard time distinguishing the two, but then the trail left the farm roads and turned north to the cliffs. We followed the white cliffs westward, just a few steps and a line of blackberry bushes from the edge. Church steeples in tiny villages peeked over the trees on the other side of the cow pastures, which extended right up to the trail on the edge of the cliff. At one point we descended steeply into a ravine which opened out onto a rocky, seaweed-strewn beach, but otherwise the cliffs in this part of the coast were uniformly quite high. A friendly mountain biker warned us (in a Normandy accent I found very difficult to understand) of dangerously eroded trail west of Etretat, making me wonder what the coastline looked like a hundred years ago, and how it will appear a hundred years from now.

We knew we were nearing our destination as we began passing more and more nicely-dressed people out for a Sunday walk. The draw around Etretat is a couple of curious rock formations protruding out into the sea, including l'Aiguille (the Needle) and the arch of the Falaise d'Aval.

At the end of our trail, we descended the crowded steps onto Etretat's steep and pebbly beach, where the clear, cool water looked very inviting. The ebbing of small waves through the smooth, gray stones made a gentle clacking sound, pleasant to hear but painful to walk on barefoot! We spent the afternoon swimming (Rob), napping (me) and enjoying a take-out kebab lunch before catching the bus to Le Havre, then the train back to Paris.

Au revoir, l'été!

Iceland, Part Three

2009-07-22T05:29:00.000-07:00

The next day we drove north to Húsavík, a fishing village and popular whale-watching destination on the eastern shore of the bay of Skálfandi. In town, we opted to visit the whale museum instead of the phallological museum (world's largest collect of penises, over 200 species!), which was an incredibly informative tour, housed in an old slaughterhose and containing the complete skeletons of eight or so different species of whales suspended from the rafters.

Continuing north on the Tjörnes peninsula, low-lying clouds sometimes thinned enough for us to glimpse the mountains on the opposite shore, a dark ridge draped with snowdrifts rising steeply out of the Arctic. On our side of the bay, however, was low farmland on bluffs overlooking the sea. Ahead of us, we spotted a waterfall cascading onto the beach, and so begins our first adventure of the day.

We parked by the side of the road at the presumed creek, hopped a low fence, and attempted to hike down to the afore-mentioned waterfall. We didn't make it, due to the incorrect assumption that we were crossing just another sheep pasture. Instead, a curious black stallion was alerted by two mares in the neighboring enclosure, suddenly appeared at the top of the hill and unhesitatingly galloped down to us. Now, Iceland horse are quite small, but not being associated with their habits (or any other horse's habits, for that matter), we quickly retreated, hoping he wouldn't react to the certain smell of fear surrounding us and vowing to learn a little bit about common farm animals.

Back in the Land Rover, we headed to the crumbling brown cliffs on the peninsula's northern tip in search of a much different animal -- puffins! We spotted their unmistakeable orange beaks and black and white bodies from above, as they clumsily flew, low over the water, to their nests in the cliff walls. Not having binonculars and desiring a closer view, we drove a few miles east where the road descends to the beach for adventure #2 of the day: Puffin Quest. For nearly an hour we picked our way over rocks like dinosaur eggs piled at the base of the cliffs. But alas, it was too far, and we were late for dinner at Ingibjorg's house back in Akureyri. At least I got to touch the Arctic Ocean for the first time -- cold, clear and a deep blue-gray, gently lapping at the shores of the black sand beaches.

We had a couple more days, more delicious and relaxing family meals in Akureyri and on our way back in Reykjavik, but I will leave off with this last bit. That night, we drove the seasonal road over the top of the mountain between Akureyri and the summer house. It was 12:30, and in the north the sun was setting, skimming slowly over the sea between mountains in the narrow entrance to the fjord. No sound carried up from the city west across the water; there was hardly a breeze, but the air was cool and pure. No other cars were on the old gravel road, only an old ewe and two lambs grazing nearby. The mountains and the sky had faded to dusty pink, lavender, blue and gray. I've never believed the artists who painted landscapes in such colors, but, I guess so far north on such a drawn-out sunset, things become softer -- a film covering the world to blur the distinction between sky, mountain, city, sea.

Iceland, Part Two

2009-07-17T06:34:00.000-07:00

Flying into Akureyri was definitely the coolest flight I've experienced. After flying over inland mountains and glaciers for half an hour, we gradually descended into Eyjafjörður, the longest fjord in Iceland. For 15 minutes we flew between the barren, snow-covered highland plateaus, as the grassy green valley floor, dotted with red-roofed farm buildings, opened up beneath us. At eye level, sheep grazed on the steep mountainsides and countless early summer streams cascaded into the valley. Flying north, farms gave way to Akureyri and the waters of the fjord, and we circled around to land.

Akureyri is Iceland's second largest city, population 17,000, and home to most of Rob's Icelandic relatives. We were immediately welcomed by uncle Addu and girlfriend Ästa, both sunburned from a recent mountain climbing trip, and convivial (though mourning her English skills) great-aunt Helga-Maggy. As I donned my new windbreaker and considered putting my boots on, the others, outside in short-sleeves and eating ice cream, commented on the warmth of the weather. (Side note, I think I ate more ice cream in Iceland than I have in the past three months.)

That evening, everyone (Ingibjorg, Guðmunder and four kids included) drove over the mountain range to have a barbeque at the summer house, built by Rob’s grandparents, in the next valley. It’s a comfortable, modern pine cabin secluded from the road by young trees, the fringe of the country’s second largest forest -- which is not very big, since from settlement in the 9th century until recently, trees have been practically unheard in Iceland, although today everyone is planting them. Water is piped in directly from the creek running alongside, which is bordered in summer by indigo and white Artic lupine, and runs into a river just downstream. On the opposite bank, a grazing field ascends a steep hill between the creek and the river, and there are popular campsites a mile upriver.

Rob’s four young cousins played around the cabin while the adults prepared dinner - salmon on the grill - and Rob and I (adults, yes?) did a little of each and joined in on the English conversation. Evenings are long and relaxed in an Icelandic summer, and we ate until the food was gone, or nearly so, sitting and talking until we had room for seconds or thirds of both dinner and dessert. (All our hosts reminded me of my grandmother -- never so happy as when you manage a third helping.)

The next day, sunny and warm, Rob and I set out in Addu’s Land Rover to visit the sights eastward. Driving out of the forest, we passed through farmland, around lakes, crossed glacial rivers, into the volcanic landscape of Lake Mývatn. South of the lake is green, with a clear salmon river meandering through bright green grasses dotted with yellow flowers; to the west is marshland, off-limits during nesting season, and when the wind blew in the right direction we could hear the cacophony of bird cries while we hiked up the 1500 foot barren conical peak of Vindbelgjarfjall. North of the lake are a small town and 18th century lava fields, as well as the volcanic craters and fissures, where the last minor eruption was only 25 years ago. The lake, however, contains evidence of pre-settlement eruptions in the mound-to-hill-size pseudo craters and tall rock columns, bizarre shapes created when lava flowed into and then out of the lake over a thousand years ago.

At Leirhnjúkur, next to Krafla volcano, where there is another geothermal plant, we walked along the dangerous steaming vents and sulphurous, bubbling mud pots. It’s great, scary fun, although they are building a raised boardwalk over the trail in an attempt to prevent wayward tourists from burning their feet on thin ground. I suppose the sheep will still walk where they choose!

Further east, we drove 20 miles on a gravel road through windy, dusty, gray lands to Dettifoss, the highest waterfall in Europe. This is one of the driest parts of Iceland, and if there was a river on the moon, I think it would look like this. The canyon was impressive, great blocks of rock stacked upon end or tumbled down into the river, and the power of the 45 meter waterfall, which we approached at the top (there are no railings) was amazing.

The aunts had told us that only the week before the temperatures had dipped below freezing in northern Iceland. So on the way back to the summer house I marveled at the variations in the terrain, imagined the harshness of winter in this volcanic and glacier-formed landscape, northern winds bitterly sweeping across the land, and fully appreciated just how nice it was to get a sunburn on a summer day with a southern breeze.

Paris shows off its lights

2009-07-15T04:31:00.000-07:00

Last night we braved the hordes of Parisians and tourists alike to witness the Fête National (Bastille Day) concert and fireworks display on the packed Champ de Mars. The main lawn approaching the Eiffel Tower was much too crowded for us late-comers, so with some friends we spread our picnic blanket behind some trees on the right corridor of the park. Although we couldn't see the stage, and only parts of the Tower through the tree, the Johnny Halliday (France's Mick Jagger) concert music was blasted throughout and enjoyed by all. Over the next few hours we comfortably enjoyed our wine and thrown-together picnic spread until the sun began to set and the Tower, with lights turned off, was a dark shadow in the twilit sky.

At the sound and tree-obscured sight of the first fireworks, we quickly packed up our picnic remains and moved up to join the standing crowds with a better view, and although some tree limbs blocked the very top of the tower, I was no less amazed at the spectacle.

A light show was projected onto the Tower, depicting in turn the blue, white and red celebrating its creation 120 years ago, a pulsing radio signal, toy soldiers falling to make a skeletal effect remembering the "dark times," and rainbow-colored Flower Power blooms rotating like dancing clockwork. Edith Piaf on the speakers, white, graceful fireworks and the Eiffel Tower's glittering lights (which sparkle hourly on normal evenings) made such a romantic setting for the pre-war years; red lights above and fire-like blasts surrounding the base of the Tower, combined with an intense orchestral piece, evoked both an awe-inspiring and a truly scary World War II scene in front of us. My favorite part was the countdown before the grand finale, when only the light projections were used to make the Tower dance, and then jump, like a gigantic Eiffel Tower robot pounding away in the darkness. And on zero, you guessed it, fireworks lit up the whole sky! Shot out from the top and all sides in a spectacular two-minute finale.

See it for yourself here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lUNFxTaCI2c or the whole thing on www.paris.fr, but as it really doesn't do justice to the show, I recommend coming to Paris for the Eiffel Tower's 125th birthday in five years. Joyeux anniversaire, Tour Eiffel!

Iceland, Part One

2009-07-14T05:37:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Iceland on a cool and rainy Thursday afternoon, just after the longest day of the year. We took the airport bus inland along the lava fields of the Reykjanes Peninsula, stopping at the Blue Lagoon with the other tourists. I can't imagine the cold shock you would feel in dead winter in the five steps from the locker rooms to the outdoor pool, but man even on an Icelandic summer day it felt good to step down into the steaming lagoon. You can see the steam from miles away in fact, outlines by the dark rock of the volcanic ridge behind it. It looks like a small factory, but is the storage and pumping mechanisms for the near-boiling geothermally-heated water that they cool just enough for us to stand. We soaked in the white, steamy, sulphur-smelling pool for an hour before returning to the bus, feeling warm and jello-like despite the cool and uninhabitable surroundings.

Rob's aunt Gudda and uncle Guðmunder picked us up from the bus station. They welcomed us with cold beer, Domino's Pizza and a cozy basement guest room (an ideal place to sleep on a sunny Icelandic summer night, when it gets dim for a few hours but never gets fully dark), and, along with 13-year-old Þorunn, showed us pictures and videos of the many places we were to visit. Icelanders are clearly proud of the amazing geography their country holds, embracing the digital camera as well as the paintbrush to display some of their most striking scenery.

The next day, with me fully prepared wearing sweater, jacket and boots, we toured Reykjavik on what turned out to be a sunny 70° day. It was beautiful to sit by the downtown lake, sparkling in the bright sun, and filled with ducks, geese and their newly hatched offspring. We walked the three miles from the downtown ports back to Gudda's house, through the main shopping/nightlife streets, quiet neighborhoods (mostly smallish concrete houses with green yards and colorful gardens - pansies, peonies), past geometrically-creative Lutheran churches and the new (and only?) mall in the city. Nothing is showy or spectacular, but sitting by the bay in a green valley surrounded by low mountains topped with nearly-melted snow, the city seemed simply quiet, friendly and liveable.

On Saturday we woke up early to a huge breakfast spread of toast, smoked meats, raw veggies, cheese, coffee and donuts, as well as a complete picnic lunch packed for us by our wonderful hostess, to take the popular Golden Circle bus tour around inland southwest Iceland. Our first stop was, unadvertised, at the new geothermal power and water plant, which provides all of Reykjavik's electricity and most of its hot water. (Geothermally-heated water is used, by the way, both to melt snow on city streets and to heat the floor in Gudda's sunroom by running pipes underneath. So crafty these Icelanders are!)

Next we headed to Gullfoss, an impressive waterfall on a river running from the Langjökull glacier, which we could just see to the north, with the higher mountain peaks shrouded in clouds. Then we backtracked ten minutes to the boiling hot springs and geysers at Geysir National Park. Rob and I enjoyed our picnic on a hill above the hot spots, watching Strokkur explode every ten minutes. We didn't witness the other, larger geyser, which doesn't go off regularly, but being named Geysir it is the geyser after which all other exploding hot springs are named.

As the afternoon temperature neared 80° and I stripped off layers of clothing down to my tank top, we sweated and dozed on the bus traveling back west to Þingvellir. Þingvellir is the site of Iceland's largest lake, the world's oldest parliament, and it lies along the North American-Eurasian continental rift, so you can see the canyon proving that Iceland is slowly growing larger. There are also deep fissures filled with crystal-clear lake water, where silver coins sparkle in the sun at the bottom. Pictures cannot show the crispness of colors in the pure northern air. The water was so clean, with islets of bright green grasses dotting the edges. Walking through the black-rock walls of the canyon, I saw clumps of the yellowest buttercups and dandelions, contrasting perfectly with the purplest of violets.

And at that, we returned on the bus to cloudier and cooler Reykjavik, where the bus driver sceptically dropped us off in the residential district while all the other tourists waited to be taken to their hotels. Lucky us!

That night we enjoyed excellent Icelandic salmon and homemade wine at dinner with Rob's (sort of) uncle Bjossi. Afterwards, we walked through Reykjavik's pretty botanical gardens with Bjossi's daughters Hrönn and Linda. We finished our Reykjavik experience that night, when Hronn and another cousin Lena decided to give us a midnight driving tour of Reykjavik's beaches. So, between midnight and 1am, we listened to nesting birds and watched the sun set behind the clouds on the horizon, as Rob played by the freezing water, I blew dandelion seeds and Hronn bathed her feet in a warm-water bath in a hollowed-out rock by the bay, which is apparently a popular place to be on a night such as that one. And we drove over to Reyjavik's heated beach, which is in fact not heated on a Saturday night in summer, probably to prevent drunken (or in our case, non-drunken but equally ridiculous) late-night outings. They then wanted to take us downtown to the all-night bars, but exhausted and knowing we had an early flight to meet more family in Akureyri the next morning, we (being decidedly lame!) declined. And so ended our visit to southern Iceland.

Now to the north!

Good Beer, Cheap Happy Hour

2009-07-13T08:11:00.000-07:00

Prominent among the dive bar drinkeries in Paris’ rue des Cannettes is the brewpub O’Neills. On the outside, it looks like your standard European Irish Pub, but in this case looks are deceiving. Come to the inside, and rather than goofy Celtic-themed knick-knacks and the obligatory “Guinness is good for you” posters you’ll get an uncomplicated series of small dining room around a bar, decorated in little else than their copper brew-tanks (on a good day, the bar area will smell like malt). Sit down at the bar, and choose from five basic beer types brewed on site: Amber and Brown ales, Belgian Abbey Style Ale and Belgian Blonde together with a standard Lager/Pilsner. You may even have the choice of a seasonal brew, but I’ve never had the pleasure. The beer is good, and I especially appreciated the Belgian Blonde on a hot summer day. The Brown Ale leaved a little to be desired, but Amber hit the spot, and it’s hard to mess up a Pilsner brewed on site.

If you’re looking for glamorous Paris, this is not it; there is no outdoor seating, and bar stools on the inside are a little sandwiched together. O’Neill’s seems decidedly grungy, and relatively empty at the beginning of happy hour. On the other hand, an empty bar with bi-lingual bartenders and pints beginning priced at 3 euros is a very good way to do a little work on your French. The pace picks up a little at around 8pm at the beginning of the restaurant’s high volume time and service is a little harder to come by. The crowd at O’Neill’s is certainly post-university age, so if you’re looking for a more happening scene, just move two doors down the rue des Cannettes.

O'Neill's Paris

Follow Us on Facebook and Twitter

2009-07-13T06:13:00.000-07:00

Come visit Kelley and Rob in their different social networks, on Facebook at rinelson1981 or Kelley Nelson, or on Twitter at rinelson1981.

Tourism in the Age of the Digital Camera

2009-05-21T11:56:00.001-07:00

Picture this: Our visit to France’s picturesque Loire Valley is a perfect retreat from Paris’ hustle and bustle. The day began in Amboise with a little sun, switching to overcast skies as if Mother Nature wanted us to see the countryside in varying shades of light. We quickly escape the nascent downpour in Tours, jump into the car and head to the Chateau de Chenonceau, a marvel of French Renaissance architecture that doubled as a secret smuggling tunnel for the French Resistance of WWII. We make a bee-line for the entrance to avoid a soaking from the mid-May showers. We make it to dry ground at the entrance only to be stopped in our tracks. The culprit? A throng of amateur photographers, intent on recording every single second of their vacation to digital memory.

Now before you hide your head in shame (because you know I’m talking about you, whoever you are), I too own a digital camera. Every once in a while, I will also break out this camera to take a silly picture of a wall, a staircase, a painting or my wife. We’ve got dozens of gigs of memory on our respective laptops that have been filled with photos that will help us fondly remember our trip to the Topkapi Palace. In short, I’m part of the problem, and am far from being a part of the solution.

Nevertheless, the problem with the digital camera is its nearly limitless capacity to take stupid photos, delete them, and then take them again. In the past, a photo was a relatively expensive commodity...one needed to be sure of the value of the photo in order to justify committing it to film and paying for it to be developed. There was no instant check on the quality of the photo, so one snapshot was normally sufficient (generations of amateur photogs learned the hard way that their finger was covering the lens, or that the flash didn’t go off like it should have). The digital camera, on the other hand, can give you instant feedback about how bad a photographer you are...but no matter how bad it was the first time, digital camera users usually opt for that second shot to try and make up for the first. And the third shot to try and make up for the second. And so on, and so on...

Another favored tactic is the saturation approach. Take as many photos as you can, and hope that some of them turn out. This leads to one of my favorite sights at any tourist destination...the tourist being led by his camera, manically snapping up photos of anything that passes in front of his lens. Ditto this for the amateur videographers...if you wanted to see the Louvre through a digital LCD, why not just watch the Travel Channel and save a few thousand bucks.

And don’t get me started on the group photo. When I chaperoned my high school students on their trip to England, I believe I snapped their group photo on about 15 different digital cameras. Isn’t one or two enough? Are we really so misanthropic to think that the person whose camera contains the group photo won’t share it with the rest of the group?

That’s not to say that the Digital Camera hasn’t democratized tourism in a way. More than 60% of US households now own at least one digital camera, and my guess is that among those who still have the means and leisure time to visit rural France, the proportion is markedly higher. This means that almost anyone now has the ability to prove that they went somewhere, saw something, and possibly enjoyed it. And I have nothing against that. What I do find to be irritating is the way in which mass digital camera ownership disrupts the experience of being a tourist, whether it’s you taking the picture or someone else. The increasing ownership of digital cameras, together with the fact that digital cameras are now sold as integral parts of most cell-phones (the quality of some of these cameras being shockingly good) means that their impact upon the tourist industry will continue to grow, for better or for worse.

All this leads me to conclude that the digital camera is tourism’s worst nightmare for two reasons. The first is that all this photo taking bugs the hell out of me. Stop it! The second is that people take photos on trips to take home and show their friends and family that they were there...they saw the Eiffel Tower, went to the top, and took a photo to prove it. Or, they took 200 photos to prove it. But sooner or later, don’t you risk missing the actual experience of being there? Does the digital photo leave the impression that you were gazing down the Seine from your Pont Neuf perch, when in reality, your digital camera did all the gazing for you? My advice to tourists everywhere? Take some good photos to help you remember being there, but most importantly, don’t forget to be there.

Near Crozon, Finistere, Brittany

2009-04-24T04:15:00.000-07:00

Musings on a Breton Vacation

2009-04-23T05:41:00.000-07:00

Finistère is the "end of the earth," the department we explored for six days with Rob's parents last week. Most of a day's drive from Paris, nearly an hour from the closest city (Brest), we experienced the windblown, wild coast where the Celtic Bretons once lived. Crumbling lichen-covered walls and a crude earthen dam showed us a little piece of the past, a time before the northwestern corner of France was actually France. Smelling the sea breeze and walking among the hills covered in spring-blooming scrub was so invigorating! I could imagine standing on the cliffs in a winter storm, watching the waves crash below, while high tide erodes the cliffs and exposes the ancient rocks.

At low tide on a dark afternoon, weather windy and spitting rain although the morning had been bright, my father-in-law (a fish biologist) and I explored the tide pools just below our rented vacation home. The colors! Orange, green, and faded pink rocks, perfectly smoothed and providing home to the anenomes, gray-green, blood-red and one deep pink. Black and orange-speckled crabs, gray-iridescent sea snails and deep blue mussels hiding among the rocks and seaweed. Bright colors contrasting the gray sky and the deep incoming tide. Scrambling on the rocks I kept an eye on the rising sea, a stepping stone I used just minutes before now covered by the cool Atlantic, and soon the colorful pools were hidden by the ocean. Even the highest ridge of rocks was invisible under the waves. Back up, up the cliff! Before the water reaches the wall and leaves us nowhere to stand! But not really; that day the tides weren't very high, and the waves weren't so violent.

We drove north to Brest and south to Quimper, visiting a few villages in between. Brest, a bit too concrete and bland for me, is however an interesting city in that you can see it trying to become the beautiful bayside port that it ought to be. It was completely destroyed in World War II, and has a prominent American-built monument commemorating the courage of the "soldiers of the United States and France" (interesting choice of order). Quimper is a medieval town with a picturesque old quarter where we had cider, crepes and croque monsieurs for lunch, and shopped for traditional Breton pottery along the river front. We stopped at Locronan, a small village with beautiful stone houses and church, cobbled streets, an old covered well in the town square, and flowering vines framing all the doorways. The shops sold traditional Breton beer, pastries and preserves, so of course we managed to make a picnic out of that.

But my favorite part was where we stayed at the edge of a tiny village overlooking the ocean. On our last morning, the four of us hurried back from a cliff walk as a storm approached. Behind us it was bright, the sun shining with white clouds, but ahead it was dark. We could see the rain over the ocean, and the distant peninsula on the northern horizon was disappearing into gray. A few drops, great gusts of wind, the storm was coming! The white surf was glowing brightly while the horizon was dark, receding with the coming rain. But the storm missed us. Blue skies returned and it was beautiful. The hills were golden yellow and olive green. White clouds rolled overhead. There must be some Celtic in my blood.

The Language Blok

2009-03-17T08:34:00.000-07:00

In France, I'm stupid.

It's not that all the French have unusually high IQs (I know, I teach about 200 young ones), it's that I have a need for constant repetition which requires the utmost patience in anyone who dares have, or finds themselves forced into, a conversation with me. (By the way, my definition of "conversation" here is the most basic -- "brief oral interchange" might be better suited to the context.) In order to spare my fellow humans their breath, sanity and time (ever so dear to Parisians, as it so often goes in cities I suppose), I often rely on my newly acquired skills of divining meaning solely through facial expressions and the one or two words I manage to pick out from a flow of incomprehensible French. I've become quite good at this, as well as making myself seem much more knowledgeable than I actually am by invoking a well-timed sympathetic smile, humorous grimace, or stern-but-just-slightly-amused stare (that for the misbehaving 12-year-olds) based on my afore-mentioned divinations. This usually works, but within the now-muddled barrage of thoughts that is my mind, I sometimes find myself distracted by previous parts of the conversation, still trying to figure out if my brief response (one of a select, well-practiced few I carry around to, again, feign comprehension and a minor intelligence) to the unsuspecting speaker's question/desire for affirmation was appropriate. Unfortunately this distraction occasionally results in my inability to open a door, tear out a piece of notebook paper, or spell basic English words.

So have pity on us poor non-native speakers. We are capable of memorizing the cell phone number we've had for over six months, we just can't make ourselves look smart and recall the number quite at the same time.

Baseball and Journalism; or how Jon Stewart Gets It Right

2009-03-16T10:01:00.000-07:00

Journalism and baseball are a lot alike. Thinking about baseball conjures up images of the New York Yankees, Hank Aaron or Cal Ripken. The gold standard in journalism brings to mind the New York Times, William Pulitzer or Walter Cronkite. The reality is, however, that for every Babe Ruth or Ted Williams, there are and have been thousands of professional baseball players who we don’t remember because they weren’t that great. Journalism has also seen its share of its share of columnists and reporters come and go. There isn’t enough professional talent to suitably fill the 25 man rosters of all Major League Baseball team, which is why the Kansas City Royals’ bullpen gives up so many hits and runs. There isn’t enough professional talent to fill the ranks of the world’s newspapers and 24 hour cable networks, which is why the world of professional journalism couldn’t get to the bottom of some of this century’s major crises like the Bush Administration’s push for the war in Iraq or the global economic meltdown.

Too often, professional athletes are too concerned with endorsement deals and good public relations to concentrate on playing the game well. Too often, professional journalists are too concerned with making friends and contacts in high places to ask them the tough questions. Too often in baseball, otherwise talented players like Alex Rodriguez or Barry Bonds cheat to achieve the desired outcome by taking performance enhancing drugs and hormones. Too often in journalism, otherwise talented reporters resort to plagiarism or a questionable interpretation of fact to achieve their desired outcome.

The metaphor will only take us so far. In baseball, we cheer for a team because we love them and we want them to win for our own happiness. In journalism, we cheer for them to get it right not because of our recreational interest, but because the outcome of the events they report affect us all in very serious ways. In baseball, the playoffs come around once a year (normally) and allow players and teams the opportunity to rise to the occasion by through hard work, sacrifice and a little luck. In journalism, the stakes are always high, and the good journalist must always make ask the tough questions and make difficult decisions lest their failure lead to a crisis of catastrophic proportions.

This is a metaphor that Jon Stewart might appreciate. His recent “war of words” with Jim Cramer of CNBC was not meant to show that all journalists should have been able to predict the economic crisis. He did not, and never would have uttered the words “You should have seen this coming.” He meant to show that many journalists are too caught up in the vanity of their position to work hard and be good at what they do. Rather than acting as cheerleaders for the world of high finance or for the Bush administration, journalists should have taken their role as the “third column” seriously by working hard, asking tough questions, and never losing sight of the fact that their relative success or failure affects us in deeply important ways. Just as Jon Stewart has high expectations for his New York Mets, so too does he have high expectations for professional journalists. So its perfectly reasonable to expect Stewart to be disappointed when the Mets blow their chances at the playoffs, and just as reasonable to expect him to be disappointed when journalists don’t work hard enough to get it right. But perhaps we need to lower our expectations, because the world of journalism is filled with Zach Greinkes but it’s increasingly rare to find a Reggie Jackson to rise to the occasion.

Thing #1 that happens in France but not in the U.S.

2009-03-10T13:01:00.001-07:00

So, I was co-teaching a class of 7th graders with a (real) English teacher, and the kids were learning the present perfect by asking me "Have you ever...?" questions out of their textbooks. "Have you ever broken a bone?" No, I haven't. "Have you ever lost your keys?" Yes I have, but I found them. "Have you ever drunk [drank?] whiskey?" Well yes, boys and girls, I have drank (drunk?) whiskey, although I don't really like it and I usually stick to beer and wine.

These questions were designed to be answered by the students themselves, which they would then record with their names in a little chart. Designed by the textbook authors. For 13-year-olds.

Only in France.

Rainy Istanbul, part 2

2009-03-07T10:16:00.000-08:00

So for the rest of our trip you have to imagine us trudging around old cobblestone streets with wet feet and carrying umbrellas that are occasionally blown inside out from gusts of wind and spitting rain blowing through the Bosphorus.

On Saturday morning we briefly visited the impressive Süleymaniye Mosque, currently under renovation so we were only able to admire the outside and a small walled-off space just inside the door. We made our way downhill past a maze of local shops specializing in anything from mop buckets to belt buckles to sequins and cheap plastic beads, finally arriving near the ferry docks at the colorful, noisy (and dry) Spice Bazaar. (Here were all of the tourists!) Stand after stand of spices, nuts, dried fruits, teas and candies in neatly arranged piles, beautiful to a cuisine-obsessed person such as myself. Also shop entrances brightly adorned with colorful glass lamps for sale, stacks of silk, part-silk or (to be honest) polyester scarves in all colors and patterns, ceramic dishes, leather goods and jewelry cases. Multiply this ten (twenty?) -fold at the sprawling Grand Bazaar where we made our way to next, with narrow streets in a huge covered (tourist) market, which we lost ourselves for an hour or so, occasionally stopping to bargain with the shopkeepers calling out to us.

Exhausting! We lunched inside the actual Bazaar on ground lamb-stuffed eggplant and peppers with yogurt, then took the sparkly-new tram across the Golden Horn and north to the Dolmabahçe Palace, perched on the shore and facing the Bosphorus. After touring the ostentaciously-decorated rooms of the 19th century palace, built to display the wealth and power of the crumbling Ottoman Empire, with our stiff, hurried, yet oddly-humorous tourguide, we climbed the hill to Taksim Square and the modern shopping/bar district of Beyoglu. (Modern, as in the area was urbanized by a 16th century trading community, but the current crowd is young and fashionable.) We teahouse-/bar-hopped our way downhill to the bridge over the Golden Horn, ending at one of the row of bar/restaurants newly built on the lower level of the bridge. There on the outer edge of the smoky, cavernous room we listened to live music by a band performing an intriguing mix of American and Turkish rock music while looking out over the water to the lights on the Asian side. And that was (almost) the end of Saturday (quick kebab stop on the way back to the hotel).

Sunday - the three big sights of Old Istanbul! Topkapi Palace (the Palace of the Sultans) was built by Ahmet the Conqueror in the 15th century. It's a collection of walled-in buildings on a hill perched above the Golden Horn and Bosphorus. In the Imperial Treasury we saw, among other astounding jewels, an 80 carat diamond and a baby cradle made entirely of gold, emeralds and rubies.

The Aya Sofia was built by the Emperor Justinian between 530 and 580 AD, and converted from a church to a mosque after the fall of the Byzantine Empire. It's amazing to see something so huge, built so long ago, and yet still standing! Today the Aya Sofia no longer has a religious function, and it's currently under renovation, as much of Istanbul seems to be. They're uncovering 12th and 13th century mosaics plastered over by the Ottomans.

Quick stop to the (not big sight #3) Sunken Cistern, also built by Justinian, which at one time could store the equivalent of two years' worth of water underground during a seige, and later was used as a trash heap. Now it's a just fun stop for tourists. They dimly light the cavern with eery red light, and as you walk along raised wooden platforms, dodging dripping water from the ceiling, you can see huge carp swimming in the one-to-two feet of water. The ceiling is held up by rows of beautifully-carved columns from antiquity. Oh, and for some reason the 6th-century builders carved the bases of two of the columns into Medusa-heads, which seems to be the main attraction of the Sunken Cistern. Me, I would prefer to hear a concert down there, as they had set up a temporary performance platform by the cafe (yes, there is a cafe).

Snack break for a crumbly feta-type cheese sprinkled on a thick, steaming-hot pita, and cheap plastic cups of çay (tea) sold by street vendors, and on to the Blue Mosque. The Blue Mosque is both a place of worship and a popular tourist sight, so we wait with the other non-Muslims at a side entrance until mid-afternoon prayer is over, then with our shoes held in plastic bags and our (female) heads covered, we can tour the back-half of the Mosque. A "modern", 17th century building, it is mostly a wide-open (and comfortably-carpeted, to our aching tourist-feet) floor with many bright windows and few large columns. It has intricately painted walls and ceilings, and iron chandeliers hanging all the way from the ceiling to just-above-head height. Noting the laughter, noise and constant camera flashes from the larger tourist groups, I don't blame the strict entrance policies. (A German woman right in front of us actually started putting her shoes back on while still inside the building - a strict and very obvious taboo. Boy was she told off.) While beautiful from the inside, I think you get an even greater appreciation of the architecture of the Blue Mosque from the outside. I could describe it or you could just check out our pictures!

By the way, while on the subject of mosques I have to describe the five-times daily call to prayer for those of you who've never been in a Muslim country. At prayer times (sunrise, noon, mid-afternoon, sunset, and shortly after dark) Istanbul, with its proliferation of mosques built over centuries by Ottoman sultans, comes alive in a chorus of distinctive, yet harmonious, muezzin calls. It lasts for several minutes, first one distant call, than a powerful call quite close to you, then another, and another joining in, so you can hear them all around you. Then the calls fade away, as quickly as they came. I woke up to the sunrise call on our first morning there and enjoyed the satisfaction of the slow realisation: I'm in Istanbul -- cool.

Apparently there'll be a Part 3. I'm long-winded.

Beer in France

2009-03-07T10:03:00.000-08:00

As some of you may know, I’m currently out of the US on a research trip to Paris, France. The old stereotype about French beers and French beer drinkers are largely true, in that both of them suck. Seriously, so many people drink beer in Paris cafés, but they’ll take their little half-pints of Kronenbourg (the French equivalent of Budweiser) or Panaché, and nurse it for about an hour-and-a-half, at which point they’re happy to pay their three euros and leave. My father once told me, as a rule of thumb, that he never drank beers that came from the French parts of France...if they come from Alsace, Lorraine, or French Flanders than fine, but anything else is sacrilege. I couldn’t agree more.

Or, should I say, I couldn’t have agreed more. If you’re looking for a good French beer in the grocery stores, you’re out of luck. If, on the other hand, you’re willing to move beyond the grocery stores and the traditional French café/brasserie, you might be pleasantly surprised to find that the Microbrew revolution has finally made its amphibious assault on the shores of France.

It used to be that tourists who were looking for a good beer had to go to the numerous English/Irish pubs across town. My favorite was the Bombardier, Place du Panthéon in the 5th arondissement. It was always nice to get a hand-pumped bitter and sit outside on the terrace in front of the Pantheon and the St. Etienne-du-Mont (in itself a wild mixture of weird 16th and 18th century French architecture), but the 8 euro asking price sorta turned me off. Even the relative bargain of 5 euros during happy hour seems steep considering that some British pubs have lowered the price of a Pint to 99p (with the exchange rate being what it is for foreigners, that’s about 1.10 euro or $1.35). So my appetite for fresher, better and cheaper beer was tickled, and what will follow in the next few days is a critical analysis of some of the better brewpubs that I have run into here in the City of Lights.

For the hangers-out at the BNF François Mitterand, this pub is very noticeable because you will pass it every day on your way from the Métro to the library (corner of Tolbiac and Avenue France). While most would agree that this pub is in a terribly un-Parisian neighborhood (tall, glass buildings recently built over dockyards and train tracks), the beer here is quite nice. Most of the beers are in an English or German style, but there names are a collection of jeu de mots, or play on words. InSeine (insane + Seine) is by far my favorite of the group. It’s a lightly hopped English amber ale with a mild, smooth introduction and a relatively malty finish. I have to admit, coming from California where hops and explosive flavors were the thing, I wasn’t quite used to the more mild and subtle taste of the classic English bitter (in the same way it takes getting used to the difference between Californian and French wines). However, the toned-down flavors do allow you to appreciate to quality of the malt and presence of grain rather than the overwhelming sense of sugars that come in the Californian variety.

The atmosphere is alright...you have the option of sitting out on the sidewalk, and even in the coldest of Parisian winter days there are people huddled outside enjoying a beer and a cigarette. On the inside, it’s a cross between a Starbucks, a French Brasserie, an English Pub and an American Sports Bar. Go figure that one out...They do offer a good selection of Football (Futbol, that is), Rugby and American Football games on big screens but if you’re not interested, you can settle into one of their armchairs and chat with your friends or read alone. The beers are a little expensive, to be sure, but their Happy Hour price of five euros/pint is worth the trip in a city where that’s about as cheap as you’ll find.

Vélib

2009-03-01T12:45:00.001-08:00

As many of you may have heard (chances are, from me), Paris has a very popular bicycle sharing program called Vélib (short for Vélo (bike) + Liberté (Freedom). The program stations several tens-of-thousands of bikes across the city at electronic locking/parking stations where they can be rented at half-hour intervals. You can choose a one-day, one-week, or one year membership to the program at rates that, when compared to other forms of public transport, are ridiculously low. I've been a subscribing member for about five months now, and even though it's cold, I still get my money's worth even though the bikes have all the sleekness of an RV and the maneuverability of an even bigger RV. Let's just say they were built to survive a crash with a bus, not to win the Tour de France.

I had always asked myself, in fact, why it was that nobody ever screwed with the bikes by slashing tires, bashing in spokes, setting the stations on fire, or just plain stealing the bikes. Try to imagine a program like this in Baltimore...impossible right. This is why I was so disappointed to hear that "stuff happens" in Paris too, and a little over half of the original fleet has been lost, stolen or destroyed. To the people responsible for these atrocities, I beg of you, please don't ruin it for all the rest of us...

Wedding Photos

2009-02-26T22:24:00.001-08:00

As promised, here are the full size images of our wedding photos, most of which were taken by our official Photographer, David L. Crockett. Just follow the link and click on the photo album. Enjoy!

Click Here to See Robert and Kelley's Wedding Photos

Istanbul Trip Part I: Sunny Istanbul

2009-02-26T02:29:00.000-08:00

It was a auspicious beginning to our Istanbul trip. Despite having woken up at 3:30 in the morning -- which in Paris means that the streets are for once eerily calm, with no one about but the sorry chaps whose task it is to clean the metro and the taxi drivers who won't stop for us -- to make it to our 7am flight to Zurich, while boarding our connection flight we were told we’d been bumped up to business class. “How lovely!” I exclaimed happily and sleepily, that being my first coherent sentence all morning. We were occupied during the two and a half hour flight by a four course meal, Swiss Airlines style, complete with as much wine as we wanted (though we prudently contented ourselves to one glass, it being only 11am Paris time). We arrived in sunny Istanbul full, happy and ready to explore.

After taking some time to look our hotel, whose address we’d forgotten but which a nice man at the airport provided me with without pushing his airport shuttle service on us too much, we discovered it in a lively local shopping district near the end of the new metro line. While Robbie left me with my luggage to look down another side street for our Best Western, I had time to observe a couple of café servers, trays in hand, zigzagging to various shop entrances retrieving the empty tea glasses which they had previously brought to the shopkeepers. (Tea is a big thing in Istanbul, which sans sugar goes perfectly with the super-sweet baklava we tasted later that afternoon.)

We made it to the Sultanahmet district by sunset to witness the magnificent Blue Mosque (which is not in fact blue) outlined by the cloudless sapphire-colored sky at dusk. Afterwards we explored centuries-old stone streets between the mosque and the Sea of Marmara, from which other tourist were conspicuously absent, it being February and the off-season (why February is the off-season, we were soon to discover). We saw kitschy pink and white hotels, ramshackle wooden houses sure to collapse in the next big earthquake, and a pair of large white ducks swimming in a round plastic tub being filled by a man with a hose.

Two things we learned on our first evening in Istanbul. First, don’t start walking next to the highway rounding the outside the walls of the Palace of the Sultans. You may get a nice view of the Bosphorus, but it’s a long, windy way around, and Istanbulis are crazy and horn-loving drivers. Second, if you’re a pair of conspicuous tourists, don’t fall for the tricks of the desperate shoe-shiner who drops his brush next to you so you’ll pick it up and give it to him, proceeding to a brief conversation in which he convinces your husband to get a shoe shine and wheedles 12 lira ($7) out of you.

By now it was dinner time, and I have to interrupt my story to explain what it’s like choosing a restaurant in the tourist areas of Istanbul. Istanbul restaurant workers do not stand passively by waiting for you to chose from the dozens of inviting restaurants lining the streets of a particular neighborhood. Oh no, there is in fact an active contest between them to pull in the tourists who may not even be hungry, who may be walking half a block away on the opposite side of the street. Calls of “Please, come, sorry!” “Lady, look!” and “English menu, see the menu!” resound on all sides as you walk down the street at dinnertime, with picture-filled menus being pushed at you from all sides. (Keep in mind that it’s February, so there aren’t nearly enough tourists to fill the many empty restaurants.) Don’t catch anyone’s eye or, even if he is inside, he will exit his restaurant and follow you half-way down the street with his menu in hand, making promises of special deals which, once you succumb, are sure to be absent from your bill. If the waiter is especially able, he may try to guess which nationality you are by calling out one of his token phrases in a collection of foreign languages. (With Rob’s very Parisian-looking scarf , we got a lot of “Monsieur, Madame!” and “Bonsoir!”, but also the occasional “Guttentag!”) Don’t get me wrong, Turkish food is fabulous and we never had a meal we didn’t enjoy, but the over-attentiveness can be a bit annoying at times. Pleading did not bring us in that time -- that night we had an excellent dinner at a charming, though touristy, fish restaurant recommended to us by our guidebook.

Stay tuned for Part II: Istanbul in the Rain

Istanbul Pictures

2009-02-25T23:00:00.000-08:00

Istanbul 2009

Civil War

2009-02-12T10:26:00.002-08:00

Today, one of my post-graduate students was explaining about how there is a good deal of animosity between northern France and southern France. I told her it was similar in the US, expecting that she might have heard of the Civil War, the Red State/Blue State divide, or maybe even Yankee vs. Dixie cultural split. Instead, she said “Yeah, East Coast vs. West Coast Hip-Hop!’ Maybe you had to be there, but a white, blonde French girl rapping Biggie Smalls was really funny.

Vacations!

2009-02-12T10:26:00.001-08:00

One thing on my mind today: vacation. For those of you who don’t know, the French really like their vacations. The school year is about as long as the American school year, but it’s split up by two week vacations at least four times during the school year, as opposed to twice in the American school year. Add to that the slew of days off due to national holidays, strikes (been four so far this school year) or the field trip to London that I chaperoned for a week, it would be safe to say that teachers have it a little better than they do back home.

So then my mind naturally turned to the question of whether I deserve a vacation...after all, my last vacation just ended a little over a month ago. I only technically work 12 hours per week, and I say technically because I’ve been averaging about 6 hours per week for the past month. Yep, you heard correctly. There were the hours when teachers decided not to send me students for whatever reason, there was the national strike that cancelled all four hours last Wednesday, there’s the class that comes to me on a volunteer basis (surprisingly enough, nobody has volunteered to come for the past two weeks), there were the classes that got caught up in the confusion of my recent schedule change, there were the seniors who had the week off to prepare their competitive exams, and there was one class period that I decided not to go to, because I don’t like them.

So in other words, I’ve logged the equivalent of one full-time week over the past six weeks, and for that I am rewarded with a two-week vacation. Don’t you love France?

Phelpsy

2009-02-12T10:24:00.000-08:00

Who cares if Michael Phelps took hits from a bong? If anything we know about him now, it’s that he drinks and he smokes...and he won eight gold medals. The guy is putting himself at a deliberate disadvantage to the rest of the field. Seriously, he’s like the Babe Ruth of the swimming profession. Maybe he was even high during his races...how cool would that be? At least I know now that he’s a human being, just like most of my friends in college. Only he swims really, really fast too.

Americans in Paris

2009-02-09T10:41:00.000-08:00

Being an American in Paris, I think you’re supposed to go about your day with the same thought always in mind: I’m living in Paris! I’m living in Paris! There must be an exclamation point, otherwise all of our non-Paris-abiding American friends will wonder what the hell is wrong with you- I mean come on, you’re living in Paris!. But you can get used to a place. Especially in January.

It’s now February 9th and I’m dropping the exclamation point.
I don’t forget that I’m in the most fabulous City of Lights which is the romance capital of the world and the heart of fashion and culture etc etc. But this isn’t what I notice in my routine quotidian.

What I see is the 18th century buildings from the time of the village d’Auteuil, and I like that. I like that all of our boucheries and boulangeries and pharmacies are simply named after our neighborhood landmarks (Auteuil, Eglise, Bois). Even though I do most of my shopping at the Monoprix, reminiscient of a more grocery-centered Target in the States, I like that other people do shop at the overpriced local epiceries, and I do visit the local market once a week or so, overcoming my fear of speaking French in front of all of the bourgeouis women and couples who have been coming here for decades.

On a Sunday I like to visit the part of the Bois de Boulogne which makes me think I’m in the country, neglected and surrounded by faded fields and stunted trees, with a dilapidated building overlooking the crumbling pavement I’m biking on. You can’t see Paris from here and you can’t see the sprawling banlieu on the other side.

Which I think signifies my problem. Because even though it’s Paris, which is supposed to be perfect, nothing is in fact perfect. I don’t like turning the corner from my cute little Auteuil to see the 15-story concrete apartment buildings built in the 1970s. Maybe they’re not so bad looking, but I like the little views I see to continue. I’m not a big fan of the image of Paris in its entirety--I would like the little postcard images of Paris to spread out from the center and take over the whole city.

That would bring back my exclamation point. But what the exclamation point really signifies is an imaginary place, the Paris of Americans’ dreams, one that actually exists to a certain extent, probably to an extent closer than any other city in the world, but it’s still just that. Paris is a city, with all its people, with problems, dirt (la propete: on a tous la responsibilite) and bad drivers. Which is why the Parisiens who can regularly take their many vacation days and “partient a la campagne.”

Maybe that’s just what I need to do, in February, when it’s still cold and dim and I can’t figure out how to feel the dream again. Go to the country to recover my Paris!.

My Blogs

2009-02-07T09:30:00.000-08:00

Pays natal...

2009-02-03T13:40:00.000-08:00

The Colbert ReportMon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

It Could Be Worse - Iceland

Colbert Report Full Episodes
Paul McCartney Appearance

Funny Political Videos
More Funny Videos

Wintertime wrap-up

2009-02-03T10:23:00.001-08:00

So apparently Parisians suck even worse in the snow than Marylander's do, which is saying quite a bit (because Marylanders really, really, really suck in the snow). I mean, snow events here are few and far between, once every three years or so. When I say snow event, of course, I don't mean the several inches to several feet variety that would cripple the Baltimore County School system for a week. I'm talking about upwards of an inch, maybe an inch and a half, that for some reason has the power to grind transportation to a halt and cancel 75% of airport traffic, leaving the rest with significant delays. We've seen two of these so far, so it's been a record breaking year.

On that lovely note, I would like to say that our holidays were fantastic despite this being our first season away from home. Paris wasn't at all lit up like Clark Griswold's place...in fact, it was hardly lit up at all save for the Champs Elysées, all two miles of which were decorated in some sort of trickling icicle theme. The coolest part is undoubtedly the Christmas Village, different versions of which were scattered around the city. They were great for traditional-looking gifty stuff and authentic-looking regional cuisine. And how far could you go without the obligatory "vin chaud?" The answer is not very far.

Anyway, we spent Christmas eve with my friend Antonio's family, where we communicated in some strange mix of English, French, and Portuguese while devouring an entire piglet. Seriously, Europeans don't screw around with their holiday meals. We were seated and eating for about 4 hours straight (10pm-230am with a 30 minute present-opening break). Christmas Day brunch was spent with Susanna and Alex, a Berkeley history professor and her daughter in town for the holidays. In the next week, I managed to turn 27 and celebrate New Year's from our couch before getting Katie and her boyfriend Chris repeatedly tipsy for an entire weekend before seeing them off to Nice. The one night we went out to arguably the worst restaurant in all of Paris, apparently because it was named "Chez Robert." So what's in a name?

Since then we've settled back into the groove, and we're def. looking for another break to come soon!

Joining the blogging world...

2009-02-03T10:03:00.001-08:00

Hey there. I recently decided to join the rest of the world in the blogosphere. Actually, I've blogged before, but only about beer. Yes, that's right, a blog about beer.

Anyway the title for this blog is "Stuck in Paris," because as Bill Waterson would say, we are anything but stuck. In fact, we're here quite voluntarily. It's what we are doing to get by that we could do without. Case in point...today, I got into a quick discussion with one of the English teachers at the high school where I teach. When asked about my research and graduate school in general, I told her it was going well but slowly. She then asks, "What are you doing in this dump?" referring of course to the high school where we both teach. After I replied, "I have to earn money somehow..." she goes on to say that she's sending me some of her worst students tomorrow, most of whom have some sort of ADHD and at least one of whom was recently expelled. What surprised was not that I would have to see students like this, but that a teacher would be so forthcoming about the value of her students as human beings. "They're just awful," she continued.

The point of all this, of course, is that I might rather be a trust-fund baby hanging out and enjoying Paris' sights and sounds, but instead most of my life is spent in libraries, archives and classrooms much as it was before. Don't despair, though...with only 12 hours a week of official work, both Kelley and I still get to have plenty of fun, although it's been about a month since we've done anything that would qualify as "going out." Instead, we're saving our excitement for a trip to Turkey in 18 days and counting. Then, we've got visitors scheduled about once every three weeks until June, when we'll tripping to Iceland to see its shattered economy, its natural splendor, and of course my extended family. But until then, I'll just raise my glass of wine and enjoy my time.

Happy Holidays

2009-02-03T10:00:00.000-08:00

Hey everyone,

I know that I promised most of you more prompt or frequent updates, but we’ve been in France for about 3 months and we only just got our internet connected. You see, everything in France works in an illogical manner...consider that our landlord was more than happy to buy dishes, utensils, linens, even roll-out mattresses for us (things that were listed on the lease) but the phone line, oh no, we had to have that installed on our own. It was kind of like getting a bank account...in order to get a bank account here, you have to have proof of permanent address. In order to rent an apartment here, you have to have a bank account. Don’t ask me how we took care of that one, I’m still not sure.

Anyway, most of the rest of our news is happy! We arrived on September 1st, and after a few weeks of itinerant homelessness, we finally snagged an apartment in Paris’ 16th arondissement. The 16th has a reputation of being bourgeois and ritzy, but we’re in a slightly less magnificent section of the 16th that’s a little more lively and less residential. Within a 3 minute walk, there are five butchers, four bakeries, three grocery stores, two fromageries (cheese shops) and the obligatory Partridge in a Pear-Tree. Nevermind that the guy who was renting this apartment before us decided that he didn’t want to move out after all, and that it took a little coaxing for him to give it up....Nevermind that when he did decided to leave, he made us wait for 3 weeks before we could move in. At any rate, it gave Kelley and I the chance to take our honeymoon!

For our honeymoon, we went to the south of France (because we weren’t allowed to leave the country with our visas). We stayed for five days in Montpellier, six days in Provence, and one day in Lyon. The weather was still warm, but turning autumn-like. It was still warm enough, though, to go to the beach and get a tan, but at night we had to put on a light jacket to enjoy the sights, sounds, and tastes of South France. Anyway, that was our favorite part of the trip: a different culinary delight at each meal, each accompanied by a good bottle of wine and a thick dessert. My guess is that we’ll never eat that well again for two weeks in a row, but its probably better for our health anyway. Montpellier was beautiful and lively, and in Provence we had the chance to take our bikes out and see the grape harvest, which was in full swing.

On coming back to Paris, we immediately found out that we had missed the first week of work, but nobody seemed to care, so whatever. The teaching has been going well enough, but French teenagers have the unique power not to be able to shut up when they’re in school, so it’s been an interesting challenge trying to keep them quiet. I’ve been spending most of the rest of my time doing research, and Kelley found a moneyed American couple that needed a babysitter for their two kids. In our free time, we’ve been taking in the sights and sounds of Paris, which would take two lifetimes to be even close to finishing. We’ll be staying in France for the holidays, but don’t feel bad for us, we’ve got plenty to keep us busy. We wish you all a happy holiday season, and look forward to hearing from you all soon.

Happy Holidays,
Kelley and Robert