Life as a Postgrad Scholar

As a general rule, I like to connect the travel dots in the most direct manner possible, which would account for my stepping onto a small Germanwings plane in Prague the day after Christmas, instead taking the train and enduring multiple transfers. I had registered a month earlier as a participant in the Buddhist Youth Festival, an annual gathering of young people from all over the world who have an interest in Buddhism or Buddhist philosophy in common.

How did I find myself here? A few acquaintances of mine were in charge of various aspects of the festival (which is itself rather youthful, having been started only three years ago), and the thought of meeting and meditating with friends and other like-minded individuals sounded very appealing. Furthermore, one of the selling points of the festival was a big celebration on New Year’s Eve, something that I had yet to experience in Europe, much less in Germany. And where there is a new experience to be had, I am hard put to resist.

To be perfectly honest, I also sought out familiarity during this second leg of my vacation. Upon my arrival in Germany, in the city of Cologne, I was in the precarious situation of not having a definite place to stay. Another friend, an American, had suggested the possibility of me staying at her apartment, but since I had yet to hear back from her, it seemed more likely that I would be staying at a hostel. Fortunately I had done a little bit of preliminary research and so had some idea of where to go, which is how I found myself in quiet part of town sharing a dorm-style room with several tourists, all Asian and duly equipped with electronic devices and perpetually bemused expressions. (Forgive me if I seem to be operating under stereotypical assumptions, but I find that the Asian tourist stereotype is quite close to reality, at least in Europe).

After the stress of navigating a foreign city alone, I needed something familiar and grounding, so I turned to…Mexican food! Or, as it turned out, the German version of Mexican food, which to be fair was authentic enough (and by authentic I mean American-style, which some tell me does not entirely resemble true Mexican cuisine). The only thing lacking in my meal of “tortillas” (really enchiladas in disguise) was the genuine enchilada sauce, but otherwise I was quite pleased.

My visit to Cologne and its immense cathedral was a brief one, serving merely as a stopping point on my way to the Buddhist Youth Festival, which was to take place in a tiny town near the village of Bad Rappenau, some three hours or so by car. The car in question was driven by an adorable German girl who had agreed to carpool with myself and two other individuals, one a chirpy 17-year-old from Holland, another a pensive Belgian landscaper who was closer to my age. It was after dark when we arrived at Schloss Heinsheim – an imposing mansion that had been converted into a hotel and special events center, mostly for weddings – and from the moment I stepped into the front hall, I felt that I was in good hands.

The feeling was further reinforced when I met my roommate, a lovely Danish girl who was completing her PhD and had recently become interested in the meditation aspect of Buddhism. She had studied abroad in Vancouver, B.C. and thus knew a little bit of the United States from her holiday travels. I would find out that she was part of a minority – most of the participants in the festival (numbering some 90-odd people) were either German or Dutch, and had never left Europe. At mealtimes, it was both irritating and amusing to sometimes find myself at a table surrounded by people speaking languages I could not understand. Even the most well-meaning among them would occasionally slip and forget that there was an American in their midst who spoke nothing but English and French. Nevertheless, I still managed to have many an interesting conversation, as most of the participants spoke at least a little English.

I was also reminded yet again of how truly strange and eclectic Dutch people can be, and I mean this in the best way possible. To give you an idea of what I mean, here is a brief sampling of talents represented by the Dutch participants: performing magic tricks (his light fingers also lent themselves well to playing the piano), playing the Irish bouzouki (a cross between a guitar and a mandolin), and painting Tibetan thangkas (traditional silk wall hangings). I don’t mean to discredit the German participants, many of whom exhibited unusual talents as well, yet somehow the Dutch seemed to stand out the most in this particular group.

One of the central points of interest in the festival (besides the New Year’s Eve party) was the variety of activities and workshops offered during the week, some of them quite spontaneous in nature. We were asked to choose between 3 artistic workshops – calligraphy, Japanese flower arranging (ikebana), or contemplative photography (miksang) – and invited to join other group activities such as yoga, horseback riding, and musical jam sessions. I was determined to participate in the photography workshop, defective camera or no. As it happened, there were plenty of people willing to loan me their cameras and use their computers for the editing process afterward, so there were no problems on that count.

In retrospect, most of the photos don’t quite seem to capture the magic of the moment that transfigured each discovery of color and light into something fresh and exotic. Perhaps one must be in a meditative state of mind to fully appreciate them – or, alternatively, perhaps I’m just not a very good photographer.

One image I would have liked to capture was the sight of two Americans with their respective dogs. I don’t believe that dogs always resemble their owners, but in these two cases, the resemblance was undeniable, in both appearance and demeanor. Sophie and Nelly were soulful and graceful in their movements, shared the same doe eyes and long, curly, blonde locks, and rarely caused a fuss. Amanda and Muffin, on the other hand, were pert, cute, and very excitable, and both were impeccably groomed (as were Sophie and Nelly as well, but not quite to the same degree of blinding perfection as these two). One Dutch fellow commented that he could always identify the Americans in a room, simply by listening for the loudest voices, and while I don’t think all Americans fit that stereotype, he was certainly correct where Amanda and Muffin were concerned!

I found myself lapsing into stereotypical American behavior from time to time, most notably with regard to my relationship with peanut butter. I rarely eat it when on American soil, but while living abroad it takes on an irresistible nostalgic glow. At breakfast, I gained a reputation as the nutty American girl who liked to spread peanut butter on everything (”everything” being apples and bananas, a custom that apparently hasn’t caught on in Europe). I also learned from another Dutch fellow that the Dutch word for peanut butter, pindakaas, translates literally as “peanut cheese.” Perhaps that explains the expressions of disgust over my peanut-butter-smeared fruit slices, although one could argue that cheese tastes just as good with fruit. I can only imagine what their reaction would have been to another of my favorite combinations: cheddar cheese melted on top of a slice of hot apple pie.

The rest of my stay at the Schloss Heinsheim was relatively quiet, New Year’s Eve feasting and dancing aside. I took some time to explore the surrounding village a bit, to get more of a feel for rural Germany. It’s difficult to put into words just what I felt, but I would say that on some level I found it to be a mixture of the mundane and magical. If I were to put France on the mundane end of the scale, and the British Isles on the magical end, Germany would fall somewhere in between, leaning a little more towards the French side. The Czech Republic, from what little I saw of the countryside, felt closer to the British Isles, which is perhaps part of why I feel an urge to return there. I wouldn’t mind going back to Germany either, for a more extended city visit.

For now, however, I feel happy to be back in Lyon, where slowly but surely I seem to be putting down roots, through daily routine, a few developing friendships, and a constant sense of adventure. As much as I enjoy playing the footloose American, there is something to be said for the European model of staying close to home. Perhaps I will adopt it one day, when my wanderlust has run its course…

During the weeks leading up to the holidays, I noticed that the eyes of some of my students would light up when I mentioned that I was going to the Czech Republic, most notably Prague, for Christmas. Why exactly it is that Prague is so strongly associated with the Christmas spirit, I do not know for certain (besides, for Anglophones, the carol “Good King Wenceslas,” which praises the generosity of the Duke of Bohemia), but I was eager to find out. Especially if it involved snow, which, I was told, is pretty much guaranteed at this time of year in the northern reaches of Europe.

And snow it did… in Lyon that is, the day I left! Prague was fortunately true to form and greeted me properly blanketed in whiteness when I arrived after sundown. It was also absolutely freezing, which proved to be slightly problematic given my limited winter wardrobe, but I received a generous dose of Czech hospitality the following morning when my friend’s grandmother loaned me a long down coat, to be used for the remainder of my visit.

I was also delighted by the honey that was served to me with my tea that morning. Heavily crystallized and almost waxy in texture, its scent and flavor were vaguely reminiscent of the beeswax candle-dipping sessions I enjoyed every Christmas during high school. It came from a local beekeeper, my friend told me, something that was apparently not so unusual in the Czech Republic, as I would find the same sort of home-gathered honey later on in my journey.

The hospitality didn’t end there – his grandmother insisted on preparing a nice lunch for us, starting with a delicious traditional mushroom soup. She could speak a little English, but explained to me that her strongest foreign language was German, while that of the generation after her was Russian, due to the influence of the Soviet era. She was also quick to explain (rather proudly, I thought) that one of her relatives who moved to America had worked as a Czech language instructor for spies during the Cold War.

I was slightly sorry to say goodbye to this fascinating old woman so quickly, but I was already late for my meeting with a second Czech friend, Honza, who had managed to secure an apartment from a friend of his for the weekend. Upon arriving there (located near a seasonally appropriate metro stop called Anděl, meaning “angel”), we were both pleasantly surprised by how luxurious the apartment was, although the heating wasn’t quite sufficient for driving away the extreme cold.

I was also pleased to find a large collection of French books in the living room, as apparently Honza’s friend was a student of French literature like myself. Alas, I was not meant to meet this friend, for she unfortunately fell ill and was unable to come to Prague while we were there. French was not to be strongly prevalent in my vacation adventures, in any case (besides the one Amélie Nothomb book I couldn’t resist devouring ). Honza and I were there first to see each other (for the first time in about two years), and secondly to get a feel for the city, but without spending too much time, energy, and money on the usual touristic pursuits.

That being said, Christmas is very much a touristic affair in Prague, so the holiday crowds were unavoidable. Our first excursion that evening was to Wenceslas Square, so named because of the large statue of King Wenceslas seated on a horse, and from there to the Christmas market in Old Town Square, where we embarked on a hunt for warm medovina (otherwise known as mead, one of my preferred winter beverages) and trdelník, a traditional Slovakian pastry baked on turning wooden cylinders.

Mission successfully accomplished, we simply stood still for a moment, basking in the perfection of the Christmas scene before us – snow was falling lightly, people were caroling a few meters away, and the lighting of the surrounding buildings was breath-taking. It was one of those moments best captured in memory, for no camera or other recording device could quite replicate such perfect harmony of setting and spirit.

It was a moment quickly passed, however, for we had arranged a meeting with a girl called Eva, another of Honza’s friends. Duly met under a well-known Prague monument, the Orloj or Astronomical Clock, we embarked on another quest, this time for a place in the warm and out of the cold. Eva was fairly knowledgeable of the cafés in the area, so we passed a good many hours hopping from one cozy haven to the next, drinking mulled wine and more mead.

I instantly took a liking to the architecture of the places we visited, most of which seemed to be designed by hobbits – low to the ground, or even underground altogether, characterized by curved ceilings and rounded beams. The first place we visited was located next to what I suspect was once a synagogue, as there was a small, unpainted section of wall next to our table that was inscribed with what looked like Hebrew. In transit between cafés, we ran into yet another friend of Honza’s who was selling hot chestnuts at the Christmas market and offered some to us for free. I was beginning to get the impression that everybody knows everybody in the Czech Republic, even in a relatively busy city like Prague!

Striking up conversations with strangers was not considered out of the ordinary either, at least not in Honza’s book. I yearned sometimes to be able to speak Czech, just to be able to understand the friendly exchanges that took place in the shops and cafés we visited. I was especially intrigued by the owner of a place called Čajírna nad vokem (the closest translation Honza could come up with was “Teahouse upon the eye” – make of that what you will . He had opened up the business in what was basically a townhouse, and ran everything himself – or so I guessed from the fact that there were no other people working in the kitchen or serving the tea and food.

This gives "tea cozy" a whole new meaning...

Drinking the tea was a whole new experience for me, for it was served in traditional Chinese style. From the teaware to the initial cleansing with water to the preparation and consumption of the tea itself (a variety of Chinese pu-erh tea), every aspect was ritualized – to the best of Honza’s ability, anyhow. We were there for a good three hours or so, tasting the nuances of each infusion (about 11 total) with the delight of explorers discovering a new continent.

And, as inevitably happens to every explorer, we got hungry, which prompted us eventually to order an exquisite delicacy called medovník, or honey cake (basically thin layers of a mildly sweet cake alternated with honey-infused butter cream). I can’t be sure if my intense enjoyment of the cake was brought on by its inherent excellence, or if I was slightly high on the several cups of tea I had drunk (such an effect has been known to happen). It would not be the last time we would drink tea together, but I think that particular tea offered more intriguing flavors than most. In any case, my cup of happiness was full to the brim that evening, even during the icy cold walk back to the apartment through the falling snow.

Our next random encounter with a friendly stranger was on the train from Prague to Opava, the town Honza calls home. Again, the conversation was entirely in Czech, giving me the opportunity to indulge in one of my favorite activities while in transit (napping). It was dark by time we arrived in Opava, but Honza was able to give me a fairly thorough tour of the downtown area while we were walking to his apartment. My impression was of a rather pretty little town that didn’t see much activity, although it has a fairly high student population and is considered the historical capital of Silesia, one of the three Czech regions (the other two being the more well-known Bohemia and Moravia).

This impression was slightly altered when we went out later that evening, to Honza’s annual high school reunion. It took place in yet another underground hobbit-hole, although with the pizza and beer being served, it felt like I might have been at an American high school reunion – the principal difference being, of course, that everybody around me was speaking in Czech (with the occasional switch to English in my presence). I was also momentarily jolted from the realm of familiarity when someone offered me homemade slivovice, a plum brandy popular in Central and Eastern Europe.

The list of new foods only increased as Christmas drew near. Over the following 48 hours, I would try šišky s mákem (poppyseed-filled gnocchi heavily dusted with sugar), vánočka (Christmas bread, like challah with orange peel and whole almonds), and the ubiquitous cukroví (tiny Christmas sugar cookies in all sorts of shapes and flavors). Honza’s grandmother provided me with ample supplies of the latter two specialties, which was very nice of her, considering that we visited for barely half an hour, and that she didn’t speak a word of English. On the other hand, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, given the hospitality I had seen thus far, and furthermore, I was the first American she had ever met!

Christmas Eve Day was marked by several traditions, some familiar, like decorating a tree, others not so familiar. One such example was a visit to the local cemetery to light candles on the graves of Honza’s relatives. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a cemetery that crowded, not even the Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris (Jim Morrison’s grave being perhaps the exception ). I have always found cemeteries to be peaceful havens from the bustle of the living world, but this felt more like a festival – there were even vendors at the cemetery entrance selling candles, flowers, and various other things to put on people’s graves. It didn’t make the experience any less touching to my romantic sensibilities though, as I watched Honza light candles in memory of those who had gone before, and thought of my own deceased relatives.

Dinner that evening found the four of us seated around the kitchen table, which had been carefully set with the best dishes, silverware, and linen. Honza was inordinately tickled by the fact that there were three Adriennes in attendance – myself, his mother Adrienna, and her mother, also called Adrienna. The central piece of the dinner was fried carp, which has been a Czech Christmas tradition for a while, as well as the potato salad that followed.

I have heard a few different theories for the origin of this tradition, one being that it was the only economically viable option for a while, and another being that there was a surplus of freshwater fish produced in eras past. Nowadays, I imagine that most families can afford other alternatives (I later dined on leftover roast duck with dumplings), but the custom of buying fresh fish from the many Christmas vendors in the streets, boasting tubs packed with live carp, seems to have stuck.

Not long after dinner, slightly tipsy on excellent port wine, we were summoned to the sitting room by the tinkling of a small bell, signaling the beginning of our gift exchange. The process became more drawn out than I had expected, as various relatives popped in to visit (all with varying levels of English proficiency) and eventually led us to visiting yet more relatives who lived in a rather sumptuous apartment upstairs – which of course brought on another round of wine and sugar cookies (I had to refuse the former but couldn’t resist the latter ). I couldn’t get over how close together everybody lives in Opava – yet Honza was quick to point out that it didn’t make much of a difference, that they still only visited each other for special occasions like Christmas.

All things considered, I was quite happy with my Christmas abroad. As nice as it would have been to return to the familiarity of friends and family in the US, I still felt very much at home in the hearts of my Czech friends and their families, which, after all, is what the Christmas spirit is all about!

Ask an American where to go in France in winter, and I’m betting that many think immediately of Paris. Among the European community however, and indeed worldwide if the throngs of tourists are any indication, Lyon takes the spotlight during one weekend in particular, at the beginning of December, when the entire city celebrates the Fête des Lumières, or the Festival of Lights.

The 4-day event has its origins in 1643, when Lyon pledged to pay homage to the Virgin Mary every year thereafter if the city were spared from the plague that was ravaging the south of France at the time. The day of celebration was officially declared to be December 8 in 1852, when a statue of Mary was erected at the top of the Notre Dame de Fourvière, and the tradition of placing lighted candles in the windows of homes was born.

Today, the event comprises a proud light display of the major buildings and monuments in Lyon, including the Place Bellecour and the Hôtel de Ville downtown, the Saint Jean Cathedral and the Basilique de Fourvière in Old Lyon, and various other locations throughout the city. I made sure to visit most of them over the course of the weekend (Dec. 5 – 8), which coincided pleasantly with my birthday celebrations on Dec. 3 and 4. This year was also exceptional because there were fireworks on Sunday evening, arranged as a rain check for the Bastille Day fireworks that were unable to take place on July 14.

How to describe the Fête des Lumières? I would say that my strongest impression was of the huge crowds trickling through the streets, which made it rather difficult to navigate from one location to another, especially if one was trying to go against the tide of people. Mild agoraphobia aside however, I was amazed by the amount of effort that went into the visual, and often auditory, displays throughout the city.

He's got the whole world in his hands...

...and he's watching you...

In one night, I saw a gigantic Ferris wheel with images projected onto one side, an entire theatre illuminated in blue, a church lit in ever-changing colors and images, another church displaying a short animated film about its construction, and the biggest church of them all, the Notre Dame de Fourvière, illuminated like a colorful keyboard in synchronization with various notes. The climb to the Fourvière alone was pure magic, as the view of the city lights gradually spread out below us (provided at http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/in_pictures/8401011.stm thanks to the BBC, as I was unable to capture the view on my own camera).

Tuesday night was a different sort of magic, which I think I ultimately preferred to the ostentatious technological displays. Walking through any given street, I could see innumerable candles twinkling from window ledges, a sight that came close to reflecting the original, non-materialistic spirit of Christmas, in my mind at least. I was still impressed by the remaining displays I saw, such as a “garden” of lights, a short film celebrating the four seasons (including, for some reason, Mary Poppins-esque silhouettes floating downwards under umbrellas) projected on the façades of both the Hôtel de Ville and the Musée des Beaux-Arts, and the inner court of the Hôtel de Ville, which featured a laser display overhead. All of these I managed to capture in photos, which is something of a miracle considering the grievous injury my camera was subjected to on the first night of the festival!

Me under the glowing parasol plants at Place Louis Pradel

The inner court of the Hotel de Ville

Fortunately, my camera continues to function to a certain degree, which allowed me to take pictures at two events the following weekend. First of all was a holiday gathering with faculty and staff at the high school, which turned out to be a bigger affair than I’d realized. The edibles were quite elaborate, arranged in various shapes – duck, butterfly, and large toadstool, among others – and including such delicacies as oysters and whole shrimp (I managed to eat the former but not the latter – weird textures I can handle, but I draw the line at creatures with spindly legs and antennae). A gift exchange took place after the meal, and I got to know a few more people, including one of the other assistants.

It strikes me as rather odd that the language assistants at my school are so isolated – there are four of us, yet to date I have only seen the German assistant on a semi-regular basis. On the other hand, it shouldn’t surprise me by now that the school is a bit – disorganized, shall we say. I consider myself lucky if I can access a computer, let alone get on the internet or print something for a class. The classroom situation is more stable than it was when I first got here – at least now I’m guaranteed to have a room to teach in, even though it means changing locations several times on some days. Walking the length of the school grows more interesting by the day, as I watch the progression of demolition taking place in the central section of the building.

Also related to construction, when visiting the parents of my flatmate in the mountains, I was surprised to find out that they had designed and built the house themselves. The place has an old-fashioned, homey feel to it, accented by dark wood beams overhead and lace decorations in every window (handmade by the mother, who happens to be a certified artisan in lacemaking). The finishing touch was the beautiful SNOW outside (the final picture was taken from my upstairs bedroom window), something that sadly is not at all present in the city, despite – or possibly because of – glacial temperatures.

I was also delighted to discover that my flatmate’s parents had not one, but THREE cats, each with a distinct character of its own. I got along famously with one in particular, whom I swear didn’t move from her cushion in the breakfast nook for the entirety of my stay (with the one exception of getting up to beg for cheese). The other two cats were equally particular about their choice of location – one spent hours curled up in a small basket on the table where the mother did her lacework, and the other sprawled before the wood-burning stove that heated the main floor of the house.

Stéphane’s parents did not in any way resemble their pets (at least not in actions – I suppose I could draw a slight physical resemblance between the father’s thick dark hair and the long-haired black cat). Even at leisure, they were always busy, whether it was setting up a new computer, experimenting with photos (the father is an avid amateur photographer), or putting up Christmas decorations. Coming from a relatively quiet lifestyle, it seemed strange to me that others could get so hung up on being constantly industrious. At the same time, I did not once feel pressured to be industrious myself, which I suppose is the mark of a good host. I even returned home with a new book to read, in addition to feeling extremely well-rested and well-fed. The French are nothing if not experts in the art of hospitality.

And again I have fallen remiss in my regularity of updates – I blame both my recurring sickness and my general lack of new adventures to recount. To all of you of the American persuasion, I hope Thanksgiving found you well-fed but not more stuffed than the turkey.

I was lucky enough to have an American friend in a nearby city who put together a traditional Thanksgiving meal – that is, as close to traditional as one can get with a limited budget in France. Not all the elements were readily available – for example, whole turkeys are not yet in season, and true pumpkin, canned or otherwise, is hard to come by. Overall though, I can say that I was quite pleased with the result.

I was especially impressed with my American friend’s resourcefulness with regard to the pumpkin pie (my favorite Thanksgiving dish), made from scratch with a squash that closely resembled a pumpkin, and hand-ground spices. It was amusing to watch the French guests at the dinner when they were served the pie. Some of them were brave and tasted it right away, but quite a few of them seemed to put off tasting it for a while. It was also amusing to try and explain the concept of mashed potatoes to a Frenchman – he couldn’t seem to understand that the point is not to make a potato puree but to leave a few lumps here and there.

It’s finally starting to feel like Christmas here, perhaps because Thanksgiving and Black Friday are now behind me, or perhaps because the weather has finally taken on that wintry chill. Or, perhaps it is simply the wealth of Christmas products and decorations that have taken over the commercial areas of town. There have been products on display in stores since early November, but I haven’t noticed them that much until now, when all of the sudden the city seems to be on the verge of exploding with Christmas shoppers, and the marchés de Noel to accommodate them.

Christmas is creeping into my classes at the school as well, where my students and I compare various holiday traditions, such as popular Christmas carols and food that is usually served at Christmas dinner. One such dish is a stuffed turkey, much like what Americans have at Thanksgiving, but usually with chestnuts. Also somewhat common are outdoor stands advertising hot chestnuts and mulled wine, which have become rather a winter cliché, to say in the least. Something I haven’t seen yet, however, is egg nog, which I may have to try making on my own. (Incidentally, the term for egg nog in French translates literally as “hen milk” – how’s that for bizarre?) Now, if only it would snow, my set of Christmas must-haves would be complete…

The inevitable has occurred – after living in a house with two sick people for a week, I myself have fallen ill. I find it rather ironic, given that I just moved into a new apartment a week ago, which is only a few blocks away from my workplace. This will prove to be quite convenient in a number of ways, once I feel well enough to stir outside the apartment for more than an hour at a time. As it is, my activities are currently restricted to the necessary, or, in the case of yesterday, the spiritually fortifying, as when I visited the Basilique de Fourvière. It was not quite as peaceful a visit as I would have liked, because of the large crowds of people who seemed to have the same idea in mind, but I was still very much impressed by the church (see photos) and the view offered from the top of the hill on which it was built.

My new home is located at the top of a different hill, also within the city limits, an area known as the Croix-Rousse. It has been likened to the Montmartre in Paris, formerly populated by lower-class silk workers known as Canuts, but now become trendy for its perpetual atmosphere of bohemian chic. There is a trompe l’oeil painting located barely a block away from me, “le mur des Canuts,” which is quite possibly the largest in Lyon (supposedly there are some 150 trompe l’oeils in the city – I can only hope to find them all before I leave in May). While the buildings do not exude the same seasoned grandeur of those located further downtown, I became quickly charmed by the area, and the friendly personalities of its inhabitants.

My flatmate is one such example. A country boy at heart, he has been living in town for the past five years while he works for SNCF, the French railway company, and is accustomed to welcoming foreigners into his humble abode. One of the first indications that we might share a few things in common was the sight of a large Moulin Rouge poster in his room (a favorite film of mine). I was also delighted to find a row of genuine Dijon mustards on a shelf in his kitchen (10 flavors total), which is only one indication of how serious he is about his cooking. My sole complaint is that he doesn’t appear to be very discriminating when it comes to bread. I was dismayed to discover that he buys it from Auchan, a supermarket of Costco-like proportions, rather than from a local boulangerie. It may very well be less expensive, but one must have principles nonetheless, especially when one is France!

The past week has been marked by many changes in location, yet all contained within a sphere of familiarity, which kept me from devolving into a nervous wreck. Last weekend, for example, saw me arriving in Dijon, where I was greeted unexpectedly at the train station by my former host family. It felt strange to see them again after almost three years had gone by since I had stayed with them while studying abroad, but they were as welcoming as ever. I would say even more so than I had believed possible, for they agreed to put up one of my American friends as well, and prepared us a lovely lunch upon our departure. As it happened, we were not lacking in invitations to stay at other people’s houses, so we didn’t end up staying the full four nights with my host family – an arrangement that worked out quite nicely for us.

Our original goal was to visit all the familiar haunts in Dijon, and while we managed to do so, we were also pleased to find ourselves in a position to indulge in a real vacation: sleeping in, spending some quality time with friends at home, and eating well among the necessary components. The highlight of the visit for me by far was staying with Nathalie, my “mom away from home” during my first experience of living abroad. Not only was she a warm hostess and a wonderful cook, she even had a dryer we could use for our laundry (this is a rarity in France, for those of you who are unaware)!

One encounter that stands out in my memory was of visiting the chouette, a small owl carved into the side of the Notre Dame de Dijon that supposedly brings good luck if you touch it (see below). As I was preparing myself for the photo, a man’s voice called out behind us. Speaking in a odd mixture of French and English and what sounded like Spanish (perhaps he was a foreign visitor as well), he told us about a creature that breathed fire on the chouette. It took us a little while to figure out what he was talking about – there was a tiny dragon carved into the church wall a little further back, something that neither of us had ever noticed before! This is what I love about revisiting places – you’re bound to find out something new, regardless of how many times you’ve been there before.

Chouette! = Great!

Upon returning to Lyon, I found myself hard-pressed to re-enter the rhythm of preparing lessons and getting up early to teach, especially considering the fact that several changes had been made at the school during vacation. As a result, I was no longer able to access the internet and print out articles to distribute in my classes, and I was also obligated to change classrooms several times within the course of a day, something that had not been the case previously. Obviously this required me to do a little more thinking on my feet than usual, but I’m happy to say that it turned out pretty well, for the most part. It seems to be my lot in life to enter into precarious scholastic conditions… with the exception of Puget Sound, perhaps.

My random occurrence for the weekend took place earlier today, when I visited a mycological exhibition that was being held in Neuville, the suburban village where I am currently living. There were many other things besides mushrooms that were being shown at this event – most notably a zoological display of reptiles and insects, complete with enthusiastic beetle wranglers – but I found myself drawn to one variety of fungus in particular: the Phallus Impudicus, otherwise known as the satyre puant, or “stinking satyr.” My inner third-grader derived no end of amusement from such a descriptive name, and, as you can probably tell from the photo below, the fungus does indeed have a phallic shape.

Behold, the Phallus Impudicus

I was fascinated to find out later, with a bit of online research, that in its early stage, the fungus is sometimes called oeuf du Diable (”Devil’s egg”), at which point it is still edible, having the flavor and consistency of a radish. It is only when the fungus reaches maturity and begins to smell like a rotting corpse that it becomes inedible (although with the pungent odor of some French cheeses and sausages, I wonder if there’s really that wide of a difference…).

On a more linguistic note, for those of you who read French, I was amused to see the varieties of signs that were posted to ensure that nobody touched the displays. Some were more nicely phrased: Laisser aller vos yeux et pas vos mains, was one of the more polite examples – much more so than, say, NE PAS TOUCHER.

My first indication that I was in a foreign city was the faint scent of some illegal substance that greeted me as I stepped outside the train station – that is to say, a substance that is considered illegal in most of the US and Europe, but not in Amsterdam. Almost immediately afterwards, I was taken to my first “coffeeshop,” a cute little place called Siberië, where smoking indoors was permitted, as long as it wasn’t tobacco being smoked.

Having little interest in mind-altering substances myself, I took a cup of tea, which turned out to be delicious (vanilla sencha), and tried to settle into the laid-back atmosphere of the place. After the cafés of France, where the atmosphere is always slightly formal, albeit convivial, I wasn’t used to the earthiness of the people I saw passing through the coffeeshops of Amsterdam… or indeed, in the entire city, where “go with the flow” could be said to be the inofficial motto.

I saw this motto in action firsthand later that evening while perched on the back of my Dutch friend’s bicycle as he navigated his way alongside the sparkling canals. From what I could tell, the percentage of people on bicycles to people in cars was at least 60-40, if not more in some of the quieter streets. I saw all sorts of seating arrangements: some sat on the rack behind (like myself), on small back seats (unlike myself, who had only a pillow to protect my rear end from the bumps of the road), in front between the rider and the handlebars, and in small seats within a sort of low-riding basket attached to the front wheel. Occasionally I would see what looked like an entire family on one bike, the mother steering her two or three children through busy streets, seemingly without a care in the world. There was nary a helmet to be seen, except on the people who rode motor scooters, whom I gather were required to do so by law.

As far as national cuisine goes, Dutch food does not seem to have as wide a variety as French, although I did try a few new things – most notably, broodje haring, or raw herring on bread, occasionally coupled with onions or pickles. I also sampled some unknown Dutch cheese, which turned out to be delicious melted on brown bread, but I would say by far the best experience was of Indian food, properly spiced, unlike most Indian food I’ve tried in France.

Overall, I would say that Amsterdam is an ideal city for wandering, although there are plenty of cultural opportunities for those who seek them. My personal goals were simple – to see two girls, one of historical fact and another of semi-historical fiction, and both of whom inspired me on many levels.

The first was the Meisje met de parel, otherwise known as the anonymous Girl with a Pearl Earring. I had been fond of the artist Johannes Vermeer since a young age, but I hadn’t taken a real interest in this particular painting until I read the book of the same title by Tracy Chevalier, who did a beautiful job of combining Dutch history with thoughtful storytelling. After finishing the book for the first time, I was determined to visit the Mauritshuis in The Hague, where the painting was housed. It took me two more readings, once in French and again in English, before I got there, but at long last, I was in a position to visit the museum, being barely an hour away by train.

The Mauritshuis had a few surprises in store for me. I went to the upper level straightaway, anxious to see the Vermeer painting but also curious to see what else the museum had to offer. The first thing that caught my eye was Peter Paul Rubens’ painting of an old woman and a boy by candlelight. It looks entirely unremarkable in most reproductions, including the attached picture, but when viewed in person, with the right lighting, it comes to life in the most dramatic manner. I found myself practically moved to tears, so vivid was the impression that the characters made upon me.

Eventually I arrived at the room featuring Vermeer, where again I was surprised, for, unlike the much-touted Mona Lisa, the Girl looked almost exactly as she did in reproductions. Upon seeing the painting in person, I was struck by how starkly simple it was, especially in comparison to Vermeer’s other works. Her expression does not invite the viewer in, as does the Mona Lisa, in fact I almost felt as if I were hurting her by looking at her so intensely. It felt more appropriate to quietly slip out of the room and leave her in peace, yet I stayed a little longer, trying to pinpoint what exactly it was that made the painting so timeless.

My second pilgrimage was much more straightforward, although also more harrowing, partially due to the large crowd of tourists at the Anne Frank Huis. To even enter the museum took almost an hour of waiting, as the line wrapped around the corner of the street and proceeded for at least half a block before coming to an end. I was rather touched nonetheless by the obvious popularity of the place, as it showed that the legacy of Anne Frank still lived on.

It felt slightly surreal to walk through the tiny, dimly lit rooms (left empty, at the wish of her father) where she and her family lived in hiding for almost two years – to see the walls that she had decorated with pictures of movie stars, much as I have done in years past – to look into the same mirror that she must have every morning – and to glimpse the same magical view of the tree outside the attic of the “Secret Annex,” as she called it in her diary. I left the museum in a bit of a daze, not even stopping to make my usual postcard purchases in the museum shop. What can one gather, after all, from such a visceral experience?

As immediate as my entire experience of the Netherlands may have been, I have tried to encapsulate a few moments in photos. I am happy to say that my photographic repertoire has begun to expand more than ever into the realm of people, whereas on previous trips I tended to err more on the side of building and nature shots. And animals, as may still be evident in the pictures below…

I was quite amused with the poster in the background

I think you can tell what kind of establishment we were in from the painting on the wall...

One of the stranger coffeeshops I came across...

...and even stranger clientele...

In front of the Mauritshuis

Twilight view of one of the bigger canals, located in front of the central train station

I awoke this morning at the precise moment when the street lamp outside my window turned off, changing the light in my room from vigilant orange to a reassuring blue. A glance outside revealed distant echoes of vermillion in the dawn-kissed clouds, but it promised to be a somber, overcast day. A cozy, overcast day, to be more accurate, for I do not want to convey the impression that I am disappointed with the weather. Autumn is here to stay, and I am quite content to stay indoors during my day off, rather than walking the chilly streets.

It appears that I am here to stay indefinitely, for as I continue to look for apartments in the city, with exasperatingly slow results, I am starting to consider the possibility of not moving until next year, when there are likely to be more openings, especially in the university sector. Having long since graduated from dorm-style housing, I am somewhat reluctant to return to living in a single room among a community of strangers, but if that happens to be the best thing that comes my way, so be it. Meanwhile, I’m starting to like the little town of Neuville-sur-Saône, as far removed from the center of Lyon as it might be.

My attitude toward the whole adventure brings to mind the fable of the hare and the tortoise, summed up in the adage “Slow and steady wins the race.” The pace of life has certainly slowed for me here, even amidst the bustle of people in the streets, goaded on by the cold and anonymous appointments at destinations unknown. Although I imitate their rapid pace, I also like to pause from time to time, trying to take snapshot impressions of the action around me. Many of the best moments take place while I am waiting somewhere. For example, the other day, while perusing the stands at a carnival that takes place in the Place de la Croix-Rousse every fall, I decided to order a waffle with crème de marron, a sugary chestnut paste. While waiting, I was entranced by the antics of a Frenchman and his magnificent black-and-white bulldog. The man would playfully point at a display of beignets (donuts) atop the counter, urging the dog on, and the dog would get tremendously excited and stand straight up on his hind legs, chest lifted proudly while he leaned his front paws against the counter in a vain attempt to reach the beignets. It was one of those moments when I wished I had my camera with me, but I contented myself with petting the dog’s soft fur and smiling at the owner.

The waffle is not the end of the story. I am also, it is sad to say, on the way to becoming a bread addict. I could think of worse things to be addicted to – the omnipresent cigarettes, for one – but it still surprises me, how much I have begun to crave the taste and texture of French bread. I am not speaking of the baguette variety, although there are certainly good baguettes to be found. As I mentioned before, Chantal and her family prefer to eat other types of bread, usually containing whole grains, and they are not shy about slathering on butter, the faintly sweet, creamy kind. Furthermore, I have rediscovered the delights of Nutella, which for some reason seems to have a special appeal when I leave the States. (It works exceptionally well as a hot chocolate alternative, by the way – just melt a generous spoonful in a saucepan and whisk in a cup of milk, or half-and-half if you’re feeling decadent ). As a result of my resurgent Nutella fondness, I tried my hand at making crêpes over a gas stove, which after the first few botched attempts turned out to be surprisingly easy.

And just when I thought that nothing would surprise me… my host family serves me boudin, that notorious blood sausage. It was actually quite delicious, once I managed to stop thinking about the ingredients. Supposedly it’s rather difficult to get boudin right, even in France.

On a similar, food-related topic, I recently had the privilege of attending two soirées. The first was a housewarming party for my “host sister” Maureen and her three housemates, and I can testify that the house was very well warmed indeed. I have included pictures below of the party preparations, with two of Maureen’s friends (Maureen is the blur in the middle of the first photo). They had prepared a marvelous array of finger foods, including a home-made quiche, a home-made variety of pecan pie, and several vegetable choices, some of which you can see in the pictures. And, of course, lots and lots of wine (among various other alcoholic beverages). I was rather amused by the difference in character I saw between a French person sans alcohol, and a French person after several drinks – a disparity, I believe, that is rather larger than it is for the average American.

Fanny, Maureen, and Elsa, hostesses extraordinaires

The second soirée was less exuberant, as most of the guests were over 35 and chose their drinks carefully, but no less decadent in its array of delicious food, This time there were not one but four different varieties of quiche, in addition to three different kinds of dessert: melt-in-your-mouth chocolate cake, a plum tart, and the French equivalent of pineapple-upside-down-cake, the name of which eludes me. The purpose of the gathering (pictures of which I hope to post later) was to bring together the language profs and assistants of Saint Ex, although it turned out that only two of the four assistants showed up. I got to know Sebastian, the German language assistant, a little bit better – hopefully there will be future occasions when I will get to speak at length with the Spanish and Russian assistants. We both brought something to with which to perform, he a song and his guitar, and I a poem.

One of the lines from the poem resonates especially with me right now: “Loneliness is satisfying because it doesn’t compete with anything.” I would not consider myself lonely in the negative sense (at least not since I moved from the house mentioned in the previous post), but it is true that there is a certain satisfaction to be found in not having a set social pattern to follow. By choosing to be alone, I free myself from the expectations, often self-imposed, that attend a more socially involved lifestyle. Be that as it may, I have certainly enjoyed my forays into sociability thus far, and hope to continue similarly in the future. Meanwhile, I remain like a swan on the Saône, buffeted occasionally by winds and waves, but always serene in solitude.

Me with the Saône in the background

In case it hasn’t become clear by now, I’m somewhat of a romantic. One of my childhood fantasies (perhaps fueled by the books I read) was to live during the Victorian era or a similar time period that involved strict social mores and an even stricter dress code. As a result, when I visited a house that looked as if it belonged in an 18th-century novel, I was excited. Never mind the fact that it was located on the outskirts of Lyon, that only female tenants were allowed, and that the buses stopped after midnight – the minute I saw the little room at the end of the third-floor hall, complete with elegant furniture and matching yellow lamps and floor-length curtains, I had to have it. It took me another five days or so to move to the house, as the family who lived there was leaving town for the weekend, but I stumbled through the door on blustery Monday night convinced that I was there to stay for the rest of my visit in France.

That is not to say that I left the previous family without chagrin. We had exchanged gifts earlier that evening (a genuine saucisson brioché included in my bag of groceries), and Chantal, my host mother, teared up a little as I walked out the door, even while assuring me that it would not be the last time I would be at their house, and that I was always welcome to come back if my new living situation didn’t work. I sensed that she and her husband felt rather lonely in their house, with one daughter studying abroad in Sevilla, another just recently moved to her own house in Lyon, and their son recently re-departed after dealing with a death in his girlfriend’s family.

My new host family could not have been more different. Although they were certainly friendly people, and very welcoming to foreigners, they were much more fixated upon appearances, especially the mother, whom I will call Stéphanie. My first impression was of a young, blonde, type A sort, who went jogging, enjoyed playing with her cats, and wanted an English-speaking person in the house to help teach her children and do occasional babysitting. She showed an odd mixture of affection and strictness with her children, who were both adorable (a girl of 7 and a boy of 4), and didn’t even bother to introduce me to her husband at first, explaining that he worked very long hours at work and was never there during the day.

As I soon discovered, this was the normal setting for the house – empty, or at least filled with people who were always in a hurry. Upstairs in my room, tucked into my new bed, I felt as Mary Lennox (of The Secret Garden) must have felt in Mistlethwaite Manor, swallowed up by the vast loneliness of a house unloved and un-lived-in. Downstairs, on the impressively decorated main floor, there were few places where one could curl up comfortably with a book in the evenings, and the three cats were rarely to be seen during the day, only when shut in the kitchen at night after the family had retired to bed. The first evidence of children I saw in the house was of their names written on a small blackboard in the kitchen, followed by a list of tasks to be completed by each child (mainly of the “Clean your room” and “Finish your work” variety). The Portuguese housekeeper, whom I found to be very warm-hearted and friendly despite the fact that she spoke very little French, seemed to be slightly intimidated by her employer.

All of which combined to make me re-consider my childhood dream – did I really want to spend months on end in such a restrictive environment, however pleasing it was to my aesthetic and literary sensibilities? The reality was proving to be less romantic than the idea, especially with winter fast approaching and the heat in my room not in good working order. After two nights of uneasy sleep, I arrived at a decision to return to the previous house. It was not easy breaking the news to Stéphanie, but fortunately she came around and was gracious enough to let me go with no bad feelings. And fortunately Chantal was true to her word – she welcomed me back to her place with open arms, where, as she put it, “it may be a little chaotic, but at least it’s alive.” I couldn’t agree more.

So here I am again, back where I originally started, and all the happier for it. Winter has begun to set in for good, which means a warm fire in the living room and incessant cups of hot beverages. Saint Ex has begun to resemble an Arctic outpost, if somehow it happened that a colony of warmly-dressed French people were transplanted to the far north (oh wait, wouldn’t that be the French Canadians?). Classes have been going well for the most part, especially since I’ve figured out how to set up speakers in the classroom and play songs for the students. I never thought I would say it, but thank goodness for Ipods (even of the lowly Shuffle variety).

I don’t believe I went into much detail about my current living situation in my last post, but as one of the best ways of experiencing a foreign culture is by observing the lives of its families, I think it’s well worth including in my account of adventures abroad. To sum up, I am temporarily staying with one of the profs from my high school, who lives in a house that can be best described as a suburban French equivalent of The Burrow. For all of you who are not familiar with the magical tales of Harry Potter, envisage a tall, aging house boasting a sprawling back yard, and serviced by a steep, rickety staircase. Featuring a whistling downstairs toilet, a leaky upstairs shower, doors that don’t always want to stay closed, and unexpected appearances of shoes and clothing in various corners, the house manages nonetheless to present a cheerful, welcoming atmosphere (as you might pick up on from the pictures below, including a friendly specimen of one of several neighborhood cats).

Where the house differs from The Burrow (at least as far as JK Rowling’s choice of descriptive detail) is in the lifestyle of its family. They are not typical in many ways – for example, they avoid drinking milk, like their meat relatively well done, and don’t privilege baguette over other, healthier types of bread. The entire family is obsessed with Spanish-speaking culture, evidenced by various Spanish, Argentinean, and Mexican items around the house, including several books in Spanish, and – dare I mention it – an impressive rattlesnake skin in my bedroom. All three children have been to the aforementioned countries, to study abroad and sometimes to work, while the parents have frequently visited Spain during the holidays. There are a fair amount of books in English as well, as the mother teaches English at the school and worked as a teaching assistant in Ireland, which I’m guessing is where she picked up her quasi-Irish accent.

However, when my host father took up his knife one evening and began buttering his cheese, I remembered all over again that yes, I am indeed in France. There are other reminders as well – not only does the entire family smoke (mother, father, son, and two daughters), but they do so freely wherever they please in the house. At the table, everybody often tends to talk at once, making it rather difficult for me to enter into the conversation. It’s a bit like trying to hop onto a moving train, something I have never tried. Something I have tried within the past few weeks however is hitch-hiking, a practice which is still considered perfectly safe and acceptable in many areas of France. It was especially useful while the public transportation strike was going on, although I tried to use the bus and metro as often as possible. Fortunately, the strike has since ended, which makes it much easier for me to get around town.

Regarding classes: so far, so good. I began working at the high school last Thursday, the first of October, which up until two days ago consisted of introducing myself to each class and taking questions from the students and teachers alike. They all seem bright and curious for the most part, some of them naturally more forward and confident than others, and I don’t expect to have serious problems with discipline. The difficulties lie more in the state of the school grounds, which are undergoing extensive renovation, causing a shortage of classrooms. What impresses me about Saint Ex (the shortened name of the school, which is officially called Lycée Antoine de Saint Exupéry, named after the Lyonnais author most well-known in the United States for his whimsical story of The Little Prince) is its reputation for academic excellence. Students are given the choice of attending supplementary classes in art, music, dance, or film studies, usually at various conservatories in the city, and Saint Ex has been cited as producing the highest scores on the baccalauréat (the French equivalent of the SATs) for any public high school in Lyon.

I can also testify that the food offered in the cafeteria is not bad, although I wouldn’t call it gourmet quality, especially in comparison to a restaurant I visited last weekend, the Brasserie Léon de Lyon. I ordered magret de canard (duck breast) with figs, and delicately spiced riz au lait (rice pudding) – delicious. (The picture to the left is of me with a French friend outside of the restaurant, which, for those of you who know Lyon, is located near the Place des Terreaux). The food offered by my host family hasn’t been too shabby either, such as roasted chicken (a few organs included), pork sausage, and various fruits and vegetables straight from the countryside. I also sampled a popular liqueur called pastis, which has been described by some as a legalized version of absinthe due to its strong flavor of anise.

Back to the school – I began teaching classes on my own this past Thursday, the eighth of October, which is proving to be an experience of trial and error, much as I had expected. Students and teachers alike seem to be willing to forgive me for the latter, for which I am thankful, but I think I have managed to keep the students fairly well engaged so far. It also helped that there was an orientation meeting for the English language teaching assistants yesterday, where we received many suggestions for fun classroom activities. Above all, our role seems to be that of counterpoint to the profs, who tend to be more dry and factual in their educational approach. I can’t exactly say that’s the case for the profs of Saint Ex, as they seem quite dynamic and creative to me for the most part, but I’m sure I will find my role as time passes.

For it really feels like I’m playing a role sometimes; the role of a friendly, quirky, sometimes clueless American. It’s hard to say just yet how this will affect my life in Lyon… but so far, for the most part, it seems to be working to my advantage.