Holidays in the Life of an Expat

I can honestly say that I never would have imagined that "Amazing Grace" and a meal of rotten fish would make up two of my most prized holiday memories... such colliding of cultures is, for me, truly the mark of expat life. 

This year, I was once again blessed with the great fortune of spending my holidays amidst oysters and foie gras, and, of course, friends. Holidays away from home are never easy, but I have found that since being away, traditions have begun to meld together, reviving the old and giving birth to the new, in a way that almost epitomizes the meaning of the festivities themselves: togetherness. After all, isn't that the purpose of travel,  to break down cultural divides and open up channels of mutual discovery and inspiration? 

 

A french pastime:
Shucking oysters for the
first course of Christmas-eve dinner

This holiday season was no exception. The feasting and gourmandise began with the three expat Thanksgivings in November and did not show any signs of petering out until long after the New year's resolutions were soundly recorded and bulging bellies lay grumbling beneath winter sweaters and high-waisted dresses.  Christmas in France is no small feat, which comes as no surprise considering the country's history and passion for cuisine, and anyone expecting to be in France at any time between December 24th and January 1st best be well-prepared to indulge. Leave the stylishly tight pants at home, and forget about that skin-tight New year's dress; you will have little luck fitting into them when Noël à la française is done with you.  

This year's culinary adventures were comprised of the usual suspects, oysters and foie gras, but with the addition of a new bird (new for me, not for the french) and its accompaniments. (Details to be added, once verified with chef Pavia-Orengo). As for the most exciting, and long-anticipated part of the meal--though I must add that, speaking universally, at the end of Christmas dinner, hardly anyone has room for dessert--the Bûche de Noël in all its (melting) glory assumed its rightful place beside the table decorations and Italian sparkling wine. This was my first-ever attempt at the french Christmas classic, and Patricia's first-ever stab at the recipe. We took on the challenge of a bûche of layered genoise, and whipped cream with oranges confit and (my unwavering weakness) la crème de marron. A melting mess of a Christmas cake, the bûche was delicious, and found most guests scrapping their plates. 

A sort-of-success, one might say; at least added to the list of "try agains" that is steadily getting out of hand. At this rate, I will share the same fate as Julia Child; always cooking and eating... and drinking. All things considered, this might not be such a terrible path to trod.  Life is short, and the world, while it may be small, is too full of good food for one to commit to serious dieting. Every dish has a place in the line-up of "must try once in life" and even those dishes which sound less-than-appetizing can produce surprising effects. For example, the classic Norwegian winter dish, Rakfisk or "rotten fish" is an unexpected delight. Different from the famous Luttefisk, this fermented trout, after having been cusioned for months underground between layers of salt and sugar, finds its way to the table, accompanied by dallops of sour cream, shreds of freshly sliced red onions, plump boiled potatoes, hard-boiled egg, and delightfully acidic beets. I was apprehensive, to say the least, not as thrown by the components of the meal itself, but by the Norwegians' take on it.

Leading up to the moment of truth, I heard from every member of the dinner party such warnings as "it is very 'special,' even 'a bit peculiar'" and "people either love it or hate it" and "it took us some time to really appreciate it." The trick turned out to be introducing to the taste buds all the components at once, a flavor-packed fork-full of Norwegian goodness. Much to their surprise, I was converted by the second bite, and while I don't plan to add this to my list of holiday classics, I will forever cherish the memories of a night of rotten fish and Norwegian reveling.   

With all this food-talk, I think it is safe to say that the very first thing on everyone's mind at the holidays is the daunting weight gain. To combat such apprehension, the jolly gentlemen and women of Sospel, and an exceptionally merry handful of Norwegians, might recommend singing away the calories, and while it might not be an effective plan for weight loss, it is sure to make at least the heart feel lighter. 

"Amazing Grace" was featured on this year's program of St. Joseph Chapel carols, and some nostalgic Simon and Garfunkel hits made the list at the Norwegian post-dinner festivities of guitar playing and storytelling. The moral of the story, might therefore be, consult the classics, and you will find that they seldom disappoint, whether it be in food or song. 

Prague- A Walt Disney dreamland... and more.

Panoramic view of snow-covered Prague from Hradcany at the entrance to Prague Castle.

This year's Christmas adventure began in the legendary city of Prague in the Czech Republic, and from the train ride to Nice International Airport, it already seemed to compete with last year's whirlwind tour of Budapest for title of "Must Eventful Trip." And yet, missed connections due to snowy runways and ice-laden airplane wings are no match for a dedicated adventurer. Perhaps this marks the beginning of a new Pre-Christmas tradition--spending the week before Christmas exploring a Comcon country.  

View of Charles Bridge looking
towards Hradcany and Prague Castle.

The weather, for one thing, always proves entertaining, not to mention the often-times gripping terror of having to communicate with people who speak a language based in neither latin nor germanic roots. The architecture is sure to be frozen in time; it is stunningly beautiful and uniquely fascinating, like the objects unearthed in a time capsule--rusty and perhaps even black with dirt but still embodying the allure of their previous luster. Something about the "pays de L'est" (Eastern European countries) commandeers my curiosity in the snowy winter months. Whether it is the harsh climate or the history of the land, the countries which emerged from behind the Iron Curtain illustrate for the Western World the realities of a recent and tangible "hard knock life." 


Partnered with the atmosphere of the holiday season, visiting such countries provides a fresh appreciation for the blessings and comforts alloted to the youthful generations of the West. 

Much like the astonishment that overtook my senses in Budapest last Christmas Season, I found myself at a loss for words upon lifting my pen to capture Prague on the blank abyss that is the back of postcards. I resorted to repeatedly composing the same phrase: "This city is every bit the enchanting destination it is fabled to be. The legendary home of 'Good King Wenceslas' and Alphonse Mucha rises out of the snowy fog like a Walt Disney dreamland."

Local woman rushes home with
 a festive bunch of mistletoe.

Indeed, Prague, itself, is every bit the marvel of its reputation. It is truly a living city and not simply a tourist attraction. Sure, shops brimming with Bohemian crystal, Czech garnet, and Prague porcelain are a stone-throw away from every streetlamp in the town center, but that sort of business exists in every city center that tourists might find remotely interesting: New york, Chicago, Paris, to name a few. The difference is that in Prague, Czech is written and spoken at every turn, and even in the most touristy of places, one can spot any number of locals scurrying home with groceries and gifts, kids in tow. By contrast to my experience in Budapest, the locals of Prague seem to be a jolly lot; not pretentious, nor hostile, and always glad to, at the very least, attempt to communicate clearly with non-czech speakers.  They smile openly openly on the street and do not look at you like you have three heads if you do the same. 

Nothing compares to a hearty meal at a local bar, especially when local Czech families
 file in after you to fill the entire back room of the place. Always a good sign. 

Lunch of hermaline cheese, bread dumplings stuffed with pork, and cabbage. Oh, and bottled water, because tap water is apparently never served at restaurants in Prague. Don't forget the bread, just in case you didn't feel that your desire for carbs was met in this lunch.  Needless to say, we did not eat dinner that night. 

The cuisine is hearty (gross understatement) and leaves you feeling warm and cozy with the distinct desire to indulge in a nap. A delightful combination of salted meats (primarily pork), dumplings of bread or potato, and cabbage (some much-needed acidity to cut through it all), it is not unlike that of Hungary, Austria, and Germany. This is not at all surprising, considering that these countries ultimately share the same climate, historical roots, and political regimes. The idea of "the harsher (colder) the climate, the heavier the food (and beer)" illustrates perfectly the magnitude of goulash and Pilsner Urquell consumed here.  The tradition of hermaline cheese (fried cheese), a not-so-distant cousin of the beloved American staple, the Mozzerella stick, perhaps explains the popularity of the American fast-food giant, KFC, in these parts. Voilà, heavy consumption of potatoes and items breaded and fried. 

This is only one of many international enterprises to make its mark on this city, one until so recently deprived of contact with the rest of the world. The effects are more than apparent. Only 20 years ago, Wenceslas Square lined with stores of empty shelves and was the stage for Anti-Communist Velvet Revolution. Now, it buzzes with international commercialism (Starbucks, KFC, Zara, H&M, Darty), and tourist feet beat the pavement where lives were lost to break down the wall to the West. 


A remarkable patch of land, indeed. In the midst of all the daunting commercialism, the legendary statue of St. Wenceslas (patron saint of the Czech Republic) stands watch over the hustle and bustle of change, with elements of Czech pride hidden in the corners of storefront windows and in the details of Art Nouveau facades. The Alphonse Mucha Museum and the Museum of Communism lie within steps from each other, an intriguing juxtaposition of the Czech Republic's greatest claims to fame. From these tourist landmarks, the wandering eye can catch a glimpse of the Christmas market lights illuminating traditional Czech delights, (sausages to satisfy the savory taste buds, and trdelnik, rolled dough of cinnamon-crusted goodness, for the sweet-tooth), stuffed animal representations of the best-loved czech cartoon (Krtek the mole), and postcards honoring scenes drawn by renowned illustrator, Josef Lada.  Czech culture is alive and well, flourishing even, watered by the waves of tourism and the light of freedom of culture and expression. 

A eager child awaits her own trdelnik.

Santa serves up traditional Czech sausages.  

Krtek, the most lovable of moles. 

   

Giving thanks in France--an ongoing celebration

Being as the celebration of Thanksgiving does not exist outside of Canada and the United States, it would only make sense that the holiday's name would not translate. On the contrary, being as it is, above all, a holiday based around food, the celebration itself transcends this language barrier. This year, we english assistants stationed in Toulon and across the South of France pulled out the stops to spread the joy and weight-gain that epitomizes our national traditions of Giving Thanks.

Clockwise from left: Dirty rice, garlic mashed potatoes, turkey farcie, cranberry relish,
sweet potato pie (complete with pecans and marshmallows)
Sur la table: un bout de pain de maïs (fitting on the table and not on the plate: a piece of homemade cornbread)

The infinite mutterings of the word "dégueulasse" ("disgusting") at the shear mentioning of a pie made from a fall squash, or a potato dish topped with sugary-goodness, was all put to rest with the tasting of these Thanksgiving staples.   I am personally proud to report that nine native citizens of the Wine and Cheese Capital of the World (and the numbers are mounting) have now been converted to Southern Style mashed sweet potatoes (ie. that delicious concoction of the orange potato and its unlikely mate, the marshmallow).  Of course, no Thanksgiving would be the same without the pumpkin pie. My dinosaur of a 1960s Moulinex mini-oven has now seen its share of potimarrons roasted to perfection and transformed into a type of mysterious tarte aux citrouilles which has, until now, never scented its antique metalic walls. I am certain that if it could talk, it would confront me with the most french of queries: "Mais, qu'est-ce que c'est que ça?!" ("What on earth is that?!").

The ultimate potluck-style Thanksgiving;
a gathering of language assistants and
"Turkey Day" flavors  

A Brit finished off the pumpkin pie

Patricia with her magnificent
"dinde" (turkey); the only one
I have ever seen in France
at this time of the year.

 Thanksgiving Southern Style: including
"dirty rice" and sweet potato pie;
also featuring real cranberry relish...
as real as you can get with jazzed-up
imported canned cranberries. 

In any case, America can now add Thanksgiving to its list of exports... though maybe not as high up on the list as popular culture and religion. In Toulon and across the South of France, certain french citizens will, from this moment on, have more than McDonald's to think of in relation to American cuisine, and I know a particular Englishman who now has an affinity for certain Thanksgiving favorites.

And so I raise my glass to a growing international community, a mélange of cultures and cuisines, and to the two best orange-tinted Thanksgiving classics conquering taste-buds across the globe: sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie.

  

This year, I am thankful for the opportunity to share my love of country with those who have so deeply influenced the meaning of that very phrase in my life and worldview. Thank you to Patricia and Roland Pavia-Orengo for their unwavering support, patience, and concern for my physical health (ehem Roland).  Thank you to my colleagues at Lycee Rouviere for never hesitating to include me in the family of faculty and staff, and for making it your goal that I do not "m'ennuie" (get bored) in this beautiful region. Thank you to my students who consistently show interest and excitement for such topics as the "America on the 4rd Thursday of November" and who keep open minds and open mouths for a piece of "sucré salé patates douces" (sweet potato pie).  Thank you to this year's group of Language Assistants in Toulon for forming a true home away from home, because, let's face it, sometimes you just really need to play an intense game of Apples to Apples or watch english movies that are not dubbed in French.

Notre famille française à table à Sospel (4 hours at the table this time?)

And finally, thank you to my family for continuing to support my adventurous spirit and desire to discover all that the world has to offer. Next year, save me a plate, "Ill be home for Christmas..." and most definitely Thanksgiving.

L'automne provençale

Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.

Stanley Horowitz

   

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.

William Cullen Bryant

On the real Nordic Track

Strolling the grounds at the Norsk Folkemuseum: 

traditional Norwegian houses moved from original foundations 

to allow visitors a glimpse of Norse life in the 1200s and beyond.

Norway, the land of world-class skiers, Leaf Erikson, and strong-willed scandinavian women. Within moments of landing in Oslo, Norway, I felt immediately at home.  It was a unique feeling of familiarity and comfort unlike anything I have felt in Europe as of yet... even in France.  Such a sensation is especially peculiar considering that I have no genealogical links to Norway, nor Scandinavia in general, and have not, until now, had the privilege of visiting this mystical land of fjords and Viking ships.  During my sort stay in Olso and the days which followed, I spent a good many moments reflecting on this impressive Norwegian warmth. Perhaps it is cold climate that has a special way of bringing people together, a sort of survival strategy or system of protection against the impending loneliness that often accompanies freezing weather. Whatever the cause, there was no shortage of smiles and warm welcomes and the inhabitants of Oslo (especially my delightful friend Anne and her charming family) know how to make a person feel right at home.

A breath-taking visit to one man's masterpiece: Vigelandsparken

At every turn, there was something strangely familiar about Oslo, something perhaps programmed into my senses. The weather helped; for one thing, the climate is much the same as in the midwestern United States in October. Contrary to the predicted snowy weather forecast at the time of my visit, a hazy rain cloud blanketed Oslo's coastline, granting it the same autumnal feel as that which Chicago experiences this time each year. The air hangs heavy with the essence of wet freshly fallen leaves and the burning of the first logs in the fireplace.  People flood the streets eager to soak up the fleeting sunlight and brisk autumnal air before the temperature takes its annual dive into the "below zeros."  The sepia tones in the trees serve as a sort of transitional backdrop to the more striking, glamorous colors of the Christmas season, prematurely lining the streets and storefront windows. So far, I suppose I have not described anything out of the ordinary from what one might find in France or the United States in the fall, so what makes Oslo so cozy...

One might say that it is the overall classiness of the city--it is the essence of elegance without arrogance. Oslo competes with Tokyo as the city with the highest standard of living in the world... therefore making it one of the most expensive places to call home. People are paid significantly higher wages, but they essentially pay it all back in taxes, more costly loaves of bread, and a classier lifestyle.  I found myself face-to-face with high-class local art everywhere (even the grocery store!) and was passed by locals in designer rain boots every few feet. The inhabitants of Oslo have certainly adapted to their environment--by making high fashion functional and by creating interior spaces to be those most desired.

The apple muffin of a lifetime: 

the quantity of butter used in the making 

of these sumptuous baked delights 
would make Julia Child proud.  

The coffee culture in Oslo presents a perfect example of this functionality.  The coffee houses of Norway's capital are what every Starbucks dreams of being (and it for this that there is not a single Starbucks in Oslo, and why, while I was squealing with delight over this realization, my norwegian friend was wondering what Starbucks even was!).  They are filled to the brim with passers-by, shoppers, and businessmen on their way home from work, much like any other coffee house, but there is something strikingly genuine about the atmosphere.

The handcrafted goodies gracing the glass pastry case windows have a natural, perhaps classic beauty to them joining effortlessly with an element of heartiness.  Among such delights is one truly unique cheese: brunost (literally translated: brown cheese). It is unarguably a delectable mélange of two of the best flavors on earth: cheddar and caramel. A strangely sophisticated love affair between these two tastes, it glides across the palate like heavy satin and a lingers like a warm embrace.  This unconventional combination of a cheese was surprisingly a hit with the french who found it to be unlike anything even they have ever tasted.

The epicurean delight that is everyday Norwegian cuisine: 

the "tsmørbrød", or open-faced sandwich 

fresh shrimp and crudités (left) and 

"brunost" or brown cheese (right)


All in all, I found Oslo to be a center for a series of such amalgamations. The perfectly balanced juxtaposition of its Neo-Classical, Funtionalist, and Contemporary architectural structures is easily observed by way of a ride on the downtown tramway. Even the ride itself makes the passenger feel like a part of the mix, weaving in and out of motorists, cyclists, and pedestrians who all share the city's railed streets.

here's to turning "eclectic" into "classy" on a citywide scale!

Local public transit proves, once again, 

to be the best way to see what a city has to offer. 

Ecouter les cerfs! In the animal kingdom, size does matter.

 There are moments in life when we, humans, are reminded of just how connected we are to the natural world.  Such moments often come to us as heart-warming epiphanies, momentos of our bond with the flora and fauna. Let's be honest, who hasn't shed a tear or sighed admiringly in the midst of a well-presented program on the Discovery Channel? We ultimately belong to a greater network of love and loss in which instinct and curiosity replace the need for language. 

A curious doe plays peek-a-boo with our equally curious group of people

It is amidst these "warm fuzzies" that I came to an astonishing, and all too comedic, realization: with the exception of language and the use of opposable thumbs, there is little to distinguish man from stag when the female entity is present.  I recently had the pleasure of accompanying Patricia, Roland, and their friend Philipe on a hike high in the Alpes Maritimes to experience something of which I was oblivious until now.  There is a time of year in the fall when stags challenge each other for the title of "King of the Mountain." For any homo sapien familiar with this game of physical force, the object is the same for these pheromone-charged deer.  This display of machismo subsequently draws the attention of the neighboring females (or "hind"), because, let's face it, what woman wouldn't want to watch while men fought over her?  Really she just hopes the winner is handsome, charming, responsible, takes out the trash... wait, I suppose deer have more basic needs. In that case, it is safe to say in this case that the largest stag wins. Size does matter.

As I stood frozen in awe (and a bit chilled as well), I could not helped but be impressed by the magnitude of manpower being declared across the mountains.  The music of bravado reverberating off of stony cliffs and filtering through wooded passes was breath-taking. It was the type of stereo surround sound that even the most high-def speakers couldn't capture. Even though I wasn't the one being called after, I felt strangely drawn to the sound of bellowing and such displays of self-glorification. While such calls lacked literal linguistic translation, it did not take much imagination to decipher the interaction. Within an instant, I was transported back to the grade-school playground (or the high school football game; or the college bar scene; or the professional work environment...the story is timeless) to a scene of two young boys dealing each other blows to the self-esteem while intrigued adolescent girls look on gossiping about a predicted outcome.

"I could totally take you!" "Oh yea? Well, come and get it!" Who has the bigger muscles? The quicker tongue? Throws first punch? The last one? Ultimately, who gets the girl?

Sound familiar? It gets better. Once he has proven himself in battle the stags then commits himself to a devoted mating ritual with his newly "won" ladies. The comment was made that the ladies are less likely to be faithful and usually move on to have several different mates. Evidently, even in the natural domain, the gals suffer the same phenomenon as we daughters of Eve;  the man talks a big game, is lucky enough to win a fight, but then doesn't come through in the real time of need. A lady needs satisfaction, and if she finds that her man's "brame" is bigger than his bite, a doe's got to do what a doe's got to do.

Pessimism is contagious

Like most mothers, or parents in general, my mother has a list of sayings that she keeps at the forefront of her conscious mind at all times, dormant but itching to be consulted at any moment when there is need for a bit of enlightenment. This infamous list embodies the timeless classics "This too shall pass" and "Live life to the fullest," but I find that the ones that pack the fullest punch are those which have a bit of bite to them. Such quotes remind you of your own faults, catch you in your own traps, and ultimately keep you grounded.  Parents are there to lift you up, but they would be doing you an injustice if they didn't knock you off your high horse every so often to discipline you in the ways of humility.  Reading this, I'm certain that my mother and mothers the world around are beaming with self-contented satisfaction, but I'm sure I speak for more than a few Twenty-Somethings when I say that all those tedious sayings have by now burned a list in our own minds and, whether consciously consulted or not, make themselves heard.

The truism which has grown from a whisper to an emphatic nagging is none other than: "Pessimism is contagious" (perhaps followed by "No one likes a pessimist").  I found myself falling into the pessimistic and critical spirit of, I dare say, the French. To their defense, such a statement embodies the true spirit of a rampant stereotype; not all french are cynical, but judging from my experience, I can attest to the fact that very often, the French (and subsequently myself) do not acknowledge just how good they have it. It is always easier to criticize and emphasize faults than to appreciate prosperity.  Perhaps we feel that we sound more intellectual or sophisticated.  Whatever the reasoning, pessimism nevertheless becomes an unshakeable cold, making its home in the deepest roots of emotion and logic, and spreading to others as a contagious plague of negative energy.

Recently, I found myself falling into the trap, the pit of negativity. It began with a bout of homesickness and mild loneliness which always comes with moving to a new place, but I allowed it to fester for a month or so, permitting it to flow through my thoughts and words like a french scooter in heavy traffic.  I found faults with my apartment, despite the fact that it is exceptionally "securisé," and complete with laundry in the building for an insanely cheap rate, exercise machines, and a stunning view of the mountains that serve as one of Toulon's best-selling features.  I am in walking distance of the daily Provençal market, the mall and most-frequented grocery, and an SNCF (train) "boutique" which saves me from having to walk to the train station every time I need to plan and trip or change my tickets.  The lively port is steps away and transportation home late in the evening is not a problem because I can walk to most everything.  Sure, it is a bit ridiculous that, in a town of sailors and students, the bus stops running at 9pm and the "night bus" literally stops when morning picks up (12am), but there I go again....

Nothing is perfect, and if it was, it would not be interesting.