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.

The new residence

For all those interested in keeping the postcard companies in business, I have a new address (at least for the time being...).   Merci en avance! Note that for each postcard received at said address, one will be sent to you! For security purposes, I will email it to you if I have not already done so. Happy travels!

Allons-y, encore une fois: the return to France

Regardless of the fact that I practically neglected to write all summer, I feel that my most recent time in the States has impacted me as my past 8 months in France. I dealt with the most intense and confusing homesickness that I have ever experienced, and it taught me a great deal about myself--specifically my expectations of myself and of those I love. I owe everyone at home a round of applause for handling my emotional confusion with such grace and perseverance, and for teaching me the art of patience and unconditional love.

I feel like I am living in a perpetual state of bizarre consciousness between my two worlds.  It is as though time stops while I am away from either one; people's lives move forward--people get married, go back to school, get new jobs--but my life stays frozen in time, waiting for me to return and pick up where I left off. Eventually, --sooner rather than later, I feel-- this cycle will end and I will be left both reeling and ready for something new and different.  In the meantime, I look forward to changing my life, once more, with new opportunities, adventures, and discoveries.

This school year, I will be working once again with french students between the 2e and BTS levels, this time at Lycée Rouvière in Toulon, France.  Upon receiving word that I had been accepted for renewal, I immediately knew that there would be compromise this time around. I would be closer to the Mediterranean Sea and closer to transportation, but farther from the peace and quiet that I had come to know and love in Lorgues. Life would be more expensive, being as I would now be closer to means of travel, a social scene, and "civilization" as one frenchman put it. My previous experience with Toulon was during last year's training, during which I remember thanking my lucky stars that I was stationed in such a paradise as Lorgues.  It was with this mental image that I embarked on my newest adventure. The adjustment was not what I was expecting. Logically speaking, I knew my new life would take some getting used to, but I was surprised by my immediate homesickness for autumn in Chicago, my local grocery store's specialties, and the comforts of my daily routine. I had been pining for France for months; what had happened? I partially blame the chaotic chain of events involving my papers and visa.  In actuality, I was preparing for the worst, had come to accept it as the definite future, and when destiny decided to kick in, I wasn't ready.

Having now had a few days to take in french culture once more, and a good 24 hours to adjust to Toulon, I can feel my blood pressure dropping and my stomach settling. I am currently living in a studio apartment in a dormitory-style building for local students. This living situation itself is an interesting addition to this experience.  I was less worried about the size of the room and the 4 flights of stairs, and more about the noise factor, but to my surprise, the building is more or less silent. I do not know how many of the units are actually occupied at this moment, but I seldom hear any semblance of inhabitation. I was hoping that this Résidence des Etudiants would mean instant friends and a good social network. I completely forgot how intense the french education system can be, thus how studious the students are at the university level. It is, of course, only day 2 in Toulon, so only time will tell all that can come of this new chapter.

"Le Nausea"; does it ever get easier?

In my second stateside return, I have discovered that culture shock is an organic thing, constantly changing with each trip and each set of adjustments made in preparation for that bizarre nausea, that subtle panic and discomfort.  Culture shock is a uniquely strange sensation in which one feels out of place in their own home.  I believe it is true to say that home is where the heart is, but what happens when you have your heart in more than one place? Living abroad, or simply in contrasting cultures, is one special way to find that one's heart has the capacity to be just as multifaceted, if not more so, than the head.  You learn that you become sentimental for the strangest things--usually the little things that you took for granted or even detested at one point or another.  How else would college students bond with their parents after years of confrontation? Absence/distance makes the heart grow fonder. The problem lies in that the heart grows nostalgic and glorifies something only to find upon returning that the something is not quite what they remembered.

My culture shock experiences regarding my homeland of the US of A have had an interesting progression.Upon my return from Paris, I was shocked to find my eyes opened to the serious problem of obesity in the States.  I felt frustrated by the size of everything being far too large for the good of any human being, not to mention the environment.  I had remembered food as tasting better than it did upon my return and was horrified to be reminded poor quality wine sold for relatively speaking twice as much as the average bottle in France.  Basically, I was shocked at the level of my own snobbery, but I found it difficult to break from such high standards when the basis was not simply the taste but the difference in nutritional importance.  I wore my freshly rejuvenated francophile nature on my sleeve, much to the dismay of my loved ones, until I fell back into my daily routines of my american lifestyle.  This "nausea," as Baudelaire called it, set in almost immediately and endured for relatively a week and a half.  I was perhaps sentimental, but I had not spent enough time (in my opinion) growing attached to the specifics, and therefore missed only broad concepts.

This second time around, I faced a much different set of circumstances (including but not limited to physical and emotional attachment brought on by my eight month stay, personal relationships, and an obnoxious exhaustion from too much travel).  These factors proved to be a much more serious combination than the last experience (of which the culmination was my consistent disappointment with the quality of croissants in the Chicagoland area). I had spent my eight months nurturing close-knit friendships with people spread across the globe, specifically those with whom I had lived in France, and who would most likely not be there if and when I returned.  I had lost contact with a good many of my close college friends, consequently discovering those of my friends that meant the most to me because I made an obvious attempt to keep up with their lives.  This debacle of a social situation was one element that threw my life topsy-turvy, and in combination with a new job founded in pizza and tourists, I found it difficult not to pine after my lost life abroad.  This new culture shock took a few weeks to come to fruition, but it lasted nearly two months.  It was one of the most difficult times I have faced, in the sense that I felt quite alone (regardless of the support of my parents and the understanding and patience of my boyfriend).  I could not, for the life of me, pinpoint the source of my unhappiness, nor the reason behind my lack of motivation,  nor the deep well from which constant emotional turmoil rocked my body to the point of felling physically ill.

With the promise of moving back abroad, I felt saved from myself, from my relentless restlessness.  Traveling has officially become a drug--an expensive one, at that, but one with better end results and fallout than all the others.  I suppose the question I am left with is this: "Le Nausea"-- Does it ever get easier? Or will I simply be forced into discovering all the hidden niches of my heart and all the complexities of my mind with each trip home? Which leads to yet another question: which home?

Stateside Round 2

It was recently brought to my attention that I have seriously neglected this recording of my life's twists, turns, and international adventures.  I am not lying when I say that I have had every intention of transferring my thoughts and photos from my paper journal to this digital one, and that the word "blog" has remained on my multitudes of To-do lists for months (even if it was at the bottom).  All this being said, there will effectively be a large gap in the timeline delightful events marking my last months abroad this time around.  These moments are recorded elsewhere, but I feel that working backwards to rewrite them here would not only be counter-productive given the lack of free time available, but also, I get the sense that the emotions and perspectives of these memories would be skewed by not having been written in the moment. This would therefore make them less-than-honest representations of themselves, which defeats the purpose of this online chronicle.

Basically, to sum things up, my last months in France went like this:
-Springtime hits the Lycee (last blog post).
-I am visited by my boyfriend, with whom I spend three adventurous (train strike and natural disaster-ridden) weeks traveling between Paris, Le Touquet, Brugges, Bordeaux, Lorgues, Monaco, and Sospel.
I could write a series of blog posts on this trip alone. Amazing.
-I return to Lorgues to finish up my remaining two weeks of school, while also packing up the entirety of my apartment and preparing for a trip to Spain. Such a tough life I was living... sigh.
-I move out of my apartment on the last day of school and immediately embark on a weekend of exciting, action-packed activities and rendez-vous with Patricia.
-I leave for Spain three days after the end of school and spend 26 consecutive hours on 8 different trains in attempt to reach Sevilla. I arrive to find sunshine, tapas, lemon-tasting beer, and relaxation. I stay 3 days in Sevilla before heading to Madrid to spend a week with a friend I met in Morocco months before. Marc=best tour guide ever. I get quite sick with some mystery illness and spend nearly 2 days in bed before heading to Tolédo for a matter of hours, then to Barcelona for a weekend with Patou and Roland. Here, another series could be dedicated to Barcelona. Two words: Antoni Gaudi.
-Following our return from Spain, I had a matter of a week or so left in France, and I crammed for my last lessons of TEFL certification (which I have yet to complete).
-The eve of my departure was spent with surrounded by my favorite people in France (minus Lucy) at a BBQ thrown graciously by Patricia and Roland.  This lively dinner followed a day of shopping at the Vide-Grenier in Sospel, and I could not have imagined a better finale to 8 of the best months of my life so far.

And so here it is, July already and it all still feels like I could step out my front door and expect to be on my 12th century street.  My french is fading a bit (as I discovered today when I sought desperately for the translation of the word "couch").  My culture shock will be the discussion of another blog post, but I can definitely say that I feel that culture shock will never entirely disappear once you have lived abroad.  Mme. Brault, my college french advisor and mentor, told me once that you will always feel some sense of homesickness no matter where you are, once you have fully experienced another culture.  You long for elements of the culture even if you were craving your home-cooking every day you spent abroad.  My "mal du pays" has come in quite a different and much delayed form in comparison with my last homecoming experience, and I am intrigued by how much each homecoming might be different, and consequently change me and my perspective each time.

My relationships with people have also changed. Travel and long-distance living give you great insight into who your best-of-friends really are, and in a harsh way, show you with whom you truly wish to stay connected.  I have also come to realize that my relationships formed in the extreme situation that was Lorgues, will perhaps never be the same again, but will not fall away like those of my high school career.  While I may not have much time to reminisce between taking drink orders and running pizzas, I think of France everyday; I long to indulge in friendly "soirées des filles" and Patricia's gourmet cooking... just one more time.

High schoolers in springtime; they're "twitterpated"

Spring is upon us here in Lorgues, and with every walk through the high school courtyard, I am reminded of that scene from Disney's "Bambi" when all the animals are in love and cudoodling.  They're "twitterpated" as the old grouchy owl explains it.  However unlike the old owl, I find myself strangely unaffected by such excessive public displays of affection.  These loving couples in mid-kiss appear to be simple extensions of the high school building's architecture when you pass by them every five feet.  I have asked myself if perhaps my apathy is born of bitterness and jealousy at not being among this congregation of happily entwined young lovers.  My romantic interest is, after all, halfway across the world, making any semblance of physical embrace a complete impossibility.  Perhaps a small portion of my dispassion stems from resentment, but I feel that the real causes are rooted elsewhere.  It is possible that I have grown desensitized to the openness of affection that is so customary in french culture.  I no longer feel the shock and repulsion I felt when walking the streets of Paris last spring. And while I continue to view such public fondling as inappropriately timed and placed, it has effectively become an element of everyday life.

In any case, it was not so long ago that I was in their shoes.  It is the beginning of that age when innocence is fleeting and when raging hormones and emotions may not always make for the best of situations, yet never fail to produce entertaining results.  Everything is the end of the world, or the beginning of a new one.  When walking through the halls of Lycée Lorgues, I often wonder if my high schools halls were as full of such amorous spectacle.  Somehow, I doubt that I was as as enthused by public displays of affection, even back then, but I do find myself far more reserved now when giving hugs and being within the personal space of others.  I find that such a loss of conviviality is rather unfortunate, being as I rather enjoyed the option of being cozy in the presence of random friends.

Nonetheless, twitterpated teenagers are a perfect sign of spring, especially when surrounded by tweeting birds and jovial squirrels.... a sight to see, for sure.

"Julie and Julia;" inspiring more people than just me, I am sure

And so I emerge from that daze which follows watching any truly delightful film, especially upon the first viewing.  The recent box office hit, "Julie and Julia" starring the icon of an actress, Meryl Streep, has hit home with me as well as with women across America and across the world.  I am not being all too over-dramatic when i say "the world," as I have found that french women (at least those in the south) are in as much of a frenzy over the film as my friends back home.  I held out to see the film, determined to see it in "version originale" (ie english, and not dubbed in french), and found myself constantly taunted by praise for the film at every turn.  I even found myself in a conversation with a local bus driver, an italian woman, living and working in france, who "simply could not believe [I] had not seen it yet!"

The concept is brilliant. The wonderful woman who thought to combine traveling, cooking, blogging, eating, and Meryl Streep, is truly a genius.  I have no doubt that every woman in America, and many across the world (or at least english-speaking french anglophiles) will be flocking to purchase their own copy of the masterpiece that is "Mastering the Art of French Cooking." I would not be surprised if husbands and boyfriends across the land will be experiencing their ladies cooking their way through the book(... not that the men would complain).  While it is rather a copycat idea, I have personally placed this monster of a task on my life's-to-do-list, with hopes to conquer those key elements of cooking that have managed to escape my comprehension.  

To this goal, I have added one of my own design.  I was already conceiving of this notion as I began to accumulate recipes with each trip to Sospel, but Mrs. Julia Child and her miraculous story have given me a swift kick to start the ball rolling.  I decided, for the purpose of further studying and retaining the recipes I have learned while in France, that I am to type them all up in both english and french and compile my own sort of personal bilingual collection.  It is to be as illustrated as photos as will allow, and personalized with the comical anecdotes that paralleled each cooking adventure.

The goal is not to attempt to write a cookbook, but rather to simply review my notes and thus to retain them for future cooking.... oh, and of course, to have the sumptuous occasion to eat delicious food.

And I say once more... "C'est bon d'être gourmande!"

Berber whisky and its culture (Moroccan hospitality)

When traveling in Morocco, there is one thing every tourist should accept and expect: Moroccan Hospitality.  While this notion applies to the attitude of its good-natured locals, warm and inviting riads, and the unending array of guides for those attempting to navigate the winding streets of the medina, it specifically refers to the moroccan tradition of mint tea.  This tradition is a custom, probably excercised as often as the five daily prayers of the local religion, Islam. It is not that the tea is a part of the religion, nor is as important, but more so that it is simply a cultural norm.

They call it Berber whisky, a term we heard at least once a day on our 2 week tour of the country, and with good reason: it is delicious to the point of being addictive.  Perhaps it is the fact that you are offered (and expected to accept--though not forced) said tea at practically every house, riad, and business establishment that you happen to have the pleasure of entering, which helps the addiction take hold.  Or maybe it is simply the sugar content.  It is a combination of green tea (de Chine), fresh mint leaves, and copious amounts of sugar (approximately 1 tablespoon per 5 oz glass).  Or perhaps it is because it warms you thoroughly passing from the physical realm to the emotional, and then even into the spiritual.  This may sound drastic, and even a bit frightening, but the truth is that it creates a break in a stressful day, a sactuary in a difficult situation, and an oasis in a desert of exhaustion.  

Like the unending greetings of "salaam 'llekum" (arabic meaning "peace be upon you"), and the countless cries of "bienvenue" (french meaning "welcome"), the moroccan tradition of mint tea is meant to help you feel at home and comfortable, be you even from another side of the globe.  We often heard the phrase, "This is your [second] home" spoken to tourists in any number of languages.  While some might say (and it may be true in certain instances) that this warmth and hospitality is present for the simple sale of a carpet or necklace, we found it to be the standard even among those with nothing for sale but their friendship.

In Fez, we wandered into one of the hundreds of local shops, drawn in by the beauty of the craftsmanship, and were shocked to find that all the merchandise was crafted two doors down by friends of the vendor.  He invited us to have a look for ourselves, and when we had finished poking around, we sat down for some good ol' mint tea.   We ended up spending at least 2 hours of each of our 3 days in Fez at this niche of a workshop, and enjoyed ourselves immensely.  We took in tastes of local customs, played music, viewed bits of a regional film,  and at one point, we even met the vendor's mother.  Our new friend educated us in the local artisanal crafts and the meanings of the different colors used (green for Islam, blue for Fez), and gave us advice about our intricately-planned itinerary for our travels in his homeland.  Guided in part by his recommendations, we decided to break from our plans and head south to the desert instead of continuing on a tour of the imperial cities.  It is for this that we were able to explore most deeply the true meaning of Moroccan hospitality.  

We learned that our new drink of choice was the single strongest common factor tying together all the places we visited.  It is the common thread weaving together the cultural differences across Morocco, from the post-colonial european cities to the nomadic Berber tribes of the mountains and deserts.  We shared in this custom with our guides in the Sahara, our Senegalize immigrant riad-owner in the Toudra Gorge, and our culture-sponge food-tent friends in the Jamal fna Square in Marrakech, and we left feeling as though the tea had brought us together (with a little help from fate).  

It became a great equalizer between us and our newly made friends in a land where our native tongue was spoken, but only as a third or fourth option, and where the religion was not only different, but also at odds politically and culturally with that of Christianity and our cultural norms in secular France.  99% of the time, the tea was "offert" meaning "free of charge," and thus served as an economic equalizer as well.  It was to be shared with all, regardless of whether or not he/she could afford it.  This, to me, is a true sign of hospitality.  It did not matter that the tea was rather inexpensive to make; it mattered that it was free of charge regardless of where we traveled in the country.  Of course, in a few cases, there was the pressure then to purchase something in appreciation for the hospitality shown, but we found that it sufficed to be openly grateful and graciously take our leave if we did not feel inclined to buy. Such an exit was usually followed by, "Bienvenue en Maroc! Vous êtes chez vous." ("Welcome to Morocco! May you feel at home.") uttered without the slightest twinge of sarcasm, even if the disappointment was evident.  

We were served tea when we descended from the bus after our 10 hour overnight ride to Merzouga in the desert, and again when we reached the desert hostel 1 hour later.  We were offered tea by a family of Berbers when we happened to stumble upon their humble abode in the midst of our hike in the mountains. Instead of sending us away in hostility for violating their privacy, then welcomed us into their home to share with us their own personal moroccan hospitality.  Despite language barriers (they spoke neither french nor english), we formed a bond lasting for that brief moment in time that will never fade from my memory.  We shared tea with our riad owner in the Toudra Gorge who subsequently took us on a free tour of the neighboring villages and upon our return at the end of the day, he taught us how to make couscous the traditional way, mixing it with your hands.

We shared tea on several occasions with our friends at Food Tent #12 in the Jamal fna square, at which we became regulars in our short stay in Marrakech.  We became common acquaintances with the boss's wife who came around at the same time every night, and even gave us her plate of food when the communal tagine dinner was served to the employees.  Our two girlfriends later when on an evening excursion with two of our new friends at #12, and the boys surprised them with a traditional dish called Pastilla knowing how eager the girls were to taste it.

 

By the end of our trip, we were on our way to being able to make the tea, pour it, and serve it like real Moroccans.  I feel like the sense of hospitality that came with the education is one we will continue to honor and share with others... perhaps with a glass of mint tea. 

Photo credits: Photos 4 & 5 by Lucy Hodge; Photo 8 by Julie VanHorne