Bonjour à tous. I'm currently in Paris, living up these final two weeks before I head back to the US of A.
Today I visited the city's Marche des Puces, the largest and oldest flea market in the world (trivia fact!). All the guidebooks tout it as a bargain hunter's paradise, spend a day there if you can, etc. etc. So I figured it worth a trip.
The most visible part of the market consisted of several blocks of white tents under which mostly immigrants sold pretty standard street fare: cheap clothing, scarves, purses, household items, bric-a-brac. Hookahs and Rastafarians were well-represented. I did see one artist's tent with great coffee sack collage paintings, but other than that, nothing really tempted me about this area. There are certainly reasons to shop here-- if one desires a bargain leather jacket, say, or a wallet to replace the one that was stolen at last week's Marche des Puces, this is the place to go. But charm lies elsewhere.
Specifically, it lies in a tangle of narrow alleyways off the main boulevard. You have to duck into it between sportswear and deodorant tents, almost like you might miss it if you walked too quickly. It's the antiques section of the market.
Just a few steps from the bustling commercial hubbub, I suddenly found myself in a little village of overpriced, yet fabulous antiques. It was surprisingly quiet today-- just me, a Swedish tour group, and a British family examining a 3,000€ table. My inner hopeless romantic swooned over a decrepit gramophone with a sign that read: "Still works." (80€ on sale.) I settled for some old postcards and called it a day.
dimanche 5 juin 2011
mercredi 27 avril 2011
How Do You Say "Awesome" In Viking?
Hello all! I am currently traveling through the UK. I spent Easter weekend in Edinburgh, then on to York, then a couple of days in Bath before reveling in proximity to the royal wedding in London.
But first, let me tell you about the reenactment extravaganza that was my day.
This morning I went to the Castle Museum in York. Not much remains of the castle except the name, and anyway, that's not the focus of the museum. Rather, the collection chronicles aspects of daily life from the 1600s to today: things like clothes washing,children's toys, even toilets. . . Which I admit was kind of fascinating. My favorite exhibit was on 1960s. Listening to the Beatles while examining Mary Quant fashions somehow gave me the urgent desire to time-travel.
As for the reenactment part. The museum features a reconstructed Victorian street, complete with working shops, newspapers, and a simulated transition from night to morning. I wish there had been more faux Victorians around, but who am I to complain?
Any reenactment-related disappointment I felt at the Castle Museum was quickly erased by the Jorvik Viking Center, where even the wildest animatronic fantasies come true.
After walking through a fascinating exhibit on the Vikings and the archaeological excavations in York, you step into a roller coaster car. Then, without warning, you find yourself lurching at a snail's pace into a carefully reconstructed Viking village.
The soothing voice from your headrest speaker welcomes you to Coppergate, the village whose excavations you've just seen. Look! A man carving a deer antler! (The car slows down and turns toward the animatronic Viking, in case you weren't looking). the narrator addresses him in Viking language, a romantic cross between Swedish and Clingon. Then- wait for it- the Viking answers back. His soulless face pivots toward you, Exorcist-like, while his mouth opens and closes in Viking speak.
And so on past a craftsman, a butcher's shop, a busy commercial street, and- as the tour's final joke- a Viking on an outdoor Viking loo. The museum put so much effort into this reconstruction that it even smells like a Viking village (Scratch n Sniff postcards for sale in the gift shop). Thank you for making my day, Jorvik. And possibly my year.
But first, let me tell you about the reenactment extravaganza that was my day.
This morning I went to the Castle Museum in York. Not much remains of the castle except the name, and anyway, that's not the focus of the museum. Rather, the collection chronicles aspects of daily life from the 1600s to today: things like clothes washing,children's toys, even toilets. . . Which I admit was kind of fascinating. My favorite exhibit was on 1960s. Listening to the Beatles while examining Mary Quant fashions somehow gave me the urgent desire to time-travel.
As for the reenactment part. The museum features a reconstructed Victorian street, complete with working shops, newspapers, and a simulated transition from night to morning. I wish there had been more faux Victorians around, but who am I to complain?
Any reenactment-related disappointment I felt at the Castle Museum was quickly erased by the Jorvik Viking Center, where even the wildest animatronic fantasies come true.
After walking through a fascinating exhibit on the Vikings and the archaeological excavations in York, you step into a roller coaster car. Then, without warning, you find yourself lurching at a snail's pace into a carefully reconstructed Viking village.
The soothing voice from your headrest speaker welcomes you to Coppergate, the village whose excavations you've just seen. Look! A man carving a deer antler! (The car slows down and turns toward the animatronic Viking, in case you weren't looking). the narrator addresses him in Viking language, a romantic cross between Swedish and Clingon. Then- wait for it- the Viking answers back. His soulless face pivots toward you, Exorcist-like, while his mouth opens and closes in Viking speak.
And so on past a craftsman, a butcher's shop, a busy commercial street, and- as the tour's final joke- a Viking on an outdoor Viking loo. The museum put so much effort into this reconstruction that it even smells like a Viking village (Scratch n Sniff postcards for sale in the gift shop). Thank you for making my day, Jorvik. And possibly my year.
mardi 29 mars 2011
Italy, Monaco, France, Oh My!
The day after Carnival, my friend took me on what she calls the "Three-Country Tour": a day-long sweep through Ventimiglia, Italy (right on the border with France), Menton, France (first town you come to from Italy), and Monaco. The goal was to see the change in the towns from one country to another-- the three were palpably distinct, despite their proximity. And, it just feels cool to say you were in three countries in one day.
Ventimiglia is the Tiajuana of France. French people make regular day trips across the border to take advantage of lower prices on alcohol and 10-lb buckets of Nutella. (Literally. There were entire stores that sold nothing but alcohol and giant Nutella jars.) Despite the comparison with Tiajuana, I found Ventimiglia quaint and loveable. It needed some repairs and a fresh coat of paint, but that just added to the charm. The residents seemed more relaxed and quicker to smile than the Rivierans across the border.
The catchy synthesized jingle played in all French train stations welcomed us to Menton. The first word in my head as we arrived here from Ventimiglia was: polished. Menton seemed tidier and more put-together, but less charming, than the previous town. The streets were clean and broad. The buildings were freshly painted, in beige.
But we had chosen to come to Menton for a specific reason: the Festival des Citrons ("Lemon Festival")! Once a year, Menton creates a monumental sculpture garden, where all the sculptures are made of lemons and oranges. Imagine really artistic Citrus Bowl parade floats on steroids. That's the Festival des Citrons.
But alas, like it's contemporary, the Nice Carnival, the festival kept its citrusy masterpieces behind high walls and charged exorbitant prices to see them. So we peeked through the gate, snapped a couple of pictures, and said goodbye to Menton.
Monaco might as well have been a different planet. We stepped off the train, walked through tunnels of marble and dark wood, and emerged in a tear-shaped fairyland of banks and designer labels. Monaco is beautiful, historic, and surprisingly green with all its parks and trees. My friend and I wandered through the steep cliffside town until our legs gave out, then headed back to the real world.
Ventimiglia is the Tiajuana of France. French people make regular day trips across the border to take advantage of lower prices on alcohol and 10-lb buckets of Nutella. (Literally. There were entire stores that sold nothing but alcohol and giant Nutella jars.) Despite the comparison with Tiajuana, I found Ventimiglia quaint and loveable. It needed some repairs and a fresh coat of paint, but that just added to the charm. The residents seemed more relaxed and quicker to smile than the Rivierans across the border.
The catchy synthesized jingle played in all French train stations welcomed us to Menton. The first word in my head as we arrived here from Ventimiglia was: polished. Menton seemed tidier and more put-together, but less charming, than the previous town. The streets were clean and broad. The buildings were freshly painted, in beige.
But we had chosen to come to Menton for a specific reason: the Festival des Citrons ("Lemon Festival")! Once a year, Menton creates a monumental sculpture garden, where all the sculptures are made of lemons and oranges. Imagine really artistic Citrus Bowl parade floats on steroids. That's the Festival des Citrons.
But alas, like it's contemporary, the Nice Carnival, the festival kept its citrusy masterpieces behind high walls and charged exorbitant prices to see them. So we peeked through the gate, snapped a couple of pictures, and said goodbye to Menton.
Monaco might as well have been a different planet. We stepped off the train, walked through tunnels of marble and dark wood, and emerged in a tear-shaped fairyland of banks and designer labels. Monaco is beautiful, historic, and surprisingly green with all its parks and trees. My friend and I wandered through the steep cliffside town until our legs gave out, then headed back to the real world.
samedi 26 mars 2011
Carnival!
Bonjour! I have finally re-entered the blogosphere. I have also finally started posting pictures of my recent trip to the south of France.
My trip was split into two parts, with two missions: 1. Five days visiting an old friend on the Cote d'Azur, and 2. Ten days in Provence to see what all the Peter Mayle-type fuss is about.
As for part one. This old friend was a study abroad roommate two years ago. She now lives with her French husband in Antibes, a town on the Riviera between Nice and Cannes (I know, sounds terrible). They were kind enough to put me up in their apartment while my friend played tour guide to their stretch of coast.
Luckily, my school break lined up with Carnival in Nice-- you will find pictures of this event below.
Of course I had to see the spectacle. I envisioned a raucous brouhaha clogging the streets, artistic masterpiece floats, music, noise, crowds going wild. . . But we were not in New Orleans, or Rio, or even Venice. Actually, it felt more like Disneyland.
At the beginning of the parade, the floats were lead into a gated-off parking lot. You could pay thirty euros a person (!!!) to enter the gates and admire the floats from the bleachers, or do as most people did and simply watch through the entrances and gaps in the gate. We chose the latter. At any rate, the spectacle seemed to be more for kids. The makeshift stadium was decorated with a kind of Under the Sea/Finding Nemo theme. The crowd was tame and family-oriented. My friend told me about some people she knew who, a couple of years ago, had tried to "liven up" the Carnival festivities with silly string-- and were almost forcibly removed by security. (Silly string did make an appearance this year, however. I will cherish the memory of a five-year-old girl assaulting some Japanese tourists with pink spray.)
While Carnival may not have been the Mardi Gras of my dreams, everyone seemed to be having a good time-- young, old, and especially, us.
My trip was split into two parts, with two missions: 1. Five days visiting an old friend on the Cote d'Azur, and 2. Ten days in Provence to see what all the Peter Mayle-type fuss is about.
As for part one. This old friend was a study abroad roommate two years ago. She now lives with her French husband in Antibes, a town on the Riviera between Nice and Cannes (I know, sounds terrible). They were kind enough to put me up in their apartment while my friend played tour guide to their stretch of coast.
Luckily, my school break lined up with Carnival in Nice-- you will find pictures of this event below.
Of course I had to see the spectacle. I envisioned a raucous brouhaha clogging the streets, artistic masterpiece floats, music, noise, crowds going wild. . . But we were not in New Orleans, or Rio, or even Venice. Actually, it felt more like Disneyland.
At the beginning of the parade, the floats were lead into a gated-off parking lot. You could pay thirty euros a person (!!!) to enter the gates and admire the floats from the bleachers, or do as most people did and simply watch through the entrances and gaps in the gate. We chose the latter. At any rate, the spectacle seemed to be more for kids. The makeshift stadium was decorated with a kind of Under the Sea/Finding Nemo theme. The crowd was tame and family-oriented. My friend told me about some people she knew who, a couple of years ago, had tried to "liven up" the Carnival festivities with silly string-- and were almost forcibly removed by security. (Silly string did make an appearance this year, however. I will cherish the memory of a five-year-old girl assaulting some Japanese tourists with pink spray.)
While Carnival may not have been the Mardi Gras of my dreams, everyone seemed to be having a good time-- young, old, and especially, us.
samedi 12 février 2011
More Strikes
The teachers at the high school went on strike again Thursday. This time, they protested the Education Ministry's decision to get rid of 16,000 teaching positions across the country, including ten at our school. This is in addition to the 50,000 positions suppressed in the last three years. Now, landing a teaching job in France is already difficult-- it requires a written and oral exam, and only the top scorers get offered positions. The suppression of posts will no doubt contribute to an already mind-boggling unemployment rate in France. As for existing teachers, the prospect of getting fired would normally be pretty remote. Teachers, like other public functionaries, would normally be "relocated" or given some menial job in the school system rather than just being kicked to the street. (One of the teachers here joked about how she could be the photocopy lady if her post gets suppressed.) However, with no more teaching jobs to be had, people are uncertain about what will happen.
In addition to the suppression of posts, teachers also protested the fact that teachers are generally becoming overworked, underfunded, and vastly under-appreciated-- to most Americans, the job description of a public school teacher. In the U.S., we tend to take the deplorable status of teachers for granted. I applaud these Frenchmen for doing something about it. Will it work? Who knows. But at least they're not standing by, watching their jobs deteriorate into the American norm.
In addition to the suppression of posts, teachers also protested the fact that teachers are generally becoming overworked, underfunded, and vastly under-appreciated-- to most Americans, the job description of a public school teacher. In the U.S., we tend to take the deplorable status of teachers for granted. I applaud these Frenchmen for doing something about it. Will it work? Who knows. But at least they're not standing by, watching their jobs deteriorate into the American norm.
lundi 31 janvier 2011
Les Soldes
Last weekend I shopped the Soldes in Paris. The Soldes are a six-week, biannual event where stores throughout the country are legally allowed to hold huge sales. (Yes, they need legal permission.) Paris is, of course, the epicenter of the Soldes-- not just for the French, but for people around Europe, and even some Americans.
On Saturday, I wandered through the Marais neighborhood-- a trendy area with lots of used book stores, antiques, that kind of thing-- to the big chain stores on the Rue de Rivoli. The lines were long, but the deals were good enough to wait. In the morning, at least. By mid-afternoon, some stores were so chaotic that I walked in and walked right back out. Think Black Friday.
Find of the day: In a second-hand shop haunted by young Parisian hipsters, I bought a little purse for my sister. A Google search revealed it to be an authentic designer purse that's probably worth a lot more than I paid for it. Words for the wise in Paris: thrift store!
After a not-so-restful night (party on the sidewalk outside + Travelocity reviews complaining of mice in the hotel), I spent the next day on the Champs-Elysees. Nowadays, the avenue features many chain stores that we plebeians can afford, though one can still find the houses of Louis Vuitton and Lacoste there. Louis Vuitton had a line at the door and a bouncer letting people in to shop in groups.
You know, I'm not a big fan of the Champs-Elysees. To me, it resembles a high-end strip mall more than romantic ideal of a high-fashion, old-money promenade. And, unless you really want an overpriced omelette served to you by a man in a sailor costume, don't eat there.
The Avenue de Montaigne, however, spurring off at an angle from the Champs-Elysees, is where that romantic ideal is alive and well. This is the shady boulevard where Chanel, Dior, Yves St. Laurent, etc. all have their "houses." You can walk by the window displays and see what fashion you might be wearing some version of in two or three years. It's amazing how few people you see on this street compared to the Champs-Elysees, when this, in my opinion, is the real attraction.
At the end of one's stroll down Avenue de Montaigne is a cozy, reasonably-priced cafe with a heated terrace and a clear shot of the Eiffel Tower. I discovered this cafe with my mom in October. I got a coffee and lazed as French-ly as I could, watched a massive roller-blading tour go by, and took in the view. To this day, nothing fills me with childlike glee as much as seeing the Eiffel Tower, not even finding a sale item in my size.
On Saturday, I wandered through the Marais neighborhood-- a trendy area with lots of used book stores, antiques, that kind of thing-- to the big chain stores on the Rue de Rivoli. The lines were long, but the deals were good enough to wait. In the morning, at least. By mid-afternoon, some stores were so chaotic that I walked in and walked right back out. Think Black Friday.
Find of the day: In a second-hand shop haunted by young Parisian hipsters, I bought a little purse for my sister. A Google search revealed it to be an authentic designer purse that's probably worth a lot more than I paid for it. Words for the wise in Paris: thrift store!
After a not-so-restful night (party on the sidewalk outside + Travelocity reviews complaining of mice in the hotel), I spent the next day on the Champs-Elysees. Nowadays, the avenue features many chain stores that we plebeians can afford, though one can still find the houses of Louis Vuitton and Lacoste there. Louis Vuitton had a line at the door and a bouncer letting people in to shop in groups.
You know, I'm not a big fan of the Champs-Elysees. To me, it resembles a high-end strip mall more than romantic ideal of a high-fashion, old-money promenade. And, unless you really want an overpriced omelette served to you by a man in a sailor costume, don't eat there.
The Avenue de Montaigne, however, spurring off at an angle from the Champs-Elysees, is where that romantic ideal is alive and well. This is the shady boulevard where Chanel, Dior, Yves St. Laurent, etc. all have their "houses." You can walk by the window displays and see what fashion you might be wearing some version of in two or three years. It's amazing how few people you see on this street compared to the Champs-Elysees, when this, in my opinion, is the real attraction.
At the end of one's stroll down Avenue de Montaigne is a cozy, reasonably-priced cafe with a heated terrace and a clear shot of the Eiffel Tower. I discovered this cafe with my mom in October. I got a coffee and lazed as French-ly as I could, watched a massive roller-blading tour go by, and took in the view. To this day, nothing fills me with childlike glee as much as seeing the Eiffel Tower, not even finding a sale item in my size.
mardi 18 janvier 2011
Tree Cats
It's been a pretty calm couple of weeks.
I'm working on this email exchange that a class of seconde students (15-16 years old) are doing with a French class at my old high school. Their assignment was to write an email in French telling a little about themselves, which I would then forward to the French teacher in the U.S. It's amazing how such relatively simple directions can produce chaos: several assignments haven't been turned in (due last Friday), some are in English, some are page-long letters from the kids who got into it, others are-- er-- slapdash (I like the boxe I have tree cats). Ah, working in a high school. . .
What else have I been up to? I joined a gym. Rather, I joined the gym. It's a small, but diehard operation. There are body-building trophies behind the desk, the words "Get Big Fast!" are painted in mural, and the walls are lined with photographs of the repulsively ripped. You know, I think the owner might be into body-building.
He's very nice, though. Not scary at all. When I signed up he asked me, "So what are you joining for? Do you want to get in shape? Do you want to get MUSCLEE?!" ("Just get in shape." "Oh, that's good, too.") As he was showing me the layout of the gym and the different machines, I suddenly realized: Wow, he really thinks I've never seen the inside of a gym before! Gyms are certainly more popular than they used to be, but still occupy a sort of frontier in daily French life.
Well, that's my latest update from Podunk, France. I'm going to Paris this weekend to raid the Soldes!-- I'll report on the plunder when I get back.
mercredi 5 janvier 2011
Taxi Trauma
Bonne année, as people are still saying!
Sorry I haven't written for a few weeks. I had a wonderful time spending the holidays in Kansas. In fact, I'm glad I got there at all. I got out of Charles de Gaulle airport about four hours before they cancelled all flights due to snow. Getting to the airport, though, was the real adventure.
My plan was to take a taxi to the high-speed train station, catch the 7:07 to CDG, and arrive with plenty of time to check in for my 9:30 flight. I reserved the taxi two days in advance to make sure I booked them before the snow fell. A teacher at school offered to drive me if they refused. "Would they actually refuse?" I asked. "Mmm. . . No. . ." he failed to reassure me.
6am Saturday morning found me and the Lithuanian assistant, who was sharing the cab, standing in the cold waiting for our taxi.
Waiting.
And waiting.
It was 6:15. I was calling the taxi service and getting the answering machine. The third time, I listened carefully to the message: "Hello, you have reached C--- Taxis. Due to the weather we cannot acquiesce to your demands. Thank you for understanding."
I was angry that day, my friends, like a man trying to return soup at a deli.
My friend knew that all the busses were cancelled except for one that went to a train stop in nowheresville. If we took that, maybe I could get to the airport in four hours or so. We started walking to the bus stop in the center of town. It was freezing. Only my ire kept me warm.
We passed two policeman hanging out in a bakery, chatting with the baker. My partner suggested we ask them for a ride.
Turns out they weren't policemen, but security guards. Nonetheless, they were very helpful. They got out a phone book and started calling different taxi services. No luck. Finally, one of the guards offered to drive us. It was very generous, and it's not like we had an option.
We arrived at the train station (with no problems) at 7:05. I had two minutes to get my ticket. Of course, as soon as I got to the counter, the man working there drew the shade and left. I tapped my foot, trying to look so visibly impatient that he would notice there were people with flights to make and get a move on. The intercom announces the arrival of my train. The man comes back. There's a young couple in front of me. They're asking about times, comparing prices, talking it over. . .
I can't take it anymore. I burst, "Are you going to be a long time? They're announcing my train!"
Thank goodness they were nice people. They insisted I go ahead of them. I slapped my online receipt in front of the man and ask for my ticket. He clicked his tongue reprovingly and said, "You should have gotten here earlier. . ."
But he gave me my ticket, I ran down the ramp, giant backpack just serving to make my run funnier, and-- I write this proudly-- made the 7:07 train!
Of course my flight turned out to be three hours late. But I got there on schedule, thanks to the generosity of a few Frenchmen-- and perhaps some divine intervention.
Sorry I haven't written for a few weeks. I had a wonderful time spending the holidays in Kansas. In fact, I'm glad I got there at all. I got out of Charles de Gaulle airport about four hours before they cancelled all flights due to snow. Getting to the airport, though, was the real adventure.
My plan was to take a taxi to the high-speed train station, catch the 7:07 to CDG, and arrive with plenty of time to check in for my 9:30 flight. I reserved the taxi two days in advance to make sure I booked them before the snow fell. A teacher at school offered to drive me if they refused. "Would they actually refuse?" I asked. "Mmm. . . No. . ." he failed to reassure me.
6am Saturday morning found me and the Lithuanian assistant, who was sharing the cab, standing in the cold waiting for our taxi.
Waiting.
And waiting.
It was 6:15. I was calling the taxi service and getting the answering machine. The third time, I listened carefully to the message: "Hello, you have reached C--- Taxis. Due to the weather we cannot acquiesce to your demands. Thank you for understanding."
I was angry that day, my friends, like a man trying to return soup at a deli.
My friend knew that all the busses were cancelled except for one that went to a train stop in nowheresville. If we took that, maybe I could get to the airport in four hours or so. We started walking to the bus stop in the center of town. It was freezing. Only my ire kept me warm.
We passed two policeman hanging out in a bakery, chatting with the baker. My partner suggested we ask them for a ride.
Turns out they weren't policemen, but security guards. Nonetheless, they were very helpful. They got out a phone book and started calling different taxi services. No luck. Finally, one of the guards offered to drive us. It was very generous, and it's not like we had an option.
We arrived at the train station (with no problems) at 7:05. I had two minutes to get my ticket. Of course, as soon as I got to the counter, the man working there drew the shade and left. I tapped my foot, trying to look so visibly impatient that he would notice there were people with flights to make and get a move on. The intercom announces the arrival of my train. The man comes back. There's a young couple in front of me. They're asking about times, comparing prices, talking it over. . .
I can't take it anymore. I burst, "Are you going to be a long time? They're announcing my train!"
Thank goodness they were nice people. They insisted I go ahead of them. I slapped my online receipt in front of the man and ask for my ticket. He clicked his tongue reprovingly and said, "You should have gotten here earlier. . ."
But he gave me my ticket, I ran down the ramp, giant backpack just serving to make my run funnier, and-- I write this proudly-- made the 7:07 train!
Of course my flight turned out to be three hours late. But I got there on schedule, thanks to the generosity of a few Frenchmen-- and perhaps some divine intervention.
mercredi 15 décembre 2010
Christmas Comes in Chocolate
I finally got to go to Brussels!
I went there three years ago, though just for a day, most of it spent riding the bus around the city while lost on my way to the train station. The city struck me as gritty, gloomy, gray. I didn't have a real desire to go back. But, some of my students told me that Brussels around Christmas was a must-see, so I decided I'd give it a second chance.
Really, I wasn't going to see the city of Brussels, but rather the Christmas Market they have every year. For the month of December the city center becomes a village of shopping and food stalls flanked by winter-themed activities. A quick Google image search got me excited: Lights! Ferris wheel! Mini-luge!
I went up there on Saturday morning and spent the afternoon wandering the aforementioned village. It was cute. I bought a few things. I sampled the chocolate (and oh, what chocolate. . .). This wasn't the market of my Google dreams, however. For that, I had to wait.
The market came to life after sunset. The lights came on. The ferris wheel and ice skating rink went up. The food and drink stalls (many, many drink stalls) lit up and radiated heat and smells through the crowd. And crowd it was. Shoulder-to-shoulder. In fact, it was so packed that after a while we became one giant herd shuffling slowly in a U-turn through the village. If you wanted to look at something, you had to swim crosswise through the tide and jump out. After several U-turns, shopping bag weighing heavily on my shoulder, I'd had enough.
On Sunday, I felt like I'd pretty much exhausted the Christmas Market. (I visited the Rene Magritte museum instead-- more on that later.)
Nonetheless, apparently addicted to Christmas markets, I went to the city of Amiens on Tuesday to see what their market was like. It was basically a rip-off of the Brussels market on a smaller scale, but I had fun anyway. I'm posting pictures of this below, including a short video of an animatronic kids' ride. Maybe you'll get as much of a kick out of it as I did.
So the Amiens market was comparable, but not on par with the Belgian one. I'm really glad I decided to venture to Brussels a second time. Short as it may have been, it revised my memories of the city for the far better. And more chocolaty.
I went there three years ago, though just for a day, most of it spent riding the bus around the city while lost on my way to the train station. The city struck me as gritty, gloomy, gray. I didn't have a real desire to go back. But, some of my students told me that Brussels around Christmas was a must-see, so I decided I'd give it a second chance.
Really, I wasn't going to see the city of Brussels, but rather the Christmas Market they have every year. For the month of December the city center becomes a village of shopping and food stalls flanked by winter-themed activities. A quick Google image search got me excited: Lights! Ferris wheel! Mini-luge!
I went up there on Saturday morning and spent the afternoon wandering the aforementioned village. It was cute. I bought a few things. I sampled the chocolate (and oh, what chocolate. . .). This wasn't the market of my Google dreams, however. For that, I had to wait.
The market came to life after sunset. The lights came on. The ferris wheel and ice skating rink went up. The food and drink stalls (many, many drink stalls) lit up and radiated heat and smells through the crowd. And crowd it was. Shoulder-to-shoulder. In fact, it was so packed that after a while we became one giant herd shuffling slowly in a U-turn through the village. If you wanted to look at something, you had to swim crosswise through the tide and jump out. After several U-turns, shopping bag weighing heavily on my shoulder, I'd had enough.
On Sunday, I felt like I'd pretty much exhausted the Christmas Market. (I visited the Rene Magritte museum instead-- more on that later.)
Nonetheless, apparently addicted to Christmas markets, I went to the city of Amiens on Tuesday to see what their market was like. It was basically a rip-off of the Brussels market on a smaller scale, but I had fun anyway. I'm posting pictures of this below, including a short video of an animatronic kids' ride. Maybe you'll get as much of a kick out of it as I did.
So the Amiens market was comparable, but not on par with the Belgian one. I'm really glad I decided to venture to Brussels a second time. Short as it may have been, it revised my memories of the city for the far better. And more chocolaty.
samedi 4 décembre 2010
Green Tents for a Greener Life
Well, I was planning to blog about the Christmas market in Brussels this weekend. My travel plans, however, have been waylaid by snow. Even though it's only a couple of inches, the local bus system has been shut down since Thursday.
So I'm stuck in Péronne.
A pause in the snowfall allowed me to get out of the apartment earlier, which was good not only for me, but for the neighbors above me, whom I was ready to severely maim if they did not stop blaring bad techno and running power tools. (Really people, what are you building up there? An ark?) On my way home, I found something to write about.
Two green circus tents, like the kind you'd buy fireworks at in a parking lot, sat near the high school. They looked unoccupied. A sign explained, "Le Chapiteau Vert"(The Green Tent), and gave a website.
Le Chapiteau Vert, according to said website, hosts shows for children that illustrate the importance of recycling and reducing waste. The shows are called, "Welcome Inside My Trashcan." The website linked a couple of YouTube videos, which I'll post here. One features clips of a past show; if you want, you can skip to 3:30 and watch Poubelle-man battle the Trash Monster, put a kid in a trash can, and lead the 6-year-old audience in raising the roof. ("Poubelle" means "trashcan," FYI.) The other is a karaoke rap by MC Poubellos.
The Chapiteau Vert seems like a fun and effective way to teach kids the importance of green living. If I had kids, I'd make them go. . . or rather, I'd use them as an excuse to see the show for myself.
So I'm stuck in Péronne.
A pause in the snowfall allowed me to get out of the apartment earlier, which was good not only for me, but for the neighbors above me, whom I was ready to severely maim if they did not stop blaring bad techno and running power tools. (Really people, what are you building up there? An ark?) On my way home, I found something to write about.
Two green circus tents, like the kind you'd buy fireworks at in a parking lot, sat near the high school. They looked unoccupied. A sign explained, "Le Chapiteau Vert"(The Green Tent), and gave a website.
Le Chapiteau Vert, according to said website, hosts shows for children that illustrate the importance of recycling and reducing waste. The shows are called, "Welcome Inside My Trashcan." The website linked a couple of YouTube videos, which I'll post here. One features clips of a past show; if you want, you can skip to 3:30 and watch Poubelle-man battle the Trash Monster, put a kid in a trash can, and lead the 6-year-old audience in raising the roof. ("Poubelle" means "trashcan," FYI.) The other is a karaoke rap by MC Poubellos.
The Chapiteau Vert seems like a fun and effective way to teach kids the importance of green living. If I had kids, I'd make them go. . . or rather, I'd use them as an excuse to see the show for myself.
lundi 22 novembre 2010
Quality Saturday in St. Quentin
I just posted pictures from my recent trip to St. Quentin, a small city (eight times the population of Péronne) an hour's bus ride from here. After receiving intelligence that there are ten teaching assistants there-- that's a lot!-- I decided it was time for a visit.
St. Q was just getting into the holiday spirit. Men were hard at work building a miniature Christmas village in the town center, complete with a gingerbread duplex and a statue of a pirate/Revolutionary/Ichabod Crane reading a book. I hope to visit again when it's finished. . . but can it compete with Péronne's festive disco ball? We'll see.
It was Saturday, so I had the good fortune to see St. Quentin's version of my favorite weekend activity: the market. Of course, it was more extensive and crowded than the market here. And the roast chicken stand didn't seem to be as popular. My favorite display, though, was definitely the cart of live rabbit and baby pig. No, these animals were not intended for dinner (although that was my first reaction). Instead, they served as visual aids for a woman selling cough drops to Save the Animals. I bought a box of cough drops and she let me pet them. So I petted a pig this weekend. Another life experience accumulated.
When I had exhausted the market, I visited St. Quentin Cathedral. The cathedral dates to the 12th century, although it's been bombed and re-built and re-bombed so many times that not much of the original remains. I've posted pictures of the visual highlights. I did not post a picture of the reliquary containing the "hand of Saint Quentin," which the church officials had mercifully relegated to a small side transept.
I met up with other assistants in the afternoon. There were eight of us in all. They proved to be fun, pleasant people. It helps that we all have something in common-- this boat called the teaching assistantship program-- and most of us were on the lookout for travel partners and day trip ideas. They also found the nerdy humor in the action figures I bought for my fiancé's nephew (Napoleon and Admiral Nelson doing battle). It's a good group. We went for coffee, then the St. Quentin-ites showed us a lovely park with a petting zoo. The park also featured a miniature work-out center for children (literally, see the pictures below) and a little play area modeled after castle ruins.
I wish I could think of a more inventive way to end this post, but it was a good day. That's probably true about any day that ends with a playground.
St. Q was just getting into the holiday spirit. Men were hard at work building a miniature Christmas village in the town center, complete with a gingerbread duplex and a statue of a pirate/Revolutionary/Ichabod Crane reading a book. I hope to visit again when it's finished. . . but can it compete with Péronne's festive disco ball? We'll see.
It was Saturday, so I had the good fortune to see St. Quentin's version of my favorite weekend activity: the market. Of course, it was more extensive and crowded than the market here. And the roast chicken stand didn't seem to be as popular. My favorite display, though, was definitely the cart of live rabbit and baby pig. No, these animals were not intended for dinner (although that was my first reaction). Instead, they served as visual aids for a woman selling cough drops to Save the Animals. I bought a box of cough drops and she let me pet them. So I petted a pig this weekend. Another life experience accumulated.
When I had exhausted the market, I visited St. Quentin Cathedral. The cathedral dates to the 12th century, although it's been bombed and re-built and re-bombed so many times that not much of the original remains. I've posted pictures of the visual highlights. I did not post a picture of the reliquary containing the "hand of Saint Quentin," which the church officials had mercifully relegated to a small side transept.
I met up with other assistants in the afternoon. There were eight of us in all. They proved to be fun, pleasant people. It helps that we all have something in common-- this boat called the teaching assistantship program-- and most of us were on the lookout for travel partners and day trip ideas. They also found the nerdy humor in the action figures I bought for my fiancé's nephew (Napoleon and Admiral Nelson doing battle). It's a good group. We went for coffee, then the St. Quentin-ites showed us a lovely park with a petting zoo. The park also featured a miniature work-out center for children (literally, see the pictures below) and a little play area modeled after castle ruins.
I wish I could think of a more inventive way to end this post, but it was a good day. That's probably true about any day that ends with a playground.
vendredi 12 novembre 2010
Teenagers for Retirement
I feel like I have to say something about the recent demonstrations over retirement age reform.
I know that people in the U.S. (and maybe elsewhere) were bombarded with images of burning cars and stone-throwing. I assure you, however, that these incidents were limited to Lyon and the suburbs of Paris. Throughout France-- including in Péronne-- the demonstrations were relatively tame.
So what was the issue, anyway? One of the other teachers explained it to me:
Sarkozy raised the retirement age from 60 to 62. Nobody was happy about that, but the French are aware that they have one of the lowest retirement ages in the world, and the age itself was not necessarily the main cause of alarm. Rather, people felt that the president was robbing them of a treasured social benefit. One they had worked hard to obtain. This generous retirement package was one of the spoils of electing, after a long struggle, a socialist president in the 1980's.
The strikers also floated a sort of domino theory: if the president takes away this right, what will he take away next? Since France tends to be a model for other European countries, people also worried that this move would make foreign leaders feel free to take away the rights of their own people.
But why so many high schoolers, you may ask? What do they care about retirement?
Good question. Indeed, teenagers made up the bulk of demonstrators in streets throughout France. The reasoning they gave to TV interviewers was that, if the older population keeps their jobs longer, then fewer jobs will open up for young people. I think that general anti-Sarkozy sentiment and the sheer coolness of joining a social movement didn't hurt, either.
Strike day in Péronne started at 7am sharp. You would think these teenagers would take advantage of being on strike and, you know, sleep in a little. Instead, I woke up to the sound of cheers, horns, and vuvuzelas leftover from the World Cup.
The teachers at my school had already informed me that I didn't need to bother showing up to class that day. There wouldn't be many English teachers at school, and even fewer students. A rumor floated around that the kids were going to blockade the entrance to the high school so that no one could get in or out. That never happened, but they did crowd around outside the school to chant and make noise. The police were there-- not doing anything, just watching and chatting with each other. They looked bored.
In the afternoon, the students had a parade through the town. They started at the high school, walked down the main street, rallied in the town square, then looped back. They chanted in unison ("Sarko! Sarko! Something Something Something!") and held hand-drawn banners ("Don't Extend Retirement to the Grave!"). The police followed slowly in their cars, just in case. I followed them for a while-- at a distance, since they had small fireworks like Black Cats that they left in their wake.
I took some videos on my iPhone that I'll post here. One is of the rally in the town square. There is also an up-close video of the parade that I took later in the day, after things had quieted down a bit and the kids had run out of Black Cats.
As someone told me, "It's been a few years. . . About time for a big strike!"
I know that people in the U.S. (and maybe elsewhere) were bombarded with images of burning cars and stone-throwing. I assure you, however, that these incidents were limited to Lyon and the suburbs of Paris. Throughout France-- including in Péronne-- the demonstrations were relatively tame.
So what was the issue, anyway? One of the other teachers explained it to me:
Sarkozy raised the retirement age from 60 to 62. Nobody was happy about that, but the French are aware that they have one of the lowest retirement ages in the world, and the age itself was not necessarily the main cause of alarm. Rather, people felt that the president was robbing them of a treasured social benefit. One they had worked hard to obtain. This generous retirement package was one of the spoils of electing, after a long struggle, a socialist president in the 1980's.
The strikers also floated a sort of domino theory: if the president takes away this right, what will he take away next? Since France tends to be a model for other European countries, people also worried that this move would make foreign leaders feel free to take away the rights of their own people.
But why so many high schoolers, you may ask? What do they care about retirement?
Good question. Indeed, teenagers made up the bulk of demonstrators in streets throughout France. The reasoning they gave to TV interviewers was that, if the older population keeps their jobs longer, then fewer jobs will open up for young people. I think that general anti-Sarkozy sentiment and the sheer coolness of joining a social movement didn't hurt, either.
Strike day in Péronne started at 7am sharp. You would think these teenagers would take advantage of being on strike and, you know, sleep in a little. Instead, I woke up to the sound of cheers, horns, and vuvuzelas leftover from the World Cup.
The teachers at my school had already informed me that I didn't need to bother showing up to class that day. There wouldn't be many English teachers at school, and even fewer students. A rumor floated around that the kids were going to blockade the entrance to the high school so that no one could get in or out. That never happened, but they did crowd around outside the school to chant and make noise. The police were there-- not doing anything, just watching and chatting with each other. They looked bored.
In the afternoon, the students had a parade through the town. They started at the high school, walked down the main street, rallied in the town square, then looped back. They chanted in unison ("Sarko! Sarko! Something Something Something!") and held hand-drawn banners ("Don't Extend Retirement to the Grave!"). The police followed slowly in their cars, just in case. I followed them for a while-- at a distance, since they had small fireworks like Black Cats that they left in their wake.
I took some videos on my iPhone that I'll post here. One is of the rally in the town square. There is also an up-close video of the parade that I took later in the day, after things had quieted down a bit and the kids had run out of Black Cats.
As someone told me, "It's been a few years. . . About time for a big strike!"
lundi 8 novembre 2010
Back to the Beginning
Well then!
Welcome to my blog, a record of my seven-month sojourn as a teaching assistant in France. I'm sorry it took me so long to get this started-- I've already been here for about six weeks-- but I have had some internet issues, which would fill a blog in and of themselves. I have already written a few entries in anticipation of creating a blog, which I will post here. I wrote the first one right after arriving in France. I stayed in Paris for a couple of days before moving on to Péronne, the town where I am stationed. I hope to post weekly, so. . . stay tuned.
"Get yourself a George Foreman grill, they're all the rage in America!"
Today I am visiting the Saturday market. It spans the central square, down a side street, and ends at the chateau. All of the Péronne, and it seems, everyone within a 50km radius turns out for the market. Like them, and for lack of other excitement, it has become the highlight of my week.
Just a few of the things you can find at the Saturday market:
- Clothing
- Furniture
- Mattresses
- Whole roast chickens
- Enough garlic to ward off the Twilight series
- Raw meat
- Fish (or just the head)
- A safety demonstration by your local fire department
- Infomercial demonstrations of cooking equipment
Needless to say, it's quite the spectacle.
However, it's a little disappointing compared to the Grande Foire de Péronne that they had last weekend. There were carnival games, Worlds-of-Fun-type rides (e.g. a giant pendulum that swung people 50 feet in the air over the heads of gawking spectators), and these amazing-smelling snack stands that sold crêpes and beignets and such. I thought they had this sort of Grande Foire every weekend. I've been let down.
But, as I said, this is my entertainment for the weekend, so I'm making the most of it.
Just a few of the things you can find at the Saturday market:
- Clothing
- Furniture
- Mattresses
- Whole roast chickens
- Enough garlic to ward off the Twilight series
- Raw meat
- Fish (or just the head)
- A safety demonstration by your local fire department
- Infomercial demonstrations of cooking equipment
Needless to say, it's quite the spectacle.
However, it's a little disappointing compared to the Grande Foire de Péronne that they had last weekend. There were carnival games, Worlds-of-Fun-type rides (e.g. a giant pendulum that swung people 50 feet in the air over the heads of gawking spectators), and these amazing-smelling snack stands that sold crêpes and beignets and such. I thought they had this sort of Grande Foire every weekend. I've been let down.
But, as I said, this is my entertainment for the weekend, so I'm making the most of it.
Péronne, first impressions
I'm stationed in Péronne, a hamlet of 8 or 9 thousand inhabitants 80 km north of Paris.
There is one main street flanked by a central plaza. From the plaza, where I'm sitting now, you could be in any decent-sized town in France (albeit on a side street on Sunday). There are 3 and 4-story buildings, very pretty, all with different character. However, if you walk a few blocks south, the town just. . . stops. You'll be looking at 4-story buildings crammed together, then when you turn around you're looking at pure nature. It's a little sudden. The "pure nature" is pretty, at least. Very pretty.
There are a lot of young families and elderly people. The people I've encountered have been incredibly nice. In that respect, I am lucky. They also like Americans here. There is a store called American Stock that sells Guess and Levi's. There was also a game atd the carnival last week that was advertised by a picture of a cowboy, an Indian, and Clint Eastwood. I imagine that, being in the country, cowboys are pretty popular here.
So, other than the occasional struggle with boredom or homesickness, I'm doing well.
P.S. They're packing up the market, and a van just rolled by literally within a few inches of my table. I had to move a chair so he didn't hit it. He leaned out the window and said, "Merci!"
There is one main street flanked by a central plaza. From the plaza, where I'm sitting now, you could be in any decent-sized town in France (albeit on a side street on Sunday). There are 3 and 4-story buildings, very pretty, all with different character. However, if you walk a few blocks south, the town just. . . stops. You'll be looking at 4-story buildings crammed together, then when you turn around you're looking at pure nature. It's a little sudden. The "pure nature" is pretty, at least. Very pretty.
There are a lot of young families and elderly people. The people I've encountered have been incredibly nice. In that respect, I am lucky. They also like Americans here. There is a store called American Stock that sells Guess and Levi's. There was also a game atd the carnival last week that was advertised by a picture of a cowboy, an Indian, and Clint Eastwood. I imagine that, being in the country, cowboys are pretty popular here.
So, other than the occasional struggle with boredom or homesickness, I'm doing well.
P.S. They're packing up the market, and a van just rolled by literally within a few inches of my table. I had to move a chair so he didn't hit it. He leaned out the window and said, "Merci!"
Arrival: 9/27
This arrival into Charles de Gaulle went a lot more smoothly than it did when I studied abroad. (For the few of you who didn't hear that saga, just know that it included confusing the words for "escalator" and "stairs" and a solid forty minutes of circling around a staircase.) This was much easier-- only one suitcase, general familiarity with CDG. Nonetheless, I had my moments (I don't care if I'm in your way, I have to get up these stairs!!) Actually, CDG changed some of their escalators into moving, variously-inclined ramps where you have to shift your weight in order to stay upright. It was half-carnival ride, half-mountain climbing. I'm sure I look like an urchin right now.
N.B.: I learned the secret to why French women never look like they just got off an eight-hour flight: they all go into the ladies' room at the airport and re-blowdry their hair. I found that interesting.
So anyway, when I finally found the hotel (thank God for GPS), I was pretty disheveled and beat. All I wanted to do was curl up in my hotel room that wasn't ready yet. But then, the man at the reception desk was so nice. He (kindly) spoke to me in French. I got a seat at the hotel cafe, pulled out my notebook, and ordered this kind of make-your-own-café-crème kit with coffee, hot milk, and hot water. Now I'm lost in writing while sipping a café crème that the bustling proprietor won't let me pay for.
Yes. This is why I do this.
N.B.: I learned the secret to why French women never look like they just got off an eight-hour flight: they all go into the ladies' room at the airport and re-blowdry their hair. I found that interesting.
So anyway, when I finally found the hotel (thank God for GPS), I was pretty disheveled and beat. All I wanted to do was curl up in my hotel room that wasn't ready yet. But then, the man at the reception desk was so nice. He (kindly) spoke to me in French. I got a seat at the hotel cafe, pulled out my notebook, and ordered this kind of make-your-own-café-crème kit with coffee, hot milk, and hot water. Now I'm lost in writing while sipping a café crème that the bustling proprietor won't let me pay for.
Yes. This is why I do this.
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