les aventures d'une fille américaine en france

To bise or not to bise?

2010-11-27T19:25:00.026+01:00

That is the question!

This article is beyond overdue! As an American in France, one of the most pleasing but perplexing customs is la bise. For you non-francophones out there, la bise is a greeting in which French friends and acquaintances exchange kisses on alternating cheeks.

The first time I was greeted with la bise was by a work colleague my second day of teaching primary school. I sort of froze when she leaned in, and I noticed that her lips never actually touched my face. She just sort of pressed her cheeks against mine and made kiss sounds in the air. She noticed that I stiffened a bit and that I had not actively kissed her back, and asked if we had this custom in the States. I told her no, but that I liked it very much. I was elated to be assimilated into this pillar of French culture immortalized in cheesy junior high French class videos.

In eighth grade, I couldn't wait to visit France and get "bised." It seemed so chic, so breezy, so effortless, so very, very French. Au contraire, I never expected how much effort la bise would require for an American expat.

Mass bising anxiety

Last year while living in Metz, a French friend took me out to meet her friends at the ultra chic La Place Café. We arrived in a low lit fashion bar with pulsating music and extremely well dressed clientele. I felt awkward enough already in my fluffy white sweater amid a sea of sleek black outfits, but when we arrived at our table where 15 were already seated, my heart skipped a beat. We removed our coats, and I smiled and waved at the table of French strangers and began to sit down, thinking my friend would introduce me. I received some very strange looks. I glanced helplessly toward her, but to my horror realized she was halfway around the table, giving la bise to each and every person present. I stood up quickly, but then wondered if I was meant to do the same, since I had never met these people. The answer was OUI. If you attend a function and are introduced by a mutual friend, it is usually customary to offer "la bise." Thankfully, one of the other guests at the table introduced himself with a light kiss on each cheeks. I then bravely made my way around the table. After the table learned I was American and not accustomed to kissing strangers, the mood lightened considerably. Before leaving, the entire table repeated the ritual again. I did some calculating. If each bise consists of two kisses, that means I gave out 30 kisses to the 15 guests before dinner, followed by another 30 after dinner when we said goodbye. 60 kisses at one dinner? How much can my immune system take? I wondered.

Selective bising
One of the most unnerving experiences I've had with la bise happened with a work colleague at one of the schools I taught at last year. She was always very cold with me, and I never did figure out why. When we arrived at school in the morning, she would bise everyone but me. I developed all sorts of complexes, wondering if there was something wrong with me. I felt the sting of rejection each time she bised those on each side of me. I felt invisible... I would greet her and kind of lean a bit towards her, not sure what to do. If I received any acknowledgment at all, it was a curt nod and an expressionless bonjour. It wasn't until my last day of teaching at that particular school that I received a gracious bise from her as if we had been doing it all along... I never did figure out the reason for her selective bising, but I do know that it is a great way to alienate people.

Bising with strangers
Another awkward experience with la bise occurred when my American friend Kathy and I were photographing inside a beautiful gothic church. Although the church had been empty, a group of people soon arrived, to celebrate a baptism. We decided to leave out of respect for the event, and as we headed toward the exit, the mother approached me wither her baby in tow, and the next thing I knew, she was bising me like an old friend. She must have thought I was a friend of the family. I was stunned, and almost started to explain that I was not part of her group, but realized it would be easier to just bise her and get it over with. I glanced over my shoulder at Kathy, and saw her mid-bise with another person in the family. We smirked at one another and continued heading to the door, bising everyone between us and the exit. Many introduced themselves with warm smiles, and told us how great it was to see us. It really was lovely, and I almost wanted to stay and enjoy the dinner with them afterward. We smiled, continued bising dozens of complete strangers before eventually making it to the door. Safely outside, we collapsed on the ground in a fit of laughter.

Some wisdom on bising
After over a year of living in France, I can offer the following advice on la bise. ::DISCLAIMER:: I do not claim to be a professional, so be advised that I am not to be held responsible for any awkward situations that result from any bise gone awry due to my advice.

Gender roles of la bise
-Women and women bise
-Men and women bise
-Men and men do not bise each other unless they are close family or friends. They generally shake hands.

When to bise:
-when greeting friends and family
-when a friend introduces you to his or her friends, you should bise them (bise by association)
-when greeting colleagues (but follow their lead)

When NOT to bise:
-when the sleazy guy flirting with you in the street asks to (he will cheat and aim for your lips. ew!)
-when greeting your superior
-when you're sick

When in doubt:
-shake hands

Whatever you do...
Whether you choose bise or not, remember that you still must greet everyone individually when entering a home, party, or workplace.

La bise by region

Just in case you weren't already thoroughly confused by the intricacies of la bise, the French decided to complicate things even more by assigning different numbers of kisses to different regions. Depending on what region of France you visit, you will be greeted by 2, 3, or even 4 kisses. Living in Metz and Toulouse, I have had it pretty easy, administering only two kisses, but imagine my surprise, receiving a THIRD kiss when visiting beautiful Montpellier. Sound intimidating? Not to worry, even the French are confused by regional changes. To illustrate the complexity of la bise, I have included this adorable map which shows the number of kisses by region.

How to approach la bise as a foreigner

I can attest that most of the awkwardness that comes from la bise is due to our tentativeness as foreigners to greet someone in such an unfamiliar way. Even if you're nervous, outward confidence is key. Hesitation will only worsen the situation. Approach la bise as if you have been doing it your whole life. It takes grace and swiftness. Offer your right cheek first, like shaking hands. Don't actually let your lips touch the other person's cheek. Lightly press cheeks together and make the kiss sound. Stay loose, don't freeze up.

Even if it's uncomfortable at first, trust me, it gets better with time and experience. Barack and Michelle can do it! so can you! Yes we can!

Happy bising, tout le monde!

Observations on French vs American Universities Part 2: FASHION

2010-11-02T19:01:00.009+01:00

Dress is one of the most obvious comparisons I can make between American and French students. In American colleges, the "uniform" typically consists of jeans, t-shirts, sneakers, and backpacks. Many girls stumble out of their dorm rooms for 8am classes wearing pyjama pants, or jogging attire and no one raises an eyebrow. As an art student, my jeans were perpetually covered in oil paint, charcoal, and ink. I gave up straightening my hair or wearing makeup if I had an early class.

Now I, like many, assumed that college life, while not identical in various countries, had several... universal qualities. Well, as a teacher in a French university, I can now say that FASHION is not one of these shared traits.

I am in absolute AWE of my French female students, who work the hallways like a runway. Their enviably and impossibly slender legs sport sleek leggings under tunics or miniskirts, tucked into leather high-heeled boots or perhaps ballerina flats. Throw on an edgy jacket and an artfully tied flowing scarf (which is a science of its own right), and crown with a messy chignon on top of head. Allow a feel tendrils to fall around an immaculately made-up face. The aim of this hairstyle (which I will henceforth and forthwith call a "topknot") is to look as though it took 30 seconds to achieve, yet probably took hours of arranging every strand just so... Or perhaps it really does take them 30 seconds, due to their French blood and the inherent flawlessness it entails. Many throw on a pair of the geekiest, thick-rimmed glasses I have ever seen... and here is the weird thing: it AMPLIFIES their hotness! Backpack? ::raises a critical brow:: You must be joking. The most popular bag seems to be a Longchamp bag. Even the guys carry them! Accessory number 1, of course, is a cigarette delicately poised between two fingers and elegantly bent wrist.

As for the French guys, forgive me if I pay less attention to their attire. What I do know is that they always have extraordinary leather shoes, never scuffed or anything less than gleaming. Only a French guy can wear a V-neck sweater, slim-cut jeans, a purple scarf, and carry a longchamp bag and not at all be concerned about his masculinity. Men in the States would sooner jam all their belongings into a bulging wallet stuffed in their jeans than carry a "man purse," but French men seem to have no issues whatsoever with this concept.

What really gets me is the French and their effortless ability to pull together an outfit from an assortment of seemingly unrelated and mismatched articles of clothing. I firmly believe they can walk through their closet with their eyes closed, select 5 random articles of clothing, and still manage to look sexier and more put-together than I do on my best days!

It's really amazing how I can look in the mirror in the morning and think I am the epitome of style and class. I could have a new outfit, gorgeous leather boots that click deliciously on the cobblestones as I walk, flowing hair and a flattering shade of lipstick, but the instant I enter the classroom, I feel frumpier than your great aunt Myrtle at a Sunday afternoon tea party. It's like walking a gauntlet each them I enter the classroom. The eyes of the female students dart over me from head to toe, checking to see if my belt goes with my shoes, grimacing when they realize I am carrying a reusable plastic shopping bag. They murmur to one another, probably about what soirée they are attending Friday night, but the paranoia has seized control of me after witnessing their stares. Maybe they notice the 4 kilos I've gained since moving to Europe.

Expat ladies in France, take note of my words of wisdom: No matter how much you spend on French clothes, how much you practice walking the medieval streets all day in high heels, how many desserts you decline, how many cigarettes you smoke, how many hours you spend emulating the way they tie their scarves or their elusive "top knot," you can never, ever compete with the French and their natural finesse for fashion, their absence of cellulite, and their talent for turning a disgusting habit like smoking into the sexiest thing in the world.

What you can do is take comfort in the following:

A. French MEN will love you anyway, if for nothing more than your charming anglophone accent. As horrible as you think it sounds, the French think it sounds cute! Even if you butcher your conjugations, all the better. Tant mieux! (Think sexy British chanteuse Jane Birkin, who despite living in France for over three decades has kept her very pronounced accent. I think she does it on purpose.) I cannot count how many free drinks I have received simply because of my "accent délicieux." As much as I wish I could eliminate my accent when I speak French, French men beg me to "keep it forever," as their gorgeous French girlfriends scowl next to them.

Just remember not to get cocky, because if a French girl comes to your side of the pond, not only will she be better dressed, but she will also speak her seductive brand of English which sounds "like zeees."

B. They may have fantastically trim bodies, but you can enjoy the fact that you can consume more than cigarettes for dinner! That means you can actually enjoy the delightful cuisine France has to offer. Living in the Toulouse region, that means Cassoulet, Foie gras, Gaillac wine, Roquefort and Tomme cheeses, sausages and more. Ever wonder why so many of them look perpetually pissed off? They're jealous of you and your gastronomic freedom!

You know, writing this almost makes me feel better for my fashion and fitness, shortcomings. I felt inspired to re-attempt the famous top-knot, which, it seems, is yet another "top-flop."

Beautiful French women. If you can't beat them, join them. If you can't join them, blog about them...

My failed attempt at the messy French "top knot"

Observations on French vs American Universities Part 1: BATHROOM BEHAVIOR

2010-10-29T18:00:00.005+02:00

I've been teaching for a few weeks now in the French university, and have noticed a marked difference between college students from France and from chez moi aux Etats-Unis. While I have never taught university level students in the States, it's not that long ago since I myself was one of them, which gives me the street cred needed to make this observation...

In America, where public restrooms are practically a constitutional right, university students enjoy the liberty of using the facilities at their own discretion... usually trying to slip out the door discretely, causing minimal distraction to classmates. It is generally not required to ask the professor's permission, except during tests or exams, of course... I even remember casually walking out of particularly dull lectures to purchase snacks from the vending machine or answer phone calls.

I had always assumed my students in France would follow suit in my class should ever nature call... Take last week, for example. I was in the midst of what I thought was a riveting lecture about affirmative action in the US with one of my masters classes. I was speaking passionately, even eloquently, and was proud of myself for having so thoroughly researched today's class. One student made eye contact with me as I spoke, his lips starting to mouth something. Convinced that he was moved by my dazzling teaching skills, I grew confident. I can do this! I am teaching and I am making a difference in these people's lives! He was raising his hand now, doubtlessly inspired enough by my lecture to contribute an idea! I nodded in his direction to indicate I was aware of his burning need to speak his mind on the subject I had so artfully presented, and finished my thought. Then I turned to him and said, "so what are your thoughts on the 14th Amendment, Mattis?"

"euhhh, actually, Madame, I must use... euhhh... les toilettes, s'il vous plaît?"

"Oh," I said, disappointed. "well, go ahead." Here I was expecting a brilliant response, and instead I get a half-hearted (and half-French) request to use the bathroom.

Since then, I have been inundated by bathroom requests. Today, in the midst of drawing a diagram (very artistically rendered, I might add) of the American court system on the board, I was again interrupted by the all-too familiar question. A beast inside of me raged, and I snapped.

"For goodness sake, if you have to use the restroom, just go! You are all adults, and I won't stop you! I know you have to ask permission in French schools, which I could understand if you were still in primary school, but you're in UNIVERSITY NOW! In my class, consider yourselves in America! PLEASE DON'T ASK! JUST GO!"

I punctuated my miniature rant with an exasperated sigh, and then noticed that I had quite possibly scared my class mute with my impassioned delivery. Thirty pairs of eyes stared back at me, and as I pondered how to soften what had already been said, in the back row, someone quipped "Yes we can!" A chorus of giggles resulted, and of course, I tried to keep a straight face, failing miserably, and eventually succumbing to laughter.

I must admit that as much as my students drive me crazy, they make me smile in equal quantity.

Next year, I am putting "freedom of bathroom use" in my class rules...

Surviving my first week of teaching French University

2010-10-23T20:18:00.002+02:00

Well, I survived my first day of university teaching, nearly intact. Although the first day of class is fairly simple, entailing distribution of texts, going over grading policies, and making introductions, I was all nerves; Nausea in the pit of my stomach nervous. My undergrad students range from 18 to 22 years old, and my Masters students range from mid twenties to forties. Since I’m close in age and sometimes younger than my students, respect is a serious concern. It didn’t help that each time I entered the classroom, the male students gawked at me, the females eyed my outfit up and down, staring disapprovingly at my scuffed ballerina flats, and a murmur of reaction filled the room... as if I couldn’t understand French!

“But she’s so young!”

“I thought it would be a guy... Jamie... isn’t that a boy’s name? Like Jamie Oliver?”

“No, silly, it’s like the tv show “Super Jaimie” (The French version of the Bionic Woman)

I smiled and introduced myself to the class, briefly outlined the goals of the class, and instructed them to interview the person sitting next to them, before ultimately presenting their partner to the class. I had them come up with their own questions, which were written on the board. To spice up the boring list of questions (What’s your name? How old are you? What are you studying? Where are you from?) I added my own question to the list: If you could be any animal, which animal would you be, and why? Of course this broke the ice and the response was generally laughter. Phew!

After the round of introductions, I let the students ask me questions... which included:

“What country are you from? Your accent is strange!”

“Aren’t you rather thin for an American?”

“Are you single?”

I used this exercise for all of my 14 classes... and it was the final class on Friday where it took a turn for the worst. During the introductions, a male student presented his partner.

“Zees is Jean-Claude, he eez twenty-two years old, and he would like to sleep with you zees night!” he said with a wicked gleam in his eye.

A hush of horror fell over my classroom, and I also struggled to believe what had just come out of his mouth. Jean-Claude, his partner, turned white, and shook his head vehemently, as if saying he had no part in what had just transpired.

A few long, terrifying what do I do? moment followed. Send him out of the room? Diffuse with quick-witted humor?

I always think of witty responses.... always a few minutes too late... The class was starting to murmur... I could not lose control of them. I’d better assert my authority!

“Excuse me? Would you like to repeat that?” I demanded. “This is your first and final warning. I will never tolerate this disrespect in my classroom, and if you behave this way again, you’re out of this room, and failing this class. Do you want to be in this class? Comprenez-vous? Est-ce que vous-voulez être dans ce cours?”

He bowed his head and mumbled an apology, but it was too late, the entire atmosphere of the class had been spoiled. The rest of the period, the whole dynamic had shifted, and I could not smile. I walked out, deflated. I could never imagine a student in an American university behaving this way.

I had been doing so well this week... what happened?

Interesting how one event can spoil a series of good ones. Off I go to drown my sorrows in a French pastry.

I can't help but recall my first day teaching elementary school last year in France. See my article, First official day of teaching... Epic Failure

This most recent experience is 100 times more devastating! What I wouldn't give to exchange the uninterested stares of young adults for the effortless love and enthusiasm of children. I miss those kids so damn much. French people start off so adorable and full of life as children... what turns them into the painfully thin, cigarette-dependent, indifferent fashion plates that now sit before me? I'm probably being unfair, I need to give them time to warm up to me, and me to them... I'm just going to have to work a lot harder than I ever had to with the kids.

I have to bear in mind that I am living in the south of France... in a gorgeous new city, and realizing a childhood dream... for the second year in a row! "This is my dream" is now written on a post-it on my wall. A mantra to be repeated in times of difficulty.

Let’s hope next week is better... at least now I know what I’m up against. Better start preparing my arsenal of ‘quick witted’ responses now!

Update: Laptop disaster in France

2010-09-15T23:17:00.003+02:00

Just a quick update, as many of my readers have pointed out I have left a cliffhanger in one of my previous posts. Many of you may recall my panicked post "Laptop Disaster in France" in which I detailed the latest catastrophe I've had to deal with...

While staying with the Italians, I was ready to give up hope of ever being reimbursed for my damaged computer. The guy who fell on me was hanging up or simply not answering my calls. Cetina recommended contacting his insurance company directly... Come to think of it, he had mentioned the name of his insurance company.... Hmmm, interesting idea, but I expected nothing to come of it!

With Cetina's help, I penned an impassioned letter in French, detailing not only the monetary damage, but the emotional and psychological damage of having such a traumatic event befall both me and my computer. She told me to milk it for all it was worth. With the letter, I enclosed my repair bill and the receipt for my laptop.

I never expected to hear from them, but imagine my surprise today to open my mailbox and find a check from the insurance company for (you guessed it) 779 euros!!!

A triumph against what I thought were unbeatable odds, and a tremendous boost in morale!

Truly, I am in debt to the Italians for their help... it seems as though they were placed in my life for a reason... to straighten things out for me (my apartment woes, my computer repair fees, furnishing my new apartment, and raising my spirits with a fantastic trip to Andorra. Without them, I shudder to imagine where I'd be.

Adventures in Andorra with the Mysterious Italian Bikers

2010-08-22T16:13:00.022+02:00

Although I have spread my wings and left the Italians' nest after a week, we have kept in contact, emailing back and forth, making several shopping trips for the new apartment, and now, a trip to Andorra in the sidecar of their motorcycle!

I donned a magenta helmet and climbed into the sidecar, Luigi revved the engine and cranked up Duke Ellington, and Cetina lithely mounted behind him, dressed in a miniskirt and black boots. We set off through the streets of Toulouse, passers-by staring at us. I must admit I enjoyed the attention. To be part of their world, even for one trip, was like being in a film. I laughed out loud at the sheer craziness of the situation. One week prior, I was friendless and windowless in Toulouse, crying my eyes out... Look at me know! Not only do I have a visa and a new apartment, I'm riding in the sidecar of a motorcycle, careening through the Pyrénées mountains with two mysterious Italian authors!

Setting off from Toulouse, we were very soon in the mountains, a breathtaking sight to behold, even without snow in the heat of summer. We paused for a quick paella in a tiny French village in the mountains, and were soon in the tiny nation of Andorra.

Landlocked between France and Spain, Andorra is the 6th smallest country in Europe, known for being a tourist attraction and a tax haven. The reason behind our trip, I came to learn, was that Luigi wanted to restock on duty-free cigarettes. Catalan is the official language, although French and Spanish are widely understood.

I must admit that I was disappointed by the tawdriness of the cities of Pas de la Casa and Andorra la Vella (the capital.) The appearance of the shops and architecture was very cheap, and dare I say, UGLY. Framed by the majestic Pyrénées, these cities seemed ridiculously out of place. However, if you can spend as little time as possible in the cities, and immerse yourself in the savage natural beauty, Andorra is a paradise of jagged rock formations, green hills, and an abundance of precariously perched grazing sheep and goats wearing bells around their necks. This is easily some of the most dramatic scenery I have ever seen in my life.

The complicity of Cetina and Luigi is admirable. They have no need to communicate with words. They clearly are accustomed to spending hours and days at a time on the road, and of course conversation is impossible with the roar of the motor. And yet, observing them, they are in constant contact. A touch of a gloved hand, a pointed finger, a nod, a gesture indicating a desire to full over... they function seamlessly. Dressed head to toe in black, speaking French in rolling Italian accents, they truly belong in a movie. The sturdiness of Luigi is complemented by the delicate frame of Cetina, whose long curly hair is untamable even under a helmet... there is an artistic quality that I recognize in these two, and one of these days I will have to paint a watercolor portrait of them.

After a long day of hunting for duty free cigarettes, motorcycle accessories, and fuel, we shared a lovely meal (and several sangrias between Cetina and I) in Andorra la Vella before heading back to Toulouse. While most bikers have a reputation for being speed demons, Luigi drove steadily, handling hairpin turns with grace. A gentle rain began to fall, but I felt secure enough to drift off to sleep, despite the blaring blues CD and roaring motor.

It's amazing the difference a few short days and a few amazing new friends can make for one's morale. I am feeling more confident about my new life in Toulouse.

Cetina and Luigi serve a much higher purpose than simply renting me a room for a week. Whether they realize it or not, they have saved me from my own self-doubts and despair. What may have been just a cigarette run for them has been one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.

New Apartment in Toulouse

2010-08-20T15:43:00.005+02:00

After three solid days of panicked apartment hunting, I am happy to report that I have found a new chez moi! The new place is steps away from Place Capitole, and a two minute walk from the university where I will be working. The new place is tiny, but not without a certain charm, that comes mainly from the enormous window that provides a view of the tower of Saint Jacobin, a 13th century Dominican church that houses the mortal remains of Saint Thomas Aquinas.

I wanted to reserve the apartment on the spot, but the landlord said he had a few more interviews to conduct before he decided. My heart sank. I wondered if my being a foreigner made me an undesirable candidate...

Two days later, I hadn't heard from him, and worked up the nerve to call him. "Excusez-moi de vous déranger, Monsieur. I know you told me you would call me back when you made your decision, but I just wanted to know that I really really want the apartment, and I will take really good care of it, I promise!"

After a long pause, he responded "OK," with a trace of amusement in his voice. I wonder if he waiting this long to make me squirm!

I breathed a sigh of relief that was audible over the phone. "Oh, thank you! You have no idea how hard I have been searching!" I prattled on senselessly, and somehow he got a word in edgewise to make a date to sign the contract.

My appointment for the signing of the contract was August 10 at noon.

Two hours later was my Visa appointment at the Préfecture.

At my appointment, the clerk smirked when she saw the date of my apartment contract. "Just made it, eh?" she said.

I shudder to imagine what would have happened if I had no address for my visa appointment...

That major hurdle out of the way, I can now concentrate on my enjoyable things, like decorating. The Italians took me shopping in their Sidecar, and helped me move my luggage as well. I cannot begin to express my gratitude to them!

The apartment is a tiny studio, yet I have managed to make it my own with an Indian rug, posters, and decorations from my travels.

To celebrate, the Italians have proposed a day trip to Andorra, in the sidecar, of course!

Apartment Hunting and the Mysterious Italian Bikers

2010-08-09T21:32:00.001+02:00

After a single night in the god-forsaken apartment from hell, things are looking up. I could not stay there another moment, and spent the entire day scouring the internet for potential places to live. I have quite a deadline, considering my visa appointment is in a few days, and I absolutely must have a permanent address to prove residency! I haven’t found a permanent apartment yet, but I’ve found temporary relief in an Italian couple who rents out a room in their beautiful Toulousain apartment on a short term basis. From the tranquility of their apartment, I can sleep insect-free, and also search for an apartment with use of their phone and WIFI connection.

I’ve been with them a few days. They are a lovely couple named Cetina and Luigi. They speak a very sing-song French, rolling all the R’s in typical Italian style. From what I’ve gathered, they do not work. I noticed they sleep quite late, and never seem to be going off to work. I asked what they did for a living, and Cetina replied, « We’re authors. We travel the world on our motorcycles and write about our adventures. » I asked them how many books they had published, and Cetina declared “This will be the first one, when it’s finished.” I did not want to push the issue of how they could afford to travel the world on their numerous expensive motorcycles, live in an affluent apartment in downtown Toulouse, and wear exquisite leather outfits... so I smiled and told her how much I admired them as a couple.... they are in their mid-forties, too young to be retired... Their income is a mystery.

They have shown me photos of their numerous trips. They have travelled throughout Europe exclusively on their motorcycle complete with sidecar. Not just your standard Western Europe. We’re talking far-flung places like Bulgaria, Latvia, and Serbia, and the Ukraine. They’ve been everywhere. They have even traveled to tip of Southern Spain, where they took their vehicle on the ferry to Morocco, and travelled throughout Africa. It’s really incredible.

They’ve been very lovely in helping me find a new place... I was too shy to phone my landlord of the hell-hole apartment to ask for my deposit, so Cetina took the phone from my hand, and very eloquently informed him that his residence was in shameful unhygienic conditions, and that HER CLIENT must be reimbursed for her deposit in a timely manner. I expected a protest from the landlord, but he really must have believed he was speaking to a lawyer, because he relented immediately and agreed to pay me back.

Additionally, as we all recall with my recent laptop disaster I was dealing with an 800 euro hole in my pocket due to the repair costs I had to shell out. Maurice was not returning my calls and I had lost all hope of getting my bill reimbursed. I had phoned his insurance company, who informed me that because I did not carry my own personal insurance, I had no possibility of recuperating the expenses, and that they could not help me. Cetina advised me to write a letter to his insurance company, and assisted me in the wording, ensuring I express candidly the emotional distress it had caused. I have no idea if anything will come from it, but I appreciate the effort she took to help me in so many ways. I adore her persistent attitude. She’s just relentless!

I’m channeling her energy as I hunt for my apartment.

I’ve been searching like mad. My strategy:

1. Search websites like www.crij.org and www.seloger.fr for apartment ads. Go to local Crous office and edge your way into the crowd of fellow apartment searchers copying down the newest ads on the bulletin board and hope no one else is writing down the same ones. Mark ones with potential.

2. Phone and make appointments to see the apartments. Only a small fraction of them will even answer, as this is a competitive time of year to be finding apartments, as students will be starting university this fall.

3. Circle the locations on map, and hit the streets.

4. Meet with various landlords who will show the apartment, which most of the time is a big disappointment.

5. Start back at step 1. Rinse, lather, repeat.

Naturally by now, I have a very good understanding of the layout of Toulouse, seeing how I’ve been everywhere on foot in my search. made a lot of progress, I’ve looked at 10 apartments the past few days, and they were either in a dangerous neighborhood, too far away from the city center, or their was an OCD roommate who reminded me of Hélène and her endless demands for neatness beyond human comprehension.

In the meantime, I’m staying in one of the most beautiful apartments I’ve ever seen with a fantastic couple that I get along swimmingly with. I keep fantasizing about living with them, but I know it’s only a short-term rental...

Sigh...

The clock is ticking, the date of my Visa Appointment is nearly here, and I absolutely must have an address....

Doubts in myself are rapidly returning.

Déjà vu...yet another housing disaster

2010-08-07T20:33:00.000+02:00

A lonely, unliveable new room... A forlorn dinner in a fast food restaurant... crying my eyes out thinking I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life...

Sounds a lot like my first night in Metz nearly a year ago... But Hélas, this really is happening again.

This time, the city is Toulouse, about as far from Metz as humanly possible. The new language is French... with a Toulousan accent. The lonely apartment is really a studio infested with cockroaches, bedbugs (AGAIN !) and mysterious black hairs and a thick layer of dust blanketing every surface. I opened the fridge, greeted by a scurrying roach and the sight of mold. More friendly roaches are eager to make my acquaintance in the shared shower, which also boasts a mold laden shower curtain. The stench of urine dominates the alley where my apartment stands, looking more dilapidated than I remember only about a month ago. What was I thinking when i signed the contract to this dump ?

Oh yeah... 280 euros a month. Thisclose to down-town attractions and métro stop. And the biggest reason... MANDATORY address, copy of rent payment, and attestation of domicile in order to renew my visa to work in France this year... I had only two days in Toulouse to obtain my work approval and find residence... I did what I could.

Now my skin is crawling and I’m paying for it.

I scoured the internet (which of course is missing from my apartment despite my landlord’s promise.) for other apartments. Hours of searching and phone calls later, I have made no progress.

Everything is either already rented, too expensive, or the contact simply won’t respond.

Why am I sacrificing precious moments with my fiancé, family, and friends... to live here ?

Au revoir, mes amis - Adieu, Metz

2010-07-01T10:14:00.023+02:00

When you leave the suburbs of Detroit to live in a medieval French city of honey colored stone, of course the "real world" ceases to exist, no matter how much you say to the contrary. To go from driving everywhere to walking everywhere, from speaking English to speaking French, from obsessing about your weight to learning how food and drink are truly some of the best pleasures in life (even if they make you gain 4 kilos), from a stressful, joyless full-time job to the endless rewards of teaching children, from doing what everyone expects of you to do daring to do what you've always dreamed of... is enough to change who you thought you were... or perhaps just awaken the being you should have always been.

At any rate, my fellow assistants and I are dealing with the return of reality, as we begin our goodbyes, and prepare to scatter to new jobs abroad, or return back to our home countries of America, Canada, and Australia.

Dealing with the impending departure has made me question who I am, with this altered mentality. I am no longer purely American, nor will I ever be French. I'm trapped somewhere between. In France, I will always be a foreigner... but I fear that if I go back to America, I will feel like I'm from another planet. The only people who understand this are my assistant friends who were thrust into the same circumstances I was, nine months ago. The stress, joy, and common experiences could not help but unite us in an almost immediate, intense bond. Saying goodbye is one of the most difficult trials of my life.

Kathy, Jenn, Avi, and I gathered at dusk at our favorite meeting place, Vivian's Pub in Place Saint Louis, to bid farewell to Elli, the first of us to depart. As the sun set, the lights illuminated the gothic façade of the medieval covered arcade. We greeted one another la bise, as always. Jenn and I ordered Monacos, like normal. It appeared to be just like any other of the endless nights we sat en terrasse, discussing everything and nothing at all... except this was in fact, the end.

Elli stood to leave, and we all embraced. That hug held all the joy, laughter, fear, heartbreak, and experience that we had shared throughout the year. I don't know who broke down first, but suddenly we were all in tears. Jenn accompanied Elli away, leaving the rest of us in silence at our once convivial table. As I watched them about to disappear around the bend in the road, Elli buried her face in Jenn's shoulder, overcome with tears. In a few strides, I caught up to them, and we erupted anew into sobs, embracing again.

Unbeknownst to us, Avi had stepped back to photograph our goodbyes, tears and all. When we finally noticed he was there, we tried to smile for the camera, failing miserably as you can see.

I walked home that night, gutted inside, taking my normal shortcut from Place Saint Louis, to En Jurue, passing the house of the poet Rabelais, walking underneath a charming arch above the narrow, uphill street, until meeting rue des Trinitaires, where my studio was. My shoes clicked against the cobblestones, echoing in the still night air. I entered the courtyard of my apartment

complex, saying "bonsoir" to the two sculptures of strange old men, who I had come to regard as friends.

How many times have I walked this route this year? How many intimate home-cooked dinners and conversations at Kathy's studio? How many croque monsieurs did I share with Avi and his great dane, Roc? How many times did Elli and I go running around the Plan d'eau? How many Belgian beers with my conversation partner and friend, Patrick? How many English lessons turned therapy sessions with Anna, my adult student? How many tickets de 10 voyages did I purchase for bus fare? How many pain au chocolat did I consume when running late to school in the morning? How many cups of coffee did I consume with colleagues every school day at 10am? How many times did I give my students "the look" to quiet them down? How many more times did they win me over with their cuteness? How many times did I, as if for the very first time, stop in my tracks in awe and wonder of the Cathedral of Saint-Etienne, especially when standing on rue Taison, where the architecture beautifully frames her astounding flying buttresses? How many catastrophes has life abroad caused? How many joys? How do I measure how my life has changed this year, and how do I define the way I am feeling right now? It's difficult to imagine what my life will be from here, but even more impossible to imagine what my life was like before I lived here in France...

...avant que j'étais en France.

Au revoir, mes enfants

2010-06-30T23:53:00.008+02:00

It's hard to believe that the school year has ended.

Between my two schools, I've been consumed by a flurry of end-of-the year picnics, vocal concerts, cocktails with colleagues, and goodbyes.

My last day of school, I fought back tears as my students presented me with a bound book of drawings, letters, and thank you notes. They also had cards for my fiancé Jim, which they instructed me to deliver unopened! Even though they only met him once, they adored him, and had never ceased to ask about how he was doing, and whether or not I returned every weekend to the USA to visit him! (I wish, hehe!)

I handed out handmade certificates of excellence for their performance in English class, and received hundreds of hugs and bisous in return. Several cried, imploring me to come back next year. Gently, I explained that I didn't want to leave them, that if my contract had been renewed in Metz, I would not be going to Toulouse. I promised them I would never love my university students as much as them. One girl, Manon, was sobbing inconsolably. Interestingly, she's the last kid I'd expect to react this way to my departure, seeing how she was quite the troublemaker this year!

I already feel such a void for my students and colleagues. I would absolutely live for 10am coffee breaks in the teacher's room, where we'd share cake and swap jokes and stories about problem students. Shortly after my arrival, I would sit back, struggling to understand the nuances of their conversations... and now, nine months later, I understand everything, and even contribute.

My colleagues presented me with a large decorative candle and a beautiful silver necklace to express their appreciation for my work with the kids. I was praised by colleagues and parents alike for 'working wonders' with the kids and for being dynamic in the classroom. But truly, the kids were MY educators. Unbeknownst to them, they helped my French more than I ever helped their English. Every time they asked a question, tattled on one another, or simply spoke amongst themselves, my French vocabulary grew. They taught me to laugh in a way I never thought possible. They drove me crazy at times, but never would I have had it any other way. They are my living proof that love knows no boundaries, no matter what language or nation we hail from.

I will never forget my first French teacher, Madame Boehmer, at Heritage Junior High. At 12 years old, my love affair with France and the French language began, thanks to her. Her passion and enthusiasm made the language come alive to me, and she will always dwell in my heart. If I managed to touch the lives of these children a fraction of the amount Madame Boehmer touched mine, I will have succeeded.

I came to France because I wanted to live in the country of my dreams. Nine months ago, teaching was simply a means to get here. Keep in mind my degree is in graphic design, not education. That was of no concern to me; I would have done anything to get here...

I just never expected teaching to become the most fulfilling thing I've ever done. I wonder if I'll ever be capable of doing anything else again.

My CE2 class (second graders)

Group hug!

Un bisou!

Balloon release

(the kids attached their names and the school address

and phone number to see where their balloons would travel.)

Up, up and away!

Some of my colleagues at an end of the year picnic

Laptop disaster in France

2010-06-20T22:30:00.003+02:00

Those who know me are fully aware of my most prized possession, my MacBook Pro laptop. My most important equipment as a graphic designer, artist, and photographer, not to mention my sole means of communication with my family, friends and fiancé in the USA. Equipped with the latest design software, webcam, and all of my artwork, this sleek aluminum cased machine is my baby. Even after vigilant care, my worst computer nightmare has occurred.

After a brief trip to Toulouse, where I ended up signing a work contract, I headed back to the train station for the all-day trip back to Metz.

I was about to head to my platform when I happened upon an older, rather overweight gentleman laying on the ground at the base of the escalator. Others walked briskly by, as if he was invisible.

"Vous avez besoin d'aide, Monsieur?" I asked.

He replied that he could not stand up. Without a second thought I offered my hand, not realizing the degree to which the man had lost his equilibrium. He struggled to his feet, wavered for a moment, and then collapsed to the ground, taking me down with him. His weight was enough to crack my back, but what concerned me the most was not my well-being, but that of my laptop, which had just been crushed on the floor beneath the both of us.

A passer by helped stand him up, and I immediately opened my bag to inspect my precious MacBook Pro. The screen had been shattered.

I promptly burst into tears and told the man how costly the repairs would be, and asked him if he would help with the cost.

He seemed panicked by my words. "Listen, I'm sorry, but I have no money, and really, you were under no obligation to help me up. That was your choice" he replied. "I'm really sorry, but I have a train to catch, I have to go."

I followed him, my voice raising, my French becoming more and more riddled with mistakes. "But you can't do this to me, Monsieur!" I cried. "You broke my computer, and now you're not taking responsibility!" Instead of using the formal 'vous' to address him, I called him 'tu.' My French typically goes down the toilet when I'm panicked or upset.

Passers-by stared, and paused to watch the scene unfold. My tearful theatrics worked; a security guard approached us and asked what the problem was. I explained what happened, and the security guard addressed the man.

"Your insurance should pay for this accident, Monsieur." he said authoritatively. You need to give this Mademoiselle your phone number, address, and insurance name so that she can be reimbursed."

Maurice, as I learned he was called, begrudgingly attempted to scribble his information on a piece of paper. It was complete illegible. The security guard had to write it for him. The more I examined Maurice, the more confused he seemed, and he swayed, as if on the verge of falling again. Could he have been drunk?

I took his information, praying that he hadn't lied about his phone number. There was nothing more I could do, since I was about to miss my train.

Back in Metz, I found out the cost of repairing my computer screen: 779 Euros! For my fellow Americans, that equates to $1,080.78. Roughly HALF the cost of my computer! Luckily the information, art, and photos were still intact.

The repairman told me that I would have to pay the bill myself, then turn the bill in to the insurance company for eventual reimbursement. This type of disaster was definitely NOT in my budget, and took a significant piece of my already dwindling savings.

After paying the bill, I phoned Maurice. Several times. No answer. Big surprise.

I must be a magnet for catastrophe.

Toulouse it is!

2010-06-18T14:43:00.006+02:00

Although I had my heart set on accepting the job offer to teach English at a prestigious Parisian business school, something in me was incredibly intrigued by the idea of working in Toulouse... I decided to accept my invitation to attend the end of the year meeting with the language department, and get a feel for Toulouse to help make the decision. If nothing else, I would get to discover the city for a few days.

As soon as I stepped off the train, I knew I was in the south of France... The clay tile roofs, ornate balconies, rose colored brick, and sculptured façades give Toulouse an undeniably Spanish feel. The city is vibrant, colorful, and bustling with a population of over one million people.

The magic words that sealed my decision: 2 year contract. The business school in Paris was only offering a 10 month contract, and also paid substantially less. Taking the Toulouse position means getting paid even during the summer months when I'm not working!

After meeting my future colleagues in the English department (an assortment of lovely people from Ireland, England, Scotland, Australia and the States, my feelings were even further cemented. I signed the contract.

I never in my wildest dreams imagined this life in France as anything but a fantasy... But here I am, about to make it a reality... for the second year in a row.

Impromptu Escape to Tunisia

2010-06-15T01:53:00.014+02:00

Call me crazy, call me frivolous, call me what you like.

I'm an adventurer. . .

And I could not resist a criminally cheap flight to Tunisia for a long weekend. So I set off for Paris... and two hours later, I landed in North Africa! It was one of the loveliest flights of my life, crossing the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean, flying south over the islands of Corsica and Sardinia, crossing over Algeria, and touching down in the capital city of Tunis.

My first (of hopefully many) trips to French-speaking Africa has indeed cast a spell over me. The Tunisians are a very warm people, who speak French with a lovely, sing-song accent. The official language is Arabic, but most citizens speak French as well, due to the former french occupation.

I spent hours wandering the maze-like streets of the Medina, exploring mosques, souks, palaces, roman ruins and the Muslim University. The architecture is a glorious marriage of Arab, Ottoman, Byzantine, and Andalusian styles. Unlike the slender, feminine minarets of Turkey or Egypt, the mosques in Tunisia are much more similar to those of Morocco; usually one lone minaret, geometric and masculine in appearance. My senses were flooded by the aroma of jasmine sold in tight bunches by children in the streets, the chaotic exchanges of street vendors negotiating prices, the spectrum of colorful spices, jewelry, textiles and fruits in the souks, and the visions of arches, rainbow tiled walls and floors, mosaics, and narrow alleys.

My favorite feature of Tunisia would be the charming doors found all over Tunis and beyond. The doors are usually blue (the Tunisian color of prosperity and happiness), although I also saw them in vibrant shades of orange, yellow, green, brown and red. Against the bleached white stone architecture, the heavy wooden doors are dazzling. Each door is studded with large nails in traditional patterns, and always have three handles, which correspond to bells which inform the people inside of the nature of their visitor. Traditionally, the left handle is for guests, the right for the man of the house, and the smaller knob on the lower right for the wife and children of the household. Nowadays, the handles have lost their significance, but the beauty of these doors remains the trademark of Tunisia. It was impossible to resist the urge to photograph them. They just beckoned to be opened, to reveal their secrets.

The village of Sidi Bou Saïd, about 20 km northeast of Tunis, was also an enchanting excursion. The entire village is cerulean blue and white, crowning the cliffs that overlook the Bay of Tunis. There, I lost myself in the labyrinths of narrow streets which curve up the hills; visiting artisans of pottery, jewelry, furniture, tiles, and mirrors. A visit to the legendary Café des Délices was also in order, in honor of the famous song of the same name by Patrick Bruel. There, I sipped mango juice and Thé à la menthe, humming the melody lightly under my breath, gazing across the bay, and the distant glittering lights of Tunis. I watched teenage boys, each holding a tiny bundle of jasmine, sip tea and discuss with one another, occasionally lifting the fragrant blossoms to their noses. Across the terrace, a table of girls, knowing fully well that they were the topic of interest, giggled and whispered to one another behind their white

headscarves... I sat there in between, smiling and imagining how magical first love must feel in a place like this... Sidi Bou Saïd at night is one of the most enchanting places on earth; the hushed sounds of the sea lapping at the shores below, the scent of jasmine and shisha pipes permeating the air, the moonlight reflecting off the gleaming white architecture, casting strange shadows across the cobblestone streets.

The ancient ruins of the Phoenician city of Carthage just outside of Tunis were also spectacular. At night, the columns of temples and amphitheater are lit in such a way that their details are visible even from the highway. I would have loved to spend more time exploring there.

My final day was well spent on the beaches of Hammamet, dubbed the "Saint Tropez of Tunisia" for its world class beaches and spectacular modern hotels. The only refuge from the brutal African sun was to bathe in the cool waters of the Mediterranean, emerging occasionally to eat and wander the Medina. On the beach, vendors sold figs, melon, and Brik, a Tunisian specialty pastry filled with egg, ground meat, or seafood. As much as I adored the beaches of Hammamet, I found the area less authentic than the city of Tunis and Sidi Bou Saïd. As beautiful as the high rise hotels and tourist attractions were, give me the authenticity of a medieval medina any day.

As I gazed out the window on my flight back to Paris, the African coastline disappearing in the clouds, I struggled to find the one word to best describe this beautiful country... 'Welcoming' is the best description, because it encompasses everything about Tunisia... from the smiling, helpful citizens, to the inviting waves of the Mediterranean on the spotless beaches, to the tantalizing cuisine, to the exotic treasures sold in the souks, down to those irresistible bright Tunisian doors, I've already promised myself I will return one day. When that day comes, I intend to open one door... just one... and listen to the secret she holds inside for me.

Girl with a henna tattoo, Sidi Bou Saïd

View from Café des Délices, Sidi Bou Saïd

View of the Bay of Tunis from Café des Délices, Sidi Bou Saïd

Sidi Bou Saïd

Boy selling jasmine flowers, Sidi Bou Saïd

Tunis

A mosque minaret in Tunis

Tunis

Porte de France, at the entrance of the Medina, Tunis

Tunis

The Medina, Tunis

Beaches of Hammamet

Daytrip to Trier

2010-06-13T01:14:00.005+02:00

After hearing such delightful things about the city of Trier, Kathy, Jenn and I set off for the oldest city in Germany. Trier (Trèves in French) is situated on the banks of the Moselle River, the same river that flows through Metz. The city is best known for its well-preserved Roman ruins, which include a basilica, three baths, an amphitheatre, bride, and the best preserved city gate north of the Alps. The Gothic cathedral, baroque churches and charming medieval architecture also give the city a fairytale setting. The three of us enjoyed wandering the town, the exquisite cathedral, and the Roman ruins, but the highlight of the day was enjoying lavish ice cream sundaes in the Marktplatz, overlooking the church of Saint Gangolf, basking in the sunshine and laughing. With a stopover in Luxembourg, we marveled at our ability to be in three countries on the same day, without blinking an eye.

Potra Nigra, the largest Roman city gate north of the Alps.

Marktplatz

The Dom (Cathedral of Trier)

Cloisters of the Cathedral

Saint Gangolf

Sundaes in Marktplatz

The Palace of Trier and Constantine's Basilica

The ancient Roman baths

A full rich day well spent

Field trip to Sainte-Croix Parc Animalier

2010-06-09T10:19:00.003+02:00

I did not hesitate to accept an invitation to chaperone my students from Ecole Van Gogh on their field trip to wildlife sanctuary Sainte-Croix. An escape from lesson-planning and teaching was a most welcome diversion, as was the opportunity to bond with my students outside the classroom. As the girls fought over who got to hold my hand, and the students with cameras begged to take a photo to remember me by, I realized how much I'm going to miss these kids. In just a few short weeks, it will be all over.

The highlight of the trip: a barefoot nature trail!

Running in the Rain

2010-06-07T09:31:00.002+02:00

Last night, Elli and I embarked on our run much later than usual (after 22:30). We took to the sleepy streets of Metz, still glossy and reflecting the streetlamps in the glorious calm that always follows the rain. Crossing the river, we passed the Temple Protestant, illuminated by golden lights and casting a perfect mirror image into the dark waters of the Moselle River below. We always bring our iPods, but seldom end up using them, as we invariably end up discussing our hopes, dreams, and loves. Tonight was also such a night, and the enchantment of Metz under her veil of night encouraged especially intimate conversation. After all these months, we are still spellbound by her beauty in all seasons and all times of day.

As we rounded the lake, a light drizzle became a steady rain, refreshing and cool on our skin. The rain increased in intensity as we crossed the bridge and slowed to a light jog as we continued on the naturally sloping path. At the water’s edge, under the rain, reclined on the wet grass, was a couple, blissfully unabashed, in the throes of passion. Anywhere else in the world, it might have shocked me, but somehow, it seemed perfectly natural and appropriate for this setting. We giggled to ourselves as we passed, resisting the urge to turn around for a second glance.

The rain increased to a downpour as we crossed the campus of Université Paul Verlaine, and we were completely drenched, laughing hysterically, invigorated. The cathedral loomed high above the city in the distance, the green copper roof and golden brick taking on an otherworldly glow. We noticed some graffiti on the side of the university restaurant, which said “SEE THE WORLD.” We paused. It had not been there on our previous runs. It was like an omen. We threw our hands in the air and screamed, lost in the beauty of the moment.

As we reentered the centre-ville, we raced down the center of the road, as there was no traffic. Many Messins, caught without umbrellas, were taking shelter from the downpour in the doorways of cafés and beneath arcades. They seemed so awkward, so constrained in their dutiful efforts to preserve their immaculate clothing, makeup, and belongings, and completely bewildered by the two joyful spirits sprinting past, unencumbered by rain, by anything. We were free. We were flying.

We even dared to run through Place Saint Jacques, where well-dressed women smirked at our antics while the men shouted encouragement! “Allez les filles! Allez les sportives!” “Prenez votre douche” “Bon courage!”

“Bonsoir!” we smiled, without losing stride.

Amazing how something as simple as running in the rain could create such a profound memory that neither one of us is likely to forget. Whether or not I return to France next year, my days in Metz with these wonderful friends are numbered. Only a few precious weeks remain of our nine months together, and I find myself clinging to each moment like a priceless jewel, trying to lock each one inside my mind.

Lectrice Job Search Strategies

2010-05-29T08:42:00.002+02:00

For any fellow assistants out there interested in making the transition to lecteur/lectrice d'anglais, I have detailed my job search strategy below. Would also like to give credit to Eileen Fitzpatrick, whose blog entry about the lecteur job search was very useful to me. Her blog can be found here: http://eileen.likeafrog.org/

*Note: I began my job search in early March, but I think anytime after January is an acceptable time to begin the search. Most universities won't notify you of hiring decisions until spring or summer. Some will want an interview, while others hire directly from the CVs.

1. Write your CV in French. Look online for examples. Surprisingly, French CVs must include a photo and information generally omitted from an American CV (marital status, age, number of children)

2. Write your cover letter (lettre de motivation.) Again, look online for examples, because the French way is not quite like the American way.

3. Have a Frenchie (or several) proofread your CV and lettre de motivation. The more the better!

4. Create an email to present these two documents. Incorporate the typically ceremonious French lingo "Veuillez agréer, Monsieur, Madame, l'expression de mes salutations distinguées" or one of its countless variations.

5. Decide where to send your CV. This website is a great resource of universities by region:

http://www.enseignementsup-recherche.gouv.fr/cid20269/liste-des-universites.html

You may have a region in mind, or you may be like me, with absolutely no preference as long as you're on French soil. The more flexible and open you are, the more likely you'll find a post. I also made a point to personalize my cover letter for each university, which shows I put the effort forth to research their school rather than blindly send out my CV. This little detail is worth the extra time and effort.

6. On the university websites, seek out the UFR de langues, or département d'anglais. Send your email to the head of the department, if you can find him/her. As Eileen mentions in her blog, most universities are very good about forwarding if you don't send the email to the proper destination.

7. Now is the waiting game. Expect rejections but don't lose hope. Make a goal to send out several a day, and keep track of who you've contacted, who you've heard from and their responses.

This is a very long process. The creation of my CV and lettre de motivation from rough draft to final proofreading took several weeks of perfecting and rewriting. The actual act of finding a university, personalizing the lettre de motivation, finding the correct contact within the university's website, and sending the email is quite time consuming. For the 40 or so CVs I sent out, I received 5 invitations to interviews and 2 offers. In the end, persistence pays!

French Job offers

2010-05-28T08:29:00.000+02:00

Since day one in France, I was determined to do everything in my power to stay here. Despite the catastrophes that seem to follow me to and fro, I truly believe that France is where I belong, at least for this part of my life.

Since March, I have been sending my CV to Universities and schools all over France, receiving mostly rejections or no response at all. I've had a handful of interviews but nothing ever came of them. Most places told me that they have existing relationships with anglophone universities, and that English teaching jobs were reserved for this exchange. Or else, my NOT being a European Union citizen made matters too complicated. Or that all positions were filled... I was beginning to lose hope.

Today, imagine my surprise to find not one but TWO job offers to in my inbox! One from a business school just outside of Paris, and the other at a university in Toulouse! I'm trying not to allow myself to get excited, because who knows if these schools understand the visa requirements and intricacies surrounding the hire of an American... but I can't help but dance around my apartment and walk the streets of Metz with more spring in my step! The possibility of staying in France for another year has suddenly become very real.

::Croisant les doigts::

Nice, Eze and Monaco: Learning to slow down

2010-05-27T09:55:00.002+02:00

The stress of preparing my students for their English evaluations, the lack of news from job prospects, and the chaotic pace of my life pushed me to reserve an impromptu train ticket down south. I would never forgive myself for living in France for almost a year without seeing Nice, so off I went! It was amazing to see the contrasts in the terrain. The Lorraine region is quite flat, but the further south one goes, the more savage the landscape becomes. The jagged cliffs, outcrops of rock, and tropical flora reminded me that I was no longer in the north of France.

I stepped off my overnight train, greeted by an abundance of sunshine, endless rows of palm trees, the cerulean blue waves of the Mediterranean, world-class hotels, and colorful architecture. My type A personality immediately pulled me into full tourist-mode. As soon as I left my things in the hostel, I hit the streets, checking out the ornate Russian Orthodox church, the Cathedral, the Marc Chagall

Museum, La Vieille Ville (the old city,) and of course, wandered the beaches. The heat quickly took its toll. I went to sleep the first night, dripping with sweat, full-blown headache, and more stressed than ever, marveling at how Nice could be described as a haven of relaxation. Certainly it was a lovely place... but I just wasn’t getting it. What was I missing???

The next day, I booked a day trip to the medieval hilltop perfume-making village of Eze and to the principality of Monaco. I savored the scents of Eze, wandering the labyrinth of narrow stone streets, marveling in the gardens, even buying a small bottle of Fragonard perfume. It was lovely to gaze over the hilltop at the various levels of terraces and elegant homes literally spilling down the hill.

In Monaco, I was surrounded by undeniable glamour as I wandered the footsteps of Princess Grace. The second smallest country in the world (only the Vatican is smaller), densely populated with wealthy foreign 'tax refugees.' I was in awe of the Casino and the endless array of lavish automobiles parading in front to drop off the wealthy clientele, half expecting James Bond to emerge with a sexy Russian spy. The Port of Hercules was overflowing with yachts and massive cruise ships. Spectator stands were still visible from the recent Grand Prix race. Everything about this spectacular place was gorgeous... but alas, too rich for my blood. I was anxious to return to Nice.

I fell into a deep sleep on the bus back to Nice, nearly a coma of exhaustion. The bus driver awakened me when we arrived, joking about how I need to slow down and enjoy life. If he had any idea how he had nailed my personality on the head!

Day three, I slept in till 10am, enjoying a grasse matinée. I filled my bag with a book, a bikini, a towel and my camera, setting out towards the beach. How delicious it was to lay down on the picturesque (albeit rocky) beach. I finally began to understand Nice. The children splashing in the waves, the vendors selling chouchou (candied peanuts), the slender women sunbathing topless, and the faint, drifting sounds of Provençal guitar... time was standing still, at last! Hunger was the only force strong enough to drag me from the beach, and so I wandered into the Vieille Ville (Old Town.) Without a doubt, this is the most splendid part of Nice; winding cobblestone streets, nothing but bars, cafés, tiny churches, and charming boutiques. The architecture is much less conservative in the south. I fell in love with the daring turquoise shutters, pink façades and orange tiles roofs.

Leisurely, I wandered the marché aux fleurs (flower market), browsing through flowers, antiques, and produce. I settled on a Niçoise salade for lunch; crisp, fresh, and colorful. I basked in the sunlight and street music, watching the passers-by, drinking in everything I had been too busy to notice the two previous days. I headed back to the beach, ending my day there. My senses were heightened, I suddenly noticed the subtle changes in light as the sun set, how the cast shadows on the tile roofs and the pebbles on the beach changed direction, how the Mediterranean seemed to inhale and exhale the most refreshing breeze. I gazed at the scores of people at the outdoor cafés along the Promenade des Anglais, enjoying the essentials of life: food, wine, conversation... and the endless expanse of the sea.

While, bien sûr, there are a million landmarks, churches and museums worth exploring, the real treasure of Nice is the change of pace she can bring to your life, if only you will allow her.

Eze

Port of Hercules, Monaco

The Casino, Monaco

View from a hilltop Garden

La Vieille Ville

Old Town Nice

On the way to Eze

Produce in the marché aux fleurs

La Vieille Ville

Old Town Nice

The hills of Nice

A picture perfect Salade Niçoise

This is what Nice is all about

It took me three days, but I finally learned

to relax and enjoy la vie niçoise!

METZ in the spotlight

2010-05-22T11:45:00.013+02:00

Grand Opening of Centre Pompidou Metz

With great anticipation, my fellow assistants and I awaited the grand opening of the Metz Extension of the Centre Pompidou, and with great fanfare we watched it all unfold. This is the biggest thing to happen to Metz since Saint Clement drove the Graoully out of the city. The architectural marvel created by Shigeru Ban and Jean de Gastines, the Pompidou center has been a work in progress since long before our arrival last September. We watched as it progressed, often wondering if it would ever make its deadline. The feminine curves of the roof, dramatic, angular galleries jutting out of the exterior, and juxtaposition of building materials has created a new dimension, giving Metz relevance even 3,000 years after its birth.

We waited over two hours to be among the first to enter the museum opening day. The queue went as far as the train station. In line we heard a number of languages, and we beamed with pride, knowing that OUR city was in the spotlight, that the whole world was watching HER. As we walked inside, we could hardly contain the excitement of being a part of this historic moment for Metz. The interior space is just as astounding as the exterior, it's a truly remarkable space. It felt like walking into a room of old, dear friends. Picasso. Matisse. Chagall. Warhol. Braque. Kandinsky. We're all on a last name basis. The galleries have enormous windows, framing the greatest masterpiece of all, the city skyline of Metz, dominated by the cathedral.

We partook of the festivities surrounding the opening. One night, white umbrellas equipped with flashlights were distributed to the throngs of people, who were instructed to wander around the museum grounds, the brilliant white of the illuminated umbrellas uniting with the white fiber glass roof of the Centre Pompidou. We all became a living chef-d'œuvre, or Masterpiece. The effect was stunning; startlingly beautiful against the night sky. We played rowdy game of follow the leader, weaving in and out throughout the crowds, twirling our umbrellas, spinning around, and changing directions without warning. A beautiful, childlike joy overflowed within us. Such simple pleasure... the best kind. Other festivities included a most impressive fireworks display, outdoor concerts, parades through the street, and even a mass freeze, in which we eagerly participated.

The Centre Pompidou promises to revitalize the city, bringing tourists from all over France, Germany, Belgium, Luxembourg, and beyond to a city previously overshadowed by surrounding regions. Vibrant new signage indicating the directions toward the train station, museums, centre-ville, and cathedral give the streets new life. Metz has taken the center stage, and I’m so proud to see her shine. I grin as I pass my favorite bakeries and tea rooms, watching the crowds of visitors clamor for their delicious specialties. With pride, I give directions to passers-by, even to French people. It legitimizes me as a citizen of Metz. To have more knowledge about a French town than an actual Frenchie is a pretty awesome feeling!

Admittedly, I am a bit taken aback by the sudden invasion of tour buses, foreign tongues, crowds filling the cathedral, and tourists photographing my apartment building. All of my favorite places are under siege by outsiders. I was quite content to live in one of France’s best-kept secrets. However, I understand that Metz is an extraordinary place, deserving of admiration, exploration, and inspiration. If she can do for others even a fraction of what she has done for me, it would be life-changing for them. I know deep down that I must be content to share her.

Kathy, Kappes, Elli and Cole waiting in line for the Centre Pompidou

Centre Pompidou

Picasso

Pollack

Gorgeous interior space

The line

The illuminated umbrellas in front of Pompidou

Concluding the evening with a glass of Bordeaux

Fireworks finale

Springtime in Metz

2010-05-15T12:14:00.005+02:00

The abnormally long and cold winter in Lorraine has finally retreated, yielding to tulips, pansies, and hyacinths. The outdoor cafés of Place Saint Jacques are once again overflowing with patrons who come to sun themselves and sip Perrier or espresso. Gone are the black pea coats; in are the sleek leather jackets, delicate scarves and sunglasses. The fountain at the esplanade is once again gurgling with life, sending a pleasant mist into the air, and lovers inhabit nearly every park bench at the Plan d’Eau. Kayakers and runners are out in full force along the River Moselle, as are children who come to feed the swans. It’s so wonderful to see life breathed back into Metz.

Le Jardin Botanique

Avenue Foch

The Esplanade

Nothing like a coffee en terrace at Place Saint Jacques

Introducing Peanut Butter and Jelly to the French

2010-05-12T01:20:00.001+02:00

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are a staple of the great American lunchbox... The concept of the lunchbox is difficult for my students to grasp. If they stay at school to eat, they buy lunch in the cantine, but most go home to eat (lunch lasts nearly two hours in France.) Funny how even my American high school did not have an open campus for lunch, and how French 7 year-olds have more freedom than I had at 17!!!

The concept of sweet and savory in the same sandwich is a bit alien to French tastebuds. During a lesson about the differences between American and French lunches, my students wrinkled their noses at the thought of such a vile concoction. Most had never tried peanut butter. I was determined to enlighten them. Undaunted, I enlisted the help of my fiancé Jim to prepare a PB&J for each and every one of my 170 little monsters in my eight classes!

Per my request, Jim had brought several jars of peanut butter from the States, (a rare and expensive commodity in France!) Two days in a row, we rose at 5:30am to prepare sandwiches.

My students awaited their promised treat with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. As we passed them out, I instructed them to wait until everyone had received their sandwich.

We counted down in English, and everyone bit into their sandwiches at once with great fanfare. Most nibbled daintily at first, growing more brazen as they discovered how much their enjoyed the taste.

Among my classes, the sandwiches were most successful among my youngest students, with about a 90% success rate. As the students matured in age (and tastebuds), the reactions ranged from delight to indifference to downright disgust... Many cheered and asked for seconds, while several literally spit it out in their hands! With the oldest kids, probably only a 50% success rate. However, not a single sandwich went to waste, since the ones who enjoyed the taste pounced on the uneaten sandwiches of less enthusiastic classmates.

If anything, it was a fascinating experiment. Summing it up precisely, one of my students quipped "A chacun ses goûts." (to each their own tastes.)

The most adorable quotet came when one of my students declared to her neighbor; "I think in America, everyone eats peanut butter and jelly when a couple gets engaged!" I translated her comment to Jim, and we both just grinned.

Meeting the kids...

2010-05-11T02:06:00.000+02:00

In dating relationships, the moment of truth often occurs when one meets the children of the significant other for the first time. Will they get along? Will there be friction? It's a delicate balance, and must be tread upon lightly.

Having 170 of my own children, I agonized over the proper way to introduce them to my fiancé.

Poor Jim walked a gauntlet of stares, pointed fingers, and whispers as he entered my school with me. Every inch of him was scrutinized with a fine toothed comb. In French, many declared "WOW he's tall! So much bigger than Miss Jamie! I'm afraid of him!" Children lack the mental filter to control their words, which at times can be most charming, and at others, most obnoxious. Jim could not understand their comments but certainly felt awkward to be the subject of such scrutiny.

However, things warmed up as I introduced him to my classes.

"This is James. He's visiting from America. We just got engaged in Paris. He'll be our guest today."

As soon as I announced our engagement, every class erupted in applause, demanding to see the ring, and asking a whirlwind of questions.

Once the excitement calmed down, I had them interview Jim in English, and then play games with them. Incredibly, everyone's hand shot in the air for the chance to ask him a question! Even those normally reluctant to participate were eager to talk to him.

That evening, we attended a school dance put on by both my schools. My colleagues were most amused to watch Jim eat THREE helpings of the cheese plate. When I explained that in America, our cheese tastes like plastic and comes in individually wrapped slices, they gazed at him sympathetically, as if to say "Poor boy, he's never known French cheese until now. No wonder he's starving."

It was a lovely evening of food, music, and dancing. During a slow dance, Jim stole a quick peck, only to be witnessed by one of my students, who quickly spread the word that we had in fact kissed on the lips. The next day at school, everyone was buzzing about the exciting news, and giggled hysterically when I entered the classroom. Of course, I denied everything!

In the end, they absolutely adored him, and I knew he was the right choice for a husband. If my 170 children approve, he must be the real thing. :-)

Jim attacking cheese plate numéro trois!

One of my students

Dancing the night away

2010-05-10T11:32:00.006+02:00

After the engagement, Paris was a whirlwind of perfection. Enduring images flood my mind. Funny how every cliché ceases to be as such when experienced with the one you love, how a place that was my personal hell on earth only a few days earlier could be transformed into paradise, simply by his presence. I saw Paris through new eyes, as if for the first time.

Embracing clichés...

Meeting new friends...

Introducing him to macarons at the famous Ladurée...

Kissing Oscar Wilde's grave...

Unexpected naps on trains...

Wandering in palace gardens...

Stolen kisses in palace gardens...

Rowboat ride on the canal of Versailles...

Sharing a sunset on a bridge behind Notre Dame...

The luminosity of every evening...

One word: Monet.

Enduring beauty of ages past...

Front row on the Seine river cruise...

My beloved Notre Dame... now OUR beloved Notre Dame...

Endless ice cream...

Crêpes in the Latin Quarter...

Resting in the shade at Place de Vosges...

Letting Paris (or love?) take us higher than ever before...

Together (AT LAST) in Paris

2010-05-06T22:12:00.009+02:00

After months apart, and especially after the misery of the volcano incident, I realized exactly how much I really missed Jim, how much I love him, and how RIGHT it would feel to be in his arms again at last. When he came up the stairs of our hotel, my things went flying, he lifted me in the air, and of course, the waterworks were at full blast, much to the amusement of the reception desk. We were overjoyed. The misery of the volcano incident only served to intensify our newfound joy of being together at last.

I wasted no time in giving Jim a walking tour of Paris (which by this point I knew very well without a map. Funny how several days of aimless wandering will help you learn a city) Seeing the delight on his face as we passed my favorite sights was as thrilling as the first time I saw Paris, many years ago. Passing the Fountain of St. Michel in the Latin Quarter, Notre Dame, Pont Neuf, Pont des Arts, the courtyards of the Louvre, the Tuileries gardens, the Champs Elysées, Petit Palais, Grand Palais, Pont Alexandre, L'arc de Triomphe... his jaw just fell open, reminding me of my own initial awe of the city of lights.

Crossing Pont des Arts, a gorgeous modern bridge with a view of Ile de la Cité on one side and the Eiffel Tower on the other, we couldn't resist tradition. Lovers come to Pont des Arts to attach padlocks to the bridge, often bearing the couple's names. After the lock is secured, the key is tossed into the Seine, and eternal love is ensured. I had asked Jim to bring a padlock without telling him why, and when he saw the hundreds of locks covering the bridge, he understood. With a permanent marker, we wrote our names, and a quote from our favorite book Le Petit Prince (The Little Prince). After throwing the key into the river, we sealed it with a kiss.

When we entered Notre Dame together for the first time, I could see its effect on him. Notre Dame has been my obsession since the age of 12, and is probably my favorite place on earth. Finally he was standing with me there, the place which has mystified and captivated me since childhood. Finally, I could see, he understood.

It was late evening, the church was practically empty. A small prayer service was going on in the front of the cathedral, but other than that, no one was there. He didn't seem to want to leave, and I thought it was because he was so engrossed in the waning sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows... but no...

"Can we just... sit down for a bit?" He asked. "Of course," I replied, pressing my face against his chest, surprised to feel his heart POUNDING. Hmmm... whatever could be going on???

We proceeded to sit down at the back of the church so as not to disturb the prayer service, and after a few moments of staring at the gothic splendor around us, he took my hands and professed his love to me, (I will keep those beautiful details between the two of us.) My eyes brimmed with tears, quickly overflowing, as were his. I was just lost in the blue of his eyes, the sincerity, the unconditional love that is unparalleled in this world. Ultimately, the declaration ended with him on his knees, sliding a diamond ring on my finger. My answer was yes! YES!

We could have held one another for hours in the cathedral, I just could not keep myself from crying. I must have been a bit too loud, because an usher whispered harshly at me across the aisle "MADAME!" raising a finger to his lips. I turned toward him, motioning toward my engagement ring.

"Pardon, mais il m'a demandé en mariage!"

"Oui, je sais, mais il y a la prière!" He scowled, turned on his heel and walked away. Jim and I grinned at one another and decided to take our excitement outdoors.

We proceeded back to our hotel to get dressed to the nines, and then hit the town for a celebration dinner. We wandered one of my favorite streets, Rue St. André des Arts, in the Latin Quarter. I love this part of the Latin Quater because of the turn of the century bars and lively atmosphere. It seemed like every restaurant required reservations, when suddenly we happened upon Le Procope on Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie. Le Procope is the oldest continuously open café in the world, founded in 1686. It boasts among its most famous patrons: Voltaire, Benjamin Franklin, Marat, Napoleon Bonaparte, Balzac, Victor Hugo, and Verlaine! This was just perfect.

When the snooty maître d' asked if we had reservations, I replied no, but explained our special occasion. His demeanor instantly transformed, and he replied that they would prepare a very pretty table for us, and that we had not to worry. We were promptly led to a gorgeous dining room with Pompeian red walls, oil portraits of the most famous patrons over the centuries, glittering crystal chandeliers. We we seated with great fanfare at the only free table, at the head of the room, in front of a marble fireplace. As we passed by, several waiters congratulated us, already aware of our presence.

We dined by candlelight on escargot, soupe à l'oignon, boeuf bourguignon, and crème brûlée, sharing a bottle of Bordeaux. We could not stop discussing our future dreams, kissing between sips of wine, and staring into each other's eyes. Often, I had to break eye contact to stare at the dazzling facets of my princess cut engagement ring, which sparkles all the more by candlelight. This restaurant was perfect. Paris was perfect. Our love was perfect.

A stroll by the moonlit Seine concluded our first day together in Paris. We drifted off to sleep without effort, exhausted but blissfully happy.

A Volcano Story

2010-05-01T21:29:00.001+02:00

The series of catastrophic events I suffered as a result of the Eyjafjallajökull volcano in Iceland are too numerous to be described in detail, so I have provided a timeline of my experience. I was meant to finally meet Jim (who I hadn’t seen since Christmas) in Paris after my stay in Istanbul... but the fates had other plans. This was in every respect a travel nightmare. Dwindling finances, unexpected expenses, sheer exhaustion from days without sleep, emotional despair, lack of internet access to communicate with the outside world... After surviving this, I'm confident I can surmount any obstacle!

15 April - Devastating News
My last night in Istanbul, I receive a frantic email from Jim that his flight to Paris the next day is canceled due to the swirling clouds of volcanic ash. The flight will be rescheduled for the following day.

16 April- Stranded in Slovenia
-I fly out of Istanbul headed for a layover in Ljubliana, Slovenia, but my flight is diverted to Maribor.

-Upon arrival in Maribor, I discover that my flight to Paris is canceled. The ash cloud has also shut down airports in the UK, Germany, Belgium, The Czech Republic.... and all of France. For how many days was anyone’s guess. The closest I can get is a late flight to Zurich, which, I am told, would probably end up being canceled. I accept the ticket... What choice did I have?

-Bawl my eyes out due to lack of sleep and uncertainty of seeing Jim.

-Befriend a wealthy and famous Egyptian hotel magnate and his entourage, who invite me to breakfast at their 5 star hotel. I share their cab, and I feast on the most decadent breakfast I have ever had, and hang out with them in their suite. To make a long story short, Egyptian hotel magnate turns out to be a total creep, and I am thus forced to hightail it back to Maribor airport.

-Flight to Zurich is boarded... then delayed... then unboarded... then reboarded. Ultimately, we manage to fly out of Slovenia after all! I would later learn that this would be the last flight out of Maribor for several days.

-Land in Zurich, rush to the ticket line for a train to Paris, where I wait for an hour and a half. When it’s my turn to go up to the window, the ticket queue is closed. I’m told to come back at 6am tomorrow.

-cry myself to sleep on the cold floor of Zurich Airport. All around me, stranded passengers are camping out in the airport. Astoundingly, every single flight on the departure board is listed as CANCELLED.

17 April - Escape from Zurich
5am
Arrive early at the ticket queue to be first in line, and manage to book a train to Paris, which costs over 200 Euro since only first class is available.

4pm
Arrive in Paris two days late, and receive word from Jim that his flight has been canceled AGAIN and he won’t be able to fly out until at least Thursday.

5pm
Arrive at the hotel we were meant to share (with a tragically gorgeous view of Sacré-Coeur), cry myself to sleep yet again.

18 April: A night with the nuns
-cancel the remaining nights in the hotel since it’s too expensive to stay in indefinitely while waiting for Jim's arrival.

-Wander around the city of Paris with tears in my eyes, trying to avoid the abundance of kissing couples, feeling more alone than ever before. THIS, my friends, is what hell must be like. To be stranded in one of the most romantic cities in the world without the one you love... Torture.

-8:30
Drag my suitcase up the steps of Montmartre. Spend the nights with the nuns at Sacré Coeur. In exchange for two hours of Eucharistic Adoration from 3 – 5am, I am given a place to sleep for only 5 euros. I can only take advantage of this offer for one night, unfortunately.

19 April

-Expected to leave Sacré Coeur by 7:30am, I rush to an internet café and book a hostel for the night.

-Wander the streets of Paris, determined to make the best of it, but the inevitable tears continue. By now, my face is so tear-stained from several days of crying, it will remain blotchy and red for weeks to come.

-Meet up with a Parisian on couch-surfing, with whom I have drinks and a personalized tour of Paris on his motorbike. Begrudgingly, I enjoy myself a bit. Head back to hostel and sleep.

20 April: Hospitality from a friend of a friend
-Have lunch with Emily, a girlfriend from the states who’s living in Paris. While she’s unable to host me for the night, her friend Sarah (an assistant like me) would be willing to.

-Wander the beautiful streets of Paris yet again, realizing that I rarely need a map anymore.

-I arrive at Sarah’s, bearing desserts and baguettes in gratitude. We share a lovely dinner together and I crash on her pullout couch.

21 April:
-Another day of exploring the city.

- Spend the night in the dirtiest, sketchiest hostel of my life (FRIENDS hostel) in what I consider the Bagdad of Paris (otherwise known as Métro stop Barbes Rochechouart.) Accosted by drug dealers and groped in the 30 feet from the Metro Station and the hostel.

-Jim's flight for the following day still had not been canceled, so I felt safe enough to book a new hotel for his hopeful arrival the following day.

22 April:

-Leave the god-forsaken FRIENDS Hostel for the lovely Hotel Lorraine near Gare de l'Est.

-Wait expectantly by the window for several hours... becoming more and more anxious until finally...

I turn around.

He's there.

We're together.

At last.

In Paris.

I lost my heart in Istanbul

2010-04-22T22:50:00.022+02:00

Less than a week after my return from Berlin, our April vacations began. Vive la France and her glorious six weeks of paid vacations!

My boyfriend would be joining me for the second half of my break, and I decided to pencil in a solo trip to Istanbul for the first half. We would rendezvous at Charles de Gaulle airport the same day and begin our Parisian holiday.

After reserving a budget flight and a cheap, centrally located hostel, I was ecstatic to finally venture to the land of 1,001 minarets, which had enchanted me ever since taking an art history class on the history of Byzantium. This hunger to visit Istanbul was only heightened when I studied the literary and art movement of “Orientalism” which occurred in France in the late 1700’s. Lured by visions of reclining female Odalisques, turquoise tiled mosques, whirling dervishes, mysterious eyes peering through the window lattices of the Sultan’s harem, splendid byzantine Mosaics, and of course, all the kebab I could eat, I bid farewell to Metz and set forth for the only city on earth situated on two continents!

Istanbul was all I could have imagined and more. After checking in to my hostel, I ventured up to the 5^th floor rooftop terrace to discover the most incredible view of Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, and the Sea of Marmara, overflowing with ships and leaping dolphins. It took my breath away, and just then, the call to prayer, or Adhan, began. It began with a single voice from the minaret of a tiny mosque just below, and then a voice from the direction of Hagia Sophia joined in. The six minarets of the Blue Mosque joined in, and suddenly, I was embraced from all angles by voices singing the same thing, overlapping one another until their words were indistinguishable.

" There is no God but Allah; Muhammad is God's Messenger; salvation is found through obedience to the Will of God, of which prayer is an important expression."

Each individual voice, so different, yet the same, combined to form a single, haunting, otherworldly voice, surrounding me completely. The voice of heaven, without a doubt. Gradually, the voices dwindled to a few, and finally one, who lingered on his last note, before gently disappearing. Five times a day, I would pause to listen to the call to prayer, which would send chills down my spine before eventually lulling me into a state of spiritual rest. It was such a pleasure to wake up each morning by the most beautiful sound on earth.

The Blue Mosque was a glorious sight to behold. Outside, men were seated on low stone stools along the mosque, washing their feet, hands, and heads in preparation for prayer. My eyes turned upwards. Voluptuous, sensual, with several domes flanked by six slender minarets, she is even more captivating inside. After removing my shoes and covering my hair with a scarf, I entered one of the most amazing interior spaces I’ve ever seen. Blue, turquoise, and red painted tiles adorn her walls. Islamic art does not depict figure of animals or human figures, and instead features calligraphic and abstracted floral forms. Because of this, your eyes are more inclined to take in the view as a whole, rather than focus on individual details of, say, stained glass windows or mosaics in a Christian church. This effect is stunning and elegant. I sat down on the carpet off to the side, silently observing male worshippers beginning their prayers in the direction of Mecca. Females worship separately. I discerned a pattern of standing, sitting, and prostrations, during which each one would silently recite passages of the Koran. I was reminded of the ritual of a Catholic Rosary, where one recites a series of prayers, while meditating on an intention. Stunning.

I was also taken with the lavish Topkapi Palace, the home of the Sultans of the Ottoman Empire and the location of the infamous Harem. The turquoise tiled corridors, breathtaking gardens surrounded by arcades, jewels and the luxurious harem fueled my imagination. I imagined the life of the Sultan, the concubines who lived to stimulate him mentally, visually, and physically, and the eunuchs who ensured the loyalty of the cloistered women. In addition to wielding sexual prowess and unmatched beauty, concubines were expected to be exceptional musicians, dancers, and conversationalists. A concubine who managed to become a “favorite” or bear the Sultan a son wielded considerable power within the harem.

Wandering the ancient race track of the Hippodrome, passing the fabled Serpent column, the Obelisk, the column of Constantine, surrounded by minarets, I was walking through the slides of an art history lecture, seeing things I never imagined seeing firsthand.

Another breathtaking sight was the Basilica Cistern (Sunken Palace), an ancient underground reservoir built during the reign of Byzantine Emperor Justinian I. Walking a narrow platform beneath of ceiling supported by 336 columns, each 9 meters high, I gazed down to see large fish coming up for gulps of air. The space is very dark, with sparsely spaced red lighting, which enhances the mysterious atmosphere. Dripping water from the cavernous space above occasionally landed on my face, refreshing me from the exterior heat. Traditional mystical Sufi music echoed in the caverns, and again, the excitement shivered down my spine.

Hagia Sophia was the true reason for my pilgrimage to Istanbul. She epitomizes glittering Byzantine splendor. When the city was still Constaninople, Hagia Sophia was constructed as an Orthodox church, epitomizing the glories of Byzantine architecture and mosaics. After Constantinople fell to the Ottoman Empire in 1402, the mosaics were whitewashed, and the church became a mosque. In recent years, the mosque was converted to a museum, and the spectacular mosaics uncovered. I spent close to three hours examining every mosaic. Hagia Sophia is HUGE, one of the largest churches on earth, and stepping inside and standing beneath the main dome is not to be missed. Surrounded by gold, and a combination of Christian mosaics and Islamic Calligraphy, I was in paradise. I was awakened from my dreamlike wanderings when I was approached by a camera crew from an Arabian TV station who asked me to participate in a documentary to be televised in several middle-eastern countries. I agreed, and was interviewed on my opinion of Hagia Sophia reverting back to a Christian church, since that was its original function. Apparently, many believe that the Islamic ornamentation be removed. The host of the interview was in traditional Islamic dress, a kaftan and hat I saw frequently in Egypt. I reflected a moment, and provided the most diplomatic answer possible. The fact is, Turkey is now a predominantly Muslim country. This is because of the invasion of the Ottoman Turks in the 1400s, and this is historic fact. If Hagia Sophia is kept a secular museum, it will belong to all people, and serve as a history lesson for the great eras that Constantinople/Istanbul has witnessed. If anything, keeping Hagia Sophia as a museum will provide a lesson in tolerance and bring various faiths together. I gestured toward women in headscarves and westernized tourists, and expressed my joy to see the cultures converging in this historic place. The host tried to bait me a bit, by telling me it was wrong for the Muslims to invade and deface a Christian church, since it was against the prophet’s teachings, but I remained steadfast in my opinion saying that every religion has witnessed mistakes by its followers, and that history should be remembered. The answer seemed to please him. He concluded the interview by telling me he was optimistic about the presidency of Obama, and that this historical event brought tears to his eyes.

The pleasures encountered in Istanbul are simply too numerous to list. The countless cups of apple tea offered by merchants as I haggled for carpets. The wafting scents of saffron, cinnamon, and ginger in the spice market. The narrow labyrinth of passageways of the underground Grand Bazaar, where merchants peddled jewelry, musical instruments, antiques, bronze lanterns, teapots, and hand-painted porcelain tiles (You WILL get lost in the maze of the underground bazaar, and that is the greatest pleasure of all.) The seamless fusion of ancient and modern architecture. The abundance of public gardens, filled with tulips (which originated in turkey, NOT the Netherlands!) The hospitality and friendly banter of the Turkish people. The street food: fresh squeezed pomegranate and orange juice, hot corn on a cob, baklava, kebabs, delightful slightly sweet pastry rings covered in sesame seeds, and turkish delight! A cruise down the Bosphorous straight, a narrow waterway that separates the continents of Europe and Asia Minor. To be able to set foot on two continents multiple times in the same day!

A trip to a whirling dervish hall captivated me all the more. The whirling dervishes are not entertainers, but members of the Mevlevii Sufi order, a mystical brotherhood of Islam. They believe that surrendering their existence and binding their hearts completely to God is the closest way to oneness with Him. As the dervishes entered the floor, bowing to one another in acknowledgement of the Divine Truth in their hearts. Their arms were crossed on their chests, indicating Unity with God. Then they started to spin, slowly at first, one at a time joining in until all were in unison. One by one, they extended their arms, gradually, right hand open, left hand turned downward. This signifies that we receive from God, give to man, and keep nothing for ourselves.

Transfixed, I noticed that their eyes were closed, their heads bent to one side. Their garments billowed as they spun, obscuring their feet. I began to wonder if they even had feet, since they seemed to be hovering above the ground. Faster and faster they spun, and I was more and more convinced that these men where no longer in control of the orbit of their bodies. They had surrendered to a higher power, which was guiding their heavenly dance. Indeed, their hearts were spinning around God.

If I had come to Istanbul without speaking French, my experience would not have been the same. In my hostel were two French guys, Benjamin and Mickaël, who I befriended and spent several evenings smoking shisha, sipping apple tea, and engaging in French conversation. My western appearance earned me an abundance of unwelcome male attention in Istanbul, but when I was in their company, it was like having body guards or as they put it “grands frères" (big brothers.) They were lovely, hilarious and friendly, and their presence gave me the peace of mind to go out at night and experience Istanbul illuminated in gold lights.

One day, in the company of an American artist named Mark, we enjoyed a day excursion to the ancient city walls that surround Istanbul, and wandered along the endless fortifications, stumbling across secret alcoves, climbing towers with spectacular views of the city and even an ancient tomb. We dared one another to crawl inside, where we discovered two intricately carved sarcophaguses in the greek style. This was not a tourist attraction, just one of countless anonymous tombs that one can find all over Turkey. We got creeped out and left shortly. We decided to walk the top of the wall, where we met a turkish man watching a high school football game below. He told us the score, offered us some nuts, and bantered with us for awhile.

After wandering for hours, we found ourselves several kilometers from the city center, in a slightly dilapidated residential area. We were starving. We attracted a number of stares from locals, who seemed much more traditionally dressed here than in the city center. Barefoot children trailed us in the streets, and whispered about us, giggling excitedly. We eventually came across a small outdoor turkish restaurant with only one table. Why not? After being bombarded with tourist traps, this was an authentic experience! They spoke no English or French, and us no Turkish, so we pointed to the menu, not sure of what we’d receive. Inside, the employees bustled about excitedly, occasionally peering out the windows to gawk at us. You could tell they weren’t accustomed to tourists. I joked with my three male companions that they were my “harem of men.” We were definitely off the beaten path. For pennies, we were served an amazing lunch of fresh veggies, bread, and sort of flatbread topped with meats and cheeses. We have no idea what it was called, so we declared it delicious. Around us, locals pulled carts of produce. We were suspended in time.

Nature called after hours of wanderings and several cups of apple tea, so I signaled to the owner of the restaurant for toilets. He beckoned for me to come with him, so Benjamin accompanied me for protection. The man led us to a tiny mosque, and pointed to a door! Cool! We got to go to the toilets in a mosque! As we were about to head back into town, we asked for “Hagia Sophia,” so we could find our way back. The man laughed as if it would take us a long time, and pointed the direction out. Mark thanked him and told him he looked like Robert DeNiro. He seemed to understand and he beamed. The whole unexpected situation made me laugh. Getting lost was the best thing that could have happened to us.

Another night, we met two lovely French speaking Algerians, with whom we enjoyed rowdy banter around an outdoor table at a simple kebob restaurant. We were presently joined by two turkish musicians, and the mixture of English, Turkish, and French flying across the table was something to behold. Even the restaurant staff joined in our fun, posing for photos, chattering away with us. The old violinist began to play traditional Turkish folk songs, while we kept time with our hands on the table. The laughter was boisterous, the food delightful, and the fresh evening air, sublime. I would have given anything to continue that night forever. It was one of those spontaneous evenings that can only occur when you travel. Ideal for my last evening in Istanbul.

Of all my travels this year, and possibly ever, my voyage to Istanbul has had the most unexpectedly profound effect on my life. She is my new muse, inspiring me in art, music, spirituality, and thought. Her taste, her smell, her essence still lingers all around me, and I'm intoxicated. I sense that my love affair with Turkey is only just beginning.

Muslim men washing before prayer.

The Blue Mosque

Kariye Camii / Chora Church

The Basilica Cistern (Sunken Palace)

Delicious Turkish pastries. Slightly sweet, covered in sesame seeds.

A typical Turkish bathroom.

I know you're dying to ask. The answer is yes. I did.

Watermelon Vendor.

The Grand Bazaar

Grand Bazaar

A Mosque

The Harem of Topkapi Palace

Imperial Tulips at Topkapi Palace

Trying Shisha for the first time with my French friends,

Benjamin and Mickaël

Mark, Benjamin, Mickaël, and I.

We were completely lost on the outskirts of Istanbul.

We loved every moment of it.

We stumbled upon an underground ancient tomb,

hidden in a cavern beneath the ancient city fortifications.

Socializing with an awesome Turkish guy who was watching a

football game from the top of the city fortifications.

He told us the score and shared nuts with us!

Section of the city fortifications.

Egyptian Spice Market

Cruise on the Bosphorous Strait, which

separates Europe from Asia Minor.

Cruise on the Bosphorous Strait, which

separates Europe from Asia Minor.

Hagia Sophia

Grand Bazaar

Strawberry vendor

Gorgeous Turquoise and Blue tiling, famous in Istanbul

I befriended a lovely Turkish Calligrapher

This piece I bought says "Allah"

No longer strangers:

American, Algerian, French, and Turkish friends.

Wandering the streets of Istanbul with Benjamin and Mounir

Easter in Berlin

2010-04-13T23:36:00.001+02:00

Taking advantage of a four day Easter break and a budget airline, Kathy and I jetted off to Berlin. Immediately, we were struck by how massive the city is. Because of the enormous damage during WWII, most of the beautiful architecture has been replaced by modern structures. Unlike Munich, which recreated its original buildings after being bombed beyond recognition, Berlin has transformed into a modern, international metropolis, and is in a continuous state of reinvention.

While not conventionally beautiful, Berlin houses a wealth of art and history museums, and continues to be a leader in the world of art and design. We wandered through a number of exciting museums, including the Gemäldegalerie, which houses one of the most important collections of European art in the world. We also toured the Bauhaus, a famous design school. As a graphic designer who studied the Bauhaus extensively, it was very much a pilgrimage for me. A trip to the astoundingly beautiful Charlottenburg Palace (heavily restored after the war) was a highlight of our trip. Kathy and I agreed that it is in many ways comparable to Versailles.

A free walking tour brought us to important sights like The Brandenburg Gate in Potsdam, the embassies, the site above Hitler’s former bunker where he ended his life, remaining sections of the Berlin Wall (which ironically are protected by fences), Checkpoint Charlie (name given by Western Allies to crossing point between East and West Germany during the Cold War), The Fernsehturm (TV Tower) the Berliner Dom (Berlin Cathedral), and many others. We found the Holocaust Memorial and the underground memorial to the book burning particularly moving. Although admittedly, I dozed off during the Easter Sunday Mass at the Catholic Cathedral of Saint Hedwig, we did enjoy a rousing performance (in English) of the Halleluia chorus from Handel’s Messiah.

A culinary highlight was visiting the world's largest chocolate house, Fassbender & Rausche, where our senses were tantalized by chocolate sculptures of German monuments, and every imaginable form of chocolate. We dined at the upstairs cafe, on warm, flakey apple strudel bathed in white chocolate.

In the midst of incredible history and sights, my favorite moments were spent at the table, over coffee or dinner, when we could just relax and talk about anything under the sun.

While we barely scraped the surface of the lively city of Berlin, it was a lovely experience with a great friend to be cherished forever!

Brandenburg Gate

Berliner Dom (Berlin Cathedral)

Catholic Cathedral of Saint Hedwig

Fountain of Neptune

Checkpoint Charlie

Mural extolling the "glories" of socialism

The Bauhaus!

The Bauhaus

Charlottenburg Palace

Gardens of Charlottenburg Palace

Brandenburg Gate, Potsdam

Chocolate reproduction of Brandenburg Gate at

Fassbender & Rausche

Fassbender & Rausche chocolate house

Remnants of the Berlin Wall

Holocaust Memorial

Inside Holocaust Memorial

St. Marienkirche and the Fernsehturm (TV Tower)

Alexanderplatz, surely named after me!

Kathy at one of the Opera houses

Apple strudel in white chocolate sauce at

Fassbender & Rausche chocolate house!

Holy Week in Metz

2010-04-11T11:08:00.006+02:00

Patisseries and chocolate shop window displays are truly something to behold. Oversized chocolate eggs, chickens, rabbits and lambs tantalize passers-by. Storefronts display trees strung with colorful eggs. I was able to restrain myself from partaking of the seasonal treats until one of my students presented me with a Belgian chocolate egg filled with smaller chocolates. It miraculously disappeared within 24 hours! My adult student Anna also gifted me with an adorable chocolate chicken, which has been banished to the refrigerator until Jim comes to visit. We’ll see how long it lasts there!

More enjoyable than the sweets are the services in the Cathedral. On Palm Sunday, old women in kerchiefs sold bouquets of palms outside the cathedral, and the familiar reading of the Passion was especially beautiful in French. Holy Thursday services were even more solemn and beautiful; the air filled with incense and Gregorian chants. The sight of the bishop of Metz and dozens of priests clothed in white was something to behold, lit by candles and the waning light through the stained glass windows. A man in the pew next to me had noticed me staring at the vaulted ceilings for most of the service, and as we processed out, he asked me how I found the cathedral. “She’s magnificent.” I replied. He noticed my accent right away and asked what brought me to Metz. After whispering together (as the procession was still going on) he revealed that he was an assistant to the Bishop of Metz, and that he was delighted to see a person of my age in the cathedral. “C’est beau, la foi.” he said. “Gardez-la pour toujours.”

The anticipation of the Easter season is one of my favorite times of year, but admittedly, my faith has suffered here, dealing with separation from my loved ones and crisis after crisis with living and financial situations. France is also a highly secularized country, and not the ideal place to grow my faith, as I had previously imagined. But those simple words from the distinguished man in the cathedral gave me chills, and I walked away feeling inspired and filled with hope. Winter has been long, and at times, hard, but the promise of Easter and spring fills me with anticipation of things yet to come.

Chocolate eggs and rabbits at Patisserie Jean

Easter tree window display

Pascal lambs cakes

My palm from Palm Sunday (Dimanche des Rameaux)

Palm Sunday in the Cathedral