Looking for a Better Country

Worst Airports Article

2012-01-27T04:59:00.000-08:00

Yahoo! posted an amusing-to-me article today about the worst airports in the world. If you travel alot, you might be amused by it too. The journalist gave a disclaimer in the beginning that he was only rating major airports because the small shack by an open field in India shouldn't have to compete against CDG.

That said, I laughed. Outside of the US, the only country to make it onto the list twice was FRANCE. In fact, the only Western country apart from the US to make the list was France.

Beauvais, which IS NOT IN PARIS, but is listed as a Parisian airport is on the list. Remember the time I was flying home to Paris from Venice and got rerouted to Liege, Belgium and had to take a bus back to Paris? Yeah, it was that airport.

CDG (the main airport in Paris), came in at number 5. They'll probably go on strike for being named on the list.

I agreed with the list about JFK being the worst. I flew through there once and said never again. There weren't escalators in the international terminal! Watching all those international travelers lug their suitcases up and down stairs was just sad.

My favorites: in the US, I'd say Charlotte. I love the rocking chairs. Internationally: Mumbai and Seoul. Oh man. Mumbai has these leather lay out chairs that look like something from the first class of the airplane, and are just what a lay-overed weary traveler needs. Seoul has 30 minute hot showers for $7. And when I hadn't had a hot shower in a month, and I'd already been traveling for 3 days and had 2 more to go before getting home, that was the best $7 I'd ever spent. In fact, I paid it twice to stand in the hot water for a whole hour.

My least favorites: CDG and Beauvais, as already noted. Frankfurt. It used to be really crowded and smoky and all around unpleasant, and while all that has changed with the new terminal...I still have the old feelings about it. And there's no Starbucks.

Because really...a Starbucks can make any airport feel just a little bit better.

Let Us Eat Cake!

2012-01-26T02:07:00.000-08:00

Last year, I bought a King's Cake and some Champomy (sparkling apple juice) for me and CSI to celebrate Epiphany. No, I'm not turning Catholic. But I have gotten to where I do like participating in yummy tasting cultural traditions around me, and learning where the tradition comes from. If it's celebrating a certain saint, while I believe that every believer is a saint (saved by grace), I also think it's great to look at the lives of those who have gone before us. Learn from them. I can appreciate their testimonial life without worshipping them. And I can eat their cake.

So...January 6 is Epiphany. I know, I know, it's January 26 when I'm writing this. I'm a little behind. You can blame CSI. (Ha!) Epiphany is supposedly when the Magi (kings) arrived to bring their gifts to baby Jesus. (So, when you're setting up your little manger scenes next Christmas season, you should really put your three wise men off somewhere away from the manger. They're in route...not arrived yet. Camelridingcowgirl does this and I think it's brilliant.)

Since gold, frankincense, and myrrh don't taste so good, and we live in the country where good eatin' is a national pastime, why not bring baby Jesus a cake instead? Works for me! The king's cake is sold throughout the entire month of January in pretty much every bakery and grocery store in France. And I totally think it's acceptable to eat more than once.

Inside the cake is la fève, a little trinket. Or is supposed to be. That's where this year's king's cake comes into the story. Here's a picture of last year's king's cake.

A sweet little Japanese girl that would crack your tooth if you bit down on it. Whoever's slice of the cake has la fève gets to be king/queen for the day and where the crown that comes with the cake...And has to buy next year's cake. CSI got la fève, and thus had to provide this year's cake.

She brought the cake this year, and we were all hoping that the Artist would get la fève. CSI and Pantene will both be gone next January (sad, let's not talk about that), and so the Artist really needs to get la fève so that she can buy the cake. I suppose in French tradition, the youngest person at the party is supposed to sit under the table and call out who gets which slice, so as to ensure that la fève is given at random. For some reason...we couldn't convince CSI to get under the table?

When serving the cake, we realized that it was not apple (like the yumminess of last year), but almond paste. Count me out.

CSI bit into what she thinks is a giant nut, and exclaimed that it's all rubbery.

"Is it la fève?"

"No...it looks like a nut. And tastes like rubber."

She spit it back out, and we examine it. It looked like...a bean. Not a trinket.

WE GOT GYPPED!

I went over the computer and began to read from Wikipedia (the source of all true and correct knowledge for the information junkie), and it turns out...France has several kinds of king's cakes. I prefer the APPLE one, please. And down here in the South, it is more common to have the traditional bean in the cake than a trinket. Or a sweet little baby Jesus (as a popular blogger would call him).

We got gypped.

Pantene didn't seem to mind that we got gypped, since she got to wear the crown for a bit. What girl doesn't love a little diadem-al bling?

Later, CSI went back for a second slice, and it turned out...there was also a little baby Jesus in the cake. Not or. And. If one person found the bean, and one found the little baby Jesus, who gets to be king/queen for the day and wear the crown? I suppose the one who found the little baby Jesus.

It seems a little weird to me to put a little baby Jesus into a cake. What if you bit Him!? Does it honor Him to have Him smothered in almond paste? How does He feel about you taking His rightful crown and wearing it, simply because you found Him? Should I save all my king's cakes' crowns from over the years to lay back down at His feet one day? What does it say about my faith in Jesus that I'm disappointed that there wasn't a little Japanese fève but instead a poorly crafted but appropriated covered baby Jesus in the cake?

Numerical Dyslexia

2012-01-23T03:43:00.000-08:00

Back in August, I transferred my old cell phone to a friend who needed a contracted phone for a year. I had a year left on my contract, and wanted to stitch to a new contract with a new phone. Giving her my old phone was a good deal for both of us.

However, when I'd signed up for that old phone, I'd signed up for insurance on it too. I'd noticed that the 8 euros for insurance every month came out of my bank account separately than the phone bill, but it'd never bothered me. Until I switched the phone contract over to my friend...and was still be charged for the insurance.

On a phone I no longer posses. Hmmm...how to fix that?

I went down to the store of the mobile provider on the old phone and asked them how to cancel the insurance. They told me I would have to call the customer service. Oh man, I just love talking on the phone in French. (Note the sarcasm.) I called them, and they informed me that the insurance had been provided through the store where I bought the phone (in Besançon), and not through the mobile provider. Well, I can't really just run over to Besançon and pop into the store, now can I?

I looked up where one of those stores might be in Marseille...not anywhere easy for me to get to. So I looked up on their website a way to contact them. While there was no phone number to call, there was a messaging system within the website. So I shot them a message with my email address explaining the situation (thank you, Google Translate), and that I would like to cancel the insurance on the phone no longer in my possession.

They emailed me back with the phone number to call. Oh boy, here we go again with the talking on the phone in French.

When I called, it was one of the automated teller things where you have to press numbers for various options. None of the options were to speak to a human being. All of the options were said in speedy-French with words I didn't catch/know/understand/etc. Ack. I called five different times pressing various number options all the while talking into my phone that I just wanted to talk to a person.

Which is humorous in French because the word for 'person' and the word for 'nobody' is the same. (Which really confused me when I first started speaking French.) So I'm sitting there pressing buttons saying, "somebody," "anybody," "nobody" into the phone by just saying "personne" over and over and over.

Suddenly, a person answered! Joy! I gave my new have-mercy-on-me schpeal of, "Hi. I'm a foreigner, so French isn't my first language, but I'm going to try." I've found that that line said with my "charming" (read: Southern) accent can get a girl far in this country. The operator laughed and said, "We can do it!"

I explained the situation and she told me it would be easy to cancel my insurance. I just need to send a letter with the code she will give me to a certain address.

Wait. You can't just click click click and it's done? I have to write a letter in French?! That's worse than the phone because I can't use my charming accent to win over whoever reads the letter. And while Google Translate might be the best thing since sliced bread, it's not perfect. And certainly not perfect enough to win over a French paper-pusher who loves for their ridiculously irregular language to be impossibly perfect in written form.

Stress.

She starts to tell me the code and I stress out even more. It's all numbers. I hate numbers.I think I have some sort of numerical dyslexia. My brain just jumbles them all up and I go into a panic freeze. Now take that and make me do it in another language and I have mental meltdowns.

I somehow managed to understand all the numbers in the code, and even repeated them back to her to verify that I'd gotten them correct. Then she goes to give me the address where I need to mail the letter. And when she says the number of the building, the mental meltdown occurs.

She said, "Soixante dix." She kept talking to tell me the street name, but I was frozen.

Soixante dix? I can't remember what number that is. ACK!

In French, every number from 1-69 has its own word. Starting with 70, they say "sixty ten, sixty ten one, sixty ten two" and so on until 80, when they say, "four twenty, four twenty one," and so on. Do you see why I hate numbers in French? I hear "four" and immediately start trying to figure out if they're saying "four" or "forty" or "eighty" or "four hundred." Ack.

So I guess I'd reached my numerical limit when she'd given me the code number because my brain could not process soixante dix. Could not. I asked to please wait a moment for me to catch up. I kept muttering "soixante dix" under my breath.

I even spelled it out. What is the matter with me that I can spell it out, but can't mentally register the number that represents it?!

She finally says in shy, broken English, "I zink it iz seven sero."

"YES! Merci!"

We finished and I hung up. Traumatized. Embarrassed. Five years in France and I still can't get my numbers straight.

And now I have to write a letter in French. Ack.

Why I'm not in Jordan

2012-01-20T03:17:00.000-08:00

I should be floating in the Dead Sea right now.

Instead, I'm still in France, not on vacation. On January 1st, Alitalia called me. I was slightly taken aback. First, it was a Sunday. Who does business on a Sunday? Second, it was New Year's Day. Who does business on New Year's Day? Apparently, Alitalia does.

The woman informed me that Alitalia is cancelling permanently their route to Amman, Jordan. And thus...my upcoming flight is cancelled. When I asked her if they could rebook it through one of their constituents, she replied, "Our only constituent who flies to Amman is AirFrance and they are refusing to cooperate with us on this. We sincerely apologize."

I laughed and wanted to tell her, "Honey, I live in France. I understand the 'refuse to cooperate mentality'." Instead I said, "So what are my options?"

"You can fly to Jordan and back before January 8th, or we need to cancel your full itinerary." Well, since I couldn't leave for Jordan the very next day, I asked them to cancel my full itinerary.

"Would you like to be refunded?"

Well what kind of question is that?! No, no, y'all go head and keep my rather expensive vacation plane ticket for yourselves and I'll be content with no vacation and no money. I think they were hoping that I would say I'd like to use the part that got me to Rome, and therefore to keep some of my money. The thing is, I've been to Rome. If I'd wanted to go to Rome or anywhere else in Italy for my vacation, I would have booked my ticket as such. But I wanted to go to Jordan, and that's why I booked my ticket to go there. Crazy, I know.

"Yes, I would like to be refunded, please. Will you be sending me an email that explains you cancelled my flight and refunding me for it?"

"No...you can use your confirmation email from when you booked your ticket as your documentation."

I scratched my head in confusion. A confirmation email for a confirmed, booked, paid-for ticket will by my proof that THEY cancelled my ticket and are going to fully refund me? After a week had gone by, and I'd received no email and no money, I called Alitalia back.

After this particular woman had confirmed that my flight definitely was cancelled, and the original call had not been a scam, she too, asked if I would like to be refunded for my flight. Um, yes please! I in turn asked her if I could please receive some sort of documentation about all of this, and she replied, "My department is incapable of providing that. You'll need to contact customer service."

Huh? I understand contacting customer service...but you'd think with this many cancelled flights they'd have a blanket email they'd already typed up and just click "send." In today's day and age, it sure seems ridiculous to me that they were not providing any kind of written documentation about why my flight was cancelled. I wrote the customer service asking for something, anything, in writing.

I have not heard back from them. And don't really think I will.

The good news is...the money finally showed up in my bank account yesterday. A full refund. I am grateful for that. However...the tickets to Jordan during the next two months (when I have to finish up "this year's" vacation time) are way more than what I'd originally paid. So while I might still hopefully get to float in the Dead Sea this year, I don't think it'll happen in the next two months.

It looks like I'll either be doing a staycation or a Pariscation before April 1. And probably avoiding Alitalia from now on...

I would also like to add that I think it was God's providence and grace that Alitalia cancelled my flight. The friend I was supposed to stay with and visit in Jordan had a sudden family death this past week, and thus had to return to the US. If I were in Jordan right now, I'd be floating in the Dead Sea all by myself. And I'm very glad I'm not. And sad for my friend and her family. And thankful for the hope that we have as Christians that she only had to say goodbye-for-now.

God is good...even in cancelled vacations.

The Joy Dare

2012-01-18T08:14:00.000-08:00

For a few weeks now, I've been reading the blog, A Holy Experience. I was telling someone about it recently: the wife of a farmer, mother of six homeschooled kids...sounds a bit like the Wise family, just in English! The blogger is the author of 1000 Gifts, a book I am currently reading and that you might want to check out. Anyway, on her blog, she's encouraged people to join her in The JOY Dare.

In the Joy Dare, you strive to count 3 gifts a day from God...thanking Him for the little gifts He graciously offers us, all around us, every day...every day of the year. At the end of the year, I ought to have counted up at least 1000 gifts He's graciously bestowed upon me. Recognizing the small gifts and thanking Him for them grows joy in the little things that add up to...abundant life.

Count your blessings...

Name them one by one...

Count your blessings,

See what God has done.

To help us out, Ann posted a free printable of gifts to look for during the month of January. You can find it HERE. She's got an app you can load to your phone for free (just look up 1000 gifts in your app store), and use it to capture photos of the gifts, and it counts them for you. I'm currently up to 52.

When life doesn't always turn out like we'd expected... when siblings are taken to be with the Lord before we were ready to say goodbye-for-now... When babies don't come... When spouses don't show up... When we just can't find a job... When heroes say hurtful things... When it's hard to find joy in January's cold and darkness...

We can still count our blessings. He still came that we might have life abundant. He still deserves to be told thank you for the manna He provides in the desert journey towards the promised land of milk and honey. He is still worthy of our praises. And I have found that I can sing praises when I've been thanking Him...

...for a compliment the Artist gave as a side remark, not even knowing that she blessed my heart with it.

...for the bittersweet awesomeness of lemons.

...for my hot water bottle that has been sufficient to keep me warm enough to not need to turn on electric heat.

...for good sleep and hot showers and awesome water pressure.

...for sunrises...

...and for sunsets...

I've been playing the attitude of gratitude game since the summer of 2008...what you thankful for?... and I've had that little button on the side of the blog pretty much since I got back to France in 2010. And yet...I complained alot last year. I grew angry and bitter. My heart shriveled up into the cold black stone that it would remain to be if it were not for the awesomeness of our God. He is daily giving me a new heart, His heart, to replace mine. I determined at the end of last year that 2012 would be different. It will not end feeling so empty because He is still giving me gifts...every.single.day. And this year, I will count them.

I will thank Him.

18 days into the Joy Dare and I'm already thanking Him for gifts beyond the 3 that Ann sent me out to look for...

...for the free desserts the baker gave us yesterday because we were enjoying our lunch in her bakery so much. When we said, "Merci," she responded, "Bah, oui! C'est la France!" (But of course! That's France!)

...for the delicious molten chocolate lava cake my friend made for us at her birthday party.

...for the beautiful sunset I got to see on a night when I was somewhere where I could see the sunset.

...for the way the morning light hits the building across from mine and creates such a beauty to see first thing in the morning from my balcony.

My little French quilting store

2012-01-17T10:32:00.000-08:00

I recognize that I don't live somewhere exotic like China or India, and that life for me in France is much easier than for those who do live in those type places. I don't have to make my own cheese or chase monkeys away from my laundry. But some days, it still isn't easy here. Well, it's not as easy as in America. In America, if I realize that my sewing machine is missing it's foot, I can go to Joanne's and buy a new foot. (Don't ask me how my machine lost a foot because I JUST DON'T KNOW.) In America, if I didn't have a Joanne's in my town...my town would be small enough to have its own homegrown quilting store and everyone would know everyone and I'd be able to find it. I recognize that in China or India, it wouldn't be that easy. Well, it's not that easy in France either.

I needed to find a foot for my machine. "Foot" is one of those words that you can't just put into the google translator and hope it gives you the correct word for the mechanical part that attaches to the machine. It's sort of like trying to look up the verb "to snake," (as in a drain). Not so easy.

Pantene suggested that we go to Eurodif, a nifty little store that has a sewing section. They did sells needles and thread and bobbins and zippers and buttons and pins. But nothing hanging on the wall looked like a sewing machine foot. Oh boy. Here goes my daily dose of humbling myself to look like the village idiot.

"Excuse me, ma'am? Hello. I'm looking for something that I don't know how to say in French. It is part of the sewing machine, is shaped like this, the needle goes through it like this, and in English we call it a 'foot.'" She stared at me for a minute like I was the village idiot until everything I'd said sunk in.

"Oh! You mean 'a deer's foot?' We don't sell those."

"Well, do you know where I could buy one?"

She (and the woman hanging out nearby us who decided to just join in the conversation) explained how to find this sewing store. "Head to the big square just off the port, climb the stairs, and turn right down the first street. You'll see it off one of the streets up there." (Reminded me of my UAE days when people would tell me to head to the "big round-a-bout" and turn at the mosque, and it's the building by the two palm trees.)

Pantene and I headed in that direction, figuring maybe we'll find it. Once we got on the first street at the top of the stairs, we walked for a block or two until we saw a seamstress' shop. It wasn't what we were looking for, but maybe she would know. We went in there, and I explained, "Hello ma'am. I'm new in town and I'm looking for a store where I can buy a deer's foot for my sewing machine. Do you know where there is one near here?" She grinned at us with a "bless their hearts" grin and gave us directions. "Head back down this street a bit, and after the Lidl, don't turn down the first little street, but the second one. You'll find it there." I noticed her antique Singer machine and my heart warmed from the connection I shared with her over it.

We followed her directions, and sure enough, there was a sewing store. They sold all sorts of stuff for sewing machines, and looked like they did their own sewing in house as well.

They sold beautiful fabrics that made my heart soar (not sore, but soar). And they repaired regular sewing machines AND antique sewing machines. But I'm getting ahead of myself. They also sold...quilting materials!!! Boards, rotary cutters, measuring sticks, hand-quilting thread, patterns and more! I was in my own little quilter's heaven.
I went to the back to ask the repairman about my sewing machine. I explained that I really didn't know most of the terms that go with a sewing machine, and he told me to sit down, we'd figure it out! So I explained, as best I could, the ways my machine was being persnickety...missing a foot and not having been used for 2.5 years can do that to a machine. He told me how to detach the whole needle arm, and to bring that in, and he'd find the right foot for my machine. (Which, by the way is a Toyota! Who knew that Toyota made anything besides cars?!) As he was talking, I noticed all the antique machines behind him in his repairman's work area. Maybe I could bring Jasmine to him?

As I went to pay for the fabric I bought, I found yet another reason to love my little French quilting store. They use an antique cash register from America!
Look at those fun buttons! And the change drawers inside are beautiful wood.

It even has the awesome little tabs that pop up with the price like something from long before the Price is Right ever came up with pricing games to showcase something cool like this.

I walked away from my little French quilting store with a happy heart. Happy that while it wasn't as easy as Joanne's, and it took asking in two other stores first, I found what I was looking for without that much difficulty. I found something in France that can help me keep being American me...in France. Another step towards adaptation. Another step towards settling down. Another step towards being content to just live life here.

Aigues-Mortes

2012-01-14T13:54:00.000-08:00

The Chef is in town for a few weeks to pack up his house for the final move back to the US. He brought his two daughters and their cousin with him, and as the cousin has never been to France, he thought a day trip would be a good break-from-packing, I mean educational outing. So a bunch of us loaded up into two cars and headed out of Marseille.

In the car, Creedence asks if any of us have ever been to Aigues-Mortes (where we were headed first). Flower responded no, she had not. I turned to her and said, "Yes, you have. You went with me. In 2008." She responded, "No, we went to Arles."

I then explained to the car my confusion between Arles and Nimes, and that I finally got them straightened out back in October. But while I am often confused between Arles and Nimes, I'm not confused between Arles and Aigues-Mortes. Aigues-Mortes is a medieval walled-in city, and Arles has a colosseum and the cafe that Van Gogh painted...and I'd never been there until October. Flower said, "Well, I've been to the walled-in city." Yes...in 2008 with me. I seem to remember taking photos then, but I can't find them now, and I didn't even blog about going. But I do know that we went, because I remember there was a temporary exhibit that had stuffed sheep being thrown over the city walls, and well, that was just weird.

Once we'd arrived in Aigues-Mortes, we went straight to lunch. We found a pizzeria and I was surprised to see that the special of the day was a filet of kangaroo. I asked the waitress if that was really true and she assured me that it was. I immediately thought, "Well, I can eat pizza any time, but how often do I see kangaroo on the menu?!" So I ordered it. It tasted like steak and was very tender. Very good. I laughed afterwards that it could very easily have been from a cow, because it sure didn't taste different, but would be easier to sell as kangaroo. Because really? What's a random pizzeria in a small medieval French town doing selling kangaroo?!

After lunch, we did a little bit of souvenir shopping. While I was in a shop, a man approached Pantene and me and immediately began to speak to us in English. For about 10 minutes non-stop. About how he's a blues musician and plays with Michael McDonald. And how he lives in Cuba because it's a great place to live and there aren't that many communists anymore. And that his name is Patti Fatti, P-A-T-T-I-F-A-T-T-I (he spelled it twice for us), and that we can google him and here is his business card. And "you're from Alabama?" and of course he had to begin singing Sweet Home Alabama including the guitar riffs until he couldn't remember the second line of the song and needed my help.

Oh my.

So once we escaped the-man-no-woman-would-want-to-marry (because her last name would be Fatti), we headed over to the Tower of Constance. There is a memorial to the Huguenots (French Protestants) in front of it that was pretty cool to see. I've been reading some French history stuff lately, and when you add the fact that I am a Protestant living in France, the Huguenot part is really interesting to me. Aigues-Mortes is a walled city that King Louis IV (Saint Louis) built during his reign, leaving for two of the crusades from there. He was "the first king of France to have a Mediterranean port...Sheltered by the city walls, in 1278 the port became the only southern port in the kingdom, handling goods such as spices and wool. But when Provence became a part of France in 1481, Marseille took its place. After the revocation of the the Edict of Nantes in 1685 (which established Protestantism as a religion in France), the towers of Aigues-Mortes, formerly a Protestant city, were turned into prisons for the Huguenots." (From the brochure at the Tower). There were several statues of Louis around town. Even though he was taken captive during one of the crusades, the book I read didn't mention that his hands were cut off...

The Tower of Constance is not famous for Saint Louis, though.

It's famous for Marie Durand, a Huguenot who was imprisoned for her faith. She could have won her freedom by simply stating "recant." She refused, and instead carved the word "resist" in the stone of her tower cell. She remained there for 38 years until she was justly freed. What a testimony to persevere in the faith!

Because of the persecution the Huguenots faced for their faith,they fled France, and carried the Protestant faith into the world. I am thankful for that. (This memorial represents that with their cross in the top left, the prison bars in the bottom left, and the sail boats on the right.)

After seeing the "resister," we had some fun storming the castle...

Above is a view of the city walls, and the town within the walls. Below is CSI, me, and Pantene showing our excitement about being up in the tower.

And then we headed over to Nimes. I just loved the way the sunlight was hitting this church steeple.

We walked by some Roman ruins (although this one doesn't look too ruined).

Me, CSI, and the Artist in front of some ruins.

Took a spin around the colosseum.

And called it a day. What a good day it was! On days when Marseille gets to be too Marseille-ish (yall who've been here know what I mean), it's good to get out into the beautiful small-town southern France.

Finished Jewelry Display

2012-01-12T09:12:00.000-08:00

Last month, I wrote about how I was feeling crafty, and thus had replaced the plastic orange "jewelry box" with the beautiful painted tile drawers and bought a chair that I see the potential for reupholstered magic in. I promised a post to come of what would replace the dreaded duct-taped Taboo box... That day has come. The orange plastic box is gone. The duct-taped Taboo box is in the trash. I now have a beautifully unique jewelry display in my bedroom. Here's the journey.

While at the Goodwill-like store last month, I did not find what I was (and still am) searching for: an old six-pane window frame to use to hang photos in. I did find, however, this cabinet door. For 5 euros. Score.
Handy dandy Shane pulled out his power drill and within minutes I had holes. Score.
I had hoped to paint outside on the balcony...but um, it's January. That's not going to happen for a few more months. So, I made a painting station in the spare bedroom, and taped my lines on the door so that I could make it two-toned. I didn't want to keep the white, for several reasons: 1. Most apartments here have white walls, and I didn't want a white cabinet door against a white wall. 2. I like painted wood. 3. There's just not that much white in my bedroom, and I kinda like it that way. 4. I was feeling crafty. Need to paint more!
So paint I did! (There are still remnants of that color all over my hands and I'm kinda glad that it's not turning my pretty white Mac that greyish blue. I like the blue. I don't mind it on my hands. I don't want it permanently on Precious, though.)
I painted 3 coats in the shadow indentation, so it was good and solid. When I'd been painting the other doors, I realized I liked the look of the brush strokes on the wood, with the old color behind. So when I went to paint the rest of the cabinet door, I tried my hand at "dry-brushing." You'll see the result below. Then I added in different painted drawer-knobs that (sort of) match the painted tile drawers that hold my earrings.
Then I hung my necklaces.
The finished result: No more Taboo box. Eventually, I might add a few more knobs to hang some bracelets on, but for now, the bracelets are happy in the box. I'm more than happy with the look of my dresser. Thrilled!
Score!

The Doors

2012-01-11T02:16:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows me knows I love doors. Not of the Jim Morrisson brand, but of the hanging on hinges kind. I don't really know when or how the love came about, but I know that I really began photographing them in earnest in Turkey, and by the time I'd moved to France it was full-blown. As I've moved into my own home, I have begun playing around with the idea of refurbishing old doors as a means of decorating and furnishing my home. Pinterest has really helped with that...

So a few months ago, I was walking along the avenue du Prado in Marseille, and came upon a dumpster diving TREASURE. Once a month (or more often, as Marseille goes...), people can put out big pieces of furniture on the curb for the trashmen to pick up (if they're not striking). So it's not uncommon to see dressers, desks, baby furniture, couches, etc., near dumpsters. This particular day, I found a wardrobe (or chiffarobe, as it's called in To Kill a Mockingbird, and I like that word so much better), taken apart and lying disassembled on the side of the road. Not near a dumpster, but near a tree. I would have walked on by not even noticing if it had not been for the wardrobe doors. A bit of beautifully carved wood caught my eye, and I flipped the wood over to get a full look.

Oh my. Beautiful. And except for a few tragic Hello Kitty stickers and temporary tattoos, the doors seemed in fairly good condition.

I called the Artist, who lived nearby, and asked her to come take a look. As we inspected them, several women lingered, waiting to see if I would take the doors. Take them I did! The Artist and I laughed as we carried these doors down the big main avenue through Marseille, but I was thrilled with my find.

Back at my house, I got them cleaned up and sanded, all the while dreaming about how I would paint them. The Artist sketched the doors for me, which I then photocopied to have a gazillion copies of, and colored each one different ways until I'd decided how to paint them. Blue and grey? Blue, grey, and wood? Only blue? Only grey? How much wood to leave unpainted? Everyone agreed that the carved flowers ought to remain unpainted. They're so beautiful on their own...and they'd be too hard for a novice like me to paint!
The Artist and I headed to the local version of Lowe's, and she talked me through buying paintbrushes and paint. I finally decided on the color 'Stormy Sky,' which I thought looked like a grey-blue...more on the grey side. Once painted, it appears to be more on the blue side. Below you can see the carved flowers that make my heart soar they're so pretty!Here is the final product...two doors on each side of my bed to greet me each time I walk in the room. Perhaps eventually I'll get another door to hang as the headboard of my bed.
Thanks, Artist, for all your help, instruction, and encouragement along the way! Yay for doors in my home!

Most Awesome of 2011

2012-01-04T23:09:00.000-08:00

Inspired by this post on Stuff Christians Like, here's a list of the awesomeness of 2011 in my own life.

Most awesome books: The Rookery and The Fiddler's Gun.

Most awesome movies: Harry Potter 7.2, My Favorite Wife, Soul Surfer

Most favorite new (to me) artists that I can't get enough of: Josh Garrels, Mandi Mapes, Seryn, Nick Gainey Band, Mumford & Sons, Amos Lee

Most precious moment: Master Yoda marries Princess Leah

Most laughter with someone: CSI (she has made me cry from laughing so suddenly and so hard on more than one occasion)

Most never-will-forget-it experience: Singing and dancing with a million other people while watching fireworks at the Eiffel Tower on the 14th of July

Most unexpected: Spending the summer in Paris

Most needed: Unpacking and moving into my own place after 27 months of being homeless

Most fun: Killer Bunnies and the Quest for the Magic Carrot

Christmas in Central Asia

2011-12-28T07:35:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, I was trying to decide where to go for Christmas. I don't have much vacation time left for the year, and having just gone to the states, I didn't have a lot of money left either. And more than anything, I wanted to go where there would be snow. Last winter in Besancon ruined me, in that I just want SNOW all winter long...and I live on the Mediterranean coast. As I was thinking about it one day, I felt like the Lord whispered in my heart, "Why not look at going to see the Suits?" I looked at ticket prices and was pleased to see how low they were....and they were booked within days. I haven't seen the Suits since they moved to Central Asia, and I've always wanted to spend a holiday with them, since they are practically family in my heart.

I left my house at 5:30am to walk to the metro, catch it to the train station, where I caught a shuttle bus to the airport, and promptly checked in 2 hours early for my flight. As usual, my passport caused some confusion (so many visas, many of which are expired), but they agreed that as long as I try to enter the Central Asian country as an American and purchase the visa at immigration, I would be fine. Why in the world would I want to try to confuse the Central Asian immigration by trying to enter as an American resident in France?! I like to keep things simple. I'm an American. I'll buy the American visa, please. Thank you.

We flew over the Alps, and oh my. It was lovely. I would have stared at it the whole way if the sunlight wasn't bothering my still-slightly-sick eye. But I did snap a shot so that I could look back and remember the majesty of the Lord's creation. If this is what they look like from above the clouds, imagine from the ground looking up!

About a week before I left France, the Suits asked me if I would feel unloved if they didn't pick me up at the airport, but had someone meet me who could get me to the bus station. I told them that was fine, so a very sweet young lady and her friend met me at the airport. We rode a shuttle bus from the airport to the bus station, where we went from one booth to the next looking for a bus going to the Suits' town. One of the busses was leaving at 11pm...no thank you! I did not want to wait up that late nor ride that late by myself through Central Asia. We found one that was leaving at 5:30. Perfect! As I was paying, we realized it was 5:26! The man who sold us the ticket guided us quickly to the bus and I said a speedy, "Nice to meet you! Thanks for helping me!" to my new friend and climbed on board.
Each seat had it's own TV that was programed to local channels...none of which I could understand, obviously. I pulled out my Kindle to read, and they promptly turned all the lights off. Well. First time ever that I regretted not having a light for my Kindle. I pulled out my iphone and began to watch the movie that The Jeremy gifted me for Christmas. About 10 minutes into it, I'd attracted the attention of several little boys who climbed into the seat beside me and wanted to see the phone. They didn't understand that I didn't understand them, that they wouldn't understand my movie if I let them listen, or why none of my apps were working. I decided turning the movie off would be the best way to get them to let go of my phone. So...I slept the entire 3 hour ride and am happy to say that for once in my life...nothing crazy happened on my bus ride. Shocking, I know! After 15 hours of travel, I was greeted by wonderful squeezes from those kiddos I love so much.

The next day was Christmas Eve. After a lazy morning, we got dressed, and ready for friends to come over. One of the neat things about spending Christmas with the Suits was that Gran Suit had come too, and some other friends from their home fellowship had just moved there as well...so with so many familiar faces there, it felt...normal. Not like we were in Central Asia. We sang Christmas songs, read the Christmas story from Luke 2, and spent time worshiping that God became flesh to live among us. We ate a great Christmas meal, and watched the Nativity Story. Then...games! The kids got Twister for Christmas, and just loved it.
I think we killed some bunnies, had a dance revolution on the wii, played some backgammon and chess, and all around participated in gaming merriment. As the friends bundled up to head towards home, we noticed that it had begun snowing and the snow was sticking to the cars. It was a wonderful day, and we all went to sleep dreaming of waking up to a white Christmas.

The Suits' kids are not yet quite old enough to wake up the world at 5am on Christmas morning (thankfully), and so we had another slight sleep-in that morning, and kept them locked in the kitchen until we had everything ready (ie, a train track set up in front of the tree).
We slowly opened presents all day...opening for a while, and then playing with new games for a bit, eating a bit, and returning again to the gifts. One particular favorite moment was when the kids received a beautifully illustrated children's book with the lyrics of "A Few of My Favorite Things." As Mrs. Suit was reading it, Gran, Mr. Suit and I began quoting along with it, which turned into singing along with it, which turned into a melodramatic rendition of the song. The kids seemed shocked that in this first time reading of the book, that we would all know the words, and have made up a song to go with it already!

Schlomo and Sputnik gave me a pair of turquoise striped socks with money from their piggy banks. They wanted to get me something with that color, and when Sputnik saw the socks, he knew they'd be perfect. The best part of that story is that when they went to wrap them, Gran Suiter almost wrote, "From Schlomo, Sputnik and Dayspring." The boys interrupted her and exclaimed that she could not write Dayspring's name on the tag, because she did not give any money to help pay! (Dayspring is two and just beginning her piggy bank.) Well. So my socks are from the boys. :)

Mr. and Mrs. Suit gave me an antique coffee grinder from their country. It's really cool, and still has some grounds in it. I love how the brass and coffee smells. Isn't it beautiful!?
We stayed in our pjs all day. We played Sequence for kids, which I lost about 20 times in a row. Schlomo came over to sit in my lap and help me, but I still continued to lose...so he went back to playing by himself so that he might stand a chance at winning. Mr. Suit taught me how to play chess later, and I decided...I don't like it. You have to think way too much without having any fun. No thanks.
On Monday, we decided that maybe I ought to get out of the house. The two families and I all loaded up into the van and another car, (driven by a local friend), and headed towards the mountain to play in the snow.
On the way there, the driver took us by some natural hot springs. This rock formation was so beautiful! It was neat to see the steam coming up from it, and to put our hands in warm water while the air around us was so bitter cold.
I loved all those colors and shapes formed into the rock! So beautiful! I was really glad he took us by there to see it.
We were able to get a photo with me, the Suits, and Gran.
We kept heading up, and then suddenly the driver pulled over and announced, "We're here!" We looked around at the lack of snow, and saw the mountains still off in the distance and felt confused. He insisted that there was no road up to the mountains and we could just play in this snow.
There was some snow on the ground...but there was more mud than snow. We all got a good bit muddy. But the kids had a great time trying to make snowballs out of the very powdery snow. Here Sputnik is throwing one right at me.
Schlomo, I mean Spiderman, spun a web at me.
Dayspring just tried to figure out how to make a snowball. I was just trying to figure out how to not freeze. I was good from the waist up, but my legs and feet were frozen!
The Suits got down jackets for Christmas, so they were toasty and warm. Doesn't she look gorgeous!?
The sun began to set, and that was our cue to head back. The mountains turned such pretty colors as the sun set shined onto them.
It made me think of "purple mountain majesties." The driver took us on a bit of a tour of some areas that are being rebuilt since an earthquake had flatten many of their buildings. We stopped at a restaurant that was heat through radiators from the natural hot springs...we were able to warm up and eat an awesome meal. $35 covered 14 of us!!! I just kept thinking, I could pay that for just me at a restaurant in France! I thoroughly enjoyed the entire outing that day.
Back at home, I read some to the kiddos one last time before they went to bed and I began to pack my suitcase. Skype is an amazing thing, and so Schlomo and Sputnik have always remembered me, no matter how long it's been between visits. Because of that, I got MANY squeezes and sweet whispers of, "I love you Aunt Soj, please sit by me." Dayspring was just beginning to warm up to me by the time it was time for me to leave, but maybe now when she sees me on Skype she'll remember me from this visit. I do love those kids...and their parents!!!
The next morning, we made the 3 hour drive back to the town with the airport. The scenery was beautiful the whole drive...countryside, twisting roads, rolling hills, and amazing mountains in the distance. I commented that I thought all that I'd seen on this trip to Central Asia looked just like what I'd thought Central Asia would look like.
My flight went smoothly with no hitches. I was a little nervous about making it from the airport to the metro in time to catch the last metro of the evening. Our God is good to us, though, and answers our prayers. My suitcase was the first one out of the shoot (first time ever!), and I was able to grab it and scurry over to the shuttle bus, which I just barely caught. Just a few suitcases later, I would have missed that bus, and subsequently missed the metro, thus having to pay a ridiculous amount of money for a short taxi ride to my house. Instead, I caught the bus, caught the second to last metro, and was able to collapse into my bed at 11pm.

It was a good Christmas. Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Suits.

Bible reading plan

2011-12-22T09:00:00.000-08:00

Last year, I wrote this post about reading through the Bible in a year. 2011 was not the first year for me to do that...in fact, I can't honestly remember when I began reading through the Bible each year. But I do love each December picking out the new plan for the next year.

Do I think there is something magical about reading the Bible in a year? No. But I do think that we should the Bible regularly, daily even, and over and over. Reading it in a year gives us a time frame to work within...and when you can see the goal posts, it's alot easier to kick the ball straight through them. I do believe that "ALL Scripture is God-breathed and useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness," (2 Timothy 3:16)...and so even though I don't understand why we need to read the book of Nahum, I do think it is God-breathed and there for a reason that I haven't figured out yet. So I'll keep reading the WHOLE Bible, and not just the parts that make me feel good, until I get to heaven. Cause it's only There that I'm gonna figure it all out.

This past year, I used the chronological plan that the Church at Brook Hills used when their church did the Radical Experiment in 2010. I listened to the sermons that went along with each week. (I still have a few sermons to go; I got a little behind in December.) I'm not going to lie: I didn't enjoy the chronological plan.

I liked the amount of reading per day. I liked having Sundays free, so that if I needed a catch-up or reflection day, I had it. I liked how the story, for the most part, flowed. (Reading multiple accounts of a story all at the same time, like in Chronicles/Kings, and the Gospels, was sometimes difficult, and sometimes drove the point home.)

What I didn't like was 9 months with no Jesus. I didn't get to the New Testament until October, and oh man...that was rough. I suppose that I got the sense of longing for the arrival of the Messiah the way the Jews did/do with just the Old Testament...but I know He comes and I want Him daily!

As far as Bible reading plans go, the problem is that I don't like reading hopscotch all over the place so that I get a little bit of New Testament in every day. I suppose it's the only way to get NT and read the whole Bible in a year without going chronological again. But because it felt like I didn't get enough NT this past year, I decided for 2012 to read through the NT slowly, so I'm doing a several part plan.

I'll be reading through the NT a chapter a day with this plan.

I'll read a Proverb a day every day (they fit so nicely into 31 day months!), and a Psalm a day (twice in the year).

I'll start the year off with a 10 week Bible study, and finish the year off with some other Bible study that I haven't picked yet.

In between the two Bible studies, I'll read through the Bible in six months with this plan.

If the hopscotch reading doesn't bother you, I highly recommend this plan. It gives you 4 types of readings per day, for 25 days per month (which is plenty of catch-up days if you miss some), and even has pretty little boxes to check off that you've read something.

Happy Reading!

Chair Delivery

2011-12-14T08:23:00.000-08:00

Within an hour of writing my previous post about feeling more confident in my language abilities when speaking outside of my comfort zone, I had a foreigner moment that pushed me to angry tears and a call to the Superhero to see if I could have handled things better.

A few weeks ago, I ordered my first real piece of furniture from a store's website. I decided to order it online and pay for it to be delivered to my home so that I wouldn't have to inconvienence any of my friends to have to lift it from the car to the elevator. As much as I love my kung-fu chiropractor, I don't want to send any of my friends to her because they helped me move a chair that could have been delivered for a small fee of 35 euros.

After a week, I received an email from the store that the chair was ready to be shipped, and that they use a moving company to deliver their goods. I could trace the status of my chair with a particular ID number.

This was a little weird to me, but okay, whatever. I've never had anything delivered from a store before, so what do I know about how it works? The delivery company called me last week and told me that they would deliver it on Wednesday between 2-6pm. I asked if it were possible for Tuesday, since I already had plans on Wednesday at that time. "You don't get to choose when. It'll be there Wednesday between 2-6pm." Alrighty then. (One of my new cultural pet peeves here in France is every time they say, "Madame, you don't have the right to do xyz." The American in me gets all riled up being told I don't have the right. But that's a whole other blog post...)

So I missed my plans for today (they couldn't be changed) and sat here catching up on blogs while waiting for the delivery of my beautiful leather chair. My phone rang at almost 5pm, and the man told me he had a delivery for me. I said, "Come on up, it's the third floor." He interrupted me and asked if I could come downstairs.

I went downstairs and he says, "You paid for a ground floor delivery. Normally, if you want it delivered up the stairs, you have to pay another 50 euros."

I explained that I didn't understand that from the website when I purchased it. It didn't differentiate between a ground floor or higher-up delivery. I paid for a delivery already, I shouldn't have to pay for more.

"Yes, but you paid for a ground floor delivery."

"Well, that's ridiculous. Why would I pay for it to be delivered partially? You can't carry it into the elevator?"

He responded, "It's not heavy."

I looked at him with a look of incredulity, and exclaimed, "I'm a GIRL! I'm not going to carry that chair by myself! I paid for it to be delivered...to my apartment, not to just my building's front step."

His buddy bent over to begin picking up the chair, and they put it into the elevator, then brought it into my living room, and had me sign that it was delivered. I told them thank you, and hurried to get them out of my apartment.

The talkative one then turned to me at the doorway and said, "Madame, we had an arrangement."

"A what?" I asked.

"An arrangement."

"No, we didn't." The quiet one said, "She doesn't understand man. Let's go." (I probably should have shut up then.)

"No, no, I understand. I didn't understand downstairs nor did I agree to an arrangement. I told you, I already paid for a delivery. I don't think I should pay more for you to have put it the elevator and then carried it out of the elevator. That's ridiculous."

At this point, I felt very uncomfortable, as a single female with a guy I am perceiving to be sneaky, in my home. I wanted him to leave, and in the stress of the moment, decided that just paying him the 50 euros he wanted was the easiest way to do so. I couldn't think fast enough to demand a number to call, or even a receipt for the 50 euros. I just wanted him gone, and 50 bucks would do that. So I paid him 50 euros, shut (and locked) my door...

...and realized that I probably was just scammed.

About 10 minutes later, my phone rang. It was the guy! He'd accidently called me back, but since I had him on the phone, I asked if he could come back and give me a receipt.

"Madame, I gave you the receipt from the store."

"No, I want one for the 50 euros I gave to you."

"Madame, I can't give you a receipt for that...it was an arrangement. Between you and me."

Then I got mad. "An arrangement I didn't agree to! You...(and at a loss for the word for "scammed," "tricked," "duped,")...you lied to me!"

Well then he got mad. He began yelling at me into the phone that he was not a liar, that he never lied to me, that he was a worker doing his job, and he had not lied to me.

Still not able to find the word, I said, "You're right. You didn't lie...you stole from me!" Dagnabit that I couldn't find the word for "took advantage of" right at that moment.

Seeing that I was quickly loosing my temper and not reflecting Christ at all, I said goodbye and hung up the phone. I did a quick google translate, found the words I needed, and sent him a text, where I apologized for calling him a liar. I explained that it was the only word I could find at that moment. And that I felt he had scammed me, since I didn't understand nor agree to "an arrangement." Well played, mister, for taking advantage of a foreigner. He tried calling me back five times, to which I never answered. (Men round these parts always need to have the final word in a fight, and I wasn't going to argue with him anymore. Seeing how I wasn't going to get my money or a receipt, there was no need to talk to him again.)

I called the Superhero (who's been living in France forever), and recounted the whole story. Did I do right to pay him? What should I have done? What would you have done? Did I get taken advantage of? Besides losing my temper over the phone, how could I have handled this one better?

The Superhero said that seeing as I was a single female home alone with two strange men in my apartment, I did the right thing to just pay them the money. I expressed my frustration at being a foreigner and not fully understanding what was going on. He said, "Soj...your French is good enough that I am fully confident that you understood what he said to you. He took advantage of you, as a female, yes; as a foreigner, maybe; but it was not a language miscommunication. As a man, I would have handled it differently because men can do that. You did what you felt most comfortable doing at that moment, and it was the right thing." Well. That made me feel a little better.

When it's all said and done, I have my lovely leather chair, and that guy got blessed with an extra 50 euros at Christmas time.

Yes, it's facing away from the TV. I wanted a piece of furniture to face the couch, so that when I'm just sitting and visiting with friends, the living room has a triangle-of-conversation sitting places. It's light enough to easily pick up and turn to face the TV when a bunch of people are over to watch a movie.

But not light enough that I should have had to put it in/out of the elevator after having paid a delivery fee.

Chalazion

2011-12-13T14:32:00.000-08:00

I mentioned a few weeks ago about how I've been having some problems with my eye. I thought it was a stye, but it turns out it wasn't. Those drops the pharmacist gave me relieved the eye a bit, but not much. And the little red bump inside my eye wasn't going away. Well, last week, after several days of it feeling pretty much fine, I (foolishly) decided to try some eye make-up. I blinked, some of the mascara went into my eye, and oh man alive I thought I was going to DIE it hurt so bad. (The Artist was at my apartment and came rushing to my aid to find me some eye drops to flush out my eye. Thank goodness.) My eye was sore after that, like I'd been sucker-punched, and I decided it was time to find an eye doctor.

I would like to use this time to talk about "being fluent." Americans who've never had to live in a foreign language will ask if I'm "fluent in French." Americans in France never ask that question. They know better. To me, "fluent," means you were born and raised here and are thus bi-lingual. You speak French as good as you speak English. Like a native. Or you've lived here for 25 years, and while you have an accent that is quite charming, you use all the idioms, laugh at all the jokes, know the "other" meaning of words that isn't listed in the dictionary, and well...except for the accent, you speak French as good as you speak English. That is fluent.

I wasn't born and raised here.

I'm not married to a Frenchman.

I haven't lived here for 25 years.

And thus, no. I am not "fluent." Do I speak French? Yes. Am I comfortable speaking French? Usually, yes. ***When I'm in my comfort zone.

My comfort zone is using the top 50 verbs that people in every day life (to go, to come, to be, to have, to do, to eat, to sleep, to read, to eat, to say, etc.) My comfort zone is talking about work things. My comfort zone is probably an 8th grade level of speaking, but fully capable of living life.

My comfort zone is not...

...describing to the plumber what's wrong with my sink. I don't know any of those words.

...asking the electric company over the phone to explain again how the monthly bill works.

...anything medical.

So going to an eye doctor? Ack. Did I learn the words for "eyelid," "eyelash," "socket," "pain," "to itch," "to burn," and "tears" once upon a time in language school? Sure. Have I used them since then? No.

I wandered around all day Monday until I finally found an eye doctor that could see me right away. (I went into approximately five offices. Only one could make me an appointment...for two weeks away. Thanks, but I might be blind by then.) The eye glass store kindly recommended an eye doctor down the street, and they made me an appointment for the next day.

When he called me into his office, I immediately used my newest tactic for getting people to have mercy on my language abilities.

"Bonjour. I'm a foreigner, and thus, French isn't my mother tongue. And well, I've never seen an eye doctor in French." He smiled kindly at me, and promised we'd work it out. I sat down in the examination chair and he asked, "You're here for your 'côntrole'?" (Note to self: 'côntrole' must be the word for yearly eye check-up.)

"No," I explain. "I have a problem with my eye." I explain about how I've had a headache behind the eye, a something that is not a stye, and that sometimes the eye makes me want to scratch it (cause I couldn't remember the word for "itch"), sometimes it burns, sometimes the sunlight bothers me, etc., and that all around it feels like I've been sucker-punched. (Although I didn't say "sucker-punched," because I don't know the word for "sucker." I just said "like someone hit me," and he finished my sentence with the word "coup de poing," which is the word for "punch".)

He removed my glasses and had me read the chart on the wall. I had a small panic of "what if the letter G or J is up there (because I don't know how to pronounce either one correctly and he might mistake that for I-can't-see-the-letters)," but was quite pleased with myself to be able to remember to say "zed" instead of "Z," and "ahch" instead of "H," and I passed. My glasses are still the correct prescription (which is called "ordonnance," for anyone who's interested). Thank goodness for that.

He pulled on my eyelids in all sorts of directions, told me look left, right, up, down, etc. He put all sorts of drops in my eyes. He shined lights in them. He dilated them (which I wasn't expecting)...and all the while I understood everything he said! I can handle the eye doctor in French!

The one word he said that I didn't know was what's wrong with my eye. I have a chalazion, which, it turns out, is the same word in English. He pulled out a big, English medical dictionary for me to read the description of it. But because he'd dilated my eyes, I couldn't focus on the words, so he told me to put my nose right to the book and I should be able to read it. That made me laugh. Basically it's a cyst-like infection. (And if you google photos of a chalazion, they're really gross. Pantene, I know you'll do it. Ha. Mine doesn't look like those photos, it really is a small little un-noticeable-from-the-outside bump.)

He wrote me a prescription, and then said that if it's not better in a week, he'll have to scrape it off. WHAT?! Did I hear that correctly?! Unfortunately, I did. "Scrape" and "eye" should never, ever be used in the same sentence. Ever.

I stumbled my dilated self to the pharmacy, where I was blinded by their bright lights, and got my meds. All three of them. The left eye drops are actually for my normal eye, cause it feels weird and unbalanced to put so much in my sick eye and the other one be all dry...so I put normal eye drops in just to equal things out. I have two different drops I put in four times a day in the sick eye. The orange tablet is a creme that is a bit like the consistency of vaseline, and oh man, it's weird to put in my eye. I do it right before I go to bed, and the ointment covers my eyeball so that I can't see, and when I wake up...it's all gone. So weird.
So while I still wouldn't say that I'm fluent in French, the trip to the eye doctor did boost my confidence level that maybe my comfort zone isn't as small as I thought it was. And my favorite word I learned at the eye doctor? The "socket" is called a "cul-de-sac."

The Great Marseille Scarf Exchange

2011-12-10T03:29:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, I unpacked my winter suitcase, pulling out all my sweaters, scarves, coats, hats and gloves. Not that it's cold enough in Marseille for the hat and gloves. (I haven't even had to turn on my heat yet). But it's France, the country where one can wear a scarf even in the summer.

Girls, scarves, and France are best buds. Every girl I know, even ones who arrive saying they don't like to wear anything on their necks (Sue-Wee), end up sporting the scarf. At any given street market in the country at any given time during the year, one can buy a scarf (or three). And so what ends up happening is that a girl has more scarves than she can possibly wear.

As I unpacked my scarves last month, I came across...

...the red, blue, and brown scarf that I wore with the red riding coat. I no longer own the coat, so I no longer wear the scarf.

...the blue, grey, and brown scarf that doesn't match any (not a single one) of the grey things I own.

...the scarf someone gifted me once what is not only not my style, but also not a color I wear.

And the list went on. Scarves that used to be my favorite until a new one replaced it. Scarves that had been gifted. Scarves that didn't match. Scarves that matched things I no longer own. Oh man...too many scarves. Which made me feel like I shouldn't go out and buy new scarves because I have more than enough right now. Although I don't wear half the ones I have. So, no new scarves this year.

A few days after the unpacking sadness (that I shouldn't buy new scarves), someone complimented a scarf I was wearing, and so I went into the telling of how I'd come across all the scarves that I don't wear anymore. She agreed with me about she has the same dilemma. It dawned on me...what girl doesn't?

We should have a scarf exchange! Everyone bring the scarves they don't wear anymore, and we'll all trade them up! And so that's exactly what we did. A bunch of my friends came over, bringing the scarves with them that they didn't want to wear anymore, and we played a type of White Elephant Game exchange, and traded the scarves all around.

I got rid of a few. I gained three new-to-me. And opened up two holes in my scarf rack for two more I can buy this winter.

And I decided to keep the red, blue, and brown scarf that only matches the red riding coat that I no longer own. I had that coat for more than 10 years and had a lot of special memories in it. That scarf kept me warm in Venice, Italy, and well...I'm just not ready to part with it yet. It's just too pretty...

Feeling Crafty

2011-12-07T03:27:00.000-08:00

Before I moved to France, I would only wear earrings...and the very occasional necklace. Even upon moving to France, where one wears a scarf for at least 9 months of the year, a necklace just seems pointless. But nevertheless, I found myself being drawn to jewelry more and more here. I love bracelets and necklaces in the summertime, and earrings all year round. As I began to accumulate more jewelry, I realized that I needed a box to put them in. At the time, however, pragmatics won over aesthetics, and this was the result:

I kept my earrings in the top two drawers of the little plastic doohickey, and the bracelets in the taped up Taboo box. Pitiful, I know. Well, last week, when looking for an old window frame to use as a photo frame at a store similar to the furniture section of Goodwill, I found my jewelry box(es).
The drawers are made of ceramic and are very heavy. They hold my earrings and the box on the left holds my bracelets. I've got a work-in-progress project to hang my necklaces from, and when it's done, I'll post photos. But it's basically an old cabinet door that will be painted that teal color seen above (which is the same color as my bedspread), with several doorknobs that are hand-painted like the ceramic drawers screwed into it. The necklaces will hang from the knobs. Look at me, being all crafty!

While at that store that is sort of like the furniture section of Goodwill, I found my reading chair! I am a lover of the big, comfy arm chair that one can curl up in for hours upon hours lost in a ridiculously good book. I hadn't gone looking for the chair...I was still looking for the windowpane (which I have yet to find). But the chair found me. I rearranged my dining room/bookshelves to make a nook (and still have room for dining room table). The Chair fit perfectly.

The thing is, I do not love that fabric. I don't even like it. But she's SO comfortable, and was SO cheap! Joy and I took turns sitting in her at the store. We lifted the cushions to see how easily they could be re-upholstered. (Quite easily: they zipper right off!) And, who can resist a chair that has a hidden compartment with a little door at the feet, where one can hide a reading blanket, or reading slippers, or the next book on the docket, or Christmas presents from sneaky peaky people like CSI and Pantene?! I saw potential in this chair, and Joy agreed with me. I took the plunge and bought it, as is obvious from the picture of her in my living room.

CSI and I were digging through my fabrics to find what I would use on my next quilt, and lo and behold! I had this huge piece of fabric that could work for covering up the chair until I find the perfect reupholstery for her. I nipped and tucked and pinned and voila! A blue, grey and brown chair that would look perfect in my bedroom...except it's in the living room. Ha!

I plan to stain her a dark brown to match the bookshelves, and one day (probably not until I'm in the states next year), will reupholster her in some kind of brown, cream and accent color plaid. Maybe I'll go all crazy and do argyle.

I've sat in her every day since she's arrived, and I have to say...she's wonderful. When she's all finished and has some friends (an ottoman and an end table), she'll be the reading chair I always dreamed of. And even more so because I helped her find her true potential and become all that she could be. With that--I think I'll go curl up in her and read for a bit.

Christmas Carols

2011-12-04T03:26:00.000-08:00

I went to Aix last weekend to celebrate Christmas there. Joy and I went shopping (a post about that is to come), and then we watched a Christmas movie. I wupped up on Shane at some game. And then, we went a caroling!

Shane and Joy go to the International Church in Aix, which puts on a Christmas Carol concert every year. It's fun to go sing Christmas carols in English, as well as see Shane conducting. AND, there's a candlelight ceremony at the end, which...even though it isn't on Christmas Eve, it fills up my candlelight cup.It seems that this year, I cannot get enough of Christmas carols. I went to a cookie exchange party where we sang a whole schlew of carols before trading our cookies. And then I went to the International Church of Marseille's Christmas Carol concert. And I'm listening to them all day long at the house and on the ipod. AND, I've been doing a morning devotional each morning that is based off of one of the Christmas carols in our hymnals.

There are some beautifully amazing truths in carols. Look at a few of these lines:

O come, Thou Day-Spring, come and cheer our spirits by Thine advent here. Disperse the gloomy clouds of night and death's dark shadows put to flight. Rejoice!
Then let us all with one accord sing praises to our heavenly Lord, that hath made heaven and earth of naught, and with His blood mankind has bought.
God and sinners reconciled. Joyful all ye nations rise!
How silently the gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heaven.
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see, hail the incarnate Deity.
Pleased as man with men to dwell, Jesus our Immanuel.
Born that man no more may die, Born to raise the sons of earth, born to give them second birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.
In all our trials born to be our Friend. He knows our need, to our weakness is no stranger.

This year I read two different books that talked about Jesus' conversation with Nicodemus in John 3 about the need to be born again. We, who are dead in our hearts, get new life, a second birth, so that we can have...life...hope...peace...joy...forgiveness...true blessings...love. All of the warm fuzzy feelings that Christmas stirs up in us, that cause our eyes to well up with tears when we hear "I'll be home for Christmas," or when we watch "It's a Wonderful Life," all those sentiments we wrap up into the holiday season...they're just a shadow.

They're a shadow of the Light that came into the world so many years ago, born that we may no more die. Born to be our Friend. Pleased to come and dwell with us, in us. Pleased to impart all the blessings of heaven to us because His birth, death, and resurrection brought us redemption, reconciliation, rebirth.

Oh what joy, that we get to celebrate "the dawn of redeeming grace," that comes through the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ! It's worth singing about.

Christmastime is here!

2011-12-03T00:00:00.001-08:00

Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas! The winter wonderland has arrived at my house. (Okay, it arrived a few weeks ago...) I don't have many Christmas decorations, but the few I have are up! Let me give you a tour.

In the entryway: the wreath from the wedding is hanging from the candelabra, with a red candle. (Usually there are two white candles there, and the wreath is elsewhere in the house.) Next year, while in the states, I plan on buying some cranberries to stick in the wreath, and a red ribbon to replace the white one at Christmas time.

Music playing: Andrew Peterson's Behold the Lamb of God.

Cookie baking: Mexican Mocha Bars.

Movie watching: The Grinch Who Stole Christmas (both versions).

In the dining room, Santa and Mrs. Claus are waiting to have you over for dinner. They've brought out some festive coasters and candles. Maybe next year they'll have a Christmas table cloth. In the meantime, they do have festive placemats and napkins when they host you. Not pictured (they're shy): some elves who are similar to Santa and Mrs. Claus are guarding the presents by the tree, over on the steamer trunk. They said, "For secrecy purposes, the presents, even though wrapped, cannot be shown on the world wide web." Elves are funny little things...

Music playing: Mariah Carey's Merry Christmas.

Cookie baking: Gingerbread Men.

Movie watching: Elf.
Christmas has come to Paris! The Eiffel Tower has her Christmas lights AND the mayor decided to decorate her with ornaments this year. Isn't she pretty?

Music playing: Mannheim Steamroller Christmas Collection.

Cookie baking: Pumpkin Bars with Cream Cheese Icing.

Movie watching: The Sound of Music. (Not a Christmas movie, you say? Au contraire! Chez moi, it is!)
For Christmas in San Francisco, it snowed on the Golden Gate Bridge!!! I thought I might do this every year, but those snowflakes were so hard to get on that they might melt never to return after a few weeks. Doesn't she look festive, though?

Music playing: Trace Bundy's Christmas Collection.

Cookie baking: Joy's Oatmeal Cranberry Cookie.

Movie watching: White Christmas.
In the living room, there are several little Christmas trees made from magazines. I don't have a real Christmas tree...because I only have two Christmas ornaments. Maybe one day I'll have a real tree. But for now, I'm happy with my creative (free) trees. One of the ornaments is hanging in my kitchen from a cabinet knob, and the other is sitting on top of the television. Here you can see the festive Christmas placemats I have for when Santa and Mrs. Claus have you over for dinner, and the French Christmas chocolates that are all over my house. I love these chocolates, and you can only buy them at Christmastime.

Music playing: Chris Tomlin's Glory in the Highest.

Cookie baking: Pinwheels.

Movie watching: Gone with the Wind. (Also not a Christmas movie, you say? Au contraire! Chez moi it is!)
Christmas in the kitchen: Another one of the Christmas trees, the festive placemat, the French Christmas chocolates, and oh! The Christmas mugs. Last year, Joy gave me these two mugs, a square plate and square bowl. (Cause I love me some square plates and bowls!) I share this set with some of her other friends, so to remember that I am loved and part of family. Isn't she sweet? I've been drinking out of these mugs each morning. Come over and I'll make you some Speculoostastic Hot Chocolate in them!

Music playing: iTunes 2009 Holiday Sampler.

Cookie baking: Classic Christmas Sugar Cookies.

Movie watching: Christmas in Conneticut. (Haven't heard of it, much less seen it? You must, oh you must!)
I was trying to remember when baking cookies became such a big deal at the holidays to me...and I think it must've been college. During my first few years of college, my Meme and Grandaddy lived in my college town. I would go over to her house to help bake and decorate cookies. (I also remember driving over to Richmond to see my aunt and uncle and making Chex Mex during the holidays. If I lived in America and had access to Chex cereal, oh man! would I be making the Chex Mex.) Anyway, with my love for baking, I sure do love making all kinds of cookies during the holidays! Here is the first batch of cookies I made this season.

Music playing: iTune's No. 1's Christmas Collection (all the best Christmas hits).

Cookie baking: Campfire Cookies. (Click the link for the recipe, and change the chocolate bar that is added at the end to a small dab of Speculoos. Yes, I am becoming an addict.)

Movie watching: It's a Wonderful Life.

Honorable mentions:

Music playing: Vince Guaraldi Trio's Charlie Brown Christmas.

Cookie baking: Brown butter dark chocolate cookies (with or without bacon).

Movie watching: Home Alone.

Book reading: Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

Merry Christmas everyone!

I love this time of year!

Going to the Pharmacist

2011-11-30T08:43:00.000-08:00

Pharmacies in France work a bit like going to a general practitioner: you can go into one, tell them your ailments, and they give you medicine. There are plenty of medicines they can't give you without a prescription...but it can save you a good bit of money to go to them first to find out whether you need to go to the doctor.

My eye has been bothering me for a day or two, and today I finally saw in it what I'd expected: a stye. I've had them before, and I usually put a warmed teabag on it several times throughout the day until it goes away. (I read somewhere online that there's something healthy in the tea leaves that helps heal the stye.) This time, I decided to go see if the pharmacist had some handy-dandy drop I could use instead.

First, however, I would need to find the word for 'stye.' "That's easy," you think to yourself. "You just look up 'stye' in your dictionary and voila! You know the word." Not so fast, smarty pants. (Master Yoda, I'm looking at you.)

I did that, and both wordreference and Google Translate both gave me two words for the one word 'stye': orgelet and porcherie. In that second word, however, is the root word for 'pig,' (porc), and I suddenly realized: eek! Pig stye! I don't want to walk into the pharmacist and tell them, "I have a pig stye in my eye." Might be funny because of the rhyme in English (and the sense), but in French, eegads. That's a quick route to a culture shock moment in the pharmacy right there.

I looked up "orgelet" in Google images and sure enough it's the right word. A little shy, I walked up to the pharmacist and said, "I have an, um, orgelet in my eye. Is there a medicine I can put on it?" She nodded and explained that they have some drops they could give me, but if it didn't get better I'll need to go to the doctor.

She apparently didn't know about the tea bag trick. She also didn't appear to realize that her understanding my question, answering it, and treating me like I was 100% normal, (instead of the "oh no, a foreigner with a charming yet incomprehensible accent" attitude), without even batting an eye helped me take another step towards feeling adjusted here.

I got my drops and felt proud of learning a new word and side-stepping a culture shock moment in the pharmacy. We'll see if the drops work better than the tea bag.

Rice Taste Test

2011-11-29T08:51:00.000-08:00

Something that is really common here in France is people on the street who try to stop pedestrians as they pass by either (a) to offer them something free, like a newspaper or a flyer or even a small sample gift, or (b) to try to convince them to sign up to support a humanitarian aide organization like Doctors Without Borders or (c) to conduct a survey. All three of these are incredibly common. In Paris, I used to love to sit in the second story of this one particular Starbucks, so I could watch the crossroads below...and all the various workers trying to stop pedestrians for whatever reason they were out there.

Even I've done it. In language school, our teacher would send us out to take surveys in order to practice language. In Paris, my boss sent me out with surveys. I've even been known to hand out a free thing or two. And I've certainly picked up my fair share of free stuff. (Once, during the Fete de la Musique, someone handed me a self-breathalizer test. Gee...thanks?)

As I was walking down the street today, I was stopped several times by a humanitarian aide group. Once, when living in Besancon, I was stopped by this group and talked with them for about an hour. I really like their work (giving food to poor children in Africa), but I explained to them that I've already decided to give my support to Compassion International for that. And usually, when the groups here in Marseille stop me, I explain the same thing. When the first one stopped me today, I explained that. When the second, third, and fourth stopped me, I explained that I'd already spoken with their colleague back down the road.

So when I breezed by the next group who said, "Excusez-moi, madame," I just said, "No, sorry," and kept walking. But as I passed by, I heard that they were giving a survey.

Surveys are a great way to practice language (cause who knows what you'll get to talk about, and thus, possibly learn new vocabulary), and a great way to just get in conversations with people. I turned around and said, "You're taking a survey? I'll answer."

"Great! Do you eat rice?" she said to me.

I took a mental double-take. Did she just ask me if I eat rice?

"Rice? Like...rice, rice?"

"Oui."

"Well, of course!" She went on to ask what brands to I buy, how do I cook my rice, what types of rice do I like, what other grains do I eat, and am I allergic to any of the following things...

It was by far the most bizarre survey I'd ever participated in. Then, when I said I wasn't allergic to any of those things, she asked if I would follow her for a taste test. I was out on a busy road and sort of looked around to see where the tables were with the rice samples. There were no tables.

She led the way into a building, and I followed her up an elevator. (The whole time thinking, this is so wierd. Is she going to kill me in the elevator? I've seen too many scary movies.) Up on the fourth floor, I follow her down a hallway, and into the testing room, where, sure enough... there were several booths set up and people were testing rice. (I wasn't supposed to take a picture of the rice, to keep the results of the survey secure...so this was all I could sneak between rice tastings.)

I ate four kinds of rice and gave my opinion about the taste, smell, color, texture, and stickiness of the rice. And I was a little disappointed, because... I didn't learn any new words. I understood every single question and was able to express myself clearly in response! I suppose I should be thrilled about that! But I always hope with surveys that I'll get challenged a little bit.

With this survey, all I got was a new, interesting experience and some not-very-good-rice. And a really good laugh about the whole thing. It dawned on me later that the rice survey people should hook up with Feed the Hungry humanitarian aide people and let the hungry answer the rice survey!

Traditions

2011-11-26T02:17:00.000-08:00

One of the things I am learning is that as you grow up, there comes a time to create your own traditions. I think somewhere in the back of my mind this was catalogued as something couples do when they get married and start life together. I am not part of a couple, and thus, have no traditions to create. Au contraire!

I suppose I already have a few small traditions in my head for holidays.

I like to eat Chinese food on Christmas Eve.
I like to travel somewhere I've never been for my birthday.
I have a go-to recipe for Green Bean Casserole that I use for both Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I refuse to wear red or pink on Valentine's Day, and like to cook a special meal for my single girlfriends on that day.
I like to watch Luther on Halloween.

But that's about it. Hmmm....what to add to that?

Well, this year, after our big Thanksgiving meal that a bunch of us had together, we divied up the left-overs so that everyone had a little bit of everything that had been brought to the party. On a whim, I invited a bunch of friends over to watch all the Thanksgiving episodes of Friends while eating left-overs on Black Friday.

I enjoyed it so much! It felt like hanging out with my family on Black Friday, still in that stuffed stupor, laughing, talking, watching TV, just doing whatever. It felt right. I'm not a big Macy's Parade or football kind of person, but I always enjoy the fellowship time with family while they enjoy those things. With the girls I have here, laughing over Friends fit that mold perfectly.

I think I have a new Black Friday tradition.

Thanksgiving 2011

2011-11-24T00:42:00.001-08:00

Traditionally on my blog, I have a Top 10 list of non-traditional things I am thankful for from the past year. Why non-traditional? Because I try my hardest to be thankful all year long for the traditional things like Jesus, grace, God's provision, family, friends, health, etc. This year, though, the list looks a little more traditional. Why?

I'm not gonna lie...this year has not been easy. And one of the things I sort of feel thankful for is that it's over. As I look back at the year, I think things like:

I am thankful that the Chef's wife didn't die, and that God brought her through that terrible heart ordeal.
I am thankful that my friends were all safe during the uprisings in Tunisia, and that even though I didn't understand why God had me leave when He did...I am glad now that He had me leave when He did. I probably would not have handled a revolution very well.
The Radical Experiment was hard, and part of me feels like I didn't even do it to my upmost ability, but I am thankful for how it opened my eyes...to how greedy I am and how much I do not put Jesus first in my life as a I should.
Language school was a dark and lonely period and I am thankful that I'm not there anymore.
Living with the Wise family was awesome and challenging all at the same time, and I am thankful I got to experience that...but again, thankful that I'm not there anymore.
There were some deep hurts this year that sent my soul down into the pit, and I'm still trying to figure out how to be thankful about that. I am thankful now, that it seems God is beginning, hopefully, to pull me out of it.
The summer in Paris was unexpected, continued my homelessness for even a while longer, and that was yet another challenge. But I had fun, and am thankful that my relationship with Paris was restored, renewed, redeemed. I'm glad we're back in each other's good graces.

In the midst of all those things, though, there were so many great things to be thankful for!

10. Friends. I've always hoped and even prayed to have a good close girl friend. God's given me several. Joy. The Superhero's wife. The camelridingcowgirl. The Real McCoy's.

9. Having a HOME. After 27 months of being homeless, living out of a suitcase, having my stuff strewed across several continents, I finally have a place to call my own. I finally got everything in one place and unpacked. I finally started putting down some roots.

8. Master Yoda and Princess Leah's wedding. Yippee! I have a sister-in-law! I am so thankful that I got to go home and be there for the wedding.

7. It's been several years since I put this on the list, but SKYPE. I am so thankful for the internet and being able to stay connected with my close friends and family with webcam's and phone calls. It makes me far away seem not so far away.

6. The sunshine in Marseille. The warm weather in Marseille. MARSEILLE.

5. That I have a year in a furnished apartment so that I can take my time in furnishing my own place, and even just looking for my own place. I don't make decisions quickly. And the extra year helps not have to pay for everything all at once too. So thankful for all of that.

4. All the fun things I've gotten to do this year. 8-Course Meals, Chateaux, Giverny, Bastille Day, the Tour de France, Cinema in the Park, Chick-Fil-A, Arles, Swan Lake.

3. The Fly Lady. I really am thankful for her cleaning/organizing/motivational systems and how it helps me to get my house in order. There is peace that comes with knowing that my sink is shiny and there is this little joy that comes from that peace. I am thankful for all of that.

2. My kitchen. I began dreaming of my own kitchen when I was about 22 or so. And while I've had kitchens since then, I never could afford to buy good enough stuff for the kitchen to be able to cook in it the way I dreamt of. This year, that all changed. I have a big kitchen. I can afford to buy stuff for my kitchen. I have time to cook in the kitchen. I love my kitchen.

1. Grace, mercy, God's kindness and love. It got me through this year. It gives me hope that the next year will be better.

So...Happy Thanksgiving everyone! Know that I am truly thankful for each one of you and the gift of your friendship in my life! I hope that your Turkey day is wonderful, your fellowship with friends and family blessed, and that no matter what you're eating or where you're eating it, that you are thankful for God's wonderful grace, love, mercy, and provision in your life.

The Sick Box

2011-11-21T09:08:00.001-08:00

Today's post is inspired by two past events and two ladies. The first event happened almost 12 years ago. The second one happened about one month ago. One of the ladies is real, the other proverbial. Sit back and recall with me.

On All Saint's Day, 1999, (yes, I meant to type 1999), I went to an All Saint's Day weekend retreat with some friends in Portugal. (It was that weekend when I stopped drinking milk in my coffee, because, well, there was no milk. But that's another story.) While a fun weekend, it was difficult, because I'd only been in Portugal a few months and was still working my way through learning that language. And I caught an e.coli infection.

Ugg.

It took me several weeks to get over that. On Thanksgiving Day, I was finally feeling better. However, one of my friends at the dinner party I attended that day had bronchitis. My weakened immune system wasn't prepared to fight bronchitis, and well... I caught bronchitis.

Ugg.

It turned into the worst case of bronchitis ever. I was physically incapable of exhaling without wheezing and coughing. (It was so bad I began searching "whooping cough symptoms" on the internet.) About a week before my Christmas vacation was scheduled to begin, I went to the doc and pretty much told him he had to make me better. I'd been sick for six weeks, and I was not going to miss my first Christmas vacation overseas (and my trip to Belgium and France) due to a pesky cough. He gave me some more intense meds and told me to stay out of the snow in Belgium and France.

However...I got caught in a snowfall one evening and there were no taxis to be found. Can anyone say "relapse?"

I spent the second half of my vacation with a high fever, the whooping cough, and feeling utterly miserable. I don't really remember much at all about my first time to Paris because my fever was so unbelievably high. I went to the doctor the minute I returned to Portugal and found out...I had pneumonia, and a 105ish fever. Eek.

When I pleaded and cried to not hospitalize me, but give me one more night in my own bed to break the fever, he agreed. He gave me stronger antibiotics and told me to come back the next day. I didn't want to be hospitalized because I was the only American I knew (at the time) in the country. Everyone had gone on vacation for the holiday, and well...the idea of being in the hospital, alone, and still not knowing the language well made me feel even worse than I already felt...which was like death.

My fever did break. However, I developed a fungal reaction to the antibiotics called thrush, (click the link if you want to be grossed out by the picture of exactly what my tongue looked like)...and well, the doctor was tired of seeing me at his office. He gave me more meds, and quarantined me for 10 days. No one in my apartment, and I could not leave. That was all fine and dandy, except that, since I'd been on vacation the week before, I had no food in the house. And my gas bottle was empty.

Enter small crisis. After several emails and phone calls, a kind stranger (who became a friend afterwards), bought me groceries and a gas bottle and left it all on my door step.

Fast forward 12 years to last month, when I got food poisoning. It came about a week after I'd read an article by The Fly Lady about making being sick a "day at the beach." The Fly Lady's article was about being prepared for sick kids, and how to make having sick kids a little bit more pleasant. I read it and thought, "I don't have kids." A week later, after that miserable night with my head in the toilet, I remembered that article and thought, "I could be more prepared to get sick."

I was lucky last month to have the Real Mrs. McCoy here to help scrape together some chicken soup from what I had in the pantry. I didn't have any Sprite, so we all drank Schweppes instead. She made a quick run to the store and picked up what we needed to eat the BRATS diet until our stomachs could handle more.

After that, I decided I wanted to be more prepared. I live by myself, and don't have someone (roommate, spouse, mom, etc) who can run to the store for me when I get sick...and who knows when that will happen? And while I have plenty of friends around who could help me, I can't help but recall that December of 1999 when everyone was out of the country.

Proverbs 31 says that that superhero of Christian women is "not afraid of snow for her household," (or sickness), and she laughs at the time to come (even sick days, I bet). I'm guessing that she had a crock pot and a deep freezer too. And because she did, she could make the Sick Box, and laugh at those winter colds to come in flu season in France.

The Sick Box is a shelf on my pantry that will remain untouched until the day that I get sick and need it... or Spring next year when I do some spring cleaning and replace it all with new items so that the expiration dates don't bring added sickness. In the Sick Box are: 2 large bottles of Sprite, 2 large boxes of multi-vitamin juice, applesauce, plain crackers, 2 boxes of tissues, and a full package of toilet paper. (Cause what if you ran out while you were sick? Do you really want to go to the store with the shivers and a sore throat just for some TP?)

And the part of the Sick Box not pictured: Chicken Soup in the freezer. Sore throat when I go to bed one night? Pull the Sick Box Chicken Soup from the freezer to the fridge. In the morning, throw it all in the crock pot, and voila! My crock pot becomes my nurse. Can you hear me laughing at the days to come?

Hahaha. Bring it winter in France!

P.S. If you have kids and want a copy of that "sick day at the beach" article, let me know and I'll email it to you.

P.P.S. Pantene, CSI, and the Artist: I made enough soup for each of our three apartments. You can pick it up the next time you come over.

Eggs Benedict

2011-11-20T04:49:00.000-08:00

When I was 10 years old, my family and I were living in South Korea, and we (well, my parents) decided to go to Japan for spring break. I don't remember very much about that trip, but here's what I do remember:

Flying space available on a non-commercial military flight. LOUD.
Going up to Mount Fuji wearing shorts and being shocked to see snow in the spring.
Cherry blossoms. Probably when my love for them began.
Crowded, crowded, crowded.
Being in love with our beautiful hotel, so much so that I didn't want to leave it. I still remember that the bedding was a gorgeous shade of yellow that made me feel like I was wrapped up in beams of sunlight.
Eating Eggs Benedict for breakfast at the hotel.

I've always loved Eggs Benedict ever since. What's not to love? Bread: yum. Canadian bacon: yum. Eggs: yum. Creamy sauce to mop it all up in: yum.

Fast forward 8 billion years to two years ago. Like most of the rest of America, I watched Julie & Julia, and as someone who likes cooking, thought--I ought to try cooking Julia Child recipes. I mean, why not, right? I live in France! So last year, my parents gave me Mastering the Art of French Cooking as a birthday present, and sent me on my way back to France. Living in the hotel, however, intimidated me away from trying out Julia, and I didn't pick up the book until a month ago.

Last month, the Artist arrived in France and was staying with me while waiting for her apartment to become available. One night, we watched Julie & Julia, and we became inspired to inaugurate the cookbook by trying out Hollandaise sauce. Let me reprint what Julia had to say about Hollandaise sauce here:

"Hollandaise sauce is made of warmed egg yolks flavored with lemon juice into which butter is gradually incorporated to make a thick, yellow, creamy sauce. It is probably the most famous of all sauces, and is often the most dreaded, as the egg yolks can curdle and the sauce can turn. It is extremely easy and almost foolproof to make in the electric blender... But we feel it is of great importance that you learn how to make hollandaise by hand, for part of every good cook's general knowledge is a thorough familiarity with the vagaries of egg yolks under all conditions." (Pg. 79)

Well, I misread that paragraph last month. I read the "extremely easy and almost foolproof" and somehow missed the "in the electric blender" part. I, being a rule-follower, felt I needed to make it by hand first, since that what Julia said should be done. I whisked and whisked and whisked, and after probably 30 minutes (instead of less than 5) of whisking, and even following the "if your sauce doesn't thicken" instructions, gave up. The sauce never thickened, and it was evident it never was going to. Oh boy was I ever disappointed, frustrated, and downright mad.

The Artist and I ate one lousy dinner that night. The next night, I made a Rachel Ray recipe that was easy and foolproof and thought to myself, "I guess I am a Rachel Ray cook and not a Julia Child cook." However, I'd like to be both.

So I decided to try again today. Skipping that whole "by hand" nonsense, I went straight for the blender. And guess what? Julia was right. It was "extremely easy and almost foolproof." I did manage, as I always do, to make a disaster of my kitchen, getting butter sprayed everywhere. (Julia said, "You may need to protect yourself with a towel during this operation," and um, she was right.) It's no wonder that when Sue-Wee bought me a Christmas present back in 2007, she didn't buy me one apron, but two.

I got my English muffin ready and cooked up the "bacon." (France does not have yummy bacon like the US, but they have good enough substitutes that don't look like bacon but taste good.) I made the Hollandaise sauce, and had it ready. The last part was also new for me: poaching an egg. I've never poached an egg. And from the scene in the movie, I was a little nervous that I might mess it up. But I followed the instructions exactly, dropping the egg softly into the simmering water, and then immediately and gently pushing the white over the yolk. (You read that in Julia without seeing it done and think, "huh?," but in the process, it makes sense.) The egg whites looked all ghostly in the water, and just like in the movie, I stood over the pot enthralled with watching the eggs poach.

There I am staring at the water wondering if I am ruining my eggs like I had ruined my sauce the first time around last month. I scooped them out of the water after 4 minutes, followed the rest of the recipe, and assembled my Eggs Benedict! Here's the final product.

I was so proud of how it all looked...but would it taste good? It did! I was so happy! I did overcook one of the eggs, but the other one was perfect. 26.5 years after eating Eggs Benedict for the first time, I was able to make them myself. Thank you, Julia.

A few videos

2011-11-18T09:49:00.000-08:00

For Pantene, not just because you have great hair, but because you are a fighter, a finisher, and you do shine.

So while at this work conference this week, the trainer put this video up during a coffee break. I'm not married, but oh man, I laughed.

He also showed this video, which is probably the most-shown video at trainings and conferences that I have been to. I don't mind. It's that funny.

And on the inspirational side, he showed this next video. Which I might watch every morning for the rest of my life.

P.S. Don't let the blaring grammar mistake at the end ruin the video for you.

The Rat Story (from the UAE)

2011-11-17T14:13:00.000-08:00

My friend, Pantene, mentioned recently that she has not made an appearance on my blog yet, and bemoaned the fact that she does not have a blog name. Now she does: Pantene. Because, while she does not use Pantene, she does have Pantene hair like you see in the commercials.

I've referenced "the rats" from the UAE several times recently around her, and so I thought I would put those links in succession for anyone interested.

You can read them all on one page by clicking HERE, just make sure to scroll to the bottom of the page and read UP to get them in order. Or, click the links below to get the story in order.

The rat introduces himself into my life here.

The rat brings a friend over to play here.

The rat begins to stink here.

The rat takes a bath to get rid of the stink here.

The rat introduces himself to my language teacher, thus proving that I am not the only one who hears him, here.

I see the rat here.

The rat tries to come to visit, thus breaking the terms of agreement of our peaceful existence together, and I declare war on him here.

The rats die here. (Yes, turns out there were multiple rats.)

The rat epidemic of my life continues in some slightly humorous turn of fate here.

Yes, in 9 months of living in the UAE, I wrote about rats as many times.

Yet another post office story

2011-11-16T13:21:00.000-08:00

I could write a book just on post office stories.

I went this week with the following items:

A business envelope addressed to Turkey (not to "a turkey," but to someone who lives in "the country of Turkey," lest someone suggest I am name-calling, which I am not).
A business envelope addressed to the USA.
Two more-square-than-rectangle shaped white envelopes addressed to the USA.
A yellow more-square-than-rectangle shaped envelope addressed to France.
An 8x11 envelope filled with two books, folded in half and taped together so that it is shaped like a package (which is really what it is), but in an envelope, addressed to France.

I waited in the long line for the woman behind the counter to help me because as is usual for me, I did not have enough change for the do-it-yourself machine. When it finally came to be my turn, I handed her my large stack of international mail. She picked up the Turkey envelope first, put it on the scale, and typed Turkey into the computer.

Something clearly went wrong.

She squinted at the machine, shook her head in confusion, reached over to the envelope, picked it up, and then placed it back onto the scale. After a moment and another attempt to type Turkey into the computer, she said, "I don't believe it." She looked at me with a sheepish apologetic look on her face and said, "My computer just crashed. Sorry."

She directed me to the other line, to which I moved and began my wait all over again. When I got to the front of that line, I handed her my large stack of international mail. She seemed a little perplexed, but the ever-capable French governmental worker will not be stumped by an envelope to Turkey, oh no! She will prevail!

She sorts it all and decides to work on the stack to the US first. They get stamped. Then she eyes the Turkey envelope, types it in, and gets a stamp out of the machine. We're good, right? Because the other things are for France, which should not be too difficult for a French postal worker.

She picks up the yellow more-square-than-rectangle envelope and says, "This doesn't work in France."

So I can mail one that shape the the Unites States--across an ocean?!--but I can't mail it here in France?! I ask her why not, and she replies, "Because I have to click 'personal letter' or 'business documents.' It's clearly not a business document (eyeing that canary yellow with suspicion), nor a personal letter. What IS this?!"

"It's a personal letter...in a card. A canary yellow card." (Okay, I didn't say the canary yellow part.)

She clicks "personal letter" in the computer, and shocker of all shockers! the computer gives her a stamp. It's clear that she's amazed that such an envelope can, actually, be mailed in France.

Then she picks up the small package and says, "This doesn't work either. Is it a package? Is it a letter? It's neither. How can I mail this?"

Now obviously I have never worked in a post office. Nor do I have good experiences when in them. But I have mailed my fair share of items around the world, and I am of the belief system that anything can be mailed for a price. If Donald Trump wanted to mail me an elephant, someone would figure out how to get a stamp to stick on the thing's trunk and I would have to find somewhere to house that elephant, because it would end up on my doorstep here in France. (Actually, it wouldn't...because the French postman would probably say, "I can't deliver this.")

Anyway, I stare at her for a moment. Did the postal woman just ask me how to mail my package? Can't she just stick it on the scale, and put a stamp according to the weight? No. She's got to click either package or letter, and the fact that it is neither is blowing her mind.

"Can it be a letter? Because that's probably cheaper and easier than a package, right?"

"Yes, with a package, you'd have to fill out this form." Because this is France, and of course there is a form for everything.

"Then it's a letter."

Her mind blows right in front of me, and I see smoke coming out of her ears as she clicks letter in the computer, weighs the package, and is shocked to see that the computer accepts the weight of it as a letter.

I wanted to say, "Now, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" but she still seemed in shock.

Post offices. What is it with me and them?

Dream Vacations

2011-11-14T06:03:00.001-08:00

When I was a teenager, I heard the song "Breakfast at Tiffany's," which led me to watch the movie that was referenced in the song, and thus began my deep appreciation for Audrey Hepburn. As I began to watch her other films, I saw Roman Holiday. That movie brought about two dreams in my young little heart: to live in a cute little European town in an apartment with a balcony, where I could learn a language and buy flowers at a market and to travel to Rome some day and put my hand in the Mouth of Truth.

When I was 25, I was nearing the end of my two years in Portugal, and I took a vacation to Italy. While there, the #1 thing on my wish list to do in Rome was go to the Mouth of Truth and put my hand in it. When I did, I became so overcome with emotion that I sat down on the ground right in front of it and began to cry. My friends asked me what was wrong, and I whimpered, "I'm 25 and all my dreams have come true!"

My friends responded, "Then it's time for you dream some more dreams!" Looking back, I would add to that--and some bigger ones!

Ride a camel and an elephant. Done.

Spend a summer traveling around India. Done.

See the pyramids. Done.

Go to Africa. Done, done, and done.

Learn arabic. Don...well, working on it.

See a ballet. Done.

Travel around the Alps. Done.

Learn to quilt. Done.

Take a cruise. Done. Afterwards, upgraded to: Take a transatlantic cruise.

This past weekend, the camelridingcowgirl and I booked tickets for a transatlantic cruise. 14 nights on a Royal Caribbean cruiseship sailing from Barcelona and landing in New Orleans. I was so excited I could barely even get out my normal excitement squeal. Even the happy dance couldn't burst forth, I was so shocked that we actually are going to do this thing! I kept quivering, I was so thrilled.

Later, she and I began to discuss dream vacations. Here are my current ones:

1. To go to Jordan and see Petra.

2. To go on an easternjourney and visit friends there and maybe walk along a big wall.

3. To go to Southeast Asia: Indonesia, Cambodia, Singapore, Malaysia.

4. To go on a Northern European cruise to see Norway, Sweden, Finland, Denmark.

5. To spend several weeks lazying my way around Ireland. I would like to do this with notpoems, and several really good books.

6. To spend several weeks doing absolutely nothing in one of those grass-roof bungalows built over the water in a place like Tahiti or the Seychelles, again, with several really good books.

Those are the current ones. Maybe 10 years from now, I'll have to make a new list, like I had to do 10 years ago. Maybe it won't even take 10 years...since I already have tickets booked for two of the dreams!

And don't worry, the camelridingcowgirl and I won't pull too many Lorelei and Dorothy antics on our transatlantic cruise...

Contraband!

2011-11-10T09:46:00.000-08:00

When I lived in Portugal, I lived near the British food store (the only one at the time), which made me very popular among expats. I could bring them Dr. Pepper, Pop-Tarts, Ranch dressing and more. (All of which are American things, not British things, but we were so happy to have access to them that we didn't quibble over semantics.) In Paris, it can pretty easy to come by certain things...but there are still some things we just cannot get here in France. At least, not easily or inexpensively.

You'd be amazed at the things you begin to long for when you don't have access to them. I never eat pop-tarts anymore when in the states...I mean, I live in the land of heavenly pastries. But show me a Pop-Tart here in France, and I get all giddy. Like last year, when I discovered Philadelphia Cream Cheese had finally made it to France.

When I moved to Marseille, the camelridingcowgirl informed me that two of my favorite things in the world to eat could now be bought at Picard, the frozen food store: pureed pumpkin (no more asking for cans to be brought over from the US), and bagels! I've been happily eating both for three months now.

This past weekend, she and I (and some other friends) went to the big giant Wal-Mart-esq store. On the "international foods aisle," where one normal finds Italy (olive oil!), Asia (rice and soy sauce!), Portugal (salted cod!), possibly Britian (Heinz baked beans!), and possibly North Africa (couscous!), this time we found...

I saw the Hershey's syrup and near about fell over. That is an item that is normally requested to be brought over. Chocolate, Strawberry, AND Caramel? Really?! I then about keeled over and died when I saw the price: 7 euros! (That's nearly $10, folks!) I don't like Hershey's syrup that much.

I looked up and saw that they had made a whole USA section in the International Foods aisle! What?! Wowzah! Aunt Jemima syrup AND pancake mix! Real Canadian maple syrup (for 21 euros a jug, I'll take the Aunt Jemima's, please for 5.)

Marshmellows! Pickles! Goldfish! Yucky jelly that cannot be as good as the jelly you can buy in France, but hey! It comes in a plastic squeezable tube! Paul Newman's microwave popcorn! Salad dressing! (But no Ranch.) Cheesecake from a box! (Which, who needs now that we have Philly cream cheese?!) Peanut Butter! (None of it the good kind!)

We began to laugh at the selection. I mean, really, who chose this stuff? If I were going to import American products and sell them at expensive prices, I'd put stuff Americans would pay for: Dr. Pepper and Mountain Dew, Kraft Mac n Cheese, Girl Scout Cookies, Rotel, Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix, Baking Powder, Ranch dressing, Burts Bees Lip Balm, oh, the list could go on and on. But you sure won't find Strawberry Marshmellow Fluff on that list.

So I passed by the USA shelf with an empty cart. (I've got two bottles of Aunt Jemima's in the pantry, brought over this summer by the interns.) I guess I'll have to keep going to My American Market for the stuff Americans want in France until the Wal-Mart-esq place figures out what to order to stock their shelves.

One thing I took a picture of, because I've wanted to point it out for awhile now... In America, (and now in France!), there is a salad dressing called "French." However, it is très American, because I've never seen salad dressing like that in France... As well, there is a brand of yellow mustard in America called French's...that you cannot get in France as well. Nor is any mustard in France (the land of mustard) quite like French's. Interesting.

And this deli-brown mustard? Well, they oughta call that French mustard.

Swan Lake

2011-11-02T01:52:00.000-07:00

This past summer, while I was in Paris, Hugs and I kept seeing posters advertising Swan Lake performed by the Russian Ballet. After a few times of discussing how cool it would be to go see it, we decided...why not buy tickets? November 1st is a holiday (All Saints Day), so we booked our tickets for that day. I took the early morning Marseille-Paris train up, and the early morning Paris-Marseille train back the next day.

I know I've seen the Nutcracker (although I can't remember when), but other than that, I can't recall ever going to the ballet. Now, after having been to the ballet, I wonder...why didn't I ever go before?!

I love the tu-tus. I love the music. I love the pirouettes. I love the toe-points. I love absence of words for three hours. I love hearing the sound of slippers in unison. I love that a woman can move so elegantly she looks graceful as a swan. I loved dressing up for a fun night with Hugs.
I loved that I live somewhere that I can hop on a train to spend the day in Paris. I loved the train ride back watching all the fall leaves in the French countryside being wrapped in a thin fog sheath. I loved my 24-hour getaway that included guiltless reading for hours, taking a nap, a bacon cheeseburger at the American diner, (yes, when I have one meal in Paris that is my go-to choice), seeing the ballet on All Saint's Day, and just being a girl soaking up all the girliness of the ballet. I don't want to don a tu-tu, but I may spin pirouettes in my apartment for a good long while...

Arles

2011-10-29T01:52:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I went to two towns in Southern France called Aigues-Mortes and Nimes. Ever since then, I've gotten confused about whether I've been to Nimes or to Arles. They both have colosseums from the Roman days. I don't know why I mix them up other than that, but now...I can honestly say I've been to both.

I went to Arles with Joy and the Real McCoys this weekend. I was expecting lots of Roman ruins. It did have that...

But what I wasn't expecting was so many cute Provence postcard-like streets! Click HERE for all the photos from Arles.
Something I didn't know was that Vincent Van Gogh lived in Arles and painted several pieces there, including Starry Night. Here is the very spot, the same yellow cafe, just no cobblestones or stars. It was REALLY cool to see that!
Another special thing about Arles was that the little man let me carry him around all day. In the beginning of the week, he wouldn't let me near him, and cried any time his mom wasn't in the room. Then, one morning, he woke up and decided I was his best friend. His mom had been holding him in the car on the way to Arles. I took him from her so she could climb out of the car, and when she went to take him back to load him into the Ergo, he clung to me! So I asked if I could carry him in the Ergo for as long as he would let me...and he let me the whole afternoon!!! He even took a nap on me! It was precious and one of my favorite things about the whole day.
Me and the little man at Van Gogh's cafe. Cool, cool day!!!

Bus Mystery

2011-10-28T01:51:00.000-07:00

One of the things that is hard about blogging is that sometimes a very blog-worthy something happens...but you don't know exactly what is going on, and thus, it's like a story without an ending.

The Mrs.Real McCoy and I were sitting on a bus waiting for it to leave. We were already in a very non-Frenchy neighborhood, and this bus was headed towards an extremely non-Frenchy neighborhood. All of a sudden, I see four very Frenchy men in business suits walking shoulder to shoulder towards our bus. In front of them was a news-camera person, and a news-microphone person. Behind them were a group of police.

They got on the bus, pointed to something above the driver's head, spoke for a few minutes, with the microphone lady interviewing them, and then got right back off the bus. I am sure they were doing a clip for that evening's 6 oclock news. But I have no idea whatsoever what the news story was. (And I didn't care enough to watch the news that night to find out...I don't know what time the news comes on, I don't know how to work my cable channels, and French tv scares me.)

It was all very intriguing...but as I said, I didn't know what was going on. Which is something I've felt alot lately.

When I set up my utilities account, I repeated back to the woman over the phone what I understood about my bill. She told me I'd understood correctly. Since then, my utilities bill has not been anything like what she'd told me that day. I don't know at all how it works. I just pay it when it comes.
When I set up my phone contract, I was told I would pay a certain amount. Since then, my phone bill has not once been the amount I agreed to, even though I haven't been using all my minutes. I don't know at all why it's not correct. I just pay the amount my statement says.
I received some kind of invoice in my mailbox about the elevator. I don't know what it is. I don't know why it came to me. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it. I don't even know who to call to ask about it. I did show it to my neighbor and they said they don't know why it came to me either, but it's not a bill and there's nothing for me to pay. It's just letting me know (and not the rest of the building), that they worked on the elevator.
I don't know how to change my lightbulbs. (Track lighting...ack!)
I don't know why my ivy is dying.
I don't know why Julia Child Hollandaise sauce didn't thicken.

Even though I've been here for more than four years...there are still a million little things that happen that I don't understand or know how to do and I'm still too shy to ask. Some days, when it takes half the day just to buy groceries, and you can't get diapers for your friends because all the stores are closed on Sundays, and you follow the instructions but the sauce doesn't thicken...it's enough just to shrug your shoulders and accept that you don't understand. You don't know why. The bus mystery will never be explained.

Maybe this week I'll work on figuring out my bills and buy a new ivy to replace the one I killed.

Camargue Cross

2011-10-27T01:51:00.000-07:00

Just west of where I live, there is a region called the Camargue. It is known for salt, flamingoes, and beautiful white horses. It's on my wish list of places to go in France. Once, when I was near there, I saw gorgeous crosses for sale that are the symbol of the Camargue.

The Camargue Cross has an anchor, a heart, and a cross, which represent hope, faith and love. It is so unique and beautiful to me that I bought one to hang in my house.

This week, I finally got to get the Real McCoys up to Notre Dame de la Garde (something that didn't happen the last time they were here). The big church on the hill offers a great view of the city and the sea, and is one of Marseille's main tourist attractions. As many times as I've been up there, though, I'd never seen this statue of the Camargue Cross. Isn't it just lovely? Much more lovely than the actual "church" that is up there with it.

For those of you who don't remember, I am not a big fan of Notre Dame de la Garde. I'll take a cross over a big gold statue of someone who is not God any day. Especially a cross that reminds me to make the cross my anchor and to let love stem out of it.

Food Poisoning

2011-10-26T01:50:00.000-07:00

If stories about bodily functions grosses you out, feel free to skip this post! (I won't be too graphic, don't worry).

When I was 11 years old, my family moved from Korea back to the US. I got to be reunited with my best friend from the 3rd grade, Amy, after two years of separation. We celebrated at some pizza place. (Pizza Hut? Chuck E. Cheese? Dominoes? I can't remember.) In my excitement to be reunited and in America, I devoured that pizza. I still remember my parents warning me to slow down and not eat so fast.

I threw it all up later.

Such an unpleasant experience that was, I determined never to throw up again. I don't know HOW I stuck to my guns on that one, but I did. I didn't throw up for another 20 years. Then, one day in Paris a few years ago, I was walking along the street (after having eaten a crepe), when I felt an itch in my throat. When I coughed to scratch it, I proceeded to throw up...right in the middle of the street! I was so shocked I didn't know what to do with myself. I sat on the curb bewildered while some nice man who'd seen it all go down (or up, I should say), brought me a soda.

All of this to say: I am not a thrower upper. I don't do it. I may feel nauseated at times and think I'm close, but except for that extremely odd moment on a Parisian street, I just don't do it.

Well... I don't think I can say that anymore.

I made a very delicious pizza for the Artist and the Real McCoys the other night. Homemade dough on the pizza stone, comté and mozzarella cheese, chorizo, sautéed onions, peppers, and mushrooms, and sun-dried tomatoes from the arab market in Noailles. All four of us ate it.

Three of us regretted that later on.

At one point in the middle of the night, while I had my head in the toilet, the Artist came out of her room needing to be in the same position. I grabbed the trash can, scooted out her way, and let her have the toilet. (Extremely rabbit-trail side note: the FlyLady says that nothing says "I love you" like a clean toilet when you have to throw up. I can now say that I know what she's talking about.)

Anyway, we're pretty sure it was food poisoning (and not a stomach virus)...I'm guessing from those sun-dried tomatoes. I can safely say it will be a long time, if ever, that I can eat them again. Me and the Artist were both out of commission the entire next day, and are still, even now, feeling shy about any kind of extreme food that might make the belly do a flop.

I think you'll understand why I have no photo included with this post. Ha!

Bless Mail

2011-10-24T01:50:00.000-07:00

A million months ago, I received an email from someone in the home office of my company. It informed me that someone had recommended me to be, how shall we say..."employee" of the month. The home office publishes a magazine every so often, and so they wanted to highlight me as the employee of the month on my birthday in October. Even though it was a million months away, would I be willing to write an article about what I do that would be published on my birthday? I said sure, and reminded them that, for security purposes, I would need my name changed, my location to remain undisclosed, and no photo of me or my location could be published with the article.

After I'd written the article and sent it off, I forgot all about it. After all, it was a million months ago.

Well, the week before my birthday, I received a few emails from the home office. The subject line read, "Birthday Card for JF." (JF being a name that is nothing like my name.) I was confused...even though my birthday was coming up, I am not the only person on the planet born on October 1st. In fact, I even know of a co-worker with whom I share a birthday. So why is the home office sending me JF's birthday cards. I deleted the emails and went on with life.

A week after my birthday, Lanola calls me up. "I read an article in a magazine, and well...it's not your name, but I'm pretty sure this article is about you!" Confused again, I have her read me the article. In doing so, one lightbulb goes off in my head and I remember writing that a million months ago. I laugh and thank Lanola for recognizing me even without the correct name. "By the way...who does it say the article is about?"

"JF."

Another lightbulb. I suddenly understood why I was receiving JF's mail. I am JF! I laughed and laughed that the home office had given me a pen name, sent mail to that pen name, but never told me that pen name was me!

Well, today, I opened my snail mail box, and was surprised yet again. In it was a rather large envelope filled with fan mail! Not fan mail, actually, because the people who wrote weren't praising me (thank goodness!), but simply writing to encourage me. Birthday wishes, prayers, blessings... 39 cards and letters from people I don't know! Let me tell you something--that sure did make my day!

The Real McCoys are currently visiting, and when I told them the whole story, they joined in on the joy. Mr. McCoy said, "My grandmother reads that magazine every day! Can we call her and tell her we're sitting with the famous JF from the article?" So we called grandma, and sure enough, she'd read my article and was tickled pink that her grandfamily was staying with me. I thanked her for her sweetness and how my package of cards from people like her had really touched my heart and blessed my day.

The home office wrote a few days later to say that they have another package of cards on the way! Wowzah. So...if you've ever thought of mailing a card or small thoughful care package to a person like me who does the work I do, know that it really will encourage. It really will bless. Thank you!!!

Grocery Shopping

2011-10-20T03:42:00.000-07:00

In America, we have Wal-Mart and Target. In France (and the rest of the world), there is Carrefour...the French version of Wal-Mart. It's huge. It's covenient. It's one-stop shopping. And just like I can't handle Wal-Mart, I can't handle Carrefour. Too big. Too many people. (I inevitably always get run over by someone's cart.) It's just not for me unless I have to go there. And besides...I have to take two buses to get there. No thanks.

For the most part, I hate going grocery shopping. I'm not even sure I can put a finger on why I hate it, I just do. Everyone has their thing, right? Me...I enjoy ironing and mopping. Something about the mindless back and forth motion is very soothing to me. But grocery shopping? ick. Filling up the cart, bagging veggies, checking out, lugging all the groceries home...and all of it entails spending money that in just a few days will leave nothing to show for the money being gone.

About a year ago, I began making a weekly menu, and creating my grocery list from the menu. That way, I wasn't buying extra (and thus, having food go bad when I didn't use it in time...something else that I hate), and was able to stick to my budget for groceries. Something about the process made grocery shopping more tolerable. (Although, in Bez, grocery shopping could never be pleasant, because the Lost Boys all hung out in front the grocery store, and they were creepy.)

Here in Marseille, I stuck to my menu planning/grocery list shopping, and was overwhelmed during my first few weeks to find that I was spending way more than I had been in Bez and even Paris on groceries...even though I was buying the same things...minus meat (which is the most expensive thing). I decided that since I'm not paying money for gas, I might as well travel to a cheaper store to save the money on groceries.

So I did a bread basket research of my own to discover which grocery store was overall the cheapest, out of the three that are within walking distance. That led me to do most of my shopping at Monoprix, except for produce, meat, and frozen foods. For meat and frozen foods, I go to the frozen food store called Picard...which has bagels (!) and pureed pumpkin (!) and the cheapest chicken breasts I could find. And as you already know, I get my produce from the Arab market in Noailles.

Unless I just don't have time to run down there. Then I go to my local grocery man. If I could do all my shopping at the local grocery man, I'd be a happy girl and recant my hatred for grocery shopping.

He sells the basic produce (but no Cubanelle peppers...sorry Rachel Ray), meats, dairy, olives, honeys, wine, plants, and... antique books! It cracks me up. At first I didn't get why he sold books with all his food stuff. Then, the other night, I needed a few quick veggies for tonight's chili, and so I popped in there.

Mr. Grocer was talking politics with another man. They talked while I shopped. When I was about done, the man said good-bye and left, and Mr. Grocer picked up a book off his shelf and read until I was done. He reads while he's there, and sells the books when he's done with them!!! The other man came back, and began talking to both of us, and talked and talked and talked...and after about 20 minutes of "Wal-Mart could never touch this" in my head, the bavarde (talkative man) left.

I ran into Mr. Bavarde later on my way to Picard, and he waved good evening to me. It was a "I love France" moment. I love that my grocer sells books that he reads right there in the store and discusses with his customer. I love that people are friendly and will greet you after a conversation about politics in the grocery store. I love that I don't have one-stop shopping like Wal-Mart but that grocery shopping is a half-day event that gets me out and about in my neighborhood.

I suppose...I don't hate grocery shopping anymore.

Little things

2011-10-13T00:59:00.000-07:00

One of the things I love about France is the amazing things that you can almost just stumble upon...or be purposeful to go see...but that are beautiful and awesome and not-normal for an American. Here are a few (in no particular order), from the last few weeks.

Down at the Vieux Port, Smart Car was doing something...an interactive commercial? An exhibit? I don't know what to call it, but they were dancing on their cars, and getting people from the crowd to dance with them. Smart Cars are so small, you couldn't see the cars because of the crowd, but I promise...there were several cars there. The dancers in masks were on top of the car!

Some days, you just need to go to the beach and let the sound of the waves and feel of the sun and spray relax you. It takes me about 15 minutes to walk to this spot.
On my birthday, Joy and I went to the town of Nimes (where "denim" comes from!), and I ran over to the coliseum to take a quick photo.

This week I've also seen a street band wearing bright pink clown wigs, a man dressed like King Louis 14th doing tricks with cats, experienced the joys of strike season (it's that time of year again), and had a delicious fresh-out-of-the-oven baguette for dinner from the local bakery. I love living in France.

Another Brocante

2011-10-09T01:08:00.000-07:00

I went to my first brocante in the spring of 2007, which is where I first saw a treadle sewing machine that caused me to dream of Jasmine. It wasn't until spring of 2009 that I really caught on to the awesomeness of brocanting...and now I am fully hooked. Another term for brocante is vide grenier, which means "empty attic." I love the idea of digging through someone's attick and getting to take away treasures! Consider brocanting to be one of my favorite things to do in France. For my birthday weekend, I went to one in Aix with Joy. I bought a few little antique irons to use as doorstops, just like my Great Gran used to do. I also bought a red pitcher to use as a flower vase...and it is now happily filled with sunflowers from the Friday Flower Market.

At that brocante, I saw an old travel trunk like they used to use before suitcases, with all the awesome travel stickers from the places it had been. The kind of trunk you see in movies but never real life. It was beautiful. And too expensive for me to buy. I walked away sadly. Then stumbled upon two old movie theatre folding chairs. The metal kind that have puffy red leather seats. Again, too expensive to buy, and sad walking away.

The next day, I had non-buyers remorse and decided that they were worth their money, and I need a chair anyway. I called Joy to see if we could go to the brocante in another town that had been advertised for the following week...hoping the vendors of the trunk and chair would be there. We went...those particular vendors did not. But here are some of the cool things we saw that second brocante.

Helmets from WWI and WWII, from different countries' armies. There was US stuff, French stuff, Polish Liberation stuff, and even a Nazi helmet. It was really cool. Really.

Now THAT's a travel trunk!!! I didn't even ask how much, because I didn't want to be sad.

Beautiful old, leather bound books.

As we were leaving, I sighed a happy sigh. Beautiful Provence colored houses, fall leaves, a gorgeous day, fun with friends, and sweet French people out enjoying the brocante. Maybe I'll find another one to go to this Sunday?

Mistral

2011-10-06T09:27:00.000-07:00

As far as I can recall (and I checked), I've never blogged about the Mistral. The Mistral are crazy strong winds that hit southern France that can blow up at 100 kms per hour at times. Big, strong, hurricane gusts in tropical storm daily blowing makes for a funny day sometimes. The local tradition about the Mistral says that they blow in sets of 3, 6, or 9 days at a time. When I was here in 2009, they blew the entire month of March.

The Mistral are so strong that a gust of one once pushed me off the sidewalk into the cross walk, where I was almost hit by a car. There was one once that, if I'd not had a full grocery cart with me, might have blown me away.

Another local tradition about the Mistral says that it used to be if someone committed a crime during the Mistral, he could plea insanity, and the judge would usually let him off. They blow strong enough to make you a little nutty sometimes.

The blow strong enough that just being outside can be dangerous. Flower pots have blown off of balconies and killed people. This past summer, and awning broke less, flew through the air, and hit one of our tourists in the head, sending them to the emergency room. Mistrals are crazy, I tell you!

Well, I nearly was injured by one today...dare I be dramatic and say nearly killed by one? The Artist (who just arrived yesterday!) and I were walking along the sidewalk when we heard a really loud sound...neither of us can remember if it sounded like an explosion or a crash or what. But at that moment, huge amounts of shards of glass came falling on our heads from the sky. We dove under a covered doorway and turned our back to the street as the glass continued to fall.

Once it seemed safe to come back out, we looked around. We think the wind blew a door or window out somewhere in the building up above us...maybe a cross breeze? The glass blew as far as half a block, and into the street, where it damaged a car that was driving by. (They'd pulled over and were inspecting the roof of their car).

I was so shaken up that it took me a minute to fight back tears. The Artist and I stared at each other, making sure that we didn't have any glass shards on us. I'd see one about the size of my hand go right by my face...a half an inch difference and it would have pierced my scalp or chopped off my nose. We got hit by a bunch of the glass, but after inspection, we realized that we were okay.

Crazy Mistral. This was a video that Jelly Bean took of me at the beach during a Mistral in 2009. I could barely walk into the wind it was so strong.

International Faire

2011-09-30T12:37:00.001-07:00

I'd seen signs advertising the "Marseille Fair" around town for weeks, but I didn't know that it was an international fair. I mean, they did call it the "Marseille Fair," so I thought it was a fair about...Marseille. I still intended to go, but I probably would have been more excited had I known it was an international fair. Because anyone who's read this blog even once or known me for about more than two minutes knows that I love me some international exhibits!!!

I think I love them because it seems like a shadow of what is to come in heaven, when peoples from all nations will be together, each unique in their own language and cultural expression, but joined as one in praise to the King. I imagine that when we're There, we'll be able to go from one culture to the next, learning, tasting, experiencing all the creativity that God put into people when He created each people group. And thus...I love these fairs, where I can meet people from Senegal, and Iran, and Armenia, and Tahiti, and Algeria. Taste their food. See their clothes. Hear their music. Touch their handiworks. All the while knowing, that one glorious Day, it'll taste even better. Look even prettier. Sound even more fascinating. Be even more interesting. And all in praise to the King.

So...I went to Italy first. (Wouldn't you?!) There were mounds and mounds of sun-dried tomatoes, and the biggest olives I've ever seen in my life! (And I've lived in several olive-growing countries!) I bought a little more than a half-pound of the sun-dried tomatoes, and I am so stinking excited to cook up something that would make Rachel Ray proud with them!

In the not-so-tasty category...we walked by this smoked pig...and yes, the man is cutting (and serving) from the pig's rear-end. We didn't taste any samples there!
I did buy some white truffle creme sauce in Italy as well. (White truffles as in the insanely expensive mushroom, not the little chocolates). Truffles are so expensive here in France that I've never even gotten to taste one, and this woman gave me a free sample of her sauce. I went week in the knees that stuff was so good! She also had a truffle basalmic vinegar that made my eyes roll back in my head, but I couldn't afford it. For those of you who don't like mushrooms, have no fear! I also bought the chocolate kind of a truffle. :) In Canada, I bought some maple cookies. In Switzerland, I bought some really good Comté cheese. (Why did I have to go to Switzerland to get a French cheese?)

There was one section that was like being in an infomercial exhibition. Every gadget you've ever seen on TV for sale at 3 in the morning was being demonstrated! Cleaning gadgets, cooking gadgets, massaging gadgets, hair removal gadgets. It was good French listening practice, and quite entertaining...but people overload. We had to exit there very quickly.

We headed over to the furniture area...and oh my. Let's just say that the French and I have very different taste in furniture.

Mob boss's wife?

After much laughter in that area, we headed over to Algeria, where we made some friends. Then on Armenia, where we watched some dancing to live music. And then, finally, headed home...as we had no money left and our introvert selves were maxed out. Below is a photo of my purchases.
It was a grrrrrrreat afternoon/evening. So if you ever come visit me in Marseille, come in September, so I can take you to the Fair.

Making friends

2011-09-29T09:32:00.000-07:00

Noailles is one of the areas of town that has a high concentration of Arabs. Their produce market is there, as well as all kinds of stores where you can find stuff from the "bled," or "home country." I love to do my produce shopping there, because (a) it's cheap, (b) I can find way more kinds of produce and of better quality than in the stores, (3) I can practice my arabic, and (d), it's just fun.

About 2.5 years ago, I had a moment in Noailles. Well, today, I had another. I just needed some Cubanelle peppers, (Rachel Ray...always calling for the fancy stuff) and an onion. I popped out of the metro and started wandering through the market. As I spotted the peppers, I also heard the vendors speaking in arabic to the ladies standing next to me. I waited my turn, and when the vendor noticed me, he switched into French.

"Oui, madame?"

In French, "These peppers are sweet, right? Not spicy?"

In English, he responded, "Yes." (I didn't even notice the language switch.)

The ladies began teasing him in arabic about switching from French to English, and so he asked me in French, "Where are you from?"

In arabic, I responded, "I am American."

Oh, the hooting and hollering that commenced because I'd spoken in arabic! All four (the two vendors and the two ladies) all began asking me at once if I spoke arabic. I gave my token line of, "I speak a little bit because I lived in Tunisia for four months." More hooting and hollering, questions shooting from every angle. Turned out the two ladies were from Tunisia, and so because I was speaking their dialect, I was suddenly their new best friend (or toy to show off?). They invited me to their pizzeria and told me to come anytime and ask for them specifically.

My token line is helping me make friends pretty quickly these days. That makes me smile.

So I left Noailles with a smile on my face, two new friends, and my Cubanelle peppers and onion that only cost me 60 cents. It was a good day.

Wild Goose Chase

2011-09-28T08:22:00.000-07:00

Because I have moved so many times, I've ended up with a lot of mailing addresses. Someone recently (very kindly) sent me a care package...but to my old address in Marseille instead of my current one. We didn't discover the fact until a few weeks after the package had been mailed, and so I feared that it had already been through a failed delivery attempt.

Going to the post office has never been a pleasant experience for me in any country, (I can hear my dad coughing "understatement" from all the way across the ocean), and so I've been working on finding the nice post office in Marseille. Surely, out of all the post offices, there must at least one nice one. And I will take a bus if I have to, in order to go to a nice one.

So the day after I found out that I had a package headed my way, but to the wrong address, I went to the nice post office, praying for grace, mercy, and favor, and approached the worker behind the desk.

"Bonjour. I have a slightly bizarre situation." (Intrigue the French worker into being nice and helpful...)

"Ooh, do tell."

"Someone in the US mailed me a package...but they accidently put the wrong address on it. How can I know if it has already been attempted to be delivered, and what would happen to it if the mailman has already tried to deliver it?"

"Well, you can look up the tracking number on it to find out where it is, and if a delivery attempt was made. If they did try to deliver it, and it's the wrong address, they'll send it to the big post office, where it'll wait for 15 days, and if it's not claimed, be sent back."

"Great! Where's the big post office?"

"Near the giant thumb. Do you know the giant thumb?"

I stare at him for a minute. Sometimes language needs a moment to sort itself out. The word for "thumb" is also the word for a "microchip", and sounds identical to the word for "flea." In any case, none of the words seemed to make sense...giant thumb, giant microchip, giant flea. My mental wheels spun as fast as they could, trying to sort it out, and then I remembered: Marseille has a round-a-bout with a statue of a giant thumb. (I have NO IDEA why, and I like to imagine that the Giant from Jack and the Beanstalk is buried under that round-a-bout, and his thumb is all that's left of him.)

"Yes, the giant thumb. The post office is near there?"

"Yes." And he gives me the address.

I decide to go to the post office that has jurisdiction over my old apartment, just in case the package may just be sitting there, before wandering all the way to the giant thumb. Again, I approach the worker and say, "Bonjour. I have a bizarre situation." As soon as I recount it to him, he tsks at me and says, "Sorry. Packages with the wrong address are sent immediately back to the sender. Immediately. What good would it do to hold on to a package that is undeliverable. Sorry." He was so rude about it that I wanted to point my finger at him and say, "You, sir, are the reason that there is a stereotype that labels French people as rude." I held my tongue, though, and went on my way.

When talking to Joy on the phone about it, and asking her how I could use the customs number to track down the package, we discovered via the USPS website that the package had indeed made it to France...but the website said that due to the incorrect address, had been returned to the sender...the day before. I wondered if that meant that it could possibly still be sitting in the big post office, not mailed back to the US yet.

I ran out the door to go hunt down the big post office by the giant thumb. (You know you live overseas when...) My GPS on my phone said that it was only 2.5 kms/36 minutes walking away, but I decided a bus would be faster. Ha. When will I ever learn?

For some reason, I had it in my head that bus 19 went that way. I stopped a woman at the bus stop, and asked her if bus 19 went to avenue d'Haifa. She said she didn't know, but to ask the bus driver. Now...had I been in Paris, that would have been the end of it, and she would not have said another word. But, Toto, we're not in Paris anymore! She climbed on the bus and informed the bus driver that I needed help.

I asked him if the bus goes to avenue d'Haifa. He whistled that long, descending note of a whistle that tells you you've made a mistake, shook his head at me, stopped the bus (in the middle of the road), and said, "No way lady! Not this bus. What you need, see, is bus 23. Hop off right now, go up that road over there, see it? Follow it, and you'll find bus 23. It goes to avenue d'Haifa. Off you go now..." and he opened the door to let me off in the middle of traffic to go hunt down bus 23.

I followed my GPS down the road he'd pointed me towards, and sure enough...right as I came out on a main road, there was bus 23 sitting stopped in traffic. Since I saw that I was nowhere near a bus stop, I ran up to him and banged on the door (as I've seen the locals do), and he opened it to let me on.

For about five minutes, the bus followed the path on the GPS exactly. But I could see there was a turn on the GPS (walking directions), and I didn't know if the bus was going to turn. I leaned over to ask the woman next to me if the bus would turn onto avenue d'Haifa, all the while speaking in a quiet, Parisian public transport tone of voice. Well, again...this isn't Paris.

The woman responded (in slang), "I dunno... Hey everyone...avenue d'Haifa? Does that ring a bell to any of you?" Yes, she yelled to the WHOLE BUS to help me find out where to go. They hollered back and everyone joined in informing me about avenue d'Haifa. One of them even pressed the button for when I needed to get off. I was so bewildered by the friendliness, helpfulness, and um, noise, that I just kept mumbling "merci," over and over as I scurried off the bus.

And sure enough...there was the giant thumb.

Turns out the post office was not easily visible on avenue d'Haifa, and I had to ask for more help. When I finally found it, I went in and again explained my bizarre situation. The woman informed me that the package would indeed have been returned immediately to the sender. With a little bit of desperation in my voice, I asked, "Is there any way someone can look, just to double check, that it hasn't been mailed back yet? I am just hoping for that slightest chance of good fortune." She looked at me like I was sad, pitiful, and insane, and then said, "Yes. You can go to X place and ask there...that's where it would be. But they will tell you the same thing...it's gone already." I thanked her, followed her directions, and ended up in the bowels of the grand post office in Marseille.

The workers were a little surprised to see a non-worker there when I appeared...and especially when I opened my mouth and they heard my foreigner accent, as I, again, recounted my bizarre situation. With her uber-Marseille accent, she told me, "Non, non, it would have been returned already. We send the mail out first thing in the morning." I played up the puppy dog eyes again, and convinced her to please go look. She even took my paper with the customs info, and showed it to her supervisor to have him help look for it.

I am sure that after all this, you are expecting a happy ending of, "And they came back out with my box!" Nope. No such luck. It had been mailed back to the US the day before. One wild goose chase. I stopped and took a picture of the giant thumb on the way home...and that's about all I have to show for this whole long story.

The Kung Fu Chiropractor

2011-09-22T08:10:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, CSI got a terrible kink in her neck and couldn't even turn her head at all. So my boss's wife made a double appointment for the two of them to go to the chiropractor together. I didn't know there was a chiropractor in Marseille, so I was pretty excited to hear this news! I asked the boss's wife to please make me an appointment while she was there for hers.

Well, the next day, she and CSI begin recounting their experience at the chiropractor to the rest of us. They said they were sitting in the waiting room when they heard this scream that sounded like a kung-fu/karate chop "hiya!" CSI's eyes got big as she imagined what sort of pain this chiropractor must inflict to make someone cry out like that.

They went into the office, had a very weird conversation with the chiropractor, (not to be retold on the blog), and then CSI laid on the table to get her adjustment. All of a sudden, the chiropractor shrieked the karate chop "hiya!" right as she pressed down on CSI's shoulder. It wasn't the patient who was doing the screaming, it was the chiropractor!

The boss's wife said she watched the woman work, and she makes all these moves right before she presses down that make you think she's about to karate chop your back in two like it's a block of cement bricks. Oh man.

Well, my appointment was the next week, and I went in prepared for the "hiya" shrieking. She looked at my x-rays, asked some questions, and then had me lie down on the table. She did some massaging for a bit, a few small adjustments, and then, sure enough...HIYA! It's a little jolting to the nerves a bit, but it makes you laugh, and causes you to relax even more, which is a good thing.

So Kung Fu Lady has me move over to another table, and as I'm lying down, she asks me, "Have all your other chiropractor's used the same techniques as I do?" I said, "For the most part, yes. Well, excepting for the screaming." She laughed...and then she good-gamed me!

My kung-fu shrieking chiropractor spanked me on my bottom!!!

THEN, she says, "I bet you never had a chiropractor do that before!" No, no, I don't think that I have.

A 7.50 euro lesson

2011-09-19T09:45:00.000-07:00

Almost all of my purses have a metro pass pocket located on the back side of the purse. It's pretty handy because you don't even have to take the pass out. You just press your purse up to the machine, and it can scan through the leather.

I tend to change my purse every day to match whatever outfit I am wearing. (Yes, I am that girly.) I keep my purse pretty tidy, so it's not that hard of a task. I move the metro pass from its pocket in the former purse to today's purse. I move my wallet, my girl-scout/be-prepared bag, my pens, my fan or umbrella (depending on the weather), and my reusable grocery sack. No problem.

Well, this morning, I had a problem. The metro pass pocket was half unzipped...and the metro pass was not in it. I looked around the house very quickly, and then in frustration thought, "Someone must have pick-pocketed me and took it out...thus, the half-unzipped pocket." I grabbed my passport and an extra photo (the two necessary items needed to get anything done in France), and ran out the door, hoping that getting a replacement pass would not (a) break my bank and (b) take too much time.

At the metro office, they kindly looked up for me whether it had be returned...it had not. So the woman informed me that I just needed to go to the machine outside, click a certain button, pay, and bring the slip back in. Then, she'd give me my new pass.

Since in France it must be customary to carry a minimum of 10 euros of coins with you at any given time, I began shelling the coins into the machine. 7.50 worth of coins. When I'd gotten 7 euros in, and had only 50 cents left to go, my 50 cent piece rolled back out to the bottom. I picked it up and immediately dropped it back in...and it rolled back out to the bottom. I looked in my wallet...and saw that I only had 40 cents left.

Suddenly there were two gypsy children by my side, ready to help me. Allow me to insert a back story here, because I am learning that reactions to certain things are quite often connected to pas experiences.

Same situation, only 1o years ago...I am standing at a ticket vending machine at a train station in Portugal, and a gypsy child appears. When I do not give them money, they proceed to try to rob me of my change in the bottom of the machine. And then, when I politely, gently push them away from the machine and tell them "No," they yelled a curse at me. Not a cuss word. A curse. And while I do believe that the Spirit of Christ in me protects me from curses...I do not trust gypsy children hanging around me when I am handling cash at a machine.

So there I was, having paid 95% of my ticket, with a non-functioning 50 cent piece and a gypsy child at my side. She reached into the machine, grabbed my coin, and began scraping it against the machine. She then popped it in the machine and it rolled right back down to the bottom. As I tried to tell her thank you, the operation timed out, and all my money began rolling back to the bottom. I told both the kids thank you, and gently put my whole body between them and the machine while I scooped all my change out.

I asked a man next to me if he could make an exchange of coins for me since the machine wasn't accepting my coin. He said, "Of course, in just one second." So I restarted my operation while he bought his ticket, and popped my 7.50 of coins into the machine. When I got to the fateful 50 cent piece, it went in fine...but one of the 1 euro coins rolled back out. FRUSTRATION. The gypsy child stepped back over, reached in, grabbed my coin, rubbed it against the machine, and put it in the coin slot. It went in...but the 50 cent piece rolled back out.

She reached in her pocket, pulled out her own 50 cent piece, and put it in. It worked, and the machine gave me my ticket. I looked at this sweet little gypsy child who was not trying to steal, not calling down curses, but just trying to help in hopes to earn a few coins in return. I looked down in my wallet, and pitifully apologized for only having 40 cents left to give her. She happily took it and thanked me.

Eating humble pie, I went back into the office and got my new pass to replace the lost one...which fell out of my pants pocket onto my bed as I was getting ready to do laundry tonight.

A few Facebook statuses

2011-09-15T07:59:00.000-07:00

Here are a few Facebook statuses from the past month that I don't want to forget...

"While working on my visa renewal paperwork, I discovered that one of the things I have to send in is an honor statement to not live in a polygamous state while living in France. Well, that's a new one."

"You know you live overseas when you look at the past expiration date on an American item you brought over with you, that you can't get here, and think, "meh...it'll be alright."

"Cute little old French lady approached me and said, "I've never ridden the metro before. Where am I and which stop is the train station?" Then she counted each stop along the way to know when to get off. So cute!"

"I am still always a little surprised when I see goats for sale in the middle of the city street market."

Chick-Fil-A Grand Opening in Marseille

2011-09-09T07:39:00.000-07:00

CSI's birthday was at the end of last month, but she couldn't celebrate here in Marseille until this month. I told her I wanted to throw a sleep-over, and then I told everyone else the "full plan." You might remember from this post that she loves Chick-fil-A. She told me once that her one of her favorite things to do back in college was to go to a Chick-fil-A opening, and camp out overnight in order to be one of the First 100. I began planning while I was in the states in May, and stocked up on Chick-fil-A paraphernalia: cups, straws, lids, napkins, and bags.

So on Sept 9, 2011, the Chick-fil-A Marseille had its Grand Opening at my house! Everyone came dressed in black and white (so that we could be semi-dressed as the Chick-fil-A "cows,"), and I decked out the house in red, black and white. I printed out a bunch of the Chick-fil-A cows from the internet, and hung them all over the house. (Example: In the bathroom, the cow was wearing a sandwich board that read, "Beef is a real partee pooper." HAHAHAAHAHA.) Then, each friend brought things to make it a real Chick-fil-A experience: lemonade, sweet tea, salad, and brownies. I supplied the fried chicken and fries. Each friend also made a coupon (again, using Google images to make it look legit) to give CSI as a gift. We ate chicken, a cow cake, played games, took our "Eat Mor Chikin" picture, and stayed up watching movies while drinking cookies n cream milkshakes out of our imported cups. Fun times.

Happy Birthday, CSI!

Chez Moi

2011-09-06T12:39:00.000-07:00

Princess William asked me today on the phone when was the last time I actually got to pick my own apartment out. Hmmm...2005 in the UAE. And before that...1997 in college. Actually, I sort of got to pick my place in Portugal. I went with the bossman to look at three places, two of which were terrible and one of which (at the time) was (seemed) amazing. It didn't seem like much of a choice, really, but I wasn't complaining.

I didn't get to pick this place. I did choose to live here, though. Some friends of mine went to the states for a year, and were going to put all their things in storage for the time. I offered to live in their place so that (a) they could return to the same apartment when they got back to France and (b) I could save up awhile longer for furniture and appliances and (c) take my time looking for an apartment.

So I'm here now, and in about six months I'll begin the process of looking for my own place. Once I find that place, I can still live out of this one while looking for furniture and moving things slowly over to my new place. I love not being rushed into big decisions. And this apartment is really great. It's HUGE. When you figure that in the last two years, I was pretty much homeless, living in a hotel, sleeping on a futon in a children's playroom, etc., this place feels like a mansion!

It has a massive balcony, a massive (especially for France) kitchen (with a dishwasher!!!), a big living room, two bedrooms, and two baths. And about 40 closets.

Here's the living room/dining room/office.

From the other angle.

It's a super quiet apartment, which is wonderful. It's near a bus line that gets me to the downtown touristy area pretty easily, and on one of the metro lines, and it's about 3 kms from the beach. I feel like I'm pretty far from camelridingcowgirl and Classy Spice, but hey...same city is better than 4 hours on a bullet train or with an ocean between us.

It's so wonderful to finally, after all these years, have a place that is mine. That I can call home. Where I can put down some roots. Just wonderful.

Introducing Jasmine the Singer

2011-08-27T06:23:00.001-07:00

Back in May of 2007, during my first spring in France, I was on my way to church one Sunday morning, when I stumbled across my first brocante. As I've mentioned before, a brocante is a yard sale where everyone in the neighborhood puts out all their wares that they are trying to clean out of their closets. You'll find the normal junky stuff that you wouldn't want at an American yard sale...but you'll also find all kinds of little treasures, and what an American would label "antiques." French people call that stuff "grandma's."

So at my first brocante, I saw an antique treadle sewing machine on a wood and black metal table. I was in love with it, but had several dilemmas: I couldn't afford it, and it wasn't a practical thing for me to buy. I thought I was only temporarily living in France, and so there would be no way for me to get it home once my contract was up. So I walked away sad. I never saw another one like it at a brocante, despite the fact that I kept looking.

This week, Joy and I went looking at a brocante that is a store...sort of like Goodwill for a 4 or 6 paned window that I could hang on my wall and use as a picture frame. While there, I saw her. In a long row of tables, covered in dust, dirt, and cobwebs, feeling long forgotten and neglected was a Singer sewing machine attached to her table. My two dilemmas from 4.5 years ago are no longer dilemmas: I could afford her, and now that I live here permanently, I don't have to worry about getting her back across the ocean. I whispered to her that I would be adopting her, and she would be able to find a home with me.

Joy found a man that worked at the store and explained that we wanted to ask about the Singer table. She pronounced Singer with the American pronounciation. He laughed and said, "Non, non, non! It's not Mick Jagger! It is pronounced Singer." (I don't know how to type that pronunciation, honestly. But the "g" sound is like "g" in "ginger," not the "g" in "good.") He walked us back over to the table, grabbed a claim ticket off of it, handed it to us, and told us to take it downstairs, and he and his guys would load it into the car for us.

(It has nothing to do with Jasmine the Singer, but I also bought a trunk/chest like the kind people used to use to travel with before the days of Samsonites and Action Packers. When I told him that I wanted the trunk as well, he said, "Jack Sparrow's chest? Okay." The guy had personality.)

Outside, we got Jasmine the Singer loaded into the back of the car, and I went back inside to pay. When Mr. Personality saw my bank card, he said, "Oh lala, a British card." I shook my head no.

"Scottish?" Non.

"Irish?" Non.

He leaned forward, squinted his eyes at me, and said in disbelief, "Wales?" Non.

He paused for a moment, completely stumped. I was amused...really, the guess-where-the-English-speaker-is-from game is usually not this hard in France.

"Australia?" Non.

"South Africa?!" Non.

"I give up." Really?

I tell him, "America!"

He laughed at his oversight that he'd name all the others, and forgotten about us. I supposed he figured I was a tourist, and American tourists just don't frequent his shop and buy Singer sewing machines.

We got Jasmine the Singer home and settled into her spot on my living room wall where she can be on display for all to see. I gave her a nice warm bath and man, does she clean up nice! I looked up her serial tag number and found out that Jasmine was born in Kilbowie, Clydebank, Scotland in 1917.

I love her. You can see her in all her glory HERE.

Monday

2011-08-21T22:42:00.001-07:00

It's Monday morning, and I'm hoping that this week will see all of what got started last week get finished this week!

Several have asked, so I thought I'd put it on the blog for all prosperity... I went back to the bank for my rendez-vous, and was able to change my branch. Once that was done, I explained about my card, and asked sweetly if the woman could call the branch in Bez for me to have them send the new card here. She said she would! I got my rent payment set up, and tried to set up to pay for the internet and was shut down. We'll try that again this week.

I was finally able to pay for my metro pass (despite several gypsy beggar children standing around my machine making me quite nervous as I put 8 50-euro bills into it).

I am making headway in the house.

Still haven't dealt with the electric company. Still haven't mailed in my visa paperwork. Still haven't even set up my scanner/printer at my desk, much less done any work at the desk.

But it really is coming along. Eventually it will be finished, the whole apartment, and I will post pictures. Perhaps by next Monday!

But as it is Monday morning, I need to go get ready for work... Here's to a productive week!

Life Overseas Just Takes Longer

2011-08-17T23:01:00.000-07:00

My to-do list upon arrival in Marseille:

1. Go to prefecture to begin visa renewal process.

2. Go to the post office to mail postcards.

3. Go to the metro office to purchase annual metro pass.

4. Go to the bank to change branches and set up rent withdrawal payment.

5. Go to the grocery store to buy food.

6. Go to the housing stores to buy necessary stuff for house.

7. Call electric company to give them the start number on the meter.

8. Go to bank to pay for internet/phone.

9. Clean house.

10. Set up house.

I thought the first 8 could be done in the first two days. Then, at the end of the second day, I remembered...I live overseas. When will I ever learn?

I did go to the prefecture to get the paperwork to begin my visa renewal process. So I suppose I could check that off. But I need to do the paperwork, and who has time to do that when I have all those other things on my to-do list to do? Surprisingly, the prefecture actually only took 2 hours of my day, did not include waiting at line from 4am (glory), and did include the nicest government worker ever.

At the post office, however...I could only buy four stamps instead of the needed five, because I only had enough coins for four, and I wasn't willing to wait in the long, grumpy people line for one stamp. So I will need to return to the post office another time.

At the metro office, I was handed what will be my pass as soon as I pay for it by loading it into the machine...which I cannot do because I discovered my bank card was missing. So I am metro-card-less for the moment.

At the bank, I had to make a rendez-vous. So I should be able to cross that item off my list tomorrow.

I tried calling the electric company with the number posted (by the electric company) next to the meter...it's a no-longer valid number. So I will need to GO to the electric company whenever I find some time.

I haven't had time to go grocery shopping yet. Thankfully, the camelridingcowgirl and Classy Spice brought me some food to get me started.

Yesterday, though, I decided to run to the store to buy a dustpan, mop, mop bucket, and some toilet bowl cleaner. I went to the grocery near me, remembering that I'd seen mop buckets. When I got there, they had mop bucket, mop sticks (but not the mop bottoms), and toilet bowl cleaner, but no dustpans. Hmmm...better go to another grocery store.

At the bigger grocery store, they had dustpans and mop bottoms, but no sticks or buckets. So I purchase the dustpan, and figured I'd go back and buy the rest at the first store. I didn't buy the mop bottom there because I didn't realize at the time that the first didn't have the bottoms. I remembered the buckets and the sticks and assumed the bottoms would be there too. Upon returning to the first store, and seeing that there were no bottoms, I realized that I would not be mopping the floors for another few days.

In America, you just hop in your car, drive to Wal-Mart, and get what you need to clean your house. In France, you walk all over creation, pulling a shopping cart behind you, and still end up not getting what you need.

Life just takes longer overseas.

Banking Bleux

2011-08-17T00:41:00.001-07:00

While I was still in Bez, I received an email from my French bank asking me to to come in for a rendez-vous (in French, that just means 'meeting'). I went in and explained that I would be moving to Marseille after the summer, and so the very kind lady informed that I would need to change my 'agence' (branch) once I arrived. Little did I know how much I would come to hate that word and how many problems would rise out of what she'd just told me.

While in Paris, it came time for me to pay the August rent at my Marseille apartment. "No problem," thought pragmatic American me. I went to the local agence of my bank and explained that I would like to set up a monthly rent withdrawal out of my account.

"Is this your agence?" I was asked.
"No, its in Besancon, but I am in Paris for the summer and will be changing my agence to Marseille once I move there in August."
"Sorry, but we can't help you. You can only do business from your agence."

French bureauracracy vs American pragmatics.

After a whole bunch of hoopla and run-around, Hugs was able to pay my rent for me at her agence. Now fast forward to my first day in Marseille, where, I'd made it a top priority to go the bank and change my agence.

But first, I went to the metro to purchase my annual metro pass. And when I opened my wallet, I saw to my shock...my French bank card was missing. None of my other bank cards, just the French one.

I am one of those people who is meticulous about my wallet. I have the kind that keeps my bills flat. It has a compartment for receipts. And for transportation tickets. And each bank card has it's own pretty little spot. Why was one spot empty?!

I explained to the metro man that my bank card was missing and I would need to return later to pay. At the bank, (where I waited in line forever because the teller woman wasn't going to tell me that no one was working the line I was waiting in), I explain that (a) my bank card is missing and (b) I need to change my agence.

"This isn't your agence? I can't help you then. You need to go to your agence and report your missing card there."
"But my agence is in Besancon, and I just moved yesterday, and I was coming today anyway to change my agence."
"Well, you need a rendez-vous to change your agence, and the earliest one I can give you is Friday."
"But what about my card? What if it was pick-pocketed and someone is stealing my money? Can't you cancel my card from here? You're all the same bank."

"Oui, madame, we are the same bank, but not the same agence. You will need to contact your agence about your card."

I stared at her in exasperation and frustration, until she finally said..."you can call this number and report your card missing. They will cancel it for you." Well, lady, why didn't you tell me that in the first place? Probably for the same reason she wasn't goung to tell me no one was working the line I'd been waiting in... Why answer a question that hasn't been asked?

You'd think my banking bleux ended there, but oh no. It goes on... So I call the number and explain that my card is missing and I would like to cancel it. The very nice man lets me know that they will mail my new card...to my agence.

I explain that I just moved and have a rendez-vous to change my agence. "Oh my, this is complicated," he ponders, (while I respond in my head, "it wouldn't need to be if yall would drop this whole agence autonomy business...and mail my card to me instead of to the bank"). He decides that I will need to call the bank in Bez, and make sure they know that the card needs to be sent to Marseille, and that I need to go to the Marseille agence today and re-explain the whole sitch, so that hopefully...my new card will get sent here.

Then, to just top the whole thing off, I called America to activate my new American bank card that just arrived, and was told that the pin number would arrive a few days later. So...I am without my French bank card AND my American work bank card.

Those are some serious banking bleux.

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Paris at Midnight

2011-08-15T00:22:00.000-07:00

When I found out a few months ago that I would spending the summer in Paris, I'll admit I had mixed feelings. I was ready to move out of the Wise's house and settle into my own home...in Marseille. Learning that I would be leaving the Wise's earlier than planned was good news, as was getting to spend a whole two months around the Superheroes in Paris. But...two more months in yet another place, still living out of a suitcase, away from Marseille, and...uggish sigh...Paris? At the time, not so good news.

When I left her in November 2008, I left her feeling burnt out on her. She rains alot. She's always crowded with too many people. (The city population is somewhere between 11-14 million, and add the 42 million tourists who come through each year, and well, that's alot of people.) She's bustling, pushy, stressed (or as the French say, "tiring" or "fatigant"). I had a headache for the entire two years I lived here because there was never, ever, at any time, quiet.

I would say that I have a love-hate relationship with Paris. I mean, it's Paris. Beautiful streets, buildings, bridges, parks, and the Seine. Everything is beautiful in Paris, everything. The museums are amazing, the food is amazing, the music is amazing, and there is always, always, always something fun to go do. She really can be enchanting, if you're in the right mood.

And so I decided this summer that I would focus on the love side of my love-hate relationship with Paris. I would allow her to get back in my good graces, and would not, under any circumstances, (including terrible weather that stole my summer away), leave for Marseille more frustrated with Paris than I was back in November 2008. That is why I systematically set out to have such a good time this summer, even if meant not getting much sleep. When I had a free moment from work, I'd go do something fun that I hadn't done before.

While out at the cinema at the park, Tusc told me of a movie I ought to go see, and exactly which theatre I ought to see it in. He said, "If you like Paris, you'll love this movie, and if you love Paris, this'll become one of your favorite movies ever." So I went to see Midnight in Paris at the Epée de Bois cinema on Rue Mouffetard. He was completely right.

One of the things I've always said about Paris is that I wonder what it was like during La Belle Epoque or during the Roaring 20's, or even during the Occupation. I wonder what it was like at its peak. I wonder what it was like without the extra 11 million people and the 42 million tourists. I suppose that Woody Allen wondered the same thing, because he made a movie about a guy who, just like me, would love to have seen it back then. The movie was more about who was in Paris at those times than what Paris looked like at those times, but I still enjoyed it.

Even more, I enjoyed what the main character discovered at the end. We tend to always want something we can't have. He wanted to know Paris in the 20's. The girl he met in Paris in the 20's wanted to know Paris in La Belle Epoque. He wanted that girl. His financée wanted another guy. He realized that we should want what we have. And so he stayed in Paris during his own time and enjoyed it...in the rain.

There are people who lament about wanting to enjoy my life in France because it seems prettier than their own, wherever they may be. I often lament about wanting to enjoy theirs...married with children. Who knew that Woody Allen could speak some truth into my life (and maybe someone else's who reads my blog, longing to be where I am instead of where they are) by reminding me to love where I am, even if it's in the rain?

And so I leave Paris for Marseille...content. Paris has returned to my good graces, and I love her once again. I don't look out at the rain and sigh that uggish sigh. I look forward to when I'll get to return to her again and be charmed by beauty that has wooed so many through the centuries. But for now, it's time to return to my beloved sunshine city of the south, Marseille.

And to finally, after 27 months, unpack my suitcases.

Cinema in the Park

2011-08-11T03:31:00.000-07:00

Someone asked me recently if I've always liked old movies. I thought about it for a moment... I mean, I remember in college just loving Audrey Hepburn and it was Roman Holiday that started the dream of living overseas and learning languages. (In fact, when I placed my hand in the Mouth of Truth in Rome, just like Audrey had done in the film, I began to cry because I was only 25 and "all my dreams had come true already." My friends laughed at me and told me to dream bigger dreams.) I finally answered my friend that yes, I supposed I have always liked old movies...I just forgot for awhile that I did, and in the last two years or so, that old interest has resurfaced.

Something that goes along with the liking old movies is a small dream I've always had and somehow never did when I lived in San Francisco...to go to the cinema in the park. Well, one day, I was scrolling on the internet looking for stuff to do in Paris that I hadn't done before, and stumbled upon...cinema in the park, for free...every night for a month every summer! How had I not discovered this before?! As I've talked with other friends who live here, none of them had known about it either.

I looked through what was showing each night, and to my joy and delight, found that they were showing a 1949 classic called On the Town.

I sent out a text to a bunch of people to invite them to join me, but...Hugs tends to fall asleep during movies, the Superheroes were busy catching up from returning from vacation, the Trainers had guests in town, and so it ended up being Tusc and me. The website had said that the movie would start just after sundown, and I wasn't sure exactly what time that would be, or how crowded the lawn would be, so we got there around 9 and spread our blanket out in a prime spot. At 9:30, they blew up the giant inflatable screen.
Turns out, cinema in the park is a very Parisian thing to do! There were almost no tourists there at all. The Parisians had their picnic dinners with them (baguettes, cheese, deli meat, wine, and fruit), and just lounged around talking, laughing, and enjoying the evening. I was thrilled to be somewhere the tourists didn't seem to know about, to see Parisians being Parisian, and to have a nice evening with no clouds in the sky. As it got darker, I even saw some shooting stars! When does that ever happen in Paris?!

We thought it was dark enough for the movie to start at 10, but apparently the girl running the reel did not agree, so it didn't start until 10:30. Gene Kelly, Frank Sinatra, Vera Ellen, Ann Miller, all filmed on location in New York...it was so good! I clapped my hands in giggly delight several times. Like in the pretty ridiculous song, Prehistoric Man, when Ann Miller wears the prettiest dress ever, and shows why she was one of the best dancers of the 20th century. Another fun moment was laughing with all the metro-riding Parisians about Miss Turnstiles (translated in the subtitles as Mademoiselle Metro).

I had to leave a little early, because, when the clock struck midnight, I was worried about not being able to catch the metro home in time. As I rode home on the metro, still thinking about Miss Turnstiles, I was amazed to see a different Paris than I normally do. I'm not usually out after midnight...but the Parisians were! They were smiling and laughing (not normal during the day on the metro), waving goodbye (instead of giving the little cheek kisses), dressed uber-casual (instead of uber-chic), and talking up a storm. It added a little more bliss to my evening.

Should I return to Paris next summer, I will be hitting up the cinema in the park again.

Summer Weather

2011-08-08T06:09:00.000-07:00

So I've commented several times on Facebook about the lousy weather we've had in Paris this "summer." I say "summer" because I will forever rememeber 2011 as the year that I missed summer altogether. Very little sunshine, temps rarely above 70 degrees, and entirely too much rain. And while in the states, I know yall have been suffering from 100+ temps for over a month...the fact is that I like heat. I like sunshine. I like summer. And I get grumpy when I don't get it at all.

Below is a video that a Parisian took of the downpour that came 3 days ago. I'm telling you...this weather is for the birds. It's August 8th, and the temp outside is 64 and there are howling winds.

One more week until Marseille!

The most random museum ever

2011-08-07T02:27:00.000-07:00

Culture shock is a funny thing. It can just creep up on you out of nowhere. Especially when (or because?) you are are not expecting it whatsoever. Sometimes we don't expect it because it's an English speaking or Western country, and so we think, "They're like me here, I won't culture shock." Sometimes we don't expect it because we haven't had much culture shock in the past, and thus, must be immune. Sometimes we don't expect it because we've been in that place for so long, we ought to be way past something cultural shocking us. The latter happened to me today at the museum.

First of all, it is free Sunday. On the first Sunday of every month, many of the museums in Paris are free. Since there are still, after all these years in France, several museums that I have not been to, I decided to join the crowds and hit up a museum. I looked up online last night about the few I hadn't been to yet, and decided on the Museum of Decorative Arts (to see "the beautiful in the useful". I understood it to be free on free Sunday.

Turns out I was wrong.

So once I arrived, discovered that it wasn't free, I had to go about decided what kind of ticket I wanted to buy. The brochure explained that there was the museum, the nave, and the Camondo section. You could buy a ticket for just the regular part of the museum, or just the nave (temporary exhibits), the two together, or all three. I decided, since I was already paying money, might as well buy for all three.

When I approached the ticket counter, I explained that I wanted the 3 way pass. The man corrected me and said that I wanted the Rivoli pass (which allows for the museum and the nave). No, I said, I'd like for the 3 way pass. And then I pointed to it, where it was listed on the wall, just to clarify.

"But it's not open on Monday or Tuesday," the man says to me.

"That's fine. I'd still like to buy it."

"I can sell you the Rivoli pass," he continues. I begin to feel confused.

"Can you not sell me the 3 way pass? Because that's what I'd like. To go to all three parts of the museum."

"The Camondo section of the museum is not included in this museum. It's another part of town. And it's closed on Monday and Tuesday."

"But today is Sunday...is it open today? And why do you have it listed to buy a ticket for it, if I cannot go to it?" I ask.

"You can go to...on Wednesday."

"I can't go today?"

"Yes. But it closes at 5:30. And it's not here. It's in another part of town. You should just buy the Rivoli ticket."

Frustrated nearly to tears--culture shock--that (a) this random ticket is listed as part of this museum but isn't included in this museum, and (b) that this man refuses to sell me a ticket for it, for some odd reason, I finally say, "Fine, I'll take the Rivoli ticket."

Once I had my (drama) ticket, I shook off the bad mood that man had tried to put me in, and wandered over to the temporary exhibit...which, oddly, was Ralph Lauren's antique car collection. I snagged one photo before a guard was quick to let me know that photos are absolutely not allowed. However, if you click on the link above (which I highly recommend), you can see the awesome cars that I got to see. They really were some of the coolest cars ever.

The reason I call this the most random museum ever, is that it had all sorts of exhibits...that had nothing to do with one another. And NONE of them had to do with the theme of the museum, which was how homes have been decorated throughout the centuries. So after seeing all kinds of rooms with various pieces of furniture, and an exhibit about stuff made to look like or from animals, I stumbled upon the "Playful Plastics" exhibit...which was all about the plastic inflatable toys designed by some Czech woman. The wall paper and the plastics made me a little silly.
There was an exhibit about publicities that recycle history...I think that was more interesting for the French than it was for me. Commercials and ads have way more cultural nuances that I am able to pick up on, so I just don't get the humor. There was a fashion exhibit that was so weird it scared me a little bit and I left it as quickly as possible. Then I stumbled into a jewelry exhibit, and oh my. So beautiful.

Jewelry through the ages. I was already fascinated before I even got to the Art Nouveau section. I'd never really seen any Art Nouveau jewelry...just furniture and buildings. This stuff was so pretty it about made me cry. I wanted so badly to touch it and look at it as closely as possible.
As a side note, when I went into the museum bookshop to buy a few postcards (something I do at every museum I go to), I found a book on Art Nouveau in English (!), and it had a section on the jewelry. I was so excited, until I flipped it over and saw that it cost 70 euros!!! What?! Ridiculous. I wrote down the name and decided I would look it up on amazon.com. And guess what? I found it on the French amazon (although it's coming from the US) for 6 euros. Take that, you overpriced museum bookshop!

Finally, just before I left the museum, as I was trying to find the exit (that crazy place was so easy to get turned around in!), I stumbled upon a room I hadn't seen. The Wood Room, it was called. It was so beautiful. And the best part about it...there were NO tourists in there! I found a spot to be alone for a sweet, quiet moment on a day when the tourists are out in droves.
All in all, I decided that the Museum of Decorative Arts was seriously the most random museum I've ever been to. There were moments when I was confused (the toy exhibit), scared (the fashion exhibited), thrilled (the car exhibit), blissfully happy (the art nouveau stuff), and just quietly content (the wood room). It started off rough, with my culture shock moment over the ticket, but ended with some happy sighs...and two books about art nouveau.

Summer blogging...

2011-08-05T03:51:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, I started a blog because I wanted to write pretty little prose about the places I wander. Somehow, over the years, the pretty little prose has gone out the window, and it's just become a "I went here and I went there" blog. Maybe one day my muse will return and bring the prose back with it.

Until then...

I went to the Chateau de Fontainebleau. Which I'd always pronounced, "fon-tan-blue," because that's how I'd heard all the other Americans pronounce it. Hugs and I stared at the sign for awhile while we were there and decided that all the Americans (us included) had been pronouncing it wrong. It's "fon-tan-blo." Leau is pronounced "lo." Beau is pronounced "bo." Thus, it must be "blo." Anyway, it cost us an arm and a leg to get there (20 euros between the train and the bus!), and well...it just wasn't worth 20 euros. We had a good time, though, as it was a beautiful day and it was good to get out of Paris for a bit. You can see the photos on my photoblog HERE and HERE.

About a week later, we went on a day trip with some friends and once again got to get out of the city. When we got in the car that morning, we had no idea where we were going. The options were...

1. The Chateau at Chantilly (been there)

2. The Chateau at Pierrefonds (and there)

3. The Chateau at Vaux-le-Vicomte (and done that)

4. The wine country in Bourgogne

As as Hugs and I have gone to several chateaux together over the summer, we decided to vote for option number four...plus it was the furthest away from Paris, which is always a good thing when the city is wearing you down. You can see my photos of Chablis, Vezelay, and Auxerre on my photoblog (just click each name and it'll take you there).

A few more blogging notes... I added a video to the Bastille Day post, and back blogged another post about the Week of Fun, and I've added a bunch of photos to the photoblog. So scroll down. Click away. And if I can ever get the videos to upload, expect another post about some fun Metro Moments from the summer.

Metro Moments

2011-07-30T07:37:00.000-07:00

The Superhero called me and Hugs "metro rats." I suppose it's true. We spent approximately four hours a day on the metro this summer...and some days even more than that. We know it like the back of our hand. With 14 lines (plus 5 underground train lines called the RER), a Parisian will inevitably spend a good portion of their life underground. It's the best way to get around in this city.

When I lived here before, I wasn't sure which line was my favorite. The 14 doesn't have a driver, is the fastest and least crowded, so it was a contender. The 1 goes to alot of awesome places that I love, but it's also always filled with tourists. This summer, however, the 2 finally won out. The old, run down smelly cars have been replaced with the new metro cars, which are open for their full length (instead of having individually cars like the old ones do), so you can see all the way down the whole line, and see it twisting and turning through all the curves, which is cool. It's air-conditioned...which didn't seem to matter this summer in Paris, since we couldn't get temps above 72 degrees. It goes above-ground for several stops, and it's nice to be able to look out above the city. But most of all...it has awesome entertainment.

This guy rode the 2 several nights in a row at the same time each night, so we got to see him more than once. I love his joy and his awesome guitar...and that he serenaded me.

One of my favorite metro moments was also on the 2. The performer kept telling everyone "thank you," in English, so I asked him where he was from. After telling me he's from London, he asked where I was from, and I responded, "Alabama." He asked, "Like Sweet Home Alabama?" I said, "Yes, do you know it?" He started strumming the beginning, and then told me to sing it.

Now...yall know I love to sing but have a terrible singing voice. But something about him was so engaging, and so, I sang, out loud, all by myself, right there on the metro, for all creation to hear! When I got to the chorus, he joined in, and changed it up to say, "Sweet home Paris-town, where we all ride on the metro..." He eventually was able to get a small group of the metro-riders to sing along with him on several songs...something I have never seen before. It was pretty phenomenal.

Oh, the 2. I've seen one of its stations on fire. I've seen 9 Spanish girls dressed like Minnie Mouse on it. I've had some awesome conversations with friends while crossing the city on it. I've seen every nationality possible riding along on the 2. It's a great line.

It's a great Metro.

A Dinner to Remember

2011-07-27T23:47:00.000-07:00

I once wrote about how I was forced to eat a little fish with its skin, bones, eyes and all, so that I could learn to eat whatever was put in front of me. That lesson, 12 years later, is still working. This past week, I went with a whole bunch of friends out to a French farmhouse for a few days of retreat from city life. When we checked in, the owner told us the menu for the two dinners he would be serving us...as he described it, we thought it might be best to NOT translate for the 20 non-French speakers who are not that accustomed to um, how shall we say, French "delicacies."

The first meal was absolutely DELICIOUS. It began with a smoked duck salad. Most of our friends were from Texas and several were hunters, and had eaten plenty of duck before as a result. They said it was some of the best duck they'd ever had. I haven't had much duck, but I would agree that it was some good eats.

The main course was turkey breast and rice with a creamy mushroom sauce. When the chef saw how much we loved the gravy, he kept bringing out more and more gravy boats. I smiled when I heard one table exclaim later that "there may or may not have been SIX gravy boats at our table!" Someone else at the table picked one of the boats up and showed...they were all mopped dry by the scrumptious bread!

After the obligatory cheese course, out came the dessert. When the chef had detailed the menu for us, he'd told us a "fruit tarte" would be served for dessert. I had imagined two large apple tartes. Did I ever have that wrong! He'd made 25 individual fruit tarts of varying flavors: lemon, apple, strawberry, mirabelle, apricot, multi-fruit. It was the perfect end to a perfect meal.

Which made the group so excited about the dinner to come the next evening. They talked all day long about how much they were looking forward to dinner. Hugs and I kept cutting eyes at each other across the way because we knew what was coming, unfortunately.

We were in sugar beet country, so a beet salad was the first course. I like beets. I thought I could fill up on the salad before the main course that I was dreading. Then the salad came out...

Beets is one thing. A semi-poached egg with a beet that has then been jellied is another thing. I wish I had a video to watch the kids reactions as they stared down at the wiggly "salad" on their plates. One guy even refused to be served any. I gave it a try. The beet itself was good...the jelly was not. The egg was worse. The combination of it all...just not good. I ate the whole thing, and decided by the end that I really did not enjoy it. Only two people out of the whole 25 liked it and went back for a second helping.

I was going to be hungry tonight...

The main course came out. One of the girls took a bite of the meat and exclaimed, "It's so tender! What kind of meat is this?" I answered, "Beef..." The others at my table were chewing away and remarking about the tenderness and the unique (in a positive way) flavor.

"Is it really beef? I've never had any that tasted like this..." I assured her that it was definitely beef as it really did come from a cow. She looked down at her plate and laughed and said, "Is it cow tongue?!"
"Yep." The guy across from me, who'd already eaten half (and enjoyed it), looked up at me as all the blood drained from his face. "Really?" he asked. "Really." They'd all had cuts of it that didn't have the shape like mine, which straight up looked like tongue (as you can see above). I'm not sure if I made a mistake by eating the tip first, as that was the most disgusting part. I could feel the taste buds against my own tongue, and I nearly gagged. But I continued on, and ate the whole thing.

I'll say this...It's better than liver. But that's about all I can say.

The potatoes had been boiled in a white wine, which was too strong for me, so I couldn't even eat those. And the sauce had pickles in it. PICKLES. No mopping that up with bread...so I was still pretty hungry when dessert came out. Everyone was looking miserable and quite hungry, and so thankfully, a good chocolate crunch can make just about anyone happy.
Not the best picture in the world, but man oh man was it good! It lifted our spirits and then the laughter about the cow tongue really set in. One friend even accepted a dare to put one of them on top of her own tongue.
Well, from now on, whenever someone asks about the worst thing I've ever eaten, I can tell them about this dinner. We were glad they served it on the second night, because the build up after the first meal made the whole thing funnier. Had they been served cow tongue and jellied egg beet salad on the first night, they might not have even showed up for dinner on the second night!

There was lots of late night snacking around a bon fire that evening so that we wouldn't go to bed hungry. And a true French experience of best and worst meals ever for our friends to remember from their summer in France.

Le Tour de France

2011-07-24T04:40:00.000-07:00

Every summer that I've lived in France, I was away from Paris when the Tour de France finished on the Champs-Elysées. In 2009, I finally got to experience the Tour, when it passed through Marseille. It was such a super fun day...all the excitement, the crowds, the advertisements, and then, finally, the cyclists. It was the beginning of one of their stages, though, so I didn't get to see them whizzing by, but just starting off. Which was fine by me, because I got to be close enough to reach out and touch Lance Armstrong (which I didn't do, by the way...)

This year, though, I was finally in Paris for the finale. Hugs and I had some things to do that day, so we didn't wait the whole day for a primo spot. We showed up just in time for the parade of advertisers. I chose to post Smurfette for my mom. The advertisers are really fun. They hand out stuff, have ads everywhere, and really use the event to make their mark. I suppose it's a bit like Super Bowl Commericals...

Another fun part of the Tour de France is the crowds...even for an introvert like me. The fun, excited atmosphere and people from all nations cheering on their home athletes makes for some awesome people watching.
Of course the cyclists and the race is the best part! There were so many people on the streets that we couldn't really see the Champs very well, but the big screen helped us to watch as they approached near the end. I love this shot...that's the guy who won in the yellow and the second place guy behind him in green.
A big difference of seeing the Tour in Paris versus in Marseille is that in Marseille, it was 24+ hours of craziness for about 57 seconds of excitement as the cyclists went by. In Paris, because they loop the Champs several times (7, I think), we got to see them go by a whole bunch...and they were going FAST! It was so neat seeing them whiz by in a big colorful blur.
We didn't stay to see the very end and the ceremony, because well...we didn't want to fight the crowds to get on the metro. We'd had our fun, saw the cyclists, and were ready to call it a day. I really do enjoy the Tour de France and will look forward to when I get to see it again.

July in Paris Week of Fun

2011-07-17T02:19:00.000-07:00

One of the things I love about my job is that I get to have alot of fun while doing it. This week was one of those weeks. Spending time with the interns was the priority of the summer, and this was their week of down time... So we had a bunch of days of going and doing fun stuff that was "down time" for them and "work" for me. I loved every minute!

On Monday, we went and did tourism, just wandering around.

On Tuesday, I actually took the day off and to myself.

On Wednesday, we went and saw the final installment of Harry Potter...two days before it came out in the US. There were 20 of us at the theatre. How much fun is it to go to the movies with 19 other people?!

On Thursday, we went to the Bastille Day celebrations at the Eiffel Tower.

On Friday, Hugs and I did some other work in the morning while the interns went to Versailles. Then, we skipped out on meeting them at Versailles, met up with one of my previous interns, and went to the Parc de Sceaux. Where was this awesome, empty park with a pretty little chateau the whole time I lived in Paris and needed a getaway?!

On Saturday, we had all 20 of the interns over to our apartment for a crepe party. Loads of fun!!! But I fell sick with a summer cold that night, and had to miss out on Sunday's Girls' Night Out.

It was a great week.

Bastille Day

2011-07-14T04:22:00.000-07:00

My favorite day of the year in France is always Bastille Day. Any time there is an American who is sad about missing the 4th of July celebrations back in the US, I tell them, "Just wait 10 days. You'll get your red, white, and blue, and fireworks." France has yet to disappoint me on the 14th, when they celebrate their independence.

This year, I went with 25 friends and camped out on the Champs de Mars (the big field in front of the Eiffel Tower)...along with about 1 million other people. At one point, there was an announcement that the crowd had reached 1 million, and I wondered...How do they count that?

Anyway, we got there around 2pm, and set up our blankets that staked our claim to a small patch of ground. We picnic'd, played cards, wandered around, took a million photos. At 6pm, a concert began. It was so fun to see French (and others) just letting loose and dancing up a storm. I loved when the whole entire crowd would sing along with whatever song was being performed...whether it was French, English, or something else. Probably one of my favorite moments was when a Jackson 5 medley came on and our whole group of Americans got up and starting singing and dancing. Just so much fun!

At about 11pm the fireworks show started. SO AMAZING!!! The theme was songs from musicals, and about 75% of the music was American musicals. I loved hearing the crowd of 1 million people singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." It was truly one of those moments I'll always remember. As many times as I've been to the Eiffel Tower, this night stood out as one of my very favorite.
Then we joined the THRONG of people trying to get home. I've never experienced anything like it. Millions of people walking through the streets and just sort of moving with the flow. There was no way to turn and go onto another street...It was amazing that we were able to get to the metro station we'd agreed to meet up at...and get into a very full metro car.
Thanks, France, for yet another wonderful Bastille Day. You always deliver a good time.

Paris Sewer Museum

2011-07-06T04:20:00.000-07:00

Probably one of the funniest moments ever (for me) in Paris: telling a high school theater geek kid that he could take a tour of the sewers to see the part of the story from Les Miserables when Jean Valjean carried Marius through them....kid totally freaked out in excitement.

Then, just about a week later, I watched an old Disney movie called Bon Voyage! about an American family that takes a cruise to France for vacation. Funniest part: the dad gets lost in the sewers museum.

Chateau de Chenonceau

2011-06-30T03:39:00.000-07:00

I've been to the Loire Valley before to see chateaux. But there was one chateau that I've seen pictures of, but had never seen myself. It was on the list of things for me and Hugs to go see this summer: Le Chateau de Chenonceau.

The week I arrived back in Paris, some planning on how to move my things from Besançon to Marseille went a little crazy, and I called my friend Joy to get a little peace of mind. She said, "We'll be in the north of France at the end of the month, if you meet us in Tours, we'll drive you over to get your stuff and take it down to Marseille." My boss approved it, and next thing I knew, I was off to Tours to meet up with Shane and Joy...and see a chateau along the way.

Hugs and I had purchased our train tickets a few weeks earlier to get down to Tours. The morning of the excursion, we timed how long it would take to get to the train station, and gave ourselves 20 extra minutes to print out the tickets and get on the train. That would've worked great, except...

...Hugs had forgotten her bank card at home.

She got in line to try to sweettalk the lady into printing her ticket for her anyway. I watched the line, watched the clock, got more nervous, and wondered what to do. I finally went to a ticket machine, bought Hugs a whole new train ticket, hollered for her to come on, and we RAN across the station, jumping onto the last door of the train right before it left. (Seems like running for trains to Loire is a common occurrence for me...)

The chateau was totally worth running for a train. It is built on a bridge over a river, which was really cool to see. Each room was so interesting (I can't say that about all chateaux), but especially the kitchen! I was fascinated by it, and kept wondering what Julia Child would think of all those copper pots!

There was a garden labyrinth, which Hugs and I raced through. (She won.) There were gardens galore. There was a wax museum (not interesting). There was history oozing out of the place, which made me excited to get home and read up on the internet about the place and the people who had lived there.

You can see pictures of the outside of the chateau HERE and the inside HERE.

Hugs took the train back to Paris that night, and Shane, Joy and I began our trip to move my stuff. Nothing too exciting to tell...although playing the license plate game in France means looking for other countries' plates (we saw 20), and all the departments of France (we saw 76 of the 100). It was a fun little get-away trip...and now everything I own (except the one suitcase with me here in Paris) is all in Marseille.

I took the train back up to Paris...and crossed one more thing off my touristy wish list.

Giverny

2011-06-27T03:12:00.000-07:00

When I arrived in Paris at the beginning of June, I made a list of all the touristy things that I had never gotten around to doing when I lived here back in 2007-2008. My roommate, Hugs, has been here since October, has also not done the things on my list...so we thought we'd work on tackling it together.

Our first outing was to Giverny, the home of Claude Monet. I've always been a big Monet fan, and after seeing his Water Lillies paintings at the Orangerie museum, well. He's my favorite. I'd wanted to go to Giverny so badly while I lived in Paris, but it just never worked out. I'd seen pictures and I'd heard how beautiful it was. Would Giverny live up to all I'd hoped it would be?

Yes!

I said while we were there that sometime after I went to Egypt, traveling changed for me. (Maybe traveling in this part of the world?) Everything is starting to look the same. Castle, castle, big church, pretty town, big church, yummy pastry. All.the.same. Nothing seems to wow me anymore. Nothing overwhelms. Lots of stuff still whelms...not over, not under, just...whelmed.

But Giverny overwhelmed me with its beauty. Tranquility. Serenity. History...paintings came to life. I loved every minute we were there.

I took a million photos, and none of them do justice. But you can look at my photoblog if you want to see a glimpse of the pretty pretty.

Click HERE for pictures of Monet's house.

Click HERE for pictures of flowers.

Click HERE for pictures of the water lilly ponds.

The Saga of the Missing Suitcase

2011-05-31T11:10:00.000-07:00

I've heard stories about people's luggage not arriving with their flight. But can you believe, in all my 35 years of traveling ALL OVER THE WORLD AND BACK AGAIN, it's never happened to me? My luggage has always arrived. No problem.

Until now. My good-baggage-luck is officially over.

I had two checked pieces of luggage, and one carry-on. In the carry-on, I had a change of clothes, toiletries, my European cell phone charger, things for the people in Marseille, and last minute stuff from the wedding that I couldn't fit into the other bags. I also did something I always do: I put ALL my underwear in my carry-on. That way, if my checked bags get lost, I'd have plenty to last me until they showed up.

I checked the two bags to Marseille, and got through security in Atlanta with my carry-on. At the gate in Atlanta, and again at the gate in Philadelphia I was asked if I'd like to check my carry-on all the way through to my end destination.

I explained that I was on a several-leg international flight and I'd like to keep it with me so that I could change clothes and freshen up. No problem.

In Barcelona, I charged my cell phone during my lay-over. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, put my contacts in, changed my clothes, and felt pretty good for not having slept in 3 days and just flown across an ocean. As I went to go through the gate, the airline worker points to my suitcase and says, "That's too big, you'll need to check it plane-side on the ramp."

Note: they didn't make anyone else check their bags that were equally as big as mine. I think it was solely because I had an American passport and she just decided to be snooty.

So I walk down the ramp and explain to the stewardess that I was told I had to check my bag. She gives me a ticket, and I leave my suitcase on the ramp. I've done this before and always gotten my bag back.

Not so this time. My two checked bags showed up just fine...but no carry-on. I finally went to the missing luggage office and explained that my carry-on had not shown up.

Note: I do not know how to say "checked" or "carry-on" in French.

The nice little French worker man called the Barcelona airport, who explained that my suitcase was still sitting there. Because there is only one flight per day from Barcelona to Marseille, there was no way my suitcase would arrive before the following day...when I would be leaving on a train to Besancon. Well, that complicated matters, didn't it?

And...everything I needed was in THAT bag! I had to buy all new everything...even though I'd just bought all new everything in the US. I had to throw out my contacts, because my saline solution was in the carry-on. I had to not give the stuff to the people in Marseille because well...I was leaving and my bag was not with me. It was, to say the least, an annoyance.

I got back to Besancon and checked into the hotel to wait for my bag. After three more days, and no news of the bag, I checked out of the hotel and returned to the Wise's house, who promptly help me write an email in French to the airport.

Their response? "Because you live far away from the airport, we had to get permission from SpanAir to deliver your bag to you."

Permission!? It's my bag! Slight annoyance turned into beginning to feel a little angry.

"And by the way, we don't deliver on weekends, so we'll have your bag to you on Monday."

Make that more than a little angry.

Monday came and went and still no bag. (This was now one week after I'd arrived back in France.) I was beginning to think I was going to have to make an insurance claim for a lost bag of luggage, when, on Tuesday, my bag finally arrived.

With my cell phone charger and ipod radio transmitter stolen out of it. Well, I now can commiserate with everyone who's ever had their bag lost or things stolen from it. The good news: my Kindle charger was not stolen and is the same kind of plug as my cell phone, so I am at least able to charge my phone.

Lesson learned: Don't pack all your underwear in one bag.

Master Yoda married Princess Leah

2011-05-23T10:50:00.000-07:00

I know it's not the story you are familiar with, but in my universe, Master Yoda married Princess Leah. And it was awesome.

After the whole cancelled flight deal, and eating out/shopping spree, the wedding week was finally upon us. Master Yoda and Princess Leah were getting married in at Auburn Christian Fellowship, which is a student building after all, and so there was a wee bit of cleaning to do. I spent a whole afternoon cleaning a chalkboard, and a whole other morning scrubbing dustboards. It was fun, though, and I was glad to be able to do some (literal) dirty work for my bro.

By Thursday evening, everything was done! Master Yoda, Princess Leah and I went out to eat with a gazillion members of the family on me and Yoda's side. Good, good times. It was so fun having them all together in one place, and getting to talk with everyone. On Friday, all the women headed to the Bridesmaids' luncheon. It was wonderful to have such a calm, relaxing day. It was also great for me to finally meet and get to know some of Princess Leah's closest friends.

That night was the rehearsal and then the rehearsal dinner. The rehearsal was fun, for certain. Right at the moment in the picture below it dawned on me...my baby brother was all grown up and GETTING MARRIED. As I watched him walk (pretend) down the aisle with Princess Leah on his arm, it all just sunk in. His whole life I'd thought about what kind of grown-up he'd be, what kind of job he'd end up getting, what kind of friends we'd be as we got older...but somehow I'd never thought about him being married. And then all of a sudden, there it was.
Saturday was a whirlwind of a day with getting ready, having photos taken, the ceremony, and then the reception. Before I knew it the day was over, and they were off on their honeymoon, and I was headed back to France.

Master Yoda and Princess Leah are one perfectly fit couple. She's perfect for him, he's perfect for her, and they just make sense together. I've always said my brother was awesome and I couldn't ask for a better brother. And now...I couldn't have asked for a better wife for him. I'm so thrilled to have a sister-in-law! (And by the way...she couldn't have been a prettier bride! She looked stunning, just stunning.)

Congratulations again, you two. I love ya both!!!

While in America...

2011-05-20T06:18:00.000-07:00

Someone asked me what one who lives overseas does during a 10-day trip to the US. That's an easy one to respond to: EAT!!!

Five Guys Burger and Fries

Chick-fil-A (multiple times)

Jim n Nick's BBQ

California Pizza Kitchen

Cheesecake Factory (warning, if you click the hyper link, there is a slighty-scary receptionist ready to talk to you about the Cheesecake Factory. It's a little wierd, I'm not gonna lie.)

Mellow Mushroom

Mexican food (no link cause we went to some dive near Master Yoda's new apartment, and seriously...oh man...best enchiladas EVAH.)

Toomer's Lemonade

Mama Goldberg's Deli (twice!)

Jason's Deli

Cock of the Walk (good Southern heart attack on a tin plate)

Plus a bunch of good ole home cookin: pulled pork bbq, green bean casserole, peach cobbler, and of course, SWEET TEA.

During meals as well as in between meals, I hung out with Master Yoda, Princess Leah, Mom and Dad and cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents and just about every family member known to man. It was GOOD.

And oh yeah...there was a wedding! Lots of prep work for the wedding. Photos to come...some day.

Flight canceled due to strike

2011-05-15T15:19:00.000-07:00

The day had finally arrived. I would be boarding the plane in Marseille to fly home to the states for Master Yoda's wedding. Excitement, galore, right? Right!

Days before, I had decided to only pack a carry-on so that when I got to the states I could purchase a cheap duffel bag to fill with all the things I would buy while home. As unlike me as it is...I was successful. I packed for two weeks in a small carry-on suitcase that only weighed 15 kilos. Wow. Look at me growing right before your eyes.
Joy dropped me off at the airport, asking if I wanted her to come in with me. Since I only had the carry-on, I told her that I could manage and for her not to worry about parking. If I had a problem, I'd call.

I joyfully walked up to the Lufthansa counter and said I'd like to check in for the 8:40 flight to Munich.

"Ma'am, we're so sorry, but due to a strike by the baggage workers, that flight has been canceled. If you'll go to the ticketing desk, they'll rebook you onto another flight."
I called Joy and told her she might want to turn around and come back to the airport. At the Lufthansa desk, they rebooked me onto the 10:35 flight to Frankfurt, with fingers crossed that the baggage workers would end their strike by then. (This is Marseille...don't they know that strikes can last for weeks...or until the beautiful summer weather is over?) The rebooking changed my entire itinerary: airports, layover times, as well as landing time. I called Master Yoda, hoping that I wouldn't wake him up with the time difference. (I didn't.)
Joy and I hung out at the airport waiting to find out if the 10:35 flight would take off. Bonus #1 of the strike: extra time with Joy! Yeah! At the designated time, I approached the check-in counter to hear the news. They said that the baggage workers were still on strike, but that anyone who only had a carry-on could go ahead and board. Thank God for helping me to decide days earlier to only pack a carry-on.

This was the only time in my life to see an empty airport. But since almost no one could fly...it made sense.
There were only about 20 of us on the flight...which ended up taking off about 20 minutes late. (Why? There was no luggage to load...) The issue with the new itinerary and the flight taking off 20 minutes late is that I only ended up having a total of 50 minutes from landing in Frankfurt until take-off for my next flight.

And I had to get through passport control during that time. Sometimes, passport control is a breeze. Sometimes, it is a nightmare. Because of all the arabic in my passport, and things that go on in the world at times (someone's recent death and thereby threats of retaliation), my passport sometimes gets thoroughly inspected at passport control and I get questioned about it before I am let through.

I expect, therefore, to be stopped and questioned about the arabic. I do not expect, however, to be stopped and questioned (and especially during a 50-minute layover on an international flight), about my French visa. Maybe it was because I have two? (One from my first three years and my current one.) Maybe because it's a weird looking visa. Maybe because the lady didn't like how rushed I seemed. But something caused her to not be satisfied with or believe me that my French visa is legit, and so she walked off.

The passport control lady walked away from passport control with my passport during my 50-minute international layover...and if I hadn't been stressed earlier that morning when my flight home had been canceled (which I hadn't been), I became stressed at that moment. I thought, "I'm going to miss my flight, and unlike in Marseille, I don't have a phone or internet now to contact anyone and let them know. Ack."

She came back with my passport convinced that my visa is legit (cause it is), and I scurried off to find my gate. About 30 gates later, I found it, and walked right on board.

Bonus #2 of the strike: No layover in Frankfurt. Yay!
Bonus #3 of the strike: Empty seat next to me on the trans-atlantic leg of the flight, which meant I got to stretch out and try to sleep a little bit.

I landed in Newark with a 2.5 hour layover, which didn't stress me at first. (By the way, I love the Newark airport because you have a great view of Manhattan flying in and out, and while in the airport as well. I do not love the Newark airport's passport control.) At passport control (yes, again...it's amazing there is still space in that little blue book of mine), there was a line like nobody's business. I waited an hour to get up to the little window, where I got through with no problems.

(Best part about flying into America...passport control tells you, "Welcome home." Such a sweet thing to say to a travel-weary expatriate.)

After going through baggage control with no problems (since I had no baggage), I then went to find my gate.

Enter the next problem from the baggage workers' strike. When Lufthansa rebooked me back in Marseille, they only booked the actual Lufthansa legs...and not the partner (Delta) flight from Newark to Atlanta. So when I couldn't find my flight listed on the screens (to know which gate to go to), a worker informed me that I needed to get a boarding pass with Delta, which meant I needed to go back out of security to the Delta check-in desk.

Once there, the Delta worker informed that I couldn't get a boarding pass until Lufthansa had booked me, which they had failed to do in Marseille. I went down to Lufthansa...and at this point I began to think (a) the flight will be full and I will have to spend the night in Newark or (b) they'll get me booked on the flight but I will miss it because all of this is taking too long during the short 2.5 hour layover.

They booked me and I scurried back over to Delta to get the boarding pass printed. Check. I would have scurried over to security but in my tiredness from all-day travel, I couldn't even figure out where to go. I finally found it and made my way through security. Check. Scurried from there to my gate, pausing to make a $1 long-distance phone call to Master Yoda to let him know my revised landing info.

I waited about 10 minutes and then boarded my last leg for a very uneventful flight to Atlanta.

Bonus #4 of the strike: I landed two hours earlier (9pm) than the original itinerary had scheduled (11pm). Even with the drive back to Auburn and the time difference between Georgia and Alabama, and with eating at IHOP (yes, IHOP is my welcome-back-to-America-restaurant of choice) and going to Wal-Mart for toiletries, we were home and I was in bed by 11:30...which never would have happened if some Lufthansa baggage workers hadn't wanted to go to the beach that day.

God bless France and their love for striking.

8 Course Meal

2011-04-18T05:18:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I attended my first fancy French party. After spending the morning getting all prettied up with the Wise girls, the festivities began around 12. Here's the adult table set-up.

(Note: The French drink alcohol. I do not. So just in case anyone wonders, each time alcohol is pictured during this party, I partook of the juice option.)

Course #1: Aperitif. There was a Chablis white wine and fresh homemade apple juice, and a whole assortment of hors d'oeuvres. On the far left, foie gras on toast. This was my first time to have foie gras. While it wasn't as spectacular as everyone has built it up to be...it wasn't terrible either. The two platters in front of the flowers had a small piece of beef and a tomato wrapped in lettuce. The platter in front of the wine had my favorite--small little cups with purees in them: salmon, herbed cream cheese, or carrot and cucumber. I couldn't get enough of those little cups!
Course #2: Terrines. I don't really know what exactly a terrine or pâté is, and I don't really want to know. I just eat what's put before me. There were two this time around: rabbit (delicious!), and the one pictured below, salmon.
Course #3: Wild forest mushrooms. As a mushroom lover, I was in absolute heaven. This was some good eating, right here.
Course #4: Roast (Charolais) Beef and Potatoes. It was so good I almost forgot to take a picture...which is why there isn't very much on my plate.
Course #5: Salad. Eating the salad at the end of the meal helps begin the digestion process. And "salad" is the word for a salad, but also the word for lettuce...because in many cases, a salad is only lettuce and a mustard sauce. This one had fresh parsely.
Course #6: Cheese. Here in the Franche-Comté region of France, there's no need for a grand assortment of cheeses during this course...the two most famous ones from this region will suffice, since they are so good. They also happen to be my two favorite kinds! The taller one is Comté, named for the region, and the other is Morbier, which has a line of blue right through its middle. This particular Morbier was excellent.
Course #7: Dessert. Oh.my.word. On the dessert table, there were: the chocolate and rasperry mouse birthday cake, homemade from fresh raspberries macarons, homemade chocoate and lemon tarts, a spice cake, a Charlotte with creme anglais cake, brownies, snickerdoodles, and Reece's peanut butter bars. (The last three made by yours truly.) The birthday cake and the homemade macarons were out of this world. I have yet to try the Charlotte...maybe tonight. Also, there was a fresh raspberries Chantilly (whipped cream) that was divine with the brownies.
There was Champagne and apple juice to help wash down all those desserts.
Course #8: Coffee.
And if you can believe it...the Wise's had guests come over for dinner that night, and we ate a 5 course meal, starting at about 8 pm. I had to skip dessert though...I just couldn't eat any more. All in all, it was a very fun day, and just like what I had always imagined a French full-course meal/party to be like. Sunshine, laughter, discussion, pétanque, and plenty of good food. It's a good thing I enjoyed it, because the Wise's and I will be going to another one next Sunday for Easter...at a castle!

Metro--but not the Subway

2011-04-12T05:35:00.000-07:00

Living with the Wise family, I'm getting a whole new insight into French life and culture that I never had before. I love following Mrs. Wise around like a shadow and just watching how she does things. (Which is funny, because her youngest, at 7-almost-8, does the same thing to me.) They live out in the countryside, in a small village of 287 people (according to Wikipedia), where there isn't even a boulangerie (bakery)! I didn't know that was possible in France. But...Mrs. Wise makes all the bread for the family, so she doesn't need a bakery.

Sometimes, however, she does need, well, stuff. And since she doesn't want to go to town every few days, she goes to Metro. Which is not an underground subway system, but sort of like a Cosco/Sam's Club. WHO KNEW? I'd seen Metro stores ever since I first moved to France, but I had no idea that buy-in-bulk was something that French people would ever go for!

Seriously, it looked just like Sam's Club. Without the falling prices...
Now this tripped me out. You can buy already separated egg whites/egg yolks! In a big huge tub! I'm not sure how I feel about that.
I'm still getting used to the fact that I can get Philly Cream Cheese in France, and now...I can get it in bulk! I made lemon cake with lemon cream cheese icing this week for the Wises, but the kids (who practically live off of cheese!) were not too keen on the cream cheese icing. I don't understand. What's not to love in cream cheese icing? Cream cheese, butter, and loads of powdered sugar. Well...it's good I put the big Philly back on the shelf.
This um, tube of meat was so heavy the kids had to help me hold it while I took the picture.
This was an 8 pound can of beets. Who eats 8 pounds of beets?! Not me. I like beets and all, but 8 pounds?!
This bottle was labeled, "American Sauce." I'm SOOO curious. What exactly is American Sauce? Is it the secret sauce on a Big Mac? Is it BBQ sauce and mayo together? What? And check out the name of the company who makes it--California! It must be American!
That can of olive oil came up to my knee!
And to end...Nutella! Look how huge those cans are! The boys begged and begged Mama Wise to buy them the giant Nutella, but she wouldn't. (Considering we eat crepes at least once a week, and almost all 9 of us put Nutella on our crepes, it wouldn't have been a bad idea. But...Speculoos has won over the Wise kids, so maybe she should buy one jar that size of Nutella and one of Speculoos.)

She did buy a HUGE box of chocolate chips, so I have a good stash for cookies to bake with. :) In the end, I think I understood that Metro is actually for restauranteurs to buy food in bulk for their restaurants, but since Mama Wise is feeding a small army three times a day, she managed to get a membership card. I don't think I'll be signing up any time soon, though. I'll just tag along with her.

Let me know, yall, if you need a giant tub of egg yolks.

The 2-car Pile-Up

2011-04-05T06:28:00.000-07:00

At the request of Courtney, here is a full-description blog post about the two-car pile up I caused yesterday.

I needed to buy some bus tickets, so even though I was fully focused on packing (sarcasm coming from the eternal packing procrastinator), I grabbed my ipod and my purse and ran out the door in my jeans, Auburn National Champ t-shirt, hair in a ponytail and zero make-up.

Ipod was out of battery, so I put it back in my purse and walked into town marveling at the weird sounds I was hearing from not having my ears filled with Mumford & Sons. I think those sounds might be called "birds chirping," but one never can tell.

Once I'd purchased my tickets, I headed back home. Why does the seemingly unimportant details of no ipod and what I was wearing matter? Because I didn't have my ipod on, I cannot be accused of not having paid attention. Since I was dressed like a bum, I mean a fully focused packer, I cannot be accused of my power outfit having brought attention to myself. I cannot be accused. I am without fault.

Most streets in Besançon are pretty narrow, and the few cars/busses that venture through the downtown area go pretty slow because they could take out several pedestrians who believe they rule the road. There are one or two roads, however, that are not curved, and don't have many intersections, and so the drivers shoot down them like they are race-car drivers who get extra points if they get up over 30 miles per hour. I don't drive in Bes, but I'd bet that the speed limit in the downtown area is 15 miles per hour. 30 just seems wild.

So I was walking down one of these speedways and needed to cross the street. Instead of following the "pedestrians rule the road" mentality to cross wherever I wanted, I went to the crosswalk. There are two kinds of crosswalks in France: ones with the green man/red man light, where cars have the right of way, and then a non-lit kind where the pedestrian sort of has the right of way.

I say "sort of" because there are always exceptions to everything in France. And so while most drivers stop when they see a pedestrian waiting to cross...but not all stop. And I've seen enough pedestrians hit by cars in my lifetime (3 in a 6-week period in Portugal!) to know to wait until I know they will stop before stepping into that crosswalk.

So I was standing on the sidewalk next to the crosswalk waiting to cross the street. I did not have on my ipod. I was not on my cell phone. I did not look cute. I was minding my own business. I cannot be accused of being at fault for what happened next.

A very nice driver slowed down and stopped and waved for me to cross.

As I lifted my foot to step into the crosswalk...CRUNCH. A delivery truck rammed into the nice driver, pushing his car in my direction. I sort of wish that I could have a still-shot photo of my face at that moment...I think I made about 14 expressions in all of 3 seconds.

Fear for my life.

Shock.

Total embarrassment.

Remorse.

Confusion.

Awkward.

Guilt.

I made eye contact with the nice driver and he gave me this reassuring look that said, "Really? You were obeying the law by waiting to cross, and I was obeying the law by stopping, and this is what happens? Ridiculous." He got out to look at his bumper, and the delivery truck driver got out, and the million cars all behind them put their cars in park...because on a one-way street where were they going to go?

What did I do?

I scurried across the street with my head hung low trying not to cry and got away from there as fast as I could. Now, I know that I did nothing wrong, and that there was no way that I could get in trouble for just standing on a sidewalk.

But you know the flight or fight reflex that comes when you feel afraid? I'm typically a flighter. I run away if I can. Not always, but it is my first instinct. Before you go wondering what in the world I felt afraid of, and why I felt the immediate need to get out of there as fast as I could, let me explain.

There is a "fear of looking like the village idiot foreigner" that most of us who have lived overseas know about very well. I did not, in any way, want to have to speak French in that moment and reveal that I was a foreigner. My luck these days would cause me to be at blame for that accident because I ended up saying something wrong in French to the parties involved. I already was near tears from the event, and having to speak French would have made them flow very quickly, and well...I did not want to learn how a Frenchman would react to a crying American woman dressed like a bum, I mean a fully focused packer. I already felt so completely stupid and mortified...I just didn't want to feel more embarrassed by speaking French.

So I ran away. They didn't holler for me to come back, so I figure it was okay that I ran away. I'm not proud of it. It wasn't my finest moment. And that's the end of the story. I caused a 2-car pile-up and backed up traffic simply by standing on a sidewalk.

Now the eternal packing procrastinator should quit blogging and get back to packing...

Moving...sort of

2011-04-04T07:01:00.000-07:00

I haven't been going to language school in March (or now in April). The school didn't have enough students to form a class for my level, and my strongest need is just to talk as much French as possible...which just wasn't happening in the classroom. So last month I went to the Wise Family's house 3 days a week, and met with a tutor during the week, and just logged alot of hours of speaking French.

I took the exam that will reveal what official level I am at about 10 days ago. Many of you have asked how I did...well. During the oral exam, the man administering it realized 2/3 of the way through that he'd forgotten to record me, so I had to start all over. That flustered me, and I did not speak so well the second time around. And worse...I forgot to speak in the past tense almost altogether, which is an indicator of level. So I think the results will be a little skewed and not accurate to my true level. I did alright on the rest of the exam, so maybe it'll all balance out. I'll find out in a few weeks.

I can't move south until we know the results of the exam. So...I'm just sort of hanging out waiting. The hotel is really expensive, and it didn't seem to make sense to keep paying for it when I keep going out to the Wise family's house. They've invited me to move in fully with them. I love being out there, but I don't know that I can handle being there indefinitely.

6 homeschooled kids, 4 adults, a 300 year old farmhouse, 2 cats, 1 massif pit bull, and 24/7 in French? I love them and I love life at their house, but this introverted English speaker needs some quiet down time just a little bit.

So I will be going out there for 5 days a week, and returning to Bes 2 days a week to meet with my tutor, my teammates, my friends, and get some time in town.

(I went from Paris (11 million), to Marseille (1.5 million), to Besançon (220,000), to a tiny farm out in the country (287 people). What's next? Becoming a hermit? Will I move into a cabin and become the UniBlogger?)

Moving out there does mean packing up everything again...and trying to sort what I will need for spring, what I will need in Marseille in the summer, what I need for my trip to US, and what else can wait to be unpacked until July/August (when I should be able to finally unpack. Hopefully. Fingers crossed). I don't know when I will be headed south...it could be the first week of May, it could be July. I'll let you know when I know.

One thing about the Wise Family...they are pretty private people and don't like their family being exposed on the internet, so I can't show pictures of them or tell stories about them. That might mean not many blog posts for my time there. And the whole point of me being there is to have French language immersion, so blogging in English is beyond the point... I'll do what I can...

American Speculoos

2011-03-21T06:47:00.000-07:00

Well, guess what, folks? You can buy Speculoos in America!!! It's been renamed Biscoff (for biscuits + coffee), but it's the same stuff by the same maker--Lotus. A quick search on google told me that you can order it HERE. It's worth every penny.

In NYC (that means YOU, Princess William!), you can get it on a waffle at the Waffle and Dinges truck.

Enjoy!

Speculoos Crepes

2011-03-20T10:12:00.000-07:00

I've introduced a few of you (via Skype webcam) to what has been missing my whole life: Speculoos. What is Speculoos? Imagine the texture of creamy peanut butter, but change the flavor to graham crackers, and that's Speculoos. And for a girl like me, who doesn't like peanuts...Speculoos is pure heavenly delight in a jar.

So today I made crepes, and mixed the best of all worlds together: Speculoos, Nutella, and fresh strawberries.

If food is this good on earth, which is but a shadow, what in the world will the food in heaven taste like?! Cause at this moment, I can't imagine a dessert tasting much better than that crepe right there.

Cancelled trains = Paper Shuffle

2011-03-07T11:25:00.000-08:00

I'm a little bit disappointed. About a month ago, I bought train tickets that I knew would spawn a blog post. I just knew they would...because they were overnight sleeper train tickets. And even if nothing happened on the French overnight sleeper train, I could write a flashback blog post about the 36 hour sleeper train in India.

The cockroach infested 36 hour sleeper train in India.

But then, the Real McCoys had to change their flight schedule to Marseille, and so I needed to change my train schedule...and thus, no overnight sleeper train.

I saw this French proverb today and realized that I still a blog post--just not one about a cockroach infest sleeper train in India.

Pourquoi faire simple quand on peut faire compliqué?

– une proverbe française

"Why do simple when one can do complicated?" Now if that doesn't sum up French life, I don't know what does!

When I bought my train tickets, I knew there was a high possibility of the Real McCoys having some trouble on their end, due to where they are and what's going on there right now, so I bought cancellation insurance on the tickets. The only reason I was going down to Marseille was to see them...so if they weren't going to make it, I might as well stay in Bes and sleep in during the spring break!

Once they had their problems resolved and their new dates in Marseille, I cancelled my train ticket, got a ride down with a friend, and bought a new one way ticket to return back to Bes. But in order to be reimbursed for the tickets, I had to contact the insurance company, not the train station. I filled out the online form (well, Super Joy filled it out for me), and then I waited to find out what would happen. I got an email, which Mrs. Wise read for me.

Turns out I have to go through about as much paperwork as it takes to get a visa to France in order to get my money back from my cancelled tickets. I mean, why make it simple when we can make it complicated, right?

Radical February

2011-02-28T10:51:00.000-08:00

One of my professors at school is incredibly stylish. If you imagine the stereotype of a French or Italian man dressed to the 9's, even with a scarf and awesome shoes...that would be my prof. Every day he comes in looking like he belongs in a magazine. Every day I come in looking...well, not like I belong in a magazine. I wear my Converse tennis shoes to class most days. But every once in awhile I change it up. One particular day, I wore my favorite heels, and he noticed, then complimented them and said I should wear heels every day.

That same day, one of my classmates asked if I wanted to eat out for lunch. I pondered for a moment how to respond. I really wanted to spend time with her, but I didn't want to spend the money to eat out. The best way that I have found to live sacrificially during this Radical year is to make a budget, a menu, and then stick to both when I go grocery shopping. I'd already bought my lunch food for the week and hadn't budgeted to eat out.

I explained that I couldn't eat out with her, but I would love for her to come eat a meal with me, since I'd already bought food for the week. She asked why I don't eat out, and so with a quick prayer for grace, I explained why I am participating in the Radical Experiment. At first, she stared at me like I was crazy, and then she said, "The thing is, I can tell you are not crazy or an extremist. You obviously don't starve yourself. You wear nice clothes...look at those shoes! So you're telling me that you simply buy what is necessary and give the rest away?

Who knew that the decision to wear those shoes on that day instead of my Converse would give a little bit of credit to what I had to say about giving money to the poor?!

I explained that I don't give the rest away, but yes, a big portion of it. She then stated that she didn't believe that an individual person could do that much to impact poverty. I said, "You're right...one person can't. But I believe in God, and that HE can impact poverty through many individuals like me." I then showed her my Compassion child's picture (that I carry in my wallet), and that I may not be impacting all the poverty in the world...but I hope I am impacting Fanose, and not just by giving her money but writing her letters and praying for her.

The Catalan stood silently in wonder at all of this. She didn't believe in God, and admitted that she didn't take time to think about the poor or anyone but her own interests. She'd had an opinion that people who believe in God and try to live their lives "according to a religion" were either hypocrites, idiots, or something worse. But that day, dressed in my nice shoes while carrying a picture of an orphan who I give money to in my wallet...I appeared sane, intelligent, caring, real, and balanced. Not extreme, as it'd first sounded when I began to explain why I couldn't eat out with her...but it was as if I was normal and she was not.

Well, I'll be. I never expected my shoes to have that great an impact, and I never expected my Radical year to touch an atheist Catalan that I only had class with for four days...