Franglish Deux

The Final Entry

2010-07-15T22:00:00.000-07:00

To my dear friends in France & Canada: Though it's been 2 1/2 months since I left, the beautiful memories of my 7 months in France continue to drift around my head like a dream that I never want to forget (and never will). This final entry to my blog is for you. I wrote it on May 3rd, approximately 20 minutes after saying goodbye to the people who would have such a great impact on my life, and who I can't wait to see again soon (only 1 year, 9 1/2 months to go!). I love you all. Now, turn on a bit of Mumford & Sons, and get readin'...

May 3, 2010

May 3rd. Whoever thought this day would actually come? By god, not me. This is the last day of the best year of my life. I'm going home. But really, I'm leaving home. I just said goodbye to my home on the quai: Bertrand, Fabrice, Megan. The three people who mean the most to me at this moment. Without them, this year would've been merely another extended vacation with common friends. But fate had something in store for me. From the first week Meg & I knew each other, we clicked. It just worked, so well. Never have I had such a friend who, as just a friend, has so touched my life and my soul.

Bertrand and Fabrice, my brothers, always there to protect us and make us feel valuable. I never expected to become so close to them, to meet such beautiful people.

The sunrise out my train window is probably the most beautiful I've ever seen--actually. Bright yellow sun and pink clouds over the green rolling hills called a French landscape. Whoever though I'd so fall in love with France? So many parts of the culture I hated, I've come to love. This place has become my home. How lucky am I? What a beautiful existence that I can live, when I take risks.

Yesterday, after we had 9 a.m. oysters and were walking around the Sunday morning markets along the Saone, me in my dress from last night, naked legs (oh la la) and Bertrand's flip-flops since mine broke--I looked around at the four of us, sleep-deprived and hungover but joking and laughing, and I saw how odd we must look to the banal French around us, and I was PROUD. So proud to be a part of such an amazing group of people. And the most assorted group of people, ever--there's Erik, the 35-year-old 9-year-old at heart who's always at the Wallace (with quizmaster Ian) and rolls around on the floor to Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side" at sunrise. This is after Fabrice puts on "Waiting For the Sun" (The Doors). Meanwhile, the girls lean heads on shoulders, tapping their feet with the last bit of energy they have left. The sky gets lighter, somebody's laughing, somebody's passed out, somebody emerges from a room and walks out the front door after waking up four hours later.

Amy takes pictures of her new boyfriend on the floor, who's American. Amy, the British/French 27-year-old English teacher who showed us the ropes, answered all our questions. The one who, at 3 a.m. when things start to quiet down, will pull a chair into the middle of the room and start dancing on it. And makes it look cool. Not overdone. Just fun.

Meanwhile, Meg and I alternate between nearly passing out on our chairs and holding each other up while swaying to the music. Bertrand and Fabrice speak creole to each other and Yanesh is laughing hysterically at something they said. Daryl is quietly watching while a few other people wander in and out of consciousness.

The Doors, Lou Reed, Mumford & Sons -- these guys bring out the truth in us. Make us melancholy, make us laugh, put us in an awed stupor at the bizarity of our existence and how perfect a simple night of staying up dancing and drinking with friends until sunrise (or well after) can be...

July 15th

...Mumford & Sons comes on the radio, and I'm thrown back to a time of simple happiness, when Meg & I would take the metro to Rue Pravaz for a music rehearsal with some Pastis, or our weeks would be defined by Wallace Thursdays and Flannigan's Mondays. I miss it so much. But I'll be back. Thanks for the memories, everyone. I love you.

Things that actually happened in Ireland

2010-04-28T06:58:00.001-07:00

Soo...finally back in Lyon for just 5 more days until my return to California. Ridiculous.

Allow me to recap my last two weeks, the best and strangest two weeks since I moved to France: Meg and I went to Dublin and then Cork for a week, and were supposed to go to Amsterdam and Belgium before heading home. But since the volcanic ash cloud decided to linger indefinitely over European airspace (thank you, Eyjafjallajoekull), Meg and I were stuck in Ireland, so I decided to look up my distant relatives living on a farm near Skibbereen. Turned out to be the best phone call of my life. Meg and I ended up staying on their farm for a week; they gave us a house to ourselves and took off work to drive us around every day and see the most beautiful coastline I've ever seen (yes, even better than California).

My relatives live in the same farmhouse that's been in the family for five generations and probably longer. It's a dairy farm, and their cows produce some of the milk for Dubliner cheese (best cheese in the world). Across the field, you can see the quaint little stone church where my great-great-grandmother was baptized. From the top of the hill, you can see the westernmost point of Ireland (and nearest point of Europe to America), Fastnet, which is a lighthouse on a rock 8 miles from the mainland into the Atlantic. Alan, one of the sons, used his friendly connections to get us on a boat out to that rock, which is probably the coolest thing I've ever done in my life (though the choppy boat ride back was terrifying). The day before, his older brother Kevin took us on a 6-hour driving tour around the area, pointing out memorials and giving us history/Irish language lessons along the way, like. Good stuff.

Later, we ran with the cows in the field and took 800,000 pictures of them. Approximately.

Other accomplishments:

1. Drinking fresh cow's milk out of a newly washed Irish whisky bottle.
2. Watching grown Irish men play indoor soccer "in town."
3. Eating delicious Irish stew, every day (and undelicious black pudding, once).
4. Watching Pat, the father, drink Budweiser out of a coffee mug. Later, learning Alan's name from the coffee mug he was holding, which had "Alan" painted on it.
5. Irish folk dancing with Pat and Mary, the parents.
6. Listening to an entire U2 album. Once. (Then switching to Coldplay on repeat).
7. Meeting people named Patrick, Mary, and Seamus.

Dublin was great, too. We tried to do a pub crawl but bailed and ended up going to 7 pubs on our own that night. It was fun, but nothing compared to our farm life. I felt like Paris Hilton on The Simple Life, only younger and slightly less blonde.

All in all, it was a brilliant vacation; by far the best accidental one I've ever had. From now on, I'm only going to travel places that lie in the direct path of active volcanos.

Iceland Volcano-1, Maggie-0

2010-04-16T10:16:00.000-07:00

Icelandic volcanic eruptions have caused the cancellation of our flight to Amsterdam and we're now stuck in Cork, Ireland, indefinitely....good thing we love Ireland :)

Annecy

2010-04-07T15:40:00.000-07:00

Check out pictures of the beautiful city of Annecy, here!

Sophie & I did a day trip to Annecy. That's all I'm going to say for now, because I have to pack for Ireland! Coming up: two weeks in Dublin, Cork, Amsterdam, Brussels and Bruges. See you all back in California in one month!

The Final Weeks

2010-04-01T05:12:00.000-07:00

What am I doing here?

Why am I still asking myself this question? I've been living in Lyon, France, for 6 months and one week, and I still don't quite comprehend my own role here. My students think my class is a joke; the teachers don't know what to do with me; I spend my time reading books in the salle de profs and sitting on trains.

This is all besides the two-week-long vacations every six weeks, of course. I know, I know: I have nothing to complain about. But, still.

This whole living in another country thing makes for one irreconcilable identity crisis, that's for sure. I teach you an expression you'll never remember: "to hold one's breath"; you see me as the girl with the funny accent you want to show your friends; I am your American friend who fits in only because we are a group of British and Mauritians and half-this and half-that. I am inbetween student and adult status, in an indecisive expatriate limbo, waiting for my life to decide itself. But in another country, it only gets more complicated. So, who am I?

Who knows. Maybe we'll figure that one out when I get back to California. Or when I come back to France for the third time, for another month or seven. Or never. All I know is that I need to experience, and I need to write.

What am I doing here? I am holding my breath. And in the meantime, I write.

6 weeks

2010-03-22T02:03:00.000-07:00

(March 19, 2010)

"I bathed in the water at Lourdes today..

This place gives me the unusual desire to embrace the world...

I'm not sure if it was necessarily a life-changing experience, but it reminded me I have a spiritual side and need to cultivate it."

I spent two days in Lourdes & Toulouse with Meg and her dad this weekend. Lourdes, as you can see in the photo, has a cathedral that looks a little too much like the Sleeping Beauty Castle at Disneyland. Toulouse, the "rose-colored city," has a lot of old-school brick buildings but cannot compare to the picturesque beauty and charm of Lyon.

The trip made me realize just how much I'm in love with Lyon, and how little time I have left. 6 weeks to the day, in fact. It's a strange, strange existence that we live here. We play quiz night every Monday at Flannigan's, the new Irish pub, and every Thursday at The Wallace (our usual); we try a random bouchon Lyonnais every month with a French friend (and nearly gag every time); we're never in the same place for more than 3 weeks at a time (at most).

Going back to Santa Clara, CA? It's going to be insanely exciting to see everyone for the first few weeks. And then I'm going to cry for Lyon.

Morocco

2010-03-01T03:49:00.000-08:00

The Hamman. I heard it was a scrub down and massage for 150 dirham (13.4 euros). Not bad, I thought, I'll take it.

I had one more day in Marrakech, on my own, as Mike had left in the morning. What else was I going to do? So I walked around the souks one last time, stopped at Earth Cafe for a fruit juice and some think time, and headed to the spa for "hamman," the unknown word which spoke of mysterious healing and tranquil relaxation, to me.

But I didn't realize it would be so...traditional.

"Take all your clothes off, except your underwear," the hostess told me in a lounge area filled with half-naked women. Oh, this is so not what I expected (and yet, what did I expect? Everything else in Morocco had been unexpected and exciting, why not this?).

I knew at that point that this was going to be an experience unlike any other, and I could either quit right then and there or just throw up my hands and go with it.

So I threw up my hands in prayer to Allah.
And I took off my clothes.

***
Earlier that week, I had my fair share of disorienting experiences, including a visit to a Berber village in the Atlas Mountains on market day, where I was not only the only white woman around, but also the only woman for miles, as all the men from the surrounding mountain towns had come via donkey to do the weekly "grocery shopping" in this dusty center of Amizmiz. I was stared down by at least four hundred pairs of Berber eyes, but they were not threatening--only curious. Nonetheless, like so many other encounters in Morocco, it was by far a humbling experience.
***

The hostess came back and led me through the lounge to a doorway that in my memory of Moroccan films, led to exactly what I dreaded: a marble tile room filled with buckets of steaming water and naked women. The dense steam from the room wrung my lungs out like a towel; I felt as though I were breathing through a straw.

My "masseuse," Fatiha, led me to one side of the room (apparently the "white foreigner" side, as one other plump whitish woman occupied this space, opposite of a group of beautifully tanned Moroccan women on the other side of the room). She sat me down on a yellow mat against the wall and left me there. What was I supposed to do?

Trying my best not to look like it was my first time in the Hamman (although my blonde hair and deer-in-the-headlights look had already given me away), I imitated the other women and poured hot water on myself, then picked up the washcloth-loofah-sandpaper thing and tried it out on my feet first. Ouch.

***
It's not easy to imitate someone of an entirely different religion, lifestyle, continent. Walking through the markets of Marrakech, I attempted to dress modestly, but my attire of long sleeves and pants did not match the traditional dress and headscarf of Moroccan women. I heard the call to prayer ringing from the mosques five times a day like clockwork, but didn't know how to respond. In the souks, my efforts of bargaining were successful, but I could come nowhere near the market price that a Moroccan could get for a common tajine. My foreigner status stuck, unalterable like the stamp on my passport.
***

An eternity later, Fatiha came back, looked at me and snickered (showing her white, if not complete, set of teeth), and took a handful of caramel-like muck and started washing me with it. Not strange at all, a foreign woman soaping up every part of my exposed body--and then some. Whatever, I thought, I can handle this.

But then Fatiha put the sandpaper washcloth around her hand and got to work sanding off my skin, nerves, and finally my bones, leaving me with what felt like an osteoporosic skeleton. When I realized (after opening my eyes) that the gray particles on my skin were not in fact clay but skin itself, I nearly gagged. Exfoliation at its best.

Strangely enough, the longer the scrubbing lasted, the better it felt. Fatiha wasn't just buffing off my dead skin. She was cleansing my body of the dust and ache of my two weeks of travel from Berlin to Marrakech. It was a complete over-stimulation of the senses, but I did not yet want to leave this beautiful country that was simultaneously so alien yet so familiar.

***
The spices lure,
The cats prowl,
Mosaic-laden palaces remind,
Friendly local banter.
Tajines smoke in the corners of crusty cafes,
Filled with tumeric and saffron,
Creating the finest of foods that no character-less spotless restaurant could provide.
Jovial bargaining with your "friends" of the souks
Your eyes a blur with color.
This is Morocco.
***

The clay massage that followed was a relief; I lay there for 20 minutes letting it soak in and realizing that nobody else in the place gave a damn that I was nearly-naked. How freeing is that? The final rinse off and hair wash made me hard-pressed to keep from laughing, as Fatiha time and again dumped a large bucket of steaming water over my bowed frame (and into my underwear). Afterward, I sat in the lounge drinking tea, enveloped in a giant white bathrobe and breathing in the fresh air.
This was Morocco.

Granada

2010-03-01T03:27:00.000-08:00

(February 21st, 2010)

We walked into the Hostal Antares in central Granada and were greeted by a man with meaning. Senor hostel owner Javier had a huge smile on his face, big cheery eyes that were magnified by his bifocals, and a habit of chittering about how welcome we were in this city. He was like Mr. Miagi, but spun up into the lively scattered personality of the wizard Merlin. I've never seen someone so delighted to show us the functions of the hallway microwave.

Javier's idol is Jimmy Hendrix. "Peace and freedom for everyone! I love Jimmy Hendrix. His Philosophy, Yeah!" I was anxious just to bump into him during our stay for fear that he would pop out at me like a jack-in-the-box on steroids. "Yeah! Woo! Jimmy Hendrix! Wapow!"

But his intentions were good. Tonight we asked him about going to Morocco, and he gave us some advice and then interrupted himself to say, "Wait! Give me five minutes. FIVE. Hang on--I find for you. I find bus schedule!" Sure enough, four-and-a-half minutes later, we had our own copy of the bus schedule for the next day. We left with his final words of advice ringing in our ears: "Remember: Freedom & Imagination. It's easy!"

Berlin

2010-02-28T04:49:00.000-08:00

(February 18th, 2010)

The building was made up of filthy gray brick. Giant colorful graffiti murals covered its eastern facade, where chunks of brick missing from the wall showed evidence of WWII shelling. Nearby stood a trailer park, slippery patches of blackened snow, and scaffolding along its front. It was Kunsthaus Tacheles.

As we crossed Oranienburger Strasse in the Berlin-Mitte quarter, our eyes were drawn to a dark gaping hole in the front of this building, where graffiti covered every inch of surface. Inside, a cold cement staircase led up into the realms of some black abyss from which rock 'n roll music was drafting.

Like a medusa, the graffiti snaking up the walls lured us to climb the chilled staircase, apprehensions aside. Two flights up and already we felt like we were in a vertigo trance of color and words. The rock 'n roll got louder as we continued to climb.

What at first warned us to avoid the place--the layers of graffiti--then intrigued us to find the end of its painted madness. But it did not end. As we rounded the final staircase, a blast of music and color hit us square in the face from the single open doorway. This was no run-down building for drug addicts, or homeless refuge. This was a gallery with the work of abstract Belarusian artist Alex Rodin.

And it was some of the most beautiful work I've ever seen. 10-foot-high canvases of hundreds of colors imagining a sort of cosmic existence--a hand or an eye with fifty little scenes incorporated into the big picture--this type of work was exactly the reward I needed for braving the disconcerting entrance to the Kunsthaus Gallery. I bought a print after spending time reveling in the beauty of art paired with music.
This was Berlin.

Mischief on the Metro

2010-02-09T13:47:00.001-08:00

Today on my morning metro ride to work, I was terrorized by two 11-year-olds.

I was sitting reading my Lyon Plus, which had a rather boring article about the US ambassador's visit to Lyon to present a plaque or something, when all of a sudden I found a baseball cap on my head. I turned to see an 11-year-old French garcon looking at me in feigned astonishment and pointing to his friend, "C'etait lui!" It was him! Right. I give him back the cap.

Back to my article about the plaque, I realized that this could happen again, and if it did, I would play a trick on these boys. Sure enough, approximately 1.35 minutes later, the cap was back on my head, but this time I was quick. I grabbed the cap, walked out of the metro, whose doors were about to close, and smirked at the yells from the French boys behind me for their hat back. 'Well,' I thought, 'they are just kids. They're harmless. I'm not really gonna take their hat. Plus, this isn't my stop.' So, being the nice & friendly American that I am (or naive and blonde, as these French boys seemed to think), I gave the hat back to the boy who had run after me and sat myself at the other, far end of the car.

At the last stop, I got off and made my way to the exit. Of course, the boys walked directly by me, so I decided to give them a look of dissatisfaction, so they could know their wrongdoing (to touch a stranger on the metro is a major faux-pas). Crack! One of the boys sticks his leg out in front of mine, which hurts but doesn't cause me to trip, as was his intention. I was pissed.

"Excusez-moi! C'etait tres impoli, ca!" I sternly rebuked the he-children. Excuse-me, that was very RUDE! I was flabbergasted--as were they, apparently, as I left them staring in disbelief at the reality that this tall, long blonde-haired foreigner actually spoke French.

I walked away laughing to myself.

Bread

2010-01-31T09:14:00.001-08:00

Bread is such a food staple in France, that even when eating a meal which consists mainly of bread, such as the croque monsieur, the French will eat a baguette on the side.
(croque monsieur: a hot ham and cheese--typically emmental or gruyere--grilled sandwich with lots and lots of butter--basically as staple a food to France as pb&j is to the States).

Meg & I spent the weekend at one of my English professor's homes, where we drooled over the cuteness of Maxou, the cat, almost as much as over her 17-month-old son, Hugo, the tiniest little Frenchman I've ever met with the biggest smile I've ever seen from a Frenchman.

After a jaunt to the local piscine, where I found I could barely lift my pinky finger after a mere hour of swimming (it's hard to stay in shape when it's snowing outside and you keep eating bread and cheese with wine every five seconds), we ate a delicious lunch, which included: a salad made almost entirely out of croutons, with baguette bread on the site, and a two croque monsieurs each, with baguette bread on the side.

Normally, when you eat a French lunch (meat, potatoes, cheese, some kind of sauce), you use the baguette bread to mop up the sauce and such left on the plate. Today, there was so much bread--in the salad, on the table, on my plate, crumbs flying everywhere in a frenzy of floury dust--that I found myself finishing off the meal by using that last piece of baguette bread to mop up the bread crumbs off my plate.

Perfectly French

2010-01-25T02:57:00.000-08:00

Three-and-a-half hours west into the heart of France is Thiers, a tiny town perched on the hills of a typical French countryside.

In this cutlery capital of France, Meg & I spent three lovely days eating incredible gourmet French food in the home of Jean-Mi & Martine, the so perfectly French host parents of our friend Isabel--and, we got to wake up to this view every morning:

We had a personal tour of the tiny town, where residents still attend mass in churches built in the 1100s and ruins of cutlery factories line the river, a perfect scene for an impressionist painting.

Food adventures of the weekend included the traditional raclette, a meat and cheese miracle, and a meal based entirely on meat (beef, pork, veal, etc.) cooked on a hot stone on the table. Never have I eaten so much meat in my life, and never has it been so good.

We also took a quick trip to Clermont-Ferrand, where we gaped open-mouthed at a cathedral built entirely of volcanic stone. To check out photos of these two ideally French towns, click here! or click on the "Thiers" link on the photo menu on the right. Enjoy!

La Greve!

2010-01-20T14:33:00.001-08:00

Only in France would I get the day off because my fellow teachers are going on strike :) Vive la France!

Sunny Day in Lyon

2010-01-18T12:09:00.001-08:00

Today I took a lovely stroll along the river in the unusally warm sunshine that came with the scorching 8 degrees celsius temperature (46 degrees farenheit, for my American friends).

I sat down to unwrap my pb sandwich, folding back the tinfoil and lifting the deliciousness of an American staple food to my mouth when--splat. Splat splat. Three dollops of bird poop landed on the ground directly in front and on the side of me. Delicious.

I looked up. There was a single tree hovering directly over half of my bench, and I was in the middle. So, I scootched over until I was exactly 3 milimeters from the edge of the tree-less half of the bench. And quickly ate my pb sandwich in shoulder-hunched apprehension.

Tapatio

2010-01-13T05:53:00.000-08:00

Today I sat in the infrequent sunshine filtering through the windowed balcony doors and ate huevos in a tortilla with Tapatio hot sauce.

The fact that the cheese I had to use with my Mexican meal was Emmental or that the doors were still closed to keep out the cold didn't bother me one bit. :)

Halfway

2010-01-11T11:18:00.000-08:00

It's mid-January. I've been here 3 1/2 months. I have 3 1/2 months to go. Weird.

Finally completed my medical visit today (2nd try). Sitting in the waiting room with 6 other English assistants, I asked how everyone was liking work. We looked tired, a bit at the end of our ropes, and it's only halfway through. We love living in Europe. But, this job is proving to be a bit (quite a bit) different than we expected.

(photo: I got my own copy of one of these today)

Slow paperwork. Unappreciative students. Absent teachers. Where's the challenge, the excitement, the "job well done!"? In some other country, obviously. In France, the challenge is to earn the respect of your peers and students, to energize a class of sixteen 16-year-olds who sit in class from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. and are unaware that high school is anything other than a drudgery of tests and homework (where are the school sports teams, drama club, student government?).

The first month or two was exciting. We were the "new guy" that everybody was curious about at school. Students paid attention to us because they had to get used to our accents. Things may not have been perfect, but we had the promise of the months to come to look forward to.

But now we're halfway through. And things haven't gotten much better. Maybe you could say we're more "French," experiencing this lack of communication between ourselves and the teachers. Or simply that people around school have gotten used to seeing us (in particular, students), so we're not someone to care about anymore.

It could just be the mid-winter slump. After all, the Lyonnais don't know what to do with all the snow this year--buses have stopped running, so students have stopped coming to school and half the teachers have about given up; meanwhile, my Canadian friends are snickering at the sorry excuse for snow.

Who knows what it is. I don't have much hope of things improving; sadly, if I remind myself that I'm in a "secondary" position, where people mostly don't know what to do with me (as an assistant, and as an expat), then it's not so bad. And thanks to the new stamp on my passport, I can prove that I am tuberculosis-free :)

Snow Day

2010-01-09T04:37:00.001-08:00

Watching kids making snowmen and a man trying to cross-country ski in the park in front of my building....while in a tank top, in the comfort of my well heated apartment :)

Christmas Trip Photos

2010-01-06T14:11:00.001-08:00

Check out the photos from our trip!

They're out of order, but the order is: England, Barcelona, Paris, & Lyon.

Enjoy! :)

Fate

2010-01-05T09:13:00.000-08:00

Some things just seem like fate. Today, after a trip to the bank yet again (this time to discover why my password to get onto my online account wasn't working), I decided to kill a few minutes before I could pick up the Christmas package from my mom at 5 p.m. (thanks, Mom!).

Walking down central Gratte Ciel minding my own business, I suddenly hear this scratchy, frail voice calling, "Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle! Pouvez-vous m'aider?" Can you help me, this cutest little old French lady, perched on a curb, was asking me with a huge, begging smile. She needed help off the curb, and down the street. "Mais bien sur!" But of course! I replied. Who could resist offering an arm to the petite-est old lady who was using a rolling shopping bag (see photo) as a cane? It turned out to be my best idea of the day. As we had a brief discussion about the weather and the United States, walking nearly 0.075 mph, this little French woman could actually understand my French, and she was so appreciative, that it gave me a huge confidence boost.

"Everyone here is so nice!" exclaimed little old French lady (in French, bien sur). "Every day, I walk outside to buy a newspaper or whatever, and someone always helps me get around," said she, who was clearly not fit to be out walking in the snow-laden streets (see other photo).

Little did little old French lady know, it was her bright nature, and her genuine interest in where I was from and what I was doing in Villeurbanne, that was the true blessing of the day.

After dropping off little old French lady on her doorstep and bidding her a "Bon Annee" (Happy New Year), I turned around and grinned--all the way home.

A California Girl In a Winter Wonderland

2010-01-04T02:47:00.000-08:00

"I'm living in a postcard."

*To see more pictures of snow in my city, click here.

Blind Date

2010-01-02T14:37:00.000-08:00

Finally home in Lyon :) Sorry for slacking on the blog posts lately. I spent the past 9 days in England, in the tiny, relaxing, Petalumaish (red brick buildings on a river) town of Reading, where I took full advantage of relaxation time (hence the blog slacking).

Though my family was celebrating Christmas 5,000 miles away in California, I was fortunate enough to spend the holiday with Nick and his family in England, where his dad will be working for the next month. Thank you, Benavides family! :-)

In this quaint town, we discovered the hole-in-the-wall-ishness of the Hobgoblin, a very cozy pub that's been around practically since Medieval times like everything else in this gray country, and also like most every place else in this gray country, it serves lots of good, local beer. 4,000 different types of beer to date, in fact. Think old, stained wooden tables. Corners with fireplaces. Lots of drunk middle-aged Englanders singing bad 80s songs to ring in the New Year. (see photo)

We took a couple days to do the usual sightseeing in London, as well: Westminister Abbey, Buckingham Palace, St. Paul's Cathedral...

But, the highlight of the trip quite possibly was a day at Warwick Castle, the best preserved medieval castle you can find (it was never attacked). We took a tour of the dungeons and torture chambers, where I happily had my innards extracted behind a curtain for our tour group :) After, Nick's Dad's work 'mate,' Sean, treated us to a fantastic Indian food dinner in Leamington Spa.

The flight home was fun. Six weeks prior to my trip, I apparently thought it a grand idea to book a 6:30 a.m. flight out of London Gatwick; it was the cheapest flight they had. What I didn't realize is that transportation from Reading at this time in the morning is impossible. Nick and I ended up paying for a hostel in London the night before and skipping sleep to take the 3:30 a.m. airport shuttle. Though Nick was flying out of Heathrow for California at 11 a.m., he came with me to Gatwick to spend a bit more time together. Of course, we had to split up on the bus to get seats, Nick stuck in a crowd of over-caffeinated Portuguese discussing something in loud voices around him, both of us drifting in and out of consciousness...

Lyon feels much smaller now that I've traveled. 'Went for a walk today, crossing the rivers and eating a panini in this French town I now strangely call my home. Everything is as I left it, though something seems to be missing. Returning "home," to a foreign country, alone, I realize how much I enjoyed introducing Nick to Europe and Europe to Nick. As far as I can tell, it's one of the best blind dates he's ever been on.

PARIS

2009-12-23T13:28:00.000-08:00

Paris in 2 ½ days? Possibly the worst idea ever, but Nick and I just did it.

Musee d'Orsay, Moulin Rouge, Montmartre & Sacre Coeur, Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, St. Michel, Notre Dame, Hotel de Ville, Place de Vosges, Mosque de Paris..

..yep, we did all that.

First thing's first: I took Nick to L'As du Falafel for the best damn 5 euro falafel in the world. Unfortunately now that I'm allergic to sesame I had to settle for the greasy kebab meat instead. Still good, though, and Nick can't wait to go back.

After our visit to the gothic Notre Dame, Nick decided that cathedrals are his favorite part of Europe. Doesn't hurt that there's a different huge, old, impressive church on practically every corner in Paris.

I thought it would be a great first introduction to Paris on Monday night for Nick to stroll through the lovely Tuileries gardens from the Louvre to the Champs Elysees. The fact that it was pitch-black outside and we were trudging through slush leftover from the snow may have hindered my original idea, but it didn't much matter. We were in Paris.

After tearing up a little at the ghastly difference between the quaint, adorable looking hotel I saw on the internet and the worn, cracking structure with gaggable violet walls that was our actual hostel...we decided to give Paris our best shot, fill up on chocolate-nutella-banana crepes, and ignore the fatigue from trying to see four cities in three weeks that had crept up on us.

Yesterday, we found out the Louvre was closed on Mondays, so we contemplated impressionism instead at the Musee d'Orsay.

Today, we showed up at the Picasso Museum, where we found out that it's under construction—until 2012. So we headed to the Mosque of Paris, a beautiful mosaic-tiled structure with the story of France's immigrant people within its walls. Of course, we missed the afternoon tour by 5 minutes and they wouldn't let us in past the courtyard. So we went back to the Louvre.

That's the thing about Paris—when one thing's closed, there's always something else to do. Too much to do, in fact.

After four hours within the beige marble walls of the Louvre, Nick and I had had enough. Dusk had fallen on the Greek statues in the skylight-ceiling room and if we had to walk one more stretch of museum exhibit we were going to vomit. So we hit up one last thing—the ancient-Turkish-clothing-exhibit. Because when you're in Paris for 2 ½ days and you're absolutely fed up and just want to keel over and die, you keep going and see one more thing. Because it's Paris.

...*Special thanks to my host family in Paris for having Nick & I for dinner last night. As usual, there was lots of delicious food, more than five different types of alcohol to taste test, and the constant clutter of conversation and laughter and music that makes the Palayrets so special. Merci beaucoup! Vous me manquez déjà!

Now for England....if we make it through the snow delays!

BaRcElOnA

2009-12-20T13:46:00.000-08:00

Day 1 of Barcelona:

Nicolas & I finally make it to the Garden House Hostel after waiting for a 2-hour flight delay because the French don't know what to do with a bit of snow on the runways.

Our first food venture includes a confusion over the menu--we end up paying and leaving after the first course because we think it's the only one. That was damn good stew.

Later, we wander unknowingly into a Hadyn classical concert practice in a huge old church (there's a lot of those in Europe) in the Gothic Quarter, 800-year-old stones above our heads. We wait until 8 p.m. to eat a "late" dinner of tapas and fresh sangria--but nobody's even out to dinner yet, so we have the blonde, bored waitress to ourselves. We finish off the night with a half hour of classical guitar, Castillian singing and flamenco--Nick's favorite so far. And this is only day one!

Day 2 Barcelona:

We wander Park Guell and the grounds of the Sagrada Familia, two of the most beautiful and unique architectural masterpieces of Antoni Gaudi (1852-1926). The Sagrada Familia is still under construction and is expected to be finished in 2040. It reminds me of big upside-down waffle cones melting...breathtaking in its beauty and strangeness...

We gorge on chocolate con churros, one of Spain's best creations (churros dipped in cups of warm liquid chocolate during siesta time, in between lunch and dinner). Hellluv good.

Nick continues to fall off curbs while gaping at the beauty of Spain around him.

Day 3 Barcelona:

We meet up with a Spaniard (friend of Nick's) for breakfast, gaze in awe at Casa Batllo and Casa Mila/La Pedrera, two elven houses created by the genius of Gaudi.

We happen upon a couple hundred locals in a park dancing the sardanes, a traditional Catalonian routine. A few blocks north, we happen upon fifty locals swing dancing in the middle of a boulevard. Why? Because it's Spain.

We down more chocolate con churros. I get a stomachache, which is reconciled by a stop at a local clothing store, where Nick buys me Argentinian clothing for Christmas :)

...

... Anyone know where I can learn Spanish in Lyon? ... I think I'm just going to stay here...

Next Up: Barcelona, Paris, London

2009-12-17T12:45:00.001-08:00

'Been spending a chilly but lovely week here in Lyon with Nick, watching deer prance in the park, being the only people to ride the huge ferris wheel at 1:30 p.m., and freezing our buns off at the Olympique Lyonnais vs. Bordeaux soccer game :)

Tomorrow's adventure? Barcelona. Then we're off to Paris & London to meet up with Nick's family for the holidays!

Bonnes Fetes (Happy Holidays) everyone! Eat some pumpkin pie and peanut butter for me.

Over and out.

(Video: Snow outside my classroom window in Givors. Yes, I took video of tiny snow flurries. Yes, I'm from California).

California Wonderland

2009-12-10T02:39:00.000-08:00

"Is California really like the movies?" My new group of students look up at me expectantly, stars in their dreamy eyes, eyes of teenagers who have not yet seen the world outside of Givors, France.

What can I say? I've just told them that I'm from California, and to them, it's like I walked straight out of a golden wonderland where surfers and bikini models rule the beautiful city streets (which is true--in Newport Beach--but what they don't know is that there are normal people and places in California, too--like Fullerton and Santa Clara).

In the movies, you say? What does this even mean? Palm trees and movie stars and perfect bodies, most likely. "Do you always see movie stars when you walk around in the streets?" I get this question a lot. As much as I would like to say, "Yes! Of course. It's the California way, you see," I realize that I am their first real live representation from this famous state and I better set things straight from the start.

(photos: with images like these, how can I convince my students that California is a normal place, and American high school is not just a song and dance?)

So, "Yes, parts of California are like the movies, but the movies are exaggerated. There are so many parts of California, that it's really like anywhere else. Do you know it takes 14 hours to drive from the bottom to the top of the state? [big eyes from the students] And no, I don't surf, and no, I've never met a movie star."

Another problem is these kids' idea of American high school. Their closest encounter with it is the loathable High School Musical. Thanks to this seductrice of stereotypes, I now have to explain to my students that American high schoolers do not break out into song on every occasion.

What cracks me up is, I could lie through my teeth, make up a whole new American, California Wonderland for these students, and they would believe me. I could tell them that I had lunch with Britney Spears on center court of the Staples Center, followed by a song-and-dance number to celebrate our dessert, and I'd get away with it. Which is why it's a good thing I'm honest. For the most part. ;)

Fete des Lumieres & Togas

2009-12-06T06:10:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was the first day of the Fete des Lumieres, the famous light festival in my city of Lyon.

After a short bike ride through the Park de la Tete D'Or on the Velo'V bikes for the first time (1 euro rental for the day!)...

...Meg & I headed downtown, where at Place Bellecour, the Ferris Wheel beckoned us to ride its golden spokes...

...so, we did.

Afterward, we gorged on vin chaud (hot cider wine) and kebab sandwiches dripping with grease (which my brown boots managed to soak up without deliberation of their future ruined state).

Pushing through the thousands-strong crowd in the middle of downtown, we happened upon acrobats with death wishes, a church with its entire facade turned into a giant projection screen, and fire dancers performing along the river Saone...

Everywhere, candles were lit in windows, lights were hung in the streets.
Bands played in costume

while passersby crowded around with their plastic cups of vin chaud and nutella-drizzled waffles in a carnival atmosphere of uproarious fun and carefree community.

The entire city, transformed into a festival fairytale, bringing out the kid in each black-adorned Frenchie.

..."So, this is Lyon?" I think. "I think I'm in love."

Welcome Foreigners!

2009-12-02T11:01:00.000-08:00

A nice French lady and a sticker man. Check out Meg's post on our random adventure of the day on her blog, Meg.En.France (click!).

(photo: our mailbox)

Brrr

2009-12-01T22:55:00.000-08:00

I've officially brought out my big jacket for the cold season in Lyon. Hello, December. =O

Weather in Givors today: 2 C, 35 F

Wine Dream Tour

2009-11-28T12:33:00.000-08:00

Check out the photos!

Today, after celebrating two Thanksgivings and drinking a lot of wine, Meg & I woke up early to train it over to Villefranche, where we met up with Adan to drink some more wine...but this time, in the vineyards.

Gil, an English teacher-turned tour guide (he teaches at Adan's school), drove us around from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. in the Burgundy & Beaujolais regions to see the beautiful vineyards and go wine tasting. Meg and I were expecting a brief jaunt to the town of Cluny and a stopover in the Beaujolais on the way home...what we got was better than we could've guessed.

10 a.m. Saint-Gengoux, 2 hours north of Lyon. Gil takes us to winery #1. We taste 5 varieties of wine. Gil smiles giddily like a little boy while he piles one, two, three, four cartons of wine into "the boot of the car" for his family. Megan and I follow suit, purchasing a 2006 Givry 1er Cru Clos Jus (white) and a 2006 Montagny 1er Cru Les Chaniots (red), both from Bourgogne--our first "special occasion wine" to put aside on our nonexistent wine rack.

11:30ish a.m. (time starts to get fuzzy) Gil, Adan, Megan & I eat lunch at a little bistro in the quaint town of Cluny, where sits the ruins of the largest Abbey there ever was...built from 909-1130. nuts.

Afternoon time. Gil drives us through beautiful vineyards, winding through charming French villages with chateaux in the distance. We stop at a chateau, check out the view from Roche de Solutré (ex-French president Francois Mitterand's favorite nature hang-out), hit up another winery--this time, for some Beaujolais.

(photo: Roche de Solutre)

Later. Back in the car, Gil's French voice is smooth but strong, like his broken-in leather jacket. The hum of his Volkswagen lulls me to sleep, I jolt awake when the car stops--at yet another winery.

Sometime later. We hit up one more winery, where we have 1 euro glasses of wine. I love France.

Thank you, Gil, for the best wine tour, ever. C'est la meilleur tour que j'ai jamais fait. :D

I can't believe he actually lives in this region. When I get old and retire, I'm movin' wine country, so I can become an expert du vin and take mesmerized foreign youngsters on tours.

Buy Nothing Day

2009-11-26T10:05:00.000-08:00

Buy Everything Day: November 27th. Buy Nothing Day: November 28th.

Two Thanksgivings

2009-11-25T12:10:00.001-08:00

This week, I'm celebrating two Thankgsivings. Because when you're an American expat in France, you get to celebrate American holidays more than once. Gravy.

Fitting In

2009-11-20T07:40:00.000-08:00

As you can see, my room looks a little more lived-in now (if you wanna make it up on my "closet door of fame," send me pictures).

It's November 20th, and things are starting to fit in.

This week, the night after the random volleyball practice, Megan & I went to dinner with an adorable French couple we met at the laundromat. How filmesque is that? The restaurant was called Le Tibouren, and the chef himself came out to dictate us the menu--in French and English :) New tastes of the evening included pink soup and shark. Delicieuse.

In four days, I will have been here 2 months. What've I learned? Let's see...

Subway in France is way better than Subway in America (fresher ingredients).
If I plan everything to the minute, I can make it from home to school in 1 hour, 5 min (that includes walking, metro, train and bus).
The French love their grocery stores (especially on the weekends, when excited employees announce samples and sales on their bullhorns while standing on boxes).
Though they usually act like we have some incurable disease, the French are actually interested in meeting foreigners (interestingly enough, they can't contract the one disease we do have: homesickness--which, btw, can be cured by a glass of wine and a season of downloaded American television).
Lyon has its warm winter days, too (today its 68 F--woah!).

...more conclusions to come, I'm sure...

French Volleyball

2009-11-16T14:03:00.000-08:00

Jeremy: "How is French volleyball different from American volleyball?"

Me: "It's the same, except for you can't understand what they're saying."

Picture this: Old-school gym. 6 sweaty French men. 1 tomboy French woman. Two months into the season. Ear-slapping spikes, serves, and hits. Lots of French.

Add two timid foreigners (an American and a Canadian), whose level of French is almost as bad as their level of volleyball, and you've got tonight's adventure in a nutshell :D

The start of our rendez-vous with the "beginning level intramural" French team in Villeurbanne was so awkward you could bounce a volleyball off the tension in the air. Megan and I kept giving each other big eyes and mouthing, "This is so awkward!" But we stayed, determined to do what we had come for: to play volleyball.

Eric, the player/coach with tight shorts and a beer gut, made us warm up with the most logical drill possible: slamming a ball into the ground as hard a possible. "To work out the arms," he said (in French, of course. This was about the extent of my comprehension for the night).

Okay. Jogging warm-up, ball-slamming, volley-bump passing, spiking, serving done. It's time for an hour-long game. I've never played so much volleyball in my life. Luckily, I had played volleyball before in my life, so I could pretend like I knew what I was doing.

The whole game, the only thing I could understand was "Out!" The rest of the time, I'd smile and nod, occasionally looking over to Megan and laughing at the realization that we were two foreigners, with a bunch of random French people in a gym, playing volleyball. It was awesome.

We managed to get outta there uninjured, minus some sore arms and dampened egos...but it was totally worth it. Who wouldn't want a chance to hang out with some Frenchmen in their 30s who've never heard of deodorant?

New Post, Chez "Undecided"

2009-11-16T09:41:00.000-08:00

"First she made a decision. Then she wondered what on earth she was thinking when she made it. Now she’s living the life — and learning to love the unpredictability of it all. In today’s guest post, a newly minted college grad — who teaches English to French teenagers, fights off the advances of train conductors, and like the rest of us, is petrified of growing up — muses about how the reality of the adult life has suddenly crept up behind her and taken her by surprise. Baguette in hand, she stands ready to battle it back into oblivion..."

Read more about my guest post, "La Vie est Belle," on my journalism's professor's blog, Barbara Kelley's "Undecided," here!

I think I know

2009-11-14T08:02:00.000-08:00

It's a gloomy, windy day in Lyon today. The weather is strangely warm, however, and it's still holding out for the rain. It feels as if everything's waiting for something. It's November 14^th, the end of fall and the beginning of winter, and yet the sky cannot decide which to be. I cannot decide which to be: homesick, or happy to be in my new home. I am happy to be experiencing such a crazy life change, because after all, who ever gets to do this?

It all kind of happened randomly, I feel, this move to Lyon. I applied four months too late, and they still accepted me. I couldn't get any other job back in the States. Nick still had a year of university left, but I wasn't about to stay in Santa Clara, CA, anyway. So I just went. And now I'm here.

Sure, I've second-guessed coming, as it's been a helluva stresser. But, I know it'll be worth it in the long run. Don't ask me how, I just know. Or at least, I think I know.

Realizations

2009-11-13T09:57:00.001-08:00

Today, I finally grasped how, despite the expenses and difficulties of living in France, despite the endless paperwork and homesickness and lack of French and the unappreciative high school students--despite all this, living in Lyon, France, for 7 months really is a truly wonderful, beautiful, crazily fantastic dream that I've been living...for 7 weeks now.

Dancin'

2009-11-12T13:54:00.000-08:00

Meg & I went to see Mikhail Baryshnikov, one of the best ballet dancers of all time (he's 61 and still amazing) perform at the Opera de Lyon tonight :)

..After the show, we did a little dancin' ourselves...

South of France, Monaco, & Geneva!

2009-11-03T08:38:00.001-08:00

Hello friends. I've returned from my first of four 2-week vacations that the French school system so generously offers :D

Instead of boring you with excruciating jealousy-invoking details of our beautiful summer-like five days in the south of France, a day in Monaco, and our random adventure to Geneva, I'll let the pictures do most of the work.

Let's start with Marseille. Click here to see photos of Marseille. You'll see the view from the Hotel St. Louis (where we somehow managed to get two rooms for the price of one, including the honeymoon suite); then, you'll see photos of the Vieux Port (old port) of Marseille; the view from Basilique Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde; inside the basilica; and, a random carnival with a large cathedral backdrop. Only in France.

Next, check out the photos from Cassis, Les Calanques. Cassis, a small fishing port just east of Marseille, has Beauty-and-the-Beast charm and some fantastic port-side cafes; from here, we took a boat out to tour Les Calanques, where hundreds-of-feet-high white limestone cliffs tower over transparent turquoise water. Paradise? Yes. Just see the pictures.

After a day in Marseille & a day in Cassis, we spent Wednesday morning touring Chateau D'If, the island which provides the setting for The Count of Montre Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. It's old. and rocky. and prison-like. Not a place I'd want to go more than once, but it has great views of the port of Marseille, so again, check out les photos :)

Wednesday afternoon, we trained it over to Nice, where we ended up staying in the #1 hostel in all of France for 2009: Villa St. Exupery. Clearly the best hostel I've ever stayed in, its large lounge, bar, and kitchen area served well to the several young travelers staying there. For 6.50 euros, we feasted on gourmet coucous & lamb, or chicken & potatoes, or for 5.50 euros, gourmet pizza. And for 1 euro? A beer, or a glass of wine. You can't beat that.

At the villa, we met Jillian, a Bostonian from Coolidge Corner (where I lived this past summer) who was on week 5 backpacking Europe, set to return home the following week from Geneva, Switzerland. We also met Andrew, a Texan with an indefinite plan for a return to the states. With these two added to our group of three (Megan, Isabelle, & I), we were five, and we were ready to explore Nice. If only I hadn't worn my patent leather shoes.

The next day, after I bought some awful Birkenstock-imitation sandals (the only shoes in France that'll fit my feet), we took a 20 min train to Monaco, home of the famous Monte Carlo Casino, really ridiculously expensive yachts, and apparently, a sweet cactus. It was so nice, I almost moved in that very day (almost).

As you might have guessed, our trip to Geneva happened thanks to Jillian, our newfound favorite traveling companion. Her enthusiasm kept me going when my newly acquired head cold coaxed me to stay curled up under my covers. Another clean and quiet city (like Monaco, but with a lake instead of a beach and the UN instead of a casino), I really liked how we could sit in a cafe and hear German, Italian, French, and English conversations going on around us all at the same time.

The vacation ended just in time for my head cold to force me to stay in bed and our Internet, TV, AND phone to cut out (until next Tuesday night, when the French technician can so efficiently come over to fix it). Go France. Woo.

--Check out my roommate's blog, too! www.megenfrance.blogspot.com (she has more details on the trip).

Mike & Steve's Visit

2009-10-24T11:02:00.000-07:00

Parc de La Tete D'Or

This park never fails to surprise me. Today, after the capuchin monkeys and endangered jaguars, we found the lake--with some of the clearest water I've ever seen (is it real? who knows). It has acres of gardens and fields; no park even in Paris can compare.

The seasons are changing here in Lyon. Leaves on trees are turning golden, rain threatens the sky daily, but today was surprisingly warm :)

Mike Ridley & his friend Steve came to visit for a few days, so we thought we'd give them a taste of Lyon. But, they took the taste factor to the extreme.

Above, you can see a picture of the aftermath of what they ordered, a traditional Lyonnais dish: andouilles. In English? Tripe, in mustard sauce. (that's stomach intestines)
Scene: Mike & Steve stuff in a forkful each, mouths watering in anticipation of their first veritable Lyonnais meal. Immediately, they wince, slightly convulse, and gulp some water to swallow it down. Being the proper gentleman that they are, they smile and say, "This is...very strong." It was a memorable meal, at least.

Luckily, Megan's friend Isabel is here to save our tastebuds and cook us some delicious traditional (traditional this time meaning delicious), like poulet a la creme.

--Isabel just introduced her parents to us on Skype--us, including Mike and Steve. Ha. Both of them held the laptop like it was a baby who just made a mess.

Game time.

So Tired

2009-10-22T14:48:00.000-07:00

First week of actual teaching has come to an end, and I am sooo tired. But, we have a 10-day vacation now! ( I know, already ). So, Megan & I will be heading to the south of France! woop.

Mike Ridley comes to visit tomorrow. Yay! Hopefully I'll finally have time to catch up with friends & family, this weekend, too.

Who knew that I've already been here a month? Ridiculous.

Forecast

2009-10-20T11:26:00.000-07:00

Windy tonight on the homefront. Rain Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.

Sunshine today in the classroom. Smiles, new expressions, and confidence. :)

Inestimable

2009-10-18T04:39:00.000-07:00

One trip to Auchan: lots of euros.

One trip to Ikea: lots of more euros.

Two bus rides with bags and bags to heave home: a few euros.

The chance to make our sterile apartment une maison francaise: priceless.

Notre Appartement

2009-10-16T09:25:00.000-07:00

Megan & I have moved in! Check out our first french "dejeuner" (lunch), above. We recently purchased a bottle of seasoning that makes everything taste French--parfait!

As you can see, our balcony is petite, but cute, eh? Check out more photos of our apartment here.

On Monday, I officially begin my first day of teaching. On Friday, we officially begin our first (10-day) school vacation, Toussaint. Sucré. 'Considering heading down to the south of France: Montpellier, Marseilles, Nice, maybe even cross over the border to Monaco. It's not hard to do.

France is treating us well. It's been in the 30s and 40s, but bright sunshine all day, every day (though I see some clouds moving in right now). We found the cheap French Walmart, called Auchan, where we got all our kitchen towels and candles and home comforts. We've so far succeeded at speaking French together about 1/2 the time, and then English about 3/4 of the time. Only one bag remains unpacked on my tile floor. Tomorrow we go to Ikea to get throw rugs and then maybe catch a French flick at the film festival in Lyon. I've tried to get a French cell phone six times now, and our land line isn't working yet. Yesterday, we put up a friend of a friend though we had just moved in 20 hours before. We finally figured out how to turn the hot water on. And I now am in possession of a pillow. C'est la vie francaise!

A Day on the Rhone

2009-10-11T14:07:00.000-07:00

Most beautiful day in Lyon, ever (and according to the weather forecast, the last for forever).

Me w/ my future roomie (starting Wednesday), Megan, sitting beside the Rhone River, watching mini shaggy dogs with big heads and rollerbladers with too much padding.

...And, the amazing Ethiopian meal that my host, Jackie, cooked for Megan & I last night! A feast to be sure, and the best lentils I have ever tasted.

Update: One more week of observation at the high school, and then I start teaching! This Wednesday, I move to my new dwelling--my OWN dwelling--where I should finally be able to write a more informative post. Thanks for readin' up!

-Mags

The French "Taco"

2009-10-10T09:18:00.000-07:00

Ingredients: creme fraiche, steak, nacho cheese, barbecue sauce, tomatoes, french fries. Awesome.

Here is my day

2009-10-07T09:44:00.000-07:00

Here is a lion, one of many in the city of Lyon. It seems to be a symbol of the city, so it's fitting that I happen to be a Leo.

Here is a view of the city itself, which I hiked to from that bridge you see there.

And here is the cathedral Fourviere, which is on top of the hill, with the view.

Oh, this is where I left it

2009-10-06T14:13:00.000-07:00

I found my heart in Vieux Lyon today.

Vieux Lyon, or "Old Lyon," is one of the biggest and best-preserved Renaissance quarters in Europe. Its tiny, winding cobblestone streets are now home to various shops of Indian textiles, handmade jewelry, and Salons de thé, which feature hot beverages and sweet treats.

I was feeling rather homesick today (I think I'm picking up these common British words, like "rather," from my British host, who says "throw a wobbler" instead of "throw a fit") as I dashed from the grimy Givors Canal train station to Perrache, another ugly modern train station that can boast no French charm to speak of--a sad disappointment to new travelers.

But all I needed was a simple crossing of the river with Megan to discover what I was really hoping to find in Lyon. Just over the Saone River from the presqu'ile ("almost island/peninsula") is Vieux Lyon, a neighborhood which reminds me a bit of Barcelona and Florence combined, with a non-Parisian, au naturel French twist. It's exciting and quaint and exactly what I needed to see to take the homesickness away. Here, I fell in love.

Right. I don't feel like saying much more. Check out the pictures, then.

Champagne & Rocking Chairs

2009-10-04T12:11:00.000-07:00

The town of Vienne sits on the Rhone River, a Mediterranean-esque town in a lush green valley where ruined chateaux on the foothills overlook the contemporary world like wrinkled grandmothers in rocking chairs, silently observing modern life with nostalgic grace and quiet disapproval.

This was my weekend placement. I stayed with Lydia, another wonderful English teacher from the lycée with two of the cutest little French kids on the planet & a knack for good cooking.

After my exhausting Saturday morning, a traditional French dinner was very much appreciated. FIVE hours later, I had consumed apéritifs (appetizers), champagne, salad, smoked salmon, wine, full shrimp (yes, Carrie, this time you could see the whole body--I had to pull off the legs and head, complete with eyes--I squirmed, but I ate), pork cooked with pineapple, au gratin potatoes, bread, cheese, and une tranche of chocolate tarte. By 12:15 a.m., my head was spinning with too much French and my stomach was about ready to kill me. But oh--it was worth it!

I passed out, feeling like those old French kings with the huge stomachs about ready to burst their suitcoat buttons, on the pull-out futon that every French household seems to have for potential guests. It was perhaps the best sleep of my stay thus far.

Today's petit voyage to the flea market gave meaning back to the anglicism: "Someone's junk is someone else's treasure." Tons of chipped dishes, old film cameras, cheap romance novels, children's toys from the past 10 years, mismatched jewelry and rusty keys. I was in love. As I probably won't receive my first French paycheck (in euros!) until November, however, I settled with a French language mystery novel and a bit of French stationary--how could I resist, at ,50 euro centimes? :-)

So Tired

2009-10-03T06:54:00.000-07:00

I am fed up with French public transportation.

The greve (strike) of course began the day that I arrived in Lyon, and has been going ever since.

I rendez-vous'ed with about 60 other language assistants last night in Vieux Lyon, which is the one of the best preserved Rennaissance quarters in Europe (truly beautiful). After a night of much commiseration about potential near-future homelessness, I ran back to the only bus stop that connects to my current dwelling, only to find that the buses had stopped running at 7:46 p.m. It was 10:50 p.m. Ugh.

It's okay; we're in this together. Luckily, Megan (the girl I plan to live with) had spoken with another assistant about crashing at her place for the night. By 1 a.m. that morning, there were SIX of us headed back to this girl's place, ready to crash on her floor (to our surprise, we all got partial beds!). Fantastic.

Only problem? I had to be back the next morning to St. Genis Leval in order to get BACK to Lyon, to get down to Vienne, my temporary weekend-dwelling. But of course, that did not happen.

8:30 a.m. Waiting for bus 35.

10:00 a.m. Waiting for bus 35.

11:15 a.m. Waiting for bus 10.

12:05 p.m. Waiting for bus 10.

I finally make it back, after realizing I took the wrong bus 10, to St. Genis Leval, at 12:45 p.m. That's four hours of traveling, and two trains to Vienne missed. :( All is well, however, as Jackie (my current host) called ahead and scheduled to have someone pick me up on their way to Vienne later tonight, so for the moment, I can avoid the bus. Well, exhaustion has now set in and I eagerly await my potential move into the city...

The Quiche Lorriane That Kills

2009-10-01T06:26:00.000-07:00

It's hidden in the ready-to-eat aisle, behind a garish plastic covering and in a cheap microwaveable dish, under the 1,40 euro sign. It's cheap..but it kills. Take one bite of this quiche, and if you're American, you will die of a certain cheesy-hammy-fatty flavor of love that frenzies your tastebuds. Faire attention: take deep breaths between bites.

Disorientation

2009-09-29T05:53:00.000-07:00

In this foreign land, the locals gape at the American as she saunters by,
Out of her element in front of the French Relay newsstand,
Her style compared to theirs--impressionist at best.

While passing the Galeries Lafayette, she stumbles,
Stunned by the sight of male mannequins with more eyeliner than she would ever dare put on.

The teller at Banque Populaire hands her pages upon pages in some hieroglyphic size 8 font French,
But all she can do is sign each page blindly, initialing her life away.

A bit more at home at Carrefour in all its Walmartish grandeur,
She takes a stairway to the heaven of all grocery stores,
Awed and confused by the aisles of eggs, the miles of cheese,
and the "American/Canadian" section with its usual fare: marshmallow fluff, Hershey's Chocolate Syrup, and Skippy Peanut Butter--5 euros per 12 oz.

And when back in her dwelling, she sits safe and sound (for a few hours, at least), condemning the French microwave to appliance purgatory,
For even its pictionaric buttons cause the misery of bewilderment.

La Surprise de Lyon

2009-09-27T13:31:00.000-07:00

Day Three: Parc de la Tete d'Or.

This morning I rose, not with the sun, but to the pouring of Kellogg's Cornflakes from the French-graffitied cereal box.

I was tired. The night before, I didn't get much sleep due to the constant buzzing of a certain mosquito in my ear. I woke up with eleven bug bites. My weekend host, Geraldine, was "bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," as we say in American, and I was, well, grumpy.

Three hours of sulking on the computer later, Geraldine convinced me to go to the outdoor marché with her to buy some fresh local produce. Then we made lunch, if you can call it that. In France, "Sunday dinner" is really Sunday lunch, strictly at noon. We had chicken with potatoes and des haricots verts (green beans) cooked to perfection with thyme, rosemary, and various other spices. It was a meal for a queen. I had la reste (leftovers) for dinner.

After une petite sieste, in which I passed out in a heavy food coma, Geraldine invited me to the park of Lyon, La Parc de la Tete d'Or. We toured the greenhouses of tropical trees, carnivorous plants and familiar cacti. It was nice; I took a few photos of lily pads and such.

But I had no idea what was coming.

That's right. This park has elephants. And tigers, bears, crocodiles, flamigos and giraffes. Who thought, right next door to all the baguettes and cheese and everything?

In truth, though, the sight was sad. These exotic creatures had only small spaces in which to roam, and they were definitely not at home. And I don't need to rhyme to tell you that.

Then I bought us ice-cream.

Today was a good day. I carried on a 10-hour French conversation, learned how to make coconut flan, and received semi-confirmation of an apartment to rent (though it'll pretty much cost me my life savings).

And now it's time to push over my bulging suitcases, roll out my futon bed, and hope that I get a good night's sleep. Bonne nuit.

La Bienvenue à Lyon

2009-09-26T05:47:00.000-07:00

Bonjour tout le monde!

Hi everyone! Maggie here with an update on her life in Lyon, France. I arrived two days ago in a flurry of Air Canada plane flights, a TGV train trip, and too-much-luggage to be met at the Lyon Part Dieu train station by the lovely Geraldine, the Spanish language teacher at the lycée, or high school, where I'll be teaching. For the moment, I'm staying with her in her tiny appartement close to Part Dieu.

Am I experiencing culture shock? YES. Is it better than the first time I decided to live in France? YES. If you're wondering why this blog is entitled "Franglish Deux," or "Franglish Two," you can check out the original "Franglish," about my study abroad experience in Paris in 2007, at maggieinparis.blogspot.com.

So, by day two of my 7-month adventure, I've purchased my first baguette, sampled a few cheeses, and already crossed a huge length of the city on foot. But now is not the time to enjoy the charm of Lyon, unfortunately. I'm desperately searching for a place to live (which is why I traversed the entire city today--on foot, because all the buses are on strike, of course--so French!). I found a few today, one which is charming on the inside, and the other which is charming on the outside. Go figure.

I also have to open a French bank account, get a French cell phone, and (soon) get a French health check-up (just to make sure I'm not bringing chicken pox into the country, I suppose). These times are stressful, but I'm getting used to everything being different and my French is already improving.

I visited my high schools, Louis Aragon and Pablo Picasso (which are on the same campus--one's a technical school), yesterday, where I filled out some paperwork on the o-so-French 8.5 x 12 in. paper and ate some fried fish on a heap of peas and ultra sweet grapes for lunch at the "cantine"--the first meal I could officially swallow since being here.

On my walk home today (for which I stupidly wore my un-broken-in new tennies), I encountered a merry-go-round, a French-reggae band, ridiculously talented trick-rollerbladers (jealous), and a man on a motorcycle with a baby pink Hello Kitty helmet. Despite the stress, I have to admit, it's been a good day. :)

Over and out.

(Caption: A big pile of shoes.)