Braving the Storm: some sappy holiday parables

The lights had to brave the storm, too. The Christmas disco ball in the marché was a'swinging.

It has been a strange week. A storm hit La Rochelle and pushed everyone indoors. I like to translate the French word tempête into Tempest (capital T), because it better describes the dramatic weather that has rushed down upon La Rochelle. If you walk out in the streets the wind seems to come from all directions, whipping around, often with extreme gusts of rain. On Thursday night, Erin came to La Rochelle for a last minute visit, and we ducked from café to bar to restaurant, in the periods when the rain stopped briefly. We wandered into the right bars though, and ended up spending the evening with a hilarious group of friends, including one whose father owned the bar.

I don't know if I've mentioned that since my little incident with le bus, I've lost my head a little. I feel fine physically, but am always a step behind myself. Last weekend I left my cellphone in the covoiturage and it still hasn't arrived in the mail. I forget things more than often. I seem to keep getting colds. My computer had a scrape with hard drive failure. Yesterday I boarded the wrong train and thought I was en route to Paris (luckily I ended up in La Rochelle). The storm didn't help, often turning me into a drowned rat. It did, however, make it seem like the world was with me in my chaotic state.

These recent bouts of misfortune have made me doubt myself a little. Everything was going so well before. I wondered if there were things I wasn't doing that had brought it upon me. Should I have tried harder to salvage my sour housing situation a couple of weeks ago? Should I work harder to please everyone? Should I not stay in French cafés and use the internet for as long as I do? This last one shows how silly anxiety can be sometimes. However silly they may be, these doubts kept me from falling back asleep when the wind woke me up in the night midweek.

I realized towards the end of the week, though, that I need to stop counting my little misfortunes. I am happy, strangely not upset or even emotional about missing Christmas with my family at home. The miracle workers at the Apple store spent an hour repairing and updating my Macbook, while letting me play on the sample computers. I got my broken bike back from the shop, and suddenly even the wheel-powered lights work. I no longer have to ride around without brakes, relying on the hard soles of my sneakers (don't worry, I walked down any slopes and always wear my helmet despite the fact that strangers laugh at me for it). A pair of funny biochemistry professors for whom I record English voice-over for their video lessons (I am an honorary member of their “Dream Team”) invited me over for brunch tomorrow. Katia and I had a happy, tension-less conversation at school, assuring me that she doesn't hold a grudge. Even though Erin and I got seriously soaked as we bent against the wind to walk to the station on Friday morning, only to see that the trains were delayed because of a fallen tree, we both got where we were going, and I even met a couple of other assistants at my final visa appointment.

And last night, another parable-like experience reminded me that my luck always balances out for the better. I rode my bike through the wind to stand under the Grosse Horloge (the big port clock) and wait for the group of assistants who were supposed to meet there to go for “au revoir” drinks before the holidays. I soon realized if they had decided to stay in because of the weather, I would have no idea, still missing my phone and internet. Another girl was waiting too, and after I heard her speak in English to some passersby I asked if she was also waiting for the assistants. She said no, that she was waiting for someone else, but that she was an American studying abroad. She invited me to come for drinks with them if the others didn't show. Because it was cold out, I soon accepted, and had drinks in the cozy Irish pub with the girl Kimberly and her French friend, Matt. They turned out to be really fun and welcoming and though Kim heads back to the states today, I'm sure I will see Matt again.

If I would have had my phone, I probably would have ended up back at home. The storm passed in the night, and today the sun has returned. I met Charlie for tea at the literary, Left Bank c. 1920's-esque Café de la Paix before she flew home for the holidays, and made myself a lovely lunch with veggies and fresh bread from the marché. I even got a very special package in from the post office.

I suppose my luck can only be so bad, living in beautiful La Rochelle in an apartment that I love and going to Spain for Christmas in three days! Xoxoxo. 

Dotin' on Dotan ('s hospitality)

There is something strange and exciting about intense weather. Last night the wind was so strong I thought it was a train. This morning it began to pour and the rain blew around in waves. Everyone is soaked, their cheeks red from rushing through the water. It's kind of funny. A prof offers me a ride home, and we run through the rain to his car, hopping over puddles, clutching our bags. I run from his car to my door and a guy holds the door open for me so I won't have to fumble with my keys. I thank him, my bangs dripping. This rain also forces french sounds out of me, usually “ouuf,” sigh.

This weekend, however, we got lucky. Erin and I traveled from Saintes to Niort to Melle and back, which involved a bit of waiting and wandering here and there, and it seemed only to pour once we got in a car and stop before we got out. Watching rain from a backseat is pretty pleasing. Also pleasing was our experience with covoiturage, an internet-based ridesharing forum that everyone from hippy to business man seems to use in Europe. Our ride from Saintes to Niort was with a cute 20-something photographer who had a little dog, Flex, in the back seat giving us love the hour long ride. The ride back to Niort from Melle was in a big white bus/truck/camper with an extra license plate reading FUCK G8 and dried roses hanging from the rearview mirror. Jeremie, the driver, had a little cat that accompanied him and curled up in his lap the whole ride.

The drizzle was also particularly becoming in Melle, which is a hilly village in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by green and views of overlapping french roofs. Erin and I met Dotan, an intelligent, wholesome guy from BC, on the first training day and have wanted to visit him and his French girlfriend Elise since then. Unsurprisingly, they turned out to be top-notch hosts. Erin and I felt like we were on a vacation in the countryside staying in a cozy bed and breakfast, never mind that our bed was in Dotan's livingroom/diningroom/bedroom. Together they made us delicious risotto with mushrooms and chorizo and treated us to glasses of Pastiche (an anise-y liquor that turns cloudy white when you add water) and another aperitif from the other side of France that tastes like trees and flowers. It is made by monks with 170 (I think) different herbs and flowers collected from the region.

After dinner, a couple rounds of hearts and some vin chaud, we went down the local bar. It says something about Melle that one of the town's two pubs is collectively-run association, often hosting concerts and brewing their own beer. They were out of house beer, but we tried some other microbrew that was delicious. Since I arrived, I've been pretty smitten with the Belgian wheat beers like Leffe, but this reminded me of the complex, yummy microbrews that the NW and apparently certain small French towns are spoiled with. We also admired the life-size paper maché trumpeting man that hangs above the counter, which made me miss Portland quirk a little less.

In the morning Dotan solidified our high rating of their appartment B&B by serving us hot espresso and crepes. Because the crepes had milk in them, he made me two perfect fried eggs. And I'm not just being flowery, Erin can vouch that these were some good lookin' eggs. Warm and happy we went walking all over Melle. Dotan took us through the countryside, down little paths, into beautiful stone cathedrals and through two old clothes-washing pools. The landscape is different from La Rochelle, and I welcomed the autumn colors, the taller trees and the rolling hills. It rained lightly, but we agreed that it was quite fitting for our cozy little vacation. Xoxo, and thanks again to Dotan and Elise.

Christmas in the Air

Truth be told, I didn't buy anything at the Christmas Market or in the shops that line the streets of Bordeaux. We enjoyed our day immensely though. Wait,  I did buy a delicious sausage in a pretzel (Christmas Markets are traditionally German, right?) and a cup of spiced wine. Perfectly Christmas.

The day began beautifully, though it rained on and off. We started in a huge outdoor antiques market which was complete with multiple stuffed foxes.

We found the loveliest little tea room that was decorated in British Victorian style. Too many tables and too many cakes were packed into the room, but it gave it a cozy feeling that was perfect given the rain outside. My outfit matched the decor and Charlie ate three slices of cake : ) She jokes that my lactose intolerance will make her fat. Never!

Chez moi + Jeanette Winterson

Last Sunday evening after all of my friends went back to their respective villes, I came home. I'm still not used to walking behind the eerily lit Porte Royale, which with its palm trees and lack of historic description is one of the most out of place monuments I've seen, but the blue and yellow of the apartment welcomes me. On Saturday night as we sat around, eating curry and drinking wine, I took my stack of photos out and taped them up in nice patterns around the square brown light switches. So when I came home to an empty place, it was already a little bit of my own. It's the perfect little apartment too, with a separate bathroom, living room, bedroom, and tiny, but well-equipped kitchen.

The windows were fogged up when I got in. The sun was almost down, and the air was La Rochelle blue-gray. Before I closed my bedroom curtains, I blew on the glass and wiped it clean. I've never lived in an apartment before, and this is the kind where you barely ever see anyone else. It's a strange idea, living in my own little compartment in a big building, with other people on all sides, doing what they do. Like traveling solo, living alone seems to give me some extra space in my head.

The lack of WiFi also gives me more space and time to read. For French practice, I have been reading graphic novels. I found this one in French at the Mediatheque, which is actually set in Portland, Oregon, and contains scribbles of all my favorite cafés and bridges, and panoramas with Mt. Hood couched in the background. What are the chances? When it comes to before-bed reading, though, I welcome English books.

My teacher lent me Jeannette Winterson's Written on the Body, which turned out to be one of the most beautiful love stories I've read. The prose is lyric and sometimes dense, but is grounded in interesting and personal detail. Masterfully structured, the story is compact and consistently moves forward despite the narrator's bouts of stagnant poetics and recounting of past relationships. The gender of the narrator is left undeclared, but knowing that JW is publicly queer makes this question less of an exclusion. It is, however, impressive how neutral the details are, and the neutral relationship I had with the narrator. She is subtle but always present, and never figures herself as authoritative, heroic or even very reliable. The ending is just as neutral, and while this may frustrate some, it works. This is a good winter book, even though the coziest scenes are in the narrator's country cottage where she goes to lonesomely persevere through her loss. It may be about regret, but the regret is presented in a way that makes you think, not cry.

Lessons on Rain and Chocolate

It is a normal occurrence in Portland to walk outside just when the rain is the heaviest. You sit inside doing homework all morning, and the second you walk out the door for class it begins to pour. If you wait a couple of minutes, it might subside. Sometimes when it starts, though, you know it won't stop for days.

Knowing that system isn't much of a help in Portland. Every now and then, without fail, the city will faithfully soak you. In La Rochelle, however, the rain seems more manageable. This morning I watched it drizzle lightly outside, but when I finally gathered all of my things and went outside, the rain was blowing around in sheets. For this, an umbrella is no help. Within seconds, my whole front was wet and a couple of seconds later, the rain had died down. So that's how it will work...

I suppose I'm happy to know La Rochelle isn't always an idyllically sunny place, which might make me worry. Speaking of idyllic places, yesterday evening Charlie, her roommate Thomas and I met at the Salon de Chocolate, a festival of all things chocolate. Yes, this was a Good Thing. And because you had to pay a bit to get in, I didn't feel guilty trying everything. It was also great going with Charlie because she asks a lot of questions, and the French love to talk about their food.

Chocolate, gorgeous macaroons, canelé cakes, Charlie and Thomas sipping on chocolate wine

Charlie knows what makes a good macaroon: the difficult little lip around the edges of each cookie. She finally found a table of perfect macaroons, some of them with shiny colored stripes of brushed egg-whites. We also found some adorable candied vegetables.

The Christmas decorations went on last night, lighting up centre ville in festive color. Fitting with French secularism, the lights aren't particularly Christmas-y. Many of the light banners across the roads represent something Rochellais, like the two towers or boats under wispy clouds. There is even a disco ball and some trippy laser lights (red and green of course). I love the cozy familiarity of the holiday season, and can't wait for tomorrow when Charlie and I tromp to Bordeaux for their Christmas market. There is a market here as well, but her students suggested Bordeaux, and we figure we should experience the best. I'm sure that will warrant another post quite soon  : ) Til then. xoxo

Thanksgiving

Is it just me or is there something really pretty about dead grass?

The (ex)Salt Marshes by my old maison.

Today the weather in La Rochelle is perfectly Thanksgiving-esque. It is chilly, but crisp. The sky was foggy this morning, but by the time we got out of the house, the clouds had broken into blue. Today I want to drive down the I-5 from Portland with my favorite sister, talking about how much we love Oregon and going home. I want to get dressed up in tights and a dress and go to Fred's for last minute Thanksgiving ingredients with my dad. I want to wait for friends to come over, have some type of seasonal cocktail with my mom, make a fruity vegan dessert, and eat a lot.

I won't do any of these things today, but that's alright. Even if it wasn't Thanksgiving, it would be apropos for me to make a list of thanks. Last Friday morning I went to Poitiers for the last of my visa appointments and somehow walked into the crosswalk right in front of a slow moving city bus. I don't remember seeing the bus, but I do remember being on the ground, surrounded by EMT's, my friends asking me questions about La Rochelle and my housing situation to keep me awake. And I stayed awake! After an ambulance ride, spending hours in a heavy-duty neck brace, having my favorite sweater and jacket cut off me and getting handfuls of head and neck scans, my young doctor told me absolutely nothing was wrong. No concussion, no fractures, no hemorrhages. Not even any stitches. A little war wound on the tête, a tiny shaved patch of hair, a whole-body ache, but that's it. I spent the night in the hospital for surveillance, feeling dazed and head-achey, but left in the morning. Though I looked like a pirate in my tattered clothes and bruises, I was awake and happy to be walking. My reaction to the shock has taken all week to subside, resulting in mild vertigo, headaches, and fatigue, but I'm starting to feel normal again. For this, I am incredibly thankful!

Other things to be thankful for:

-A lovely new apartment.
-Great colleagues who constantly look out for me and my weirdly affordable accommodations (said apartment, old polka-dotted room).
-The fact that I look and feel good with bangs.
-Getting paid a living wage for 12 hrs. a week.
-The fact that I have been able to hang out with Hannah in multiple places around Europe!
-The fact that Hannah came JUST when I needed some taking care of.
-YOU!

xoxo, more soon.

New Bangs; New Bangs in New Apartment.

Indecision and Food (always a good combination)

Is it a sign that the evening I decide to move out I have a lovely time with my faux-family? Katia pours me wine and I eat my polenta and veggies at the table with them. She makes them speak English which makes me giggle. After dinner she goes to the theatre, and I am left to play UNO with Anna who was previously a little skiddish around me. She laughs her head off when she wins, doing a headstand and flopping around on the couch. The kids begin to take interest in the muffins that I put in the oven. Anna stands at my side when I take the first batch out of the oven, and Louna says in English "you're a cook!" I would correct her and say "chef," but today in one of my classes a girl drew the word "chef" from the box of words to describe to the class. She started with "politics," "left, right," "makes decisions," "at the head of".... You get the point. CHIEF, CHEF. Everybody repeat. 

After I fill the last pan of muffins, I offer the bowl to Anna to lick clean (the joys of vegan baking). She knows there's zucchini in these muffins, so politely declines by running into the living room. Eventually, though, I get them to try the muffins and they are happily surprised that the muffins don't taste like vegetables at all! And, with all of the chopped dates and apple sauce, they are super sweet. Find the recipe here, at Gena's Choosing Raw blog. I am terrible at following recipes to the tee, but this time I tried. And it was a little too dry. I added about 1/4 more milk, in case you make them, which you should.

Two things I am sure of: Creamy Coconut Parsnip "Rice" + Sweet Potatoes and Zucchini Date Muffins.

When I tell these kids they make a lot of weird noises, they might think it's a complaint. It might be when these noises are Anna playing the accordion on a Saturday morning or Robin jumping up and down to music in his room (this is an old house). Usually though, it means that I like them. Just as I like our joint meals and me walking around through their day-to-day life, giggling at the weird things they do or rolling my eyes at their whining. Just as I like my talks with Katia in the evenings and going to wander the flea markets together on Sundays. Lately, random spats and explosions have outweighed these good things, but right when I decide to move out, into a vacant one bedroom apartment in town, all of the good things reappear two-fold. Hmmm... I guess only time will tell. Better decision-making abilities could also do the trick, but they are lacking around here. 

So I know I wouldn't be leaving behind my succulent, my French glass bottle, or all of my pictures. But they are so comfortable here already...

While at the Villeneuve market yesterday, which is in the suburb near my school and miles cheaper than the La Rochelle one, I did decide to pursue another recipe I have been considering on Gena's blog: Creamy Coconut Parsnip Rice with Carmelized Squash (which became sweet potatoes, potentially "carmelized" in the frying pan). Food-processor chopped raw parsnips are rice-look-a-likes for raw vegans, btw. At first I didn't get it either. I added raw spinach to my parsnips, a bit more curry powder and cocomilk and it was delishhhh. Good decision right there. <3

Prag, Praha, Prague: Better late than never

We arrive on the outskirts of Prague after a bumpy jaunt through the Czech countryside. “Yes! I finally found the shortcut,” our rideshare driver tells us when the freeway finally comes back into view. When I was hitchhiking alone in New Zealand "shortcuts" spurred my imagination into terrifying potentials. In Europe, with a car full of other young travelers, they are far more entertaining. Especially when they leave us at a rural subway stop where we want to use the toilet but can't decipher the words for "women" and "men." Luckily the attendant gestures us in the right direction.

On the subway into the city everyone faces forward, expressionless. Hannah and I chatter about where to get off. We feel too loud and too excited for the Czechs. The only people smiling on the train are a mother and her middle-aged daughter who touch up each other's faces with their fingers and spit, giggling. They, like everyone else we see, are bundled up in puffy parkas and scarves. Most women wear some type of synthetic leather or sequins and tight black heels of some sort. There are a disproportionate number of male mullets. It is my first time in Eastern Europe. It shouldn't surprise me that the fashion, the outward public appearance and the customs of sociability are different, but it does a little.

We get off the subway in the middle of Wenceslas Square and walk to our hostel, happy that the air is much milder than Berlin's that morning. The hostel turns out to be a really nice, kind of trendy place. If I were to visit Prague again, though, I would make sure to couchsurf or stay with friends or friends, for the local culture seems very hard to find. The central areas are milling with tourists, but the Czechs seem entirely removed from this world. We saw only a very picturesque surface of castles, pubs, mulled wine and people going somewhere. Though in contrast to Berlin there is something very interesting about a culture that doesn't pop out at you.

With the expert guidance of a Portland friend who used to live as a journalist in Prague, we explored the most beautiful parts of the city. He gave us precise directions to take the 22 tram, which conveniently ran right past our hostel, to the stop at the top of the Castle District. From here, many lanes run down the hill, either through the Strahov Monastery vineyard, a grand forest park, or the Prague Castle. Our first trip down was in the late afternoon. The clouds cleared, bathing the vineyard and all of the quaint rooftops of Prague in a pinkish light. We took far too many pictures. The paths led us down into the Malá Strana neighborhood and across the Charles Bridge, which is closed to cars and lined with impressive gothic statues. From each point of this walk, the views were incredible. The next evening we took the 22 tram later in the day, stopping at the top for a dinner at Maly Buddha, which is another key stop on our tour guide's walk. So good, so cheap, and such a lovely zen ambiance. I can still taste the mint-ginger tea and the deep-fried whole banana drizzled in honey that I had for dessert.

Walking down from Prague Castle on our last night.

Prague Highlights:

THE WALK[s] and Maly Buddha, thanks again J.

The Kafka Museum: This was the first literary museum I have ever been too. Alongside the expected photos, manuscripts and life story, the museum presents in depth analyses of Kafka's life and works, focusing on handfuls of difficult issues and theoretical stances. The museum isn't for everyone (don't take your kids), but is ideal for any literature student or Kafkaphile. The exhibit has been created by passionate and dedicated scholars and even includes interpretative video installations that animate Kafka's sketches. After seeing the exhibit, it was difficult not to align the gray Prague surface that we had earlier noted with Kafka's closed, bureaucratic Prague of the early 1900s. I wonder what he would have to say about all of the tourists...

Radost FX: Vegan/Vegetarian/Club/Café/Restaurant/Potential Hub of Prague's gay scene. At the suggestion of our hostel, we went to Radost to find some veggie eats. No, traditional Czech cuisine doesn't quite cater to this.

The Charles Bridge; K at the K Museum.

Escales Documentaire II: The Ballad of Genesis and Lady Jaye

The many faces of Genesis P Orrige and Lady Jaye.

 Walking into this documentary never having heard of Genesis may have given me the ideal experience of the film. It is only half way through the film that I realized that Genesis is a big deal, recording with Peaches and the YeahYeahYeahs, selling books like mad, lecturing academics about pandrogyny, and hanging around all of the most important avant gardes. As the film began and moved between the bizarre and the quotidian I was forced to constantly reevaluate my expectations, or leave them completely out of my control. 'So this film is about a love affair,' I first thought. It is about fetishism. It is about the history of industrial music. It is about pandrogyny. It is about Genesis...

Yes, it is all about Genesis P'Orrige. I never fully understood Lady Jaye. Genesis sits before a camera and holds down keys on the electric piano that scream "yes" until you cringe. She pushes a floppy toy doll to her implanted breast, which she reveals about every 5 minutes throughout the film. Another cringe. The film revealed my automatic and ignorant response to performance art: it is about the performer, even if it is about something else.

It seems egocentric and is at times very unpleasant to watch, but the jarring nature of Genesis' performance creates an appropriately unstable stage for her philosophy. And though it may be entirely about Genesis, that doesn't mean a thing, as she is a living artistic embodiment of her own philosophy.  Genesis raises from the start the issue of creating, from the joining of two, a third. She addresses it with music: as two electric violins pound madly together, the music is above her, apart from her, out of her control.

Admittedly borrowing from friend William Burroughs, she primarily uses this idea to explain the course of her bigger-than-love affair with Lady Jaye. She talks about the type of love that makes you want to consume another, be one with another. The metaphor of the orgasm. To physically obtain this, Genesis and Lady Jaye began to make "cut-ups" of themselves to look more alike, having plastic surgery, getting breast implants, dressing alike. The film never gets too theoretical about pandrogyny, but presents it through these two lives. At one point they both agree, "I have always thought of my body as a suitcase."

Genesis's "I" eventually becomes "we." Because it doesn't occur until the end of the film (that I noticed) so you are left to wonder about it. Just as you are left to wonder about Genesis and your own reaction to her. The film presents the systems that we are conditioned to want, those Genesis throws out the window, her naked breasts hanging over the sill, I'm sure. Probably not the best film to see with people uncomfortable with issues of sexuality, but interesting all the same.

Berlin by Night (and morning)

Night Life: Hannah dancing at Kater Holzig as the sun comes up; even the grand museums in Berlin are nocturnally exciting. This crazy light projection is part of the Berlin Lights Festival.

My last full day in Berlin had a watercolor beginning. The light of night and morning bled together in the frames of the club windows. We wandered outside as the light pollution-gray sky began melt into small white clouds. The courtyard of Kater Holzig ends in layered wooden docks along the river Spree (in pirate ship fashion). The morning there seemed crisp and poetic, which is far more than you might expect from a club that is open from Thursday night to Monday morning with a regular crowd that enters in the morning, or the afternoon, and stays for what seems like days.

I came to Kater Holzig my first night out in Berlin worried that I would be far too sober to handle the techno-heavy Berlin club scene. A beer and a Club Maté (fizzy bottled tea) almost made me forget that I was getting over a no-good phlegmy cold, but my energy level was low. This all changed when we passed through the courtyard, which is draped in lights, paintings, and sculptures, into the first room of the club. I have never considered myself a techno fan, but the music in Berlin literally lifts you. We ended up staying until around 6 am.

Before I arrived Hannah had ooo'd and ahhh'd to me about clubbing in Berlin. She made it sound like every young person did it, but that some clubs were harder to get into than others (outside Kater Holzig we stood before an older woman on a couch for what seemed like minutes before she waved us in...). I said I could "glam it up," but that isn't the direction in which Berlin leans. As we walked the streets my first few days I looked around, trying to figure out the "club type" person. I figured it out my first late night on the metro. Everybody goes clubbing. In other cities, one might say everyone goes to shows, or to coffee shops. In Berlin it's clubbing. There are as many different kinds of clubs as there are restaurants. We found ourselves in a little dubstep club one night, with mostly young guys who probably still lived with their moms. The music was phenomenal. On Halloween (before returning to the Kater Holzig) we wandered into Kreuzberg's SO 36, which was hosting the biggest Turkish gay dance party I could ever imagine--huge colorful draping and a Middle Eastern pop soundtrack that everyone seemed to know the words to.

It is in the clubs that I discovered the energy of Berlin. The nocturnal club scene is far from a dark underbelly. It is a creative, cultural space, beating hard with the best sound systems in the world. Obviously my semi-sober, vacation experience of this space is, like my first impression of most anything, overly optimistic. In the high ceiling'ed white kitchen of Hannah's apartment we had many conversations with her roommate Raquel about the drugged out demise of many Berliners, who can't say no and live for the music and the scene. We had to wonder about her and her own experience with the techno scene, as she moved to Germany from Australia when she was 12 with no German, and now giggles all the time (usually in an adorable way) and sometimes forgets how to speak English ... Perhaps the scene is better for visiters? Don't tell any real Berliner I said that...

photo courtesy of www.katerholzig.de

The docks of Kater Holzig. Earlier in the night we were at a bar with Halloween makeup. By the end of the night my "scary eyes" looked more like runny eye-liner. So it goes.

Leaving Kater Holzig. I really hope I'll be back.

What I've Been Reading, Snijders + L.Davis

Speaking of obsessions, I did a section of my Reed thesis on Lydia Davis and have been stalking her around the internet ever since (which I clearly have far too much time to do). Yesterday I found her translation of Dutch short, short story writer A.L Snijders's text from "The Mole and Other Very Short Animal Stories," which was published in the online journal Asymptote. She is a well-known translator of Proust and other French writers, thus my first thought was, wow, I didn't know LD spoke Dutch.

Turns out, she doesn't. In the translator's notes (one of the reasons I like reading lit mag translations), Davis writes: 

"I had not thought of translating from the Dutch until I visited Amsterdam last May. A book of my own had just come out there, published by Atlas. I was very pleased by the whole experience—the visit and the book—and thought I would like  to offer something in return by attempting to translate some work from Dutch. Preferably short-short stories, since that form was so natural for me, and preferably not too difficult, since I had no previous acquaintance with the language." 

This changes my whole perception of translation, which I always took to require a strong enough knowledge of a language to get creative with it. Apparently not, as Davis uses only the internet, a "tiny, yellow, stained travel dictionary," and Dutch speaking friends. On the other hand, it only enforced my conclusions that however dedicated Davis is to language, for her a source of a career and constant refiguring, she views it's accuracy rather lightly, always a part of a game. Unsurprisingly the subject of these pieces is also playful, like the cows whose action and inaction she narrates in Cows, her most recent publication. 

As to Snijders's storie,s they are pleasing in just the way that Davis's are, and seem to trouble over similar issues. He touches on philosophical questions, while describing the ordinarily banal:

"I have never—and that is very difficult—seen a mole. Via language, certainly, I have certainly heard him described, but I have never seen him, in my life the mole is a creature that is never seen, like the crab that lives eight kilometers deep in the Indian Ocean and that no one has ever seen, not even my neighbor."

In this case he addresses Davis's own favorite question of how much we, as human observers, can ever know, especially through language. Both are wonderfully true to the smallest of human observations all the same. I truly enjoyed Snijder's stories, and if you have never read such short pieces of this prose-poetry hybrid, you must read them, and if they peak your interest, Davis's Collected Stories.

Patti Smith: A Dream of Life

La Rochelle has already gifted me with a handful of new obsessions: running, the sea, trying to make pastries without copious amounts of dairy. Another came last night in the form of "A Dream of Life," a documentary about the obsession-worthy Patti Smith, screened by La Rochelle's upcoming Escales Documentaires.

The film, released by Stephen Sebring in 2008 after over ten years of footage, begins with a flickering montage, dark and transitory. Knowing little about Smith besides her music, this made me expect the typical rock star storyline, one of dangerous beauty, idealized abuse and loss. As the film moves to a shot of Smith in a corner of her apartment, displaying tiny icons of her life, the subtle eeriness continues, but Smith's smile deeply impacts my first impression of her. In this corner, which Sebring often returns to, the loving intimacy of the film becomes clear.

Beginning with Smith as a gray older woman, the debris of her life sitting around her in the room, her cat sunning on a window sill, the film identifies itself with wisdom and personal philosophy over Smith's punk rock youth. Smith's rough voice runs behind Sebring's footage, presenting a guiding philosophy early on: "Life is an adventure of our own design intersected by fate and a series of lucky and unlucky accidents." This aged woman, with hair like scattered straw, contrasts with the singsong girl in earlier footage of concerts and life at the Chelsea Hotel where she ran among the beats. However, her joie de vivre seems only to grow with her age. She wears a black cloak and often looks like a thinning man, but she glows.

My favorite scene follows Smith to her family's New Jersey home. She walks out to the backyard with her father and the dog and the film slows as they discuss which trees her father planted, which her brother planted. In the house she holds her mother's hand and they talk about how their ears have been blown out by their daughter's music and about the time she played a private show for them because her father had to get home before the concert. Before leaving Smith eats a hamburger alone at the table, and as they drive off the parents stand at the gate waving.

These scenes demonstrate Smith's comfort with and understanding about the spaces around her.  At one point in the film, Smith talks of life and death and concedes that she is comfortable remembering the past and looking towards the future, "As I tramp about in my mortal shoes." The cinematography effectively imitates this comfort. The film puts greater weight in Smith's personality and creative mind than her musical career, though it does include many powerful scenes on stage. "A Dream of Life," isn't only about Patti Smith, but collaborates with her to share a rather graceful view of the world.

For those reading in La Rochelle, my first experience with the documentary festival was so positive, I want to go to many other films next week. For others, Smith also recently published an award-winning book Just Kids, which I now must read. Her words are really something--I'd suggest you do the same.

Berlin by Day

Though we rarely made it out of the house at a decent hour, we saw an impressive amount of Berlin in the daylight. My first evening in Berlin we walked through Mitte, the central district marked by a mildly bourgy culture, for the city's standards, and an enormous radio tour à la Seattle, which is visible from almost anywhere in the city. Our tour around the neighborhood first introduced the art that came to define Berlin for me.

The Fernsehturm Tower, courtesy of Hannah and crazy natural lighting.

Imagine the little surprises that hide around Portland-the tiny horses tied to the sidewalks, the colors splashed in the street intersections, the artsy wooden benches-plus the diverse and beautiful street art of San Francisco, and multiply that times one thousand. Then you'll have a basic sketch of Berlin. I am comparing it to these things that I know, because it seems to be everything I love in a city put together. Behind the storefronts, even in Mitte, there are large courtyards and open spaces, including giant fields and abandoned buildings-turned-galleries.

This first evening we stumbled upon Tascheles, one of the biggest urban gallery spaces in the city, and center of the independent art scene in Berlin. It is housed in a huge building whose backside was bombed out in WWII. Instead of repairing the brick, the backside was walled with thick glass, reminding visitors of the city's history and it's truly artistic relationship with that history.

Tascheles: You can barely tell that the back wall is glass because of all the graffiti. I felt strange taking pictures within the work spaces. They were far more personalized than these staircase corridors.

 Squatting artists not only display their art in separate workshops but they also live there. So alongside a woman paper-machéing giant Day of the Dead puppets, you also see artists making dinner, sleeping, or drinking with friends. There is music and graffiti everywhere. There are dogs. Paint fumes are strong, and it is gritty, to say the least. Some rooms are darker than others. Here you can sense that some artists have hit the rough side of their lifestyles. These rooms have old shit stacked in front of their doorways. There were many no-photograph signs, and the artists didn't really interact with the guests. It was more like viewing an exhibition of life, and that is a little unsettling. While fascinating, the place reeks of the mal-effects tourism has had on the Berlin art world.

H + K, guilty as charged of street-art tourism.

Wandering around Berlin on foot, we saw history presented by the art as well as the many juxtapositions between old and new. We craved, however, a deeper knowledge of the many layers of difficult history behind the Berlin of today. We found these stories in a free walking tour that began on a frigid but sunny Saturday afternoon, stretching into the evening. I think that these tours can range from cheesy to boring, but our guide Tom was spectacular. One of our first stops was the Holocaust Memorial, the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, an entire city block filled with concrete blocks of varied sizes. The ground beneath the monument ripples in depth, creating a cold, unsettling space as you walk further in. Tom discussed the openness of interpretation of the memorial, suggesting among many effects that of isolation, fear and loss of reference. For when you stand deep in the memorial you catch glimpses of people passing in the corridors around you, but they quickly disappear in the maze.

From the memorial Tom led us to a group of nondescript apartment buildings. Deep below the lot, he explained, lies the remains of Hitler's bunker, where he and Eva Braun committed suicide in 1945. It is points like these, unmarked by plaques and couched within the urban landscapes, which are meaningless without a guide but hold chilling stories and exemplify the way the city has chosen to deal with it's troubling past. Nothing is forgotten, nor memorialized in unnecessary ways.

Very different in tone from the Holocaust memorials are those that speak of the GDR, the socialist republic that ruled East Germany from 1949 to 1989. Berlin lay deep within East German territory but was divided between the Allies and the GDR. As the intense restrictions that came to define the GDR grew, the Berlin Wall was constructed around West Germany literally overnight in 1961, cutting the city in half and separating East German's from family, friends, and potential freedom. As life in West Berlin moved along with modernity, East Germany, including it's part of Berlin, stopped in time. Tom told us a joke that exemplified this, as well as the intensity of bureaucracy in the GDR: A man orders a new car and the salesperson tells him that it will arrive at his home on January 5th, seven years from then. The man responds by asking exactly what time the new car will arrive on the 5th. The salesperson is puzzled. Why would it matter what time, seven years from now?" "Because," the man responds, "My new telephone is supposed to arrive in the afternoon on that day." 

Our tour ended on the steps of a grand museum, where we sat and listened to Tom's fabulous retelling of the events of 1989 when the wall came down. After over 3 decades, the travel restrictions were lifted entirely in one press conference when the man in charge made a terrible mistake. Before he even knew what he had said, people were moving in masse to the checkpoints. It was a rather beautiful story, as was that of the peaceful revolution in Leipzig earlier that year. When the stories were finished, everyone was clapping. Thanks Tom!

Other notable Berlinerthings:

Mauerpark Flea Market: A giant flea market held every Sunday in the semi-posh but artsy Prenzlauer Berg, one of our favorite Berlin neighborhoods. Some of the booths border on stupid-expensive, especially when the goods are simple secondhand finds. The people-watching is superb, and the park's grassy amphitheater is also home to a stadium sized Karaoke fest every Sunday. The quirkiness of this city is pretty epic.

Morgenrot Vegan Collective: Also in Prenzlauer Berg, this café has a damn good all you can eat vegan breakfast buffet. Need I say more?

The first of many platefuls at Morgenrot my first Sunday morning.

A boat trip down the River Spree: My grandma's friend Heinz graciously met Hannah and I and took us on an hour-long boat trip along the Spree river, which runs through the heart of Berlin. It was peaceful and provided an intimate view of the city's impressive and varied architecture, as we floated past both the classic buildings of museum island and the slickly modern parliamentary ones that symbolically helped Berlin move forward after the reunification in 1990.

Thanks Heinz! What a great way to see Berlin.

The East Side Gallery: A huge strip of the Berlin Wall that has become the world's largest outdoor art gallery. The color's are phenomenal and the art is diverse, from professional artists all over the world. Much of it speaks to the freedoms, values and love that this world needs to avoid fascism and hatred. That's an overly simple summary--each mural is huge and powerful in it's own way, and you are free to walk down the wall at your own pace in the open air. Another example of why visiting Berlin didn't feel at all rushed or touristy. There is so much space and so many isolated smatterings of art and history that it felt like we were discovering it all on our own terms.

East/West

Some of the art was much better than others, and this one took the cake. If only I could understand what it says.

À demain, Berlin

I am sitting at my computer, wrapped up to my eyes in the enormous orange scarf that Katia lent me for my trip to Berlin. It is more like a fleece blanket. "You will need this," she told me, smiling slyly as if I were in for the unexpected. Which happens to be exactly what I am looking forward to.

This week has been a tad strange, because I have been on the verge of sickness, aka incredibly sleepy all the time. It hasn't been good for the speaking two languages game, but it hasn't seemed to negatively effect my teaching. As the week passed, I became more comfortable and energetic with my classes, and I think my comfort is rubbing off on them. This afternoon, as we were working in small groups to plan our 'dream vacations,' a girl asked me, in hesitant but focused English, "What is your life like in America? Is it different than my life here?"

The fact that her interest in US life overpowered her fear of speaking English says a lot. So many students, after ooo-ing and ahh-ing at my photos of Oregon and California, tell me how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful place. The use the word "beautiful" to describe all of America, even New York City. It's so funny to me because truthfully, I told her, life isn't that different.

I need to sleep to wake up for my 5:45 train to Paris, but I'm sure I will be writing more about finding the balance between learning, speaking and fun in my lessons, and figuring out the attitudes and strengths of all my different classes. Report back in 10 days!! xoxox

Food Blog Pretense, Ep. 2: Vegan Moussaka

On Hawthorne in Portland there is a Lebanese restaurant situated in a big old craftsman house. It is relatively new and called TarBoush. I feel bad bringing people there because all I can say is "Well, I eat the moussaka, and it is ridiculously delicious. Are other things good? Ummm...probably?" Luckily it seems the other dishes match up. Eggplant is one of my favorite veggies, but I'm ordinarily banned from moussaka due to the cheesy bechamel sauce. It usually contains meat too. At TarBoush, though, they do it "right," by my standards. The eggplants define the dish, and it includes chickpeas in the thick tomato sauce.


So this weekend, aside from consuming two huge kebab sandwiches, too much sesame chocolate, and more pastry than usual, I also successfully copied that non-purist moussaka and was incredibly pleased. Erin and Kelli got on the train around 4, taking two giant apples from the crate in the garage, and I was left to myself in the kitchen. I was tired, but hungry and had been dreaming about this moussaka since I bought the shiny purple gems at the market last week. Never worry about not having everything you need for a recipe. Impromptu cooking is a life skill, especially for young people in new kitchens. I was pleasantly surprised by the light cinnamon flavor and the perfectly mushy nature of the baked eggplant. The simple bechamel sauce even made the house smell like cheese, according to Katia : ) I will definitely make this again!

The eggplants, laying out to sweat.

Vegan Moussaka (haphazardly oversimplified from avalonwine.com)

1 medium eggplant
2 medium zucchinis

2 medium potatoes (or 4 little ones)

One can or 1 1/2 cups of cooked chickpeas
1/4 cup olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
4 garlic cloves, sliced
28-oz. can crushed peeled tomatoes (I used the 16oz can + a couple of fresh heirlooms)
1 teaspoon dried oregano (oops)
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon (I used about a teaspoon or more)
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice (oops)
2 teaspoon sea salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
 

 For the Bechamel:

1/2 cup olive oil
1/2 cup unbleached flour
1/8 teaspoon nutmeg (I threw in a bit of cumin and lots of pepper, just because)
2 cups soy milk (I used oat milk, which was a bit thicker)
1 tablespoon cornstarch diluted in 1/2 cup water (or two tbsp more flour)
1 1/2 teaspoon sea salt 

(some nutritional yeast, if you've got it, would make it a bit "cheezier"). 
 
VEGGIES: Heat over to 375 F. Slice the eggplant lengthwise and salt both sides of each thin slice. Leave them to sweat while you cut the zucchini and potato lengthwise into slices. After about 15 minutes of sweating, wash the eggplant with water, and toss all three veggies in olive oil and pile into a casserole dish. Place the dish in the oven, rearranging the veggies about so often as you make the tomato sauce.

 TOMATO SAUCE: While the veggies are softening in the oven, make this simple sauce. Heat 1/4 cup of olive oil in a saucepan and sauté the onion and garlic until the onion is transparent and lightly browned. Add the crushed tomatoes, oregano, cinnamon (a necessity), allspice (or whichever spices you choose to use), salt, pepper, and chickpeas. Simmer 5 to 10 minutes. After making this sauce, take the veggies out of the oven. Layer half of veggies in the dish, pour half the sauce over them, and do the same with the rest. Now put this casserole in the oven for 45 minutes, or as long as it takes for the eggplant to completely soften. It may take longer. Check at 30 mins and if the top is burning, cover with foil. 

BECHAMEL SAUCE: Heat the olive oil in a saucepan and sprinkle in flour and nutmeg (and nutritional yeast, if you want), stirring constantly. Whisk in the milk and salt and pepper, stirring until the mixture begins to boil. Then reduce the heat and whisk until thickened. Take the casserole out of the oven and pour the Bechamel over it. Return to the oven for 15 minutes. 

New goal: Learn to take better pictures of food.

  

Serve with white rice or grains of any kind (couscous, quinoa, ect.). 

This other recipe for vegan moussaka, which is originally from Veganomicon, a great vegan cookbook by IsaChandra Moskowitz and Terry Hope Romero of Post Punk Kitchen and Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World,  might be a more legitimate copy of the original Greek dish, but has a much longer ingredient list.  Maybe I'll try it someday in a land of cheaper tofu.

Un Bon Weekend, Indeed.

These dairy-free pastries came Friday evening as a treat from my lovely adopted family.

My weekend began with a situation that made me giggle at myself and the ways of the world. Minutes before dinner on Friday night I was chatting with my little sis about my worries that I was imposing on the family, as Grandma had arrived that morning with giant wooded boxes of apples, squash and bulbous heirloom tomatoes. She is from the country, doesn't understand a thing I say in French, and began cleaning the house within minutes of her arrival. I felt in the way and so obviously foreign. She had invited me to dine with them, though, and when I sat down at the table, I realized it wasn't just out of obligation. They had left a square of spaghetti squash au gratin without cheese on top, and when I apologized that I had to leave to meet a friend they sat me back down for a second, refilled my glass of kir (blackcurrant liqueur and white wine) and brought out two boxes of pastries from the Asian bakery. There, Katia told me, they use oil instead of butter. Awwwwwww : ). My uncertain feelings disappeared completely as I thanked them profusely and took a piece of orange-blossom brioche and a sesame almond shortbread pyramid cookie. And on this perfect note, I went out on the town with a big group of other La Rochelle assistants and drank and danced away my Friday night.

On Saturday Alexandra, Kelli and Erin arrived on the train. A wander around the port and a day at the beach (no swimming but lots of sun) began our vacation-esque weekend. This also brought us to the conclusion that this year might feel like one long weekend, in the best of ways.

We ate kebabs, saw La Rochelle by night, ate more kebabs and woke up to a lovely Sunday of strolling around town and taking pictures of weird vegetables.

It's funny meeting people and bonding so quickly. It was like hosting old friends in my new home. Nothing was new, however, about the niceties of waking up slowly on a Sunday morning to a room full of friends, a bit hungover but ready to get out of the house and into the sun. We got breakfast at the boulangerie across the street and wandered into town for coffee by the port. The town took a while to wake up, too, so we got to mosey in solitude until the afternoon when we sat by the beach and people-watched. There is a lot to talk about when you've just met someone and have already had so much fun.

An impressively huge and billowing French flag that appeared recently; Erin in the beautifully kept botanic gardens that we stumbled upon today. It was like wandering in to someone's brilliant backyard obsession, but it has open entrances on three different city blocks. I had walked upon it my first full day in La Rochelle but hadn't made it as far as we did.

Stay tuned for a recap of my vegan moussaka victory, and most likely handfuls more pictures of sun-drenched La Rochelle. It's all so picturesque I can't help myself. If they are all starting to look the same don't worry because the seasons are changing as I type and in less than one week I'll be off to Berlin for vacation! Wait, haven't I just started work? Yes, yes I have. Thank you France :)

Other Sunny Day in the Port

I sit at a café with restaurants on both sides. The sun it out and shining over the thick market building onto my face. Many of the buisnesses are closed for lunch, and people walk around with baguettes and little quiches and sandwiches in hand. There are students here, colorful and relaxed, drinking in the afternoon. The ladies at the table besides me order fresh-squeezed juice of some kind and pull their packed lunches (the french call any pre-made lunch a Pic-Nic) out of their bags. They place yogurt containers, tupperwares of rice and veggies, and fruit onto the table. A woman from a restaurant across the way walks into the café with a plate of steaming potatoes, veggies and ham. She comes out empty-handed, having delivered someone's lunch.

 Noticing this, I take a handful of muesli bread from my bag. I crave this bread full of dried fruit and soft almonds everyday. To my right, at Kabob Oasis, cylinders of lamb spin on the spit. A man brings meaty sandwiches to a table of men at the café. The lines are far less rigid here. Food and business moves freely and comfortably between cafés, restaurants and the market. I enjoy being in the middle of this, watching the exchanges happen, primarily those of friendly recognition that seem to accompany service.

Does that second picture hurt your eyes? Mine too. After I stood up from that table to walk down a shaded side street I could only see spots.

 I have the feeling often, here, that things are happening around me that I don't fully understand. For instance, I wonder if it is alright for me to be here. The students have left and the café is full of gray, older men who all seem to know each other. A couple men stand on the ledge of the café, not on the sidewalk and not inside. Have things actually shut down for midday? At least they are kind enough to let me stay. I wish I could drink espresso after espresso without going loony.

I don't know the purpose of these flags that just sprung up, but they looked like a special occasion, twirling in the wind. I'll probably talk about France's sentiments towards America at a later date, but for now, they like us much more than I expected. They are also proud of us for Occupy Wall Street and for Obama. To both I've heard, "I didn't think the Americans had it in them."

Some Things I've Seen

Because this is a blog primarily for those who want to read about the intricacies of my life abroad, I decided to post some bits and pieces of my daily writing here. Everyday of my life here is not packed full of things to blog home about, but going abroad does make my mind more observant, interested, and creative. It is this, and the overall poetic nature of living in La Rochelle, that makes even my most simple days something to jot down notes about...

I wanted to give you more scenes from La Rochelle, but these pictures are not from today. Today I only saw the sun through gray clouds. Perhaps I will always live in a gray city? At least the gray here doesn't threaten to break into rain the second you walk out the door.

A very old man carries a tiny sleeping baby in a pouch on his chest. He sings softly, though not just for the baby. I pass him three times as I wander through the Wednesday market. While I walk aimlessly back and forth between the stands, each selling a similar selection of fruits and vegetables, it seems this man is walking to walk and not looking for anything.

Charred beets sit in piles on tables at the market. Just today I realize that they are beets. I looked in awe the other weeks, for I thought they were some kind of tropical fruit, roughly textured and sweating. I buy one for lunch and read the sign. They have been roasted in a charcoal fire. They are deep red and their skin is bubbly. I eat one for lunch with bread and two hardboiled eggs.

A teenage girl offers a warm, hopeful “coucou” to another teenage girl in the crowded courtyard of Lycée Josue Valin. The girl's salutation is met with a snide, empty glare and a calculated brush on the shoulder. Both girls stand up straighter, and the first shrugs and walks on, hurt. They both wear heeled boots like every other French highschooler seems to wear,.

A dreadlocked boy with a stickered megaphone stands on the concrete flower bed, shouting to the crowd of students in front of the school. After each sentence, the students cheer. We watch from the window of the teacher's lounge. “It is a meeting to say that there is another meeting tomorrow?” one of the English teachers asks, laughing. The teachers seem to chide the student strikes, but they have many their own. Unfortunately I missed the blockade the next day.

Louna sticks her head in my room and chimes “ça va?” when she gets home this afternoon. Her face glows. She had the same look when we drove away from L'Ile de Ré a few weekends ago after she spent all of dinner roaming around the port with Theo. She waved at him out the car window as we drove away and then became really quiet and snapped at her mom when she asked about him. I remember that she was going to hang out with him today. Some teenagers are cute and not mean.

An older man with a notably symmetrical body carries two full cloth shopping bags home from the market. The look on his face is firm but pleasant, and you can see his thick yellow teeth through the crack between his lips. He is determined and perfectly balanced, as if he walks exactly like this every Wednesday morning. I step out of his way. Later, I walk home in a similar fashion, with no symmetry at all, the bags tugging on my fingers and the top-heavy stalks of my Swiss chard threatening to tip everything onto the sidewalk.

*****