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.

*****

Châtelaillon

I also wanted to share some pictures of Châtelaillon, where my head teacher Isa lives. Friday afternoon when class finished she drove me out to her home and made us a lunch of boiled fish, rice, and a tomato salad. We started our meal with a French (or regional) specialty of pinot poured into the center of a halved cantaloupe. I'm not sure if it is actually spelled "pinot" because it is not like the wine, but instead thicker and sweeter, right before cognac in the distillation (or fermentation?) process. It was delicious with the melon!

Isa cuts thick slices of "real" French bread, the country-side kind. Those thin baguettes that we eat in the "city" are too hard and made with processed flour, she tells me. She has lived in the little village of Châtelaillon for over 15 years, so I suppose she would know.

Sorry that these pictures are a little overwhelming when placed side-by-side. Isa's house is full of colors and shapes and old French knick knacks, as well as two fluffy black dogs. Her pantry is in the bathroom, and the kitchen is like one on a ship, she says. Everything you need is literally right in front of your nose.

Isa also had these old prints of the La Rochelle harbor which I loved! Maybe I can find some at the vide grenier, or flea market, that I'm off to this morning with Katia.

One Saturday Morning in Autumn

It is Saturday, and even though I haven't actually started work yet it feels good like weekends should feel. It is sunny but the air is crisp...Fall. I slept in and ate a muesli and fig breakfast while searching for tickets to Berlin to visit mon amie Hannah, who is living there until at least the end of the month. And I bought a ticket! From Paris. I am SOOO excited about seeing Hannah and Berlin and Hannah's Berlin in less than two weeks! Exclamation points necessary.

I finally meandered out of my room around noon and set out to make the perfect fall meal, polenta with tomatoes which Zoë introduced to me during my last days in Portland. It is simple, warm and contains some of my favorite things: cherry tomatoes, basil, and garlic. Mmm.

I also added some leftover eggplant, mushrooms and chard.

Here is the original recipe:

Polenta:
1 tsp Sea Salt
1 cup corn grits or polenta
1-2 medium ears fresh corn, (1 cup)

Tomatoes:
2 pints cherry tomatoes
1/4 cup olive oil
2 garlic cloves
Pepper!
1/4 cup basil, tarragon, parsley
Salt




1. To prepare polenta: bring 3 cups of water to boil in medium sauce pan and add salt. Stir in grits and fresh corn and continue to stir until water returns to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer, uncovered, for 5-7 minutes, stirring occasionally until polenta is thick and smooth. Cover.

2. For tomatoes, put it all in a heated skillet. Add herbs after 3-4 minutes, and sauté for 2 more minute.

 Put the polenta in a bowl and spoon the tomatoes over it. It steams delicious. And with that, plus my oversized cashmere sweater (thanx Bins), I have the *inner warmth* (teehee) to ride bikes to the Mediatheque with Katia and get a library card.

Let ME eat cake!

Apparently some cake in French is just called "cake." (Instead of gâteau). As in: "Le petit livre de Cakes salés et sucres," a tiny book that Katia lent me after I tasted her cake au saumon and wanted to eat 5 slices but had to stop myself due to the lactose intolerance. She gave me the book and said I could definitely make it without cheese or butter. This little book is packed full of incredibly simple recipes (each takes up only a single, 4x3in page), half savory, half sweet. The "cakes" that it speaks of are more like loaves, and instead of perfectly sifted pastry flour (the reason I've never made a real cake from scratch) you just throw in a packet of yeast. I never use yeast in anything but bread.

Most of the cakes have the same basic recipe, so you can really put whatever you want into your cake. And I mean anything. I didn't go too crazy, just adding a bit to the cake aux bananes et aux noix. I didn't use nuts, as they are pretty expensive. I miss bulk bins... I'm not too upset, though, because I added grated ginger, dried coconut and cinnamon.

Katia walked into the room right when I put the cake in the oven and was truly puzzled as to why the pan was sitting alone, directly on the rack. She asked me if I wanted to do it a better way. Of course I do. So she took the cake out and placed the pan in another pan full of water. The French way.


 I'm now waiting for the 45 minutes of bake time to be up. On the subject of time, I've noticed that everywhere I go there is a different system of it. In rural Mexico time seemed to mean very little. Many people sat outside in lawn chairs talking, eating, and baring the heat all afternoon and evening. There were no expectations about how long something should take to be done. There were no assurances that things, including meetings, meals, school, church, ect., would ever happen "on time." Si Dios quiere. The lack of attention to time is a way of life. 

Here in France things are faster. There are expectations and the necessity for things to run smoothly. Time is different, however, than it is in the United States. It seems that around the world America is known for the speed of life, the lifetimes Americans spend chasing accomplishment and economic success. In France they "dream of [our] country," as I was told today by a middle school teacher, but they know they are unique in their embrace of leisure and time to breath, as well as of strikes (which I want to talk about later). 


Some banks close down for a midday break. A grocery store at the end of my block closed for a one-week inventory; in the US this would happen by night. Throughout one school year, I have approximately two months of paid vacation. Love it. I have, though, found myself reacting unintentionally American to certain issues of time, such as when I tried to get a bank account and had to schedule appointments for the next day, and when I had to pick up my bike the next day when I had my brake pads replaces. My first thought is why wait? I'm not used to waiting : ). 

But waiting isn't bad. I have to purge my American habits! While walking through town this afternoon (aka not riding my bike) I ran into some new friends. (awww). And while waiting for my cake aux bananes to rise and brown in the oven I wrote this blog entry. Snap.

New intentions and old misunderstandings

I am teaching high schoolers a language they may or may not want to know. Last week and this morning I visited a couple of classes and was asked questions about me and my life. They got most excited when I said I liked the British Skins. Aside from my semi-exotic presence in the classroom, they seemed pretty bored. It's so strange that something they do every single day can bore them so. Maybe I forgot what highschool was like. Over the past year or so, I have been thinking about becoming high school lit teacher, but that would mean teaching A LOT and only having a captive audience about 30 % of the time. Hmmm... I'm hoping my small group classes, which will start next Monday, will engage the students and get them excited about speaking English. Manipulating them with their sole passion for pop culture? I can work with that.

My teaching schedule leaves me a lot of free time, time like I haven't seen in a long time. Time that I have to use to do the things I want to do, but am too lazy to do. Habit-forming timmmeee.

Since I arrived in France, I have run into many things that have made me scorn my rather lazy nature. Specifically the fact that I am unmotivated to write, but want to be a "writer." The first thing was a girl, Jo Crow. This is already a pen name. Which of course is necessary because said Jo Crow has already written two novels, attended a year of graduate school in Popular Fiction, and is looking for an agent. "So what do you write?" she asks, after telling me she just does not like literary fiction. Oh? The second thing was a boy, who is yet without a pen name. He studied many things in university, mostly medieval things, and happened to write a screenplay. It is an adaptation of an old french mythic tale. I thank him for leaving his explanation brief, but not for telling me that producers were already interested in his script, the same ones that did Braveheart, ect. And then asking, "So, what do you write?" My answer to this question is wishy-washy at best.
But, instead of feeling sorry for myself and my inability to put pretty paragraphs into a coherent, narrative order, I have started writing for at least an hour a day (this doesn't count.) My students also asked me if coming to La Rochelle will give me something to write about. I thought for a second after saying, "Definitely," and added, "In the future, I'm sure." What I am working on right now is rooted in some encounters I had when I was in New Zealand three years ago.

It is interesting talking to the students about my life and hearing myself getting excited about certain things or giggling about others. It seems that my energy or quirky reactions to things are what they follow. I can't tell how much of my speech they actually comprehend. It is strange "communicating" this way, but I am getting used to it. Aside from in class, I am speaking primarily in French and having conversations about everything from music to schooling, from divorce procedures to cellphone plans. I have grown accustomed to only understanding part of what is being said to me, but truthfully, it doesn't seem to make a difference. Afterall, when does full comprehension and communication ever exist?*

For instance today I finally opened a French bank account. I signed paper after paper for my free youth checking account, and it could have freaked me out immensely. However, it was the same feeling I have when dealing with banking matters in the states. The language is removed from both French and English. The only words I need to understand are the ones that relate to me doing things: withdrawing money, banking online, NOT paying any fees.

Some shots of La Rochelle. Thus far, my life consists mostly of wandering around and getting lost. That is totally alright with me. Monday things will pick up, but until then it's me and the town, which has traded in the sunshine above for a blustery gray with patches of blue. Also fine with me.

*Whoever said everything we ever write again will somehow relate back to our senior thesis definitely has a point....

J'ai la bonne chance.

I suppose going to France is good luck in the first place if you like chocolate, coffee and wine. I've run into even more good luck than that, though, and not just because I "like everything," a charge [illegitimately] put upon me by my roommate freshman year.

I am happily living with a French family, which does include the temperaments of two teenagers, whose whining I can tune out due to the language barrier. My weekend has been full of little outings. On Friday night, I tried to go to a girly movie night with the British assistants, but couldn't find their house... cellphones are indeed an amenity. When I returned home, Katia and Jean-Marc invited me to a party across the street for Michel, who works at the school. We walked in the door and had to make our way through multiple rooms until we found the backyard which was tikied out with a cheesy seascape painted on the wall. Yes.

Something I'm learning: at French parties when anyone new joins the group they make the rounds, kissing both cheeks of everyone and introducing themselves. I'd consider myself a pretty physically intimate person, but my reaction to this custom makes me feel like a stiff American board. This is especially obvious when bisoux'd by teenagers, like my housemates, who at first were only nearing me out of grumpy submission to manners. But I'm getting better.

So at this birthday party, I was thinking about how the early ice-breaking kisses made it especially enjoyable and far from the awkward I-know-you-but-not-really parties I've frequented in Portland. Then the birthday boy magnified this thought by breaking out his guitar. He put his foot up on a chair, minstrel style, and sung catholic school songs that everyone seemed to know, and then a couple of French ones that had English bits thrown in, which they sang with lower, more dramatic voices: "And you will never forget me." Pausssseeee. Then he made everyone line up facing each other for a party game, yes a party game, and we danced and sang a little. And THEN someone put on a you-tube video and all 20 some people at the party did a dance for Michel in the living room. It was a line-dance sort of thing like the ones the cool kids in middle school learned at church camp (that's the only way I could explain why they knew them and I didn't).

Needless to say I slept in Saturday morning. And was then swept away to L'Ile de Ré, an island that is attached to La Rochelle by a long bridge. We spent all afternoon in and out of the water. I played soccer in the sand with the boys and played in the water with little Ana who went totally crazy for the waves. The kids are starting to warm up to me I think. Katia asks me if they bother me and I want to say no, in fact they are cute even when upset and their moods are really interesting to me, but I just say no, of course not, they are very polite!

Ana and Katia pose for me. Theo and Luna, who will adamanty NOT pose for me, have a conversation sitting side-by-side, via texts. For some inexplicable reason I still think it's cute.

Ana making a castle and the port of Sainte Martin, one of the villages on Ile de Ré. It's picaresque with the little carousel and the French flag flying high. 

As the sun went down we piled into Katia's friend's boyfriend's (....) apartment bordering the tiny port town Flottes (still on Ile de Ré). The friend, Axcelle, came in with bags of groceries and we snacked for an hour before the real guests arrived, far more posh than our barefoot and sandy selves. I picked the bones out of the fist and watched Ana exhaust herself cutting the fatty rims off two packages of Italian ham. We ate and drank well and I kissed everyone. Twice.

And when the evening came, the lighting rivaled even that of the late afternoon on the beach. This picture is from the window of Francois's bachelor flat.