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