14 juillet 2010 mercredi (Happy Bastille Day!)
When Eric asked me this morning whether I was happy, I responded with a resounding “OUI!” Then, he asked if there was anything in particular that I missed from back home, excepting my friends and family, of course. I utterly blanked. I’ve been thinking about it all day, between games of pool volleyball, Uno, and chess. If living two lives—a French life, and an American counterpart—has taught me anything, it’s that as soon as I leave one home, it is extremely difficult to articulate exactly what I love about it, or miss, and why. Certainly I miss something about the United States, but when pressed for an answer this morning, I found that I simply couldn’t express myself. I’ve resolved to try.
***
I miss enormous, refillable mugs of coffee from Donkey, and blueberry streusel muffins that have just come out of the oven. And chai tea. Huge, steaming mugs of swirling, creamy chai tea, delicately frothy and perfectly spicy and sweet.
I miss Chinese take out, and Good Fella’s pizza, and Wendy’s frosties and fries in the middle of the night. And DP Dough. And all food that can be ordered over the phone, any day, at any hour.
I miss my walk to work, out of Squat, down the hill by Clip, through Emereti Park, past Peden stadium, under the bridge by the on the bike path, across the highway over the river, and up to the Ridges on the path through the woods. And the view coming out of OU Press, looking over the Hocking River and to the Ohio University campus on the bank, and Athens stretching out beyond.
I miss Sunday runs at Stroud’s Run—hot, 2 hour affairs where we circumference the entire lake on a path through the forest. And the talks we always have between steady footsteps and deep breathing, and the energy beans that Jesse always carries on long runs.
I miss my 14’x18’ box in Squat, ironically enough, with its wall of photographs, and its sticky notes, and its borrowed lounge chair, and its soft lamp lighting, and its reliable internet, and its bottomless pot of coffee, and its view of Morton Hill and the tops of the buildings on East Green and South Green beyond. And I miss Mary, and her rants about the corn industry and food corporations and government corruption and university financial and administrational affairs. And our multilingual conversational exchanges, when one of us forgets a word in any one of the four languages that we collectively speak.
I miss Franklin, my blue 1999 Nissan Altima, and the drive from my house into Dalton, winding down through the valley and across the train tracks at Sonnenburg Station, then climbing back up the other side. And I miss the fog that creeps in the crevices of the valley on humid mornings, and the floods that turn the fields into lakes, and the view of the sunset to the west from the summit of the hill on Wenger Road, before plunging back down into Dalton.
I miss peanut butter, and English measurements (cups, tablespoons, teaspoons), and the Fahrenheit scale. And I miss bulk food stores with endless stocks of flour, and sugar, and oats, and cocoa, and nuts, and everything a baking fanatic could possibly want to make a mid-afternoon snack for five children.
I miss the smell of sweet corn fields in the morning, fresh with dew, and the soft sizzle of morning haze lifting with the rising sun. And granola bar breaks, and iced tea, and field songs, and, believe it or not, counting to sixteen and a half for 6 hours a day, standing on a wagon with sacks of corn up to my waist.
I miss staying up until four in the morning with good friends, making trouble and roaming the town. And Sunday morning brunch, recapping the events of the weekend, and preparing for the upcoming week. (I do not miss dining hall food, however. Thank god that’s done with.)
I miss putting the final period on the final sentence of a final paper, or turning the last page of a novel of epic proportions. And the satisfaction of an essay well written, an argument well defended, a project well presented.
I miss sitting at coffee shops for hours on end, talking about life and love and the universe or nothing in particular. And breakfast at the Bliss (R.I.P) or Mugswigs runs at absurd hours in the evening for thick, rich double chocolate mochas, making it impossible to sleep.
I miss wandering in the middle of the night with Adam, to obscure locations to watch meteor showers, or strangers’ rooftops to sit and commiserate, or the backyards of frat parties to pretend we know “Todd,” or “Brad,” or “Rob.” And Capitol Hill and the Rachel-Stephanie-Rachel sandwich. And inevitable debauchery with my Frenchies and the rainbow crowd.
I miss watching Das Dutch Kitchen wake up and come to life to the smell of freshly baked bread after having been there for hours, knuckles deep in rising dough. And the pleasure of finding a clean apron, or oven mitts without holes, or newly purchased sprinkles for sugar cookies, or just-whipped batches of smooth vanilla icing.
I miss spending time in the kitchen with my mom, peeling beets until our hands are blood-red, or chopping fresh strawberries until our fingers are wrinkled, or squeezing out grape juice until the air smells intoxicatingly sweet and humidity drips down our faces and onto our aprons. And I miss saying goodnight to the night with my dad, or sitting out by the campfire until only ashes remain.
I miss hearing the crack of a bat from summer league baseball games at Kidron park, and the slightly out of tune sound of the marching band playing the alma mater and fight song at Dalton football games, and the breathless encouragement of Augs at cross country runners as they pant on by, and the unmistakable thud of a pole sliding into the box as a polevaulter launches off the runway. And Gatorade, and the unmistakable taste of Nussbaum Road well water.
I miss time alone with only Regina Spektor and my favorite piano in Glidden, forgetting that I have a paper due in 12 hours, or a novel to read by the next day, or a presentation to research and prepare by the end of the week. And the trailing voice of an acoustic guitar, teasing out of an open window as I run by in the evening.
I miss the constellations of summer, puncturing the velvety, cloudless sky with studded diamonds, telling stories across the night sky. And lying flat on my back, listening to crickets and the wind whispering through blades of grass. And catching the lightening bugs that respond to the blinking of the stars.
I miss my cats: Jack, and Lucy, and Smudge (also, R.I.P), and the unconditional love of a domestic animal for She Who Brings the Food. And the braying of Glen’s animals down in the valley, the crowing of the rooster at the first hint of dawn, or the tinkling of bells around cows’ necks as they meander through meadows on the way back to the barn at night.
***
In thirty-six days, I return to the United States. I’ve been in France for thirty-five days. I am not ready to go home. I am not ready for July to be halfway done. I am not ready to face the huge expanses of vast America. I am not ready to drive amongst the car-giants of gas-guzzling ignorance, on roads wide and spacious. I am not ready to choose between twenty brands of chips (or potato crisps, or pretzels), or thirty flavors of ice cream (let alone frozen yogurt and sherbet), or seven shampoo types (straight, curly, greasy, dry, damaged, colored, and last but not least, normal hair). I am not ready to feel dwarfed in parking lots, in waiting rooms, in clothing stores. I am not ready to speak in my native tongue, to hear English on the radio, to be bombarded with all the words I grew up with, and expressions that simply don’t translate into French.
And yet America lies in wait on the other side of the Atlantic. Waves and oil pound at its shores, and the currents of the ocean and time sweep me towards it. I can do nothing to stop this (neither can BP).
I returned to the United States last year on June 23, 2009, after learning on June 19 that my visa extension had been denied, thereby cutting my planned trip short by nearly two months. My return was marked by tears, bitter depression, and a brief expatriate adventure to Canada. I was saved from utter desperation by the legal drinking age in the land up north of moose and hockey, and sweet corn season.
When I think of the United States, I am tempted to immediately fixate on the negatives: the devastating ecological disaster that is destroying the Gulf environment and economy at large; the corruption of private corporations and government alike; the fatal ignorance of the American populace that kills without ever being counted by statistics; the precarious and staggering social security system; the political stalemate in Washington; the mindset of American exceptionalism; the unjust wars abroad, and the silent, internal wars that ravage racially demarcated neighborhoods that barely make the evening news. But I cannot think of the United States as the land of the stolen frontier if I hope to maintain my sanity upon my return. I must instead remember that deep in the crevices of my motherland hide pockets of sunshine that I can see shining from way over here, thousands of miles away, in France. Sure, in thirty-six days, I’ll be leaving my new home, Chez les Delannoys, in Montfavet, France. But who can say anymore when exactly I’m leaving home, and when I’m going home? This is how it works, after all.
I end on a purely Regina note, with lyrics from “On the Radio,” a song that never fails to make me feel better:
“This is how it works
You’re young until you’re not
You love until you don’t
You try until you can’t
You laugh until you cry
You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe
Until their dying breath—
Now this is how it works
You peer inside yourself
You take the things you like
And try to love the things you took
And then you take that love you made
And stick it into someone else’s heart
Pumping someone else’s blood
And walking arm in arm
You hope you don’t get harmed
And even if it does
You’ll just do it all again . . . ”
Bonne nuit, tout le monde. Vous me manuez.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
C'est Pour la Petite Bourgeoisie Qui Boit du Champagne
8 juillet 2010 jeudi
To the Delannoy Parents:
We are of the same flesh, you and I, but we are not of the same mind. We belong on opposite sides of the counter, of the fence, of the camera. You are the ones who eat 26€ fish at le palais des papes, I am the one that sprinkles cocoa on your tiramisu. You are the ones that coyly throw 50 centime pieces that drop with hollow thumps into open guitar cases, I am the one who sits on street corners and sings songs in a language you don’t understand. You are the ones who serve steaming croissants and pain au chocolat for breakfast, still hot from the oven, and I am the one who rises at 5 to bake your daily bread.
It is often said that my world exists solely to serve yours, although I cannot agree. It is simply that our worlds only seem to jostle up against one another when we go to work, and you go to be fed, or entertained, or served. You are the question askers, we are the answer givers. You are the hungry, we are the food providers. What would you do without us?
Although our worlds may jockey and collide whilst we wear our aprons and you wear your jewels, our spheres of recreation spin off in separate directions in the night. Under the stars, you glisten in your diamonds, floating constellations on earth that vanish when the lights snuff out. And we, in that darkness that you leave behind, open up, crack a beer, throw our heads back, and laugh, laugh, laugh.
I have something that you have not, and it is certainly not money. Upon arriving in your 300 year old home, I was astonished by the way that you live. It wasn’t simply the high vaulted ceilings, the chandeliers, the in ground pool in a courtyard of its own, the private gate, the barn, the donkey, and the horse, goddamnit. It was your laundry room, your pantry, and, above all, your refrigerator.
When I cleaned out the freezer today, I found rabbit. Rabbit? You have four jars of Nutella in reserve in the pantry. When there was “nothing to eat” for lunch one day, Cosette pulled fillet mignon out of the second freezer. At all times there are three types of yogurt in the refrigerator (Yoplait fruit, Activia, and Bio yogurt for Montaine), as well as caramel flan and chocolat liégois. You have more pots and pans than you will ever use, and more table settings than people you will ever need to serve. And although you buy bio—to save the planet, as you quaintly put it—you live anything but “bio.”
Sure, you recycle, but have you seen your laundry room, and the sheer amount of loads of laundry you do in a week? Or the three refrigerators/freezers you have stock piled and plugged in at all times? Or the enormous television that the children so often refuse to turn off? Or the pool, that is at times up to 30 degrees Celsius (86 degrees Fahrenheit)? Or the three dishwasher cycles it takes daily to take care of the ever-growing pile of plates on your counter?
When I make coffee in the morning (before I eat a lovely breakfast of Bio Cereal and an Organic Nectarine and Ecofriendly Multifruit Juice), I use a small, gold-coated single-serving capsule made specifically for your machine. At Ohio University, in my shared 14’x18’ box, Mary and I brew coffee that she steals weekly from the dining hall, which is stored in a used can. Forget culture shock—it is class disparity that makes me wake in the morning in awe and in stupor of the life that I lead here.
I spend my days with your children—your five lovely little beasties that barely say thank you and leave Nutella on the newly purchased chairs after the 4pm snack. They are quite difficult to interest, you know. They are over-stimulated by television, personal laptops, Wii, and constant attention . . . I can’t imagine sitting down for a whole hour with them to do one of my Grandpa Mihuta’s art lessons. Art, as tempting as it sounds for children, has no crashes, booms, explosions, prizes, or cash rewards. And that is what your children expect me to provide, as though I keep excitement in pill form in my pocket.
Constance is writing a book—a children’s book of animals to give to Montaine. But what she doesn’t understand is the utter delight that an author takes in putting pen to paper. She is writing it, in part, due to your promise to give her a few dollars upon its completion towards her cell phone fund (I remind you that Constance is 11 years old). I am convinced that at some point in their lives, all artists must live in a box—be it cardboard or dorm room sized. What distinguishes an artist from a clever and creative businessman is that an artist can not simply tolerate a box, but also appreciate it, appropriate it, and turn it into something beautiful in and of itself—a work of art in box-form.
While wandering this evening in la place de l’horloge, I stumbled upon a traveling folk band playing on worn instruments with sparse amps in front of l’opéra. They were surprisingly good, to tell the truth; they reminded me of some of my friends from back home in Athens, playing house shows in backyards to drunken crowds. At one point while I was watching, the string bass player bent down and placed his ear just next to the neck of his weathered instrument, and listened. He closed his eyes and nodded his head as though he were giving silent approval, and smiled. The band probably won’t make an exorbitant amount of money tonight, despite the festival crowds—probably just enough to get back home, eat a filling dinner, buy some good beer, and enjoy the night . . . but they will be content. I recognized the emotion that flickered across the string bass player’s face. I too know the feeling of honing in on a harmony, and knowing that it is good. And that is what happiness feels like—bliss, joy, peace, and a good bass line.
Today, you bought a miniature trampoline, a full sized trampoline, inflatable volleyball net for the pool, and a floating scooter for Montaine. The children were delighted, and will most likely remain so for a few days—hopefully through the weekend and on to Monday or Tuesday if we’re lucky. But soon they will want more. Always. More. Ad nauseum. Gaspillage. Why isn’t it bigger, daddy? Why won’t it float anymore, papa? Who will play with me, mama? Can we go to the festival, Rachel?
The house is supercharged, bursting at the seams, bloated: a pool, a Wii, a playstation, a television, laptops, games, animals, food, and now even a trampoline. It is any child’s paradise. But the children are not content. Far from it. They are itchy, they are restless. They ache for the outdoors—an outdoors that lies beyond the pool, the courtyard, the garden, and the gate.
I have something that you have not: EXPERIENCE. Will your children remember specific days in the pool, with the new air mattress that you bought them last week, or the trampoline, or the inflatable volleyball net? Or will they simply melt into an indiscernible blur of summer haze, punctuated by Montaine’s screaming and the knocking of the Mistral at shutters and doors?
I am grateful for what I have, for what I have is invaluable. You can’t poke holes in it, you can’t drain it, you can’t stain it, and the Mistral won’t blow it away. Although my financial prosperity is dwarfed by the size of your estate, I have memories. I remember specific days of my childhood, over a decade ago. I have seen the corners of my country, and of yours. I have swum in two oceans and a sea, I have crossed the Atlantic three times, and I am not afraid to travel alone. And I am here, in France, happy, alive, and grateful, even if my monthly stipend is less than your weekly grocery bill.
To the Delannoy Parents:
We are of the same flesh, you and I, but we are not of the same mind. We belong on opposite sides of the counter, of the fence, of the camera. You are the ones who eat 26€ fish at le palais des papes, I am the one that sprinkles cocoa on your tiramisu. You are the ones that coyly throw 50 centime pieces that drop with hollow thumps into open guitar cases, I am the one who sits on street corners and sings songs in a language you don’t understand. You are the ones who serve steaming croissants and pain au chocolat for breakfast, still hot from the oven, and I am the one who rises at 5 to bake your daily bread.
It is often said that my world exists solely to serve yours, although I cannot agree. It is simply that our worlds only seem to jostle up against one another when we go to work, and you go to be fed, or entertained, or served. You are the question askers, we are the answer givers. You are the hungry, we are the food providers. What would you do without us?
Although our worlds may jockey and collide whilst we wear our aprons and you wear your jewels, our spheres of recreation spin off in separate directions in the night. Under the stars, you glisten in your diamonds, floating constellations on earth that vanish when the lights snuff out. And we, in that darkness that you leave behind, open up, crack a beer, throw our heads back, and laugh, laugh, laugh.
I have something that you have not, and it is certainly not money. Upon arriving in your 300 year old home, I was astonished by the way that you live. It wasn’t simply the high vaulted ceilings, the chandeliers, the in ground pool in a courtyard of its own, the private gate, the barn, the donkey, and the horse, goddamnit. It was your laundry room, your pantry, and, above all, your refrigerator.
When I cleaned out the freezer today, I found rabbit. Rabbit? You have four jars of Nutella in reserve in the pantry. When there was “nothing to eat” for lunch one day, Cosette pulled fillet mignon out of the second freezer. At all times there are three types of yogurt in the refrigerator (Yoplait fruit, Activia, and Bio yogurt for Montaine), as well as caramel flan and chocolat liégois. You have more pots and pans than you will ever use, and more table settings than people you will ever need to serve. And although you buy bio—to save the planet, as you quaintly put it—you live anything but “bio.”
Sure, you recycle, but have you seen your laundry room, and the sheer amount of loads of laundry you do in a week? Or the three refrigerators/freezers you have stock piled and plugged in at all times? Or the enormous television that the children so often refuse to turn off? Or the pool, that is at times up to 30 degrees Celsius (86 degrees Fahrenheit)? Or the three dishwasher cycles it takes daily to take care of the ever-growing pile of plates on your counter?
When I make coffee in the morning (before I eat a lovely breakfast of Bio Cereal and an Organic Nectarine and Ecofriendly Multifruit Juice), I use a small, gold-coated single-serving capsule made specifically for your machine. At Ohio University, in my shared 14’x18’ box, Mary and I brew coffee that she steals weekly from the dining hall, which is stored in a used can. Forget culture shock—it is class disparity that makes me wake in the morning in awe and in stupor of the life that I lead here.
I spend my days with your children—your five lovely little beasties that barely say thank you and leave Nutella on the newly purchased chairs after the 4pm snack. They are quite difficult to interest, you know. They are over-stimulated by television, personal laptops, Wii, and constant attention . . . I can’t imagine sitting down for a whole hour with them to do one of my Grandpa Mihuta’s art lessons. Art, as tempting as it sounds for children, has no crashes, booms, explosions, prizes, or cash rewards. And that is what your children expect me to provide, as though I keep excitement in pill form in my pocket.
Constance is writing a book—a children’s book of animals to give to Montaine. But what she doesn’t understand is the utter delight that an author takes in putting pen to paper. She is writing it, in part, due to your promise to give her a few dollars upon its completion towards her cell phone fund (I remind you that Constance is 11 years old). I am convinced that at some point in their lives, all artists must live in a box—be it cardboard or dorm room sized. What distinguishes an artist from a clever and creative businessman is that an artist can not simply tolerate a box, but also appreciate it, appropriate it, and turn it into something beautiful in and of itself—a work of art in box-form.
While wandering this evening in la place de l’horloge, I stumbled upon a traveling folk band playing on worn instruments with sparse amps in front of l’opéra. They were surprisingly good, to tell the truth; they reminded me of some of my friends from back home in Athens, playing house shows in backyards to drunken crowds. At one point while I was watching, the string bass player bent down and placed his ear just next to the neck of his weathered instrument, and listened. He closed his eyes and nodded his head as though he were giving silent approval, and smiled. The band probably won’t make an exorbitant amount of money tonight, despite the festival crowds—probably just enough to get back home, eat a filling dinner, buy some good beer, and enjoy the night . . . but they will be content. I recognized the emotion that flickered across the string bass player’s face. I too know the feeling of honing in on a harmony, and knowing that it is good. And that is what happiness feels like—bliss, joy, peace, and a good bass line.
Today, you bought a miniature trampoline, a full sized trampoline, inflatable volleyball net for the pool, and a floating scooter for Montaine. The children were delighted, and will most likely remain so for a few days—hopefully through the weekend and on to Monday or Tuesday if we’re lucky. But soon they will want more. Always. More. Ad nauseum. Gaspillage. Why isn’t it bigger, daddy? Why won’t it float anymore, papa? Who will play with me, mama? Can we go to the festival, Rachel?
The house is supercharged, bursting at the seams, bloated: a pool, a Wii, a playstation, a television, laptops, games, animals, food, and now even a trampoline. It is any child’s paradise. But the children are not content. Far from it. They are itchy, they are restless. They ache for the outdoors—an outdoors that lies beyond the pool, the courtyard, the garden, and the gate.
I have something that you have not: EXPERIENCE. Will your children remember specific days in the pool, with the new air mattress that you bought them last week, or the trampoline, or the inflatable volleyball net? Or will they simply melt into an indiscernible blur of summer haze, punctuated by Montaine’s screaming and the knocking of the Mistral at shutters and doors?
I am grateful for what I have, for what I have is invaluable. You can’t poke holes in it, you can’t drain it, you can’t stain it, and the Mistral won’t blow it away. Although my financial prosperity is dwarfed by the size of your estate, I have memories. I remember specific days of my childhood, over a decade ago. I have seen the corners of my country, and of yours. I have swum in two oceans and a sea, I have crossed the Atlantic three times, and I am not afraid to travel alone. And I am here, in France, happy, alive, and grateful, even if my monthly stipend is less than your weekly grocery bill.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Pardon
5 juillet 2010 lundi
To my parents, givers of life and food and Band-Aids, I full heartedly apologize for the following:
• Insulting your cooking, regardless of the time you spent preparing the meal.
• Refusing to put my dishes in the dishwasher, even though it was right next to the sink, where I habitually left plates, cups, bowls, and silverware.
• Putting empty containers of milk, ice cream, and juice back in the refrigerator.
• Forgetting the ice cream on the counter until a sticky liquid oozed out of the bottom of the container, and coagulated on the counter in a creamy film.
• Claiming the precedence of cartoons over family meals.
• Shedding articles of clothing/toys/towels on the ground, like a deciduous tree in October.
• Blaming my brother for misdeeds that I clearly committed.
• Adding salt and pepper to food before even tasting it.
• Imposing upon your few spared moments alone, and barging into rooms without knocking.
• Leaving drawers and doors open, and lights on, and water running.
• Grumbling about boredom, while making no effort to remedy it.
• Spending innumerable hours in front of the television, slowly killing my attention span.
• Cheating in Uno, solitaire, poker—which I’m sure you were aware of, although you let it slide countless times.
• Spitting out half chewed vegetables, or faking gagging while choking down zucchinis, tomatoes, peppers, or other veggie yummies.
• Chowing down on a meal before everyone had been served.
• Completely ignoring requests to help clear or set the table, put away the groceries, or pick up my things.
• Claiming fullness, then suddenly desiring dessert.
• Accusing you of parental negligence for my lack of video game station (Playstation, Gameboy, Wii, etc).
• Playing music loudly while you were trying to watch the news in the living room.
• Demanding incessantly when dinner would be served, without making an effort to help prepare the meal.
• Sulking when you refused a whimsical request of mine.
• Pushing food around on my plate in an attempt to make it appear as though I’d eaten more than I really had.
• Lying about how much television I’d watched in a day.
• Screaming, crying, yelping, howling, or just plain making senseless noise for no apparent reason, and thereby completely preventing silence.
• Misunderstanding the cost of eating, driving, drinking, playing, and living.
• Believing that “no” could somehow transform in to “yes” if I asked the same question enough times.
• Inflicting unsolicited pain upon my brother.
• Whining about having nothing to eat, when the refrigerator was clearly full.
• Spilling flour, juice, chocolate, or milk on the floor, leaving it there, then complaining upon finding chocolate on my socks.
• Dropping more breadcrumbs than Hansel and Gretel.
• Not thanking you nearly enough for all you did for Ben and me, nor telling you I loved you often enough.
Alban, Constance, Gauthier, Rodrigue—take note. In 8 (or 9, 11, or 13) years, when you’re all 20 years old, I beseech you: thank your parents. They work hard for you. And so do I. But I suppose gratitude grows in puberty like everything else. And for now, it’s up to me to watch you grow into your bodies and personalities and brains, and make the same mistakes that I made when I was your age.
To my parents, givers of life and food and Band-Aids, I full heartedly apologize for the following:
• Insulting your cooking, regardless of the time you spent preparing the meal.
• Refusing to put my dishes in the dishwasher, even though it was right next to the sink, where I habitually left plates, cups, bowls, and silverware.
• Putting empty containers of milk, ice cream, and juice back in the refrigerator.
• Forgetting the ice cream on the counter until a sticky liquid oozed out of the bottom of the container, and coagulated on the counter in a creamy film.
• Claiming the precedence of cartoons over family meals.
• Shedding articles of clothing/toys/towels on the ground, like a deciduous tree in October.
• Blaming my brother for misdeeds that I clearly committed.
• Adding salt and pepper to food before even tasting it.
• Imposing upon your few spared moments alone, and barging into rooms without knocking.
• Leaving drawers and doors open, and lights on, and water running.
• Grumbling about boredom, while making no effort to remedy it.
• Spending innumerable hours in front of the television, slowly killing my attention span.
• Cheating in Uno, solitaire, poker—which I’m sure you were aware of, although you let it slide countless times.
• Spitting out half chewed vegetables, or faking gagging while choking down zucchinis, tomatoes, peppers, or other veggie yummies.
• Chowing down on a meal before everyone had been served.
• Completely ignoring requests to help clear or set the table, put away the groceries, or pick up my things.
• Claiming fullness, then suddenly desiring dessert.
• Accusing you of parental negligence for my lack of video game station (Playstation, Gameboy, Wii, etc).
• Playing music loudly while you were trying to watch the news in the living room.
• Demanding incessantly when dinner would be served, without making an effort to help prepare the meal.
• Sulking when you refused a whimsical request of mine.
• Pushing food around on my plate in an attempt to make it appear as though I’d eaten more than I really had.
• Lying about how much television I’d watched in a day.
• Screaming, crying, yelping, howling, or just plain making senseless noise for no apparent reason, and thereby completely preventing silence.
• Misunderstanding the cost of eating, driving, drinking, playing, and living.
• Believing that “no” could somehow transform in to “yes” if I asked the same question enough times.
• Inflicting unsolicited pain upon my brother.
• Whining about having nothing to eat, when the refrigerator was clearly full.
• Spilling flour, juice, chocolate, or milk on the floor, leaving it there, then complaining upon finding chocolate on my socks.
• Dropping more breadcrumbs than Hansel and Gretel.
• Not thanking you nearly enough for all you did for Ben and me, nor telling you I loved you often enough.
Alban, Constance, Gauthier, Rodrigue—take note. In 8 (or 9, 11, or 13) years, when you’re all 20 years old, I beseech you: thank your parents. They work hard for you. And so do I. But I suppose gratitude grows in puberty like everything else. And for now, it’s up to me to watch you grow into your bodies and personalities and brains, and make the same mistakes that I made when I was your age.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Prince Charming
30 juin 2010 dimanche
I haven’t a clue why every nearly girl under the age of 9 dreams of becoming Cinderella—being Cinderalla must have been hard work, damn it. Sure, she got the guy, the castle, the fairy godmother, the carriage, the glass slippers . . . but forget not the rags that Cinderella shed in donning her glorious ball gown. Why is it that so many young girls can completely forget the fact that Cinderella lived in a forsaken attic for a large portion of her childhood, talking to mice? I haven’t a clue.
I had a Cinderella moment earlier today, while climbing over the bumper of my “new” Suzuki Samurai so I could clean bird poop off of the hood. After working a 9 hour day (9h00–18h00) with my 6 lovelies (Alban, Virgil, Constance, Gauthier, Rodrique, and Montaine), I set about cleaning my car while it was still light outside, and the kids were watching Alvin and the Chipmunks (in French) after dinner. Today was my third day of work with the Delannoys, and it was comparable to Monday and Tuesday. No strangling today and less fights over Uno rules, but Montaine would not eat her yogurt this morning, and although she yawned and rubbed her eyes while I was giving her a little stroller promenade in the garden, she absolutely refused to take a nap before lunch. The result was lots of tears and bloodcurdling baby screams. Other than one threatened revoked dessert (due to Rodrigue’s rampant silverware throwing at dinner), it was a normal day.
So after the dishes were cleared and the kids were contentedly installed in the library, I set off with a bucket and soap and rags to tackle my Jeep, which has been sitting in a barn under a pigeon nest collecting straw and leaves and newspapers and bird poop and spider webs for approximately a year. The task was daunting, and I can’t yet claim that it’s finished. Bird poop has been scrubbed away, seats and dashboard and glove compartment and windows have been wiped down thoroughly, and old newspapers and grocery lists have been disposed of, but the floor remains covered with a fine carpeting of dried leaves, too crumbled to pick up by hand.
I have named her (yes, my Jeep is female) “Courgette”—a fancy sounding French word that actually means zucchini, after her peculiar vegetable color. Courgette is my proof that life for Cinderella certainly wouldn’t have it’s fairy tale appeal if she hadn’t had a fairy godmother to turn her pumpkins into a carriage and her mice into horses and coachmen. While clambering over my Jeep to reach into the deepest, dustiest crevices behind the spare tire, I made friends with the cat (Anakin, named after the Star Wars character, of course) and the dog (Tara, who likes to jump in the pool, then run into the laundry room), the donkey, and the horse, as they all watched me labor. I understand why Cinderella cherished her mice—while the adults were in the courtyard enjoying red wine and cheese on the patio couch by the pool with family friends, animals can be welcome company. You can talk to them in any language, and they won’t mock nor respond, except perhaps with a loving whinny, or a curious meow.
But here I am again, making fairy tales out of everyday life. I suppose that’s what I need to do, when Rodrigue won’t eat chicken, and Gauthier won’t touch green beans, and Constance complains over mashed potatoes. I have to remind myself of the chance I’ve been given to be here in France, spending my summer chasing down blown away pool noodles and wet children with towels. Hell, my room is certainly no attic, and have you SEEN my canopied bed? Granted, the canopy is actually a mosquito net to prevent midnight mutinies by those goddamned bloodthirsty beasties, but I can pretend otherwise. Courgette, in all of her vegetable hued glory, will by my Corvette. And my Prince Charming is 9 years old—Gauthier, who came to the rescue with a vacuum cleaner.
I haven’t a clue why every nearly girl under the age of 9 dreams of becoming Cinderella—being Cinderalla must have been hard work, damn it. Sure, she got the guy, the castle, the fairy godmother, the carriage, the glass slippers . . . but forget not the rags that Cinderella shed in donning her glorious ball gown. Why is it that so many young girls can completely forget the fact that Cinderella lived in a forsaken attic for a large portion of her childhood, talking to mice? I haven’t a clue.
I had a Cinderella moment earlier today, while climbing over the bumper of my “new” Suzuki Samurai so I could clean bird poop off of the hood. After working a 9 hour day (9h00–18h00) with my 6 lovelies (Alban, Virgil, Constance, Gauthier, Rodrique, and Montaine), I set about cleaning my car while it was still light outside, and the kids were watching Alvin and the Chipmunks (in French) after dinner. Today was my third day of work with the Delannoys, and it was comparable to Monday and Tuesday. No strangling today and less fights over Uno rules, but Montaine would not eat her yogurt this morning, and although she yawned and rubbed her eyes while I was giving her a little stroller promenade in the garden, she absolutely refused to take a nap before lunch. The result was lots of tears and bloodcurdling baby screams. Other than one threatened revoked dessert (due to Rodrigue’s rampant silverware throwing at dinner), it was a normal day.
So after the dishes were cleared and the kids were contentedly installed in the library, I set off with a bucket and soap and rags to tackle my Jeep, which has been sitting in a barn under a pigeon nest collecting straw and leaves and newspapers and bird poop and spider webs for approximately a year. The task was daunting, and I can’t yet claim that it’s finished. Bird poop has been scrubbed away, seats and dashboard and glove compartment and windows have been wiped down thoroughly, and old newspapers and grocery lists have been disposed of, but the floor remains covered with a fine carpeting of dried leaves, too crumbled to pick up by hand.
I have named her (yes, my Jeep is female) “Courgette”—a fancy sounding French word that actually means zucchini, after her peculiar vegetable color. Courgette is my proof that life for Cinderella certainly wouldn’t have it’s fairy tale appeal if she hadn’t had a fairy godmother to turn her pumpkins into a carriage and her mice into horses and coachmen. While clambering over my Jeep to reach into the deepest, dustiest crevices behind the spare tire, I made friends with the cat (Anakin, named after the Star Wars character, of course) and the dog (Tara, who likes to jump in the pool, then run into the laundry room), the donkey, and the horse, as they all watched me labor. I understand why Cinderella cherished her mice—while the adults were in the courtyard enjoying red wine and cheese on the patio couch by the pool with family friends, animals can be welcome company. You can talk to them in any language, and they won’t mock nor respond, except perhaps with a loving whinny, or a curious meow.
But here I am again, making fairy tales out of everyday life. I suppose that’s what I need to do, when Rodrigue won’t eat chicken, and Gauthier won’t touch green beans, and Constance complains over mashed potatoes. I have to remind myself of the chance I’ve been given to be here in France, spending my summer chasing down blown away pool noodles and wet children with towels. Hell, my room is certainly no attic, and have you SEEN my canopied bed? Granted, the canopy is actually a mosquito net to prevent midnight mutinies by those goddamned bloodthirsty beasties, but I can pretend otherwise. Courgette, in all of her vegetable hued glory, will by my Corvette. And my Prince Charming is 9 years old—Gauthier, who came to the rescue with a vacuum cleaner.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Meet the Delannoys
28 juin 2010 lundi
It’s like giving birth to five full grown children, already full of energy and personality and quirks, and being suddenly responsible for all of their needs, wants, and whims. Oh, and they speak a different language than you. Imagine my exhaustion. And yet, it’s a fatigue tinged with children’s giggles and nutella . . . so for the moment, all goes well. A quick biography of each of my acquired quintuplets:
Alban, 12:
Thus far, Alban has been having a bit of a crisis of classification. As any speaker of French knows, “you” has not one, but two translations. The more informal “tu” is used to address friends, close relations, immediate family, or people younger than you, “Vous” is reserved for professional relationships, groups of two or more, strangers, or as a term of respect to elders, professionals, professors, etc. “Madame,” being in the third person, can be used as an impersonal, extremely formal term. I’m not sure exactly why, but Alban insists upon vouvoiement (using the “vous” form) with me, unless he unconsciously slips into tutoiement (using the “tu’ form). And imagine my surprise when Alban suddenly called me “Madame” while playing Uno! In the Delannoy family, there is nothing but tutoiement, even between the parents and myself (I asked permission first, of course). I insist that Alban tutoie me, but he has to make that decision for himself, I suppose. Other than his strange classification quirk, Alban has for the most part the characteristics of an oldest child. He likes to pretend that he doesn’t want to do the same things as the younger kids (ie: play Uno, jump into the pool in the evening, etc), even though he secretly does. He wants to become a mechanical engineer or an archeologist one day, and he likes to tease his younger sister by telling her horror stories (which frighten her immensely). He and Gauthier can get, well, brotherly violent, which escalated this afternoon when Alban tried to strangle Gauthier in the pool, being fed up with Gauthier’s splashing. We quickly took care of that situation. He’s a Mario champion, and always wins when we play ping pong. Oh, and he loves Michael Jackson.
(I open a parenthesis here to mention Virgil (11), Alban’s best friend, who has been at the house since sometime early Sunday afternoon. Virgil is an expert piano player, and dreams of becoming professional one day. He promised us a private concert while I’m here. His father is a well known Argentinean artist, and married a French woman . . . and voila, now we have Virgil, his little prodigy. And between playing piano, he listens to Metallica. And sometimes Zeppelin, of which I completely approve.)
Constance, 11:
I think Constance wants a sister that can speak (seeing as Montaine is only 6 months old). Constance latched onto me right away—she always wants to be on my team in poker, play games that I taught her, have me swim with her, sit with me while I send emails, etc. She’s a fan of Justin Bieber (I’ll try to change that, don’t worry) and wishes she were American. Today, she taught me the word for cheerleader, and I could see her being perfect on the sidelines of a football or basketball game—she’s certainly energetic, always smiling, and of course, a bit loud from time to time. She’s terrified of horror stories, and she secretly believes in ghosts, which causes her to never want to sleep/walk/or simply be alone at any time. I let her win sometimes at Egyptian Ratscrew, and she’s a conservative poker player, and Uno’s not her favorite, but she plays all the same (although she refuses to play Connect 4 with Alban, because he always wins.) More than anything, Constance is a little fish—always in the water, always showing me tricks, flipping, jumping, diving. She tries harder than her brothers at learning English—I suppose it’s any adolescent’s dream to be able to taunt her brothers in a language they do not understand.
Gauthier, 9:
Of all the siblings, Gauthier and Constance are probably the closest. Gauthier, like Constance, is always in the water, or making cycles around the pool with his scooter. When with his sister, he isn’t too easily bothered, but Alban gives him a bit of trouble (see the strangling incident mentioned above). I’ve spent most of my time with Gauthier playing Uno or Egyptian Ratscrew—he’s not as interested in poker as his brother is. When we all play Uno together, Gauthier defends my position more than Alban, who insists on playing all of his +4 wild cards for me. He also takes great pleasure in the four colors that the Uno game has taught us all: red, green, blue, and yellow (which for some reason is really hard to remember). Gauthier, like me, loses to Alban in ping pong.
Rodrigue, 7:
With long, black lashes and blueberry blue eyes, Rodrigue is adorable, yet timid. When I came to visit the family a week or so before arriving to settle in and start work, Rodrigue didn’t say half a word to me. Yet when I left, he clutched to his mom’s leg, and looking quite sad and pathetic, he whispered to her that he didn’t want me to leave. He stutters a bit, especially when he gets excited. He likes to be with the big kids, even if he can’t join in their games. When we play Uno, he’s on my team—not that he really understands Uno strategy at all. He seems to have the most fun when he’s alone—I’ve seen him out my bedroom window playing by himself in the courtyard, speaking more to himself than he’ll ever dare say in company. And there’s something to be said for a child who comes in second, and not first, when he plays with toy cars in imaginary races. When playing Mario Super Galaxy 2, Rodrigue is always the little orange star that follows Mario around. He is more than content as that petite étoile orange.
Montaine, 6 months:
When playing games with Montaine sitting nearby, she always steals cards out of my hand with her tiny, clutching fingers. She is at the age where she clutches . . . everything: necklaces, noses, books, cards, toys, fingers. She takes her bath at 37˚C and loves to have her ears cleaned. She won’t take the bottle, and her tiny face stretches into the most delighted smile at the sight of her mom. Cosette, the laundry/cleaning/baby lady takes care of her during the day, unless of course she needs to hang out laundry, or prepare lunch, or do the grocery shopping. Then, it’s up to me to take care of little Montaine, watching her amuse herself in the little world where babies exist.
It’s like giving birth to five full grown children, already full of energy and personality and quirks, and being suddenly responsible for all of their needs, wants, and whims. Oh, and they speak a different language than you. Imagine my exhaustion. And yet, it’s a fatigue tinged with children’s giggles and nutella . . . so for the moment, all goes well. A quick biography of each of my acquired quintuplets:
Alban, 12:
Thus far, Alban has been having a bit of a crisis of classification. As any speaker of French knows, “you” has not one, but two translations. The more informal “tu” is used to address friends, close relations, immediate family, or people younger than you, “Vous” is reserved for professional relationships, groups of two or more, strangers, or as a term of respect to elders, professionals, professors, etc. “Madame,” being in the third person, can be used as an impersonal, extremely formal term. I’m not sure exactly why, but Alban insists upon vouvoiement (using the “vous” form) with me, unless he unconsciously slips into tutoiement (using the “tu’ form). And imagine my surprise when Alban suddenly called me “Madame” while playing Uno! In the Delannoy family, there is nothing but tutoiement, even between the parents and myself (I asked permission first, of course). I insist that Alban tutoie me, but he has to make that decision for himself, I suppose. Other than his strange classification quirk, Alban has for the most part the characteristics of an oldest child. He likes to pretend that he doesn’t want to do the same things as the younger kids (ie: play Uno, jump into the pool in the evening, etc), even though he secretly does. He wants to become a mechanical engineer or an archeologist one day, and he likes to tease his younger sister by telling her horror stories (which frighten her immensely). He and Gauthier can get, well, brotherly violent, which escalated this afternoon when Alban tried to strangle Gauthier in the pool, being fed up with Gauthier’s splashing. We quickly took care of that situation. He’s a Mario champion, and always wins when we play ping pong. Oh, and he loves Michael Jackson.
(I open a parenthesis here to mention Virgil (11), Alban’s best friend, who has been at the house since sometime early Sunday afternoon. Virgil is an expert piano player, and dreams of becoming professional one day. He promised us a private concert while I’m here. His father is a well known Argentinean artist, and married a French woman . . . and voila, now we have Virgil, his little prodigy. And between playing piano, he listens to Metallica. And sometimes Zeppelin, of which I completely approve.)
Constance, 11:
I think Constance wants a sister that can speak (seeing as Montaine is only 6 months old). Constance latched onto me right away—she always wants to be on my team in poker, play games that I taught her, have me swim with her, sit with me while I send emails, etc. She’s a fan of Justin Bieber (I’ll try to change that, don’t worry) and wishes she were American. Today, she taught me the word for cheerleader, and I could see her being perfect on the sidelines of a football or basketball game—she’s certainly energetic, always smiling, and of course, a bit loud from time to time. She’s terrified of horror stories, and she secretly believes in ghosts, which causes her to never want to sleep/walk/or simply be alone at any time. I let her win sometimes at Egyptian Ratscrew, and she’s a conservative poker player, and Uno’s not her favorite, but she plays all the same (although she refuses to play Connect 4 with Alban, because he always wins.) More than anything, Constance is a little fish—always in the water, always showing me tricks, flipping, jumping, diving. She tries harder than her brothers at learning English—I suppose it’s any adolescent’s dream to be able to taunt her brothers in a language they do not understand.
Gauthier, 9:
Of all the siblings, Gauthier and Constance are probably the closest. Gauthier, like Constance, is always in the water, or making cycles around the pool with his scooter. When with his sister, he isn’t too easily bothered, but Alban gives him a bit of trouble (see the strangling incident mentioned above). I’ve spent most of my time with Gauthier playing Uno or Egyptian Ratscrew—he’s not as interested in poker as his brother is. When we all play Uno together, Gauthier defends my position more than Alban, who insists on playing all of his +4 wild cards for me. He also takes great pleasure in the four colors that the Uno game has taught us all: red, green, blue, and yellow (which for some reason is really hard to remember). Gauthier, like me, loses to Alban in ping pong.
Rodrigue, 7:
With long, black lashes and blueberry blue eyes, Rodrigue is adorable, yet timid. When I came to visit the family a week or so before arriving to settle in and start work, Rodrigue didn’t say half a word to me. Yet when I left, he clutched to his mom’s leg, and looking quite sad and pathetic, he whispered to her that he didn’t want me to leave. He stutters a bit, especially when he gets excited. He likes to be with the big kids, even if he can’t join in their games. When we play Uno, he’s on my team—not that he really understands Uno strategy at all. He seems to have the most fun when he’s alone—I’ve seen him out my bedroom window playing by himself in the courtyard, speaking more to himself than he’ll ever dare say in company. And there’s something to be said for a child who comes in second, and not first, when he plays with toy cars in imaginary races. When playing Mario Super Galaxy 2, Rodrigue is always the little orange star that follows Mario around. He is more than content as that petite étoile orange.
Montaine, 6 months:
When playing games with Montaine sitting nearby, she always steals cards out of my hand with her tiny, clutching fingers. She is at the age where she clutches . . . everything: necklaces, noses, books, cards, toys, fingers. She takes her bath at 37˚C and loves to have her ears cleaned. She won’t take the bottle, and her tiny face stretches into the most delighted smile at the sight of her mom. Cosette, the laundry/cleaning/baby lady takes care of her during the day, unless of course she needs to hang out laundry, or prepare lunch, or do the grocery shopping. Then, it’s up to me to take care of little Montaine, watching her amuse herself in the little world where babies exist.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Sur le(s) Pont(s) de Lyon
26 juin 2010 samedi
I decided to head this blog with a little map of France, showing where these last two weeks have taken me. I am a bit impressed with the magnitude. In two weeks time, I have been no more than 15km away from the borders of both Spain and Germany, and a hop, skip, and a jump away from Switzerland. In the words of my father dearest—we’re quite the troopers as travelers.
Anyhow, I’m currently in Lyon, staying with a good friend, Soufiane. Again, I have little to report, but I’ve been happy here thus far. I’ve always liked Lyon—even though it’s the second biggest city in France (after Paris, and slightly before Marseille), it has a wonderful small city charm. The Saône and the Rhône, running parallel through the heart of the city, frame a quaint neighborhood, punctuated by bridges of all shapes and sizes. The people here are welcoming and kind, and although they have a strange taste for beef/calf meat of all shapes and sizes, I’ve certainly never gone hungry, despite my own personal aversion to meat.
Yesterday, Soufiane had to work until 5:30, so after he picked me up at the train station during his lunch break, I relaxed at his apartment for a while, then took the metro into town. I’m easily amused—give me a river, a book, some iced tea, and a shady spot on the banks, and I’ll be happy. Sunshine does wonders for mental health, despite my utter exhaustion from traveling so much.
After Soufiane got off work, I met him downtown, and we headed across the Rhône to get a drink before dinner. As I’ve found often to be the case, we ended up talking about politics and current world events and whatnot. Soufiane is originally from Morocco, and his family still lives there, so his perspective on certain world events (ie: Israel/Palestine relations, immigration in France, the United States’ foreign relations in the Middle East, etc) is certainly unique, and speaks strongly of an opinion not often expressed in the United States. I learn so much here, from all sorts of people, from all sorts of backgrounds. I like that. For dinner, he took me to one of his favorite restaurants, where he knows the workers and whatnot. After having slept less than two hours last night (Julien and I stayed up waaay too late talking), I completely crashed after dinner, and so we went back to his apartment, and I slept straight away.
I’m now on my way to Avignon where I’ll actually start to work after two wonderful weeks of vacation. I honestly haven’t a clue what to expect. The kids are certainly energetic, but they seemed relatively well-behaved despite their giggles and excitement. More news when I have it. Wish me luck . . . I’m about to become a nanny. Bring it on.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Aspirateur Sans Fil
25 juin 2010 vendredi
Perhaps my favorite memory of my time in Strasbourg is sitting at a brasserie with Katie and Julien and friends, and laughing hysterically to Philippe’s almost commercial quality sales pitch for his new wireless vacuum cleaner. Poor Dierstein was plagued with that damn “aspirateur wifi” joke for the remainder of the evening, and the next night, when he wasn’t even there.
I can’t say that we did much in Strasbourg, besides eat, laugh, drink, sit, walk, and wander. And yet, I feel highly satisfied by my time there. In all honesty, I owe most of this experience to Julien , who, as of Tuesday morning, I had never met in my life. Let me explain: a friend of mine from Ohio University, Tom Wagener, has a sister (Emily). Emily, like me, was an HTC French student in her day. However, her high school in Kent had an exchange program with a school in Toulon (if I remember correctly). Through this exchange program, she got to know the Servelle family. A series of long and complicated and mostly irrelevant events happened, and Julien, the son, ended up in Kent, Ohio, with the Wagener family. Tom and Julien became close, and when Tom went to Europe in 2006 to make a documentary, he and Julien toured around together.
A few weeks before leaving for France this year, while Katie and I were still trying to figure out where exactly we wanted to visit in France, I ran into Tom Wagener at 35 Park Place. He asked a bit about my plans, and I mentioned that Katie and I were considering Strasbourg, but that neither of us really knew the area at all. Tom immediately proposed to that I get in contact with Julien, and he promised that Julien would take good care of us. And Tom was right.
Julien makes fun of me for being a bit overwhelmingly gracious, but really, I can’t help it. Julien was the perfect host. He picked us up at the train station, took us out to dinner, bought us drinks, brought us bread and made tea in the morning, took us to the top of Notre Dame de Strasbourg, showed us around the city, took Katie to the airport on Thursday, and drove me to the train station at 6 in the morning on Friday. All this . . . for a friend of a friend. I can’t thank him enough.
Anyhow, as I said above, I don’t have much to report from Strasbourg. I can’t transcribe the contents of the countless conversations we had, ranging from politics, to dating, to sex, to family, to social ideas. It must be said that both Tom and Julien have an almost frightening wealth of slang vocabulary, and the time they spent together resulted in a massive transatlantic slang exchange. Julien introduced Katie and me into this very cesspool of argot, and heaven knows, I learned a lot. I told Julien that next time I come to visit I’m bringing a notebook so I can take notes. It helps that Julien speaks impeccable English (although he humbly disagrees), and that he could translate any French expressions foreign to our narrowly educated ears.
Other than the above mentioned vacuum conversation, other highlights from our time in Strasbourg include American win in the USA/Algeria game, the release of the iPhone 4 (which Julien now has, and let me play with), and food. If only food did not have calories, I would be the happiest person alive. From tarte flambée (flamenkuche), to salmon on a bed of sauerkraut, or spaetzle noodles with mushrooms, Julien insisted that we try the most Alsace specific regional dishes. And I am glad he did. I also have a new appreciation for beer cockails (yes, that sounds weird). For example (Stephanie Fisk, take note):
Picon Citron
• picon (caramel colored, bittersweet aperitif, made from a base of oranges)
• beer (probably a light, blonde beer)
• citron (lemon syrup)
Monaco
• beer (again, probably a light, blonde beer, although I can’t be sure)
• grenadine syrup
• limonade (like lemonade, but not quite . . . it’s not as sweet or as strong)
Max
• beer (same as above)
• white wine (wtf?!)
• caramel syrup
• apple syrup
(Yes, that sounds awful, but trust me . . . it tastes a bit like an alcoholic caramel apple, and it is divine.)
But I digress. In short, Strasbourg was at once nothing and everything special. Touring for me is no longer about sightseeing (even though we went to the top of the cathedral), but rather about experiencing all a region has to offer, whether that be through talking politics over pasta, launching into the PC vs. Mac debate at dinner, telling jokes over drinks, trying a sundry of regional dishes, cheering for the soccer team back home, or simply strolling along the Rhine.
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