Two Weeks!

Is all that's left of our jobs, so we're getting ready to hop on another gravy train, this one consists of doing absolutely nothing at all. It's time to stop pretending to do nothing with an occasional bout of 'teaching' thrown in, and actually do nothing with some occasional travel. That reminds me - our good (and only) British friend Imagine* (name changed to protect dorkiness) has left us all alone in Mustardville and has decidedly buggered off to Weinershnitzeltown via Statford-Upon-Wankerburg, so here it is, a shout-out to her - without her much-needed interventions, we would have stayed home much more often and puked our drunken guts much less, and who needs that in their lives? I hope they treat her well wherever she is going and make her all kinds of vegan dinners and maybe even vegan sushi (oh wait, that was us), if not, she's going to come visit us in the US of A(ss) and try Vegannaise and Earth Balance and fall deeply in love.

P.S. I found a vegan French food cookbook! Heresy or blessing? You decide, Imagine!

Petrified over easy

So I finally tore myself away from being a one-woman travel agency by day and an internet Veronica Mars aficionado by night, with occasional sneaking back to the apartment during the lunch hour for a fix, in order to post, post, post. Hmmmm... I've literally put a dent into the couch looking up plane tickets, train tickets, train passes, ferries, the Greek islands, the petrified forest of Lesbos, and, of course, the latest in "backpacking through Europe" fashions. I hear khakis and rucksacks are all the rage. Oh, and we were on vacation. But, that vacation isn't nearly as important as the vacation that is coming up in the next month and a half - the vacation to end all vacations, as well as our work contract, so when we get back, we'll be successfully unemployed. That vacation is what I've been concerned with, so much so, that I've made it my personal peroggative to make it the best freaking spring break ever. We're going to fulfill my long-lost dream of being a 19th Century aristocratic young man and visit all of those famous cities in Italy, as well as the cradle of modern civilization and democracy - good, old, Greece. Let's not forget the petrified forests of Lesbos, a fine exemplar of which is pictured above. It looks like a tree, but it is a rock, cause it was a tree a long long time ago. Really, plain words just don't do it justice and I really can't explain why I'd give half a pinkie just to see it in real life. Maybe it's cause one of my friends lives in Arizona and there's a smaller and less fancy petrified forest there, so when I do go visit him, I can lean back while we're having a drink or two, sigh, nod, and say something like "Yeah, the petrified forest is cool, but man, the one on Lesbos, now, that, you gotta see!"

I'm soldes!

The French sales have been going on for almost a month, which means they're coming to a close. The organization of the sales is similar to the social structure of ancient Sparta: everyone does their assigned task for a determined amount of time and all of civilization prospers. The start date is determined every six months and is the same for all of France. It is usually in mid-January (and once again in mid-July), and this year it was the 10th. On the Tuesday before each and every salesperson is frantically putting up sales bins, sales stickers, sales racks, and a million sales signs screaming loudly such eye-grabbing exclamations as "SOLDES!" "SALE!" "SOLDI!" On the Wednesday of the 10th the sun rose over France just as it always does, but by 12 pm the city streets were literally drowned in bustling, busy, goal-oriented shoppers (women) ready to buy up the stuff that had just gone on sale. If you think the day after Thanksgiving is a big deal, you haven't seen a sale in France. Because the sales happen only every six months on the dot, because they are specifically targeted on unloading the fall/winter collections before the spring/summer collection comes out, they are extreme and very, very fun. The sales must be 'real,' as determined by the Prefecture of each city or region. They must include at least a 30% discount of the original price, and they must, MUST, take place if you sell shoes or clothing. That's right, you don't wanna have a sale? You HAVE to. Ha. Anyway, as the sales month continues, more and more discounts occur. What was once 30% off is now 50% and later may be 70%, and finally, if it's not bought, it may be unloaded at a sticker price of 2, 3, or 5 euros. Those last sales are called a 'sweep of the broom,' as to signify the function of the low prices - getting the merchandise out of the store in order to make room for the spring collection. As the sales go on, various stores put up more and more new collection stuff, so going into a store becomes more than just looking for bargains, it can also be a contrast and compare the new spring/summer merchandise of different stores. Fun times. I got much luckier than B. when it came to actually buying things, because men's stores aren't too keen on XS-sized clothing and it is more difficult to buy on sale. My triumphant purchases include suede booties, grey sneakers, jeans, t-shirts, sweatshirt, sweater, light grey capelet, scarf, coat, and a nice 'party' shirt. Wish I could post pictures, but I'll just gloat instead.

Chayanov's on Wikipedia

Hooray! Next up: Sales in France.

The Fêtes of Life

It's been about a month since I've posted anything and a lot has happened since. I had a birthday, a period of beastly mood swings that nicely coincided with a deep distrust and contempt toward some of my students, and a great Christmas / Hannukah. I got a red handbag, a red wallet, and some lavender unmentionables, as well as a a bottle of a perfume I have liked for a long time. It's my first bottle of 'real' perfume - all others have been eau de toilette - and I'm in love. B. was extremely enthusiastic about the holidays and that helped me along into a comfortable place. There were even times when I was giddy and kept begging him to open presents early. He kept his resolve. After Santa's birthday, two of my friends came to visit: one from Puerto Rico and one from Cleveland. It was freezing the night they came, but immediately after the weather got much warmer and all hope for snow was lost. We had a great time nevertheless. Board games, one in particular that we fondly called "baraccuda," was all the rage and we played a couple of rounds every night. We drank, ate chips (thanks to Nicki), and made as many puns as humanly possible. The vacation concluded with a trip to Lille, where it took us two cold, dark hours to find our hotel (in a sort of industrial, shady area) - I thought Nicki was kidnaped or worse when she disappeared for half an hour, but we finally found it. With nothing but an 8 1/2 x 11 sheet with the name of the place nailed to a tree stump between two apartment construction sites, on the other side of some office buildings, sandwiched between a parking lot and the railroad tracks! It was muddy, wet, and very empty on the inside. We barely got in, but the apartment itself was really sweet : a flatscreen TV, a huge bathroom and a big shower, a kitchen with a mini-dishwasher and a microwave, a coffee maker, and even a mop with a bucket. And all that for a stay of 3 days and the price of 15 euros per person per night. Of course getting there was a fucking pain in the ass. The city is decked out for a Bombay festival and there are huge decorated elephant statues on the main street - it's quite a sight. Once we settled in, we met up with a former Lille III student from Chile who is now a Spanish assitant, had spaghetti and got high with a Lilloise who goes to John Caroll (the Jesuit university in Cleve-o), and paid a visit to Wazemmes on Sunday morning, a must for any visit to Lille. Our last night in the city, after a couple of drinks at a faux 'Russian wodka' bar, we went on the huge Ferris wheel that was in the Grand Place - the biggest one I've ever seen or been on. I, of course, screamed like a little girl at the beginning of the ride, but the feeling of "i'm gonna crap in my pants" eventually subsided and gave way to the equivalent of taking a dose of amphetamines. That night we had to say goodbye to the girls and as always, it made me sad to do so. Even though there was a bit of tension between us during this trip, it was an indication that our friendship is evolving, and most of it probably had to do with my hormones. We decided that next time we meet, it'll be in NYC. Monday morning at 6 am, B. and I took a train Lille-Paris and then after switching train stations, another train to Dijon, getting there much earlier than we have been waking up. It was the first day of school.

Toy boat, toy boat, toy boat

It's pathetic. I'm hopelessly addicted to both YouTube and Wikipedia and everytime I wonder about something, I have to look it up on Wikipedia first, and then see if there are any YouTube videos about it. If I don't resort to YouTube, it's only because the Wikipedia search has led to me click on links and read about related topics until dawn. Last night I had a dream about Ina Garten, who is the host of the Barefoot Contessa, a cooking show in the Food Network. She was the 'page of the day' on Wikipedia yesterday. So last night I dreamt that I met her at a wealthy friends' house and that she was cooking dinner for the whole family (in France!?). I told her I love her show (which I've seen about twice) and she asked me where I was from and what time the show came on in Atlanta. I lied and said about 3:30 pm or so. Then I told her that I "love to just turn it on and watch you add shallots to a salad." Right after I said that, I realized that shallots do not go in salads and felt very stupid about having made a culinary blunder like that. Soups would have been ok, but salads, no way. Maybe my dream director thought the alliteration was fitting, but I remember being embarassed for the rest of the dream. Shallots in salads - what was I thinking? Anyway, I'm happy to report that the Ina Garten in my dream was very sweet and gracious. She was cooking dinner for my dream friends even though she is probably busy with a cooking show, cookbooks, and two popular restaurants. Yesterday I got on Wikipedia to look up "Inside Man," a thriller directed by Spike Lee of all people, and that led to reading all about Spike Lee, Denzel Washington, and Jodie Foster, Malcolm X, the Tuskegee Syphillis Study, congenital syphillis, the etymology of the word, the debate on its origin, as well as an extensive list of famous people who may have had syphillis. Fascinating, but a hell of a tangent. Among those who are suspected of having syphillis are:

Ivan the Terrible, Queen Elizabeth, Mozart, Charles Darwin, Robert Schumann, Charles-Pierre Baudelaire, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Gustave Flaubert, Tolstoy, Stalin, Hitler, Howard Hughes, and that is just the cream of the crop.

Incidentally, the film Barefoot Contessa is currently playing at the VO movie theater in Dijon, VO being French for voix original, non-dubbed version.

Cast of characters

I have committed to writing this blog. It is an opportunity to practice writing and let my friends know what is going at the same time. So I might as well introduce the characters that enliven the tragicomedy that is my life in France.

1. Moi - that's me. A Russian immigrant to the US at the tender age of 12, I apparently love culture shock. This is my second time in France, I was a student at a French University a year and a half ago. A glutton for punishment and high-quality food, I love life in Europe. It's slower and less clingy. I'm not one of the idle rich, which somewhat deflates my erstwhile enthusiasm. I love the Fiery Furnaces, picked herring and black bread, whole wheat spaghetti, pistachio flavored everything, fake crabmeat, Cantonese food, Manhattan, the stuff I learned in college, being left alone, B., and my mom. I have a nostalgia tumor lodged somewhere inside my mind, so I am often under its spell. Currently I am teaching high school students at "the most prestigious high school" of the city, mon oeil.

2. B. - the boyfriend. Part court-jester, 5-year old boy, professional chef, and medieval minstrel, B. is someone to whom being charming comes naturally and effortlessly. I envy him that. He loves to cook stirfrys, make his own pasta, play guitar, play capoeira, speak portuguese, chase me around the apartment, and the Phillip Glass of France, Yann Tiersen. I assume he also loves his family, although they're a handful. He is also a teacher at a "sporty" school, where in between classes students entertain themselves with such activities as handball, wrestling, swimming, and what can only be described as running around a forest with a map - which is also sport.

3. the assistants - there are many in this city. Some we know are I. - a British young lady from somewhere like Birmigham or Nottingham. She's nice and defiantly vegan, which I respect but would not attempt in France. She loathes twinkling Christmas lights and likes smoking chicha or nargile or what we call hookah. J. - who teaches English in the middle school of my school is also nice and Northern Irish. She has red hair. M. - is from New Zealand and she pronounces 7 like siiii-van. That astounds me. All others are a hodge-podge of young able-bodied foreigners from exotic locales such as Spain, Argentina, India, England, Ireland, California, and lots are from Kentucky. I don't know why.

4. My friends - they are wonderful and sadly spread all over the place. Some live in Minneapolis, Tucson, Atlanta, Cleveland, Puerto Rico, NYC, and even Russia. One of my bestest friends has recently went through a personal tradegy and I think about giving him hugs every day and cannot wait till he comes to visit, because I believe if anyone is suited to appreciate France in a unique way, it is him.

5. My parents - an odd couple worthy of a sitcom if it was entitled something like "Angry Domineering Russian Bear Dad and Quirky Emotional Loving Mom."

6. The apartment - lavishly spacious by Manhattan standards, it is nice and cozy by regular standards. It's on the fourth floor to us, and on the third floor to French people of a building that is technically older than the Constitution of the United States, and among its residents once lived a man who discovered the uses of iodine. There's a plaque. Sweet. Our place is up high and our bedroom is nothing but an attic with criss-cross beams providing many opportunities for pure slapstick and also a nice view of rooftops. We have a moonlight. Our stove consists of two gas hotplates wired into the kitchen counter, which is slanted but has a little border on the end which allows all the little crummies stay and make the counter their home. I consistently have to arm myself with a towel and go on a (what the household newspapers have called ) roaring rampage of revenge against the goddamn crummies. We don't have a view of the street and we don't know our neighbors, except for the old lady whose window looks into our living room who has a knack for opening her curtains at wholly inappropriate moments or times of the day.

7. My gym - I have recently joined a French gym. It has a name of a fictional South American country and it is the only gym I've ever been to where the patrons greet each other as they walk into the changing room or an exercise room. The ladies who frequent it seem to enjoy having makeup clog every single one of their pores as they sweat, while the men seem to like wearing the tightest workout pants possible, perhaps as a welcoming gesture to me, the newest member. Nevertheless, it's fun and they play old French, Canadian, and American music videos on a big-screen TV in the cardio room AND you can watch the trains go by.

8. the teachers at my school - they are absolutely insane. period.

9. the students at my school - the poor things are exhausted and overworked, which, strangely, does not stop them from being completely retarded 15 year-olds sometimes. They have classes from 8 am until 6 pm. I can't imagine what that is like.

10. The town - it's cute, not too big, not too small, very bourgeois, and beautiful. And there's great shopping.

P.S. Today one of my students asked me where in Manhattan would he be able to buy a pimp hat. I thought I heard him wrong. Later on, I could not get this image from my mind.