The water here smells funny. No details to follow.
Also, I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow morning. It's two weeks long.
Venice-Rome-Marrakech-Agadir-Zagora-Fez-Rabat-Casablanca
Italy is solo. Morocco is with others.
Got friends you want me to meet in Rome/Venice? PLEASE. Make that rainbow connection: jmwilliams10@gmail.com.
Peace out, y'all.
Jess
Friday, February 25, 2011
L'Hiver becomes L'Enfer: That Time Europe Turned Against Me (Part 4)
I got to the train station no problem. Was it thanks in part to the voices on the Strasbourg trams who announce each stop? Unlike other cities, there is a man, a woman, and a child. Each stop is also accompanied by its own special music. It’s a bit strange, actually. No uniformity. Which is surprising given its proximity to and cultural infiltration by Germany.
Naturally, the train was about 10 minutes late. No big deal, though. Especially considering my former travel woes. Ten minutes is like a walk in the park. When the train pulled to a stop at the voie (platform), everyone jammed on board. Except everyone was super confused because your ticket had a car and seat number. What was missing from this train? Car and seat numbers. So everyone kind of flailed around before choosing a seat that would have approximately been his/hers.
On the sign next to the train, it didn’t say the train station I needed was a stop. So when I got on, I was a bit nervous. The thing about French trains is that they generally don’t list the stops at all. If they do, they only list the major ones, so you may be able to get to your general area, but perhaps not your actual desired destination. Luckily, someone had put up some paper signs on the doors that said, indeed, Strasbourg—Luxembourg--Bruxelles were stops. Little did I know that they meant Luxembourg the country and not my train station, Bruxelles Luxembourg. The reason I didn’t get off in Luxembourg (as good a story as that would have NOT made) was because my ticket said what time my journey was to end. So I just kind of waited ‘til that time.
When the conductor came around, though, I made sure to ask if we would be stopping at Bruxelles Luxembourg. He assured me that we would be. Then I realized I didn’t know which stop it was, so when the next guy came around, I asked. He said it was the second. Which didn’t make sense since we were already at the 3rd stop by the time he came around. Oh well. I knew it couldn’t be any worse than my bus ride to Barça so I just leaned back and took some photos of the passing landscape.
When I got to the correct station, I wasn’t really sure. At first, I was like, “Yes. This is me.” But then the signage changed as the train furthered into the station. So I was all, “Erm. Maybs not?” Asked the conductor and he assured me that my first inner dialogue was correct!
We eventually came to the Christmas market where Manny got oysters that were, quite frankly, not good. But he loved them. Fi got a snausage, and Sylvia didn’t eat anything, actually. I couldn’t settle on a meal. Boohoo.
Naturally, the train was about 10 minutes late. No big deal, though. Especially considering my former travel woes. Ten minutes is like a walk in the park. When the train pulled to a stop at the voie (platform), everyone jammed on board. Except everyone was super confused because your ticket had a car and seat number. What was missing from this train? Car and seat numbers. So everyone kind of flailed around before choosing a seat that would have approximately been his/hers.
On the sign next to the train, it didn’t say the train station I needed was a stop. So when I got on, I was a bit nervous. The thing about French trains is that they generally don’t list the stops at all. If they do, they only list the major ones, so you may be able to get to your general area, but perhaps not your actual desired destination. Luckily, someone had put up some paper signs on the doors that said, indeed, Strasbourg—Luxembourg--Bruxelles were stops. Little did I know that they meant Luxembourg the country and not my train station, Bruxelles Luxembourg. The reason I didn’t get off in Luxembourg (as good a story as that would have NOT made) was because my ticket said what time my journey was to end. So I just kind of waited ‘til that time.
When the conductor came around, though, I made sure to ask if we would be stopping at Bruxelles Luxembourg. He assured me that we would be. Then I realized I didn’t know which stop it was, so when the next guy came around, I asked. He said it was the second. Which didn’t make sense since we were already at the 3rd stop by the time he came around. Oh well. I knew it couldn’t be any worse than my bus ride to Barça so I just leaned back and took some photos of the passing landscape.
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| God's country? |
So I got off and realized that it was rapsotively freezing in there. So I went to the salle d’atteinte (waiting room) hoping for some warmth. Pipe dream. It was marginally warmer, if only because the doors sometimes closed. But it was definitely obvious to me that this was not a good train station in which to spend oodles of time. Thank goodness Fiorella, her mom Sylvia (whom I fondly call Consuela), and Sylvia’s BF Manny showed up just then.
We trudged through the snow back to their hotel where we had a bit of a rest before heading back to the outside. We made our way to a Christmas market near the center of town. But since they’ve all been to Brussels loads, they took me on a little scenic tour first. We first went to “The Grand Place,” which, during the summer, is filled with flowers. Photos of it are impressive and drool-worthy. But, since it was the dead of winter, none of that. But there were Christmas trees, so that’s the same, right? It also had the City Town Hall.
We walked through and looked about a bit until Manny led the way to Brussels’s main claim to fame: Manneken-Pis. It’s a statue of a boy peeing. Naturally, its origins are unknown. One story is that the statue was built to commemorate a battle where the then infant Duke Godfrey III of Leuven urinated on the troops of the Berthouts, prompting them to lose the battle. No matter where he came from, he’s super popular, and they dress him up in all kinds of outfits.
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| Kids do the darnedest things. |
Luckily, we came upon the Moroccan tent. Each year, the UN chooses a country to have a special place at the market and this year was Morocco. Some country with reindeer did it last time they were there. Anyway, we went inside, and I think it was supposed to be like, “Look! You’re in Morocco!” But in a way that’s prolly super touristy. But it was nice. AND WARM. Which is the most important thing. They had this massive and massively delicious looking display of food, so I dropped some scrilla to get a pita (HOW I’VE MISSED IT!) filled with chicken. Sylvia got some mint tea.
When we came out of the tent, I stopped to take a video of what Fi kept insisting was the hipsterest carousel of all time. She may be right.
Don’t worry, guy! I wasn’t filming or anything.
We went to yet another Christmas market, with some of the smallest carousel seats (as in a little girl looked trapped in one) and walked around. We stopped into a dish store because apparently Sylvia loves those. Fi and I jammed to the music. Why? Because they were playing Willow Smith’s “Whip My Hair.” Fi walked me through the music video since I’d never seen it before. We wandered around for a bit longer, but it was starting to get dark, so we wended our way back to the hotel for a washing up before dinner. Don’t worry, though. On the way back, we saw another peeing statue.
We went to yet another Christmas market, with some of the smallest carousel seats (as in a little girl looked trapped in one) and walked around. We stopped into a dish store because apparently Sylvia loves those. Fi and I jammed to the music. Why? Because they were playing Willow Smith’s “Whip My Hair.” Fi walked me through the music video since I’d never seen it before. We wandered around for a bit longer, but it was starting to get dark, so we wended our way back to the hotel for a washing up before dinner. Don’t worry, though. On the way back, we saw another peeing statue.
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| Dogs do the darnedest things. |
Apparently there’s another one of a girl, called the Jeannenken-Pis, but, alas, we did not complete the trifecta.
Also, as we walked, we saw some façade at The Great Place. It had nothing on the Fête des Lumières, but it did have Santa doing a somersault, so that was impressive.
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| No Santa here! |
After getting to the hotel, we quickly turned back around to get to Manny’s aunt’s house. We went inside and went up the three flights to her apartment. Even though Tia (Maria, but whom everyone calls Tia) owns the whole building of full-floor apartments, hers in on the 3rd floor. Her ex-husband has Parkinson’s and she continues to take care of him and has him live on the first floor. Some girl from Mali lives on the second floor. I think she’s part of the family in some way? Anyway, when we walked in, I was introduced to two of Tia’s sons. Both of their names start with Ds, but I can’t remember what they are. (UPDATE: Fi’s informed me that their names are Desmond and Dennis.) Their wives names, however, are Mitzi and Snow. The Ds now live in Canada. Snow is from China. And Mitzi is from Australia. Tia is from Portugal. The whole Manny/Tia family is Chinese, but they collectively moved to Mozambique at some point. It was an international delight.
While we waited for dinner to be ready, Tia told us we could watch TV. They have channels in English! We came in during the last 30 seconds of Saved by the Bell, which was the biggest cocktease of all time. We searched for more English for a bit but then just settled into talking to each other. Such a letdown.
We had some Portuguese food. Much of which was fried. Then we had some tomato and cabbage soup? I’m honestly grabbing at straws here. At some point, I was brought into the conversation, and I kind of explained what Belley is like. Tia told us a story of how she used to know this man who was strange. And she said to him, “Why are you so odd?” And he told her he used to live in Antarctica or the North Pole. Underground, he would listen to hours of radio listening for codes or something. So then they told me,
“Jessica, it could be worse. You could be doing that.” And they’re right. But how sad is it that it goes from Belley to living underground? Sad but true.
We left quite late in the evening, but just in time to make the last metro back to the hotel.
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| More street lights. Red means stop! |
The next morning, Manny woke us up and told us to get out and do it. So Fi and I did. (Manny and Sylvia went in search of a Laundromat.) Fi and I went back to the Christmas markets from the day before so I could try a Belgian waffle. 1 activity I had meant to conquer: CHECK. We kept on moving, though, so we could go to this hipster-looking café for hot cocoa for me and coffee for Fi. It was totally hipster and totally satisfying. They had hot choc-o-lait on sticks, which is kind of all the rage here. (With good reason. It’s delicious.) Voilà.
Fi and I basically wandered around vintage stores and shopping. That’s kind of our thing. In the afternoon, when my feet were just about ice cubes, we decided to stop. I got some vin chaud. I had just taken a sip of it and said, “This is not good,” when some Belgian hooligans came by with their brand of tom foolery. As soon as I put my cup down, BOOM! A snowball fell straight into the cup and covered me in hot, spiced, red wine. Was this a relief since I had just said that I didn’t like it? No. Was it pretty standard for my luck? Yes. There was nothing to do but ask the girl behind the stand for some napkins. In any other world, when things like this happen and it’s obvious that everyone around sees it (including the salesclerk), another one is offered. In Europe, though, sucks to be you! Fi got a crêpe before we moved on. I was looking for some wool socks or a new hat to replace the one on my head. But no dice. I stopped to get some old-fashioned candies that I didn’t really enjoy. They were super gummy and not what I expected, but I kept them because why not?
Stumbled upon some permanent art installations.
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| Was that Japanese game show inspired by this? |
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| It's missing two "ho"s! |
Then we wandered around looking for some Belgian chocolate for me to bring back to Jen. We went into this place called Chocopolis. It was WAY too expensive. I mean, I got her some basic dark chocolate drops, but they were legitimately the least expensive thing there besides macarons. I think the lowest priced box of chocolates was like 35€. They were also playing Cee-Lo’s “Fuck You” in there. Unedited! Again, not speaking English lets you get away with playing whatever you want.
We ended up going to Leonidas to get a box of chocolates. Part of me cringed, because I could’ve gotten that on Larchmont at home, but oh well. From the source!
As we walked, I saw a man painting the window. Adorbs.
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| Live art. |
We then went back to the hotel because I was going to freeze. Then we went back and watched some Casper in French. Fi also offered me her copy of The Color Purple, which was very exciting for me since I had finished Frankenstein on the train to her. We also watched this BBC news story about this woman who had acquired an accent after having a stroke. It was really strange and quite easily bogus. And maybe a little bit racist?
Then we went back to Tia’s for some dinner. Before we ate, though, Fi and I started playing her Chinese solitaire game. It quickly became an obsession. We still haven’t mastered it, but perhaps you can?
More good food and good times. Snow is an amazing storyteller. She told us all about how she threw out her back. I will never forget it. Sorry. No video!
Again, we left just in time for the last train.
The next morning, we left for the train station around 7:20 to get there for my 7:53 train. Manny and Fi walked me there, and we got there with just a few minutes to spare. I went down the stairs to the platform. At 7:53, the train had’t shown up. Tick tock tick tock. 7:55. Supprimé. CANCELLED. Awesome. I ran upstairs to see if Fi and Manny were still there. No dice. I called and texted Fi hoping that I could just go back with them until the next train, but she wasn’t answering. Which makes sense since international charges are a mess.
So I got in line with all the others to see when the next train would be. At 1pm. Since it was snowing outside, I hunkered in for a nice long wait. Please know that I knew nothing about this wait would be nice. Anyway, I went to get some tea and sit in the only open thing (aka only area with heat) in the train station. I tried to make it last, but after a while, it was obvious I wasn’t going to be buying anymore and I felt bad. So I went to sit in the waiting room. I put on a second pair of socks, pulled on my gloves even tighter, and tied my hat under my chin. I couldn’t take it, though. So I went back to the “restaurant.”
I was about to go back inside when I realized that I might need to make a different ticket reservation. So I got into the line again. As soon as I got to the front of the line, guy closed the window and said the next woman would be there shortly. So I waited. And waited. And waited. LIAR! I went to the other line and he told me just to be at the platform early.
I went and got a sandwich before taking a seat. When a table freed up, I left my stool for it. Because I hate seats without backs. Does anyone like them? As I sat there, I wrote a short short of the non-fiction variety on the back of a newspaper after I did the Sudoky in it. Leave me alone for its overdramatism.
“December 24 Brussels”
The old man wanders back and forth across the large white tiled floor. Its squares marked by the dirt from roller board suitcases. His faded parka bespeaks of its former burnt orange glory. What would have been a glory in the white outside the train station. That white unblemished but for footsteps and the pinpricks of water droplets from window radiators.
On his head, a forest green knit hat that goes into his white bears and oval glasses. Back and forth he walks, sliding the flaky buttery crumbs of croissants and pain de noël left by passengers long since on their trains. He tells a joke to the poorly scheduled girl behind the counter with the red and white sleeping cap who offers tea with a smile and warm wishes. She laughs with a clap. He drifts back, his shoulders hunch and his jacket puckers open. Back to his corner. A table he had shared with an old woman before she left him there. “Bon appétit, monsieur,” he calls over and over from the corner.
Eventually it’s near enough to departure time that I figure I can go stand outside and just stare at the departures board. So I starts to standing and listening to music. Mistake. Mariah Carey’s “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” almost sets me to crying in the station. Why didn’t I go back home I ask myself. NO answers. Anyway, 15 minutes before the train’s to arrive, it says that it’s delayed 40 minutes. Awesome.
Eventually, it’s time to go downstairs. So I go to the voie. There are a lot of people on it but I’m not too mussed. When the train pulls up, though, and I see people making mad dashes, though, that’s when I get nervous.
Sometimes on trains (as I’ve mentioned/experienced here before), one car goes one place and the other car goes another. So I was trying to find the second class car going where I was going. So I passed up the first few even though everyone was just clamoring to get on. I finally found one that looked right and I started trying to get on. But then the conductor said there wasn’t anymore space!
The woman next to me started getting hysterical. She went to the train’s windows and started yelling at all the people inside to move for the rest of us. Move! Move!! I guess they didn’t. Then the woman started pointing to this girl next to her (presumably her daughter) saying that there were children who needed to get on the train. This train was legit lifeboats on the Titanic. (Thanks, Parker Brogdon, for that metaphor.) She pushed in front of me and said, “People need to get on this train.”
I responded, “Moi aussi.” (Me too.) When the conductor moved, though, she just pushed her way on by herself. That little girl was just a pawn! The conductor closed the door and walked away. Wait, though. I was still outside. Ack! So I stopped thinking I wasn’t gonna make it on and I just opened the door and got on. Thank god I was using Jen’s little backpack instead of my big bag because I fit like a bug in a rug.
A different conductor came back later and closed the door. Success! It was crazy full in there. Never have I ever been on so ridiculously a standing room only train. At the next stop, I got to move further inside so that I wasn’t standing against the door. Now I could see the sad state of affairs. People were even sitting in the bathroom—on the toilet, on the floor, leaning on the walls. The loud woman was still causing a scene because she needed to wee, but where were these people gonna go? No dice, fool.
At the next stop I got moved in a bit further so that I was standing in the aisle. Thank goodness I had my gross gummies with me because I was starving. Each stop we made took about 15 minutes because we were trying to pack as many people in as possible. Because of all this and because of some random stops that we made in the middle of nowhere for 30+ minutes at a time, the 5 hours train ride ended up actually taking 10 hours. So I had plenty of time to take photos. Here is what those 10 hours were like:
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| Actual train. |
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| This was later because there was enough space to sit down. See everyone standing in the background? |
I started creeping a mixed family (mother and 2 sons) that was sitting near me. I listened to Christmas music. I really wanted to be all cinematic and start a sing-a-long, but they’re European. And I already felt conspicuous enough when Jen and Katelin (who, oh yeah!, were together because Katelin was arriving in Strasbourg for the holiday on that day. Christmas Eve.) kept calling to see where I was like I would know. And I was all speaking in English. Also, Katelin and Jen had never met before Jen went to get her from the tram stop.
When we had a few stops left, the mom of the mixed family asked if I wanted to sit down while her boys got off at the stop for a bit. I accepted. Guess I wasn’t creeping too creepily after all. When they came back, I moved and asked some guys if a seat was full. They said, “It’s free.” IN ENGLISH! I was legit shocked and excited and hurried to get my bag and make it mine. They were Russian, though. Triste. As soon as I sat down, they pulled out their legit bag of beers and started throwin’ em back.
Random side notes: There was a dog (a black lab) on the train this WHOLE time. S/He was very well behaved and just laid under the seat the whole time. There was a baby on board (no sign) who was good until the end.
Eventually I got off the train. And I went to go wait for a taxi because the trams had stopped running at 6pm because of some strike. Anyway, I went out front to get a taxi but when I asked the only taxi there if he was accepting passengers, he said nah. Typical. So I waited out front for a while to see if any would show up. I kept waiting while the chunks of snow kept falling and nearly decapitating innocent passers-by. Jen asked if I was in a cab yet. Nope. So she called to make a reservation for me. They said I’d have to wait an hour. I needed to be in the same taxi area as everyone else. I thought I was. But then I went back inside and saw that there was an itty bitty little sign at the last minute that said instead of going straight, I needed to go right.
So I did. I waited about 45 minutes. There was this ragtag family of nearly homeless and fully crazy Frenchies who stole a cab. Then the group of 5 in front of me started getting in the cab. They started putting their bags in the trunk until the guy was like, I can only take 4 bags. They said, what if we put it inside the car? He said nah. Then he looked at me and said, “You. Let’s go.” As bad as I felt, I had to do it. So I did. I think I got to Jen’s just after midnight. And we had mac’n’cheese, eggplant parmesan, and a shot a whiskey.
The end is so close I can taste it-ly,
Jessica
L'Hiver becomes L'Enfer: That Time Europe Turned Against Me (Part 3)
After arriving in Basel, Jen and I waited for Jen’s bag and then waited to get on the bus shuttle to the train station. We got on the train to Strasbourg and had no problem. Magically, this train station had a waiting room that was OPEN and inside. (Virieu has one that’s sometime’s open and inside. The other side has a bus stop like shack.) When we got off the train, we took the tram to Jen’s area, got off to get some groceries, and made the trek chez elle.
We didn’t do much that night except eat some dinner and then go to bed. She made a lovely pasta with crème fraiche (Jen’s obsession) and veggies.
The next day we had quite a late start. Though mine was slightly before Jen’s, so I went downstairs and watched some telly. Her cable is amazing and sometimes lets you choose to watch in English or French. Vair exciting.
When she got up, we bumbled around for a long time (watching Dexter, I think) before we decided to make the most of the day and head off to explore Strasbourg: Capitale de Noël! This exploration really just included going to Jen’s favorite Christmas market.
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| Christmastiiiiiime is heeeeeere! |
We took the tram back to city center. As soon as we got off, Jen needed to go to the ATM. I managed to get a photo, though, of the streets.
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| You..... light up my liiiiife, street. |
As is terribly common in Europe, the streets had lights up as well.
There was also a fancy carriage. Though I’m not sure where it took you.
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| Maybe it took you back in time? |
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| I want the world. I want the whole world... |
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| I got the zebra one. MIXED. |
We then peaced out and went to the big grocery store, which is in a mall! Did I mention that Strasbourg is a legitimate city? Much unlike Belley. It was strange, actually, to be in a French city that wasn’t Paris but that was so full of shopping. Anyway, we got a ton of food since we were expecting all of the shops to be closed on Christmas Eve and Christmas. (It was only the 20th, but I was leaving for Brussels the next day.) So we loaded up and then had to carry the 4 bags across this big icy/snowy plain to get back to the tram. Naturally, the bags kept getting caught on my boot buckles and so started to tear a bit. Once we got on the tram, Jen and I traded so that they wouldn’t break and we wouldn’t look more foolish than we already did. I later found plastic bag scraps tucked into my buckles.
When we got back, we had some chips and homemade salsa with Jen’s German roommate. I think for dinner, we had pasta again.
The next day, I was up at about 5 to get to my 7am train to head off to Brussels solo! To meet dear friend Fiorella from NDA! Details to follow.
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| Feast! (Also, note evil Frankenstein....) |
Finally getting caught up-edly,
Jess
L'Hiver becomes L'Enfer: That Time Europe Turned Against Me (Part 2)
SO. Even though I had been telling Jen for 7 hours what time I would be arriving and at which train station, when I arrived, she said she didn’t know where I was. So I went inside the train station (which was the first station to resemble an American one! More specifically, the Newark Train Station, which I am well familiar with thanks to my excellent adventure from Jersey City to Red Bank. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime. Now is not that time.) and wandered around aimlessly until I saw a sign that basically said, “You are here. Too bad the nearest metro station is over there.” As I am wont to do, I sets to walking.
I texted Jen to say that I was waiting at whatever stop I was waiting at. So I waited for her to come find me. When she did, we made our way to her friends’ place. When we got off the train, Jen asked if I was hungry/wanted a beer. I said I was alright, but Jen loved beer. So we stopped for some Spanish beer (the only brand that I saw being sold there) and some patatas bravas—Jen’s Barcelonan obsession. Then we went next door to Greg and Liz’s apartment.
Greg and Jen went to preschool or something together. The thing about Europe is that it really brings Americans together. Anyway, Liz is Greg’s girlfriend, and they were both studying in Barcelona for the semester. When we got inside, they asked if I wanted to some something of the herbal variety. I declined, but, well, of course Jen was essentially reliving her Amsterdam trip. (Pun intended.) So I just sat in the room while they helped themselves.
Then, surprisesurprise, everyone was hungry. So we went out in search of paella. We made it basically down their street a bit and ducked into the 4th or 5th restaurant that was offering the dish. Greg said he had been there before. So we went inside and had a seat. They were playing the soccer game, but my back was to the screen so whoops. Liz and Greg split some paella with chicken, but Jen and I are vegetarians (though she’s WAY stricter than I’ll ever be. When I say I’m a vegetarian, I actually mean I’m a flexetarian. It’s a real thing. I saw it in a magazine once.) so I started looking for seafood paella. But then I found out that Jen doesn’t actually like seafood. Except in gumbo. Because her family is from Louisiana. Most everyone should know that I like all food—except peppers and sautéed mushrooms—but we got the vegetable paella. Well, that’s what we thought. But there were definitely shrimp in the dish that they brought to the table. Jen also ordered croquettes. She bit into one and saw that it had ham in it and ate around the seafood in our paella.
At this point, Jen reminded me that we needed to get to the outdoor store because Greg and Liz didn’t have any bedding for us so we had to buy sleeping bags. The store would close at 9:15. It was probably 8:45. So Jen and I left some scrilla (actually left 10€ extra that we never got back) and booked it to the metro. When we got off, I quickly realized that Jen actually didn’t know where we were going so we asked some fellow on the streets and we literally ran all the way there. We found the bags and got two of them instead of 1 (thank God because we were sleeping on a bed that reeked! Like, I zipped my head into the sleeping bag because it smelled so horribly and I didn’t want to sully my tresses.) So then Jen wanted some gelato. We wandered around the area (which was okay, because it was the center of the city, I think?) looking desperately for gelato.
We eventually found a subway where Jen settled for 2 cookies. Then we headed back to the metro to go back to Liz and Greg’s. As we were making a transfer, I saw the largest vending machine ever!
When we got back to the apartment, they decided to smoke a bit more while I called my aunt Kemo to wish her a happy birthday. After their smoke sesh, we had plans to go out. But we didn’t make it. So we went to sleep.
The next morning, around 11, I’d say, I got out of bed. I think we managed to get out the door at about 1. Since it was the only day of sight-seeing I was going to get in Barcelona, I knew I’d have to make the most of it. So we started off by taking the funiculaire to Montjuic. We got off to see a lovely sight.
We then walked through a garden before going back up to the main drag. We started to go into the art museum, but since it cost money, Jen vetoed it. Jen needed to use the toilet, so we considered going into the Olympic museum (because Barcelona is all about having hosted the Olympics. Strangely, I don’t think that’s ever been a big part of LA’s calling card.), but that also cost. All in front of the museum, they have these bronzed footprints of athletes on the floor. (Speaking of which, Kobe just got added to Mann’s Chinese!? WHAAAAT!?) So I took some photos.
Then we went into the Olympic Stadium, which was pretty cool. It also had free restrooms, so Jen went to work that out while I took a photo of an apron to steal the sangria recipe written on it. Enjoy the recipe!
Also pretty empty. A sign reminded me that I was “standing before real evidence of sporting history in Catalonia.” It went on to not that the stadium was “[b]uilt to house the Popular Olympics in 1936, a bid which failed due to the Spanish Civil War, it became centre stage for the ’92 Barcelona Olympic Games.” Chillus Munillus.
We then went back through the garden in search of a different metro stop. Not because we knew that there was another one, but just because. So we started to head down the super steep hill. We found some signs towards it, but I was distracted by an impressive looking building. (No joke. When we had seen its roof from the hill, Jen told me it was the Sagrada Familia.) I told Jen I was going to investigate (because this is sometimes how you find important things to see in a city on which you have done 0 research), and Jen said okay but she was going to have a sit on the bench.
So I wandered over and, well, looky here. I stumbled upon the art museum housed in a building built for the 1929 World's Fair, the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya. I texted Jen that it was open for 30 more minutes so I was going inside. It was a pretty enough building inside, but they weren’t allowing photos. So I went to the restroom and then walked around a bit. I decided to open one of the doors and go inside.
“Where’s your ticket?” the guard asked me after I had popped in.
“I don’t have one.”
“You need a ticket,” she said as I shamefully turned around and walked out.
So I went back outside and took some pictures of the view before walking back to find Jen, who I honestly thought had left me. But there she was posted on a bench. So I told her there were some nice views, and we walked back so she could take some photos. And we went down the stairs. Reverse shot!
We eventually found the metro and took it to the Park Guell (pronounced G-way) area. We got off and started looking for an ATM because Jen never has any money. That’s not me being mean. She genuinely always needs to go to an ATM. So we found one and then stopped in for some lunch. I decided to risk paella again, and I also got some zuma (Spanish Spanish word for juice/jugo), which should never be confused with Zima. While we were eating, when we were ready to pay, we searched for our waiter. He had decided to have a seat and a glass of wine. Apparently, this is something that happens quite often in Spain.
We left to get to Park Güell for realsies. Jennifer had a general idea of where we were going, but certainly no specifics. So we just turned up a random stret that magically worked. Stopped for art.
We went into the park and, immediately, I saw why the park is so special. The amount of work that certainly went into the park is just remarkable. So many sculptures in the architecture. Not like France, who just puts statues in a garden. This was clearly very deliberately thought through:
We then climbed the stairs to get to the “lookout point.” I took a photo for a mother and daughter (tender) and muddled my way through some frenish to tell them someone was in the photo in the background. Maybe they hate me. Tant pis. Anyway, I did get a photo of the view from Park Güell.
We then went downstairs where some girl was having a photo shoot. There was also a guy playing some musica. It was this plaza-sort of thing with loads and loads of pillars holding up the floor of the “lookout point.” There was, of course, art built into the ceiling of the space.
Then we went down the stairs a bit, and it took me about 15 minutes to get a photo of this mosaic lizard that’s famous or something. Each time I thought I had a shot, someone hopped his/her mug into the frame, and I was all, “Get out!” but everyone ignored me. Eventually, I saw my chance, so I took it! (In my original photo selection for this entry, I hadn’t selected the lizard, but after that story, you probs want proof of my success. The problem with this blog is I have to prove everything. I’m inadequate.) So, HERE.
This is what all of that looks like from street level. Doesn’t it look like a little gingerbread village? And by “little,” I obvio mean “massive scale.”
We stopped for postcards and for me to take a photo of the pretty sunset. Hooray!
Then Jen and I got back on the metro to head over to the Sagrada Familia. NBD or anything, but it’s a church that’s been under construction since 1882. They say it will be done in 2026.
I was interested in seeing the inside, but it cost, so no dice. Took some photos before going across the street to a Christmas market. One of the less impressive ones I’ve seen but to each his own.
We decided to head over to meet Liz and Greg at some bar. We actually got off the metro near the station where I went after the train. Jen didn’t actually know where the bar was, though, so we ended up wandering for a while. We stopped into an Irish bar so Jen could use the toilet and where the clientele was watching the 50 greatest Christmas songs or something on VH1 and they were playing Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmas Time,” which I’ve never heard before. Jen was disappointed in me, but I can’t trendset ALL the time. (Yes, I can.)
We left and kept looking for the bar. Luckily, it was a nice walk along the harbor. Then we saw the symbol of Barcelona, which seems very LGBT-friendly.
At this point, Jen said we should just go to the other bar to meet her friend form Emory, Melony. So we went to the bar, which was the same one where (NOT coincidentally) Jen fell in love for maybe the 349830948th time. Anyway, she wanted to stealthily see if the Argentinian 30 year old bartender was working there. Let me tell you. It is hard to stealthily creep someone when the bar has maximum 8 people in it. But try we did. And by “try,” I mean that we sat with Melony and never looked at the bar.
We basically stayed there all night eating and drinking. Sometimes the bartender talked to us. As the night went on (as it became way more obvious that we were not being stealth at all), we moved to the bar and started chatting with the Argentinian and the other bartender, who was Irish. I don’t remember anyone’s names. You’re lucky to get Greg and Liz. Shmanyshway (for Stephi), eventually, Greg and Liz showed up. This prompted Jen to go outside with them for a remedy for a moment. Then it was time to leave. We stopped at McDonalds and I used the fancy touch screen to treat Greg and Liz to some grub as a means of a host/hostess gift. They gratefully accepted.
The next morning, I got up and wanted to go take a shower. I walked in and re-realized how scary the bathroom was. I don’t think anyone had cleaned it since they moved in (there were 4 people living there). I went back into the room Jen and I were sharing to say I was concerned about the bathroom. She thought I meant I was worried about the water spilling over the side of the tub. Legitimately, least of my concerns. But I acted like she had quelled my fears and so went back inside. Daintily and speedily, I took a shower. I also got to use the toilet and the last bit of toilet paper. Masterful.
When I came out, I sat while Jen moved about trying to get ready. But not actually since she was using Facebook. So the other roommate’s weekend guest went in and showered. When I went back inside, it was really scary. I don’t know what she had done in there, but the entire floor was covered in water. Whatevs. I brushed my teeth.
Eventually, Jen was ready to go, so we did. As soon as we closed the door, Jen realized she had left her laptop (basically her child) inside. So she started knocking. But very lightly. I told her she could do it, put her back into it. She feebly tried again, so I stepped in with my big man hands (jokes. Someone once told me, “Aw. You have housewife hands.” Not a made up comment.) and started pounding. I didn’t know what was taking so long because the other guest was staying in the living room just on the other side of the door. Eventually she got off her arse and opened the door for Jen to scramble embarrassedly inside for her baby. Out she came, and off we went.
We made it to the place where the stop for the airport shuttle and we got off to get the bus. We just missed the first one. So we waited legitimately 2 minutes for the next one (this is so NOT Belley) except, oh wait! It wasn’t stopping at our stop. It kept on moving. So after an older woman told me to watch my purse (because, Jen had told me as soon as she picked me up that Barcelona is number 1 for pickpocketing.), we ran across the street to where the bus actually would stop.
The gold-toothed and gold-jewelry-ed bus driver let us on and we paid. As soon as he put his foot on the ignition, Jen fell over into her suitcase. Legitimately on of the greatest sights to behold. You should’ve been there. She recombobulated herself (too bad she didn’t have the recombobulation station that’s available at the Madison, WI airport just after security, eh?) by the time we got off. I was a bit wary of getting off at the first stop because it definitely didn’t say EasyJet on the list of airlines, but I was letting Jen take the lead on this one since she had been to Barça before. MISTAKE. We walked the length of the terminal before being informed that we needed to take the escalator down to take the bus shuttle to Terminal 2, which only houses EasyJet. So we did. After we got off the bus, we had this crazy long walk to the actual building that was the Terminal. Mess. Anyway, we got inside and got in line and got checked in (the EasyJet guy winked at me. I didn’t hate it, Sarah.), and went through to security. For some reason, the Barcelona Airport is idiot and has it set up so that you take off all your shizz and then put it in the bins and then carry everything to the scanners rather than having it on a table so you can rest it. So, since it was December and everyone’s going to colder places (even though Barcelona was gloriously warm. Why did I ever leave LA?), it took quite a few trips for all the junk to get to the scanning table. Basically: chaos.
We made it through, though, and grabbed a seat near the food stand. Jen got a potato sandwich (Don’t ask. This is a concept I don’t understand. “I know what potatoes need! To be surrounded by bread!”) while I got a tomato/mozzarella salad and kiwi yogurt because it was intriguing. I also got some peach zuma. It tasted like baby juice. I can’t explain it, but that’s what it tasted like.
While Jen and I were innocently stuffing our faces, she spied a guy’s American passport sticking out of his hand. “Maybe we should say, ‘Hi,’” Jen said. And I asked her if she actually wanted to talk to him, knowing the answer was a no. Too late, though. He heard us speaking English all American-like and said,
“Oh hey. You guys are American? I’ll come sit with you after I get my food.”
This is almost definitely what he said. Verbatim.
“Look, Jen. You got what you wanted,” I said after he was just out of earshot. Except this is not what anyone wanted.
Addy, as his name was, lived in Austin but was from Connecticut. He had his wallet stolen on the first day he had arrived in Barcelona. I sympathized with him but not enough because it was stolen by some guy who engaged him in conversation and started dancing with him. Rookie’s mistake. (Dramatic irony right now for some people reading this. Dramatic irony for me as I’m writing this.) Anyway, eventually, his flight to Gatwick happened and he peaced out. But not before asking for our email addresses so he could friend us on Facebook. Jen told the biggest lie of her life and said that she had deactivated her account because she “has a problem.” Okay, maybe only a half-lie. And I gave him my generic email address that’s not listed on Facebook. I also gave him my name because, well, there’s about 4873409587340958 Jessica Williamses in the world.
Bye, Addy!
Then our flight was delayed 2 hours. Then we got on the plane to Basel.
IT’S NOT OVER-ly,
Juice
I texted Jen to say that I was waiting at whatever stop I was waiting at. So I waited for her to come find me. When she did, we made our way to her friends’ place. When we got off the train, Jen asked if I was hungry/wanted a beer. I said I was alright, but Jen loved beer. So we stopped for some Spanish beer (the only brand that I saw being sold there) and some patatas bravas—Jen’s Barcelonan obsession. Then we went next door to Greg and Liz’s apartment.
Greg and Jen went to preschool or something together. The thing about Europe is that it really brings Americans together. Anyway, Liz is Greg’s girlfriend, and they were both studying in Barcelona for the semester. When we got inside, they asked if I wanted to some something of the herbal variety. I declined, but, well, of course Jen was essentially reliving her Amsterdam trip. (Pun intended.) So I just sat in the room while they helped themselves.
Then, surprisesurprise, everyone was hungry. So we went out in search of paella. We made it basically down their street a bit and ducked into the 4th or 5th restaurant that was offering the dish. Greg said he had been there before. So we went inside and had a seat. They were playing the soccer game, but my back was to the screen so whoops. Liz and Greg split some paella with chicken, but Jen and I are vegetarians (though she’s WAY stricter than I’ll ever be. When I say I’m a vegetarian, I actually mean I’m a flexetarian. It’s a real thing. I saw it in a magazine once.) so I started looking for seafood paella. But then I found out that Jen doesn’t actually like seafood. Except in gumbo. Because her family is from Louisiana. Most everyone should know that I like all food—except peppers and sautéed mushrooms—but we got the vegetable paella. Well, that’s what we thought. But there were definitely shrimp in the dish that they brought to the table. Jen also ordered croquettes. She bit into one and saw that it had ham in it and ate around the seafood in our paella.
At this point, Jen reminded me that we needed to get to the outdoor store because Greg and Liz didn’t have any bedding for us so we had to buy sleeping bags. The store would close at 9:15. It was probably 8:45. So Jen and I left some scrilla (actually left 10€ extra that we never got back) and booked it to the metro. When we got off, I quickly realized that Jen actually didn’t know where we were going so we asked some fellow on the streets and we literally ran all the way there. We found the bags and got two of them instead of 1 (thank God because we were sleeping on a bed that reeked! Like, I zipped my head into the sleeping bag because it smelled so horribly and I didn’t want to sully my tresses.) So then Jen wanted some gelato. We wandered around the area (which was okay, because it was the center of the city, I think?) looking desperately for gelato.
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| Lights. For Navidad, yo. |
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| Supermarket Rapido. Because why not? |
The next morning, around 11, I’d say, I got out of bed. I think we managed to get out the door at about 1. Since it was the only day of sight-seeing I was going to get in Barcelona, I knew I’d have to make the most of it. So we started off by taking the funiculaire to Montjuic. We got off to see a lovely sight.
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| Top of the world and lookin' down on creation. |
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| I was once in a yogurt commercial with Pete Sampras. AKA I (along with at least a hundred others) watched him hit a ball back and forth for hours. I wanted to be discovered. |
3 ¼ cups dry red wine
1 tbsp sugar
Juice of 1 large orange
Juice of 1 large lemon
1 large orange, sliced thin crosswise
1 large lemon, sliced thin crosswise
2 medium peaches, peeled, pitted, and cut into chunks
1 cup club soda
Combine all the ingredients except for the club soda in a large punch bowl or serving pitcher, mixing well. Refrigerate overnight. Immediately before serving, mix in the club soda for added fizz. Ladle into cups with ice cubes.
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| Official title: Estadi Olímpic de Montjuïc Lluís Companys. Obvio. |
Also pretty empty. A sign reminded me that I was “standing before real evidence of sporting history in Catalonia.” It went on to not that the stadium was “[b]uilt to house the Popular Olympics in 1936, a bid which failed due to the Spanish Civil War, it became centre stage for the ’92 Barcelona Olympic Games.” Chillus Munillus.
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| From de outside. |
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| It looks like my photo of St. Paul's in Landan! (http://jubileejuice.blogspot.com/2008/09/and-after-two-weeks-with-no-word.html) |
“Where’s your ticket?” the guard asked me after I had popped in.
“I don’t have one.”
“You need a ticket,” she said as I shamefully turned around and walked out.
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| NBD. |
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| Reverse! Reverse! |
We left to get to Park Güell for realsies. Jennifer had a general idea of where we were going, but certainly no specifics. So we just turned up a random stret that magically worked. Stopped for art.
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| Also Viva el Revolucion! |
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| Lean like a Cholo. |
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| On the left in the distance is La Sagrada Familia! Also, the colors, man! The colors! |
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| The beauty's in the details. |
Then we went down the stairs a bit, and it took me about 15 minutes to get a photo of this mosaic lizard that’s famous or something. Each time I thought I had a shot, someone hopped his/her mug into the frame, and I was all, “Get out!” but everyone ignored me. Eventually, I saw my chance, so I took it! (In my original photo selection for this entry, I hadn’t selected the lizard, but after that story, you probs want proof of my success. The problem with this blog is I have to prove everything. I’m inadequate.) So, HERE.
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| Pretty lizard. |
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| Let's live in a Christmas movie! |
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| Mediterranean climate! |
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| Someday it will be done! |
We decided to head over to meet Liz and Greg at some bar. We actually got off the metro near the station where I went after the train. Jen didn’t actually know where the bar was, though, so we ended up wandering for a while. We stopped into an Irish bar so Jen could use the toilet and where the clientele was watching the 50 greatest Christmas songs or something on VH1 and they were playing Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmas Time,” which I’ve never heard before. Jen was disappointed in me, but I can’t trendset ALL the time. (Yes, I can.)
We left and kept looking for the bar. Luckily, it was a nice walk along the harbor. Then we saw the symbol of Barcelona, which seems very LGBT-friendly.
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| Are you a man or a lady?--Captain Hook |
We basically stayed there all night eating and drinking. Sometimes the bartender talked to us. As the night went on (as it became way more obvious that we were not being stealth at all), we moved to the bar and started chatting with the Argentinian and the other bartender, who was Irish. I don’t remember anyone’s names. You’re lucky to get Greg and Liz. Shmanyshway (for Stephi), eventually, Greg and Liz showed up. This prompted Jen to go outside with them for a remedy for a moment. Then it was time to leave. We stopped at McDonalds and I used the fancy touch screen to treat Greg and Liz to some grub as a means of a host/hostess gift. They gratefully accepted.
The next morning, I got up and wanted to go take a shower. I walked in and re-realized how scary the bathroom was. I don’t think anyone had cleaned it since they moved in (there were 4 people living there). I went back into the room Jen and I were sharing to say I was concerned about the bathroom. She thought I meant I was worried about the water spilling over the side of the tub. Legitimately, least of my concerns. But I acted like she had quelled my fears and so went back inside. Daintily and speedily, I took a shower. I also got to use the toilet and the last bit of toilet paper. Masterful.
When I came out, I sat while Jen moved about trying to get ready. But not actually since she was using Facebook. So the other roommate’s weekend guest went in and showered. When I went back inside, it was really scary. I don’t know what she had done in there, but the entire floor was covered in water. Whatevs. I brushed my teeth.
Eventually, Jen was ready to go, so we did. As soon as we closed the door, Jen realized she had left her laptop (basically her child) inside. So she started knocking. But very lightly. I told her she could do it, put her back into it. She feebly tried again, so I stepped in with my big man hands (jokes. Someone once told me, “Aw. You have housewife hands.” Not a made up comment.) and started pounding. I didn’t know what was taking so long because the other guest was staying in the living room just on the other side of the door. Eventually she got off her arse and opened the door for Jen to scramble embarrassedly inside for her baby. Out she came, and off we went.
We made it to the place where the stop for the airport shuttle and we got off to get the bus. We just missed the first one. So we waited legitimately 2 minutes for the next one (this is so NOT Belley) except, oh wait! It wasn’t stopping at our stop. It kept on moving. So after an older woman told me to watch my purse (because, Jen had told me as soon as she picked me up that Barcelona is number 1 for pickpocketing.), we ran across the street to where the bus actually would stop.
The gold-toothed and gold-jewelry-ed bus driver let us on and we paid. As soon as he put his foot on the ignition, Jen fell over into her suitcase. Legitimately on of the greatest sights to behold. You should’ve been there. She recombobulated herself (too bad she didn’t have the recombobulation station that’s available at the Madison, WI airport just after security, eh?) by the time we got off. I was a bit wary of getting off at the first stop because it definitely didn’t say EasyJet on the list of airlines, but I was letting Jen take the lead on this one since she had been to Barça before. MISTAKE. We walked the length of the terminal before being informed that we needed to take the escalator down to take the bus shuttle to Terminal 2, which only houses EasyJet. So we did. After we got off the bus, we had this crazy long walk to the actual building that was the Terminal. Mess. Anyway, we got inside and got in line and got checked in (the EasyJet guy winked at me. I didn’t hate it, Sarah.), and went through to security. For some reason, the Barcelona Airport is idiot and has it set up so that you take off all your shizz and then put it in the bins and then carry everything to the scanners rather than having it on a table so you can rest it. So, since it was December and everyone’s going to colder places (even though Barcelona was gloriously warm. Why did I ever leave LA?), it took quite a few trips for all the junk to get to the scanning table. Basically: chaos.
We made it through, though, and grabbed a seat near the food stand. Jen got a potato sandwich (Don’t ask. This is a concept I don’t understand. “I know what potatoes need! To be surrounded by bread!”) while I got a tomato/mozzarella salad and kiwi yogurt because it was intriguing. I also got some peach zuma. It tasted like baby juice. I can’t explain it, but that’s what it tasted like.
While Jen and I were innocently stuffing our faces, she spied a guy’s American passport sticking out of his hand. “Maybe we should say, ‘Hi,’” Jen said. And I asked her if she actually wanted to talk to him, knowing the answer was a no. Too late, though. He heard us speaking English all American-like and said,
“Oh hey. You guys are American? I’ll come sit with you after I get my food.”
This is almost definitely what he said. Verbatim.
“Look, Jen. You got what you wanted,” I said after he was just out of earshot. Except this is not what anyone wanted.
Addy, as his name was, lived in Austin but was from Connecticut. He had his wallet stolen on the first day he had arrived in Barcelona. I sympathized with him but not enough because it was stolen by some guy who engaged him in conversation and started dancing with him. Rookie’s mistake. (Dramatic irony right now for some people reading this. Dramatic irony for me as I’m writing this.) Anyway, eventually, his flight to Gatwick happened and he peaced out. But not before asking for our email addresses so he could friend us on Facebook. Jen told the biggest lie of her life and said that she had deactivated her account because she “has a problem.” Okay, maybe only a half-lie. And I gave him my generic email address that’s not listed on Facebook. I also gave him my name because, well, there’s about 4873409587340958 Jessica Williamses in the world.
Bye, Addy!
Then our flight was delayed 2 hours. Then we got on the plane to Basel.
IT’S NOT OVER-ly,
Juice
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Alp-ino
We interrupt your regularly scheduled Christmas holiday update to bring you this last weekend update.
Currently (aka the Tuesday after this weekend happened, which was February 15), these are the parts of my body that ache:
My right leg, mid shin (also bruised)
My left leg, mid shin (convinced there's a bruise just below the surface)
My armpits
My triceps
A spot on my right buttcheek where I have a bruise
The inside of my right knee where I have a bruise
My adductors
Why, though, friends? It is because I decided to go skiing for the first time in 12 years. (That's a guess. It is maybe more than that.) It is also because I decided to do downhill skiing for the first time in my life. Many moons ago, Anne and Lew decided to take Alex and me on a trip to Mammoth (because California is the greatest state and has everything you want in terms of climates). Here's what I can remember about the trip: driving in the middle of nowhere, being in snow that was so deep people had shoveled pathways that were taller than I, cross-country skiing lessons with pine trees covered in snow. I remember taking the lessons. I don't remember learning anything.
Something about this made me think that it would be a good idea to email Flo last week and ask if I could come along for a weekend at their chalet. Of course, she obliged. So on Friday afternoon, I got on the bus to the train and waited outside for an hour (because the waiting room is under construction. Also because I usually have to wait outside.) and got on the train to Geneva. Magically, I was on the train with Nicole's son, Hadrian, but I didn't know it until it was too late. Tant pis.
I got into Geneva no problem and waited for Flo to arrive after work. I talked to my sister the whole time. Well, not actually. First, I went to the Relay to buy some chocolate to give to my students for Valentine's Day. What a rip. I paid 13 CHF (basically $13) for a bag of Lindt. I know it's delicious and all, but get rizzy.
Anywho, Flo and I went back to her place and had a lovely meal with Gregoire, Antoine, and their friend, Axel who lives just around the riverbend from them. (Please note that they do not actually live on a river. They live in the 'burbs, but be reasonable.) So after our dinner of ribs, salad, some kind of vegetable galette that was delicious, and some potatoes. All from downstairs, obvio. After dinner, we said goodbye to Snoopy (who's en chaleur) and hit the road.
Two hours later we arrived in St. Luc and sat down for some lovely cake that Papi Xam (pronounced ck-sahm) had brought with him from Lausanne. It was delicious. Then, Flo and I set up my bed, and we all hit the sack.
The next morning, Antoine and I walked to the village boulangerie for some bread and eggs. They only had 2 eggs left, so Antoine sent me back with the bread and 2 eggs while he continued onto the "big" supermarket for more eggs. When he got back and when everyone was awake, we had some breakfast of soft-boiled eggs (of course), bread, and jams. I also had some verveinne tea as my throat was threatening to be a problem. After breakfast, Antoine told me he had turned off his alarm at 7:30 because he was too tired. So he wouldn't have time to do his homework before skiing. That is so not how the Lew Williams house operates, but I kept that to myself. Antoine, Greg, and Axel scooted off to the slopes while Papi Xam worked hard to get rid of the ice on the patio next to the chalet. I played this game that involved navigating a metal ball around holes in wood for a bit. Then Papi Xam came back inside and the three of us had cappuccinos before Papi Xam headed back out to the ice. Flo and I then had a discussion about Swiss bank laws and the European Union.
When Papi Xam came back inside, I tried on some ski boots (first Flo's, then his) and got myself geared up: Greg's green pants, two thermals, and a massive coat. Also Greg's socks. So we made the walk. It was horrifying. Those boots are not comfortable. I think maybe my legs were not intended to be in ski boots since they cut into my calves/shins at such odd places that it was painful and I legitimately have a bruise on my right shin where they met. Anyway, they make you feel like you're walking on the moon. But with gravity. Flo, Papi Xam, and I made the short walk up the hill to the locker room where we each took out some skis and then got onto the funiculaire to get to the ski area. Carrying the skis was a mess. But not as much of a mess as me trying to go up and down the stairs in my heavy moon boots and carrying the skis was. Whatevs, though, the view was pretty.
While everyone got off and went to the right, we went to the left. Flo said it was because there were less people. And I believe her. I was a hazard. So, Papi Xam (in regular walking shoes and with 2 ski poles/batons) walked next to us while Flo and I (with much difficulty on my end) made our way up the gentle slope to go up the lift to a fairly easy piste. For a while it looked like I was on a Nordictrack instead of actually moving. Eventually, though, I managed. Flo went up on the lift with no problem. Thinking highly of myself, I decided to follow her lead. I put the little seat between my legs and zoomed up. WAY too fast. I fell sideways back down to the bottom. The Italian accented man told me to try again, so I did. I got a bit further and then slid face down back to the bottom. By this time, Flo had skiied back down on the actual course and met me at the loading point. The man said we should go to the "baby piste" and come back later. Owned.
Now Anotoine showed up and the four of us made our way down. Only, I couldn't get my life together so Flo had to ski down to the baby slope with me between her legs. Yep. It was that kind of weekend where it's just all mess all the time. So anyway, we made it to the baby slope and it was mostly empty for now, which was fantastic for me.
After Antoine went up on the lift, Flo helped me catch a seat, and I made it up to nearly the top on the lift. But Antoine told me to disembark a bit trop tôt (too early), and so I slid down the hill a bit. But don't worry. I didn't crash! Some random English speaking woman basically coached me to the flat bit of land. So then Antoine and I went over the basics, aka how I should try to keep my skis in the shape of a pizza. Alright. We'll try that. So we did. The way this slope was laid out was that on the right, you had mountain side. On the left you had death side, where if you went over the edge, goodbye working legs! So when we were turning, I go really good at turning right. So good that I crashed into the mountain. And fell. Flo watched and enjoyed me all day.
Antoine I think basically didn't know what to do with me and peaced out to go to the snow park, where there are ramps and fancy tricks and no embarrassing non-snow bunny Americans. So Flo continued with her efforts. We went up and down again and again and again. Here's how it went:
After nature finished kicking my ass for the first few hours, it was time for lunch. Luckily, Papi Xam had staked out a killer table on the deck of the station's restaurant. We went for a sit. I was SO glad to be taking off those skis. I really can't even express. Eventually, Axel, Greg, et Antoine came to sit with us. They gots some foods and started eating. Flo and I then went to get some grub as well. The prices at this place are completely ridiculous. The food was alright but nothing to write home about, to be sure. Furthermore, it was self-serve! But when you pay 9CHF for some fries, you expect at least potato wedges. But nah. Not here. This is Switzerland where everything is ooc (out of control) expensive. So anyway, I got green beans wrapped in bacon (Bert) and mashed potatoes. Papi Xam had a small bottle of wine.
After the meal, the boys went on to ski some more but Flo fell asleep. Then so did Papi Xam (and he also started to snore/ronfler a bit), so I was like, why not? And I put a glove over my face, put my boots up on the chair, and "rested my eyes." After the sieste (actually the French way to say "nap"), Flo and I headed back out while Papi Xam headed home. Don't worry, though. The afternoon was basically more of the morning. So, my body loves me.
When we got home, Papi Xam was in the midst of chopping vegetables for his homemade soup. Flo went in for a nap. I played more of the metal-ball game. Then the dudes came home from skiing.
Before dinner, Papi Xam and Antoine started cutting this bread that is typically Swiss. They make it twice a year, and it lasts for ages. It's got potatoes in it.
We had the soup, followed by chicken, followed by more of the cake. STUFFED. Then Antoine pulled out this card game called 1000 bornes that made 0 sense and took forever. Until everyone started cheating. Then it went really quickly. Then twas time for bed. Except no it wasn't for Axel and Greg who snuck out to go to this bar with some other skiiers while Flo was on the phone with Olivier. (Because Greg is a master and put her on the phone with him shortly after she said he couldn't leave the house at 10pm to go to a bar. What a winner.)
Sunday started with breakfast: bread, jams, soft-boiled eggs, and a rectangle of chocolate. Noms. Then, Greg and Axel headed to the slopes while I helped Antoine with his English homework. I'm good for something! (NB: This something is not skiing.) That took about 5 minutes since there were 14 questions. Flo then helped Antoine with his German homework. In Switzerland, kiddies have to take German and English if they live in the French-speaking part of the country. In all of the areas, they have to take English, because that's imperialism. In France, also, they have to take 2 languages. Yet another reason the US will be taken over. And that China will take over New Zealand. (Glenn Beck reference. Thank you Rachel Maddow podcast aka my main source of news.) After Antoine skipped out to go skiing, Flo took a shower, had a nap, and started to do some housework. She sent me to the market to get snausages for the barbeque we were going to have at the snow park for luncheon.
On the walk, I stopped to get some postcards and to take some photos.
When I got back, Flo was mid-vacuuming. I tripped on the vacuum. Oh, life. Anyway, the three of us (Flo, Papi Xam, and I) headed to the snow park. I had decided to not go skiing because my body said no to ski bottes/boots. We made a massive hike up the hill to the snow park. Sometimes our legs completely sunk. It was great to be wearing snow boots. Blah blah blah we made it up there. Papi Xam had taken another path (a bit safer) and when he made it, sat down for a bit. Flo caught up with a friend from St. Luc, and I just enjoyed the view.
So while Antoine went down to get some wine for Papi Xam and Flo (I abstained because apparently one of my fears--in addition to houseflies and falling down stairs/cracking my teeth--is falling down a mountain), Flo and I threw the dogs on the barbie and kicked back. I could have gone in closer for a view like Flo's friend's daughter did, but I didn't feel like tumbling down a hill Wesley style.
So we had some grub while we enjoyed the entertainment of watching people do tricks. The guy in charge of the snow park for the day was also playing some sweet beats like Robyn. But also played some horribly depressing rap songs about people getting cheated on and cutting yourself. I think that the impact of English lyrics are often lost on French listeners. [There is an episode with a similar moral of the story to come in the rest of my Christmas post, which will (fingers crossed) be up some time tomorrow.]
Here are some tricks seen on them slopes. The first is Antoine. And the second is Greg. Music courtesy of Swiss boy.
The sound at the end of Greg's is of Flo and me being embarrassed about the landing. Ah well. I really shouldn't be embarrassed since my whole day was embarrassing, but I digress.
We went back to the chalet, and Flo went for a nap. I played AND WON! the metal ball game. And I put it down never to play it again. Eventually, everyone was home. We had leftover soup, cleaned up a bit, said adieu to Papi Xam, and then hit the road back to Bogis-Bossey (where Flo lives). We got in around 10pm.
Antoine, Olivier, and Greg presented Flo with her birthday gift: a certificate announcing the imminent arrival a treadmill. Oh yeah. The next day (Valentine's Day) was Flo's birthday. Then Flo and I Skyped with the Williams Home on the West Coast for Large Things. To bed by midnight to get up at 5 to be on my 6:28 train to Culoz where I had a 40 minute layover for my one stop to Virieu where I hopped on the bus and got home for a nap before classes. Great weekend.
A week and a half later, only the shin and knee bruises/bleus remains.
Healingly,
Yessica
Currently (aka the Tuesday after this weekend happened, which was February 15), these are the parts of my body that ache:
My right leg, mid shin (also bruised)
My left leg, mid shin (convinced there's a bruise just below the surface)
My armpits
My triceps
A spot on my right buttcheek where I have a bruise
The inside of my right knee where I have a bruise
My adductors
Why, though, friends? It is because I decided to go skiing for the first time in 12 years. (That's a guess. It is maybe more than that.) It is also because I decided to do downhill skiing for the first time in my life. Many moons ago, Anne and Lew decided to take Alex and me on a trip to Mammoth (because California is the greatest state and has everything you want in terms of climates). Here's what I can remember about the trip: driving in the middle of nowhere, being in snow that was so deep people had shoveled pathways that were taller than I, cross-country skiing lessons with pine trees covered in snow. I remember taking the lessons. I don't remember learning anything.
Something about this made me think that it would be a good idea to email Flo last week and ask if I could come along for a weekend at their chalet. Of course, she obliged. So on Friday afternoon, I got on the bus to the train and waited outside for an hour (because the waiting room is under construction. Also because I usually have to wait outside.) and got on the train to Geneva. Magically, I was on the train with Nicole's son, Hadrian, but I didn't know it until it was too late. Tant pis.
I got into Geneva no problem and waited for Flo to arrive after work. I talked to my sister the whole time. Well, not actually. First, I went to the Relay to buy some chocolate to give to my students for Valentine's Day. What a rip. I paid 13 CHF (basically $13) for a bag of Lindt. I know it's delicious and all, but get rizzy.
Anywho, Flo and I went back to her place and had a lovely meal with Gregoire, Antoine, and their friend, Axel who lives just around the riverbend from them. (Please note that they do not actually live on a river. They live in the 'burbs, but be reasonable.) So after our dinner of ribs, salad, some kind of vegetable galette that was delicious, and some potatoes. All from downstairs, obvio. After dinner, we said goodbye to Snoopy (who's en chaleur) and hit the road.
Two hours later we arrived in St. Luc and sat down for some lovely cake that Papi Xam (pronounced ck-sahm) had brought with him from Lausanne. It was delicious. Then, Flo and I set up my bed, and we all hit the sack.
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| Hi! I'm St. Luc, and I look like a storybook. |
When Papi Xam came back inside, I tried on some ski boots (first Flo's, then his) and got myself geared up: Greg's green pants, two thermals, and a massive coat. Also Greg's socks. So we made the walk. It was horrifying. Those boots are not comfortable. I think maybe my legs were not intended to be in ski boots since they cut into my calves/shins at such odd places that it was painful and I legitimately have a bruise on my right shin where they met. Anyway, they make you feel like you're walking on the moon. But with gravity. Flo, Papi Xam, and I made the short walk up the hill to the locker room where we each took out some skis and then got onto the funiculaire to get to the ski area. Carrying the skis was a mess. But not as much of a mess as me trying to go up and down the stairs in my heavy moon boots and carrying the skis was. Whatevs, though, the view was pretty.
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| Takin' me higher and higher! (higher!) |
Now Anotoine showed up and the four of us made our way down. Only, I couldn't get my life together so Flo had to ski down to the baby slope with me between her legs. Yep. It was that kind of weekend where it's just all mess all the time. So anyway, we made it to the baby slope and it was mostly empty for now, which was fantastic for me.
After Antoine went up on the lift, Flo helped me catch a seat, and I made it up to nearly the top on the lift. But Antoine told me to disembark a bit trop tôt (too early), and so I slid down the hill a bit. But don't worry. I didn't crash! Some random English speaking woman basically coached me to the flat bit of land. So then Antoine and I went over the basics, aka how I should try to keep my skis in the shape of a pizza. Alright. We'll try that. So we did. The way this slope was laid out was that on the right, you had mountain side. On the left you had death side, where if you went over the edge, goodbye working legs! So when we were turning, I go really good at turning right. So good that I crashed into the mountain. And fell. Flo watched and enjoyed me all day.
Antoine I think basically didn't know what to do with me and peaced out to go to the snow park, where there are ramps and fancy tricks and no embarrassing non-snow bunny Americans. So Flo continued with her efforts. We went up and down again and again and again. Here's how it went:
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| Up! Sans balloons. |
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| Success at the top of the mountain! Me: "I'm the Queen of the world!" |
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| World's response: "No. You're not." |
After the meal, the boys went on to ski some more but Flo fell asleep. Then so did Papi Xam (and he also started to snore/ronfler a bit), so I was like, why not? And I put a glove over my face, put my boots up on the chair, and "rested my eyes." After the sieste (actually the French way to say "nap"), Flo and I headed back out while Papi Xam headed home. Don't worry, though. The afternoon was basically more of the morning. So, my body loves me.
When we got home, Papi Xam was in the midst of chopping vegetables for his homemade soup. Flo went in for a nap. I played more of the metal-ball game. Then the dudes came home from skiing.
Before dinner, Papi Xam and Antoine started cutting this bread that is typically Swiss. They make it twice a year, and it lasts for ages. It's got potatoes in it.
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| He was smiling in the first one. But what's really important to acknowledge is the saw he's using to cut the bread. |
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| This was a legitimate thing that happened. |
Sunday started with breakfast: bread, jams, soft-boiled eggs, and a rectangle of chocolate. Noms. Then, Greg and Axel headed to the slopes while I helped Antoine with his English homework. I'm good for something! (NB: This something is not skiing.) That took about 5 minutes since there were 14 questions. Flo then helped Antoine with his German homework. In Switzerland, kiddies have to take German and English if they live in the French-speaking part of the country. In all of the areas, they have to take English, because that's imperialism. In France, also, they have to take 2 languages. Yet another reason the US will be taken over. And that China will take over New Zealand. (Glenn Beck reference. Thank you Rachel Maddow podcast aka my main source of news.) After Antoine skipped out to go skiing, Flo took a shower, had a nap, and started to do some housework. She sent me to the market to get snausages for the barbeque we were going to have at the snow park for luncheon.
On the walk, I stopped to get some postcards and to take some photos.
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| Materhorn is visible! On the left! |
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| The hills are alive! (Isn't it lucky that the Von Trapps wanted to escape during the summer?) |
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| Horribly frightening for apparently only me. |
Here are some tricks seen on them slopes. The first is Antoine. And the second is Greg. Music courtesy of Swiss boy.
The sound at the end of Greg's is of Flo and me being embarrassed about the landing. Ah well. I really shouldn't be embarrassed since my whole day was embarrassing, but I digress.
We went back to the chalet, and Flo went for a nap. I played AND WON! the metal ball game. And I put it down never to play it again. Eventually, everyone was home. We had leftover soup, cleaned up a bit, said adieu to Papi Xam, and then hit the road back to Bogis-Bossey (where Flo lives). We got in around 10pm.
Antoine, Olivier, and Greg presented Flo with her birthday gift: a certificate announcing the imminent arrival a treadmill. Oh yeah. The next day (Valentine's Day) was Flo's birthday. Then Flo and I Skyped with the Williams Home on the West Coast for Large Things. To bed by midnight to get up at 5 to be on my 6:28 train to Culoz where I had a 40 minute layover for my one stop to Virieu where I hopped on the bus and got home for a nap before classes. Great weekend.
A week and a half later, only the shin and knee bruises/bleus remains.
Healingly,
Yessica
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