Last Sunday I tried to go to a movie with my friend Matt at this supposedly amazing cinema called E Street Cinema. I was hoping to see Martha Marcy May Marlene because I wanted to see just how good this Elizabeth Olsen's acting was. A part of me wonders if people are so amazed at her acting chops because of her family's "special" talents. (Her sisters are Mary-Kate and Ashley.) Anyway, there was a communication error and I was in the movie while Matt was standing outside for an hour. Mortifying but it's a long story, and not entirely my selfish fault. Anyway, after the show, I was standing outside on the phone talking about my service issues, and a guy standing on the street said, "Service issues?"
I responded, "Yes. Service issues!" because I have this idea that if you talk to people who hail you on the street, if you speak back, they'll be stunned into silence. The rate of success on this project is about 75.8%. But feel free to record your own results. In any event, this was a less than successful exercise in response.
The man on the street said back, "What about booty issues?" And that, friends, is perhaps the ultimate, lifelong question, isn't it? He then pulled out his flute and began a sidewalk concert.
To sum up that interaction, I am reminded of Maryse's roommate Cécile. A group of us were sitting in their salon asking Cécile about appropriate French words to convey our meaning, and the word that none of us could communicate effectively was "awkward." That word that has come to perhaps define an age group in such a way that I am now proposing that my generation be called "Generation Awkward" as opposed to "Generation Why" and other bestowed monikers. My generation has used this word to describe situations both organically awkward and forced into being awkward. It has come to such a point that some of us have to be reminded that things aren't actually awkward unless you pronounce them to be so. People are awkward, situations are awkward, this liminal space between France and America is awkward, this age of reliance on the internet to communicate is awkward, this phase of unemployment that lasts indefinitely is awkward... But I digress. Let me return to my original scene. Cécile informed us Americans that her French friends who had studied English had started to adopt the word for their own so that when describing a situation, they might be heard to say, "C'était awkward quoi."
Then there was this other time that I wanted to bake banana chocolate chip muffins for my class but when I asked Michèle if I could borrow the kitchen on Wednesday night she said it wasn’t available because she goes home on Wednesdays. I had already thought this was the case, but I just wanted to be sure that I was being foiled. So I went down to the Carrefour to see how much a small oven would cost. It was like 180€ so I just went over to the Macdo to use the internet for a bit. Then the next Monday I went back hoping that something magical had happened, and something had! Basically the magic was that I hadn’t seen an even smaller oven that cost 69€! Well, as you know, I have a special love for this number (the joke that just does not quit), and I took it as a sign from Julia Child or something that I should get it. So get it I did. And I carried it back up the hill in my weakling arms. That’s about a mile walk, y’all. I’m no slouch.
And I’ve baked something every week since I’ve bought it. So it’s been great. And today, after I offered some strawberry muffins to the salle des profs, I heard Chantal from the office say that the assistants who come next time will have some serious competition. And it doesn’t matter if they speak English—it’s all about their baking abilities. Suckers. On a related note, it really bothers me that in French, there’s no word (as far as I’ve been told) that means baking as opposed to cooking. As I’ve heard it, everyone just says cuisiner. In the past, I’ve tried to make up the verb boulanger to take from boulangerie. No dice, though.
I’ve actually tried to make up other words. One that I keep trying to use is obvieusement to mean “obviously,” obviously. But Sabine always chuckles and reminds me that it’s évidement. Which is weird to me because “evidently” means something different from “obviously.” Maybe I think about language too much.
On the second weekend in February, I was stranded at the drive-in. (“Drive-in” means “internat.”) So the day before, I had asked Sylvie if she wanted me to come to her class. Because erryone’s like obsessed with me, she said yes. But then Thursday night I was looking into doing a day trip to Annecy or Évian-les-Bains and realized that it would be basically impossible to take public transportation and have a reasonable amount of time in either of those destinations if I went to Sylvie’s class at 8am. So I had to bail on it. Triste!
On Friday morning, I got up and got on the bus to Virieu to get the train to Évian-les-Bains. I was excited for it as Livia had told me that the water was fo frizzle therre. And if you know anything about me, you’ll know that that’s my drink of choice. Not to be confused with my drank of choice: rum. I slept the whole way to Évian and then got off to make the rounds.
First thing I saw:
Bienvenue dans notre usine. (Welcome to our factory.)
As soon as I got off, I was hungry (maybe that’s why the doctor said I was obese. That’s another joke—definitely NOT a joke—that just does not quit). So I stopped for a pain aux raisins.
Delicious! Raisins are good for you. Nutritious!
Since I had no clue where I was going, I was overjoyed when I stumbled upon signs pointing towards the tourist information office. So I went. There was a woman walking her toy dogs with poop stains. Sorry about the image. But this blog is not just for your entertainment; it’s also for me to, years from now, remember (fondly?) some of the images from Fronce. So I went in and got a map, which awesomely had a walking tour on it. So I set out on it.
Lucky for me, the first stop was the Church of Notre-Dame de l’Assomption, built from the 13th-15th centuries. There was a market happening in front just like a Disney movie or something. Here’s the front.
Shake it to the front
The rump/clock tower.
Back back back it up.
Inside with the stations of the cross.
Stationary stations.
Then I tried to go to the Rue de l’Eglise, but I couldn’t find it based on the map or the description, which was about some windows. But I found this old archway, which must be historic in some way. Maybe it’s where little Maid Marion first met Jester John.
I'll bet it looks just the same as it did in the olden daze.
I went past the Place du Marché/Place Charles de Gaulle, which didn’t seem to be anything super special now, but was major in the Middle Ages.
Place du marché (Marketplace)
And there was a nice placard from CdG himself! (If he sent them a fancy metal plaque.)
Love letter from de Gaulle to "tous les Français."
Then I tried to go to the Château des comtes de Savoie, but I couldn’t find it. I’m not kidding. There’s like 5 streets on that Evian historical walking tour map and I managed to boff the whole shebang up.
So I spent some more time studying the map and trying to figure out where exactly I was supposed to be walking to get to stop 5: Hopital médiéval. Points if you sorted out that meaning without my help. (Medieval Hospital if you didn’t…) Thinking I got it right-ish, when I found this inviting street I decided to walk down it.
Reason #349804598409583094 I'm going to be abducted.
Walk-a walk-a walk-a. Surprise! I was right. No. I wasn’t. I think that questionable street is like Évian’s dirty little secret. And I actually never managed to find that hospital. Failure numero dos. So I went back up (after I got fearful that someone would catch me and say, “Hey, kid! What are you doing down here?” and then I’d have to run away in an exciting chase scene.) and kept going until I found yet another questionable small road down some stairs, but this one was the right one. (The right one to get to stop 6: Buvette Cachat) How’d I know?
Gotta love accurate street names à la Disneyland Way. (Guess where that is.)
Not dodgy. Not at all.
I made it to the Buvette Cachat, which is at the bottom of a hill.
Natural. (Wood and glass.)
This “hidden drinking area” was built on the source of Saint Catherine’s fountain starting in 1826 and was finished in 1903. It’s built entirely of wood and glass, and is really quite lovely. It’s meant to be viewed as a “temple of water.” Of course, though, it was closed, so I just “got to” look at it from outside. Harrrr she be from her starboard side.
These trees are all over France.
Naturally, after the tour has you go to the bottom of the hill, it then has you go back up to the very top. That’s the real reason French women don’t get fat. So up I went to Griffon de la source Cachat.
Tourist ruining my photo. Or making it real?
“A long time ago, the baron of Rochette had a rich and beautiful daughter, Beatrix. Asked for in marriage by the lords of Allinges and of Coudrée, she preferred Arnold, her father’s riding instructor, a poor, young, courageous man. The baron, who suffered from a mysterious illness, announced that he would give his daughter to whoever could cure him. Arnold went to consult the hermit in the big chestnut of Neuvecelle. He counseled Arnold to have the baron drink the water from the fountain of Saint Catherine every day. The baron was healed very quickly and gave his daughter’s hand to the young riding instructor. We celebrate the anniversary of Beatrix and Arnold at the château de Ripaille.” BOOM. Translation from tourist information. Love me love me love me.
The statue in front. Is it Beatrix!? (Probably not.)
When Livia told me that the water was free, she meant that I should have brought a massive jug to fetch the water ‘til the day that I am grown. Because as I was standing there, two people came up to fill up their own bottles.
Chug a lug. (At first, I thought he was stealing. No joke.)
Skip-a-dee-doo-dah. (He was not skipping. He is French.)
Green people bike to fetch their water.
Then I watched some Eastern European tourists take swigs. (Judgment based on language overheard.) So when I was left alone, I scuttle over to help myself to take off my glove and bring some o’ dat to my mouf. It was good water. COLD, though. I wish I had brought along a sippy cup, because then I was just wiping my wet hand against my coat and trying to get my hand dry enough to go back inside my child’s glove because my hands are too small for adult gloves made out of not cotton. PITY ME. Eventually I managed and continued with my handy dandy map.
Stop 8 on the self-guided historical tour is Le funiculaire, which started running in 1907. Don’t worry, though. It only runs from mid-May to mid-September, so I got to look at the empty tracks. And you do too!
Movin' on up!
I continued up the street along the tracks looking for the turnoff to go through Number 9: Parc de l’ex-hôtel Splendide. Welp, missed it! Even though I checked the map a few dozen times before starting up to the top. And even though I looked at the sign for my turnoff a few times only to assure myself that that wasn’t the right one. But I didn’t pull out the map again. So it’s my fault.
Anywho, the park was opened in July 10, 1898. At the time, the Splendide was the biggest palace on the French side of Lac Léman (often called Lake Geneva. WRONG.) I spent a significant portion of the day wandering around this park. Voilà! Mes photos.
Spooky scary skeletons. Or enchanting.
Hotel. Reminds me of Clue.
Let's graffiti everything!
Little town. It's a quiet village!
I don't know what happened, but someone had the stuffing knocked out of 'em!
Doesn't it remind of the Materhorn?
I wandered around looking at the hotel that they said didn’t exist anymore. But it was definitely there. So I was pretty confused. It sounded like some Frenchies (or foolish tourists?) were up there goofing around. Loud music. Crazies. So I just wandered around the park enjoying the graffiti on this century old park. Because nothing is safe from being marked, y’all. Fact. It’s all about getting there first. Even if that maybe means that you only got there first after the newest coat of paint.
And then on I walked because there were a few more stops on the walking tour. But I first stopped and clandestinely took some more free water from a fountain. Anyone who’s traveled with me knows that I hate to seem like a tourist. But I also hate to be yelled at for doing something I’m not meant to do. So I made sure to wait until no one else was around to take a handful of water. I also waited until I saw two kids do it. If they can, I can. We’re equally adorable and, thus, equally able to get away with things. Right?
Some fountain all about the Count of Savoie
As I made my way down, I passed this plaque.
I think that just about every French city/place larger than a village has a monument or something dedicated to those killed during WWII. And sometimes the monument does double duty and also represents WWI.
World War I
Down the hill I continued to Le Château de Fontbonne. Fontbonne! Anyone who has gone to Wash U knows the significance of this name. Fontbonne is located just across Wydown Blvd from Wash U, and for some reason it’s a huge joke to Wash U-ers. Probably because every time you go by the campus, there aren’t any students there. It’s such a mysterious school to us that I’ve seen people go to parties dressed up as Fontbonne students. So I was very excited to see Fontbonne in a place near a font. And also in France!
The original Fontbonne!
Why was Fontbonne on the Historic walk, though? Good question. Sadly, though, there's not really a good answer. Apparently it's because it still looks like a Renaissance hotel from the outside. Then for a brief walk along the French banks of Lac Léman/Lake Geneva.
Looks different here than in Geneva, eeehhhh?
It looks so clean!
And then for a viewing of these Viking-like pieces of art? I’ve mentioned the random pieces of art in France’s public spaces before, but this was just strange.
The original AVATAR?
Naturally, though, the wooden dragon has a wooden child on a swing.
These wooden structures that were on the other side of the road. I have no idea what was going on. I’ve just looked and they were put there for La Légende des Flottins, which is an alternative to normal Christmas markets. How? At this one, nothing is for sale, and everything is imagined. Speak French? There’s more information here.
Then I turned around and saw this. Beautiful! Look at how the light comes through the Buvette Cachat.
Then it was on to Le Palais Lumière.
According to the tourist website, which I checked for 3 minutes the night before deciding to go said it was open year round. So, of course, it was closed when I got there. So I looked at the time and thought it was because it was just after 12. So they might be on the 2-hour lunch break. Off I went to find some grub.
Whenever I’d talk to my students about food, their favorite would come up. It was generally potatoes or tartiflette, which is cheese and potatoes. Tartiflette is a specialty of Savoie, which is where I was living. And, luckily, Évian is also in Savoie. (Or, I think, it’s in Haute Savoie, which is the same thing only higher..) Anyway, I was pleased to see that the random restaurant at which I had chosen to it had it! It was so good. And perfect winter food. Runny reblouchon cheese, sautéed onions, crisp bits of bacon, and perfectly cooked potatoes that would have melted in my mouth if I had a higher heat tolerance in there!
After my delightful meal, with which I had some water that I thought would be free because I was in Evian (it wasn’t), I decided to wander back to Le Palais.
Hooray! When I arrived back at the Palais, the doors were open! So in I went. I was immediately stopped and asked where I was going. I said I was there to see the building. Guy said that the exhibit didn’t start until the next day. But couldn’t I just see the building? Nope. Good thing the tourist information said that the Palais was open every day of the year, right? So that was a bust, and out I walked. With my head held high? Unlikely.
Model home. Just like The O.C!
Onto the next stop on the tour, which was La villa Lumière. It’s been the Hôtel de Ville in Evian since 1927, but before that, it was the summer residence of the Lumière Bros. Only the inventors of film! (At least on the French end of things.) So, I was elated to have been a Film & Media studies major and to have that name mean something to me! Because, you know, sometimes things you study at uni never have real life application. You can enjoy some of their delightful cinematic feats thanks to the magic of YouTube, which is maybe like the Lumière brothers of our time?
It was crazy difficult to figure out how to get inside that place! I went in several different doors, went up to some locked ones, and asked a handful of people. Eventually I found what I thought was the right one, and I asked, in French, where the entrance was. He responded in French, and then, I guess, recognized my accent from before and ended in English. No respect. Whatever, though. I eventually managed to find the place.
So if this is their summer home, it's frightening to know exactly what their "rest-of-the-year" home must have looked like. Basically, I'm just a pauper.
It looks like Aunt Alicia's!
Close up for that handmade craftsmanship.
Rawr! Go up the stairs....if you dare!
And that was just the downstairs. When I was in the fancy room, I thought that we weren't allowed to take photos. And by "we," I mean just me since I was the only person in there. So I thought it was better to just not ask and get away with photo murder than to ask and be told "no." I guess the French way of life has rubbed off on me after all...
I did, however, have to ask if I could go up the stairs since the information desk was right at the stairs. She said that it was okay, so I trotted up and stopped to take a photo of what the rest of the house was (or might have been, since you could only go up to the landing without an appointment).
As you can see, there's just so much work that has gone into this house. The paintings on the wall, the inlaid sculptures cut off at the bottom, the wall engravings, the light fixture... It's just so much. I yearn for the days before dem factoriez. (In french the word for "factory" is usine.)
Sadly, though, once I got upstairs, I could see that they hadn't preserved much of the old house for the offices. France does this thing where they just gut a building so that they can have it be gorgeous from the outside and kind of hideous on the inside. The library in Belley is a perfect example. The beautiful 17th century home is really just an eyesore once you're through the doors--everything is plastic and metal and not even nice quality. Such a waste.
Outside, though, they had the beautiful motto of France above the door. So that was quaint. And I overheard a tourguide saying something about the two statues on the side, but that was eons ago. I think they're replicas of a statue by Puget. (AKA that's all I could come up with when I just Googled..)
Liberté. Egalité. Fraternité.
Then I peaced out and continued my walkabout. I went to the Casino and tried to get in to take some photos.
Don't worry, though. Since I didn't have my passport with me (and since my wallet was pilfered in Paris), I wasn't allowed in. So, that was cool. I even tried to show my SNCF 12-25 card, but no dice. Jerk.
So I went back up the hill towards the park to just kill time until I went back to Belley on the last train out of dodge. I stumbled upon this frightening painting in the window of a Middle Eastern restuarant:
They look like they're scared of falling off that magic carpet and into "A Whole New World."
Would you want to eat here? Me neither. So I continued my last tour of the city.
I basically just went up to sit on a park bench for a while. Enjoying the view.
Graffiti of course.
Notice the E in the gate. Swag.
Then, way too far in advance, I decided to peace out and make my way to the train station. How excited was I, though, to see this!:
Ahhhh!!!
It's a golden retreiver! They're ubiquitous in the US, but nearly nonexistent in France. They're such an American dog in terms of size and nonstop loving. I was so happy to see one on this typically grey French day.
As I passed by a place I had visited earlier in the day (the rear of the Buvette Cachat), I noticed a statue inside. The different time of day made the building look quite different. So I stopped for a photo:
Can you see the statue?
As I walked up to the train station, I stopped by the same boulangerie from the morning to get a baguette for my weekend since the Belley market bread never looked as appetizing as it should have, in my opinion. On the road to the train station, someone left his car running to go inside a house for a quick drop off, and I couldn't help thinking to myself how nice it must be to live somewhere where behavior like this is just no big deal. Then I couldn't help thinking how easy it would have been to just hop in and take the car since I had been thinking how much easier my life would have been with one. Except I can't drive shift. Alas. So back I went to Belley in a train, and not a car.
The next day, I went to the market to get some lettuce, blue cheese, cucumbers, and tomatoes for a delightful salad. I also got some delicious Corsican clementines because it was 1 kilo for a euro! I also enjoyed Into the Wild from the library, since I realized I couldn't be checking out books from there anymore--I'd just have to deal with DVDs and use the school library for my reading needs.
Refreshed because I finally got this post up and because that's what water makes you,
In the Premiere L I played Jeopardy with the kids for our last day. After Noémie and Faustine chose Pop Culture for 100, this went down.
Me: What country is Justin Bieber from?
Faustine: Los Angeles.
Good thing I'm not responsible for geography lessons! At the end of class, Romane and Faustine asked if they could come to class again next week. I told them we were playing the same game (because I see 1/2 the class each week) and they seemed practically giddy over it. So this is awesome. Except now I have to come up with new questions. Blurg. Anyone have question suggestions? Rhyme! (Later, Aurélie asked if she could come back as well. I hate being lovable/only having one activity that makes the kids say gimme gimme more gimme more.)
Also at the end of class, Noémie (remember the OS/original stalker?) gave me a bracelet that says "Jessica" so that I'll think of her. Sweet. Also, she's not a stalker anymore. Chick's got a bfriend and like mad friends now. So that's awesome. And it's all because I pushed her away?
While I was walking down the hallway yesterday, I was going through a cluster of my favorites (Terminale ES and Euro) and I heard my name being said in a whisper/real voice. So I turned and asked, "Yes?" It was Anaïs (not Charlène's bff). When I looked at her, she looked like she had been caught. Basically she was saying my name like I'm a celebrity. Overnight celebrity? Maybs more like 7 month celebrity. But who's counting?
Things that didn't happen yesterday:
Last time I did laundry, I discovered why it takes 4 hours to do one load. Because the woman who moves my clothes from washer to dryer puts like 4 things in the dryer at a time. TOPS! Frickin' ridiculous. Since then I've basically taken to drying things on my "balcony."
Remember that time Favorite Marie found out that I'm Irish? Well, later that week, I went to visit Nicole's class because the kids didn't feel like coming to me. Yes, la paresse/laziness is rewarded here. (Actually, it's because they were just so stressed about the practice exam that was 5 weeks away. At least, that's what Nicole said. Pity for me?) Anyway, they were learning about Northern Ireland (because apparently English classes here are plus ou moins obsessed with that topic and Nicole was trying to get them to figure out Irish immigration to the United States. Eventually someone nailed it on the head, and Nicole asked me about St. Patrick's Day celebrations, mentioning that they are big deals in Chicago and New York. I told her that they happen in other locations as well. (What up, St. Brendan School St. Patrick's Day Pageant of my childhood? There are a lot of capital letters in that sentence.) And I said how it's important in my family. Favorite Marie was looking at me with maybs like the biggest smile everrrr. And then Nicole nodded her acceptance of my answer and Marie turned to Favorite Charlène (who, side note, was dressed like a chicken for Carnevale) and excitedly informed her I'm Irish.
This can bring me to a slight tangent in which I let you know that French people are obsessed with origins. Probably because they're obsessed with stopping immigration. Because most outsiders (and you can probably guess which ones) are not welcome.
This week I had my last class with the first group I ever taught. Really sad stuff, y'all. But we took a photo together, so it was basically the greatest moment of my life. It's up on Facebook. I don't know the legality of reposting it here since they're minors.
Also this week I've been administering practice oral bac exams, which means that I spend hours listening to the students discuss a text and a document. Awesomely, for the group of 17 students, there's only 4 texts, so I can give you a super-detailed analysis of excerpts from Matilda, Jazz by Toni Morrison (Blues Man is the name of the excerpt), Gattaca (called "Human Possibilities"), and Having It All by Maeve Haran. Thankfully, I get to give them different visual documents to analyze. Still, though. It's exhausting to spend 2 hours listening to people talk without giving a response. Welp, I've only got 2 students left!
What has magnified the necessity to go home? They turned off the heat yesterday. I mean, it totes wouldn't be a problem except yesterday was the coldest day in several weeks. And today was only marginally better. But we'll see how long I survive.
1. When I was in Paris that weekend with Maryse, I was on the metro making a connection and was going up the stairs except, OH WAIT! Someone had decided that that was the perfect time and place to stop and play his PSP. So everyone just walked around him as he did his thang on them thar steps. Because I know that when I want to play my video games, I decide to sit on the stairs of a Paris metro station. That's just logic.
2. When I was in Paris that weekend with Maryse, we were walking and she said, "Don't you hate it when you're walking on the sidewalk and you feel like a car is behind you?" Because, of course, there was a car behind us at that very moment. And at first, I wanted to say, "Nah." Because it's really only in Paris/France that cars park on the sidewalk and their hum seems to get all huffy even thought you're just a regular pedestrian leading your earth-loving life. But then I realized that it is actually really annoying.
Why the blog overhaul? Because there aren't any windmills in Belley. I think I was giving you guys the wrong idea. Furthermore, when I was in Amsterdayumn, I realized that the windmill was in Holland. You were looking at a lie. Also, one time someone told me the blog was hard to read.
Also, I've always hated that background. But I am not attached to this, so if you hate it/me, we'll see what happens.
Why jellybeans? If I've done anything for this country, I think I've made people happier with my obnoxiously bright wardrobe. I've definitely seen some pink sweaters on students. My fault? Prolly like 100%.
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.
God's country?
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!
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.
Kids do the darnedest things.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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:
Actual train.
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.
