Alsacez-vous!

Well it’s been about a week since I have ventured anywhere more exotic than the exciting town of Saverne, France. What awaits me every Thursday and Friday in this rural Alsacian town is classroom after classroom of (for the most part) non-English speaking students who, I am quite sure, would rather be out smoking cigarettes than inside learning about Thanksgiving with me. But hey, someone’s gotta do it, right?

I figure that since I haven’t been out traveling Europe this past week, I’ll take this time to catch you up on what has been going on in France. I do actually spend some time here, believe it or not. To begin, we shall go back 2 weeks, to the first week of November, and my glorious return to school after the Toussaint holidays in Ireland.

Bane of my existence.

Every Thursday starts with a bang. And by bang, I mean blaring alarm at 4:30am. Why, you ask? Well I live a lovely two-and-a-half hour commute from work, and to make it into to work in time for my 8:55am class on Thursday, I must leave Saint-Amarin by 5:15am. Over the past weeks I have gotten quite used to my early wakeups. I expect nothing less than sub-zero temperatures to accost me as I grace my front stoop. Thank you to my scarves, gloves, sweaters and jackets for preventing frostbite during the walk to the train station. I arrive in Saverne 45 minutes ahead of my scheduled class, so as to use the time to make photocopies and prepare for my lessons. Thursday November 4^th was much a typical day in this respect, expect the photocopier would prove to be a bit trickier than previously thought. Get prepared people, school drama about to ensue. 

Generally the teachers’ lounge is empty during the 8-9am class period. I often even have the place to myself. So on this cold and blistery Thursday morning, I went about my business as usual, making photocopies, etc. 20 minutes in to my photocopying, Catherine, a fellow English teacher (but one that I do not work with), waltzed into the teachers’ lounge with photocopying on her mind. As one of the photocopiers was broken, she was meant to wait for me to finish. Now unfortunately, I had a serious amount of copies to do for my lesson on Thanksgiving, and they were all for my class starting at 9am. I was frantically racing around attempting to get everything in order, when Catherine began to ask about my use of the machine. Was I still using it? Yes. Would I be done soon? I still had some copies to do, but it wouldn’t be too long. How long? I wasn’t entirely sure. Was I making copies for the next class period? Yes. Slowly her questions began to go from polite to irritating to downright rude. Eventually she began yelling at me in French that I could not possibly need all these copies (and by all it was like 30) for the next class, that she had to make copies for her class, and that this was ridiculous, etc, etc. By the end of the ordeal I was practically shaking and sweating bullets next to the photocopier as I (still not done) moved aside to let her use the copier. So, my first squabble! If you can even call it that on my part – but I am not about to step on any toes in this place. For those of you who don’t know, the French certainly do live up to their reputation of being “snotty” (and somewhat mean) from time to time. Ha! Is this what my life has become? Fights over the photocopier? I never thought I would see the day…

That week, and the following week, most of the lessons I taught were about Thanksgiving. If only one French child knew one thing about how our country was founded! Most don’t even recognize the fact that we were an English colony that waged war to gain independence. Even after reading a story, doing reading comprehension, and discussing Thanksgiving traditions in the US today, most of them could not see the point of this holiday. “There aren’t any presents?” Well, no. It’s about being together with your family, celebrating everything you have to be thankful for. Reaction? Blank stares. 

However, in one class, the kids really made me smile with our final Thanksgiving activity. With only a few minutes left, I asked the students to think about one thing they were really thankful for in their lives. I asked them to write it on a piece of paper, anonymously, and hand it to me as they left the room. What they wrote was on tiny bits of paper ripped out of their notebooks. I expected to take a look, and then throw the papers away, but what they wrote was so adorable, that I carry around their answers with me still. “I am thankful that I have friends to make me feel good and who like me how I am.” “I’m thankful for having wonderful parents.” “I am thankful for having friends who make me smile everyday.” I must admit I left this class with a big smile on my face. When they’re not being annoying and bratty, kids can be very sweet.

Lady Gaga and Oprah

With one of my more advanced classes, I am pretty much allowed to cover whatever topics I want. In class, we made a list together about what they would like to discuss. The list included: Oprah, high school cliques, reality TV shows, prom, American boys, Sweet 16s, 21^st birthdays, and the NRA. Yes, the NRA. So what did I do during a class period when I had extra time after discussing a document? We watched Oprah interviewing Lady Gaga. Laziness on my part? Perhaps, but they loved it. 

Another large chunk of my day at school is devoted to avoiding advances from young teenage boys. Oh yes, French boys do indeed live up to their reputation in this respect. I can’t tell you how many, “Madamoiselle, je t’aime”s and “I ♡ you”s I have received on small pieces of paper in the middle of class. One boy, while I was correcting one of his papers, decided to inscribe, “I love you, Sarah” into his desk. I must admit, it is somewhat flattering, even if it is coming from 16-year-olds!

But overall, here is I what I have decided about French school: I would never send my child to one. And here’s why. Those children are in school from 7:55am until 6:00pm. And not just doing sports, or music, or art. They are in ACADEMIC CLASSES for 8 hours a day! It’s inhumane. They take 12 different subjects! By the time they are finished class at the end of the day, they are so exhausted they don’t have the energy (or the time, for that matter) to go and play sports or practice music. None of the schools have organized sports teams, bands, choirs, photography clubs, or charity organizations. Thank God I grew up in the US. When I look back on my high school experience, and how richly diverse all of my activities were, I cannot imagine my creativity being stifled in a place like French high school. Here, school is just for learning, nothing else. No wonder the French stink at most sports! They never have time to play anyway!

On the whole, I do enjoy my job at school. My students are getting better at English, and I leave almost every day feeling a sense of accomplishment about one class or another. Just this past week, I had a class that normally never speaks, and that actually makes my life a living hell for one hour each Thursday. However, when I told them we were doing a debate on French vs. American television, they formed teams, came up with arguments, and held an intelligent debate in English about which one they thought was better, and why. Maybe I’m having a bigger impact than I thought…

On the way up the mountain!

Anyway, moving on to life outside of school. Saint-Amarin is a very small town. Life here moves at a glacial pace, if that. The stores on the main street are almost never open, except if it’s the boulangerie, but even they keep odd hours. More often than not it looks like a ghost town when I glance outside my window. But I am not complaining. This is what I came here for: relaxation in the midst of all my travels. I love it here. When I’m here for only a few days at a time, small-town life really does suit me. Just the other day Aoife and I decided to explore our beautiful surroundings. We grabbed our sneakers and went out for a glorious hike through the woods. The crisp autumn air felt amazing in my lungs as well scaled the Vosges Mountains. The view at the top was not to be believed. 

Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum.

Our life inside the apartment is improving as well. We just acquired a mini oven (we previously did not have one at all) and christened it by having a full Sunday roast. We had a few other English assistants from the area over, and Aoife made a roast chicken, homemade mashed potatoes, and sautéed vegetables. It was quite delectable, especially since I didn’t have to make it myself! I must admit, upon moving to France I have become somewhat lazy with the cooking. Not because I don’t like to cook. I love to cook. But the freshly made baguettes from the boulangerie on the corner and the creamy Camembert from the market make an amazing lunch for less than two euro! It’s hard to beat. 

Strasbourg Christmas Market

Other than that, not much is new. I recently acquired my “carte de séjour” and am now officially considered a resident of France. Harry Potter comes out on Wednesday, and you better believe I will be front and center in that theater. The Alsace Christmas markets start this weekend and I can’t wait to explore them! I have been hearing about these markets since my arrival in Strasbourg in September. Even the SNCF, the French train system, is offering special deals to people who want to travel to Alsace to experience the markets in all their glory. Finally, on Saturday morning I'm off to London to celebrate Thanksgiving with some of my closest friends from UVA. 

Doesn’t get much better than this, huh?

Happy early Thanksgiving to all!

Amsterdam Coffeeshops: More Than Your Average Starbucks

         Thank God I bought an umbrella upon moving to France. Well, to Europe for that matter. It rains here. A lot. So, as I sit snug in my bed with a hot cup of tea, staring at the rain beating against my windows, I figure it’s as good a time as any to tell you about the past couple of days I spent in Amsterdam, where, inevitably, it also rained the entire time.

"we sell more than you think" : understatement
of the year - this airport sells everything imaginable

            Last Wednesday Jen and I embarked on our little journey to the land of windmills and wooden shoes. Everything went smoothly on the way over – something which is incredibly unusual for my travels – the flight was smooth, we got free cupcakes, and landed on time. (For those of you wondering about the cupcakes, it’s Easyjet’s 15^th birthday, so they give out free cupcakes on their flights….book fast, you might still get one!) Per usual, we arrived at the airport starving. So, we headed off in pursuit of the nearest grocery store, because traveling on a budget means not eating out at restaurants…or so I attempted to maintain for the first day. Turns out, Amsterdam airport is the most amazing airport of all time. Not only was there a grocery store inside, along with a store for every clothing brand imaginable, and every fast food restaurant, the grocery store was amazing! It had all types of American products – including Duncan Hines brownie mix, icing, and all other types of goodies. Note: my willpower is growing. If you came to my apartment, you would notice that I did not buy the box of brownie mix (mostly because I was too poor, but hey). So what did we decide to eat? Baguette and brie. Yes, upon arrival in the Netherlands, I ate what I would normally eat in France. Adventurous, eh? However, it was indeed the cheapest thing in the store.

Amsterdam at night

            After the grocery store bonanza, we hopped a train to Amsterdam Centraal, the train station in center city (as you could have guessed). And you know what, Amsterdam? I’m surprised at you. I expected a lot more English on the signs. Not that having English everywhere is imperative – I am totally a fan of learning other languages (as you know), but we got so turned around trying to find a train into the city! We bought a slow-speed train ticket but accidentally got on a high-speed one because we couldn’t tell which was coming in where…oops. When we finally did get to the station, I whipped out my handy Blackberry (where I had stored the directions to our hostel), and we proceeded to attempt to find Hotel Mevlana. Major fail. We exited to the train station into a very sketchy looking area, but thought we would press forward until we saw some signs. We meandered alongside the harbor until I eventually saw something that had a bit of writing on it. Stepping towards the sign from the pedestrian sidewalk almost got me killed. Note: Amsterdam is a bike- and motorcycle-friendly city. Not so much human-friendly. Watch out! They don’t stop. After my brush with death, a nice young man decided to come over and help us (seeing as we looked incredibly lost). He told us that we had gone out the wrong exit of the train station (surprise, surprise), but that he would gladly show us the way. He also mentioned that getting run over by a bike or motorcycle was bound to “be the theme of my trip.” Ha, little did he know. I learned my lesson: the big ones don’t stop.

            Out the other side of the station and directed down the right path, we reached our hostel in less than 10 minutes. And this is why I love being a girl. No matter where you are, some nice man comes to help you when you’re lost.

'Dam Dutch Stairs

            Amsterdam is absolutely beautiful by night. The canals reflect the millions of city lights in a way that makes them dance on the water. All of the tiny side streets already have lights strung up for Christmas, so when you pass by, it’s like a small bit of merriment being thrown out into the night. The buildings are beautiful, especially those from the Golden Age (17^th century). I really do love this city. I could definitely see myself living here (and perhaps trying to learn a little Dutch, but let’s be honest, it’s not the prettiest language in the world). We arrived at the hostel, checked in, and went up to our room. Or shall I say, struggled up to our room. I wish I had taken a picture of the staircase. Or ladder, really. Climbing up to the third floor of this hostel was like scaling a vertical rock face with a few places to hold on. In fact, this is what ALL Dutch stairs are like. And I found out why. Back in the day, when all of these buildings were constructed (i.e. 15^th century or so), the plots that were sold were incredibly narrow, so as many people as possible could have a space along the canal. As a result, the houses were built very tall, narrow, and deep. To compensate for the squished space they had width-wise, the Dutch decided to make their stairs tiny as well (and practically insurmountable). I have christened them the ‘Dam Dutch Stairs. (Catch the pun on ‘Dam? Teehee, I’m so clever.) After our Himalayan climb up the staircase, we reached our room on the 3^rd floor. It was a room with 3 sets of bunk beds, obviously for six people, but none of the others were in the room when we got there. Luckily, we had the room to ourselves to unpack (into our lockers), get our beds settled, change, and get ready to go out.     

Red Light District

         First stop of the evening? You guessed it. The Red Light District. You can’t go to Amsterdam and not see the Red Light District at night. It’s quite something. And I must admit, I was unprepared. We walked down a small little street between two of the canals, and ended up under a row of red lights. I am seriously such an idiot, that I thought to myself, hm, that’s interesting, what are those red lights doing there? (I never thought the name came from the actual use of red lights. Well, newsflash: it does) We continued walking and were caught like deer in headlights staring at window after window of scantily-clad women (basically not clad, if you will) selling themselves! For some of you who have been to Amsterdam, perhaps you weren’t so caught off guard by this. Perhaps you knew what the whole Red Light District thing was about. Well, I did not. I naively thought there would be some type of sign, some type of warning, saying, “Red Light District this way, if you’re a prude, walk the other way.” But there wasn’t. And so, I found myself face-to-face with “Body-to-Body Sex Massage”, absolutely mortified and horrified because I could not tear my eyes away. Now, let me be honest. I may not always be the most street-smart person in the world. In fact, I’m much more book-smart than I am street-smart, and I think my siblings would be the first people in the world to confirm that. So, where most people would look, politely avert their eyes, and keep walking, I stopped and stared. Tsk tsk to me. I don’t think the girls were too happy.

            Another thing I was unprepared for? Men actually soliciting these women. And you want to know something sick? Most of the accents I heard, of these men trolling the streets, were American. I passed by one guy who practically skipped on up to a door, and when she opened, said, “Hi! How much?” I kept moving before I heard the answer.

            Eventually we made it through the labyrinth of red lights and seedy window displays onto the Oudezijds Voorburgwal, a canal on the far side of the Red Light District. What’s there, you ask? Well I’ll tell you. The Bulldog. The first coffeeshop (they spell it as one word there) in all of Amsterdam. And no, I didn’t go just to get a cappuccino. As some of you may know, I detest coffee. I’m a tea-drinker myself. But that’s beside the point. Since it’s legal and all to smoke marijuana in coffeeshops in Amsterdam, I don’t find that I am violating any code of conduct by telling you that I went to the Bulldog to smoke. Everyone goes to Amsterdam to smoke. And no, I am not going to sit here and describe how it feels to smoke, because I’m going to guess that most of you have, at least once in your life, in fact, smoked. So now that we are all on the same page, I’ll go on.

The Bulldog

The whole coffeeshop thing is quite interesting. You can bring in your own weed, sit at a table and smoke, as long as you order something. And since they are technically coffee shops, you won’t find any alcohol being served. Just your basic coffee, tea, water, juice (and the juice is fresh squeezed right in front of you, by the way). Most coffeeshops also have a menu. It tells you what kinds of hash and marajuana they have, all the different ways you can get it (pre-rolled joints, loose, etc), and of course, the prices. It really wasn’t actually too expensive at all. You’d think with all the tourists coming in to smoke that the prices would be incredibly high, right? But not really. It’s actually very reasonable. So Jen and I picked out the White Witch, which had come recommended by a friend, grabbed a booth, and proceeded to spend the greater part of the evening watching ski videos and the nature channel at the Bulldog.

Around 11:30pm, we started to get hungry. Now as I’ve mentioned before, I am not a fast food eater. At home, I never grace the doorstep of a McDonalds or Burger King unless it is to get a diet coke (my weakness). But where did we decide to go in our white witch haze? None other than McDonalds. And it was goooooood. Hit the spot. I can’t even explain to you how much traffic those McDonalds get in Amsterdam…all that legalized smoking sure must boost the sales of every food shop in the city. After McDonalds we decided to call it a night. We gallivanted in the rain back to the hostel, scaled the stairs, and entered our room…only to find some giant Italian man asleep in my bed.

            Oh hostels. I feel like every seasoned (and budget) traveler should spend at least a few nights in a hostel just to have the experience. And getting a single or a double room does not count. I’m talking dorm-style, put your stuff in a locker, share a tiny space with a lot of other people you don’t know, hostel-dwelling. There’s nothing like feeling like your every move might wake someone else, or brushing your teeth in the hall so you don’t disturb the others, or getting dressed in the dark and putting your clothes on backwards because you can’t see what you’re doing (you didn’t want to turn the lights on, everyone else was sleeping). I had some hostel experiences on Semester at Sea, that is for sure. And anyone who has read that blog knows that I have slept in some very interesting places. So this one was no sweat, except for the man in my bed. The rest of the people in the room were awake, and as luck would have it, not one of them knew who this guy was in my bed. As we were talking, he happened to wake up, catch a bit of what were saying, and said, “This is yours?”, pointing to the bed. “Haha, yeah,” I replied. He moved to get up and go to the other bed (which had clean sheets, pillow and duvet), and that’s where I stopped him. “No, no, you stay there. I’ll take the other one. It’s no problem at all,” I said. I was not about to sleep in a bed or use a pillow that he had just been sleeping on. Gross. But here is what I do not understand. The beds are clearly marked in hostels, people. It’s not like a guessing game where you have to figure out which one is yours. Each bed has a number. This number corresponds to the number on the locker to which you have the key. Clever, clever Italians.

Anne Frank

            The next morning, we were up bright and early to meet Jen’s friend Jessica, who was arriving from Lyon. She is Jen’s friend from back home in LA, and is also a teaching assistant over here. After Jen met her at the station, we congregated at the hostel, got ready for the day, and headed out to the Anne Frank house. I was very excited to see this. Almost every American child has read The Diary of Anne Frank. We have all studied World War II, and we know what an incredible human tragedy it was. When we are asked to recall what we remember about the war, it is inevitably Nazis, concentration camps, the Holocaust, persecution of Jews, etc. Well this brings it all to life. We stood in line for a few minutes before purchasing our tickets and proceeding into the house.

            I am sure that many of you know the story of Anne Frank. But for those who don’t, or who forget (like I had), here is a small recap. The Frank family was a Jewish family living in Germany before the start of WWII. When Hitler came to power in 1933, they knew they were in danger, and decided to move to Amsterdam. In 1940, the Nazis occupied the Netherlands, and the Franks decided to go into hiding in the very house where they had been living on the Prinsengracht (Princes’ Canal). They were successful in hiding from the Nazis until June 1944, when someone betrayed them to the Germans, and they were discovered. All of them, including the 4 others who were in hiding with them, were sent to concentration camps. 7 out of the 8 died in the concentration camps. Otto Frank, Anne’s father, was the only one to survive. Anne died a month before the liberation. Her journal was discovered by 2 of the women who worked with her father (in the same house – the back was where the family hid, the front was the office). It had been left behind during the raid. They kept it until Otto Frank returned to Amsterdam. When it was clear that Anne was not coming back, he read the diary his daughter had kept all through their years in hiding, and decided to publish it so the world would know her story. It is now published all over the world in over 70 languages. To this day, the authorities have never been able to find out who it was that betrayed the Frank family to the Nazis.

            When you enter the bottom of the front part of the house, there are quotes adorning the walls. They are all from Anne’s journal. Throughout the house, in all the rooms, quotes from her journal are on the walls to guide you through your journey into her past. The first quote you read when you enter the museum is this, “One day this terrible war will be over. The time will come when we’ll be people again and not just Jews! We can never be just Dutch, or just English, or whatever, we will always be Jews as well. But then, we’ll want to be.” This bottom part of the house was part of the warehouse for Otto Frank’s two companies, Opekta and Pectacon (one sold a jelling agent, the other seasonings for meats). The men working in the warehouse had no idea about the people hiding upstairs. In one of the display cases in this area, there is paraphernalia that attests to the persecution of Jews during this time. There is even an authentic, yellow star patch made of cloth, which Jews had to wear to denote the fact that they were Jewish.

            After the warehouse area, we climbed another set of Dam Dutch Stairs, into the area that held the offices of the company. The people that worked for Otto Frank, none of them Jewish, helped bring food and supplies to those in hiding. In 1941, when Jews could no longer own businesses, Otto registered his companies under the names of Victor Kugler, Jo Kleiman and Jan Gies. We moved from the office area down the hall, up another staircase, and into the annex. It was here that the Frank family, along with Fritz Pfeffer and the Van Pels family, was in hiding. When the families were arrested, everything was moved out of the so-called “Secret Annex”. When the house was turned into a museum, Otto Frank wanted it to remain this way, but had small scale models made of what the rooms looked like during the time they were in hiding. We went through the moveable bookcase that hid the door to the annex from view. We saw the pictures Anne had taped to her wallpaper in an effort to decorate her otherwise bleak room. We saw the board games and bicycle owned by little Peter van Pels. The most disturbing part for me was the pencil marks written on the wall that tracked how much Margot (Anne’s sister) and Anne had grown during the time they were in hiding. In our old cottage in northern Michigan, we also had a doorframe where my mom kept track of how much the four of us had grown each summer. Seeing those markings on the wall, and remembering my own family’s similar tradition, was really moving.

            In the attic of the front part of the house, we encountered photos of the concentration camps, the stories of how each person died, and a video in which a friend of Anne Frank’s recalls the last time she saw her. In the next room, there was a video of Otto Frank playing. He was discussing his daughter. On one of the walls there was a life-size photo of him when he returned to the empty Secret Annex after the war. It is unbelievably and incredibly sad. In the very last part of the exhibit, you get to see the actual diary Anne wrote in while she was in hiding. On the wall are some of the sheets of paper she used to make additions and edits to her novel, which was to be called The Secret Annex.

Sara's Pancake House!

            All in all, the Anne Frank house was everything that I expected it to be – deeply sad, moving, incomprehensible, gut wrenching, and memorable. It is true that this is one story out of many, but it is a story that gives light to the plight of the Jews during World War II.

            After the house, we walked just a little down the canal to have lunch at a restaurant called The Pancake Bakery. Now I was unaware of this, but apparently the Dutch are famous for their pancakes. Living in France, I wasn’t sure if they could live up to the deliciousness of the crêpe, but they did. They were great. Thicker than a crêpe but thinner than a normal pancake, they were both savory and sweet, melted in your mouth – especially with some of what they come with on top. Jessica ordered the Autumn Special, which had cinnamon ice cream, poached pears, whipped cream, pieces of chocolate and a touch of nutmeg. Jen and I ordered a caprese pancake, but I must admit, I think they are more suited to sweet toppings than savory…keep that in mind.

Dutch pancakes

            We finished our meal, and headed back out into the cold and rain to find a nearby coffeeshop. Our misson? Eat a space cake before going to the Van Gogh Museum. We had heard from some Amsterdam veterans that this was the only way to see this museum. Walking down the canal, a huge gust of wind came along and broke both Jessica and Jen’s umbrellas! From then on, the 3 of us careened down the streets at warp speed to find a warm, dry coffeeshop as soon as possible. As luck would have it, most of the coffeeshops were on the complete other side of town. By the time we arrived at City Hall Coffeeshop, we were soaked through the bone. We ordered 3 space cakes and some hot tea. Space cakes in Amsterdam come in all shapes, colors, and sizes. One of the ones I had while there was shaped like a small chocolate cupcake, the other, like a piece of pound cake that had been dipped in pink and green food coloring. Nonetheless, the purpose of the space cake is to, in fact, “take you into outer space”. As with all foods that contain marijuana, it takes about 30-45 minutes for you to digest the weed within the cake. So we chilled, had our tea, ate the cake, and around 4pm, made our way towards the Van Gogh museum.

Space cake

            Ah, the Van Gogh museum. For an art history major, and especially someone who adores Impressionism, Post-Impressionism, Pointillism, etc, this museum is like Christmas. After having eaten a space cake, it’s like Christmas times ten. The museum is set up to take you through Van Gogh’s development as a painter by time period. You start off in the Netherlands, 1880-1885, then move to Paris for 1886-88, then to Arles (south of France) for 1888-9, then Saint-Rémy for 1889-90, then Auvers-sur-Oise for 1890. Since he was only actively painting during these 10 years, the body of work that Van Gogh produced is astounding. It is from 1886 onwards that you can really see Van Gogh develop into the artist we know him as today. He switched to the bright colors often used by the Impressionists, and experimented with techniques used by the Post-Impressionists, like pointillism. Tracking the artists’ life through the museum is a clever way to hold the exhibit on the permanent collection. It is easy, even for the untrained eye, to see his development, and his later use of amazing colors and techniques. I was pretty much in awe walking through the museum.

Van Gogh's Sunflowers

            The museum closed at 6pm and we were literally amongst the last to be shoved out the door. It took us a while to get home, since we couldn’t figure out the tram system and got severely lost (contrary to what some concierges may tell you, you cannot buy all your tram tickets on the tram…Thanks for the free ride, Amsterdam!). When we eventually got back to our street, we hopped off at the grocery, had another delicious dinner of…yes, bread and cheese, and went up to the room to rest for a bit before going out. This was 8:30pm. We awoke “to go out” at 11:00am Friday morning. Oops.

            Getting ready in a tiny room full of people you don’t know, who are still sleeping, and trying not to wake them up, is quite a delicate matter. Reminds me of how we used to change in the girls’ locker room after swimming in PE…very secretly. However, like I say, it is a delicate art, and one that I have deemed practically impossible (hence the advent of earplugs. I am certain whoever invented earplugs had stayed in a hostel more than once). Nevertheless, we scrambled around the tiny room on Friday morning, attempting to get up and out and not wake the strangers. One of things everyone had told us before coming to Amsterdam, was that the best way to see the city was on a canal tour. We had been hoping to avoid giant tourist traps of that kind, but since even some Amsterdammers, as I found out they are called, told us we should do the tour, we decided to hop on the bandwagon. We went for a little “wake and bake” at the Bulldog beforehand, and decided to eat another space cake before the tour. Now, I must tell you, overall, I was not too impressed with Amsterdam’s space cakes. Yes, the first one aided my visit to the Van Gogh museum, but I did not at all feel like I was “in outer space”. The second one was barely worth it at all. Come on now Amsterdam, step up your game. But, the Bulldog is home to one of my favorite signs, “Smoking pot leads to…uh…I forget.”

art exhibit in the Oude Kerk

We spent the good part of the morning watching more ski videos at the Bulldog, and then made our way towards the canal cruise docks. On the way, we stopped at Oude Kerk, the oldest Gothic monument in Amsterdam. We decided to go inside the church and check it out for a few minutes. Little did we know, that what awaited us on the inside was no church at all. It was the weirdest thing! They had converted this old 13^th century church into an art gallery! I had never seen anything like it before in my life. Some of the installations inside were even mocking the Catholic Church. It was a very interesting juxtaposition between new, modern art, and the old, 13^th century Gothic interior and windows.

Old Golden Age warehouses converted to
apartments along a canal

            We left the church and continued our walk towards the docks. We stopped at a “Chipper”, or a French fry shop, to taste yet another Dutch delicacy – fries with very weird sauces on them. Jessica got peanut sauce, Jen got spicy sauce, and I stuck with the old standby vinegar. Boring yes, but the others were somewhat overwhelming! When we finally got to the docks, we boarded the 4pm canal cruise tour. It took us around the Amsterdam harbor, through both the east and west locks, and through almost all of the canals that meander through the city. As we began, the guide (who spoke first in Dutch, then German, then English) explained that Amsterdam became a city in 1306. It was the most important European harbor city during the 17^th century, or Dutch Golden Age. Passing through all of the canals, we got a great look at the beautiful old houses that line either side of each canal. They are all incredibly tall, narrow, and very deep. They all have tall windows that extend almost floor-to-ceiling on every floor. They are beautiful and very elegant. Many of them are in fact old warehouses that have been converted into modern apartments. I wouldn’t mind living in one…minus the stairs. Our guide explained that each canal in Amsterdam has a different character, the Prinsengracht is where all the old warehouses are, the Brouwersgracht is where all the breweries were, etc. In all, there are over 2,500 houseboats along the sides of Amsterdam’s many canals. Another staggering figure was the number of bikes in the city. There are over 550,000 bicycles in Amsterdam. Next to the train station, there is even a bike hotel that holds over 2,000 bikes, where people can store their bikes while at work. There’s no real way to communicate how many bikes there are decorating the city. I can’t imagine finding a bike parking spot during rush hour in the morning. It would be practically impossible! Nearly every inch of wall, bridge, and lamppost space is taken by 9am!

Bikes, bikes, bikes

            Another very strange thing about Amsterdam is the number of Argentinean and Mexican restaurants. There is simply a plethora. So, after the cruise, we decided to go get Bavarian beer at a Mexican restaurant. This one of the reasons I love to travel. Finding those idiosyncratic little hole-in-the-wall places that are a conglomeration of multiple cultural influences. Hence the German beer at the Mexican restaurant in the Dutch city.

I feel like the thing about Amsterdam is that the nightlife isn’t too thriving because everyone is holed up somewhere in a coffeeshop all the time. After long days of smoking and chilling, no one really has to desire to go out and party (at least I didn’t), so the nights are much more relaxed. On Friday, I went to bed around midnight, and woke up ready for a little more sightseeing early Saturday morning.

waffles!

            However, I have a bone to pick with Amsterdam. Why are all of your museums SO expensive? It’s ludicrous! I really wanted to go to the National Museum, also known as the Rijksmuseum, where all the Vermeer and Rembrandt paintings are on exhibit. However, it is 20 bucks a pop any time you decide to do anything in that city! Van Gogh Museum, 20 bucks. Canal cruise, 20 bucks. Anne Frank House, only $15, but you get the drift. It’s hard to be a tourist on a budget in this city, sheesh! Anywho, because of our incredibly reduced budgets, we unfortunately did not get to see the Rijksmuseum. I guess we will just have to go back! Instead, we woke up Saturday morning, went for waffles (another Dutch specialty) and freshly made smoothies at a small shop across the street from our hostel. We took a big walking tour all over the city, explored the vibrant Chinatown, and all visited all the hippie markets with their incense burning, reggae playing, and hemp products on display.

Just your casual giant wooden shoe,
no big deal.

            Amsterdam truly is an amazing city. I cannot wait til spring when I can go back, see the Rijksmuseum, and experience the tulips in bloom. Perhaps I’ll even see a windmill...
           Finally, I am starting a new addition to my blogs. I am adding a section for each city I visit called my "Would Be Traveler". For each place I have been so far, I have always thought about one person in particular who I would have loved to have on the journey with me. For Ireland, it was my mom, because I know how much she enjoys exploring our family's heritage and where we come from. And for Amsterdam? The person I would have loved most to have with me? My grandmother, Dossie. For those of you who know her, this is a no-brainer. I don't have to explain my reasoning to you. For those of you don't, well, let me put it this way: she is probably the coolest, most hilarious and most awesome person I know. She keeps you on your toes, always says the unexpected, and never ceases to make me laugh. If I could smoke with anyone in the world, it would definitely be her! Must put plans to make this happen in the works...

And so, the nomadic traveler is now at home in France for at least a week before setting off on my next journey. Since I haven’t spent more than 3 consecutive nights in one place in over 6 weeks, I thought a new experience would be staying put for a while! And so I will be in rural Alsace until Thanksgiving weekend, when I jet off to London for a UVA reunion. But don’t worry – I still have plenty to write about and many stories to tell from school and life in France…

A bientôt!

Ireland: The Land of 1000 Welcomes? That'll be just grand.

            As I told my mom a few days ago, I am quite sure I spent the last week, or most of it at least, living in some sort of twisted Serta mattress commercial. Ireland is not only full of sheep, and farms for that matter, but every single sheep has a number stamped on its back, written in bright blue ink. I didn’t think that actually existed! Let’s just say I wasn’t counting sheep only in my sleep… 

Branded red, but you get the picture

            My trip to the Emerald Isle started last week, when I flew from Paris to Dublin. Actually, I should say “Paris” rather. The airport Paris Beauvais is an hour and a half outside of Paris in an incredibly small town. To get there, I squished into a RyanAir bus, and randomly got placed next to an Irish girl. What are the odds? She completed the long list of must-see sites and must-do activities that my roommate, Aoife, had already given me. For those of you who are European, or have done some budget traveling in Europe, you know the likes of RyanAir. It is by far the cheapest airline in Europe, known to offer roundtrip airfares for around 30 euro. I’m currently very tempted by a 24 euro ticket to Rome…Only problem with RyanAir, is that they fly in and out of incredibly inconvenient airports, at incredibly inconvenient times. My flight to Dublin was meant to take off at 11pm, but was somewhat delayed, so instead I landed some time around 12:30am in Ireland.

            I planned the trip to visit a friend of mine, Kate, who is Irish and goes to school in Dublin. She was on exchange in the US last year, studying law at Emory. As it just so happens, one of my best friends from UVA, Jose (I was so tempted to call you Popa, but I’m using the “grown-up version”, you’re welcome very much), was in his first year of Emory Law School last year. So when we all went to his house in the Dominican Republic for spring break, and he brought Kate, I guess you could say the rest is history. Kate and her roommate, Ailbhe, picked me up from the airport and gave me a brief driving tour of the city. First and most important thing to know? “Watch out for the knackers in tracksuits.” Not sure at all what a “knacker” was upon my arrival, I can now spot them out with ease. Think of the seediest person you know. Now multiple by 10 and dress them in a tracksuit. Total knacker. We pulled into Kate’s adorable house in Ranelagh around 1am. I had heard that the other roommates, Gemma and Jane, were quite the chocolate fiends, so I greeted them with French chocolate in tow (Lion bars to be exact). And for Kate? A total cheese-lover and girl after my own heart…she got two types of smelly French cheese. Yum. I, in turn, was presented with a big mug of Lyon’s Tea, which was soon to become a staple of my Irish diet.

With Kate at St. Stephen's Green

            Wednesday we woke up early to get started on my Dublin site seeing. First on the list? The Book of Kells. For any of you who know me well, you know that I am a total nerd. I was an art history major in college, and love to learn. Lethal combination when it comes to traveling because I like to go to all the nerdy, historical, artsy things in town, and spend significant amounts of time there. On the way to the exhibit, we walked through St. Stephen’s Green, a park in the center of Dublin that was designed by the same guy who designed Central Park (saw my fair share of knackers). Apparently one of the most famous events that happened on St. Stephen’s Green was when U2 was presented with keys to the city of Dublin. They brought sheep to the Green and Bono got pooped on by a sheep. Little tidbit of trivia knowledge from me to you. Not much later, we arrived at Trinity College and took a brief tour around the cobblestone campus. Kate told me that the school was founded by Protestants hundreds of years ago. Until very recently, Catholics had to get a special dispensation from their archbishop to attend. And supposedly, one day a year you are allowed to sit on top of the campanile (bell tower) and shoot Catholics…not sure how much I believe that one, though. However, you are allowed to play croquet and graze your sheep on the greens of the campus. Must remember to bring my sheep next time! 

St. Matthew, Book of Kells

On to the Book of Kells. For those of you who don’t know what it is, it’s a 1000-year old, lavishly decorated copy of the four gospels. Probably written by monks on an island off the west coast of Scotland, the book was transferred to Dublin in the 17^th century. It’s home is now the Trinity College Library. Having only studied the book in my AP art history course in high school, my knowledge was more than fuzzy. But I had studied medieval manuscript illumination in college, so I knew somewhat of what I was meant to look for. Sadly only two of the books are on display, one open to a page of script, and the other open to an image of St. Matthew, but they are exquisite nonetheless. The miniscule handwriting was in perfect cursive, and the use of color in the image was brilliant, even after all these years. We left the exhibit of the Book of Kells, and walked upstairs to the Long Room, home to Trinity College’s 200,000 oldest books. The long hall is floor-to-ceiling books, and while we were there it was filled with an exhibit on the 1641 Depositions.  Afterwards, we made our way over to the National Gallery of Art. In total, I think we spent about 20 minutes inside. Unusual for me and a museum, but sorry, Ireland, your collection is somewhat lacking. No offense. Next on the list? Shopping! So exciting. I was introduced to the wonderful and exciting world of Penney’s. No, not JC Penny’s. This is entirely different and much more amazing. Very cute clothes, shoes, accessories, etc, at very reasonable prices. I got two sweaters for 11 euros. Since I don’t do a lick of shopping in France (French style is so not my style), I was like a kid in a candy shop (well a kid on a very limited budget, but still)! After parading around the city, shopping bags filling our hands, we made our way home for a nice, hot cup of tea. 

Getting ready for a night out!

As Kate prepared dinner, the rest of the girls and I started to get ready for a night out on the town in Dublin. From what I had heard, I was in for a real treat. Knowing that I would be unable to keep up with the Irish and their drinking habits, I filled myself up on Kate’s homemade Irish stew and potato farrlls (actually no idea what it is, really) for dinner. After a few glasses of wine, and a few comments on my behalf about my Irish heritage, the girls decided we should find out the true origins of my grandfather’s family, the McHughs. As it turns out, McHugh comes from the name McAodh, an old Irish family from the west of Ireland. When I happened to mention that my grandfather was what we called “Black Irish” (meaning he had very dark skin, hair, and eyes), and that growing up I had sincerely thought he was Cuban, Jane checked the landings of the Spanish Armada in Ireland, and sure enough, they landed on the west coast! Being Irish historians, the girls all seem to think that somewhere along the line, my family mingled with some Spaniards. ¡Que bueno! I always knew there was something up with his serious Cuban looks…

After dinner we had a small preparty at the house before going to Coppers, a nightclub downtown. It was really a good time! Good music, lots of dancing, and a late-night meal complete with sausages, rashers, and grilled cheese. Yum.

Western Ireland

Thursday morning I woke up not feeling too shabby. Can’t say the same for everyone else…but I sure did learn what an essential part of the Irish hangover cure is…and you guessed it, tea! Water? Gatorade? No, a nice cup of Lyon’s tea is just grand. In the afternoon, Kate and I were off to Galway, a city on the west coast of Ireland. We hopped the bus (after missing the first one because we were on the wrong quay, obviously), and made the short 2-hour hop all the way across the country. Now, I’m normally a big sleeper on public transportation (even though I have a desperate fear of my mouth hanging open in public), but on this bus ride I wasn’t so lucky. I got to stare at farms. And sheep. The entire time. Note: extreme Serta mattress syndrome in the Midlands of Ireland. Occasionally there was a horse, or a Papa John’s delivery sign, but that’s about all the variation I got. As we neared the west coast, stone walls began to appear, outlining all the property lines and farms. These walls are unique to the west coast, as there is a ton of stone in the ground over there. When Kate awoke from her nap, I mentioned to her the amazing sites she had missed during her sleep – all the cows, sheep, and green land. She really should have been jealous. Just as I was lamenting the lack of variation, she groggily looked out the window and said, “Oh look, there’s two cows having sex.” Just like it was the most normal thing in the world. I swiveled my head immediately to the left, but of course missed the most exciting moment of the ride!

Claddagh Ring

When we arrived in Galway, Kate’s friend Roisin picked us up from the bus station. We made a quick trip into town to pick up something I had been wanting for a long time – a Claddagh ring. The Claddagh ring is a traditional Irish ring whose features – two hands clasping a heart with a crown on top – denote loyalty, friendship, and love. Originally it was meant to convey the romantic availability of a woman. If worn with the heart facing out, you are single. If worn with the heart facing in, you are taken. Your heart has been “captured”, as they say. I think the rings are beautiful and delicate, and have wanted one for a long time. I am now proud to say it lives on my left index finger. 

Oompa Loompa doopedy doo...

After getting my ring, we made our way to Roisin’s boyfriend’s house, or abode for our time in Galway. We made a quick dinner, played a few rounds of Kings, and headed downtown to experience the Galway nightlife. I must admit, I was caught completely off-guard. I had been told no one in Ireland dresses up at all for Halloween. Lies. Everyone in Galway was dressed up and I had no costume! Can you imagine the travesty? I, who had not one, but TWO costume trunks upon my graduation from UVA. I, who adore dressing up more than the normal person, was costume-less amidst a bunch of costumed people. Sad. My only reconciliation? Finding an Oompa Loompa in the late night burger shop and requesting a picture with her. Her costume (and facepaint) was actually fantastic. Now after a night out in Galway, the Supermac’s, I guess their equivalent of McDonalds, is more crowded than a Walmart on Black Friday. The thing to order? Garlic cheese chips (or for us Americans, fries). Basically a heart attack in a small box.

When we finally made our way home, Roisin, Kate and I all realized that we had to be up in about 4 hours for our lovely tour to the Cliffs of Moher the next day. It was splendid! 8am the next morning we were up bright and early, made our way to the coach station, and promptly visited the local convenience store for a breakfast roll. Sounds delish, doesn’t it? Basically, a heart attack in a small baguette. (They’re fond of the heart attacks here). A breakfast roll is a demi-baguette with sausages, rashers, hash browns and ketchup all stuffed inside. Hits the hangover spot, I’ll tell ya, but makes you feel slightly less human than before. It was the last time I “enjoyed” a breakfast roll. Upon entering the bus, the three of us promptly fell asleep.  

Poulnabrone Dolmen

We woke up outside Dunguaire Castle, a 16^th tower house outside Galway. We examined the castle, and promptly fell back asleep. We woke up the second time at a fairy fort. We hopped out, made the circle around the fort, careful not to step inside for fear of death (apparently this is what happens when you disturb the fairies), and got back on the bus. This time I stayed awake for the drive in the Burren, basically a karst (had to look that up – limestone, essentially) landscape. It is apparently one of the largest in Europe. While in the Burren we visited the Poulnabrone Dolmen, a 6,000-year-old portal tomb. From there, we made our way to Doolin, where the Australian man on our tour who had thus far refused to wear any shoes at all (despite trekking in rain over rocky terrain), continued his barefooted stint indoors to have lunch. Appetizing. Managing to regain my appetite, I had a lunch of vegetable soup and brown bread (an Irish specialty, basically a form of soda bread). Afterwards I felt totally fortified to visit the Cliffs of Moher. Now for any of you who don’t know what the Cliffs of Moher are, proceed immediate to Google, do not pass go, or collect $200. It is Ireland’s most visited natural attraction. The beauty of these cliffs is captivating – even in freezing rain (I should know). They tower over the Atlantic Ocean on the western coast of County Clare. Closest land mass directly across? New York. I urge each and every one of you to go visit these cliffs. They are truly majestic. 

Cliffs of Moher...doesn't do it justice, needs
some serious googling

On the way back from the cliffs, we followed the coast road up to Galway. Along the way, our guide told us stories about the potato famine and other trying times in Irish history. For a brief moment we had a slight pause because the bus was actually stopped by a herd of cows in the middle of the road! You know the postcard, the “Irish traffic jam”? Well, we had one. I was very excited. All the Irish people on board did not look too thrilled. When we finally got back to Galway, we basically died of exhausted. We curled up on the couch, had a movie marathon, made dinner, and went to bed. Early the next morning, Roisin, Kate and I headed to Wexford, Kate’s hometown.

We arrived in Wexford, on the east coast of Ireland, around lunchtime. I met Kate’s mom, her sister, Zoe, and their dog, Cassie (for any of you who don’t know, that is one of my family’s dogs names as well). We all sat down for a big lunch together, and discussed everything from Irish history to the more recent law that passed allowing divorce. In the afternoon, Kate’s mom took me to a lovely choral concert in a church downtown. It was part of the Wexford Festival Opera, a world-renowned Opera Festival that brings in professionals from all over Europe. It was a combination of choral music and an orchestra. Simply beautiful. I miss singing. After the concert we traipsed down Wexford high street to a few art exhibitions, and then made our way home. In the mean time, Zoe had prepared dinner, and we all sat down together for the meal. A little while later, we made our way to a comedy show, put on by Kate’s mom’s drama group. Did I understand the Irish humor? Not so much. Especially the parts of the show that were in the Irish language! They did attempt to poke fun at Americans and our accents, but the last skit of the show was hilarious. It was called “Au Pair” and was all about the cultural misunderstandings we have when we don’t speak each other’s languages. For someone who loves to study language and culture, and who has definitely made some of those language mistakes, I found it pretty funny. Afterwards, Zoe, her friend Laura, and I, went out to meet up with the drama group at the Crescent Pub. There, I was introduced to the only other American in Wexford. I really cannot express how happy he was to see me. Living in Ireland for almost 4 years (married an Irish girl), he explained that he is practically dying of American cultural starvation, and was so excited I was there. Needless to say he monopolized my time all evening, but he turned out to be a very interesting guy! After graduating from college, he too went abroad to teach English, but went all the way to Japan. He stayed there for 3 years, met his wife, they traveled around the world together, and moved back to Ireland. They’ve both been to about 50 countries around the world (jealousy) and were more than happy to share their traveling wisdom with me. I was riveted! 

On the beach in Wexford

Sunday morning I woke up to a “full Irish breakfast”. Before leaving France, Aoife had made me promise that I would have this while in Ireland. What does it consist of? Well, here goes: sausages, rashers, fried eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, potatoes, brown bread and tea. Basically a small heart attack on a plate. But it was so worth it. That afternoon, Kate, her mom, and I took a long walk along the beach in Wexford, through the forest, and over to Eden Vale, a beautiful little waterfall by their house. After dinner, we boarded the bus to Dublin, and sadly arrived after the last of the trick-or-treaters had visited the house.

Dublin Castle

The next morning, the morning of my last day in Ireland, I slept in, met Kate in town for lunch at Bad Ass Café (and it was pretty bad ass), and did a little more site seeing. We first went to Dublin Castle, which is now the seat of the Irish government. Built upon the foundations of the original Viking fort, one of the towers of the Castle is 1000 years old. Good old Viking cement did its job (made of horse hair, ox blood and egg shells, by the way) The original Viking fort was destroyed by fire and then rebuilt by the Anglo-Normans after their invasion. When the British ruled Ireland, it served as the seat of the English in Ireland. When the kings and queens of England came to visit Ireland, they stayed in Dublin castle, held court in the throne room, and threw banquets in the large banquet hall. Even the murals on the ceiling of the banquet hall detail the story of “how the English civilized the Irish”. Note: The Irish, not so happy about this. Also note: The Irish are not so happy about the Queen’s impending visit next summer… After our tour of Dublin Castle, we made our way up to Christ’s Church Cathedral, built during the medieval times. It is the official seat of the Church of Ireland. 

Before going home, I had a few last minute errands I needed to run for my roommate. Special requests made by Aoife: Barry’s tea, Cadbury chocolate (can’t get that in France), cheese and onion Tayto’s (type of chip), and Sudocreme. Ladies, listen up. Sudocreme is a miracle worker. Sort of like the Irish cure-all for any and all skin problems (blemishes, dry skin, etc). Kind of like the Greek woman who uses Windex in My Big Fat Greek Wedding…except this is an actual product! Any time you go to Ireland, pick up some Sudocreme at the pharmacy, it will do you some good!

My flight from Dublin left at a nice and early 6:35am. My cab to the airport arrived at 4am. It was a lovely time of morning (not). I arrived in Paris the equivalent of the walking dead. I made my way to my friend Victoria’s apartment, and vegged out all day until she came home from work. My best friend from UVA lives right in Paris. How lucky am I? She’s only two hours away if I ever get homesick, and her family truly is my home away from home. We watched Friends, Skyped our friends from home, and spent the entire time laughing about all the ridiculous times we have had together all over the world…I think we’ve been in the most countries with one another…up to 18 or so, if I am counting correctly…Anyway, I really couldn’t think of a better way to end my trip to Ireland.

Today it was back to work and the swing of normal life…except can I really even say that I lead a normal life? Not really. It’s off to Switzerland this weekend, and I am sure I will have more to report from there!