call someplace paradise kiss it goodbye

I've commandeered a little corner of a café across the street from my hotel, one of the few in the city open on a Sunday. It's amazing how quiet the city can be from one day to another; Sundays seem to create ghost towns and it's the perfect day to explore for the sake of photography. I slept in, crawled out of bed, grabbed my camera, and set off across town in search of a square filled with houses from the Middle Ages and a nearby abbey built in the 11th century (before the First Crusade, for those chronologically challenged). I spent yesterday shopping, and am quite pleased with my acquisitions. I got a lovely new linen jacket (I know, I have an addiction, I'm working on it . . . sort of), and several long-sleeved shirts to go with all my sweaters and jackets. I figured I should probably buy somethings to wear under them seeing as I have so many, and really, they pretty much hog my wardrobe.

But I digress. Due to my plans to maximize time in the shopping district while all the stores were open, my second most important stop got left for the last day here. The most important being the chateau, which I saw first thing. The second is the Place de la Laiterie across the river, next to the aforementioned abbey and lined with medieval houses. Naturally, it's been calling my name since I got here. I resisted the call until today, when I ventured over there in the dappled sunlight (the weather has been quite accommodating, forecasting rain but only doing so during the night; the days have been partly sunny and if not warm, not cool either). The streets were mostly abandoned, and in the quiet solitude (ok, less than quiet with my headphones and iPod, but the world around me was silent), I walked where I pleased to get the right angle for my shots. The difference between me and a photographer, or me and someone who wants to take artist photographs, is that I don't care to find the best possible composition or lighting or angle. My goal is to capture the old stuff. Yes, that again. I feel like my imagination isn't strong enough to hold all I've seen, and all I've yet to see, so I must take pictures in order to preserve the feeling of standing there by these ancient roads and buildings. I want to capture in my photos not an emotion for other people to understand, but a memory and a reference for me to hold on to for its historic rather than aesthetic purpose. I managed to fill up every memory card I have (three 1 GB and one 2 GB), so I was forced to find my way back across the river. As I've said, there isn't much to do on a Sunday, so after grabbing a quiche and dessert from a boulangerie/patisserie, I decided to seat myself in a café and enjoy a hot tea for the rest of the afternoon. What I'll do for dinner is anyone's guess. I might just grab McDonald's early and head in so I can be up and about early tomorrow. My train leaves at 12:44 pm, so I have some run-around time in the morning. I'm planning on going to FNAC (there's one here and you have no idea how glad I was to find it; I miss that store. Paris had them all over; La Rochelle doesn't have a single one).

How to explain a FNAC? It's like the electronics section of a Target mixed with the movie and music sections of, well, of a MediaPlay (which don't exist anymore, I don't think) and the book section of a Borders. Throw in a mini-Apple store, and you have a pretty good approximation of a FNAC. There's a CD in French I've been coveting for a year or so, but isn't accessible in the States (you can order it from amazon.fr but not if you're not in Europe, darn it). So now I'm in Europe, and I found a FNAC, and I couldn't resist seeking out the CD. Look up the song if you're curious, you can find it on YouTube: Rêve d'enfant by Shy'm. Anyway, I found it, and got in line to buy it, only for the line to stretch all the way around the store and moving slower than the proverbial tortoise. Slow and steady is all well and good for a race (in fact, it's my preferred method of racing) but it doesn't do much for me, stagnating in line inside a typical French store that has no concept of air conditioning. I set it down and took of in search of cooler pastures (the H&M was significantly less crowded). Despite tomorrow being a national holiday (Toussaints, of course, the very reason for our week and a half off of work—nominally at least), FNAC will be open at 10 in the morning, and I intend to be one of the first in the door. Being American and all, getting up, dressed, and ready before 9:30 am shouldn't be too big a deal (key word being the shouldn't). Then I can head to the train station for my return trip to La Rochelle. I think I'll be glad to be back, at least to have my own apartment and proper internet again. And my complete wardrobe. I'm not a fan of living out of a backpack for more than a day. I can already assure you the trip will wear me out, though. I've managed to get Christmas shopping out of the way for my brothers and their respective spouses (well, spouse and future-spouse, technically, but not for much longer!). I wasn't planning on Christmas shopping until later, but I saw and couldn't resist. The only problem is getting them back to La Rochelle, seeing as I have a backpack already stuffed with clothes (and blankie, the poor tattered thing), and a purse, already stuffed with a camera, iPad, iPod, iPhone, French cellphone, and my wallet, all of which get heavy. Not to mention my brand new bag of clothes, which aren't heavy (I was a model of restraint, only getting that which I either absolutely needed or couldn't live without) but take up space. And thanks to our magnanimous Creator, I only have two hands, and two shoulders, and after a week of traveling, they're all getting quite tired of carrying anything.

But I shall manage. Men are notoriously susceptible to volunteering to carry heavy things for sweet young girls (or women, I suppose, technically speaking but I have the hardest time referring to myself, much less thinking of my self as a woman).

I like Angers. It reminds me of Paris, only slightly smaller and having maintained more of its tangible history. Paris being Paris, it's been the center of conflict no matter the era, and many of its monuments have been destroyed. I think only a handful (three or four) medieval structures remain intact, and those are late medieval. Angers, too, was arguably as important as Paris during the Middle Ages (if not more so, depending on to whom and when we are referring). Seeing as my interest in things seems to extend only as far as its history, it would make sense that I like both cities equally well. I'm not sure what that says about me, other than obsessed. It makes me wonder what a person reading this blog would learn about me as a person. Could a psychologist or a profiler put together who I am from how I write and what I write about? Possibly. And yes, I do wonder these things as I write. I'm self-involved, and self-aware enough to both recognize and admit it. We all have our faults; mine are less harmful than some.

Even as I like Angers as well as Paris, I have to acknowledge the undefinable something which makes Paris—well, Paris. There's a magic to the city. Beyond its history, beyond its culture, its atmosphere, its food—that city is something special. Parisians, on the other hand . . . .

Let's leave it at that, shall we?

No, I kid the Parisians. They get a bad wrap, as do all the French. Americans and the Brits in particular have these notions of the French as rude, smelly, snotty, proud, elitist, etc. Looking rationally, it isn't a fair assessment. I find the same sorts of attitudes and people in New York or Charlotte or Atlanta as I do anywhere here, in the same percentages. I tend to think humans are humans, regardless of which arbitrary border line they're born within. But I do know that when I get uncomfortable, when I'm tense or nervous, afraid or anxious, I tend to think the worst of people around me. I attribute my disquiet to them; they must be rude or unwelcoming or looking at me funny. Inevitably, when I step into a new place (therefore, out of my comfort zone—I don't like change despite appearances to the contrary), my first impression is always one of being disliked, shunned, or insulted by those around me. They're all perfectly at ease, while here I am about to have a panic attack and curl in a ball over between the cathedral and that cafe. There's a nice little nook the homeless likely inhabit at night and wouldn't life be easier if I could just watch it all from there? If that's how I feel, then I think maybe that's how other people who come to France get their ideas of rude and aloof Frenchmen. They're out of their comfort zone, susceptible to the slightest snub and looking for insults where there aren't any. To point out other people's faults has the unfortunate affect of making us feel better about our own—and usually our own faults are rooted in our insecurities. See where I'm going with this? It's a vicious circle. But being aware of a problem doesn't make it any easier to avoid.

I can certainly get on a soapbox, can't I? Without even realizing it. Well, we all know I didn't fall far from the Choiniere family tree. These are my thoughts, though, and somehow they always wind up in my recounting the day, no matter my intentions.

Today there isn't much to recount. It's Halloween, and I wish more than I can say to have a dress from the 12th, 13th, 14th, 15th, or 18th century and go walking about the chateau again. Or just wear it, period. I might be determined to elope, should the time ever come for me to marry, but I fully intend to find a way to justify a lovely historic dress. That's the only costume I really care to wear anymore. I loved dressing up as a child, but I find that adult costumes for women all tend to focus less on the costume part and more on the exposure part. The French don't really celebrate Halloween, although they know about it. Orange and black arrangements are in the windows of chocolate shops, and the TV channels are showing spooky movies and Scooby Doo. I'm debating downloading Hocus Pocus to my iPad to watch tonight. That's always been my favorite Halloween movie, but it used to terrify me. I couldn't ever bear to watch it by myself. I'm interested in seeing if that's still the case, although I find it hard to fathom given how very not scary the movie really is. Just something about those witches, though, that always got to me.

Various bars are holding "Halloween Parties" which is really just another excuse to drink late into the night. I don't need an excuse, but it's not my thing. At least not on a Sunday when I have to be up and functioning the next morning. Perhaps I'll celebrate properly sometime later this week, back in La Rochelle where I don't have to worry about not knowing where I am or not really knowing anyone. I don't have work again until Thursday, and then I don't work Fridays. And next week, I have to go to Poitiers again for my doctors appointment required for my residency application on Tuesday, so obviously I won't be working then, and Thursday is November 11, Armistice Day—a big national holiday. Again I don't work Fridays, so I have a four-day weekend. A two-day work week, surrounded on one side by a three day weekend and on the other by a four day weekend. And preceding the three day weekend is a day of work after a week and a half of vacation, which in turn followed a week of national striking.

Seriously, folks. I might start to get bored at this rate. Let's not forget, it's only seven weeks until the vacances de Noël. I can't believe it's already November. Which brings me to the next topic: November.

Most people know I want to be a writer. I'd like to finally freaking finish a novel. National Novel Writing Month, NaNoWriMo, for those who are unfamiliar, is November. There's a large internet community dedicated to writing 50,000 words in November. It's one of those useless, overblown internet things that always goes around, done by people who take themselves far too seriously or not seriously enough. Regardless, it's always a nice excuse to make myself sit down and write everyday. I'm a goal person; I like having one. Gets me through the day. I'm hoping having a goal will get me through the novel-writing process as well. So I shall, for probably the third year, attempt NaNoWriMo again. In spirit, if not actually in the internet community. I've been working on a few ideas for a novel—a romance novel, probably, and definitely historical. I've been reading scads of them in the past two months, mostly for entertainment, and I find that I can't like any of the characters. Those few I find tolerable are always paired with someone I think doesn't deserve them, and all the contrived plot-lines, misunderstandings, and whining drives me crazy. For example, one book I just finished involved a hero who had a sucky childhood and insisted forever after that he didn't deserve love or know how to give/receive it, that he wasn't worthy, etc. That sort of drives me nuts. Ok, not sort of. It plain drives me off the bend. I like a tortured hero as much as the next girl, but come on. We all make mistakes, we all have issues, we all have things in our pasts we'd rather not, and you know what? You're only worth what you think you're worth. If you insist you don't deserve anything, don't whine about not having anything and if you insist you'll always be alone, don't whine when you turn away someone you love who is perfectly willing—nye, desperate—to love you. It doesn't make sense. It makes me want to bash heads and shred paper. Therefore, I've decided that if I can't find a decent historical romance to read, then I'll write one myself. I'm sure every book I've read has been the product of an author thinking the exact same thing; I don't care. Romance novels have a, shall we say, poor reputation among men and are a guilty pleasure (emphasis on guilty) for women; I don't care. I like writing, and I like reading. And what I want to write is something I'd like reading. A historical romance is, quite literally for me at least, a dream come true.

Or a modern romance with a historical influence.

Can we say stuck in a rut?

It's as if we always knew

Sitting in my hotel room in Angers, watching various dubbed TV shows, drinking tea, and battling a headache. I arrived in Angers yesterday afternoon, exhausted and slightly overwhelmed by being suddenly in a much bigger city with no idea where I am or going, and extremely fatigued from traveling for two days in a row. I took it easy, walking around until dinner time, finding a small restaurant for dinner, and returned to my room for the night. I ate at a "Mexican" restaurant. I miss Mexican food, and in Paris, it was interesting to taste a French interpretation of a burrito. La Rochelle doesn't appear to have a Mexican restaurant, so I figured I'd indulge while I had the chance. I ordered a fajita, and although they have the concept down, they miss the basic spices. It had all the ingredients (peppers, onions, beef, tortillas, rice, guacamole), it tasted more like an Indian meal than Mexican. Not that I'm complaining, I liked it. I also liked their take on chips and salsa; the chips were flavored gently with spices and the salsa was a mix of tomatoes, peaches, and spices. It was a bizarre but strangely delicious mix. Red wine washed it all down, and I finished with an apple and cinnamon tart with fresh vanilla ice cream. I was stuffed, but thankfully have been walking all over for days, enough that my legs are sore (which considering how much I've been walking in the past month, that's saying something), I don't need to worry too much about occasionally indulging in a sumptuous meal.

Today I had my breakfast delivered to my room, complete with hot chocolate, a miniature croissant and pain au chocolat, and bread (with butter, jam, and goat cheese supplied to accompany it). All in all, it was a great way to start the day. After that, I took my time getting ready; having four days to explore the city keeps me from being rushed as I was in Cognac or Saintes. My first, most important goal was to see the chateau. Built mostly by Blanche de Castille in the 13th century, added on and updated in following centuries, it's another one of those many historical old things that I could spend a lifetime studying and never get bored. I've fallen in love with something that can't love me back, really. Walking into the castle, looking around and touching the old stone walls of the towers and ramparts, knowing that this is all of history I'll ever get, feels a bit like heartbreak. But it's also thrilling, and despite the heartache, it makes me smile like an idiot at absolutely nothing and draw all sorts of worried stares. Ah, unrequited love.

It's a fortified chateau, with a chapel, gardens, governor's residence, and ruins of the royal residence. It served as home to the Comtes d'Anjou (my ancestors!). From the end of the era of castles to the mid-twentieth century, it also served as a prison. I find it fascinating that what was the height of luxury and home to royal blood during the Middle Ages served as a prison, for enemies of the state and criminals, only a few hundred years later. How things change, hm?

I would give anything to see what the walls have seen, to hear and feel what they've known over the years.. Love. It makes us all crazy but it makes me envious of battered walls and stones, what does that say about my sanity? Nothing flattering, I'm sure. Well, and so.

I passed a lovely afternoon within the walls of the castle, walking the ramparts, taking photos to show everyone, and admiring how something like a castle can just be stuck in the middle of a modern, busy city. People walk by it all the time without even glancing twice at the towering walls and gates. Yet another symptom of love-sickness: being jealous and resentful of the people who don't appreciate the history they get to live in, with around. One of the houses around the chateau was built in 1399, a wooden medieval house and someone gets to live there. It's someone's home, and I want it to be mine, along with every other medieval house left in this city and the parts of the castle that are still there.

Not so much to ask, is it?

After grabbing a sandwich on the go, I returned to the hotel and inadvertently took a nap. I'd just intended to rest my eyes, but I guess they needed more rest than I'd thought. I woke back up at six, in time to go for a walk and look for a cute place to eat dinner before any restaurant opened at seven. I found a creperie, adorable and tucked back in an alley. It's run by a family: husband, wife, and young daughter. A lovely meal, a convivial atmosphere and a dessert crepe with slices of apple, home-made caramel sauce, and drenched in calvados—a perfect ending to a great day of vacation.

Tomorrow I plan to go shopping. This city has an excellent selection of shops, and I can't resist. La Rochelle is too small to have a great and varied selection, so I'm taking advantage of it while I'm here. Everything will be closed Sunday, so that's the day I'll go walking about taking pictures of all the old, cool buildings and streets.

For now, I'm going to bed relatively early. This headache is getting the better of me and I'd rather beat my head against the pillow that the wall (for some reason, hitting my head against something when it's hurting actually helps). It's what I get for packing light and forgetting my advil. If it weren't so late, I'd go to a pharmacy here for something, but they all close at seven.

Headaches suck.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . .

il y a en moi toujours l'autre

I can't escape Glee no matter how far I go (not that I would want to). I'm sitting in a café in Cognac (called Cogna-Bar), and a Glee music video comes on TV. I'm examining the map and drinking hot chocolate. The city is bigger than I thought, and it took me a good thirty minutes to figure out my way around even a little bit. That's the problem with train stations that aren't centrally located. But eventually I broke down, bought a map, and sat down to take a good look at where I am and where I want to go. (I'm sure somewhere there's a metaphor in that, but let's not examine too closely, shall we?) My destination of choice is the Chateau du Cognac Otard, a straight (relatively) walk down the street. Hopefully it's not as far as it looks on the map. Somewhere along the way I'd like to stop for lunch, given an empty stomach doesn't mix with cognac tasting. This café doesn't serve lunch for another thirty minutes, and the lady wasn't very nice when I asked about it. Of course, that might just be my impression, but why is it that questions—about basic daily things, I know—seem to irritate some people? It's not just France, I've found that Americans can act the same way. Like I should know better and why am I asking? If I knew, I wouldn't ask, would I?

Regardless, it's a lovely city and a lovely day. I woke before sunrise (at 7) to get ready for breakfast downstairs at the Bed and Breakfast. It was an elaborate spread including a croissant, a mini-baguette, jams and confitures of all sorts, tea, and pineapple juice. If I didn't know better, I'd probably have mistaken the tea cup for a bowl, they're so big. I sat across from the windows in what was once probably a drawing room to a wealthy family. Out the windows, across the river and the uninhabited island just across the river Charente, the sun rose. Like a painting of an ancient countryside done in pastels, it lightened gently until a flare of red and orange lit up the horizon. The river a smooth mirror beneath, reflecting the bordering trees and the arch of the bridge. Only an hour later, the area was dense with a fog through which the city appeared to be awaking from a deep sleep. Fog is the perfect backdrop for mornings. It captures the sleepy haze of the early day, softening the world in transition from dreams to reality. Sound is muffled, rendering the world soft and quiet. Just the way I like my mornings.

Of course I had to rush a bit across town to the train station. Seems like I'm always running late, and that should either be a sign or a warning. You'd think I'd learn. I can't help that I linger. Only when I got to the train station, I found that to my delight the trip to Cognac was by bus, not train. It's all through the same transportation service, so I didn't know it wasn't actually a train until I printed my ticket. The bus uses the same type of tickets as the trains, and it leaves from the train station, acting as a short-hop-over transport between towns. A twenty minute ride later, and I arrived to a brisk morning in Cognac.

Well. You just never know what you're going to find, I suppose. I'm on the train on the way back to La Rochelle for the night, before my trip to Angers tomorrow. I went and had lunch at a restaurant that was part of a Chateau de Cognac. I had the plat du jour, because it was easy and cheap. It was chicken in an orange sauce over mashed potatoes, and it was quite good. Perfect for dipping bread in. My plan was to go across the courtyard afterwards to do a cognac tasting, and as I was paying, I got into a conversation with the two waiters. I told them I was an American, living in La Rochelle, traveling for the vacation. They called me an adventurer. I never thought of it that way, but I'm flattered nonetheless. I always picture adventurers a bit more like Indiana Jones.

Anyway, one of the waiters, the guy, gave me his number and walked me over to the cognac boutique when he found out I was going to try some. He introduced me to the man in charge of tasting, whose family has owned the cognac house since 1837. All of this was done in French, of course, to the consternation of two older American ladies present trying to decide what was a good cognac and having no success at all (they ended up buying one because they liked the bottle. Yeesh). I tried the three oldest cognacs, 30 years, 50 years, and 70 years. 59 euro, 125 euro, and 200 euro a bottle, respectively. They were each delicious, but the 70 year old was by far the best. The 30 was very smooth, the 50 had a lot of interesting flavors, and the 70 had a lovely blend of both. It was as close to perfection as a drink can come.

After a free tasting, I was on my way out when the waiter asked me if I was free this afternoon to get a coffee (or other such drink. The specific phrase is grab a coffee, but it's understood more to be a drink). I said yes but I had to catch a train (a bus, actually) at 4. He said he'd call me when he got off work.

I went walking after that, intending on heading back toward the train station. I was going to go in the old chateau Otard but I changed my mind (it was crowded and the next tour wasn't until almost 4. I didn't have time). I'll go back some other time; it isn't far. The guy called me, and we went to a café for a coke. We chatted for a bit in French, then he took me back to the train station and I hopped the bus back to Saintes. And here I am, in the swaying train writing this entry and trying not to get a headache. While motion sickness might make some people nauseous, it just gives me a bad headache and I can already feel it growing.

My plan for tonight is dinner, repack, then bed. I have a busy few days ahead, and I've certainly walked enough the past two days. My feet are killing me, and my jeans (which I bought only a month and a half ago) literally fall all the way off without a belt. I don't even have to unbutton them. They just slide right off. Amazing what a bit of exercise will do despite all the junk I'm eating.

À tout à l'heure!

we have got to make it here

I am extremely talented at getting lost. Everywhere I go, no matter how small, no matter how many times I consult a map, I manage to end up lost. The upside of that is I learn my way around really quickly. I got lost when I got to Saintes this morning, and spent over an hour walking across town trying to find my bed and breakfast. Eventually, I was successful, but not until I'd managed to figure out the layout of the city and where everything was. Which made finding my historical sites easier, but it gave my back a workout carrying my bag all over town before finally setting it down in my room. When I did get to my room, it took over thirty minutes for me to pry myself away, and that was with the knowledge I'd be back before nightfall. This house was built in the 19th century, early to mid, I'd wager. It's exactly the sort of house I want for myself, except perhaps too large. If I could box up this house exactly as it is and take it with me, I would. Creaky wood floors, large drafty windows, high ceilings, elegant spiral staircase going up three floors—it's exactly where I want to spend the rest of my life. No worries, though, it's been modernized enough to suit. An extra paneling in front of the window nooks protects the rooms from the outside air and noise. Each room also has its own added bathroom, completely modern and very nice.

I chose a beautiful few days to explore. Today, while somewhat chilly if you stood still in the shadows, was sunny and clear skied. I circled the town, going from the Roman Amphitheater built in the 1st century A.D. to the remains of Roman baths across town and all the medieval churches in between. Unlike La Rochelle, the churches here weren't torn down in the Wars of Religion (parts were, but the majority of the structures survived intact), so they actually date to the VI, XI, XIII, and XV centuries. I don't think I can adequately describe why old stuff fascinates me as it does; it's like an addiction. There's never enough, and it's never old enough or complete enough. Is it so much to ask for a perfectly (more or less) preserved medieval village untouched by modern (or even Renaissance and Enlightenment) civilizations? One I can explore all on my own without crowds or other people to share space?

Obviously.

What I need is a time machine, with a pause button, so that when I get to the designated time period, I can pause everyone and everything. That way I avoid screwing with the past and creating a paradox, while at the same time I avoid having to deal with the unfortunate realities of life at the time. I'm not naive; they stank, they would not be okay with a woman in jeans, much less one who went around by herself through all aspects of society, and they'd speak a completely different language from either of the ones I know. So really I just want to look. Maybe touch.

The history isn't all that I enjoy, however. I do love the narrow, winding streets, the hills and valleys with hardwoods and palm trees, long stone walls and tiled roofs. Bakeries, butcher shops, cafés, brasseries, artisan chocolate stores, bridges and clock towers, the blend of old and new all thrown together. I won't even start on the wine and the food because everyone has heard how good they are.

I'm not a photographer. If my dad were here, he could take pictures that would capture the feel of the place, capture the way I see it and bring it home so others can see it too. I can take snapshots, but it's not the same. It will show you what some parts of it look like, but not how it feels, or how it looks as a whole, complete setting, how it smells and sounds. I want to be a writer, but I struggle to find ways to tell everyone what I see without dissolving into clichés. Especially at the end of the day when my feet are killing me, my stomach is full, and my mind is starting to glaze over with sleep. It's also hard to pinpoint differences between each small town; they simply aren't that different. They fascinate me regardless. Variations in architecture from the north to the south, east to west, coast to interior—they give a subtle personality to each collection of neat little houses and tiny, bending roads that conform to the land rather than the other way around.

Tomorrow I go to Cognac for the afternoon. My intentions there are much less ambitious. First of all, I know I'll be returning at least once more to the city, so there's no need to see it all. Second, there aren't specific historical sites I want to see; I'm going to visit houses of cognac. Specifically, house Otard. Not because it's my favorite cognac, but because it's located in a historic chateau where Francis 1, the Renaissance king of France whose symbol of the salamander can be found all over his home of Fontainbleau, was born in 1494. Cognac and old stuff? In an adorable little French village? What more could I ask for?

and who is to say which is the deeper and more truthful?

I can't imagine how different my year abroad in Paris might have been if I'd been as—how to put this without sounding arrogant—self-assured? brave? independent? as I am now. Regardless of the specific word, I find myself capable of going on a trip to another town for several days on my own whereas two years ago in Paris, if I had a vacation, I was unable to go anywhere unless I had someone going with me. It felt like I wasn't allowed to go on my own, that no one would let me or that I'd be petrified in my hotel room the whole time, thus wasting any attempt at traveling. I missed so many opportunities to do things because I didn't have a friend to do it with. Now, it isn't as if I have no friends, it's simply that I have very particular things I wish to visit, places to see, ways to travel that I don't tend to have in common with others my age. It's simpler to have friends but be able to go do my own thing. For instance, who wants to go to Angers or Saintes expect for someone so in love with any and all things old? I have no particular desire to go out to night clubs while traveling; I'll go to a cognac house or a vineyard though. This way, I can go where I want to eat, see the things I want to see, take my time exploring and taking pictures, and make the most of my time in these new places.

I read an article in the New York Times about traveling in Ireland and getting lost. The author states: "But here’s something I always forget about travel loneliness, which has struck me everywhere from Kentucky to Kyoto: When you finally accept that you are on your own, when making friends no longer matters and when you turn your attention to other subjects, it vanishes." I think that says a lot right there. Yes, traveling alone can be, at times, lonely. But it's also enlightening. We tend to go about our lives in our comfort zones, with friends and families, at times puzzled and uncomfortable when we see others on their own: in restaurants, theatres, etc. We judge, despite knowing nothing about the person, their circumstances, or why they're there alone. But striking out on your own, taking a few days to get lost in your own company, gives us another perspective on the world. There's nothing wrong with being alone sometimes. If you can't stand your own company for a few days, why would anyone else?

We define ourselves too often by our relationships with others. I am a daughter, a sister, and a friend, but those are only parts of who I am. I think most people would benefit from a few days getting to know themselves outside of their comfort zone—getting to know themselves for who they are, not who they know or how other people view them.

Which takes more courage and strength of character: going into a restaurant for dinner with friends, or going into a restaurant for dinner alone? To eat by yourself doesn't say anything to anyone about your life other than you have confidence. Unfortunately, I find that too often people assume if you're out in public alone it's because you have no choice in the matter. Next time you find yourself judging or assuming, take a moment to realize what you don't know about that person, and admire their courage to so something most people are unwilling—nay unable—to do.

If this sounds a tad defensive, it's probably because it is. I've sat in one too many cafés by myself and been asked, "Where are your friends? Don't you have any?" And you know what the answer is? They're all over, going about their own lives; I'm not bound by their immediate presence. So many people claim independence without comprehending its true meaning.

two hundred years too late

Toussaints! Also known as a week and a half vacation for Halloween/All Saint's Day. Until today, I had vague plans to visit Saintes and Cognac for two days. Today I have finalized plans to go to Angers on Thursday, returning Monday, November 1. Angers is the old capital of the Angevin province (Anjou), ancient home of my ancesters (the Plantagenets and comtes d'Anjou), and it's home to a thirteenth century castle I can't wait to visit. One of numerous old medieval cities, it's nearby without being in the same region and makes me feel like I'm actually making use of my vacation rather than simply exploring the region (as I can do over my three-day weekends). It's going to be a whirlwind week of traveling for me; I'll have WiFi in Angers, and I'll be sure to take many photos.

Last night, some of us assistants went out to an Irish pub. Within walking distance, I can name four "Irish Pubs" off the top of my head here in La Rochelle. I'm not sure there's a city in the world without one. It's funny to go to a foreign country and seek out the same familiar places one can find back home. Obviously, there's a comfort to it, but if that's all you ever seek, why bother traveling?

There isn't much to say today. I spent the day lounging around my apartment in my pajamas, doing laundry and enjoying not having anything to do or anywhere to go. I finally found a winter coat yesterday at a small boutique, but two of the buttons fell off already! It wasn't terribly expensive, and I am familiar with the fact that modern fashion isn't always great about securing buttons on things. Still, for them to fall off the very day I bought the coat is a little ridiculous. I'll be taking it back tomorrow to either get a new one or get them to sew them back on. I could do it myself, but I am horribly inept with needles and thread (just look at my blankie). I might end up doing it myself, anyway. The coat is beautiful and warm. I took a photo of myself trying it on in the dressing room.


I bought the size too big so I could fit sweaters and layers underneath. I'm having to seriously bundle up, especially in the mornings or when I'm indoors at the school (amazing how cold it can be inside versus outside!).

It didn't really hit me until just now how amazing it is to be able to book a train to hop halfway across the country for a few days' vacation. Of course, in the United States, halfway across the country is significantly farther than halfway across France. But the idea of it is nice. Not having to drive, and still being able to get around readily.


And in closing, tonight I present you with my dessert from last night. I bought it before the trip to the pub, ate it after, and it was delicious as usual. A chocolate, well, I'm not entirely sure what it is, other than two pieces of light and fluffy cookie/bisuit completely surrounded by tufts of whipped, delicate chocolate. Nothing too sweet, in fact, hardly sweetened at all. The chocolate almost has a coffee flavor, which I could do without, but it makes it nice and rich. The chocolate flakes on top and the sides were obviously my favorite part, as housemade chocolate that actually tastes like chocolate, and not sugar or milk. It went well with a glass of cognac. A much nicer finish to the evening than the pint of Kronenbourg I had at the pub. Why does beer have to be the cheapest drink? Also the drink of choice for pretty much everyone my age? Guess I haven't grown into my age yet. That, or no one else has grown into theirs.

the farther you run, the more you feel undefined

And I'm back, with your daily dose of fresh French food. Last night for dessert, I picked something new from the display in the Patisserie. It's called a Tartlette Coup de Soleil, and it's the French version of a cheesecake mini-tart. It a deliciously crumbly crust and a thin layer of raspberry purée beneath lightly sweetened cheese. The slight browning on top gave it a gold tone, and a raspberry topped it off.

Looks like a little hat. Like my other desserts, it was a perfect combination of tastes; not too sweet and bursting with flavor from each individual ingredient, rather than simply sugar. My dessert tonight, on the other hand, is liberally sprinkled with powdered sugar. It's a puff pastry, cut in half and pieced together with a generous swirl of almond-whipped cream, delicately sweet. It melts in your mouth like a Krispy Kreme donut, with a quarter the sugar and a beignet texture.

Topped with almonds, of course.

During one of my walks this week, I took photos of the view going out of the harbor and a photo looking up at the medieval tower standing guard over the city.


I also finally managed to upload the photos of the ships gathered for the Velux 5 Oceans challenge.

where are we ever to go?

39 degrees this morning when I left home, and the sun was still battling in the underworld with Apophis. I had to go to the high school for class this morning, on my last day of work before the break. A class of nine or so students who sat there and stared blankly at me when I tried to get them to speak. It's annoying. Of course, I was the same way in high school, doodling or scribbling in my notebook rather than paying attention, and rarely did I ever volunteer information (unless it was a history class, then it's another story). I'm sure I drove my teachers just as crazy, but seriously, folks. Your government (which means your parents, through taxes) are paying me to be here to get you to speak English, and to correct your English, and how am I supposed to do that if you don't speak? It's not like they're hard questions. I know it's the last day before break, I don't want to be here either, but I am. Having been on the other end, knowing I'm a hypocrite, I still find it vexing. Ah, well, and so.

This update is brought to you by my iPad in the teachers lounge at St.-Ex. I have a hot chocolate by my side to try and warm up (freezing in here! they don't do temperature control inside like we do). For breakfast on my way to the bus this morning, I got a pain au chocolat, fresh from the bakery. The chocolate inside was still melty and the pastry a warm puff ball in my hands. Who needs gloves when there are pastries made less than an hour earlier?

Today is my busiest day of the week with four classes. Two at the high school in the morning, two in the afternoon at the middle school. After the past several weeks of barely anything, having a full day is annoying. Not to mention, I'm exhausted. I went over to a friend's apartment for dinner last night and didn't get home till 10:30, then took my time going to bed because I'm easily distracted (and distractions abound). I watched Looney Tunes in French, and I have to say, "What's up, doc?" in French ("Quoi de neuf, docteur?") just doesn't have the same ring to it. Yesterday afternoon, after class and before dinner, I watched the Mighty Ducks in French, which is always amusing. I adore those movies. Quack, quack, quack. Such cheese, but good cheese, which I happen to be a fan of.

Tomorrow begins the week and a half vacation, the first of five. Called vacances de Toussaints (Allsaints), it falls just in time to qualify as a Halloween break. Too bad they don't celebrate Halloween. Still, I've got a trip booked to the nearby town of Saintes, the Gallo-Roman town with lots of ruins and a neat little center city waiting for me to explore. From there, I'll take the train to Cognac, then back to La Rochelle. I may or may not go to Bordeaux for a few days, either to shop or simply to explore. I'm going to try tomorrow to find a winter coat (so I don't freeze so much), but if I can't, I'll have to start searching nearby cities. It'd be easier if I weren't so picky, but what can ya do? I am what I am.

I'm still bummed about missing the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear, but I'll manage. At least I'll be able to watch it on iTunes.

I really need to find a way to wake up. I don't drink coffee (can't stand the taste), but I need some serious caffeine. Hot caffeine. Tea? At this point, I'd even take a warm coke. It's like being in high school again (ok, it is being in high school again, just not as a student) getting up this early. How did I ever manage for four years? Not to mention middle school and elementary school. I'm not a morning person, I guess.

you can't take the sky from me

Writing this update on my iPad from the Café de la Paix. It's rainy today, but not too cold. Upper fifties with plenty of walking to keep the blood moving. I'm heading out to buy a cord for my camera as soon as I finish my chocolate chaud. I figure that should give the photography store plenty of time to reopen after the lunch break. It's truly amazing sometimes; this store, for instance, is closed Sundays and Mondays, and for two hours every afternoon for lunch. They open at 10, close at 19. I'd think it's absurd and annoying except I, too, have no work albeit for an entirely different reason. France, as I'm sure you've read in the papers recently, is on strike. Oil shortages, transportation disruption, apparently a school in the Parisien suburbs was burned—it's been going on for about a week. They're protesting the reforms to the pension system, which would move the retirement age from 60 to 62 (reduced benefits) or from 65 to 67 (full benefits). Obviously to us, that seems absurdly silly, as we are lucky to retire at 65 or receive any pension whatsoever. And yes, it's probably excessive. To understand these protests, however, it's important to understand the French mentality. These rights are those they've fought tooth and nail to gain, and they guard all their rights religiously. To lose even one seems to make it possible to lose more, and that is unacceptable. It's part of their history and their patriotism to strike, celebrated by the many past revolutions carried through with popular sentiment. It's not that they're ignoring the economic issues underlining this new reform. They propose other solutions, notably increased taxation of the rich and bringing some of the burden of repairing the economy to those who are responsible for its downturn. These new reforms are set to make sure that the average French person has to sacrifice while corporations, banks, and the wealthy get left alone. It's a demonstration of power, to remind those in charge that they matter and what they want matter. The protests won't stop the reform from passing; that's practically inevitable. What it does is insure that they are not forgotten in the negotiations between the "powerful" (i.e. the politicians and the corporations). It's perfectly acceptable to believe in socialism here, as there is an official Socialist party.

Don't get me wrong, I understand that the rich cannot be responsible for funding an entire society. But I do tend to think that we in America undertax the wealthy (this coming from a spoiled brat who has never really wanted for anything and raged against having money taken out of my paycheck for taxes. I rant, but I understand that it's necessary. I'd also be willing to pay more).

So it's been rather an interesting week. People are hoping the strike doesn't continue long enough to affect our upcoming vacation of Toussaints, which lasts from this Friday to November 3. (Seriously.) For me personally, it means I have the day off. The professor I'm supposed to have classes with on Tuesdays is on strike. When a professor is absent, their class simply isn't held. Another of my professors has been sick the past week and a half, so I've been granted even more free time lately. When I was there yesterday afternoon, I saw signs all over the halls encouraging students to participate in the strike. It's considered a valid excuse for missing an exam—I overheard a few professors talking about it. Of course, this only applies to the high schools. Any younger and they aren't given the option of going on strike. People are also certain that given the upcoming vacation, students will "strike" late this week in order to begin their break early. Not that I blame them. If I had been given that opportunity in high school, no way I wouldn't have taken it.

I'm still on the hunt for a winter coat. I outgrew my old cashmere peacoat, and I'm having a hard time finding anything that measures up. I might hop the train over to Paris for a few days over break to shop—that or Bordeaux, Poitiers, or Tours. Some bigger city with more shopping options, not that La Rochelle is lacking. I simply haven't found a coat that I couldn't live without, and if I"m going to spend the money on one, it had better be the coat-love of my life (at least for the next few years, anyway).

Last night, the english professors at my high school took us english assistants (all two of us) out to dinner at a creperie. I had kir as an aperitif, then a delicious crêpe salé (savory crepe), followed by a crêpe drizzled with homemade caramel sauce (a local delicacy). We split bottles of cider, a traditional drink from Bretagne where crepes originate. One day I'll take photos of my crêpes for you to envy.

Everyone has been quite lovely and welcoming here, so it's made the intimidating prospect of teaching somewhat bearable. I'm preparing a slide show of photos, courtesy of Dad, of Charlotte, North Carolina, South Carolina, the family, Panthers games, etc. I'm also planning on giving a presentation on Thanksgiving late next month, with a recipe for pumpkin pie for them to try. So if anyone has a favorite pumpkin pie recipe, please send it my way! I usually eat other people's pies, not my own, so I don't have a recipe myself. I'm more of a cake-baker.

I'm still trying to find a used bike to get around town. That and a coat are at the top of my "To Find" list.

I think I'm OCD. I just arranged my change in size order in neat little stacks for the waiter to come pick up. That can't be a good sign, can it?

now I only wish I wouldn't disappear

I have less to say than I thought I would. I was planning on posting photos of La Rochelle, including the boats that came into town this week for the Velux 5 Oceans challenge that began today from this very port. Unfortunately, I discovered that the cord I'd brought to download images is the wrong one. So tomorrow, once stores are open, I'll be buying a new cord and showing them to you.

Until then, I have a few photos of my life here. When I dropped my dad off at the train station a few weeks ago (whew, time flies!), I walked back to my apartment as the sun was rising here in La Rochelle, passing through the Saturday market that stretches across the main market square and down several streets in all directions. I stopped to buy some bananas, then kept walking home and took some photos of the early morning light on the botanical gardens next door to my apartment.

I also took photos of my classroom, where I'm having to stand in front of a bunch of middleschoolers on my own and act the part of teacher. Me. They come into class, stand behind their chairs til I tell them to sit, and then they look to me to tell them what to do, what we're going to be talking about or covering in class. It's weird.


It's funny how different schools can be from each other. Obviously, school is school, but here, in between each class, is a fifteen minute break that isn't for getting to the next class. They have a break, then congregate outside and wait in groups for the teachers to come down and get them, leading them to class. We, as the teachers, are responsible for them from the moment we go fetch them from outside. Also, they can't sit down until the teacher prompts them to, and when they leave the classroom, they have to put their chairs up on the desks like they are in the photo above. Little differences, but it's fun exploring them.

And as always, I bought a delicious treat from the bakery down the street. Mille feuille aux fraises, which is like the one I showed you last time only with strawberries instead of chocolate. It's probably my favorite dessert so far. The pastery layers are crisp and delicious without being too sweet, the cream is fluffy and flavorful without being all sugar, and the top is a sort of iced glaze with dark chocolate drizzled in a pattern. The perfect bit is a little of each layer: some pastry, some cream, some of the iced topping, and a strawberry. Perfect combination of sweet with just a bit of tangy, and chocolate finishes that aren't the familiar sugary chocolate.


And, of course, the almond slivers on the sides. Mmmmmmm.

Yes. France has been on strike nationwide for several days now. I feel like telling them I would give anything to retire at 62.

into the woods each time you go there's more to learn of what you know

Tonight is a feast. For your eyes, and for my tummy. I have before me the French version of a brownie, called exactly that, a "Brownie." I also have a photograph of my dessert from earlier in the week, a personal favorite of mine, called a "mille feuille," quite literally, thousand sheets. In this case, sheets of pastry.





I'll be writing more this weekend, when I have a day off, finally, after weeks of errand running and the past two weeks of figuring out the school and teaching aspect of my life here. I've had to make two trips to Poitiers for orientation meetings, and I've been introduced to all my classes of little French children. Most of them are middle-schoolers, and I have a few classes at the high school too. We'll see which I prefer, although the younger ones are cuter. More enthusiastic about meeting someone new, at any rate, which always makes interacting with them easier. Also, the first of our five vacations begins in a week, and I'm in the process of choosing my adventure. I'll probably end up exploring the region, particularly the nearby Gallo-Roman town of Saintes and, of course, Cognac. I get five paid vacations throughout the year, every seven weeks. I swear I don't know how Americans work the way they do. I quite like it here. We're also in the middle of a three-day strike against the retirement reform. The professeurs at school are all very passionate about it, encouraging me to go see the manifestations to either participate or at least experience it. Three manifestations are planned for the next three days. I feel the need to point out that every week I have been here (four or five, I'm too lazy to count), there has been at least one strike a week. I love the French. I do. I wish we did more of that sort of active participatory democracy. There's more to democracy than voting. Speaking of, if I were in the States, I'm sure you all would know exactly where I'd be on October 30? The Rally to Restore Sanity and the March to Keep Fear Alive, of course. Yes, I'd be at both. And if I find out any of you who have the ability to go choose not to, I'll be very vexed with you. But no rubbing it in if you are going, because I'm very sensitive—it would upset me.

But I digress. The feast for your eyes continues with photographs of my new home. La Rochelle is beautiful; a seaside resort town which reminds me—at different times—of Charleston, Myrtle Beach, Cannes, and the rest of the Mediterranean coast. I feel the need to point out that there is water, everywhere, and palm trees that wouldn't survive in Charlotte's climate (too cold). It's also the region of cognac and pineau, two drinks I'm coming to love more and more each day. I think I got quite lucky in my assignment of La Rochelle.


My particular love for the city begins with its three medieval towers. The above is my favorite of them all, set along the water to guard the old port for almost 700 years. The photo is courtesy of my father, as is the following:

That is an overview of the old port from the lantern tower, one of the only medieval lighthouses still in existence and home to hundreds of years of prison graffiti carved into the walls by captured pirates, British sailors, rebels, and men whose only remaining way to leave their mark in the world was through grooves carved into stone walls. The other two medieval towers are visible along the ramparts, as well as the giant clock tower which served as the gate to the old walled city. I live in there. And when I go sit in a cafe, as I do as often as possible, to drink a coca, kir, or a chocolat chaud, you can picture for yourself my view of the Place de Verdun through the windows of Cafe de la Paix. It's my personal favorite little nook, decorated a hundred years ago. I'm nothing if not predictable in my love of very old things.

you get what you need

I think I guilted my dad into hopping a flight over here and visiting for a week. Still, I don’t feel bad. We had a blast. I took the train to Paris to meet him and bring him back, because it involves a train change and can be a bit difficult if you don’t know what you’re doing. Especially if you’re jetlagged and exhausted from a long, transatlantic flight (I speak from personal experience). Together, my dad and I figured out transportation to the Il de Ré and found my other school as well as negotiated the contract for my renting the apartment (which is always a trick when the real estate agent doesn’t speak English and your French doesn’t include real estate-legal lingo). But mostly, we just explored La Rochelle. I showed him all the places I’d already found, and we got to eat at neat little cafés or get ice cream from Ernest. It’s the local favorite ice cream shop, with so many flavors it might take me all year to try them. We took tours of the three medieval towers, doing all the touristy stuff I don’t usually do unless someone is visiting me.

Now I’m settled and starting work. Internet, tv, and phone are set up. I feel like I’m a part of the world again, and it’s wonderful. I can check the weather before going out in the morning so I’m not blindsided by a hot, sunny day or a thunderstorm. It’s amazing what we take for granted without realizing it.

I still don’t have my schedule for work finalized, but I know I’ll be spending one out of every five weeks on the Il de Ré, and the rest of the time split between two schools here in La Rochelle. For several days, I’ve been introducing myself to classes, answering their questions while speaking as slowly as possible. I was a little stunned at how little English they actually knew. In Paris, it seemed everyone was fluent; I always felt a little ashamed at how much I struggled to speak French when they could converse in my language so easily. Now I feel better. The students all asked to hear me speak something in French, and they were all impressed; one commented how I spoke French better than they spoke English. And, okay, not a fair comparison because I’ve lived in their country and have been studying their language for as long as they’ve been alive, but still. It’s a weird feeling to stand up in front of them and see how in awe they are of who I am and what I’m doing/what I’ve done. I can remember how I’d have seen someone in my position when I was younger, and I can’t believe that they’re really looking at me like that. Or thinking that I’m so grown up and old. Hell, I still feel like I should be one of them.

For your vicarious living, a picture of my dessert tonight. I intend to post these often, because I eat a lot of dessert that I feel you should be able to appreciate, at least in appearance if not taste. Also, if it inadvertently inspires any of you to come visit me, I certainly won't be complaining.

More school tomorrow, and then a three day weekend. I have to go to Poitiers next week for a day or so for an orientation. We had one on Monday of this week for dealing with administrative stuff: insurance, housing subsidy applications, insurance, visa info, etc. Next week will be about teaching, and advice for how to go about our jobs.

Poitiers is beautiful. I'll have to take pictures next time, and hopefully it won't be raining. It's much bigger than La Rochelle, which I should have realized but didn't until I actually saw it.