thank goodness it's not oysters & chips. I love Scotland.

Hi, Hello

Merry Christmas Eve, Christmas, Chanukah, Boxing Day, Birthday, New Years, St Someone Day…

Over here, I guess “secular” is pretty loosely defined. It seems pretty Christmas-y to me. The French are into not repressing anyone which is fine but I’ve yet to see any reference to anything else.

Mireille just treated me to a French Traditional Christmas meal. I hope I didn’t come across as rude when I asked if the second course was already dead. The first wasn’t. Inquiring minds wanted to know.
So we started with oysters. Freshly pried open with some tool, design circa no later than the early Middle Ages. And henceforth was marred my perfect record of eating everything she put in front of me. I soldiered through 2 but…Oy. I’m a texture girl and these, jsdfhadsjhfldskjhvdjfgfhdfd. "No you take the rest, I insist. "
Next was escargot. Already deceased. Check. Can pretend they’re clams. Check. Drowned in butter and garlic. I can pop a few down. At least I didn’t have to suck it right out of the shell like the oysters. I don’t even like shots of things that are normal to shoot. Chasing with bread and butter. First, and hopefully, last time I will utter that phrase.
When she was done laughing with/at me, we exchanged presents. She gave me a little stuffed animal, because she saw that I hadn’t brought one, and some traditional French Christmas chocolates which are positively delightful. I gave her a potted orchid, so it would last, and then an enormous stem of some enormous flowers which are gorgeous and whose name I don’t know. She is a huge flower person. Her living room is well on its way to forest classification.


Meanwhile in a more innocent, pre-oyster era…
In order to get some homey-ness in my life prior to the festivities, I jetsetted off to sunny, delightful Scotland in December. Kirsty’s (Scottish friend/roommate/enforcer of sanity in this madness of 9A Chemin des Petites Roches) direct quote was “Wow, this is even bleaker than I remembered” referring to the Glasgow skyline.
We, like a large fraction of the civilized world, decided to flee France the last Saturday before Thanksgiving. Despite the shrieking, cranky children in the eternal security line who were obviously asexually reproducing (there were not that many of them 20 minutes ago) it wasn’t so bad. Security remains an eternal mystery to me; “put liquids in sealable plastic” what? “sorry, sir, that white powder on my bag is laundry detergent” who?
We arrived and mentally passed out for the rest of the day which was amazing. It was a house. And we could sprawl on the couches and watch TV (in English!) and make tea without bound! It was a little weird reverse culture shock. There were a lot of awkwardly started sentences in French and there was a little “mais” and “donc” where there should have been a little “but” and “so.” It was just so amazing to be in a place where we could sit around the table and talk and say nearly intelligent things in nearly proper sentence structure. And then in town, ah the calm and the glory of being able to understand and respond without the “sorry, what?”s and the considerably less witty than desired response. Ok. So maybe I’m glorifying it a little because some of those accents were from the mud hovel right off the highland. I would have given plenty of people my large, shiny, and worthless 2 pence pieces to take the 40 marbles out of their mouth.
We can’t all be American.

The next day was a wander about in Glasgow day, which was fun for me and stressful for Kirsty because she was still pursuing Christmas gifts (one family can receive only so much mustard). I followed and observed and after careful study, yes, there really are more redheads in Scotland. It’s like the headquarters. Even adults. Maybe this means I’ll have red hair when I grow up, too. Shucks, that’d be awesome. Later that night, she took me on a walking tour of Glasgow and we ended up at Glasgow Uni which is amazingly beautiful and all stone and columned and stainglassed and every other requisite for old school British things. It was dark and gorgeous and we were the only ones there just walking around have a look-see and, get this, a bag piper was dressed in the full garb and just walking around playing. You can’t even plan shiz like that. And then we were walking around and all “oh, hey were does this archway lead to” and we went out and there was this amazing panorama of Glasgow and enormous lights that lit up the entire face of the Uni on that side.

The next day was the Edinburgh day. The sun was practically shining so the view from Edinburgh castle was impressive. We started to descend down the Royal Mile, the mile in between Edinburgh Castle and Hollywood Palace (which I struggle at taking seriously), one of the Queens many obscene mansion houses, I guess. Then we kept descending to have a walk through the Christmas market and down to the Scotland National Gallery. But more importantly, after that we ate a scone. Then we were [still] completely wiped so we jumped on the train home. And that night we went out for some drinks. Who thought that was a good idea? We just needed some serious non-Dijon pub action in our life. Where a drink doesn’t cost 7 euros and the two social groups available are the Italian student rager set or the 60 year old French man throwing down a pint set.

The next day was another morning of a hearty bowl of porridge and off to the carnival. Where I felt old, went on my first upside down ride ever, persevered through a few more, became ill, and handed my remaining tickets to a small child who was not yet green with unhappiness. We then returned to the homestead, slightly off-colored, ate dinner and then played scrabble where I inched out narrow victory with the suspicion-ridden word of “abet” which I promptly tacked an “S” on the end of to get the double word score. Yesssss. Love that conjugating. The green light was also given to both English and American spellings. Good game, that.

The next morning, we got up far too early/it remained dark until 8:30am. Horrible. And I got the car to the bus to the train to the plane to the metro to the train to the bus to arrive back in my cozy little room in Dijon, France. It’s way weird traveling between two countries, neither one to which you belong. Although it was amusing on the plane where I was sitting amongst a group of younger Muslim Scottish guys who were talking about how excited they were to go to EuroDisney. Glad to see they take advantage of their JudeoChristian-centric holidays.

Well this post has occurred over about 3 days. More has happened. There have been pancakes eaten as Christmas dinner all the while improving American-Candian relations.
My mother is now en route.
My sister sends positive reports about dad's reaction to the Dijon baseball hat.
Miss the family dinners. Oysters do not replace the annual surf and turf. Sorry, France.

Merry Christmas xoxo

"bagels!?" "bagels?" "bagels!!"

It’s been a long time. And the longer I wait, the more happens.
[This is the point where my spelling, vocabulary, and English construction is really going to hell sorry in advance]

Last weekend we went to Lyon for the Fetes des Lumieres. The basic translation would be “there are now lights flashing and skimming all over buildings all over town. If you’re a local, get out now to avoid the chaos of touristic pilgrimage and chance of epileptic seizures while sitting in your living room.”

The rumor is it’s the best in France, all the lights in Lyon. There were a few sights where it was just obscene (in a good way). Complete faces of churches were lit up with every detail of architecture being a different color. Although it was terribly well done, so, there’s really nothing sacrilegious about all that? God’s Rainbow House. Interesting concept.
The more cultural experience may have happened in Kassie and my hotel room however. Apparently, here they’re real into saving the environment, great, good for them, however, in their enthusiasm, they forget to tell the stupid, earth killing Americans how to turn on the lights.

This was a swanky hotel and it had key cards to get into the room. So, Kassie and I go in and there is not switch to be found that actually illuminates the lights. We couldn’t figure out what was going on so we were on our way back down to the front desk. Fortunately, for our own self-respect, we met some other girls in the group on their way up and they gave us the memo that, in order to turn on the lights, one has to leave the key in that mysterious slot on the wall that previously seemed to serve no purpose. We headed back up to our room. We put the key in the slot. Let there be light! How happy we were. So we took the key and put it on our bedside table where we wouldn’t forget it. 3 minutes. Lights out. A little mysterious but whatever, Kassie just went and put it in again. Took it out and threw it on the table. 2 minutes. Black. At this point we were laughing hysterically and calling “not it” for inserting the key every 30 seconds for the next 2 days. Its took us 2 more insertion and removals accompanied by some rolling on the floor laughing to realize that one has to leave the key in the slot. Wowwwwww.

That night we went out to pound the pavement of Lyon, which was better because the weather was mercifully warm. The lights were pretty, blah blah, in other news we found BAGELS! and cream cheese!! And coffee that’s bigger than a shot – not much but a little!! (I couldn’t even finish it. The coffee consumption part of my brain is no longer accustomed to such luxury). We’re not the Americans in France who head to the first McDonalds. But bagels!? Take advantage. Later, we got stuck in such a mass of humanity it was unreal. We were looking for the entrance to this courtyard which was supposed to be amazing and we were among thousands of people and still looking when suddenly the crowd started to move all in the same direction - well I guess we found the entrance. We were literally carried in the direction. And then halfway up a flight of stairs, it stopped. If one had been able to physically reverse their position, turning around would have given the view of just how many effing people were in not enough space.

The distant "don't walk" signal is a direct indication of our current state at that time.

Back in good ole Dijon, I met the baseball and softball teams the other night and got a hat for my dad for Christmas. It’s. awesome. It’s good that the phone wasn’t working because I was going to call immediately and leave a message about its awesomeness.
Although yesterday when I sent my presents in the mail, customs demands that you write on a sticker (that is promptly stuck right on the face of the package) the contents. Maybe the French will throw them off a little. But un CD? Wow. Yeah that’s really cryptic.
Also, one can become well educated on Dijon by wrapping presents in Le Bien Public (daily paper). Bet you didn’t know that the Dijon Cheerleading squad (les pom-pom girls – yeah, anglicisms) just won the French National Title.
Hooray for almost Xmas break. Although it’s sad because a lot of people are leaving who were here only for the first semester. Kassie is going to be alone for a while between when Julie leaves and the new student (Helga from Norway?) comes in February. Oh Julie, how we will miss thee.
This week is also the final part of the project that I’m doing with the English students. It’s going to be a Maine filled (I knew I brought my flag for some reason. 5x7 feet of culture), Yankee bashing extravaganza. Good times.

To later.

The reason your lights will flicker at noon for the next 26 days.

Happy Belated Thanksgiving. Amanda Burgess, happy freaking 21st.
Things probably happened before last Thursday but their importance is just not great. So starting November 27th –
First, Kassie and I (and probably lots of other Americans) were being all stoic and saying “psh – holidays? Whatever. We’re are being so culturally enriched we won’t even notice that it’s happening.” Then we all woke up Thursday morning and cried a little. We all remedied in our select ways. Kassie went to some fancy-schmancy dinner at some fancy-schmancy restaurant with the Colby kids and all their host families for some designer Thanksgiving dinner with a French twist (minimal bitterness but, yes, I’m judging you a little because…)
Back in real people world – we did it home grown style. Sarah and I got together and planned an epic meal to share with Mireille and Kirsty to give them their first Thanksgiving experience. Sadly, French shopping center world missed the memo.
Sweet potatoes – denied.
Tools for green bean casserole – denied
Cranberries – denied
Pecan pie – Denied (but that’s a low blow. What were we really expecting?)
So the final menu –
Small intact bird – already cooked – Sarah and I both felt entirely lackluster about the need but decided it’s a little bit of a keystone.
Green beans – fresh – to be cooked with lemon and almonds (thanks, mom)
Stuffing. Home Made. - no turkey. No problem.
Bread product – this is France after all.
Wine – this is France after all
Blueberry pie – already assembled – where I come from that’s bad news but time and equipment restraints you understand.
All in all. Eh. When a call came from State side where all were about to sit down after an epic meal to then eat unparalleled pies contributed by both my aunt and sister. Ehhh. I want that, please.

Just took a long break, unnoticeable in cyber space, to eat with Mireille and her daughter and boyfriend (tres serieux – and his name is Pierre just for the extra cultural touch) who happened to be here to play with his new iphone or “quoi” (what) which is what these people add at the end of every single sentence ever. But I actually followed and might have even been able to actively contribute to their conversation if they hadn’t been talking all nerdy about cheese.

In other less immediate news: this past weekend, the latest CIEF excursion was to some Christmas markets or Marches de Noel as it goes here. Real cultural, real lit up, real cold. Kassie and Liz preferred greatly le vin chaud (hot, spiced wine) which Liz declared is hereby the official drink of their Worcester apartment next year. Now that’s a party I could get behind.
Admittedly, the lights were very pretty but this country needs to get a hold on themselves. Just because they haven’t had a significant holiday since July 14th or something. You know those pictures that are taken of Earth from space and they show how lit up or not each region of the world is? I would fund a space mission in order that there is one of those only of France between December 1st and 26th.


What else? My professor who told me I had a horrible accent, was incapable of life and that I should go home complimented me today and said I’m getting better. Thanks. I think. And I didn’t fail my grammar test.
Currently no idea what is going on in life leading up to and on the day of Noel.
A lot of the kiddies at the CIEF are getting all geared up to go home. Wow. That’s crazy talk. Go home? Who does that?
As much as I want to go into my room and ship myself home on a daily basis from time to time, if I was going home now it would be frustrating. Disclaimer: I’m saying this in English from the safety of my room as I sit in my PJs. Ask me tomorrow morning at 10:30 in the heat of class with one. certain. professor. (baring my teeth. Just in case you couldn’t notice) and I’d sell my soul for an oar and a large rubber bin. Isn’t life funny.

Also check this - observe this cultural experience if you will. And you will.
le cours – studies
la cour – courtyard, area in front of a house
le cour – (don’t know. Didn’t write it down.)
la cour – court of justice
la course – a trail (ex running)
les courses – shopping (or le shopping in French.)
court – not long.
Closely followed by
Vers - toward
Un verre – a glass
Vert ­- green
Un vers ­- a verse
Un ver – a worm

That’s all. Boooooooring. Bye for now.