On the subject of finding things like body wash and cleaning supplies.
C: There's all the same stuff here, I just feel like it's all labeled with some secret code.
Me: A secret code called French?
It's great when I learn new words just from the context. The other day another teacher gave me a bunch of MP3 files from an English textbook CD and they were all labeled Piste 1, Piste 2 etc. Then at lunch some of us got to talking about skiing in the Alps, and one of the teachers mentioned that it wasn't too expensive if you go to a smaller lodge, where there are fewer pistes. At first I thought she meant fewer lifts, but then I thought about what word could make sense for a CD too, and of course, "track" works both for audio files and a ski run! As it turns out, the translation depends on the context, but it was fun, that moment where the image in my head shifted from lift chairs to the snow on the slopes.
Sometimes while I'm walking to the port for my morning commute or between my schools, I spend a lot of time in my head thinking about whatever, like reminiscing over my old life at college for example. But my thoughts are in English, and suddenly I will hear a French lady speaking to her children, or a guy talking on the phone, in French, and I'll suddenly wake up and realize, "Oh yeah, I'm in France."
On the boat back to Toulon one afternoon.
Me: I think my new favorite word is régler. I love it when things are réglé-d.
C: You're in the wrong country for that.
F-ing bises.
A (a guy): I think I finally realized why it's so awkward between my housemate and me. It's because I haven't kissed her yet!
Me and C: ??
A: The bisous. This morning she left for a trip and she called me to the door. I guess she was waiting to do the bises, but I just waved goodbye. I think it makes French people very nervous when you don't do the bises.
C: Yeah what is that? I sit in the teacher's lounge every morning stressing out over the bises. Do I kiss them? Do I not? Ahh why is this country so complicated?
Me: If they're across the room do you get up to do the bises? If you don't will they think you don't like them as much? It's much better when they just go for it, and then I know I'm supposed to kiss them. And then sometimes there is the cheek-bang too...
A: Alice that's just you being a failure at grace.
I'm finally starting to realize that French people are people too. That is, just because one person acts a certain way, it doesn't follow that "French people" as a solid entity are all the same way. A bunch of kids of different ages got onto the bus after school one day and I realized they probably had all the same middle school dramas with people in different social circles and various power dynamics. Whereas before my gut assumption was kind of, "You speak French. You can't be like me."
(PS writing up this post reminds me of my Gossip Girl days! xoxo)
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The rest of the Toussaint vacation
Not to say that we didn't enjoy ourselves at all on our vacation. Here are the pictures from the trip.
Paris lowlight: Man squeezing in behind us on the RER on the way to the airport and definitely grinding on us in a way that was not just the rocking of the train. So so gross.
Paris highlight: For me, definitely meeting Natasha's Brazilian family and having dinner with them. They were super nice and I learned how to say "Thank you" in Portuguese because I needed to a lot! Natasha was also hit on by an Italian waiter who gave her a scarf at the end of the evening (from where? who knows).
Madrid highlight: The meal in Toledo. 'Nuff said.
Paris lowlight: Man squeezing in behind us on the RER on the way to the airport and definitely grinding on us in a way that was not just the rocking of the train. So so gross.
Paris highlight: For me, definitely meeting Natasha's Brazilian family and having dinner with them. They were super nice and I learned how to say "Thank you" in Portuguese because I needed to a lot! Natasha was also hit on by an Italian waiter who gave her a scarf at the end of the evening (from where? who knows).
Madrid highlight: The meal in Toledo. 'Nuff said.
 |
| Paris |
 |
| Madrid and Toledo |
 |
| Barcelona |
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Hasard
I love how great things can just happen par hasard here.
A few weeks back, when I went to handball practice with my host sisters, one of the girls on the 17-and-under team, Tracy, struck up a conversation with me. She's from Spain and spending several months in Martinique teaching Spanish before going off to university. We'd tried a few times to set up a rendez-vous, without success, and then sort of lost touch.
Last night, at the handball match, I saw her again. She was, of course, a member of the winning team, and after the game, she happened to walk past me in the stands. I stopped her to say hi and we started to talk again. She asked me what I was doing the next day. Nothing really, I told her, just working. She invited me to come over to her house when I was done. Okay, I said, pourquoi pas?
She lives with her aunt right next to one of my schools, and when we arrived at the house, they gave me sirop d'orgeat (orgeat syrup, which tastes like sweet almonds) with ice water. Tracy then took me on a hike/tour of La Crique, the neighborhood built on the hillside behind her house. The road was steep, but the hilltop afforded pretty stellar views of the both the greenery (left) and the ocean (right) around Trinité.
We passed a maracoudja (passionfruit) tree, and picked some of the fruit to take home. The ones on the tree were either green or purple, but you're supposed to wait until they turn yellow to eat them.
We saw a really, really enormous cow.
We also saw a dead dog decaying by the side of the road. Its hair was all gone, and its flesh was crawling with worms. I almost lost my lunch.
As we neared the end of the descent, we passed by a house with a tree in the front bearing a fruit we didn't recognize. We decided to see if the people were home so we could find out what it was. After we'd rung the doorbell several times and calling out, an older woman came out. She told us her name was Marthe and that she'd been living in Martinique for 40 years, fifteen of which had been in retirement. She also told us the fruit on the tree was like grapefruit, but with an even thicker skin and less fruit inside, and she gave us each one to take home.
She also showed us a tree in her front yard called a multipliant, so called because it starts out as a very small tree but eventually grows a ton of trunks. Here's me standing next to it.
She then took us into her backyard and showed us her mango tree, her citron vert (lime) tree (they weren't in season, though), another type of tree that apparently becomes white in winter, and what she called her "lime" tree (they were really just huge lemons). She gave us each a lemon to take home, and then she gave us orange-lychee juice before sending us on our way.
On our way back to the house, we stopped at the station-service to buy Floups, which are the Martinique version of Otter Pops. But way better. There were tons of flavors -- bubble gum, pineapple, chocolate, coconut, milk, banana, you name it. I chose mint. It was bright green and tasted exactly how you'd imagine a mint popsicle would. And it was unbelievably refreshing after all that walking.
On the way home, I also ran into several of my students -- school was just getting out. It was cute, though. I love that my students are still young enough so that seeing their teacher in public isn't awkward yet.
A few weeks back, when I went to handball practice with my host sisters, one of the girls on the 17-and-under team, Tracy, struck up a conversation with me. She's from Spain and spending several months in Martinique teaching Spanish before going off to university. We'd tried a few times to set up a rendez-vous, without success, and then sort of lost touch.
Last night, at the handball match, I saw her again. She was, of course, a member of the winning team, and after the game, she happened to walk past me in the stands. I stopped her to say hi and we started to talk again. She asked me what I was doing the next day. Nothing really, I told her, just working. She invited me to come over to her house when I was done. Okay, I said, pourquoi pas?
She lives with her aunt right next to one of my schools, and when we arrived at the house, they gave me sirop d'orgeat (orgeat syrup, which tastes like sweet almonds) with ice water. Tracy then took me on a hike/tour of La Crique, the neighborhood built on the hillside behind her house. The road was steep, but the hilltop afforded pretty stellar views of the both the greenery (left) and the ocean (right) around Trinité.
We passed a maracoudja (passionfruit) tree, and picked some of the fruit to take home. The ones on the tree were either green or purple, but you're supposed to wait until they turn yellow to eat them.
We saw a really, really enormous cow.
We also saw a dead dog decaying by the side of the road. Its hair was all gone, and its flesh was crawling with worms. I almost lost my lunch.
As we neared the end of the descent, we passed by a house with a tree in the front bearing a fruit we didn't recognize. We decided to see if the people were home so we could find out what it was. After we'd rung the doorbell several times and calling out, an older woman came out. She told us her name was Marthe and that she'd been living in Martinique for 40 years, fifteen of which had been in retirement. She also told us the fruit on the tree was like grapefruit, but with an even thicker skin and less fruit inside, and she gave us each one to take home.
She also showed us a tree in her front yard called a multipliant, so called because it starts out as a very small tree but eventually grows a ton of trunks. Here's me standing next to it.
She then took us into her backyard and showed us her mango tree, her citron vert (lime) tree (they weren't in season, though), another type of tree that apparently becomes white in winter, and what she called her "lime" tree (they were really just huge lemons). She gave us each a lemon to take home, and then she gave us orange-lychee juice before sending us on our way.
On our way back to the house, we stopped at the station-service to buy Floups, which are the Martinique version of Otter Pops. But way better. There were tons of flavors -- bubble gum, pineapple, chocolate, coconut, milk, banana, you name it. I chose mint. It was bright green and tasted exactly how you'd imagine a mint popsicle would. And it was unbelievably refreshing after all that walking.
On the way home, I also ran into several of my students -- school was just getting out. It was cute, though. I love that my students are still young enough so that seeing their teacher in public isn't awkward yet.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
"Organized" sports
Today, I went to the Palais des Sports in Beauséjour because my host sisters had a handball match. Some observations below. I guess I should put as a disclaimer that I've never played a team sport, so I have no idea if these kinds of things actually happen in America, too, and I just don't know it.
When we arrived, a group of girls was already waiting outside the Palais. We weren't allowed to go in, because the person that's responsible for unlocking the door wouldn't come until 3, but everyone was told to come at 2. For some reason. Or something. I couldn't really understand the woman very well.
The same woman explained to me that there were supposed to be three matches that day: one boys' match, one 17-and-under girls' match, and one 14-and-under girls' match (the one my host sisters were to play in). Then, she told me that the matches might not even happen if the other teams didn't show up. Apparently this kind of thing happens all the time, the other team just up and deciding it doesn't feel like playing today, sorry. They can't even call? I asked. Well, sometimes they do, but most of the time, you just have to wait around until the match is supposed to start and see what happens.
I had a sudden flashback to France, when the grève against the education reform was in full swing and we never knew if the professors were going to come to school or not. We'd sit in the classrooms waiting, sometimes for close to an hour, before giving up and leaving. They couldn't be bothered even to leave a note on the chalkboard telling us there'd be no class that day, and that the hourlong commute to the university was for nothing.
It turned out that one of the three teams didn't show up -- the 14-and-under team from Sainte-Marie, the team that my host sisters were supposed to play against. Apparently, it was decided that they would play on Saturday instead. But my host sisters stayed anyway, to watch the other matches, and so I did too.
The 17-and-under girls' game was first. My host sisters' coach was refereeing the match, which seemed a bit unethical because, though he wasn't the coach of the 17-and-under team from Trinité, all the teams practice in the same stadium and so he must know the girls and, subconsciously or not, be biased in their favor.
I was also struck by how low-tech everything was. There was a light-up scoreboard on the wall of the gymnasium, but it wasn't being used. Instead, every time a goal was scored, the referee took out a notebook and made a check mark. I didn't figure out the score until the woman next to me told me (who'd heard it from the woman next to her). And no one had any idea how much time was left.
I also noticed how enthusiastic everyone was. Every goal scored, every good play, was met with earsplitting screams. Everyone was shouting, "Allez, les blancs!" because the Trinité girls' jerseys were white. There must have been fewer than a hundred spectators, but man, could they make noise. In retrospect, perhaps the infectious enthusiasm and enjoyment of the game was because of the lack of scoreboard and timer. People were less focused on the quantitative stuff and more focused on the game and how it was played.
The Trinité girls ended up winning the match, and at the end, they all came out, joined hands and ran towards the audience to thunderous applause. Here's a picture of them in action.
The boys' match was next. The boys on the Trinité team seemed to be a lot smaller than the boys on the opposing team; the woman next to me told me that the Trinité boys were twelve, but the boys from the opposing team were fourteen or fifteen. Also, the Trinité boys had a team of five, sometimes six (they seemed to be bringing in the sixth player as necessary, I couldn't really keep track of it), and the opponents had a team of four. The goalie from the opponents' team would periodically run over to the other side of the stadium to provide offensive support. The woman told me that their team didn't have enough players (regulation is six), but they were still allowed to play anyway.
The opposing team ended up winning the second match, and I left thinking the game hadn't been entirely fair. Nevertheless it was moving to see the crowds' support for the boys, even though they'd lost.
All in all, an interesting night. Sorry if I've bored you...
When we arrived, a group of girls was already waiting outside the Palais. We weren't allowed to go in, because the person that's responsible for unlocking the door wouldn't come until 3, but everyone was told to come at 2. For some reason. Or something. I couldn't really understand the woman very well.
The same woman explained to me that there were supposed to be three matches that day: one boys' match, one 17-and-under girls' match, and one 14-and-under girls' match (the one my host sisters were to play in). Then, she told me that the matches might not even happen if the other teams didn't show up. Apparently this kind of thing happens all the time, the other team just up and deciding it doesn't feel like playing today, sorry. They can't even call? I asked. Well, sometimes they do, but most of the time, you just have to wait around until the match is supposed to start and see what happens.
I had a sudden flashback to France, when the grève against the education reform was in full swing and we never knew if the professors were going to come to school or not. We'd sit in the classrooms waiting, sometimes for close to an hour, before giving up and leaving. They couldn't be bothered even to leave a note on the chalkboard telling us there'd be no class that day, and that the hourlong commute to the university was for nothing.
It turned out that one of the three teams didn't show up -- the 14-and-under team from Sainte-Marie, the team that my host sisters were supposed to play against. Apparently, it was decided that they would play on Saturday instead. But my host sisters stayed anyway, to watch the other matches, and so I did too.
The 17-and-under girls' game was first. My host sisters' coach was refereeing the match, which seemed a bit unethical because, though he wasn't the coach of the 17-and-under team from Trinité, all the teams practice in the same stadium and so he must know the girls and, subconsciously or not, be biased in their favor.
I was also struck by how low-tech everything was. There was a light-up scoreboard on the wall of the gymnasium, but it wasn't being used. Instead, every time a goal was scored, the referee took out a notebook and made a check mark. I didn't figure out the score until the woman next to me told me (who'd heard it from the woman next to her). And no one had any idea how much time was left.
I also noticed how enthusiastic everyone was. Every goal scored, every good play, was met with earsplitting screams. Everyone was shouting, "Allez, les blancs!" because the Trinité girls' jerseys were white. There must have been fewer than a hundred spectators, but man, could they make noise. In retrospect, perhaps the infectious enthusiasm and enjoyment of the game was because of the lack of scoreboard and timer. People were less focused on the quantitative stuff and more focused on the game and how it was played.
The Trinité girls ended up winning the match, and at the end, they all came out, joined hands and ran towards the audience to thunderous applause. Here's a picture of them in action.
The boys' match was next. The boys on the Trinité team seemed to be a lot smaller than the boys on the opposing team; the woman next to me told me that the Trinité boys were twelve, but the boys from the opposing team were fourteen or fifteen. Also, the Trinité boys had a team of five, sometimes six (they seemed to be bringing in the sixth player as necessary, I couldn't really keep track of it), and the opponents had a team of four. The goalie from the opponents' team would periodically run over to the other side of the stadium to provide offensive support. The woman told me that their team didn't have enough players (regulation is six), but they were still allowed to play anyway.
The opposing team ended up winning the second match, and I left thinking the game hadn't been entirely fair. Nevertheless it was moving to see the crowds' support for the boys, even though they'd lost.
All in all, an interesting night. Sorry if I've bored you...
Toussaints
All Saints' Day is observed on November 1st every year. Historically, it's a day of remembrance for all the saints, known and unknown, but in Martinique, it's a day to commemorate both morts and vivants, the living and the dead. It's a quiet day, to be spent with family. All the stores are closed, and there's a mass early in the morning, at 7AM. Throughout the day and night, people go with their families to visit the graves of their dead relatives, and leave flowers and candles.
November 2nd, All Souls' Day, is historically a day of remembrance for all the dead faithful. In Martinique, it's pretty much observed identical to the above.
I didn't participate in any of these activities, but I live right next to the town cemetery, so I did get to see some of the action.
Here's what it looked like during the day.
Now, at night, with candles aglow.
November 2nd, All Souls' Day, is historically a day of remembrance for all the dead faithful. In Martinique, it's pretty much observed identical to the above.
I didn't participate in any of these activities, but I live right next to the town cemetery, so I did get to see some of the action.
Here's what it looked like during the day.
Now, at night, with candles aglow.
Monday, November 1, 2010
This could be a novel
Entitled: Natasha and Alice vs. Barcelona
During the Toussaint vacation, we had very pleasant visits to Paris, Madrid, Toledo, and Toulon. You'll have to wait to hear about that. For now we just want to share how Halloween in Barcelona went for us.
In general, we were planning this trip as we went. I left for Paris with a train ticket and a hostel reservation for one night. Natasha met up the next day without even a reservation. But that worked okay for the most part.
Our plan for Barcelona was to stay from the 30th, a Saturday, to Tuesday November 2nd, with some couchsurfing hosts. Friday afternoon in Madrid though, we got a text from them telling us they wouldn't be able to let us stay Saturday night.
And so it began. Because of Halloween, a lot of people were on vacation and there was no space in any hostel in Madrid or Barcelona. We decided then that we would take a night bus on Friday the 29th to Barcelona, and sleep on the way. For Saturday night in Barcelona, yes there was room at a hotel in the next city over that was apparently in a bad area, and at hotels where we would have to each pay 200 euros for a night, but we decided we would just stay out all night and party hard. Because of course, as I am sure you know, that is Natasha and Alice's favorite activity. After all, Saturday was when everyone would be celebrating Halloween, so there would be plenty of people on the streets, and bars or clubs open all night. Besides, there was still some hope for free housing. The girl working at the reception of our hostel in Madrid also spoke Portuguese and was really nice. She gave us the number of a friend in Barcelona she said we could call and ask for a place to stay. So we didn't book anything for Saturday and assumed we would just meet up with our couchsurfing hosts Sunday night.
When we showed up in Barcelona, we left our luggage locked up at the train station, and paid for 24 hours. The next stop was the beach, where we bought a cheap mat and took turns napping. Natasha got a foot massage from one of the Asian ladies who give massages on the beach. We wandered up La Rambla, the main street in Barcelona filled with shops and street artists, stopping at the market La Boqueria for the best figs, persimmons, and baked yams ever.
Along the way, we checked out every hotel and hostel we saw to ask about a place to stay, including three and four star hotels; we decided it was better to be desperate. The demand for housing on Halloween weekend was so high that some places simply had a sign up that said completo--full--probably to ward off people like us. There was one place available, for 590 euros. It wasn't worth it, we decided while we were not yet as sleep-deprived and miserable as we were to be that night.
We can say that we had a lovely lovely evening touring La Casa Batlló, one of Antoni Gaudí's amazing creations. The sun was setting just as we got to the roof, and the view of the city was spectacular. At the end of the tour though, we were still homeless--we were never able to reach the Madrid girl's friend--and so bar-hopping the night away it was.
The first stop was a sandwich place for a chorizo and queso manchego bocadillo--a sausage and cheese sandwich. There we met some little girls who were princesses and who told us we were ugly and crazy. We hadn't showered since the last night in Madrid, sleeping on the bus didn't work out so well, and we'd been brushing our teeth in public bathrooms, so maybe they were justified.
At the table, we pulled out our map of Barcelona and started planning out our entire evening and next day. It was like war, circling all the places we were going to hit and strategizing the best order. We knew, for instance, that we needed to stop at the Barcelona Sants train station the next day to ask about tickets back to France. Another was lunch with a woman from Barcelona Natasha had met on her flight to France. It was also a chance for us to mentally prepare ourselves; we decided that whatever happened we would just have to laugh.
After the sandwich place, we took the metro to see the Magic Fountain, only to discover that it was under repair. That was fine. It's the sort of thing one can easily take in stride. We climbed up to the top of the hill behind the fountain and enjoyed the beautiful nighttime view. There were other people hanging out, drinking wine, starting their evening. We tried to sneak in a nap but it wasn't very fruitful. Since the fountain wasn't working, people started leaving around 11pm, and we decided to head back to the center of town for tapas.
As we were getting on to the metro, already a little delirious from sleepiness, this man let Natasha step on to the train ahead of him but stayed blocking the door instead of following her in, and kept me from boarding. It all happened very quickly, but a second man came up behind and pushed me like he was in a rush to get on but ended up walking away once I had boarded. I knew it was odd behavior, but I checked my wallet and I still had it. It wasn't until we got to the tapas bar that I realized he had lifted my iPod Touch from my jean pocket.
While I was still processing what had just happened--trying to remember if I had any important information stored on my iPod, calling my mom to get her to help me change some passwords--the waiter came to our table to take our order. We got tortilla, tortilla de bacalao, queso manchego con dulce de membrillo, croquetas, and bacalao frito--all you need to know is that they were very yummy. After taking our order, the waiter asked where we were from, noticing Natasha's accent (Natasha was the official translator of the Spain part of our trip). Natasha explained that we were both American, to which the waiter protested that I could not be American, I must be Chinese, or some sort of Asian. Natasha defended me, trying to explain that you can have both ethnic origins and an American nationality. No no, he insisted, when he looks at me he does not think American, thus I cannot be American. It was just not what I needed at the moment. He was also not very Spanish about letting us enjoy our meal in peace, coming over every couple of minutes to try to take away our dishes and check if we were done.
We left around 1:30am, in search of internet and possibly a room in a hotel, no matter the price. The robbery made us nervous, and less ready to just laugh everything off. We clearly were not as alert as we needed to be. Natasha was also sick, and getting worse by the minute. There was no room at the inn, but one of the hotels let us use their internet for half an hour. We used it to book a hostel for the following night, so at least we’d have a shower and a place to store our stuff on Sunday. We weren't going to count on our couchsurfing hosts any more.
Next was a bar, where we ordered sparkling water and ginger ale. The table of guys behind us was rather rowdy, harassing all the girls who passed by, so we stayed tucked in our corner and spoke French to each other, in hopes of being less noticeable. Not that it would have mattered; we were ugly and crazy as the princesses had previously informed us.
Side note: Saturday was also the night of daylight savings, so at three o’clock it was actually two o’clock, meaning we had an extra hour on the streets to kill.
We left at 3:30am, when the bar closed, stepping out into the rain. We thought we would find a club, or at least a bar that would be open all night. There were some clubs, but we took one look at what we were wearing, what the people in line were wearing, and considering the fact we had all of our valuables on us (minus one), we didn’t even try to get in. Natasha was way sick, and standing up, let alone partying, was not sounding good. There may have been bars too, but they were not on La Rambla and after a few ventures down sketchy side alleyways, we started considering taking a taxi to the airport or going to the train station to sleep there.
We decided to try the train station first. When we got into the metro, we saw that many others were in the same situation, and were just sleeping sitting against the walls of the station. We took the metro to Sants, the main train station, but it was locked up. So we headed back to La Rambla, trying to get in a few winks on the metro even though it was hot and stuffy and making it difficult for Natasha to breathe.
So to recap. We were two girls alone in a foreign country with no place to stay for the second night in a row. It was rainy and we were exhausted and Natasha was extremely ill and we couldn't even find a bar to sit down. It was rough, to say the least.
Eventually we made our way to the hostel that we had booked for Sunday night. At 5am it was too early to check in, but they let us sleep in the lobby, which we did for about two hours.
We had to be back to the train station by 8:30 to get our luggage from the lockers before the 24 hours was up. As we were leaving, at 8am, we realized that the lockers probably did not observe daylight savings, which meant that our 24 hours were already up. Thinking there was a chance the lockers might just pop open when the time ran out, getting to the train station became priority number one. I don't think my adrenal glands have ever worked that hard so early in the morning. Our metro tickets didn’t work, and we had to climb over the turnstile. (Later we realized that we were so out of it we were trying to walk through the wrong turnstile, but at the time it was just like, “What else have ya got for us, huh Barcelona?”) Luckily, our locker was still closed; we just had to pay a fee to open it up.
We got our luggage, went back to the hostel, but couldn’t check in until noon, so we had breakfast, stole showers, and left our stuff in the hostel’s storage room.
The first stop for Barcelona Day Number Two was the Sants train station, where we had been told we could book tickets to France. The SNCF website was having problems, and we couldn’t find any trains online (SNCF is the French train company). At Sants, the information we got was either, “I have no idea,” or, “Take a train to the border between Spain and France and figure it out from there.” Maybe that would have been an option, if I didn’t have to be back in France for an appointment with the immigration office on Wednesday (all assistants are required to meet with immigration officials on a specific date they set, or else you are an illegal immigrant). I had to make sure, for certain, we could get to France in time.
Back to the hostel. Checked in. Went to our room where Natasha slept for a little and I tried to find more information about train tickets, or possibly a flight, online. There were still no trains either through SNCF or the Spanish train company's website, and the only flights were to Paris, where I would have to take a train the next day to get home. At that point I was about ready to break down. It's one thing to have bad luck and feel miserable; it would be another to be completely screwed. Finally, I was able to book a roundabout ticket through SNCF, but I still needed to find a way to retrieve it.
Then, salvation. It was time for lunch with the lady Natasha met on the plane. It was a really nice restaurant, called Agua, and the woman and her family were incredibly wonderful. The meal was delicious, and when we explained about our nightmare-ish Halloween night, they offered to take us to the train station to figure out what to do.
What a difference it makes to have a native do the talking for you! Although we found out my SNCF reservation was not recognized in Spain (of course), the woman helped us find out all of our options, and we were able to get a train for the next morning. She was our guardian angel. The small bag of chocolate almonds we had gotten for her in Paris could not come close to thanking her for what she did for us.
The same evening, we got a call from the Madrid girl’s friend, who had been out of town and had just received our messages. He told us it was no problem if we wanted to stay that night, and apologized for missing our call. By that time we already had our reservation at the hostel, but the kindness of these strangers helped redeem Barcelona in our eyes. Wendy, I know what you mean by wanting to pay it forward, now that I've experienced how it feels to have someone come through for you when you really need it, even if they don't have to at all. Natasha too, was saying that this just reinforces her commitment to fighting hunger and poverty. As awful as we felt, we still had our money, we ate heartily around town, and we knew it would be just one night, which is not the case for everyone.
The next morning, we got on the train to Montpellier, France. We showed up an hour early because I forgot to set my clock back and we were told there was the risk of a two hour delay because of the strikes, but it happened. My heart was still pounding the first hour of the trip; I had such a hard time believing we'd actually get home. I don't think I have ever been happier to hear the SNCF bell, as we pulled into the first French train station after the border. So now, Natasha is in Toulon with me--writing this post with me now--, staying the night before she has to go back to Brive-la-Gaillarde, and we are much much wiser.
To share with you our newfound wisdom, here are some of our lessons learned:
Lesson 14: Beaches are a really nice place to take naps.
During the day.
Lesson 13: Gaudí is a genius.
We still need to go back for a redeem Barcelona trip, and see all of his creations, most of which we missed this time.
Lesson 12: In the Barcelona metro, the turnstile to the right of the ticket-reader is the correct one.
Lesson 11: During daylight savings, set your clock right away.
At least we weren't an hour late to the train station, but we really could have used that extra hour of sleep.
Lesson 10: Pockets are not storage space for valuables.
You need to be able to keep in mind where all your things are at all times. Since it seems like the rush to board a train while carrying a lot of stuff is prime time for losing things or theft or molestation (yes molestation, but that’s a story about Paris), you'll want to keep the number of separate items you're holding to a minimum.
Lesson 9: Password-protect your information.
Losing my iPod would have been a lot less stressful if I hadn't been worried about identity theft too.
Lesson 8: Be aware of the people around you.
Mainly, if people are not minding their own business, watch out.
Lesson 7: If you are going on a short trip to a foreign country, you need to have your return ticket.
In general it pays to be planned out unless you know the terrain really well. Usually you save money too.
Lesson 6: You cannot not have housing.
If traveling during a holiday, book way in advance. I don't believe our physical safety was ever in that much danger, since there were a lot of people out in the streets, but just the same, it was dumb.
Lesson 5: Remember who you are.
If you are not a partying/getting wasted/staying out all night type of person, don’t assume you’ll suddenly become that person just because you’re in Barcelona for Halloween.
Lesson 4: I need to learn Spanish.
Knowing more than one language is vital to international survival. If it weren’t for Natasha and her Spanish-Portuguese-French-English amazingness, we probably would not have made it this far.
Lesson 3: It couldn’t hurt to be more outgoing.
Our lifesavers we met because Natasha struck up a conversation.
Lesson 2: It’s great to be American.
There is something wonderful about a country where you can have more than one identity, where race does not mean nationality.
Lesson 1: There are wonderful people in the world who will lend a hand to strangers, and there are also jerks like the pickpockets on the metro or the waiter at the tapas bar. You can neither be too cynical nor too trusting. Either way, people will continue to surprise you.
And finally, it is this sort of shared experience that makes you realize what true friendship is. <3
During the Toussaint vacation, we had very pleasant visits to Paris, Madrid, Toledo, and Toulon. You'll have to wait to hear about that. For now we just want to share how Halloween in Barcelona went for us.
In general, we were planning this trip as we went. I left for Paris with a train ticket and a hostel reservation for one night. Natasha met up the next day without even a reservation. But that worked okay for the most part.
Our plan for Barcelona was to stay from the 30th, a Saturday, to Tuesday November 2nd, with some couchsurfing hosts. Friday afternoon in Madrid though, we got a text from them telling us they wouldn't be able to let us stay Saturday night.
And so it began. Because of Halloween, a lot of people were on vacation and there was no space in any hostel in Madrid or Barcelona. We decided then that we would take a night bus on Friday the 29th to Barcelona, and sleep on the way. For Saturday night in Barcelona, yes there was room at a hotel in the next city over that was apparently in a bad area, and at hotels where we would have to each pay 200 euros for a night, but we decided we would just stay out all night and party hard. Because of course, as I am sure you know, that is Natasha and Alice's favorite activity. After all, Saturday was when everyone would be celebrating Halloween, so there would be plenty of people on the streets, and bars or clubs open all night. Besides, there was still some hope for free housing. The girl working at the reception of our hostel in Madrid also spoke Portuguese and was really nice. She gave us the number of a friend in Barcelona she said we could call and ask for a place to stay. So we didn't book anything for Saturday and assumed we would just meet up with our couchsurfing hosts Sunday night.
When we showed up in Barcelona, we left our luggage locked up at the train station, and paid for 24 hours. The next stop was the beach, where we bought a cheap mat and took turns napping. Natasha got a foot massage from one of the Asian ladies who give massages on the beach. We wandered up La Rambla, the main street in Barcelona filled with shops and street artists, stopping at the market La Boqueria for the best figs, persimmons, and baked yams ever.
Along the way, we checked out every hotel and hostel we saw to ask about a place to stay, including three and four star hotels; we decided it was better to be desperate. The demand for housing on Halloween weekend was so high that some places simply had a sign up that said completo--full--probably to ward off people like us. There was one place available, for 590 euros. It wasn't worth it, we decided while we were not yet as sleep-deprived and miserable as we were to be that night.
We can say that we had a lovely lovely evening touring La Casa Batlló, one of Antoni Gaudí's amazing creations. The sun was setting just as we got to the roof, and the view of the city was spectacular. At the end of the tour though, we were still homeless--we were never able to reach the Madrid girl's friend--and so bar-hopping the night away it was.
The first stop was a sandwich place for a chorizo and queso manchego bocadillo--a sausage and cheese sandwich. There we met some little girls who were princesses and who told us we were ugly and crazy. We hadn't showered since the last night in Madrid, sleeping on the bus didn't work out so well, and we'd been brushing our teeth in public bathrooms, so maybe they were justified.
At the table, we pulled out our map of Barcelona and started planning out our entire evening and next day. It was like war, circling all the places we were going to hit and strategizing the best order. We knew, for instance, that we needed to stop at the Barcelona Sants train station the next day to ask about tickets back to France. Another was lunch with a woman from Barcelona Natasha had met on her flight to France. It was also a chance for us to mentally prepare ourselves; we decided that whatever happened we would just have to laugh.
After the sandwich place, we took the metro to see the Magic Fountain, only to discover that it was under repair. That was fine. It's the sort of thing one can easily take in stride. We climbed up to the top of the hill behind the fountain and enjoyed the beautiful nighttime view. There were other people hanging out, drinking wine, starting their evening. We tried to sneak in a nap but it wasn't very fruitful. Since the fountain wasn't working, people started leaving around 11pm, and we decided to head back to the center of town for tapas.
As we were getting on to the metro, already a little delirious from sleepiness, this man let Natasha step on to the train ahead of him but stayed blocking the door instead of following her in, and kept me from boarding. It all happened very quickly, but a second man came up behind and pushed me like he was in a rush to get on but ended up walking away once I had boarded. I knew it was odd behavior, but I checked my wallet and I still had it. It wasn't until we got to the tapas bar that I realized he had lifted my iPod Touch from my jean pocket.
While I was still processing what had just happened--trying to remember if I had any important information stored on my iPod, calling my mom to get her to help me change some passwords--the waiter came to our table to take our order. We got tortilla, tortilla de bacalao, queso manchego con dulce de membrillo, croquetas, and bacalao frito--all you need to know is that they were very yummy. After taking our order, the waiter asked where we were from, noticing Natasha's accent (Natasha was the official translator of the Spain part of our trip). Natasha explained that we were both American, to which the waiter protested that I could not be American, I must be Chinese, or some sort of Asian. Natasha defended me, trying to explain that you can have both ethnic origins and an American nationality. No no, he insisted, when he looks at me he does not think American, thus I cannot be American. It was just not what I needed at the moment. He was also not very Spanish about letting us enjoy our meal in peace, coming over every couple of minutes to try to take away our dishes and check if we were done.
We left around 1:30am, in search of internet and possibly a room in a hotel, no matter the price. The robbery made us nervous, and less ready to just laugh everything off. We clearly were not as alert as we needed to be. Natasha was also sick, and getting worse by the minute. There was no room at the inn, but one of the hotels let us use their internet for half an hour. We used it to book a hostel for the following night, so at least we’d have a shower and a place to store our stuff on Sunday. We weren't going to count on our couchsurfing hosts any more.
Next was a bar, where we ordered sparkling water and ginger ale. The table of guys behind us was rather rowdy, harassing all the girls who passed by, so we stayed tucked in our corner and spoke French to each other, in hopes of being less noticeable. Not that it would have mattered; we were ugly and crazy as the princesses had previously informed us.
Side note: Saturday was also the night of daylight savings, so at three o’clock it was actually two o’clock, meaning we had an extra hour on the streets to kill.
We left at 3:30am, when the bar closed, stepping out into the rain. We thought we would find a club, or at least a bar that would be open all night. There were some clubs, but we took one look at what we were wearing, what the people in line were wearing, and considering the fact we had all of our valuables on us (minus one), we didn’t even try to get in. Natasha was way sick, and standing up, let alone partying, was not sounding good. There may have been bars too, but they were not on La Rambla and after a few ventures down sketchy side alleyways, we started considering taking a taxi to the airport or going to the train station to sleep there.
We decided to try the train station first. When we got into the metro, we saw that many others were in the same situation, and were just sleeping sitting against the walls of the station. We took the metro to Sants, the main train station, but it was locked up. So we headed back to La Rambla, trying to get in a few winks on the metro even though it was hot and stuffy and making it difficult for Natasha to breathe.
So to recap. We were two girls alone in a foreign country with no place to stay for the second night in a row. It was rainy and we were exhausted and Natasha was extremely ill and we couldn't even find a bar to sit down. It was rough, to say the least.
Eventually we made our way to the hostel that we had booked for Sunday night. At 5am it was too early to check in, but they let us sleep in the lobby, which we did for about two hours.
We had to be back to the train station by 8:30 to get our luggage from the lockers before the 24 hours was up. As we were leaving, at 8am, we realized that the lockers probably did not observe daylight savings, which meant that our 24 hours were already up. Thinking there was a chance the lockers might just pop open when the time ran out, getting to the train station became priority number one. I don't think my adrenal glands have ever worked that hard so early in the morning. Our metro tickets didn’t work, and we had to climb over the turnstile. (Later we realized that we were so out of it we were trying to walk through the wrong turnstile, but at the time it was just like, “What else have ya got for us, huh Barcelona?”) Luckily, our locker was still closed; we just had to pay a fee to open it up.
We got our luggage, went back to the hostel, but couldn’t check in until noon, so we had breakfast, stole showers, and left our stuff in the hostel’s storage room.
The first stop for Barcelona Day Number Two was the Sants train station, where we had been told we could book tickets to France. The SNCF website was having problems, and we couldn’t find any trains online (SNCF is the French train company). At Sants, the information we got was either, “I have no idea,” or, “Take a train to the border between Spain and France and figure it out from there.” Maybe that would have been an option, if I didn’t have to be back in France for an appointment with the immigration office on Wednesday (all assistants are required to meet with immigration officials on a specific date they set, or else you are an illegal immigrant). I had to make sure, for certain, we could get to France in time.
Back to the hostel. Checked in. Went to our room where Natasha slept for a little and I tried to find more information about train tickets, or possibly a flight, online. There were still no trains either through SNCF or the Spanish train company's website, and the only flights were to Paris, where I would have to take a train the next day to get home. At that point I was about ready to break down. It's one thing to have bad luck and feel miserable; it would be another to be completely screwed. Finally, I was able to book a roundabout ticket through SNCF, but I still needed to find a way to retrieve it.
Then, salvation. It was time for lunch with the lady Natasha met on the plane. It was a really nice restaurant, called Agua, and the woman and her family were incredibly wonderful. The meal was delicious, and when we explained about our nightmare-ish Halloween night, they offered to take us to the train station to figure out what to do.
What a difference it makes to have a native do the talking for you! Although we found out my SNCF reservation was not recognized in Spain (of course), the woman helped us find out all of our options, and we were able to get a train for the next morning. She was our guardian angel. The small bag of chocolate almonds we had gotten for her in Paris could not come close to thanking her for what she did for us.
The same evening, we got a call from the Madrid girl’s friend, who had been out of town and had just received our messages. He told us it was no problem if we wanted to stay that night, and apologized for missing our call. By that time we already had our reservation at the hostel, but the kindness of these strangers helped redeem Barcelona in our eyes. Wendy, I know what you mean by wanting to pay it forward, now that I've experienced how it feels to have someone come through for you when you really need it, even if they don't have to at all. Natasha too, was saying that this just reinforces her commitment to fighting hunger and poverty. As awful as we felt, we still had our money, we ate heartily around town, and we knew it would be just one night, which is not the case for everyone.
The next morning, we got on the train to Montpellier, France. We showed up an hour early because I forgot to set my clock back and we were told there was the risk of a two hour delay because of the strikes, but it happened. My heart was still pounding the first hour of the trip; I had such a hard time believing we'd actually get home. I don't think I have ever been happier to hear the SNCF bell, as we pulled into the first French train station after the border. So now, Natasha is in Toulon with me--writing this post with me now--, staying the night before she has to go back to Brive-la-Gaillarde, and we are much much wiser.
To share with you our newfound wisdom, here are some of our lessons learned:
Lesson 14: Beaches are a really nice place to take naps.
During the day.
Lesson 13: Gaudí is a genius.
We still need to go back for a redeem Barcelona trip, and see all of his creations, most of which we missed this time.
Lesson 12: In the Barcelona metro, the turnstile to the right of the ticket-reader is the correct one.
Lesson 11: During daylight savings, set your clock right away.
At least we weren't an hour late to the train station, but we really could have used that extra hour of sleep.
Lesson 10: Pockets are not storage space for valuables.
You need to be able to keep in mind where all your things are at all times. Since it seems like the rush to board a train while carrying a lot of stuff is prime time for losing things or theft or molestation (yes molestation, but that’s a story about Paris), you'll want to keep the number of separate items you're holding to a minimum.
Lesson 9: Password-protect your information.
Losing my iPod would have been a lot less stressful if I hadn't been worried about identity theft too.
Lesson 8: Be aware of the people around you.
Mainly, if people are not minding their own business, watch out.
Lesson 7: If you are going on a short trip to a foreign country, you need to have your return ticket.
In general it pays to be planned out unless you know the terrain really well. Usually you save money too.
Lesson 6: You cannot not have housing.
If traveling during a holiday, book way in advance. I don't believe our physical safety was ever in that much danger, since there were a lot of people out in the streets, but just the same, it was dumb.
Lesson 5: Remember who you are.
If you are not a partying/getting wasted/staying out all night type of person, don’t assume you’ll suddenly become that person just because you’re in Barcelona for Halloween.
Lesson 4: I need to learn Spanish.
Knowing more than one language is vital to international survival. If it weren’t for Natasha and her Spanish-Portuguese-French-English amazingness, we probably would not have made it this far.
Lesson 3: It couldn’t hurt to be more outgoing.
Our lifesavers we met because Natasha struck up a conversation.
Lesson 2: It’s great to be American.
There is something wonderful about a country where you can have more than one identity, where race does not mean nationality.
Lesson 1: There are wonderful people in the world who will lend a hand to strangers, and there are also jerks like the pickpockets on the metro or the waiter at the tapas bar. You can neither be too cynical nor too trusting. Either way, people will continue to surprise you.
And finally, it is this sort of shared experience that makes you realize what true friendship is. <3
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Joyeux Halloween!
It's the first time I'm not in the United States for this blessed holiday, and unfortunately in Martinique people don't celebrate it. The Google France page was still decked out with the Scooby Doo Halloween decorations, though, and my host sisters recognized the Scooby Doo characters (in case you needed more proof that America has taken over the world). And I did end up eating a crapload of sugary things today, so calorically speaking, the outcome was probably the same.
Earlier today, I was homesick. I went on a brief errand this morning, to the store to buy some milk, and the town, as it is every Sunday, was virtually abandoned. Everything was closed, and I trudged back home wishing I were back in the US, where people were undoubtedly doing more interesting, Halloween-ish things.
I ended up spending the day at my host sisters' aunt's house. Their setup is pretty unique because my host mom and some of her sisters all live on the same lot, so their houses are very close together. Today, three of the aunts were there, plus one cousin. We ate lunch (guava juice, chicken with yellow banana gratin and green banana gratin -- made from bananas, milk, spices and cheese) and then dessert (vanilla ice cream, fresh pineapple slices, and bread pudding made with rum, condensed milk, prunes and other dried fruits), and then they sat around for the entire rest of the afternoon and just talked. Seriously, my butt didn't move from the bench for probably four hours straight. But this is how it is here. People don't have things to do on Sunday. It's a day for hanging out, pure and simple.
And then, when it got dark (which is around 6), it was time for dinner -- more guava juice, a tarte made with tuna and capers, salad, and bread with crème de morue -- cod butter. It's bright yellow and exactly what it sounds like.
And then, dessert again. More vanilla ice cream and pudding.
All in all, the most food-filled, candy-less, low-key Halloween I've ever experienced. It was nice, though. I'll always love American Halloweens, but they'll be there when I get back. Pour l'instant, I'm happy to have experienced something a little different today...
Earlier today, I was homesick. I went on a brief errand this morning, to the store to buy some milk, and the town, as it is every Sunday, was virtually abandoned. Everything was closed, and I trudged back home wishing I were back in the US, where people were undoubtedly doing more interesting, Halloween-ish things.
I ended up spending the day at my host sisters' aunt's house. Their setup is pretty unique because my host mom and some of her sisters all live on the same lot, so their houses are very close together. Today, three of the aunts were there, plus one cousin. We ate lunch (guava juice, chicken with yellow banana gratin and green banana gratin -- made from bananas, milk, spices and cheese) and then dessert (vanilla ice cream, fresh pineapple slices, and bread pudding made with rum, condensed milk, prunes and other dried fruits), and then they sat around for the entire rest of the afternoon and just talked. Seriously, my butt didn't move from the bench for probably four hours straight. But this is how it is here. People don't have things to do on Sunday. It's a day for hanging out, pure and simple.
And then, when it got dark (which is around 6), it was time for dinner -- more guava juice, a tarte made with tuna and capers, salad, and bread with crème de morue -- cod butter. It's bright yellow and exactly what it sounds like.
And then, dessert again. More vanilla ice cream and pudding.
All in all, the most food-filled, candy-less, low-key Halloween I've ever experienced. It was nice, though. I'll always love American Halloweens, but they'll be there when I get back. Pour l'instant, I'm happy to have experienced something a little different today...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)