I can't handle it.

Happy Independence Day, America!

It's been another long series of days since I posted, & now it's July. It's the 4th of July. My family will wake up, prepare desserts to donate to the cake wheel at our church's annual carnival, help the church by working a few hours at the hamburger stand (while eating free hamburgers & onion rings, which is why I enjoy helping). They'll watch fireworks from our front lawn, in our neighborhood where the trees are now growing too tall to see the lower bursts of color.

I miss that. I'm realizing that I have no idea what to do when I see them, when we drive up to their house in Joe's small truck in the afternoon & walk up the steps of the deck that my dad built. How can I hug all three at the same time? I think my heart will burst before I reach them.

I'll be home, or at least stateside, in roughly four days. I'm not handling this well. We have continued the gradual saying goodby to friends, breaking down more with each goodbye–starting with small tears in my friend's hometown, after spending a day with her in Luxembourg, then larger tears when saying goodbye to another friend who has been unbelievably kind & welcoming to me this year. She even got us one of the lovely burgamote tins that Nancy is known for (as seen in Amelie!) & a bracelet like the one I've seen her wear.

Diane, who has absolutely spoiled me with friendship

It's incredible how many people have come to mean so much to me here, & how quickly we have all scattered across the world–from Japan & back to the UK, to every corner of France, to the States, to Luxembourg... It's even more incredible to me that beyond missing the people, I can cry for missing a place so much. France feels like home to me, a spiritually & politically safe haven for me. The hardest part about leaving is not knowing when we'll come back–when I'll feel this way again; when we'll see these blue roofs & colorful shutters; when we'll speak this language; when we'll be able to buy wine for less than the price of soda.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon packing. I took our decorations from the walls & books from the shelves. I folded sweaters & packed things into space-saving bags. I decided what clothes I'll wear in NYC. I sat in the middle of the floor crying, waiting for Joe to get back from a coffee rendez-vous with a fellow assistant, feeling like I couldn't do it. I can't drag my suitcase around this country & watch as the plane lifts away from Paris. I can't let go of this tiny apartment where our marriage began.

Today, we'll spend the day acting American. We'll get together with friends (who are mostly British at this point) & paint our faces & drink cheap beer while cooking American food. We'll wear red & burn sparklers on balconies. We'll use the night to finish saying goodbye before we leave quietly on a forecasted hot, sunny Thursday afternoon.

I had my last big adventure on Friday, waking early & taking a train to Longwy before Joe woke for his last day of work. A former student had invited me for the day, first visiting her hometown then going on a drive to Luxembourg. The tiny, rich country is only minutes from her house; the tiny country's capital city is only half an hour. It was our first time hanging out together, after months of trying to organize something, & it was lovely.

Claire, with whom I didn't get to spend nearly enough time

I was amazed by the amount of history Longwy, a town of roughly 5,000 people, had–visits from the Sun King, a town square completely destroyed by World War bombings, a tradition of making beautiful ceramics. Equally amazing was my friend's ability to explain the town's history to me in a way, I realized, I could not do with my hometown.  I need to learn more Midwest/American history!

For pictures from the day, click here. Longwy is in France, & then the other half of the pictures are Luxembourg City, a place that is unbelievably clean with ancient & modern buildings blurring into each other. Lots of people from all over Europe (particularly those near the Luxembourg border, so France, Belgium & Germany) work in Luxembourg. The result is this mix of languages, fashion & food styles, cultures & social ideas that you can see when you turn each corner. What a crazy place! Think of having that much diversity in a state smaller than Ohio!

In other news, yesterday my sunburn was looking normal. My arms are bronze; my chest is bronze; my back is, well... I felt the top of my back, & something stuck to my hand. I felt it again, & the same thing happened. I went into the bathroom, lifted my shirt & saw the skin all peeling off of my back. I'm concerned about bits of it–looking rather tender & rosy. I asked Joe what he thought.

"Meg, I think you burnt off your epidermis," he said. He couldn't hide his look of disgust from the three vanity mirrors that were surrounding us. At least it's over now & I'll come back to the States looking like I just spent a lot of time in the European sun, getting all comfortably glowing & tan. I'll have you fooled, just wait.

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profiter

If I had to identify the verb I've heard most often in France, I would have to say "profiter" (most commonly to profit or to take advantage of, but also used to for any sort of living to the fullest, enjoying a situation, getting all that you can from a person or thing, traveling, etc.). Here is a list of things that I have most recently been told to profit from:

• the sun
• the lack of exams I have to grade
• my friends scattering around France
• my time in NYC with my best friend when we return to the States
• the low prices on produce at the market
• the cheap summer toys at the super market
• the early hours of the morning

Most commonly, I have been told to "profitez bien" from my remaining time in France (from our landlord, the cashier at the grocery, my students...). I find this most fitting, as it will be the last thing that someone tells me to profit from, and the thing I'm most set to profit from. There is little time left to take advantage of, so I need to get on it. Unfortunately, no profits are to be had from the sun today and we still have not been paid. Profits of all sorts have been put on layaway for the day.

I'm profiting from the time stuck in the apartment–busting out a new roasted potato recipe and making spinach pizza, reading The Fountainhead (which is NOT better than Atlas Shrugged like people told me it would be), creating make-up exams.

Joe and I have reaped so many profits here in France. I've used the down time today to call to mind what we've most taken advantage of here–the bakeries; inexpensive travels; public transportation & bike lanes; language-learning opportunities; wine selections. What has been most valuable for us was the 10 months spent in a one-room apartment, thrown out on our own in the world.

The challenges we faced here, from only having to hotplates or doing laundry in the sink to figuring out banking in a foreign language, made us stronger and have shaped the way we will live our marriage. We've learned what most annoys each other–and that some annoyance when you're in such close proximity for hours a day is inevitable. We've learned how to end arguments.

I've learned that we have so much to continue soaking in, like the skinny girls flocking to the southern beaches here. We have so much to keep shaping–in the next month and in the years in Bloomington afterward.


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WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S PAST MID-MAY!?

I think this is the only part of the world where I can spend half of the day hiding from hail storms and rain–with the worst striking while I'm on a bike ride exploring town with a good friend–and the other half getting a sunburn. I think I am the only person who tells herself she will "detox"... then makes her hubby (and herself) pancakes for breakfast, THEN is out for lunch and grabs a pastry, THEN goes out for a hot chocolate.

I can justify the hot chocolate. We had spent the afternoon on our bikes, cruising along the canal and admiring the mix of architecture and, well, lack of: crumbling buildings and RV communities next to an insanely expensive new "ergothérapie" center. Joe once told me that he read that someone said that doctors say that drinking chocolate milk after exercise provides the perfect balance of sugars and proteins to help burn fat and promote muscle. Voila. A reason for hot chocolate. (I have no reason for the loads of whipped cream that was on top, but it tasted a lot better than the starving myself in high school did.)

#LifeIsShort

Hanging out with my friend today, who leaves Nancy mid-June, made me realize what this year has been. A sort of crash-course in adulthood and relationship development skills. A smash-and-grab of culture and friendship: letting yourself share moments with people who, after May, you may never see again. It made the hot chocolate go down a bit hard.

I'm not an outgoing person. No, really. Stop laughing–I'm serious. Give me a room with 200 people and a microphone; I'll manage. Throw me in a party with my peers and watch social awkwardness at work. I get uncomfortable in groups; I prefer small circles of close friends to group events. I clam up at parties and want to back out of plans at the last minute when too many people are involved. Trying to limit the social anxiety and get close to a few friends has made this coming departure even more emotional. There are some girls here that have come to mean so much to me.

I've gotten better at letting myself have a social life–cutting things from the to-do lists I always say I'll stop writing and spending a few hours out in the city with lovely people, drinking and eating things that will never taste or feel the same, getting sunburns on the half of our bodies that face the sun while we sit at our café table.

When I got home after a great afternoon, I felt myself tumble into emotional quicksand. If I didn't pace myself, I'd go down quickly and not even Wesley could pull me out.* I decided to use my time dwelling on the future to my advantage and work on my career prospects. I:

1. Reorganized ALL the files on my computer, including making a much better portfolio folder.
2. Deleted loads of things and realized that my music folders need serious help. (Four copies of things that automatically backed themselves up? Woops!)
3. Finally fixed my Linked In profile.
4. Organized my Word-version of my résumé. (Bluck.)
5. Looked at puppies in the Bloomington animal shelter. Heh...

Focusing on the parts of the future I can control (and starting the beginning of "Blade Runner") definitely got my head in a better place, though the thought of July 7 is still weighing heavily on me. That means I'll just have to get myself out and on my bike, hanging out with friends to make up for all the time we won't have in the future. Thank God for this "globalized", smaller world we're living in, but I don't know how many goodbye stages I can handle!

Tomorrow, I'll be out in the sun to even out this thigh-only sunburn. Joe has the morning off, so we're heading to the park early for a picnic and badminton practice, our voluntary dose of public humiliation. Apparently when it comes to badminton rackets, you get what you paid for... and a euro a piece (birdies included) doesn't get you much. At least the laughing from running after the broken birdie provides a good ab workout.

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a friend's visit, post 3

After spending the week in Nancy, we decided to get Kristen out of town for a bit and head to Strasbourg. We weren't only leaving town, we were leaving Lorraine. Over the 90 minute train ride, we saw (during the part we stayed awake for) the landscape change remarkably–moving from traditional French architecture to the Alsacian, more Germanic style.

**Pictures from our trip are available here, but I'm not putting pictures in Blogger as much any more because, apparently, your space is limited.**

Alsace has a complicated history. It became involved with France in the 1500s, during the wars between Catholics and Protestants, then becoming part of France. Then un-becoming part of France, as efficiently explained here:

Most of the region was attached to France in 1648, and by the time of the French Revolution, the Alsatian people felt more connected to France than to Germany. But Germany still held out hope for a foothold on the western bank of the Southern Rhine, and in 1870, the Franco-Prussian war was launched. It was a humiliating defeat for France, who was forced to cede Alsace and the northern part of Lorraine to the Second Reich. During the time of German rule, citizens were forbidden to speak French and all books, signs and other references to France were destroyed.

Then we were French after World War I, gone again during and returned again after World War II. Do you have whiplash yet? All of this makes for a rather interesting feeling to the region: good access to German beer, lots of cream & bacon in the cooking, more Germanic architecture, French law & philosophy.

While not all of Strasbourg looks like the picture book German village, we did spend most of our time in the section of town, known as "La Petite France", that has maintained these facades (for historical and tourism reasons). The region surrounds the Cathedral of Our Lady. The whole thing left us feeling like we had been transported to Epcot's German section.

The Gothic cathedral is still the sixth tallest church in the world, which seems somehow impossible. The building's ornaments make it look like it's been eaten through with rust or termites–a feeling of fragility I never expected from such a large structure.

Reflecting on our time with Kristen already has me anxious to travel again. For now, I think my travels will be to and from the park while I dedicate myself to some serious reading and writing. Hopefully, that will include some fun Lorraine history that I'll be able to share with you.

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a friend's visit, post 2

After a few days of Blogger not working, I'm back in business. Our apartment felt huge when Kristen first left, but that too has gone back to normal.  I, however, have not yet gone back to normal. I'm bouncing between emotional highs & lows like Internet-based stocks in the 90's.

I can't figure out if I'm on vacation or not, since I'm still setting really high standards for my days and, like after dinner today, realizing that huge things get in the way (like my job that I forgot I still had this week). This then makes me panic & complain & wonder what I'm doing with my life.

Things were calmer last week, when the most important thing to do was walk Kristen to a garden that is hidden in the wall of the Citadel. I've mentioned some of Nancy's history in the past, and I had a chance to learn more about it while Kristen was here. There's a fun summary of where we spent most of our time, the "Old Town", on this site.

When I was young, I was fascinated by the film version of "A Secret Garden." There were loads of things I loved about it: a vine-covered door, the sound of her black shoes clicking along the cobblestones, her accent, the curly brown hair that made Mary look almost wild with rebellion.

Overlapping this short period of Secret Garden obsession was the construction of my parents' garage. I would slip into my church shoes and sneak out of the house to play Secret Garden, skipping my way along the sidewalk to the freshly dug foundation. On one such adventure, I skipped up to my dad, bent over in the flower beds. "I feel like there's a garden that I've never seen before," I whispered to him in what I can only assume was a horrible British accent.

My dad has frequently reminded me of this moment. I was reminded of it again as we walked toward the citadel, Joe, Kristen and I, passing the gate that leads to the old city and instead turning left and walking through a small, almost hidden opening in the wall.

The ground behind the opening rose steeply and spit us out into a garden overlooking this quiet part of the city. The rows of flowers and herbs were squared of neatly–peonies heavy, ready to burst open in the prematurely warm sun; mint leaves unfolding. I felt like I'd turned a key and walked into my own world. A woman sat on a bench reading; I wondered if she felt this same, if she escaped here often.

The citadel served (as citadels do) as the fortress of the city in the Middle Ages. I imagine its tiny windows serving as spots for archers to hide, shooting out at arriving trouble. I imagine a courtyard jutting off behind the citadel, stretching toward the palace of the dukes, instead of the houses and shops that now line the cobblestone street. I imagine the time when much of the citadel wall was torn down–and then the day when the top of the citadel, no longer needed for protection, was sewn with seed.

I imagine it all leading to this moment, when I walk up the slope and feel like we're all exactly where we're meant to be. I imagine what toilets and sanitation were like in the Middle Ages, and I'm glad my moment came much later–I'm glad I shared it with Kristen.

I'm glad that after this more contemplative discovery, we went on to the Lorraine Museum, where we discovered Bébé, the dwarf of Stanislas's court who measured less than 90 centimeters at his death. I haven't quite figured out how or why he came to be at Stanislas's court, as I refuse to accept the idea that he was adopted to serve as an unfortunate sort of court jester.

More on that later.

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a friend's visit, post 1

After a 5 a.m. wake up and a trip that took us by train, city train and bus before dropping us at Charles de Gaulle, we saw our friend onto her flight home. I'm not sure where her eight days went, but they went quickly and I loved every minute.

Half a box of snails & half a bottle of wine are the two reminders left from her visit. We tried to get in as many French traditions as we could, and she was a great traveling companion–ready to order her own food, excited to relax in the town's many parks, happy to see la Bell France that exists outside of Paris. She was even enthusiastic for our snail dinner!

Before Kristen's arrival, we made a list of what we most wanted to share and discover with her. A lot of the list was purchased at pastry shops, but I made sure to add the famous (infamous?) escargots. I decided it would be best to try these at home and avoid embarrassing myself at a nice restaurant. I wasn't sure what to expect when I  put the frozen snails filled with green butter sauce (butter, parsley, garlic and shallot)  into the over. I'll say this: butter is delicious, and if you don't look at the thing you'll be fine... They're a bit like mussels. Mussels that look like snails shriveled from a salty death.

I think it's safe to say that Kristen and I left our Nancy adventure with heavier suitcases (though mine isn't packed yet) and heavier cheese stomachs. Joe, skinny as always, seems untouched by the increased calories. Many of our best and happiest moments took place in restaurants, and I couldn't be happier. Food is passion in France, and the waiters know this. Restaurants aren't always a friendly exchange. You can often be left feeling like the lowly foreigner.

But not usually in Nancy, and not for a second in the restaurant where we had our goodbye dinner or our first dinner out in town. I felt like town was really welcoming her–refilling our wine glasses and giving us free sample-sized appetizers and desserts, charging us a euro for a bottle of wine (not sure if that was good will or bad typing on the cash register, but hey). I was proud of their friendliness, and with each day out and each small adventure I felt myself growing more proud of Lorraine.

Today, life slips back toward normal & begins the routine of my last two months in France; my eyes swell thinking of it. (I'm not sure if it's from the idea of cleaning and routine or leaving France...) Time to get going.

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the North

Joe & I stayed up late last night to watch "Jumanji", which was much more exhausting & unbelievable than I remembered. I realize that statement seems unnecessary, as the plot revolves around a jungle growing out of a board game. We slept in this morning, reading in bed & letting the dishes from our dinner last night wait a bit.

I realized, somewhere in between the sleeping in & the soup starting, that "Jumanji" is almost certainly behind my unbelievable hatred of monkeys. To shake these feelings & get myself back into a loving mood toward animals, I watched a few rabbit videos on YouTube. This one, in which a paraplegic bunny gets his wheels, made me cry. Twice.

My point is that we're on vacation, & I'm glad that I have Joe. He's taught me how to relax. Though I still make the enormous to-do lists for each day, and while I'm actually–wait for it–looking forward to AND enjoying my studies of statistics, I'm enjoying doing what I've been posting about so much: Enjoying the last bit of our time here, especially during Joe's spring vacation.

I've been thinking about Montpellier since we've gotten back. There was an odd feeling about the city, a jumbled discomfort that I felt even when walking through the celebrated Place de la Comédie. I felt out of sorts, out of my element, and oddly far from home. I realized while walking the streets there that Nancy has taken up residence in me as much as I have in it.

During these slow days, I know my love of Nancy will deepen–especially when I spend a week revisiting favorite spots & teaching my friend all about town. (Only about 4 days until she arrives!) I'm infinitely proud of Nancy & tried to find ways to express this in the south, which is the Florida of Europe–where they all want to vacation, retire & tan themselves to a deep leather. We know the south is wonderful. We know it's sunny & loads of fun & "young" when it's not full of retired folks.  But what do you know of the north?

Myself, I know that my passion for this place is tied to where the first 22 years of my life were spent, the Midwest of the United States. Four seasons. Small towns. Open spaces. Hard work. Industries that build towns, fail, start over, restructure. A deep sense of family history. One could say that I've found something too familiar in France; I've once again settled into a similar mindset or culture.

I say no, and I say it loudly. I say that this region of France, with its multinational history (Is it French? Is it German? Who's this Polish guy?), its history in the arts, its continued connection to farming (with specialty dishes almost always filled with eggs, bacon and cream)... it's where we all are. It's where people mean when they say, "Paris isn't France. Leave Paris to find the country." It's a region that, after years of industrial decline, will become desperate for a new big change, a way to revitalize itself.

I have to cut this short, but I'll be revisiting these themes in the next 12 days, on my own, with my husband & with my friend's fresh pair of American eyes.

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montpellier

"Go to the South," they said. "Get some sun," they said, "Get a tan."

So we did. We hopped on our first night train to Montpellier, to visit my friend Jon. We were heading for a sort-of family Easter, so I should have known: I don't know the last time I've experienced a sunny, blue-skies Easter weekend. I'm often wearing rain-safe shoes & a large coat.

Things started off a bit, well, off. Our "couchette" (sleeper car) had six beds to a room, and after a few hours of us all sleeping on top of the little sleeping bags they gave us, the room was starting to stink. It kept on stinking well into the morning, when we were stopped in Avignon for several hours. SNCF was kind enough to offer us a free box of breakfast. Joe & I hopped on the breakfast train a bit late, and when we went searching for them they were all gone.

Our "couchette" mates were kind enough to share, and we turned our "beds" into benches so that we could stay up for the rest of the ride. We were two hours late, but we made it. Jon met us at the train station, umbrellas in hand, and our adventure began.

It wasn't quite the sunny escape we expected, but luckily Nancy has gotten us well used to cloudy days & cool weather. Even more luckily, a girl left an umbrella at a bar (well before we got there). We were able to snag that & stay dry for the weekend–a true victory after the hail storm we encountered on our walk back to the train station on Monday.

So much for getting a tan.

Jon was who I first traveled to France with in 2008. (You can read about THOSE adventures, of which there were more than a few, here.) We spent our last two days of travel in Montpellier, and I'm glad to say that this experience was much more positive than the first one. I will say that I still prefer my Nancy, but I loved the more lived-in "city" feel of Montpellier, & with a seasoned host like Jon it was great to see new things we'd missed last time.

We popped around town all weekend, between meeting friends, dodging rain clouds & cooking meals. I loved meeting Jon's friends & I loved feeling like we had gone to some sort of home for Easter weekend. We sat around a candle-lit table eating roasted chicken (the meat I've mastered this year) & salad with RANCH DRESSING. How relaxing & comforting!

Though I'd love to go on about the beauty of what we saw, it'd be easier for you to click on the pictures from our adventure on Flickr. My narration would get boring, but the architecture of the south of France does not.

What struck me most was how much I had to face what I've been dreading: The idea that this adventure, like the one Jon & I shared last time, will shortly come to an end. This is one of Jon's last weekends with his friends before heading back to the States, & much of the conversation could be summarized like this: What the HELL happened? Where did the time go? Why are we leaving? What will happen next?

These are statements that are familiar to all of you at this point in our blogging relationship. There was a lot of goodbye-saying in all sorts of ways this weekend, & I felt like I was cheating, like I was getting away with something really special. We weren't on our last vacation. We were on a weekend get-away at the start of our vacation. Two weeks of true "vacance" & two months of this honeymoon adventure. How lucky are we?

I'll post more about our time in Montpellier this week, but for now I have a gin & tonic to finish, a coffee date in a bit & a sink full of dishes to wash. Don't forget to find Joe's head in the new photo challenge. Enjoy your week. I know we will. Vacation, here we come! Goodbye, productivity!

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schallern

I'm not the best person to take with you if you plan to stand on the edge of things that are high. Last summer, I was supposed to be fixing a roof (only one story high & completely flat) with my dad. I started panicking & had to go home. On top of the Eiffel Tower, I stood with my back pressed against the wall instead of pressing myself against the fence on the top floor like all of the other tourists. I waited eagerly by the Down Staircase for my turn to get out of there.

When I realized that our weekend in the Vosges mountains, at an auberge where our friend had been an au pair, would include a lot of walking along the edge of a mountain, I got nervous.

We arrived in the early afternoon on Saturday & spent several hours on the large wooden deck the family had built several years ago. It felt like a mid-summer day instead of the first weekend in April. Before Joe finished his first pint, I felt the skin on my nose starting to burn. I don't think anyone escaped the weekend without a sunburn–& no one burnt evenly. My left arm & neck are rosy, while those sitting across from me have a stronger pink on their right side. We should have been playing musical chairs to prevent it.

After a long sit in the sun & playing with the family of goats, we headed out on a tour around the mountain–hiking across a snowy patch not yet melted, winding up through pastures that will soon be filled with cattle, twisting around a rocky patch where men were rock climbing. It was a three hour hike that led us to the top of the peak, where we stood next to the ski lifts–looking out of place & a bit eerie in the now green landscape.

We had to follow the ski lifts down the mountain, walking in a zig-zag pattern until we found the path again, & I realized that this is the closest I will ever come to skiing. Each time I changed directions–lead with right, now lead with left & weave back; lead with right...–I was afraid I'd start an endless tumble. I imagined tracing the same path on skis, much faster, with no idea how to stop.

It made me much more confident in my feet. So we made it back, & when we decided the next day to take a trip all the way down the opposite side, to visit the small lake, I was less afraid. When we got to the lake, I even stood on top of a rock! A rock that was surrounded by nothing & had water underneath!

The lake walk was one of those times when you realize you're moving through a moment you'll never forget. Stopping to throw rocks in the lake next to a French boy while his family teases him in a thick, Alsacian accent, that a girl was throwing farther than he. Watching our step to avoid landing on the countless frogs heading toward the freezing water. Sinking into the boggy ground in the mountain's shade before reaching the far side of the lake & beginning the climb back up. Trying to react appropriately when a teenage boy fell on the path, landing directly in from of me & the two girls I was walking with. Zig-zagging back down a part of the mountain with less fear than I'd had the day before.

So, I'm definitely not cured of my fear of heights. I'm not looking forward to standing on the edge of anything anytime soon, but I am really looking forward to more opportunities to hike & immerse myself in nature. I'm looking forward to the warming weather & more pints on patios & tarte flambée, a pizza-ish dish typical of the region that I've been eating too much of.

For picture from the weekend, click here. I'm going to go try to find tickets back to all of your lovely, State-side faces. PLUS: Two new Where's Joe's Head?

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slowing down in san remo

To start, let me tell you a funny story. I Google image-searched for a picture of La Pigna, hoping to find the cute map that we used during our visit. No maps, but I scrolling through their first page of offerings I saw a picture of David Bowie. "What?" I thought, "How do these two things fit together? What awesome person did this?" When I clicked on the image, it took me to my blog post from two days ago (my link near the labyrinths).

I realize that this makes it less awesome & more sad that I would be drawn to the same Bowie picture twice...

So what this all means is that I failed at finding a picture of the map. In normal circumstances, I would scan the picture in & have nothing to whine about. As it is, I'm whining. I can't show you how La Pigna was set up, & I'm struggling to explain how we spent our vacation in Italy.

Joe called it early on. "I think this will be mostly a food adventure," he said. And it was. Oh, it was, and it was glorious–pizzas, pasta with pesto & nuts, more olives than any one person should consume, mussels dyed red from their sharp tomato sauce. But I worry talking about this, because I've reread the image I've painted so far. And it's true: Most of our time was spent (1) reading in the hotel, by the sea or at a café (2) sitting at a restaurant or café consuming something. For the first time in Europe, on this visit or my trip in 2008, I felt like I was really on vacation. I thanked God for having my first vacation with my husband be in Italy.

There is a feeling of obligation, when you come to Europe with a group of other foreigners, that you will see all of the countries, all of their biggest cities. You will take pictures of each big thing & prove that you were there. You stop traveling for yourself & start traveling for others–to say you've done it. I admit it: I was starting to feel this, too.

Joe & I are on a limited, limited travel budget to keep ourselves ahead in other parts of our lives. We see our friends taking trips to ten countries at a time, from Rome to Barcelona to Zurich to Prague... & it starts to feel like we haven't done anything, like we're not doing what we're supposed to. When we told people we were going to San Remo–not Rome or Florence or Venice–they were surprised. What will you do there?

This can be a legitimate question. If you're on a tight schedule, you're better off having four days in Rome & two in San Remo. You don't need the time to see the city in the way you need five days just to hop between popular attractions in the big guys like Paris. When we were there, we were bustling, & we had to force ourselves to slow down & take time to just be in the city. We didn't want that again, didn't want to be surrounded by tourists & attractions for four days.

We also had a very special reason for going to San Remo. As I've mentioned, Joe's favorite author was from there. For us, this trip was about stepping into that way of life, letting it wash over us like the warmth after drinking half a bottle of wine–or, at times, like the chill of dropping your feet into the braking sea.

On our way to our hotel, an Italian woman stopped to ask us a question. As she crossed the street, she was shouting farewells & funny bits of broken English to continue our conversation. This doesn't happen in France. People don't talk on the sidewalk unless they really know you, & when you part you don't continue the conversation in a crowd of other people. I quickly understood that this was how San Remo worked. There were tourists, but the town showed no real difference in their treatment of them. I felt like I could easily belong to San Remo.

The town, to an extent, relies on its tourism. The casino & the old part of town are its biggest draws, but you don't see the casino-goers out in the town much. The visitors to the old part of town often come in tour buses & travel as units. This means that when you're out, you're more likely to be surrounded by Italians at home than fellow travelers. This, to me, is perfect.

We felt truly immersed in Italian culture & got to know the history of San Remo & the present face of it rather well. I know that I could never have felt this was in Rome after four days; I would never have let myself spend an afternoon at a café instead of in the next museum. I wouldn't have had as many awkward moments where we weren't sure if English would work. I wouldn't have felt that, if we moved here, it would feel like home in no time.

So with this post, I say goodbye & give thanks to San Remo. I keep clicking through the pictures, holding onto the weightless happy we had there. We have four more months of adventure, & our next one is in the making...

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our first hotel!

Joe & I have been doing a lot to save money while we're hear: savings account for coming home, extra tutoring for extra cash, hand-washing laundry, not using public transit... staying in hostels when we go on vacation. Don't get me wrong. The hostel in Paris was great, since we were out in the city & never spending time there except to shower, sleep & scarf down baguettes at breakfast.

In Frankfurt, we shared a hostel with something like ten other people. The floor was squeaky. We were afraid to move. I couldn't even roll around on my bed for fear of waking people up. I also started snoring. In a room with ten other people. Mortifying. 

When we decided to go to Italy, we looked at hotels & discovered that some were not much cheaper than the price for both of our beds at a hostel. So we did it: Mr. & Mrs. Betz reserved their first hotel room. We took advantage of the sunny room, good heating & nice shower–so much so that I think the hotel staff was a little concerned. After a morning out, we would come back for a picnic lunch of sorts in our room (fresh bread, olives, cheese, bell pepper, wine, too many pistachio-flavored cookies). We'd eat until the bread was gone, then settle in for a few hours of reading & looking out the window.

There were only three rooms occupied at the hotel, so for most of the afternoon we were the only guests around. It felt a bit like being in your grandparents' bedroom while the rest of the family is having Thanksgiving (or in this case, hanging out at the huge bar down the hall, watching old Italian movies). We didn't have them make our beds; we didn't say much, since communication was a challenge; we sat at breakfast longer than any other guests.

The owner of the hotel was a sweet old man with a voice like a commercial for Italian cigarettes. He sat us at our table covered in pastries, breakfast crackers, jams, honey, juice in a pitcher and yogurts. He pointed at each of us. "Cappuccino?" Si. Grazie. And we sat there, grazing for an hour on the first morning, enjoying a dining room that was set just for us & the bits of conversation we had with our host.

"Americano," he said, pointing to his jacket. "Kentuck." He smoothed the leather, explaining again that it was an orginal, American coat–from Kentuck. We explained, with hand motions and crumbs around our mouths, that Kentucky is close to where we grew up. Small world. Piccolo mondo.

The man behind the bar, an older, skinnier & more suave Italian–father, brother, best friend of our host–said nothing. He waved us to breakfast tables, opened doors when we buzzed & waved us toward our room. No words, just his hand directing us in these smooth motions like a gull on the waves near shore. As the week progressed, I progressed from murmuring "Grazie" as he showed me the way to simple smiling and giving a small bob of my head. "Well, what if he can't speak?" I was asking myself.

When we checked out of the hotel, the two men where standing together. The shorter man with the Kentucky-made coat pointed to his ring finger. He asked us a question in Italian and assumed it meant when. We looked at each other and began saying all forms of August that we could think of–août, August, after July, summer. "Augusto," he suggested. Si, & he shook our hands, congratulating us. He gave Joe a thump on the shoulder with a laugh, something he'd done with each question we didn't seem to understand during our stay.

"Bambino maschio," he asked. He was cradling an invisible baby in his arms, rocking it. This, I understood, was not really a question. I laughed while we shook our heads. Not for a while. He waved his finger in the air, nodding his head. Si. One. Small. Piccolo. We smiled, and we were on our way–out into the first truly sunny day of our trip. We walked toward the sea, taking all morning to get to the train station.

Remember: If you want to see what we saw, check out the picture on Flickr. Don't forget to play the Italian version of Where's Joe's Head?

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back to the world

Exciting news at the start: We're back from vacation. You know what that means! Yes, a day of laundry and bathroom cleaning... but that's not what I meant. New Where's Joe's Head pictures! Enjoy.

It was a long night, and it was a cold, cold morning. I realize that I have no right to complain. Getting on the train home meant coming back to our northern corner of France. I don't take that for granted...

But lordy, did being near the Ligurian Sea feel outstanding. The air was chilly, and it wasn't until our last day in San Remo that the sun really came out in full force–meaning we were gorging ourselves on red wine, pizza, salty meats & sunshine all at the same time, all while sitting near the sea.

This felt like our first real vacation together, the first trip we took where we let ourselves relax. We woke for a nine o'clock breakfast in the hotel's dining room before heading out on walking tours of the La Pigna ("pinecone") district. The district was built into labyrinths* of stairs, hills & arches that wind toward the top of the city.

Why all the stairs? Funny you should ask. The city is on the sea, so in its beginning pirates were a serious issue. The system of walls, stairs & doors were designed to make the city confusing & cumbersome, protecting it from potential invaders. It was like walking through the set of a movie, but it was real & it was filled with beautiful Italians people. What I found most shocking was that many of these people, the true San Remo residents, were more than ready for retirement. Yet they were cruising the streets & cobblestone steps like it was nothing.

From the moment we stepped on the train, we found ourselves planning a retirement to this region of Italy or France. We were making plans to learn Italian. We were admiring properties & looking at postings in reality offices. We'll put that in our box of dreams for later; we'll start practicing more conversational Italian soon.

When people ask me about marriage or why I'm really married; when they cautioned against getting married so young and "settling"; when my friends tell me that they're worried we're giving up on dreams to find somewhere in the middle, I try to find the words to explain my love to them. I never feel the need to justify; they'll figure out one day or they won't. But I want to give it words, to define it somehow to share my happiness with people.

My trip to Italy with Joe is everything that I expected from marriage–not because it's travel or Italy or exotic, but because it was a moment of our hard work & passion coming to fruition. On top of his job, Joe has dedicated himself to multiple students for private tutoring sessions. The money, along with my small addition for tutoring, has gone to our travel fund. It fed us for most of our trip.

What I first loved about Joe was his passion for reading & writing. It's the passion I've had longest, the one that has only grown, only become a larger part of my personality. I needed someone to share that with, and I got lucky–more than lucky–when I found him. His favorite author, Italo Calvino, spent a large part of his life in San Remo. When I knew we were coming to Europe for a year, I was excited about seeing Joe in San Remo, seeing that dream & that passion become something real.

When Joe stood in front of Calvino's school, walked along the street named after him & looked at the Calvino books in San Remo shops, I could only think that this is what I meant when I said that I loved him, that I wanted my life to be his as well. I wanted to be there in these moments, remind them that it was really happening & that it was our work that got us here. I wanted to see him get excited & anxious & eager to write; I wanted to push him past it–You've seen it now; you've felt it. Use it.

I'll dig into these emotions & the scenes that surrounded us throughout the week. For now, our adventure has been uploaded to Flickr; feel free to explore the photos. Feels good to be home. Thanks for coming back!

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was wir in Frankfurt taten, part 1

"what we did in Frankfurt"

I don't know an ounce of German. There are three phrases I know, two of which I forget are German.

1. Gesundheit (or, as Urban Dictionary spells it, gazoontight): a word for health, used when someone sneezes

2. Auf Wiedersehen (or, as I would spell it, Alf Vita-sane): goodbye

3. Danke: thank you

German I learned for our trip:

1. Ein dunkles Bier: a dark beer

2. Ich spreche kein Deutsche: I don't speak German

Number of people that were rude to me because Ich spreche kein Deutsche: 

0

There were many things about our trip to Frankfurt that were absolutely wonderful. Over a few posts, I'll discuss some of them, but there was one that stood out the most. While there, I did not meet one person that was rude or cold to me because I was a foreigner. Now, granted, we were visiting a tourist town, but the kindness started before we even reached the German border.

Somewhere along the French-German border, there is a quiet town called Forbach that goes to sleep at about 8:30 each night. En route to Frankfurt, we had a two hour stop in Forbach, so we went in search of a bar. 

There was one open within walking distance, and there were three people inside. When we walked in, we were overcome by 1990s American music, each song introduced by a heavy-sounding, male German voice. When we got in, the place was starting to get quiet. Shortly after we got our beers & opened our books to kill time, the customers left.

No one else was coming in. The streets were looking pretty dark. I was getting uncomfortable. When was asked, the man said yes, he was closed, what were we in town for? Instead of returning to the train station, he invited us to sit with him while he cleaned up the bar. We talked about not knowing German, about our reasons for being here and about where we could possibly find another place to sit for a few hours. The man gave us directions & wishes for safe travels; we returned to the station.

After our first day in Frankfurt, we wanted a nice bar to sit for dinner beers. I realize that bar-hunting is seeming like a hobby of ours, but after a big lunch, we weren't hungry enough to eat. Who doesn't have room for beer, though?

We found a bar near the Alte Oper, Frankfurt's old opera, to spend some time. The place was packed to the walls. We were kindly offered seats at the bar, and we took up residence for several hours. I was fascinated. The bartender was flying between bottles of champagne, beer taps & mixed drinks without ever spilling a drop. At the same speed, he was mixing cocktails of French-German-English phrases to slid down the bar to customers. Every customer seemed to be a regular; he welcomed us right into the mix.

Between pouring drinks, he'd throw glances our way. If Joe was drinking too slowly, he'd ask why he didn't like the beer. I had finished mine & decided not to order another, so he was always checking in on me via nonverbal, humorous faces that reminded me of special occasions at the bowling alley with Dad, sipping Shirley Temples. 

I ordered a coffee in French; he showed me a mug. "No, the small one," I replied. "Ah, an espresso," he explained–using the same name we would in America for the traditional shot that has become "un café" in French. 

"Danke," I said with a laugh. 

"Merci," he replied, then added, "Et l'addition pour les deux sympas" over his shoulder to a coworker when we were readying ourselves for the cold walk back to the hostel.

No matter what language came out of my mouth (because at times, I'm not sure which did), those we were asking help from were quick to adapt–be it at the train station, museums or in our hostel. When I managed a small German phrase, they were kind enough to reply in turn, making it all seem perfectly normal.


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happy new year!

 

Cheers to a happy new year!

Joe & I are back from Frankfurt, & we have to say... we love Germany! I ate too much sauerkraut, schnitzel & Nutelle, but we had an amazing time. It was like walking on sidewalks made of gold.

More exciting than our time in Germany was the mail we came home to: a collection of crocheted snowflakes from my grandma like those hanging on my parents' tree each year of my life; handmade cards from my tiny cousins (their first ever!) now hanging on our wall; a care package from Joe's family with a piano-playing Snoopy. Thanks so much to everyone for making our first Christmas incredibly special. Our mailbox fillings mean more to me than I can say.

To bring in the new year, we're eating a tourte (a French sort of shepherd's pie filled with pork in white wine sauce) that required lots of hours marinating, lots of trimming pork shoulders, two kinds of pastry crust, lots of eggs yolks & onions that made me bawl my eyes out. (Added bonus: extra dough = REAL BISCUITS!)

Unfortunately, we've canceled our plans with friends for some needed recovery time from travel before Joe heads back to work & I start getting letters from graduate schools. We're using the nice dinner time & champagne-sipping reflecting on Germany. So what was it like in Frankfurt?

***

It was like coming home. As our feet crunched along the icy sidewalks through the 19th century architecture, no longer worrying about stepping in sliding through what the last dog walker left behind, I looked at the buildings, churches and hanging pub signs with a sense of solidarity I'd never felt in France.

My family on both sides, and a good portion of Joe's family, began in Germany. I'll be honest; I'm not quite sure where we're from. I've never had any desire to learn German. As I've mentioned before, I never had any desire to eat a meat that came in any kind of casing. But something changed when we went to Germany.

Maybe it was the beer, which we had more than a good sampling of–lots of dunkels that reminded me of my dad's pint of beer in German Epcot (which I would have hated at the time, as he did, but have come to love). I was excited to try sausages with sauerkraut and brezels (pretzels) and apfelzwein (an apple wine that's a Frankfurt specialty). It felt like my duty, like a part of me; I felt like I was learning about a part of myself I'd never tried to discover.

So we aren't historically from Frankfurt. Maybe not even from the region. But I was suddenly looking for a part of myself. Without this country, the hardships they'd been through, the history it had, my family wouldn't have its history. We wouldn't have come to the states. My family wouldn't have farmed. We wouldn't have ended up in Ohio.

The trip to Germany with its various museums, restaurants, pubs and skylines was more than sight-seeing. It was somehow a trip home, a way of gaining a better understanding of myself. It was a way to connect to my family, think of them and love them, when I couldn't see them for the holidays.

More Germany to come! Now, it's time to celebrate the first new year of our married life. The photos are almost set for online posting. In the mean time, look at our updated Christmas album to see our new friends & how we spent Christmas night.

Don't forget to check out the German edition of Where's Joe's Head?

Do you love German food or have German recipes? We'd love to hear about it and try more German food of our own. If not, what foods from your own heritage do you enjoy?

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Let's talk about Metz

This weekend was a huge mess of travel, friends, unexpected work and too much food. It was capped off by a lovely visit to Metz with Lauren & Michael, whom we met via this blog.

Lauren & Michael are on the opposite side of the newly-married-moving-to-France experience: They'll be heading home in mid-December, so we're trying to get as many visits to each other in as possible. We have so much in common, & keeping finding even more, in the oddest places–this time, we learned that Michael know the fiancé of Courtney, who just posted about Joe & I.

We got into town, took a nice tour around the city (lots of pictures seen here). The highlight of the tour was a stop to the cathedral. Since they've had more than a year in Metz already, their tour put our little trot around Nancy to shame! They explained that the cathedral was two different churches at one time, but the walls between were removed to create one massive–truly unthinkable in size–cathedral. It is one of the largest in Europe, and it may have more stained glass than any in Europe.

One of the most captivating things about the cathedral were the panels done by surrealist Marc Chagall. Joe & I both have a strong interest in surrealism, so it was neat to see the name Chagall, which I could just recognize, come to life in such an amazing way for us. The panels' colors seem to blend and come to life in a way I didn't know was possible for glass to do.

It was also neat to see the cathedral under restoration. They're currently working on the middle, so with this full shot you can see the restored front half of the cathedral (down to each brick that was replaced) and what the decades of industrialization had done to the color of the stone. I was blown away by the difference. How lucky to see what the original stone looked like, and what a fascinating job.

After the long walk around the city, we were ready for a good meal... and they delivered. We were treated to tons of great snacks, desserts (too much & then seconds on the train ride home) and one of their favorite French recipes, chicken fricase (similar recipe found here). They used Julia Child's recipe, and I was bright green with envy.

I had wanted to buy the cookbooks before we came, as I'm determined to understand French traditions & classic recipes, but the heft of the books made it impossible. It was great to get a small taste of what I'll be making all the time when we get home... & they knocked this recipe out of the park.

It was hard to wait through all the great smells–chicken, fresh herbs, tons of butter & warming cream. They even made their own noodles that morning, so every part of the meal was homemade.

To make a great day even better, they've decided to give us their small oven & the spices they've accumulated over their time here before they head back to the States. I can't wait, & I'm sure you readers can't either. It means I'll finally stop complaining about my limited cooking ability & recipe constrictions. After that, all Betz are off & we'll be spending a lot more time together in the "kitchen."

I cannot wait. I spent the train ride home (for the small portion I was awake) alternating between the first pages of Into a French Quarter & imagining what recipes we'll make first. Oh, did I not mention that we stopped by a book sharing shelf & scored seven books (Into a French Quarter coming from Lauren's previous finds)? I fell asleep with a very full belly & a very happy heart, as one always should when living in France.

on paris: montmartre

It is 9:21 p.m. Paris time. Joe is asleep in the bed next to me. I am frantically adding pictures & updating my friends & family, because my Skype isn't working & I don't know when I'll have WiFi again. (Internet cafés are outrageous!) My mind is burning, which is fine. Maybe it's chewing on those calorie-packed sandwiches we had for dinner... How I missed them! Tuna and mozzarella panini: a wonderful welcome back to Paris.

So obviously, we made it! The flight was long, but who can complain when you have no flight delays, no lost luggage and no phyiscal harm? Joe can, that's who. My poor husband's muscles are on fire. Our checked bags each weighed every ounce of their 50 pound allowance, & he dragged them up stairs, down to subways, out of subways & up 4 flights of stairs to our hotel room.

The picture above is of him recovering. He can't move from that spot. I am standing in the bathroom to take the picture, which means I was leaning against the toilet. Our luggage covers the floor that the double bed doesn't. To say this room is "economy" is generous, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in hospitality, location & significance: the spot we'll forever remember as our first night in France.


There were three hours of luggage-carrying & métro line-transferring before we arrived at the hotel, so we paused for showers & lunch before heading out into the big city. The emotions (missing home & being excited that this is almost "home" for a year...well, two hours from home) are still to sharp to get our whole day's adventures in one post.

I've updated the itinerary page with the day's activities. I'll expound on our Parisian adventures later. So for now, I'll leave you with this image–Sacre Coeur, which truly took our breath away. The holiest & most romantic place I can imagine.

More photos to come.


What's up next: Île de la Cité (Notre Dame & Sainte-Chappelle & on & on), Île St-Louis & a bit of Hemingway's Paris across the river.

marriage, day 7

Today is our one week anniversary. I got a call from my mom this morning: It was absolutely pouring in town. When my sister got home from tennis practice, they were wringing the rain out of her clothes. We couldn't have been luckier.

Today is also the one week mark: Next Saturday, we will be on a plane heading East. We've spent hours over the last few days mapping out that first week--the Metro stops we'll need, the restaurants we'd love to see (Laduree & Les Deux Magots in particular...). This has gotten me incredibly excited for the adventure we'll have, the love we'll feel walking Paris together & spending our first night abroad on la rue des Abbesses. It's gotten me excited about sharing culture, experimenting with photography, speaking French & blogging the experience...

It has also gotten me horribly depressed. I've been sleeping more. I've stopped writing. I've been eating anything & everything fried. I ate meat. I felt sick, slept more and didn't feel any better. I want to put my sister in my suitcase & bring her with me.

I am having separation anxiety. This is life. This is an extreme case of leaving the nest for your new life with your spouse. This is a crash course in Adult Living. This is a romantic adventure, a mark for the kind of life we hope to live & a massive turning point in my relationship with my family. We're close. Like peanut butter & jelly close--we stick. Now, we're learning to hold together across bigger distances. Some days, that's harder than I thought.

Today, I tried not to have one of those days. While Joe's mom prepared food for an extra wedding reception for his family tomorrow, we got booted from the house & sent over to New Harmony for a day. The town is a failed Utopian community and, I can't lie, felt a bit like The Village.

Walking between the preserved cabins, I thought of my father. Each time we pass a one-room building that is in semi-isolation, he's quick to decide if he could live there or not. He usually could. Without electricity or running water. And he would love every minute of it. Today, standing in from of a one-room cabin with muslin curtains & a polished wooden floor, I found myself thinking, "I could live in that."

I was more surprised when I said the phrase to my husband. They say that you turn into your mother and marry your father. Over the past week, we've learned that each of us is more like both of our parents than we'd every imagined.

It was hot. The air was humid. My face was sticky. We were thirsty. We headed into a small restaurant, the Red Geranium, and skipped the menu. We headed straight for the bar. Joe got his usual, the coolest whiskey we could see on the shelf. Today, that was Buffalo Trace, a bourbon that was new to the bar. I settled in with a large bottle of Ayinger's Bavarian dark lager & let it warm my insides until everything the divorced, child-spoiling, easy-going, Ohio-born-and-raised, knowledgeable bartender said made me smile and let out a small giggle.

Conversation drifted to & away from spirits & breweries. When we settled back on the topic of whiskey, I said that I was trying my hardest to like it. I admitted that it was in large part due to the old-fashioned-sipping Don of AMC's Mad Men. Without realizing it, we'd convinced ourselves to order an old fashioned. I was nervous: There's a sweetness to bourbon that I can't wrap my stomach around. I try to be amiable, but it insists on being contrary.

We sipped; it was smooth; my nerves were calmed; my husband was smiling. The roof over our heads was covered in a hand-painted mural of trees. Light was streaming through to canvas-covered windows. I was in the moment, completely content, listening to a man give us an old fashioned as a wedding present and using the experience to look forward to all of the shared moments Joe and I will have in the days & years to come.

We're almost done counting down. Soon, we'll be adding up. Days are already passing like cars on these country roads we're driving. We're afraid to sneeze & swerve too far.

marriage, day 5

Joe and I are settling into married life. It's still a surprise to look over and see the ring shining on his finger. Now, he's sitting across from me reading the last of our travel writing before we try to write some of our own.

That time is getting close... We're spending a week in Evansville with Joe's family before a goodbye cookout & frantic packing starts back in Ohio. The homesickness is starting to set in. Actually, we were starting to feel it on the honeymoon.

We woke up on Sunday at 8 a.m. We stayed at a bed & breakfast, so I wanted ample time to wash all of the finger waves out of my hair and mascara from under my eyes before we crawled down to the (massive) breakfast our hosts made. After breakfast, we popped back up to the room for a bit more sleeping & realized that we were really missing our families.

It's odd. You prepare yourself for the time away. You feel grown up & ready for this new, permanent phase of life. You go off to start it, & you realize that you never stop needing your parents' advice or your sister's laughter. We talked about it a lot, getting ourselves excited for the changes that will come in these relationships.

They can only get stronger as we begin to share experiences–both with parents, who can offer knowledge, & younger siblings, whom we can impart our "knowledge" on.

The coming days, almost up to our departure, are filled with moments of reliving our wedding. The celebration continues today, planning our next "honeymoon," that first week in France; tonight, when we'll watch the video of our wedding; this weekend with another wedding reception; and next week, when we return home for a family cookout (our first cookout with me & Joe as our own little family).

Okay. Time to start looking at Paris maps & getting excited!