Where in the world...

Dear Readers,

Here is a post that should have been put up a very long time ago. I know that when I left the States, I told everyone that I would be spending the summer in St. Petersburg, Russia. Well, I have had a change of heart. Acquiring a visa in time and getting the go ahead from the University of Vermont would have been too complicated and may not have happened in time to leave for the program start date.

So, I find myself spending my summer days in the beautiful and energetic city of London, England. I am here working on the BUNAC scheme (which I thought was an interesting way to phrase it) and will be here till August 15th. After which I will be spending just under a week in Berlin, Germany and that will be followed by a few days in the city that never sleeps, NYC. I should be back home in the peaceful state of Vermont around the 24th of the month and thoroughly jet lagged.

I will put the pictures up from my trips to Latvia, southern France and the English countryside when I can. And also a little post about what I doing for a job, where I'm living and who I've been hanging out with (lovely people from around the world).

I miss you all, my friends and family!
Just under two months before I can see you face to face.

Cheers!


P.S. I've chopped all my hair off again and it looks pretty good.

Hanging out in the Queen's backyard...

I finally saw the tower that houses Big Ben on a beautifully sunny day.

Those crazy existentialists...

I just finished reading "Huis clos". So, in order to counter the "Hell is other people" I found a cooking joke.

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Jean-Paul Sartre's Cooking Diary

October 3 -- Spoke with Camus today about my cookbook. Though he has never actually eaten, he gave me much encouragement. I rushed home immediately to begin work. How excited I am! I have begun my formula for a Denver omelet.

October 4 -- Still working on the omelet. There have been stumbling blocks. I keep creating omelets one after another, like soldiers marching into the sea, but each one seems empty, hollow, like stone. I want to create an omelet that expresses the meaninglessness of existence, and instead they taste like cheese. I look at them on the plate, but they do not look back. Tried eating them with the lights off. It did not help. Malraux suggested paprika.

October 6 -- I have realized that the traditional omelet form (eggs and cheese) is bourgeois. Today I tried making one out of cigarette, some coffee, and four tiny stones. I fed it to Malraux, who puked. I am encouraged, but my journey is still long.

October 10 -- I find myself trying ever more radical interpretations of traditional dishes, in an effort to somehow express the void I feel so acutely. Today I tried this recipe:

Tuna Casserole
Ingredients: 1 large casserole dish
Instructions: Place the casserole dish in a cold oven. Place a chair facing the oven and sit in it forever. Think about how hungry you are. When night falls, do not turn on the light.

While a void is expressed in this recipe, I am struck by its inapplicability to the bourgeois lifestyle. How can the eater recognize that the food denied him is a tuna casserole and not some other dish? I am becoming more and more frustrated.

October 25 -- I have been forced to abandon the project of producing an entire cookbook. Rather, I now seek a single recipe which will, by itself, embody the plight of man in a world ruled by an unfeeling God, as well as providing the eater with at least one ingredient from each of the four basic food groups. To this end, I purchased six hundred pounds of foodstuffs from the corner grocery and locked myself in the kitchen, refusing to admit anyone. After several weeks of work, I produced a recipe calling for two eggs, half a cup of flour, four tons of beef, and a leek. While this is a start, I am afraid I still have much work ahead.

November 15-- Today I made a Black Forest gateau out of five pounds of cherries and a live beaver, challenging the very definition of the word gateau. I was very pleased. Malraux said he admired it greatly, but would not stay for dessert. Still, I feel that this may be my most profound achievement yet, and have resolved to enter it in the Betty Crocker Bake-Off.

November 30 -- Today was the day of the Bake-Off. Alas, things did not go as I had hoped. During the judging, the beaver became agitated and bit Betty Crocker's wrist. The beaver's powerful jaws are capable of felling blue spruce in less than ten minutes and proved, needless to say, more than a match for the tender limbs of America's favorite homemaker. I only got third place. Moreover, I am now the subject of a rather nasty lawsuit.

December 1 -- I have been gaining twenty-five pounds a week for two months, and I am now experiencing light tides. It is stupid to be so fat. My pain and ultimate solitude are still as authentic as they were when I was thin, but seem to impress girls far less. From now on, I will live on cigarettes and black coffee.

Miscellanous Barcelona photos

"A Guide to the French. Handle With Care."

The credit for the discovery of this New York Times article goes to Mark. Thank you!

Bon lecture, tout le monde!
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A Guide to the French. Handle With Care.

By ELAINE SCIOLINO

PARIS — "Every man has two countries, his own and France," says a character in a play by the 19th- century poet and playwright Henri de Bornier. In five and a half years living in Paris as an American correspondent, I have tried to make the country my own, knowing that I never will completely fit in, but always will be fascinated. So as I finish my stint as Paris bureau chief and move on to a new beat here, it seems a good moment to offer eight lessons learned.

1: Look in the Rear-View Mirror

To begin to understand France, you have to look back. The French are obsessed with history. Part of this feeling is a genuine affinity for the past, part a desire to cling to lost glory, part an insecurity that comes with a tepid economy and the struggle to integrate a growing Arab and African population.

Marie-Antoinette regularly makes the covers of magazines. So does Napoleon Bonaparte.

No anniversary is too minor to celebrate. In my time here, France has marked the 20th anniversary of France's sinking of Greenpeace's Rainbow Warrior, the 200th anniversary of the high school baccalaureate diploma, the 60th anniversary of the bikini and the 100th anniversary of the brassiere.

For the 100th anniversary of her birth in January, Simone de Beauvoir was celebrated with half a dozen biographies, a DVD series, a three-day scholarly symposium and a cover of the magazine Le Nouvel Observateur with a nude photo of her from the back.

2: An Interview Is Sometimes Not an Interview

Their love of history doesn't mean the French always render it accurately. It has long been common practice for journalists in France to allow their interview subjects to edit their words. "Read and corrected," the system is called.

I once took part in an interview with Jacques Chirac, when he was president, in which he said it would not be all that dangerous for Iran to have a nuclear weapon or two. That certainly was not French policy. So the official Élysée Palace transcript left out the line and replaced it with this: "I do not see what type of scenario could justify Iran's recourse to an atomic bomb."

The practice of doctoring the transcript has continued under President Nicolas Sarkozy.

Last month, the president lost his temper when a bystander refused to shake his hand at the annual agricultural fair. (A polite translation of what he said would be, "Get lost, you stupid jerk!") The incident, captured on video, was seen by millions on the Internet.

According to the daily Le Parisien the next day, Mr. Sarkozy later expressed regret in an interview, saying, "It would have been better if I had not responded to him." But the paper's editor soon confessed that the words of regret were "never uttered." They had been edited into the transcript by the Élysée Palace.

3: The Customer Is Always Wrong

It is hard for French merchants to admit they are wrong, and seemingly impossible for them to apologize. Instead, the trick is to somehow get the offended party to feel the mistake was his or her own. I'm convinced the practice was learned in the strict French educational system, in which teachers are allowed to tell pupils they are "zeros" in front of the entire class.

A doctor I know told me he once bought a coat at a small men's boutique only to discover that it had a rip in the fabric. When he tried to return it, the shopkeeper gave him the address of a tailor who could repair it — for a large fee. They argued, and the doctor reminded the shopkeeper of the French saying, "The customer is king."

"Sir," the shopkeeper replied, "We no longer have a king in France."

4: Make Friends With a Good Butcher

With food as important as it is here, one of the most important men in your life should be your butcher. Mine, Monsieur Yvon, is more than a cutter of meat. He is a playful spirit in a rather sober neighborhood — and the exception to the customer-is-always-wrong rule.

In his tiny shop on the Rue de Varenne, between the Luxembourg Gardens and Les Invalides in the Seventh Arrondissement, Monsieur Yvon has donned a necklace of his homemade sausages to get a conversation going. At Christmas, he and his team of butchers put on elves' hats with blinking lights. He offers passers-by free charcuterie and glasses of Beaujolais nouveau every fall. He is so deeply trusted that when avian flu struck France, his poultry sales went up, not down.

Monsieur Yvon has cooked my Thanksgiving turkey when it was too big for my oven and taught me how to make the perfect pot-au-feu. I have watched him lovingly choose just the right pair of center-cut lamb chops for an elderly client. Were they to be cooked today or tomorrow? Grilled or sautéed?

Even when he bears bad news, his explanations are delicious. Once I ordered a 16-pound turkey and got an 11-pound bird instead.

"It was the fault of the foxes," he said gravely.

"The foxes?" I asked.

"Yes, the foxes." It seemed that the electric fence surrounding the turkey pen had shorted out and the foxes had had a field day.

"They only ate the big turkeys," he explained.

5: Kiss, but Be Careful Whom You Hug

The French need no excuse to kiss. The first time I was kissed by a Frenchman was on July 20, 1969, the day a man landed on the moon. I was a student with a backpack, arriving at the Gare de Lyon. The newspaper seller kissed me on both cheeks because I was an American.

The ritual double "bisou" — the two-cheek kiss — takes some getting used to. There is nothing sexy about it, but it can be awkward, especially for my adolescent daughters when they are required to kiss strange men.

Mr. Chirac never seemed to relish the formal, jerky air kisses. He is more of a hand-kisser. He knows how to cradle a woman's hand in his, raise the hand to chest level, bend over to meet it halfway and savor its feel and scent.

Mr. Sarkozy is unpredictable. When he's in a bad mood, he might offer a curt "Bonjour" and a cold handshake. With those he likes, he gets really close and hugs. They sometimes hug back, as did Israel's president, Shimon Peres, during a visit this month to the Élysée. But the German chancellor, Angela Merkel, has made it clear through her aides that she is not a hugger and needs her space.

6: Don't Wear Jogging Clothes to Buy a Pound of Butter

Rules govern even the smallest activities. I was making chocolate chip cookies one Saturday afternoon and ran out of butter. Dusted with flour, still in my morning jogging clothes, I dashed out to the convenience store up the street. The problem was that it is not just any street. It's the Rue du Bac, one of the most chic places to see and be seen on Saturdays. I heard my name called and turned to face a senior Foreign Ministry official, dressed in pressed jeans and a soft-as-butter leather jacket, wearing an amused look, and carrying a small Nespresso shopping bag.

We went to a corner cafe for a drink. The Swedish ambassador and his wife stopped as they were riding by on their bikes. Both were in tailored tweed blazers, slim pants and loafers. Then Robert M. Kimmitt, the deputy treasury secretary, walked by.

He and my foreign ministry friend joked that my style didn't match the setting. I made the point that it was my neighborhood and I could dress however I wanted. But as my French women friends told me afterward, jogging clothes (shoes included) are to be removed as soon as one's exercise is over.

7: Feeling Sexy Is a State of Mind, or: Buy Good Lingerie

In her close-fitting sweaters and pants and tailored leather jackets, Eliane Victor is both stylish and alluring. The retired author and journalist is in her late 80s.

For French women, being sexy has nothing to do with age and everything to do with attitude. Arielle Dombasle, the actress and cabaret singer married to the philosopher Bernard-Henri Lévy, dared to expose her breasts on the cover of Paris Match and took off her clothes in a song-and-dance revue at Crazy Horse in Paris. Some people feel she tries too hard. But give the lady some credit. She's turning 50 and has a Barbie-doll body.

A 600-page sociological study of sexuality in France released this month concluded that 9 out of 10 women over 50 are sexually active. The sexiest French women seem naturally skilled in the art of moving, smiling and flirting.

Chic French women prefer to peel and polish rather than paint their faces. Too much makeup, they say, makes a woman seem older, or worse, "vulgaire." "The most beautiful makeup for a woman is passion," Yves Saint Laurent once said. "But cosmetics are easier to buy."

French women spend close to 20 percent of their clothing budgets on lingerie. But you also have to know how to wear it. When the Galeries Lafayette department store inaugurated its 28,000-square-foot lingerie shop in 2003, it offered free half-hour lessons by professional striptease artists.

8: When It Comes to Politesse, There Is No End to the Lessons

Never use the word "toilette" when asking a host for directions to the powder room; try to avoid going there at all. Never say "Bon appétit" at the start of a meal. Don't talk loudly. Never discuss your religion or your money at dinner. Eat hamburgers, pizza, foie gras and sorbet with a fork. Always say "bonjour" to the bus driver, and to fellow passengers on elevators. "Pas mal" doesn't necessarily mean "Not bad." It can mean "Great!"

How many weeks for vacation?

Two. Two beautiful weeks in April.

What is one to do?
Where should one go?

Thanks to the low prices of RyanAir, I am going on my first SpringBreak! vacation. Now because it is RyanAir, I had to be open to new and interesting destinations.

Saturday, April 12 - Tuesday, April 15 : London, England
Tuesday, April 15 - Monday, April 21 : Riga, Latvia (with a bus trip to Estonia or Lithuania)
Monday, April 21 - Sunday, April 27 : Dublin and Galway, Ireland

The Baltic States was an interesting choice, but, hey, one should dare to try something new and different every now and then.


Ciao et bisous!

P.S. Happy St. Patrick's Day!
But I'm mostly cubana, so let's turn on some Buena Vista Social Club and relax.
May you always have a clean shirt, a clear conscience, and enough coins in your pocket to buy a pint!

An unfinished masterpiece...

La Sagrada Familia is magnificant. Its history is rich. Its size and detail are inspiring. This church dominates the city from almost any viewpoint. The cranes that surround it peak out from in between the city blocks and in the tiniest of pauses in the daily life of the city, one can hear the clang of metals tools working. The first time I saw it, I only walked around the outside. The second time, I went up into the towers and saw the city, the mountains and felt a little dizzy when looking down.











To find out more about la Sagrada Familia and its architect Gaudi, type it into Google and go from there. I'm working on making up from the lag in posting. ;)

Adios, amigos y amigas!

Falling in love with Spanish skies...

These three pictures were taken in the Barrio Gotico in Barcelona. I do not think the sky could have been more bewitching. Walking around in this quarter of the city makes one feel as if they have stepped back into another century. It is full of narrow, winding streets and it does not matter which one you take (left, right or straight), you will find yourself back on the bustling streets of the modern city encircling it.


Yo amo la ciudad Barcelona...sobre todo los cielos apasionados. Son como una fantasma de la belleza.

Adios a todos!
Ciao et bisous!

So, does Wayne Gretzky play hockey?

Does the above question sound a little obvious?
Maybe "lame" would be a better adjective.

This is an English equivalent to the phrase uttered by an older, intoxicated gentleman in a bar in Avignon to my mother and I. The exact phrase in French was "C'est quel coulour, l'équipe de Marseilles?" or "Which color is the Marseille team?" It was at this moment that alarm bells should have sounded. If you live in Europe, you know what color the Marseille jersey is.

So, for the next hour or so, my mother and I were held hostage to the drunken (he was a big fan of whiskey and coke) ramblings of Paco. Lovely.

After a nice long talk about how to avoid the creepy, drunken guys, I think the vacation can only get better in that regard. There are some situations that a girl has to know how to manoeuvre.

For the record, Marseilles is orange.

The Big Apple

Before heading off to Barcelona, I spent a few days with my best friend Claire in New York City. This is her final year at Pratt, a top art school in Brooklyn, and she is living it up in an apartment a few blocks away.

On a side note, Claire is a very clever designer and jewelry maker. If anyone is interested in checking out some of her stuff, here is her website:

http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=5364183

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The best part of the trip, besides seeing the best friend, was stepping off of American soil and visiting the United Nations. It's a dream right now, but at some point (not sure when it will happen) I want to work at there. As a translator, interpretor...or as part of the General Assembly. So, since I enjoyed the trip so much, here's a choice selection of photos from the tour.


Administrative building:

All the flags, starting with Afganistan and ending with Zimbabwe:

Security council. See those little windows in the left-hand corner? That's where the interpretors work...

Saying "cheese":

Economic and Social Council :


There are lots of other pictures, but since I've got to get ready for a cocktail party (sounds more glamourous than it really is) and I'm a little tired of posting, I'm calling it quits for today.

Take care all!

On the lookout for Merlin... (photos)

These pictures are from a hike that I took with my friend Megan, her host-sister Anne-Laure and Nou-nou, one of the sweetest dogs out there. Now, these are were taken in November. Only a few months behind schedule.

We packed a picnic and headed off to the Forêt de Paimpont, also known as Merlin's Forest. And to think that this forest, seeped in Arthurian legend, is only 40 minutes away.

We started off at l'Abbaye de Paimpont:

Getting a close-up of the abbey:

Checking out the grounds:

B-e-a-utiful:


About an hour and a half in and no Headless Horseman:


The wind started up and I realized that I should've worn another layer:


The last picture before the batteries died. Here we have Megan, Anne-Laure and Nou-nou:


Since the batteries kicked the bucket on me, I don't have any pictures of Merlin's Tomb, the Fountain of Youth or the Valley of No Return. But, seeing as it such a beautiful afternoon, I'll make the trip back again with some spare Energizers.

London! (photos)

After a long, chilly day of traveling, I finally arrived in St. Pancras station (the new hub for international trains). Farther down the platform, one can view an enormous statue of a couple "snogging". Apparently, PR is trying to up the romance of the new station. It could turn a bit awkward for solo travelers and people meeting friends ("Look, I think you're cool and all but...). Giant P.D.A. statue aside, it just felt good to know that my bed for the next 3 nights was only a Tube ride away.

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Happened to be awake early enough to catch a London sunrise.

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The bar area of the hostel, St. Christopher's Inn. It is a favorite of Australians on holiday and a creepy Armanian guy. The bar also had a pretty extensive collection of Blues Brothers memorabilia to went perfectly with the establishment's name, Belushi's.


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Walking around Hyde Park



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These birds were enormous and ill-tempered. Bad combination. I made sure to use no sudden movements, while getting as close as possible to these guys. But after one came a little too close and I got a closer look at it's beak, I retreated.

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Statue of Cleopatra and her posse. Nobody has camels these days.

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Royal Albert Hall


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World War One memorial.




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Wellington Arch


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This store is ridiculous. Everything from baby rattles to pianos and nail polish to diamonds is sold here. Unfortunately, I left my platinum card in my other pair of jeans...shame. I had my eye on a really nice piano.
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Photo op that couldn't be missed.
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Whatever the guy with a machine gun and back-up handgun says, do it. At Buckingham Palace, what the queen says, goes.
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A church from across the river Thames. Such a cold night.


Unfortunately, I forgot the camera but I did end up going hashing with the West London H3 group and they are great people. For 2£ I had one of the best afternoons. The other perk of hashing in London is the quality of the down-downs. No PBR for this bunch, only London Pride.

Cheers!

My City of Lights

I took these pictures right before leaving Rennes in December. The whole city was covered in a blanket of lights. This first picture is of the Parliament building.

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And here's the Opera: