spring break pt. 3: a continuation of paris

And we’re back.

I don’t exactly remember falling asleep Friday night, but at some point I went from having my book in my hands to the sun shining and me under the covers. Caroline told me that she went into the bathroom to brush her teeth and by then time she came back, I was passed out cold. Only to be expected after pulling an all-nighter. When I pulled my groggy self out of bed on Saturday morning, we wandered down the street to a bakery. With the pitiful excuse for French that we picked up in high school and a decent amount of pointing, we ordered breakfast. The whole thing could pretty much be boiled down to bread and sugar – almond pastry and croissant. It also came as a great relief to get a properly big cup of coffee.  All for next to nothing, cost wise. Bellies fat and happy, filled with caffeine and sugar, we hit the streets. It was raining, so we decided to go to the Lourve in hopes that by the time we got out the weather would improve.

My traveling buddy was not as enthusiastic about lengthy looks at portraits, so we made it through the paintings and sculptures in a decent amount of time – making sure to hit all of the famous pieces and only dawdling in front of portraits for a little while. Now I can check the Mona Lisa off my “seen it” list. I probably could have spent all day looking at the paintings, but it was probably good that I had someone nipping at my heels a little bit. 

Mona Lisa: check.

After the Lourve, the sun was indeed shining and so we headed across the river toward the Latin Quarter - it's name deriving from the study of Latin because that quarter houses the University of Paris. Not, as I originally thought, a section of town where I would be able to get a decent taco. 

 Deciding that it was about time for lunch, we passed by the Michael the Archangel memorial and wove through some side streets until we found a restaurant offering a decent fixed-price lunch with the promise of real French cuisine. We were led to our table upstairs and soon after being seated, I heard the familiar nasal of a Midwestern American. Intrigued, I turned around to see two girls about our age about to be seated not far from us. As I’ve said before, something about traveling suddenly cancels out any disinclination to talk to strangers so I immediately made my inquiry, “where ya from?” They looked at me puzzled so I clarified, “You’re American, right? I heard your accent.” They indeed were, Massachusets and Indiana natives. In true red, white, and blue fashion we talked loudly across the restaurant for a moment before I decided that shouting wasn’t the most polite thing to do in a restaurant and thus, invited the girls to eat with us. An apparel merchandising and law-something or other major, they were doing work-study program in London, they were visiting Paris for the weekend. We ordered – the restaurant had a three course, fixed price meal. Score. We chatted a bit about what everyone was doing, compared notes on living in London (I spent six weeks there two summers ago). The girls were nice enough, but the conversation did run a little dry after a while. 

Also, the apparel merchandising major didn’t finish her dessert, which means that she obviously couldn’t be trusted… just kidding. But seriously, who doesn’t finish dessert?  It was nice to talk to some new people, but by the time the checks came Caroline and I were quite relieved that the two girls had hit our intended destinations earlier in the day so that we could go our separate ways without awkwardness. We bid our Midwestern friends “au revoir” and plunged further into the Latin Quarter. In Paris Caroline met the sugary goodness that is crepes for the first time and after her first bite on Friday afternoon her appetite for more was well, insatiable. In the wake of our hour of nearing painful-ish small talk, we felt like we deserved some sugary goodness. 

Having made our way significantly out of the touristy areas, we found a small crepe stand tucked between two storefronts, and right across the street from the University of Paris: College of Oceanography building. The building may not have actually been the College of Oceanography, but it had something to do with oceans as the front door was adorned with a decently large, bronze octopus. Which is awesome. We ordered our crepes in broken French and for our efforts were rewarded with a chocolate filled for Caroline and a banana and sugar for me. mmmmm. Munching on our treats, we wandered further on, stumbling across the Marie Curie institute, and Pasteur’s laboratory. Up and down the cobble stone streets, we explored neighborhoods of shops and restaurants and bars, imagining what college life would be like in Par-eeee.

Our feet were beginning to scream and the day was fading just a little so we decided that it was time to slowly head back toward our hostel. On our way back we stopped to gawk at the Notre Dome. It was hard not to sing the Disney songs all the way through. But there were a ton of “silence please” signs hanging around the inside of the

sanctuary, so I at least was limited to singing it inside my head. From there we jumped on the Metro, with still a few hours left of daylight we went a few stops too far so that we could do some exploring on our way back. Caroline had heard of an open market not far from where we were staying, which we made our destination. It wasn’t hard to spot as we made our way down the street. The curbs were lined with fruit and fish and socks and anything else you could ever imagine. As we entered into the fray, we were mobbed by people holding iPhones, lip gloss, and a whole different array of products. Pressing in like a gnat cloud, “You want phone?” “you want laptop?” rang out in an urgent chorus. It was the first time in traveling that I really thought, “not the best place for me to be right now”. We fought our way through the crowd quickly, dodging dodgy salesmen left and right until we reached the other side. Caroline and I giggled in a post-stress rush, it wasn’t the kind of dangerous that we were going to get taken or even mugged, but we definitely needed to get the heck out of there.

When we got back to our street we stopped in the grocery store to pick up some cheese and wine, then made our way to a corner bakery for fresh bread and desserts. Starving, sore, and sleepy, we went back to the hotel. We met the managers at the doorway, they were such sweet and lively people that we didn’t have the heart to escape conversation despite our aching legs. So, we stood and talked to them for what seemed like forever, but it was probably only like ten minutes. When we were finally able to say goodnight, we made our way up the narrow spiral staircase. We were almost at our room when the bag that Caroline was carrying broke, sending our cheese rolling off the side of the stairwell and down three flights. Good thing no one was standing underneath or else it would’ve been death by cheese. Caroline scrambled back down, “sorry, sorry!” as I grabbed the rest of our scattered dinner. Luckily, our cheese was a champ and survived the fall. Once we had made it into our room, we feasted.

Caroline was on a 7am flight, which meant that she was catching a 4am shuttle to the airport, so we decided to call it an early night. The next morning, I awoke to find her gone. With my backpack now smelling a bit like dirty socks and seven days of travel, I got my stuff together and headed out. The hotel manager sent me on my way with a croissant in hand and in the grey light of a Paris morning, I made my way to Paris Nord – the train station. There, I boarded the 8:45 train to Amsterdam.

So there you have it. Spring break in a nutshell. Not too shabby if I do say so myself. 

la belle France 

spring break part II: the americans take paris pt. 1

The last time we chatted, you left me waving goodbye to my teacher friends in the Bologna airport. That was around 8 pm on Thursday night. My flight to Paris left at 6:30am. An Italian chocolate bar, a new copy of Gone Girl, and an entire bag of bread rolls later… I probably could’ve slept, but had to get my passport cleared at the RyanAir check in desk before I could even go through security and sleeping in an area where anyone could come and go just didn’t seem smart. The check in desk opened around 4am and then it was to the front of the security line where I got the inside scoop on what it looks like when security opens for the day. It’s uneventful, in case you were wondering.

I remember taking off, sporadic jolts awake because my jaw had fallen too far open, and being on the tarmac. Paris Beauvais. Plane, bus, metro, and short walk was all it took to get me to Hotel Andre Gills. There, after a brief struggle to get in touch, I met one of the other COST interns from Auburn who is currently in Ireland. We met at the hotel and put our stuff down – check in wasn’t until later that afternoon, then set out. We began wandering the streets of Paris. She had a couple days of down time before our adventure and had picked out a ton of different sites and activities for us, which was lucky for me since I really knew nothing about Paris. With the weather on our side, we soaked up the sunshine and just wandered around the city center. Naturally, stopping in front of the major landmarks to finally get our chance to be stereotypical, American tourists. We covered huge chunks of the city by foot, Arc du Triomphe, Eiffel Tower, Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the Lourve, that bridge with all the locks on it, and everything in between.

The longest line we waited in was outside of Laduree, which is apparently a famous macaroon shop. I had never heard of it, but let’s be honest, when it comes to France – I’m a bit on the “uncultured swine” side of things. Despite the chill that was steadily increasing in the air, the wait was worth getting to go inside. The line snaked around a long counter covered in lavishly decorated desserts and macaroons in every color imaginable. We ordered, purchased, and munched. Words cannot properly describe the deliciousness.

As the sunlight started to fade we decided to grab a quick cup of coffee and strategize on the evening’s plans. I was starting to feel the strain of being awake for so long and definitely needed a caffeine boost. Caroline had found a company that does nighttime boat tours, so we decided to make our way back to the waterfront and see la belle France by the glow of riverbanks.

I should mention now, Paris’ streets are not straight. They’re curved, so whenever you think you’re going in a straight line down a road, you’re actually not. Most excessively confusing. I’m typically okay at getting my bearings in a new city – I know my multiple stories of getting lost might say the opposite, but my ratio of lost to not lost is pretty decent given the circumstances. But, not in Paris. I was one hundred percent turned around, all the time. Luckily, Caroline had a map app that didn’t require internet, so we spent a good portion of our wanderings huddled around the phone trying to figure out which street was which.

So, when we set out from the coffee shop, we got a little mixed up in our directions and ended up walking farther away than intended but, it worked in our favor – like most lost and confused situations do. As we finally made it in the direction of the river, the Eiffel Tower lit up. Lights sparkled up and down as if some massive toddler was standing behind it with a giant, overturned bottle of glitter. It was fantastic.

After ooh-ing and ahh-ing for an appropriate amount of time we pressed on until we came to the river. Reaching the dock just in time we quickly purchased tickets and got onboard. It was sit-down and had heat – I would’ve paid for that alone. The boat glided down the Seine, passing by historical buildings and bridges glowing in the dark evening. I couldn’t help but imagine cannons and wooden barricades lining the street as the proletariat fought to overturn bourgeoisie society. Only problem with that was that I only really know about the French Revolution because of Les Miserables and it being one of the major influences of the Romantic period literature. So, all of my imaginations might not have been totally accurate. Oh well, se la vie.

We had discussed trying to find somewhere to grab a glass of wine after the tour, but by the time the boat docked, we were both exhausted and decided to call it a night. Scrambling toward the nearest Metro, we made our way back to the hotel, stopping briefly to pick up some bread and cheese, a piece of quiche, and, of course, dessert from a shop down the street. We feasted in our room and decreed that we could not walk another step.

I need to sign off here for tonight. There’s much too much to write about and this teacher-in-training needs some sleep before her six-thirty wake up call. You can have the last part of my journey tomorrow, dear friends. Until then, au revoir! 

spring break part 1: i-talia

Last week was spring break. A full ten days of no marking, no lesson plans, just me and my passport. So obviously I stayed at home preparing for the coming weeks and catching up on my pedagogical readings…not.

Sunday night – flight from Eindoven to Bologna. I don’t think I stopped laughing from the minute I met up with my traveling companions. Except, of course, when they would switch to Dutch, and then I would tune them out completely. Meet the crew:

Ester – fellow English teacher, medieval lit/art enthusiast, probably my favorite person I’ve met in the Netherlands (and this is going to be awkward if she ever reads this, she’s not so much into feelings)

Erik – history teacher, war/military strategy enthusiast, and resident know-it-all (in a useful way)

Thomas – biology teacher, and to much chagrin, the butt of most jokes (sorry Thomas!) 

We arrived in Italy late and caught a cab to our hostel, which looked like something out of a horror flick. No joke, it was out in the middle of what seemed like nowhere. Rows on rows of identical cinderblock residences, covered in a thick mist. Upon finding number 38, we walked into what can only be described as an oversized closet with beds. The ‘living room’ was a little better than a card table next to two twin beds and some cabinetry. The bedroom room was sequestered off by a wall that didn’t quite reach the ceiling which made for an excellent game of “throw stuff at the guys over the wall” around bedtime. The guys quickly claimed the room, leaving the twin beds for Ester and me, which conveniently could be sequestered off by a folding wall. We didn’t bother using that. It was no Ritz Carlton, but it had a bathroom, running water, and beds. What more could you need? After throwing down our stuff and commenting on who would be the first to die in this slasher-movie-waiting-to-happen temporary residence, we set out to find food. Leaving the map in Erik’s hands, we wove down through the outskirts of Bologna. I say "outskirts" because Erik wasn’t so great with the map (to be fair, we started out in a location that wasn’t quite on the map) and so we spent a better part of the night walking through quiet business parks and dark streets. At long last, we found a restaurant that was still open. The beer was cold, the pizza was hot, and we were starving. Absolute perfection.

ester with the patron saint of grammar

The next morning we woke early and headed into the actual city center (not the area that we thought was the city center the night before) and caught the train to Florence. First discovery of the trip, I love traveling by train. Love it. I don’t know why, but I think it is so cool. I digress, arriving in Florence we found the office for our hostel. Two points to Ester for finding the best digs in Florence. Not even ten minutes from the city center, a small apartment with a kitchenette, bathroom, and bedroom big enough to fit a queen-ish sized bed and two twin cots with a dome shaped, raised ceiling. This time Ester and I claimed the prime bed-real estate. I guess the guys didn’t want to spend the week as cuddle buddies, go figure. We dropped our bags and hit the streets. I don’t know if it’s all Europeans or just the ones I traveled with, but it was the easiest adventuring I have ever encountered. First of all, the Dutch “bluntness” really just translates into knowing exactly what they think all the time. A staple of every trip I’ve ever taken has been the “what to do next dance”. All you Americans out there, don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. The “welllll, I was kind of, maybe thinking that we could go here, and then possibly, maybe, if you want to, later on, if we have time, go there” and then it takes fifty gazillion hours to make a game plan. Not with this crowd. If someone wanted to go somewhere, they just said so. If they were hungry, or tired, or annoyed, they said so. As a point of reference, for those of you who know me well, I’m considered blunt by American standards but reserved and polite by Dutch standards. Mother of pearl, I love the Dutch.

So, in our honest and carefree wanderings we toured churches with splendor unlike I’ve ever seen. Except for the Duomo, I couldn’t tell you the names for the life of me. All I can tell you is that I remember standing in center, surrounded by the soaring stone arches and centuries old painted stories and just feeling so very small. We always associate smallness with being a negative thing, but in this case, it was fantastic.

Coupled with our church visits, we wandered up and down the streets of Florence, talking in the architectural splendor while picking our way through the slightly precarious cobblestones. By the way, I think Italian women can’t actually be human. The way that they navigate the cobblestones in high heels cannot be anything but superhuman. We stopped along the Ponte Vecchio to take down some coffee ice cream in a most unladylike fashion. As we were enjoying the view and the sweet treat, a Jamaican (?) man approached us and pressed a beaded bracelet into my hand and tried to do the same for my friends, we all refused as he talked about the beads being the colors of his country, thinking that it was some scam artist. But when I tried to return the bracelet, he said, “no, for you, it’s free” and then wandered away. So now I own that.

We also learned that Ester and I both are interested in “reading” paintings, which pretty much just boils down to playing “I-Spy” with the elements of portraits and paintings. What that meant for us: we have an amazing conversation topic in common. What that meant for the guys: we spend a really, really, really long time in museums.

On Tuesday we had plans to visit a myriad of museums, including a return to Dante’s house, which we found the day before, much to the excitement of the English teachers.  But the sun was warm, a sensation we hadn’t felt in ages. So we decided that wasting the precious sunshine was about the dumbest thing we could do and hopped on a Pisa-bound train instead. Cue the “I’m holding up the Tower of Pisa” tourist photos. I will not apologize for those. We wandered around the city, stopping to buy some bread and cheese at a hole-in-the wall grocery, then sat next to some Roman ruins (casual) and eat lunch/people watch.

After covering most of Pisa, we still had hours of daylight left so we boarded the train again heading to Luca. We wandered around for a bit, just exploring the city and then made our way to the city wall. Like a kid in a candy shop, Erik began a mad exploration/explanation of the uses and functions of the various walls. Let’s be honest, secondary ed people aren’t normal. We’re just not. But you have to be some kind of crazy to work with teenagers everyday and work way harder than you get paid for, and love it. And teachers, more than anyone I have ever encountered, have this weird, innate desire to spew information at anyone. But that was what was really cool about traveling with teachers. We all understood the need to share knowledge and welcomed the opportunity to learn. So I'd like to think that he had a pretty decent audience for all of his explanation. 

worth it

For our rainy Wednesday we hit museum-a-mania. First Dante’s house – be still my heart! A little bit of a let down though, there was more about Dante’s time period than about him. But we can’t have everything. Then the Galleria degli Uffizi. It didn’t take us long to realize that Ester and I were going to take way longer so we decided to split up and agree to meet at the museum entrance at closing time. Highlights of the museum: I got in trouble for taking a picture of Adam and Eve (it was a Milton throwback, I couldn’t help myself), seeing the art of Botticelli, da Vinci, and Michelangelo, making fun of disfigured baby faces (on the art, not real babies), and the world’s worst waitress at the museum cafeteria – seriously, she took two of our orders and then wandered away.

in the Uffizi

Even Ester and I grew weary of dissecting paintings, so we went in search of the David. Turns out, the David isn’t in the Uffizi. So, we headed over to the Galleria dell’ Accademia. But admission was 11 euro and we didn’t have enough time to make it worth the money. So we headed back in the direction of the Uffizi, took a couple of side streets and found ourselves a cute little hole-in-the-wall restaurant with the doorway iced in lights. There was hardly enough room for the crowded counter, and even with just the two of us plus the owner it felt a little claustrophobic but it was precisely the authentic Italy we were looking for. After three days some serious Converse to cobblestone action, we were ready to give our legs a rest. We ordered, and were delighted with our cheese, prosciutto, and artichoke bruschetta. When we had more or less licked the cutting board clean, we decided it was time to track down our traveling companions. Surprise, surprise, we found them in the corner of a café, three beers in and in high spirits. After sitting for an hour or so, we ventured out to find dinner.

No one was ready to close the door on our last night in Florence, so we opted to wander Italy by moonlight. It soon started to rain again, but we didn’t let it put a damper on the evening. We wandered and gawked and I tried to swing dance with Ester in the street, because what else would you do after Erik breaks out into “Singing in the Rain”? Unfortunately, by swing skills are pretty limited to just the girls part and so you can imagine the giggly mess that dissolved into.

The next morning, we made our way over to the Pitti Palace for one last round of art museum. Erik entertained with a history lesson of the major battle scene portraits and the chronology of the featured paintings. Then we collected our belongings from our hostel and got on the train headed back to Bologna. There was still a few hours before we needed to be at the airport, so we walked around the city, ate dinner, including real bologna in Bologna. Oscar Meyer ain’t got nothing on that stuff. Dinner ran a little too late, so we had a mad dash through the streets to catch the bus that would take us to the airport. My companions checked into their flight, and I waved them off. Our holiday was over for them, but my clock hadn’t run out just yet. But as this post is already a short novel, we’ll save the next leg of the trip for tomorrow.

Without a doubt, Italy was my favorite part of spring break. I encountered literally the most delicious food/red wine I have ever had the pleasure to ingest at every single meal, the sights were absolutely unreal, and my traveling companions weren’t to shabby either. The whole trip was punctuated with jokes about the I-talians, weird American culture, weird Dutch culture, the anatomy of certain Greek statues, and, of course, each other.

Honest to goodness, Europe is spoiling me rotten.

the fairy tale forest

The European response to all things American has proven to be endlessly entertaining. The Valentines day adventure - Holland's response to Disney. The Efterling was Disney meets the Brothers Grimm. A theme park devoted to fairy tales. With a small group of teachers whose enthusiasm rivaled the groups of primary school field-trippers, we rode roller coasters, ate the Dutch version of pancakes (think our pancakes but thicker and smaller), and of course, toured the fairy tale forest. Which, is exactly what it sounds like.

Before I left for the Netherlands, I was encouraged in pre-departure meetings to "open up and let people get to know you" and that I should "really get to know the locals" (no duh). So, in my own abnormal way of bonding with people, I shared that sometimes when I feel uncomfortable, my feet turn in, kind of duck footed. It's mostly when I'm made the center of attention and I don't want to be. Then it turned into a game, "how often can we make Caitlin's feet turn in?"
Hence, my friends a jerks: