to the Cutting-Edge and the Classy: Scotland

Glasgow streets

Disregarding the bronchitis slowly trying to destroy me, my trip to Scotland can so far be summed up by this: nice people, new boots, and peppermint mochas.

Peppermint Mochas:

For whatever reason, peppermint doesn't seem to exist in France, in candy or drink form. So I didn't realize I was missing it so much until Krista's friend Arran gave us the best peppermint mochas/hot chocolates on our first day here. It was like Christmas/Heaven in a cup. This was before the sickness had really reared its great ugly head for me and so I thought, wow, Scotland is off to a great start! Krista, on the other hand, was just beginning to taste the bronchiotitus' wrath, though not so strongly that she couldn't taste the peppermint hot chocolate too.

New Boots:

On our first day here, I realized that it was time to say goodbye to the pair of gray suede boots I've been sporting since I picked them in a second hand store in Seattle last spring.  From those humble beginnings these boots have gone with me around America and Europe and kept me warm and dry in my travels. I even considered naming the blog after them: The Adventure of Grey Boots.

 But about a month ago they began to show wear of that travel. So, after Paris where I walked around with slush in between my toes and my first day in Glasgow when my feet were still damp and freezing, and in the presence of all those marvelous Christmas sales going on, I realized it was time my gray boots meet their retirement. Yes, I am the sort of person to have a personal relationship with my footwear. I mourned them.

Arran's friend Jo very kindly took Krista and me around until I found the perfect replacements: leather, no holes, and 50% off! Still, if I had room in my bags, or if Ryanair allowed me an extra carry on, I would probably be bringing those bedraggled gray things back home to Nantes with me where I most likely would be tempted to wear them again. So, here they stay in Scotland. Happy resting place boots! In the tragic trash chute. I'll miss you.

Nice People: 

So, onto the nice people. Arran's family kindly adopted us for our consecutive birthdays and Christmas.  On our birthdays we were included with her family at her father's bday curry dinner (which was the best curry I've had in ages) and had a chill little kick back at the apartment for drinks with Arran's friends. As the Christmas strays, we were let inside, fed, and made to feel welcome. Arran and her family were great, introducing us to traditional Scottish fare such as pudding, (veggie) haggis, and Irn-Bru. Since tasting this overly sweet orange soft drink, I'm honestly amazed at how quickly people in Scotland chug down this stuff. It tastes like a cross between bubblegum and sugar and at the local grocery store it has claimed an entire aisle of space as its stronghold.

The Irn-Bru stronghold

I have witnessed old and young drinking bottles of this stuff in the early morning hours and the late evening. However, I learned to appreciate it on Christmas day as it served in a pinch to dilute our whiskey enough into a sipping beverage and keep Krista, Arran, and me in dreamy states all the day long.

Christmas cheer in an Irn-Bru dream

Although Arran tried really very hard to give Krista and me good birthdays, as you could probably glean from my previous post on the Bronchotitus monster, this sickness we're battling proved to be too much competition to give us any true birthday adventures to share. However, Arran did get us out of the apartment towards the end of our trip so that our Scotland vacation would consist of more than just the local Morrisons grocery store and corresponding train stations.

She took us to Edinburgh on Wednesday, which was really quite nice.

I read an article that categorizes Scotland's two largest cities into these thought-provoking and land mark distinctions: classy Edinburgh and cutting-edge Glasgow. I think the latter is quite funny for Glasgow, considering all of the stabbing jokes I've heard about Glaswegians. Before I flew into Scotland, I was only slightly aware that Glasgow is lovingly referred to as the stabbing capital of Europe.  Now that I've been here, I've only heard it reiterated by the locals, Though, luckily, I haven't witnessed anything first hand to prove the name.

In any case, the article deemed that Glasgow is something like the cool rebellious cousin of classy, prim and proper Edinburgh. And I did see that.

Rough and tumble Glasgow

 

Prim and proper Edinburgh

The city center is more touristy with its fairytale old buildings and bright carnival Christmas market.

Christmas time in Edinburgh

It's windy brick streets took around pretty architecture, a statue of the loyal Bobby dog, and past the coffee shop where J.K. Rowling penned the first Harry Potter book on napkins. But then Arran took us a little ways off the main stretch and to some slightly off-kilter places that we probably wouldn't have known to look for otherwise. We went to a comfortable little bar called the Brass Monkey, where not only can you do mini bloody mary shots for a quid each, but you also can sprawl out on large, bed/couch things that run the length of the back room and watch dvds shown on their screen. We watched the classic, Breakfast Club. It had been a few years since I'd seen it and, yes, the heartfelt story about misunderstandings and self-growth still transcends all of the melodramatic 80's inspired sound effects beleaguering it. And have I got news for you Snooki, you are not the originator of the fist pump. Oh no, not at all. It was first mastered by my main man, John Bender, the best overly dramatic bad boy John Hughes could ever offer up.

After the Brass Monkey we went to a comfy, alternative cafe for veggie burritos and mulled wine. The cafe is run completely as a grass-roots operation where the staff are all volunteers, just happy to keep the place afloat. Awesome, weird grafitti and strings of forgotten gloves and mittens decorated the place, there was a scrap book of lovingly written pleas for roommates instead of a tack board on the wall, and two competing live bands starting up just as we were leaving. We wished we could have stayed longer.

We ended our day trip to Edinburgh by marching up to the top of the rock where the huge sprawling fortress sits, Edinburgh Castle. It was night time and foggy at that point, so with the castle illumniated as it was, it made for a fun, spooky viewing.

Away (again!) Step 2: Illness in Scotland

So far my vacation in Scotland hasn't exactly been what I expected. Those colds that Krista and I were nursing in Paris turned into something far worse. We should have stayed confined to the flat for the whole trip, but we were brave (or stupid) and attempted a few jail breaks. Finally, the bronchiotitus trapped within us flared its ugly head, causing us to go into hiding. Take this blog post as a plea for help should the illness not abate in time for our plane ride back to Paris.

I'm calling this virus bronchiotitus because the first time I tried to type "bronchitis" in an IM it resembled something like bronchiosaurus. The receiver of the IM may or may not have thought I was being plagued by a prehistoric vertebrate instead of an illness. Let's blame that misspelling on the foggy state of my sickness and not my otherwise poor spelling skills. Plus we haven't had the virus confirmed by a medical professional so I'll name whatever is currently plaguing my lungs and brain and sinus passages and making my eyeballs hurt after the great big dinosaur that is most likely rumbling around in my chest and sneezing into my brain and causing all this misery.

(Whew, almost but not quite a run-on sentence.)

The monster inside.

Anyway, now you know what I'm dealing with and if you receive any peculiarly worded IMs or run-on sentences in your emails, blame it on the medecine and that cute little guy in the picture.

Away (again!) Step 1: the Euros

Tour d'Eiffel, Paris, France

Step 1: Reunion with the Euros

I haven’t seen my dear Euros in months, not since they very unfairly got on their airplanes and left the States in August. So what a lovely opportunity that some of them would be visiting Paris the same weekend as me. However, the snow falling in and around Paris seemed to have other goals in mind. (Cue: DUN DUN DUN! music)

French, Spanish, and ex-peer mentor were reunited on a busy street in front of the fountain at St. Michel. I first exchanged American hugs with Ouaffa and Maria and then we had French bisous all around for introducing Krista. We were to see Marie that night and Angel on Monday (the other French and Spanish).

The five of us spent the afternoon touring (the increasingly familiar) city of Paris. We drank coffee and hot chocolate and explored some little known shops. I found a low-level reader book in en français about Davy Crocket for 3 euros. Happy birthday to me!

We were supposed to meet up with Marie later that night but the snow prevented her trains from running into Paris. Luckily, our favorite American girl in Paris, Anna Marie, very generously opened her home to us again. Krista and I trudged through the slushy, wet streets and traversed the smelly metro and arrived to her and her friend Reagan’s beautiful smiling faces. Plans changed, but they were good changes. Spokane invasion in Anna Marie’s apartment!

Next day we woke to another blizzard falling in the Parisian streets. Pretty, but still not very practical. Instead of taking the train to Versailles that morning, Krista and I nursed our growing colds and decided Sunday was as good as any day to check out le Louvre.

After several failed attempts in the past two months, I actually made it inside this time. Krista, lovely girl that she is, is also an art/history geek and has been to the Louvre enough times to know what to expect from me during my first visit. So, playing the role of wise guide, she started us out in the right direction, lent me her camera, and let me go nuts, giving me gentle nudges to keep me headed on a semi plausible path. 

Oh my word, was the Louvre wonderful. Most of my pictures are blurry because I couldn't stand still long enough for the focus to set. We were surrounded by so much art! so much history! It was wonderful. A total mind numbing binge on culture. Every far off fantasy I'd had during hours of art and history and French classes came to fruition as I got to stare each piece of artwork in the eye. We cracked jokes about Napoleon’s superiority complex, marveled at the humor hidden in tapestries, and discussed how much making any of those valuable trinkets must have cost the monarchy. What cruel irony to have gigantic stone fruit sticking off the ramparts of the palace when you can't or won't even feed your starving peasant population. 

After the Louvre, I traversed the metro system all by myself (and had tourists asking me in worse French than mine for directions, what fun!), navigated the Parisian streets by foot when my trains were canceled, and made it only an hour late to visit Marie, Maria, and Ouaffa. We checked out a very interesting bar called the Latin Quarter. A colorful assortment of bras decorated the light fixtures and very enthusiastic male servers danced in place as they took our orders. I accidentally bought a 7 euro bottle of Guinness. I should know better than to order a beer when I see all of the mixed drinks are served with lit sparklers. So disappointing to see a bottle brought to my table instead of a pint. Maria became the focus of the affectionate attention of one of the more aggressive servers, who spoke to her in Spanish and French and then, kneeling, offered her a paper napkin rose. Very smooth, Eduardo. 

Afterward, we rejoined Krista and Anna Marie and Reagan at Anna Marie’s flat for the cutest little multicultural birthday party for Krista, Maria, and moi. Our birthdays are all curiously staggered on the days leading up to Christmas which makes for convenient celebrating. Anna Marie made the best chocolate cake I’ve had so far abroad and Krista and I got to blow out an embarrassingly bright assortment of candles. With the number of languages spoken and not spoken between the 8 or so guests present, we had some semblance of a good party vibe going.

The next day Marie, Maria, and I were supposed to get up at 8:30 am to meet Angel, the other Spanish Euro. But, at 8:30 in the morning, no one really wanted to get up. So I sent Angel a half serious text from Maria’s phone along the lines of “We’re still sleeping. Meet you at the Eiffel Tower. It’s in the center of Paris.” 

For those of you who have never been to Paris, I think it may be the most confusing city I’ve ever stepped foot in. And it is huge. It's been quite the experience getting to know the city over the last few months, and it’s especially fun the last couple times being able to text my Parisian friends to meet me at the Louvre or such and such metro stop as if I know the place. It makes me sound like I know what I'm doing, which is laughable, because I get lost anywhere and everywhere.

So, because Paris is so huge and confusing, especially to a first time visitor who doesn't speak French (ahem, Angel), I would have assumed such a vague text message would have been taken as a joke by our Spanish friend.

Because I was still sick, Marie and Maria left me at the apartment and they went off to get Angel. But they couldn’t find him and couldn't reach him by phone. Then they saw that I had sent that text to Angel... and were surprised? Well of course I had sent that text to Angel. Now they were worried that he took it seriously. I got a worried text from them that they couldn't find Angel and then that they were coming back to the apartment.

When they came back, they knocked on the door, I let them in, closed the door, and asked, “Where’s Angel?”

“That’s a good question!” Maria responded in exasperation.

Uh-oh, I thought, guilt beginning to tinge my worry.

“But Jennifer, can you open the door?” she asked.

When I did there was Angel on the other side, little backpack and winter coat on, looking like the tired traveler that he was. I had shut the door in his face the first time. Whoops. However, it felt like a Christmas miracle to see him standing there after my sarcastic text.

We spent the day catching up and exploring the city. Eiffel tower, Christmas market, Sacre Coeur, le Louvre (which Angel, in his improving French, called "mignon"). All the while my poor bedraggled suede boots became more and more soaked from the slushy streets. I felt like I was walking in freezing swimming pools the whole day.

Meals were quite the experience between all of our languages. Between my English, Marie and Ouaffa's French, and Angel and Maria's Spanish, we had some interesting three way language exchanges at dinner. It was the first time I'd seen Ouaffa since the summer so I got to show off my improved French speaking skills. Obviously my comprehension of rapidly spoken French is still in need of work (as I will get into in a later post) but I can at least form decent sentences without having to pause and think about them for three minutes first. Another plus side? My French has improved enough to give me back my sneaky edge. If I want to keep secrets from the Spanish (Maria and Angel) I just have to say it as quickly as possible in French. Success! Now I just need to learn Spanish and then German and I'll be all set. 

Krista and I said a hurried and sad good bye to our Euro and American friends on Tuesday afternoon. Then we descended into the metro again and found our way to the Beauvais airport to get the heck out of France.

Next up: Step 2: Reconvene in Scotland.

Away (again!), Prequel: DUN DUN DUN!

A shiny yellow sticker in my passport, a two pound can of pumpkin in my bag, a pair of boots in dreadful condition, and a ticket out of Nantes in my hands.

The plot thickens….

Last Saturday morning, our bellies filled with delectable Christmas sweets from the night before, Krista and I woke to a frosty, snow covered morning in Nantes. Our shoulders buckling under the weight of our heavy backpacks, we embarked on the next step of our mission: get the heck out of Nantes.

Prequel: Getting our carte de sejours.

Weeks earlier, along with every other assistant plucked off of a different continent than Europe, we had to go to the immigration office and get checked out for the final step of our temporary citizenship in France. This consisted of being led back and forth between a series of little rooms, responding to a cross fire of questions about the state of our health and history of immunizations, and then poked and prodded by doctors and machines. The entire visit can be summarized by the gigantic x-ray they left us with at the end:  unnecessary and bewildering.

Apparently whether or not you stay in France hinges on the state of your lungs. The last doctor clipped the gigantic x-ray of my lungs up on a light board and glared at it through her quizzical little glasses.

“Do you smoke?” she queried.

“No,” I responded automatically.

She turned to face me, giving me the full effect of her raised eyebrow. I looked this fierce little old French woman in the eyes and began to doubt my answer.

“Are you sure?”

I began to panic.  “It’s France,” I wanted to say, “I’m breathing in second hand smoke all the time.” But all I did was ask, “Is there anything wrong with my lungs?”

“No,” she replied, ripping my x-ray off the light board and handing it to me, “completely normal.”

Phew. Maybe she's just surprised to meet someone in France who doesn't smoke.

I was handed over to another nice French woman whose office is overflowing with caricatures of Sarko and “Vive la Retraite!” posters. She was thrilled that I had a conveniently open page in my passport for the shiny yellow seal of approval and then proceeded to cheerfully lecture me on the benefits of having a parapluie (umbrella).

The conclusion of this story is this: I had obtained my carte de sejour. This means I can legally leave and re-enter the country. Yay!

Next up: Step 1: Reunion with the Euros