Sacre vache!

I spied these moos right across the pont-canal from Diggy.

My hood here in Francey is known for many things: splendid wine, beautiful paysage, succulent snails... but there's a reason I call it Cow Country. On a drive in most any direction from this fair metropolis, you can't not notice the great white beasts strolling along their hedged enclosures and mooing to their hearts' content. 

I love them so, and I tell anyone who asks me what I will miss most about France that "mes amies, les vaches" are high up there. My conversation partner Solange invited me to St. Christophe-en-Brionnais this Wednesday for the weekly marché so we could get a closer look at my favorite fauna, and sweetened the deal by saying we'd be accompanied by a woman is is the daughter, wife, and mother of cow farmers.

Dairy air. (Get it? Like derrière?)

The St. Christophe market started more than 500 years ago, and though it isn't as large as it once was it still attracts 1,000-1,500 head of cattle each week. Until a few decades ago all transactions were done in cash, and buyers would come to the market with their pockets bulging with franc notes. Solange's friend Michelle said her husband used to put all his money in the pockets of one pair of pants, and then wear a second pair on top of them for security.

O hai.

A tourist's typical day at the market includes a behind-the-scenes tour of the cows' holding pen and a quick stop in the auction room. Afterwards, most will dine at the nearby Le Mur D'Argent restaurant, which offers up a hot steaming plate of boeuf charollaise-- said to be one of the best in the whole wide world. It's just another example of how close the French are with their food: the thought of eating their favorite cow's brother or sister doesn't phase them one bit.

For just 1.500 Euros, one of these pretty ladies can be yours!

Perfect Berlin Day

A perfect day starts out with a balanced breakfast. We went to the café across the street from the palace we've been staying (thanks Jonathan!) and played the "I Have No Idea What This Means But I Hope It's Delicious" game when ordering from the menu. I got a plate with a hard-boiled egg, cheeses, meats, butter and amazing house-made marmalade, accompanied by a basket of baguettes and slices of hearty German bread. The Dude had the XL version, with smoked salmon, fruit slices and horseradish spread. This kept us full all the livelong day.

Next stop was Tacheles, recommended by my friend Jessica. Originally built in 1907 as a department store in Berlin's Jewish quarter, it has since housed a Nazi prison, the Free German Trade Union Federation, and a movie theater. Shortly after the wall fell (and right before the building was scheduled to be demolished), an artists' initiative took over the building. It has since been used as an art center and night club.

According to their website:

In the course of changes since the wall came down, Tacheles has been confronted with the difficult challenge of remaining true to its roots and ideals without becoming too sentimental about the old squatter times.

The building was partially bombed during WWII and it's completely covered inside with graffiti. Each room features work from different artists-- collages, paintings, photography-- and there's a sculpture garden out back. I thought of many of my Portland buddies who would drool at such a gnarly artist collective.

Next was the Neue Synagogue down the street, which was way overpriced for the amount of information. We went to the German Historic Museum on Monday and paid 4E for three hours' worth of moseying through their gigantic exhibit, and we paid 3E50 for two small rooms of info at the synagogue. Lame.

We were totally parched by this point, so we stopped at a local watering hole for my new favorite refreshment: apfel schorle. It's like fizzy apple juice. So delish. As we were sitting outside the sky opened and started thunderbooming, so we were forced to move inside and do shots of jägermeister. Those are the rules.

When the rain let up an hour or so later, on the recommendation of my buddy Kathryn we headed down to Bernauer Strasse, which has a couple of museums dedicated to my favorite subject: The Berlin Wall. The first had videos of the history of the wall (which left a German woman in the row in front of us in tears) and an explanation of the death strip, the 100-meter zone between walls on the East and West sides filled with sensor-triggered barb wire, patrol dogs, beds of nails, trip wire, and of course lots of lots of soldiers ready to shoot at anything that moves.

There was a park adjacent to the museum that had some old pieces of the wall on display, as well as informational panels about what had happened. It also had photos of the 136 people killed as they tried to cross the wall.

We arrived at the second museum 15 minutes before closing, so we only had time to climb up to the observation deck to see a preserved section of what the death strip actually looked like.

Minutes after we left we got caught in another thunderboom, so we hopped the streetcar to the grocery store to buy the fixings for a big dinner for Jonathan and his roommates.

Today is our last day in Berlin, and I have the sads. I can definitely see why so many people love it here so much.

Walking what's left of The Wall

I know I haven't been writing nearly as much about Berlin as I did Amsterdam, and that's because it's kind of hard for me to figure this city out. In French cities, you find layers upon layers of tangible history all bunched up on top of each other. A church from 1100 might be standing next to a house from 1650, which is next to a supermarché from 2003. In many cities it doesn't take much of a leap of imagination to picture yourself bustling through the narrow streets with your petticoat a-rustling and the curls of your elaborately coiffed and powdered hair coming loose as you make your way to the ball (which is how I prefer to picture myself, always).

But Berlin was pretty much razed during the WWII bombings. And then, post-war, the GDR erected several concrete, prison-like structures and, you know, a huge WALL, much of which came tumbling down post-1989 as people tried to move on.

Everything feels so new here. The sidewalks are shockingly wide-- so unlike the two-foot pathways back in Diggy that usually have a parked car on them anyway. There's construction everywhere. And there are some neighborhoods we've been in that feel more like California than Europe.

As the Dude and I wander around the city, we often wonder if we are in what was East Berlin or West Berlin, since there are no real indicators either way. Which is why I was so pumped to visit the Eastside Gallery, a 1.3 km section of the wall that people from around the world made into a work of art in 1990. (In 2009 much of the work had to be restored due to erosion and grafitti.)

Finally, as we traversed the wall and I felt so small and powerless against its height, I was able to get a small inkling of what life must have been like in its shadow.

Life in the GDR appears to have been somewhat awesome

We got into Berlin on Wednesday afternoon, and approximately four curry- and bratwursts later, one of our first stops was an English-language bookstore. I have been STARVED for a good book in English since I got over here, once I discovered that my Nook doesn't want to cooperate in France. I picked two books, one called A Woman in Berlin, about Berlin-post-war, and one called Stasiland, about Berlin-post-wall.

Stasiland is full of harrowing tales of what life was like in East Germany under the German Democratic Republic (Deutsche Demokratische Republik): never trusting anyone (they may inform on you to the secret police), no privacy, and no room for free thought. So I was prepared for a somber experience inside the DDR Museum.

What we got instead was a gee-whiz, hands-on collection of DDR memorabilia, with placards touting the ingenuity of the East Germans and making things like group bathroom breaks (a first lesson in Communist brotherhood-- no one can get up from the row of potties until the last one has finished) look positively adorable. 

These fun little guys taught the young comrades to eat more fruit, conserve electricity and use resources responsibly.

Here I am practicing the Lipsi dance, specifically created by the DDR in 1959 to be void of any and all sexuality and to counter rock 'n roll. Watch the video below to see what it looked like.

This diorama was dedicated to the East German penchant for promenading au naturel at the beach.

My favorite exhibit let you create a "new socialist human" bit by bit. You were given points for how well your choices conformed to the socialist ideal. I did well with my shoe choice ("Sturdy footwear is important for creating initiative in productive labor. Both feet firmly on socialist ground!"), but not so much with what I put in my left hand ("You have an exemplary husband! But why are you bringing flowers to work? Has your admirer just brought them here? Has he no job?").

Amsterdam in a Bigger Nutshell

Amsterdam is beautiful, hilarious, delicious, bike-friendly and seedy. And I stand by my original assessment that Amsterdam is weird. Good-weird.

Amsterdam is beautiful 

We got into the city at about 8 a.m. on Sunday after an outrageously uncomfortable seven-hour night bus from Paris, a one-hour layover in the Amstel station where everything was cold and closed, and a 30-minute unsuccessful bathroom search in the Centraal station (everything was locked). I was predisposed to be very unhappy on my first day there.

But I was immediately charmed by the city's beauty. We had the streets practically to ourselves as we made our way to the Anne Frank House, surrounded by the blooming trees, placid canals and houses with gabled roofs. I hadn't realized just how much water there is in Amsterdam. The canals run in concentric circles around the city, the Amstel River runs through it, and the North Sea Canal borders it.

Amsterdam is hilarious

Dutch is the funniest language I have ever encountered. As the Dude noted, it sounds like German spoken with a Scottish accent. I knew from having a couple of Dutch students in France that Netherlanders had a facility for picking up other languages virtually accent-free, but it was still alarming to eavesdrop on a conversation and hear a phrase like, "One million dollars" thrown in there as if speaker was an American. (A Frenchy might do the same, but they'd pronounce it "meel-yohn do-lairz.")

Nearly everyone we met spoke perfect English. I asked our host Lucas if they learn it in school here, and he said they might in college, but it wasn't required in high school. The reason everyone speaks it so perfectly, he said, was because the majority of their TV comes from America... and none of it is dubbed. I was surprised when I started teaching in France that the students had had such a hard time with my American accent; I'd figured that enough of our culture had been exported to make the way I speak the norm. But it's actually kind of rare in France to find a program in V.O. (version originale), which is a topic for a future post.

Amsterdam is delicious

My guidebook told me I had to get a herring sandwich with pickles and raw onions. So I did. I couldn't look at it while I ate it because the fish was so durn slimy, but I made it through the whole thing. Pas mal.

Amsterdam is bike-friendly

Everyone, and I mean everyone, rides a bike in Amsterdam.  And I didn't see a single person wearing a helmet. There were dedicated bike lanes next to the sidewalk that I kept wandering into, and then I would get dinged at by a biker. Sorry bikers!

I personally don't choose a two-wheeled vehicle as my steed, but I thought about how much my buddies back home (like you, Anna!) would geek out about this city's bikeliciousness. 

Fun fact: Approximately three milliseconds after I snapped this, the women in the center of this picture collided. If you zoom in on the pink shirt woman's face, it looks like she's having the time of her life. The woman in the white shirt was definitely not as pleased afterward.

Amsterdam is seedy

When we started wandering the streets of Amsterdam on Sunday we were immediately hit with the unmistakable stench of marijuana. The smell was ever-y-where. We also had to step over puddles of vomit and broken beer bottles. It's clear that tourists from all over the world, attracted by the marijuana and prostitution tolerance, come to take a big ol' dump on the city.

We went through the Red Light District a few different times to gawk at the ladies in the window. Most of them looked incredibly bored, smoking cigarettes and playing on their cell phones, nonplussed at all the tourists staring at them. I know that prostitutes in Amsterdam are a lot better off than in other places in the world-- because prostitution is legal, they can go to police without fear when shiz goes down, and the laws regulating them enforce strict hygiene standards-- but the whole thing just made me depressed. Then one of them made eyes at the Dude and I dragged him outta there immediately.


Final thoughts

I really liked Amsterdam. Unlike Paris and Rome, it had a more casual feel, so I wasn't embarrassed by how devastatingly uncool I am. The people were also incredibly friendly; everyone we approached for help responded kindly, and people even approached us to offer advice when it looked like we were struggling.

Of all the European cities I've visited thus far, Amsterdam is one of the few places I could see myself living long-term... though I'd want to stay far, far away from the touristy areas.

Bibliophile's Paradise

Amsterdam is a weird city. But I like it.

One of my favorite parts so far is the Central Library, which the Dude and I visited with mouths agape yesterday upon the recommendation of EJ. It's sleek, modern and so totally well-designed. Like a seal using an iPad.

Here are some facts to make you drool:

• The library has 10 floors, 1200 seats (600 of which have Internet-connected computers) and 2000 parking spaces for bicycles
• The total area is 28,500 square meters
• The Openbare Bibliotheek Amsterdam (Amsterdam Public Library) system has more than 1.7 MILLION books available. 

And now, a photo essay about the way libraries could be in Amrika if we had €80 million to throw at them.

Look at all this glorious light! I could spend all day here... No seriously; I could: the library is open 10 a.m.-10 p.m., seven days a week.

These reading pods are totally conducive to doing your homework in peace. Especially if your homework involves pretending you're in a space pod.

How the Dutch organize their books: guns for murder mysteries, magic hats for fantasies, hearts for romance and giant thumbs hovering over tiny humans for... books about the man keeping you down? [click to enlarge]

That's what she said.

An aerial view of some of the 2,000 bike parking spaces.

Amsterdam in a Nutshell

Strolling along the canals and seeing all the pretty trees in bloom made me feel like that boy. Walking through the Red Light District made me feel like that girl.

Circle of life

Cluny used to be the center of Christendom. The papacy was headquartered here, and the church was the biggest church in all the land until St. Peter's in Rome was constructed. Then the French Revolution came along and people were all, "Boo, Church! Boo!" and they dissembled it stone by stone, leaving only a bell tower and change.

Now Cluny is a quaint little village clinging to its not-so-quaint Medieval past of grandeur and glory for the benefit of all the abbey-hopping tourists. They have some sort of institution of higher learning there that apparently encourages its students to decorate and wear their own quidditch uniforms.

We also saw a cat eat a lizard.

Fin.

Land of Funny Names

I was combing through my archives this morning and noticed this post, which I fully intended to publish about a month ago but didn't. Many apologies to those who have been dying to hear about my weekend in Switzerland.

My Main Meuf Missy (M&M&M) has friends scattered across the globe, and for her birthday her dearest wish was to have as many as possible gather in the Swiss town of Herznach. Where's Herznach, you ask? Oh, you know... just outside of Frick. You read that correctly. FRICK. Herznach is in fact smack dab in the middle of a cluster of towns with the Best Names Ever.

Check out this map my friend Kelly made of what would be the ultimate Land of Funny Names road trip, which takes you on a delightful voyage of Frick--> Stumpholz--> Schupfart--> Mumpf--> Bad Säckingen--> Egg--> Murg--> Butz:

View Larger Map

Since we had but the weekend, we were forced to save that epic journey for another time. But we did manage to knock two off the list.

We didn't see a whole lot of Frick, but what we did seemed very clean and neutral (it's in Switzerland, after all). We hit up every store we could think of to search for Frick-ing postcards, but left empty-handed and bemoaning the fate of our quest. "Frick!" we exclaimed when returning unsatisfied from every single store. "Frick..."

The next day we walked to Germany. It was a great motivating factor that on the other side of the river lay a quaint German town by the name of Bad Säckingen. I never found out where Good Säckingen was, but that was OK because we ate really good ice cream in the Bad one.

 

So there you have it. We went from Frick, Switzerland to Bad Säckingen, Germany, and then we ate some Fruithagel and Puur Hagel Slag. And then we died of awesome.

Why I have a crick in my neck

The ceilings, man. The ceilings in Italy were wild. Frescoed, sculpted, tiled crazy talk. I'm shocked I didn't break a limb walking into something while I was staring straight up. Although... at one point I had my elbows raised so I could take a snap of a dome, and I was still gazing heavenward as I brought my arms down. Somehow a woman of short stature had wandered under my armpit in that time, and I accidentally dropped a 'bow on her head.

But other than that, yeah, no ceiling-staring-related injuries...

Dome of St. Peter's Cathedral, Rome

Ceiling of Sistine Chapel, Rome

Dome of Pantheon, Rome

Ceiling of St. Ignatius' Cathedral, Rome

Dome of Duomo, Florence

Ceiling of library in Duomo, Siena

Dome of Duomo, Siena

Vacation from our vacation

Italy was magnificent and beautiful and awe-inspiring. It was also exhausting and expensive and heavy on the communication problems.

The worst of them was when we were on a bus from Florence to Siena and I told the Dude to get off at the first stop whilst I finished zipping up my backpack. Confused as to why no one else was departing, he hesitated, and by the time I had reached the door the bus was already pulling away. "My dear Dude, wherefore didst thou choose not to alight?" I asked, but in a bit more colorful language. He raced up the aisle and tried to pantomime to our driver that we had erred. She stopped a few hundred meters down the road and we departed, but she started to pull away before we could get our baggage from the belly of the bus. Matt raced after it and slapped the door a few times to get her attention. She herself then descended and treated us to a five-minute tirade in Italian that I'm sure was just her commenting on how much she truly loved Americans. 

 After experiences like that, it was such a relief to come back to the bosom of Mother France, where I can understand and be understood (most of the time), where there is no such thing as a 3E per person, inescapable "bread charge" at restaurants, and where baguettes are fresh and plentiful. Except on Mondays. But that's another story.

My French buddy Louis invited us to spend our last weekend of vacation at his family's cabin in Solutré (near Mâcon), which is famous for a massive geological structure known simply as "La Roche." It's also smack dab in the middle of the some of the best white wine vineyards in Burgundy, which produce Pouilly-Fuisée, among others. 

As the cabin had no heat and the early March night temps were hovering around zero degrees Celsius,  first order of business was to build up a roaring fire. Luckily, the Dude's half-Canadian (many moons in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area counts, right?), and had coaxed some life-giving flames in no time.

The next day, after a very grasse matinée (fat morning), we were joined by some other Charollyians for a hike up La Roche. It was pretty durn sweet... a perfect way to wind down from the whirlwind and get reacquainted with La France Profonde, annoying boulangerie hours notwithstanding. 

Funny things I saw in Italy

I see Rome, I see Thebes, I see under your fig leaf.

MTGUE: Most Threatening Guard Uniform Ever. You gotta wonder what the Swiss Guard ever did to the Vatican to get stuck with fancy pants like that.

These little boars went to market.

We couldn't figure out why there was confetti littering the ground of every city we visited. We hypothesized that Italians lean out their windows at 2 a.m. and whisper, "Yay I'm Italian!" before blowing a handful of confetti in the wind.

It wouldn't be a vacation without some sweet mannequins.