Toussaint Vacation Days Five and Six: Grenoble and Lyon

I got a little slowed down in my constant updates. I've suddenly become very popular. In the past few days I've had so many meaningful interactions with the townsfolk that it would make your head spin. In fact, I'd much rather write to you about that than about my last two days of vacay, so I'm going to make this one a bit short so I can move on to bigger and better things.

Back to Grenoble. Our first stop on Saturday morning was the Musée de la Résistance, which details all the things Grenoblins did to resist the Nazis. As it turns out, they did a lot of things. Many, many things, none of which I can remember, in fact.

Rabbit trail: I've started picking up some of the English phrases the Frenchies are fond of using. It's very common for them to say "En fait," (in fact) at the beginnings and ends of the sentences, and it makes sense they would translate it when speaking English. I had lunch with some of my students today, and one of them said, "In fact, I do not like making my homework on the weekends, in fact." FACT.

After a stop at Gus and Line's to have leftovers for lunch, we returned to the Musée Dauphinois to check out the ski exhibits, which we had skipped the day before. They had ski examples from all of time and from every conceivable material, which were probably fascinating if you had actually been downhill skiing more than once, and if that one time you didn't end up in hospital. Ahem.

We went to one more exhibit on the Holocaust called, "Spoilé!" and then raced to get our bags so we could make our train to Lyon. Kelly accidentally left her scarf there, and Line's going to send back it to her for free. That's how cool she is.

We arrived an hour and a half later in soggy Lyon, and went on a forced march to our soggy hotel, where our room smelled like gerbil food. Despite being totally exhaustified (vacations are hard!), we dragged ourselves to the Old City to eat dinner in a bouchon, a type of family-owned restaurant that Lyon is famous for. On the way there, I stopped at a supermarket to stock up on some staples, since I knew everything in Digoin would be closed when I got back Sunday, and they would remain closed on Monday in observance of Toussaint. We spied a bouchon that advertised a 15E fixed price meal, but only until 8 p.m. As it was 7:55, we hurried inside and asked the hostess if we could still get it.

She took one look at my sac en plastique with a bag of roasted chicken potato chips and cans of tuna inside and promptly sat us between the kitchen and the bathroom, warning us that we could only be there if we promised to leave by 9. I ordered a delicious smoked salmon salad as my entrée, and was desperate for a basket of baguette to nom the last morsels of sauce. As we were situated directly adjacent to the kitchen, I could see the waiters bringing bread to every other patron in the place but us. Our waiter managed to whisk away my plate before I could make my request.

Just before he was about to scurry off after bring the main courses, I asked for some bread. I saw him go into the kitchen and remove all the bread from one of the baskets save for three slices. Shocking treatment, I tell you.

One stop at a crepe stand for a chestnut cream confection later and we returned to Gerbil Land.

Notre Dame de Fourviere

The next day we hit up the Roman ruins, the beautiful basilica Notre Dame de Fourviere, and the Musée des Tissus et Arts Decoratif. We were bone tired. Could-not-bear-to-hit-up-another-tourist-site-if-our-life-depended on it tired. So instead we decided to go to Quick (France's version of McDonald's) for lunch and see The Social Network afterward.

When you order American food in France you have to try to say it with a French accent. You can't order a hamburger; you must request a 'amboorgahr. You can't order the rustic fries on the menu; you have to ask for frites roosteek. The cash register lady recognized that we were Anglophones and insisted on practicing her English, though when we responded in kind she couldn't understand us. It was a total communication melt down.

We headed across the street to the theater and stood in an epicly long line, only to find out that they only accepted French debit cards (carte bleue) and American Express. Thus we were forced to go to a cash machine and milk our American bank accounts even drier with the terrible exchange rate plus ATM fee. We stood in the ginormous line again and finally--finally!-- got into the theater and had the pleasure of being the only people laughing at many of the jokes.

Lyon really got me down, man. I suppose it was a good way to end an awesome vacation, though, because it made me look forward to going home. And Digoin really does feel like home now. More on that later.

Toussaint Vacation Day Four: Grenoble

I want to you know that I have tasted heaven and its name is speculoos. As you may recall, this manna first passed my lips in Arles, when I was suffering from a horrible clogged face and couldn't verify its deliciousness because I couldn't smell/taste a blooming thing. After days of searching, I finally picked up a jar of Speculoos a Tartiner at the supermarket this afternoon and it is amazing. Don't be surprised if I buy a crate of this to take back with me to the States, and dole it out as gifts for only very important occasions. Your half birthday. Presidents Day. Armistice Day. I'm not going to share this stuff for just anything.

Um... writing that made me hungry and I need to go get some more.

OK I'm back. Whew, that was delicious. Good thing I got an extra baguette on the way home. Alvays sinking, I am...

The périphérique balls we took to the top of the mountain.

Kelly and I woke up on Friday morning after having finally gotten a great night sleep on the bed of clouds. We didn't have to spoon each other for warmth-- there was a gigantic and perfect down comforter that kept things cozy. We went back upstairs to Gus and Line's apartment, where Line was waiting for us with homemade bread, homemade fig jam, and a tea infusion. I think I'm in love with her.

Gus scolded her for keeping us inside talking on this glorious Grenoblin day, so off we went to take the périphérique to the top of the mountain for some incredible views. I could not have been happier. The sun was shining, it was actually warm, I was wearing my super cool new red imitation leather jacket I'd gotten in Dijon for 29€, I could breathe through my nose, and I was gazing upon the most beautiful mountain vistas I'd ever seen in my life. I could have stayed up there all day.

Look at all the patrimony down there!

But alas, one needs to eat. We descended our mountain perch and found some sustenance at a sandwich shop in the old city. Our next destination, naturally, was the Musée des Automates, because robots are like family to me. It was closed when we got there, so we amused ourselves by going to the gare to arrange train travel to Lyon for the next day and stopping in a patisserie to sample the local specialties.

Along with Chartreuse, which comes in yellow and green flavors that are equally alcoholic, Grenoble is famous for their caramel walnut cakes. Uff-dah, were they good. If I thought it would have survived I would have bought one and saved it to send home as a present. Unfortunately, there was just no way, and I was forced to gobble a mini one right then and there, and buy two more the next day that weren't long for this world.

Having wasted enough time, we returned to the Automates museum only to see that they charged more than 5€ per person. In what appears to be a pattern, this turned us off of the museum and instead we headed for the (free) Musée Dauphinois, which is nestled in one of the foothills.

Kelly tried to take a picture of me jumping for joy. Instead I look like I'm being carried off by a condor.

Did you know that the word dauphin can either mean dolphin or heir to the throne? I have to wonder which sense of the word came first.  Either way, the French must revere the dolphin as a very noble beast. Aha! Wikipedia to the rescue:

In the 12th century, the local ruler Count Guigues IV of Albon (c.1095–1142) bore a dolphin on his coat of arms and was nicknamed le Dauphin (French for dolphin). His descendants changed their title from Count of Albon to Dauphin of Viennois. The state took the name of Dauphiné.

In any case, the Musée Dauphinois concerns itself with the history, culture, and, yes, PATRIMONY of the people living in the surrounding area, namely the Alps. Much like the Museum of Burgundian life, there were artifacts from la vie quotidienne (minus all the creepy mannequins). Did you know that the Alps farmspeople and their animals lived together under the same roof in the winter? It reduced heating costs, apparently. I can just imagine the townies coming across such a situation and yelling, "You live in a barn! No, seriously! You live in a barn! With your animals! In a barn!" That must have been really tough for the Alpers to take...

The museum's first floor was dedicated to technology, which is a big industry in Grenoble. The exhibits included... robots! Take that, expensive Musée des Automates!

My robo-bretheren

After leaving the museum we embarked on what was easily the most frustrating part of our journey. We had promised Gus and Line a dinner that night to thank them for being the Best Hosts in the World. There are only so many things I can produce with neither measuring cups nor a recipe on hand, and if you're a longtime Neenuh friend odds are I've made them for you more than once. We were going to start with goat cheese and pear crostinis, with a main course of orzo with roasted vegetables, feta, and pine nuts. Dessert was going to be Lynn Rosetto Casper's wine-and-honey-marinated figs with marscapone to dip them in.

If you haven't figured this out by now, France is not like the United States. In the US you can get pretty much any ingredient you want at any time of the year. They taste a lot fresher when they're in season, of course, but it doesn't need to be June for you to find strawberries. In France, they seem to only stock the produce that's available at that moment in time. Which is great for the environment and all, but really maddening when you're looking for specific ingredients for a specific meal.

One thing I've found particularly shocking is the paucity of fresh herbs. Can't a girl get a little basil up in hurr? I was also lacking a non-wrinkled red bell pepper, green onions, eggplant and red onion, all key ingredients in my dish. I ended up having to make a poor man's version of my orzo with zucchini and slightly less-wrinkled yellow bell pepper, pine nuts, and feta, with a pasta that was close to orzo but was not orzo. Oh, the shame. I promised everyone involved that if they ever popped over for dinner in the US I would make them the real thing and their mouths would explode in happy.

The Best Hosts in the World, Line and Gus.

 All was not lost, however, for the pear and goat cheese appetizers and the fig and marscapone dessert were declared delicious.

Next up: another day in Grenoble, and a soggy trip to Lyon.

Toussaint Vacation Day Three: Dijon and Grenoble

I woke up before 6 a.m. I still haven't adjusted to Daylight Savings Time, which happened in France this weekend. After two hours of reading a dear friend's blog from her time here during the 07-08 school year, I decided to scrap my plans for a morning nap and get back on that blogging train.

Thursday was the big day of my medical appointment in Dijon, the one I first heard about during my orientation in the beginning of October. We needed to get examined to make sure we didn't have TB, and as a present for good health they would give us a stamp in our passports that would allow us to leave the country and re-enter. Back then they told us it was going to be on Oct. 19, the day before our second orientation in Montceau-les-Mines. Being the responsible lass I am, I immediately sent away my birth certificate for a 39€ official translation (a requirement of the visit, they said). I also gathered every conceivable document they could possibly need, including my college transcript, to bring along.

Then they emailed to say just kidding, the appointment will actually be on Oct. 28 in the middle of your vacation. Hope you didn't already make plans!

The one thing I still needed on the morning of my appointment was a passport-style photo. I got up and out the door of my hotel at an ungodly hour so I could get some snaps at the train station's photo booth. You're not supposed to smile for official French portraiture, but I did my best to smize. The result made me look like an exhausted stroke victim. But hey, at least my hair looked good.

Pretty much the best photo ever taken of me.

Kelly had never been to Dijon before, so we spent the morning before my appointment sight seeing. First we went to the Creepiest (and Best) Museum in the World and grilled a young docent about her thoughts on the ubiquitous mannequins. Did she ever change their clothes? (Answer: No.) Did she ever change their positions? (Answer: No.) Did she ever put them in different rooms? (Answer: No.) But the guy mannequin in the baby cradle scene looks hungry. Shouldn't he be in the kitchen scene instead? (Answer: No.)

On the second floor they have recreations of several storefronts, including one for candy. I tested one of the lids to see if I could catch a whiff of stale, late-1800s bonbon, and incurred the wrath of the Upstairs Docent. She spent the rest of our visit shadowing us to make sure we didn't get any other wise ideas.

After leaving the Creepiest (and Best) Museum in the World, we headed for the Notre Dame church that bears an owl statue on one of its corners. If you rub the owl with your left hand you're supposed to get any wish you desire. Except, apparently, for a shower of gold doubloons to come raining from the sky into your pocket. Trust me. I tried.

Kelly is mini and can barely reach the owl!

We had lunch at a pretty swanky place, where Kelly ordered the local specialty oeufs en meurette, eggs poached in a heavenly white wine sauce. I ordered spaghetti bolognese because I'm a cheap jerk. I could have really used that gold, Monsieur La Chouette.

True to form, I had a burning desire to get to my medical appointment an hour early. I had only originals of many of the documents I had brought with me, and had tried in vain all morning to find a photocopier to make duplicates. Dijon suffers from a serious lack of FedExes and Kinkos. FYI. I tried the machine at the post office, but it was broken (of course). The lady there directed me to the nearby department store Galleries Lafayette, which was "Exceptionellement fermé" all day so they could do inventory. Of course! Of course they were. So I guess I thought if I went early enough to my appointment the kindly front desk lady would allow me to copy whatever I wanted, and for free. Except this is France, and the offices were closed until 1:35 for lunch, at which point the crowd of about 40 people (all with 1:30 appointments) swarmed the door.

I managed to be second in line, and after presenting my summons from the Office of Immigration and Integration, I sat in the waiting room for about 10 minutes. The doctor there asked me if I had any health concerns, anything I thought she should know about. I kept my bubonic plague, malaria, and diphtheria a secret, but told her everything else. Then she asked me for my weight and height. The metric system still stumps me (thanks a lot, America!), but thankfully I have a conversion system on my new genius phone. "Would you like my weight in kilos?" I asked. "Yes, that would be preferable," she deadpanned. I gave her the number. "And my height in...kilometers?" I asked. "Uh... no. One uses kilometers for highways," she said, stifling a guffaw at the immeasurable stupidity of Americans.

In the next room I was told to strip to the waist and then enter the x-ray machine, which had two bulls eyes on the wall to indicate where I was to aim my bosoms. "Plus proche! (Closer!)" the brusque X-Ray Doyenne demanded, as she flattened me against the cold plastic partition. I got to keep the x-ray as a door prize, and it would appear from the faint outline of my flesh that I'm alarmingly lopsided. Also, they only document they needed from me was my Attestation of Logement, which says I officially have a roof over my head.

That horrific experience over, I was free to do what I came to Dijon to do: taste mustard.

I quite liked the chèvre mustard. Myam myam.

Outside, of course, they were rioting. Pourquoi? Pourquoi pas! The streets were filled with smoke, and every now and then they would light something in the street that made a terrific noise. Dijon go BOOM! A month ago, this would have really freaked me out. Now it's just annoying. Yes, yes, I know the government is trampling all over your rights but could you just please go back to work? Please? Who knows? You might really like it. I know I would.

What are they manifesting? Probably destiny.

Thanks to this selfsame strike, our train to Grenoble had been canceled, and we got to the train station about 30 minutes before the one train we could take was set to leave. We waited patiently in line to buy tickets as the time ticked away, and finally got to an agent 10 minutes before go time. She told me she couldn't sell me a reservation for my train pass because they were all sold out. With the stress of our imminent departure making her frantic, she somehow gave me a 1€50 first class ticket to Lyon, and a 19€ adult 2nd class ticket to Grenoble. As was typical for this trip, no one even checked my ticket on the train, so I kicked myself for shelling out.

Finally, finally, after much durm und strang, we weary travelers two arrived in the promised land of Grenoble, the land woefully lacking in Patrimony according to our dear Arlesian friend. We trudged through the city center to our hosts' apartment. We were enthusiastically greeted by Line (pronounced /leen/) and her husband Gus (pronounced /goose/) as delicious dinner-type odors wafted about our famished heads. Kelly had contacted them through www.couchsurfing.com, and they came very highly recommended. They ushered us into the salon for some wine and port before giving us the best surprise of the trip: the aforementioned delicious odors were from dinner! Dinner we could eat too!

We ate herbes de Provence-y roasted chicken, onions, and tomatoes, with salad and squash au gratin. Cheese course! Fruit for dessert! Heaven. After dinner, Gus poured us shots of Chartreuse, a spirit that gave the color its name. It's made with a secret recipe that is closely guarded by a nearby sect of monks. It's 54% alcohol.

With that, they sent us to bed in our own private apartment (!) on the other side the building, with a bed made of clouds. We were so, so happy.

Coming up: Grenoble, Grenoble, Grenoble! My new favorite city.