Coffee coffee everywhere...

I have come across a very serious oversight in the French style de vivre.   At first I was enthralled by the sheer density of cafés in Toulouse:  if there is a Starbucks on every corner in the states, there are 3 or 4 cafés fighting it out for that corner plot over here.  But I quickly became disenchanted when I realized the serious lack of internet access at these cafés.  I realize it is so American and so generation whatever-they-call-us-these-days to whine about not being able to check my email and drink coffee at the same time.  But this in fact is one of my greatest enjoyments taken from college days, not to mention I find it much more stimulating when working to be sipping a warm drink in a noisy cafe than to be sitting in a cold, sniffly library.


Today I felt a strong yearning to take the 5 minute walk to the end of Spring Street for a mocha and unlimited wifi-inspired productivity-- and of course the chance to run into most of my college friends.  I am beginning to do some work in hopes of having a plan for next year... the details of which are still fuzzy and thus will not yet be revealed.  So instead of taking the bus down to the city center to work in internet-ready McDonalds (the thought instantly depresses me), I decided to create my own little café chez moi.  I've got my chicoree instant coffee, my dry cereal snack, my computer and hey-- let's even add in a little itunes radio.  I admit it's a poor man's coffee shop, but it's the closest I'll come right now, and a far sight better than working in my room in silence.  Even if I were to find a café with wireless in the coffee labyrinth that is Toulouse, I would feel like an alien sitting there with my computer-- not French chic.  Oh Tunnel City, how I miss thee.


Clearly since I've created this coffee shop atmosphere I've not in fact been very productive, having spent the past 30 minutes switching between this blog and facebook.  Maybe my coffee shop theory of productivity isn't quite right-- though it got me through 4 years of college papers just fine.


When people are far from home, they are always talking about what they miss the most (besides people, as missing family/friends is a given).  For example, it is fairly well-known that other countries, France among them, don't have the same affinity for peanut butter that we North Americans do... because yes, Canadians love it too.  To get a normal-sized jar of peanut butter in France you are looking at upwards of 7 or 8 euros, so it's a luxury in which I have yet to indulge.  I would like to eat peanut butter, but I don't miss it per-say.  When I studied here in 2008 I distinctly remember having one and only one food craving from back home, and it was for a turkey sandwich on ciabatta with honey mustard dressing from the student center at Williams.  This year it is large, sugary coffee drinks mixed with written composition.  But I guess what do you expect when you are living in the food capital of ... the world?


The longer I live in France, the more I realize the similarities between our two countries.  You can get almost anything here that you can get in the US-- it just might be a little different or more expensive.  I can't deny saying every once in a while "Well in America, we have..." but the reality is there is very little that I consistently miss.  Seems like I made my parents and Ken take me to each and every one of my favorite restaurants before leaving for naught.


On the other hand, there are things I anticipate missing when I come home from France.  I plan on living for the majority of my adult life in the US, if for no other reason than the Starbucks with wifi (I kid).  But right now I can't imagine not being able to get a fresh baguette every day.  Or unpasturised cheese  (infinitely more delicious) or nutella for 2 euros.  Or wine for 2 euros for that matter.  


This is just how it goes I guess... you adapt.  Last time I went home I missed the bread and cheese.  But then I had my first Paresky sandwich and all was right in the world again.  And all of this has been a semi-coherent rant on food.  But Food is such a big part of my experience here, how can I not talk about it?  I hope that, if nothing else, I bring home with me from France a better appreciation for good food, and a better knowledge of how to cook it.  For now I am looking forward to Christmastime with my family, and you better believe there will be good food there.  Especially fudge.  Oh and don't forget the Berkshire Crossings Plaza, home to not one, but TWO fully-stocked Starbucks.  And Tunnel City just up the road...

The First France-Giving

It's here... Christmas season! It seems like just yesterday when I was explaining to glassy-eyed lyceens how and why Americans carve jack-o-lanterns. Now, before I know it, similar exhaustion-enducing lessons on how to make pumpkin pie (anyone else starting to sense an orange citrus theme in our holidays?) have also come and gone. And so it is officially my favorite time of year-- pre-Christmastime! Happily, Christmas is an international holiday, so I am not obligated to talk about cheesy American rituals-- which I admittedly love-- while feeling like the least cool 23-year-old in France. On Wednesday I will open door #25 on the advent calendar card my mom recently sent me. Seriously, where does she find these things? Will I develop this radar for random stuff when I become a mom? I sure hope so because it made my day when I dug it out of my usually empty mailbox [ Kristen Milano, 30 rue des Bouches-du-Rhone, 31500 Toulouse FRANCE... hint hint].

Thanksgiving was not my favorite of holidays for most of my childhood. Call it the curse of the oldest grandchild. But it slowly grew on me until it engaged in an as-yet unfinished battle with Halloween for second place in my preferred holiday line-up. This year I had my first ex-patriot Thanksgiving with 10 Americans and a few Spaniards and Frenchies mixed in. Thanks to valiant efforts of Lauren and Bonnie-- by that I mean their willingness to relentlessly heckle a butcher-- we had a whole turkey, which is next to impossible here. We ate all the traditional stuff: mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans almandine, stuffing, apple compote, creamed spinach, a lovely can-shaped cranberry sauce glob by which many were amazed, cider, lots of wine, and of course pumpkin pie-- three of them! We also had some new dishes, because how would it be an Ex-Pat holiday without adventure? I ate plantains (delish!), tortilla with potatoes, and an amazing deep-fried dessert made by Alberto; I don't know the name but they looked like beignets (french doughnuts). My only personal disappoint of the meal was my absolute failure at making a chocolate pie, the recipe for which I found on an apparently unreliable website. I have now officially learned the "never trust information on the internet" lesson our parents' generation keeps trying to instill in us. We ended up eating the pie as mousse-- and all's well that ends well. Here's our overflowing Table of Thanks:

I realize now how much I like the way Thanksgiving clearly marks the beginning of the Christmas season. In America, Christmas smacks you across the face with a candy cane. Starting that last Friday in November all the stores are playing holiday music and decked out in red, white, and green. Here it's a gradual transition. I don't hate it, but my heart did do a somersault when I saw a festive lamppost decoration lit up on my way home from work today. Now I am cuddled up chez moi, listening to a slightly bizarre Christmas music station on itunes radio... the song on now is a version of "Little Drummer Boy" by Lauryn Hill and Rosie O'Donnell... am I wrong to think that's a strange collaboration? Now it's switched to a horrible cover of "Last Christmas". Who on earth thinks they can sing it better than WHAM? In an ode to the Chingachgook JBU, here is my improv Last Christmas verse :

Last Christmas I lived in Lake George

But the lake was too cold, to swim and to play

This year, to save me from cold

I'll travel Southern Europe

With just over two weeks until I head back across the Atlantic to celebrate the holidays, I am trying to live French life to the fullest before true winter strikes. Yesterday I forced myself up before 11am, a rarity on Sundays, and rode my bike to an open-air market. I got my week's veggies and fruits, as well as a treat of candied strawberries mmm! Then Brittany and I grabbed a noon-time beer/coffee. It's liberating to live in a country that doesn't judge you for having a drink at lunchtime on Sunday. Then again, if it weren't for those uptight Puritans we might never have Thanksgiving, my tied-for-second-favorite-holiday, to start off the Christmas season right... not to mention I'd be distraught without that pumpkin pie.

Chingachgook's European Vacation

Recently I discovered that my beloved digital camera is dying a slow, overexposed death. The bad news is that this is happening a month before I have a chance to go home and get a new one (with converters, the exchange rate, and "techy lingo" that I can't speak in French any better than English, there is no way I'd buy one here). But the good news is 3-fold:

1. Said camera is not, truth be told, very dear to me. In fact it's not surprising it's dying, as I've treated it pretty badly over our two years together. I blame my frustration at it's low quality performance.

2. I discovered the terminal malfunction on the very last day of my 2-week vacation in England and Southern France with my amazing boyfriend. Although he was not able to revive the camera any better than I could, I had a good couple 100 shots of our vaca already!

3. My next trip home is conveniently during Christmas....

In an ode to my camera, I think I'll share about my vacation, complete with pictures.

I met up with Ken and our Camp Chingachgook brit Dan in Nottingham, where Dan's family was nice enough to let us stay with them. They had 2 adorable and pudgy little jack russell terriers! This of course set Ken and I off on getting a dog... which I really want to do but cannot right now for obvious reasons. Dan took us to Sherwood Forrest, the home of Robin Hood. Not only did we see the Major Oak, the biggest tree ever to be held together with metal bars, but we also learned everything you could ever want to know about Robin Hood through the amazing talking museum exhibit (I was really excited that museums are all free in England!). The exhibit may have been geared toward a slightly younger set, but we thoroughly appreciated the narration, especially Friar Tuck: "I take care of spiritual life for the merry men. I like good spirits... and good food." The next day, we went to York, which is a town with mediaeval vestiges. Ken and I discovered the real secret of York though- it is home to Diagon Alley, as seen below:

Dan made sure that we tasted all of England's culinary traditions as well. Above, Ken is enjoying a cream tea at Ruffert, an abby near Sherwood Forest. Perhaps the most impressive thing about our time North of London is that we were able, between all our adventures, to fit in screenings of BOTH Paranormal Activity movies. Trip = Success

On Wednesday Ken and I took a bus back to London, planning to leave for Toulouse the next day. In an interesting turn of events (greves+easyjet+kristenbeingreeeallystupid) we had to stay in London until Sunday morning. I know, it's a hard life. We used our extra time to see everything there is to see for free in London. One prescient memory is our 30 minute wait to get into the Museum of Natural History, 30 more minute wait to get into the dinosaur exhibit, and subsequent discovery that the exhibit was popular because of a life-sized, automated T-Rex that roars at you while a museum docent says "please keep the line moving". We agreed that the most interesting thing we saw in the museum was a giant tree sliver... well besides the T-Rex, which actually was pretty frightening. Another favorite moment was Ken receiving a love bite from a swan in Kensington Gardens. This was quickly followed by me running away and yelling "Come on! Come on! The birds are landing on people..."

When we finally arrived in Toulouse on Sunday, we were exhausted, hungry, and a whole lot closer to broke than a week before. We decided to take it easy during the week, but I loved every minute. We went to Carcassone, where I was guilted into buying 8 euro tea by a sneaky shop owner and Ken insisted on walking ALL the way around the ancient fortress and looking into EVERY alcove and wrought-iron door, saying "I wish we could get in!" and rattling it sufficiently. We finished out the week with a trip to Narbonne, a small city on the mediterranean that isn't known for much other than a cool unfinished cathedral and the remains of the Via something-or-other, a road from ancient Roman times that connects Rome all the way to Spain. This made me a little nostalgic for high school latin.... in pictura est puella, nomine Flavia. This sentence and "via" is about all I recall. I was more for the undead languages. Anyway... in Narbonne Ken and I saw a rugby match, complete with cheerleaders, mascot, and horrible team colors. Narbonne beat Lyon in a big upset, and I enjoyed watching the Narbonne cat mascot wave his tiny arms, which he could neither bend nor put by his sides, in joy. We finished off the evening with a whole pizza between the two of us. (Pictures forthcoming)

A night's sleep, a few museums, and a church later... and Ken was leaving to begin his 2-day journey home. And all I had to remember his visit by were an inordinate number of photos and a dying camera. Nevertheless, I'd say it was a successful first journey to Europe for him, a great first trip to the UK for me, and a much needed vacation together for the bothof us. It wasn't until he came that I realized that between me leaving for France and our crazy summer at camp, we hadn't spent more than 24 consecutive hours of quality time together since the spring! Now that I have less than a month left until Christmas vacation, I am trying to balance my enjoyment of being in France with my impatience to see Ken and my family (including Ellie, whom I haven't seen since August!) in December.

Room and Board

So admittedly I have not been keeping up with writing very well over the past month. Last night I was talking about the differences between college and "the real world" of young adulthood with a good friend from home, and she told me that in college she was constantly busy and worried about finals, papers, you name it. But now, she said, she isn't busy in the same way, but there are many different pieces of her life that she needs to think about all the time. Rent, insurance, bosses. These little things don't loom in the way that 25-page paper does, but they never seem to stop buzzing inyour ear. Add to her synopsis immigration papers and a language barrier, and you've got an assistant's life in Toulouse. All of this was my lengthy way of saying that for my first month here I've had to spend my ample free time concentrating on irritating details like getting my atm card (which took, I kid you not, more than 7 visits to my bank) rather than doing fun things like blogging and writing postcards and letters.

But here I have arrived! On the other side of the paperwork inferno... or as much so as I can be. I am living in a house in a residential neighborhood about 10 minutes from the city center by bus. It's a duplex, so we share one paper-thin wall with our neighbors (still haven't met them!). My housemate, or colocataire en francais, is a 22 year old french guy named Brendan. His girlfriend is also here 90% of the time. I like both of them a lot, and the don't speak english very well so I get to practice my French all the time. Here's my room below: it's simple but has a nice big bed. I'm working on the decor!

I have already met Brendan's family and been to dinner at his mom's house. She hosts foreign students often (currently they're hosting a student from New York) so their family is used to helping foreigners out, and probably also to understanding weird accents. They've told me that my accent is only slight and they wouldn't have known I was a native english speaker unless I told them! This is probably the best compliment I've received in France.

Tonight we had an 'extended' family dinner at our house, of which the participants were myself, Brendan, his girlfriend, his mom Marie Pierre, 13-year-old brother Alerie, and this other teenage boy whose association with the family I am still not quite sure of (these are the kind of misunderstandings I have learned to accept with the language/culture gap).

It was kind of potluck-- everyone preparing something or other. I made the entree, which I was extremely nervous about. I should clarify that "entree" means "appetizer" or "first course" in French, not "main dish" as it does in America. This makes a lot more sense, since it comes from entrer (enter)... aka to enter into the meal. Of course us dumb Americans appropriated the word incorrectly. In any case, not being a culinary genius, I first looked up "french appetizers" online. What I found was a bunch of recipes for cheese manipulated in some way or other. Here's another fun fact: the French never eat cheese before the meal. Cheese comes only after. So I ditched the anglo-style recipes and went with a simple spinach salad with apples and roasted walnuts. Not gourmet, but I thought it was pretty good!

It's such a fun experience to eat with the French. I like that they eat in courses. Meals aren't necessarily complicated; for example tonight we had my salad and a simple lasagna, with apple tart for dessert. But by serving the salad and waiting until everyone had had their fill of that before moving on to the lasagna, the meal lasted longer and we had more conversation.

As for me, I am slowly relearning how to cook for myself. I did some cooking last fall, but since living at camp I've really fallen out of the habit. Here in Toulouse I have no gargantuan kitchen to attend to my food needs (thank goodness... I couldn't take one more bite of summer camp food). So I am taking baby steps around the kitchen, getting bolder with my meats and recipes, and painstakingly stocking my cupboards with oils and spices. Not to mention trying every cheese France has to offer! I hope to soon write an entire entry about cheese. Ah the culinary joys of life abroad.... Bon appetite!

Grève's the Word

grève /gʀɛv/feminine noun(cessation du travail) strike

This morning I got up as usual, got ready for my first full day of classes, and walked down the street to the bus stop. I hadn't been waiting three minutes when a kindly french woman took it upon herself to tell the clueless foreigner that there were no buses this morning. Strikers had blocked the bus depots. Feeling helpless and uninformed, I made my way back home to call the high school to inform them I wouldn't be in this morning.

For the past week, the "grève" has been the only thing on anyone's mind here in France. We hear about those crazy Europeans and their strikes in the US all the time, but I was under the naive impression that they only lasted one or 2 days. When I was studying here in 2008 I had the chance to observe only one small strike-- that of the taxi drivers of Toulouse-- and being a poor student I had no reason to use cabs anyway.

So this week has been a new experience for me. It is certainly different to live in a country whose tradition of strikes and protests bring daily business and the national economy almost to a halt. Seeing police in riot gear and blocked streets has become the norm. Buses are being stopped, students are trying to block entrance to schools (including mine), and apparently car fuel is running out.

The French are striking against the passing of a retirement reform bill, which will push the retirement age back from 60 to 62 and prevent people from touching their pensions until that age. As my contact teacher at my school explained it to me, France is having similar problems as the US regarding social security and baby boomers; thus the reform. The bill will be voted on Wednesday. I have no idea if the strikes will continue afterward if it is passed and people are unhappy. I hope not-- I'm starting to get nervous for my flight Saturday to England to see Ken, Dan and hopefully Richy.

For now, the buses have just been unblocked. I will make a hopefully successful journey to my school this afternoon. I know I haven't fully talked about my life here in France yet-- I'm out of the hotel finally!!-- but more will be coming very soon. For those that read french, here is an article on the grève specifically in Toulouse. A tout suite!

What They Don't Tell You About Being a Starving Artist

Here I am. La France! La vie est belle non?

I may not actually be a starving artist, but one of my major goals while here in France is to take advantage of my laid-back work schedule to write as much as possible. In my head I pictured this: me, in aviators and a really trendy scarf, sitting at a tiny table at Café des Artistes overlooking the Garonne, writing freehand. Maybe there would be an accordion player in the background... I mean it could happen.

What I've been realizing lately is that being a starving, expatriated "assistant de langue," while often charmed, is not quite the life of leisure I'd expected.

Let's start with housing. I've been living for the past week in Hotel F1 Toulouse Ramonville. Wikipedia it. I dare you. The hotel itself is quite good, considering the price is comparable to the hostel in Toulouse (which has bed bugs). However, HF1-- as I shall refer to it-- is at the very end of the metro, and one must walk down a highway, yes highway, and on a dirt path that goes under a bridge by the canal, yes bridge by the canal, to reach HF1. There is a Buffalo Grill next to HF1; even with my basic familiarity with French culture, I knew immediately that this did not speak well of the neighborhood.

I've spent the last 7 days looking for housing in any way imaginable. The upside is that I got over the whole language barrier thing immediately because I had no choice. I have made about 50 phone calls and emails, walked the city until my feet blistered and I had to buy 4 euro "Hello Kitty" bandaids (that's the price of a meal!) and found my way to more than a few addresses not recognized on google maps. It's all been an adventure, but a time- and energy-consuming one!

All in all, I have not had the time to write a postcard much less work on my fiction. I believe I have now found a place to live, the existential equivalent of a crane lifting the anvil off of Wiley E. Coyote, but the red tape still stretches on for miles. Who knew being à l'étranger would require so much danged paperwork!? Okay, I did know, but until now I was in denial.

Must get to sleep. Thursday Toulouse is calling my name and I'll be hanged if I let those Hello Kitty band aids go to waste. Until a more verbose post-housing search time in my life.... Ciao! (French people say it too)

Ants in the Pants, Bugs in the Bed

With my impending (temporary) expatriation drawing near, I have been meaning to make another blog entry as a "bon voyage" of sorts. Last week I would almost sit down to do it and then catch myself and decide to wait until just a day or two before departure so as to fully tap into my anxious and excited feelings. Now that I am living those last days, I can confirm expected emotional turmoil-- especially the former of the two emotions.

I entered this past weekend as calm as could be expected. I had my packing list, my visa in hand, and a 3-night reservation at a hostel in Toulouse. Life was good, if in a nervy, jumpy kind of way. My best friend brought her new boyfriend home from New Haven, so Ken and I spent Saturday evening with them, mostly reveling in 'embarrassing and hilarious things Nicole and Kristen did as children'. I got to say goodbye to another good friend who was in town that day as well.

Sunday, Ken and I searched far and wide and eventually found a great apple orchard. We spent the better part of an hour taking pictures of each other climbing rickety-looking ladders and picking the absolute biggest, roundest, most perfect apples we could find. The cider doughnuts weren't bad either! Making apple crisp wasn't even so much a decision as an instinctual reaction to this day.

It wasn't until Ken left at 9pm tonight that I forced myself to face the uncomfortable, itchy facts of my upcoming journey. At some point during the weekend I received an email from a language assistant who'd just arrived in France. The message was short and not so sweet: my hostel has bed bugs. Bad.

As a summer camp person, I am well aware of how much damage bed bugs can do. And there is no way I am getting them my first night in France. However, I have been given absolutely zero accommodation advice by the people I work for. "Communication" is not a strength of the French. So, in between my goodbyes and reunions this weekend, I have been frantically searching the internet. I spent tonight clicking away on every possible Expedia link and Trip Advisor review for the greater Toulouse region. My mother was forsaking sleep to make detailed index-card notes on every hotel in the area while my father would walk into my room every 5 minutes for an update. It was about as close to a madhouse as I've ever seen a house of only 3 people get. It wasn't until just before midnight that I found an extreme budget hotel (think Easyjet in hotel format) kinda sorta close to where I want to be. I booked along with 3 other girls from my program.

Right now, sitting on my comfy bed under my cozy comforter, I physically feel some of my stress leaving me. I am an anxious person, and this bed bug fiasco hasn't done much to help matters. In many ways, these pre-departure days are the toughest part about leaving, so I'm positive about my travel and finding good housing. I have 36 more hours to ready myself. I will be so ready! Ah-- now to watch an episode of How I Met Your Mother and sleep for longer than I have in the past 2 worried nights combined.

Wish me luck! And skype me: kristen.milano !

Time to Get Crazy

If there is one thing I've perfected over years of mounting responsibilities, it is my mind's on/off switch. I've become adept at leaving certain areas of my memory dark and shrouded until one day, voila!, the light goes on and the entire issue is so garishly bright it's all I can think about.

Thirty-six hours ago, I was sitting in a cramped waiting room with whitewashed walls accented by the occasional travel poster, "Versailles," "Arc de triomphe". I wasn't waiting to hear critical test results, but rather to hand in documents for my French visa. As I have a government job (teaching English) and I seem pretty innocent as a citizen, this visa is as straightforward as they come. Even so I was visibly shaking. Because this was the moment that light inside, that one that illuminates a huge banner screaming You better get ready, you're going to France soon! belatedly clicked on.

I applied over 8 months ago to the program and was accepted in early April, and sure I surfed some informational websites, sent in my necessary documents. But there would be plenty of time to ready myself in the future, right? So I didn't worry about it. Summer came with all its hysteria and hilarity on Lake George. Working an average of 15 hours a day didn't afford me time to take care of anything beyond the most basic needs of my life outside of camp. So my trip sat, like an unturned stone, so deep inside that I had no idea I even needed to dig it up. But in this waiting room, listening to a self-employed Iranian American argue her way into several business visas, I quickly digested that in 30 days I would be hopping a plane to Paris (via Iceland...) ready or not.

Excited? Ecstatic? Anticipating? Check for all three. Ready? Not.

So now comes the scramble. Insurance, luggage, travel plans, and most of all housing. That's right, I depart from Logan Int'l in barely one month and I have no idea where I will be living in Toulouse. I spent the better part of today emailing, messaging, and surfing. Thus far I've come up blank. I implore anyone who has contacts in Toulouse or any suggestions on the French housing sitch to email me! kristen.d.milano@gmail.com.

Even as all my latent worries come to a boil, I know this must be a good year. How can it not? My sister just (as in 4 hours ago) arrived at some beautiful and isolated island off the coast of Australia to begin her semester abroad. My boyfriend is currently buying a plane ticket to England for his first trip overseas. And I am going back to Toulouse, my favorite and quite possibly the most adorable city in the world, and meeting up with said boyfriend for a fall tour de l'Angleterre hosted by some amazing camp friends. All that's needed to perfect the situation is a downtown, furnished french apartment for a couple hundred euros a month.

Above, below: view of the Garonne river in Toulouse, day and night