Italy

About a month ago I went to Italy for a week and--true to form--documented about half of the trip and then failed to post anything about it. I feel guilty for this.

To make up for my slackness, I am going to post three days worth of personal journal entries about the experience, complete with photos. Enjoy.


Day 1

We left early this morning around 8 am armed with a dysfunctional GPS system and printed out directions from the internet. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that jumping in the car and driving to Italy is an option, but according to Michelin, it is. We left Châtel-de-Neuvre and enjoyed the countryside as it slowly became more mountainous. I counted about 3000 cows, went through four of the cd’s that I burned the day before and started to get restless.

Leaving Chatel-de-Neuvre

Sick of being sick

The past few days have been hellacious. As I've mentioned before, I was sick for the better part of December and January, some strange French illness that could not be identified. In retrospect, it was most likely a cold exaggerated by my hypochondria. In any case, I thought it was all behind me, until I woke up Friday morning with the most intense stomach pains of my life. I was certain I was dying. I tried to sleep through it. I crawled around the apartment. I curled into a ball and apologized to God for every sin I've ever committed. The pain continued. Around 5 a.m., I woke up my significant other and requested an ambulance. Since I was standing up and asking politely, he suggested a mid-afternoon doctor's appointment instead. Oh no. When an American is sick, sound the alarm, call the police, and notify the president. Or perhaps this is just me.

I called in sick to work and tried to muscle through the morning. By 11 a.m., the perpetual pain had left me toute blanche. Go time. We rushed to the doctor and requested an immediate consultation. Luckily, this was possible; Unluckily, the doctor decided to bring out his high-school level English to diagnose me.

So, have you been farting a lot?

No.

Shirt off please.

After a series of equally uncomfortable questions, he told me that I had 'acid of the stomach exaggerated by stress,' charged me 23 euro, and sent me to the pharmacy.  I spent a total of 7 euro on four different medications and spent the rest of the day gradually feeling better. The next day, as suggested by the doctor, I went to the lab to have my blood tested just to confirm that there was nothing serious going on, and it was completely free.

The daily dose

Now I really hate to get political in a time like this, but I am still amazed at how cheap medical treatment is in France. There are about a million and one things that are more difficult to do here, but being healed is not one of them. French people aren't afraid to get sick because they know they won't have to take out a second mortgage to pay the hospital. They know that since they pay taxes to the government, that their health will be taken care of. There is no fine print, no surprises. And they think it's hilarious that I make such a big deal about it.

The truth is, just a few days ago, I received three (overdue) medical bills from the US for three separate appointments, totaling to about $600.00. And I didn't even flinch. Nor did I react when I was charged $400.00 for a face cream from the dermatologist. When I learned that an MRI for my leg would cost $1200.00, I calmly decided to wait until I was 45 and could afford something like that.

I realize that I am a novice on the intricacies of the American health care system, and that there is no simple fix. But what scares me the most is that Americans don't feel like they deserve to be healthy. Like health is something only for the rich; a luxury for those with a house in the suburbs and 2.5 kids. Something that must be earned. I just can't wrap my head around it, nor do I wish to come around to this way of thinking. It is a strange realization that a foreign country I have been living in for 5 months gives me more medical benefits than my own.

Homesickness won't last forever. But in the meantime, there's a Subway across the street.

Thanksgiving in Charleston, SC

Before I left for France I was extremely worried about the holidays. Even though I love to boast about my world travels and fear-nothing outlook on life, I am human. And American. And American humans love to speak English and eat turkey the last Thursday of every November, and then spend all of their money the following black Friday. Why does it have to be black? Anyways, as I expected, I felt several waves of emotion, longing to be home over the past week, but luckily I was too busy to indulge myself in it too much.

Thursday started off early. I took off Thursday and Friday from school (remarkably easy to do by the way) to go to Clermont-Ferrand to validate my visa. But before I could get verified at the prefecture, I had to get a physical. And in order to get the physical, I had to be checked for tuberculosis. Kind of like If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. It would have felt like a frantic scavenger hunt, had I not ran into another English assistant at the doctor's office. Together we discovered that A) we don't have tuberculosis and B) we have no sense of direction. It was fine though, more than fine...fun.

Thanksgiving in Charleston, SC

I had a small Thanksgiving dinner with friends, and it was comforting. Turkey, mashed potatoes, baguette, apple tart and beer...all the things that make me happy. We were speaking French and my family was far away, but the touch of tradition was so wonderful. The next day, I convinced my friend (and guide to all things French) to walk with me to the prefecture for the final step. We had to walk in the cold because there was a transport strike. The validation of the visa was everything I expected it to be. Five minutes in front of a glass partition. A-n-t-i-c-l-i-m-a-c-t-i-c. I was hoping for a round of applause or at least for someone to shake my hand, but I am officially finished with French immigration, and that is something to celebrate...with a new coat, a massage, and a night of drinking and dancing.

I always feel a little bothered by the historical aspects of Thanksgiving, but I love that there is a day set aside to be thankful for the people and blessings in my life. I feel so lucky to have fantastic people in my life all over the world, I am thankful for my health, for this opportunity, for internet access in my apartment, for freedom of speech, for Leonardo Dicaprio. Amen.

To market

Open-air market in Nice, circa 2008

This Saturday morning I dragged myself out of bed to catch the tail-end of the weekly market in the center of town. Living in a small village in central France presents few opportunities for excitement, so I was eager to load up on fresh produce, and see the crowd. The market sells a random assortment of things, what you'd expect: fruits, vegetables, cheese; and what you wouldn't expect: watches, shoes, and rotisserie chickens.

I left my apartment, clothed in black, shopping basket in hand, feeling totally French. I've got this. Five steps away from chez moi and I could already smell the food and the fresh flowers. I walked straight up to a table crowded with blocks of delicious unpasteurized stinky cheese and suddenly I froze. I stared at the toothless vendor and totally blanked. It was 2008 again and I had no idea how to speak to French people. I had the horrifying realization that I didn't know the appropriate vocabulary to buy a portion of cheese, meat, or fish. A pound, half-pound, quarter pound? No, they don't use that here. A kilogram? How much is that? How on earth did I ever earn a college degree?

Flower market in Nice, circa 2008

When I studied abroad in Aix-en-Provence my awesome roommate would wake up at 7 every morning and go to the market to buy bread and fresh produce. I prefered to drink and dance until 7 in the morning and then sleep til noon. (Oh, how the times have changed). Well, at this moment, I was kicking myself for being such a lazy alcoholic and not going with her. If I had, I would have known how to do this.

Since I didn't want to pay for an entire block of cheese, I bought what I knew how to buy. Five apples, a bouquet of flowers, and three tomatoes. Next time, I'll come prepared.

Drinking mid-week

I have a recognizable tendency to involve myself in things I know nothing about. There are two main reasons for this. For one, I'm lazy, and secondly, I enjoy the element of surprise. This is generally how I engage in travel, with loosely set plans and expectations. I prefer for the experience to create itself, rather than accepting the difficult task of creating an experience.

Which brings me to wine. Last night, against my better judgement, I went to celebrate "le Beaujolais Nouveau." My colleagues at the lycee were talking about it all week, and I honestly had no idea what it was. "Sure thing! See you there." All I knew was that le Beaujolais was a wine..so maybe a wine party? A solid excuse to get drunk on a Thursday? Sounds good to me.

So after a long day of classes, I rode with my friend to Vichy, and we met about ten other teachers at a bar called Le Gaulois, just in front of the train station. The bar was packed, and by the time we arrived, every table had several bottles of Beaujolais emptied. We caught up quickly, and I have to admit...the taste wasn't great. The type of wine that tastes smooth at first, and then  bites back as you swallow. I'm no wine snob (maybe two notches above the boxed wine club) but I wasn't too impressed. But the energy was undeniable, it was karaoke meets St. Patty's Day, meets freshman year frat party.

It turns out I wasn't too far off in my assumptions, Le Beaujolais Nouveau is a distinct type of beaujolais wine, made from German grapes grown in the Beaujolais region of France. It is fermented for only a few weeks and then released on the third Thursday of November, creating a surge in sales and public drunkenness. Le Beaujolais is meant for immediate consumption and not for keeping. It is often criticized for it's "simple" taste, but in fact it is supposed to taste "young, fresh, and fruity."

So in short, even though the wine was sub-par and I felt like hell waking up at 6 a.m. this morning, I love the way that France celebrates. Everything from a birthday to the arrival of a new wine is always a grande affair. Maybe it's just an excuse to get drunk, but to me it seems a wonderful way to appreciate life.

I just ate calves' feet.

Of the three days that I spent in Lyon, France, there is so much to say. I could talk about how perfect my travel buddies were, about how we managed to seamlessly transport ourselves around the city. I could talk about our well-priced, clean hotel, the Rhône river, Old Lyon with its cobblestone streets and medieval architecture. I'd like to talk about the Basilique Notre-Dame Fourvière, the extravagant Café des Négociants--where I had the best hot chocolate of my life. I should probably mention the opera house, and the high-end shopping that I couldn't afford, the enormous Parc de la tête d'or, the zoo. However, all that rests in my mind from my trip to Lyon can be summed up in one word: bouchon.

Place de Bellecour

Next to the river, crossing over into Old Lyon

Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière

Inside the Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière

Espresso and hot chocolate at the famous Café des Négociants

Parc de la tête d'or

A bouchon is a typical restaurant of Lyon, and I can tell you first hand that no one in France, perhaps no one in all of Europe eats like this. At a bouchon you eat for hours, and it feels like you are in someones' kitchen. The servers act more like impatient mothers and--if you've found a good one---you will fight for a table, if you get one at all. Although hundreds of restaurants in Lyon claim to be bouchons, there are only twenty "official" ones. I tried to learn how to know if one is official, and the only answers I found were if it said "veritable bouchon" on the front window, and if there were creepy marionette-like dolls below the certification. I went to two restaurants while in Lyon, Chez Mounier and Chabert et fils.

Chez Chabert et Fils...first bouchon experience

Our first night, we  took a look at the menu outside of Chabert et fils to see what the prices were like and had a moment of reproach: "Wait...aren't andouillettes...intestines?" "Pieds du porc?....Pigs feet?!" We walked down the street to find something more...American friendly. But every restaurant was the same. So, when in Rome. We did it up, and I ate things I never thought I'd eat. Here's the summary:

Chabert et fils...aka Night one...aka What the hell am I eating
1. Saladier Lyonnais-museau de boeuf, cocos, harengs, pommes à l'huile, pieds de veau
Translation: Salad of Lyon: cow snout/muzzle, beans, smoked herring, potatoes in oil, jellied calves feet

2. Saucisson chaud pistaché avec cervelle de canut et pommes vapeur
Translation: hot sausauge with pistachios, servet with a creamy cheese sauce and steamed potatoes
*cervelle de canut literally means "the brains of the silk-weaver" because in the 19th century it accompanied every meal for weavers (it's not actually their brains)

3. Le guignol-genoise du rhum, appareil à la creme brulée, cassonade, crème anglaise caramalisé
Translation: rum soaked sponge cake, cooked like creme brulée, with soft brown suger and caramalized crème anglaise.
*If you've never tried crème anglaise, stop reading and go do that right now. 

Chez Mounier...aka Night two...aka...been there, done that.
1. L'assiette des crudités
Translation: vegetable plate (nothing tricky here)

2. Quenelles au homard
Tranlation: a puff pastry served in a rich, creamy lobster sauce, with a side of puréed potatoes and sauteed mushrooms

Needless to say, I left Lyon not hungry. Well, maybe hungry to go back.

Always a little lost, but never completely

It feels strange to post on a Saturday, but yesterday I was so caught up in a flurry of excitement that I couldn't bring myself to sit at the computer and blog about it. Classes wrapped up yesterday at 9 a.m., and I am now on vacation for a week! It feels very undeserved to have a vacation already, but hey--I'll take it. So I went back home and checked my email and found out that my boyfriend bought a ticket to visit me in France! I am ecstatic. He will be here December 14-24, and I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

In further news, I finally have heat in my apartment. This may sound anti-climatic, but I have been absolutely freezing since I arrived. When I told the concierge that my heating is broken, she laughed and said that it will work when it's winter. I envisioned another month of wearing 14 layers of clothes, sniffling, and huddling over a pot of boiling water (yes, I actually did that).

Yesterday I was invited to eat lunch with the professors, and it was so great. I find that I am often a little lost in the conversation of a large group, but never completely. It was a pretty elaborate fete, in my opinion, with fondue, wine, beer, salad, and two mind-blowing desserts (apple tarte and some delcious creamy coconut concoction).

After, I went with my friend Astrid (art teacher at the school) to Vichy for the night. We did some shopping, of course. I have been pretty frugal so far, so I rewarded myself with a beautiful cream-colored boat-neck sweater. Her friend Damien came over for dinner, and we had "un repas typique" consisting of pasta, baguette and yes--wine. Over dinner I dabbled in more complex conversations, Damien practices Tai Chi, so he told me about that, and I talked about my undying dedication to yoga. Then somehow we started talking about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, which required a dictionary. Still, I am becoming more and more comfortable expressing myself and my views in French, and I'm proud of that.

Then we went to see a film, The Artist. It was incredible-- a silent film in black and white. The story commences in 1927 and is more or less about a famous actor fading into oblivion when movies with sound became more popular. It was so well done, I am always impressed by films that can take a simple plot line and make it intricate and complex. We returned to Astrid's apartment, drank a little more, and then, much to my horror, I was given a salsa lesson. Yes, my first lesson of salsa in French.

I fell into an exhausted sleep and for the first time since I arrived, I had dreams in French! Ah, that is the best. That's when you know you're mind is really working hard, when a language drifts into your subconcious. My primary goal is to become fluent in French, and I am working tirelessly at it.

Staying fit abroad

The last time I was in France for an extended period of time (circa 2008) I ate a baguette and/or pastry every day, and drank alcohol every night. I had no idea what a kcal was or how it related to me and I made it my mission to experience French nightlife and recover the next day with carbs. Amazingly enough, I did not gain a lot of weight, but definitely came back feeling less than svelt (is that a word?). You know--clothes not fitting quite right, uncomfortable in a bikini, so on and so forth.

Four years later, my body is less forgiving. So this time around, I promised myself that I would not compromise my health for the experience. I am determined to find a balance, where I can enjoy all the wonderful food and wine here, while maintaining my weight. (Losing weight would be optimal, but lets not get too crazy). I think operation weight maintenance is doable.

So this brings me to my cultural frustration. In Saint Pourcain, people are undoubtedly more active and physical, because it is a more rural area. I've hardly seen anyone smoking, and their are many sports clubs to join. But there really isn't that "work out culture" that I miss in America. I miss keeping work out clothes in my back seat, personal trainers, elipticals, and tread mills. (never thought I'd say that). I suppose I'm very American in the sense that I'll never be satisfied by a long walk for a workout. No, I need to sweat.

 Every Tuesday and Thursday I run with a group for an hour around the town, but I need more than two days of work out to feel like my body is in check. More than anything I miss yoga. So I searched it on iTunes, and voila! A 45-minute practice that is really good! The instructor's voice isn't too annoying, and it really is good for cardio, stretching and relaxation. So my work out goals for my time here is to practice yoga at least three times a week and run with the group twice.

The top five reasons your pants don't fit

Sometimes it is impossible to think about anything other than weight. Seriously, I just watched the news for an hour and all I can think about is the number on the scale, how to get it down, and how to keep it there. As far as weight goes, I consider myself to be a typical American woman. I do (almost) everything right, and consistently fail to get the results that I want. I work out regularly. I don't eat fast food. I count calories. I avoid carbs. And I watch IQ lowering reality TV shows where skinny girls prance around to encourage my efforts.

So why can't I reach my goals? I really want to find a balance where I am living, eating well and maintaining my optimal weight (about 15lbs less than I am now) but it seems no matter how I spin it, the ultimatum remains the same: get big or starve.

One thing I love about traveling is that it gives you the opportunity to explore not only the cuisine of another culture, but also the way people eat. How they weave it into their lives--for celebrations, daily nourishment, for comfort. The last time I was in France, I was fascinated by how thin the women were, but yet they were still eating, and there was no talks of gym memberships, juice cleanses, etc. It just all seemed so moderate, balanced, and appealing. From this standpoint, it seems that if we can make slight edits to our diet and physical activity we may finally get the results we want. Here are five things that could be keeping you from reaching your goal:

1. You drink (maybe) a glass of water a day.

Drinking water is so important for so many reasons. But I am always amazed at how much less food I eat when I am drinking 8 glasses of water a day. If you can't stomach that much tastelessness, flavor your water with lemons, limes, herbs or other fruit.

2. Your breakfast is small. And sugary.

A big breakfast is not for everyone, but it really sets the tone for the rest of your day. I usually do an egg or oatmeal, and sometimes I will whip up a smoothie with ground flax seeds.

3. You eat a meal while cooking a meal.

This is perhaps my grossest habit. Eating while standing up counts. Eating in the dark counts. Eating in the car counts. If you're like me and just can't stand to be around food and not eating it, sip on a cup of tea, a mint or chew gum to avoid eating two dinners every night.

4. The refrigerator is your dining room table.

Fact: Everything tastes better when you're eating it in front of the refrigerator, door wide open, no fork. But again, this is mindless eating that will squash your attempts to lose weight. Try to only eat slowly, sitting down, so you can savor a proper amount.

5. Two words: white flour.

Whenever I hear this I cringe, and with good reason. So many foods (especially when eating out) contain white flour--pizza, bread, croutons, desserts. And they're awesome. But these should be treats- not the basis of our diet. You can get the carbs you need from fruits, vegetables, and whole grains. The more white flour you can eliminate from your diet, the better.

I can't believe I'm eating this!

I had every intention of writing about relevant things today, for instance like my upcoming move to France. But all I can think about is butter. It started out innocent enough, I was making a quesadilla for lunch and found a big ole tub of I can't believe it's not Butter! in the fridge. I'm not a huge fan of food substitutes like this--but went ahead and used it to grease up the pan. I was not prepared for the layer of gelatin that emerged as it heated up...followed by its disintegration into an amber colored ash. Grossed out, I started to read the ingredients (which might as well be in Chinese) and then started to search online for other blogs/sites that have addressed the issue.

To my surprise, most of what I found was praise for this fake food product, people so thrilled that they can now add gobs of calorie-free unmeltable faux butter to their favorite foods. Is this what we have become? And this isn't just butter, I feel like everything is being substituted and chemically altered so that we can feel better about consuming it. But the more synthetic our foods are, the more difficult they are to digest and the more health issues emerge. Sure, you  might lose weight from reducing caloric intake, but it's not good to get so comfortable with all of the fake foods out there. Questions need to be asked. If it's not butter, then what the hell is it?

After attempting to go completely raw last fall, I am weary of the urge to set a challenging dietary goal for myself because it seems like every time I set the bar so high, I fall far beneath it. But one campaign that I think would be both doable and beneficial is that Below Five Diet. This basically means that I will only eat foods that have five or less ingredients on their label. The idea is to quickly figure out how difficult this is, and to start consuming more fruits, vegetables, nuts and seeds, and lean meats..basically paleo. This seems simple enough but becomes significantly more difficult when eating out. Next week I am headed to Florida to visit family, where the food is plenty and the liquor cabinet is always wide open. So we'll see how that goes.

I tend to write about food a lot because first of all, I love it. And second of all I am determined to find a balance, where I am enjoying food and life and staying healthy--without consuming products like fake butter or becoming one of those women who has to create her own menu every time she eats out. You know, the no-gluten absolutely no dairy pescatarians. Does it really have to be so complicated? I am really thankful for other enthusiasts who promote eating balanced, organic, simple foods that taste good.