Berlin or Bust

As beautiful as France is, I couldn't help but be blown away with Germany at Christmas time. Paris in the winter is quite grey, rains often and is overcast not only by clouds but a melancholy induced by a combination of the shitty weather and general Parisian demeanor. Having been here for 4 and a half months, Berlin was a wonderful change of scenery and well worth what it took to get there.

Erika has some not-so-distant family in a charming little village called Garlitz which sits about an hour's drive away from Berlin and consists of 380 people, a church, bakery and I'm told about dozen storks. She had known since she got to Europe that she would be spending her Christmas with her second cousin's family and I was generously invited to join a couple months in advance. In typical fashion, due in part to our tendancy to procrastinate as well as our lack of fluid funds, we waited until the very last minute to buy our train tickets. They were bound to be expensive given the heavy traffic which is a given for that holidy week, and we exhausted many avenues in order to find a more affordable mode of transportation. There are certain factors which make it necessary for me to travel under the radar, so it seemed that the train was the best option. I'll save my faithful readers the boring details and suffice it to say that it cost me about 300€ (which with today's exchange rate translates to $417.69 - about what it cost me for my transatlantic flight from Dayton to Paris) to take the train to Berlin and back. If you're not familiar with standard European train fares, that's rail-way robbery.

Despite the high price tag of the 1 week vacation, I couldn't be happier with how it went. Our hosts were overwhelmingly kind and welcoming, making me feel like one of the family during a holiday which made me miss my own. It was also very refreshing to be in a country of such apparently nice people. Perhaps it's because I've been in Paris, a place not known for its hospitality, that I was so impressed with the public. I couldn't imagine standing on the streets here looking at a map to have a passerby stop his bike to ask me if I needed help - but it happened in Berlin. Also, everything is much cheaper there. In Paris I couldn't expect to fill my stomach at a food stand for less than around 5 or 6 euros, and that's if I find an inexpensive place. In Berlin you can find hearty fast-food (which DOESN'T mean McDonalds) for about 2 euros anywhere you look.

We visited the Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp in Oranienburg, which was as moving an experience as I'd imagined. I was always fascinated when in school we studied World War Two, especially by the details of the holocaust. It was always a leap of reality for me to imagine such horrifying events taking place, but to stand on the very grounds where they did adds a valuable and haunting perspective to my understanding of a time which so greatly impacted the world. I was struck when standing before the long fence that lined the front of the camp. Wrapped in its barbed wire loops it eerily stood behind a meter wide stretch of black rocks neatly arranged and decorated with a small post which warned that stepping on those rocks warranted the guards to shoot immediately. I stood there and wondered how many people must have taken that step to be released from the daily torment of life in the camp. It would have been escape.

The time away from France certainly showed me another side of European life and culture, and for that I'm so glad I went. From the fallen Wall to the Hookah Bars, Berlin has a lot to offer. I hope I get to spend a little more time there before I go back over the pond. Sure there's a lot more of this continent I'd like to see, but it's a town I'd love to see more of.


Tschüss
Alex

Proud to be...

The whole world was watching last Tuesday as the United States elected its next leader. For the entire day, I sat on the couch in Erika's host family's Parisian apartment glued to CNN watching as Wolfman Blitzkrieg covered what was widely recognized as the most important election in recent history. I know that were I stateside for this event, I'd be one of the pavement pounding footsoldiers marching in Barak's name. In Europe, however, there's really no point in doing so for more than just the fact that no one here has a vote to give him, but also because it's near impossible to find anyone who doesn't already know that Obama is the right man for the job. In the past couple of months, anyone who learns that I am American has one question for me right off the bat: "You're voting for Obama, right?" Even if I were a red voter, I certainly wouldn't admit it for fear of buying falafel topped with fresh throat sauce. It's encouraging to see the enthusiasm with which the Europeans support Obama. I was, though, quite nervous as if America had chosen John McCain, I'd have to start telling everyone who asks that I'm Canadian.

The night of the election was particularly exciting in the city. There were a number of bars and restaurants who stayed open all night featuring things from big screen presentations of the CNN coverage to free "Barak O-Bagels" for breakfast. These events were widely and prematurely called "Obama Victory Parties" and it was clear in just walking into these places the sentiment: Barak MUST win! Erika and I found ourselves crammed into a bar called The Lions Pub with approximately double the establishment's maximum capacity. Elbow-to-elbow with a roomful of people whose hearts were pounding just as hard as mine roared in joy when Obama's face was on the screen and countered with hissing and booing when McCain dared to show his ugly mug. It was empowering and supremely exciting. For the first time in a long time, I felt I had a chance to hold my head high as an American.

The next morning's newsstands were plastered with pictures of the new US President Elect and there was an air of relief and great satisfaction everywhere. Worldwide celebrations ensued, including a national holiday in Kenya. The feeling is that he is the man to bring change to the world, and almost seems to be regarded as a god. There's so much necessity for reform right now, and he's become the avatar for change. I will be watching from across the sea as he takes on the most difficult job in the world.

I'm so proud of my country not only for electing the candidate I feel is best, but also for breaking turnout records and showing the world that we can do what it takes when it's really needed. America's got something real to stand tall for now.

to break the silence

The last couple of weeks have been sort of a roller coaster of emotions and worries for Alex and I as we have been getting closer and closer to the end of our three month "tourist stay" in France. After three months, we become illegal aliens and after trying this whole time to get our visas, we've only confirmed that it is impossible to do in France. Donc, il faut retourner aux Etats-Unis. In order for me to get my visa I have already booked my flight home. I'll be landing in Pittsburgh on the 10th of November and then leaving a week later on the 17th. I'm lucky enough that my family is willing and able to advance me the money out of my pay for the round trip ticket. This quick trip home means minus almost two months of pay for me, so if anyone wants to buy me lunch while I'm in America it would be much appreciated. Alex has a different solution but I'll let him disclose that himself as he sees fit.

In other news...

While waiting for the girls to come out of school I decided to buy a diet coke at the bakery. I walked in and said "je voudrais un coca light, une canette" which means " I would like a diet coke, a can" but she must've heard "beignette" instead of "canette" and so I accidentally orderred a doughnut.After paying, I said "merci" and left thinking there are worst things that could happen.

On a seperate occasion, I was in the Latin quater with some friends one night and I decide the best thing to do was get icecream as I've recently rediscovered icecream as the 8th wonder of the world (after being vegan for 6 years). So we find this the-bomb-gelatto-place where they make your icecream cone in the shape of a flower. So I get a mixture of amaretto and cherry and we all sit down to enjoy the good life. Moments later, a man enters covered in white paint holding a hat and a box. I think awesome a street performer is allowed in the icecream shop and sit back waiting for the show to start. The white statue then puts his box down, scoops all the change out of his hat and gets in line to get icecream. I was a bit dissappointed but I guess it was selfish of me to pressume that streetperformers are only good for giving a treat.

21 Means Nothing Over Here

In the United States, turning 21 is a big deal. It's the last real milestone birthday that anyone cares about. Sure, at 35 you're old enough to run for president: PARTY!!! I'm so glad to be in France at this time in my life, although it is slightly unfortunate that my 21st birthday came around in a country wherein I've been old enough to drink in bars for three years. I did, however, make the most of it.

My host famlily was kind enough to allow me Sunday through Tuesday off, my birthday being that Monday right in the middle. Of course, I spent all my allowed time in Paris with Erika. Sunday evening we went to Notre Dame in the 5th arrondissement and took in the sights. It's a great spot; we found falafel for 1€ and some pretty great baklava! The next day, I turned 21... Throughtout my entire life, birthdays have been special to me - especially mine - but this time I couldn't help but notice how normal a day it was. I didn't have my mom waking me up to the tune of the "Happy Birthday Song", I didn't have a party with my friends, I didn't have any of the things birthdays in America usually provide. This didn't bother me, though, as I was afriad that it might, because Erika and I made sure to have a lovely time. We went to Montmartre, an absolutely charming neighborhood featuring the Sacré Coeur church and the Place de Terre, where you'll find countless artists with their paintings and drawings on display while they try to lure you in with offers to recreate your likeness on paper or canvas for a price tailored "just for you". We wandered around and enjoyed a panini and some ice cream to which Erika so kindly treated us, and finally we gave in to one bartering artist who wouldn't take no for an answer. Erika paid the man a relatively modest price (15€) for the sketch he did of me. His original quote was 25€, but it took only a few minutes and my speaking the two words of Russian, his native tongue, that I knew for him to lower it to an amount Erika was willing to pay. There was another artist standing near and when I sat to be sketched, he instructed her to sit as well. She told him several times that she wanted neither to be drawn nor to pay him any money. He insisted she simply sit, and we made it very clear to him that he could draw as he pleased, but we would not be buying anything from him. He drew. When my picture was finished, so was hers. She paid the Russian man who drew me the 15€ we agreed upon, and the other artist handed his creation to us and said "15€". I knew it was coming. I ended up getting in a rather heated argument with him about his scheistiness, and he told me I had no right to decide for her - as though she hadn't told him a dozen times already what she had decided.

That night, Erika and I found a little American owned bar called "The Bottle Shop". We had read it was one of the only places in Paris where you could buy a pitcher of beer. It sounded nice to get a small taste of home. The place was PACKED! There were 20+ people drinking outside as the inside was Standing Room Only. The lady bartender was from Connecticut, the fellow was French. I asked the woman why it was so busy on a Sunday night as I watched her mixing the 100th mint mojito I'd seen ordered, and she told me that it was someone's birthday. I told her that it was, as it happened, my birthday as well, and moreover my 21st. It was cool to have a bartender that knew what that meant back home. Just as I contemplated ordering a mojito, as since everyone was ordering them I figured they must be tasty, I heard her say "I'm going to kill the next person who orders a fucking mojito". I changed my mind. Before I could decide what my next drink would be, the French bartender set down 4 shotglasses and poured whiskey from a bottle with the American flag on the label. A shot for Erika, myself and each of the two bartenders. As we raised our glasses, the Frenchman shouted "God Bless America"!

The lady bartender was awesome. She let me pay for the White Russian I ordered, but not for any of the other drinks. She made two Bloody Marys (one for Erika) which were perfectly spicey as I ordered them "hotter'n hell". When I asked what their top shelf whiskey was, out of hopeful curiosity, she slid me a double Chivas Regal on the rocks. Four free drinks and a pitcher of beer called "Cheap Blonde" (at 13€ a peice, I beg to differ) and with no real tab to speak of, I think I did it right. To make the night all the more memorable, I had the pleasure of vomiting on the metro. Yes, that's right... On the metro. I felt it coming about when the train started moving. There was almost no one on the car, but the one man who was sat right across the isle from Erika and I. While I sat there getting sick on the public transportation, Erika rubbed my back and through helpless laughter kept repeating to me that it was ok, it's the last trip the train would make that night, and that someone would clean it up. She's amazing. She made me feel like it was the right thing to do, to puke on the subway. The man staring at the two of us probably felt differently.

Thanks for reading, and for not judging me.

playing hookie

Today I was two minutes late for my french class which means I can't get into the building. As it is with most buildings here there is a code that you need in order to enter from the street and after that there is a buzzer system to be allowed into the actual building. I, of course, forgot the code (as I've never had to use it yet because when I'm on time there has always been someone else to enter it for me). Writing it down would have been smart. So I waited outside the building to see if anyone would come but I wasn't that lucky and missed my class entirely. Instead, I spent the afternoon walking around. I don't know what the reprecussion will be for missing a class, I can't imagine it will be harsh as I'm paying out the wahzoo for these classes. The worst part will be having to explain in French what happened. I was thinking about lying and telling my teacher that I had to stay home with the a sick child but as lying is challenging enough for me in English I can't how that would work in French.
My walk was nice though. I had heard about a good sports shop to look for rollerblades. I would really like to have a pair I think. But as the cheapest ones are 40€ I will have to save a little everyweek as I'm on a strict 25€ a week budget. In Paris rollerblades are a widely used form of transportation as well as scooters (that is the razor-type, push scooters). It's not uncommon to see a grown woman in business casual soaring down the sidewalk on one of these. As I have had to use one a couple of times when the girls are in a hurry I don't think I can get used to the idea that noone is judging me. I went to the park with Juliet on scooters once and had an absolute blast just riding around in circles but I was comfortable because I had a child with me, alone I would feel pretty silly. So rollerblades it is.
While walking around, at first, one might think there are a lot of small pedigree dogs lost in Paris but then you realize they are indeed accompanied by a human even though they might be thirty some feet apart. I saw a of of this on my walk today as well as with a lot of "caca" on the street. I'm guessing leashes and pooper-scoopers aren't manditory here.
Nevertheless, if you're not too busy watching out for the doggie gifts on the sidewalk, walking around Paris is great for window shopping. Every storefront has a window display and most of the time they include prices of whatever it is they are displaying. Which, to me, is basically a way of saying "don't even think about coming in here". But its nice to pretend I could buy the 300€ dress in the window. Realestate agencies have window displays too and those are the funnest to stop in front of and pick out the perfect 950,000€ apartment (you know, just something modest).
These window displays make sense for a lot of stores but sometimes they seem a bit unnescessary. My favorite is the window display for the plumber around the corner.

Kronenbourg Light Fight

It's important to know how you'd react to getting hit in the face. Until it actually happens, it's impossible to accurately predict your response. Would you hit back? Yell? Run away? What if they were bigger than you were? Smaller? What if you were in a completely unfamiliar environment and didn't even speak the same language as the person who hit you? Until yesterday, I could only have imagined what would happen if I was walking down the street and a complete stranger decided to punch me in the face. Fortunately, I no longer have to imagine.

I was walking on a relatively busy sidewalk in the 12th arrondissement yesterday afternoon laughing with Erika about how we had just clacked our heads together when I brushed shoulders with a man walking the opposite direction. I heard something hit the ground immediately after and realized that in bumping into me, the man had dropped a "Tall Boy" can of Kronenbourg Light. I watched the can fiz itself into an amber puddle and I quickly picked it up and, not knowing what else to do, tried to hand it to the man from whose grip it was loosened. He was a derelict looking fellow, with only two multicolored teeth showing from either corner of his bottom gum. He carried on his back two bookbags, which I doubt were filled with books, and a duffel bag. In his mouth was the lit butt of a brown cigarette which, as he stared with growing anger, removed from his chapped lips and flicked at my shoe. I told him I was sorry, though it wasn't any action of mine alone that caused him to drop his beer, which I was beginning to realize might be the most important item to him out of all those he carried. He began to snarl angry French sentences at me, from which I gathered he expected me to give him two Euros for the booze he could no longer drink. I told him I wasn't going to give him money, though I couldn't explain that it was just as much his fault as it was mine. Even if I had two Euros in my pocket, I doubt I would have given it to him. Just then, I felt the butt of his palm collide with the side of my head, just next to my right eye. I couldn't believe it. My immediate reaction was to simply say "Don't hit me!". Before I could spit that out, he turned around and removed all his things from his back and set them down. He came back in my direction, ready swing. Erika stepped in between us, understanding the necessity of keeping us from fighting, and my heart raced. It was surreal. I hadn't done anything to this man. He dropped his beer after running into me, and all of the sudden I was his mortal enemy. Within seconds, several passersby had stepped in between the man and I while he continued to reach for me. Erika said "let's go, let's just go", and I walked backwards as I watched the ridiculous man yell at the citizens who were keeping us apart until he wasn't in sight anymore.

At first, I was so aghast at how irrational it was for someone to become so irate over something so trivial. What an asshole this man was, hitting someone in the face who was being as polite as possible about what had happened. After a few minutes, I began to pity him. What a sad life it must be to care so much about 16 ounces of beer that you'd start a fight with someone over it spilling on the street. It took awhile for my heart to stop racing. I'd never been hit like that before, not out of anger and certainly not by a stranger. I'm thankful for the people who helped keep us from fighting, nothing good would have come from that. Now I just look like the innocent tourist who got hit by the crazy person and kept his peaceful disposition.

I've always claimed to be a pacifist, and now I have real life experience to prove it. Not that I hope it recurrs, but I am glad it happened. It's a very unique feeling, and it lasted a while.

The rest of the day was spent looking for street markets that we never found. We did, however, run into a Handicap International festival in protest of cluster bombs. We signed the petition, ate some cake and went on our way. Although we never found any markets, we did run into some interesting performers outside the Georges Pompidou Modern Art Museum. A portraiture artist shouted at me as we passed by: "I like his funny hair! Free!" First I get hit in the face, now I'm getting made fun of. Haha. All in a day's traveling, I suppose.

comme ci, comme ça

Bonjour! Je m'appelle Erika.
Alex is also a contributor to this blog.
We both just moved to France.

Before anything I want to make it clear that I appreciate both the United States and France and, for different reasons, they both have a place in my heart.

My recent move to Paris has made me miss a few things about Ohio: business hours, shaking hands, free water, intersections, clean air, buildings smaller than 5 stories, and the lack of openly crazy people. This last one I might be wrong about. It is possible that these so-called "crazy" people are quite well adjusted indiviuals who either murmur or shout to themselves about their productive day: an upcoming meeting, an unsucessful trip to the bank that was closed when it should've been open, going over the items they bought from the grocery store etc... I have to admit my french is not adequate enough to decifer the exact topics. I can just remark on their slightly strange choice of tone and volume. I'm sure there are similar such people in America, but as the largest city I've ever lived in was Dayton, Ohio, I haven't been exposed to very many of them.

I have been in Paris for almost a month now and, as it had been the only time in my life I have seriously considerred "blogging", I would say I'm glad I came. I'm "une jeune fille au pair" which means "au pair" in English, or a sort of nanny. I live in a room rented by my host family on the seventh floor (which is eight american floors- no elevator). The room is very small and I wouldn't say I do much living there, more sleeping than anything. The family's apartment is in the same building and here is where I watch the kids and spend a lot of my time. The "kids" consist of two girls, Emilie and Juliette, ages 6 and 8. They can be quite wondeful and they can be other things too. Their parents, Guillaume and Catherine are very kind and, overall, I feel quite lucky to be a part of this family.

I'll leave you with a french word, don't ask me how to pronounce it:

accueil : noun M 1 welcome 2 reception desk
*If you go to a French website this word is helpful as it's also what they call the homepage.