Walking through winter

(First, this is not a poem, just a new format.)

Let's back up to a time where I learned to get along with snow, and even play nicely.

The first snow came at night.

And I woke up to this.

I went outside to my favorite local hike, and walked through this.

I rediscovered all the same hills I had climbed when it was summer and fall.

It felt like a completely different place with all kinds of new magic.

We took the return path downtown, only to discover they had put up lights and opened the Christmas market.

Winter in France.

 When I discovered hot, spiced wine for the first time.

Frozen from my hike with snow lightly falling

clothes drenched and hair tangled, 

a woman singing and dancing and playing an accordian in the background,

that was cool, and never had I had a more satisfying beverage.

Winter!!

Where I squeeled with delight at all the little wooden Christmas booths

selling hand-made goods, jewelry, pottery,

homemade jams and other foods,

toys and other knick knacks that you don't really need.

Vendors frying sausages and others grilling waffles,

the air was so thick with smells it's a memory in itself.

So much maaaaagic.

--

Let's move onto the Festival of Lights in Lyon.

Where I learned that even a winter coat might not be enough.

Walking through the streets to and from each spectacle.

A slightly-gaudy/awkward fountain that lit up and made sounds you might hear in the woods...

A very cool 3D show on a big old building.

 The face contorted in all sorts of goofy ways to equally goofy music.

Crossing the bridge to go back to our friends' place for the evening.

Waking up to a slightly gray, chilly day. Let's walk around anyway!

A view of Lyon from the top of the city.

The Bastille... 

Not much to say because I can't remember much about it,

but it was pretty.

--

Let's take a trip to a slightly smaller town - Ornans.

A tiny village nestled between cozy little hills with the characteristic river cutting through it.

We'll start our tour by crossing the tiny bridge toward the town's church.

We'll stop and enjoy the fantastic view of houses on water.

Found the path - let's climb the hill.

Time to sit down on a snow-covered bench and enjoy a mug of hot tea while taking in the view.

A close-up of the town "center"

And of course, you can go hardly anywhere without the Virgin Mary being there to greet you

(seriously, she's on the top of an extraordinary number of hills, homes, etc)

Love and miss you all,

Katie

Nancy tastes so good.

I can't wait to remember this.

I'm surrounded by all sorts of dead, stuffed things. Ducks, what appears to be a wolverine, some other birds, and more. Everything is in shades of brown and all is cast in a soft, golden light coming from an assortment of lights and lamps that look to have all at one point belonged in a log cabin. I feel so at home.

I'm in a restaurant that seems to have escaped the tourist trail. It's large and warm and full of loud, laughing families and friends from the area. It looks like nothing special from the outside, but I am about to have quite possibly one of the most peaceful and satisfying evenings of my life.

Our server is by no means a patient woman. Nor does she really feel all that much like a server as much as a stern, yet kindly grandmother, who obviously knows best for you. We ask which two of several plates she would recommend, and with a hand on her impatient hip and a roll of the eyes, the obvious answer is to just order them all. Duh.

We eventually opt for just one each. Not too long after, a huge plate is set before me. At first glance, you think it's some kind of pizza, but it is so, so much more. All sorts of cheeses and sauces and meats that I don't know the name of, but it doesn't matter at this point. The entire table is then taken over by the second dish, almost frightening you with its enormity with it's small mountain of ham and a field of potatoes. We are excited if not a bit intimidated by this meal.

The next hour that passes is one of the best I can remember. I barely remember any of the conversation (there was one, wasn't there?) just a blurry, seemingly never-ending series of wonderfully delicious moments that I will never be able to accurately describe here - it's better if you just go and eat there for yourself to understand.

Every now and again, you feel like something is going to last forever. You get so caught up in a moment that you forget about time completely. I wouldn't have expected one of the moments for me to be sharing a meal, but you don't question feeling infinite. You just go with it.

Eternities later, we do somehow finish the meal and are on the brink of coming back to reality, when who other than the chef bursts out of the kitchen in his great, 2-foot-tall chef hat, playing an accordian. He proceeds to sway and shuffle and swing all around the cozy restaurant, going from table to table serenading families and friends and babies and even the servers. He sings songs that I don't understand, but it doesn't matter. I just feel full of a happiness (and a good meal) that I know I will never be able to relive or accurately retell, and so I just enjoy and absorb the moments the best I can as they pass.

He ends with a lively song that's got everyone clapping and singing along, and with a loud "Yee-hee-hee!" he ends on a goofy note and takes a bow. Everyone claps and I'm just beyond words at this point, when he shuffles over to a baby in a high chair and starts right back up again. Guess nobody's getting their dessert for a while!

--

If this memory is reds and golds and blues and greens, the rest of the weekend was grays and blacks and the shades in between. That's not to say it wasn't good, but compared to the sheer life that we experienced in that restaurant, the rest can hardly compare.

Nancy was gray, not just in weather but in people. For some reason, nobody seemed happy in the least. So many people walked everywhere with such a drag in their step, it made you wonder if they were all upset about the same thing. It was just so obvious when walking down the street. We saw very few smiles or excitement or really any kind of real energy at all. Perhaps they all need to learn about the restaurant we ate at to spice up their lives a bit.

At least there was lots of Art Nouveau to seek out and see. We started our tour here, at the Place Stanlais:

Where everything was a nice shade of gaudy gold:

With a little help from a guide book and brochures, we found the following (and many more) Art Nouveau buildings / art (which sprang up around the end of the 19th / beginning of the 20th century). Nancy is the Art Nouveau capital in France.

We checked out the Museum of Fine Arts and it was the first time I think I've ever thoroughly enjoyed an art museum visit. I don't understand art in general, but I was a huge fan of this place, and of Art Nouveau.

It was quite cold the most of the weekend, but we bundled up and were constantly on the move and enjoyed our stay in this sad, gray-with-gold-edges city as much as one can enjoy a gray-with-gold-edges city.

Me at the Porte de la Craffe (1336)

Love,
Katie

Nancy

The train arrives in the rudest way it can. I'm old and I've been through a lot, it seems to say, and I will screech the hearing right out of your ears if I feel like it. So, with faces still scrunched up from the terrible shrieks of the brakes, we board the ancient train whose sad, yellow exterior gives it the air of a large, tired twinkie.

We have apparently boarded the train that is on it's way to 1928. I take a seat and a deep breath, which comes out in a giant puff of frosty air, which is a nice way of learning you're in for a chilly ride. There are worse ways to start an adventure.

Alberto and I are off to Nancy, a few hours north of Besancon. He wanted to see some "Art Nouveau" and I just wanted adventure, so that was that.


View Nancy in a larger map


Frankly, I'm tickled pink by this sad little train, with its equally pooped-out, faded purple curtains that look exhausted from endless years of hanging around, and the depressed-looking seats that appear to have forgotten what color they are, resulting in a confused yellow-orange-gray.

I wonder what's in Nancy anyway?

Love,
Katie

words words words

Perhaps it's a sign I should give it a break when two pens run out of ink in the same day.

My life is so many words this year. French words, blog words, journal words, Spanish words, letter words, sticky note words, list words, song words, English words. I had no idea I had such a huge crush on words. Who knew I had so much to say?

If desks could talk...

Well. Perhaps it's more that I'm enjoying all the different ways you can say things instead of actually having anything to say.

Today I got my second haircut in France. It's really a rather terrifying experience. Even after being trained by Loic on how to say "layers" and "side-part," I show up and more or less forget the entire French language, but it turned out alright again. Still got hair at least.

Okay. I just can't resist telling you all about The Orange Woman.

Just as I was about to leave the hair salon, a little old lady hobbles in like she owns the place, and I can't help admire how confident she is as she throws her bag on the hair stylist's work station like it's her kitchen counter, hangs up her coat in the armoire and puts on the little robes they use here, and goes and sits herself down at the hair-washing station like she's ready to kick back and take a nap in her lazy boy. The hairdresser is not phased and I imagine she's in here quite frequently.

Oh yea. Did I mention her hair was flaming orange? And that she doesn't have much of it? It's astonishingly bright and alive, you almost want to run over with a bucket of water to put out the little fire, but no wait, that's her hair. Cool.

It gets better. So, so much better.

She was wearing a bright orange coat, with a bright orange scarf of several shades of orange, and when she took it off she was wearing a striped...yes, it's shocking...orange sweater. And so obviously it only makes sense to be wearing bright orange blush and deep sea blue eyeshadow.

Ohhhh how happy this made me. She must be over 80 and simply exudes sassiness.

New role model!

I just realized I have less than 10 weeks left until I'm finished with work, 2 of which are vacation at the end of this month.

...

What??

Wow.

...

I'm going to try and find side jobs tutoring and babysitting to last me through the summer.

By the way, for my 23rd birthday, write me letters!

Katie COLPAERT
FJT les Oiseaux
48 Rue des Cras
25000 BESANCON
FRANCE

Thank you but no thanks to any cash or checks you were possibly considering sending. Not to be presumptuous.

23. Huh.

Love,
Katie

A healthy dose of embarassment.

Today I face-planted it on the main stairwell in front of the entire high school where I work.

...twice.

Perhaps this is just another way life is telling me to slow down?

Hmm... no. Too obvious. I think this is just clumsiness.

It's really been quite a while since I've been good old-fashioned embarassed like that. Yet I was surprised to find that I was easily able to laugh it off, and I probably made the day of just about every student in the school (twice).

And, just a few hours before, I was working with my nursing students, discussing an image from "Friends" of Phoebe holding the triplets she just delivered. As she acted as a surrogate mother, you can imagine the vocabulary started to turn a bit difficult. One of the students was having difficulties expressing himself, so he came up to the board to draw out what he had to say. Science has never been my thing, but I knew enough to label his pictures "sperm" and "egg," and lots of awkward arrows and frustrated chalk later, we came up with "fertilize" and "conceive" and even "quadruplets." And then, just as quickly as it came, my life as a science teacher was over.

Walking (carefully) down the hall a bit later to make some copies, I pass a teacher and without even thinking stupidly blurt out, "Hola!" Woops. (my Spanish studies are going well though!) I try to shake it off but then feel inspired, so when I walk by a group of my students, I cheerfully pipe out, "Guten tag!" just to keep them on their toes (seeing as I can't stay on mine).

Tonight: dinner downtown with Alberto and a concert at La Rodia. Hopefully a weekend full of hiking. My back is feeling much better.

Hola. Geez.

Bisous,
Katie

¿Hay una farmacia por aquí?

¿Hay una cafetería por aquí?

No, there is no cafe around here, but you can find me on the hard linoleum floor of my apartment hugging my left knee to my chest, repeating new Spanish vocabularly alongside a pleasant little Spanish tune.

¿Hay un centro comercial por aquí?

Is there a shopping center around here?

I puff out the phrase a bit more forefully than intended as I pull my other knee to my chest, trying to ignore the fact that the dust on my floor is sticking to me in an altogether unpleasant way. Note to self: Sweep soon.

¿Hay una farmacia por aquí?

At this, I burst out laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of my situation. Is there a pharmacy around here? my Spanish lesson wants to know. Yes! And, in fact, I have been to practically all of them in the past week for medicine to help my back problems, which have finally calmed down enough so that I stop bursting into tears in the middle of my mashed potatoes or teeth-brushing.

In my ever-going attempts to hit as many birds as possible with one stone, I decided to combine my vertabrae-taming breaks with a bit of Spanish review, and found the scene altogether too hilarious to keep to myself, and also as a more interesting way to update everyone that my back is doing slightly better, even if my Spanish isn't.

Besos!
Katie

Ready For Marriage!

(as usual - a late post from +week ago)

The room is a confused mess of languages as I hastily try to finish the last Spanish tortilla at our tiny kitchenette while four Spaniards (ahem...they would appreciate that I clarified that one, maybe two? are Catalan, one is Basque, and the other one or two are...just Spanish??) and the lone Frenchie sit around at our kitchen table waiting for me to stop clanging pots and pans together so that we can eat dinner.

I've invited Elisa and Inigo over to eat with Alberto, Maxime, Clara and I, and the Spanish toritilla was a safe bet as it is:

1 - one of the only things I know how to cook pretty well
2 - a Spanish dish and the majority of this dinner party is from Spain
3 - it's ¡MUY BIEN!

They're trying to speak mostly French for the benefit of Maxime and I, but inevitably the two languages are interwoven together, forming a nice little Span-ench (Franish?) with the occasional frustrated English outburst between Inigo and I, as he studied in the Netherlands and is fluent in English but still breaking in French, and I feel like speaking the four words of Wolof I remember just to annoy everyone.

Finally, the tortilla is ready! I spin around with a little flourish, and as I set it on the table Inigo is so pleased with a little taste from home that he declares, "Tu es prête pour le mariage!"  (You're ready for marriage!)Too bad my next move is to put the still-hot, greasy pan on something wet and lots of scary sizzling sounds snap and crack, more or less negating his statement, but allowing for a nice little chuckle from everyone before digging in.

As well all know, you can't eat at my place, or really, be in my presence, without escaping some form of game playing. We bust out the cards after we finished, which was really quite a bad idea, as describing and trying to understand directions in another language usually takes more time than playing the game itself.

So, we grab a pot, stick it in the middle of the table, and from there everyone thinks of as many popular figures to write down on scraps of paper to throw in to try game #2. We divide into two teams, and each round we have a minute to have our team members guess as many of these characters as possible. Round 1 - merely describing them in French...not bad, except that Inigo speaks English at first...Round 2 - throwing the names back in the pot but only being allowed one word this time to describe the characters you choose. Round 3 - throwing the names back in the pot again but not being allowed to talk at all, and instead having to act out the character.

Imagine, how would you gesture or act to convery that you are Britney Spears? Obama? Barbie? Sarkozy?

We had a great time watching Elisa zoom across the room like a bat to make us understand she was Batman, and when I got down on all fours and (tried to) put my fingers on my head I was OBVIOUSLY Pumba from the Lion King. Maxime was so confused and frustrated at one point to describe his character that he made very curvy outlines about 20 times in a row to indicate female but we were all let down to learn it was Queen Elizabeth, who is not all that voluptuous.

All in all, a successful evening, I think.

And to clarify: Not ready for marriage, thank you.

Love,
Katie