Back in the saddle again...

Well here we go. Starting another year here in France. La France. How I do love her. How I did miss her. And how she does drive me crazy in this love-hate relationship! It's really no surprise that I'm not in any sort of a real relationship because then I'd feel like I was two-timing on her, trying to get away from a relationship that you love oh so much but often times wonder " what the hell am I doing?!" And besides, I'm not a cheater. Hah haaaaaa, funny. No really, I'm not. Heart breaker? Now that's another story...

Of course all by my own doing, I hit the ground running on my first day back from my two month adventure in the States. It was SO incredible to be back with my family and friends. In the city I love. In cities I loved before. In cities I saw for the first time. It's hard to believe how fast it flew by. Well not that hard if you consider I went back and forth from Seattle, Yakima and Tacoma, to San Francisco, Houston and New Orleans.  At this moment I am pondering how exactly am I going to choose the pictures for this blog entry??? TBD*****. I got some quality time with my family individually and, well, as much as a whole as I could. It's hard when everyone lives in different parts of the state! Of course I would have loved to have more, but it was time to go back to work, and I was ready (amazingly enough) to pole jump across the world back onto that bandwagon. 

*** I decided pics of my family (and Seattle) as a small tribute to my grand affection for them (and it)

The Sistahs (minus one) at Carrie's babyshower

Me and the Bro doin' a little tribute to our man Jim Croce after the Hawks came.

I spent my flight from Seattle to Paris next to a lovely French woman in about her early 60s, I imagine. She was petite and very sweet, speaking in soft voice as we were trying to figure out why our headphones weren't working. I was oh so pleasantly surprised when, after several hours of flight and two movies/plane "sleep" later, she orders a Cognac after I order my baby bottle of red. The conversation took a different speed then, and then next thing I knew we were landing in Paris. Merci MMe Michaud! I was able to practice my French for more or less the entire 11hour flight to Paris, with an offer to stay at your chalet near Geneva. Merci beacoup! I'm off to a good start coming back to begin my new year...

I continued to feel that way when the nice gentleman in his late 40s with whom I sat with on my flight to Marseille, of which I barely made by the skin of my teeth thanks to delayed flights and passport security, offered to show me how to get the shuttle from the airport to the gare in Marseille. I knew how to do it, but I enjoyed his pleasant company and the chance to speak as much French as I could before seeing ma famille Marseillais, and put to the test on my "loss of French" from my trip.

I was still feeling good even after the fact that AirFrance did not actually transfer my bags back in Paris, because the cute little " sorry-we-lost-or-misplaced-your bags" bag with my new travel toothbrush and oversized T-shirt and promise that my bags would be delivered that evening made it all seem ok. I think delirium had set in to not set me off, because I honestly didn't care. I had to go to Lycee Perier, the Immigration Office and La Banque all before I would be able to even unpack anyways.  It's all about how you look at things, right?

The meeting at the high school was to get all my documents necessary for the large meeting at the University of Provence the day after with the rest of the Language Assistants of Provence. Of course I thought I had every document necessary as I checked it all off the list, but of course there was something missing, and I needed to return back to the school. Same thing goes with my second appointment at the Immigration office. (shit - I still need to go back there!) But this is France and how she does things and why she drives me crazy and thus why sometimes the strain on our relationship.

There had been talk about my saying a few words to the incoming Assistants about my experience with some helpful tips, and while I had asked the Rectorat a few times over the summer if this is something I would actually be doing, it wasn't until the day before at the rendez-vous chez American Consulate that Mr. X (and I'm just gonna leave his/her name out for all intended purposes) that I was asked if I would mind speaking. Of course I said of course, and asked if it would be ok if I did it in English, feeling a lot tried, a bit lazy, and more than a touch annoyed that they hadn't answered my emails asking about this before. "Yes, yes. Sure. Just 5 minutes, d'accord?"  I remember the year before one of the returning Assistants mentioning (in English) something about "eating a different cheese everyday". While this was a very good tip and one that I followed to a large extent, I wanted to give this new group of 200+ people a few more practical pieces of advice. I practiced my speech with my lovely departed Wifey, Marianne, who was also returning for a second year of assisting. She was going to cover a few cultural topics, while I mentioned several helpful hints.

I've never been nervous about speaking in front of groups of people. Seriously. Yeah, yeah... In the chain of life's biggest fears, death follows a close second to public speaking. Or so the rumor goes. I dunno- Call it a gift. Until now. When I stood in front of all those people in that lecture all, I could barely keep the microphone from slipping out of my shaking, sweaty hands. So I begin, with Marianne by my side, and about 30 seconds in I am interrupted by one of the ladies from the Rectorat. She walks up to me, takes the microphone out of my hand and says, " Yeah, I think its better if you do  this in French." I just stood there and stared at her. My jet-lagged, dehydrated, only slept 7 hours in the 48 that I've been in Marseille brain that wrote a speech in English because you asked  me to yesterday, was absolutely frozen. I literally couldn't move. Thank gawd, I repeat, THANK GAWD Marianne was there to grab that sweaty mic out of my hand and launch  her cultural piece to the crowd. I gathered myself to the best of my ability and translated what I wanted to say, condensing  my 5 minutes into 20 seconds because suddenly, somehow, we were out of time. Ironic indeed, as after Marianne and I sat down in our seats, the Rectoract finished the next part of their presentation and then stalled for 15 minutes while they waited for the late guest speaker to arrive. This was a moment when I really, really wanted to break up with France.

Giving Gma a ride back home (see FB album for the full, hilarious journey).

My Mama and Sistah.

Alas, I am back at Lycee Perier and getting back into my groove. France and I for the most part are on good terms, with no plans to break up in the near future.  I am back in my home, my bed, ma famille Marseillais, mes amis. My park I love to run in, the Mediterranean I love to swim in (and I did,see?! In mid October!), the Mistral that reminds me where I live. Let another year of adventures begin.

Me swimming in Carry-le-Rouet 15 Oct

 

 

 

What's the difference?

Gawd I love the TGV. One of the world's fastest trains, I am magically transported from one end of the country to another in approximately 3 hours. After leaving Gare Saint Charles in Marseilles, a stop is made in Aix-en-Provence, then Avignon, then takes off like a speeding bullet at 280 kilometers an hour (that's about 175 mph for us Americans) until its destination of Gare de Lyon in Paris. My seated neighbors bring books, magazines, iPads, Smartphones and laptops to occupy the time, or of course the ever popular closing of the eyes for an attempted cat-nap for the journey. One who has never been a fan, or really capable for that matter of sleeping on public transportation, I prefer to keep my eyes open and enjoy the beauty of the country I now live in. 
.....Or work on my blog.

I can feel the momentem increasing just after we cross the bridge high over the Rhone just departing from Avingon. After the crossing the river we pass through numerous fields leaving Provence. At this time in July the sunflower fields are in bloom, boasting large patches of vibrant yellow over the country side. High on the hills I see medieval castles and lookout towers, stone farm houses in their shadows. We pass through small villages with their quintessential churches in the center, surrounded by stone homes with terra cotta rooftops, local wine vineyards as their backyard. I'm not a religious person, but for some reason seeing these small towns with their ancient houses of worship brings a smile to my face. How old are they? What century was it built? How often is it really used, or have they succumbed to (or only appreciated for) historical and aesthetic value?  What was it like to live 1, 2, 300 years ago and have this building be the center of life?  I've lost count of the number I have visited, but this question resonates in my mind, and thus will not stop my interest for visiting them more.

Sunflower fields

Can you see the church steeple center left? It's not the best pic- I am going 175 mph!

Notre Dame, Paris

So I'm on my way to Paris for a day. Why? That's a really great question.  I don't know how jobs seem to just fall in my lap. Not that I'm complaining. Yesterday I got a phone call from a friend of a friend of Jb (my ex in Paris) who was looking for an American to help him with his business. The details are fuzzy, and I'll find out when I get there. He bought my ticket, told me he would pay me a nice lil chunk 'o change, and possibly get me a job in Paris. Um... OKAY! I have decided I want to stay in France, and I would love to stay in Marseilles. There is something about the beach + Vitamin D combo that does wonders for the mentality. Plus the food. And the wine. And Provençal cities.  And the food. And the wine. And the food.... okay- do you get it? But I wouldn’t complain too much if I got a job in Paris. I'm open to anything!

 All countries have their different characteristics and quirks that make them unique, and I have come to know some of these differences in the way of life in France and namely Provence quite well over the past nine months.  Since I spend a lot of my time cooking, I'm often at the outdoor market of Noailles or local grocery store. The buying food process is unlike any I've experienced, and will be the first of many posts on the subject of random differences here in France that I will elaborate on further in my future blogs. 

Fresh veggies at Noailles Market

                          

SO...

Grocery shopping: My brother always made fun of me for bringing my own grocery bags to the store, so I can only imagine how he will react when he sees my little grandma cart on wheels that I take with me to my local supermarket. Here, everyone brings their own bag or little grandma wheely cart, and if not they are charged a few centimes for a plastic sack.

Gma wheely bag

I am in total agreement with this, and think it should be more enforced in the US. We have a 40+ Trillion $ deficit? Charge a damn quarter for everyone who needs a plastic sack at Safeway and that would surely make a dent. My wheely cart comes with me when I'm making my monthly (or bi-monthly) stock-up; otherwise I have a few reusable bags on my arm.  Methodology is absolutely essential when it comes to product placement at the cashier for time of purchase. It's a goddamm race I tell ya! It is absolutely required to strategically place all of your items on the conveyer belt in the order that they will be placed in your sack or grandma wheely cart.

It's all about the strategy...

Because once the products are scanned, they are tossed to the end of the bagging area where it is your responsibly to quickly get your items secured. Then time for payment. If you give them money before you have finished packing your items, the change is set down in said bagging area and the next customer's items are now being placed next to yours in the bagging area queue. <<Hey Pierre watch out- that's my change AND cheese!>> IF you have learned to wait until you have finished bagging your items before giving the cashier a form of payment, you are avoiding the evil eyed stares of the cashier and others waiting in line because of your incompetence to bag your products at the speed of light. One of these days I think I'm going to bring a stopwatch to see just how long it takes the jerk behind me to bag his groceries.

The customer is holding her hand out for her money, but the cashier has already put it down by her groceries.

I have pretty much got the system down. As I mentioned: it’s all about having a pre-planned strategy. Glass products (wine) and other heavy articles go on the belt first, then square products to be stacked in the back of the grandma wheely cart to the left, canned goods on the right. Next stack the veggies, cheese, and other random shaped food stuffs in the room that is left to be topped with the carton of eggs. In Marseille there are several chain grocery stores, and I happen to live by two of the best ones: Casino and Lidl.   

I say "best" because Lidl is cheap and random. They go through over a million products a week, and while there are some staples I can count on, it is not the exact same produce every week. So, I take my list to Lidel, get as much as I can from said list there, systematically pack my grandma wheely cart thing, and then wheel it next door to Casino where I put it behind the service desk with a number and fill in the blanks of my list here. This particular Casino reminds me a bit of Fred Meyers without the home improvement section. They have a little bit of everything, according to French standards, and it took me a few weeks to realize that when my new friends told me they were stopping at the 'Casino' before they came over they weren't referring to their gambling addiction. It's a bit more expensive, but that's what you pay for convenience. The cashiers don't like put your change in your hand, but again, slam it down on the counter or bagging area or on the counter used to write checks. 
<<If you put the money in my hand that I'm holding out for you, I won't have to spend another minute picking it up and avoiding the stares of you and the customers behind me>>

I pick up my grandma wheely cart and roll it home, tuck it away in my closet. I relax with nice glass of rose on my terrace admiring Notre Dame de la Garde in the distance, proud of myself for yet another successful shopping excursion. 

Now, what am I going to make for dinner?? 

So here goes....

The summer is off to a great start.

The last weekend in May a small group of 19 friends went camping and canoeing down the river in Ardèche. It was nothing short of amazing. The trip commenced with Marlène driving her car with Ben as front co-pilot, Kelly and myself captains in the back. We didn't get very far outside of Marseilles when a horrible noise starting coming from inside Marlène's vehicle. We pulled over to a rest stop, popped the hood, and watched in astonishment as her engine shook violently from side to side in a way that engines are not supposed to do,  spewing awful mechanical sounds  that automatically make you shake your head and say, " Oh nooooooooo....." Luckily Marlène has insurance, and we waited for the assistance to arrive. The driver of the flatbed tow truck informed us that Marlène's car was screwed, and that he could tow us back into town where we could call a taxi to take us to the airport so we could rent a car and continue on our journey for an amazing camping weekend! (Ok maybe not his exact words, but you see where this is going.) At this point, I'm ready to hop in the cab of the tow truck, but oh no. No. We're getting back in the car. Marlène's car. Marlène's broken car of which she is not driving because Ben has to drive it up onto the flatbed truck of which the truck driver will be driving, with us, in the car, on the back. Holy schnikes was that fun!! It was an amusement ride for adults who forget to put oil in their car!! We were several feet off the ground, feeling every bump and turn on the road, myself curious as to how the hell we were secured to this thing, laughing too hard to really care why. And of course I totally forgot my camera for this trip. All in all, the set back cost us a few hours, and much to chagrin of Marlène, a horrible car repair bill. Can't think about that now...  I'll think about that tomorrow..... On to Ardèche!!

(encore Marlène' -vraiment, vraiment désolé pour ta voiture!)  


Got to camp and set up. Hè mon Pote!! Les filles et les amis!!  Drank some Pastis. Cake and Happy Birthday to Justine. More Pastis. In the morning we packed up and drove to the end destination of our canoeing adventure. We all piled into the big tour bus that drove us an hour-ish to where we rent the canoes and being the decent down the river. I thought I got on the list to take a canoe by myself, but it didn't work out that way and was paired another friend of the group who I had just met that weekend.  Loris and I made a good team. I took the back seat, responsable for steering, Loris the front for power. It was my first time in a canoe, and I must admit I got the hang of it pretty quickly. This river is marvelous. Simply marvelous. I felt like I was in another world.  I spent the bus ride up gazing at the incredibly beautiful country side of south-central France thinking to myself, " Am I really ready to leave this place?" A perpetuating question throughout the entire weekend..  Ardèche is the largest natural canyon in Europe with large standing stones that make cliffs up to 1000 feet tall. You feel small in the good way that nature does so well. After about an hour of paddling down one arrives to the Chauvet Pont d'Arc, which has cave paintings dating back some 10,000 years ago. Marvelous. It was a beautiful sunny day, the water clear and cool. We stopped on the banks for lunch and cliff jumping. Pulled into the campsite about 7pm and set up. The site provided charcoal for the large brick BBQs with 2 grills on each side, and everyone gathered 'round to take their turn at cooking the various selecetions of meat and veggies for dinner. Oh French camping. That's the first time I saw rabbit, duck and spicy chicken wings on the a grill at the same for sure. Probaby won't be the last. There was a "no alcohol on the premises" warning, and for some silly reason we followed it leaving all the Pastis and such back at the cars. Needless to say an early night. The day Loris  and I traded our two-man canoe for Baptiste and Helene's solo canoes, and away we went. Not even one minute after the leaving the bank there was a doosey of a rapid corner, and a lot of the crew flipped their canoes over! I am proud to say I did not have one flip, all belongings in tact. After lunch there was thunder and lighting, followed by a torrential rain storm. It was awesome!! I found some of my friends taking shelter under some rocks along the river, and we waited it out. Thirty minutes later the sun came out, and we arrived back at the car park. The gang stopped in the small village of Ardèche for a celebratory beer, and drove back to our respective homes in Marseille and Aix. France- you get a big A+ for this one.

That fantastic weekend ended to be immediately followed by Kat's arrival, my dear friend coming from the States for a wonderful week with me in Provence. We did it up right: Sausset -les - Pins, Cassis, La Ciotat, Marseille, Cannes. Beaches, sunsets, swimming, hiking, restaurants, rosé. Grand. Just grand I tell ya. Fun times with great friends. I'm not sure at what point between floating down Europe's largest canyon and sunbathing topless on the Mediterranean that I decided that I'm not done with France. Or maybe France isn't done with me. Either way, my decision has been made, and now all efforts are a go to stay in France for another year.


I did a little of of reflecting, you see. Every time I have come to live in Europe, my goal is a year. Find 'real work'. But then, I hit the 6-month mark and something happens. I end up going back. And everyone time, I want to come back here. So ... what happens? I get confronted. Scared. Sad. Things get hard. Not the way I expected. I'm broke. Family obligations.  Foolish love obligations. The list goes on. This list however, is not as long as the one I have of things I need to do here in France. Things I am going to do here in France. I'm just starting to feel in place here. My place.  It took a lot longer than I expected, but I'm pretty sure that whole 'expecting something' thing in the first place is a big part of the problem. I came here to see if I wanted to be a teacher. I really enjoyed teaching. Don't want to be a teacher. I do want to stay in France. I want to get back into Marketing and Event Management, and do it here in France. I've never had a problem getting a job, and I'm not going to let that start now. I'm gonna keep on rolling with that here in Marseille. Or Paris. Who knows. I've got some good leads. And that combined with the newly lit and well energized spark under my derrière is going to get me where I want to go.


So here goes!!

 

French baguettes cut the roof of my mouth....

.... but that doesn't stop me eating them. They're so damn good. I don't know why a French baguette tastes better actually eating it in France, but they do. It's the  same with mayo. I've always been a fan of it, can't imagine my turkey sandwich or tuna salad without it (then again, I don't know how the hell you would make a tuna salad without mayo), and here, it's worse. I think the producers of this wonderful product have slipped in small amounts of crack with the Dijon that is also in this happy bottle, thus making it impossible for me to refuse. I try to eat healthy, I really do. But there are just some things I can't live without, and while you all know chips and salsa are at the top of this list (which totally sucks here in France btw but ironically enough still doesn't stop me), I would so much rather add an extra hard 20 minutes of cardio for my deeeelishious ham baguette sammy - and don't you dare hold the mayo. In fact, go ahead and give me a little more.  No really. Please suh, cannIhave s'mor?

One of my best friends asked me what is I like about France so much that keeps me here, because if I don't have seriously valid reasons then I need to stop avoiding growing up and come home. Now I know this statement was in part selfishly coming from love because she misses me and I miss the beejeebies outta her, and it did get me thinking: what IS IT about France that I love so much? Am I really here because I'm avoiding growing up? The answer is more complicated than not. It's really hard for me to define my love for this country. I don't think I'm avoiding growing up. I actually came here  to start growing up or at least figure out what I want to do with my life. I thought teaching was my future. Either teaching English here in France or teaching French back in the grand 'ol U S of A. Annnnnnd   it's not. It's not like I don't like teaching. It was actually really fun! I'm using the past tense because now, as if this should come as such  a shock- time has passed too quickly and now my contract is over. I loved (most of) my students, and (most of) them loved me. It's not as if it was too hard, or something I wasn't good at. I was really good at it. I've actually come to realize that I'm pretty damn good at anything I put my mind to! Not to sound to egotistical or anything. But it's true! And I am so gawddamn tired of being poor. I haven't been a college student for a long time now but it sure damn does it feel like it. My friend Chris says to me, " yeah Rach, you're poor. But you're poor in France. Embrace it!" No. Well, yes. I want profit from the fact I live here. Profit meaning I can take a train to Spain, or Italy or especially to another city in this beautiful country without having to eat only baguettes and mayo for the week or two following my little escapade. And yes, given my opening statements of this blog this may seem like a contradiction, but we all know eating one thing and one thing only consecutively for one week or two (with the only exception of course being real chips and salsa or any other combo of Mexican food) gets old real quick. Not to mention me getting real fat real quick, something I'm not a fan of either. SO. I've decided I need to pursue a 'real job'. One that has a nice salary. How about some benefits? An opportunity for growth, a promotion, a bonus or two? Traveling for the company is a primary goal. None of this is going to happen being a teacher.And not that being a teacher is not a respectable or 'real job'. It's just not the job for me.  While at first the idea of not making a lot of money and having summer vacay off was appealing enough, it has since lost its luster. And so, all this leads to what many of my friends, family and colleges have said about my personality and drive for life for many years: get into sales! 

So that's the plan people. Ultimately this job would be in Paris or Marseille, but I'm not ruling out NYC, LA or even my love: Seattle. Why is my first choice to stay in France? Well, in an attempt to answer my dear friend about my affection for this country, here goes:


Sight: have you seen the water in Marseille? Colors of turquoise green and blue like none other I've seen. I've been on a beach or two, and those of Hawaii and Thailand are absolutely incredible. But have you heard of  Les Calanques? It's the (soon to be) National Park here just to the south of Marseilles with massive white rock cliffs scattered with groups of dark green trees and the like, rock climbing faces and hiking trails that lead down to Mediterranean. It's amazing.
Terra cotta roof tops: I know they exist in the states, but not so much in Seattle. There's something about sitting on my balcony with a glass of rosé while I watch the sun set over my neighborhood that warms my heart; old buildings mixed with new, each set of windows donned with shutters and the red-orange roof tops in the shadow of Notre Dame de la Garde. It's wonderful for these eyes to see...



Smell: it just smells different here. Now depending on where you go, this is a very good thing or a very bad thing. Just like in any country, stay away from the garbage bins. Instead, walk down the streets past the numerous bakeries of fresh baguettes, croissants and fresh fruit tarts. Stroll through the View Port where the fishermen are selling their catch of the day that are still flopping around in their selling coffins. Monkfish, or Lotte, my personal favorite, going for 15EUR/kilo. Not cheap, but oh so worth it when you can. Especially when one of your Marseilles BFFs comes with you to your house to bake it with habeneros and home made aioli. Yum. Which pretty much leads to....


Taste: do I really need to elaborate here? The French know cuisine. From foie to fromage,  paté to pizza, and everything in between, it just tastes better here. Except chips and salsa. I think this has been covered.

Touch: the Mediterranean sand between my toes. Giving my big, gay Marseille BFF a hug. The salty beach water in my hair and on my skin. The hot baguette in my hands on my way home. The cold, small glass of rosé in my hands while I watch the sun set. The fresh veggies I examine at the markets of Noailles and Le Pleine. It's the little things...

Hear: The TGV train wheels squeaking on their rails to my destination. My flat mates yelling," Raaaaaach! (which is either sounds like 'Rach' as you know it or "Rash", which isn't as cool but still endearing),  RachChaCha or Nasty Poooooote!!!"  Upon entry and exit the door to my building telling me, " La porte est ouverte. S'il vous plaît, refermer la port derrière vous". The French language on the street, in the store, at my job, in my house- anywhere I go. It's pretty much why I moved here. I can't help it. They know it sounds pretty too, but I honestly can't hold it against them.


I could go on. However its time to join up with La Famille to make a video for Mika's journalist project, and I need to stop somewhere, because I could go on for a long time. All of these reason are not to say that they are better or more important than anyone or anything I've experienced  in Seattle/US. It's just what's going on in my life right now. I love my life. I love my family and friends. I miss everyone so very, very much. I also love adventure and change. I feel another coming on.... what's it going to be???


Much love,
Rachel

Blog #5: I love my flat mates

I just absolutely love my flatmates. And I absolutely love replacing roommate with flatmate- never liked the look of that word anyway. On Saturday the 15th of January we had a party to celebrate not one but two birthdays of very dear friends of the house, Nelly and Adrian. The whole week before the party I was sick -have I mentioned that I've been sick more in the past 3 months I've lived in France than the past 3 years I've lived in Seattle? - and I was worried I wouldn't be well enough to attend. Not that that would really matter, as we all know I would be there with bells on anyway, sick or not. On the Wednesday before, I was shooting the shit with Mika and Baptiste about what  I was going to wear. "Dress like Britney Spears!", they tell me. "Haha, very funny," I respond, thinking they're just being typical guys trying to get me in some short/sexy/slutty outfit for the evening. Well Friday Marlène comes home, and she shows me her costume. "Why do you have a costume?", I inquire. "Uh, hello? Because it's a costume party- Musique Star!. Je suis Madonna!" Great. Just great. The party is in less than 24 hours, I'm totally broke because, well, I'm always broke, and now I've got to find an outfit for our Musique Star party theme. Well, a combination of creativity on my part mixed with the complete lack of knowledge in the French world who the slain Mexican singer Selena is (make that most of the world outside of Mexico) made for one hot Musique Star Costume. I wasn't the only one who didn't have a costume, and around 2pm the day of (of course) the flatmates and friends of 122 Rue Sainte Cecile went en ville looking for something to dress up in for the evening. I found a red fan and red tights. I had a black dress, a big red flower and some red lipstick. You all know my adoration for Mexican food (salsa), and even when I'm not eating chips 'n salsa I can play off the look that I am of Mexican desent fairly well. "Hmmm....Who the hell is famous from Mexico??" I wonder. I know of no rising star at the moment, but Selena came to mind. I'm thinking, "no one is going to know who Selina is....and I'm pretty sure her outfits were more of the  90s flashy, a la Mexicaine style rather than my sleek, Nanette Lepore LBD, so......parfait!" I purchased the red fan and tights, and Sonia and I continued the search for her outfit, plus the goods to make some hor oeuvres for the party. We didn't get home til almost 7, and had to prepare the goods we bought for the evening. It was requested of Sonia to make a birthday cheesecake (which doesn't take just a few minutes, and she definitely regretted accepting this request), and I was making my go-to stuffed mushroom recipe. I'm very proud to say I went from Rachel to Selena in 37minutes, WITH a shower (hair washing not included) to boot! And as I anticipated, everyone asked, "Who are you?" With a shocked and somewhat snobby look on my face: " I'm Selena! You don't know who Selena is??!". With an an appropriate American eye-roll I would explain that she was the "Latin Madonna", very, very talented and famous in the Latin world, and what the horrible scandal it was that the president of her fan club shot and killed her. "Ahhhhhh, bon, " my Frenchy friends responded with a nod of approval. **Ding!** Point for Rachel.

The party was FANtastic. Great music. Great people. Tons of drinks, dancing, laughing. It went into the wee hours of the morning. Baptiste had starting making Saturday evening a traditional dish from his neck of the woods in Lille, which was marinated beef in beer with other delicious secret ingredients. The party was cleaned up - my god was the floor a mess!- and a new party started. I probably shouldn't have continued on, but given I didn't have to work on Monday, I kept on keepin' on. Again, not such a good idea. Monday I was  completely worthless, Tuesday was worse, and by Wednesday had another full on nasty head cold. Breathing through the nose not possible. Here I am 10 days later and it sill hasn't gone away, but rather moved into my lungs with a not-so-sexy raspy voice accompanied with an even less appealing constant cough. After trying numerous over the counter meds that just aren't doing the trick, I finally went to the doctor this morning for something more powerful. The Doc said I have an allergy, "it's going around", and prescribed me something I have to take once a day for a month. In my sniffling, sneezing, achy, stuffy-head, I just need some rest so give me some medicine mental state, I forgot to ask what exactly the allergy was. But now I've got the meds to take once a day for 30days so you know what that means: no drinking for a month. Well that's what got me into this mess I suppose, so I'm just going to bite the bullet if I want to get my health back. Luckily the French are super understanding when it comes to illness, super understanding meaning they are crazy about not getting sick, and if you are sick, you need a week to recover, with lots of meds. Next time you're at a social gathering at someone's house in France, check out the medicine cabinet. I can guarantee it will be full with meds for every ailment possible to the imagination. And these meds are super easy to find at any given pharmacy you may stumble upon the street every 20 meters or so. France has pharmacies like Seattle has Starbucks. They're everywhere. Everywhere.

So this weekend I'm keeping it low key. Going to dinner Friday with someone new. We're going for Thai. Yay! Here's something I really miss from Seattle: good Asian food. Sushi here is ridiculously expensive, and not the quality I'm used to, or that's worth paying for. Kelly and I found a Thai place on Rue Corniche, but it was more 'Asian inspired' than a true Thai restaurant, for they didn't even have phad thai on the menu!! How can you say your establishment is Thai without phad thai on the menu?? hmmmph! The rest of the weekend I'll be laying low, planning my trip with Russ who's coming in March where we'll be renting a car and doing our own little Tour de France, writing my blog, and trying more French recipes. So until next time......

Happy New Year 2011

Happy New Year!

I suppose I'll start wtih recaping the holidays, go from there...

Every Friday on my way home I stop by a small flower stand on the street to buy myself my favorite flowers: lilies. Every week the sweet florist, Alex, hand picks carefully the best lily stems, and every bouquet I buy he wraps in beautiful two toned colored paper, ribbon, extra leaves- all the bells and whistles for a lovely boquet. It makes me so happy to go home with my little present for myself,  "C'est comme ca en France"' he tells me. Super bon. Je l'adore. On the 23rd I went  down to routinely buy my flowers, and asked him what he was doing for the holidays. When the question was returned, and I responded that I had no clue what I was doing Christmas Eve (when the French really celebrate Xmas) as Antoine, Mr. Sauce Man was acting strange, and of course all my flat mates had plans (I'll come back to the new flat mate situation later). So he invited  me over to enjoy dinner with some of his friends here in Marseille. For the party, I made THE BEST goat cheese stuffed mushrooms I've ever eaten, which makes loosing the recipe quite the bummer. I feel a little bad because everyone was asking for the recipe, and eating my hor d'oeurves with compliments and not really touching those created by the hostess. Hehehe. For Christmas Day I went to Guy's house which was perfect as  I consider this lil crew to be part of my family here in Marseille: Mon Oncle (Uncle Bob),  Chris (Gay BF), his hubby George, and of course, Guy. It was my job to bring the punch, so I marinated blueberries, cherries and pineapple in vodka overnight and made several bowls of potent punch. I mean, it really packed a punch - get it? Two hours into the party it was clear the punch was doing its job. Bob, who is an excellent chef, marinated  mussels and octopus (which I ABsolutely love), bacon wrapped figs, and for a main course made a wild boar stew. It was fabulous. Later, Guy picked up his 4 year old daughter Poppy, another friend of his arrived after dinner, Ines  and her 4 year old boy, Max. We played games, ate, drank. It was merry.    

 

For New Years Eve at the last hour I asked to tag along with Kelly, her friend Erin, Erin's boyfriend Gabby (Gabriel, which actually is his middle name followed by Jean-Richard of which he is not a big fan, so when that had to be explained to me, Kelly was calling him Jean-Richard. I found it hysterical, Gabby not so much), and Gabby's best friend Mattieu at his chatlet in Saint Fermin, the French Alps. My tagging along threw a loop in the travel arrangements, so for all of us to get there, we took the van of Gabby's dad. A work vehicle (an electrician?), there is only three seats in the front cab with an empty cargo space for the back. The girls rode in the back, pretty much in the dark as the only window was a long, thin window looking into the cab and we couldn't see anything, with my iPhone and some whisky; and thank god for that because it was pretty damn chilly riding up into the Alps in the back of a dark, cold van. But I'm riding into the Alps with some girls and music and whiskey, so don't mistake that I'm complaining. We arrived to the chatlet and it is FREEEZing as no one had been in it for a long time. The water pipes were frozen, and the boys went to fixing that and starting a fire. Brrough!! Man make fire and water. Brrough!  You could see your breath inside the house for the first several hours. It was warmer outside than in, so we sat out on the terrace with a bottle of rose, baguette, pate, and some pastry items we picked up on the way into town - town being 3 tiny streets of houses, one store, one pharamacy, and a bank/postoffice-  for a light lunch. We drove about 20 minutes away to a larger store to buy all the goods for NYE weekend celebrations. Sandwich stuff for bringing our lunches to the mountain, ingredients for raclette, pasta, and lamb and potatoes to be grilled on the fire. Champagne, Richard, de la biere, and other necessities. Later that evening, friends of Erin, Margaux and her new beau, Arnaud arrived on the scene. These two were an interesting duo. They are cute, young, in the puppy-dog-twitterpated stage, and boy was it ever apparent. You know, I just turned 30, and it's been a long time since I've hung out with young twenty-somethings. It was fun to be a part of, to sit back and reflect on the differences of mentality and maturity;progression. And I guess I should be thankful, for the weekend made me proud and excited for the next decade of my life. 

 

I've always wanted to try snowboarding. Given how I usually only make it up once or twice a year, I've always stuck with skiing to really profit from the experience. As Erin had always wanted to try as well, we decided we be newbies on the slopes and give it a whirl. Kelly is an excellent snowboarder, and offered to give us lessons. For the first hour, we just walked up and down part of a slope to get a feel for things. I got a few good slides in, and felt confident enough to try my game on the bunny slope. Totally wasn't a bunny slope. We get to the top with a successful dismount off the lift. After a whopping 10 minutes, I  got up with a good run, gained too much speed and crashed. Hard. Really fucking hard. Instant tears. Big, fat, salty, wet tears that also evoked laughter for some reason I will never understand because it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, and I could absolutely not move. Erin called to see if I was alright. I knew nothing was really broken, but moaned in pain from my instantly bruised tail bone. I answered that yes I'm fine, continue on with out me. I laid there for a good 15 minutes, the tears still flowing. After collecting myself as much as I could, I tried to descend down the mountain. It was no good. My ass hurt so bad, it was hard to move, let alone on a snow board. There was a little restaurant on the slope, and the crew made a rendez-vous there for beer. We ending up staying there forever because lunch was in the car, there was no way I was getting down the mountain in a reasonable time, read: a snails pace, so Kelly and Gabby went down to grab the lunch and picnic on the slope. It took me over an hour to get down. Everyone split up after lunch, and I gave it another shot. Pointless. "Come on Rachel, you can do this!! You said you wanted to try, so try!!" After another go, another hard fall flat on my right knee and face, another round of big, fat, salty, wet tears that were not accompanied with any form of laughter, I gave up and used that damn snowboard  as a sled to get down of the slope. It still hurt, but it was a hell of a lot faster than walking down, which made me feel even more like a looser, and as it was still fun to do. I limped my broken ass to the rental place to exchange the snowboard in for skis. By this time it was 4 o'clock, we were all meeting up at 5, and I only  got in 3 runs, two by myself and the 3rd with Gabby, as I ran into him  at the lift. This was New Years Eve, and it was a slow start to the party. I was broken, everyone else tired, wanting a warm shower (hot was not possible) of which is was last in line, and therefore opted to just and put my first layer of clothes on the heater and proceed to put on every other article of clothing I brought for the trip. This was something that annoyed me: everyone kept asking me if I was going to take a shower. I was like, "what is your problem? Do I really stink or something? It's my biz whether I take a shower or not, and given that I only like cold showers after I've just come in from the beach on a hot day, a situation I am clearly not in, I don't feel like taking a shower. Laiseet-tombe! (litterally- let it fall, drop it)" Well, as I mentioned it was slow to start, meaning here we are: a tired group of people that don't really know each other that well and thus the exciting conversation isn't exactly flowing, so I went upstairs to grab the booze and start making cocktails. I introduced the game "I Never", and then things started to pick up. We got our buzz on, starting dancing. It turned out to be a super chill, very fun New Years Eve. The boys procured from I have no idea where one artifice (firecracker) and they lit it. POP! that was our firework display.

 

The next day, Margaux and Arnaud went skiing, the boys went to town to stock up, and the girls chilled at the house, took a walk through the woods, made lunch, and later went sledding. There was no way physically possible of course for me to participate with my broken ass and all, so I sat on the side lines cheering and taking pictures. As it turned out, the events were not as jovial for Erin as they were for me. Her and Gabby got in a fight, said they were breaking up and separating when they got back to Marseille, and he ended up sleeping on the cold, tiled floor upstairs! It happened toward the end of the evening, I was drunk and dancing, and had no clue what was going on. Neither did Erin apparently, because I do remember her coming in her pjs asking where Gabby was because she couldn't find him. She thought he went on a walk or something, and didn't see him sleeping on the floor in the living room upstairs. So needless to say, it made things a little awkward for the rest of the trip. That night,  I made a huge pot of pasta for the group, watched Inception with Leonardo DiCaprio - a really damn good film- and went to bed.  Matt decided to stay at the chatlet,  so on the way back to Marseille, I had to insist that I ride in the cab, with my broken ass and all. Kelly wanted to ride up front as well, as we didn't get to see a damn thing riding in the back of the van on the way up, and Erin said it would be cool for her to just ride back by herself. I gave her my iPhone which is now just my iPod, and Kelly said she would join Erin in the back after we got on to the freeway. It took a lot longer to get back because of the holiday traffic, Kelly just ended up riding up front the whole time, and I did feel bad for Erin. But with my broken ass and all, what else was I gonna do?

 

Back in Marseille, I was happy to come home to my new flatmates. I now live in another part of town, closer in walking distance to my job, so this is a good thing, with three French flatmates  which is an even better thing. The old apt was fantastic, but the neighbors were a bitch, Ludo was a little on the paranoid side, and I was by myself a lot. With all three of my jobs being a teacher of English, being alone at home with my English brain and computer, I wasn't getting a lot of French.. I thought my French would be better by now, and I'm sure it has improved, but it's definitely not where it could be; where I want it to be. Michael, who we call Mika, 28, journalsit. Marlene, sweetheart and a half, 26, works in the hotel industry. Ben, 27?, getting his Masters or PH D in biolgoy or something. I told Mika I don't really understand what it is Ben studies, and he said, moi non plus (me neither). So I'll ask Ben more about that later. The problem is Ben is really good looking, and I get nervous talking to him. We have temporary flatmate Baptise, who is doing an internship in Marseille and is  staying with us for 2 months while he works here. When I moved in, xmas break was just starting. Mika tore some ligaments in his right knee and recently had major surgery on it, and is home on work leave. He works often from home anyway as a journalist for tech magazines. I've yet to read his work. Baptiste was also on holiday, and so I spent the first week here kickin' it with these two. I'm very lucky: I found a really great group of people. Smart, sensible, funny, young, talented and sweet. Mika understands English the best, and is my go-to to help with my French. I haven't spent too much time with Marlene and Ben, but the nights and weekends are fun: usually someone makes a big dinner for everyone. There's always a joint or  two in the mix throughout the evening. The apartments itself is lovely: lots of windows, two story, two bathroom, 3 balconies. From the balconies upstairs you can take a small ladder that Ben put up to the roof, and there you have sweeping views of Les Calanques and Notre Dame de la Garde. The roof is flat and covered in gravel, and Ben has gathered the flat cement blocks that are used for the entry way, and for some reason or another were put on the roof as well, to make a large cement square so we can exercise up there. I jumped rope for a half hour up there in the sunshine, feeling pretty cool about skipping rope for my cardio of the day on the roof of my apartment. The only problem with the apartment is that I'm subletting it from Blondine, who had gone to work in Paris until the end of April...possibly May. It's not sure. What is sure is how sad I'm going to be when I have to leave. Who knows what's going to happen? So for now I'm just living in the moment, enjoying day by day.

 

There's more. much more. One of my New Years resolutions: more blogging. You got some questions? What would you like to know?!

 

Cheers,

Rachel

 

 

 

--
Rachel Huffman

Love, Laughter, Adventure: Alive and on Fire!!