The Creativities of Jour Fériés

Today is a jour férié, also known as a bank holiday.  My calendar tells me we're celebrating Armistice Day 1918.  On November 11, 1918, the Allies and Germany signed an armistice in Compiègne, France, thereby ending World War I.  So, today, all these years later, everything closes down in memory.
The bad weather has me rained inside, preparing lessons and stories for the coming week (I've also been working on my November Novel a bit!  Actually, no exclamation point belongs at the end of that sentence, because I'm sorry to say, this is my most abysmal novel yet.)  But what I hadn't thought about was the fact that I haven't been grocery shopping in a week, and so, have practically no food.  Here's a view of my refrigerator for any doubters out there.  There's some homemade ranch dressing I attempted, two pieces of badly made apple pie, two pear halves, an old container of lardons and some crême fraîche.  I'm not sure even Jamie Oliver could make anything out of these elements. 

Being Armistice Day, all the grocery stores are closed.  Fortunately, I found a frozen pizza shoved in the freezer, but more than anything, I badly wanted hot cocoa.  So, while I didn't have any packets of cocoa left, I decided to go through my cupboard and try to make cocoa on my own.  ON MY OWN.  That's a big thing for me.
So, off I went to try and make a miracle happen...

With a little cocoa, some sugar, some milk...

...and one failed attempt at whipped cream to put on top...

I finally made myself a fantastic mug of hot cocoa.  Maybe the best I've ever had even.  And, while working on this, I noticed there was a carmalized almond hot cocoa recipe on the back of my cocoa box.  Once the stores open again, I think I'll get really ambitious and see if I can make that!

But word to the wise, it's best not to drink too much cocoa and cream and milk.
Yesterday in class, I was teaching when one of my students pointed out toward the street and said, "Look that pregnant lady is coming."
The woman beside her replied, "That isn't a pregnant lady; that's just a fat lady."
So, better be careful from here on, now that I know that they notice those sorts of things.

Monday Night Indian Food

Monday was business as usual, so I taught my classes over in Asnières, and after, headed to Anvers to give a lesson to my unmotivated Sri Lankan student.  I arrived at her apartment at 5 in the evening (for the class scheduled at that time), but she wasn't there.  I called, and she assured me that she was only ten minutes away.  So, I waited...and waited...and waited.
After 45 minutes, I finally, walked out of the apartment, ready to go home, when I saw my student sprinting down the street, calling, "Sorry, sorry, sorry."
So, we ended up having our lesson, and not unsurprisingly, she seemed very distracted.  I kept pushing her to conjugate her verbs, but her heart just really wasn't in it, and at about 6:15, she announced that the lesson should end because we should go out to eat at her restaurant.  She had to be in to work at 7, and why shouldn't I come along for dinner?
I agreed, and we took the bus over to the restaurant.

She immediately went to work behind the bar and brewed me some caramel tea.  Meanwhile, the waiter, a 26-year-old electrical engineering student who has only recently arrived from India, also came out and offered to start me out with some "sweets."  Which turned out to be a plate of deep-friend zucchini and spicy sauce.

People in France tend to be really late eaters, so though I arrived at 7, it was only me in the restaurant.  It wasn't too disappointing, because my student and the waiter had plenty of fun goofing around, making jokes, and teaching me the Tamoul alphabet that had been taped to one of the walls.  (Sadly, I didn't retain much, but they assured me that the pronounciation was okay.)

The restaurant used to be a French restaurant, if I remember correctly, but they're doing their best to Indian-ify it.  When my student arrived last night, she brought with her some "pictures." They were large pieces of fabric with scenes depicting the life of Vishnu, the Hindu god, on them.  I asked why he was blue, and the waiter said, "Well, because he drank poison!"

When, after nearly an hour, still no one had arrived, they started taking all sorts of pictures for me.  Here's one picture my student took of me looking like a school marm.  In my defense, it was cold, so I wrapped my scarf around me.  Still, I look nice and awkward sitting at my table all alone.

But eventually, the main meal came.  My student ordered Tandoori chicken and nan fromage for me.  The meal was really delicious and cooked by someone called Abdullah, a faceless chef, being he never made it out of the kitchen.  I was very impressed with the food, and my student and the waiter both sat around and watched me eat, saying "What do you think?" after each bite.  They told me that the nan should be eaten with the hands, which seems contrary to everything I've learned in France, but as they say: when in India, do as the Indians.
We were really enjoying ourselves, but a little after 8, the woman who owns the restaurant arrived.  Then, all hands were on deck, so to speak.  No more joking.  Just polishing the silverware, putting salt shakers on the tables, rearranging the sugar bowls.
I got up to leave when I heard the owner began arguing with the waiter.  I walked up to pay (but my student refused to let me, saying I could "next time").  I have to say I was slightly relieved after the 3 course meal they had set in front of me.  So, I thanked her, and was almost out the door before the ower caught me and said, "Sorry to make things uncomfortable for you.  His mother is very ill.  We need to send him to India, but we must see how."
I told her I wasn't upset, that I understood, and that I would certainly be back.
But I really did have to run in order to catch my train at 8:40, so I said my goodbyes and hopped on the metro that took me to the train station.
And finally, an hour and a half later, I made it home and slept with a stomach more full than I think it's ever been.

En Suisse

This past weekend, I headed off to Geneva, Switzerland with two of my bridesmaids-to-be to see the Salon Genevois du Mariage.  The Salon du Mariage was held in the beautifully lit Bâtiment des Forces Motrices that swims in the middle of the Rhône River.  We were able to see a défilé, a new word I've learned that, in this case, applies to a fashion show, but actually just refers to a standardized way of walking (since a military can also have a défilé.  Interesting, no?)  We also looked through tons of wedding photographs, wedding invitations, honeymoon destinations, and were given tiny, silver wrapped chocolates in a reward for our efforts.  Great fun.
But, as a spoiler, let me say to anyone thinking of going to Geneva: you probably don't have any business being in Geneva unless you are a) King of a very large country or b) incredibly rich.  I have never been to a place that was so expensive.
After the Salon du Mariage, the three of us decided to find a restaurant and have dinner.  Dominique, my old housemate  who has since moved back to London, really wanted to find raclette, something we eat on special occasions in France.  When we have raclette, we usually eat about 6 potatoes that we smother in raclette cheese and various bits of sliced meats.  Delicious.
We finally found a few restaurants serving raclette, so we stopped in at one that offered the meal at what we thought was the cheapest price.  I felt a little hesitant when I saw that the meal had been translated as "melted cheese."  Still, it was a special occasion, so we decided to order the raclette anyway.
Here's what happened:

The above picture is my $30 raclette.  So what do we have?  A plate of melted cheese, two small onions, three potato halves, and a pickle.  This is definitely the most expensive meal I've ever eaten.
But these are the moments that make memories, so we all laughed at our incredibly bad fortune and ate up anyway. 

The next day, we headed off site-seeing.  We saw the horlage fleurie, the large clock whose face is made entirely of seasonal flowers.  We saw Vieille Ville, or Old Town.  We also saw the famous jet of water shooting out of the Rhône.  We went to a park and saw the Reformation Wall where you find memorials to John Calvin and Martin Luther.  And when we were sufficiently soaked, we ducked into a coffee shop to warm up (and paid 7 Swiss Francs for a drink...oh my.)
Later on that day, just before it was time to head to the train station to get our flights to London (for Dominique) and Paris (for Madeleine and me), we saw a man get mugged.
We were walking past a tourist shop, and these two young guys starting trying to feed us all sorts of lines--drague-ing.  So, after giving them our withering stares, we walked off.  But soon, one of the two guys started running ahead of us, heading straight for a smaller Indian man who was busy photographing the Rhône.  Before we realized what was happening, the younger man stole the Indian man's wallet and disappeared under the bridge.  The three of us rushed over to the man who had just been robbed.  We helped him get directions to the police station, but really, all of us knew it was too late.  The thief hadn't gotten the man's credit cards, but he'd stolen all his cash, which is almost impossible to recover. 
In light of my recent history, the situation really upset me.
As we left Geneva, we concluded that, in Geneva, you will get robbed one way or another.  Either you will pay $30 for a plate of melted cheese or you will get mugged.  It's a simle, unavoidable fact of life.
But that sounds so negative, and shining a bad light on Geneva, of course, isn't fair.  While I wouldn't go to Geneva for a weekend of shopping or restaurant discovery, Geneva is a stunning city.  With all of its bridges and quays, with its mountains in the backgrounds, with its clear, crisp air and beautiful fall leaves, Geneva was a truly lovely place.
So, maybe what I said at the beginning about needing to be wealthy in Geneva isn't entirely true.  If you're planning to eat in Geneva's restaurants or shop in Geneva's shops, yes, you must be wealthy.  But even if your pockets are not spilling over with cash, Geneva's still worth the flight over.  It offers so many gorgeous parks, friendly people, the quaint sound of church bells, and breathtaking views.
And for all those who love chess, you'll be happy to find all the "people-sized" chess boards sitting around in Reformation Park...

So, with that,I'd better be off.  Geneva was a great diversion, but it's still November, which means it's still National Novel Writing Month, which means, my novel needs some serious attention...

So, à bientôt!

A Picture Tour of Heurtevent

This past weekend (as previously mentioned), I attended a work retreat weekend in Normandy.  We were in a tiny hamlet called Heurtevent, in a small retreat center called Béthanie.  It took about 3 and a half hours to drive from Pontault to Heurtevent.
I was absolutely amazed at the scenery--hills and vallies and everything the greenest green you've ever seen. 

In the time I've been here in France, I think Normandy has been by far my favorite weekend destination.  Two summers ago, Stephan and I took the train to Deauville and spent the day shivering on the beach.  This past spring, I drove out to Etretat with a few friends to see that famous door cut into the cliff.  And just before autumn cooled the air, Stephan and I spent a Saturday exploring the port city of Honfleur.
I love Normandy, but had never really been in a home in Normandy.  I've always taken the train to Normandy in the morning, then taken the train back at night, dividing my time between the beaches and tiny ice cream shops that dot the roads.  I've always been the tourist...which is nice in its own way.
But this weekend, at Béthanie, we had a chance to stay in this gorgeous little home with the Longs, an English couple living in Heurtevent, bringing up chickens, cows, and a ten-month-old named Pixie.
I've added a few pictures of their home:

It was a restful weekend with a few obligatory (but not altogether bad) get-to-know-you games and plenty of walks through the hills. 
I loved all the broken down sheds that crumbled in the fields but had been left in their broken state for years and years.  The Longs said that the farmers around them are very particular about noise and traffic and caring for the pastures.  But apparently, the tumbling barns are just part of the scenery.
So after a very lovely weekend, we drove home on Halloween Sunday.  I fell asleep after about fifteen minutes in the car.  It was something of a disappointment to wake up in the Paris area again. 
But here I am, back in Pontault.  It isn't so bad to be back.  I'm here with my vanilla and gingerbread candles...and the month of November stretching before me. 
National Novel Writing Month: here I come.
And Normandy, goodbye.  It was nice to have met you.  I probably will not be back before I move back to the States in December.