St. Germain-en-Laye

The exciting week of exploring continues...
Yesterday, I decided to take the RER A out to one of its (many) termini.  I ended up in St. Germain-en-Laye, not far at all from Paris really.

It was one of those rare, beautiful autumn days in the Paris area.  Usually, October brings rain...rain...and for a change, more rain.  But lately, actually, we've had some fantastic sunny, yet chilly, weather.
So, after arriving in St. Germain, I crossed the street from the RER station, and ended up in the grounds of the chateau there.  St. Rémy-lès-Chevreuse was a sleepy sort of town.  There weren't many people milling around.  But St. Germaine-en-Laye was crowded with people.  I especially noticed a pretty big high school, college age assortment of people.  (I noticed the university in Nanterre isn't far away.  Wondering if that's the reason for all the kissing, smoking, laughing, snacking kids sitting on the benches and in the gazebos at St. Germain?).  Anyway,  from what I understand, the chateau is quite famous for being the birthplace of Louis XIV, and also, for the being King James' residence during his time of exile from Britian.

The chateau was a really beautiful structure (as it well should be...most members of royalty don't tend to waste their time building mediocre residences...), but I found the grounds to be much more interesting.  There was a terrace that looked back into Paris.  From the terrace, I could see the business district in La Défense, which I found really cool.

I'd read that, during the French Revolution, when the revolutionaries were removing the names of royals from all the cities names, St. Germain-en-Laye was temporarily called Montagne de Bon Air.  As I stood there on the terrace, looking out onto Paris, I understood why they'd chosen the name.

Another interesting tidbit that I learned about St. Germain-en-Laye:  St. Germain-en-Laye was the headquarters of the German army from 1940-1944 during the occupation.  Because of this, there are occasional bunkers to be seen throughout the city.  Here's one I found just beside the chateau:

So, all in all, a fun and educational little day trip.  I enjoyed the chateau, the church, the bunkers, the parks, and the people (see below).

So, where to now?
This weekend is a work retreat in Calvados, Normandy.  From what Google is saying, Calvados isn't far from the D-Day beaches.
So, I'm excited for the history of the area.  I'm not too thrilled, however, about the prospect of the team building games that the high ups have assured us we'll enjoy during the weekend.
Still, I'm looking forward to the crepes and cider of Normandy, because I feel fairly convinced that nothing, not even jeux de connaissance can tarnish Normandy.
Although (and as a disclaimer, these are not my particular feelings toward my co-workers...), I just read this quote in Chris Baty's book, No Plot, No Problem.
Jobs are places where people who have no business ever meeting spend more time together than most married couples, making work an ideal hotbed for plot-generating alliances, rivalries, and schemes.
Often very true...
And speaking of Chris Baty and his National Novel Writing Month, we're only three days away from the start of Nanowrimo.  So, if there's a sudden absence, know that my laptop is busy pumping out 1,667 words of novel every night.
A la prochaine!

St. Rémy-lès-Chevreuse

Today, is the first day of Les Vacances de Toussaint.  So, with no classes for a week, I headed out into the countryside town of St. Rémy-lès-Chevreuse.  Stephan and I had first happened upon the city in his Balado "Free Things to do in the Paris Area" book a year ago.  With its beautiful scenery and various walking tours, it sounded like the perfect place to spend an afternoon.  I had written the city down on a list of things to see, but hadn't ever taken any real steps to see it.
Okay, pause.  Let's have a summary of what I've just said: We discovered the city a year ago.  We hadn't ever gone.  Moral of the Story: Tragic, tragic, tragic.
The "hadn't evers" or "haven't yets" are starting to be the story of my life in France.  I tend to get so excited about taking weekend trips to Holland or Ireland that I take the Région Parisienne forgranted.
So, I finally came to the conclusion (today) that I have less than two months left in France, I'm not sure what the future holds (will Stephan and I stay in France for a while after we get married?  If we move to the States, will be back to visit France?), so it's time to start being really aggressive with my To Do List.
And what did I do?  In spite of the eternal strike going on, I found a train heading toward St. Rémy, and began my afternoon adventure.

The train ride from Gare du Nord (in Paris) to St. Rémy lasted nearly an hour, but it was relaxing and fun to watch out the window as the scenery changed from "You are in the heart of Paris" to "Ahhhhh....the countryside."
Once in St. Rémy, I walked from the train station around the small town, snapping pictures of trees and buildings and stores that looked interesting.  The locals stared at me as if I'd lost my mind.  (I'm wondering if they don't get many tourists out their way?)

After walking through St. Rémy a bit, I asked a woman at a bus stop where she suggested visiting.  She said that the chateau Madeleine in Chevreuse was nice, so I followed her advice, and took the bus over to Chevreuse. 
Once in Chevreuse, I found another woman hanging around the city center and asked for directions to the chateau.
She stared at me, baffled, and said, "Why would you want to find the chateau?"
"To see it?" I replied, wondering what other reponse she would have expected.
"Well, just walk up," she said.  "And when you're tired, you just keep walking up."  She looked with a strange smile on her face and said, "Compris?"
I really began to wonder at that point if the chateau was worth seeing.  Asking why I'd want to find the chateau seemed to indicate a certain level of "not-worth-it-ness". 
But I'd traveled an hour from Paris to see St. Rémy, and so, I determined, I would see everything I could.
I climbed the million steps to the top, and once I reached a clearing in the trees (panting like I'd never had a day of exercise in my life) the first thing I noticed was the view.  From the hilltops, I could see over the whole village of Chevreuse.  The crisp fall weather was perfect, and the sky was just clear enough to see for miles and miles.

I wandered around Chevreuse some more, looking at a few of the bridges they're famous for--les petits ponts--and afterward, when the temperatures started dropping, when I had already wrapped myself in my scarf, hat, and gloves, when I had no more layers to add, I got on the train back to Paris.  And in Paris, I met up with my unmotivated Sri Lankan student (who's delightfully the same as always...) and after a tutoring session with her, I was on yet another train, on my way back to Pontault Combault.


Today was a perfect day.  Today reminded me of how much I love France.  France has been occasionally hard on me (I'm thinking specifically of my disagreeable bank and my mugging), but I've decided to forgive her, because there is, after all, really nowhere else like France. It sounds a little contrived to say it that way, but I just get sentimental as the end of my French adventure approaches.
So, here we go again: I love France. 
And with that, let me wish you a Bonne Nuit!

Thanksgiving #1

 Why is she writing about Thanksgiving?, you might wonder.  It is, after all, only the 24th of October, and Thanksgiving doesn't arrive until November 25th...which means, I'm over a month early.  Or am I?
To properly explain what this post means to me, let's rewind a year and start at the very beginning (a very good place to start...)
Last year, Thankgiving arrived in the United States, and I sat alone here in France, absolutely Thanksgiving-less.  I was pretty devastated.  I'd looked online to see if I could find any American restaurants that served Thanksgiving dinner (I couldn't).  I had exactly one American friend in Paris who was still interested in celebrating the holiday (the others had given up on Thanksgiving after their first two years in France), and the two of us talked about throwing a Thanksgiving dinner.  But the idea of a two-person Thanksgiving seemed pretty bleak, so we dropped the idea.
Thanksgiving arrived in France.  I woke up, and I went to work as usual.  The ladies in my literacy class didn't even stay to have tea, because Thanksgiving fell during their Fête de Moutons, so they were off to the house to prepare for the evening festivities.  Thankfully, the woman I work with had cooked a pumpkin pie or else the day would have passed in complete obscurity.
I ate a piece of pie there after class, took another piece home in a Tupperware container, and spent the evening eating Turkey flavored ramen and pumpkin pie.  Worst Thanksgiving ever.
So, in the year that's passed, I've talked to everyone I know about how sad I had been to have missed Thanksgiving last year, and how I really hope things will change for me this year.
Talking out loud helps, you see, because this year, I'm having three Thanksgivings.
Thanksgiving #1 occurred today with my Canadian friends at Noisy le Grand (you can see now why we're celebrating in October and not November.)

 After church today, we all stayed and ate a traditional North American Thanksgiving together.  Of course, everyone (French people, African people, German people) all brought food, so I'm not sure how "traditional" the food actually was, but that's how it goes...  What did the French people sign up to bring for our traditional meal?
Salmon quiche.  Cheese.  Wine.
"A meal without cheese," one of them said today, "is like a day without sunshine."
But thankfully, despite the differing opinions on what should be included in the meal, we pulled ourselves together, and had a table filled with turkey, corn, salad, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes.  Pretty basic, but just what my homesick heart wanted.

 The week before, when I'd signed up to come to dinner, I was asked to bring sweet potato casserole, "American style".  I've never made sweet potato casserole, but valiantly decided to give it my best shot.  I have an American friend who knows her way around the kitchen, and I reasoned that she could help me.  And she did help.  She sent her mother's recipe into my email inbox and said to give her a call if I needed help.
I'd more envisioned her making the sweet potatoes for me, mais fin bref... Life goes on.

 So, I got out the recipe, wrote down what I needed, and began the big shop.  6 sweet potatoes?  I soon realized that canned sweet potatoes don't exist here, so I was going to have to find the actual potato.  After a lot of searching (and insisting that I wanted orange sweet potatoes and not white ones), I found a fat, long potato-looking thing.
The other ingredients were just as much of a question mark.  Brown sugar?  Nope.  I decided to try Cassonade, telling myself, "It won't make that much of a difference."
Pecans?  After asking several vendors for pécans, and all of them understand piquante, I got a little tired of being led to the pepper aisle, and decided that walnuts couldn't taste all that different from pecans.  Again, "It won't make that much of a difference."

And even still, once I was home with my new apron tied around me and my sleeves rolled up, the trouble hung around.  The recipe began with the vague, "Place peeled and cooked and mashed sweet potatoes in a pan."  I looked at the 6 lumps of potato I had on the counter and found myself at a loss.  How did one cook a sweet potato?
Thankfully, google saved the day once again, and I got those potatoes peeled (although, I still wasn't sure what all that talk about removing them from their jackets was about...), cooked, and mashed. 
Somehow, I made sweet potatoes with a walnut (not pecan) carmelized glaze.  Not too bad, if I say so myself.
Although, the French weren't quite sure what to do with my creation.
"It is a cake?" one asked, pointing at the glaze.
"No," I replied.  "Sweet potatoes."
"But it's sweet..."
I nodded.
"On essaie alors?" 
And they all gave a good effort, and whether or not they were all convertis to the American sweet potato ways or not, they cleared out the pan and I left with a smile.  It wasn't quite Thanksgiving in Indiana.  But Thankgiving in Noisy le Grand wasn't anything to complain about either.

Of Late

So, after more than a week of absence, here I am. 

It seems that France has determined to give me the most rounded of experiences.  I’ve had some really fantastic experiences (getting engaged to a wonderful person I met here !), but this last week, something pretty awful happened.

I was walking in Noisy le Grand in the Pavé Neuf, and was suddenly pushed over from behind.  After a few kicks to the head, the attackers took my bag and fled. 

I was an absolute wreck, screaming and sobbing (to my credit, however, I did scream out in French.  You never know what you’ll do under pressure, and I actually feel pretty pleased that, even under pressure, I could still think in French.)  Thankfully, there were plenty of witnesses on the street who called the police and the firemen, so after an initial looking over, I was sent off to the emergency room and then later, to the police station where I filed a complaint against the attackers.

But even though this agression, as they call it, was absolutely horrible, now that I’m a bit further removed, there were actually quite a lot of funny moments.

As I said, after I went to the emergency room, I went over to the Commissariat to file my complaint.  When I walked in, hair everywhere, mascara streaking my face, the man at the desk said, « Let me guess :  You were attacked by two men from behind.  They kicked you and stole your purse. »  I confirmed this, thinking he must have heard about it.  Well, no, he hadn’t heard about my particular incident, but said that it happened fairly frequently over there in the department 93.

Anyway, I began the complaint with this particular man at the front desk, but then, after a few minutes, a really beautiful girl walked into the station.  She was tall, thin, and had these really high heels, long gorgeous hair, and a Louis Vuitton bag.  Would you know ?  The policeman told me to wait a minute and then went outside for a smoke with the girl who, I later found out, had to stop in weekly due to her probation.

After he left, a very dour, man-faced woman came down and asked it I’d been helped.  Confused, I looked out the door where the man still stood talking with the pretty girl.

 « I’m not sure, » I told her.

She followed my gaze, and then told me I’d better follow her upstairs. 

I followed her into this really bleak room with hardly any light and extremely old computers.  We sat in front of one that had a sticker on the outside that read I do evil things.  The woman then said that I should tell her exactly what happened, and she would type out my statement.  So, I began to talk--fairly slowly, I thought.  She kept holding her finger up and asking me to stop, as she typed what I’d said.  She typed, that is, with one index finger.  Then, after every sentence, she stopped and reread everything she’d just written.

Eventually, she began asking questions which I answered as best as I could.

« Did you see the attackers. »

I said I hadn’t seen their faces, but saw their backs as they ran away, so I gave the vague description that I could give :  I described their race and age range.

« Victim…cannot…describe…attackers. » She read aloud as she typed.

« Well, » I said, « that isn’t completely true.  Like I said they were probably  ____ years old and of ________________origin. »

She sort of rolled her eyes and went on with other questions.

« Did you see where they went after they took your bag ? »

« They ran into the alley between the Marantha Church and the hôtel by the woods. »

« Victim…is…unable…to…say…where…attackers…fled. »

Any time I brought up the fact that she’d typed something I hadn’t said, she attributed it to correcting my French.  The situation got so frustrating, I just let it go.  I quit correcting.  I quit arguing.  I just stared at her with glazed-over eyes.   At that point, I’d spent almost five hours in the emergency room and police station, and all I wanted to do was go home, take a shower, and get warm again.

And, I’m happy to say, that’s the way it eventually turned out, because nothing, no matter how horrible, lasts forever.  I eventually made it out of the police station, and I spent the evening watching Le Petit Nicolas with my fiancé, remembering why I fell in love with France in the first place.

And in other good news, some friends of mine went back to the place where I was attacked and found my bag, my train pass, my driver’s license, my Bible, my umbrella and a few other odds and ends in the woods over there.  I’m really grateful for the things I did get back, and on Sunday, when I had the elementary age kids in Sunday school, they were all extraordinarily well behaved and oohhed and ahhed over the chocolate cake I’d made.  I don’t expect the behavior to last, but I’m enjoying it while it does.