Keep On Smiling

Had kind of a rough weekend: I lost my brand new cell phone Friday night which is a pretty significant bummer. But, instead of enumerating the details of what is sure to be a nightmare of paperwork and fees, I wanted to post a video that I took at the Marché Saint Aubin this morning. It's this great Sunday market that is known to be a bit more "bohemian" than the others around Toulouse. Its a large market that snakes around the Cathedral St. Aubin (hence the name) where all kinds of people gather to pan their wares from your standard produce venders to people manning tables with a few hand knit accessories they've made themselves, to students selling homemade breads and cakes. At the marché St Aubin you have full scale displays, but you also have your 70+ year old man selling a few crates of the turnips, leeks, and potatoes he's grown. Very local. You can find artisan honey, teas & infusions, wine, fabrics from South Africa, jewelry. People do laps in a much more relaxed manner than the other markets I've found here, with a cafe or hot wine in hand and accepting various political flyers in the other, it feels more like a big Sunday block party. Today I bought some grapefruits, avocados, blood oranges, chai tea, and some pumkin, potatoes and leeks to make a soup tonight. My favorite part of the market however, was this guy playing guitar and tamborine who I stopped to watch.

I heard him I turned the corner among the other sounds of the market and I plopped myself on a bench to listen and realized, how can I walk around being bummed about a cell phone when there are such beautiful things around me?

Roses at the marché

Anyway, bonne semaine.

Worth it's weight in bread?

As promised (more to myself), I’m trying to blog more regularly, so here it goes…

The past week it has been very warm in Toulouse, at least in the fifties, but very rainy and foggy. Saturday and Sunday however were gorgeous days here, sunny and in the sixties, meaning that everyone came out to sit by the river and enjoy some wine and company. It felt like summer and I fell a little bit more in love with this city. 

Ana and I next to the river

Ana, Amy Alberto and I

Michalea

Michaela and Alberto deep in discussion

I hosted the Mangesters last Thursday at my house and made empanadas from Venezuela which my roommate Gabby showed me how to make. Aside from having to cook them for 10 people, they were actually really easy to make. Gabby and I bought the corn flour together on Sunday from a specialty foods store, to which you only add water until it achieves the consistency you want. Then, you clean and oil a plastic bag with vegetable oil which you use as your surface to roll out individual balls of dough with your hands. You place whatever you want in the middle (I chose ham & cheese, spinach & herb cheese, and tuna, roasted red peppers & corn), then use the plastic bag to fold the empanada in half over itself, and use a small bowl to seal it shut and remove the excess. I fried them in vegetable oil and served them with rice, braised tri-color peppers, and a baby spinach and rocket salad with grapefruit, currants, pear and pistachios. Monday we ate at Loren’s and she had 3 kinds of stuffed vegetables – zucchini, potatoes and tomatoes which she filled with their pureed insides and sausage meat. We’ve been doing as the French do and taking advantage of eating the Galettes de Roi that are in bakeries all month long. Whoever finds the favor inside their slice buys the cake for the next dinner.

Empanadas frying

Peppers sizzling

Happy people

The cakes, which are nothing more than sweet bread with sugar on top and are the size of a dinner plate, cost around 10-15 euros a piece. A friend here told me that she was talking with the French woman she lives with about the cost of these galettes which turned into a discussion on bread in general, and what a scam boulangeries (bakeries) are. And I guess, when you think about the cost of a kilo of flour, and how many baguettes and brioches can be made from that, sold for around a euro a pop, that’s decent money. This woman also said that 10 years ago, when France was still on the Franc, the cost of a baguette was 1 Franc, meaning, that in ten years the price of bread has increased 7 fold. Allegedly, allegedly, bakers are giving doctors a run for their money in terms of profit. Judging by the way the French consume bread, I’m inclined to think this is not altogether unlikely. What do you think about a French style bakery in Stamford, CT?

Things have been going well at school, the teacher in charge of me is trying to change around my schedule a bit so that other teacher’s classes can have a turn with me, and perhaps (hopefully) use my time a bit more productively. I’m really glad I’m in a high school, because sometimes when I talk to some of my friends who are at écoles primaires or maternelles (pre-schools and elementary schools) it just sounds like babysitting. I was talking with my friend Amy from Massachusetts who tried to do a lesson last Monday on MLK Jr. with her oldest class of 11-year-olds to give herself a break from teaching colors, numbers and barnyard animals. At the end of her lesson she asked the students if they had any questions the only student to raised his hand was burning to know, “Do you have tornadoes in England?” For the most part, I can teach fairly advanced cultural lessons to my students and in some we can have more or less normal conversations and even debates. Right now I’m working on WikiLeaks with some of my older kids.

I also wanted to share with you the trials and tribulations of my friend and fellow assistant here, Michaela. Michaela, who, incidentally went to the Mead School in North Stamford, has had extraordinary difficulties getting settled in here, and almost seems to be our personal lightening rod for enduring French bureaucratic nightmares and provoking the kind of folk work in the customer service sector. Firstly, it took Michaela well over a month to find housing. She stayed in this horrendous Formula 1 “hotel” for the first few weeks until some of us got places and then she began staying with us. Incidentally, when Michaela went to her OFII medical visit to validate her visa, the only proof of address she had to give them was the address of the Formula 1, so now, printed on her passport as her address in France will forever be this god awful hotel. She definitely got the short end of the stick when she chose her bank and bank teller to open up her account, and almost had it closed on her by this snooty French woman who claimed she never got requisite forms that Michalea had in fact sent in on time. In December, she finally found a place, and moved in. The next hurdle was internet, which she started paying for in December but had a lot of difficulties with. This month, when she got back from the Christmas vacations, she tried calling the provider to tell them that her internet was not working properly. For the record, speaking on the phone in a foreign language is at least ten times harder than interacting with someone face to face, and I for one avoid the telephone at all costs, to the extent that I will spend an hour more to go to the place directly to speak with someone. When Michaela asked the man on the phone to please repeat something she didn’t understand, he in turn asked her if she expected him to repeat everything he had said because he didn’t have time for that. He finally agreed to come check it out, and when she asked about being reimbursed for the month that she had paid for without internet service he asked why she hadn’t tried calling sooner. She had. Why hadn’t she called again? She was away for the holidays. That wasn’t his problem.

Now, I don’t want to put down the French, because, as well described in previous posts, I have encountered nothing but genuinely nice people here who have opened up their homes to me and taken a genuine interest in my well being. I would ask anyone on the street for directions any day without fear of being snubbed, however, French people working in customer service, or in any position of power over the customer are a breed of their own. In the United States, I would say we operate under the assumption that “the customer is always right,” or even, “the customer will not give you their business if they don’t receive adequate service,” or at least, “if you want to keep you job you better be nice to the people who are giving you’re their money.” However, in France, the land of unions and strikes, an aggravated customer who wants to complain to your superiors does not instill that same kind of fear, as, you can just convince your whole sector to strike and guarantee the safety of your job, and maybe even manage to add on a few extra vacation days while you’re at it. As a result, if you want to get anything done here, you might just find yourself groveling at the feet of your internet provider, who poorly-installed the internet that you paid a full month without service for, just so that they could (please) come and reinstall it properly (thank you) for you. That same person might stop me on the street if they saw me with a map to make sure I’m not lost, but when they are behind their desk, telephone, whatever, you better be prepared to swallow some all of your pride to get what you’re looking for.

Then, on Saturday Michaela received a phone call from someone on her cell phone that went something like this (in French obviously):

Man: “Hello, is this Miss Oosh-lean-la?”

Michaela (Bucklin-Lane): No, I think you have the wrong number.

Man: Have you ever lived at Périgord Street?

Michalea: No, you really have the wrong number.

Man: Well, this is the police and we’re looking for Miss Oosh…

Michaela: OK, you definitely have the wrong number. Sorry, goodbye.

20 minutes later…

Man; Hello, is this Miss Boosh-lean-lane?

Michaela: Yes…

Man: Do you live at Périgord Street?

Michaela: No….

Man: The other possible address is Prahl Street…

Michaela: Oh, yes that’s me!

Man: OK, your building has had a fire we need you to come immediately.

Turns out the 3^rd floor of her apartment building (which is on a corner and thus, misleadlingly has 2 street addresses) had a serious fire. Luckily her things in her apartment on the first floor were not damaged but as the fire department was about to completely soak the place she needed to get her stuff out right away. When we saw her Saturday night after this ordeal, her response was “And I just got internet a week ago!” La pauvre. France just keeps trying to spit her out. Anyway, we are all sending Michaela lots of good thoughts and support. 

That's all for now, off to salsa tonight. Bisous et a bientôt!

Au Travail...

Last Monday (after recovering for my travels all day Sunday) I returned to work, as the French say: "tranquillement," which is a word they employ often and in different ways to mean calmly, leisurely, peacefully, laid back, or easily. So tranquillement in fact, that, though I arrived at 9am, none of my teachers ended up needing me until 3pm. Since then it's been a pretty slow start back at Bellevue. For the first week everyone is bisous-ing everyone, wishing each other "Bonne année" and "Meilleurs voeux", complaining how "difficile" work is after the "fêtes", and/or complaining of the bouts of "gastro" they've suffered because of the over indulgence in holiday food. As Stephen Clarke aptly observed in A Year In the Merde - which I recommend to anyone who is interested in a laugh or the French (or having a laugh at the expense of French) - the French regard gasto as both a commonplace, even necessary, occurrence, and right of passage that both cleanses the body and builds immunity. One can't support a weak stomach when you're holidays are heavy on duck parts and unpastureized dairy products.

Wednesday evening, per my New Years resolution, I tried out a salsa class at a studio in my neighborhood. A little intimidating at first, but much less so after the first five minutes when I realized no one else knew what the hell they were doing either. It was a pretty large group with an even number of guys and girls of all ages.

Friday night we (Gisele, Gabby and I) celebrated Christmas for the 4th and last time at our house with Gisele's daughter Noémie and her son Mario. Gilou, Gisele's partner, brought us another fabulous wine from his cave which I just learned he has had for almost thirty years, and has, in the last few years started drinking, hence all the amazing wines he always brings over to share with us. I asked him about it Saturday night, how he started it, etc. and he said that since he's from Burgundy and wine is such a big part of the culture there it's very common to take an interest in wine and start a cave at young age, and that his brother has a cave of thousands of bottles. Ah, to be French.

Southern galette - more like a brioche

On January 6th the French celebrate Epiphany - as with most religious holidays it's become more pagan and symbolic. The most important part of this holiday I've gathered is the eating of the "Galettes de Roi" or a special kind of cake, which you can buy in boulangeries throughout the whole month of January. I caught the tail end of these celebrations when I was in Rennes 2 years ago but was surprised to find a different kind of cake here than what I was used to. In Rennes, we ate a frangipane cake - a circular, buttery, flaky, egg-yolk brushed pie with almond paste in the center, while here in South they turn out giant donut looking cakes, that are more brioche-y in texture, sprinkled with giant grains of sugar. In both kinds,  bakers bake a tiny favor inside each cake, and the person who finds the toy in their slice is the "roi" or king, and gets to wear the gold paper crown that comes with the cake.

Frangipane galette

Saturday I went to another delicious French dinner (I'm spoiled, I know) at the home of 2 of Gisele's friends: Queen Mother and Christina, to celebrate the New Year. Queen Mother is quite the dramatic figure: a widowed, 75-year-old, sharp-as-a-tack, still-practicing couturier, who was born in Spain, forced to flee during the Revolutions, and has since lived in France, but keeps a seaside home in Spain that Gisele has passed the New Year at for years. Christine, her daughter, is of one of Gisele's old university friends. The name Queen Mother, with its regal and aristocratic connotations suits her perfectly. She's a all at once lively, warm, and imperial. She cooked us up a fabulous meal. We had aperos of mussels, shrimp, and hummus. An appetizer of fish soup, a main course of fish in a tomato and onion sauce accompanied by rice, followed by a cheese platter, finished with dessert of galettes. It's with her and Christine that I want to start my knitting classes - they have a atelier in the bottom floor of their apartment building which is right in the middle of town.

As it's been atleast 50 degrees here the past four days I've been cruising around on my bike instead of on the metro - it's such a great way to see the city and definitely beats walking at night after the metro has closed.

Tonight we had a Mangesters dinner at Bonnie's - I brought a galette for dessert, I'm hosting Thursday and am planning on making empanadas with Gabby - exciting!!

Gros bisous et a bientôt!
Linz

Recap December Part III: Christmas at home and New Years in France

As mentioned I returned home for a quick visit from Dec 19th (after being delayed a day), and returning to France Sunday the 26^th. Unfortunately, my trip was cut short on both ends, as leaving Toulouse I was delayed due to the snow in Heathrow, and on the way back to France with my two cousins Loren and Dyan, my flight was moved UP due to the impending snow on the east coast, so instead of leaving at 11pm on the 26^th, my flight was moved up a full 15 hours to 8am the day after Christmas.

Other than the delay, my journey home was not difficult especially when compared to some stories I heard about people having to take upwards of 4 flights to get home, or sleeping on airport floors. The most eventful part was when I boarded the tiny regional plane (2 seats that don't recline on either side of the aisle kind of operation) taking me the one hour from Toulouse to Madrid. I was looking at the gate number instead of seat number, and found myself at the back of a 14-row plane looking for 22, and had to swim upstream to row 4 with an aisle half the size of a normal one full of people. Twas humorous.

Being home and able to spend Christmas with my family was really wonderful even if a bit rushed. The fam and I even made it into NYC to see a show (Memphis) and the tree.

To say that my trip back to France with my cousins Loren and Dyan went less than smoothly (but no less fun) would be a gross understatement. First there was the mad rush to pack and get to the airport after deciding the night of the 25th that we would be taking off at 8am the next day. Things at JFK were crowded, and it seemed everyone's tensions were running high between leftover travelers displaced because of the snow in Europe before the holiday, and the impending hysteria over the snow to hit New York that day. However, compared to the rest of the journey to come, JFK was cake. After not getting much sleep the night before, Loren, Dyan and I slept most of the 8-hour trans-Atlantic flight, and arrived at Heathrow around 6pm. It took a while to navigate the huge airport (gotta love those ambiguous airport signs and directions), convert dollars to pounds, and locate the shuttle to take us to the hotel where we had rented for the night as we had such a long layover. And for the record I beg to differ that  there isn't a language barrier between Brits and Americans. We checked into our flight for the next morning, and finally found the right place to wait for the bus that runs the circuit of hotels around the airport. We spoke with the cheery bus driver who told us our Holiday Inn was the last stop on his line.  We were so happy to finally reach the hotel to crash and gave each other congratulatory pats on the back upon entering the warm and well-decorated hotel lobby. We'd made it. The also, infuriatingly cheery, concierge at the Holiday Inn wiped those smiles off our faces when she told us that this was in fact the wrong Holiday Inn. Luckily, this hotel had availability for us, unluckily, we would have to pay for both rooms. How helpful. We ended up taking a cab to the right Holiday Inn, where were ate, drank, and went to bed, requesting a wake up call for 4:30am, then only a few hours away.

Cut to 8:00am, ten minutes after the flight from Heathrow to Toulouse had taken off: Loren, Dyan and Lindsay sound asleep. Whoops. Yeah, not much to say about that. After a $60 phone call to British Airways to change our flight to the one at 6:45pm, we headed downstairs, tails between our legs, to the complimentary breakfast (which Silver-Lining-Dyan optimistically reminded us that we would have missed had we been on our flight). As London was about an hour away from the hotel, and we did not want to risk anything causing us to miss our second flight to Toulouse, the highlights of our day in London included taking a double-decker bus about 30 minutes away to Uxbridge - a tiny town with a shopping mall. My  midday we were running low (count: 2) on pounds with the unaccounted for cab ride the night before, and extra day we had not factored into our pound budget when converting $$ at Heathrow. We were also feeling a bit humbled after our $1 per minute phone call to the airport, so we got thrifty and bought 3 Coke's for 1 pound and a bag of tortilla chips for another pound at Poundland for lunch. We then justified that the 2 pound lunch and absence of fee to change our plane tickets evened out the phone call.

We got to Heathrow close to 3 hours early that evening - NOTHING was going to make us miss this flight. When we got to check-in at British Airways, I asked what happened to our bags when we didn't get on the flight this morning. The BA woman said that as a security measure, checked bags cannot travel without their passengers, so the bags stayed in London when we did not board the flight. She then said that if we would hand them over, she could enter in our bag-tag numbers there and have the bags put on that evenings flight for us. Sounded perfect, except I that didn't have my bag tag. I just want to say, fully admitting here that I committed the travel faux pas of losing my bag tag, that, in my opinion the airline does not make it sufficiently clear how important that postage-stamp sized piece of paper is if you ever want to see your bag again when the put it in your hand. I spent the next hour at Heathrow talking with three different customer service desks to try to find out how they could locate my bag without the tag and get it on my flight to Toulouse. We got there in the end.

I was (of course) chosen for the full body search at security. There was a HUGE line at customs, and it was a sign of our journey thus far that by the time we got though, there was no line behind us. Isn't that the worst? The only pleasurable part about waiting in a long line is when you turn around halfway and see that the size has since doubled after you, so that you can turn to your partner next to you and with raised eyebrows, nod and congratulate yourselves that you "got on line when we did." It's the worst to be the last in line.

Finally we boarded the flight to Toulouse, after checking one final time with the woman at the gate that our bags were on that flight, and touched down 2 hours later. How surprised were we when we were the last ones standing at the baggage carousel in Toulouse without our bags? Honestly? Not very. It was that kind of trip.

Blagnac is a tiny airport, plus it's in France, so we were out of luck (if we ever had any in the first place) at 11pm when we were looking for someone to talk to about our lost luggage. I would tally the staff count to less than 10 people in the entire place. No joke. I finally found someone to talk to, who told me that 1. Airline workers always lie when passengers ask about their bags boarding a flight because they don't want them to panic, and that 2. The airlines had lost thousands of bags due to the confusion with the snow before and after the holidays - if that was supposed to make me feel better or worse I still don't know. I created a lost baggage claim and we took a cab home, awaiting notification via text that our bags were found so we could come get them (faster than waiting for them to be shipped we were told).

Loren, Dyan and I at eating dinner at home

We returned to the airport a total of 3 times during the following 2 days Dyan and Loren were in Toulouse. On the third time we were told to come back to the airport at 9:30pm as our luggage was on that evening's flight. Loren's bag came out next to last on the carousel after about 30 minutes of waiting and looked as though it was dragged behind the plane. Mine was in fact not on the carousel, but in a pile of bags sitting in the middle of the floor of the airport, and according to the timestamp on the tag had been there since noon. Dyan's never came. Not feeling at all confident, nor hopeful, we left a forwarding address in the US for Dyan's as we were leaving for Paris the next morning. Luckily my cousins are awesome sports and we were laughing about the situation even as it was happening.

View from our apartment 

Paris for New Years was fabulous. We met up with my friend Emma who is a teaching assistant in Rennes where we studied abroad together and stayed in a wonderful apartment in the 5th arrondissement she had found for us. We did all the touristy sights for my cousins Loren and Dyan – La Tour Eiffel, Le Notre Dame de Paris, the Latin Quarter, and the Pantheon. The night of the 30th we had a delicious traditional French dinner at a restaurant I had found a few months back called Au Petit Marguery and on the 30th we had our own little picnic in the apartment before going out.  My favorite part of Paris this trip was when we were out walking around New Years Eve and watching all the Parisians shopping at the outdoor markets buying their NYE feast ingredients; there were oyster kiosks, fromageries, boulangeries, and plenty of wine and champagne open into the evening. 

After a wild and crazy night out at Club WAGG for New Years Eve, we all somehow managed to get to our respective airports and train stations on time New Years Day. It was a wild trip to say the least, but those make the best stories :)

The Notre Dame de Paris 

The Seine by the Eiffel Tower overflowing from all the snow  in December

The French version of Bloomingdales or Macy's

So now, looking forward to 2011, my New Years Resolutions are:

1. Learn how to dance Salsa

2. Learn how to cook Indian Food

3. Learn how to knit

4. Blog weekly

A bientot!

Recap December Part II: John's Visit

John came to visit me for about 10 days from December 7 - 16th . We had a blast. I think we got a good mix in of doing everyday things around Toulouse, as well as making it enough of a vacation for him by being very active and doing a lot of new things as well.

John got in on a Tuesday evening. I gave him a quick tour of my favorite spots on la rive gauge, or my side of the river, as the sun was setting, including the view I have of the whole city from the bridge I live right next to, and a quick walk in the park next to Les Abbatoirs that runs next to La Garonne (the river).  

 Taken on another day, the view of the bridge (Des Catalans) that I live next to from the park next to Les Abbatoirs.

 View from the park of the bridge St. Pierre and the right side of the river.

The bridge Neuf, or "new bridge", which actually happens to be the oldest bridge in Toulouse, by night.

Wednesday he came to a Mangesters, Inc dinner at my friend Ana's which was great because he got to meet many of my assistant friends (and everyone there spoke English!). For the weekend he was here we left Toulouse and went to my colleague Martine’s country house in Roquefort (where I went back in October). We had absolutely gorgeous weather, even nicer than when I was there in the fall! We hiked in the Corbiere mountains, saw Spain from a walk we did along the beach by the Mediterranean, and walked through these amazing Heather fields with Martine and some of her friends from the area. (No, John did not partake in the gathering of the Heather, but instead spent the walk fashioning a spear out of a branch "in case we ran into any wild boar.") We also saw a piece of the Via Domitia which is the ancient road built in 118BC that connected Italy to Hispania, running through from what was then Gaul and is today Narbonne in Southern France. My favorite part of the weekend was a walk we did along these gorgeous salt water "ponds" called the Peyriac-de-mer on the Aude coast which are named as one of UNESCO's protected sites. The variation of the terrain in the Languedoc-Rouissilon region is amazing, within 2 days we saw wild rocky Mediterranean hills covered with olive trees and rosemary, fields of flowers, the sea, and these salt ponds. 

 Us in front of Les Peyriac-de-Mer

 More of the gorgeous Peyriac-de-Mer ponds

The Via Domitia - you can even still see the ruts from the wagon wheels!

View of Spain from the beach in Port-la-Nouvelle 

We also did a day ski-trip to Ax-Les-Thermes, which is mountain in the southern Pyrenees near Andorra, also known for its natural hot springs. The rail system in region I live in, Midi-Pyranees, has awesome combo round-trip train tickets and lift ticket deals for all the mountains near here, so John and I were able to take the train 2 hours away to Ax, ski a full day, and get the train home for 33 euros a person! As it was early on in the season there was not much snow, and only about ¼ of the mountain was open, but on the upside, we were almost the only people on the mountain, to the point that we began marking trails and where we were on the mountain using people we had seen going down the trails as landmarks! No lines to say the least, and, though cold, it was a sunny and clear day.

When we first arrived in Ax we were a bit skeptical about what we were getting ourselves into, as the train deposited at 7am us at a tiny train station with no employees, no buses, and in fact no one else in sight. We walked a few minutes down the road until we found a ski rental place, again, with no one inside but the 2 people behind the counter. After verifying that the mountain was in fact open, we proceeded to rent skis and continue on foot to the gondola at the base of the mountain, where again, there was literally not a soul besides the man working the gondola. We took that up away from the town and up the mountain partway to get to the lodge/base area where we were at this point sincerely hoping to run into some people, it was starting to resemble The Shining. Still no luck with signs of life up there, I'm talking deserted restaurants, no liftees walking around, nothing. So we found some lockers (again, in a creepy, empty locker room that looked like no one had been in it in years) and locked our stuff up more out of habit than fear of someone actually coming upon it, and took the gondola the rest of the way up. While we didn't have much more luck finding people we had an excellent day skiing, once we got past the eeriness of being almost the only people there! After John left I was watching the news here at home and saw a special they were doing on that exact resort and they were interviewing employees on site talking about how they were booked for the coming months and expecting an incredibly busy season, too weird!

We also did a day trip to a town called Carcassonne which is 2 hours away in the region of Languedoc-Rouissilon, per John’s Uncle Mike’s suggestion. Carcassonne is a Medieval fortified city whose origins date back to the 6^th century BC. Carcassonne was reconstructed in the later half of the 19th century by the famous French architect Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc, who also restored the Notre Dame de Paris. Today, it is a perfectly preserved walled city, with inhabitants living inside the city walls! There is with a second walled caslte inside which we toured as well – a fort within a fort. It was really impressive to imagine how impossible it was to enter its formidable multi-layered protections. It became a running joke that I had actually rented out all of these places especially for John’s visit, as we were once again almost the only people in the place! 

Me sitting on the bridge over the old moat to the castle within the outer walls of Carcassonne. 

John and I had to self-timer all our photos since there was no one to ask to take our picture. 

John contemplating his attack.

View of the outer-ramparts that encircle the city that we walked along, you have an excellent view of the rest of the city of Carcassonne - that is the part outside the ancient walls. 

John on the ramparts in front of one of the 2 main entrances to the outer walls.

If you want to read more about Carcassonne: http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/345

Finally, John and I celebrated a lovely Christmas meal here with Gisele and Gabby before leaving to go back to the states. Then John left the 16th, just beating the snow in Heathrow. I unfortunately did not have such luck, as, when I showed up at the airport in Toulouse 2 days later on the 18th, was told that my flight to JFK though London was cancelled, and that I would be luck to get on the next days flight going through Madrid. A bit of a rough start to the vacation, but definitely manageable - no dramatic overnight stays on airport floors, I was able to just turn around and go back to my place in Toulouse for another night. 

Our Christmas tree here on rue Gay-Lussac in Toulouse :)

Recap December Part I

Ok, I know, I’m woefully behind on my blogging. How I managed to let this happen amid two 8-hour trans-Atlantic flights, I have no idea. I will attempt to fill you in on the notable events that closed 2010, leading up to and including John’s visit to Toulouse, my Christmas at home, and the crazy New Years I spent back in Paris with my cousins Loren and Dyan, hopefully without being too longwinded.

Leading up to John's visit there were several notable events:

Gisele, (the woman I live with,) celebrated her 58^th birthday with a fabulous traditional French dinner chez nous. She invited over friends and family to our house to celebrate along with Gabby (my other roommate) and I. She is an extraordinary cook and prepared the whole meal herself except for the desserts. There was an appetizer of foie gras served on sliced bread, followed by a main dish of duck confit – which is cooked duck meat preserved in its own fat in jars – that she had prepared herself over a year ago* and then re-cooked over an open flame in our fireplace – that she served with with braised carrots, broccoli, and Jerusalem artichokes. We then indulged in a stellar cheese platter, and for dessert we had the choice of apricot tart, choclate mouse, chocolates and Anise cookies. Gisele’s boyfriend, who is a wine aficionado, brought several different wines to accompany the different dishes, including a white from 1973!! It was a really delicious and enjoyable meal, if not a bit overwhelming sitting around a table with a dozen French adults and trying to keep up with conversation.

*(This is the woman who grew up on a farm and could cure you cold cuts and sausage if you gave her a pig).

The first Sunday of December the museums in Toulouse were free. I finally entered Les Abbatoirs which is the creepy modern art museum that I live next to and walk past everyday that I might have forgotten to mention thus far. Modern art isn’t necessarily my thing, but this place had piqued my interest since I first moved in. To sum up some of the numerous, attention grabbing exhibits that were not wasted on me: When they made an “art” exhibit of placing dumpster-loads of clothes outside the front of the museum and leaving them there for a week. And again when they had a trailer parked out front with a sign inviting people to come dance inside of it and be part of a filmed montage. Or when they blared an apocalyptic-sounding monologue out onto the streets in front of the museum with barely discernable words (to me) except “You will all die soon.” The exhibits inside were as weird as it they appeared to be from the outside, especially after I learned what “les abbatoires” actually means –slaughterhouse. So to add to the creep-factor this huge building next to my house used to be an animal slaughterhouse. Apparently though this wasn’t as bizarre as I originally thought because my Spanish friends who went to the museum with me told me they had abbatoires in their hometowns in Spain that had been turned into various other cultural buildings like libraries. Very European. I guess this is what you do when you have buildings that are too old or well built to destroy; don’t abolish the neighborhood slaughterhouse when you can turn it into a reading room or contemporary art museum.

On a more pleasant note, Toulouse started preparing itself for Christmas. The Christmas markets opened up in the beginning of December at the Place du Capitole (large square in the center of Toulouse) selling artisan gifts ranging from marzipan fruit arrangement to pocket knives. Carts selling hot roasted chestnuts also began cropping up on street corners, and at 6pm nightly the city’s Christmas lights started going on –garlands between traffic lights and lampposts, Christmas trees in all the squares and places, the whole shebang. Quite charming.

Thanks to Bonnie for the photos of Les Marches du Capitole!