What a country! Tomorrow, most of France will be on strike. Trains, buses, and national air flights, will all be on "strike" schedules, even school teachers are participating. The unions for all these services have banded together for this national gripe day. The papers and news services have spent most of today making sure that everyone knows it's coming. Sarkozy tried to ameliorate the effects of this type of thing on students last year, passing a "minimum" state of staffing that schools are supposed to maintain during a strike (so that parents can actually go to work, if they need to). But the news is reporting that most schools are telling parents that there will be no teachers at school tomorrow.
Why are they striking? Because they don't think they are being paid enough, or at least as much as President Sarkozy promised they would. The unified "national" strike is fairly unusual, but according to a poll, 75% of those asked said they thought that the day-long strike was "justified." The local paper here, Nice-Matin, questioned whether or not such a strike made sense in a time of financial crisis. Apparently, according to the French populace, the answer is yes.
I think I will go down to Place Massena tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. and check out the Niçoise unions as they participate in this truly French tradition. Vive la France!
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Happy Chinese New Year!
Happy Chinese New Year, readers! I feel like I should check in with you all, although my mind is a bit full of asset-backed securities, tour planning, and wondering why Citibank was even THINKING of buying a $50 million dollar luxury jet. I mean, really!
As President Obama has been living his first 100 days - gosh it's hard to buck history, huh? President Roosevelt started it and now no one will let the President shake this designated introductory time period -- I have been starting my own 100 days. As I said I would (even as early as last May!), I started a job search this month. I decided to start my search by looking here in Europe. I would love to extend my time here in a wage-earning capacity. This is not a slam dunk, however, for a few reasons. One, the economy. There is a big recession going down here in Europe, too. Two, my lack of a work visa. The European Union is pretty high on giving its own jobs, so a company would have to go to the mat, as it were, to hire me (they would have to assert that there is no other European out there that fits the job as well as me - well, of course it would be true!). Third, my language skills. I am fluent in English, have conversational skills in French. That's pretty limiting for looking for a job in Europe. My efforts have to be focused in places where I might have a fighting chance - at the moment, that looks like London, Monaco, Zurich, and, perhaps, Paris. But, hey, I have Wharton classmates all through Europe, unknown contacts that may pop up here and there, you know, by just starting a conversation. And then, of course, there is the Internet.
If you have any ideas of people/companies for me to talk to, send them along! My resume is certainly available for review.
I have said that if my job search here doesn't produce anything by the summer, I will frolic here in the Cote d'Azur for a few more months before heading back to the States and job hunting there, with the hopes that by the third quarter of 2009, the job situation has started to improve.
My calendar is already starting to fill up with visits from friends, but here are a few great reasons to visit the south of France in the months ahead:
February - Carnaval. Two weeks of parades and amusements leading up to Mardi Gras, this year on February 24th.
May - The Formula Grand Prix in Monaco.
July - The Tour de France. This year the race begins in Monaco, on July 4th. On July 5th, the race starts in Monaco and goes through Nice on its way to Brignoles, along the coast.
And then all the other festivals around the Cote d'Azur in between. The weather starts to get nice in February - I'm told winter is almost over here - so it just gets better from here on out. My parents will be here for Carnaval; you can look forward to photos and descriptions of the over 125-year-old event event in Nice at the end of next month.
My absorption in asset-backed securities this week was related to the drafting of an article with my friend in Washington that will give an outline for how to begin valuing the subprime market, now that it's considered valueless. Most people have thrown up their hands at the whole mess, but we have an opinion of how to really get at the bottom of the heap and start figuring it out. I'll post the article here when it's closer to done. It's got some nice pictures for those who like visual aids, like me.
And, of course, I'm watching the economic news, because I'm as interested as everyone else what President Obama and his team will do next. I liked the Huffington Blog headline regarding the Citibank jet purchase: FIX IT. That apparently was someone on Obama's team telling the Citigroup team to do something about the report that they were purchasing a multimillion dollar jet - "with seating for 12." For heaven's sake, guys, didn't you learn anything from the Big Three car executives?
My former SEC colleague is encouraging me to apply to work in the government, to contribute my expertise and elbow grease to the new administration, specifically with respect to the world of securities, no surprise. It's just going to be hard to give up this wonderful vacation I'm having.
To my friends in the freezing East Coast, hang in there. Or, get on a plane and come sit by the edge of the Mediterranean! The extra bed is waiting for you.
Cheers.
As President Obama has been living his first 100 days - gosh it's hard to buck history, huh? President Roosevelt started it and now no one will let the President shake this designated introductory time period -- I have been starting my own 100 days. As I said I would (even as early as last May!), I started a job search this month. I decided to start my search by looking here in Europe. I would love to extend my time here in a wage-earning capacity. This is not a slam dunk, however, for a few reasons. One, the economy. There is a big recession going down here in Europe, too. Two, my lack of a work visa. The European Union is pretty high on giving its own jobs, so a company would have to go to the mat, as it were, to hire me (they would have to assert that there is no other European out there that fits the job as well as me - well, of course it would be true!). Third, my language skills. I am fluent in English, have conversational skills in French. That's pretty limiting for looking for a job in Europe. My efforts have to be focused in places where I might have a fighting chance - at the moment, that looks like London, Monaco, Zurich, and, perhaps, Paris. But, hey, I have Wharton classmates all through Europe, unknown contacts that may pop up here and there, you know, by just starting a conversation. And then, of course, there is the Internet.
If you have any ideas of people/companies for me to talk to, send them along! My resume is certainly available for review.
I have said that if my job search here doesn't produce anything by the summer, I will frolic here in the Cote d'Azur for a few more months before heading back to the States and job hunting there, with the hopes that by the third quarter of 2009, the job situation has started to improve.
My calendar is already starting to fill up with visits from friends, but here are a few great reasons to visit the south of France in the months ahead:
February - Carnaval. Two weeks of parades and amusements leading up to Mardi Gras, this year on February 24th.
May - The Formula Grand Prix in Monaco.
July - The Tour de France. This year the race begins in Monaco, on July 4th. On July 5th, the race starts in Monaco and goes through Nice on its way to Brignoles, along the coast.
And then all the other festivals around the Cote d'Azur in between. The weather starts to get nice in February - I'm told winter is almost over here - so it just gets better from here on out. My parents will be here for Carnaval; you can look forward to photos and descriptions of the over 125-year-old event event in Nice at the end of next month.
My absorption in asset-backed securities this week was related to the drafting of an article with my friend in Washington that will give an outline for how to begin valuing the subprime market, now that it's considered valueless. Most people have thrown up their hands at the whole mess, but we have an opinion of how to really get at the bottom of the heap and start figuring it out. I'll post the article here when it's closer to done. It's got some nice pictures for those who like visual aids, like me.
And, of course, I'm watching the economic news, because I'm as interested as everyone else what President Obama and his team will do next. I liked the Huffington Blog headline regarding the Citibank jet purchase: FIX IT. That apparently was someone on Obama's team telling the Citigroup team to do something about the report that they were purchasing a multimillion dollar jet - "with seating for 12." For heaven's sake, guys, didn't you learn anything from the Big Three car executives?
My former SEC colleague is encouraging me to apply to work in the government, to contribute my expertise and elbow grease to the new administration, specifically with respect to the world of securities, no surprise. It's just going to be hard to give up this wonderful vacation I'm having.
To my friends in the freezing East Coast, hang in there. Or, get on a plane and come sit by the edge of the Mediterranean! The extra bed is waiting for you.
Cheers.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Heidelberg 2009
On Monday, I made a pilgrimage to the city of my birth, Heidelberg, Germany. I was born there, not because my parents were German citizens, but because my father was stationed in the US Army base there during the Berlin Wall Crisis in 1961. My father was not unfamiliar with Germany at the time he was called up; both of his parents' families emigrated from Germany around the turn of the century, and he had studied German in college. But for my mother, still a fairly new bride with a six-month old (my sister) on her hip, moving to Germany was a big deal. She didn't know the language, but she was resourceful, and my birth happened without too much fanfare - well, depending on your view, that is. [The Army doctor told my mom that he was going on vacation, so they induced her to birth me. Regardless, I still think of myself as a Taurus!].
My Dad took our family on a trip overseas when I was 10 years old; we bought a VW Camper in Amsterdam, figured out how to put up a tent for 5 of us, and took off for Scandinavia, Germany and Switzerland. We visited exchange students and their families, whom we had housed during the previous several years, which added a personal component to all the cities we visited: Copenhagen, Stockholm, Stuttgart, and Geneva. Along the way in Germany, my parents made sure we stopped in Heidelberg, so I could see the city where I was born. At this point in my life, I wasn't busy filling out forms about where I had been born, so I think it was more my parents wanting me to see the place, rather than some curiousity of mine. I don't think my sister or brother ever asked to see the hospital where they were born in Greenwich, Connecticut.
I don't have an independent memory of that first trip, but there are family pictures of me and my sister sitting on the ledge of the Heidelberg Schloss, the six hundred year old castle that sits up on the mountain overlooking the town and the Neckar River. Heidelberg has an Old Town, like most European cities, that sits along the river, and where you can find the tourists milling through expensive stores and novelty shops. But Heidelberg is, as it has been for the past century, a University town, and students have been milling around the town for hundreds of years.
I think that is the last time I visited Heidelberg, until Monday. I have been in Germany at least three times over the past few decades, but it wasn't until I was planning this most recent trip that I thought to include a detour to my birthplace. During the past four months (almost five!) I have been living in Europe, the subject of my birthplace has come up frequently with my French friends. For in France, as it is all over Europe, it is where you were born that dictates who you are, as opposed to the US, where it is what you do that is your defining feature. I am proud to say that I was born in Heidelberg, but embarrassed to say that I don't speak German. But I did pretty well over a few days of picking up enough words to be polite, at least. Learning languages becomes easier the more you learn...
I drove up to Heidelberg from Remshalden-Grunbach, where I was visiting my friend Uli (and staying in his aunt and uncle's hotel, Hotel Hirsch). It was raining that morning, but I took off anyway, determined not to spend the day hanging around the hotel. Uli helps out at the hotel, but mostly runs his own restaurant, Uli’s Hirschstüble, about 1 km from the hotel. The night before I left, Uli invited several of his friends who speak English, two of whom I first met over 25 years ago, to have dinner with me at his restaurant. I had visited Uli just twelve months previously, in December of 2007, so it was like old-home-week, catching up with Bertin, Tomas and Hans. It turned out that Tomas had been a student at the University of Heidelberg, but he did not give me many thoughts about what to do in the town. We were too busy dissecting the grade reports he had received of his eldest son, who is spending the year in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, attending the high school there.
It took me an hour and a half to reach Heidelberg, which is northwest of Remshalden. I found the train station easily (the Haptbahnhof), and the large tourist center there. I parked and walked inside, telling the receptionist that I was there to see the town. She handed me a map (just like they do in Nice, when you go to the Tourism office), told me which bus to take, and suggested a few things to do. It being Monday, like in most other places in Europe, many of the stores and museums were closed. But the castle was open, and that seemed like a good place to start. At the suggestion of the young woman, I drove to the castle and parked in a parking lot nearby, rather than take a bus and park downtown. Given the day and the weather and the time of year, it was no surprise that the parking garage I found was not full.
I walked out of the garage, and followed a man who was walking up a set of stairs in the direction of the castle. And indeed, the stairs took me to the entry of the castle. It looked almost deserted; the rain was falling still, and the one shop I passed had a sign that said it was closed for the day. But I found the ticket kiosk, and bought an entry ticket and headed for the schloss. Inside, I found the booth to buy a ticket for a guided tour in English, which was not to start for another forty-five minutes. The guard I spoke with thereafter suggested I take a look at the big wine cask in the bottom of the castle. I headed in that direction, and found the enormous cask, built into its own room, in the basement of the castle. During a certain period of time, it held the wine (both red and white mixed together, my tour guide later recounted) for the towns in the surrounding areas. It was where the soldiers and labourers would come for their daily allotment. Today, of course, it is a curiousity, and there is some good marketing, with the large room outside the cask room set up as a wine-tasting area, with tables for standing and sitting, and a cafe in the corner for those who want to sit and hang around for a while. Which is what I did, taking out my improvised lunch (apples, juice box, crackers), and catching up on some writing while I waited for the Tour.
About sixteen of us had gathered by 12:15 for the Tour. Our guide, a small but energetic German man wearing a beret, used fairly good English to recount the history of the Schloss, the building and the people who lived there. Components of the building were familiar to me, as one who has seen lots of castles on my travels, from Ireland to Austria to St. Petersburg, Russia. The kitchen (which we could not see directly) was built to feed 2000 people, there was a beautiful chapel, and we saw rooms with large porcelain heaters for the cold winter nights in Germany.
The tour took about an hour. Afterward, I took a walk around the gardens outside the castle, gardens which also overlook the Neckar River. I was freezing at that point, and had been debating the idea of going for a run. I had come up with the idea before I left that morning, and so had brought all my running clothes with me. If it had been pouring rain, I would not have run, but the rain had lessened, and the skies were opening up as I toured the garden walk. I knew a run would warm me up, and I decided to go for it. I went back to the parking garage, took my clothes out of the trunk, and changed inside my little Fiat. As I was heading out of the garage, I found a WC (toilet), and it was very warm inside - I thought, this is where I will change when I return!
I headed down the hill and through the old town, and then to the pedestrian bridge across the river. The wind was whipping as I ran across the bridge, and I held onto my Barnard cap as I ran. On the other side of the river, I headed west, toward another bridge, deciding I would do a loop. It looked like at least 3 miles, anyway. As I was getting close to the bridge ahead of me, I was stopped by a young German woman, who asked me for directions. She asked me about a street, which I didn't know, but she also asked about the Philosopher's Garden, which I told her was nearby, but I had not found the way to reach it. This conversation was a mix of German and English; already I was finding I could come up with some German words (or at least understand some of them) when necessary. Prompted by her question, I turned away from the river and headed down a street or two, eventually finding a sign that indicated the way up the hill to the Philosopher's Garden. It didn't take very long; I'm surprised how easily one can just stumble along things when one isn't really looking.
I headed up the hill, which took me past a University building and a number of students walking back to class (it was around 2 p.m. in the afternoon). I climbed higher and higher (huffing and puffing a bit), and was amused to see messages written in chalk (or paint) along the path (once I left the street), clearly intended for runners in a race at this height. Eventually I reached the Philosopher's garden, which overlooks the town from the opposite side of the river as the castle. There is a tradition of academics and philosopher's in the town, but I did not read up on this too much. There are plenty of places for you to do so; here's one useful site I found. I was happy to be up high, with a fantastic view of the valley and the Neckar river, in spite of the greyness of the day.
After heading back down the hill and back across the river, I ran through the university campus and back to my car. A good 40 minute run; a good sense of the town. I have a tradition, since I first starting traveling on my own back in 1983, of using a run as a way to explore a new place, and it has always enhanced my experience in a new place. And, by careful memorization of maps and street signs, a bit of caution, and using my fairly decent internal compass, I have never gotten lost (completely, anyway).
I changed back into my clothes in the WC I had found in the garage, drank the apple juice in my car, and headed out of town. My destination was the Hotel Rose, in one of the neighborhoods of Heidelberg. Before I had left Grunbach that morning, Uli had called his friend Beate, whose family runs the hotel. The two of them had been in hotel school together, but it had been a long time since he had seen her or talked to her. But he didn't hesitate to contact her when he knew I would be in Heidelberg. Also, his friend had married an American (stationed in Heidelberg), and Uli thought that the family would have a pretty good working knowledge of English (for my benefit). It turned out, after speaking to Beate's mom, that Beate would not be there that afternoon, but Uli gave me directions to go visit the hotel anyway.
So, after asking for directions, I found the Hotel Rose in Rorhbach. I entered the hotel and was directed to the woman sitting behind the registration desk. I told her I was Uli's friend, and after a moment, she brightened, and welcomed me into the dining room. She asked if I wanted anything, and I said coffee and perhaps...she volunteered, Cake! So over kuchen and caffe, I had a hour's conversation with Frau Fein. This conversation too was a mixture of English and German, but it was easy to understand her. We talked about the next day's inauguration, her visit to the US several years ago (including a personal backstage tour of the Met Opera by an Austrian-born Met tour guide who was so happy to have German speakers in her tour group), and the state of the economy in Heidelberg (of which the US Army and its personnel are a significant part). It was a lovely visit. As the afternoon darkened, I told her I needed to head home. She said, the Americans - always on the move! She told me to tell Uli that she would come visit his restaurant, but she also said that she and her husband rarely go anywhere. Ah, a very different mindset than my own!
The drive back was longer, through rain and heavy traffic as workers headed home. There were several accidents on the autobahn, and I was happy again that I don't commute to work (actually, I don't work at the moment, do I?). It was a brief visit to Heidelberg, but when I think of the town now, I won't think of that long-ago picture of me with pigtails sitting on the schloss wall, I will think of the river and its bridges, the old castle and its broad gardens, and the friendly German people I met there.
My Dad took our family on a trip overseas when I was 10 years old; we bought a VW Camper in Amsterdam, figured out how to put up a tent for 5 of us, and took off for Scandinavia, Germany and Switzerland. We visited exchange students and their families, whom we had housed during the previous several years, which added a personal component to all the cities we visited: Copenhagen, Stockholm, Stuttgart, and Geneva. Along the way in Germany, my parents made sure we stopped in Heidelberg, so I could see the city where I was born. At this point in my life, I wasn't busy filling out forms about where I had been born, so I think it was more my parents wanting me to see the place, rather than some curiousity of mine. I don't think my sister or brother ever asked to see the hospital where they were born in Greenwich, Connecticut.
I don't have an independent memory of that first trip, but there are family pictures of me and my sister sitting on the ledge of the Heidelberg Schloss, the six hundred year old castle that sits up on the mountain overlooking the town and the Neckar River. Heidelberg has an Old Town, like most European cities, that sits along the river, and where you can find the tourists milling through expensive stores and novelty shops. But Heidelberg is, as it has been for the past century, a University town, and students have been milling around the town for hundreds of years.
I think that is the last time I visited Heidelberg, until Monday. I have been in Germany at least three times over the past few decades, but it wasn't until I was planning this most recent trip that I thought to include a detour to my birthplace. During the past four months (almost five!) I have been living in Europe, the subject of my birthplace has come up frequently with my French friends. For in France, as it is all over Europe, it is where you were born that dictates who you are, as opposed to the US, where it is what you do that is your defining feature. I am proud to say that I was born in Heidelberg, but embarrassed to say that I don't speak German. But I did pretty well over a few days of picking up enough words to be polite, at least. Learning languages becomes easier the more you learn...
I drove up to Heidelberg from Remshalden-Grunbach, where I was visiting my friend Uli (and staying in his aunt and uncle's hotel, Hotel Hirsch). It was raining that morning, but I took off anyway, determined not to spend the day hanging around the hotel. Uli helps out at the hotel, but mostly runs his own restaurant, Uli’s Hirschstüble, about 1 km from the hotel. The night before I left, Uli invited several of his friends who speak English, two of whom I first met over 25 years ago, to have dinner with me at his restaurant. I had visited Uli just twelve months previously, in December of 2007, so it was like old-home-week, catching up with Bertin, Tomas and Hans. It turned out that Tomas had been a student at the University of Heidelberg, but he did not give me many thoughts about what to do in the town. We were too busy dissecting the grade reports he had received of his eldest son, who is spending the year in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, attending the high school there.
It took me an hour and a half to reach Heidelberg, which is northwest of Remshalden. I found the train station easily (the Haptbahnhof), and the large tourist center there. I parked and walked inside, telling the receptionist that I was there to see the town. She handed me a map (just like they do in Nice, when you go to the Tourism office), told me which bus to take, and suggested a few things to do. It being Monday, like in most other places in Europe, many of the stores and museums were closed. But the castle was open, and that seemed like a good place to start. At the suggestion of the young woman, I drove to the castle and parked in a parking lot nearby, rather than take a bus and park downtown. Given the day and the weather and the time of year, it was no surprise that the parking garage I found was not full.
I walked out of the garage, and followed a man who was walking up a set of stairs in the direction of the castle. And indeed, the stairs took me to the entry of the castle. It looked almost deserted; the rain was falling still, and the one shop I passed had a sign that said it was closed for the day. But I found the ticket kiosk, and bought an entry ticket and headed for the schloss. Inside, I found the booth to buy a ticket for a guided tour in English, which was not to start for another forty-five minutes. The guard I spoke with thereafter suggested I take a look at the big wine cask in the bottom of the castle. I headed in that direction, and found the enormous cask, built into its own room, in the basement of the castle. During a certain period of time, it held the wine (both red and white mixed together, my tour guide later recounted) for the towns in the surrounding areas. It was where the soldiers and labourers would come for their daily allotment. Today, of course, it is a curiousity, and there is some good marketing, with the large room outside the cask room set up as a wine-tasting area, with tables for standing and sitting, and a cafe in the corner for those who want to sit and hang around for a while. Which is what I did, taking out my improvised lunch (apples, juice box, crackers), and catching up on some writing while I waited for the Tour.
About sixteen of us had gathered by 12:15 for the Tour. Our guide, a small but energetic German man wearing a beret, used fairly good English to recount the history of the Schloss, the building and the people who lived there. Components of the building were familiar to me, as one who has seen lots of castles on my travels, from Ireland to Austria to St. Petersburg, Russia. The kitchen (which we could not see directly) was built to feed 2000 people, there was a beautiful chapel, and we saw rooms with large porcelain heaters for the cold winter nights in Germany.
The tour took about an hour. Afterward, I took a walk around the gardens outside the castle, gardens which also overlook the Neckar River. I was freezing at that point, and had been debating the idea of going for a run. I had come up with the idea before I left that morning, and so had brought all my running clothes with me. If it had been pouring rain, I would not have run, but the rain had lessened, and the skies were opening up as I toured the garden walk. I knew a run would warm me up, and I decided to go for it. I went back to the parking garage, took my clothes out of the trunk, and changed inside my little Fiat. As I was heading out of the garage, I found a WC (toilet), and it was very warm inside - I thought, this is where I will change when I return!
I headed down the hill and through the old town, and then to the pedestrian bridge across the river. The wind was whipping as I ran across the bridge, and I held onto my Barnard cap as I ran. On the other side of the river, I headed west, toward another bridge, deciding I would do a loop. It looked like at least 3 miles, anyway. As I was getting close to the bridge ahead of me, I was stopped by a young German woman, who asked me for directions. She asked me about a street, which I didn't know, but she also asked about the Philosopher's Garden, which I told her was nearby, but I had not found the way to reach it. This conversation was a mix of German and English; already I was finding I could come up with some German words (or at least understand some of them) when necessary. Prompted by her question, I turned away from the river and headed down a street or two, eventually finding a sign that indicated the way up the hill to the Philosopher's Garden. It didn't take very long; I'm surprised how easily one can just stumble along things when one isn't really looking.
I headed up the hill, which took me past a University building and a number of students walking back to class (it was around 2 p.m. in the afternoon). I climbed higher and higher (huffing and puffing a bit), and was amused to see messages written in chalk (or paint) along the path (once I left the street), clearly intended for runners in a race at this height. Eventually I reached the Philosopher's garden, which overlooks the town from the opposite side of the river as the castle. There is a tradition of academics and philosopher's in the town, but I did not read up on this too much. There are plenty of places for you to do so; here's one useful site I found. I was happy to be up high, with a fantastic view of the valley and the Neckar river, in spite of the greyness of the day.
After heading back down the hill and back across the river, I ran through the university campus and back to my car. A good 40 minute run; a good sense of the town. I have a tradition, since I first starting traveling on my own back in 1983, of using a run as a way to explore a new place, and it has always enhanced my experience in a new place. And, by careful memorization of maps and street signs, a bit of caution, and using my fairly decent internal compass, I have never gotten lost (completely, anyway).
I changed back into my clothes in the WC I had found in the garage, drank the apple juice in my car, and headed out of town. My destination was the Hotel Rose, in one of the neighborhoods of Heidelberg. Before I had left Grunbach that morning, Uli had called his friend Beate, whose family runs the hotel. The two of them had been in hotel school together, but it had been a long time since he had seen her or talked to her. But he didn't hesitate to contact her when he knew I would be in Heidelberg. Also, his friend had married an American (stationed in Heidelberg), and Uli thought that the family would have a pretty good working knowledge of English (for my benefit). It turned out, after speaking to Beate's mom, that Beate would not be there that afternoon, but Uli gave me directions to go visit the hotel anyway.
So, after asking for directions, I found the Hotel Rose in Rorhbach. I entered the hotel and was directed to the woman sitting behind the registration desk. I told her I was Uli's friend, and after a moment, she brightened, and welcomed me into the dining room. She asked if I wanted anything, and I said coffee and perhaps...she volunteered, Cake! So over kuchen and caffe, I had a hour's conversation with Frau Fein. This conversation too was a mixture of English and German, but it was easy to understand her. We talked about the next day's inauguration, her visit to the US several years ago (including a personal backstage tour of the Met Opera by an Austrian-born Met tour guide who was so happy to have German speakers in her tour group), and the state of the economy in Heidelberg (of which the US Army and its personnel are a significant part). It was a lovely visit. As the afternoon darkened, I told her I needed to head home. She said, the Americans - always on the move! She told me to tell Uli that she would come visit his restaurant, but she also said that she and her husband rarely go anywhere. Ah, a very different mindset than my own!
The drive back was longer, through rain and heavy traffic as workers headed home. There were several accidents on the autobahn, and I was happy again that I don't commute to work (actually, I don't work at the moment, do I?). It was a brief visit to Heidelberg, but when I think of the town now, I won't think of that long-ago picture of me with pigtails sitting on the schloss wall, I will think of the river and its bridges, the old castle and its broad gardens, and the friendly German people I met there.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
President Obama
President Obama. Gosh, doesn't that sound good! Such a very proud moment for Americans all over the world, to watch the inauguration this afternoon, and celebrate the moment - change is here, what exactly that will mean remains to be seen, but the ebullience is in the air.
Congratulations, Barack!
Congratulations, Barack!
Monday, January 12, 2009
Running in Nice
Nice has three big running events each year, the Prom Classic Nice 10-KM in January, the Nice International Semi-Marathon in April, and the Marathon des Alpes-Maritime in November. These are events that attract runners from all over France, Italy and parts of Europe, as well as the ever-present Kenyans. The races require closing the major avenue, the Promenade des Anglais, along the Mediterranean in Nice, causing havoc for drivers generally on those days, but the races are well supported by the city's residents and officials.
When I visited Nice last April, it was a beautiful Saturday morning when I was walking along the Promenade and saw the Runners' Expo on the Espace Jacques Cotta (a large park in the city center). I thought it would be great to join in the race the next day, and so I attempted to sign up for the race. But I was thwarted in my attempt by the need to produce a medical certificate attesting to my fitness for the competitive race. That was not a piece of paper I carried with me on my trips to Europe! Not to be kept from experiencing the racing community in Nice, the next day I ran down to the Promenade from my friend's apartment and joined the race as a "bandit," a runner without a number. Trying to disguise the fact that I was an illegitimate participant, I ran in the middle of the pack through the streets of Nice, rather than my traditional position closer to the front of the pack. The race that day was a great introduction to the city.
Yesterday I participated as an "official" participant in the Prom Classic 10Km, also run along the Promenade des Anglais. This time I was not only a registered racer (having acquired my certificat medical from my new doctor in Nice), but I was given a bib numbered 72, which meant that I was going to run under 43 minutes for the race, and therefore was among the "elite" women registered for the race. The ladies with numbers 1-100 had a special roped off section at the starting line - I did not have to elbow my way to the front of the pack, as is typical. Although many races try and assign runners to the starting line by the pace they will run during the race, this effort relies on the honesty and attention of the runners, and there are plenty of folks who are just competitive enough (even if not fast) that they want to start at the front and inevitably some folks who are just clueless (often seen wearing earphones and carrying an iPod for their "run") and join the starting line wherever they end up - sometimes in the midst of very fast runners.
This race also featured a perk for the ladies: a start time 5 minutes ahead of the men's start. Turns out this was a publicity coup for the organizers: the first man and first woman raced across the finish line together - a huge photo op! What it meant for the rest of us was that the top ladies got to start without fighting through the guys, and it was a very pleasant start, I must say. I got into my groove pretty quickly, and it wasn't until the 5km mark that the top men caught up with me. From then on, however, there were LOTS of guys passing me, a very new sensation; during the second half of a race I am usually the one passing people.
The day was beautiful and sunny, chilly but not cold (around 50 degrees), and I wore my sunglasses, as we were running along the sea for the entire race - out and back, with the turnaround at 5km. It was a familiar run for me, as readers of this blog will know, and I used landmarks to help keep me motivated along the way. But it was pretty windy, and I was glad I was wearing my long-sleeve Barnard t-shirt (but the shorts were a good idea), and while I was running with ladies during the first half of the race, during the second half there were long stretches when I was running by myself into the wind, and cursing the fact that there was no one in front of me to break the wind!
At my last 10km race in Grasse, I had felt that I hadn't pushed myself during the first half of the race. Remembering that, yesterday I kept my foot on the pedal throughout the race (which means for me, labored breathing, but not gasping for breath). I kept that pace going through the first half, and then tried to keep it up during the second 5km. It was difficult, with the wind, and with my lack of conditioning - two weeks off during the holidays had apparently had an effect. I kept pumping my legs, telling myself that the reason I lifted weights was for just this purpose, to keep my legs pumping at the end of a race! I started feeling that fuzzy feeling in my head in the last kilometer, which means I was pushing it, and overheated (and if it had started earlier, I would have backed off my pace a little; I'm all too familiar with heat exhaustion), but I pushed on as best as I could to the finish.
As I approached the finish line, the first clock I saw showed a time of 37 minutes. I said to myself, No Way! And then quickly saw to the left of the clock, another clock, showing 42 minutes. Oh, yeah, that clock on the right was the time for the guys! The clock was already at 42:40 - I really wanted to finish under 43, so I hustled in over the finish line: 42:56. Under 43. I was exhausted. But sort of bummed; my last 10km time in November had been 42:12, and I was secretly hoping to match or improve upon that. But given my training, that hope was pretty unrealistic. So, positive attitude: happy with the day's results.
You can see, under "resultats," my stats for the race at http://www.promclassic.com/. I was 22nd in my age group, ladies 40-49. Given that this was the second largest 10km in France (5000 runners registered), I have to be happy with that. But, training continues! April is just around the corner.
When I visited Nice last April, it was a beautiful Saturday morning when I was walking along the Promenade and saw the Runners' Expo on the Espace Jacques Cotta (a large park in the city center). I thought it would be great to join in the race the next day, and so I attempted to sign up for the race. But I was thwarted in my attempt by the need to produce a medical certificate attesting to my fitness for the competitive race. That was not a piece of paper I carried with me on my trips to Europe! Not to be kept from experiencing the racing community in Nice, the next day I ran down to the Promenade from my friend's apartment and joined the race as a "bandit," a runner without a number. Trying to disguise the fact that I was an illegitimate participant, I ran in the middle of the pack through the streets of Nice, rather than my traditional position closer to the front of the pack. The race that day was a great introduction to the city.
Yesterday I participated as an "official" participant in the Prom Classic 10Km, also run along the Promenade des Anglais. This time I was not only a registered racer (having acquired my certificat medical from my new doctor in Nice), but I was given a bib numbered 72, which meant that I was going to run under 43 minutes for the race, and therefore was among the "elite" women registered for the race. The ladies with numbers 1-100 had a special roped off section at the starting line - I did not have to elbow my way to the front of the pack, as is typical. Although many races try and assign runners to the starting line by the pace they will run during the race, this effort relies on the honesty and attention of the runners, and there are plenty of folks who are just competitive enough (even if not fast) that they want to start at the front and inevitably some folks who are just clueless (often seen wearing earphones and carrying an iPod for their "run") and join the starting line wherever they end up - sometimes in the midst of very fast runners.
This race also featured a perk for the ladies: a start time 5 minutes ahead of the men's start. Turns out this was a publicity coup for the organizers: the first man and first woman raced across the finish line together - a huge photo op! What it meant for the rest of us was that the top ladies got to start without fighting through the guys, and it was a very pleasant start, I must say. I got into my groove pretty quickly, and it wasn't until the 5km mark that the top men caught up with me. From then on, however, there were LOTS of guys passing me, a very new sensation; during the second half of a race I am usually the one passing people.
The day was beautiful and sunny, chilly but not cold (around 50 degrees), and I wore my sunglasses, as we were running along the sea for the entire race - out and back, with the turnaround at 5km. It was a familiar run for me, as readers of this blog will know, and I used landmarks to help keep me motivated along the way. But it was pretty windy, and I was glad I was wearing my long-sleeve Barnard t-shirt (but the shorts were a good idea), and while I was running with ladies during the first half of the race, during the second half there were long stretches when I was running by myself into the wind, and cursing the fact that there was no one in front of me to break the wind!
At my last 10km race in Grasse, I had felt that I hadn't pushed myself during the first half of the race. Remembering that, yesterday I kept my foot on the pedal throughout the race (which means for me, labored breathing, but not gasping for breath). I kept that pace going through the first half, and then tried to keep it up during the second 5km. It was difficult, with the wind, and with my lack of conditioning - two weeks off during the holidays had apparently had an effect. I kept pumping my legs, telling myself that the reason I lifted weights was for just this purpose, to keep my legs pumping at the end of a race! I started feeling that fuzzy feeling in my head in the last kilometer, which means I was pushing it, and overheated (and if it had started earlier, I would have backed off my pace a little; I'm all too familiar with heat exhaustion), but I pushed on as best as I could to the finish.
As I approached the finish line, the first clock I saw showed a time of 37 minutes. I said to myself, No Way! And then quickly saw to the left of the clock, another clock, showing 42 minutes. Oh, yeah, that clock on the right was the time for the guys! The clock was already at 42:40 - I really wanted to finish under 43, so I hustled in over the finish line: 42:56. Under 43. I was exhausted. But sort of bummed; my last 10km time in November had been 42:12, and I was secretly hoping to match or improve upon that. But given my training, that hope was pretty unrealistic. So, positive attitude: happy with the day's results.
You can see, under "resultats," my stats for the race at http://www.promclassic.com/. I was 22nd in my age group, ladies 40-49. Given that this was the second largest 10km in France (5000 runners registered), I have to be happy with that. But, training continues! April is just around the corner.
French Cultural Christmas Traditions
My friend Joan, who succeed me as editor of the newsletter at my Washington, DC church (www.westernpresbyterian.org.), asked me to write up a submission for this month's edition on the French traditions of Twelfth Night. Below is what I sent her:
Twelfth Night
Twelfth Night in France is celebrated on the first Sunday (after the first Saturday) in January. Families and friends gather to share the “galette du roi,” the King’s Cake, in which a tiny figurine, a fève (literally meaning a bean, which is what they put in galettes long ago) has been baked. The person who finds the fève is declared the king (le roi) or the queen (la reine) and gets to wear the paper crown that comes with the galette.
Provençal Santons
Another tradition in the south of France is the display of manger scenes with santons. Santons, from the Provençal "santoùon,” or little saints, are clay or wooden figurines that depict the people, traditional trades, activities and costumes of Provence. Santons derived from the idea of the Provençal inhabitants on their way to the Nativity with their humble, local offerings. Lucéram, an ancient perched village located about twelve miles north of Nice, is where I first saw this tradition come to life: in Lucéram the inhabitants display several hundred different manger scenes made with the santons throughout the town, in every nook and cranny, from window ledges to tiny niches in the walls to large building basements. I walked the circuit of the town with a group late one night, under a full moon, which made for a special Christmas memory.
Protestant Traditions in France
It was comforting to find familiar Christian Christmas traditions in the French Protestant church I attend in Nice, the Église Réformée. On the third Sunday in Advent, I felt right at home: during the service the children of the church acted out the Christ story (older children reading their parts, younger children in costumes dressed as angels). Also that morning I performed, along with 11 other church members in our small Choeur Gospel (Gospel Choir), familiar songs, including “Go Tell It On the Mountain” (in English) and “Lo, How A Rose E’re Blooming” (in German), as well as two other traditional French carols.
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Having written about the galette du rois, I felt like I had to experience this French tradition. So last Saturday, I went to my local Artisan Patisserie (every time I walk by it, I stare in its windows, everything looks good), and bought a small fruit galette. As the woman wrapped up my cake, she slipped in the paper crown, the prize for the person who found the prize in the cake. Priscilla and I shared the cake (less like cake than a soft brioche) that evening, with Priscilla recommending we eat the whole thing, to make sure we found the prize. But I found the prize, a small plastic cat, as I cut my first piece, and I put on the crown. The crown was decorated with symbols of New Year wishes, including the elephant, the symbol for long life, and the four-leafed clover, the symbol for good luck. The Chinese believe the cat is imbued with magical powers, and is the symbol for riches and prosperity. I'll take that wish!
Twelfth Night
Twelfth Night in France is celebrated on the first Sunday (after the first Saturday) in January. Families and friends gather to share the “galette du roi,” the King’s Cake, in which a tiny figurine, a fève (literally meaning a bean, which is what they put in galettes long ago) has been baked. The person who finds the fève is declared the king (le roi) or the queen (la reine) and gets to wear the paper crown that comes with the galette.
Provençal Santons
Another tradition in the south of France is the display of manger scenes with santons. Santons, from the Provençal "santoùon,” or little saints, are clay or wooden figurines that depict the people, traditional trades, activities and costumes of Provence. Santons derived from the idea of the Provençal inhabitants on their way to the Nativity with their humble, local offerings. Lucéram, an ancient perched village located about twelve miles north of Nice, is where I first saw this tradition come to life: in Lucéram the inhabitants display several hundred different manger scenes made with the santons throughout the town, in every nook and cranny, from window ledges to tiny niches in the walls to large building basements. I walked the circuit of the town with a group late one night, under a full moon, which made for a special Christmas memory.
Protestant Traditions in France
It was comforting to find familiar Christian Christmas traditions in the French Protestant church I attend in Nice, the Église Réformée. On the third Sunday in Advent, I felt right at home: during the service the children of the church acted out the Christ story (older children reading their parts, younger children in costumes dressed as angels). Also that morning I performed, along with 11 other church members in our small Choeur Gospel (Gospel Choir), familiar songs, including “Go Tell It On the Mountain” (in English) and “Lo, How A Rose E’re Blooming” (in German), as well as two other traditional French carols.
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Having written about the galette du rois, I felt like I had to experience this French tradition. So last Saturday, I went to my local Artisan Patisserie (every time I walk by it, I stare in its windows, everything looks good), and bought a small fruit galette. As the woman wrapped up my cake, she slipped in the paper crown, the prize for the person who found the prize in the cake. Priscilla and I shared the cake (less like cake than a soft brioche) that evening, with Priscilla recommending we eat the whole thing, to make sure we found the prize. But I found the prize, a small plastic cat, as I cut my first piece, and I put on the crown. The crown was decorated with symbols of New Year wishes, including the elephant, the symbol for long life, and the four-leafed clover, the symbol for good luck. The Chinese believe the cat is imbued with magical powers, and is the symbol for riches and prosperity. I'll take that wish!
My Family Christmas Traditions
This post is not about France, but about my family's Christmas traditions. This year, going home for the holidays was not a trip squeezed in at the last minute between Christmas concerts and Christmas parties, but one planned for and enjoyed as a time to be with my family. Coming from France and watching the unfolding traditions in my new city, I was also much more aware of the things we do as a family, in our small New England town, that are meaningful in different ways for each of us. I will include a reflection on some of the French traditions in another posting, but below are my memories and take on what my family does to celebrate the Christmas season. (Warning: long posting!)
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Christmas Eve Memories
My grandparent’s home on the corner of Cornell and Weaver Streets in Scarsdale, NY is the site of my first Christmas memories. Their home was a mansion to me at that age, with its long driveway leading up to the three story structure, with its columned porch that faced the massive front lawn. The house itself was made for entertaining, with a large living room and dining room making up most of the first floor. A wide staircase bisected the two rooms, and was the first thing you saw when you came in the front door. But we always came in the back, through the kitchen, where we could find my grandmother fussing over the preparations for the meal and making sure that we all had something to drink. My grandparents had a maid in those days, Lucille, a black woman who prepared their meals (my grandfather’s gift to my grandmother). I can’t remember if Lucille was there on Christmas eve, but she was a lovely woman, and she always treated us grandkids with kindness.
The entire family gathered at my grandfather’s house for Christmas eve. It was an “event” – my grandfather was magnanimous (and could afford to be) in this way with the family, and everyone (brothers, sisters, cousins) took advantage of the invitation to come for the evening. There was always a table full of food in the dining room, and copious amounts of alcohol were consumed, I suppose, though I only remember drinking ginger ale at that age. The evening was marked not by the eating of food, but by the arrival of Santa Claus. Usually my great uncle Richard, who had no children, dressed up in the Santa suit, but it was some years before I figured that one out. When the tradition started, we kids (there were six grandchildren) were babes in arms, but as we became more aware of the figure of Santa, the appearance of a “live” Santa was pretty awesome. The entire family would assemble, standing and sitting, in the living room, and we would hear a tinkling of bells from above, and “Santa” would come thundering down the stairs (ostensibly from the roof) shaking bells and bellowing “ho, ho, ho” as he burst into the room. There was a time when he was quite scary to me, but there was also another reason to be anxious about his arrival. When Santa came into the room and was escorted to the large wing-backed chair set up for him in the front of the room, he (or my grandfather, more likely) would say something to the effect that before we kids could get our presents, we had to perform for Santa. I’m guessing that this was the brainchild of my grandfather, as he was an accomplished tenor soloist, and I imagine he very much enjoyed the prospect of his grandchildren following in his footsteps.
My parents, also singers and musicians, had made sure that my siblings and I were all involved in playing musical instruments of one kind or another. But ever the shy one as a child, I always remembered this particular evening as yet another opportunity to be embarrassed in front of a crowd. We each would tentatively get up to play on the baby grand piano or on our instruments, or even sing (my cousins were not consistent in their musical training, although my aunt was a very accomplished pianist). Sometimes even some of the older cousins would contribute to the evening’s performances. Afterwards we kids would be handed presents (from our grandmother, via Santa), and then Santa would take his leave, disappearing up the stairs as my great aunt would start playing Christmas carols for all to sing.
Santa Resurfaces
The Christmas eve tradition ended with the death of my grandparents in 1981 (actually, it was held in their home in 1982), but the Santa tradition was a strong memory for all of us in my family. My mother made sure to retrieve the Santa suit from my grandparent’s house to use again – which it was, after the births of my sister’s children. My sister’s family has almost always come up north to my parent’s home for Christmas, and for several years my mother found a friend, or sometimes one of us siblings, to dress up in the suit for Chelsea and Nathan, as we recreated the appearance of Santa coming down the stairs, and asking for performances from the children, after which gifts would be presented and Santa would disappear. The fear in my niece and nephew’s faces was amusing to watch, but I remembered quite well the same apprehension when the red-suited man appeared when I was their age. It didn’t matter that there were many other people in the room, there was just something about a character you only knew about from books appearing on Christmas Eve, in your own home, that was pretty awesome and awful at the same time.
After we stopped going to my grandparents in the 80’s, my family established some its own traditions, which have ebbed and flowed over time, but essentially have stayed the same as the next generation of the clan has grown (and now are nearly grown up!).
Today's Christmas Eve
Christmas Eve continues to be an important time for our family, and the Christmas Eve service at First Congregational Church has been the focal point since we moved to our town in 1974. We are a church-going family, and despite the fact that we have mixed feelings about the First Church service, which is always a children’s re-enactment of the story of Christ’s birth, along with the singing of Christmas hymns and the lighting of candles, we have continued to attend year after year. For many years, it was a time to reconnect with friends, after we had gone on to college, but it is no longer a reliable place to see old friends. After we were too old to participate in the play or light candles, we would sing with the choir, but more recently, my sister’s children (and Chris and me) have provided the prelude music for the service (ensembles of violins, cellos, recorders, and/or piano). The service begins early in the evening, 6 p.m. this year, so we traditionally have a quick dinner beforehand. Mom has made lasagna or manicotti many, many, many years in a row, so people have come to expect this filling and warm dish on what is typically a cold evening in December!
Forever, it seems, my mother has also enlisted our family to help her put on a fellowship hour after the service, so that families can see each other and mingle after the service. And frankly, the congregation does take advantage of the time and victuals offered; the kids are a bit pumped up after their performance, and it’s a good time for them to start the unwinding process. Punch and cookies are the menu for the reception, and the focus of the table is always the Gingerbread House.
The Gingerbread House
The Gingerbread House is a pre-Christmas activity led by my father for I’m not sure how many years now. The Gingerbread House recipe came from a cookbook given to us by my aunt when she was President of the Junior League of Washington (DC), and it is a recipe that I have used several times over the years myself, after wanting to have the same fun my dad always seemed to be having as he made the house. Dad tries to design and build (yes, it also involves design these days!) the house before we kids have made it home to Amherst, but sometimes we get to watch the building process, as he cooks sugar over the stove and then tries to swiftly put together the pieces of the house without burning himself on the hot sugar! After the house is stable, the fun of decorating the house begins. Non-pareils, M&Ms, licorice, red hots, NESCO wafers and other random small candies are among the candies that provide color and character to the house, attached using a egg-white/confectioner’s sugar icing. Decorating is a family affair, although my sister Chris has an artist’s touch when she is there to lead the effort. In past years, I would build a house for the Winter Solstice parties I held in Virginia, and let the kids in attendance decorate the house as they wished – it was often a happy mix of colored icing and random candy application. My dad’s house does not suffer from such randomness given the artists in the house, and there is an effort to make the edible decoration truly a work of art, which allows for its eventual ending. Shortly after Christmas the house is given to a family or individual chosen by my parents, for whom the gift may brighten their holidays in a meaningful way.
Christmas Eve Reflections
Post-Christmas Eve service is a quiet time for my family. Given the flurry of activity before the service (last minute arrivals of family members, last minute cookie baking and house decorating, last minute musical rehearsals for the service, the swirl of eating before heading to the early church service and finally dressing in time to get out the door and down to the church - only a 7 minute walk away! – in time for the service itself, and then managing the after church fellowship hour and cleaning up afterward), by the time we are back home, (almost) everyone is exhausted from the effort. We tend to gather in the living room of my parent’s house, a room not used often during the rest of the year, as that is where the Christmas Tree stands, in the sun of the southern window bay.
The activities that take place around the tree have varied over the years, but regardless of what we have done, I have always relished the time to just sit back and relax for a short period of time on Christmas Eve, before the frenzy begins again the next morning. My mother has made an effort over the years to make it a time of sharing and reflection on both Christ’s birth and our own lives. When we were young, we would light the final candle in the Advent wreath that, inevitably, one of us children had made. Sometimes my father would read us “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” or some other relevant story that he had chosen. As we got older, we were asked to contribute to an Advent “service” with readings from the Bible or from a three-volume Christmas traditions set that was brought out of the bookshelves for that purpose each year. When a Swedish exchange student gave us a traditional Christmas candle set (four candles set around a base with a fan of flat sticks overhead that, once the candles were lit, would begin to swirl, setting off the circular base with its Christmas characters), we incorporated the lighting of those candles into our evening as well. Once we had become young adults, my mother introduced another way for us to share: we were each asked to write down on a slip of paper our expectations for the year ahead. The slips of paper were stowed away in the infamous “gold box” until the next year, when we would read aloud our previous year’s predictions (often to laughter, sometimes with sorrow) before writing up our thoughts about the upcoming year.
A Sweet Tradition
Christmas eve was also a time for opening some special gifts. For many years, until her death, my mother’s aunt Marge would send us a two pound box of chocolates from a local candy shop in her hometown of Sykesville, Maryland. The box of Dolores Truly chocolates was a Christmas tradition for as long as I can remember. That box of chocolates would last far after the holidays, as my mother was sure to hide the box not long after Christmas Day, only bringing it out for special moments in the following weeks. My brother in law purchased the box of Dolores Truly the year after Marge’s death, so we would have it to remember her by, but I have continued the chocolate box tradition by sending to the house a two pound box from Godiva Chocolates – not quite the same, but still good!
Incorporating the tradition of some other families, we began several years ago to open one gift each on Christmas Eve. With the young children, this was a little difficult to manage, and I must admit, at my age, I’d rather wait until Christmas Day, and leave Christmas Eve as a spiritual time, rather than a time to focus on material things. But for a very special gift that you cannot wait to give, or get, the quietness of Christmas Eve is a special time to enjoy that pleasure with your gift-giver/receiver.
Post-reflection and chocolate eating on Christmas Eve, everyone goes off to bed. Everyone, that is, except my mom and dad. Dad typically has not wrapped a single package, and begins his arduous task that evening. My mom is the creator of the effect of Christmas morning – it is she who has hung stockings, and bought things to put in them for each member of the family. She continues her family tradition by placing an orange and a penny in each stocking toe. The new penny is for good luck; the orange is a reminder that there is something to eat for everyone (she is a child of the Depression). She distributes presents (all those she had in some back closet somewhere) under the tree, and sets the table for breakfast with festive napkins and candles. She no longer has to worry about making breakfast in the morning, but she likes to make sure that the table we sit at the next day will be eye-catching.
The Christmas Pancake
Decades ago, we received a Christmas flyer from our old church, First Congregational Church of Old Greenwich, in which there was a recipe for a “Christmas Pancake.” My mother insisted we have it on Christmas morning, and it has been a tradition ever since. We were already a pancake and waffle crowd, so it was an easy sell. The pancake has a bit of drama, as it is cooked (with flour, eggs, milk and butter) in a large cast iron pan in the oven. Once it has cooked for 20 minutes, one takes the pan out of the oven and drizzles lemon juice over the top, before returning it to the oven to brown. By the time the pancake (and a large one it is) is taken from the oven and sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar, everyone is ready to eat! When we were a family of five, it fed everyone easily. This year, with 8 of us, the portions were a little smaller, but no one complained. I made the pancake for many years (I was always the first one up, and I like to bake), but in the past several years my niece and nephew have taken over the cooking responsibilities. The breakfast almost always includes a fruit salad (my mother’s tradition – a fruit salad for breakfast is a staple for all special breakfasts) and sausage, for those who need a little something more substantial. When I was introduced to Starbucks Coffee in the early 90’s by my Seattle friends, I began a tradition of sending Starbucks coffee so we could have it for our Christmas breakfast. (My Dad had been an instant coffee drinker for most of my growing up years.) It’s not always Starbucks anymore, but the breakfast almost always is a good coffee day for those coffee drinkers around the table.
Bringing Gifts
Once the pancake has been consumed (which doesn’t take very long), typically the youngest at the table is dispatched to the next room to bring stocking gifts to the table. Long ago we found that the stocking gifts got lost in the shuffle of the major gift openings, and that extending our time at the breakfast table was a nice way to begin the process of opening gifts, while still extending the anticipation of the gift opening that would take place around the tree a short while later. One person at a time opens their gifts (you would think there were a limited number of gifts to be given – NOT the case!). When there are no more gifts in the stockings, the group decamps the few steps to the next room, each to find a comfortable place in the living room where they will spend the next hour or so unwrapping gifts and giving kisses and hugs to the gift-givers, eating chocolates and oranges and other assorted things that are unwrapped during the morning’s chaos.
We always say, fewer gifts next year. Last year, the adults took a different tack at my sister’s suggestion, and many of us gave gifts to the non-profit organization of the givee’s choosing. But that didn’t seem to stop the overflow of packages under the Christmas tree. Even this year, my niece exclaimed, “I thought we were in a recession!” as she gazed at the tumble of packages under the tree. But my mother loves to find little things and wrap them up, and we all seem to find that one thing that we wanted, given to us by someone else. A nice tradition.
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Christmas Eve Memories
My grandparent’s home on the corner of Cornell and Weaver Streets in Scarsdale, NY is the site of my first Christmas memories. Their home was a mansion to me at that age, with its long driveway leading up to the three story structure, with its columned porch that faced the massive front lawn. The house itself was made for entertaining, with a large living room and dining room making up most of the first floor. A wide staircase bisected the two rooms, and was the first thing you saw when you came in the front door. But we always came in the back, through the kitchen, where we could find my grandmother fussing over the preparations for the meal and making sure that we all had something to drink. My grandparents had a maid in those days, Lucille, a black woman who prepared their meals (my grandfather’s gift to my grandmother). I can’t remember if Lucille was there on Christmas eve, but she was a lovely woman, and she always treated us grandkids with kindness.
The entire family gathered at my grandfather’s house for Christmas eve. It was an “event” – my grandfather was magnanimous (and could afford to be) in this way with the family, and everyone (brothers, sisters, cousins) took advantage of the invitation to come for the evening. There was always a table full of food in the dining room, and copious amounts of alcohol were consumed, I suppose, though I only remember drinking ginger ale at that age. The evening was marked not by the eating of food, but by the arrival of Santa Claus. Usually my great uncle Richard, who had no children, dressed up in the Santa suit, but it was some years before I figured that one out. When the tradition started, we kids (there were six grandchildren) were babes in arms, but as we became more aware of the figure of Santa, the appearance of a “live” Santa was pretty awesome. The entire family would assemble, standing and sitting, in the living room, and we would hear a tinkling of bells from above, and “Santa” would come thundering down the stairs (ostensibly from the roof) shaking bells and bellowing “ho, ho, ho” as he burst into the room. There was a time when he was quite scary to me, but there was also another reason to be anxious about his arrival. When Santa came into the room and was escorted to the large wing-backed chair set up for him in the front of the room, he (or my grandfather, more likely) would say something to the effect that before we kids could get our presents, we had to perform for Santa. I’m guessing that this was the brainchild of my grandfather, as he was an accomplished tenor soloist, and I imagine he very much enjoyed the prospect of his grandchildren following in his footsteps.
My parents, also singers and musicians, had made sure that my siblings and I were all involved in playing musical instruments of one kind or another. But ever the shy one as a child, I always remembered this particular evening as yet another opportunity to be embarrassed in front of a crowd. We each would tentatively get up to play on the baby grand piano or on our instruments, or even sing (my cousins were not consistent in their musical training, although my aunt was a very accomplished pianist). Sometimes even some of the older cousins would contribute to the evening’s performances. Afterwards we kids would be handed presents (from our grandmother, via Santa), and then Santa would take his leave, disappearing up the stairs as my great aunt would start playing Christmas carols for all to sing.
Santa Resurfaces
The Christmas eve tradition ended with the death of my grandparents in 1981 (actually, it was held in their home in 1982), but the Santa tradition was a strong memory for all of us in my family. My mother made sure to retrieve the Santa suit from my grandparent’s house to use again – which it was, after the births of my sister’s children. My sister’s family has almost always come up north to my parent’s home for Christmas, and for several years my mother found a friend, or sometimes one of us siblings, to dress up in the suit for Chelsea and Nathan, as we recreated the appearance of Santa coming down the stairs, and asking for performances from the children, after which gifts would be presented and Santa would disappear. The fear in my niece and nephew’s faces was amusing to watch, but I remembered quite well the same apprehension when the red-suited man appeared when I was their age. It didn’t matter that there were many other people in the room, there was just something about a character you only knew about from books appearing on Christmas Eve, in your own home, that was pretty awesome and awful at the same time.
After we stopped going to my grandparents in the 80’s, my family established some its own traditions, which have ebbed and flowed over time, but essentially have stayed the same as the next generation of the clan has grown (and now are nearly grown up!).
Today's Christmas Eve
Christmas Eve continues to be an important time for our family, and the Christmas Eve service at First Congregational Church has been the focal point since we moved to our town in 1974. We are a church-going family, and despite the fact that we have mixed feelings about the First Church service, which is always a children’s re-enactment of the story of Christ’s birth, along with the singing of Christmas hymns and the lighting of candles, we have continued to attend year after year. For many years, it was a time to reconnect with friends, after we had gone on to college, but it is no longer a reliable place to see old friends. After we were too old to participate in the play or light candles, we would sing with the choir, but more recently, my sister’s children (and Chris and me) have provided the prelude music for the service (ensembles of violins, cellos, recorders, and/or piano). The service begins early in the evening, 6 p.m. this year, so we traditionally have a quick dinner beforehand. Mom has made lasagna or manicotti many, many, many years in a row, so people have come to expect this filling and warm dish on what is typically a cold evening in December!
Forever, it seems, my mother has also enlisted our family to help her put on a fellowship hour after the service, so that families can see each other and mingle after the service. And frankly, the congregation does take advantage of the time and victuals offered; the kids are a bit pumped up after their performance, and it’s a good time for them to start the unwinding process. Punch and cookies are the menu for the reception, and the focus of the table is always the Gingerbread House.
The Gingerbread House
The Gingerbread House is a pre-Christmas activity led by my father for I’m not sure how many years now. The Gingerbread House recipe came from a cookbook given to us by my aunt when she was President of the Junior League of Washington (DC), and it is a recipe that I have used several times over the years myself, after wanting to have the same fun my dad always seemed to be having as he made the house. Dad tries to design and build (yes, it also involves design these days!) the house before we kids have made it home to Amherst, but sometimes we get to watch the building process, as he cooks sugar over the stove and then tries to swiftly put together the pieces of the house without burning himself on the hot sugar! After the house is stable, the fun of decorating the house begins. Non-pareils, M&Ms, licorice, red hots, NESCO wafers and other random small candies are among the candies that provide color and character to the house, attached using a egg-white/confectioner’s sugar icing. Decorating is a family affair, although my sister Chris has an artist’s touch when she is there to lead the effort. In past years, I would build a house for the Winter Solstice parties I held in Virginia, and let the kids in attendance decorate the house as they wished – it was often a happy mix of colored icing and random candy application. My dad’s house does not suffer from such randomness given the artists in the house, and there is an effort to make the edible decoration truly a work of art, which allows for its eventual ending. Shortly after Christmas the house is given to a family or individual chosen by my parents, for whom the gift may brighten their holidays in a meaningful way.
Christmas Eve Reflections
Post-Christmas Eve service is a quiet time for my family. Given the flurry of activity before the service (last minute arrivals of family members, last minute cookie baking and house decorating, last minute musical rehearsals for the service, the swirl of eating before heading to the early church service and finally dressing in time to get out the door and down to the church - only a 7 minute walk away! – in time for the service itself, and then managing the after church fellowship hour and cleaning up afterward), by the time we are back home, (almost) everyone is exhausted from the effort. We tend to gather in the living room of my parent’s house, a room not used often during the rest of the year, as that is where the Christmas Tree stands, in the sun of the southern window bay.
The activities that take place around the tree have varied over the years, but regardless of what we have done, I have always relished the time to just sit back and relax for a short period of time on Christmas Eve, before the frenzy begins again the next morning. My mother has made an effort over the years to make it a time of sharing and reflection on both Christ’s birth and our own lives. When we were young, we would light the final candle in the Advent wreath that, inevitably, one of us children had made. Sometimes my father would read us “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” or some other relevant story that he had chosen. As we got older, we were asked to contribute to an Advent “service” with readings from the Bible or from a three-volume Christmas traditions set that was brought out of the bookshelves for that purpose each year. When a Swedish exchange student gave us a traditional Christmas candle set (four candles set around a base with a fan of flat sticks overhead that, once the candles were lit, would begin to swirl, setting off the circular base with its Christmas characters), we incorporated the lighting of those candles into our evening as well. Once we had become young adults, my mother introduced another way for us to share: we were each asked to write down on a slip of paper our expectations for the year ahead. The slips of paper were stowed away in the infamous “gold box” until the next year, when we would read aloud our previous year’s predictions (often to laughter, sometimes with sorrow) before writing up our thoughts about the upcoming year.
A Sweet Tradition
Christmas eve was also a time for opening some special gifts. For many years, until her death, my mother’s aunt Marge would send us a two pound box of chocolates from a local candy shop in her hometown of Sykesville, Maryland. The box of Dolores Truly chocolates was a Christmas tradition for as long as I can remember. That box of chocolates would last far after the holidays, as my mother was sure to hide the box not long after Christmas Day, only bringing it out for special moments in the following weeks. My brother in law purchased the box of Dolores Truly the year after Marge’s death, so we would have it to remember her by, but I have continued the chocolate box tradition by sending to the house a two pound box from Godiva Chocolates – not quite the same, but still good!
Incorporating the tradition of some other families, we began several years ago to open one gift each on Christmas Eve. With the young children, this was a little difficult to manage, and I must admit, at my age, I’d rather wait until Christmas Day, and leave Christmas Eve as a spiritual time, rather than a time to focus on material things. But for a very special gift that you cannot wait to give, or get, the quietness of Christmas Eve is a special time to enjoy that pleasure with your gift-giver/receiver.
Post-reflection and chocolate eating on Christmas Eve, everyone goes off to bed. Everyone, that is, except my mom and dad. Dad typically has not wrapped a single package, and begins his arduous task that evening. My mom is the creator of the effect of Christmas morning – it is she who has hung stockings, and bought things to put in them for each member of the family. She continues her family tradition by placing an orange and a penny in each stocking toe. The new penny is for good luck; the orange is a reminder that there is something to eat for everyone (she is a child of the Depression). She distributes presents (all those she had in some back closet somewhere) under the tree, and sets the table for breakfast with festive napkins and candles. She no longer has to worry about making breakfast in the morning, but she likes to make sure that the table we sit at the next day will be eye-catching.
The Christmas Pancake
Decades ago, we received a Christmas flyer from our old church, First Congregational Church of Old Greenwich, in which there was a recipe for a “Christmas Pancake.” My mother insisted we have it on Christmas morning, and it has been a tradition ever since. We were already a pancake and waffle crowd, so it was an easy sell. The pancake has a bit of drama, as it is cooked (with flour, eggs, milk and butter) in a large cast iron pan in the oven. Once it has cooked for 20 minutes, one takes the pan out of the oven and drizzles lemon juice over the top, before returning it to the oven to brown. By the time the pancake (and a large one it is) is taken from the oven and sprinkled with confectioner’s sugar, everyone is ready to eat! When we were a family of five, it fed everyone easily. This year, with 8 of us, the portions were a little smaller, but no one complained. I made the pancake for many years (I was always the first one up, and I like to bake), but in the past several years my niece and nephew have taken over the cooking responsibilities. The breakfast almost always includes a fruit salad (my mother’s tradition – a fruit salad for breakfast is a staple for all special breakfasts) and sausage, for those who need a little something more substantial. When I was introduced to Starbucks Coffee in the early 90’s by my Seattle friends, I began a tradition of sending Starbucks coffee so we could have it for our Christmas breakfast. (My Dad had been an instant coffee drinker for most of my growing up years.) It’s not always Starbucks anymore, but the breakfast almost always is a good coffee day for those coffee drinkers around the table.
Bringing Gifts
Once the pancake has been consumed (which doesn’t take very long), typically the youngest at the table is dispatched to the next room to bring stocking gifts to the table. Long ago we found that the stocking gifts got lost in the shuffle of the major gift openings, and that extending our time at the breakfast table was a nice way to begin the process of opening gifts, while still extending the anticipation of the gift opening that would take place around the tree a short while later. One person at a time opens their gifts (you would think there were a limited number of gifts to be given – NOT the case!). When there are no more gifts in the stockings, the group decamps the few steps to the next room, each to find a comfortable place in the living room where they will spend the next hour or so unwrapping gifts and giving kisses and hugs to the gift-givers, eating chocolates and oranges and other assorted things that are unwrapped during the morning’s chaos.
We always say, fewer gifts next year. Last year, the adults took a different tack at my sister’s suggestion, and many of us gave gifts to the non-profit organization of the givee’s choosing. But that didn’t seem to stop the overflow of packages under the Christmas tree. Even this year, my niece exclaimed, “I thought we were in a recession!” as she gazed at the tumble of packages under the tree. But my mother loves to find little things and wrap them up, and we all seem to find that one thing that we wanted, given to us by someone else. A nice tradition.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Tell Me About the French (Continued)
For those of you who were waiting for additional observations of what makes the French French, your wait is over! I'll do some more of these, but here are three more topics in the continuing series.
Strikes – In “A Town Like Paris,” the author tells of a retired couple who live on his block in Paris who appear to attend whatever strike is going on in town – they describe it as their civic duty. I thought this was probably a caricature of Paris life. But after watching four months of the national evening news in France, I realize that this IS France – another part of life and culture that makes the French French. The French revel in their ability to protest (it is called a “grève”) on the streets of Paris. Almost always it is a union of workers protesting some facet of their work life or compensation that is about to be altered by the French government, but occasionally it is something more universal, like a protest against the war, or against a police action, or American oppression (OK, so I go overboard, but it has happened).
For those of us who live outside Paris, we only experience these marches via the quick quips on the evening news. But a march down the Champs Élysée is not the only type of action that marks the French “grève.” Transportation unions get particular mileage out of their strikes, for example, the southwest of France has been affected by a strike by SNCF (the national train system in France) conductors for the past four (!) weeks. Intermittent train travel occurs, but for most travelers and commuters, this is a royal PITA. In another example, striking Air France pilots, protesting proposed changes to their retirement plans, affected air travel intermittently for several months. And then there was the strike by school teachers back in September, which affected schools all over France. Interestingly, Sarkozy had put in place a provision so that such a strike would not close down schools, but apparently, the plan was not able to be fully implemented in all regions. For a socialist country, it is not a surprise that so many workers feel comfortable expressing their views to the government; after all, they probably won’t lose their jobs. The United States has lost quite a bit of this “strike” mentality to get things changed, but then again, it’s not apparent to me that the strikes actually change anything. But it certainly is good press.
Clothing – When I was first travelled overseas with my family in the 1970’s, I was 10 – not exactly clothes conscious. But I look back at pictures from that trip in 1972, and you can see me and my sister in bell bottoms, wearing clogs (we were in Scandinavia) and bandannas. Pretty typical American 70’s garb. Five years later, when my family headed for Europe again, I was much more aware of the fashions around me, but we were camping – it was August, and jeans and t-shirts were pretty much all I brought on the trip. But I was much more aware that you could identify my family as American by the clothes we were wearing – and how easy it was to identify other Americans just like us. By the end of the trip, we had all bought clothes (mostly shirts) from our travels around France and England, clothes that were less identifiable as “American,” our small effort to try and blend in with the natives.
When I moved to Nice, I took advice from Priscilla, and didn’t bring too many clothes. After all, who was I trying to impress? But I did not take her advice to leave my t-shirts at home, after all, they are my runner’s trophies (the French do not wear t-shirts like Americans, but I thought racing t-shirts did not count), but I did try to bring simple things that didn’t scream “USA.” But you can definitely tell that I am not from France when I go down the street in Nice. My Lands’ End rubber shoes, my waist high Gap jeans, my LL Bean turtlenecks, the primary colors of my clothes (mostly green these days), all pretty much mark me as not from France. I wasn’t planning on buying lots of clothes here (not in my budget), but I have made a few purchases that help me blend in to my community. My black high-heeled boots were my first purchase – women all over France wear high-heeled boots (short, mid-calf, and high); they are completely impractical from my point of view, but I wanted to fit in, and besides, they look pretty cool. My second purchase was a winter coat. Priscilla joked that I would only wear it a few times, predicting a mild winter. But I was glad I had spent a few days finding the coat I wanted; I wear it all the time these days! (The foot of snow in Marseille this week indicates that the Cote d’Azur temperatures are in flux, although we have maintained temps in the 50s pretty much this month in Nice.) My third purchase came this week: low-slung, tight-fitting black jeans. NOW I will completely fit in. With my jeans, black boots and black coat, no one will think I’m an American – unless they look under my coat and see the turtleneck and cardigan I’m wearing!
Quand Même – Learning a foreign language in a classroom and learning a foreign language on the streets in the country where you live is like learning to cook by drawing pictures rather than actually measuring out ingredients and watching your creation cook in the oven. You can get the idea, but you can’t actually know how it works out unless you are there. I had the verbs and nouns down pretty well before I got here, but it’s the construction of those two, plus all the other incidental phrases, which have given me the most challenge. And, of course, the French have their own particular phrases that they include in their language, much as American teenagers use “like” and “so” and whatever other phrases mark today’s lingo. The phrase that I was alerted to by a newsletter Priscilla forwards to me periodically (“Adapting in France” – I think it’s for English/American expats) in this vein was “quand même.” It’s not directly translatable, “quand” means “when” and “même” means “same”, but a loose translation is “all the same.” I commented to a French friend recently that I would count myself a French speaker when I could use “quand même” in a conversation. He said, “what’s that?” He didn’t know what I was talking about. And after I described it, he said, “I wonder if I say that without knowing it.” “Donc” is the other phrase that is used frequently in conversation, a kind of “so” or “like” in our American conversation. It has a distinct usage in the dictionary, but in conversation, is a word that you say when you have come to the end of your sentence, and before you start the next sentence or thought. “J’ai dormi hier soir, mais il y a beaucoup de bruit pendant la nuit, donc, je n’ai pas dormi trés bien.” Well, not the best example, but trying to replicate speech is difficult! And difficult to decipher as a non-native speaker too. But I keep trying.
Strikes – In “A Town Like Paris,” the author tells of a retired couple who live on his block in Paris who appear to attend whatever strike is going on in town – they describe it as their civic duty. I thought this was probably a caricature of Paris life. But after watching four months of the national evening news in France, I realize that this IS France – another part of life and culture that makes the French French. The French revel in their ability to protest (it is called a “grève”) on the streets of Paris. Almost always it is a union of workers protesting some facet of their work life or compensation that is about to be altered by the French government, but occasionally it is something more universal, like a protest against the war, or against a police action, or American oppression (OK, so I go overboard, but it has happened).
For those of us who live outside Paris, we only experience these marches via the quick quips on the evening news. But a march down the Champs Élysée is not the only type of action that marks the French “grève.” Transportation unions get particular mileage out of their strikes, for example, the southwest of France has been affected by a strike by SNCF (the national train system in France) conductors for the past four (!) weeks. Intermittent train travel occurs, but for most travelers and commuters, this is a royal PITA. In another example, striking Air France pilots, protesting proposed changes to their retirement plans, affected air travel intermittently for several months. And then there was the strike by school teachers back in September, which affected schools all over France. Interestingly, Sarkozy had put in place a provision so that such a strike would not close down schools, but apparently, the plan was not able to be fully implemented in all regions. For a socialist country, it is not a surprise that so many workers feel comfortable expressing their views to the government; after all, they probably won’t lose their jobs. The United States has lost quite a bit of this “strike” mentality to get things changed, but then again, it’s not apparent to me that the strikes actually change anything. But it certainly is good press.
Clothing – When I was first travelled overseas with my family in the 1970’s, I was 10 – not exactly clothes conscious. But I look back at pictures from that trip in 1972, and you can see me and my sister in bell bottoms, wearing clogs (we were in Scandinavia) and bandannas. Pretty typical American 70’s garb. Five years later, when my family headed for Europe again, I was much more aware of the fashions around me, but we were camping – it was August, and jeans and t-shirts were pretty much all I brought on the trip. But I was much more aware that you could identify my family as American by the clothes we were wearing – and how easy it was to identify other Americans just like us. By the end of the trip, we had all bought clothes (mostly shirts) from our travels around France and England, clothes that were less identifiable as “American,” our small effort to try and blend in with the natives.
When I moved to Nice, I took advice from Priscilla, and didn’t bring too many clothes. After all, who was I trying to impress? But I did not take her advice to leave my t-shirts at home, after all, they are my runner’s trophies (the French do not wear t-shirts like Americans, but I thought racing t-shirts did not count), but I did try to bring simple things that didn’t scream “USA.” But you can definitely tell that I am not from France when I go down the street in Nice. My Lands’ End rubber shoes, my waist high Gap jeans, my LL Bean turtlenecks, the primary colors of my clothes (mostly green these days), all pretty much mark me as not from France. I wasn’t planning on buying lots of clothes here (not in my budget), but I have made a few purchases that help me blend in to my community. My black high-heeled boots were my first purchase – women all over France wear high-heeled boots (short, mid-calf, and high); they are completely impractical from my point of view, but I wanted to fit in, and besides, they look pretty cool. My second purchase was a winter coat. Priscilla joked that I would only wear it a few times, predicting a mild winter. But I was glad I had spent a few days finding the coat I wanted; I wear it all the time these days! (The foot of snow in Marseille this week indicates that the Cote d’Azur temperatures are in flux, although we have maintained temps in the 50s pretty much this month in Nice.) My third purchase came this week: low-slung, tight-fitting black jeans. NOW I will completely fit in. With my jeans, black boots and black coat, no one will think I’m an American – unless they look under my coat and see the turtleneck and cardigan I’m wearing!
Quand Même – Learning a foreign language in a classroom and learning a foreign language on the streets in the country where you live is like learning to cook by drawing pictures rather than actually measuring out ingredients and watching your creation cook in the oven. You can get the idea, but you can’t actually know how it works out unless you are there. I had the verbs and nouns down pretty well before I got here, but it’s the construction of those two, plus all the other incidental phrases, which have given me the most challenge. And, of course, the French have their own particular phrases that they include in their language, much as American teenagers use “like” and “so” and whatever other phrases mark today’s lingo. The phrase that I was alerted to by a newsletter Priscilla forwards to me periodically (“Adapting in France” – I think it’s for English/American expats) in this vein was “quand même.” It’s not directly translatable, “quand” means “when” and “même” means “same”, but a loose translation is “all the same.” I commented to a French friend recently that I would count myself a French speaker when I could use “quand même” in a conversation. He said, “what’s that?” He didn’t know what I was talking about. And after I described it, he said, “I wonder if I say that without knowing it.” “Donc” is the other phrase that is used frequently in conversation, a kind of “so” or “like” in our American conversation. It has a distinct usage in the dictionary, but in conversation, is a word that you say when you have come to the end of your sentence, and before you start the next sentence or thought. “J’ai dormi hier soir, mais il y a beaucoup de bruit pendant la nuit, donc, je n’ai pas dormi trés bien.” Well, not the best example, but trying to replicate speech is difficult! And difficult to decipher as a non-native speaker too. But I keep trying.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
My 2008 End of Year Letter
Each year I write up the highlights of my year for my friends and family. I usually create this letter in Publisher, complete with photos, print and send it with Christmas cards via snail mail. I sent quite a few of them this year too (while I was in the States), but cannot possibly send them to everyone I know! (and most aren't so interested in all of this.) But, even though my blog readers pretty much know all of this, I include it in the archives here, of my year.
Ari's Adventure 2008
During my vacation to Germany and France in December of 2007, I came up with the idea that I wanted to live overseas (helped along by reading “Eat, Pray, Love”). There was something about Europe that I felt I hadn’t quite experienced yet, even with all of my travelling of the past several years (and decades, even). My family and friends enthusiastically supported what I came to call my Adventure, and after nine months of planning, I left the States on August 25th for Nice, France.
I bid adieu to Fannie Mae, my family at Western Presbyterian, my colleagues at the Washington Bach Consort, and my musical and athletic friends in Washington, and settled down in Nice. My friends Priscilla, Christiane, and Erick have provided me with a support network here in the Cote d’Azur, and served as continual councilors and translators when needed. But I am proud to have used my French to find an apartment, enroll in a gym, and find a doctor, and happy to have found a church and run my first official 10K in France. As many of you already know, I spend a good amount of time writing and posting articles to my blog (www.aribrose.blogspot.com) and travelling around Europe (so far, Paris, London, and Rome, also Brugges, Belgium and the island of Corsica, in France), and posting my pictures on the web (www.flickr.com/photos/aribrose). Also, keeping up with many of you via email! (aribrose@yahoo.com)
I can’t let the other year’s events pass without some notice: My niece, Chelsea, graduated 10th in her high school class in June, and in August became a legacy at my alma mater, Barnard College. In February, my brother-in-law Kenny marked his 50th birthday with friends (and roasted oysters!); in March, my mother passed yet another heart survivor anniversary as we celebrated her 75th birthday. In August, my Dad hosted nearly 40 of the Brose Clan at a festive reunion in Rhinebeck, NY. Musically, I had the pleasure of hearing an amazing Metropolitan Opera performance of Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde with my brother Eric in NYC in March and singing my third Bach B Minor Mass with the New Dominion Chorale in April. Sister Chris, Chelsea, Mom and I spent a ladies Spa weekend in Old Williamsburg in May, and in July, my friend Becky and her two boys, Reuben and Gabriel joined me in Norfolk for a lovely beach weekend. I had a great outdoor soccer season (even made some goals!) with my friend Tagrid and the Speed Bumps, and biked my second Century (100 miler) with my friend Tom the day before I left Virginia in August.
A supporter of Barack Obama since January 2007, I listened to French radio with great pride in the early morning of November 5th to hear the news that my fellow Columbia graduate had won our presidential election. And all of Europe—and the world—cheered along with me.
In the months before I left Washington, I was, happily, on a seemingly never-ending carousel of dinners and last lunches with friends and colleagues. I was especially touched by the parties given for me by the Choir and Deacons of Western, and by my colleagues at Fannie Mae. It was a lovely way to learn what a difference you make in people’s lives.
I haven’t yet decided what my plans are for the future (other than job hunting in 2009; am counting on the financial world still needing my assistance), but I am planning to be here in Nice until June. I found an apartment in the center of the city with extra beds; am still hoping to have visitors while I am here!
With high hopes for Change in the New Year and my enthusiastic encouragement to live out your dreams, whatever they may be.
Ari/Margarita
Ari's Adventure 2008
During my vacation to Germany and France in December of 2007, I came up with the idea that I wanted to live overseas (helped along by reading “Eat, Pray, Love”). There was something about Europe that I felt I hadn’t quite experienced yet, even with all of my travelling of the past several years (and decades, even). My family and friends enthusiastically supported what I came to call my Adventure, and after nine months of planning, I left the States on August 25th for Nice, France.
I bid adieu to Fannie Mae, my family at Western Presbyterian, my colleagues at the Washington Bach Consort, and my musical and athletic friends in Washington, and settled down in Nice. My friends Priscilla, Christiane, and Erick have provided me with a support network here in the Cote d’Azur, and served as continual councilors and translators when needed. But I am proud to have used my French to find an apartment, enroll in a gym, and find a doctor, and happy to have found a church and run my first official 10K in France. As many of you already know, I spend a good amount of time writing and posting articles to my blog (www.aribrose.blogspot.com) and travelling around Europe (so far, Paris, London, and Rome, also Brugges, Belgium and the island of Corsica, in France), and posting my pictures on the web (www.flickr.com/photos/aribrose). Also, keeping up with many of you via email! (aribrose@yahoo.com)
I can’t let the other year’s events pass without some notice: My niece, Chelsea, graduated 10th in her high school class in June, and in August became a legacy at my alma mater, Barnard College. In February, my brother-in-law Kenny marked his 50th birthday with friends (and roasted oysters!); in March, my mother passed yet another heart survivor anniversary as we celebrated her 75th birthday. In August, my Dad hosted nearly 40 of the Brose Clan at a festive reunion in Rhinebeck, NY. Musically, I had the pleasure of hearing an amazing Metropolitan Opera performance of Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde with my brother Eric in NYC in March and singing my third Bach B Minor Mass with the New Dominion Chorale in April. Sister Chris, Chelsea, Mom and I spent a ladies Spa weekend in Old Williamsburg in May, and in July, my friend Becky and her two boys, Reuben and Gabriel joined me in Norfolk for a lovely beach weekend. I had a great outdoor soccer season (even made some goals!) with my friend Tagrid and the Speed Bumps, and biked my second Century (100 miler) with my friend Tom the day before I left Virginia in August.
A supporter of Barack Obama since January 2007, I listened to French radio with great pride in the early morning of November 5th to hear the news that my fellow Columbia graduate had won our presidential election. And all of Europe—and the world—cheered along with me.
In the months before I left Washington, I was, happily, on a seemingly never-ending carousel of dinners and last lunches with friends and colleagues. I was especially touched by the parties given for me by the Choir and Deacons of Western, and by my colleagues at Fannie Mae. It was a lovely way to learn what a difference you make in people’s lives.
I haven’t yet decided what my plans are for the future (other than job hunting in 2009; am counting on the financial world still needing my assistance), but I am planning to be here in Nice until June. I found an apartment in the center of the city with extra beds; am still hoping to have visitors while I am here!
With high hopes for Change in the New Year and my enthusiastic encouragement to live out your dreams, whatever they may be.
Ari/Margarita
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