We are having the afternoon off from monkey chasing down on the coast of Kenya, so I have a few minutes at a cyber cafe. (One of the other Earthwatch members was sorely disappointed that there was no food or drink at this so-called Cafe.) I'll write more details later, but after four days here, I wanted to share a few lessons I've learned in regards to monkeys, the coast, and the team.
1. Do not stand directly underneath a monkey in a tree. You never know what gravity will bring down upon you. (I learned this by seeing some else get peed on, not first hand.)
2. The blustering Englishman as depicted in movies bobbing and diving and swatting when a bee comes around is not a charicature. He's real. There are two of him on my trip.
3. It's hot here. Damn hot. Like Africa hot.
4. When I have five days' worth of sweat, salt water, and dirt in my hair, I look rather like Medusa in the mornings. (And I always thought I had straight hair.)
5. The world is insanely small. There is a kid staying at the same place we are who will have one of my friends as his professor next term when he goes home.
Must dash. More later.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
pix
The computers in Kenya don't seem to want to upload pictures at more than half of a snail's pace, so you may have to wait for them for a while for safari pictures. I did manage to get the photo of my bags onto the post from before I left England and images from my trip to the school, so that's something.
Safari
I just returned to Nairobi after a seven day safari to Samburu, Lake Baringo, Lake Bogoria, Lake Nakuru, and the Masai Mara. Seven days of bumping over dirt roads in a Land Cruiser (a not-so-comfortable version of a Land Rover), with plastic windows that roll up. I have never been so dirty, even when I worked on the farm! And it was so loud with the wind and the bumping and the engine. You would have thought that the dirt and dust in my ears would have done something to dampen the noise, but not so much.
On the trip there were the Kenya driver and cook (Nicholas and Simon, respectively), and two older women (of course… everything I do seems to have me in the company of people my mother’s age!) from Belgium. One of them said she knew one person from St. Louis, but the name didn’t ring a bell with me. A few days later she mentioned her friend again, and the person started to sound familiar. I changed the pronunciation, and lo, it was the mother of one of my high school classmates! Freaking small world. The Kenyans chatted in various African languages, the Belgians in Flemish (which actually is similar to German, so I could pick up bits), so I just sat quietly and thought my own thoughts a lot of the time. The one common language was English, so I wasn’t mute for seven days (as if I could be!).
The safari was great, but I now know (or have confirmed to myself what I thought to be true) that I really am much more interested in plants than animals. I spent more time asking what various flowers were than various birds. That being said, though, when we first came across a couple of lionesses with their five cubs, I did start to cry. (Not sure why exactly. Probably the same reason I cry whenever the Variety Club parade goes down my street.) I do have to admit that I really couldn’t care less about ungulates (all of those things which are up at the Red Rocks area of the St. Louis Zoo. Sorry Becky!)
I saw lions and tigers and bears, oh my! (Well, not so much of the tigers and bears…) I saw giraffe, elephants, hippos, rhinos, lions, cheetahs, baboons, monkeys—velvet and colobus, warthogs, wildebeest (not migrating), and about a zillion hoofed mammals and loads of birds. (Where’s your personal Bird Nerd when you need him?!)
Samburu was up north, and had loads of acacia trees (those thorny things) and scrub. (Remember, it’s the rainy season, so everything was actually growing.) We stayed at a permanent camp (Camp Dik Dik!) with canvas tents and cots, and were told not to wander off because of lions. Um, okay! That was the first two days. Then we drove to Lake Baringa (kidnapping a Samburu tribesman along the way… he said he needed a lift because he lost his clothes down the road, but something may have been lost in translation there). At Baringa we pitched our tents then went on a boat ride out into the lake so we could see hippos (but not too close!).
The next day we drove to Lake Bogoria, which is where all the flamingos are. That was pretty cool. Plus, the landscape around the lake was just gorgeous. From there we went down to Lake Nakuru, which has loads more flamingoes and pelicans (hey, spell-checker accepts flamingos and flamingoes. Rock out!). We stayed at a lovely campsite outside of Nakuru town (I saw some graffiti with a big picture of Obama in town). The campsite actually had real grass, level ground, and clean(ish) showers. Woo hoo!
The next two nights were spent in the Masai Mara (which you have to get to by driving through hordes of Masai women trying to sell you jewelry that they’ve made. They like to just put it in your lap in the car, and then tell you a price. Sometimes they ask to trade you for a pen. Having packed only and exactly what I need, I was not shopping!). The Mara is the Kenyan extension of the Serengeti in Tanzania, filled with huge plains of grass. It was really breathtaking.
Upon the recommendation of my cousin who just went on honeymoon there (and the guy in front of me in line when I took the bus from Boston to NYC), I splurged and took myself on a sunrise balloon trip over the Mara (with a fancy schmancy champagne breakfast at the end). I didn’t care that we didn’t see many animals, because I was just enjoying the view. When I was talking with the seven other people from my basket at breakfast, it became very clear that we were traveling in different price brackets! Whereas I was contending with beetles in my sleeping bag and carrying my own toilet paper to the seat-less long-drop commode, they were all staying in luxury tents and going on cruises down the Nile and whatnot. Oh well. I lived the high life for a few hours…
My favorite moment of safari was yesterday afternoon’s game drive. I was pretty much done with being in the car (my back had been killing me for two days), and I didn’t really care about seeing any more animals. (I believe this is called “safari fatigue”.) For whatever reason, we had a Masai moran (unmarried man/warrior… the guys in the full red garb with knives and clubs and big holes in their ears) in the car with us. Perhaps he was learning how to be a guide or something. Anyway, we were trolling along a riverbank (I assume looking for a leopard, which we never found) and saw a hippo walking along. So we stopped to look. As we were leaving, I saw a freaking HUGE crocodile (I am NOT a fan) lying on the bank above the river. Someone in the car suggested it was dead. Our driver said that the Masai would go check. (I don’t think I would have liked to have that honor.) He was not two feet from the car (still a ways off from the croc) when it came to life and was back in the river in a flash. That brave warrior just about jumped out of his skin, and was ready to jump in the window of the car. (Can’t say I blame him.)
This afternoon we came back to Nairobi, where I took the most appreciated shower of my life. I have dust everywhere. (And I mean everywhere.) I just wish I could wash all my clothes (twice), but I’m off to monkey chasing tomorrow.
I’ll try to get some pictures up before then, but I have loads to sort through!
On the trip there were the Kenya driver and cook (Nicholas and Simon, respectively), and two older women (of course… everything I do seems to have me in the company of people my mother’s age!) from Belgium. One of them said she knew one person from St. Louis, but the name didn’t ring a bell with me. A few days later she mentioned her friend again, and the person started to sound familiar. I changed the pronunciation, and lo, it was the mother of one of my high school classmates! Freaking small world. The Kenyans chatted in various African languages, the Belgians in Flemish (which actually is similar to German, so I could pick up bits), so I just sat quietly and thought my own thoughts a lot of the time. The one common language was English, so I wasn’t mute for seven days (as if I could be!).
The safari was great, but I now know (or have confirmed to myself what I thought to be true) that I really am much more interested in plants than animals. I spent more time asking what various flowers were than various birds. That being said, though, when we first came across a couple of lionesses with their five cubs, I did start to cry. (Not sure why exactly. Probably the same reason I cry whenever the Variety Club parade goes down my street.) I do have to admit that I really couldn’t care less about ungulates (all of those things which are up at the Red Rocks area of the St. Louis Zoo. Sorry Becky!)
I saw lions and tigers and bears, oh my! (Well, not so much of the tigers and bears…) I saw giraffe, elephants, hippos, rhinos, lions, cheetahs, baboons, monkeys—velvet and colobus, warthogs, wildebeest (not migrating), and about a zillion hoofed mammals and loads of birds. (Where’s your personal Bird Nerd when you need him?!)
Samburu was up north, and had loads of acacia trees (those thorny things) and scrub. (Remember, it’s the rainy season, so everything was actually growing.) We stayed at a permanent camp (Camp Dik Dik!) with canvas tents and cots, and were told not to wander off because of lions. Um, okay! That was the first two days. Then we drove to Lake Baringa (kidnapping a Samburu tribesman along the way… he said he needed a lift because he lost his clothes down the road, but something may have been lost in translation there). At Baringa we pitched our tents then went on a boat ride out into the lake so we could see hippos (but not too close!).
The next day we drove to Lake Bogoria, which is where all the flamingos are. That was pretty cool. Plus, the landscape around the lake was just gorgeous. From there we went down to Lake Nakuru, which has loads more flamingoes and pelicans (hey, spell-checker accepts flamingos and flamingoes. Rock out!). We stayed at a lovely campsite outside of Nakuru town (I saw some graffiti with a big picture of Obama in town). The campsite actually had real grass, level ground, and clean(ish) showers. Woo hoo!
The next two nights were spent in the Masai Mara (which you have to get to by driving through hordes of Masai women trying to sell you jewelry that they’ve made. They like to just put it in your lap in the car, and then tell you a price. Sometimes they ask to trade you for a pen. Having packed only and exactly what I need, I was not shopping!). The Mara is the Kenyan extension of the Serengeti in Tanzania, filled with huge plains of grass. It was really breathtaking.
Upon the recommendation of my cousin who just went on honeymoon there (and the guy in front of me in line when I took the bus from Boston to NYC), I splurged and took myself on a sunrise balloon trip over the Mara (with a fancy schmancy champagne breakfast at the end). I didn’t care that we didn’t see many animals, because I was just enjoying the view. When I was talking with the seven other people from my basket at breakfast, it became very clear that we were traveling in different price brackets! Whereas I was contending with beetles in my sleeping bag and carrying my own toilet paper to the seat-less long-drop commode, they were all staying in luxury tents and going on cruises down the Nile and whatnot. Oh well. I lived the high life for a few hours…
My favorite moment of safari was yesterday afternoon’s game drive. I was pretty much done with being in the car (my back had been killing me for two days), and I didn’t really care about seeing any more animals. (I believe this is called “safari fatigue”.) For whatever reason, we had a Masai moran (unmarried man/warrior… the guys in the full red garb with knives and clubs and big holes in their ears) in the car with us. Perhaps he was learning how to be a guide or something. Anyway, we were trolling along a riverbank (I assume looking for a leopard, which we never found) and saw a hippo walking along. So we stopped to look. As we were leaving, I saw a freaking HUGE crocodile (I am NOT a fan) lying on the bank above the river. Someone in the car suggested it was dead. Our driver said that the Masai would go check. (I don’t think I would have liked to have that honor.) He was not two feet from the car (still a ways off from the croc) when it came to life and was back in the river in a flash. That brave warrior just about jumped out of his skin, and was ready to jump in the window of the car. (Can’t say I blame him.)
This afternoon we came back to Nairobi, where I took the most appreciated shower of my life. I have dust everywhere. (And I mean everywhere.) I just wish I could wash all my clothes (twice), but I’m off to monkey chasing tomorrow.
I’ll try to get some pictures up before then, but I have loads to sort through!
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Kenya
I am in Kenya now. Hopefully tomorrow I will be going on a safari, then off to Monkey Chasing, so I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get another post up. But this one is certainly long enough to keep you busy for a while!
On Tuesday I flew into Nairobi (via Doha!) and a cousin of a cousin (translation: complete stranger who very graciously said he would host me) collected me from the airport. Two things surprised me as we left the airport. First, it was cold and rainy. This shouldn’t have been a surprise, I suppose, as it is the rainy season. Second, there was a herd of giraffe off in the distance. I guess I really am in Africa! The roads in Kenya, even in the capital of Nairobi, are what could only be described as deplorable. (Infrastructure appears not to be the forte here) so we wove and joggled along through the traffic to their suburb of Langata. They live an ex-pat existence, with a large gate that is always locked (and a gatekeeper and gatekeeper’s cottage) and two ‘domestics’. I’m not sure that is how I would choose to live, but it is kind of them to have me.
On Wednesday, my host had a driver from work take me to the matatu (van shuttle
things) stand, so I could go up north to visit the girls’ school that a family friend had some connections to. (I hadn’t realized until I saw said friend in Paris, that not only had he never met Brother John, the man who runs the school, to whom I sent a letter asking if I could visit, but he had never even SPOKEN to him!) My directions from Brother John were to take the bus to 14 km short of its destination, get dropped at the Nkubu Mission Hospital, and ask anyone where he lives. This seemed slightly dubious, but earlier in the day I had met someone from that area, and she knew exactly who Brother John was, so I had faith that I would find him. Alas, the bus driver didn’t know where the hospital was, and Nkubu was slightly bigger than three huts on the side of the road (which many of the other towns along the way seem to have been). So he pulled over, asked some guy where the hospital was, told me that this man would take me there, and drove off.
So there I was, standing with a big pack on my back and little one on my front, in the hands of a stranger. But I know there is some saying about depending upon the kindness of strangers, and that is what this year is all about. The man pointed to a dirt road and said, Down there. So down I went. The thing about Kenya is that on any road of any size at any time of day there are people (many people) walking (most of them carrying machetes). So I had plenty of people to ask if that was the way to the hospital. It was. Once I saw a woman in a habit I decided I was near and started asking about Brother John. A few handlers later, I was delivered to Brother John, who was sitting in his beat up Land Rover at the front gate, awaiting my arrival. I apparently came in the back.
We drove 30 km down a dirt road (and it had rained a lot the day before, so it was a bit muddy in parts, and insanely bumpy the whole way) to the Materi Girls’ Center, which he started 35 years ago. He has 700 girls, boarders from grade 5-12, a vocational school, a nursery school, and a clinic for pregnant mothers and small kids. The cost per student per year at the boarding school is about $800, but he only asks for $400, and the rest he (hopefully) makes up with sponsors. (He showed me how much the girls all still owe… about $30,000, but he’s not going to kick them out.)
I walked around a bit the first day, being stared at by every girl. They were busy
washing their clothes (by hand, with water from the pump), getting ready to go home, as school was ending for the year. The 8th and 12th graders were in the process of taking the big national exam, and there were ARMED guards standing at the doorways of the testing rooms so that no one would cheat. (Yes, with live ammunition.) Can you imagine that at the SATs??? And we make sure that the lawnmowers don’t come when we do standardized tests so that the kids don’t lose their concentration!
I visited the nursery school on Thursday and Friday. The four teachers were lovely, friendly women, who were happy to talk to me, and answer all of my questions. (And yes, I had many conversations about Obama.) Those kids were not boarders, and came for only half a day, having lunch (possibly their only meal of the day) before walking home (some as far as 7 km) by themselves. The children were children, and the classrooms were actually vaguely reminiscent of the preschool classes at home with the various centers. They just didn’t have electricity, or pencil sharpeners, or shoes, and had 30 kids in the room…
The second day I asked how much it cost for the kids to attend the school, and I was told 300 shillings and some can’t even afford that. For their 300 shillings they get school, free lunch, free uniform, and free medical. By the way, 300 shillings is the amount that I had paid the previous day to post three letters back to the US. It is about $5. And the absolute most that a teacher will be paid in that area is $50 a month. None of us could even begin to understand what life was like for the other. (When I told them how much I take home a month, after taxes, insurance, retirement, they said that no one in the whole country would make that much… and I’m a teacher with a teacher’s salary!)
To try to give me some context, that afternoon, once the sun had cooled down a bit
(we were not far from the equator), the teachers took me to see the homes of some of the students. They were squatters in stick and mud huts. It was amazing, although I felt odd as I took a few pictures of them. The last family was incredibly gracious, getting chairs for all of us so we could sit in the shade of the mango tree. One of the teachers was showing me all of the fruit trees around, and the uncle brought down a few seed pod things that had some fruity substance inside. It was the color and consistency of a 
fig. I had been warned that it was a good source of vitamin C, but quite sour. I tried it, and everyone, including myself, got a good laugh at the expression that must have been on my face. I puckered right up, and my eyes were watering. It wasn’t too bad, though. They also picked a couple of mangoes for me, which I ate right there, with no obscene mango fork or knife to peel it, just my teeth. (Luckily, I have lots of dental floss with me.)
Yesterday, I piled into a truck with about 12 other people to head up to Nkubu (people were either going home for the weekend or going shopping in town… an hour away), and then Brother took me up to Meru (stopping at the equator for a quick picture… that is a genuine smile of “Oh my god, I am at the equator!” on my lips), to catch a matatu back to the madness of Nairobi. (Not my favorite place, thus far.) The trip was uneventful, except for the chuckle I got when twice I saw passing matatus with fish hanging below the front windshield. Real (dead) fish. Guess they would be a little stinky in what was already a pretty stinky van…
On Tuesday I flew into Nairobi (via Doha!) and a cousin of a cousin (translation: complete stranger who very graciously said he would host me) collected me from the airport. Two things surprised me as we left the airport. First, it was cold and rainy. This shouldn’t have been a surprise, I suppose, as it is the rainy season. Second, there was a herd of giraffe off in the distance. I guess I really am in Africa! The roads in Kenya, even in the capital of Nairobi, are what could only be described as deplorable. (Infrastructure appears not to be the forte here) so we wove and joggled along through the traffic to their suburb of Langata. They live an ex-pat existence, with a large gate that is always locked (and a gatekeeper and gatekeeper’s cottage) and two ‘domestics’. I’m not sure that is how I would choose to live, but it is kind of them to have me.
On Wednesday, my host had a driver from work take me to the matatu (van shuttle
things) stand, so I could go up north to visit the girls’ school that a family friend had some connections to. (I hadn’t realized until I saw said friend in Paris, that not only had he never met Brother John, the man who runs the school, to whom I sent a letter asking if I could visit, but he had never even SPOKEN to him!) My directions from Brother John were to take the bus to 14 km short of its destination, get dropped at the Nkubu Mission Hospital, and ask anyone where he lives. This seemed slightly dubious, but earlier in the day I had met someone from that area, and she knew exactly who Brother John was, so I had faith that I would find him. Alas, the bus driver didn’t know where the hospital was, and Nkubu was slightly bigger than three huts on the side of the road (which many of the other towns along the way seem to have been). So he pulled over, asked some guy where the hospital was, told me that this man would take me there, and drove off. So there I was, standing with a big pack on my back and little one on my front, in the hands of a stranger. But I know there is some saying about depending upon the kindness of strangers, and that is what this year is all about. The man pointed to a dirt road and said, Down there. So down I went. The thing about Kenya is that on any road of any size at any time of day there are people (many people) walking (most of them carrying machetes). So I had plenty of people to ask if that was the way to the hospital. It was. Once I saw a woman in a habit I decided I was near and started asking about Brother John. A few handlers later, I was delivered to Brother John, who was sitting in his beat up Land Rover at the front gate, awaiting my arrival. I apparently came in the back.
We drove 30 km down a dirt road (and it had rained a lot the day before, so it was a bit muddy in parts, and insanely bumpy the whole way) to the Materi Girls’ Center, which he started 35 years ago. He has 700 girls, boarders from grade 5-12, a vocational school, a nursery school, and a clinic for pregnant mothers and small kids. The cost per student per year at the boarding school is about $800, but he only asks for $400, and the rest he (hopefully) makes up with sponsors. (He showed me how much the girls all still owe… about $30,000, but he’s not going to kick them out.)I walked around a bit the first day, being stared at by every girl. They were busy
washing their clothes (by hand, with water from the pump), getting ready to go home, as school was ending for the year. The 8th and 12th graders were in the process of taking the big national exam, and there were ARMED guards standing at the doorways of the testing rooms so that no one would cheat. (Yes, with live ammunition.) Can you imagine that at the SATs??? And we make sure that the lawnmowers don’t come when we do standardized tests so that the kids don’t lose their concentration!
I visited the nursery school on Thursday and Friday. The four teachers were lovely, friendly women, who were happy to talk to me, and answer all of my questions. (And yes, I had many conversations about Obama.) Those kids were not boarders, and came for only half a day, having lunch (possibly their only meal of the day) before walking home (some as far as 7 km) by themselves. The children were children, and the classrooms were actually vaguely reminiscent of the preschool classes at home with the various centers. They just didn’t have electricity, or pencil sharpeners, or shoes, and had 30 kids in the room…The second day I asked how much it cost for the kids to attend the school, and I was told 300 shillings and some can’t even afford that. For their 300 shillings they get school, free lunch, free uniform, and free medical. By the way, 300 shillings is the amount that I had paid the previous day to post three letters back to the US. It is about $5. And the absolute most that a teacher will be paid in that area is $50 a month. None of us could even begin to understand what life was like for the other. (When I told them how much I take home a month, after taxes, insurance, retirement, they said that no one in the whole country would make that much… and I’m a teacher with a teacher’s salary!)
To try to give me some context, that afternoon, once the sun had cooled down a bit
(we were not far from the equator), the teachers took me to see the homes of some of the students. They were squatters in stick and mud huts. It was amazing, although I felt odd as I took a few pictures of them. The last family was incredibly gracious, getting chairs for all of us so we could sit in the shade of the mango tree. One of the teachers was showing me all of the fruit trees around, and the uncle brought down a few seed pod things that had some fruity substance inside. It was the color and consistency of a 
fig. I had been warned that it was a good source of vitamin C, but quite sour. I tried it, and everyone, including myself, got a good laugh at the expression that must have been on my face. I puckered right up, and my eyes were watering. It wasn’t too bad, though. They also picked a couple of mangoes for me, which I ate right there, with no obscene mango fork or knife to peel it, just my teeth. (Luckily, I have lots of dental floss with me.)
Yesterday, I piled into a truck with about 12 other people to head up to Nkubu (people were either going home for the weekend or going shopping in town… an hour away), and then Brother took me up to Meru (stopping at the equator for a quick picture… that is a genuine smile of “Oh my god, I am at the equator!” on my lips), to catch a matatu back to the madness of Nairobi. (Not my favorite place, thus far.) The trip was uneventful, except for the chuckle I got when twice I saw passing matatus with fish hanging below the front windshield. Real (dead) fish. Guess they would be a little stinky in what was already a pretty stinky van…
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Real Adventure Begins...
Some of you might say that I've already been having adventures, that my Gap Year/Grand Tour is already underway, but it hasn't really felt like that to me, as I've been staying with family and friends in places that I already know (or can figure out pretty easily). I've been in the first world, and able to leave bits of luggage here and there.
But this evening I fly off to Kenya with all my possessions on my back, and the real adventure begins. (Although I have to admit that I am going to be picked up at the airport by a cousin of a cousin and have two ex-pat contacts in Nairobi with whom I can stay.) My malaria pills are now with my toothbrush, and I have packed everything that I will taking with me for the next 6(ish) months in one large and one small backpack. And as soon as I can get the small backpack INTO the big one, I will! (This summer I saw some lightweight compression backpacks at Patagonia for
$100 and couldn't understand why anyone would want that... But now I do!) The grand total weight of my luggage right now is 3.03 stones. That is 42.42 pounds. (And Dickie, even WITH all my luggage I weigh less than your two dogs.)
I have to admit that I am freaking out a bit, and the words "What the f*&# am I doing??" came out of my mouth today. But everyone thus far has been extremely kind and generous, so I'm going to assume that it will continue to be thus. And really, not until I am in Thailand am I totally on my own. So more freaking out will come, I'm sure.
But, as it is cold and peeing with rain at the moment, the idea of going to the equator doesn't seem so bad. So here I go...
Let the wild rumpus start!
But this evening I fly off to Kenya with all my possessions on my back, and the real adventure begins. (Although I have to admit that I am going to be picked up at the airport by a cousin of a cousin and have two ex-pat contacts in Nairobi with whom I can stay.) My malaria pills are now with my toothbrush, and I have packed everything that I will taking with me for the next 6(ish) months in one large and one small backpack. And as soon as I can get the small backpack INTO the big one, I will! (This summer I saw some lightweight compression backpacks at Patagonia for
$100 and couldn't understand why anyone would want that... But now I do!) The grand total weight of my luggage right now is 3.03 stones. That is 42.42 pounds. (And Dickie, even WITH all my luggage I weigh less than your two dogs.) I have to admit that I am freaking out a bit, and the words "What the f*&# am I doing??" came out of my mouth today. But everyone thus far has been extremely kind and generous, so I'm going to assume that it will continue to be thus. And really, not until I am in Thailand am I totally on my own. So more freaking out will come, I'm sure.
But, as it is cold and peeing with rain at the moment, the idea of going to the equator doesn't seem so bad. So here I go...
Let the wild rumpus start!
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Rennes
Going back in time a little bit (as I am now back in London briefly before heading off to Kenya tomorrow), I spent a few days last week in Rennes with a college friend and his family. He is teaching at a School Year Abroad program this year, and he dragged his family along with him.
The weather was actually lovely when I was there (they swore it was usually rainy, but I think that is only in England), so we walked about the city a bit. Jim showed me some of the gardens (think park crossed with botanical gardens), which were fantastic. I have to say that they spoiled me for when I went to Paris. I was not terribly impressed with the gardens I saw in Paris, but I've been told that they were designed not for looking at plants, but for looking at other people. In that case, they work quite well.
On election day, since there was nothing to see yet (six hours ahead of EST), we drove up to the coast to Mont St. Michel, which is a big old abbey on an island. It was pretty cool, I have to admit. Jim kept asking what I would do if I had one month to plan a siege on it; how would I storm it? Answer: I wouldn't; I just don't care enough to want to take over a church (although I did have flashes of John Cleese bashing the wall of a castle with a sword). Jim would use guile... or bile. Not sure which he said.
That evening, before we settled in to watch CNN (but nothing really started happening until 1 am, so we all went to bed), Jim and I went out to order a fancy french pizza, and go to his favorite bar while we waited for it. We actually had to go to the bar first, because when we got to the little restaurant, all of the staff were sitting outside having a smoke, and told us to come back in five minutes. So into the bar we went. It's Jim's favorite bar, having once been given a free shot there simply because he was American (the alcohol kind of shot, not the other kind of shot that Americans abroad might get). He went up to the bartender and said something in French, and the guy got down two beer glasses. I asked Jim what he had ordered for me, and he said a Carlsberg. This would be first beer that I have ever been given. I managed about three sips before passing it over to him. (I really can't stand beer.) I am thinking that that may have been his intention all along...
It was a quicky trip there, but it was fun to see them, and to be with them when the election results came out. (Kind of excited to go to Kenya right now!)
The weather was actually lovely when I was there (they swore it was usually rainy, but I think that is only in England), so we walked about the city a bit. Jim showed me some of the gardens (think park crossed with botanical gardens), which were fantastic. I have to say that they spoiled me for when I went to Paris. I was not terribly impressed with the gardens I saw in Paris, but I've been told that they were designed not for looking at plants, but for looking at other people. In that case, they work quite well.
On election day, since there was nothing to see yet (six hours ahead of EST), we drove up to the coast to Mont St. Michel, which is a big old abbey on an island. It was pretty cool, I have to admit. Jim kept asking what I would do if I had one month to plan a siege on it; how would I storm it? Answer: I wouldn't; I just don't care enough to want to take over a church (although I did have flashes of John Cleese bashing the wall of a castle with a sword). Jim would use guile... or bile. Not sure which he said.
That evening, before we settled in to watch CNN (but nothing really started happening until 1 am, so we all went to bed), Jim and I went out to order a fancy french pizza, and go to his favorite bar while we waited for it. We actually had to go to the bar first, because when we got to the little restaurant, all of the staff were sitting outside having a smoke, and told us to come back in five minutes. So into the bar we went. It's Jim's favorite bar, having once been given a free shot there simply because he was American (the alcohol kind of shot, not the other kind of shot that Americans abroad might get). He went up to the bartender and said something in French, and the guy got down two beer glasses. I asked Jim what he had ordered for me, and he said a Carlsberg. This would be first beer that I have ever been given. I managed about three sips before passing it over to him. (I really can't stand beer.) I am thinking that that may have been his intention all along...
It was a quicky trip there, but it was fun to see them, and to be with them when the election results came out. (Kind of excited to go to Kenya right now!)
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Music
Here is what I heard today while wandering around Paris:
My Way, played on a harp
Sound of Silence, played on a double bass
A french guy swearing along with some American (or English) hip hop
And not once while in Paris did I hear an accordian or Ma Vie en Rose (or whatever that stereotypically French song is).
Sigh...
My Way, played on a harp
Sound of Silence, played on a double bass
A french guy swearing along with some American (or English) hip hop
And not once while in Paris did I hear an accordian or Ma Vie en Rose (or whatever that stereotypically French song is).
Sigh...
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Paris, Day 1
I wandered around Paris today for about 10 hours. It was good, but I had no one to talk to or share my witty comments with, so I will do so now with you. Anything in italics is the running commentary I had going on with myself. Warning, there is likely to be some mild swearing therein.
After a lovely breakfast with my hostess (around 9... I left her a note changing the time, and just told her 8:30 for tomorrow. She looked disappointed, so I assume she is a morning person), I threw my camera, my map, and a lot of euros into my bag, donned my Euro-coat, and hit the pavement. I am staying in Neuilly-sur-Seine, a swanky suburb to the west of Paris. There is a big park near here, so I decided to walk through that towards the Eiffel Tower. This Jardin isn't quite what I expected. Much rougher. Kind of like the woods of Forest Park... That woman isn't wearing very many clothes. Neither is her friend joining her. I thought this was a nice area of town... That woman-- wait, I think it's a man-- getting out of that van isn't wearing many clothes either, and I can see the top of her/his stockings. Where AM I???... It smells a bit like urine... It smells a lot like urine.... Is there a ZOO around here somewhere???... Oh, there's the steaming pile of hay.
Flash forward about 20 minutes, still in the park. Where is that damned tower? I can't see it anywhere. I guess I'll keep going a bit further before I cut over to the little back roads. Another 10 minutes. Okay, where the hell am I? I can't find this little road on my map. I just passed the Italian Embassy... That's a pretty trellis in someone's garden, I'll go check it out... Ooops, that's the Iraqi Embassy. Another 10 minutes, map in hand. How did I get all the way down here? Back-tracking about a mile. No wonder I couldn't see the Eiffel Tower. It is the Eiffel Stump today!
I wandered around the tower (but am saving going up it until it isn't in cloud cover), then headed to the new Musee de Quai Branley (Primitive Art, which they call something like art of the First People). The art was okay, the building was totally cool. There was one object though... What the frig is that? It looks like something from a Dr. Seuss book as interpreted by Terry Gilliam!
From there I went to a chocolatier (it was on my path!), then found some lunch, before heading to the Musee d'Orsay. I thought this was a sidewalk! What the hell is that scooter doing trying to run me over? The museum was nice, until I found the Art Nouveau room, and then it became fantastic. Oh my god, I love this room. I want to live in this room. Who would give up this room to a museum?? I wonder if Dickie can make me this room.
At this point I was getting kind of tired, so decided I needed a hot chocolate. FOUR euros for a freaking hot chocolate???? This better be the best damned hot chocolate I've ever had. I also stopped in at another chocolatier. As it is right here, I might as well stop in and get a few bonbons to compare it to the first place. I continued wandering around various small streets These streets are boring. There is nothing here. Oh wait, I appear to have come across the changing of the guard
until I finally came into the Latin Quarter, which seems to be the (window)shopping district. And then something happened to the solidity of the window. Oooh, that is a cute pair of gloves. My hands have been cold... Ooooh, look at that hat. I'll just try it on. I'll just try on all the hats. I'll just try that first one on again. I do have a birthday coming up, and I haven't spent much money (except on chocolate, but no one can prove that I got any chocolate as it is all gone now). And I have been wearing my red apple hat for about 12 years. Maybe I should pretend to be a grown-up.
One new hat on head, I walked out the door. Okay, no more shopping now. I've spent far too much money today, plus look at that. Is that Ben and Jerry's? And there's Old Navy? My shopping time obviously has come to an end-- Oooh, another chocolatier! At that chocolate shop I decided to be abstemious, and only get one chocolate. The guy smiled and handed it to me (no little glacene baggy this time), and said, "On the house." Free chocolate?? This city ROCKS!
I walked on some more, and happened across a (presumable very chic) bridal boutique. Oh my god, if Paris is about 5 years ahead of us in fashion, I can't wait to go to a wedding in 5 years! Seriously, I want to get married, just so I can go in there and try things on... I'd totally get THAT one... And THAT would be my bridesmaid's dress!!!
Past Notre Dame, onto the Ile de Saint Louis I'm home! and to the ice cream shop that was recommended to me by two people If TWO people recommend it, I obviously have to go. Bummer, it is closed. Just going to have to come back tomorrow.
Now it is about 8 pm, and I am beat, so I find the Metro and start home. That 20-something blond woman appears to be American. I'll stare at her for a while... Wow, honey, you afraid of those boobs falling out???? Good god, save some surpises for later! Oh, wait, it's okay, as the old guy with his arm around your waist seems to have his shirt unbuttoned to about the same level.
Maybe tomorrow I'll bring my phone with me, so I can actually have a conversation with someone rather than relying upon entertaining myself. (It could be a loooooooong year!)
After a lovely breakfast with my hostess (around 9... I left her a note changing the time, and just told her 8:30 for tomorrow. She looked disappointed, so I assume she is a morning person), I threw my camera, my map, and a lot of euros into my bag, donned my Euro-coat, and hit the pavement. I am staying in Neuilly-sur-Seine, a swanky suburb to the west of Paris. There is a big park near here, so I decided to walk through that towards the Eiffel Tower. This Jardin isn't quite what I expected. Much rougher. Kind of like the woods of Forest Park... That woman isn't wearing very many clothes. Neither is her friend joining her. I thought this was a nice area of town... That woman-- wait, I think it's a man-- getting out of that van isn't wearing many clothes either, and I can see the top of her/his stockings. Where AM I???... It smells a bit like urine... It smells a lot like urine.... Is there a ZOO around here somewhere???... Oh, there's the steaming pile of hay.
Flash forward about 20 minutes, still in the park. Where is that damned tower? I can't see it anywhere. I guess I'll keep going a bit further before I cut over to the little back roads. Another 10 minutes. Okay, where the hell am I? I can't find this little road on my map. I just passed the Italian Embassy... That's a pretty trellis in someone's garden, I'll go check it out... Ooops, that's the Iraqi Embassy. Another 10 minutes, map in hand. How did I get all the way down here? Back-tracking about a mile. No wonder I couldn't see the Eiffel Tower. It is the Eiffel Stump today!I wandered around the tower (but am saving going up it until it isn't in cloud cover), then headed to the new Musee de Quai Branley (Primitive Art, which they call something like art of the First People). The art was okay, the building was totally cool. There was one object though... What the frig is that? It looks like something from a Dr. Seuss book as interpreted by Terry Gilliam!
From there I went to a chocolatier (it was on my path!), then found some lunch, before heading to the Musee d'Orsay. I thought this was a sidewalk! What the hell is that scooter doing trying to run me over? The museum was nice, until I found the Art Nouveau room, and then it became fantastic. Oh my god, I love this room. I want to live in this room. Who would give up this room to a museum?? I wonder if Dickie can make me this room.
At this point I was getting kind of tired, so decided I needed a hot chocolate. FOUR euros for a freaking hot chocolate???? This better be the best damned hot chocolate I've ever had. I also stopped in at another chocolatier. As it is right here, I might as well stop in and get a few bonbons to compare it to the first place. I continued wandering around various small streets These streets are boring. There is nothing here. Oh wait, I appear to have come across the changing of the guard
until I finally came into the Latin Quarter, which seems to be the (window)shopping district. And then something happened to the solidity of the window. Oooh, that is a cute pair of gloves. My hands have been cold... Ooooh, look at that hat. I'll just try it on. I'll just try on all the hats. I'll just try that first one on again. I do have a birthday coming up, and I haven't spent much money (except on chocolate, but no one can prove that I got any chocolate as it is all gone now). And I have been wearing my red apple hat for about 12 years. Maybe I should pretend to be a grown-up. One new hat on head, I walked out the door. Okay, no more shopping now. I've spent far too much money today, plus look at that. Is that Ben and Jerry's? And there's Old Navy? My shopping time obviously has come to an end-- Oooh, another chocolatier! At that chocolate shop I decided to be abstemious, and only get one chocolate. The guy smiled and handed it to me (no little glacene baggy this time), and said, "On the house." Free chocolate?? This city ROCKS!
I walked on some more, and happened across a (presumable very chic) bridal boutique. Oh my god, if Paris is about 5 years ahead of us in fashion, I can't wait to go to a wedding in 5 years! Seriously, I want to get married, just so I can go in there and try things on... I'd totally get THAT one... And THAT would be my bridesmaid's dress!!!
Past Notre Dame, onto the Ile de Saint Louis I'm home! and to the ice cream shop that was recommended to me by two people If TWO people recommend it, I obviously have to go. Bummer, it is closed. Just going to have to come back tomorrow. Now it is about 8 pm, and I am beat, so I find the Metro and start home. That 20-something blond woman appears to be American. I'll stare at her for a while... Wow, honey, you afraid of those boobs falling out???? Good god, save some surpises for later! Oh, wait, it's okay, as the old guy with his arm around your waist seems to have his shirt unbuttoned to about the same level.
Maybe tomorrow I'll bring my phone with me, so I can actually have a conversation with someone rather than relying upon entertaining myself. (It could be a loooooooong year!)
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Language Barriers
I am in France now, where I, completely unfoundedly, have this perverse belief that I can speak the language. Sure, I was taught French... in second grade. The entirety of my French education was to say "Hello, how are you?" "Very well, thank you, and you?" "Very well." That will get me in the door, but then what?
When I am travelling around, I try my best not to stand out as a crass American. I have this wonderful coat that I got in Rome 18 months ago, and when I wear it I seem to be able to pass myself off as a local. One obviously American woman asked me slowly, "Ou est le Metro?" I happily told her in English that I'd just passed a stop (but whipped out my map just in case). The only problem with appearing to be a local is that people do speak to you in their language. And I open my mouth honestly thinking that French is just going to naturally pop out.
What does come out? German. I haven't been this fluent in German since I was in Rome. The foreign language section of my brain seems to be completely filled with German. (The section must not be that large, because my Deutsch is pretty bad!)
But I keep trying nonetheless. I wandered around Paris this evening, and finally stopped into a little restaurant for dinner at 9:45. (I AM in Europe, after all.) The waiter, who I am sure spoke much more English that I do French, patiently played along with me and spoke to me in French... until I got to the point where I needed to ask for the bill. Mind you by then, after a glass of wine, I would have had trouble asking for the bill in ANY language!
Of course I do have all the French that I really need, though. "Pain au chocolat et vin rouge, sil vous ples." That should keep me going for a good long while!
More about France later. Now, as it is midnight, I must hasten off to bed so that I can be up and functional at 8 am tomorrow, when my hostess is going to be making me breakfast. Very kind of her, but I was fibbing when I said I got up at 8 (I didn't realize that the offer of breakfast would follow the inquiry as to what time I arose), and I certainly don't eat anything for an hour or two after I awake. So I've set my alarm for 7, so that I can at least attempt to be a gracious guest. (Of course she isn't even home from her dinner engagement yet, so maybe I should leave her a note saying nine would be better!)
When I am travelling around, I try my best not to stand out as a crass American. I have this wonderful coat that I got in Rome 18 months ago, and when I wear it I seem to be able to pass myself off as a local. One obviously American woman asked me slowly, "Ou est le Metro?" I happily told her in English that I'd just passed a stop (but whipped out my map just in case). The only problem with appearing to be a local is that people do speak to you in their language. And I open my mouth honestly thinking that French is just going to naturally pop out.
What does come out? German. I haven't been this fluent in German since I was in Rome. The foreign language section of my brain seems to be completely filled with German. (The section must not be that large, because my Deutsch is pretty bad!)
But I keep trying nonetheless. I wandered around Paris this evening, and finally stopped into a little restaurant for dinner at 9:45. (I AM in Europe, after all.) The waiter, who I am sure spoke much more English that I do French, patiently played along with me and spoke to me in French... until I got to the point where I needed to ask for the bill. Mind you by then, after a glass of wine, I would have had trouble asking for the bill in ANY language!
Of course I do have all the French that I really need, though. "Pain au chocolat et vin rouge, sil vous ples." That should keep me going for a good long while!
More about France later. Now, as it is midnight, I must hasten off to bed so that I can be up and functional at 8 am tomorrow, when my hostess is going to be making me breakfast. Very kind of her, but I was fibbing when I said I got up at 8 (I didn't realize that the offer of breakfast would follow the inquiry as to what time I arose), and I certainly don't eat anything for an hour or two after I awake. So I've set my alarm for 7, so that I can at least attempt to be a gracious guest. (Of course she isn't even home from her dinner engagement yet, so maybe I should leave her a note saying nine would be better!)
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Voting Day
I am in Rennes, France, visiting a friend from college and his family, and we are all glued to the television waiting for election results. Of course nothing is in yet, but we are watching CNN World News Europe nonetheless. Imagine my delight when, showing how long the voting lines are in such swing states as Missouri, they had footage of the big red doors of New City School!
Saturday, November 1, 2008
QP shoot
Every year, my cousins have a "shoot" in the morning and then a bonfire in the evening around Halloween (which happens to be my cousin's birthday, and a few days shy of Guy Fawkes Day, which is the UK's excuse to light fireworks). I've heard about this for years, but this was my first chance to be a part of it... sort of.
Last night was a small dinner gathering (99 people, all catered by cousin Harriet) to celebrate Carol's 60th birthday. It was a lovely event, filled with excellent speeches (including Zuky talking about the family's 'cruise ship'-- a one way passage from Africa to the West Indies-- they used to have a few hundred years ago before someone got morals). Before one knew it, it was one in the morning, and there wasn't even any dancing! So many of the shooters were a bit bleary-eyed when they gathered at 9 am, but off they went down the hill nontheless. I would have joined them, except that clearly I wasn't in dress code. The best part was that they all looked so natural in their ridiculous woolen tweed knickers.
After they had been out for an hour (and I was bored of clearing the tent of the previous night's debris), I wandered down to see what it was all about. Zuky and Harriet were hanging out in a field, staring at the woods, so I wandered over to them, saying I wanted to see something shot out of the sky and chased down by a dog (ducks and pheasants were the goal of the day, although one goose and one rather small bird that shouldn't have been shot also got done in). I said to the two of them that this was my first hunt. "Shoot," they both promptly and firmly corrected me. A hunt is where people in red jackets ride around on horses chasing dogs who are actually doing all of the work in chasing down the fox. A shoot involves men in wellies and tweeds standing in a line stalking birds which are (hopefully) being flushed out of the underbrush by the beaters (aka wives and girlfriends of the "guns"). No one is wearing camoflage, and no one is wearing orange. I guess they assume they won't shoot each other.
At one point the beaters and guns were coming towards us, and a pheasant was pursuaded to fly up, pretty much directly between us and the nearest gun.
When he raised his gun, I naturally dove behind Zuky's ATV. Zuky, somewhat surprisingly to me, leapt in front of the ATV and started waving his arms in the air, as if to say "Aim here!" (I think he was trying to suggest to the pheasant not to come our way, but to fly sideways so the guy would have a better shot.) The man did shoot the pheasant... pretty much obliterated it actually, as it was a close shot. The faithful labrador retrieved the remains.
I stuck with it for a little longer, and the gun came up to where I was and we watched the woods together. At one point there were a couple of shots from the woods, and I asked how often people got shot (again, no bright orange anywhere in sight). He said "Quite often." Then it sounded like light rain was falling for a moment, even though the sky was clear, and he added, "We almost just did. Did you hear it? It actually hurts quite a bit when you get hit with falling shot." No kidding.
And that is when I decided my shooting career was over, and I retired to the kitchen, where I was only in danger of gorging myself on pudding (which I proceeded to attempt, of course).
Last night was a small dinner gathering (99 people, all catered by cousin Harriet) to celebrate Carol's 60th birthday. It was a lovely event, filled with excellent speeches (including Zuky talking about the family's 'cruise ship'-- a one way passage from Africa to the West Indies-- they used to have a few hundred years ago before someone got morals). Before one knew it, it was one in the morning, and there wasn't even any dancing! So many of the shooters were a bit bleary-eyed when they gathered at 9 am, but off they went down the hill nontheless. I would have joined them, except that clearly I wasn't in dress code. The best part was that they all looked so natural in their ridiculous woolen tweed knickers.
After they had been out for an hour (and I was bored of clearing the tent of the previous night's debris), I wandered down to see what it was all about. Zuky and Harriet were hanging out in a field, staring at the woods, so I wandered over to them, saying I wanted to see something shot out of the sky and chased down by a dog (ducks and pheasants were the goal of the day, although one goose and one rather small bird that shouldn't have been shot also got done in). I said to the two of them that this was my first hunt. "Shoot," they both promptly and firmly corrected me. A hunt is where people in red jackets ride around on horses chasing dogs who are actually doing all of the work in chasing down the fox. A shoot involves men in wellies and tweeds standing in a line stalking birds which are (hopefully) being flushed out of the underbrush by the beaters (aka wives and girlfriends of the "guns"). No one is wearing camoflage, and no one is wearing orange. I guess they assume they won't shoot each other.
At one point the beaters and guns were coming towards us, and a pheasant was pursuaded to fly up, pretty much directly between us and the nearest gun.
When he raised his gun, I naturally dove behind Zuky's ATV. Zuky, somewhat surprisingly to me, leapt in front of the ATV and started waving his arms in the air, as if to say "Aim here!" (I think he was trying to suggest to the pheasant not to come our way, but to fly sideways so the guy would have a better shot.) The man did shoot the pheasant... pretty much obliterated it actually, as it was a close shot. The faithful labrador retrieved the remains. I stuck with it for a little longer, and the gun came up to where I was and we watched the woods together. At one point there were a couple of shots from the woods, and I asked how often people got shot (again, no bright orange anywhere in sight). He said "Quite often." Then it sounded like light rain was falling for a moment, even though the sky was clear, and he added, "We almost just did. Did you hear it? It actually hurts quite a bit when you get hit with falling shot." No kidding.
And that is when I decided my shooting career was over, and I retired to the kitchen, where I was only in danger of gorging myself on pudding (which I proceeded to attempt, of course).
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