(110): My Big Fat Greek Ferry Strike

(110) is Monday, 26 April 2010.

Imagine being Kirill, Liz, or both at this point. You've spent 5 days trying to get out of the Paris airport amid infinite hassle, you finally spend a few days in Rome, and upon arrival in Athens-- a one-night stopover-- you learn that the ferries taking you to the Greek Islands are on strike for the one day you happen to need them. One day! Who goes on strike for one day!?

Well, them. So much for being back on schedule.

Anyway, we decided to make the best of it and see Athens for the one day we had. I think it's pretty safe to say that one day was all the time we needed. There was a great walking tour (for free) that left from the (wonderful) Athens Backpackers Hostel at 9:15 and showed us around all the major sites: Temple of Zeus (more old stuff), olympic stadium, gardens, Syntagma Square, (which is in front of) Parliament, the Fuzzy Foot Brigade (to be explained shortly), a Greek Orthodox church, the flea market, a greek sandwich stand, and the Acropolis.

The Fuzzy Foot Brigade is my overly mocking description of the Greek secret service troops who stand at attention outside parliament, not unlike the guards at Buckingham Palace in London. Difference here is that, every half hour, the two guards engage in a very elaborate ceremony of walking about with extremely long steps. These steps are punctuated by their brushing their shoes against the ground: shoes that have fuzzy stuff on the front.

It's funny until the guide says they're for hiding knives.

The best part of this whole ritual, though, is that it's for them to stretch their legs. Seriously-- they've made an elaborate, tourist-friendly ceremony out of it. It makes sense, but it is just a little too much fun to watch.

So, back up at the Acrop*, the thing was under construction. I thought this was great-- first of all, as Judy pointed out, this is one for the travel article "Except While You're Here."** Renovations are annoying enough if you were really jazzed about seeing something, but here in particular, I have to ask: Seriously? The Parthenon? More than being annoying, doesn't this just defeat the purpose? I mean, they're ruins-- putting up scaffolding here is like saying that Stonehenge has fallen into disrepair.

I just didn't get it. So, I slipped on a dusty rock and landed on my tailbone. Nice view of the city from where I sat, though.

In the next few hours, Kirill and I ran some errands (like adjusting ferry tickets to compensate for the day's strike), and Liz and I took siestas (although I spent mine getting to know our roommate, a girl named Olivia who-- as I later would-- was travelling on her own).

We then found dinner. It was fine, but after a week in Italy, I was not much enamored of what I had here. Suffice it to say I would spend much of the next week living off of gyros.*** This cuisine depends much more on acquired tastes, which, as we've established, I generally don't have. And then there's ouzo... liccorice liquor. How to be witty with this description... Oh, I got it:

It tastes awful.

We didn't really know what to do at night (ended up hanging out in the room with Olivia). Just as well, since we had to get up REALLY early for our ferry.

So, yeah-- the walking tour was basically all we needed, and I'd like to point out that Athens suffers from pollution... I was coughing as I walked, and for once, I wasn't fighting a cold. And we were totally safe, by the way-- those riots you heard about wouldn't break out for another week, by which time we were all safely back in Paris.

Also, if you're in Greece, have fun with the language. This is the only country in the EU with a non-Roman alphabet (they even put the Greek spelling of "Euro" on every bill), and even some of the Roman letters used don't make the same sounds. 'P,' for instance, makes an 'R' sound, while pi (yes, the math thing) takes over for 'P.' I had to get the letters straight before I could get as far as not deciphering the language. And, of course, every piece of Greek I picked up flew out of my memory almost instantly.

Never mind that. On to Santorini!

-Andy

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Footnotes

* I use "Acropolis" and "Parthenon" interchangeably, and here's why: the Parthenon is the famous monument itself, and the Acropolis is the hill on which it sits. The "Acrop," used as an abbreviation here, is also a loving reference to the similarly named 24-hour diner near Vassar, where all good nights go to get even better.

** I've even started a photo album that lovingly commemorates this phenomenon, and it may bear that title.

** For those as unfamiliar as I had been beforehand, a gyro is a circle of pita bread wrapped around various veggies, a creamy/tangy sauce, and meat (pork or chicken) that they shave off of a big rotating spit. You've seen them before, especially if you've been in Paris's Latin Quarter.

(100-102): The Wages of Cinders

(100) is Friday, 16 April 2010

After an omitted week of scrambling on two papers (including Hitchcock), we finally arrive at spring break. 17 days. Travel plans that had been in the works for a month. Italy! Venice, Florence, and Rome! Greece! Mykonos, Santorini, Ios (all islands in the Cyclades), and Athens!

Iceland. A volcano.

Hard to know what to say to that, right? I was at rather a loss for words myself (that takes a lot, a fact this blog often proves conclusively). I have to say, though, I had a hard time being too upset about this because, as travel screw-ups go, a volcano is a pretty epic reason.

Dan and I lugged our bags to the airport for our 6 PM flight; even if it was cancelled, we figured that was our best shot at seeing what the story was. Long story short, there was no flight that would give us any appreciable amount of time in Venice before our scheduled train would take us to Florence.

"Trains! Wait a second..."

In one of the most bizarre spots of luck, there is a train station at Charles de Gaulle. I say bizarre because-- think about it-- when would that ever matter? When would you get off the metro at the airport with your bags and your e-ticket and your passport and say "You know what, Dan? I think I'd rather have train lag tomorrow morning." Probably not that often, considering I don't think I know anyone else who's traveled recently with a Dan. But this was great; we saved time not going back to a station in Paris proper, and. If we had done that, we might have missed out on the patchwork of trains a very nice woman helped us book:

6:10 PM the next evening to Geneva (getting in around 10 PM)

5:45 AM train to Milan (Sunday, getting in around 10 AM)

Flexible time train Florence: skipping Venice, but getting us to Florence a day sooner

So, I went home to pick up the pieces from these changes and fill in the gaps. A few new reservations later, I decided we were in good shape. And since I had the evening and most of the next day free, I headed over to Kirill's most recent apartment (he's gone through about 10 different Parisian residences by this point in the semester) to join our other pals and watch Woody Allen's Sleeper for the first delightful time in years.

So, we re-booked our vacation to get us to Florence a day sooner. Your move, Volcano.

(101) is Saturday, 17 April 2010

Dan and I took the TGV to Geneva, which was very nice. Got us there in short order, and we learned en route that our VWPP pal Victoria would be in Geneva that night as well! Wonderful! She was waiting for us when we got off the train.

The plan, at this point, was to give Geneva what Dan and I call the Madrid Treatment. Fondly named after our last night in Madrid back in March, we would leave our bags someplace safe (a train station locker) and just explore the city. We wouldn't have the chance otherwise, and it didn't make much sense to us to book a pricey hotel for just a few hours.

Geneva is an expensive city. Switzerland's economy is good enough to justify staying on the Swiss Franc (better US exchange rate than the Euro, but not by much). I had to take out a minimum of 50 swiss francs from the ATM. A bag of malted milk balls (required to break that 50) cost me 6 swiss Francs. The train station locker cost us 8. And answering two guys who asked for the time cost me my wallet containing 44 Swiss Francs, about 180 Euros, 4 credit cards, and two or three pieces of ID.

You do get a rebate, actually, on everything but the cash (and your never-useful Reid Hall ID card) if you chase the guys and shout "Voleur! Voleur! Rendez-moi ma portefeuille!"**

Dropping the wry bit for a second, I do want to assure you that these guys only got the cash (and not even all of it: those under-the-shirt tourist wallets are a good investment). My IDs, credit cards-- even the wallet itself-- made it back to me and I was completely physically unharmed. Shaken for a while, but unharmed.

Well played, Volcano. Well played.

After taking a breather over dinner, we decided to seek a hotel after all. We found one near Cornavin (Geneva's big train station) called the Hotel des Alpes-- which you can book here. If you are EVER in Geneva, stay at this hotel for my sake and that of David, the very generous soul working the desk that night. The place was full, but when we explained what happened, David let us use the hotel's Wi-Fi so I could Skype-call my folks. That didn't work, so he let me call them on the hotel's phone. He then called several local hotels for us (all full). Finally, he offered us the lobby couches, water, and something to eat if we wanted (we didn't, but thanked him anyway) until we had to leave to catch our train.

All at no charge.

David also explained that the way I was pick-pocketed was rather common in those parts. I'm sorry to dwell on this subject, but this is good knowledge to have. After asking for the time, the pickpocket made some jovial comment about us being American and "football!" And then he starts in on what David called the jeu de jambes ("leg game"... my translation is less catchy and more suggestive... it figures). This is where the pickpocket starts stepping on my feet and getting up in my personal space. Naturally, I try to jump out of the way, but he keeps on me. My jumping around makes my wallet easier to spot and grab because, one, I'm distracted, and two, rather than keeping hands on my money, I'm using my arms to move away and maintain balance. Once they've got the wallet, they run.

Notes I took from this:

1.) Maybe this is cold, but when you're tired and in transit, let them ask somebody else for the time.***

2.) When someone goes for your feet, go for your pockets.

3.) When arriving at night, always have somewhere safe to go (hostel, hotel, whatever) as soon as you get off the train.

3b.) Giving a city the Madrid Treatment works better when you've already gotten to know it and you aren't tired/disoriented.

At 5:45, after leaving the hotel with gratuitous thanks to David, we found the train station. Victoria continued her journey elsewhere in Europe, and Dan and I boarded (and slept on) our train to Milan.

(102) starts when Dan and I arrive in Milan on Sunday, 18 April 2010

I like Milan. But I think the three hours we spent there was enough. The only thing that might have justified more time would have been seeing 'The Last Supper', but we didn't have the necessary advance reservation to the museum. Instead, we dropped our bags just long enough to wander, see the Duomo, and get lunch and the first of very much gelato. The Duomo is the highlight there-- easily the most ornate (and therefore impressive) Gothic building I have ever seen (and my exposure has skyrocketed since January). My camera died for this part, which was really, really sad.

After walking around a bit, we hopped the train to Florence, where we found pitch-perfect clear weather in the 70s (Fahrenheit). Dan and I took an inexplicably long time finding the hostel I'd finagled for the night, but we then relaxed for a while in the room, relieved that our 24 hours in transit were over. I got a call from Kirill, who reported that his and Liz's volcano troubles were only just beginning (I'd tell you that story, but I could never do it the justice that she or Kirill do). The next few days would feature many such calls and many more hours wondering when the next one would sound. Dan and I then went over to Gusto Leo, a very affordable place near our hostel. Decent food, a friendly atmosphere, and a 20% discount to anyone with a student ID card.

Tomorrow's entry: Vacation, Take 2.

-Andy

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Footnotes

* Gare de Lyon, Gare du Nord (North), Gare de l'Est (East), Gare Montparnasse, Gare Bercy, Gare d'Austerlitz, and Gare St-Lazare. Any guesses on what the word gare means in English?

** "Thief! Thief! Give me back my wallet!" And, in case you ever need a such a rebate in a French-speaking country, here's the French version spelled phonetically: "vo-LUR! vo-LUR! RON-day moi mah POR-tuh-foy!"

*** You know, maybe that should have been my first clue... These two are in Switzerland-- the land of Swiss watches-- and they don't know what time it is?

(82-85): Days on the 10

Sit tight, folks, you're in for a long one.

(82) is Monday, 29 March 2010

Mom, Dad, and I all made it back from Mont-St-Michel and St-Malo. Yes, we were all there, but no, we didn't meet meet up because, no, they didn't have a working cell phone.

Yes. Anyway.

This week saw me commuting a great deal, almost exclusively on the Metro Line 10 ("Aha, the title is explained!" I hear you cry). Mom and Dad were staying near Odeon, so like the week before, I would hop on the 10, go join them for dinner, and then go home for the night.

Monday's version involved me going to 'Reagir Sur la France d'Aujourd'hui', my "writing-intensive"* class at Reid Hall. I stuck around Reid Hall to make a few more reservations for Italy/Greece with Liz and Kirill. We're so close to finishing this one, and it's going to be epic. Also, I wound up the accountant for this endeavor, which is no small task when you have to do a round-robin of credit cards to make sure all four seats get booked together.

At any rate, I met up with Mom and Dad for dinner at Allard on Rue St-Andre-des-Arts. It's this little bistro with a rep for great food and American customers. They put us in the corner (unlike baby**), so we had a slightly tougher time than usual conversing. The restaurant also crammed in a lot of tables, so they had to move two or three other tables each time somebody had to get in or out. But ask yourself: would I really recommend the place in spite of these things if the food wasn't to die for? I had foie gras (of which I've become a great fan), a gorgeous cut of salmon that was perfectly prepared, and two beautiful profiteroles. This was all on a prix-fixe menu of something like 33 euros.

(83) is-- wait for it-- Tuesday, 30 March 2010.

Today, I didn't have class until 3:30 (on the count of 3-- 1, 2, 3: "Andy doesn't go to school.") today, so I met my folks for lunch at Fauchon, a rather haute-cuisine eatery at the Madeleine plaza and metro station. They had a variety of tasty-looking things on sale. I had a smoked salmon sandwich, which was great, but I held off on dessert in favor of getting macaroons (that's macarons-- with one 'o'-- in French) at Laduree a few doors down from lunch. These macaroons...

They sent Pierre Herme home to cry.***

We then walked a bit, stumbling onto a street with many well-to-do designer clothing stores. Not a bad walk, although I can't remember the street. We then came to Angelina at 224 Rue de Rivoli (east on the same street as the Louvre, away from Chatelet). This place is an old-fashioned tea room which also makes wonderful-looking macaroons and other pastries. The real draw, though, is the hot chocolate. As my father had explained it, it's "like being enveloped in a warm blanket of chocolate." It was just him being, well, my father.

Then I tried the stuff. With a dollop of whipped cream and parents who get too full to finish theirs... beautiful. That's the only word... that and "blanket-y".

So, I dashed off to class, my Reid Hall cinema one with the very detail-oriented, pause-every-frame film professor. Average class. Fortunately, it went by a little faster than 24 frames-per-hour.

Dinner this evening was at a great little place (in French, that's bistrot) called Le Bistro de Chez d'Henri on Rue de Princesse, which is tucked away near the Mabillon and Saint-Sulpice Metro stations. This place had the best scalloped potatoes I've ever had, with a prelude of tasty foie gras and accompaniment of a sizable, excellently prepared steak.

I then hopped on the 10 to go home.

How you doin', need to take a break? Why don't you take a break? I'll wait.

...

(84) is Wednesday, 31 March, 2010

After Hitchcock class at Paris VII, I met up with my friend Meredith from Vassar. Meredith, who is studying Art History this semester in Rome, came up for a few days of vacation with two friends from her program. I showed them around a little, including a visit to St-Chappelle, a gorgeous chapel tucked in with the Palais de Justice (Paris is big into tucking buildings, it seems). That other place is essentially the French Supreme Court, a few blocks from Notre Dame.

If you go to Saint Chappelle, make sure it's a very sunny day or, if it's alternating (as it was on Wednesday), stay in there until you get some sun. The walls composed almost entirely of absolutely spellbinding stained glass will reward your eyes most handsomely for the wait. You should also hope that they aren't renovating, because that big Saint-Chappelle themed tarpjust doesn't catch the sun as well. Although it's a good thing they're taking care of the place, because it does deserve it. You can also tell which windows haven't been restored yet, because those are much less clean and luminous. In any case, it was well worth the 5-euro student admission (I think it's 8 for adults).

We then walked in the sunnier weather a ways. They wanted coffee. "No," I told them:

"You want hot chocolate."

So, of course, at the height of my culinary decadence, I went back to Angelina for a second day in a row. The upswing of this one, though, was that I got to sample two pastries that Meredith's friends couldn't finish. One was a larger-than-bite-sized raspberry macaroon (I usually eat smaller ones). They're big on raspberries over here, but I'm generally not. I make exception for two things: one is raspberry-flavored vodka (especially mixed into a cup of lemonade) and the other is the raspberries in this macaroon, which were hands-down the freshest and sweetest I've ever had.

The other dessert was a pastry that looked like a ball of light-colored chocolate mousse that had been squeezed out of a Play-Doh mold (one of the ones that gives you a long, textured string of the stuff). It was relatively firm, though, and hid a core of creme. I can't remember what it was called, but I feel confident that the Play-doh description will lead you right to it.

After our little tea-time, I met up with Mom and Dad at their hotel to get dinner for their last night in Paris. We took the metro to Le Temps au Temps on 13 Rue Paul Bert. I hesitated to put that one in bold because I honestly didn't like it nearly as much as the other places. I'm given to understand that the owner/chef has left the establishment in the last 6-12 months. Every part of the experience just barely missed somehow. There wasn't much on the menu that really captured my imagination, the wine we had was fine except for a weird aftertaste, the asparagus soup I had was good but not great... the steak I got was actually very good-- that's what saved this meal from mediocrity-- although they never asked how I wanted it prepared. The dessert, which is now escaping my memory, was good, but it came with a scoop of ice cream that was already melting by the time it arrived.

Oh, well. Can't win 'em all.

So, I went back to the hotel with Mom and Dad, we said our goodbyes, and I took the 10 back home.

(85) is Thursday, 1 Octember 2010. Ha. April Fool's.

I went to Music in Cinema today, which was normal. When I was almost home, I got a message from Izzy, a friend of mine also in the VWPP, who wanted me to join her and some of our other pals at a bar and then a club that night. I was already making plans to hang out with Allix Wright and Christina Allen, two friends from Sidwell, so I skipped out on the bar.

Christina was visiting from her JYA music program in Florence (now there are two people I can visit when I get to Italy!), so we all caught up. We went to Le Volcan on Rue de Mouffetard, since Allix and I hadn't been there in almost three months (I hadn't been to Mouffetard in a while, myself). We knew, however, that dinner would be quite good, down to that same delicious Charlotte au Chocolat that I ordered last time.

I then met up with Izzy and the others at Mix Club directly behind the Tour Montparnasse at the Montparnasse-Bienvenue metro station on line 6. This place was pricey-- 15 euro to get in and 2 more for the obligatory coat check. But they gave you a free beer (which I gave to my friend Max for a few euros) and... you remember in the beginning of The Matrix Revolutions (I know it's the worst one, but go with me for a minute) where Morpheus, Trinity, and (I think) Niobe go talk to the Merovingian in that ridiculously awesome-looking club?

This was kinda' like that.

It was worth the price of admission to come out to that balcony and meet the visual of the crazy strobe and colored lights over hundreds of ERASUMUS students dancing a story below (some on elevated blocks and other platforms). I stayed and danced with my pals a while before taking the Noctilien home.

No duets on the bus this time, though.

There, you made it! Well done!

-Andy

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Footnotes

* "Reacting to France Today," whose exercises are all based on our experiences and other current events and stuff. Supposedly. In reality, we do about a page worth of writing per week, with our only big papers about 3-4 pages. One was reacting to a really simple article, and the other was a personal reaction to a French film of our choosing. Our mid-class breaks (which most French professors do) last anywhere from 15-25 minutes. Like I always say: I don't go to school.

** Nor Swayze, who is instead, regrettably, in the coroner's.

*** The vanilla ones were especially rich. I've realized that one of the things I like about Paris is that I am in a place where people appreciate vanilla as much as I do. It's no small thing-- in America, most people think vanilla is the boring flavor, the one you need to make interesting or add chocolate to or whatever (even though I really don't like chocolate ice cream). But not here. Here, they know that vanilla is not simple, but rather subtle. It is something that can stand on its own if you take the time to do it well, and that is exactly what people do. I think this also speaks to how people care more about putting time and care into finer tastes, not just chocolate ice cream because more people will buy it.

(65-67): Weekends-- the Official Sport of France

(65) is Friday, 12 March 2010

So, because we don't get enough free time as JYA students, the various Universities of Paris have given us a second break: two weeks in the second half of April. Naturally, this merits another vacation, so the Madrid crew got together at my house on Friday to focus on making plans.

Focus. Yeah, we're good at that.

We ended up making a spaghetti dinner and watching episodes of Jackie Chan Adventures, one of my personal favorite cartoons from elementary school days.* We left my house around 1 (in time to catch the last trains). Only, I went with Kirill and Liz, and crashed at Kirill's temporary apartment. That actually gives us a rather nice transition into

(66) is Saturday, 13 March 2010

during which we just hung out at the apartment and around the Bastille area. We got Sushi, which was one of those things I had no idea how much I was craving until I had some. Trouble is, I now know how much I want sushi. Hopefully my parents' impending arrival this Friday will help me resolve this problem...

This was my first really lazy day in Paris. I'd forgotten how gratifying those were. Just hanging out with friends in an apartment with nothing better to do, hanging out, having fun, and watching great TV (Jackie Chan, again)... this was just an afternoon full of everything great about being our age.

And because sushi for lunch wasn't enough, we met up with Aaron, Dan, Becky, and her friend visiting from Germany for Vietnamese food around dinner time. It was pretty good. Do you ever play the game when you go out to eat with friends and you each happen to order something different and, after everybody's tasted everybody else's and decided what they like and what they don't, you decide who won? I tried LizMac's Pad Thai, Aaron's curry, and a few other things. I had mussels.

I lost.

(67) is Sunday, 14 March 2010

Okay, you may have figured out that I don't often write about Sundays. So, you know today was awesome.

I woke up and got dressed on the nicer side because I had someplace very important to be. I had a quick breakfast, hopped on the metro, and found my way to the Opera station, near the center of the city (here's a metro map to help you visualize).

In writing this, I have decided to cut out the tangential (and only mildly entertaining) story I was going to include about how I went to the wrong metro station... apparently Google Maps doesn't distinguish between Paris's Opera Garnier and Opera Bastille. Though they're the same organization, they're 8 metro stops apart. I ended up getting to the more modern (but still gorgeous) opera house about 5 minutes late.

But, it's all good, because I still got to see Verdi's Don Carlo in a beautiful production featuring some superb singers in an incredible opera house. This was actually my first time going to the opera, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect.

I was very pleasantly surprised, however. Based on what I saw, I found that Opera is a lot more accessible** than it's usually made out to be. The story was actually really good, the music was beautiful, it was a lot of fun to be in the balcony and watch the orchestra, and it was ALL SO EPIC. I will say, though, that keeping everything at such a sustained intensity can desensitize you to the epic-ness after a while.*** But it's okay, because I knew going in that that's what I was in for. And It was well done, so I just really enjoyed it... the four hours went by rather fast, and there was a stunning sunset over the Paris rooftops waiting outside the balcony's panoramic window when we left.

Oh, and did I mention that-- thanks to Reid Hall-- I got to see all this for five euros?

I then came home and watched the returns for the first round of the French regional elections (which took place that day). This is where each region (kind of like each state in the U.S.?) votes for which party they want (and there are a few) in charge of things like infrastructure and funding... sort of like a gubernatorial race. All but the top three (I think) either get dropped or can make alliances with parties in the top three, and then the second round is the following Sunday. The Socialist party (because "liberal" means here what we Americans associate with "conservative" politics... pro-business, for example) came out higher than any other party, although more than 50% of France apparently didn't vote at all. This is actually a big deal for them, whereas we Americans are used to chalking it up to laziness every other year.

So, yeah. Good weekend, I thought.

-Andy

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Notes de bas de page (any guesses on what that means?)

* Imagine Jackie Chan as an archaeologist after the fashion of Indiana Jones in a very funny show with good plotlines and great characters and dialogue. If you're curious (or want to remember why you loved it), enjoy: http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=E6DD1D766498161D&search_query=jackie+chan+adventures

** I figure if I keep putting footnotes in weird places, like the middle of sentences, you'll stay curious enough to keep coming down here. Anyway, I footnoted that because-- speaking of accessible-- this was an Italian opera, so there were French subtitles. I understood a solid 95% of them. I was very pleased with myself.

*** This is actually why I don't like Les Misérables (and get angry reactions just like the one you're having now). As someone who likes (and, on occasion, writes) musical theater, I find it's much more effective to have characters sing only during the most important moments (either in terms of emotion or the story). It creates better dynamics and gives the audience a break from the exhausting emotional fortissimo of constant epic arias. Also, it saves you from painful, contrived, and generally unnecessary rhymes like "He stole some bread! He should be dead!"