French Riviera & Monaco

On days 2 and 3 of our weekend away we stuck close to the small stretch of beaches in and around Nice. We spent the morning in Monaco, a tiny pocket of a country that feels rather invented. The whole of it is less than 1 sq. mile and ruled by a prince who lives in a Disney-looking castle.

You might guess from its small size and income-tax exemptions that Monaco is basically a bunch of fancy condos stacked on a harbor stuffed with yachts. Atop the crowded hillside also stands the church where Grace Kelly is buried and the famed Monte Carlo Casino. We stopped by the church but missed the casino. My favorite part of Monaco is driving the winding coastal roads on the way there. Grace Kelly filmed "To Catch a Thief" here. Ryan and I didn't have a convertible, but I still felt a bit glamorous.

After lunch we drove back into Nice and walked the Promenade Anglais along the water. Nice's fancy beach front was less glamorous than expected. All the beaches are rocky, and the expensive hotels seemed to be only full of snobby tourists. I kind of expected to see someone famous or something. It is just down the road from Cannes after all.

A better surprise awaited us in the Nice's old town center. Rick Steves' book offered up a great walk through the heart of the city and explained a lot of its history. We ended atop Castle Hill, which, as you might guess, was the site of Nice's castle. Nice was, until Napoleon, part of Italy; and many locals still speak Nicoise, a dialect of Italian. It started to rain, so we ducked inside a tiny restaurant and again ate way too much delicious French food.

My plane left Nice at 5:00 on Monday, so the next day we drove down the road to Antibes. This is a tiny village to the west of Cannes with a real sandy beach and a great market. It was nice to get away from the tourist crowds and just be mellow. It was even hot enough to swim a bit. Ryan and I got pretty pink from our sunbathing, but I got back on the plane with salty hair and a belly full of Camembert and Rose. As we touched down in windy, rainy, Berlin I felt a bit smug that for one weekend I had managed an escape to the beach.

Provence

As I gathered my books last Friday afternoon my phone rang. I walked out of the classroom with a loud groan, Ryan had called to say he had to stay in France the whole weekend. This plus the days he'd been gone already plus more business travel the next week. Then he told me his boss' solution: fly me to France for the 3-day weekend, put us up in a hotel, and give us free reign of a rental car. I was on the verge of squealing. How jet set are we?

So I rushed home to book a flight, hotel (we got the last room in the last hotel in Nice I'm pretty sure), and throw all the stuff I could think of into a suitcase. I got to the airport by 5pm and touched down amongst the palm trees just after dark.

We have an aging copy of Rick Steves' France and I gave it a good scouring. During breakfast we decided on a tour of the villages of the Cotes du Rhone (this is Ryan's favorite wine after all). We wound through tiny villages and vineyards, up the Dentelles de Montmirail mountains (does Dentelles come from "Dents" meaning teeth? They kind of looked like teeth). We spent a lot of time getting lost and getting detoured due to a big bike race. But Ryan definitely enjoyed driving the snazzy rental too fast through the curvy roads.

We stopped for lunch in a tiny hillside village with only one cafe. The waitress declared serving lunch "impossible!" I think she assumed Americans= hurried tourists. She told us she could potentially put our orders into the kitchen but didn't know what time, if ever, we could be served. I thought maybe we should go elsewhere, but Ryan told her we weren't in a hurry. This turned out to be a good move, the food was both prompt and delicious. (Is this some kind of test to weed out picky tourists?) After lunch we finished a loop through the mountains, stopping for Chateaus and wine tasting.

The amazing thing about Provence is how effortless it is. In Germany most everything is new (thanks WW2), all the old-looking buildings are really replicas. But Provence looks like it was built a couple hundred years ago and then left to its own devices. All the wood is weathered, and vines creep up or hang down as if to reclaim the village back to the rich soil. Shop after shop displayed colored glass plates and patterned quilts that could have been discovered in someone's attic, and yet everything is so chic. This is what amazes me about the French. Its the same thing with the scarves French women casually drape around their necks-- it always looks effortlessly perfect.

We finished out the night in Arles, Van Gogh's home for many years. One thing I hadn't anticipated about Provence is how choc-a-block it is with Roman ruins. Arles is basically an old medieval town based around an ancient Roman arena and theatre. We spent the evening drinking "Van Gogh" wine and enjoying a menu of soup, lamb, and chocolate profiteroles. If there's one thing I've learned about Provence, it can only be truly appreciated at a snail's pace.

3 Things that will make you laugh...

We've been having a rather random and hilarious evening here, and I thought I'd share some of the joy.

1. Berlusconi quotes Did we ever think someone could top Bush?

2. Biz Markie. Just try not to dance like a fool.

3. Three Moon Wolf t-shirt Scroll down to reviews.

Acheiving Excellence in Lawn Maintenance Report, 2009

I volunteered to cut the grass at church again this week. Its a good excuse to get outside, and after the mental gymnastics of German class I enjoy accomplishing something that won't end up covered in red pen.

The last time I did this job I split it with another lady, and we spent a good two hours on a quiet Saturday morning. This time I thought it easier to come in on Friday, when the church is already unlocked for the "Laib und Seele" group that distributes food to needy people.

We have only a rickety old electric mower whose cord must be transferred around the church. As I finished the first 1/3 I moved toward the front of the church and began hunting a suitable outlet. As I scavenged the Narthex a volunteer woman approached me and offered to help. Her accent sounded like some sort of Cockney crossed with a cleft palate. She took one end of the extension cord and found an outlet. It didn't work. We tried a second outlet, and that didn't work. Now a group of elderly volunteer men began to gather and confer what the problem with the mower could be. I was pretty sure it was the extension cord, but the group decided to fuss with the mower.

I explained that I would get another cord, but then one man piped up "You're mowing the lawn, alone?!" I responded yes. He asked why I was mowing the lawn and I tried to explain that I was working for the church and we had a rotation set up, blah blah blah. The woman jabbed him in the ribs and told him "Speak English- she don't know no German" which was weird because we had been speaking German. The man asked me what my first name was (very odd in German culture) and I stared at him for a moment. The woman snapped at me "Name, what's your name?" I told them, and now they wanted my email address, I asked why. I told them I wasn't aware that me mowing the lawn on that day was a problem. The woman replied, "Well you can't be out here mowing by yourself, its too dangerous."

I tried to assure her that I had received training and had permission from the church to mow. She said "Our insurance doesn't cover you out here, not if you're alone or a woman." I found this very odd and reassured her that the Pastor had said it was ok. I thanked her for her concern, but she blocked my way.

"I won't have you out here alone. What if something happens? It doesn't look right, a woman mowing by'erself!" I made the mistake of playing into her illogical argument "Its really ok. In America even children cut the grass."

"But we're not in America, darling!"

Luckily, at that moment Angie arrived, who'd been scheduled to mow with me. "Look, I'm not alone, I have a helper." Angie apologized for being 90 minutes late by hugging me and offering rolls. She also brought her daughter who squealed "Katy!!!!!" and handed me a small flower. They gleefully picked up rubbish as I mowed. I was just getting into a rhythm when the mower suddenly stopped working. I tinkered with the power supply, emptied the grass clippings, and fussed about. No luck. I was considering getting out the screw driver and taking it apart when I heard a thunder crackle. A downpour ensued, and so I put the mower and cords away and left, lawn half-mowed. The old woman fussed at me for putting the mower away by myself and for not bringing a jacket or umbrella. At this point I wanted to sock her, but instead said "thank you." Its important to say thank you to people, especially if they are really unhelpful.

This morning I was embarrassed to show my face at church, having left the lawn 1/2 mowed and unable to get through to anybody else on our rotation about lawn mower repair. But the Pastor's wife, Margit, approached and thanked me for mowing. I blushed and tried to explain but she just laughed "This volunteer called me up Friday and said 'There's some woman mowing the lawn!'" Margit found it hilarious. I should follow her example. What's that famous quote? "Comedy is tragedy that happens to other people."-Angela Carter

Flusspferden

This Saturday we went to the zoo. I love the zoo, but I have to say I do feel kinda like a creep going there without children. The place is swarming with children and exhausted adults, whereas Ryan and I just go to enjoy the animals. Or rather I go to enjoy the animals and Ryan goes to laugh at my hippo giddiness.

I do really like hippos, and the Berlin zoo lets you watch their feeding. I'd never watched a hippo feeding and assumed that this would involve a trainer hauling some hay or vegetables into their enclosure. But no! Instead they spray a hose at them, and when they get bored they fire bread at them. I swear they had some kind of bread cannon, but Ryan thinks someone was just throwing it from above. But they got good distance, and have you ever tried to throw a loaf of German bread? Its about the weight and consistency of a small bundle of bricks. Clearly, some sort of bread projectile system was in use. And when the loaves hit the water they made a huge bang, and I jumped and Ryan laughed at me more.

The German words for hippo are "Flusspferden" and "Nilpferden." (River horse and Nile horse.) That's just how German works.

I've come to realize that I no longer remember how to spell hippopotamus. I just spell checked that 3 times. I used to be a good speller until I learned another language. Apparently you don't so much become bilingual as advance in one language whilst simultaneously declining in another. Plus Ryan and I mostly speak "Denglish" to each other now, sticking to one or the other takes some concentrating.

In other news I'm getting more used to Ulrike's brusqueness, Ryan is back from France, and we're planning a trip to Frankfurt this weekend for apartment hunting! So I've been pretty busy and thus remiss in my blogging. Hopefully I'll have more interesting stuff to report in the next couple days. Bis später, I mean until then...

Boot Camp

Its been positively ages since I blogged! A brief update: Gwendolyn, our Georgian friend, came to visit. After she left Ryan came back, but this morning he left again on a fire-extinguishing visit to a problematic solar field near the French Riviera.

And I started a new German class. A course here is about 8 weeks, and having completed A2, I have been promoted to B1. Not only that, but the teachers decided to divide us into a "fast" and "slow" class. So I went from sleeping through a normal class to sweating through the fast class.

On Monday a posted list directed me to the top floor of the building. It was 2 minutes past, but the room was still dark and empty. A moment later I was joined by a black-clad, multiply pierced girl. Normal Friedrichshain morning. Then a taller girl entered, also dressed in black and topped off with loud clomping boots and a green military jacket. I scooted in so she could come sit by us, but instead she went to the front. This was our new teacher.

Corinna, my last teacher, was lanky and quiet. Her voice was the type that should read stories to children as they drift off to sleep. My new teacher, Ulrike, (funny side note, the night before Ryan and I watched "Der Baader-Meinhof Complex" a movie about a 1970s German terrorist organization with a leader called Ulrike Meinhof) is to Corinna as Che Guevara is to Snow White.

Every morning her voice booms "what is the proper case for this? And this? Explain why! No, incorrect! You, explain!" After the first 3 days my brain feels like its been through a blender. In my old class I wrote maybe 3-8 vocabulary words in my notebook every day, these days its more like 20.

Two of my classmates from my former class have joined me. Tony, a hilarious Catalan who, although often lost, always manages a joke; and Sara, also Spanish, who only periodically pops out of the fog she seems to live in. I don't want to sound harsh, she's very nice, but every morning she walks in and asks "What day is today?" and often seems genuinely surprised by the answer. "Tuesday? Really? But wasn't yesterday Thursday?"

The rest of our class is Ulrike's former class, 1 Spanish, 1 Peruvian, and 2 Italians, plus a brand new Dane. Up until last month I'd never met a Danish person and now I know four. Its a strange shift to be the only native English speaker in the class, and when things can't be explained in German they are often rattled off in Spanish, sending me diving after my dictionary.

But tomorrow I'm looking forward to a little respite. Ulrike is teaching our class 3 days a week, and Martin, one of my former teachers, is taking Thursday and Friday. His style is more relaxed, and usually slower. So hopefully we'll get some of that, not Martin sped up and drilling.

Friday Night in Berlin

Ryan is gone again on business and I've been spending more time with my classmates, which has been nice. Yesterday Carmen and I spent a few hours in a cafe and then drove a saleslady crazy trying on all the shoes in a local boutique. Today she and April wanted to go out for a beer and told me they'd call "around 4:00" which in Spanish time means somewhere between 6:30 and 8:00.

At 7:30 I didn't feel like waiting around the house anymore so I decided to see a movie. The main English-version movie theater in Berlin is in glamorous Potsdamer Platz. I practiced my supermodel walk through the glittery plaza.

I saw "Slumdog Millionaire." I was probably the last English-speaking person on the planet to see this movie, but if you haven't seen it, I'd recommend it. Its very intense, and as my German teacher would say "brutal", but it's beautifully done. The conditions of the slums in this film were absolutely heart-wrenching. I left the theater awash with guilt that my own comfortable existence could coincide unknowingly with such poverty and despair.

As I climbed aboard the U-Bahn, I passed a gangly young man dead asleep on a bench with a beer bottle in one hand and a huge book in the other. The American in me was shocked and passed by quickly. I climbed on the waiting train and watched him. Everyone else walked past, shaking their heads, some glaring at the boy. Then one man tapped him on the knee and pointed toward the idling train. The boy gathered himself and bumbled on board. He sat down between a trio of 18-year old girls making nervous faces and disgusted older man. Of course, upon sitting he immediately fell asleep, and started leaning dangerously close to one of the girls, who was eating a fruit cup. Others got up and moved away from him.

My time in England witnessed a lot of drunks. Its not unusual to see someone passed out in their own vomit in the middle of the sidewalk. But the English aren't phased, and quite used to picking each other up and putting them on the right bus.

I knew this guy was going to sleep through his station. And to be honest, I've been that drunk once or twice (never alone mind you, but anyway). So I sat down across from him and mustered my best German. I tapped him on the knee and said "You must wake up. What is your station?" I repeated myself once more and he muttered "Kottbusser Tor. You tell me when it's Kottbusser Tor. Danke." Then fell asleep again. He dropped his massive book. It was Star Trek. He started leaning again toward the young girl, and we all started laughing. Everyone in the car was now watching him, slumping to the side with a large string of drool out of his mouth. Two less drunk guys got on the train and were making fun of him, trying to impress the girls. At this point I thought "why see a movie, I can get all the entertainment of Berlin just riding the U-1."

At Kottbusser Tor I shook him awake and told him to go "schnell! Straight home, no more drinking!" He caught the eyes of the guys making fun of him, and for a minute I thought they would fight. But he lumbered off the train. The doors closed and we all laughed again. Then he banged on the window. I thought he was mad at the other boys, but instead he flashed a big smile and waved to me. The man sitting next to me said something to the effect of "Some boyfriend you have." And I couldn't answer, I was giggling too much.

So, today's German will be "blau sein." Literally, "to be blue" but it actually means drunk. For example "Ich bin nicht blau. Du, du bist blau!"