minor triumphs

I’m more than halfway through my Paris experience. Yikes. It is the traditional time for reflection—I grew up with only sisters, so really anytime is a good time for reflection, a.k.a. analyzing the heck out of anything—and what I’ve come up with is chili. Homemade chili. Feeling pretty cocky about this one because it’s a minor triumph. 

Remember when I had trouble getting my stove to operate? (Read all about it in the “pictures and appliances” blog). Well, other than having to scramble my eggs in a pot because my frying pan doesn’t work (don’t ask), I’m able to use my stove and the three pots of varying sizes that come with the apartment. For those who really know me, I’m not a good cook, but I do have my repertoire of peasant food like my mom’s super easy recipe for chili. Hamburger meat (silent cheer to all you carnivores out there), stewed tomatoes, kidney beans, and voila. Of course, here the challenge is getting the ingredients without knowing French. The first time I made chili, I congratulated myself on getting all the ingredients from my local Monoprix, only to discover that what I thought were kidney beans (looked like them in the picture) turned out to be some sort of seasoned legume one-third the size of what I wanted. I, of course, made and ate the darn thing anyway. Interesting but definitely not Mom’s chili. 

Segue to my most recent shopping trip when, through brilliant deductive reasoning and knowing about seven more words of French than the last chili-ingredient hunt, I bought two cans sans picture of what I believed to be the elusive kidney bean. When the time came to open the cans, I ever so slowly peeled back the tops and there, in glistening glory, were regular red kidney beans, real ones.  It is truly ridiculous how cool, dare I say accomplished, this made me feel. 

But for every triumph, a fall must come. Riding the wave of mastering French language—or at least being able to navigate the bean aisle at the supermarket—I went to a chocolate shop in Chartre, a charming town that features a magnificent cathedral.  My standard, “Parlez-vous anglais,” was met with a polite, “Non madame.” No problem. The language of chocolate is universal, and I had shown brilliant fortitude in the chili incident, so I launched into a really horrible mix of French and English (okay, mostly English spoken slowly) to communicate. Luckily, the proprietor was a lovely woman, and we figured out everything. In gratitude, I wanted to say something nice about the chocolate and her delightful shop, but all I could get out was, “Je t’aime chocolat.” She smiled, thanked me again, and I left in a glow of I’m so getting the hang of this. A few minutes later, though, as I was walking through Chartre’s narrow streets, I realized exactly what I had said. Not “I love chocolate,” as I had intended, but “I love you, chocolate.” I laugh and cringe all at the same time whenever I think about it, but bless this wonderful French person for understanding the intent behind the silly blunder. 

I have five and a half more weeks of adventures. Can’t wait.

A silly American in Paris

omaha

As far as I can see. White crosses. Not just white crosses, though. White grave markers. Mostly crosses, but also the occasional Star of David. Most markers had names, but also the occasional “HERE RESTS IN HONRED GLORY A COMRADE IN ARMS KNOWN BUT TO GOD.”   

Omaha Beach is the stuff of movies and history classes. When people say, “I’m going to visit Normandy,” the immediate response is, “Are you going to Omaha, Utah, or both?” As we drive up to the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial, Mirek, our oh-so-qualified tour guide, announces that we are now on American soil, that we have just entered the United States. This pronouncement is as unexpected as the quietly spontaneous cheering from all of us on the bus.    

Of course, everyone wants to hit the beach first. The path leading down to the sand is that deceptively easy walk that makes you wince inside thinking of getting back up the hill. The students get to the beach ahead of me, and many continue walking toward the water for the novelty of touching the Atlantic. Funny thing, though, soon the twos and threes have given way to individuals wandering around the beach. Friends who have been attached since February are now yards apart, looking at the sand, staring out at the horizon. The water doesn’t hold a fascination for me, Pacific Ocean snob that I am, but I walk toward it until the sand’s texture changes under my feet. 

And then I turn around.  

There. That’s what gets me. The cliffs. Those damn cliffs. I haven’t seen Saving Private Ryan, having been warned about the intensity of the opening sequence, but it doesn’t take a movie to imagine those cliffs stuffed with guns. I take several pictures, trying to capture what a soldier might have first seen, but hastily give up.  

Walking up the steep pathway, I focus on not stopping rather than what happened on the beach. The emotional part is over anyway. Now it’s on to the Memorial and Visitor Center, aesthetics I’ve seen a bunch of times before. I reach the top of the bluff and with a last, quick look at the beach turn firmly away to get my bearings. Signs give me a choice of whether to begin at the Visitor Center or the Memorial complete with a 22-foot statue, reflecting pool, and The Garden of the Missing. I decide to be ornery and choose neither. Instead, I wander in the opposite direction, lured by well-kept grounds and the promise of open space. Didn’t Mirek say there was a chapel somewhere around here? Manicured trees block my view, so I’m not exactly sure where I am, but a few more steps will bring me to an opening, and I should be able to see the chapel. 

Crosses. Grave markers really. As far as I can see.

Total: 9,387

bruxelles

I have three pieces of chocolate from Brussels left in the box I brought for myself (it was a small box…sort of). Since I vowed that these fantastic, luscious, chocolate-coma-inducing delights will not be eaten until I post a blog about Brussels, I better get to it.

And we thought we would have time for a side trip to Bruges. In The Traveling Professor’s Guide to Paris, Professor Stephen C. Solosky characterizes Brussels as “one of my favorite day trips” that is an easy 1 ½ hour train ride out of Paris. It was an easy train ride, but I’m not sure I could or would want to do Brussels in a day.

Solosky also says Brussels is “funky” and “gothic.” The professor was probably talking about the architecture, but Brussels funkiness extends to almost everything in the city, people included. The first night there we had to have the Belgian special: beer, moules (mussels), and frites (twice-fried fries, absolute heaven). Our waiter, who flirted a bit with Rebecca and me but then really turned it on for the single, beautiful young woman eating alone at the next table, practically ordered for us. “Beer, salad, mussels, and frites,” was what was said, but who said what first is still fuzzy. The mussels, frites, and beer were fantastic as expected, but it was the salad that I especially remember. There was lettuce there somewhere, but it was covered with shrimp, chicken, sliced beef, and I think ham but am still not totally sure. After all that protein, yet another beer, chocolate cake (we were in Brussels after all), and flirty waiter who helped me on with my coat while upping the charm with beautiful young woman, we could only laugh at the whole experience as we sauntered back to the hotel.

So, so good

Even the museums have a certain funkiness that is wonderfully charming. At the Royal Museums of Fine Arts, the René Magritte exhibit is funkiness personified, the young woman at the museum who dissed Magritte was quite hip, and the Musical Instrument Museum, where each visitor is supplied with earphones to plug in and listen to the instruments, was the coolest ever. Mix in Mannekin Pis, the statue of a young boy doing exactly what you think he’s doing, a huge clock complete with bells and figures that does not chime at all, as well as chocolate shops everywhere, and bottom line is that this is my kind of city.

I can’t even begin to describe the waffle topped with chocolate.

Doesn't it look like it should do something?

If you look closely....