Paris, Je t'aime

Paris. Ah Paris. It was my first time in alone in a non-English speaking country, what I had been preparing for in school for years and years. I still remember shaking with anticipation and nerves as I stood in line to board the plane from London to Paris. Goodbye English! I arrived only to discover, to my dismay, that it is extremely difficult to speak French in Paris. My first morning I went in search of the Eiffel Tower; finally gazing breathlessly with tear-filled eyes when I saw it peak above the tall buildings that line the streets of Paris.

I soon befriended fellow tourists and together we discovered much more of Paris both day and night. I fell in love with Paris, falling as so many before me have; the famous monuments sticking out in the skyline, the small churches, beauty and Parisness around every corner. Oh the cheese, the pastries, the CREPES! I enticed others to come along and fall with me. One after another I was able to show some of my best friends the city with which I was enamored. Every visit symbolized something new. Visit 1: Freedom. Visit 2: Bonding with a good friend. Visit 3: A brief glimpse back into the developed world after over a year in Africa. Visit 3 consisting mainly of eating anything I could get my hands on. American food, French food, Japanese food, chocolate, fresh fruit, ice cream you name it. Forever the city to visit never a place I could live. Then Visit 4 happened this past New Years. If I had to give Visit 4 a label it would be “disappointment”.

I arrived with Marina ready to ring in this New Year, and what could be better than Paris at New Years? Alot apparently aside of course being with Marina. With the utter entrapment it seems to have over everyone, Paris decided to keep New Years low-key, meaning nothing as mind-blowingly spectacular as one would expect. Metros broke down on us and tourists filled the charming alleys and famous landmarks. It seemed at some points that for every truly French person you saw 3 tourists. Then there was the day we went nowhere. If you are going to have a flight delayed or canceled hope that it is not at Charles de Gaulle.

First we paced back and forth looking for our gate. It was written quite clearly that our gate was number 13. And the signs up to this point had said “to 10-18”. Yet there we stood between gate 12 and 14 and could not find the invisible gate. Taking a clue from Harry Potter I recommended that Marina try running at the wall between the two gates but I just couldn’t talk her into it. The invisible gate turned out to be the least of our problems when our flight was cancelled due to snow in Dublin. We had to go back to check in and get new tickets. To do this we had to go out of security thus getting stamped BACK into Paris. When we giggled at the fact that we'd have a page of stamps from Paris for the same day the security guard accused us of making fun of him. It didn’t help that he must be the only person in Paris hat speaks no English, and they put him at the non-EU citizens line?? We were the first to show up and he looked bewildered as our entire flight lined up behind us. I had to talk our way out of that. Then we had to go up two floors to get our checked bags, bring them down, wait 4 hours and then check them back in. So we paid the ridiculous prices to eat at the two restaurants we could find. We went back through security and waited for our flight. And waited and waited and waited. They are tricky in Paris. No one from the airline was around to question unless we wanted go out of security and customs again. And we didn't. Finally four hours later our flight arrives to pick us up! Making it a total of 12 hours, 2 meals and 5 stamps in and out of Paris. So this year did not start off so well. Then Marina and I stared in horror at the layer of snow in Dublin that did not even cover the grass. That was really why we were stuck in Paris all day???

Dublin did make up for the heartache it caused us. It is by far the most American European city I have visited. I found that I understood how everything worked in Dublin without much thought. Dublin made up for everything that had gone wrong in our trip. We not only found items we had been shopping for across Europe, we found them on SALE! Our hostel was great. I even had a chance to speak French since I couldn’t in Paris. We stuck to the basic tourist track, not having much time to stray from it. The benefit of spending a mind-numbing 12 hours in CDG with extremely limited entertainment and not a single affordable activity was the bonding we did with fellow stranded travelers including some people from Dublin who gave us great tips.

We learned how Guinness turns water into gold, poured the perfect pint of Guinness and ran into a girl we had seen not once but twice on our trip. Once in ever country we had been to, small world sometimes. I learned where my family name came from, Dusseldorf, and learned why the doors are all different colors.

Yet it was with a light heart that we arrived back in Madrid. For the first time I realized just how much I had come to love Spain. But more on that next time…

Sharing the Holidays

Brussels, known also as “The capitol of Europe”. Considering its status in the world we spent very little time admiring this city. In our defense the map we received stated and I quote “Brussels in an ugly city, we know it and we love it”. After reading that would you spend endless hours roaming its streets? Granted I know I could say the same about Malanville, but that was after spending months getting to know its little quirks. We had a mere day. What first caught our attention was the international feel to the city. We, a fellow RPCV and I, pointed out American restaurants with all the enthusiasm of children seeing what Santa brought Christmas morning. I remembered back to a time when I scoffed at Starbucks abroad, now living abroad I covet it like only a homesick American ever could. After gorging ourselves on Lebanese sandwiches, a Tex-Mex buffet and Subway we realized that we should probably be searching out Belgian food, and suddenly it hit us; what’s more Belgian than a giant fresh-cooked waffle!? Despite the food, we had been doing Belgium justice, trying the various local brews, which had been inspirations for some of my personal favorites from back home. However, aside from our highly American eating habits, we both felt pangs of regret when we stepped into a bar boasting the largest choice of beers in the world at an astounding 2500. We had been led by the rumor that we could find an old Benin classic. We did find said beer too, but quickly realized that we were not going to pay for a beer that we complained about in Benin at five-times the price and that tasted so bad even the bartender cringed when we asked how it tasted. Upon entering the bar I felt like I had stepped into a time warp, right back to college. The bar was packed with drunk American youth, most probably not even legal to drink in the States yet and so letting loose on their European vacation. As we maneuvered through the crowds one thought overwhelmed every other. This is the face of America abroad?

The next day we headed north to Antwerp. We left the comfort of French-speakers and signs. It was cold cold cold so we spent the evening doing any activity that involved being indoors, killing time until we met up with a local that offered to house us for the evening. She was a sweet heart giving us tips on what local delicacies to taste and what had to be seen. The next morning Christmas Eve was upon us at last. We roamed the quaint little streets of Antwerp and meandered through the Christmas market, letting the atmosphere overwhelm us and fill us with Christmas cheer. When we ducked in to a café to thaw for a while I heard and old classic that cut straight to my heart. “I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me. I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in me dreams.” Listening to the song, while partaking in a chocolate drizzled, tourist-prices Belgian waffle, and chatting with the friendly Belgians at the next table I was overcome at once with homesickness and adventure. That afternoon we were heading to the small, inconsequential town of Berlaars where a family offered to take us in for Christmas.

We headed to Berlaars both anxious and curious. Everything turned out great. We were welcomed as one of the family. The three adorable little boys quickly warmed up to us, and though there was a language gap, well smiles transcend language. We were invited to join in the family traditions. A little wooden Joseph and Mary slowly make their way from one end of the living room to the other throughout the month. We were there for the big finally, the birth of baby Jesus.

A little note on finding Christmas cheer so far from home. Though I feel a longing for friends, family, and the familiar backdrop of the Rocky Mountains over the Christmas holidays, I can´t help but feel like the Christmases spent far from home guard more of the traditional Christmas spirit. In the States I am in the comfort of my own home, it´s true, but abroad I have been invited into families for the day, taken part in new traditions and my appreciation for the holiday has grown. Europe has a delightful Christmas atmosphere. Small Christmas villages spring up all over. This year I had the opportunity to meander through the Xmas villages in Belgium, France and Spain, each offering unique goods and delicacies. We warmed our hands over cups of Glühwein, (mulled wine), in Brussels and sipped on Jenievre, a flavored licor in Anterp, a local favorite. Looking back now that the Christmas lights are coming down, I am grateful for the unique spin the world puts on Christmas for me year after year.

Next stop, north to Amsterdam. Ah Amsterdam. It was a surprising beautiful city, filled with canals and a unique architecture. It seems to fulfill its reputation in every way, right up to the buildings that aren’t quite straight. There was really no need to partake in anything to feel a little disoriented. I felt somewhat off balanced as I stared up at the buildings that lean forward just a bit. There is a large hook at the top of most of the old houses. The story says that these hooks were used to lift things out of boats in the canal into the higher floors. In order to avoid the line swinging and breaking windows they built the houses crooked so that the top stuck out more. Nowadays we would just make the hooks longer. To each his own.

Amsterdam was surprisingly small. Out first afternoon, or night, (it gets dark around 3:30) we wandered the streets and found ourselves lost in the red-light district with almost naked girls standing in the windows. I’m still blushing. On the map it looked like quite a distance from the hostel, but in truth nothing was far. I enjoyed the atmosphere of Amsterdam. The constant danger of being hit by something, be it car, tram or bike, was a pleasure, because it meant that so many people were opting to ride bikes instead of drive. The environmentalist in me was delighted. When you go to the grocery store everyone is toting their reusable canvas bags. Waste not, want not. The tourist part of the whole town was not my favorite. I found myself slightly disappointed that so many people would fly so far from home just to sit in the hostel and do exactly what they do back home. Where is the sense of adventure, the wanderlust, the desire to explore new places?

Two friends joined the party. A guy from California on an amazing European vacation that made me feel old, being a mere 19 years old, and my bff, Marina, flying all the way from the States to come visit. We stared at the line for the Anne Frank house that wound around the building in despair. Having only two days in Amsterdam made it impossible to justify spending an entire day in line. Dejected we wandered the streets of Amsterdam together; ducking it to thaw our frozen bodies here and there, but before we knew it we were on a train to Paris to ring in the New Year.

As I strolled the streets of Santander a couple of weeks ago, admiring the Christmas strung above my head I was overcome with sadness. I stopped at the Christmas tree surrounded by families and let the feelings of homesickness wash over me. Christmas far from was easier when I was in a hot Muslim community, without the reminders all around me. Yet, as quickly as the homesickness had washed over me, it dispersed. It was exciting to walk the streets of a foreign country and watch the people gear up for the holidays. It felt good to be cold at Christmas and soon Mother Nature would give me my first present. Just over a week late I woke up and began my normal morning routine; a little bit of yoga, put water on for coffee or tea, and then I opened the window to find myself staring at a Benavente blanketed in snow, like a delicious cake covered in vanilla frosting. I bundled up, shaking with excitement and ran downstairs to walk to school and feel the crunch of snow beneath my feet. I felt like a child again, picking up snow and forming a ball in my gloved hand, wishing I could lie down and make an ice angel. All too soon the school was before me. After weeks of hearing about how cold I was the teachers all greeted me with “You must be freezing today!” “Nope!” was all I could reply with a huge smile on my face. The joy the freshly fallen snow brings has a way of warming me from the inside.
On my break I went outside to take in more snow. At this point snowflakes had begun falling from the sky again. Students shouted “Don’t fall Meagan!” And all I could think was, thanks for the advice. Benavente was one big sheet of ice on an upward slope. I didn’t really walk; it resembled skiing more closely than walking. I watched as the snow transformed the people around me into children again, and found myself surrounded by laughter and snowballs. The going was slow. I had to remember the winter precautions, taking a step without committing yourself to it for fear that it might be ice concealed under the snow. Instead of waiting to see the cars breaking I would not dare cross the street until they had come to a complete stop. The world seemed to have slowed down to take in the change of weather. During our two days of snow we could not have gotten more than 2 inches, but it was enough to cause a ruckus in the school. Teachers and buses not wanting to drive on slick roads classes were cancelled and I noted that this was certainly not Colorado where nothing short of a blizzard could close a school.
I wish you all white and merry Christmases. Soon I am off to meet a fellow RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteer) in Brussels, then up to Amsterdam where another friend of mine is flying in it. I expect a good but far from relaxing vacation. I love you and I shall recount my adventures upon my return! Happy Holidays, take care, and I can’t wait to spend Christmas closer to you all.

Feildtrips

Though the winter is getting colder here in Spain the figurative ice seems to be melting in Benavente. My friendships here are beginning to multiply and blossom. Fellow teachers are excited to share with me their corners of Spain, where they are from, or they pity me for being posted in such a dull part of the country, I can’t quite figure out which. I am getting into more of a flow at school and I am no less of a celebrity. Students I don’t teach ask for me, and unfamiliar faces greet me in the hallways. I’ve begun going on day trips with fellow teachers when they have errands to run in towns nearby. In this way I have seen Toro, a town equally as insignificant as Benavente but known for its wine and cheese. I thought it was amazing, but I am apparently easy to impress. Recently we had a “Puente” at school, a holiday on Tuesday so we had a 4-day weekend, and I have Fridays, off giving me a 5-day weekend. It snuck up on me, I had not been looking ahead and on Wednesday I scrambled to make plans. That’s when Ana, a fellow teacher, came to the rescue, offering me a detailed itinerary and a ride. I just had to promise to stay out of Asturias because she wants to show me around there herself. I thought rather than going into a long description of my various adventures, I would tell them in a series of very short stories. The last being one that was originally destined to be locked away the archive of misadventures that I don’t share (intrigued?) this turned out to have a good ending after all, so I decided to start out with aa Shakespearean intro. Enjoy!

Que Frio Hace!

“Okay dinner is here in 45 minutes” yelled the teacher, motioning to a dark, closed building. People started filing off the bus. Meagan was confused. It was freezing outside. They really expected us to just go stand in that kind of weather for 45 minutes! Meagan was slightly panicked but she seemed to be the o

nly one. Little did she know this was only the first in a long series of standing in the freezing cold. The good news was humans can in fact survive temperatures under 50. Good to know. This was a field trip with 30 students and 2 teachers to a small city called Soria, known for its cathedral, mushrooms and cold weather. It was a fabulous field trip. I don’t carry the official title of teacher, nor of student, so I enjoyed all of the perks of being a teacher and none of the responsibilities. Sign me up again! Unfortunately this was my first encounter with truly cold weather in a couple of years and the shock was debilitating. After the guided visit to the cathedrals current art exhibit I followed the teachers to a café and warmed myself with some coffee and a traditional Spanish lunch, 2 courses, dessert, wine and coffee. The best part of it all? I even got reimbursed for the lunch. This is definitely the way to see the country!

A Mystery Solved

“Hmm, the window doesn’t quite fit in the frame, why do I find this to be such a problem?” she thought to herself once again as she sat in the hostel bathroom. This had been a recurring monologue in her head since she had arrived in Santander two days before. “Mosquitoes could get in!” She realized with triumph. Promptly chastising herself for the thought as she added a second layer of clothes to survive the cold. Some old habits are hard to shack.

Santander by Foot

After a long day of travel she had arrived and hit the bed, awaking the next morning to the sound of waves gently hitting the beach. She bundled up, which did seem like a strange thing to do at the beach, and headed out to see the town. Santander must be one of the most active cities on Earth. When she stepped out onto the boardwalk she found herself surrounded by joggers. Looking in both beautiful directions, she decided to stroll along the beach before heading into town. Soon the joggers dispersed and the bikers appeared. Slightly disgruntled at how lazy all this exercise was making her feel, she decided to head up the hill and in search of coffee. Having been warned about the bad weather of this region and the high likelihood of rain, she felt blessed to be here on a sunny and only slightly cool day. Much rejuvenated she set out for the town center to see if she could find a map. Walking for a while along the coast where hints of snow covered peaks could be seen far away on the other side of the bay, then moving into the streets where old churches waited to be found, Meagan eventually crisscrossed most of town.

In the late afternoon the wind picked up but the people of Santander seem to see every change of weather as a blessing. Soon the bay was dotted with color, looking closer it was a wave of wind surfers drawn out to be tossed around the windy weather. She wandered to the beach on the other side of the city (yes they have not one but two equally beautiful beaches) where the surfers had staked their claim. Eventually she turned a corner and found a gypsy market stretched through a tunnel. Old books, toys, clothes and random antiques covered tables and drew people from all over the place. Exhausted by watching all of these sports and feeling like the wind could very easily blow her away she made her way back to the beach where she began.

Acebosa & San Vincente

One cool night, not too hot but too cold,

In Northern Spain, where we lay our scene,

Twas a small pueblo where so few abode,

Where a train station sat, minute though clean.

Though station and town shared not a name,

An unaware traveler, with ticket paid,

Descended at the petty town all the same.

Soon finding there was no place to have stayed,

With bag on her back she took to the street.

Through beauty she walked, though blind for the night,

City lights sparkles her eyes would soon meet.

A city before her did stand, quite a sigh

t.

Soon bed she would find, and pillow for dreams,

So the story I’ll recount’s not as bad as it seems.

Up until now I had followed the itinerary given to me, but nothing seemed to be going my way on Monday. That should have been my first indication to take shelter in the first hostel I saw and not leave. But no, I wanted to see some more sights and Santilla de la Mer came highly recommended. My itinerary had been written by one friend who was from a region nearby and reviewed by another who grew up in this very region. However, it soon became clear to me that they were accustomed to travelling by car. Upon getting off the train in Cabezon del Sal and realizing that this town held no hope of harboring transport to Santilla I should have noticed indication number two. But I was not deterred, I went to Torredelavega where I failed to find the bus station and opted to eat lunch, give up on Santilla and head to San Vincente for the night. It looked big on the map and sounded like a far more beautiful place than where I was. Yep it seemed like a great idea, I was thinking as I got on the train. I watched out the window as the towns and stations got smaller and smaller. As we pulled up into a particularly small pueblo I could not help but hope that the towns started getting bigger, because if I got off in a place like that I was screwed. So you can imagine my heart-stopping horror when I saw the words “San Vincente” written on the wall of the station.

The sun had begun to set as I numbly got off the train. I looked at the town which was not in fact San Vincete, nor do I believe it was a real town, more of a collection of house. A quick glance into town told that there was no lodgment for me there. I walked to another town nearby which proved to be equally as minute. I stood in the twilight between the two tiny towns as options raced through my head. I could just wait at the station for the train that would come in 15 hours, I could go knock on doors and hope for the kindness of strangers, or I could try and get to the well-light town I could see in the distance, the only problem being the highway the stretched between the town and me.

I saw the sign indicating the direction of the real San Vincente, adjusted my backpack and started walking. Luckily I found a way to bypass the highway, one bit of luck for the day. I walked for what felt like hours, panic still ringing in my ears. “Maybe I should not have left the train station,” “I wonder how much further this place is,” “Is this even the right road” soon the lights from the highway left me and I was left with only the twilight for company.

I came to a bridge and crossed it, feeling more hopeless with each step when suddenly the street was light up, there was a sidewalk! I picked up the pace, feeling reenergized and the indescribable s

ensation of an adventure accomplished washed over me when I turned a corner and saw San Vincente before me, covered in signs for hotels. Feet and shoulders aching I went into the first hotel I saw, luckily it was only a 2-star. I went up to my room, ran a hot bath and soaked as I watched American tv shows in Spanish.

The next morning I woke up and discovered that the road I had walked the night before must have been beautiful because there was beauty in every direction. First I walked up to the 13^th century gothic cathedral. On one side were snow covered peaks, on the other waves crashing against cliffs. I think this day, my last on this adventure, was the best of them all. Maybe it was the beaches or the mountains, or maybe it was that burst optimism that fills you after a potentially bad situation turns out ok. Or maybe it was thanks to the walk from the night before that turned out to be a part of the famous pilgrimage route, the Camino de Santiago. Though I thought I was just looking for a place to sleep, really I was on a pilgrimage. What luck!