Vegans in Greifswald

Posted on November 27, 2012 by kschmidt

Last Monday, I ate a lot of vegetarians.

Excuse me, I mean, I ate with a lot of vegetarians.  And one other vegan.  We went to Taj Mahal, a restaurant which promotes itself as being an Indian/Italian restaurant, but is actually just an Indian restaurant that happens to also make and sell pizza.  I ate a bowl full of mushrooms drowned in some kind of red paste.  I realize that doesn’t sound appetizing, but it was surprisingly delicious.  Also very spicy, which was a welcome change from the normally bland food served here (compared to Germany, food from the Sub is spicy!).

Last night, Gunnar and I argued about whether or not to use spices.  I told him food is boring when bland, and he claimed that it isn’t possible to taste the actual food when one uses spices, just the spices.  That can be true, but spices can also enhance the flavor of the food (broccoli or potatoes or whatever).

But this is about Monday, and the Taj Mahal, and the “Greifswald Vegan” Verein.  They mostly exist just as a FaceBook group, but once in a while, on a sort of monthly basis, they go out to eat together.  This was my first time eating with them, so it was nice to be able to finally meet in person!  They are all very nice.  Carla, who lives 4 floors down from me, pointed out that when people try to form friendships based on similar diet choices, they may not have that much else in common.  She offered the example of making a group for people who like chocolate– many people would want to be a part of that group, but how much else in common would they really have?  I definitely see her point, but I also think it is not the best analogy, and let me explain why.

When people choose to become vegan, it is usually not because they think tofu is the best thing ever.  It is not a matter of liking or disliking a certain kind of food.  Becoming vegan or vegetarian requires making major changes in lifestyle.  It requires a commitment to principles which are more important than the convenience of eating whatever, whenever, wherever.  There are many reasons for not eating animals, but they generally fall into one of these categories: environmental concern, ethical concern, personal health concern.  These reasons require the person to think beyond the moment, to consider the bigger picture, to consider what is “right”.  Right for the environment, right for the animals, or right for their own health.

(Please don’t read into my words that non-vegetarians don’t care about the environment/animals/their health, or that they aren’t intelligent, principled people.   I mean only to point out that, given the kind of commitment veganism takes, you don’t see that many people doing it just for kicks.)

Anyways.  That all being said, people who choose vegetarianism usually have more in common than just tofu.  They tend to share similar beliefs and values.  And those are things you usually (subconsciously) look for in friends.  Of course, that being said, most of my friends aren’t vegetarian, let alone vegan, and Paul is a very happy omnivore.  🙂

Posted in Kat Schmidt '12, Germany | Comments Off on Vegans in Greifswald

Fall in France

Posted on November 26, 2012 by emily swisher

For someone who never EVER expected to write a blog, I am coming to find that I rather enjoy chronicling my weekly adventures in France and sending them out into cyberspace. I do not presume that all of what I have to say is vastly important or even interesting – on the contrary, much of it is quite banal. However, there is something about writing that I consider deeply therapeutic. On the days that I sit down to reflect on my week and give it written form, I find myself transformed. Perhaps part of this transformation has to do with the fact that I take comfort in routine and a small amount of self-discipline. Perhaps another part of me misses exercising my brain at a level that exceeds eighth grade education. Perhaps some strange and inhuman piece of me misses the satisfaction of doing homework now that I have no professors to guide me. In any case, blogging has provided a surprisingly sweet outlet for organizing my thoughts on a weekly basis. But this blog is not about the art of blogging, this blog is about…

(La Plage at St Jean de Monts)

Adventure. This is a word that I use frequently in my entries, I know. But, as I cannot find an adequate synonym, the word shall stand. This week’s adventures were of a subtler kind, the kind that masterfully disguise themselves amongst the hustle and bustle of everyday life. I dreamt of hurricanes and earthquakes on Sunday night, never expecting that my students would somehow manifest their unpredictable tempers on Monday morning. But so it was, six hours of hurricanes and earthquakes accompanied by crying, shouting, and stomping as I have never experienced it before. I think that someone must have forgotten to tell me that it was national teen-crisis day. Ironically enough, I got online later only to discover that it was International Children’s Day. Very funny Google.

The rest of the week followed much the same pattern. For the first time in my nearly two months of teaching, I was forced to take down the names of two students who were disruptive during my session with them. When I reported back to the professor, he took their carnets, which I believe has earned me the eternal wrath of those two particular students. A “carnet” is a very handy booklet which tracks the behavioral issues of each student. If they arrive to class without the carnet, they immediately earn a detention. Teachers sign the carnets whenever someone misbehaves, along with a brief note of what they were doing. The carnet is then re-signed by a hall-monitor-like person who is in charge of discipline. There is a system of points that are deducted each time the carnet is taken, but that’s another story too complicated to detail here. In short, they don’t mess around with disobedience.

(Gathering clouds viewed from my window)

This should come as a relief to me, seeing as most students do not want their carnets taken. However, I have come to find that it is a double-edged sword. Students do not want their carnets taken, so most of them behave. For those that do not behave and whose carnets are taken however, they remain sullen and disinclined to work for several sessions. So, we’ll see how I fare in the coming days with the students I punished this week.

Along with the onerous weight of teen hormones that I had to combat this week, I also fell into the trap of talking about Thanksgiving. As a traditional American holiday, I thought that Thanksgiving would be the perfect topic to get students thinking and speaking about different cultural traditions. What I did not anticipate was the sad, nagging sensation in the pit of my stomach that accompanies a holiday spent without family. Based upon their ethnocentric conception of the world, it was very difficult for my students to grasp the importance of Thanksgiving in the United States and thus to understand why I might miss my family at this time of year. Some of them tried to equate Thanksgiving with Christmas, where instead of presents everyone just eats copious amounts of food. Many others assumed that it was Christmas and were shocked to find out that we celebrate Christmas just like they do, on the 25th of December. (What? They celebrate Christmas in other parts of the world?) I found this somewhat funny, and could not help thinking of the years I spent as a child, believing that my family invented hot chocolate and that we were the only ones who knew about it…

My students were not the only ones to show incomprehension at the mention of Thanksgiving. I found myself close to tears in the fruit aisle at the grocery store looking for cranberries that could not be located. Kévin couldn’t understand why I was so upset about a berry, but it was difficult for me to explain the traditional significance of cranberry sauce for me. How could they not have cranberries? How could they not have sweet potatoes? Didn’t anyone know how important these holiday items were for me? Alas, France thwarted my attempt at having a complete Thanksgiving meal. It did not, however, prevent me from patching together the best dinner that I could under the circumstances.

(Tintin and Milou)

After spending four hours cooking in the tiny toaster oven in our kitchen, which happens to be the only oven in our kitchen, I am happy to report that I managed to bake rolls, scalloped potatoes, turkey, stuffing, and apple pie. I also threw together mashed potatoes, a citrus vinaigrette, and an apple-walnut salad. Kévin’s shining achievement of the evening was the green beans á la crème that took him all of ten minutes to prepare. The lack of cranberry sauce and yams notwithstanding, I’d say we did a pretty good job. Kévin pronounced himself thankful for the food, I pronounced myself thankful for my year in France, and we finished the evening with an episode of Tintin to celebrate the holiday.

On a somewhat stranger side note, I found a falcon with a broken wing at the beginning of the week that had the poor fortune to have fallen near the school right at the end of classes. Kévin and I came to the rescue with a box and a large blanket to trap it in, only to find that we had no idea how to care for an injured bird of prey.

(Ducks in the park)

Luckily, we were able to contact a bird rescue specialist who gave us instructions on where to bring the falcon the next day. The falcon proved a beautiful, albeit scared and wounded houseguest on Tuesday night, but we were relieved to be able to send it to Nantes for professional care on Wednesday morning. For all my talk of wanting an animal to care for and shelter, I did not expect a falcon to be the first to fall under my protection. I was thinking more along the lines of a slobbering domesticated dog.

The final irony of this whole excursion occurred to me on Wednesday afternoon as I was cleaning out the plastic bin that the falcon had occupied during its brief stay with us: it has been the only living thing, aside from Kévin and me, to set foot in this house since our arrival in Challans. The fact that we placed it, unthinkingly, in the guest bedroom for the night only made the realization more comical. What could all of this possibly mean? As a strong believer in signs and portents, there is only one meaning I can make out. It’s something along the lines of, “Emily, it’s time to get off your bum and meet more people – like real, living, breathing Homo sapiens.”

And so, I move onto my second quest and another adventure – finding friends in France. Updates will be forthcoming… A la prochaine!

Posted in Emily Swisher '12, France | Comments Off on Fall in France

Icons of the Holocaust

Posted on November 21, 2012 by amccormick

Last week I had the opportunity to visit an icon, but not the kind you might be imagining. I didn’t meet any queens or bump into Bill Cosby. This icon was actually a place and a quite infamous one at that. It was a visit that required some history lessons beforehand and lots of contemplation afterwards. Last week I stood on a mass grave at the Auschwitz-Birkenau Extermination camp. You may have heard of it. It’s an instantly recognizable name and site.

The sign is German for “Work will set you free” and it was one among many of underhanded jabs from the Nazis to their victims. Work here wouldn’t set anyone free. It would kill them in an average of 2 months–an amazingly short, but painfully long, amount of time.  In this photo my classmates are about to enter Auschwitz I, where most political prisoners, namely Polish Communists, were kept. Jews and those destined for the immediate gassing were sent down the road to Birkenau. It is there that most people associate the most horrible atrocities and most systematic killings of the Holocaust.

It is difficult to explain how being in a labor or extermination camp makes you feel. I made the decision to go with the hope that I would leave with a clearer, more realistic picture of genocide. I left even more constricted by shock, awe and disbelief of the atrocities. A week later, my head is still spinning as I try to process and retain everything I took in on that foggy day in Poland.

To add to my own confusion, our experiences at these two sites (Auschwitz and Birkenau) were remarkably different. Despite what any guide will (and did) tell us, Auschwitz is a tourist attraction. I would venture to call it the largest in Poland, with 1.4 million visitors every year. Tour busses, crowds and hasty guides made it impossible to find solitude or space for reflection in the camp-turned-museum.

Because of the number of visitors, museum-employed guides are mandatory. This allows them to control how long visitors stay in the camp and determine exactly what story gets told during a visit to Auschwitz. Who can blame them? The Poles want their voices and struggles heard, besides, they are responsible for a large part of the upkeep of the camps. Thankfully, Auschwitz is not a camp anymore. Unfortunately, however, its status as a memorial is over too. Auschwitz I is a museum that has become another notch on the itinerary of every tourist in Poland.

In Birkenau the situation was very different. There was no formal entrance, no guides, few signs and even fewer visitors. Without our very knowledgeable professor all we would have seen would be barbed wire and the foundations of old buildings. He pointed out to us where prisoners would have slept, worked digging out trenches in the bitter cold, and had their heads shaved upon arrival. He showed us where an experimental gas chamber once killed a group over the period of several days. Then he led us to the stairway where thousands were systematically gassed everyday.  He told us to examine the grass in an open field and confirmed that the small white “pebbles” we kept finding were actually pieces of bone.  It was the type of sight I will never forget and one that I hope I can convey to others, so that even if it does become a tourist-filled museum the meaning and purpose will never be lost. With one glimpse, everyone should know what they’re seeing—an icon, if you will.

Posted in Annie McCormick '14, Denmark | Comments Off on Icons of the Holocaust

The Rain and the Rocks and the Sea (and Some Jazz)

Posted on November 19, 2012 by keller

The last weekend in October brought to Cork a fun musical event: the Jazz Festival. Normally, jazz isn’t my cup of tea, but my friend Beril, a fellow IFSA-Butler student, came down from Galway for the festival. Since I didn’t have any other plans for the weekend, I tagged along to the Saturday night double-billed concert featuring two jazz bands, Phronesis and Synergy. Afterward, we also listened to a very alternative jazz group whose name I can’t recall. On Sunday, we spent the afternoon strolling around the Cork city centre, which had transformed

There's a band back there, behind my head.

itself for the festival. There was an open-air market along St. Patrick’s Street, selling all sorts of food, from sausages to paella to chocolate-dipped fruit.

Yay! Fruit and melted chocolate! My idea of paradise!

We hunted out the stage for Beats on the Street, a free, street-side venue for festival-goers that featured quite a few different jazz performers. We also stopped at a book store and a CD/record fair before dinner. Beril attended one more concert; afterwards, we met up and visited several bars, including a backstreet one that featured a detailed mural on one wall. At two-thirty a.m., we called it a night. Beril took off the next afternoon.

The next weekend, I paid a reciprocal visit to Beril. On the way, I learned that, if you miss your CityLink bus from Cork to Galway, it’s quite a long ride via Bus Eireann! Between the many stops and the screaming children sharing the bus with me, it was a lengthy trip indeed. I arrived well after dark and met Beril at the Galway bus station. We ate pizza for dinner and, at about ten thirty, headed out for a night on the town. Galway’s city centre is much more “small-town” than Cork’s, with cobblestoned streets and no cars. Despite the fact that Friday night is usually an off night here in Ireland, there were quite a few people out and about. I was momentarily pleased to see other girls wearing jeans and tennis shoes, rather than miniskirts and lethally high heels, but Beril rained on my practicality parade by informing me that it was just casual Friday. When all the college kids have gone home, the natives don’t bother with runway fashion.

Anyway, we stopped at one bar featuring reggae music. We stayed for maybe forty-five minutes before moving on to the Róisín Dubh, which was playing some of those great songs that we all miss from the ‘90s and early 2000s. Since Beril and I were enjoying this blast from the past, we stayed until closing time.

It’s worth noting here that I am glad I chose Cork. I was just absolutely tickled pink to get pummeled multiple times by the lovely Galway sleet. It hit twice on Friday night and once as we were slogging through early-morning Galway to catch a bus. Youch!

At any rate, I’m afraid I didn’t see much more of Galway than the centre and the sleet. After a night of very little sleep, Beril and I got up in time to have breakfast at a coffee shop and catch a 9:30 a.m. bus to the port. From there, we boarded a ferry to the Aran Islands. And what a ferry ride it was! The wind was high, the seas were rough, and my stomach was in my throat. (Fortunately, my head was not over the toilet!)

The wind and the rain continued when we arrived on Inis Mór, the largest of the Aran Islands, but we were undaunted. We rented bikes and headed off down the road, laughing at the weather…Well, okay, we stopped at our Bed & Breakfast for an hour. And then we ate lunch at the American Bar (and I’m not sure whether the ironic part was its name or the fact that it was mostly populated by locals). And then we went shopping at the Aran Islands Sweater Shop, Beril for a sweater and I for mittens. And then…Well, it was late afternoon before we set out on the tourist loop.

I often wondered if we would have made better time without the bikes. The wind was enough to bring us to a near-standstill, and we had to stop several times and find shelter from the rain

Just keep biking, just keep biking, just keep biking, biking, biking. Yeah, undaunted by the weather, my eye. If I were wearing any more layers I would look like the Michelin man. I was wearing all the layers I own!

behind convenient walls and ruins. Nonetheless, we passed field after stone-fenced field and finally reached the seal cove. The seals had better sense than we did; they were nowhere to be found. The beach was worth the stop, though, for it was spectacularly rugged and rocky.

Our last stop of the day was Dun Aengus, a ruined fortress built a few centuries before the birth of Christ. The fort is built at the crest of a hill, right at the edge of a cliff. We dropped our bikes at the foot of the hill and went up on foot, along a trail that became increasingly rocky and slick. I was paying such close attention to my footing that I was surprised to look up and find that we had a stunning view across the cliffs and out over the sea. It was almost full tide, and the waves struck the cliffs with such force that they reached the top and sent great clouds of mist overland.

Sorry, my camera doesn't take good night pics. Google "Dun Aengus." It's lovely.

The walls of Dun Aengus now stand little more than six feet high, but the ground plan is still distinct. The fortress consists of multiple layers of half-circle walls which, in their collapsed state, now create a wind tunnel rather than a defense. I thought I would be blown away when I came through the door!

Beril and I took advantage of Dun Aengus’ proximity to the cliff edge by dangling our heads over the drop-off to look out at the water below. We lay prone, of course, terrified of being bowled over and off by a particularly strong gust of wind. Daylight had well and truly faded by the time we crawled back from the

Dun, dun, dun. Are the fairies for real?

edge. Before we left the fortress behind, I made Beril stand in the doorway for an obligatory low-light photo. I mean, when one finds oneself in an ancient ruin at dusk, why resist the temptation to take pictures of your friend looming amongst the rocks like a ghost of warriors past?

The trip home made for quite a ride! We had the wind at our backs, and the road was mostly downhill, so we were headed at a cracking pace down a road we couldn’t see. Whee! Occasionally, the wind or a passing bird would make a forlorn noise, and we would shout at each other, “What was that?” “What? I didn’t hear anything.” “That noise back there!” as we wheeled onward through the darkness.

Needless to say, the lights of town were quite a relief. We stopped at the American Bar again for dinner, and, boy, did piping hot lamb stew taste good! Afterward, we returned to the Bed & Breakfast, exhausted, dripping with rainwater (and, in my case, a fair amount of the—um—effluvia that spatters up from bike wheels on a wet road well-traveled by horses), and ready for hot showers.

In attempting to show the church's setting, I took a picture facing into the sun. So...

On Sunday morning, we had a “traditional Irish breakfast” involving brown bread, ham, fried eggs, black and white pudding, and caffeine at the Bed & Breakfast. Then, we grabbed our bikes and headed down the road in the opposite direction. I was a little sore, not having ridden a bike for several months, and I ended up doing a lot of standing on the pedals. Our first stop was at Teampall Bheanain, the ruin of a miniscule church measuring less than 11 ft. by 7 ft. Once more, we had to leave our bikes behind at the foot of a walking path that quickly petered out. We ended up hiking cross-country, following the signposts that pointed out where we should climb over the stone fences.

The church at the top of the hill is simply perched in the middle of a field, sharing space with several cows who were utterly unperturbed when we wandered through their pasture. Teampall Bheanain still has four walls and gables, but no roof. It looks out over most of the island. From outside the church, I could truly appreciate—at the risk of sounding cheesy—the stark beauty

So, before the tourism industry began, what encouraged ancient settlers to live here? Surely not the abundant cropland!

of the landscape. There are no trees on the island, and the few low hills are lined with miles and miles of stone fences. The pastures are sheeted with rock, with a bit of green showing up here and there. I could see the nearest cliffs from my point of view as well as the plumes of mist that rose up when incoming waves struck stone.

Our final intended stop was Dun Dubhchathair, the oldest of the forts on Aran. The path to the fort led us to a sort of stony plaza at the edge of the cliffs, and we sat there looking over the edge at the roiling water below and wondering where, precisely, the fortress was. It took us nearly ten minutes to

The cliffs of Inis Mor

notice the ruin hulking off to our left. By that time, we were hungry, so we decided to forgo further adventuring in lieu of lunch. Lunch consisted of seafood chowder, hot chocolate, and ice cream. Then, we returned our bikes and went back to the sweater shop, for it was my turn to go sweater shopping. Later, and quite a few euros lighter, we caught our ferry back to the mainland and enjoyed an extremely smooth trip, much to our surprise.

I spent one last night in Galway and caught the 8:30 a.m. bus back to Cork on Monday morning. Of course, since I didn’t need to walk or bike anywhere, the sun shone on my bus, and it was almost stiflingly hot in Cork! So goes the Irish weather…Good craic, my friends, good craic.

Posted in Katrina Eller '14, Ireland and Italy | Comments Off on The Rain and the Rocks and the Sea (and Some Jazz)

A Little Bit of Life

Posted on November 18, 2012 by emily swisher

Having now been teaching for over a month, it seems only appropriate that I would eventually talk about the town I am living in, the school I am teaching at, and the house I will be calling my home for the next eight months. Up until now, I have mentioned only very briefly these rather important aspects of my life in France. This post is about the details. A lot of details.

(Hotel de Ville)

First, the town. As I mentioned in a previous post, Challans leaves much to be desired. It is a flat, industrialized town that passes for a city only because most of the other villages in the Vendée region have less than 10,000 inhabitants. Rather than dwelling on my unfortunate location however, I decided to walk through Challans this week in search of everything and anything beautiful I could find. It was a wonderful exercise for my photographic eye, and forced me to take a closer look at the intricacies that make up this “city” I am living in. Fall colors, typical Vendeé architecture, patterned gates – these were the things that drew my attention and helped me put a name on the hidden beauty in Challans. It is a work-in-progress, but the pictures in this post are the results of this photographic adventure…

Ironically enough, the school at which I am teaching happens to be one of the ugliest buildings in Challans. It seems to me that every major architect designing schools in France must have drawn inspiration from the blueprints of numerous prisons. Indeed, the combination middle school/high school that I am working at was built for efficiency, not esthetic appeal. The school itself is a conglomeration of four buildings, each one comprised of rectangular stacks of square classrooms with identical windows on every floor. These four buildings open up onto a cement courtyard where the students go during recesses, lunch, and physical education. Much like a prison, the school is gated from all sides as if someone was afraid the students were going to escape. Once you are inside the building, things are not so bad, but from afar it resembles a large cinder block with evenly-spaced, rectangular cut-outs to let in daylight. I’ve found that I much prefer being inside the building looking out than outside the building marveling at its stern and somewhat intimidating exterior.

Alas, I did not come to France to critique the long-forgotten architects who designed Collège Milcendeau. (As a quick side-note to avoid confusion, collège is the French equivalent of middle school.) On the subject of classes, I find that I am very much enjoying being a teacher. The other professors that I work with are at once nice, helpful, and laid-back which has turned out to be a perfect combination.

(Notre Dame de Challans)

When I arrived for my first lesson, I was terrified of being left alone to conduct a class on my own, but I am coming to realize that having the freedom to teach what I want, when I want is a very nice privilege. Oftentimes, I collaborate with a professor on a lesson plan and then we split the group into two, alternating after 25 minutes. This makes my lessons very short, but as someone who is completely new to the world of teaching, I think it’s a great way to test my skills as an educator in short stints. The fact that I am testing my skills on middle school students has proved to be quite an adventure. When I was shadowing professors during my first week, I was struck by a big bad dose of déjà-vu that sent me reeling back to my own days as a 13-year old.

As far as I can tell, middle school students everywhere share certain universal characteristics – they flirt shamelessly before and after class, throw balled-up notes across the classroom (all the while thinking they are the very image of stealth), and interrupt often to comment upon the weather, the time, what a nice shirt I am wearing, the pencil shavings on the floor. When I turn around in time to see Olivier throw an eraser at Valentin, he points to the girl two rows back and exclaims loudly in French, “Madame, I swear it wasn’t me!” Sometimes I want to laugh, but knowing that this would only encourage them, I put on my sternest face and ask him to kindly explain how his eraser mysteriously appeared in Amandine’s pencil case.

(Patterned Wall)

There are times when I am at my wits end as well, and these are the times when I discover the strict, authoritative Emily that sounds almost like a real teacher. It must sound authentic though, because the students usually listen once I threaten to make them copy lines for the remainder of the class. I should also note here that the instructors at the assistant orientation in Nantes were mistaken when they said, “the longer your students don’t know you speak French, the more enamored with you they will be.” From experience, I know that students will only be more inclined to talk about inappropriate things in the middle of class when they don’t think you can understand them. And so, I decided to give up my exotic appeal in exchange for an amount of discipline. It not only shocked my students when they learned that I do in fact speak French, they also appeared more interested in a bilingual assistant than a strictly English speaking one. I will have to let the Nantes orientation leaders know that…

On the subject of my living situation, Kévin and I are renting a cute two bedroom house that is two minutes away from the school. It is spacious, well-kept, and, aside from a slight problem with humidity, perfect for a year in France. To my delight, I discovered that there is a dove nesting in the tree outside of the master bedroom and I often wake up to the sounds of birds cooing through the open window. As far as I am concerned, it is one of the most comforting sounds in the world…

(28 bis, rue des Sables)

The second bedroom has been transformed into my studio where I am free to paint, write, and design clothing to my heart’s content. The room is on the west side of the house so it gets all of the afternoon sun and is the ideal place to watch the sunset from my desk near the window. Kévin’s mom bought me a sewing machine when I first arrived in France so I am well-equipped to reacquaint myself with my artistic side. Considering that I am only working twelve hours a week, I have a feeling that my studio is going to demand much of my time and attention – something I am looking forward to.

(A view of the dining room and kitchen)

I am growing accustomed to being a teacher, to living in Challans, and to renting a house in France. I am also coming to realize, however, that Kevin is a very convenient and comfortable crutch. He is a very nice and very talkative one as well, although I must admit that allowing him (and often asking him) to do all of my speaking outside of the classroom has made me somewhat of a social mute. When did I become so dependent, I ask myself? Have I forgotten how to make conversation? Do my vocal chords still produce sound? It seems to me, paradoxically, that I was much more autonomous when I was living in Dijon, with a host family, having my every need tended to by our wonderful program coordinator. After some reflection, I realized that the secret to this alleged lack of current independence is due to my corresponding lack of motivation to get out – by myself – and talk to people. As a student in Dijon, I had absolutely no problem going to supermarkets, bars, restaurants, book stores, markets, etc. and talking with the French people that frequented them. Now however, I find myself more shy and hesitant than ever I was before. The double irony of this predicament is that I speak French more fluently than ever before as well – indeed, I have been speaking French and only French for over two months now. Of course, I am talking on a regular basis with the other teachers I work with, but as all children learn very early, teachers are not real people with real lives and thus they do not count…

To work out the mystery of this unfamiliar silence that has settled over me, I decided to conduct an experiment. On my way into town this morning to run errands, I elected not to invite Kévin with me so that I would be forced – for the first time in two months – to do all of my own talking. I dropped a letter off at the post office and then headed to the Office of Tourism so that I could ask about maps for bike trails and hikes in the area. While I exchanged no more than ten words with the woman behind the counter, it somehow felt good to be exercising even a minimum of independence. With maps in hand I took a leisurely walk through centre-ville to continue on my quest of capturing the often illusive beauty of Challans. I was lucky today, and stumbled upon a park and a castle in the same outing.

(Chateau de la Coursaudiere)

The “castle”, called the Chateau de la Coursaudière, also happens to be the current meeting place of the Challans Billiard Club, something I find oddly amusing. It appears to be one of the older buildings in Challans but apart from its aged appearance, it more closely resembles a town hall than a castle. After several minutes of contemplation in the park behind the chateau, I decided I quite like this billiard castle. It was nice to wander freely in Challans and discover something of this town for myself, by myself. On my way home, I stopped by a boulangerie and had a brief conversation with the cashier which further bolstered my confidence in both my ability to speak French and my ability to leave the house by myself like a real adult. Wow, what a grown-up! As to the results of this experiment, I discovered that no, I have not forgotten how to make conversation, and no, my vocal chords have not shriveled up and disappeared. Two major successes in my week so far.

One other major and very necessary success has been my induction into the world of manual transmissions. At 22 years old, I am finally learning to drive a stick-shift. This rather exciting news has been somewhat tainted by the fact that I am learning in France, on roads barely wider than my pinky finger. There are also at least 4,000 roundabouts in Challans according to my latest estimate. I have flawlessly perfected the art of stalling, and not much of anything else. Kévin tells me that I am doing well and that it’s difficult for everyone at the beginning, but every time he does I feel the urge to bite his head off, or at least an ear. Things are moving along, I will admit, but painfully slowly. I will start a log of my progress so that I can keep everyone abreast of my exciting adventures in the world of automobiles. It will be entitled “A Series of Fits and Starts” by Emily Swisher, and it will read something like this:

Day one: stalled 39 times at 39 different roundabouts

Day two: tried to parallel park, backed into a tree, then stalled

Day three: stalled, made it past the first roundabout (success!), got pulled over for driving too slowly, stalled

I have a feeling that this is going to be a long and tedious process… In other news, the weather has been absolutely beautiful for November. It has been mild and sunny most days, with a few scattered showers since I arrived.

(Fall Colors)

The leaves are starting to turn, or rather, have been turning for three weeks now, changing what once was green into a haze of yellow, red, and orange. It is as beautiful an autumn as I could have hoped to see. And for all the strangeness that I felt upon my arrival in Challans, I am slowly becoming habituated to this part of the country, its people, and its scenery. It may be flat, slightly over-industrialized for my taste, and lacking in people my own age, but it is certainly not without adventure. It is to this adventure that I pledge my utter devotion, in the hopes of discovering ever greater things about myself and my France. Until next time…

Posted in Emily Swisher '12, France | Comments Off on A Little Bit of Life

Chateaux Large and Small

Posted on November 9, 2012 by emily swisher

ATTENTION READERS: This is a very long entry. Bonne Chance…

Vacation! One of the amazing things about being an assistant in France is that I am entitled to eight weeks of vacation. That is, eight weeks of paid vacation. After merely one month of teaching at twelve hours a week, I hardly felt I deserved a two-week vacation for the Toussaint holiday. However, as someone who is rather fond of vacations, I am not complaining.

There are certain American traditions that I certainly miss living in France. So, to start off my break in true American style, Kévin and I decided to carve pumpkins and celebrate Halloween – a holiday that is underrated in French society (although it is slowly gaining popularity due to its market potential). Halloween happens to be my favorite American holiday so it was nice for me to be able to carve pumpkins, bake pumpkin seeds, and make pumpkin bread just like I do when I am at home in the US. When I suggested dressing up for the evening, Kévin looked at me as if I was crazy. We decided to forgo the costumes. We did however make the trek into Nantes to watch “Frankenweenie” in 3D and stop by an Irish pub where a soccer game was being aired. It wasn’t until after we left that I realized what a funny spectacle it was – an Irish pub, airing an English soccer game, in a French city, decorated in American style for Halloween. While I certainly missed giving out candy to trick-or-treaters (or trick-or-treating myself) I can’t say we didn’t have a good time discovering an American holiday in French fashion.

Halloween! Mario and Bowser Jack-o-lanterns

With two weeks to kill and absolutely nothing planned after Halloween, I decided to take the opportunity to reserve four nights in a Bed and Breakfast in the Loire Valley. Kévin had never visited the area and so it was up to me to play the tour guide during our stay – rather ironic considering that he is French. This trip marked my third visit to the Loire valley, an area that I never seem to tire of no matter how often I go. Perhaps this is because there are around 300 castles in the region.

Chateau de Chambord

While many of these are small and closed to the public, there are an overwhelming number of chateaux that are available for visits. This time around, Kévin and I visited six castles in a three-day period. On the first day, we started our tour with the castle in Blois, whose architecture is broken into three distinct styles – Classic, Renaissance, and Gothic – to mirror the tastes of the various monarchs who lived there over the centuries. Next, we made our way to Chambord, the largest chateau in the Loire valley. The first time I visited, our group had a guide which made the castle absolutely fascinating. While the chateau may be enormous, it is also rather empty, so knowing the history behind the architecture is essential to appreciating the castle. I recounted what I could remember to Kévin during our visit as we wandered through the cavernous, empty rooms. At one point, we happened upon a door that was half-way open and decided to explore the spiral staircase beyond. Upon reflection, it seems that someone forgot to lock that part of the castle because we soon found ourselves among a labyrinth of small, dusty rooms, some with WWII era medical equipment in them and others completely empty except for the occasional gargoyle. On the one hand, it was really interesting to see a part of the castle that is normally (I am assuming) closed to visitors, but after twenty minutes of searching for the way back out, I was relieved to find the ground floor once more. Images of the castle’s “oubliettes”, or dungeons, kept flashing in my head as we wound down tight spiral staircases. “Oublier” which means “to forget” is an apt description for these hidden dungeons, accessible only by a hatch in a high ceiling, where prisoners where quite literally forgotten and left to die of starvation or dehydration in the dark. Needless to say, I was happy when we re-entered a well-lit room filled with the din of tourists snapping photos.

After our rather interesting experience at Chambord, the rest of our visits were without incident. On our second day, we visited Chaumont-sur-Loire and one of my personal favorites, the under-appreciated Fougères sur Bièvre. Chaumont often hosts expositions through-out the year and their highly acclaimed garden festival is an event worth seeing. This time around, there was a stained-glass exhibit in the castle and an autumn festival in the surrounding gardens.

the Room of Doors

The stained-glass exhibit was one that I had seen last summer when I visited with my mom. I was extremely happy that it was still being shown however because the artist set up his pieces in rooms that have not been touched or modified for centuries. Kévin and I wandered (this time with permission) through unheated hallways and rooms full of rusted armor, broken chandeliers, ancient paintings, and old furniture where the images on stained glass were the only reminders of the present. At one point, we entered a large room that was completely filled with rows upon rows of doors. It struck me as more than a little bizarre but also fascinating. On the whole, the visit was incredible. After our initial visit of the castle, we explored the stables, gardens, and tea shop before making our way to Fougères.

Chateau de Fougeres

Fougères, in stark contrast to Chaumont, is a small castle with modest gardens. Perhaps it is this small, authentic feel that I like so much. Our visit of Fougères was rather relaxed and uneventful, though there is something I find deeply intriguing about this medieval castle. It is one of the chateau that I will make a point to return to on every visit.

For our last day in the Loire, we visited the chateaux of Amboise and Chenonceau, with a fortuitous stopover in the “Mini-Chateaux” park just outside of Amboise. I had never visited Amboise before so I was excited to see what was in store. I was even more excited when I discovered that Leonardo da Vinci was buried in the cathedral on the domain.

Chateau d'Amboise


When I first saw the plaque on the floor with “Leonardo de Vinci” engraved below it, I thought it was a replica. But no, I paid homage to the great scientist himself in the small, rather unassuming cathedral that sits on top of the hill next to the chateau d’Amboise. Pretty cool.

Tomb of Leonardo da Vinci

After a tour of Amboise, we headed off toward Chenonceau for our last visit but were distracted 10 km outside of Amboise by a sign advertising “Mini-Chateaux”. So, instead of visiting Chenonceau directly, we instead dressed up as a knight and princess and paraded through the park, which featured 45 miniature reproductions of the Chateaux de la Loire. It was an amazing experience (though slightly pricey) and we thoroughly enjoyed running around like children for an hour. Not only were the castles beautifully sculpted, they also gave us a great idea for what we might like to see on our next visit! Once our childish streak had run its course, we got back in the car and headed over to the big-kid castle of Chenonceau. Our timing at the park was absolutely perfect. We got there about thirty minutes before sunset which gave us amazing views from both the interior and exterior of the castle. After completing a tour of the castle, we watched the last rays of the sun disappear over the river before heading back to our Bed and Breakfast.

Chateau de Chenonceau

Our last night with our hosts at the B&B presents one of the perfect examples of why I love being in France so much. On our way back to the house, they texted us to invite us to play pool and share a few drinks with them before leaving the next day. We decided to eat dinner in our room that night anyways so the timing was perfect. When I realized that we didn’t have any plates or a corkscrew, Nadine and Marc welcomed us into their kitchen and invited us to dine at their table. Marc demonstrated how to make the perfect salad dressing while Nadine offered us a selection of French cheeses. After our dinner of homemade sandwiches, wine, and salad, we met our hosts in the living room for a game of pool. One game turned into three and before I knew it we had been there for five hours discussing politics, philosophy, architecture, anthropology, and psychology. After learning that I was an anthropology major, Nadine put me in contact with one of her close friends in Paris who happens to be a renowned anthropologist. To say that it was the perfect end to the perfect stay is somewhat of an understatement. And so, I will finish here, saying only that vacations in France are a magical occasion.

Posted in Emily Swisher '12, France, Uncategorized | Comments Off on Chateaux Large and Small

Brrrrlin Photos!

Posted on November 8, 2012 by kschmidt

Veganz! Vegan bakery-cafe and grocery store!

Not my fav., but I'm tickled to see them here!

Within the bookstore in Berlin, there is an ENGLISH bookstore. A proper one, too; they even have a cardboard cutout of the Queen.

Posted in Kat Schmidt '12, Germany | Comments Off on Brrrrlin Photos!

The Tipping Point

Posted on November 8, 2012 by kschmidt

When I first started at my Gymnasium, Carsta, my Betreuungslehrerin, told me I only had to teach for 15 minutes or so, at first, but that I would eventually be teaching the whole 45-minutes.  I concealed my terror.  Forty-five whole minutes??  How will I ever be able to stand up there and teach for 45 minutes?  It is so long? was basically my inner-reaction.

My biochem professor, Amy, once told my class that time passes differently depending on which side of the teacher’s desk you stand.  On the classroom side, time passes agonizingly slowly.  On the chalkboard side, time flies.  She was right.  This week, I have been at risk of going over the 45-minute class period, multiple times!  And, today, with Carsta’s 12th grade, I used the entire double period: 45 of my minutes plus all of Carsta’s 45 minutes.  Wait, I did what?  I taught, by myself, for an entire 1 1/2 hours.  That’s right.  I could not imagine doing this, before I did it.

Of course, it helps that the topic was US Elections.  I explained the electoral college, and introduced them to the idea that America actually has more than just two political parties.  Imagine!  Then I went over the reasons why third parties are so small and powerless in the USA.  Then I asked them to come with pros and cons of a two-party system vs. a system with more parties.  All of this took 45 minutes.  For the second half, I gave them a 7-page handout which is basically a survey of the presidential candidates’ positions on almost 100 different issues; their positions are reported as “pro”, “con”, “not clear”, or “unknown”.  Included candidates were Obama, Romney, Johnson, Stein, and Goode.  (If you don’t know which parties the last three belong to, shame on you.)  They had maybe 10 minutes or so to read through the handout by themselves, during which I explained what abstinence-only education, subsidies, felons, and tenure all meant.  The saddest was to explain what “racial profiling by law enforcement” meant.  (Why, Arizona, why?)  Then they had the chance to form small groups and discuss what they thought about the candidates and their positions.  Finally, we held a mock-election.  Interestingly, at the start of the hour, I asked them who would vote for Obama, and who would vote for “someone else” (not necessarily Romney).  Everyone said they would vote for Obama.  At the end of the lesson, the final tally was 10-Obama, 4-Stein, 2-Johnson.

And those 90 minutes passed by sooo quickly!

Posted in Kat Schmidt '12, Germany | Comments Off on The Tipping Point

Reformationstag

Posted on November 8, 2012 by kschmidt

In Germany, October 31st is Reformationstag, in honor of Martin Luther (the original, not the King, Jr.).  In MeckPomm, we have the day off, and, at least in my school, we had the following Thursday and Friday off.  These are called “Brueckentage”, which means “bridging days”.   I think this is adorable.  So, with a five-day weekend, what’s a girl to do?  Hop on a train to Berlin, naturally!

But first: Tuesday was party night.  Wednesday was party-in-costume night:

No one had any idea who I was, but that’s fine.  Apparently, in Germany, Halloween costumes are almost ALWAYS just scary costumes.  My roommates suggest that is because they have Karnival, which is for non-scary costumes.  But Halloween is also not largely-celebrated, here.  For people my age, college-age, there are always costume parties to go to, but for younger people, there isn’t so much celebrating.  Younger children might go trick-or-treating, but it usually has to be coordinated so everyone knows which houses will have candy.  Most of them won’t.  Oh, fun fact:  instead of saying “trick-or-treat”, they say “süßes sonst gibt’s saures”!

Right, so, lots of drinking and partying and fun times.  Then, Berlin!  At the Fulbright orientation, I met many lovely people, and now I am eagerly traveling around the country to meet up with them.  It is a wonderful way to explore more of Germany, because by now they know their own towns pretty well, so they can show it off, and it is always nicer to do touristy things with someone else.  Although, this time, we didn’t play tourist, since both of us have been to Berlin before.  Instead, we just enjoyed each other’s company.  We also went to a live jazz performance in a bar, drank wine, and felt very classy!

Madeline gets flustered when people take pictures of her.

Posted in Kat Schmidt '12, Germany | Comments Off on Reformationstag

Sue saw dai, Cambodia

Posted on November 6, 2012 by mhonch

“You ATE those sandwiches?”

“Ya, they were really good going down…”

“They told you they were pork?”

“Yes……”

“I should tell you, local kids hunt for rats and sell the meat to the sandwich vendors.”

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Oh, Phnom Penh, Cambodia!  Not known for the health standards of its street food.  But it does mean I am finally able to exchange the ever-popular bodily health “fisherman tales” with other South East Asia travelers.  Really…having one of those stories is like a right of passage while living here.

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Ya, well I picked up a worm in my small intestine while in Vietnam.  I swear to you, that thing was at least two meters long!

Sure, thats great, but my Cambodian-rat-meat-parasite kept me within ten feet of a toilet for forty-eight hours straight!  No breaks!


Rat meat.  Add it to my list of “stomach-strengtheners” I’ve digested since I’ve moved here: jellyfish, barbecued cow udder, pig’s blood soup, and rat meat.  The first two were intentional choices, mind you.  The phrase, “ignorance is bliss” comes to mind…

I had been teaching for four months, and this was my first opportunity to travel further than three hours outside of Chiang Mai, Thailand.  So one insane, and seemingly endless, night-bus ride to Bangkok (complete with onboard Karaoke), followed by an amazingly cushy airplane ride (only in comparison to the ride on the clearly-not-built-for-people-over-six-feet-tall-bus), and I found myself in Cambodia.  But something was strange…something was different…Ok, yes, I’m in a different country.  But it wasn’t the place, it was something about me.  Something about my person.  I felt some kind of presence hovering behind me.  I slowly turned and saw it.  My giant back pack strapped to my shoulders.  I had gone from being a resident of a city where I spoke a good amount of the language and worked with the community and had suddenly become one of…them.  A Backpacker.

Ok, there’s nothing wrong with backpackers!  They’re….we’re, rather, just trying to see the world, and understand foreign places.  Really, travelers who settle down in an area foreign to them, just like to act like they’re better then backpackers.  Its usually just a joke, but then again, you often run into certain groups of people that make you wonder….ya, I’m talking to you shirtless Aussies at the “Reggae bar,” screaming along to “No Woman, No Cry!”  Ahem, sorry.  Anyhow, my point is, when locals realize your backpacker status, you’re treated very differently than if you mark yourself as a resident and begin to learn the local language.  This treatment is especially pronounced in Cambodia, where their history has greatly affected how the Khmei, or Cambodian, people interact with tourists.

Cambodia has seen unbelievable tragedy and hardships over the last half-century.  Most Americans aren’t really taught about the 1976-1979 Pol Pot regime and the Khmer Rouge.  This may have something to do with how we bombed the bejesus out of the uninvolved Cambodians during Vietnam war, just for good measure.  I spent my trip learning about this history, getting bits and pieces every day.  The scars from this regime are visible everywhere, and its impossible to travel Cambodia without encountering them.  The Khmei people are trying their hardest to recover, but its not an easy process.  Phnom Penh is littered with half finished skyscrapers, which ran out of funding and eventually will just be demolished.   You also notice quickly that there aren’t many old people.  The period of Pol Pot’s Democratic Kampuchea left the country with nearly ninety percent of the population under the age of fifty.  They are eager to rebuild, and have realized that they must latch onto tourism as a way to heal.  The problem is, they really latched onto it.  If a Tuk Tuk driver or any other Khmei involved in tourism sees your backpack, get ready for them to latch onto you.

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“Tuk Tuk!   Where you go?”

“Ah tay ah khun!  I am just walking.”

“Walking is so hard!  Tell me where you go.”

“Ah tay.  Ah khun.  I don’t want a ride.”

“I follow you, for free, until you want to go somewhere!”

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My first stalker! Then there was the time I decided not to buy water from a water vendor…because I already had water.

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“You buy my water!”

“Ah tay ah khun, I don’t want any water.”

“Why don’t you buy my water?”

“Look!  I already have water, I don’t want any more.”

“You buy my water!”

“Ah tay ah khun!”

“I steal your bike!  You don’t buy my water, I steal your bike”

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So, the first few days of traveling were hard.  People were much harsher than in Thailand, and the tourist traps were constant and very in-your-face.  I was having a hard time trying to get a feel for the Khmei people.  I wanted to have sympathy because of their history, but at the same time I wanted to scream at people who wouldn’t leave me alone.  One person told me I couldn’t sit on a public bench unless I paid them two dollars.  Of course they were lying, but they also wouldn’t leave until either I left, or I paid them.  I was feeling exasperated and conflicted.

Exasperation aside, some fellow travelers and I were on a mission to explore the country, as our breaks from work were short.  I made it all the way down to the lazy, beach town of Kep (where the rat meat spirit exacted its revenge for my consumption of its Earthly body), and far north to the ancient temples of Angkor Wat at Siam Reap.   These crumbling temples are free game for scrambling and climbing, by the way.  I was Dr. Indiana Jones for two days…if Indiana Jones encountered fifteen-year-old girls who threaten to steal your bike instead of giant, rolling boulders and poison dart traps.  Seriously though, the country is beautiful, and tourism ploys shouldn’t be a deterrent for travel.  I’d seen images of those ancient Wats for as long as I could remember.  It felt really amazing to be climbing to the top of them.  But again, these areas were rampant with vehement salespeople.

It wasn’t until we escaped  the tourist centers of Phnom Penh and Siam Reap, that I finally met people who wanted conversation.  Real conversation.  Not as a ploy to get me to buy something.  On our first day in the city of Battambang, we climbed up to a giant Buddha head perched on a cliff.  We were soon followed by five, twenty-year-old Khmei who wanted to practice their English.  We spent a long time talking about teaching, and I was even able to practice my Thai with one of them.

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The next day we met another twenty-year-old who, ten minutes after meeting us, invited us to a water festival.  Again we talked about teaching aspirations and the future (while being totally overwhelmed by a massive crowd and a motorbike accident).  He even informed us that we were officially “best friends forever.”  I was seriously impressed by the passion and desire to better not just themselves, but those in their communities.  Most twenty-somethings in America are no where near this point of self-awareness; most are just dispersing resumes like there’s no tomorrow in order to avoid going back to their parents’ home.  I was so desperate to avoid this, I fled the country.

(Disclaimer: I’M TOTALLY JUST KIDDING, MOM AND DAD!)

By the end of my two weeks, I still didn’t know how to characterize Cambodian people.  I had people viciously trying to sell me things, and others following me up a cliff just to practice English.

It was my last day in Phnom Penh, and I had a three o’clock plane to catch.  I went to sit by the Tonle Sap River for an hour or two before my plane.  A group of five ten-year-olds ran up to me and starting asking me all kinds of questions.  They tried to impress me with goofy tricks for a long time, until they ran out of material.  At that point they noticed a French girl five benches away.  They pointed at her, then at me, and asked, “Love?”  Yes, of course.  We’re both white-backpackers, so it was meant to be.  They wouldn’t leave me alone until I went over and talked to her.  I resisted until I realized:  I have a plane in an hour! Making an ass out of myself suddenly was not a fear.  I had an awesome, jet-engine powered escape at the ready.  We walked over as she looked up at what was surely the strangest posse ever seen.  I introduced myself, and quickly found out that she spoke no English.  So she took out a sketch pad, and we all started drawing different things.  Soon, two Tuk Tuk drivers came and joined us.  I laughed for an hour straight.  I wish I could have kept the pictures those kids drew of me.  They really captured my good side: the side with the square eyeballs and a mouth with only two teeth.  I actually barely interacted with the French girl.  I was more interested in the stories the Tuk Tuk driver had of his family, and the time he owned a Thai restaurant.  It took me two weeks after the fact to realize that Phnom Penh was able to bring two backpackers, a pack of children, and a Tuk Tuk driver all together to sit by the river, talk about nothing in particular, and laugh at our terrible drawing skills.  Soon my hour was up, and I was amazed that I was feeling sad about saying goodbye to a Tuk Tuk driver…one of the men that had been making the vein in my forehead bulge for the last two weeks.

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“Why do you have go?”

“I have to get on a plane to Bangkok.”

“Tuk Tuk?”

“……Baht ah khun, Tuk Tuk.  Lets go.”

See my full album from Cambodia here.

Posted in Max Honch '12, Thailand | Comments Off on Sue saw dai, Cambodia