Umbrian Undertakings

Posted in Katrina Eller '14, Ireland and Italy | Comments Off on Umbrian Undertakings

This is My Job

You may be wondering what a typical work-week looks like, for me.  Wonder no longer!  For I have obliged to satisfy your curiosity, and describe last week in the paragraphs below.

I normally teach in three classes on Mondays: the 8R, 6A, and 8B.  I already knew before the semester break (Feb. 1-17) that I wouldn’t be needed this week in either the 8R or 10R classes.  Frau R., the teacher for the 6A class, emailed me Saturday with instructions for Monday the 25th, so I had everything ready.  I emailed Frau G. of the 8B on Friday, but she never answered.  I decided I would bring some worksheets about Alaska, since before the break we talked about California.  I showed up on campus at 10:15 a.m., make copies of the worksheets, and taught from 10:30-11:25.  Only one or two of the students were sick, so we had almost a full class, about 20 people.  There was an Unknown Woman sitting in the back, observing.  I had never seen her before, but I was confident that she had nothing to do with me, so I simply focused on teaching.  Since the 6A pupils are young, only 10 years old, or so, I focused on what they did over the semester break.  They wrote about it, talked about it, and then we filled out some worksheets on words that have to do with winter.  They were a little rowdy, but I can’t say I am surprised, given that it was the first day of school after 2 weeks off.  After the class period finished, I went downstairs to the teacher’s room.  I sought, and found, Frau G., who told me she didn’t need me, today, but I could bring the material on Alaska to the next lesson (today).  Apparently finished working for the morning, I began gathering my things.  The Unknown Woman stopped me, said she wanted to chat.  Well, I had time, but who was this Unknown Woman?  She introduced herself as Lena, a student at the university.  For the next month, she is doing an internship at my Gymnasium.  Lucky woman; this Gymnasium has, I am convinced, the best-behaved students in the entire country.  After lunch, I came back to the campus, where I voluntarily run an extra-study session from 3-5pm on Mondays and Tuesdays for the 12th graders, to help them prepare for their Abitur.  This Monday, only Eileen attended, and we were quite assiduous.  She is very diligent, and even sought me out during the semester break for extra studying.  She’s lovely, intelligent, and wants to be a biologist!  She also owns this very funny pencil case.  At 5pm, we finished, and I went home.  I was supposed to teach the 11A class on Tuesday about Scientology, and I became sidetracked by all the information on the web about this strange sect.  It was late when I went to bed, and I once again wished that I was more efficient at planning lessons!

Tuesdays I teach in the 7B, 11A, and 7A classes.  The 7B are adorable, and actually yelled with excitement when I came into their classroom (at 8:30am).  There are a lot of boys in the class, but they are almost all either very studious, or very shy, so the class is nowhere near as loud as you might expect.  We read a story about Robin Hood, and then they practiced creative writing.  Immediately following the 7B, I teach the 11A, which also has a lot of boys, and they are neither studious, nor shy.  They get on my nerves every week, talking to each other, texting during class, and just in general being rude.  And yet, if this is my worst-behaved class, that isn’t bad.  Once again, I survived the chaos, and emerged mostly unscathed to teach the 7A.  We talked about sports, sports, sports.  Winter sports, in particular.  There are only 13 students in this class, which is my smallest amount of students.  None of them wanted to be in school, and told me that the winter break was too short, that it should be a year long!  At 12:30 pm, I was done teaching, and I had only my Abitur study session in the afternoon.  Five students showed up, the most ever!  We read a newspaper article about Israel’s “Prisoner X”, and then analyzed the article.  I had planned to have them write an essay-response to the issues in the article, but the textual analysis took a full 90 minutes, so I decided that was enough for one day.

Wednesday morning, Frau S.’s 12th grade was taking a test, so I allowed myself to sleep in an extra half-hour.  (Having to be awake and ready to teach at 7:45 in the morning is hard.  I have a newfound respect for my O. Chem. professors, who had to teach organic chemistry at 8 a.m., four days a week.  Ugh.)  Then I read a story with the 9C, which, at 31 students, is my largest class.  I only see them once or twice per month, so learning all of their names has been impossible.  I have a little seating plan drawn out, and I am sad to say I rely on that most of the time.  After the 9C, I go directly across campus to the Hauptgebaude, where I have Frau M.’s 12th graders write mini-HIMYM skits, an exercise they derive much enjoyment from.  They are adorable, and clap every time I finish a lesson with them.  I am astonished that they do this, and I usually turn the color of a tomato, and trip over things when I leave the room.  Since I am not needed in the 10R, my workday ended a couple hours early, at 10:30 a.m.  I worked exactly 2 hours in the school. Of course, that time is supplemented with several hours of working at home each day, planning the next day’s lesson.

Thursday marks the end of my work week, since I do not teach on Fridays.  On Wednesday, I had consulted with Frau S. about the 8D, and we decided we would split the class in half.  Each of us would take half of the students for the first 45 minutes, and then switch.  Since the 8D has an overall very low ability in English, I always work extra hard on the lessons I put together for them.  I stayed up late trying to find the perfect video-clip for them to practice their listening comprehension on, and finally found an interview TIME magazine did with Emma Watson.  I put together everything I needed, and went to bed, excited for the next day.  I showed up at 9:35, 10 minutes early, to make sure everything was in order.  Every morning, I check the computer monitor in the hallway, to learn if any of the teachers are sick, or if there are any room changes.  Everything looked normal.  I went to the classroom.  It had been an entire month since I’ve last taught the 8D, and they were all very, very excited to see me, which was a little surprising, since they never talk to me in class, even when I ask a pupil a direct question.  Frau S. was not there, yet, but she is usually a few minutes late, so I didn’t worry.  Much.  I told the students the plan to divide them up, and this causes quite a ruckus, everyone trying to say something to me, and then trying to shout above the others.  I was taken aback.  Dividing the students up is something we’ve done before, so they shouldn’t be too bothered by it.  I quieted the crowd, and then asked Anne, whose English is very good, compared to her classmates, what the problem was.  Apparently, the 8D now has English class from 7:45-9:15, instead of 9:45-11:15.  Every Thursday.  For the entire spring semester.  Uninformed of this change, I showed up at the usual time of 9:45, which meant I was unknowingly 2 hours late.  This annoyed me to no end.  Why had no one thought to tell me this?  Of course, I frequently don’t learn of schedule changes until the day of, but since this was a schedule change for the entire semester, it really should have crossed someone’s mind to inform me!  Anne told me that they were supposed to be learning history from 9:45-11:15, but no one had seen the history professor all morning, and by now the bell had already rung.  Unwilling to leave a classroom full of 13 year-olds by themselves, with no adult supervision, I decided to stay with them, until their history teacher — or some other teacher — arrived.  We talked about the Harry Potter series, about Hermione Granger, and Emma Watson, and celebrities.  The history teacher finally deigned to arrive some 10-15 minutes late, which sparked a whole new round of chaos, since he had no idea who I was, and all of the students tried to explain to him in German and me in English, that they really didn’t mind talking about Harry Potter for the rest of the period, if it was all the same to us.  The history teacher and I decided that would be okay with us, so he heard a lesson about Harry Potter, in English.  I wonder if he enjoyed it as much as my 13 year-olds did.

Looking back, there was a fairly low level of chaos and confusion that week.  Since last week was directly after the semester break, very few teachers were sick.  When a lot of teachers are sick, that is when it is really interesting, because Germany apparently doesn’t believe in substitute teachers.  Instead, other teachers at the Gymnasium are forced to sub for absent teachers, and minor changes to the general school schedule are made daily.  I am regularly asked to visit classes other than my usual classes, or to teach a class at a different time, or on a different day.  I have achieved news levels of flexibility and adaptability, but sometimes I still grumble to myself about how unprofessional it all is.  One thing is certain; this amount of disorganized confusion is very different from what I expected to find at a German school!

Posted in Kat Schmidt '12, Germany | Comments Off on This is My Job

The City

My host family went skiing in Northern Italy for the week. Jealous? Tell me about it. Well I avoided going home as much as possible aside for having some friends from school over for home made pizza.

With the host family away there was no excuse to wander around Copenhagen and freeze my butt off. An that’s exactly what I did for three hours, looking at various architectural and historical buildings. Aside from turing into a block of ice and attempting to familiarize myself with the city’s layout, I learned Christian IV was quite the developer, in fact the rule of thumb is when in doubt on the construction of any old building Christian IV is a safe guess. Honestly it works 95% of the time. Take that art history test!

Tivoli unfortunately doesn’t open until April. Speaking of construction, its everywhere in Copenhagen! They’re putting in a new metro line which won’t be done till 2016. So we get to enjoy some ornamental orange cones and concrete barriers wherever we go.

The movie theater

Typical merchants house

New trendy buildings across the harbor

The Black Diamond

Repurposed storehouses in Christianshavn, which is a city created out of the water by Christian IV specifically for traders and merchants.

The Royal Library by Christian IV

The houses on this street are the oldest in Copenhagen spared from huge fire way back in the day.

You’ll have to do the translation for the street’s name. Let’s just say they didn’t have plumbing back then.


Hey look we’re in Italy! After the fire the city was rebuilt by an architect who was very much influenced by the Italian renaissance style.
Staying in town as much as I could meant finding food and somewhere warm. As you can tell from the steamy windows St. Peders Bageri was not only warm but also intoxicating with the smell of possibly the most tasty wienerbrØd in Copenhagen (That’s danish for danish).

Bakery

Another food find in the city is the Glass Market, next to the busiest train stop, it is conveniently situated to allow kroner to disappear from your pocket. The market is a fusion between an open air farmer’s market and classy boutique foodie stalls. Even if your not foodsnob there’s enough eyecandy and scents to make you droll from: bakeries, to choice cuts of meat, to cheese, to beer, olive oil, kitchen ranges and ice cream (if you dare, some did).Glass market

“choice cuts”

Farmers market

Keeping it classy meant a visit to Rosengborg castle built by one classy gentleman who…you guessed it Christian IV. The castle was a summer home for Denmark’s royalty and now home to the crown jewels as well as other shiny, old, fancy stuff.P2033772

Posted in 2012-13, Daniel Lim '14, Denmark | Tagged | Comments Off on The City

Immersion

I feel rather immersed in Irish culture by this point (as I should–it’s midterm this week which means I’ve been here 6 whole school weeks).  I can take buses to where I need to go, I can take trains and taxis, I can find Trinity and St. Stephen’s Green and O’Connell Street…

This week in particular I’ve felt like I’m part of the city.  Last Saturday I went to the Jameson Film Festival and saw the Irish premier of Cloud Atlas.

It was quite a beautiful movie.  I’ve heard it got a lot of crap or a lot of disinterest, but I’d recommend it.  I found it beautiful.  I like strange movies and beautiful cinematography, and it made me feel very connected to everyone in the theatre.  It’s the first movie I’ve ever seen on my own.  Kinda a weird thing to say, but it’s true.

I also went to see a play!  I saw King Lear at the Abbey Theatre.  FUN FACT TIME The Abbey theatre was the second national theatre (the first one’s in Munich I think) and was established by William Butler Yeats and Lady Gregory.  The theatre in Ireland traditionally spread the news before there were newspapers or phones readily available.

It’s hard to get a sense of the play because I took crap pictures, but this guy was the Fool.  He sat out on stage at first and he was really good.  He was my favorite first-act character.  By the way, this was the first time I’d ever seen the play, so I didn’t know what was going to happen.  Edgar turns out to be important, who knew!  He was my favorite second-act character.  The play did some great visual things and some dance stuff I didn’t really like, but they had Irish wolfhounds wander across the stage at random intervals!

I got to pet them afterward (this isn’t my picture, it’s from Google).  They felt like carpets.

On my way back from rock climbing one day, I stopped by a little shop on Harcourt Street.

It’s an Irish language store with an Irish-speaking bar in the basement!  I bought a grammar and looked at all the books they’d translated into Irish.  The shop owners were speaking Irish with a couple of people in the store, and it was the first time I realized I was in a foreign country.  I had no idea what they were saying.  Sometimes I’d catch an ‘agus,’ which I know means ‘and,’ but that’s all.  I’ll probably go back.  They had The Hobbit in Irish and it looked very, very cool.  Couldn’t read a word of it, but it looked neat.  And they had Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, which was “Harry Potter agus an Órchloch” in Irish.

Finally, two strange Irish things I experienced.  First, I found

the Celtic Racing Pigeon Club.  Who knew?

Secondly, I had the most dangerous drink in Ireland:

It has a red dye in it that caused ADHD in children and other neurological disorders.  It’s illegal in most European countries, but not Ireland!

Tasted a bit like hand sanitizer, but not in a terrible way.  If you can imagine.

So!  Still experienced the good, the bad, and the weird of Ireland here!  I’m going on a trip with my dad soon so I’ll have something more interesting to share next week!  Until then, I’m going to keep my eyes peeled for more strange, wonderful things in this fantastic country!

Posted in Hannah Fattor '14, Ireland | Comments Off on Immersion

Things Fall Apart

It’s been one of those weeks (well, week-and-a-halves to be precise). The internet at the house conveniently stopped working for three days in the middle of last week and thus I was unable to post all of the exciting news that has been happening recently in France. Not that much of it has really been that exciting, but the lack of internet does explain why I am posting two entries so closely together.

This week-and-a-half of misfires all started on Monday evening. Monday sounded like a good day of the week to have Mexican food, and so I decided to try my hand at fish tacos. “What a good idea,” I thought to myself during one of those rare moments when I am actually proud of my ability to cook. Ha. What a joke. By the end of the night, “What a bad idea,” is the mantra that was running circles in my head. Being the naïve, debutant chef that I am, I was unaware that salted cod needs to be de-salted for at least 24 hours before it can be eaten because otherwise it is “inedible due to the high levels of salt that the fish absorbs.” Two things: 1) Why would you salt a fish to the point of rendering it inedible? 2) “High-levels” is the grossest understatement I have ever seen on paper. The finished product was beautiful upon first glance but I was literally dehydrated to the point of having a skull splitting headache an hour after ingesting a single bite. Kévin respectfully tried to continue his portion while I re-heated a pizza but I threw away the rest of the fish before he could finish because I was afraid he would be sick. As it turns out, we were both sick afterward with stabbing stomach pains and terrible headaches. If you can imagine swallowing three tablespoons of salt in one go, that would be the equivalent of this cod. It was perhaps the worst thing I have ever tasted.

(Sailboat)

Following this disastrous salty cod experience, I was determined to succeed at making edible fish tacos with edible fish on Wednesday night. The finished product was, again, beautiful, but this time when I went in for my first bite, all I could taste was disappointment. I mean this quite literally because the cod itself had absolutely…no…flavor. I give up at making fish tacos. This is the first time that I have failed so completely at making any sort of food and I finished the meal in tears with Kévin half-trying to comfort me and half-trying not to laugh at me because I was crying about fish.

And now to jump back to Tuesday. Tuesday morning I wanted to call the Rectorat de Nantes so that I could ask about prolonging my contract for another year of teaching. During our orientation in October, I was assured that it would be very easy to extend my contract. This was certainly a lie considering their current track record with all things professed to be easy which are actually very difficult. However, I would have somehow survived the tedious process and had my teaching contract in hand at the end of the day – that is, if the CIEP hadn’t decided for some mysterious reason that only German assistants would be allowed to teach in France for two consecutive years. Why only the Germans you ask? I was curious as well, but nobody could seem to give me a satisfactory response. It was, however made very clear that all other assistants would NOT be receiving extensions for next year. I received this news as gracefully as I could over the phone, but as soon as I hung up it was as if a violent storm had descended upon the living room. After my initial phase of shouting and cursing at all of the objects in sight (I was home alone), I promptly melted into a pool of tears on the carpet, plotting my revenge on the universe and all those who had conspired to change my plans for the future so thoroughly. The eye of the storm arrived next and I was able to – with a superhuman amount of calm – research all other options for staying in France for another year. Barring living as an au pair however, it is next to impossible for US citizens to obtain work visas in France. In order for a French employer to hire you, you must prove that you are better qualified than anyone in the European Union, seeing as these citizens do not need special work permits to hold jobs in other EU countries. I have a high esteem of my abilities, but it would be difficult nonetheless to prove that I speak English better than anyone in the United Kingdom. The eye of the storm passed just when Kévin came home and I was once again reduced to tears as I recounted the rather short series of events that so completely upended all of our plans for next year. So now the huge, unanswered question is, what am I going to do next year? On that count, I am rather stumped. Graduate school may be looming closer than I had anticipated…

In other (lackluster) news, my excursions in France have been spectacularly uneventful for some time now. Excepting a daytime trip to Pornic, my life is so uninteresting as to be comical. Last Tuesday, the history teacher that drives me to work, Fabien, was at a meeting in Nantes and thus couldn’t bring me to Collège Soljenitsyne. You might be thinking, “Public transportation is great in France. Why didn’t you take the bus?” Well, public transportation in France is great as long as you don’t live in the middle-of-nowhere Vendée. There are two buses that pass between Challans and Aizenay in the morning – one at 6:40am and one at 10:00am. Seeing as I had class from 8:30am to 10:30am, Kévin was nice enough to drive me in at 7:30 (which was not on his way to work at all). While I successfully avoided taking the 6:40am bus in the morning, this did not change the fact that the only bus between Aizenay and Challans leaves the town center at 5:40pm. This not-so-minor problem left me to wander the rural streets of Aizenay for seven hours after class while I waited for a bus. I asked one of the teachers on my way out what there was to see in Aizenay at which point she laughed and said, “absolutely nothing.” So, with “absolutely nothing” in store for me, I set out on a brave new adventure.

Carine was only half-right. There wasn’t much to see in Aizenay. In a style that closely resembles Challans, Aizenay is shockingly industrialized for a town of 7,000. I passed endless warehouses and construction companies before calling it quits at the Hyper-U at the town limits. Yes, I walked the entire length of Aizenay only to end up in a super market for lunch. Luckily, I was determined to find some green plot of land on which to picnic and upon close inspection of all road signs leading back to the collège, I found a park. And so, I ate my sandwich alone in a park in sub-zero weather in the middle-of-nowhere Vendée. On my way out, I noticed a llama and goat that perhaps feature in some sort of petting zoo during the summer months and are left to wander a fenced section of the park during the rest of the year. Seeing as I had just eaten alone, I decided to have a conversation with them before leaving. A monologue would probably be a more apt description, although the goat did bleat in acknowledgement when I told it what I had for lunch and asked if the grass was good this time of year. Naturally, the minute I turned to go I started cracking up due to the absurdity of the situation. I have now befriended a goat and a llama but my circle of friends is severely lacking in humans. Next goal: have a conversation with something that actually talks back.

(Chateau de Pornic)

Strangely, it is often the comical parts of life (i.e. talking to a llama) that help us realize the beautiful parts of life. Over the weekend, Kévin and I went on our second outing to Pornic, this time to admire the medieval port town by day. While we did not meet anyone new, an afternoon of sunlight and stunning ocean views helped to reacquaint us with nature at its finest. After two months, the pouring rain is beginning to relent and long forgotten images of sunshine are resurfacing in my memory. Next week marks the beginning of “winter” vacation and it promises to be fourteen days of beautiful weather and unparalleled scenery. It would seem that adventure is heading back my way. On to Paris, on to Scotland, and on to my next excursions…

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

London Calling

Long time no see! Sorry about that– it’s been rather hectic in this neck of the woods. I’m back in Europe for my second semester of studying abroad, this time I’ll be spending the next term in London! It was absolutely lovely being home for the holidays, but it felt far too short. So far, the city has been absolutely amazing. I haven’t gotten much time to explore on my own yet, but my study abroad program took us on a bus tour the other day which was a great way of seeing the sights and getting oriented. London is so much bigger than Amsterdam, so navigating the city is proving to be a bit more challenging. I miss being able to bike anywhere I needed to go within a half an hour!

Hopefully I’ll be finding “my” spots in London soon. I’ve been scoping out cute cafes in the hopes that I’ll find somewhere that I’ll become a regular (they knew my name and drink order back in Amsterdam– probably means I drink too much coffee!). And with any luck, I’ll be volunteering at the Victoria and Albert museum! Now I just need to work on my British accent and I’ll be all set 😉

Posted in Emma de Vries '14, Netherlands | Comments Off on London Calling

Roma Bound

Posted in Katrina Eller '14, Ireland and Italy, Uncategorized | Comments Off on Roma Bound

Castle for Rent

Over the past two weeks I was reintroduced to the art of slow, steady breathing. Breathing, it would seem, is a rather important function that I quite conveniently forgot during the chaos that was the preceding three weeks. Consequently, I found myself plunged into a sort of waking apnea in which all the proper mechanisms for normal breathing were utterly lost on me. When I took my first conscious, deep, rejuvenating breath on Monday morning therefore, I was surprised at the amount of good it did me. I am happy to report that the horrible sequence of nightmares concerning the MGEN, the OFII, and my new school has at last subsided, which means that the immediate future promises less paperwork, more breathing, and more… well, lesson plans if truth be told.

The foreboding cloud of uncertainty that dogged my every step the last two weeks of classes has finally dissipated. After writing an email to the vice principal explaining how I thought I was poorly treated during our first meeting, I received an extremely compassionate response assuring me that, yes, miscommunication was at fault and that things would certainly go more smoothly in the future. This lifted an enormous burden from my shoulders. The thing that was somehow so mysteriously “my fault” suddenly became no one’s fault. While I do not profess to be skilled in the art of conflict resolution, it seems that honest communication is the best remedy for a superbly marred conversation. To date, my theory has served me well.

Les Sables d'Olonne Lighthouse

I suppose that any proper discussion of my new job in Aizenay should include a description of what it is I actually do. Like my previous work in Challans, my time at Collège Soljenitsyne generally consists of preparing a 25 minute lesson plan that I repeat with both halves of the class. While it is nice to have only twelve students at a time, this system of splitting the class in two also means that I have to repeat the same lesson four times in a row if ever I have back-to-back classes. Other that the broken-record effect that this creates, I quite enjoy my small class sizes.

And now to discuss the students. When I first arrived in Aizenay, I was impressed by the level of maturity that the pupils seemed to possess. They are quiet, well-behaved, and respectful in a way that my students in Challans never quite mastered. During my first week of classes, their demure attitude was refreshing because it meant that I was forced to do less shouting. However, now that I am in my fifth week of teaching, I am coming to find that silence is not always the best company. My oldest students are the worst. I think that their timidity must be due to some sort of weird classroom chemistry, because all of the teachers that have these pupils say they are almost frustratingly silent. Like, so silent that they cannot even collectively respond to a yes or no question. They literally stumble over each other in their haste not to be heard. If this sounds a little backwards, it is. When I ask a question, my students will politely tell me that, “No, I don’t want to answer but Thomas does”, at which point Thomas will tell me, “No, I think that Ludivine was about to raise her hand”, at which point Ludivine will tell me, “No, I’m almost sure that Lucie was about to say something.” It’s really quite aggravating. The phenomenon is a strange one but it has forced me to set a new goal for myself: puzzle through the mystery of the silent 3èmes and make them more responsive. It promises to be a lot of work.

And now for a few more fun tidbits from the past week. We were served alcohol in the staffroom twice this week, once to celebrate the birth of a granddaughter to the principal and once as a goodbye gesture for a teacher who will be traveling around Europe by bike for the next six months. I am learning a lot during my time as an assistant, but when the first bottle of champagne made its appearance on Monday morning (yes, Monday morning) it still came as quite a shock to me. We’re allowed to have champagne during recess? Hard apple cider over lunch? I don’t know what higher entities condone the consumption of aperitif in the staffroom, but I’m coming to realize that everything worthy of celebration is celebrated in style here at Collège Soljenitsyne.

Rocky Coastline

Maybe this happens in staffrooms all over the world and I am just now finding out about it. Sometimes I almost feel like a spy that is only pretending to be an assistant so that I can gather juicy tidbits about what really happens in the lives of teachers. Perhaps I’ll write a book, to be entitled “The Other Lives of Teachers” and featuring such exciting information as the reading of confiscated love letters during breaks in the staffroom. “It took me one second to fall in love with you, but it will take an eternity for me to forget you.” This really did happen this week and the poor student who wrote the letter had the terrible misfortune of being caught pouring her heart out in a note rather than completing her homework on Louis XIV. A shame, because her writing was actually quite good…

Aside from the new discoveries I made in the staffroom this week, my adventures in France have been less than exciting recently. Unless, of course, you count scanning ads for houses and finding a castle for rent as exciting. Which, come to think of it, I do. In fact, this may have been the most excellent discovery I’ve made since my first visit to the Colosseum. Upon closer inspection of the ad, Kévin and I found that the rent was rather cheap – only 1,800 euro per month for a three-bedroom, two-bathroom, fully-equipped section of the west wing, the uppermost level of which is located in a tower. Imagine having a tower as your balcony. Unreal. After our discovery of such an add, we of course had to go see this château for ourselves. The gates had long been closed at 8:00 pm, but we nonetheless took a tour of the grounds and imagined what it would be like to sign a lease agreement for a castle. Said castle is located in a pretty little port town just to the north of us, called Pornic. I’m considering making it my summer abode, funds permitting.

Walkway in the Waves

Despite the unreal amounts of rain that have been falling over the past few weeks, Kévin and I have still managed to make the best out of our little corner of France. The weekend after our excursion to Pornic, we decided to venture south (only slightly south) to the tourist hub of les Sables d’Olonne. As we quickly found out, the term “hub” can only be appropriately applied during the summer months. The city is smaller than Challans, with only 14,000 permanent citizens, but the housing is organized to accommodate at least 40,000. The natural result of this setup is that les Sables d’Olonne more closely resembles a post-apocalyptic ghost town than a flourishing tourist destination from November to May. The empty high rise buildings that line the ocean front lose any charm that they may have had to begin with (which isn’t much, in my opinion) and instead give the impression of large skeletal monsters long forgotten and left to crumble, one by one, onto the desolate depths of the ocean. Luckily, Kévin and I were able to divert our attention from this rather haunting scene by taking an ocean-side path away from the city and off toward an ancient church and the lighthouses on the cliffs. This view was far more agreeable than that of the abandoned buildings, and we spent the better part of three hours exploring tide pools, the disused monastery on the hill, and the various rocky outcroppings along the coast. After three hours spent without seeing another living being, and with only the sound of the howling wind and crashing waves for company, we decided to return to the city center for food and human interaction. The latter of these two was difficult to find. We passed a dozen shops that were closed before settling on an Italian restaurant, seemingly one of the only open businesses on the waterfront. Our decision ended up being well worth it, and we were greeted by a very friendly host who made the best panna cotta I have ever tasted…

And now, back to reality. While reflecting on my recent weekend excursions is a welcome break from both the rain and lesson plans, it unfortunately does not put time on pause. I’ve got bingo to organize, a pet test to prepare, and a film to critique. Tune in for more adventures soon. A bientôt.

Posted in Emily Swisher '12, France | Comments Off on Castle for Rent

Traditions

This was a week where I participated in several Irish traditions.  It’s a lot of fun to figure out what traditions exist in a particular place, and following them is equally entertaining at times.  They occasionally make no sense to us, but then we probably have some pretty weird traditions ourselves in the States.  No wearing white after Labor Day?  What’s with that?

First of all, I took a trip to Cork, and from there I took a bus out to Blarney and kissed the Blarney Stone!

Photo credit for this one goes to Carly McCann, as my face was otherwise occupied.  It left me rather flustered…

but I gained the Gift of Gab, as they say!  There were a lot of handy signs around Blarney Castle that helped differentiate ‘blarney’ from ‘baloney.’  Here’s one:

It wasn’t very scary to kiss the Stone, I must admit.  They used to hang you over the edge of the castle by your heels and you had to kiss it that way, but now they have handrails and a spotter, and there are bars underneath the stone so it’d be rather difficult to fall.  It is still pretty high up, though.

That’s Blarney Castle, and the Stone is all the way at the top.  The stairs got very narrow sometimes.  I had a backpack with me and I started getting pretty claustrophobic.  That was the only worrying thing about the adventure!

Second of all, this week was Pancake Tuesday, known in the States as Fat Tuesday or Mardi Gras.  But pancakes!

Clearly, these are not pancakes as we Americans would understand them.  They’re more crepes than pancakes.  The mix said ‘Pancake,’ though, which led to my favorite pun of the night, “These pancakes are full of crepe.”  Thank you, I thought I was hilarious.

The tradition arose because people had to use up all of their eggs and butter, all ‘luxuries,’ before Lent.  I guess people don’t get to eat anything fun over Lent, so they’d use all their extra goods up making pancakes the day before Ash Wednesday!

That isn’t actually my pancake, by the way.  My friend Julia made a prettier pancake than I did.  Mine just had a lot of lemon curd in it.

It was still delicious, though.  We had pancakes and listened to Macklemore, and that became our own little tradition for the next few days; we ate pancakes for dinner, lunch, and breakfast, and we listened to ‘Thrift Shop.’

The third tradition I followed this week was a bit morbid.  I’m in a class on Gothic Irish Literature (Bram Stoker was Irish, did you know?) and we met up Friday afternoon to see the crypts at St. Michan’s Church (‘Michan’ is pronounced like ‘Michael’ but with an ‘n’ instead of an ‘el’–it’s not ‘Meekan’).  Sadly, I wasn’t allowed to take any pictures of the crypts themselves, but here are the vaults we climbed down inside:

(this one’s extra spooky because our tour guide was emerging as I took the photo)

This is probably one of the coolest things I’ve done in Dublin.  There were lights on down there, it was fairly roomy even though we were a big group, and there were mummies!  Dublin mummies, two women and two men.  One of the men was a Crusader, over 800 years old, and I participated in my third traditional practice when I TOUCHED HIS HAND. It felt like petrified wood and it’s supposed to bring good luck.  I can’t stop thinking “I TOUCHED A MUMMY,” though.  A once-in-a-lifetime experience, that.  Just like with blood pudding, as long as I didn’t think about what I was doing, I wasn’t going to freak out.

Our tour guide was fantastic, too, and he may now remember me as “that quantum physics expert from Washington,” which is just a wonderful (incorrect) impression to make on someone.  He knew some good history.  Some of the crypts are still ‘active,’ which means that members of a certain family can be buried there if they want.  Theobald Wolfe Tone’s death mask is in one of the crypts, too, which strangely was not advertised considering how much they love Wolfe Tone in this town.

So it was an exciting week for me!  Blarney, pancakes, and mummies, oh my!  You can have a lot of fun (and some great stories to tell) if you join in on local traditions!

Posted in Hannah Fattor '14, Ireland | Comments Off on Traditions

Sefulu Tasi

My first day in Samoa was incredibly difficult mentally, physically and emotionally. Samoa is a lot more third world than I anticipated and for the first time in my life I feel like a minority (everyone stares and  calls white people Palagni’s). The females in my group are constantly getting honked at and one of the girls was actually licked by a man who was trying to sell her lavalavas out of a plastic bad. (luckily know big Samoan girls have tried to sit on my face yet).  I was having all sorts of doubts about calling this new place my home as Honolulu did nothing to prepare me for this transition. Contrasting the heavily Americanized island of Hawaii where our orientation took place, Samoa is a much different place.  Trash is littered everywhere, skinny desperate dogs roam the streets and despite my previous fantasy of beautiful sandy beaches, nobody swims in the ocean (the local beaches in Apia are fairly polluted and Samoans believe that the ocean is a giver of life and not a play ground). I’m living in a rather narrow room with water warped tile floors, a desk accompanied with a plastic chair and a foam mattress on top of a wood bed frame. My two walls consist of full length windows with open jealousy’s (glass panes that twist open much like blinds) and 4 sheets to block out the heat. Despite this airflow, I still will wake up in the middle of the night in a hot sweat (the humidity is like nothing I’ve ever felt).  I went to bed that night to the sound of stray cats tearing each other apart, and an overwhelming dose of homesickness.

Luckily, Sunday the Samoan day of rest, was exactly what I needed to adapt to this brand new environment. We woke up at 8:30am to attend Catholic Mass where the people were welcoming and excited to have us there. Samoan Catholic church is much like any other Catholic church I’ve been as it is structured very much the same just in a different language. After service our Academic Advisor took her to her house where we had a traditional Sunday fest. We all sat crosslegged in a Fale (traditional samoan hut with a grass hut, and wood supports), as Jackie’s family members brought us plate after plate of food. We had Taro and coconut cream roasted under banana leaves, a brown octopus dip, raw tuna in a white sauce, noodles with pork and bread fruit. And once we couldn’t eat any longer (nobody finished their enormous portions) they brought out dessert; custard pie, mango ice cream of coco Samoa (easily the most rich and delicious hot chocolate I’ve ever had). Later that night me and a handful of girls on my program became friends with this extraverted Fijian student named Melanie. She invited us to drink Kava (a ground up plant mixed with water that gives a mellow intoxication effect) at a friend’s house later that night. After a ten minute cab ride to god knows where, we sat cross legged in an empty living room with five Tongan men who ended up being our peers at University of the South Pacific. For the next three hours, the combination of incense, Kava, and beautiful music produced a unique feeling that I still have trouble putting words to.

Posted in Nick McGee '14, Samoa | Comments Off on Sefulu Tasi