1st Semester: done

As I write this, I'm home in Cleveland, sitting with my dad while he polishes off a second bowl of ice cream, watching Office re-runs. It's good to be home.

This time of year is always filled with nostalgia. There's the 'year's end' reflecting (and what year it's been!), but since my life still allows me to live in semesters, it also means remembering everything that's happened in the past four months, watching students grow as they discovered Europe.

I was sitting in the Dean's office as classes were finishing, and as we shared our favorite memories of the semester, he paused for a moment, and said "You know. I love this job. But I hate that we have to say goodbye so often."

This semester was so wonderful for so many reasons. I learned so much: about myself, about loving others, about patience, about trust. And it went by in a flash.

One of my favorite afternoons this semester: coffee, muffins, vintage shops, and Scotland

Snow Day!

In Luxembourg, snow day, translated, means:

....building snow forts in the Chateau courtyard/parking lot...

 

...exploring the grounds, discovering unknown buildings, covered in vines (this time I stumbled upon the old stables)...

 

...and lots of sledding on old, antique sleds, found in a forgotten closet. 

Last night, a blizzard literally blew through this tiny country, paralyzing highways and canceling evening plans. I braved the snow and ice to visit the local Christmas market, drinking hot wine under the quiet snow fall.

Schools around the country were closed for the day, including our little campus, so we made the most of our impromptu day off. And in addition to our snow fort, a ten foot snow man is watching over our castle, ready to welcome the staff and faculty tomorrow morning. 

My crazy realization of the day? In one week I'll be home. Home sweet home.

The Expat Book Club

As I was packing my bags to return to Luxembourg this past August, I reviewed my bookshelf at home to see if there were any unread books I could take back with me.

And that is how I re-connected with Still Life by A.S. Byatt. I bought this book six years ago at Mac's, a used bookshop next to one of my favorite Cleveland restaurants. It was a mere $5 and quoted Toni Morrison's review on the back cover, so I figured it was a no-brainer.

I tried reading it, but for whatever reason, I never finished. As I was reading it this past month, I was glad I had waited a few years to really delve into this story. When I was 18 years old, I could have never imagined relating so profoundly to the main character from this book moving to France, being confused and turned around by a new culture, only to come out on the other side lovingly appreciating all its quirks.

This book is actually much more than just a little jaunt to France (she only spends the first quarter of the book there), but about figuring out life and all it's twists and turns.

It's great really.

Istanbul

How to describe this trip to Turkey and Istanbul?

 Hagia Sophia

I would say wonderful, but really, it was so much more than that. A myriad of emotions went into this trip - nervousness (traveling alone, landing in Istanbul at 1:40 am), excitement (hugging my girl for the first time in ages), awe (Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque), and wonderment.

 

 This man's rabbits and rooster will tell your fortune. Honest.

I realized, in so many ways, that Istanbul is the place of beginnings - empires, movements of faith, culture, continents.  Its grandeur was pleasantly overwhelming for this small-country girl as I realized that there is something so refreshing about feeling like a speck in the middle of something much bigger than yourself.

Blue Mosque, at dusk.

paris, je t'aime

Beautiful Paris, on a chilly September day in 2009, from the top of the Centre Pompidou.

How I love this city...

Thanksgiving a la turque

I'm back from Istanbul, the land of kebap, minarets, bazaars, and cats. Oh, and tiny cups of  strong, thick, grainy espresso, better known as Turkish coffee.

It was love at first sight (and smell and sound, really). Mark my words, I'm going back.

Happy Thanksgiving

Note: Parts of this little blurb was written for the Thanksgiving edition of a newsletter we put out each week at the Chateau.

I love Thanksgiving. I love the pandemonium of the kitchen, the smell of turkey in the early hour of the morning, the Macy’s day parade, eating yourself silly, all of it. I even enjoy the chill of a cold Ohio November day because it makes the warmth of the holiday that much more cozy.

As my first Thanksgiving away from my family, and my country, approached, I was worried. The excitement of traveling that weekend was a little dulled with the thought that I wouldn’t be able to live all of my Turkey-day traditions. Would it even feel like Thanksgiving?

But that first Thanksgiving, in Luxembourg, was wonderful. Not only was there turkey and mashed potatoes, but I remember realizing what a wonderful family I had found at the Dolibois Center as we clamored for second helpings of pumpkin pie. Of course I missed my Ohio family, but there was something so wonderful about this new ‘family’ with whom I had missed trains, conquered cities, and discovered Europe.

A few years later I found myself in France, teaching English. Once again, I was outside of the United States on my favorite holiday, and I felt those pangs of homesickness creep in again. I had found such a wonderful family-away-from-family to share in the holiday spirit a few years earlier, there’s no way I would get that lucky again.

Well, it turns out I was wrong, but it took a little adjustment on my part. Thanksgiving à la mode française means a rather interesting conversation with a confused butcher (turkey is a dish usually reserved for Christmas holiday celebrations) and a visit to the exotic fruit section of the grocery store for sweet potatoes (strange, but true). It wasn’t the Thanksgiving celebration of my childhood, but it was wonderful none-the-less. There was mass chaos around the stove as dishes were prepared, there was a familiar November chill in the air, and pick up games of flag football were replaced with frisbee. We had invited all of the international language teachers to our celebration. The table was filled with not only turkey and gravy, but also pain surprise from France, Kartoffel from Germany, and cakes and pies from Australia. In total, there were eleven nationalities represented, each contributing a different culinary dish to the spread. And you know, it still felt like Thanksgiving. While the food and country had changed, the feeling of gratitude and family were far from absent.

The lesson I learned that year was that traditions are valuable and important for our nostalgic memory, but the true meaning of this holiday is sharing in the gratitude of the bounty of the season with others, friends, old and new. 

Looking back hundreds of years ago, to that ‘first’ Thanksgiving, wasn’t this always the true intention of this celebration? Here were people, not too different from us, confronted with a new country, new food, and new customs, taking a moment from their cultural reinvention to just give thanks. To reflect on the past, how far they’d come, and what they had learned.

And in the same spirit of reflection from those early days, there is much to be thankful for. In Europe, an incredible group of students, an unbeatable team of faculty and staff, a beautiful (sometimes freezing) Chateau, and of course, a wonderful semester. And back in the good ol' USA, the best friends and family a girl could ask for.

 The infamous France Thanksgiving (Francegiving), November 2008. 

Photo compliments of former prom king, Jon Boyette.

My little woman

I'm off for another round of travel, partially for work, partially for fun.

In the early hours of the morning on Thursday, I'll be meeting up with this lovely lady - fellow Mexican food fiend, lover of Louisa May Alcott, and free spirit.

We'll be in Turkey on Thanksgiving (Turkey on Turkey day? My seven-year-old self was super pumped). I can't wait for our adventure, but I'm pretty positive that we could just drive around near-west side Cleveland, windows open, along the lake, and it would still be as blissful.

Autume Swap, part deux

This week I received my autumn swap package!

Sarah from 'It's like she's on a secret mission' sent me wonderful little treats all the way from Brooklyn. There was chocolate, tea, a book, and the most fantastic planner (anything that has a designated section for doodling was made for me), plus a few other pretty bonus lovelies.

I'm a fan of all kinds of mail (handwritten letters, packages, bills, library fines, I appreciate it all), but this was especially wonderful. Merci beaucoup Sarah!

Speaking of autumn, the season is on it's way out here in Luxembourg. The trees are nearly bare and I can literally feel the chill of winter creeping in.

I love this picture of the Chateau because it reminds me of what's waiting on the other side of winter come April!

Autumn Swap

This year I participated in this wonderful Autumn Swap and had so much fun putting together some Luxembourgish comforts for another fantastic blogger.

Luxembourg is known for its dark, gray winters, so I became an expert on all things comfort food/drink/books/etc last Fall.

My extensive research led me to some of two of my favorite cozy haunts in the city:

 Chocolate and Company, for delicious hot chocolate in the form of Hot Choc Spoons. There are dozens of chocolatey combinations (some even with a little extra nip to keep the cold away). And if you're planning on stalking the royal family, this has the best view of the Ducal Palace!

And Oberweis, for its delicious pastries (fun fact: they are one of the official royal patisseries) and home of some of the best espresso in the country. They have a stand at the train station, and it makes early mornings that much better knowing I'll get to have some Oberweis java.

Le Pauvre Chateau

So there's a hole in the Chateau. 

The first day back after the Toussaint vacation, the Dean mentioned off-hand that his heat wasn't working in his apartment.

'Is your heat working?' he asked. Truth be told, my apartment and office are always a little chilly (the perks of living in a drafty old castle), but low and behold, this time the heater wasn't working. 

None of the heaters in the Chateau were working. 

And then there was a large puddle (lake?) in the cave. 

To make a long, and very technical story, short, there was a problem with the radiator, the heat was broken, pipes were leaking, and soon we were all wrapped in layers of sweaters and scarves, huddled around space heaters. I temporarily moved into the villa, a small house behind on the property, right behind the Chateau. 

This ended up being one of those 'start digging and we'll see what we find' kind of projects, so as we speak, there is a large hole in the middle of the dining hall. Yesterday I saw sparks, heard drills, and sounds that led me to believe I was working next to a stone quarry instead of at a university. Turns out, all that action might have fixed the problem and hopefully by dinner time, our fingers-turned-Popsicles will have thawed out. 

Standing next to the grounds keeper as they chipped away at the stone facade, I shook my head an said 'Poor chateau.' Without skipping a beat he responded 'She's crying!'

I love my job.

trains

So, I have this memory.

This time, four years ago, I was traveling back to Luxembourg from Prague. I had just spent the week in Florence, seeing the David for the first time. I went to Vienna, and sipped coffee under gilded ceilings. And in Prague, I fell in love with the world on the Charles bridge.

I took the train, from the Czech Republic to Luxembourg, via Germany. I don't remember much from that marathon of a journey (I think it was a 10 hour trip), but I remember this one moment. 

We were in Germany, and the train had stopped to let more passengers on. It was dark outside, a clear night, and I sat there watching the people on the platform. People exiting the train, others getting on, hugging, kissing, laughing. I'd seen this scene hundreds of times before, but for some reason, on this particular night, I was struck by the profoundness of the joy and love that surrounded the train.

I remember watching this brief moment unfold (it lasted only minutes), realizing the excitement of adventure, while wonderful, would never compare to the feeling of coming home.

This is the time of year when that memory burns brightest. It's come to represent all of the warmth and fuzziness that comes with the holiday season: cool evenings where you can see your breath, rosy cheeks, hot chocolate, pumpkin chocolate chip bread, and, of course, reuniting with loved ones.

And just hugging the bajeezus out of them.

L'Automne

Bosa

In, what felt like, the wee hours of Monday morning, my partner in crime left Sardinia to re-join the real world, and I was left to conquer the island on my own. Next stop? Bosa, a small village north of Cagliari.

The train ride was magical, weaving through groves of olive orchards and pastures filled with sheep and cows. And in so many ways the journey was just as important as the destination, taking in these images and moments.

And so, I arrived in Bosa, the colorful town on a hillside, overlooked by an ancient castle.

 Beautiful Bosa

 Yellow mums, the traditional flower to place on graves on All Saints' Day

 The Castello

Now, I should mention that here in Bosa, I found my latest culinary adventure. It made cow tongue and ostrich seem like small potatoes.  You see here on this little island, a local delicacy is cazu marzu. Directly translated this means 'rotten cheese' but in reality it means cheese with maggots. Live maggots.

Ask any Sardinian and they'll tell you, with a twinkle in their eye, that this is forbidden (technically it is illegal in Sardinia), after which they'll point you in the right direction to find this local treasure.

And then I was in a market in Bosa, with a jar of maggoty cheese and bread.

It might have been the thrill of tasting something forbidden (and possibly really disgusting) but trust me when I say it was awesome.

The Expat Book Club

 

There are no words to adequately describe the wonderfulness of this book. Just trust me and read it tout suite.

 

"What is the Purpose of Art? To give us the brief, dazzling illusion of the camellia, carving from time an emotional aperture that cannot be reduced to animal logic. How is Art born? It is begotten in the mind's ability to sculpt the sensorial domain. What does Art do for us? It gives shape to our emotions, makes them visible and, in so doing, places a seal of eternity upon them, a seal representing all those works that, by means of a particular form, have incarnated the universal nature of human emotions."

~ Muriel Barbery

 

When I read that quote to pearrier, her immediate (and correct) response was 

"...you little art history sensitif girl."

Cagliari

The moment we got off the plane and I breathed deep the salty sea air, I couldn't help but feel a rush of nostalgia for another belle ville on the coast. How I've missed living near the sea.

Cagliari was where we got our first introduction into Sardinian culture. The beaches, the cafes, churches - all of it exuded a distinct culture, the kind that can only be cultivated by centuries of invasions and conquests.

In the mornings we explored the narrow streets, discovering 20th century apartment buildings sharing the block with old roman houses, graffiti next to ancient columns, and drank cappuccino in old cobblestone piazzas...

We strolled along the beaches, watching the wind surfers....

 ...chatted for hours, while sipping white wine...

 ...found hidden corners of the old town...

 ...frolicked in Roman ruins...

 (...really, really appreciating said ruins...)

 ...visited the Sunday market...

 ...finding buckets of live crustaceans, crawling around, for sale, of course...

 ...but never tiring of this view...

... and realizing that all Sardinians, even the cats, love pasta. 

 And, at night, we found ourselves seated at the Cagliarian dinner table, filled with squids, octopus, fish eggs, and sea bass. There were guitars, rounds of Mirto (a sweet Sardinian liquor), singing, stories and tarot cards. And you better believe there was dancing too.

"Thank you for the invite to dance on Golden Streets"

This marks the fourth time (third consecutive) that I've missed American Halloween. But Europe is good to me and compensates by offering a whole week of vacation (ten days in France!) in honor of 'All Saint's Day' on November 1. Think of it as a religious interpretation of 'trick-or-treat.' You go to the cemetery, honor your deceased relatives, and, according to my friend, show off your new winter coat.

As I have no relatives in Luxembourg, living or dead, I skipped town in search of warmer climate.

And I found myself in Sardinia, an island in the Mediterranean. According to maps and political boundaries, this is an Italian island, but ask anyone and they'll tell you it's a unique culture all on its own.

Miss Cafe Lux and I found ourselves strolling along the beach, exploring ancient ruins, singing with Sardinian guitar players and eating delicious food. It was beautiful, refreshing and so good for my soul to bask in the sunlight.

Les Deux Gourmands

One of my favorite parts of this semester? Hanging out with this lovely lady (the daughter of two of the American professors) and baking, baking, baking. On this particular night we made 'apple crisp', using the apples from our orchard!

And to this Ohio girl, nothing says 'welcome Fall' like apple crisps.

Reims, France

It's hard to stay focused on the Champagne when you have this guy keeping you company at during your morning cafe.

Quince

 

Behind the Chateau, on the property grounds, is an orchard. I first discovered the grove of apple, plum and pear trees when I was student, exploring this little world that enveloped the students.

The property isn’t expansive by any means, but it’s just big enough, with just enough foliage, that you can lose yourself, if only for a moment. Each small discovery is like a little treasure – finding apple and pear trees, noticing walnuts hidden in the grass, bushes filled with tiny jewel like blackberries, and there, in the vines crawling up the Chateau walls, grapes. And best of all, the quince tree that stands in the front courtyard.

My introduction to quince fruit was more akin to mis-communication than appreciation. You see, we thought that the quince fruit wasn’t really quince, but pears. Disgusting, fuzzy pears, actually. It wasn’t until after a disappointing mouthful of the raw fruit that we found out its true identity. And that it is absolutely necessary to cook  those suckers before eating them.

This Fall, I decided to conquer the quince, waiting until it was ripe (and fuzz free), and poaching them in a sugary, cinnamon, vanilla syrup.

 {from here}

I learned in my extensive quince research (read: googling ‘quince recipes’) that quince was the ‘apple’ that Paris gave Helen of Troy, and I completely understand why. While horrible to eat raw, the smell of a quince fruit is intoxicatingly fragrant. I’ve kept a few on my window ledge in my kitchen.

And man oh man, sweet smell of the fruit coupled with the fresh fall air just makes my heart sing.

Loch Lomond, Scotland

By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie braes,

Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond
Where me and my true love were ever wont to gae,
On the bonnie bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

Oh! Ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road,
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye,
But me and my true love will never meet again,
On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

Third time's the charm...

....or so I had always heard.

And so it has been with this, my third battle with the gods-that-be in the immigration offices of Europe.

When I moved to France, it all happened so quickly. In my first (very confusing) days of cultural immersion, with paper work, and shouting, (and of course, lots of wine) I found myself at the préfecture, the seat of the local government.

I remember bringing my file with every piece of paper I could find in my closet/apartment (we're talking plane ticket stubs, copies of my passport, a note my mom had written me), sitting in the small office, and digging through my stash, trying to find all the documents Madame needed.

Three months later, my visa was about to expire, my health care and housing allowance (both contingent on a worker's permit) were non-existent, and my stress level was very high. If you had walked into the La Rochelle préfecture in December of 2008, about a week before Christmas, you would have seen a panicked American, pleading in her best french for something, anything really, that would make her a legitimate French resident, and at the very least, gain her entry back into the country after she visited her family over the holidays.

Literally, hours before I boarded the train to Charles de Gaulle, I got my permit.

Last year, I decided to take the same fighting spirit that had landed me my titre de sejour a year earlier to the Luxembourg Ministry of Immigration.  

...expect it was worse than before. I was in perpetual Kafka-esque immigration limbo, my afternoons spent with my ear glued to the phone, transferred from one desk to the next. One lady even laughed at me before telling me I had done everything wrong. I was illegal for a week before I got the call that granted me my legitimacy in this small country.

But this year? This year, I sent in the paperwork, I waited patiently, and, in two to three weeks, I received my letter that my documents were cleared. And today? Today I went to the city, letter and passport in hand. And the woman? She looked at me, smiled. And put my visa sticker in my passport.

 Ah, look at that beautiful mug shot

The third time around, there were no frustrated tears, no frantically-looking-through-my-dictionary-to-translate-this-stupid-official-letter, no pleading with the person in the immigration office.

There was just a nice lady, a sweet smile, a new visa, and a cafe au lait at the corner cafe to celebrate.

Brussels, Belgium

The thing that was more breath-taking than the beautiful architecture was the Gaufres Chaudes. My two favorite things: hot waffles and food trucks.

Just along for the ride

I've been off the radar for a few months. In the time since my absence from this little corner of cyber - space, I got back into my Cleveland groove (fell back in love with that city on the lake), returned to Differdange, and began a new semester of coordinating student activities for a new crop of students.

Time has flown.

As I feel the year ticking away, the last in Europe (for the time being), it feels surreal. I've started my bucket list for the year (learn German, hike 100 km of the Camino de Santiago) but with the full realization that the best moments are the unplanned.

Before I came back to Luxembourg, I felt I needed plans. There were expectations. And for a minute, I forgot what it was like to just let go, enjoy the ride, and see what life could serve up.

So here I am, beginning year three of this European existence, an unexpected journey that found me at the crossroads of life, nervous, but eager to see what's next.

at the edge of Loch Lomond, Scotland