tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63245651127295670912024-02-19T15:16:45.719-10:00Turnbull TravelsTaliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-2233077105911258122023-11-23T06:59:00.002-10:002023-11-23T06:59:50.675-10:00The Leaves on our Trees<p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Every once in awhile, if you’re lucky, you get a teacher who changes your life.</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-5ffc2545-7fff-cd32-a753-699265eb3f50"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I’ve been fortunate to have had a few over the years, notably my cello and orchestra teachers, without whose influence I would be a very different person. But I also had one very special English teacher in high school: a wonderful lady by the name of Penny. All of her senior students got to call her by her first name, and I was looking forward to earning that privilege upon completing her class at the end of my junior year. It was the spring of 2004, and I had loved her English class. It was hard work – Penny didn’t take crap from anyone, and she also didn’t accept any late work. She demanded and received responsibility, attention, and excellence from her students. Through literature, poetry, and essay writing, she got us to think critically, to examine the deepest parts of ourselves, and to develop empathy and compassion for others. Imagine my dismay, then, when she told my class that we were to be her final students – she was retiring.</span></p><br /><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Not to be deterred, I struck up a friendship with Penny after she left teaching. I had connected with her on a deeper level than most kids find with their high school teachers, and I didn’t want to lose that bond. She seemed to value me too. When Penny, who had long been a single mom, got married in 2004, I was the first student at school that she told. It hadn’t been a big to-do of a wedding, and it hadn’t even occurred to her to announce it to her students. But she felt like she should tell someone, so she confided in me one day after class. Being a self-absorbed 16-year-old, this didn’t make much of an impact on me at the time and I had almost forgotten about it. But years later she reminded me of this fact and shared what it had meant to her to have a student she could trust with the details of her personal life.</span></p><br /></span><span><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p></span><span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjNjzYDmhAcsFDDqim4GICZAXIPs3eDJt8ABJ7EM-jSrHGqKQr2dCevMz4xdf1DxzT1Q9SND59lyJzy5wgxsCwvrsshA9w-OHtBgB25tauDT9sWTlWlxi61-N2TsYqEC7-Dhvhk1wGkOLG3OhQ1BJ0p0V8l61NaLihg8-O3zQUVceguApLQ4LCh-f3BdY/s4624/20231115_133029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4624" data-original-width="3468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjNjzYDmhAcsFDDqim4GICZAXIPs3eDJt8ABJ7EM-jSrHGqKQr2dCevMz4xdf1DxzT1Q9SND59lyJzy5wgxsCwvrsshA9w-OHtBgB25tauDT9sWTlWlxi61-N2TsYqEC7-Dhvhk1wGkOLG3OhQ1BJ0p0V8l61NaLihg8-O3zQUVceguApLQ4LCh-f3BdY/s320/20231115_133029.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Autumn foliage in Oregon</span></td></tr></tbody></table>So what was Penny’s influence on me? She didn’t teach me to write. I was already pretty competent by the time I got to her class. Although she did, however, help me refine and examine my writing, and taught me the value of using writing as a means of self-reflection. She didn’t teach me to appreciate literature, either. I was already a bookworm. I read some great stories and poetry in her class, but I could have done that on my own. What Penny did was she told me I could be a writer. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">She didn’t just say it once, either. She would write it in her comments on my school essays. She would write it in her emails about my blog posts. Over the course of nineteen years, during which we kept in touch and would get together when I came back to town, she never neglected to encourage me to become an author. She said that whenever I got up the courage to write a book, she would gladly volunteer as an editor. During that whole time, outwardly, I was enjoying my career as a music teacher. But deep down, I really wanted to write.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Admittedly, until recently, I never seriously considered ditching my music career to become a writer. I had invested too much time and energy into teaching music to even fathom giving it up. And besides, a healthy dose of realism and pessimism prevented me from thinking I could ever succeed as an author. But Penny planted that seed in the fertile soil of my mind twenty years ago, and finally the first tender sprouts are springing forth. The specter of failure still sits with me every time I sit down at my writing desk, but I’ve found the courage and the confidence that Penny always knew were there.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I last saw Penny in person around Thanksgiving 2019. I brought my then three-year-old daughter with me to Penny’s house and Penny was absolutely delighted to chat with me about books, films, and travels and to play hide and seek with my daughter behind the cushions of her overstuffed couch. We had a lovely time together, but I could tell that something wasn’t quite right. When we had knocked on the door, Penny opened it still wearing her bathrobe. She had forgotten about our meet-up. No problem though; she quickly changed and we sat down to a cup of tea surrounded by the many wonderful paintings on her walls. We had a lively conversation, but I noticed her occasionally repeating statements and questions that she had said only a few minutes earlier. This forgetfulness was new to me – I hadn’t seen any evidence of it before, and it was pervasive enough that I started to feel a tiny crack in my heart when we left. This was more than just her getting older. Her memory was slipping away from her. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">A few months after our last visit, the world began its quick collapse under the weight of Covid-19. Consecutive lockdowns, coupled with our move from Hawaii to England made it highly unlikely that I would see Penny again any time soon. As the months turned into years, it became more and more difficult to get in touch with her. Not because of her memory, but because of my fear. Penny had such an incredible mind - sharp, inquisitive, insightful - that I couldn’t stand the idea of her losing those powers of thought. I decided it would be too hard to see her diminished in such a cruel way. So when we finally came back to Oregon, nearly three years later, I made the rather cowardly decision to not get in touch with Penny. How I regret that now.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I’m back in Oregon for my first Thanksgiving since 2019. I decided to become a full-time writer in September, thanks in no small part to Penny’s persistent encouragement for more than half of my life. So at this time of gratitude and reflection, it felt only right to contact Penny and thank her for never giving up on me. I didn’t know how she was doing, I wasn’t sure if she would respond, but I needed to try. I emailed her and waited. A week went by. With each passing day, I felt more certain that things had gotten much worse for her. Finally, I saw an email from her in my inbox. My heart leapt for a moment, only to be crushed in the next when I saw that the response was from Penny’s husband, offering to call me with an update.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Penny is now in a memory care facility. She was moved there about nine months ago and her husband visits her several times a week, taking her out to lunch, and bringing her back home for a few hours. But every time he takes her back to the facility, she gets upset again, which must be absolutely heartbreaking for him. Nonetheless, Penny’s husband kindly offered to take me to see her. He was hopeful that she might want to go out for coffee, or at least chat with me in the cafeteria. I, on the other hand, had no idea what to expect. Would she remember me? Would she want to talk to me? Would any of the teacher that I loved and respected remain?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The answer: I’m not sure.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Perhaps due to some side-effects from her medicine, Penny has recently been sleeping for most of the day. When we visited her, she was tucked up in bed, unable to stay awake for more than a minute. She hadn’t had breakfast, hadn’t gotten out of bed at all that we could see. She was so drowsy it seemed like she was struggling to come out of general anesthesia. When she briefly sat up, I could see that her gray hair was longer than she used to keep it, and was unusually untidy. She looked old and depleted, not the petite firecracker of wit and wisdom that I was accustomed to.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But when she saw me, for a brief moment her eyes lit up, her wan face transformed with a radiant smile, and it was just like old times. Her husband asked if she remembered me and her response was a quiet but enthusiastic “Yes!” I felt replete with hope, my heart so happy to see her smile.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Then, just as suddenly, she flopped back down on her pillow and closed her eyes as if we weren’t even there. After a few more attempts to wake and engage her, Penny’s husband went to the cafeteria to procure a bit of food for her breakfast. When he returned, she and I shared a small chuckle when, with a sassy shake of her head she replied “ppfft” in response to an offer of strawberry yogurt. It was a very Penny-esque gesture, and I felt a moment of relief that some element of her was still there. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwaMvZBA1kxd87G9NLL3m6tJfqp5LD2x4ECdZ_C7I5z9Tjt1gZUsF55nm4ZkpS82fzkDBROxzettYArsujztWqA2Frb5iyg79jq0znqengO3Ldn5T46vXKp0m1ZgN18oAxQZYOeCamEk59F4v0pKu0pvXn-YYeaisC0fP1Bm3YH3UenM8KQn8vInhiMwo/s4624/20231116_121823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4624" data-original-width="3468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwaMvZBA1kxd87G9NLL3m6tJfqp5LD2x4ECdZ_C7I5z9Tjt1gZUsF55nm4ZkpS82fzkDBROxzettYArsujztWqA2Frb5iyg79jq0znqengO3Ldn5T46vXKp0m1ZgN18oAxQZYOeCamEk59F4v0pKu0pvXn-YYeaisC0fP1Bm3YH3UenM8KQn8vInhiMwo/s320/20231116_121823.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">But that was as much as we got from her. Not long after, she wanted us to leave so that she could sleep again. With tears in my eyes, I walked away from my dear friend and mentor, leaving her to waste away in a place that projects a false cheerfulness to hide the profound sadness of the inmates who are experiencing memory loss.</span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">A good teacher leaves indelible marks on her students, helping them to grow and to overcome the obstacles in their path. Penny achieved all of this and much more in her decades of teaching. I only had one year in her class, but was lucky enough to get nineteen years of her friendship. I am beyond grateful for her love, encouragement, and support, and would give anything to take away her present afflictions. But even now, I’m still learning from her - learning how to have courage and strength in the face of difficulty. And of course, she’s still inspiring me to write too. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Here’s to you, Penny. Thank you for everything.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p></span>Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-15402527762463737722023-09-08T00:38:00.003-10:002023-09-08T00:44:18.763-10:00359 Days in the English WorkforceThey say when one door closes, another opens. I just didn’t expect this door to slam in my face quite so soon. My journey into the British workforce lasted only 359 days. I didn’t even make it a full year. My final contracted day was last week, and as I left the Sage after returning my laptop and key card, I paused for a minute to look at the building that only a year ago, I was so excited to be calling my workplace. <div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xi5fxSO8ZEIqYi2DFEByG-3gnMvJO9ZiBuZA18loZvpNv7z56QUgeaFES97LfBDh9-Bfutbt7PGqaDlcM3ozmk01djcS-HemTbMqw8klzo4G0hIL86Eesvokrw126twkk2JhJQhOrpf1fkB0b5V5fMufdB6vLHEzkJe7x9Zzy5NmKZua-AmbmkUAVx4/s1020/sage.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="1020" height="107" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xi5fxSO8ZEIqYi2DFEByG-3gnMvJO9ZiBuZA18loZvpNv7z56QUgeaFES97LfBDh9-Bfutbt7PGqaDlcM3ozmk01djcS-HemTbMqw8klzo4G0hIL86Eesvokrw126twkk2JhJQhOrpf1fkB0b5V5fMufdB6vLHEzkJe7x9Zzy5NmKZua-AmbmkUAVx4/s320/sage.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sage Gateshead</td></tr></tbody></table><div>It’s a very unusual building, iconic. I think it looks like a shining, silver patchwork chrysalis for a gigantic caterpillar that’s resting along the quayside. The inside is just as marvelous. There’s no hint of a transforming butterfly–just massive, beautiful concert halls and exceptional views of the River Tyne, including the plethora of imposing yet graceful bridges that straddle the water, the nearly 900-year-old keep of Newcastle Castle, and all the amazing old buildings, spires, and clock towers that still make me marvel that I live in England. I felt a childlike excitement every time I beeped my way through the stage doors and into the front of house, always secretly expecting someone to stop me and ask what I was doing there. </div><div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3t0mcw95XPVuUClellJiidIEnFCyMAspCsmCgdpeRZZFSJ-zAMe3jWYjC1D54vfWVJ-MmuY-wgtoa7xs7AZ9LIcEU54MDbsoAgYwzld8rLZFkqPgyrTdZkbL761DmJmSB2WrKhFTzQXTL11IOKvMYpIA9cWCggTCQgawutQHAXLg3ngIiHpBpD9whME/s770/newcastle%20quayside.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="770" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB3t0mcw95XPVuUClellJiidIEnFCyMAspCsmCgdpeRZZFSJ-zAMe3jWYjC1D54vfWVJ-MmuY-wgtoa7xs7AZ9LIcEU54MDbsoAgYwzld8rLZFkqPgyrTdZkbL761DmJmSB2WrKhFTzQXTL11IOKvMYpIA9cWCggTCQgawutQHAXLg3ngIiHpBpD9whME/s320/newcastle%20quayside.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Newcastle quayside</td></tr></tbody></table>Before we even moved to England, when Rory was just applying for the job at Newcastle University, I found the Sage after some quick googling and instantly knew that I wanted to work there. It’s not just a concert hall, but also provides a very robust community music education program. And the program I was most keen on being a part of was In Harmony. Similar to El Sistema music programs around the world, In Harmony is about transforming kids’ lives through music education. In Newcastle, it operates at two schools in the culturally diverse but lower-income West end. Every child at the school receives his or her own orchestral musical instrument as well as two to three hours a week of music instruction. All for free. It was the perfect fit for me, working with In Harmony, or so I thought.</div><div><br /></div><div>The thing was, I knew, after fifteen years of teaching music, that I was done being a teacher. I had suspected that I needed a career change about eight years ago, but I persisted in music teaching because that’s what I had trained to do. Since I was a teenager I had wanted to teach music, and everything I did after high school prepared me to follow that path. So even though I knew, deep down, that I should find a job that aligned with my true self, where I wouldn’t have to put on an extroverted façade all day long, it felt too scary of a prospect to up and leave. That’s where In Harmony came in. </div><div><br /></div><div>An In Harmony program assistant job opened up last summer, and given that the program runs at my daughter’s school, and I would be working close to our neighborhood, it seemed like the perfect opportunity for me. It was a purely administrative job, not a teaching one, and it was in the music education field, so I would still feel right at home. Or, mostly anyway, because music ed in England is not the same as in America. But we’ll come to that later.
I worked out of the two schools, doing mostly simple tasks like printing music and setting up chairs and music stands, and I could be as introverted as I wanted to be. There was very little stress involved, no work in the evenings, no sleepless nights agonizing over how to deal with difficult students. After two years of pandemic- and baby-induced stay-at-home momming, I was grateful to be out of the house and having conversations with adults again, even if the majority of my skills and training were not being put to use and most of my music teacher colleagues had no idea that I was actually one of them. It was a job and I was getting paid for easy work.</div><div><br /></div><div>But this was my first foray into UK working life, and it was the first time since moving to Newcastle that I was surrounded by non-family British adults all day long. It was eye-opening. Although everyone was welcoming, more or less, I never quite got over my feeling of otherness. It was little things: having my colleagues offer me a cup of tea multiple times a day (nice, but strange), hearing different music terminology and pronunciations (see below), and not understanding 90% of the interactions I had with the school caretaker (US: <i>janitor</i>) due to his Geordie dialect. </div><div><br /></div><div>On one memorable occasion, I was talking with my boss and some of my colleagues, and I learned what I thought was a new British term. New to me, anyway. They were describing someone and feigning surprise at the person’s actions. “Shakara!” my boss said. Shakara? What the heck does that mean? I thought. Perhaps it was a word with roots in one of Britain’s former colonies, like pukka, or pundit. I pondered it the rest of the day, and when Google didn’t help elucidate things for me, I asked Rory if he was familiar with the word. He was puzzled too. But later that evening we had a breakthrough. Turns out I hadn’t learned a quaint new English word. I simply couldn’t understand my boss’s accent. It wasn’t <i>shakara</i>, it was <i>shock horror</i>. Oops.</div><div><br /></div><div>British music terminology also required a lot of learning. It was strange to be working in the same field as I’d always been, and yet to not know the right words for things. Take rhythms for example. In the US, rhythms are described using a logical fraction system. A long, four-beat note is a whole note. A shorter two-beat note is a half note. One beat is a quarter note, and so on. In Britain, logic is nowhere in sight. Rhythm terms are random, and admittedly, rather comical. </div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Whole note = <i>semibreve</i> </li><li>Half note = <i>minim</i></li><li>Quarter note =<i> crotchet</i> (how do people say that with a straight face?)</li><li>Eighth note = <i>quaver</i> (also the name of a cheesy crisp)</li><li>Sixteenth note = <i>semiquaver</i></li><li>32nd note = <i>demisemiquaver</i></li><li>64th note = <i>hemidemisemiquaver</i> (you’ve got to be kidding me) </li></ul><div><br /></div>Perhaps it seems a small thing, to have to use new terminology and to not always understand what people are saying. But it’s those little things that cement the feeling of not belonging and shatter the illusion you create for yourself that you’re at home, doing what you’ve always done. They make you realize again for the thousandth time that you’re a foreigner. You’ll never quite fit in here. That’s life in the immigrant lane, I guess.</div><div><br /></div><div>You may be asking yourself by now, what happened to the job? Why did it end? Surely Talia couldn’t have been so incompetent at setting up chairs that she was fired? (Yes, thank you for the vote of confidence.) Well, as with most things in the arts sector, it came down to money, or a lack thereof. The Arts Council England, a government agency that provided two-thirds of In Harmony’s funding, suddenly pulled the plug this year. I guess they decided that ten years of changing kids’ lives with music was quite enough. They left us with one more year of funding as a transition year, but starting in August 2024, the Newcastle In Harmony program will be decimated. As the last one in, I was the first one to be let go. It’ll only go downhill from here.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’ve seen first-hand the difference that In Harmony makes in the lives of the children and families who participate. It transforms communities, it brings people from wildly disparate backgrounds together in one common endeavor. It gives children with minimal hopes for the future the tools and attitudes they need to overcome the innumerable obstacles in their path.</div><div><br /></div><div>And it’s going down the drain.</div><div><br /></div><div>In Harmony Newcastle will still exist after 2024. At least, in some form. Maybe not in both schools, maybe not for all the children, but a shell of In Harmony will remain. Yet it will never have the same impact as it does now, which, frankly, pisses me off. All the more so because my two kids should have benefited from this program throughout their primary school years, and now that’s been snatched away from them. Through In Harmony, my daughter started learning the cello in school, twice a week, from age five. My three-year-old son is going to have musicianship classes in his nursery (US: <i>preschool</i>) this year, taught by an excellent, qualified music teacher. That’s freaking remarkable. How many schools do you know that provide that level of music education? I’m willing to bet the answer is none.</div><div><br /></div><div>And given the government’s disregard for the value of arts education, I expect there soon won’t be any schools left in England embracing music on the same level as they currently do with In Harmony. For me, as someone who has dedicated my entire adult life to teaching music, this is heartbreaking. I was only with In Harmony for a year, and all I did was make copies and stack chairs, but it’s been hard to leave this program, hard to see its foundations crumbling, and hard to say goodbye to my first British job and colleagues, even if I didn’t always understand what they were saying.</div><div><br /></div><div>But when one door closes, another door opens.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is one upside to my newfound lack of employment. Thanks to the financial security provided by my wonderful husband, and the free preschool childcare provided by my kids’ school, I now have the time, freedom, and mental space to try full-time something I’ve always wanted to do: writing. The ultimate job for the introverted. You may be seeing more blog posts from me soon. Stay posted.</div>Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-46692127732169827282022-07-20T10:51:00.003-10:002022-07-20T10:52:26.639-10:00Two Years in England<p>I had a delightfully English experience as I washed the dishes the other night. I was rewatching the final episode of season five of Downton Abbey, where the Crawleys attend a shooting party at the fictional Brancaster Castle. I was scrubbing a frying pan and suddenly had to lean in to get a closer look at my phone, because on the screen was a decorative wall chock-full of several-hundred-year-old pistols and swords arranged in swirling patterns at the entrance to the castle. You know, just your average wall of weapons to welcome your guests to your home. As you do in England. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://i0.wp.com/scenetherapy.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Downton-Abbey-Locations-Brancaster-Castle-library-alnwick.png?ssl=1" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://i0.wp.com/scenetherapy.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/Downton-Abbey-Locations-Brancaster-Castle-library-alnwick.png?ssl=1" title="Downton cast at Alnwick Castle" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downton cast in the Alnwick Castle library</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUqcULu3xuSXxrdNXKO3_eEpBa5QiAB1LTPiCWyi6UtwREMCyz6WL33-xG5jxHY5pccUpcuxfXmAU_rH1AcQUl5q23wB35rEg-SclE80npX2UxmzE8GM7eyfVJaOFU_HPhVgnrGKkvEyoOQb7ViYSknEFXcW947lykIG5sa9JXceaBfhPbxGM7lHM2/s2048/IMG-20220524-WA0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="921" data-original-width="2048" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUqcULu3xuSXxrdNXKO3_eEpBa5QiAB1LTPiCWyi6UtwREMCyz6WL33-xG5jxHY5pccUpcuxfXmAU_rH1AcQUl5q23wB35rEg-SclE80npX2UxmzE8GM7eyfVJaOFU_HPhVgnrGKkvEyoOQb7ViYSknEFXcW947lykIG5sa9JXceaBfhPbxGM7lHM2/s320/IMG-20220524-WA0003.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Except that this was no mere set for a TV show–I had seen this very same wall only a few hours before when we visited Alnwick Castle in Northumberland. Built in the 11th century, Alnwick (pronounced “Annick”) Castle is the second largest inhabited castle in England after Windsor Castle, where the Queen’s family lives. The Duke of Northumberland and his family live at Alnwick, and it’s very strange to see current family photos and squashy bean bag chairs around a flat-screen TV juxtaposed with the centuries-old portraits and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the library. The castle was also used as the Hogwarts castle in the first two Harry Potter films, so go back and re-watch those if you want a sense of the grandeur of the place.<br /><p></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJstoypj0oglgwaXkPwi-EWAOd5hg2H_YeEAV3X7o0wbav54Dkj9J9QXgL2tshezCBWlfnrqmaiqfJu8tifDA85RaNE9sWhuTSQn7JhIdfF2fTubRL0bbOpyKPMc58bNC-AbkKhikXkM_ltNOQ1fmFL-54d3VU4Ar0NcNpj6KlAgtmhsoMh58O-dpk/s4624/20220524_113051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3468" data-original-width="4624" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJstoypj0oglgwaXkPwi-EWAOd5hg2H_YeEAV3X7o0wbav54Dkj9J9QXgL2tshezCBWlfnrqmaiqfJu8tifDA85RaNE9sWhuTSQn7JhIdfF2fTubRL0bbOpyKPMc58bNC-AbkKhikXkM_ltNOQ1fmFL-54d3VU4Ar0NcNpj6KlAgtmhsoMh58O-dpk/s320/20220524_113051.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Castle visitors taking a broomstick flying lesson</td></tr></tbody></table>Back to Downton Abbey. As the Crawleys walked up the stairs from the weapons wall and into another lavishly decorated room, I recognized two black and gold cabinets that Rory had pointed out to me earlier that morning. He told me that the absurdly ornate cabinets were purchased for the castle a few hundred years before from the palace at Versailles; they were apparently considered tacky and out-of-date, which is why the French royalty were keen to sell. Naturally, an English aristocrat bought them. I would have loved to delve further into the fascinating history of the castle and its many curiosities, but our tour through the place was at a very brisk pace, owing to the need to keep toddler hands off of priceless works of art.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCykS5fhebBwj6rbf_XvP5XBec8u6fb8bqE8F5K3HHNDvCP9CxF_TAqNPgTHeN_NzX7wDYOX1DLh_cyKD5SHfalZldOa2d7ppJDN34dAkm36gmp-Fq351qZOSQG0sedTaDsj9u9cQllE2EIkK3p5LRMyq3zjU49ryKd2vpUc4_eXc9PiK7wb3tEzv/s4624/20220524_112443.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4624" data-original-width="3468" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTCykS5fhebBwj6rbf_XvP5XBec8u6fb8bqE8F5K3HHNDvCP9CxF_TAqNPgTHeN_NzX7wDYOX1DLh_cyKD5SHfalZldOa2d7ppJDN34dAkm36gmp-Fq351qZOSQG0sedTaDsj9u9cQllE2EIkK3p5LRMyq3zjU49ryKd2vpUc4_eXc9PiK7wb3tEzv/s320/20220524_112443.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little bulldozer enjoying the castle grounds</td></tr></tbody></table><p>It is experiences like these that highlight one of the many charms of living in the UK. Namely, that history is at our fingertips. One need only drive a few miles before a medieval castle pops up. And closer to home, the house that we bought in December is one hundred years old, which is fairly typical here. We were amused to find that in the original deed to the house, it said we weren’t allowed to build stables in the back garden or there would be a five pound penalty, which really dashed our hopes of opening a ranch. And a little ways down the street from us is part of Hadrian’s Wall, which was built by the Romans nearly two thousand years ago. We haven’t stopped to look at it properly yet, as it’s next to a busy road near the highway. And also, it’s just a pile of rocks. Historically significant, sure, but not all that interesting. Nonetheless, living in England gives us the opportunity to engage with history, even ancient history, in a very real way that wasn’t part of my upbringing in America. </p><p>Speaking of ancient history, it has already been more than two years since Rory and I moved our family from Hawaii to England. The anniversary of our early-pandemic 7,000 mile journey came and went without me even noticing it this year, perhaps because I’ve grown so accustomed to living here, or more likely I just forgot due to my motherhood-induced brain fog. But now that this country is coming out of the pandemic, I’m beginning to see it in a new light. We’re able to travel around more and visit fascinating places, and we’re finally getting to know our neighbors and make lasting friendships, all of which make this foreign land feel a bit more like home.</p><p></p><p>In less than a week, however, I’ll actually be going home. We’ll be making the trek back to the United States to visit my family in Washington and Oregon, most of whom I haven’t seen in three years. It will be our toddler son’s first transatlantic flight and his first time meeting his aunts, uncles, and cousins in person. And our nearly six-year-old daughter has been in England so long that she has no memory of America, so I can’t wait to see what she thinks of the place. Fingers crossed for a smooth and joyful trip back to the land of the free.</p>Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-75015892426277189502021-11-25T11:08:00.001-10:002021-11-25T11:08:16.962-10:00Thanksgiving in England<p>Thanksgiving has been billed as the <i>end of an era</i> in my family this year. My parents are hosting the family dinner in their Oregon home for the last time before they sell their comfortable, spacious house and downsize to a one-level place. At least, that’s what they keep telling us. Speaking from recent experience, I can confidently say that buying and selling a house takes longer than you think it will, and knowing my parents, I wouldn’t say with certainty that they’ll be out of theirs before next November. Still, that’s the plan, so my three brothers and their spouses, my six nieces and nephews, plus my two cousins and their two kids will all make the journey through the evergreen forests to converge on the warm and cozy Huntington Drive house this week with silly amounts of delicious food to share.</p><p>I won’t be there. The home I lived in from ages thirteen to eighteen will be filled with everyone in my family except me. But I’ve been to enough Lindsley family Thanksgivings that I can envision how the event will go. The dining table and card tables will be set up with elegant autumnal table cloths and centerpieces. The natural wood buffet table in the kitchen will be laden with an indecent number of pies of every variety imaginable, including a “mystery pie” designed to test the taste buds. Scents of sweet potato casserole browning in the oven, fluffy potatoes being mashed, and a huge smoked turkey sizzling away will permeate every corner of the house and make tummies rumble.</p><p>The absurdly long remodeled kitchen will be bustling with my mom in an apron and some variety of her daughters-in-law, with the occasional appearance by my brothers. My dad will be as far away from the action as he can manage, likely outside in the shop. The younger kids will be chasing each other around the downstairs, or playing music on the drums and xylophones, or playing games, while the tweens are ensconced in the squishy tan sectional that borders the family room, staring at their phones and ignoring the world around them. My siblings and cousins will be catching up with each other’s news. Despite all living on the west coast, they don’t see each other that often, and they will be sharing how jobs are going, how the kids are doing in school, and what new sewing or DIY house projects they’re tackling. It will be pleasant and comfortable, with only a light dusting of chaos, now that most of the grandkids are older and that my two rambunctious children, one and five years old, won’t be there.</p><p>My son, a toddler with a sense of humor and his own agenda, has never been to that house. Born a few months into the pandemic, and shortly after we moved from Hawaii to England, he was eleven months old before he even met my parents in person. He has never been on an airplane, has never been outside of the UK. My brothers and their families are just moving pictures on a screen to him.</p><p>In contrast, my five-year-old daughter has been on about thirty airplanes in her short life, traversing oceans and continents, and last visited my parents’ house two years ago. But Covid and time have obliterated those memories for her. Even her previous home of Hawaii is more of a feeling than a memory now--just warmth, fragrant breezes, and contentment. Oregon is a foreign concept to her, just like the holiday of Thanksgiving itself. She doesn’t remember her last Thanksgiving in Oregon as a three-year-old, drawing pictures on the kitchen chalkboard with Grandpa, who made it down onto the floor with her. Or reading <i>If You Give a Mouse a Cookie</i> with Grammie in the floral armchair. Trying to emulate her big cousins who were very sweet and patient with her. As etched into my memory as those events were, the relevant synapses in her brain have already been pruned and discarded. So this week I’ve been trying to explain to my daughter what Thanksgiving is about. A budding English girl, she remains unconvinced of its importance. </p><p>“But it’s not a real holiday since I won’t get to stay home from school,” she told me yesterday. Admittedly, she has a point. Thanksgiving doesn’t feel quite the same living in England, when no one else is snug at home on a Thursday, cooking up a storm, and gathering with family to celebrate. There’s a sort of inertia that washes over you when celebrating something by yourself in another country. When the only turkeys you can find in the stores are frozen ones set out early for Christmas, and when you have to order canned pumpkin from Amazon because it doesn’t exist elsewhere. When British people look incredulous and slightly disgusted if you mention pumpkin pie. It’s tough to be an American abroad on Thanksgiving. It’s a holiday that revels in the concept of home, with comforting rituals of food and family to encourage you to reflect on the beauty and bounties of your home and family life. Yet because you have made your life in a foreign country, your whole understanding of what constitutes home has acquired so many shades of complexity that nothing and nowhere quite feels like home anymore. Try as you might to approximate those rituals, you simply can’t evoke the sentiments in the same way. Instead of togetherness, you feel more alone. </p><p>But I wouldn’t want to abandon my family’s traditions and give up on Thanksgiving. Given that my family doesn’t celebrate Christmas together, Thanksgiving is the one holiday of the year where we acknowledge the beauty, vitality, and quirkiness of the now much-expanded Lindsley family. Where we overcome our introversion and ineptitude at polite conversation for the sake of building unity amongst our selves and our spouses and our children. It’s also where we remember our loved ones who have passed on, by sharing stories about them and keeping their traditions alive. Before my family eats their Thanksgiving meal, for instance, they will undoubtedly circle around the kitchen holding hands (or touching elbows this year, perhaps) and chant “yummmmm” in the style of my aunt Maya, whose peaceful and loving presence will be missed again this year. Thanksgiving allows us to see how beautiful the foliage is on our family tree, and the falling leaves outside remind us of those who have already floated away from our branches. </p><p>As I thought about Thanksgiving this year, my second year in a row of not physically being with my family, I reflected on the purpose of the holiday and its place in my life. Thanksgiving isn’t just about catching up with relatives and stuffing our faces with food. And as I’m realizing more with each year I spend outside of the US, it also isn’t about relishing the coziness of my parents’ house and feeling comforted and loved by the people I grew up around. I live 4,750 miles away from my parents and siblings. If I focus on the distance between us and what I’m missing out on because of it, I’d much rather skip Thanksgiving altogether. It hurts too much. Besides, if my parents do manage to sell their house before next November, I won’t have a familiar home to go back to anyway. So I have to let go of those ephemeral desires and focus on what Thanksgiving is really about.</p><p>Thanksgiving is about gratitude. That’s what I told my daughter anyway. She quickly latched onto the concept and started listing things she was thankful for. “I’m very thanksgiving for having such a wonderful loving mum,” she said, before hugging me with a warm smile. I managed to keep a straight face at her misuse of the word “thanksgiving”, and then cringed inside just a little that she called me her <i>mum</i> instead of her <i>mom</i>. But I let the moment pass and listened to the rest of her gratitude list. It was sweet and thoughtful, a beautiful reflection of her five-year-old mind.</p><p>And reflection is needed if we are to look deep enough within ourselves to feel a genuine sense of gratitude for all of the twists and turns that life throws at us. What a marvelous and unexpected journey I’ve had that has led me to this place. From Washington, to Missouri, to Oregon, to Ohio, to Paris, to Hawaii, to England, I’ve taken with me the love of my family, my husband, and now my children wherever I go. Thanksgiving gives us the opportunity to reflect on the meaning of home and family, and when I think about the manifold blessings I’ve received, gratitude wells up within me, threatening to leak out as tears. This time of reflection, this appreciation for life’s bounties, this thankfulness for the people in our lives is what I want to pass along to my children by sharing my holiday with them.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGIkEE-GhLnc93AhFcLsGtu3TXYf1FJ0t_ROteiU8D9dVBdzeBwsadZkfmdOiPe2kVWzrUKTgDN8hT_C-zFJE64R-lpPTRmIwbL-d4Hq4i15VngGnSDt8DHWZ8wykNNokIfCiW8GvoQs/s2048/WhatsApp+Image+2021-11-25+at+7.46.40+PM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="A first Thanksgiving for my Scottish in-laws" border="0" data-original-height="921" data-original-width="2048" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYGIkEE-GhLnc93AhFcLsGtu3TXYf1FJ0t_ROteiU8D9dVBdzeBwsadZkfmdOiPe2kVWzrUKTgDN8hT_C-zFJE64R-lpPTRmIwbL-d4Hq4i15VngGnSDt8DHWZ8wykNNokIfCiW8GvoQs/w400-h180/WhatsApp+Image+2021-11-25+at+7.46.40+PM.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A first Thanksgiving for my Scottish in-laws</td></tr></tbody></table>I hope that one year we’ll make it back to Oregon in November, perhaps when my son can sit still for more than thirty seconds and can handle fifteen hours on an airplane. But in the meantime, we can still contribute to our family<br /> unity by celebrating Thanksgiving in England. In the words of my dad, “We live in two worlds at the same time. In the one there is distance and in the other only nearness. To travel on the wings of love in this world you just have to move your thoughts to your desired destination and there you are!” I’m right there with you, Dad. </p><p>P. S. Speaking of homes, Rory and I have just bought our first house! We get the keys tomorrow! 😄</p>Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-12280531739104508032020-05-20T22:02:00.001-10:002020-05-20T22:10:19.023-10:00Travelling During a Pandemic, Part 1<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s a strange world we live in. After the relative normalcy of Hawaii, where, despite the stay-at-home order, we still regularly chatted with our neighbors outside, and many stores and restaurants were still open if modified, it was eye-opening to go travelling around the world and to see how the pandemic is playing out in other cities. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">As you’ll recall from my <a href="http://turnbulltravels.blogspot.com/2020/05/goodbye-hawaii.html" target="_blank">last post</a>, our goal was to move from Honolulu to England. My visa allowed me to enter the UK only between April 24 and May 24, so we had a limited window in which we could travel. Rory’s US visa also expired at the end of June, as did our American health insurance (important to have when one is pregnant!), so we felt compelled to proceed with our moving plans despite the plethora of uncertainties facing us.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In late March, as Hawaii started to implement stay-at-home orders and Rory and I began working from home, we were ecstatic to have found decent flights for all three of us for a measly $1500. That’s about a third as much as they usually cost. Maybe this pandemic won’t be so bad after all, I thought. Maybe we’ll be able to stay under our budget for moving costs. By mid-April, however, Rory, checking the status of our flights, reported that certain legs of the three-flight journey had disappeared from our itinerary. I started feeling nervous. They’ll find other flights for us, right? We’ve paid for the tickets, so we’ll get there somehow, he kept assuring me. But towards the end of April, the whole itinerary was gone. The flights just weren’t running anymore. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I often project a calm demeanor in the face of difficulties, but this stressed the heck out of me. All of our moving plans revolved around actually leaving Hawaii on May 7. What if we couldn’t get to the UK? What if we bought more plane tickets, only to have them disappear too? Rory called United Airlines multiple times, but the best they could do was get us on terrible flights that would end at London’s Heathrow Airport. We considered various ways of getting north from London to Dumfries (where Rory’s parents live), or Edinburgh (the airport closest to them). Neither a seven-hour train ride nor a six-hour drive sounded appealing after two days of flying. We thought about buying a plane ticket with a different airline just from London to Edinburgh, but we didn’t want the hassle of gathering and re-checking our many suitcases and paying for them a second time either. What to do?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">We bought new plane tickets, that’s what. The options were limited by this point, and a four-flight, 35-hour journey with American Airlines was the best we could get. Instead of $1500, (which was not refunded) it now cost closer to $4000. There was no guarantee that these flights would run either, so we just crossed our fingers and kept packing.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our house in it's mostly-emptied state.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fast-forward to Thursday, April 30. The movers came at 8 am and packed up a portion of our belongings to put on a boat. Over the next five days, our friends and neighbors took all of our furniture, appliances, and warm-weather accoutrements (goodbye, snorkel gear and beach umbrella), and left us with a nearly empty apartment. We packed our suitcases and cleaned our house. We turned in our keys. On May 5th and 6th we stayed at a hotel near the Honolulu Airport. Rory continued to check on our flights and thankfully, they still appeared to be running. Finally, it was May 7th, the day to fly. After eating leftover Vietnamese food in our hotel room for lunch, we hauled our three large suitcases, my cello, my violin, three backpacks, a carry-on roller bag, a snack bag, and my purse to a taxi and drove to the airport. And so began our journey.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">With our luggage on the airport curb, I looked around at the familiar surroundings one last time. Half-completed parking garage up ahead, confusing green road signs indicating the way to Honolulu and Waikiki, and palm trees lazily swaying in the distance. It looked as I remembered. Except that everything else was different. No cars weaving in and out of lanes, no people hurrying to the check-in counters, no garish aloha shirts worn by tourists with lei (flower necklaces) around their necks. It was desolate. Rory pulled out a camera to capture the complete lack of activity. Instead of the usual excitement tinged with sadness that I often felt at this curbside at the start of a journey, I felt hollow, afraid. We were alone.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In Part 2 of this post, we’ll share about our journey through the Honolulu, Los Angeles, Dallas, and London Heathrow airports. </span></span></div>
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Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-77665054305575416022020-05-04T08:44:00.000-10:002020-05-04T08:44:39.130-10:00Goodbye, Hawaii<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over Waikiki.</td></tr>
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Our blog, Turnbull Travels, has been dormant for two years. After the initial shock of moving to Hawaii wore off, and the prospect of potentially living here forever set in, I felt less need to document all the exciting quirks of life in Hawaii. Also, parenting and work took over our lives. But now our stay in Hawaii is coming to an end and a new adventure awaits us.<br />
<br />
It has been almost three years that we’ve lived in Honolulu. While Rory has happily continued with his assistant professorship at the University of Hawaii at Mānoa, I’ve had a variety of teaching jobs, ranging from being a full-time orchestra teacher at a Catholic all-boys school (I often needed those Hail Marys), to starting a violin program with the Hawaii Youth Symphony for underprivileged predominantly native-Hawaiian students. We’ve developed fulfilling relationships with friends and colleagues while making progress in our careers.<br />
<br />
Our beautiful daughter has become an articulate and quirky blonde three-and-a-half year-old, flourishing under the warm sun and palm trees. She’s attended two preschools here and has made plenty of friends, though she still usually prefers the company of her stuffed animals and her imagination. She gets excited when it’s “cold” enough to wear a jacket. To stay connected to family, she Skypes weekly with her grandparents and likes to send them long strings of emojis on Whatsapp. By Rory’s calculations, she’s been on nearly 30 airplanes in her short life.<br />
<br />
Hawaii has been good to us. If you have enough money, it’s easy to live here. Throw out half of your wardrobe, buy a good pair of slippers (flip flops), and you’re basically set. It is undoubtedly the most beautiful place I will ever live in. I wake up to lush green mountains every morning and they still take my breath away. We’ve also had the chance to see three of the other Hawaiian islands besides O‘ahu -- Kauaʻi, Big Island, and Molokaʻi, and all of them have their own incredibly unique landscapes and flavors. Hawaii has provided us with amazing adventures and a home that is easy to love.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7l_4fYzY_z_Rf-GiljHaMB3LzlkMfCWy2M_7RQ9MMXucR3GJGs7rNg9-pUXzzmndrJgZsgH79CT85o8dcBdnVsQ8GraQIa35BqZkFNKO0W5N8XtrWyzF7LqGHEXQgvTMD7p_FEn6nORw/s1600/20190322_112522.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7l_4fYzY_z_Rf-GiljHaMB3LzlkMfCWy2M_7RQ9MMXucR3GJGs7rNg9-pUXzzmndrJgZsgH79CT85o8dcBdnVsQ8GraQIa35BqZkFNKO0W5N8XtrWyzF7LqGHEXQgvTMD7p_FEn6nORw/s320/20190322_112522.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of the windward side of Oahu while hiking.</td></tr>
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Sadly, it was hard for us to visualize ourselves living in Hawaii long-term. We’ve been fortunate to live in subsidized university faculty housing, making our two bedroom apartment reasonably affordable. But as we approached the end of our allotted time there, the prospect of buying a house began to loom large. With average home prices in our neighborhood of nearly a million dollars, we had to consider the possibility of moving out to the suburbs, where houses are only slightly less absurdly expensive, and commute times are disheartening. We also began to think about the Hawaii education system as our daughter gets closer to kindergarten. Underfunded, low-quality public schools push people towards $22,000-per-year private schools, making Honolulu the second highest metro area in the nation in terms of private school enrollment. Being hugely in debt for the next 20-30 years was not what we were looking for.<br />
<br />
Then there’s family. Rory and I have lived far from both of our families for the last eleven years. We are the only ones among our siblings who do not live within driving distance of our parents. Though we try to visit family at least once a year, the 30 hours of travel required to get to Scotland from Hawaii makes it a difficult journey. The eight hours to my parents’ house in Oregon feels like a quick hop by comparison. So as much as we loved Hawaii, in the back of our minds, we knew that if a good job came along near one of our families, we would seriously consider it.<br />
<br />
That opportunity waltzed in our door last September. Rory was offered a permanent position at Newcastle University in the north of England, which is only a two-hour drive from his parents in Scotland. Given his narrow linguistic specialization, there are few professorships that Rory would qualify for in a given year, and hardly any in the UK. We didn’t expect to see such an opportunity to be close to family coming around again for a long time. So we jumped.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVirFSXPozcHl_h70WkLT4lD2wNAHY8OLMx-uTx0LDVbn7QgPd7xc0VnnjnPFk1E3vE9TARzHY1VknKR-eTho9-Ev0Q5CkGasA2Pvu192RX1GPvUYGvKgB_2E-3erBUtMKq_ayuHsPluQ/s1600/20200430_080120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVirFSXPozcHl_h70WkLT4lD2wNAHY8OLMx-uTx0LDVbn7QgPd7xc0VnnjnPFk1E3vE9TARzHY1VknKR-eTho9-Ev0Q5CkGasA2Pvu192RX1GPvUYGvKgB_2E-3erBUtMKq_ayuHsPluQ/s320/20200430_080120.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before the movers arrived.</td></tr>
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And now here we are, with three days left in Hawaii, frantically trying to pack, sell, and give away our belongings. We have had seven months to plan this move, and the complexities of it have been daunting. Spreadsheets and shared Google Docs have been our lifeline. I spent months (and more than $3500) working on getting a UK visa for myself, not knowing if I would receive it in time. We were given a £5000 allowance for moving expenses from Newcastle University, which sounds like a lot, until you consider that we’re moving 7,200 miles, or almost ⅓ of the way around the earth and our stuff has to cross two oceans and a continent. For a moving company to ship even a small fraction of our household belongings, with no furniture whatsoever, was going to cost at least $5000 and take two plus months to arrive. And of course, flights from Honolulu to the UK usually cost a minimum of $1000 per person and require somewhere north of 24 hours of travel time. This will be Rory’s fourth intercontinental move and my third, so we know the ropes, but the complexity of this one has been at times overwhelming.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6LYpVfQvH6FKC5S_O4k831xUhLA7K0Rb3a7BdqiMb2qmRtJsLIHfpZNNcK4Uh-T95Vy4wa4_tk00_uQ7xJ1ch6-y2b1F_aD_c4UJSy8kNdCRtNYqydm47LhFRd3zvSsgcd_5e-_7oMA8/s1600/20200430_095924.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6LYpVfQvH6FKC5S_O4k831xUhLA7K0Rb3a7BdqiMb2qmRtJsLIHfpZNNcK4Uh-T95Vy4wa4_tk00_uQ7xJ1ch6-y2b1F_aD_c4UJSy8kNdCRtNYqydm47LhFRd3zvSsgcd_5e-_7oMA8/s320/20200430_095924.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loading our stuff into the moving truck.</td></tr>
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Then you add in a global pandemic. Things that we take for granted suddenly became nail biting uncertainties. Would the UK’s borders be shut? (No.) Would we have to self-quarantine upon arrival? (Possibly.) Would our flights be cancelled? (Yes.) Would the airlines still serve food? (Not sure.) Would we be able to find a hotel that wasn’t closed? (Yes, after our first booking was cancelled.) Fortunately, our friends and neighbors have been a great help, happily lending us things and buying our belongings from us (who would have thought that we’d be eager to see masked strangers coming to our door to take away our stuff?) Everyone is stressed out right now, everyone feels overwhelmed with uncertainty, but carrying out an intercontinental move during a global pandemic? My cortisol levels are through the roof.<br />
<br />
Still, as I keep telling myself, we’ve nearly made it. The movers came last week and packed up our shipment. After today, all of our furniture will be gone. Tonight is our last night to sleep in our house and we fly out this Thursday. Things are going more or less according to plan. But there’s one other twist in this story.<br />
<br />
I’m five months pregnant.<br />
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<br />Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-64865207129941400762018-04-14T22:26:00.000-10:002018-04-14T22:26:41.824-10:00Time flies when you have no seasons<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7SRVk-03F4zdZ1PUeYrRWr9OnSivTldXfOQ-pOU3D9JAPS73m8PNn3-MND2iOsX_FHGxVDleHGWdPQiXXXRoq-4eZwHt8h51aycwuY_enFR67nauWkCpUdisE-oFAYLYFQF3sQWylZY/s1600/DSC_6092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7SRVk-03F4zdZ1PUeYrRWr9OnSivTldXfOQ-pOU3D9JAPS73m8PNn3-MND2iOsX_FHGxVDleHGWdPQiXXXRoq-4eZwHt8h51aycwuY_enFR67nauWkCpUdisE-oFAYLYFQF3sQWylZY/s320/DSC_6092.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The island of Moloka'i, where we visited in March</td></tr>
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It's been six months since I last wrote a blog post. We have now lived in Honolulu for eight months,
but I have to say, it doesn't feel all that long. The funny thing about Hawaii is
that the seasons give you little indication of the passage of time.
It was not uncommon for me to think this year, “What a lovely summer day!”
and then realize it was February. It's disconcerting. Only the
greener color of Diamond Head Crater hints at the presence of winter.
Trees seem to flower year round and mid-winter beach trips are the
norm, so it's easy to forget what time of year it is. Although the months have slipped by without me hardly noticing, when I reflect on how
much my daughter has developed over the last eight months, I realize just how much time has actually passed.
<br />
<br />
We moved to Honolulu right before Maëlys turned one. She hadn't
started walking yet—she was still doing her funny one-legged crawl.
She didn't understand most of the words we said to her. I was feeling
guilty for not throwing her a first birthday party, but we had no
furniture in our apartment and few friends to celebrate with. She
didn't mind—she enjoyed opening presents from her relatives, and
then lost interest and moved on to something else. She was changing
rapidly, but still firmly in the baby category.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maëlys at 20 months</td></tr>
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Now Maëlys is four months shy of being a two-year-old. We're on
the verge of starting toilet training with her, she's playing
imaginatively with her stuffed animals, she goes to a toddler gym
class and can climb, jump, and slide with ease. She can only say a
few recognizable words, but she understands and responds
appropriately to complex sentences. She teases people, laughs at
jokes, and demands back rubs for herself and her toys. Our baby is a
baby no more.<br />
<br />
In our eight months here, France has also quickly faded into the
background. Now, a dream-like fuzziness blurs the edges of my
memories of Paris. My French accent sounds atrocious. I have not kept
up my French skills as I had wanted to, unfortunately, and it's
surprising how quickly my vocabulary has dwindled, only to be
replaced by long Hawaiian words that I frequently mix up: Kapahulu,
Kaka'ako, Kalawao, Kapiolani. I still keep in touch with a few
friends from France, and we send occasional Maëlys photos to our
sweet former landlady. But for the most part, our lives have become
firmly entrenched in Hawaii and France is now just an anecdote that
makes me sound cooler than I really am.<br />
<br />
Still, every time I watch a movie set in Paris, my heart skips at
the familiarity of the simple things: the blue and green street signs
on the corners of buildings, the bright neon vests of the sanitation
workers, the sound of the doors-closing alert on the <i>m</i><span lang="fr-CA"><i>étro.
</i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;">It
feels as if I'm still there and need only open a window for the smell
of cigarette smoke to waft upwards, for the blaring of car horns and
sirens to punctuate the usual low rumble of noise. I miss it.
Something which was so frightening and unfamiliar to me for so many
months now feels like home. Never mind that in Hawaii I can go to the beach
any time I want. Never mind that I can see tons of constellations
from my balcony, not just an occasional star or satellite. Never mind
that I can breathe clean air and feel safe in my neighborhood. I miss
the character of Paris. I miss the feeling of power that comes from
crossing a busy street with a throng of other pedestrians. I miss
addressing people as </span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>monsieur </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;">or</span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>
madame </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;">and
knowing that I'll hear “</span></span><span lang="en-US"><i>Merci,
au revoir” </i></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;">when
I leave a store.</span></span><br />
<span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;">I'm certain that when I look back on my life, our time in Paris will be two of the best years I ever had. Perhaps two of the hardest as well, but certainly two of the best. That's not to diminish the wonderful new lives we're building for ourselves in Hawaii, of course. I'm constantly in awe of our surroundings--Rory and I get to live in a gorgeous place that most people only dream of visiting, and we both get the chance to work and do what we love while raising an incredible daughter together. Hawaii is full of aloha.</span></span><br />
<span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="en-US"><span style="font-style: normal;">But there's something special about Paris. A certain </span><i>je ne sais quoi...</i></span><br />
<br />Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-13725337059926723342017-10-11T22:30:00.000-10:002017-10-11T22:30:37.119-10:00Shifting Perspectives: Transportation in France and AmericaAmerica is a car-centered society. We bought a car within a week
of moving to Honolulu because we realized how necessary it would be
to get around. In our two years of living in Paris, on the other
hand, we took less than a dozen car rides, usually in taxis. Very few
of the people we knew there owned a car, most preferring simply to
walk and take public transit. Parisian public transportation may be
grimy and congested at times, but tickets are cheap, service is
punctual, and stations are everywhere. With the high cost of fuel and
the absurdly expensive and difficult process of acquiring a French
driver's license, for many people, public transit makes much more
sense than car ownership.<br />
<br />
Furthermore, Paris engenders a culture of walking. Everyone walks
to the shops, to their dentist appointments, to pick up their
children from school. Most neighborhoods have several grocery stores
within a ten minute walk—I can think of at least eight near our old
apartment. I mentioned in a <a href="http://turnbulltravels.blogspot.com/2016/10/two-months-of-sweetness.html" target="_blank">previous post</a> the three separate free
medical clinics for mothers and children in walking distance of our
home. I even knew women in Paris who walked home from the hospital
after giving birth. With almost every amenity one needs so
conveniently located, walking is often the logical choice. It became
such a regular part of my daily routine that I thought nothing of
spending a few hours on my feet each day, both for getting from place
to place but also for enjoyment, exercise, and relaxation.
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGKCJ0niejWpT7QUgBABtALysWtC2Japey2-wjChymCfgj11_Yw6_eKs-hVUd8j0t-4jjYa0n_q5Y18FRpSid1gKNkKmqAZ12X0xFZA78kmkkoTL0WIvj8GKncgEX1OdMIATukFHWvtk/s1600/DSC_5508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGKCJ0niejWpT7QUgBABtALysWtC2Japey2-wjChymCfgj11_Yw6_eKs-hVUd8j0t-4jjYa0n_q5Y18FRpSid1gKNkKmqAZ12X0xFZA78kmkkoTL0WIvj8GKncgEX1OdMIATukFHWvtk/s320/DSC_5508.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maëlys certainly enjoys walking in Hawaii.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So I find it continually surprising how few people I see walking
in Honolulu. Here, despite the year-round nice weather, it seems that
most people only walk if they have to. For many people, stores,
restaurants, medical facilities, and other necessities are too far
away to walk to or are inaccessible by public transport. There are
often no sidewalks on residential streets, confirming the dominance
of vehicles over pedestrians. And while Honolulu has an excellent bus
system that covers the whole island, I would bet that a majority of
residents have never ridden the bus or have used it only a few times
in a given year. Sadly, I must include myself in that category, as I
have not yet tried out the bus system (though Rory and Maëlys have made one bus trip so far and it <i>is </i>on my list of things to do).<br />
<br />
The funny thing is, it only took two years of living in France to
completely change my perspective on the dominance of cars. Before
moving to France, I viewed my car as more than just a way to get
around town; it was my own private refuge. I enjoyed being in the
car, listening to the radio. And if I had to walk for more than five
minutes to get somewhere, I would usually just hop in the car
instead. I don't think I was particularly lazy, nor was I unconcerned
with the environmental impact of driving. But my perception of what
was an acceptable walking distance was skewed. I had no sense of how
far away places were except in terms of driving time, so walking
typically felt like an unnecessary and inefficient use of my time.<br />
<br />
After living in Paris, I now much prefer to walk rather than
drive. The fact that a place is far enough away that I must drive to
get there is now a deterrent for me going there. But alas, my options
here are limited when it comes to stores, restaurants, medical
facilities, and schools that are within walking distance of home, so
I feel myself being pulled back into the habit of driving that I so
easily gave up in Paris. Honolulu does have buses and a new bike
sharing program, but service is relatively limited, and the
convenience factor is far less than simply jumping in a car. So for
now, to combat the influences of America's ever-present car culture,
I'm trying to patronize the few stores that are located near our home
(walking there, of course), take daily walks around our neighborhood,
and avoid unnecessary trips in the car. And one of these days, I'll
have to try out the bus.Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-7068139260292476042017-09-03T22:30:00.000-10:002017-09-03T22:35:00.885-10:00Iceland ahoy!After I woke up this morning, September the third, my Google Calendar app reminded me of my flight to Reykjavik in a few hours. Boston to Reykjavik, it says, 1pm, don't be late!<br />
<br />
To explain this state of affairs, I have to tell you the story of our leaving Paris. Let's start in, oh, March or so, when I'd accepted the job in Hawai'i and as we were making plans.<br />
<br />
The goal: Get from Paris to Honolulu.<br />
<br />
This presents a challenge, because this journey takes at least 24 hours. The journey with a baby would be particularly difficult. Plus, once we get to Hawai'i, the time difference is 12 hours - as big of a time difference as is possible. It'd be 8am, it'd feel like 8pm. At 4am, it'd feel like 4pm. Not an easy adjustment for adults, let alone babies.<br />
<br />
However, it also presents opportunities. I checked a map, and apparently right between France and Hawai'i is a large continent known as North America. We have a lot of dear friends in Ohio (plus a storage unit with things from our old house that we didn't take with us to Paris), and family in Oregon.<br />
<br />
So we decide to hop. Go to Ohio first (only a 6 hour time difference), spend 10 days there, see friends, pack up our storage unit and have it shipped to Hawai'i. Then onward to Oregon (a 3 hour time difference), spend two weeks with family. Finally make the last leg over to Hawai'i. Simple, right?<br />
<br />
Yes and no. This plan has us getting to the US on June 30, and slowly travelling west until we get to Hawai'i on July 26. Here's the problem: my visa is only valid from July the 22nd. How can I get into the US on June the 30th?<br />
<br />
Well, the first part of our trip is just tourism, I consider. I won't be working or earning any money - just seeing friends and family. So I could enter the US as a tourist, under the visa waiver program called ESTA. I enter on ESTA, and then change my status to my work visa. Simple, right?<br />
<br />
Yes and no! You can't change status from an ESTA to a work visa. It's not allowed. You have to leave the US and then re-enter on the work visa. This sorry state of affairs then motivates a solo trip from Oregon up to Vancouver, Canada, to allow me to hop out and back into the USA. I book some train tickets and add it to our itinerary. A complex plan, but everything should work out.<br />
<br />
We began our preparations in earnest. We sold most of our Paris possessions. We mailed a few boxes of books and things to await our arrival in Hawai'i. And the rest we packed. We ended up with four large suitcases, one smaller roller bag, one laptop bag, two backpacks, and a cello. And of course, a small baby.<br />
<br />
We had emptied and cleaned our flat, our landlady had deemed it <i>vraiment impeccable, très propre</i> ("truly impeccable, very clean"), and with tears in our eyes we left for our airport hotel, where we were to spend the night before flying out the next morning. It was at this point we learned of a small flaw in our plan: we didn't have enough hands.<br />
<br />
That is, there were more suitcases than we could easily move. With a luggage cart, it's possible, but with just the two of us, it's not straightforward. Even though our hotel is basically right beside the airport, we realize that we need to book a taxi to ensure that we can get to it effectively. I speak to the agent at the front desk and get a taxi booked, after I make sure he understands that we have a lot of luggage.<br />
<br />
(It is here, at the hotel, I discover the value of speaking English and pretending not to speak French. The staff are more revealing when they turn to their colleagues and address them in French. But I'm listening...)<br />
<br />
In the morning, we awake and await our taxi. It arrives, but it's plainly too small. They clearly didn't get the memo about our luggage. The driver calls in for another taxi to come, and we are resigned to waiting some more.<br />
<br />
I'm a fairly anxious traveller, I'm not sure why, but these events send me spiralling into worry. We've barely begun our trip and there's a delay! What if they don't have a taxi big enough? What if the taxi arrives late and we miss our flight? How will we manage?<br />
<br />
Luckily the taxi soon arrives. It's driven by a middle aged Japanese immigrant, who regaled our ears with easy-listening guitar covers of classic rock songs at high volume. He was really keen on it.<br />
<br />
At the airport, we went to check our luggage. We had booked and paid for the extra luggage in advance, but I was expecting to have to pay 200€ for Talia's cello, which is technically oversize.<br />
<br />
After weighing everything, they tell us that some of our bags are overweight and that we have to speak to another person to pay the fee and get the tags. I head over to the other person while Talia waits with Maëlys. <br />
<br />
"Okay sir, for all of this, you must pay 750€."<br />
<br />
My eyes boggle.<br />
<br />
"No, there must be some mistake. See, here, I have already paid for these bags. I am only paying for an overweight fee for one of the bags." I brandish my receipt from when I booked the bags. (If there's one thing I've learned from living in France, it's that paper documentation is king.)<br />
<br />
"Let me see. Actually, we can distribute the weight of the bags across all of them, so while this one bag is overweight, the total weight of everything is under the limit. So there's no fee. Let me print your passes now."<br />
<br />
However, this was followed by brow-furrowing and talking to colleagues. The wait was long, and I was getting worried again. We'd arrived at the airport a little later than I'd wanted (because of the taxi) and now we're being delayed again. What if security takes forever too, and we miss the flight?<br />
<br />
Eventually the airline people come to a consensus and tell me that although I'd paid for the luggage on the second leg of our flight (Frankfurt to Pittsburgh), the first leg (Paris to Frankfurt) was not covered. This is apparently because these legs are operated by Condor and Lufthansa respectively.<br />
<br />
Never mind the fact that they're both part of the same parent company. Never mind the fact that when I paid for the luggage, I spoke to operators at <i>both</i> Condor and Lufthansa who told me that the payment covered both flights. Never mind that. Right now, they wanted 150€.<br />
<br />
At this point, I pay. I reckon I could have stayed and argued my case, but to be frank I was happy to just get the luggage onto the plane and be able to get going. My anxiety was getting the better of me.<br />
<br />
And, remember I expected a 200€ charge for the cello? They never mentioned it! So really, this was like gaining 50€. That's what I told myself, at least.<br />
<br />
Security was fine, the Lufthansa flight was great. The flight attendant gave Maëlys a little toy to entertain her on the flight, which we got to keep. Everything was looking up!<br />
<br />
Now for the Condor flight. Condor is a low-cost airline, and we got some great rates with them. So great that booking three seats (i.e. a seat for Maëlys, which is a game-changer, let me tell you) was actually cheaper than just two on some other airlines. However, there are restrictions, and their policy on hand luggage is relatively strict. I had read flyer reports where they actually weighed people's hand luggage to ensure it's below their maximum weight. This worried me, as we had a lot of stuff.<br />
<br />
When we go to board, the boarding agent sees that our passes haven't been double-checked, and send us over to another agent. Here we go, I think, they're going to weigh our bags. No such thing happens. Instead, they check our passports.<br />
<br />
"Two Americans and one British person. I see. Do you have travel authorization to go to the USA?" she asks.<br />
<br />
"Yes, I have an ESTA", I say, referring to the visa-waiver program.<br />
<br />
"And do you have onward travel outside of the USA?"<br />
<br />
She asks this because if an airline brings someone to a country, and they are denied entry, the airline is liable for the cost of taking them back to where they came from. Airlines are really tough these days on anything that looks like you might be in violation of the rules. The ESTA, as a short-term thing, requires that you have evidence of onward travel to leave the country.<br />
<br />
"Yes, to Canada." I show her the document. "And see here, I also have a work visa, so I'll re-enter the US as a worker."<br />
<br />
"Hm. No, Canada is not good enough. You have to leave the entire continent."<br />
<br />
For various reasons, going to Canada or Mexico (or various Caribbean countries) doesn't <i>count</i> for leaving the country. This means that, say, someone in the US on a student visa can go to Toronto for the weekend and not have to go through complex immigration procedures upon their return. Paperwork is minimized, student gets to go to Toronto, everyone is happy.<br />
<br />
Except that this rule also doesn't make sense, because you <i>have</i> left the country. You can't legislate that away.<br />
<br />
I argue my case, that I have a work visa and that I'll be re-entering the US. She stands her ground.<br />
<br />
"I need to see onward travel out of the US. Here is a list of countries which don't count." It's a long list, with lots of Caribbean nations, plus Mexico and Canada.<br />
<br />
"What do you want me to do? Just get out my laptop and buy a plane ticket right now?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
Great. So I do that. Due to a lack of foresight, my laptop was not charged, so I needed to find an outlet. The first one I found was not in a location with a wifi signal. The second one worked. Meanwhile, our flight is boarding and I am freaking out.<br />
<br />
I do a quick search for flights from US east coast cities - Boston, Newark, JFK - to major European hubs - Paris, Frankfurt, London. I select a date in the near future which is within the 90 days I can be in the US on ESTA. I find a cheap flight with Wow Air for about 160€. It goes to Paris via Reykjavik. Since I'm in Germany, my computer has defaulted to the German webpage. I click through and order my ticket, hoping that my understanding of German was good enough. I get a confirmation page.<br />
<br />
I run back to the agent and show her the flight. She glances at it, nods, and waves us through onto the plane.<br />
<br />
And that is the story of why I was meant to fly to Reykjavik today.<br />
<br />
Of course, the US immigration official didn't care about whether I had onward travel. He didn't even ask how long I was staying. When you are white and travel with two white Americans, one of whom is a baby, they don't check you very thoroughly.<br />
<br />
I later cancelled the flight, as I had no intention of taking it, and was reimbursed the 35€ or so that they charged in taxes and fees.<br />
<br />
In hindsight, I could have handled it better. I could have just bought tickets to Reykjavik without onward travel to Paris, that would have been cheaper. I also learned that US law entitles you to a full refund within 24 hours of buying a flight. (A rare case where US law is more consumer-friendly than EU law!) Since I bought my ticket through the German site, I wasn't eligible for this, but I would have been had I used the US site.<br />
<br />
All this to jump through the hoops of getting to the US and dealing with our complicated itinerary and complex immigration laws. Our other travels within the US (and to Canada) were not without incident, but not quite as eventful or as stress-inducing as this first one. Maybe one day I'll make it to Iceland for real.Roryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06486573653238923045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-50009140939399498612017-08-04T20:49:00.000-10:002017-08-04T20:49:19.880-10:00Aloha!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd9wRvemrE31fQ3g20dHon0_8kn2Rs4ztKLK1pNVl5NzDcmumMrw0t-GaNjF-mYgXn21xpmv890uIQAkTWdqdYxi0NufZd3d5gNkRrFOhkaky4p1oqbe-mSo5MR4-iuBTvvQX6gwWfliw/s1600/20170802_111126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd9wRvemrE31fQ3g20dHon0_8kn2Rs4ztKLK1pNVl5NzDcmumMrw0t-GaNjF-mYgXn21xpmv890uIQAkTWdqdYxi0NufZd3d5gNkRrFOhkaky4p1oqbe-mSo5MR4-iuBTvvQX6gwWfliw/s320/20170802_111126.jpg" width="320" /></a>It's been a little over a week since we arrived in Hawaii, a very
full week of moving into an apartment, buying an electric car, and
spending hundreds of dollars on a car seat, stroller, high chair,
fans, household goods, and groceries. Our internet was just set up
today and our shipment of all our earthly possessions, including our new IKEA-bought furniture, should arrive within two weeks. For now,
we're managing with borrowed air mattresses, TV tray tables, folding
chairs, and kitchenware. Our “couch” is a lovely spot on the
floor. It's not the epitome of comfort, but it works. After traveling
and living at other people's houses for a month, it's at least nice
to have our own place.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEMdJiyufWXHh9WEMoGb2pIM1kWGJac_4PeZbvCAtc6KUC6DAp3jB12ys1-XMrBCj7tSO4rPB2iuLQgE8H9u3xyEliEPJjO3ISXqr9MX5UkQaMlYtPWsN8XlF3Q4u249nUJpQ2V1PmIFM/s1600/20170727_090039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEMdJiyufWXHh9WEMoGb2pIM1kWGJac_4PeZbvCAtc6KUC6DAp3jB12ys1-XMrBCj7tSO4rPB2iuLQgE8H9u3xyEliEPJjO3ISXqr9MX5UkQaMlYtPWsN8XlF3Q4u249nUJpQ2V1PmIFM/s320/20170727_090039.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our new apartment complex. Look at those mountains!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And besides, we're still marveling at how big our apartment is.
Two whole bedrooms and bathrooms! A full-size refrigerator! A real
oven and a stove with <i>four</i> burners! Four closets and miles of
shelf space! Perhaps this place would feel small by American
standards, but having come from Paris, where we had a 375 square foot (35 sq m) one bedroom apartment, this place seems huge to us. What a luxury.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh687F9HVeRCC5vJkWikexbNKasuaqVR9rXQNkrrltiYNxTDinZQY4ojMydCZ9N_oiItY77oA804Qf8CqQ4-g-EwpF2yTEZBFWCWMr6rwdY9wzlK_cAgXzrMud69WC1QwndoEnWgYApLmk/s1600/20170802_165150.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh687F9HVeRCC5vJkWikexbNKasuaqVR9rXQNkrrltiYNxTDinZQY4ojMydCZ9N_oiItY77oA804Qf8CqQ4-g-EwpF2yTEZBFWCWMr6rwdY9wzlK_cAgXzrMud69WC1QwndoEnWgYApLmk/s320/20170802_165150.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A magnificent old tree</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Furthermore, every window in our apartment has an incredible view.
We live in a valley that's nestled between breathtakingly wild and
imposing mountains with brilliantly green tropical plants covering
the hillsides. There are beautiful palm trees outside our door. In
the Manoa valley, the sun shines brightly every day, with brief
intervals of “pineapple rain”— a fine mist that sprinkles down
even when there are no clouds overhead. It's currently the height of
summer, so it's very warm and quite humid, with unfortunately no air
conditioning in the apartment, but a perpetual strong breeze flows
through the valley and alleviates a bit of the heat. When we first
drove through Manoa, heading deeper into the valley, I kept saying,
“Wow! Those mountains are incredible! Look at the clouds—they're
amazing! What a fantastic tree that is!” And every time I step
outside, I still continue to marvel at the awesome natural beauty of
this island. It's a privilege to live in the shadow of these
mountains.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghykbUXnpkdRxAdsNl_JAOcq-fksG02LnSKpGWKNVAX_tsdrlX1arSjJcB4TdpR2vKvqaMNqMLNQRy6WY6VGgm8p5vrFAPdBLr8AwzzONuO6ugEfCULA5ld6Hv7JSbhCwYAd8G_DuwOBM/s1600/20170731_174726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghykbUXnpkdRxAdsNl_JAOcq-fksG02LnSKpGWKNVAX_tsdrlX1arSjJcB4TdpR2vKvqaMNqMLNQRy6WY6VGgm8p5vrFAPdBLr8AwzzONuO6ugEfCULA5ld6Hv7JSbhCwYAd8G_DuwOBM/s320/20170731_174726.jpg" width="320" /></a>Although we haven't had too much time to explore yet, we did at
least manage to get to the beach this week. It was the baby's first
experience with sand, and she enjoyed letting it sift through her
fingers and toes. We then waded out into the pleasantly warm water
and saw schools of small shiny fish darting back and forth. The beach
wasn't overly crowded. There were a few kids swimming and several
people standing and balancing on surf boards, propelling themselves
with a paddle. Para-sailing was happening in the distance. It was
like a photo from a travel magazine, advertising an island paradise.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8fWo-haM-QdMm00aCXtEWXxSHyX9vwHwuoVnXGDJGGYTrJKsNYZ5QL8kM2wrtbP9f_gNvmAusbLMA4pNDAcopfJ9h6M3tBfg4CRGVktYVGcEwe9t2XfNVOkdnJcMbQJPCz__focPEaWE/s1600/20170731_174933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8fWo-haM-QdMm00aCXtEWXxSHyX9vwHwuoVnXGDJGGYTrJKsNYZ5QL8kM2wrtbP9f_gNvmAusbLMA4pNDAcopfJ9h6M3tBfg4CRGVktYVGcEwe9t2XfNVOkdnJcMbQJPCz__focPEaWE/s320/20170731_174933.jpg" width="180" /></a>We have to keep reminding ourselves that we live here. Walking
along a picturesque beach, driving up a mountain into the jungle,
seeing colorful and unfamiliar birds at our feet; it all feels very
fantastical and unreal. This is where people honeymoon or go for a
getaway—we couldn't possibly live here, could we? You might think
that having been in Paris for two years, we would be used to the idea
of living in an amazing tourist destination. But Hawaii is completely
different. In Paris, humans have bent nature to their will. Trees and
shrubs are manicured to perfection. Architecture displays the marvels
of human capabilities. The public transit system is a feat of
engineering. It's a very <i>peopled</i>
city, Paris. But in Hawaii, I have the distinct feeling that nature
is merely allowing us to stay here for awhile. Humans and their work
are not the main attraction, nor are we really in control of our
surroundings, despite our best efforts. So it is with a wholly
different feeling of awe and humility that I will explore our new
island home. It may only be about forty-five miles to the
other side of the island, but there's a lifetime's worth of new
experiences waiting for us here.<br />
<br />
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Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-73881317675252047862017-06-27T21:00:00.000-10:002017-06-27T21:00:08.397-10:00Paris by nightThis is a beautiful city. It'll be hard to leave.<br />
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<br />Roryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06486573653238923045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-57060999769726069932017-05-21T09:45:00.002-10:002017-05-21T09:45:44.349-10:00Carcassonne<a href="http://turnbulltravels.blogspot.fr/2017/05/barcelona.html" target="_blank">In our last post</a>, Talia described our recent trip to Barcelona. It ends with us boarding a train bound for Carcassonne, a town in the southeast of France. (It's roughly halfway between Toulouse and Montpellier, if you know where they are. If not, just imagine a line due south from Paris but stop about 65km from the Spansh border. Or just look it up on a map.) What adventures would await us there?<br />
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Something Talia didn't mention about Barcelona is how cheap everything was! It's a major city, but the prices in supermarkets and restaurants
compared very favourably to Paris. I suppose
the real lesson from this is that it is expensive in Paris, and we've
just got used to it...<br />
<br />
Anyway, the train ride to Carcassonne was lovely. It was just as the sun was setting, and we had great views of the Pyrenées and the Mediterranean. It was around Maëlys's bedtime, so she was a little grumpy, but we were all still able to enjoy most of the trip.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtyRXOQBLhNSCPq_nB1Ovt-ilj8jfwmhyUwVh15gxFfxYpT1waP_54k-wr3JPNbCG_8W6TNO5Obu3OVheI2natvshTnHen8F-QpZByl4w63kZUmttGyaHL1Fix0x8KsGcm2V7YhE6T0o/s1600/DSC_4900.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtyRXOQBLhNSCPq_nB1Ovt-ilj8jfwmhyUwVh15gxFfxYpT1waP_54k-wr3JPNbCG_8W6TNO5Obu3OVheI2natvshTnHen8F-QpZByl4w63kZUmttGyaHL1Fix0x8KsGcm2V7YhE6T0o/s320/DSC_4900.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Water, hills, as viewed from the train from Barcelona.</td></tr>
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The only thing that marked our entering France was that the automated announcements switched from Spanish, French, and English to just French. This was strangely comforting, in a way. While Talia is pretty competent in Spanish, I am very weak, and being in Barcelona - while enjoyable - it was very clear that I was in a foreign country.<br />
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By contrast, coming to Carcassonne, a place we've never been before, was very much like "coming home". The train station was basically like every other provincial French train station. We made our way to our accommodation (an AirBnB), and spoke only French with the host. We knew all the quirks of the French apartment and the French appliances. That it was all so familiar was surprising, as to a large degree France is still a foreign country to us. But it helped us to realize how much of a home it's become.<br />
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The next morning was Sunday, and I ventured out to one of the supermarkets to pick up supplies. (Being "at home" means realizing that not many supermarkets will be open on Sunday, and knowing that those which are are probably only open for the morning.) The town was dead quiet. It was a real contrast from Barcelona, full of people and wide thoroughfares with cars and mopeds. Here, I wandered down some cobbled streets, passing only a couple of people. The other people in the supermarket were tourists too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDo3AmyFDLu0hJrXvQQaS9HbQpWoYZn3hfvAlatm96q_QCL_ofMiqFSYXQS49yiXTVb-gJOujQ4Z3tuF_0euuVXzYqmsN8mCsbNT4BFaIFr8R7CrvLG7s4BAsDPX6K8IJvg0NGey5fuFI/s1600/DSC_4917.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDo3AmyFDLu0hJrXvQQaS9HbQpWoYZn3hfvAlatm96q_QCL_ofMiqFSYXQS49yiXTVb-gJOujQ4Z3tuF_0euuVXzYqmsN8mCsbNT4BFaIFr8R7CrvLG7s4BAsDPX6K8IJvg0NGey5fuFI/s320/DSC_4917.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the main entrances to the walled city.</td></tr>
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Carcassonne is most famous for its medieval city. This dates back to Roman times, with fortifications being added over the centuries, to defend against threats from outside (those barbaric Spaniards!) and inside (those dangerous commoners!). After falling into some disrepair, a lot of it was rebuilt in the 1800s in an attempt to restore it to its former glory. As it turns out, a lot of the "restorations" were actually just people imagining what they thought a medieval castle should look like, rather than historically accurate rebuilding, but that seems to be part of the appeal. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiat5u0W1kMTWNcYOoxsFsRwqXJV2a2NwPcSthLD4CpNVybcfDZkOWRO1RwypwAjfjDxD38CfRqRmiNbEL43HUYJylaRW3St4PTl042c6r-UeQdjfFxLlYt6Qgvq4esw6JcZrd1cL_tPRU/s1600/DSC_4922.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiat5u0W1kMTWNcYOoxsFsRwqXJV2a2NwPcSthLD4CpNVybcfDZkOWRO1RwypwAjfjDxD38CfRqRmiNbEL43HUYJylaRW3St4PTl042c6r-UeQdjfFxLlYt6Qgvq4esw6JcZrd1cL_tPRU/s320/DSC_4922.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another entrance!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgsNTiMzAi6C_EFqRY81Wlz1wWJ5HWN_uO6ylrP5v8TpjNbFL3RpKAtG9IiP9V50QzzIQAa09PcwguTf-v0h417fVCTH9Mb-O1BExlysCkglmOwPq5jZzfm0dwn8MkItPSNwYCHP86Lg/s1600/DSC_4931.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjgsNTiMzAi6C_EFqRY81Wlz1wWJ5HWN_uO6ylrP5v8TpjNbFL3RpKAtG9IiP9V50QzzIQAa09PcwguTf-v0h417fVCTH9Mb-O1BExlysCkglmOwPq5jZzfm0dwn8MkItPSNwYCHP86Lg/s320/DSC_4931.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view over the rooftops. Yes, those are houses - people actually <i>live</i> here.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEoSYktWjRKXSc7SmtflrF594QfGEwez8CGtAYsw6WEI4RhHEwjQrtirmyIgu3YBB0NO5zzwxyzV6gUwXmgu4VVK3xeXvAR4dWSg7Vi-N2heOAZsME9gAEOcKEFcaJMcsrYSEUIasOpjY/s1600/DSC_4924.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEoSYktWjRKXSc7SmtflrF594QfGEwez8CGtAYsw6WEI4RhHEwjQrtirmyIgu3YBB0NO5zzwxyzV6gUwXmgu4VVK3xeXvAR4dWSg7Vi-N2heOAZsME9gAEOcKEFcaJMcsrYSEUIasOpjY/s320/DSC_4924.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view from the ramparts down to the town and countryside below.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk1aurhrtMK05zs3ZTLvoPgSbHAfr3_cpcnqHLPCIaw9l9T4Ijo1JstCAiWGXt_quoyxJYmahqw_tP_pONQ_n93sEHJ6HE0AMt6c3IA5dSpdPLg0tp3X05lPHPfAJ5Y_C95LOH9TTLsjQ/s1600/DSC_4990.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk1aurhrtMK05zs3ZTLvoPgSbHAfr3_cpcnqHLPCIaw9l9T4Ijo1JstCAiWGXt_quoyxJYmahqw_tP_pONQ_n93sEHJ6HE0AMt6c3IA5dSpdPLg0tp3X05lPHPfAJ5Y_C95LOH9TTLsjQ/s320/DSC_4990.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of the southern end of the city.</td></tr>
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As you can probably tell from the pictures, we had cracking weather. It was about 25C (77F) and sunny, with clear skies. Great weather for a holiday!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3K4oY7BIzLl3SoXEbAwdUN4aCwHTTEB5oIpcQX-Qqrchl9HeruDj9vgba7NxrFLX9nMuHHh19d_RfojY5oYNwDTiF7APC2YE5jtScHhXKD3rlk4nmN91JYm9YlZ5mjdT-VHOrHGV8sdo/s1600/DSC_4974.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3K4oY7BIzLl3SoXEbAwdUN4aCwHTTEB5oIpcQX-Qqrchl9HeruDj9vgba7NxrFLX9nMuHHh19d_RfojY5oYNwDTiF7APC2YE5jtScHhXKD3rlk4nmN91JYm9YlZ5mjdT-VHOrHGV8sdo/s320/DSC_4974.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A window in the Basilica of Saint Nazaire, inside the old city.</td></tr>
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You may also be familiar with Carcassonne as the name of a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carcassonne_%28board_game%29" target="_blank">board game</a>.
The game, inspired by the real city, involves building cities and roads
between them in rural medieval France. We saw it for sale in one of the
tourist shops, which I thought was quite appropriate.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVHU743lmnsDLDrMccSBLfgZrxm3alkjI_LxoZROdUdPNHSZYzO1DVciW6we34nwYPV20RI4-xGlHUIqONxeOXNP-jH3RqtRRkZkj5Wju6yYv4n3Wxb4XLBEuz9mPb9vhItY3rBOy_zmg/s1600/DSC_4998.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVHU743lmnsDLDrMccSBLfgZrxm3alkjI_LxoZROdUdPNHSZYzO1DVciW6we34nwYPV20RI4-xGlHUIqONxeOXNP-jH3RqtRRkZkj5Wju6yYv4n3Wxb4XLBEuz9mPb9vhItY3rBOy_zmg/s320/DSC_4998.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The aptly-named "old bridge" over the river Aude.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Naturally, each region of France has its own culinary delicacies. Carcassonne is famous for <i>cassoulet</i>, which is a type of stew consisting of white beans, pork sausage, and duck meat, all cooked in lard for hours. Talia had some for lunch, and didn't need any more food for the day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuG_pflDoYQNepXax848D2kvi692Ds5V_toXFlMl-S8OD5kshAqYGIDot0J2hY_UqhqgFGBU84RVZUqeIY7XlboNvmsq3-MVzANCoBWW6UPTnGxnoSdj8eowt6mT7Wn3juBg6lw75u9g/s1600/DSC_4969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKuG_pflDoYQNepXax848D2kvi692Ds5V_toXFlMl-S8OD5kshAqYGIDot0J2hY_UqhqgFGBU84RVZUqeIY7XlboNvmsq3-MVzANCoBWW6UPTnGxnoSdj8eowt6mT7Wn3juBg6lw75u9g/s320/DSC_4969.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">When in Rome...</td></tr>
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After our trip to the old city, we meandered our way back to our accommodation, which was in the newer part of town. Because there isn't really too much to do in Carcassonne, there was none of the usual "tourist-pressure" I feel of having to go and see <i>everything</i> and maximize the amount of experiences enjoyed. Instead, it was extremely pleasant to have a leisurely time. The next day, we enjoyed a relaxed morning before taking a little boat trip along the canal. In the early evening, we took a local train to neighbouring Narbonne, before boarding the high-speed train bound for Paris. Again, the train ride was excellent. For the first portion, the track mostly hugs the Mediterranean coast, providing excellent views. Then, turning left, it's northward to Paris, through the French countryside. We got home at about 11pm; a sleeping baby and tired parents.<br />
<br />
Carcassonne was a lovely break. Of course, it's definitely a tourist town, but that doesn't really detract from the beauty of it. (And we live in Paris anyway, so being around tourists is just part of life...) If we had the time, it would have been great to rent a car and just explore the region, stay for a week or so. The pace of holidaying in rural places is quite different from that of Barcelona, and I'm glad that we managed to fit both of them into this trip. I'm also glad that we did it in this order - the quiet timidity of Carcassonne and the comforting familiarity of France was an excellent sequel to Barcelona. The other way round wouldn't have paced itself quite as well. Roll on our next holiday adventure!Roryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06486573653238923045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-76626544844652939752017-05-07T04:30:00.000-10:002017-05-07T04:30:19.136-10:00¡Barcelona!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUa8auQFPPd_ZtliwhzICCu557JwRPJy3RAXfGFb_xsBcQMracIvmue8_Bvy68omm2RNU9twNopX0QcUDPAbyT5loel67HhW0tOQ-nd-xJNJklp_901SU2DpYc8RRtJvccYAIR5Tvnhg/s1600/DSC_4841.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUa8auQFPPd_ZtliwhzICCu557JwRPJy3RAXfGFb_xsBcQMracIvmue8_Bvy68omm2RNU9twNopX0QcUDPAbyT5loel67HhW0tOQ-nd-xJNJklp_901SU2DpYc8RRtJvccYAIR5Tvnhg/s400/DSC_4841.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A colorful market in Barcelona</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I first learned we were moving to France, I was both excited
and a little disappointed. <span lang="es-US">Disappointed because
throughout </span>high school and college, I spent a considerable
amount of time learning Spanish, and had always wanted the chance to
try out my language skills in a Spanish-speaking country. <span lang="es-US">I
thought Spanish would be a much more useful language to know than
French, what with the number of Spanish-speakers in the US and the
proximity to Mexico and Latin America. </span><br />
<span lang="es-US"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCsYNZyCmamC8osckkxnVY9MIE9ByKBJNNpka1o2D96soc4CwdcKL4pxBoAFb8bm0J3O1-qPOuJDBMaYdznW0OFee0-f46XiUWmP5OxakMgtH6p-FlUKQzRRKYucRt9JB4738hfkLOMl8/s1600/DSC_4843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCsYNZyCmamC8osckkxnVY9MIE9ByKBJNNpka1o2D96soc4CwdcKL4pxBoAFb8bm0J3O1-qPOuJDBMaYdznW0OFee0-f46XiUWmP5OxakMgtH6p-FlUKQzRRKYucRt9JB4738hfkLOMl8/s320/DSC_4843.JPG" width="320" /></a>Imagine my surprise, <span lang="es-US">then,</span>
to find out that I was moving to France. I <span lang="es-US">had
to shove</span> my
<span lang="en-US">hard-earned
knowledge</span> of Spanish
to the back of my brain and start cramming French in there instead. I
enjoyed the challenge of teaching myself French and have done
reasonably well at learning the language. But I still harbor an
appreciation for Spanish and Latin cultures and that dream of
communicating in Spanish. <span lang="es-US">Thus,
t</span>he close proximity of
France to Spain was something I wanted to capitalize on while we were
in Europe.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiBY5p5n1TAGxSNgIJQ7cCQL3kqmDsEVOVxIfaDIXqShL07F7WdHLaY9T7uH3RLBbpGf_wIpZP5l_wgFLrrsHuGlhwU8maBeoe-3U3RR7JFzM0BLx09UYyz3w1L-EbUTmYyFX1Ld29aQ8/s1600/DSC_4844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiBY5p5n1TAGxSNgIJQ7cCQL3kqmDsEVOVxIfaDIXqShL07F7WdHLaY9T7uH3RLBbpGf_wIpZP5l_wgFLrrsHuGlhwU8maBeoe-3U3RR7JFzM0BLx09UYyz3w1L-EbUTmYyFX1Ld29aQ8/s200/DSC_4844.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amazingly beautiful gelato</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
It took us nearly two years of
living in France, but I finally realized my goal of seeing Spain.
Last month we took a short trip to Barcelona and had two-and-a-half
days to see the sights. Here's what we found.<br />
<br />
Barcelona is full of life.
Compared to Paris, it felt sunny and open and friendly. On our first
full day there, we did a walking tour loosely based on the one in the
back of the novel <i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Shadow_of_the_Wind" target="_blank">The Shadow of the Wind</a></i><i> </i>by Carlos Ruiz <span lang="es-US">Zafón</span><span lang="es-US"><i>.</i></span><i>
</i>One of my favorite books, <i>The
Shadow of the Wind</i> is a
page-turner of a gothic novel set in Barcelona in 1945. <span lang="es-US">Zafón
</span><span lang="en-US">sweeps
you up into a twisting story of shadowy characters and intricate
mysteries, while expertly painting the scene of a dark and dismal
post-war Barcelona</span>. I
was keen to see some of the places that figured so prominently in the
story, so we <span lang="es-US">took
a stroll down the Ramblas, a long pedestrianized street that takes
you through the heart of Barcelona</span><span lang="en-US">'s
gothic quarter. We saw an epic outdoor market with amazing foods, then joined the sea of tourists that made its way past
the flower vendors, souvenir shops, theaters, restaurants, and living
statues, and ultimately emerged at the marina in front of a massive
statue of Christopher Columbus. In addition to the Ramblas, w</span>e
saw a wide variety of architecture, including some fantastical
buildings created by <span lang="es-US">Antoni
Gaudí </span><span lang="en-US">in
the late 19</span><sup><span lang="en-US">th</span></sup><span lang="en-US">
century, as well as the outside of La Sagrada Família, the enormous
modern basilica designed by Gaud</span><span lang="es-US">í
</span><span lang="en-US">that
has had construction ongoing since 1882. Rounding out the day was a
trip to <a href="http://www.glutenfree.cat/" target="_blank">Jansana</a>, a lovely gluten free
bakery.</span><br />
<span lang="en-US"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsUfuFTV_V7gCftd3_mRLQG5ejgYXFcZ8nDwDj6MpdOpapq4xKTxwj4KwUw5ssuSrLoLR1k_3ZW5mahNtY9_T-BzD4ZbOgp_HrZI70T5FQ5Jhv-sOeXIpwbzcu3HPakwQAMLc09xXVYiI/s1600/DSC_4826.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsUfuFTV_V7gCftd3_mRLQG5ejgYXFcZ8nDwDj6MpdOpapq4xKTxwj4KwUw5ssuSrLoLR1k_3ZW5mahNtY9_T-BzD4ZbOgp_HrZI70T5FQ5Jhv-sOeXIpwbzcu3HPakwQAMLc09xXVYiI/s320/DSC_4826.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Going incognito and keeping the sun off</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="en-US">We did a lot
of walking that first day, and in our vacations pre-baby, we would
have felt obliged to go out again in the evening to cram in as much
sight-seeing and experiencing as possible. But now with an
8-month-old who goes to bed around 7:30 pm, we had a perfect excuse
to have a quiet evening in our AirBnB apartment, cooking ourselves a
simple dinner and having hot chocolate on the patio. It was a
relaxing end to an enjoyable day. Despite my initial worries about
vacationing with a baby, it all worked out splendidly. Maëlys seemed
to enjoy the new sights and sounds and she managed to sleep fairly
well in an unfamiliar environment. Plus, Spanish people seem to love
talking to, smiling at, and touching babies, so she made us quite
popular with the locals.</span><br />
<br />
I should note,
however, that on the speaking Spanish with locals front, I failed
miserably. First of all, Barcelona is part of Catalonia, so they
speak both Catalan and Spanish there, and Catalan sounds rather like
a mixture of French and Spanish, which confused me. Secondly, my
brain is now wired such that when I hear a foreign language, I
automatically respond in French, regardless of the language I hear. I
kept saying “oui” instead of “si” and “merci” instead of
“gracias”. So when trying to order in Spanish at restaurants, I
would stare blankly at the server while my brain cycled through the
English and French words before coming up with a French pronunciation
for the Spanish word. It was frustrating but amusing.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNsKr3rWKUrL0AcyA6A6H8sRN8XHbtJSCFIOlPnDo8IzT6wxUuno8OTolngmNOF1rIWT2Mf2d4rJgBm_D2V5EYIyD2gKr4RvtZsm2yEp9xZuZpAr7AT4kkhPiiXS5Q0NCmZS0FitU6ALY/s1600/DSC_4812.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNsKr3rWKUrL0AcyA6A6H8sRN8XHbtJSCFIOlPnDo8IzT6wxUuno8OTolngmNOF1rIWT2Mf2d4rJgBm_D2V5EYIyD2gKr4RvtZsm2yEp9xZuZpAr7AT4kkhPiiXS5Q0NCmZS0FitU6ALY/s320/DSC_4812.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Casa Batlló, designed by Gaudí</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwX8k-E4zfjVbMnKnpREwwnH9rEGN9oSTt_qxfx7wsYX2SYfexMDJ2cyDTlvTpV90umQc_s8ybi9bjuZDiKE346BCXmARSS0KjUbKQGW9wCyshi0RvPR_mWmYzcdwg5f-DicNJgru3nzA/s1600/DSC_4887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwX8k-E4zfjVbMnKnpREwwnH9rEGN9oSTt_qxfx7wsYX2SYfexMDJ2cyDTlvTpV90umQc_s8ybi9bjuZDiKE346BCXmARSS0KjUbKQGW9wCyshi0RvPR_mWmYzcdwg5f-DicNJgru3nzA/s200/DSC_4887.JPG" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GF cake at Pasticelía</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="en-US">On our final
day in Barcelona, we first got lunch at another excellent gluten free
bakery, called <a href="http://www.pasticelia.com/en/" target="_blank">Pasticelía</a>. This time,
after again being struck dumb at the sight of the waitress and having
to order in English, I mentally rehearsed a couple of Spanish
sentences explaining that our sojourn in Paris had left me struggling
to speak Spanish. She chuckled and told me (in Spanish!) that she
didn't know any French, so she appreciated the effort. It was a small
victory.</span><br />
<span lang="en-US"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKeqIhiYmc1Djddjulh1zp5Q18SC-pyfmgLiFlvlnWTAtL2lWSrqumScMgYEmevR0WFaOVmJqcYbkll7cdGslvl7QB9hTOySni9nsIh7WuH3PxQlYvrMgD5rdeQ1RH1K1cLrfhAH5R51Q/s1600/DSC_4880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKeqIhiYmc1Djddjulh1zp5Q18SC-pyfmgLiFlvlnWTAtL2lWSrqumScMgYEmevR0WFaOVmJqcYbkll7cdGslvl7QB9hTOySni9nsIh7WuH3PxQlYvrMgD5rdeQ1RH1K1cLrfhAH5R51Q/s320/DSC_4880.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sagrada Família basilica</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="en-US">Afterwards, we
took the subway, a funicular, and a cable car (excellent views of
Barcelona) up the hill to the Montjuïc Castle. Montjuïc was a
17</span><sup><span lang="en-US">th</span></sup><span lang="en-US">-18</span><sup><span lang="en-US">th</span></sup><span lang="en-US">
century military fortress that was the site of a number of battles
and symbolized Spain's defeat of Catalonia in 1714. It served as a
prison and a house of torture for three hundred years, and is
mentioned in </span><span lang="en-US"><i>The Shadow of the
Wind</i></span><span lang="en-US">
as the grim place where one of the characters was tortured. There is
a small historical exhibit inside the fortress, but we mainly just
walked around the grounds and on the ramparts. The castle's
unpleasant past is not really on display too much, but a somber air
pervades what's left of the fortress. At the end of our visit we
walked down the steep hill through well-tended gardens and back to
the funicular. In the evening we hurriedly made our way to the train
station and caught a two-hour train to Carcassonne, a medieval town
in the south of France.</span><br />
<br />
<span lang="en-US"><br /></span>
I would love
to spend more time in Spain. Barcelona was a very colorful and
inviting place and with two-and-a-half days we barely scratched the
surface. But at least we made it there and at least I was able to use
a little of my mostly-dormant Spanish skills. The next part of our
vacation took us “back home” to France, and was a great contrast
to the bustle of Barcelona. Rory will tell you about that adventure
in our next post. Stay tuned.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAA_-rVUgypsdvroK8TblB4fE0FyJAf3g_I_GC25tYvB4h5htMk2ZJ4dJHijrAoIXddpQYvXJpo3koicXFkzHpnKmTxQ6RtBSpLCGWaH3QOlA-8Ay_jBC3GVYWnP5Gygw1jj-B-2dbfGs/s1600/DSC_4819.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAA_-rVUgypsdvroK8TblB4fE0FyJAf3g_I_GC25tYvB4h5htMk2ZJ4dJHijrAoIXddpQYvXJpo3koicXFkzHpnKmTxQ6RtBSpLCGWaH3QOlA-8Ay_jBC3GVYWnP5Gygw1jj-B-2dbfGs/s320/DSC_4819.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statue (should be) entitled, <i>Naked woman pondering ice cream cone.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-37470872061184839612017-04-17T02:09:00.000-10:002017-04-17T02:09:20.105-10:00Giverny, the home of Claude Monet<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutePmO6ylk7s5E6cf5ChTSN2eagCk3QK2OE8634mJw8YJ-8vwJplhkh7NRdFv1lqKAWmJAbNg2cuHbH8HuCfKIVm0aQnZaEpOvvYNbSsRlxFVy8Bt1rje3Q1ebzCKI8L3mWvdfdHMMxw/s1600/DSC_4760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgutePmO6ylk7s5E6cf5ChTSN2eagCk3QK2OE8634mJw8YJ-8vwJplhkh7NRdFv1lqKAWmJAbNg2cuHbH8HuCfKIVm0aQnZaEpOvvYNbSsRlxFVy8Bt1rje3Q1ebzCKI8L3mWvdfdHMMxw/s320/DSC_4760.JPG" width="320" /></a>Spring is in full swing here and we are trying to make the most of
the two and a half months we have left in France. Although we're
eager for our Hawaiian adventure to begin, there is so much of France
left to see and experience. Having a baby made us put some trips and
activities on hold, but we're back in the game now. So yesterday we
took a trip with two of our good friends to the tiny village of
Giverny.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1fEOpy5JcgxErTp1-NnS8H-ykSLwzzlggxr6jtmSI3mVjKHyuvFI2WaBDvJ7Y6DL4jtwqboBd7GKGWWddELBTBa5nUPvk58Ug8nc7EZQ5aW0D-iaqOdPHkFo-f1oGMkYbFUVu78Jvow/s1600/DSC_4680.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1fEOpy5JcgxErTp1-NnS8H-ykSLwzzlggxr6jtmSI3mVjKHyuvFI2WaBDvJ7Y6DL4jtwqboBd7GKGWWddELBTBa5nUPvk58Ug8nc7EZQ5aW0D-iaqOdPHkFo-f1oGMkYbFUVu78Jvow/s200/DSC_4680.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrOCwzr8Z58rdDIfaPiVV-ImdD-Mlx9IecGUg7XaxCaphcuEfIdjlBg8Gj4vrgYcHV1kZAMC0E9mkF4vI7nlcQiaLoOF2p_v4iRPlaq01t6DJ3yLYoV485xc7jzKGCT4On6q2ByOmrwa0/s1600/DSC_4670.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrOCwzr8Z58rdDIfaPiVV-ImdD-Mlx9IecGUg7XaxCaphcuEfIdjlBg8Gj4vrgYcHV1kZAMC0E9mkF4vI7nlcQiaLoOF2p_v4iRPlaq01t6DJ3yLYoV485xc7jzKGCT4On6q2ByOmrwa0/s320/DSC_4670.JPG" width="213" /></a>Giverny was the home of Claude Monet, the renowned late-nineteenth
and early-twentieth-century Impressionist painter. The village of
Giverny is in the southeast
of the Normandy region of France, and Monet moved to a house there in
1883 at the age of forty-three. By this time, he was already well
into developing his new Impressionist
style, a disparaging term coined by an art critic in 1874 after an
exhibition of his and other similar artists' work. Monet was
attempting to artistically document the French landscape using a
method of painting that conveyed his impressions and perceptions of
the scenery, rather than striving for realism. Much of his progress
in exploring this new style occurred at his home in Giverny.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFyJvzaz1Aili5_-wsfnIReLJDHVm6VNBl-R_W59Q7XZemcb_5hyQfTBRUXR3VvONpswKeEzVYBYjZEmQboINcc9KZfpx0oW7J-6V61_uuv7zodaKo3vQn-U1O-YOWwAQoh8ZiO-YCUX8/s1600/DSC_4687.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFyJvzaz1Aili5_-wsfnIReLJDHVm6VNBl-R_W59Q7XZemcb_5hyQfTBRUXR3VvONpswKeEzVYBYjZEmQboINcc9KZfpx0oW7J-6V61_uuv7zodaKo3vQn-U1O-YOWwAQoh8ZiO-YCUX8/s320/DSC_4687.JPG" width="320" /></a>Monet designed and created elaborate gardens on the land
surrounding his house. As he sold more paintings and his wealth
increased, he was also able to add a water lily pond, the one that
would figure so prominently in his later works. His house and the
gardens and pond are open to the public, so we spent the afternoon
exploring where he created his masterpieces and enjoying the idyllic
landscape. Unbeknownst to us when we planned our trip, mid-April is
an ideal time to visit as the gardens are dazzlingly in bloom. The
vibrant gardens showcased blossoming trees, leafy plants, vines
snaking across trellises, and row after row of fragrant flowers, with
particularly magnificent tulips of all shapes, sizes, and colors. The
water lily pond as well was encircled by bamboo trees, flowering
bushes, and a wide variety of other plants, though there were no
actual water lilies at this time of year. It exuded peace and
tranquility. It was not difficult to imagine Monet being constantly
inspired to paint his surroundings.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUhuTwmesAxNkwdi0Ic1AdaetVXKPdK2AnDYg1Hcn3flUxYj-Aob88HI__o0NaLtz8_pWQgrqvDrQjp25egFB0anj3m1ox94_ERkxMs9xq7gCefulR9AdTNvtjSnVIazCFPbLnrVHaz0/s1600/DSC_4679.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwUhuTwmesAxNkwdi0Ic1AdaetVXKPdK2AnDYg1Hcn3flUxYj-Aob88HI__o0NaLtz8_pWQgrqvDrQjp25egFB0anj3m1ox94_ERkxMs9xq7gCefulR9AdTNvtjSnVIazCFPbLnrVHaz0/s320/DSC_4679.JPG" width="320" /></a>After visiting the house and gardens, we strolled down the main
street of Giverny, taking photos of the picturesque old homes, many
of which peek out through a dense layer of bright purple wisteria.
There are a couple of <span lang="fr-CA">cafés and </span><span lang="en-US">galleries,
as well as the Museum of Impressionism, where we had lunch but didn't
have time to otherwise visit. </span><span lang="fr-CA">At</span> the
other end of the village is the twelfth-century church and the
cemetery where Monet and some of his family members are buried. And
that's about the extent of the town of Giverny. It's tiny and
beautiful and even with plenty of tourists it still feels like a
charming and refreshing getaway from the rush of Paris.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_9NFTtkaWrS62ZRvcJch8juMGr-x2ApsmeKLwaZTqU1mJeNBweuXgHcMj4us7yFZW8ulDimJZtDa2orrjFlfE0dMqiKUDLgWOZCyDU0JaM0MERK0ymfWJ6qFgnSP8-vsRk4guk8P2xs/s1600/DSC_4709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4_9NFTtkaWrS62ZRvcJch8juMGr-x2ApsmeKLwaZTqU1mJeNBweuXgHcMj4us7yFZW8ulDimJZtDa2orrjFlfE0dMqiKUDLgWOZCyDU0JaM0MERK0ymfWJ6qFgnSP8-vsRk4guk8P2xs/s200/DSC_4709.JPG" width="200" /></a>For any parents of young children among our readers who might
consider a trip to Giverny, it should be noted that it works fairly
well to bring a stroller/push chair/poussette, though it can't be
taken into Monet's house as there are many stairs, and there are also
stairs leading to the water lily pond, so it's good to have help
carrying it up and down. We alternated the stroller with our baby
carrier, and Maëlys seemed to appreciate the variety of views. Also,
there are nice baby changing facilities and toilets for children next
to the parking lot.<br />
<br />
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<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ivu1jPFntIU9nRQal560zDeJ0_HcGLXMzCUxB1iaPlxwgFOU2YWY6J_QCuoctuhu9y_cC7gIEU80dks3XBHNq3Z25yy7phq_3elDClohFFUrQXDq8lS6DozYJb1aqN3ubdrxKwIMx2Y/s1600/DSC_4723.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ivu1jPFntIU9nRQal560zDeJ0_HcGLXMzCUxB1iaPlxwgFOU2YWY6J_QCuoctuhu9y_cC7gIEU80dks3XBHNq3Z25yy7phq_3elDClohFFUrQXDq8lS6DozYJb1aqN3ubdrxKwIMx2Y/s320/DSC_4723.JPG" width="320" /></a>At the end of our meanderings around the village, we took a
fifteen-minute shuttle bus back to the neighboring town of Vernon,
where we caught the train back to Paris' Gare St. Lazare. The baby
enjoyed watching the countryside fly past on the 45-minute trip and
was nearly asleep by the time we got home that evening. For a small
village in the middle of nowhere, we found it surprisingly easy to
get to Giverny via public transportation. It's not a super cheap
trip, as a return train ticket from Paris is about <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">€</span>25
per person and the shuttle costs <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">€</span>5
each way. Plus entrance to Monet's gardens and house is <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">€</span>9.50
per person. Still, a visit at the height of springtime is well worth
the money and effort; it provides a marvellous escape from city life
and allows you to feel the same tranquility and beauty that inspired
the paintings of Monet.</div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhst83bhXLdDZ7mriC9SP55JQuGAaRUJ7qV87sEhiBkydKP4hGtA7QZU88mC9r8aPnOYuNk5MW60kI42aGY-1_Uh54YArtZnSUTowWWaXQbQGHl9H05htsEc3VmlOoKcvg4TsfulfXdHTw/s1600/DSC_4777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhst83bhXLdDZ7mriC9SP55JQuGAaRUJ7qV87sEhiBkydKP4hGtA7QZU88mC9r8aPnOYuNk5MW60kI42aGY-1_Uh54YArtZnSUTowWWaXQbQGHl9H05htsEc3VmlOoKcvg4TsfulfXdHTw/s320/DSC_4777.JPG" width="213" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiJtYA4T90pcPO2hyu8GAtaFTkZRRwsylNH9XNM58tT7icUyaOLqxSZCOfeNuCArWvDxoyV0tVeo_3KSdaiss-7Mre52ibm9EVGz9ymfETt5HhIekOITPrvfR8vT1TS3pO6j4dCmvi754/s1600/DSC_4764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiJtYA4T90pcPO2hyu8GAtaFTkZRRwsylNH9XNM58tT7icUyaOLqxSZCOfeNuCArWvDxoyV0tVeo_3KSdaiss-7Mre52ibm9EVGz9ymfETt5HhIekOITPrvfR8vT1TS3pO6j4dCmvi754/s320/DSC_4764.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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<br />Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-56347442427441861852017-04-09T02:46:00.000-10:002017-04-09T02:46:52.421-10:00Becoming legal: acquiring residency in FranceHere's the scene: your alarm goes off at 6 am and you get up
quietly so as to not disturb your six-month-old baby sleeping in the
crib next to your bed. Shortly before 7, you walk through the dawn
light to a nearby bus stop. It's not yet time for the crush of
commuters on their way to work, so you easily find a seat near the
window on the bus. Gazing out, you watch as the late 19th-century
tenement buildings with splashes of graffitti slowly give way to
shorter and newer apartment buildings. Eventually they turn into
single family homes, still smooshed up next to each other but with
unwelcoming iron fences barring your view of their presumed front
yards. Your bus passes over the
massively congested freeway that brings thousands of workers into
Paris every day and you notice with a tinge of revulsion and sadness
the impressive amount of trash choking the bushes next to the onramp.
Further on, you glance backward in surprise as you pass the first
drive-through fast food restaurant that you have seen in a year and a
half. “McDrive” it says. Ah, America, exporting all its finest
innovations. Nearly to your destination and now very obviously in the
<i>banlieues</i>, you can
feel the architecture growing in ugliness, in the '60s and '70s
design innovations that should never have left the drawing board. The
pleasant part of your trip is almost at its end.<br />
<br />
Two buses and an hour
after your journey began, you step off the bus at a large bus
depot and cross the street. You walk up the now-familiar ramp leading
to the Esplanade Jean Moulin and grudgingly find your place at the
back of the line of early morning risers, who, like you, have
immigration business to attend to at the Bobigny Pr<span lang="fr-CA">éfecture. This particular administrative complex not only deals with immigration issues, but is also the place to go for driver's licenses, passports, national identity cards, vehicle registration, and other similarly headache-inducing interactions with the French government. Unbeknownst to you upon your first trip here many months ago, Bobigny's</span> Pr<span lang="fr-CA">éfecture is actually <a href="http://tempsreel.nouvelobs.com/rue89/rue89-nos-vies-connectees/20100924.RUE8646/bobigny-la-prefecture-maltraite-ses-employes-et-ses-immigres.html" target="_blank">notorious</a> in France for its mistreatment of employees as well as those who require its services. So you're not exactly eager to be there again. </span><br />
<span lang="fr-CA"><br /></span>
<span lang="en-US">You glance at your watch: 7:55 am. The line
already stretches the entire length of two buildings and comprises
approximately 400 people, shivering in the late-February morning
breeze. A month earlier, you had received an automated text message
telling you to show up on this date for your immigration appointment
from 8:30-10:30 am. Translation for the uninitiated: the doors open
at 8:30 to the 500+ people who have also been told they have an 8:30
“appointment”. Get there as early as you can if you don't want to
wait all day. Your mission: collect your long-awaited French </span><span lang="en-US"><i>carte
de s</i></span><span lang="fr-CA"><i>éjour</i></span><span lang="fr-CA">,
</span><span lang="en-US">your residence permit. </span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Qwr9hIGeZCx8OnR8NC4gqeFnVNCxV_lPBp7xzKzi584UaOQqitazsdnQsyZM2I1sqdgODyjuSRgs9IZoZp9mKkK3yDr4i__dZ5oZLcMbnAdzFwqU61kLgSHfOZ42KUsPaGGDEUupEoc/s1600/prefecture_bobigny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Qwr9hIGeZCx8OnR8NC4gqeFnVNCxV_lPBp7xzKzi584UaOQqitazsdnQsyZM2I1sqdgODyjuSRgs9IZoZp9mKkK3yDr4i__dZ5oZLcMbnAdzFwqU61kLgSHfOZ42KUsPaGGDEUupEoc/s320/prefecture_bobigny.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of the Bobigny Préfecture complex</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span lang="en-US">As you shift your weight back and forth and
listen to the plethora of languages being spoken in the queue around
you, you recall your last visit to this grim place. It was August,
still early in the morning but pleasantly warm and sunny. You were
even further back in the line, as you had been unaware that your
Pr</span><span lang="fr-CA">éfecture-given</span><span lang="en-US">
</span><span lang="en-US"><i>rendez-vous </i></span><span lang="en-US">time
meant nothing. </span><span lang="en-US">Your husband and your
best friend were there to support you, as was your two-week old baby
girl. She had fallen asleep on the Uber ride over and was still
snoozing in your gleaming newish </span><span lang="en-US"><i>poussette
</i></span><span lang="en-US">that
you had bought from another expat mom. Your husband and your friend
were talking, but you found it difficult to contribute to the
conversation. You were distracted by the little creature who now
monopolized all of your attention, as well as the nervous tension in
your stomach and the persistent post-birth ache in your nether
regions. You tightly clutched the green folder under your arm that
contained all of you and your husband's justifications for living and
working in France. In the eyes of the French civil servants, your
life boiled down to passports, birth and marriage certificates (with
French translations, </span><span lang="en-US"><i>bien </i></span><span lang="fr-CA"><i>sûr</i></span><span lang="fr-CA">),</span><span lang="en-US">
work contract</span><span lang="fr-CA">s</span><span lang="en-US">
and pay stubs, electricity bills, rent receipts, and </span><span lang="fr-CA">government</span><span lang="en-US">
forms. </span><span lang="fr-CA">Without
them, you were nothing.</span><span lang="en-US"> </span>
<br />
<span lang="fr-CA"><br /></span>
<div lang="en-US">
Now, as you did back then, you mentally rehearse
French sentences for your appointment while waiting for the line to
move. You've lived here for a year and a half and your French has
vastly improved since you arrived, but you still find that when
confronted with humorless government employees, your well-practiced
phrases and careful pronunciation can get swallowed up by the fear of
not understanding. Even basic yet unexpected encounters, like giving
directions to a person on a street corner, can still make your French come
out like a toddler with a tenuous grasp of grammar. So when your
right to work and live depend on your ability to accurately convey
your situation in a foreign language, you practice ahead of time.</div>
<div lang="en-US">
<br />
</div>
<span lang="en-US">It's now 8:45 and the doors must have finally
opened since you see people shuffling forward. It shouldn't be too
much longer, you think hopefully. You are now even more uncomfortably
aware of the large man standing next to your right shoulder. Like a
good queue-goer, upon arriving you went to the back of the line and
stood directly behind a tall Asian man with headphones. This
overbearing thirty-something man in a leather jacket, however, seemed
to think that the line employed the buddy system.<!-- I like this, this is funny. -->
He has been standing beside you, in the space usually reserved for
your husband, for the better part of an hour, and it was making you
both annoyed and uncomfortable. Glancing around, you notice that you
are the lone woman in a sea of men, which for some reason is not an
uncommon occurrence in the Paris region.<!-- Demographics of economic (temporary) immigration and remittances to family in home country? This probably isn't the time to discuss that, though... -->
It didn't seem like this man was trying to get ahead of you in line,
and he wasn't interacting with you in any way, so you couldn't quite
understand why you were so bothered by his presence. But as the line
moved painfully slowly down the stairs and within sight of the two
entrances to the building, he edged forward, becoming someone else's
shadow. He was now several people ahead of you and you could feel
your indignation rising. In that moment, you felt the tiniest bit of
empathy with the crazy man who had screamed at you inside the
Pr</span><span lang="fr-CA">éfecture eight months before.</span><br />
<span lang="fr-CA"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPNZOzV59JBZa-WULror1sIwlbtd9SOJfzYcRJX7BaQUeKKTXdIc_3ndtgXMWZYkMZRdfs-OK1UTpHh9xuSgLgGbg0uPnVrre6-xNb19fdYmuHPPxm4yw7MY6Bzv1R7GCPzTLq2Ea2tI/s1600/bobigny+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuPNZOzV59JBZa-WULror1sIwlbtd9SOJfzYcRJX7BaQUeKKTXdIc_3ndtgXMWZYkMZRdfs-OK1UTpHh9xuSgLgGbg0uPnVrre6-xNb19fdYmuHPPxm4yw7MY6Bzv1R7GCPzTLq2Ea2tI/s320/bobigny+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is actually near the front of the line.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="fr-CA">You had been </span><span lang="en-US">near the
end of your </span><span lang="fr-CA">pregnan</span><span lang="en-US">cy</span><span lang="fr-CA">
and your belly was obvious. It wasn't so huge that people felt sorry
for you, but it was big enough to prevent any </span><span lang="fr-CA"><i>fat
or pregnant? </i></span><span lang="fr-CA">questions.
Your husband was with you and you had entered through </span><span lang="fr-CA"><i>Porte
1 </i></span><span lang="fr-CA">to
request an appointment to submit your </span><span lang="en-US"><i>carte
de s</i></span><span lang="fr-CA"><i>éjour </i></span><span lang="fr-CA">documents.
After explaining to the receptionist your goal, he silently got up
from his desk and led you to the front of a fifty-person-long line.
You hadn't asked for any special treatment, but you knew from
previous experience that in France, pregnant women have the right to
skip queues and be given a seat on buses and other such perks, so you
were feeling a little elated at not having to wait forever. You
thanked the receptionist profusely and waited at the counter while
another person finished talking to the employee behind the glass. </span>
<br />
<div lang="fr-CA">
<br />
</div>
<span lang="fr-CA">Your elation
immediately turned to horror, however, when a thin young man came up
behind you and started yelling at you in what you assumed was French.
</span><span lang="en-US">You
could only understand one swear word,</span><span lang="fr-CA">
but there was a unending stream of invectives being hurled at you and
your husband, presumably for skipping the line. You timidly tried to
explain in French that you were pregnant and that the </span><span lang="fr-CA"><i>monsieur
</i></span><span lang="fr-CA">instructed
you to wait here, but quickly gave up when it became obvious he
wasn't interested in listening. You looked imploringly at the twenty
or so people standing in the line a short distance away. No one would
meet your eyes. </span><span lang="fr-CA"><i>You're on your
own, white lady, </i></span><span lang="en-US">their
eyes said.</span><span lang="fr-CA">
You turned away from the man and tried hard to ignore his continued
yelling in your face.Your husband, even worse than you at speaking
French in difficult situations, tried a different approach. He faced
the man and stared him down. He gave the slightest shake of his head,
full of warning to back off, and continued to stare, unblinkingly.
</span><span lang="en-US">After
several long minutes, t</span><span lang="fr-CA">he
man seemed to eventually get creeped out by this tactic and stopped
talking. But the moment the employee became available, he pushed </span><span lang="en-US">you</span><span lang="fr-CA">
out of the way and recommenced his diatribe toward the man behind the
counter. Over and over, the </span><span lang="fr-CA"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">employee
calmly repeated </span></span><span lang="en-US"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">your
right as a pregnant woman</span></span><span lang="fr-CA">,
</span><span lang="en-US"><i>“Elle est enceinte. Elle a le
droit,”</i></span><span lang="en-US"><!-- Translation for non-French speaking readers? -->
over the swearing of the young man until he finally skulked away. You
exhaled and felt your round stomach unclench a little. </span>
<br />
<div lang="en-US">
<br />
</div>
<span lang="en-US">But the man
wasn't finished. As you carried on showing your documents to the
employee, you felt the surprising force of something colliding with
your backpack. You turned around abruptly and saw him walking past,
glaring at you. Shocked, but not wanting to give him any
satisfaction, you resumed your conversation with the employee. A few
moments later, you stiffened defensively. Wham! He struck your
backpack again.<!-- Did what again? Clarify his attack, or at least what kind of force we're taking about (i.e. he didn't kick you to the ground, but it wasn;t a tap on the shoulder either). --></span><span lang="fr-CA">
</span><span lang="en-US">This
time you didn't move. You barely breathed. Your hands were shaking
and you fought hard to keep your voice steady as you answered the
employee's questions in your halting French. You were </span><span lang="en-US"><b>not</b></span><span lang="en-US"><i>
</i></span><span lang="en-US">going
to cry at the Pr</span><span lang="fr-CA">éfecture.</span><span lang="en-US">
After what felt like hours, the employee handed you back your
documents with a numbered slip of paper. You thought he said
something about the </span><span lang="en-US"><i>salle
d'attente</i></span><span lang="en-US">,
though the rest of the sentence was a blur, so you both walked
purposefully to the area of chairs and sat down in the last row at
the back of the waiting room. You hoped to God that he wouldn't
follow you.</span><br />
<div lang="en-US">
<br />
</div>
<span lang="en-US">Just thinking
about that episode again makes your heart pound and your hands sweat.
Many months have passed since it happened, and you are now a fierce
mama bear, rather than a hormonal and easily-upset pregnant woman.
But it was the most frightening experience you've had in France. It's
hard to forget. Upon reflection though, you realize that the
increasing annoyance you feel at the leather jacket man who is
cutting in line is perhaps not all that dissimilar to the anger felt
by the skinny man who yelled at you. Perhaps he had his reasons. His
behavior was inexcusable and completely atrocious, but waiting at the
Pr</span><span lang="fr-CA">éfecture
</span><span lang="en-US">is
serious business. You can stand for six or seven hours before even
talking with someone. As you've well learned by now, being an
immigrant in France is not for the faint of heart.</span><br />
<span lang="en-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="en-US">So you take a
deep breath and try to let go of your frustration. You have nearly
made it to the door where you will state your purpose to the
gatekeeper and be given a number, and you see the large man waiting
to the side of the line. He nods at you and slides back into the
queue behind you, and you realize that your annoyance was unnecessary
after all. </span><span lang="en-US"><i>Huh</i></span><span lang="en-US">.</span><br />
<br />
Finally you make it
inside. The walls are adorned with random shapes in varying colors
and pictures of birds that look like they were drawn by middle
schoolers. The room is already well packed and it's only 9:30. It's
stuffy. Your ticket instructs you to wait in the green area this time
and you spot a seat next to a young Asian family with a little boy.
He smiles at you and you return the smile. The fact that there are
even a few seats available gives you some hope. Last time, with your
two-week-old baby, your husband and friend spent much of the four
hours you were there either standing or sitting on a broken chair
with no seat. Now you sit down and glance up at the screens. They're
on number 17. You look at your ticket and see 93. Your heart sinks a
little.<br />
<div lang="en-US">
<span lang="en-US"><br /></span></div>
<div lang="en-US">
<span lang="en-US">For the next
five hours, you shuffle through a series of activities, trying to
stave off boredom and the numb feeling in your legs. People-watching
is always fun, though as most of the crowd is as stationary as you,
it starts to lose its appeal after a while. You look up at the TV
screens and read the French captions on the news. When the news
begins looping for a third time, you berate yourself for neglecting
to bring a book. </span><span lang="en-US"><i>All you have to
do is pick up your card. How long could it take? </i></span><span lang="en-US">you
foolishly thought this morning. When number 33 flashes on the screen,
you pull out your headphones and watch an hour-long Netflix episode
you had downloaded to your phone. Towards the end of the show, you
start to feel a prickly aching in your chest. Ignoring it, you play
games of freecell on your phone and try to stop looking up every time
the next-number sound is played.</span></div>
<span lang="en-US"><br /></span>
<span lang="en-US">By now it's 2
o'clock, and you're distinctly uncomfortable. It has been eight hours
since you last breastfed your baby, and your boobs have turned into
bricks, completely engorged with unconsumed milk. You wolfed down
your PB&J sandwich four hours ago, and the surprise Snickers that you dug
out of your purse an hour ago has merely made you more hungry. It
never even occurred to you that you would be here this long. Sure,
your last trip to the Pr</span><span lang="fr-CA">éfecture
took even longer, but this time all you have to do is pick. up. your.
damn. card. They could just mail the thing to you! But no, instead
you get to travel for two hours on a bus, waste an entire day in a
hot and smelly room, and make your husband miss work to look after
the baby. To top it off, your breasts are about to explode with milk
and you didn't think to bring any breast pads! All for a card that
gives you the right to live in France, something you've successfully
done </span><span lang="fr-CA"><i>without the card</i></span><span lang="fr-CA">
for 18 months now.</span><br />
<span lang="fr-CA"><br /></span>
<span lang="fr-CA">The chime of
three notes breaks into your</span><span lang="en-US">
exasperated</span><span lang="fr-CA"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">
fuming</span></span><span lang="fr-CA">.
Number 92. You </span><span lang="en-US">gingerly
</span><span lang="fr-CA">stand
and try to subtly massage your left leg and hip before gathering your
totebag and making your way to the side of the room. Out of the five
counters where </span><span lang="en-US">Pr</span><span lang="fr-CA">éfecture
employees should be working, only one is occupied with a bored
looking young man. Finally, </span><span lang="fr-CA"><i>finally,
</i></span><span lang="fr-CA">it's
your turn.</span><br />
<span lang="fr-CA"><br /></span>
<span lang="fr-CA">You note the
time. </span><span lang="en-US"><i>Bonjour</i></span><span lang="en-US">,
you say</span><span lang="en-US"><i>. </i></span><span lang="fr-CA">You
hand over your passport and your ticket. He asks for your old
</span><span lang="fr-CA"><i>récepissé de carte de séjour</i></span><span lang="fr-CA">
and you pass him your 6-months-expired temporary permit. He looks at
your file on the computer, checks with hi</span><span lang="en-US">s</span><span lang="fr-CA">
colleague that you don</span><span lang="en-US">'t
have any fees to pay, then finds an envelope with your name on it.
You sign something. He signs something. He gives you your shiny pink
card. </span><span lang="en-US"><i>Merci, bonne journ</i></span><span lang="fr-CA"><i>ée,
au revoir, </i></span><span lang="en-US">you
say</span><span lang="fr-CA">.
</span><span lang="en-US">And
you leave.</span><br />
<br />
Three minutes
and twelve seconds.<br />
<br />
After eighteen
months, eight trips to three different Préfectures, a total of more
than thirty hours of waiting in line, six-and-a-half of them spent
today, you finally received your carte de séjour in three minutes
and twelve seconds. It's a pretty card, but somehow it doesn't seem
worth it. Nonetheless, you feel a glimmer of achievement at having
survived the whole process, at being thrown into the deep end of
French immigration and having learned how to swim. You're pleasantly
surprised to learn that the card allows you to live in France for
four years. Even your British husband doesn't have that security,
what with Brexit and everything. Of course, you'll only be living in
France for six more months before moving back to the US, so the card
is basically just a trophy, but at least it has given you some good
stories. Tucking the card safely away, you decide to celebrate by
getting some of America's finest French fries at the McDonald's
across the street, then you hop on a bus and eagerly head home.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-34738029462677101092017-04-03T10:00:00.000-10:002017-04-03T10:00:01.968-10:00Château de malmaisonTwo weeks ago, March 20th, was Naw-Ruz, the Baha'i New Year. I took the day off work and we decided to go on a short day trip to welcome in the new year. The weather was pleasant -- bright but cloudy, dry and reasonably warm. It was a welcome change from winter.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnXiWq42tv_kTaeJQShkASK1-OEnoz7U0k9eeqd8m7Na6bUr8iTrmocge6R8S51AWy9psrgOrCx84I26MIMtiuIoDrvwv00TFcunQ_eJ7Dqw_SoPFVOZegXQZmy88091qfOxp4NsL4g4/s1600/DSC_4530.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnXiWq42tv_kTaeJQShkASK1-OEnoz7U0k9eeqd8m7Na6bUr8iTrmocge6R8S51AWy9psrgOrCx84I26MIMtiuIoDrvwv00TFcunQ_eJ7Dqw_SoPFVOZegXQZmy88091qfOxp4NsL4g4/s320/DSC_4530.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The château de malmaison.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We settled on visiting the Château de Malmaison, the former residence of Empress Josephine, Napoleon's first wife. This is in the suburb Rueil-Malmaison, a short train or bus ride west of Paris.<br />
<br />
If you know some French, you probably realized that "Malmaison" sounds like "bad house": <i>mal</i> means bad or wrong (like in the English words <i>maladjusted</i> and <i>malnutrition</i>), and <i>maison</i> means house. Sometimes when you see curious expressions like this in place names, it's actually a coincidence, and the name originates with some other words, perhaps words which are now archaic or forgotten, or even from a different language. For example, the names of the English towns of Puddletown and Catbrain are actually derived from Middle English phrases meaning "farmstead on the marsh" and "soil mixed with clay and stones", respectively.<br />
<br />
In the case of Malmaison, however, it really does have the meaning we think. In 846, a mansion in this area was burned to the ground by Viking invaders. The area was then dubbed <i>malmaison</i>, meaning "mansion of back luck". Looks like the name stuck!<br />
<br />
On the way to the chateau, we bumped into the <i>parc de l'amitié</i>, the park of friendship, a local park with some Japanese gardens, a rose garden, and some other features. Given the name and the Japanese theme, I thought that perhaps it was a garden of international friendship -- perhaps the results of the town being twinned with somewhere in Japan, or something like that. But I was unable to find any evidence of that. As far as I can tell, the city planners just wanted to build a cool park. That's okay with me!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkp-xpu5RrTcJFcni_YQ_YAimKzJQNS0Kz56E2d9K1WHgaYR-ZF4vNCMbe7DL2HGqLblDGdQzxfqYQ37CWdkwg4H83TlR7FmOrvumUwgVQrcLhP0qR6jEi1DzT6T0OkMvZyYzD6bM_bbg/s1600/DSC_4477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkp-xpu5RrTcJFcni_YQ_YAimKzJQNS0Kz56E2d9K1WHgaYR-ZF4vNCMbe7DL2HGqLblDGdQzxfqYQ37CWdkwg4H83TlR7FmOrvumUwgVQrcLhP0qR6jEi1DzT6T0OkMvZyYzD6bM_bbg/s320/DSC_4477.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Japanese garden featured a pond and a scenic bridge. And blossoms, lots of blossoms.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In the grounds of the chateau itself is an art collection of Daniel Iffla, a 19th-Century French financier and philanthropist who named himself Osiris (yes, the same name as the Egyptian god). It was a modest collection of various <i>objets d'art</i> from various cultures around the world -- China, Persia, Greece, Rome. It was also really dark inside (presumably to protect the art), and quiet. It doubled as a good place to quickly change and feed Maëlys, too.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZIOO68tWgKgyZJub1kAdUKMqjBUmdcymgRCli8sDRb-Bw5pUWN4lAXShm-axk-gwyTknrWHzMBZbTIUjeLRarkosavm2_W98M_qC1kxDB9QN2wYY14AQpGOYcl59YuKTV_pJbOBgs8Lk/s1600/DSC_4493.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZIOO68tWgKgyZJub1kAdUKMqjBUmdcymgRCli8sDRb-Bw5pUWN4lAXShm-axk-gwyTknrWHzMBZbTIUjeLRarkosavm2_W98M_qC1kxDB9QN2wYY14AQpGOYcl59YuKTV_pJbOBgs8Lk/s320/DSC_4493.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Osiris himself!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was lunchtime when we arrived, and the chateau closes for lunch! The gardens were still open, however, so that afforded us some time to enjoy our own lunch (we'd packed a little picnic) and look around. The gardens are home to a large rose garden, not in bloom at the time of our visit, and several statues and little streams dot the area. Attempts have been made to have the garden resemble how it was at the time of Empress Josephine, although in her day the gardens extended much further in all directions. Josephine grew up in Martinique, in the Caribbean, and so apparently having a well-tended, diverse garden was a particular source of joy for her. There used to be a greenhouse where she grew pineapples!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQpFAv-qZ_-lTy7oP6ozzP_7svjcfHh8TPPO1Lg3MAp4ZyX6BXQ2lo2FtKcMSRA1fL1nkawL3xzDx5-DXO-uzA15Qd5wJGlR90s5X_5V7-D3wuKgn9Wtq6H-OCHs7vh7MQ_dwj9ymVja0/s1600/DSC_4521.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQpFAv-qZ_-lTy7oP6ozzP_7svjcfHh8TPPO1Lg3MAp4ZyX6BXQ2lo2FtKcMSRA1fL1nkawL3xzDx5-DXO-uzA15Qd5wJGlR90s5X_5V7-D3wuKgn9Wtq6H-OCHs7vh7MQ_dwj9ymVja0/s320/DSC_4521.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the garden paths, with the chateau in the distance.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
As you can see in the picture at the beginning of this post, it is a nice building, but not particularly grand. That is, it is an excellent example of a stately home, but if you had asked me to guess who lived inside, I would not have imagined "empress". The reason for that is because Josephine purchased the mansion way back when Napoleon was just a general, busy invading Egypt. When Napoleon returned, apparently he was upset at her for purchasing such a run-down mansion that would require so much work to renovate! He didn't have much time to be angry, however, as he was busy planning a coup d'état to overthrow the unpopular government and install himself as emperor. They divorced in 1810 following acrimonious disputes about affairs and Josephine's infertility, although she remained Empress.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the inside of the chateau was decked out as it was at the time of Josephine. There were lots of grand paintings, intricate timepieces, and fancy chairs. Absent was any kitchen or obvious servant's quarters, but apparently they were in other buildings in the grounds which have since been destroyed.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjp98P-X7uireH_2wLLsQzvbbrBEE5p25T4xOOJ7TjSKedZSrlDshyphenhyphenpqsb1M59l6_lzzhMlYQzX3Vb5-7sudW8JkuP4yP1wtxVkTv9ZC4gyTJoz88an9db-593YrgRQzSDtVeQTNKjXsk/s1600/DSC_4546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjp98P-X7uireH_2wLLsQzvbbrBEE5p25T4xOOJ7TjSKedZSrlDshyphenhyphenpqsb1M59l6_lzzhMlYQzX3Vb5-7sudW8JkuP4yP1wtxVkTv9ZC4gyTJoz88an9db-593YrgRQzSDtVeQTNKjXsk/s320/DSC_4546.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the receiving rooms inside the chateau.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There was a lot of Napoleon-themed pieces around, including the original version of the famous painting <i>Napoleon Crosses the Alps</i>, which depicts (in grand heroic style) Napoleon heading from France into Italy in 1800. Not pictured: his army!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3xcbxwgJBcJ59tRIsjJr34P7YGe3nPEdgdbt09MkCfdecLloJzmoRlM9UnEPO1dULSCSuOvuik0UiGj4taDk2zSF3rqpBhWl-t7Lios6Td98ft_Lhrzfq4W9j897Aublo1FxKtE9NBU/s1600/DSC_4547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3xcbxwgJBcJ59tRIsjJr34P7YGe3nPEdgdbt09MkCfdecLloJzmoRlM9UnEPO1dULSCSuOvuik0UiGj4taDk2zSF3rqpBhWl-t7Lios6Td98ft_Lhrzfq4W9j897Aublo1FxKtE9NBU/s320/DSC_4547.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Napoleon Crosses the Alps!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After we'd seen around the chateau, we hopped back on a bus and then a train and made our way home. It was a lovely trip outside of Paris for the day, and we're going to try to do more day trips like this as our move to Hawai'i gets closer and closer! As I looking back on the pictures from the chateau, it all looks a little drab and grey in comparison to the weather we've had here in the last week or so. It appears that we did a good job of welcoming in the spring!Roryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06486573653238923045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-15342662143616884492017-03-09T07:00:00.000-10:002017-03-09T07:00:11.416-10:00Winter travels part 4: Hawai'iIf you're counting, yes, this is my fifth trip this winter, the third trip that involves crossing the Atlantic. I've seen a lot of films on aeroplanes now. This wasn't a trip I had anticipated making, but I got a call inviting me out to Hawai'i for a job interview! (All travel costs covered, of course.) This wasn't totally out of the blue -- I'd applied for the job, and I'd had a preliminary Skype interview, but there are usually so many applicants that the odds of being invited for an in-person interview are very low. So, it was time to pack my bags! <br />
<br />
As you may know, my contract here in Paris ends at the end of August, so
I've been looking for new opportunities. As I explained in my post "<a href="http://turnbulltravels.blogspot.fr/2016/02/what-is-postdoc.html" target="_blank">What is a postdoc?</a>",
my goal is to get a permanent position in teaching and research. That'd
be a "lecturer" in the UK, an "assistant professor" in the US, and a
"maître de conferences" in France. The Hawai'i job is an assistant professor job, so it's a big deal if I can do it right.<br />
<br />
It's nearly 7,500 miles from Paris to Hawai'i (that's nearly 12,000km), and that's plotting a straight line. There are no direct flights from Europe, so you have to fly via some major hub in the US (or in Asia, which is slightly longer but doesn't make that much difference). All told, it was about 24 hours from takeoff in Paris to landing in Honolulu. The time difference from Hawai'i to Paris is 11 hours.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1pdPoaCH7yxiKRe08W5EkwzPO-qjyNorP2qxZrDxNc9YUNBBfvHwrqEbdpdC8VTnmRuGB4rgcK7O7HfaIuC6XWNh_sIIfCA6w5AVg_HimFAlg4XozhCIpIveDZqyhAh2QQO-N9Sf_xuQ/s1600/DSC_4228.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1pdPoaCH7yxiKRe08W5EkwzPO-qjyNorP2qxZrDxNc9YUNBBfvHwrqEbdpdC8VTnmRuGB4rgcK7O7HfaIuC6XWNh_sIIfCA6w5AVg_HimFAlg4XozhCIpIveDZqyhAh2QQO-N9Sf_xuQ/s320/DSC_4228.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sans Souci State Recreational Park. Yep, <i>sans souci</i> is French for "no worry".</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Given all of that, I decided to arrive in Honolulu on Monday evening, which gave me a couple of days to adjust my internal clock before my visit formally began on Thursday. Academic job interview visits in the US are fairly intense. In this case, it involved meeting one-on-one with each faculty member in the department (for 30 minutes to an hour), presenting a research talk to the whole department (faculty and postgraduate students, plus any other interested parties), teaching a (real!) class as a demonstration of my pedagogical methods, being formally interviewed by the entire faculty of the department, meeting with the dean of the college, meeting (and being interviewed by) the postgraduate students, and then also going to dinners with various faculty members in the evening. It's a real marathon, designed to test your skill and aptitude as a researcher and educator, and also your collegiality and ability to get on well with others. Those extra days were crucial for me in de-fogging my jetlagged brain, and also in allowing me time to explore the island and investigate what it'd be like to live there. This last part was especially important as it's not a temporary position, so any relocation to Hawai'i has the potential to be permanent.<br />
<br />
Of course, you don't want to know the details of the interview process -- you want to know what was Hawai'i <i>like</i>?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrZ259OB-jS9ys31sguB2mJqJuAt6Zy8nm0WS-z0ddodaP0OHniuXQWjnvcbtyGDmxQKUH9ovx-ujLZnfuqF35Jv8dHcCA9mUgg3XDMSjL83BZhW20dRWWfnY1qHm8lAjD_LmlBMXJCA/s1600/DSC_4325.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrZ259OB-jS9ys31sguB2mJqJuAt6Zy8nm0WS-z0ddodaP0OHniuXQWjnvcbtyGDmxQKUH9ovx-ujLZnfuqF35Jv8dHcCA9mUgg3XDMSjL83BZhW20dRWWfnY1qHm8lAjD_LmlBMXJCA/s320/DSC_4325.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of Honolulu. The hilly crater in the distance is <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diamond_Head,_Hawaii" target="_blank">Diamond Head</a>. Buildings on the left are part of the university campus.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well, it was quite lovely, especially in contrast to Paris in February (rainy, cold, dreary). It was apparently a little colder than usual when I visited, but I didn't notice. Since records began in 1877, Honolulu has never been colder than 11C (52F) or warmer than 35C (95F). It's usually between 23C and 27C year round (73F to 81F), so it's extremely pleasant.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsDnlrHEAEVWsNHcANZ7ehESUMEsZtIVOna2Fk4GaaDqeaLy6-_VUTSO8aCt2ptbgkQZfOA6jW7IRxvSdMkVJaUEgTgAoH9brR_C1QceHur1cy4yQ4lLvxKDbE7R_6a-6L1hktIJa5G9A/s1600/DSC_4357.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsDnlrHEAEVWsNHcANZ7ehESUMEsZtIVOna2Fk4GaaDqeaLy6-_VUTSO8aCt2ptbgkQZfOA6jW7IRxvSdMkVJaUEgTgAoH9brR_C1QceHur1cy4yQ4lLvxKDbE7R_6a-6L1hktIJa5G9A/s320/DSC_4357.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A lovely tree at Kailua beach. Hawai'i has lots of lovely trees.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Some miscellaneous observations:<br />
<ul>
<li>Everyone wears flip flops.</li>
<li>No-one is in a hurry. </li>
<li>Apparently there are centipedes and flying cockroaches. (I didn't see any myself.) They lurk.</li>
<li>I had been in Hawai'i for three days before I heard a car sounding its horn. (You might get three minutes in Paris if you're lucky.) </li>
<li>A quick scan through some radio stations while driving revealed chamber music, reggae, Japanese punk rock, Korean slow jams, and surf rock.</li>
<li>This will sound strange, but the closest point of reference I have is New Zealand. Hawai'i is like New Zealand, but tropical and American rather than temperate and British.</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZCBAhLhMwaz4Jm0SzI8ZL9l40WOh57i_QitutN1nQdnJly75eIG99DIOIYDoViiSUIzCG6XwG1pzv70oFYiOa7m53gfba5MuIi1CWBReIW3clMWqs0HyGIEQd4r6XWHg6h9KPgwRtEs/s1600/DSC_4253.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNZCBAhLhMwaz4Jm0SzI8ZL9l40WOh57i_QitutN1nQdnJly75eIG99DIOIYDoViiSUIzCG6XwG1pzv70oFYiOa7m53gfba5MuIi1CWBReIW3clMWqs0HyGIEQd4r6XWHg6h9KPgwRtEs/s320/DSC_4253.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There are several dramatic cliffs with secluded beaches below.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The island of O'ahu, where Honolulu is located, is about the size of the isle of Skye in Scotland, and is home to about 950,000 people. (Skye has 9,000 people.) This means that it can be pretty crowded, especially in the city; but it also means that you can find most goods and products that you need, like any major city. You will pay a lot of money for them, though. Most cost of living indices put Honolulu at about the same level as San Francisco or London, just behind New York. It's not cheap to live in paradise.<br />
<br />
Part of this is because most goods must be shipped in on planes or container ships. At more than 3,000km from the closest continent, Hawai'i is by some measures the most isolated archipelago in the world. Unlike the isle of Skye, there is no convenient bridge connecting you to the mainland.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTB-N1bnianxKl1s6BORo1-HqyZJJ1f2I4InSFs7k9l3EnCH1u6dENUCCheLxOWxLxcJETg7mhi50zRmB0S268zh3_6nnmiuXJnB_yG3JRPEA3hyiUQ8VkcMNhIhLkmCY7Q_y6P5PKxI/s1600/DSC_4327.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTB-N1bnianxKl1s6BORo1-HqyZJJ1f2I4InSFs7k9l3EnCH1u6dENUCCheLxOWxLxcJETg7mhi50zRmB0S268zh3_6nnmiuXJnB_yG3JRPEA3hyiUQ8VkcMNhIhLkmCY7Q_y6P5PKxI/s640/DSC_4327.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A panorama of the Mānoa valley, the neighbourhood where the university is located.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Even with the extra time I built in, it was a whirlwind trip. I was able to tour around Honolulu and some nearby places, but there's only so much you can do and see, especially when you're fighting an 11-hour jetlag! The 11 hour time difference also made it difficult to stay in touch with Talia. We'd talk in the mornings and evenings while we were both awake, me sharing stories of banana trees and mangos and her sharing stories of baby poops and interrupted sleeping. Before I knew it I was on a plane back to Europe and home in sunny Paris.<br />
<br />
PS, I got the job! I start in August. Roryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06486573653238923045noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-31907568051093001382017-03-05T06:00:00.000-10:002017-03-05T06:00:08.070-10:00Winter travels part 3: Christmas, Scotland (and Texas)Following on with my recap of our winter travels (see <a href="http://turnbulltravels.blogspot.fr/2017/01/winter-travels-part-1-thanksgiving-usa.html" target="_blank">part 1</a> and <a href="http://turnbulltravels.blogspot.fr/2017/02/winter-travels-part-2-milan.html" target="_blank">part 2</a>), we went to Scotland over Christmas. This trip mostly consisted of Maëlys meeting friends and relatives for the first time.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCtPy0uN2wvd6QnYPJiNOOQmu_axDgL0BnzKAbQH_RthAVeYCJnuDoX2gB2b_t2uPgp64F3MVxQu4QIWMiEtbGS7y7x-pi3I9PuT90JQt_aLwskbNhwsoVOSmVG3ynvY7GhPYLorYdz-0/s1600/DSC_3983.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCtPy0uN2wvd6QnYPJiNOOQmu_axDgL0BnzKAbQH_RthAVeYCJnuDoX2gB2b_t2uPgp64F3MVxQu4QIWMiEtbGS7y7x-pi3I9PuT90JQt_aLwskbNhwsoVOSmVG3ynvY7GhPYLorYdz-0/s320/DSC_3983.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great Grandma Turnbull with Maëlys.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPzReCRv5rvkxdDuSInAxipS8_ilraRDbZPpxBy8dw8Dvj8ehaKVsn-4Vh-ywL-n2uM-vsb3yjuu-CWpFr5yeLbRfEETjuHqNFJLNz8uDNHNzfJGTFUE4eddc7P4teAsNJO8rE4LvEBL8/s1600/DSC_4040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPzReCRv5rvkxdDuSInAxipS8_ilraRDbZPpxBy8dw8Dvj8ehaKVsn-4Vh-ywL-n2uM-vsb3yjuu-CWpFr5yeLbRfEETjuHqNFJLNz8uDNHNzfJGTFUE4eddc7P4teAsNJO8rE4LvEBL8/s320/DSC_4040.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ken, a family friend, with Maëlys.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaP9JYCLRaIPYcqmfh2zWwGu1Q3jd5JPXr_GNlLik-nXCTqToXXAsDNndAUTpQQ4-x54AwvcWeEpa04uUSHZGb-MSku8f-HY7ZldhsXzROwjJRa85os1-wMxxG6zv0X_dZyE9YiRj56ZU/s1600/DSC_4056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaP9JYCLRaIPYcqmfh2zWwGu1Q3jd5JPXr_GNlLik-nXCTqToXXAsDNndAUTpQQ4-x54AwvcWeEpa04uUSHZGb-MSku8f-HY7ZldhsXzROwjJRa85os1-wMxxG6zv0X_dZyE9YiRj56ZU/s320/DSC_4056.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, Maëlys, my cousin Kathryn, and her daughter Jess. Jess is two days younger than Maëlys!</td></tr>
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We've been to Scotland many times before, so we didn't do any sightseeing or anything. Strangely, it was unseasonably warm for most of our visit. I think it was about 12C (52F) on Christmas day. It's usually somewhere between 2C and 8C (35F and 46F), and doesn't get into the double figures until March.<br /><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcF1dMgvG_NJflFTSJj0xy1EHlyai5dPYZwY1c71IKxlsWgi8RWQOCxssTMoKh93XR1ECoFmXuNIRRyn8FCw61QDRzb_yDuxrgfF4SrXieU7oGQrQPXwhlBIiwSCUKLOsrvDoAxh7dHs8/s1600/DSC_4150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcF1dMgvG_NJflFTSJj0xy1EHlyai5dPYZwY1c71IKxlsWgi8RWQOCxssTMoKh93XR1ECoFmXuNIRRyn8FCw61QDRzb_yDuxrgfF4SrXieU7oGQrQPXwhlBIiwSCUKLOsrvDoAxh7dHs8/s400/DSC_4150.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise! At 8:30am. Gotta make the most of those 7 hour days.</td></tr>
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<br />
It was great getting to see everyone and I was strangely proud when "showing off" Maëlys to people. A little like an enthusiastic schoolchild showing off their class project, "I made this". Except better! She seemed to enjoy the attention too, and wasn't afraid to meet new people as babies sometimes are.<br />
<br />
After Hogmanay, I left for Paris, while Talia and Maëlys remained in Scotland. After three days I was leaving for Texas, for another conference (in Austin). We had originally intended to all go to Paris together, but Talia decided to stay in Scotland with my parents rather than be in Paris alone with Maëlys, which was a sensible decision, I think. Of course, my parents were thrilled to get to spend more time with their favourite granddaughter!<br />
<br />
I had a couple of days in Paris, which was enough time to unpack and re-pack and to digest Julien Barnes' excellent novel <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sense_of_an_Ending" target="_blank">The Sense of an Ending</a>. Then I was off to Austin, Texas for a linguistics conference.<br />
<br />
I don't have any pictures for you from Texas, I'm afraid. I was travelling light so I didn't take my camera, and I was in fact travelling so light that I forgot my phone charger, so I don't even have phone camera pictures. In any case, I spent most of the time at the conference hotel, so there isn't much of interest to report. It was in fact unseasonably <i>cold</i> in Austin, also around 12C (52F). I understand that normally it's more like 20C (68F).<br />
<br />
It was a good conference, with excellent scientific content and good opportunities for me to meet other academic linguists, new and old. Still, I was very happy to get home, this being the longest I'd ever been away from Maëlys. It was also good to be stationary for a while after all this travelling.<br />
<br />
Stay tuned, one more "winter travels" post to go and we'll be all caught up!Roryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06486573653238923045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-92147552148830671042017-02-21T01:00:00.000-10:002017-02-21T01:00:20.279-10:00Winter travels part 2: Milan<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3exGCRv4mOay3_-_YljYu11spjq7Xw5B2gX9xY0Vr1hrnTWzfQDtwZrgh48uwiHEhBmvqw7c3D-r-XSd-gBWNguYtL2n4jZNIxZFO-iwsbHxpI5iHEA7VsunSfX3iOgLeeMP6w-3HYQw/s1600/IMG_20161130_142507310.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3exGCRv4mOay3_-_YljYu11spjq7Xw5B2gX9xY0Vr1hrnTWzfQDtwZrgh48uwiHEhBmvqw7c3D-r-XSd-gBWNguYtL2n4jZNIxZFO-iwsbHxpI5iHEA7VsunSfX3iOgLeeMP6w-3HYQw/s320/IMG_20161130_142507310.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The alps, as seen from my plane.</td></tr>
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As Talia <a href="http://turnbulltravels.blogspot.fr/2017/01/have-baby-will-travel.html" target="_blank">alluded to in a previous post</a>, almost immediately after we got back to France from the USA I left France to go to Italy. Specifically to Milan, for an academic conference where I was presenting a paper. The timing was a little unfortunate, as it meant I was abandoning an exhausted Talia with a grumpy jet-lagged baby in the middle of Paris. I was jet lagged too, but I didn't have to deal with a baby...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv8-6D9jd6KM2XxikIQoo5ykVkyiuGSpI2ZORznKdRUGltEuRyQtT8qeDSZDHidjB2Gn9cwUiLlK_HSimi8zpGXxMnLEFHcmVGWZpNFVgZFnf6BjdPxeh6pFo7gploJ1l8IhWZsSHltn0/s1600/DSC_3822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv8-6D9jd6KM2XxikIQoo5ykVkyiuGSpI2ZORznKdRUGltEuRyQtT8qeDSZDHidjB2Gn9cwUiLlK_HSimi8zpGXxMnLEFHcmVGWZpNFVgZFnf6BjdPxeh6pFo7gploJ1l8IhWZsSHltn0/s320/DSC_3822.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A tram scoots through one of the medieval city gates. Not pictured: Roman ruins, ornate basilicas, Italians.</td></tr>
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Instead, I had to deal with trams, mopeds, and medieval architecture. And excellent coffee.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PezphvPWowyCHggX0zGidg0mNcMuqn58XYzgAJ_oogs0-TitQHIxMmgGMIhV2kNMKMQseXMWUjmSQhVxqf5j0Stwxwm2sPwteI5lphTHmDUGFlpHTpb3E_1BX3HGCX4PCDGmUT1JHaQ/s1600/DSC_3844.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8PezphvPWowyCHggX0zGidg0mNcMuqn58XYzgAJ_oogs0-TitQHIxMmgGMIhV2kNMKMQseXMWUjmSQhVxqf5j0Stwxwm2sPwteI5lphTHmDUGFlpHTpb3E_1BX3HGCX4PCDGmUT1JHaQ/s320/DSC_3844.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traffic.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Speaking of coffee, and food, on my very first morning I went to a local bakery that had been recommended to me for breakfast. I walk in, and the conversation goes something like this:<br />
<br />
Baker: [some greeting which is neither <i>buon giorno</i> "good morning" nor <i>salve</i> "hello" (or even <i>ciao</i>, the informal version).]<br />
Me: <i>Buon giorno! Non parlo italiano.</i> ["Good morning! I don't speak Italian."]<br />
Baker: <i>Ah!</i> [stream of Italian, very quick, wherein he explains what each of the baked goods on offer are made of, what they taste like, how they're cooked, etc.] <br />
<br />
It's not strictly true that I don't speak any Italian -- I was able to piece together the gist of what he said via my knowledge of French and Spanish -- I was amused by the knowing look he gave me, and by the fact that he very kindly explained everything to me, the confused foreigner, <i>in Italian</i>.<br />
<br />
It's not that I expected him to speak English (especially as Italy is one of the most monolingual countries of the EU!), but I thought he would at least slow down, use simple phrases, or something. Maybe point at a bun, say <i>cioccolate, molto bene</i>, 'chocolate, very good', something like that.<br />
<br />
In any case, if you must know, I ordered a cappuccino and a chocolate brioche. They were both <i>molto bene</i>, although the brioche was covered in powdered sugar and was quite messy.<br />
<br />
It turns out that Italians aren't great at French either: <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP2OmSSAEOnWsrrEk3Zxhf8OhLNYbE-1Zy05m6VBc39ze3HXV099I7Xdx19VbhyphenhyphenXj0v1Yy3ZacDrxZAxpc3KuhdpXQgf38jqSDgbLVjeBYkdat7s4hGc54jAh95jhDFLNOYgAUwGVdNkw/s1600/DSC_3918.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP2OmSSAEOnWsrrEk3Zxhf8OhLNYbE-1Zy05m6VBc39ze3HXV099I7Xdx19VbhyphenhyphenXj0v1Yy3ZacDrxZAxpc3KuhdpXQgf38jqSDgbLVjeBYkdat7s4hGc54jAh95jhDFLNOYgAUwGVdNkw/s320/DSC_3918.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It should be "<i>crêpes</i>".</td></tr>
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Apart from the food and the conferencing, my main activity in Milan was wandering the city and examining the architecture. Lots of churches of various shapes and sizes!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG8A3aG9kT3wx_5NM61wvjcnLDa2URIUXeF5L53K5r_tbh3gBOtNr1NefJIw9yGBKUMJgctRhhEVsIuCy2V_qqwdVSyvQE85_3x4bSZTP0xqRQBo2pPlWGgkVzqgkYVF7ZkKRETemESnM/s1600/DSC_3883.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG8A3aG9kT3wx_5NM61wvjcnLDa2URIUXeF5L53K5r_tbh3gBOtNr1NefJIw9yGBKUMJgctRhhEVsIuCy2V_qqwdVSyvQE85_3x4bSZTP0xqRQBo2pPlWGgkVzqgkYVF7ZkKRETemESnM/s320/DSC_3883.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The famous Duomo cathedral.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNjQMSgMgwUxQh1JnAyK5R5r2raUsommb9N5NOf7f3NzDW9CORpmlZmxDe2FiZT-mGysp5rJDCc7MmhKYIxsp8HIy27CnCLuO0tk-b4r2eZx3XWCXtn2QINlVqfF6Bz08-CB_H-ZyanXM/s320/DSC_3874.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another angle on the Duomo.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQl_9OCWd8uL9fepa9ea47LeZ7FbquFq9EIVDgUjdAh8TAJAzwo7thrbgIHn7oI35MN5AF2IaC6gAiKQWNP5D_AwtQybYznGT-TgQ92ww7dtjAS8oPLSWEhNYdnbJVpMtA3r8wJ1jyGIA/s1600/DSC_3868a.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQl_9OCWd8uL9fepa9ea47LeZ7FbquFq9EIVDgUjdAh8TAJAzwo7thrbgIHn7oI35MN5AF2IaC6gAiKQWNP5D_AwtQybYznGT-TgQ92ww7dtjAS8oPLSWEhNYdnbJVpMtA3r8wJ1jyGIA/s320/DSC_3868a.JPG" width="196" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tower of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basilica_of_Sant%27Eustorgio" target="_blank">Basilica of Sant'Eustorgio</a>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
All in all, it was a pleasant break from my usual routines. The conference went smoothly and my paper was well-received. I was very happy to get home to Talia and a sleepy baby, though.Roryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06486573653238923045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-67965939451353842002017-01-24T00:25:00.001-10:002017-01-24T00:25:09.984-10:00Winter travels part 1: Thanksgiving, USA.We've travelled a fair bit this winter, but we've hardly blogged at all! Sorry to keep you waiting. This post is the first in a series!<br />
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<h3>
Thanksgiving</h3>
Thanksgiving is a big American holiday in late November, where you get together with family, eat a lot of food, and be thankful. It's basically a harvest festival.<br />
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For Talia's family, this is a big celebration, so we made a special effort to traverse the 9 time zones from Europe to Oregon. Since it's such a long trip, we spent two weeks there.<br />
<span id="goog_835745363"></span><span id="goog_835745364"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaCyRn3_9ATM0dj6vluKz4_XnO9BFE8kmkn1c_rU1pteOZ7Gnbsjqtw8RnSGEtoi9IXGfkEj4HK5JPGB2Z5jO5IAg2pUUFxut3SOfZfkqRca9pe7C9N24z0S48wbiHi946govElhMlYjw/s1600/DSC_3629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaCyRn3_9ATM0dj6vluKz4_XnO9BFE8kmkn1c_rU1pteOZ7Gnbsjqtw8RnSGEtoi9IXGfkEj4HK5JPGB2Z5jO5IAg2pUUFxut3SOfZfkqRca9pe7C9N24z0S48wbiHi946govElhMlYjw/s320/DSC_3629.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Oregon coastline.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGwEBK7xPf5pnWFeMpcdLjgT33tMYtPIIBalA0pVSdJySgeloHodoqsGRuN2phRXp-K0fYVKnfDV9I2vjRNrmv7rkQ2ljy41KJnl3-VZLlG2cnS4eiVh32DP0w5eTeW56pcODedK0WfqA/s1600/20161118_151324.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGwEBK7xPf5pnWFeMpcdLjgT33tMYtPIIBalA0pVSdJySgeloHodoqsGRuN2phRXp-K0fYVKnfDV9I2vjRNrmv7rkQ2ljy41KJnl3-VZLlG2cnS4eiVh32DP0w5eTeW56pcODedK0WfqA/s320/20161118_151324.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marilyn, me, Maëlys, and Talia, keeping warm on the beach.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The big event, of course, was thanksgiving day. There were 21 of us in total - me, Talia, and Maëlys; Talia's three brothers and three sisters-in-law, and their children (three boys and two girls); one of Talia's cousins and her husband; another of Talia's cousins and her two children; and Talia's parents. Eight children, ranging from 4 months to 11 years, and thirteen grown-ups. What a party!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvw9JItFC2DVqXBOP-_-zHNYvSxxTsxbSyx9w8O99La57M4kDy8WpoklTtvI3ADacODPXwXcYSdhGmOVT6gWauZ8RbpCSNeAzjSLE0dk8_fhQX65TQc6_hkK8TjjtnEpyWtZ0IeLBMv0/s1600/DSC_3651.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvw9JItFC2DVqXBOP-_-zHNYvSxxTsxbSyx9w8O99La57M4kDy8WpoklTtvI3ADacODPXwXcYSdhGmOVT6gWauZ8RbpCSNeAzjSLE0dk8_fhQX65TQc6_hkK8TjjtnEpyWtZ0IeLBMv0/s320/DSC_3651.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maëlys's cousins learn how to spell her name.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwgxCRxBd67YDJ00LdgTJF7QVqQlDrpaZO5rx7rDiIdyDg9uJ_voNVm1EW4VH3LQdjrNPcYaZ8SexJr0NHQgM20Yvvpss3Scp1l8kMkgUCZbetetscx-0qwY9FFV7v-QVYkS6lTRMSN9c/s1600/DSC_3654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwgxCRxBd67YDJ00LdgTJF7QVqQlDrpaZO5rx7rDiIdyDg9uJ_voNVm1EW4VH3LQdjrNPcYaZ8SexJr0NHQgM20Yvvpss3Scp1l8kMkgUCZbetetscx-0qwY9FFV7v-QVYkS6lTRMSN9c/s320/DSC_3654.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marilyn's famous dinner rolls!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7y5NK_3jCcI6hgiaQploE2J3YNRY0MZkFSLfrENDEexS4HiHlayhfp2JR5OBWG_343xZ0SFytu9c7XoW56V7GIypzgn6_oNxqwH3DwsTcc2b5KwajCeHVLnF29EwKdPK94gdrxsaIJUM/s1600/DSC_3709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7y5NK_3jCcI6hgiaQploE2J3YNRY0MZkFSLfrENDEexS4HiHlayhfp2JR5OBWG_343xZ0SFytu9c7XoW56V7GIypzgn6_oNxqwH3DwsTcc2b5KwajCeHVLnF29EwKdPK94gdrxsaIJUM/s320/DSC_3709.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lemon meringue pie!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMjqQHAfCkTDMaD7eD3t3mB5ouGDS-5yRZkXnxtSUqsJnM3Y0BebHop8g7-pYwwIWLR2tO7yhej7c1yFgX_phHaOwWEXbuDiGVA9iEd2wIoSMXc9zHPuNkKah4Mk-OyymcEKu0LYyRJs/s1600/DSC_3722.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMjqQHAfCkTDMaD7eD3t3mB5ouGDS-5yRZkXnxtSUqsJnM3Y0BebHop8g7-pYwwIWLR2tO7yhej7c1yFgX_phHaOwWEXbuDiGVA9iEd2wIoSMXc9zHPuNkKah4Mk-OyymcEKu0LYyRJs/s320/DSC_3722.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More pies, and a turkey.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fAyI4Qb1jjkDYqGCOxyuiL9Obt9I8ePvW6ec0K2-wqZva4Xgji5GELdsAKHvhCdQUg1etv3tFXPTkUCBY2Ymh_HMgsxhkuuvRFejc-r3Ip6DRfhvZw05yM4vs8DQrAFWeOY4iDZUhQs/s1600/DSC_3739a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3fAyI4Qb1jjkDYqGCOxyuiL9Obt9I8ePvW6ec0K2-wqZva4Xgji5GELdsAKHvhCdQUg1etv3tFXPTkUCBY2Ymh_HMgsxhkuuvRFejc-r3Ip6DRfhvZw05yM4vs8DQrAFWeOY4iDZUhQs/s640/DSC_3739a.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everyone assembled before the eating began! Not pictured: me.</td></tr>
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Of course, for everyone except Talia's parents, it was their first time meeting Maëlys. (And she'd grown a lot since Talia's parents saw her last!) So there was lots of baby-holding and cooing.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOoED7AIHkkfXClGaeogfD27hvEYjLlEsojsK7gFFDVNOLPNrqNrsxk1-65MyYJf8wBZUbrCNzr0ADEb7zbTr2YtNxMi-KRaO-BdIVVmVmmtJ5LNxHw0Gli9Bo0OfODowoLJBWQTEENc/s1600/DSC_3746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKOoED7AIHkkfXClGaeogfD27hvEYjLlEsojsK7gFFDVNOLPNrqNrsxk1-65MyYJf8wBZUbrCNzr0ADEb7zbTr2YtNxMi-KRaO-BdIVVmVmmtJ5LNxHw0Gli9Bo0OfODowoLJBWQTEENc/s320/DSC_3746.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maëlys with Grandpa and Erik.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5R05hQwENKy7G6KmgxIBPb5pr5JxzkfZAyY4_76sJb-8Jxj5p4fiFps4lsvH-ARgFyyzhr3L9Wau_Brlu7RkPQEdnOhRaNyt4BQIC0MJwG8WGpaIMkRCJHFMVAZbdsgKl8KUUmiBX_1Y/s1600/DSC_3778.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5R05hQwENKy7G6KmgxIBPb5pr5JxzkfZAyY4_76sJb-8Jxj5p4fiFps4lsvH-ARgFyyzhr3L9Wau_Brlu7RkPQEdnOhRaNyt4BQIC0MJwG8WGpaIMkRCJHFMVAZbdsgKl8KUUmiBX_1Y/s320/DSC_3778.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maëlys with Hanna.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE5oWdi0WU7iNndGM9HcmJLaUuz1Gy42kgZjoKxG3Zj1m72ula4g464YzyqMANEkIU2CpBqZNz4VGPfZpHceFVed4DndUsyfdrf5DrKwJQhVCNTVHyDFWV-SpvWF2vY0e8geHVqM-dX54/s1600/DSC_3723.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE5oWdi0WU7iNndGM9HcmJLaUuz1Gy42kgZjoKxG3Zj1m72ula4g464YzyqMANEkIU2CpBqZNz4VGPfZpHceFVed4DndUsyfdrf5DrKwJQhVCNTVHyDFWV-SpvWF2vY0e8geHVqM-dX54/s320/DSC_3723.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maëlys with Mayela. (Note her thanksgiving-themed dress!)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqKm4jlcGN4P2OWbTfo5f50xJ8GD9MRk8rRu8Silh1xDj_SBbNJd4Du3oFy_1ICRt3Gd0tKYwvo1MBeiVjW-gzW64a6LPqnHSWbmpgoYcnpCsflRN_2btm2ITiaArPS0HIlFlDt88_Mf4/s1600/20161126_194910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqKm4jlcGN4P2OWbTfo5f50xJ8GD9MRk8rRu8Silh1xDj_SBbNJd4Du3oFy_1ICRt3Gd0tKYwvo1MBeiVjW-gzW64a6LPqnHSWbmpgoYcnpCsflRN_2btm2ITiaArPS0HIlFlDt88_Mf4/s320/20161126_194910.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Ashley reads a story to Travis, Maëlys, Sage, and Erik.</td></tr>
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As a bonus, here's a picture of Hanna reading her parents the Scots translation of <i>The Gruffalo</i>, and explaining what words like "biled" and "ahint" mean.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihK0XK-61R-L3Fi4mjejb6HwMITqR6zkXSOOg0ipzVSftlNhrgkubtzpqppdC7DA9rUctIyILr1AFlCJ047dlPYENVzf3CzCUkddwwjKl5bYu0GvXX0HYMKVSefREQ7Ul2GrSR1c4eXJU/s1600/DSC_3768.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihK0XK-61R-L3Fi4mjejb6HwMITqR6zkXSOOg0ipzVSftlNhrgkubtzpqppdC7DA9rUctIyILr1AFlCJ047dlPYENVzf3CzCUkddwwjKl5bYu0GvXX0HYMKVSefREQ7Ul2GrSR1c4eXJU/s320/DSC_3768.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Click to zoom in!</td></tr>
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A lot of food was eaten, as is traditional, and it was fantastic to see everyone and have them meet Maëlys and compare baby stories. A refreshing trip to the new world!<br />
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Next up: Milan!Roryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06486573653238923045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-25940493789377688252017-01-08T02:01:00.000-10:002017-01-08T02:01:56.356-10:00Have baby, will travel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>Baby becomes world traveler</b></div>
It's 8 am and my nearly 5 month old daughter is noisily sleeping in bed next to me. She fell asleep mid-suck during her last feeding an hour ago and I just kept her on our bed. She's been farting every few minutes. It's kind of cute, actually. (Add that to the list of things you never thought you'd say until becoming a parent!) Her pudgy little arms are stretched out in a T; she's enjoying taking up half of the big person bed since Rory is currently in Austin, Texas.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMrkJTwi6v_Xi8hNX-rdE3xY4gHijYwUpr2RmJ8U_1AnsWAGUTXa8nl38NpU_xo2y3OAGLDfeld8uD5lmsPaER6hCcODDTNpi6HID_-96ZBEdIFqtUsSCMs9vQjMwD-YZ0H4XJQaspgg/s1600/20161129_102856.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMrkJTwi6v_Xi8hNX-rdE3xY4gHijYwUpr2RmJ8U_1AnsWAGUTXa8nl38NpU_xo2y3OAGLDfeld8uD5lmsPaER6hCcODDTNpi6HID_-96ZBEdIFqtUsSCMs9vQjMwD-YZ0H4XJQaspgg/s320/20161129_102856.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maëlys gets her own seatbelt!</td></tr>
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After spending two weeks in Scotland with his family for Christmas, Rory left us here to go be an academic and give a talk at the Linguistics Society of America conference. I'm still enjoying the kind assistance of his parents so that I don't have to take care of the baby on my own in Paris. I tried that for three days after our return from Oregon a month ago (we spent Thanksgiving with 20 family members!) and it was by far the hardest time I've experienced thus far with the baby. While Rory was at another conference in Milan, Maëlys and I were suffering from a 9-hour jetlag, and for nearly a week she was waking up every 15-30 minutes during the night and wailing. Nothing made it better. I could count my total hours of sleep that week on one hand. I have much more sympathy now for parents of children who sleep poorly. And for single parents. I felt like a train wreck.<br />
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But in all other respects, travelling with a baby has been easier than I anticipated. Maëlys has now been on five airplanes, 30 total hours of air travel, and she was an excellent passenger on four of them. The only exception was the 10-hour flight back from Seattle to Paris, which she didn't seem to like despite doing fine on the way over. We had a bassinet* at our disposal, but she barely slept anyway and was fussing in our arms most of the way. Still, she's had no problems on any of the flights with the change in altitude creating pressure on her ears, which was my big concern, and we've always had enough diapers and spare clothes to get us to our destination. For reference, we packed one diaper for every hour of travel and had plenty to spare. Just in case that's useful information for you.<br />
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<b>Travel expectations</b><br />
When I married a Scotsman, I knew my future would involve lots of travel. We've made it to visit our families in both the US and UK almost every year that we've been together. And I knew if we had kids it would mean plenty of plane, train, and automobile rides with our offspring. But whenever you tell someone you're taking a three-month-old on a 22-hour door-to-door trip, they unfailingly look at you with shock and pity and then say (perhaps with a hint of schadenfreude?), "That's going to be rough. It'll be even harder when they're older!" The effect these words have on an intrepid new parent is to terrify the pants off them. We already know it's not going to be easy. Long-distance travel is hard on anyone. But when seemingly every single person perpetuates the same fear-inducing attitude towards travel with babies, it makes the experience much worse for first time family travellers.<br />
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Can I make a suggestion? If someone tells you they're travelling with a young child, don't express how hard you think the journey will be, whether you have personal experience or not. Don't even assure them that it'll be fine now but worse when the kids are older. Instead be excited for them. Ask questions about what they'll see and do. If you do happen to have helpful tips from your own family travels, share them tactfully if they are welcome. And then when they get back, perhaps congratulate them on a successful trip and by all means empathize with them if they had a difficult journey. But help them stay positive both before and after their trip and they'll be more likely to enjoy the experience.<br />
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After all, for the last two months, Maëlys has been experiencing a deluge of new people, sights, smells, and sounds, all of which enrich her development and understanding of the world. She's experienced Oregon evergreen forests, rambunctious cousins, the salty sea air, sheep in Scottish pastures, a surprising number of rainbows, an assortment of accents, Christmas trees and lights, babies older and (two days) younger, grand- and great-grandparents, and cuddles from everyone under the sun. She has taken it all in stride, often with wide-eyed curiosity and an eager smile. For her to have those opportunities is worth any potential discomfort from the voyage. I, for one, am excited to travel with my baby and can't wait to share the delights of the world with her.<br />
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That's all for now! We're still trying to get caught up with our normal lives after spending five weeks away from Paris. Obviously, blogging has fallen by the wayside. We'll put up some pictures from our trips to Oregon and Scotland soon, I promise!<br />
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*<b>A word about bassinets on planes</b>: Delta Airlines has sleeping bassinets for babies under 20 pounds and 26 inches long (9 kg, 66 cm), but their policy on providing one is iffy. When Rory called to book our flights he was told they couldn't guarantee him a bassinet and it was first come, first served, so we should get to the airport three hours early and request it at the gate. We dutifully did this, and it worked fine in Paris. Coming home however, the Portland Delta staff told him the bassinet would go to whoever booked their flights first. The lady spent ages looking up this information, as there was another dad waiting in line just behind Rory for the same reason. Turns out we booked second, so it should have gone to the other family, but they had booked an extra seat as well and were willing to give us the bassinet. Hooray! Too bad Maëlys didn't want to use it. The moral of the story: find out your airline's policy on bassinets. Then be prepared to be told something completely different.<br />
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<br />Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-17670859746828851992016-10-31T10:27:00.000-10:002016-10-31T10:27:52.849-10:00FontainebleauLest our blog become purely baby-related, I wanted to post some stuff about recent travels we have been on. Except... we haven't travelled since the baby arrived. Well, we've made trips around the Paris metropolitan area (which is a pretty big area), but we haven't really been out for more than a few hours or an afternoon or so. Life with babies is complicated!<br />
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But, earlier in July, we took a day trip to Fontainebleau, a town about 50km south of Paris. I had been planning to write about our trip, but I never got round to it! Let's do that now.<br />
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Fontainebleau is a popular tourist destination for Parisians, mainly due to the nearby <i>Forêt de Fontainebleau</i> (Fontainebleau forest), but also for the <i>Château de Fontainebleau</i>, regarded as one of France's most magnificent. The forest is pretty big, 280 square kilometres; that's approximately the same size as Edinburgh, Exmoor national park, or the borough of Queens in New York; it's just under 10% the size of Rhode Island. The forest is popular for hiking, cycling, horse riding, and rock climbing.<br />
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It took us maybe an hour to get there by train, and then a 10 minute bus ride from the train station to the town centre. Apparently it's a popular site with Chinese tourists, and there were signs in Chinese at the train station explaining how to use the buses. For us, since the trains and bus system are all in the "Paris region" transport system, we were able to use our monthly transport passes to travel. A day trip for free! Doesn't get much better than that. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiek5Ok3HAxbk3yyCM-i60yqiojKo8dqITjuP6a2JxmTj94q84SmAAFPwJ8eSrj95oFT4sYuXqJjnxT5fXfJmccFBkygo7pbXqX9dyJuzLm83UtII173L_rXejidXie8awEBmQrXO1RArc/s1600/DSC_3002.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiek5Ok3HAxbk3yyCM-i60yqiojKo8dqITjuP6a2JxmTj94q84SmAAFPwJ8eSrj95oFT4sYuXqJjnxT5fXfJmccFBkygo7pbXqX9dyJuzLm83UtII173L_rXejidXie8awEBmQrXO1RArc/s320/DSC_3002.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The chateau de Fontainebleau.</td></tr>
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The castle has been successively expanded over the centuries by its different owners, which has lead to a multitude of different architectural styles for the different wings. I'll let you judge whether this has a positive or negative effect on the overall appearance:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ0DjLDb_qV_StfdQM4mi3_CglkrD6BIqJ7BBnaclv77vpgdEp0SIQc5vI-46NghhBGePJtc-yGAUTaS9DJq628K7Dyu6GGUwE3iZ5mIpZMPIhTwTFDmBgjk11MYcgMJkj8WYHSVD7Gcc/s1600/DSC_3062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ0DjLDb_qV_StfdQM4mi3_CglkrD6BIqJ7BBnaclv77vpgdEp0SIQc5vI-46NghhBGePJtc-yGAUTaS9DJq628K7Dyu6GGUwE3iZ5mIpZMPIhTwTFDmBgjk11MYcgMJkj8WYHSVD7Gcc/s320/DSC_3062.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A view of part of the castle from a distance.</td></tr>
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The château is surrounded by extensive gardens, including a lake. You can visit the inside of the castle (apparently the tour is well-regarded), but the weather was so nice we opted to remain outside and stroll the gardens.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2bN3s7JI09AowhgUnVsvMQOCVR8eTjJ4tYHfxoUDOrmqSQetJF7I2wQDtvhb2pWEjwBIT3tcSutFF50rhWbGqRwPZma1YyK1jEGstsnZZJd8Hsz4XHPwhlv_Pw1J-ZY40FDpYsuB9Ftg/s1600/DSC_2999.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2bN3s7JI09AowhgUnVsvMQOCVR8eTjJ4tYHfxoUDOrmqSQetJF7I2wQDtvhb2pWEjwBIT3tcSutFF50rhWbGqRwPZma1YyK1jEGstsnZZJd8Hsz4XHPwhlv_Pw1J-ZY40FDpYsuB9Ftg/s320/DSC_2999.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Such tasteful decorations in the castle grounds. (Oui, c'est un chien qui faire un pipi.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsySAE567EJW-bpw-esA6FTfENz3y4ziVgA9-JyP-wdMY8Ro87y81PeGcVr3tY1PD9nDTUVsL6UVceaWgJVDK4_stzA76kDsws305Qj2-amF9hQWjcrdqn-m0jb0KiaSTDCWQbUGEvras/s1600/DSC_3043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsySAE567EJW-bpw-esA6FTfENz3y4ziVgA9-JyP-wdMY8Ro87y81PeGcVr3tY1PD9nDTUVsL6UVceaWgJVDK4_stzA76kDsws305Qj2-amF9hQWjcrdqn-m0jb0KiaSTDCWQbUGEvras/s320/DSC_3043.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some people relaxing with a picnic by the lakeside.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfqT4y0Pfli9pgMCjv3dq6Az-KeFrYmz7JU5U9gm2SQDUS6xmM90gULgu5OcneJRzZX9YDkwlD7Vv2CKrCV1bAOT3tuijeU8B3362bpyN18lGEA_sLhI-ZNooQcKoe9NO49VdVhTFM9L0/s1600/DSC_3056.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfqT4y0Pfli9pgMCjv3dq6Az-KeFrYmz7JU5U9gm2SQDUS6xmM90gULgu5OcneJRzZX9YDkwlD7Vv2CKrCV1bAOT3tuijeU8B3362bpyN18lGEA_sLhI-ZNooQcKoe9NO49VdVhTFM9L0/s320/DSC_3056.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another view of the castle from one of the tree-lined promenades.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We didn't venture out into the forest (there was too much to see at the castle, and Talia, being pregnant, only had so much walking energy for the day). Perhaps we will be able to revisit soon and have another exploration, this time with baby in tow!Roryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06486573653238923045noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-8524527041234787232016-10-09T02:15:00.000-10:002017-04-03T09:45:15.470-10:00Two months of sweetness<div>
Maëlys is two months old today! The first month passed in a haze of exhaustion and amazement and a pervasive what-the-heck-do-I-do-with-this-creature feeling, but the second month is where the love and confidence have started to grow in earnest. </div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsPrRwQ_yEvW0wa-yw7LyikiaoE-xx_VU8ZtyKjE8exw5rcu_kYj_gRSwEtqchQ1HyUkHBjG92qGLqaAummsamcVP0DreTC8X7QAvk-Nwj3ap6jHyAabl_MYKJRuXhWVkFGZGZZajOvYw/s1600/DSC_3373.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsPrRwQ_yEvW0wa-yw7LyikiaoE-xx_VU8ZtyKjE8exw5rcu_kYj_gRSwEtqchQ1HyUkHBjG92qGLqaAummsamcVP0DreTC8X7QAvk-Nwj3ap6jHyAabl_MYKJRuXhWVkFGZGZZajOvYw/s320/DSC_3373.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Smiley Maëlys!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
At six weeks, she intentionally smiled back at me for the first time, quelling the sneaking suspicion I had that our daughter would resemble a humorless and demanding alien for the rest of her life. Shortly thereafter, she started to become much more cuddly, burrowing her face into my neck and wrapping her arms around me when I held her. She started showing more interest in her stuffed animal toys, as well as holding a person's gaze for much longer. And this morning, she consistently giggled (cutest sound in the world!) when Rory wiggled her bottom and made a motorboat noise. It's episodes like these that make your heart overflow with love for your tiny human. And make the less fun stuff worth it. </div>
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUEyyum6vHdvGVpRO8fNMw0LRXpD55suNcsGGr-EN6On-R256SfKaOVblZ2bRCZNgiFIwI0e8361eQJEhdOp0BuS7ShYKMU8881Ja0nO4zbzgR9wczZnxCjeclad1GHXavcccET0pFRY/s1600/DSC_3342.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUEyyum6vHdvGVpRO8fNMw0LRXpD55suNcsGGr-EN6On-R256SfKaOVblZ2bRCZNgiFIwI0e8361eQJEhdOp0BuS7ShYKMU8881Ja0nO4zbzgR9wczZnxCjeclad1GHXavcccET0pFRY/s320/DSC_3342.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our latest otter comparison.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
You may be wondering what it's like to raise a baby in Paris. I might also write later about my experiences with labor and delivery and our stay at a French hospital if people are interested, but I'll save that for another post. For now, here are some interesting facets of new parenthood in Paris. For the record, I suspect it's actually quite a bit easier to have a baby in France than it is in the US (though I can't say I've tried the US version). Here are some reasons why.</div>
<ul>
<li>Mothers stay at the hospital for an average of three days after giving birth. This gives them time to recover and learn how to feed, change, and bathe their baby with the assistance of the nurses. They also have time to make sure the baby is healthy before being sent home. In our case, two days after she was born, Maëlys started to have trouble feeding--she had very low energy and fell asleep before she could get enough food, which was a sign of the start of jaundice. Though not uncommon in newborns and not a terribly serious problem, it still freaked me out and had me bursting into tears at the slightest provocation. Instead of being home alone by this time and having no idea what was wrong with our baby, our midwife very quickly diagnosed the problem and the nurses helped Maëlys get better.</li>
<li>Along the same lines, mothers in France are entitled to a home visit from a midwife a few days after they leave the hospital. My <i>sage-femme </i>(literally "wise woman") came out to our home and spent over an hour with us to check on the baby and me. The follow-up of mother and baby that is built into the French medical system makes problems less likely immediately following a birth.</li>
<li>There are community medical centers called PMIs (<i>Protection Maternelle et Infantile) </i>which offer medical care for women and children free of charge. PMIs offer the services of pediatricians, midwives, <i>puéricultrices</i> (nursery nurses or childcare workers), and psychologists to anyone, regardless of income. Unlike in the US, where a free medical clinic such as this would most likely only be found in poor inner-city neighborhoods and would have somewhat of a social stigma attached to its use, PMIs are used by families from all walks of life and the quality of service is generally quite high. I have visited three different centers and they all had friendly, welcoming staff and a professional yet kid-centered environment. We will be taking Maëlys to our PMI on Monday for her first vaccinations (which are free, by the way). Oh, and there are three PMIs within a 15 minute walk from our house. I think France has some things figured out.</li>
<li>Mothers are prescribed <i>la rééducation périnéale </i>following a birth. This is a practice not widely found in the US or UK, but it's essentially physical therapy for a woman's perineum (the muscles that get very stretched and sometimes tear during childbirth). Unlike in most other countries, France actually recognizes that childbirth can lead to lasting medical difficulties for women, particularly problems like urinary incontinence. <i>L</i><i>a rééducation périnéale</i> is typically carried out by a midwife and the goal is to retrain the muscles to prevent problems later in life. I start my first of 7-10 sessions of <i>rééducation</i> this coming week. Although it feels like a very awkward and uncomfortable thing to do, I'd rather not have to wear Depends when I'm older, so I'm willing to give it a try. <i> </i></li>
<li>I mentioned in a previous post that France gives paid maternity and paternity leave (unlike the USA). Women get 16 weeks and men get two weeks. Rory's work was flexible, so he was actually able to spend most of Maëlys' first month at home with us. This time was invaluable for us to grow into our new roles as parents, to explore our changing relationship as a couple, and to love and support each other through the sleep-deprivation, constant cluster feeding, and piercing newborn screams. </li>
<li>And finally, another great aspect of living in France is that French people love babies. Especially older French women. So if you live in or visit France and want to practice your French conversational skills, I highly recommend having a baby with you (preferably your own). Parisians who wouldn't deign to look at you before will now ooh and ahh over your baby and will chatter away with you. Also, they are largely very kind and quick to offer help if you need it. </li>
</ul>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQANTk9Uont8Y7IKz87Ajh-g0mLjTVRBaZuMFxyaDu2JRExT4KzTbIYa3RDzb81s70-4qPihGVQ5MX97Ua7ZqQCbjKaSWQyKvgfn5qZStA8spZh2_uZxxZ_HjZS0PHIiH5TB8H7jNUO4/s1600/DSC_3357.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQANTk9Uont8Y7IKz87Ajh-g0mLjTVRBaZuMFxyaDu2JRExT4KzTbIYa3RDzb81s70-4qPihGVQ5MX97Ua7ZqQCbjKaSWQyKvgfn5qZStA8spZh2_uZxxZ_HjZS0PHIiH5TB8H7jNUO4/s320/DSC_3357.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a cutie!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So it's been a great two months. Challenging, testing of patience, and requiring lots of learning, but an amazing experience nonetheless. Figuring out some of the resources available to new parents and understanding the medical system here has made a big difference in our confidence levels, and despite our very imperfect French language skills, people have been helpful and accommodating. Plus, we have this super cute baby who is learning new skills every day and becoming increasingly loving, responsive, and fun to play with. I'm a happy mama. </div>
Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-88973467858546430462016-09-09T06:42:00.000-10:002017-04-03T09:46:12.661-10:00A month already<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqb_bDGl5rPSUWRA3EkR3dad9RHLB2xVYabvyPEKHJepjKkE1TT8RVwD5hvoXJhYksrXPxQh3SeePh2P8dGVglJ11vhxqiSaGSpIUadZo-Vob5hkMBBf9F-06lMvcWm11sVXUrLeF4vHc/s1600/DSC_3239%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqb_bDGl5rPSUWRA3EkR3dad9RHLB2xVYabvyPEKHJepjKkE1TT8RVwD5hvoXJhYksrXPxQh3SeePh2P8dGVglJ11vhxqiSaGSpIUadZo-Vob5hkMBBf9F-06lMvcWm11sVXUrLeF4vHc/s320/DSC_3239%255B1%255D.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Our daughter Maëlys is one month old today! She is getting
increasingly squishy, is starting to make cute noises that sound like
“Hi!”, and is smiling more often (though not because of anything
we're doing). At times, she looks pretty convincingly like a balding
old man, especially when Rory does his ventriloquist act with her.
And if she's particularly hungry, when she starts feeding it often
sounds like <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myxqxnOHMSU" target="_blank">Zoidberg from Futurama</a>. Here are a few noteworthy firsts
from this week.<br />
<br />
-Maëlys laughed for the first time. It was while our friend,
Anna, was playing with her, which hopefully makes up for the fact
that she often cries when Anna is around.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRUa2ijB9s_SIUYD9wyMAO5FuFZhRKypzhEd2yf10BK3bKE1cV4hAy6h6alkAqI75SKv2amSpviZK0qx2GVp3zQfwUbEwdDaBAS_hfLI98H89LkfkEPFxgsJeotN2kddAivhqdm7kQDvE/s1600/DSC_3228%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRUa2ijB9s_SIUYD9wyMAO5FuFZhRKypzhEd2yf10BK3bKE1cV4hAy6h6alkAqI75SKv2amSpviZK0qx2GVp3zQfwUbEwdDaBAS_hfLI98H89LkfkEPFxgsJeotN2kddAivhqdm7kQDvE/s320/DSC_3228%255B1%255D.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
-She received her British passport four weeks early, so now we can
for certain use those (expensive, non-refundable) plane tickets we
bought to go to the US for Thanksgiving. Then we'll head to Scotland
for Christmas. She'll be quite the seasoned traveler.<br />
<br />
<br />
-She learned how to drink breastmilk from a bottle. It took a few
tries and lots of ear-splitting screaming before she got the hang of
it, but now Rory can help with the feeding occasionally. Yay!<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithXK11Lad3oEcORG_KD3Nk4-62wSm5M0Vzg_jzrcRtJhyphenhyphen-EmVjde2ByxCf6oNdwxOVHBLpBj9sLi29eKZ5r74gUAIoJ6wdPUV3shDtewPg_e4Y2Br7rIYMMjjqDniI_R_WJfYpUxL6fc/s1600/DSC_3207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEithXK11Lad3oEcORG_KD3Nk4-62wSm5M0Vzg_jzrcRtJhyphenhyphen-EmVjde2ByxCf6oNdwxOVHBLpBj9sLi29eKZ5r74gUAIoJ6wdPUV3shDtewPg_e4Y2Br7rIYMMjjqDniI_R_WJfYpUxL6fc/s320/DSC_3207.JPG" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Check out the comparison photo of her at <a href="http://turnbulltravels.blogspot.fr/2016/08/le-bebe-est-arrive.html" target="_blank">4 days old with the otter.</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
-Bottle feeding means that Mama started pumping milk this week.
Yes, breast pumping really is just as weird as you might imagine.<br />
<br />
<br />
-Maëlys and I were the furthest apart that we have ever been. The
reason for learning to bottle-feed was that on Tuesday, as one of
several music teachers with the American Conservatory of Paris, I
presented at a musical instrument exploration day at a Paris
international school to encourage kids to play string instruments. I
was only gone for four hours but it was enough to make me feel
refreshed. It was nice to teach and be with my music colleagues
again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBPk3tVnKl5xQdlk2XMGL3XOGmcsln5i-HsghleA_IbQmywmXXSIfY3eTF4aRW_4NCAsB8dR5LatbMAcKgZY7vXPBFHcwmYmFzZaQ6HoKgG9NuHx5xropIGJXQ9VJxAEWO8QfWnmCet0/s1600/DSC_3200%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjBPk3tVnKl5xQdlk2XMGL3XOGmcsln5i-HsghleA_IbQmywmXXSIfY3eTF4aRW_4NCAsB8dR5LatbMAcKgZY7vXPBFHcwmYmFzZaQ6HoKgG9NuHx5xropIGJXQ9VJxAEWO8QfWnmCet0/s320/DSC_3200%255B1%255D.JPG" width="320" /></a>-The three of us ate dinner at a restaurant for the first time. It
involved Maëlys' first ride on the Paris metro trains. She also got
her first view of Notre Dame as part of the outing, but I doubt she
was looking.<br />
<br />
<br />
All in all, it's been a great first month of parenthood. Our
friends and family have been super helpful and we're managing to
figure out some rhythms to our new life. Rory has started going back
to work now and I'm learning how to be a full-time mom (at least
until teaching starts again). It's definitely challenging on a daily
basis, but we love this little human that we had the amazingly good
fortune to bring into the world, and we can't wait to see what the
next month holds.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitY3gaMtaH4ySThwDDosyc0mTLZENZRxYzoCOxVouAdI6rkOv1NJWHB3MWG2_70XG5tvOr-UCVMpwbw1rGSKTffrTtajQQzARib72qyIIUewuhe2Gy8iCyBvFHjKNqn3fhzkngGUnVtOo/s1600/DSC_3256%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitY3gaMtaH4ySThwDDosyc0mTLZENZRxYzoCOxVouAdI6rkOv1NJWHB3MWG2_70XG5tvOr-UCVMpwbw1rGSKTffrTtajQQzARib72qyIIUewuhe2Gy8iCyBvFHjKNqn3fhzkngGUnVtOo/s320/DSC_3256%255B1%255D.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Seriously guys, enough with the photo shoot already."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Taliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11792710290983260830noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6324565112729567091.post-4433012275406634672016-08-23T08:44:00.000-10:002016-08-23T08:44:09.650-10:00Le bébé est arrivé !In case you haven't heard, the baby has arrived! Little Maëlys joined us two weeks ago today. She is approximately the same size as a small otter.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkc3G01Nlq9-GUuIht94-g8NJOFaJQRQFEqaKltr540id8MhnRFLn9c1DyXZOvZZq7CpguQIxkmH_YQhPCzT4L7uWeUxlEYgdkgGoe9zg3pFAX0lqTF83-vLS3ggv0sTyEpKMi6rD0ZnY/s1600/DSC_3145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkc3G01Nlq9-GUuIht94-g8NJOFaJQRQFEqaKltr540id8MhnRFLn9c1DyXZOvZZq7CpguQIxkmH_YQhPCzT4L7uWeUxlEYgdkgGoe9zg3pFAX0lqTF83-vLS3ggv0sTyEpKMi6rD0ZnY/s320/DSC_3145.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She does not appear to swim as well as an otter, though, or enjoy raw clams.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Maëlys and Talia were both healthy and happy after the birth. As is standard in France, they stayed in hospital for 3 nights after the birth. In the UK and USA, usually you leave the hospital within a day or so, and only stay longer if there's a problem. Here, they routinely keep you until the baby has begun to gain weight. Having nurses and midwives around who can answer questions or provide assistance - even in the middle of the night - is a very reassuring way to ease into parenting, especially when we're all learning new skills such as changing nappies, or breastfeeding.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3RvyyAwWdTEfpg9_nvIo5tRt4tkTOg3a6mUtJQSNPMBMcFNaj8-HRypmbNR-n04LcVUpyrJo2tNs0aKwBSa11BSt7mEHF3le7XtbgSzUMzA3Mm9SdCaiZ8408RaEP912WguZ0qOmsio/s1600/DSC_3140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3RvyyAwWdTEfpg9_nvIo5tRt4tkTOg3a6mUtJQSNPMBMcFNaj8-HRypmbNR-n04LcVUpyrJo2tNs0aKwBSa11BSt7mEHF3le7XtbgSzUMzA3Mm9SdCaiZ8408RaEP912WguZ0qOmsio/s320/DSC_3140.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All set to go home!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Once we had been cleared to go home, we loaded her into our little car seat and drove her home in an <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Autolib%27" target="_blank">electric car</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAchm_SYYULZB4Tutyz2q9ufuxDzIKBCmM2wkpUcW0GErWxprCKAWkfjNgPVfFR00jacuhAef2KSWN2fH_isHU-pvk4JC14trPDzywKy7Wkeb3waadY5xxNHtT_knTTMu-wcpOCFFynxI/s1600/DSC_3161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAchm_SYYULZB4Tutyz2q9ufuxDzIKBCmM2wkpUcW0GErWxprCKAWkfjNgPVfFR00jacuhAef2KSWN2fH_isHU-pvk4JC14trPDzywKy7Wkeb3waadY5xxNHtT_knTTMu-wcpOCFFynxI/s320/DSC_3161.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A week ago, she was a week old.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSc7SYiefhvK7pOxfT1AFcrtrYSFe8Rweo-io2geBZFK5tIE2wyxQzWVvbUaj6X0j9zO5ugUEk_51iXPqS4wljRnbyPp1F9D696NfXKqr6RO5-x_xKLVR-orQoM8pwq2O-CyfPHJt_JOA/s1600/20160821_193250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSc7SYiefhvK7pOxfT1AFcrtrYSFe8Rweo-io2geBZFK5tIE2wyxQzWVvbUaj6X0j9zO5ugUEk_51iXPqS4wljRnbyPp1F9D696NfXKqr6RO5-x_xKLVR-orQoM8pwq2O-CyfPHJt_JOA/s320/20160821_193250.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Today, she is two weeks old.</td></tr>
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Both my parents and Talia's parents came all the way to Paris to meet their new granddaughter, and to share with us their love, support, and advice. I can't think of a better way to transition into parenthood! They left just a few days ago, leaving us to raise this critter all on our own. Wish us luck!Roryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06486573653238923045noreply@blogger.com0