A few weekends ago, Brian and I went to the Grand Bazaar with two of his French teammates. The ladies are very fashionable and heard there were terrific shopping spots. It's a really fun and bustling place. Before we went, I had assumed it was like a flea market and I was so wrong! It's this incredibly large building with alleys that stretch in every direction. I'm not sure how big is it, exactly, but I felt like we walked for miles! You can definitely spend hours there and we love every excuse to go back. There are actual store fronts, open stores, tea places, and stuff everywhere you look.
One thing about the Bazaar is you get to haggle. I say 'get to' but to be honest, it made me a little uncomfortable. Everyone said if they give a price, offer half (or less) of what you'd be willing to pay and work your way up. Frankly, I don't know too much about a lot of the products and I didn't want to be insulting. Brian was terrific at it and was a great negotiator, so I'd defer to him.
There are men beckoning for you to come to their establishments every few feet. I think they paid young men (or maybe it's the nephews' job) to say "oh you like leather? I'll take you to this great store! A friend of mine owns it and he'll give you good prices!" We were told it may be best if you wander until you find the store that you want rather than following a runner. Well, that was the plan, anyway.
One girl really loves purses and was told you can buy fabulous imitations. I'm not really familiar with Gucci and Prada, so I can't tell the difference to begin with. They were talking animatedly about their shopping vices, saying they could spend thousands on purses and shoes. They asked me what I'd spend thousands on and I enthusiastically replied "Ooh, books!" They just stared at me...I was out of my league with these French fashionistas. Ah, priorities.
So we enter shop after shop of purses, then one of the girls decides it's a better idea to walk up to one of the runners and ask him. He takes off through the crowd and we take so many turns. A lot of the stores look exactly alike and nothing is in English, so I start repeating in my mind "Ok, left, left, right, left" in hopes of remembering how to get back to the exit. Most of the Bazaar is inside and he took us down an alley to a small courtyard. We go into a nondescript store in between a carpet place and a jewelry store. We walk in and it's a tiny place full of knock offs. Purse lady was enthralled and they start explaining to me that you have to find a really good fake, because otherwise, customs will seize it and you get into trouble. She brought a Prada card from another purse to put into her fake so it will pass. (They say this is a real, licensed bag, etc)
Naturally, I start to get nervous. Brian and I step outside and we agree it totally looks like the kind of place that customs agents will swarm at any moment and again, I'm terrified of Turkish prisons. We mill about for a bit and then I notice the cardboard covering the second floor windows. I say "oh great. That's where they keep the poor women who have to sew those fakes." Just about then, Frenchie number two bounds out of the door and says "Guys! You have to come in!"
Brian rushes in, fearing that they stole Frenchie number one, when they move the wall. There is a hidden staircase and Brian grins at me before following them upstairs. I think "oh good lord, please don't let me die here, they'll never find our bodies." Of course, this is where the really good stuff is and the girls are thrilled. Brian and I look around a bit before finding seats, where we nod at options with glazed over eyes. I finally understand the hell husbands go through in dressing rooms, poor things. An hour and hundreds of dollars later, we finally leave and everyone is happy. Especially me, because that meant it was lunch time!
Friday, November 9, 2012
Thursday, November 8, 2012
I swear, I am NOT a drug smuggler!
This happened about a month ago and we're leaving the country next week, so I feel safe blogging about this adventure now. Unfortunately, there are several adventures that seem to suggest something insidious, but those will follow.
My trouble with customs in Turkey began when I had two prescriptions sent here. Neither are controlled substances in the US, but they are not available in this country. My insurance company and doctor decided it would be a good idea for me to have ninety days worth, as we'll be travelling so extensively. These are in my name, but when my parents mailed them, we were still in France, so we suggested sending it under Brian's name to the hotel in Istanbul.
Once I arrived, I contacted the US postal service with our confirmation number, trying to see how far they had gotten. They told me that they did indeed arrive in Turkey, had cleared customs, a delivery was attempted once, then they went back to the Turkish post office. Unfortunately, that was as far as they could help me.
This status remained the same for two weeks. I became great friends with the Concierge desk, as I'd spend an hour or so each afternoon with them as they tried calling various offices in Turkish. We couldn't seem to find my medicine. I asked the USPS to try to recall them, but again, was told that they could not.
Finally, after twenty-three days, my friend, the concierge, called my room with great news. They located the office! I needed to pick the medicine up in person, and if I came down right now, I might be able to make it there before they close.
I grabbed my passport, all of the cash I had, (three fifty lira bills), and ran downstairs. The valet told me he knew what was going on and said that we were heading across the city to a rough spot of town, so he'd ask the driver to stay with me as long as necessary. That worried me a bit, but the hotel taxi drivers are all friendly, and sweet fancy moses--I needed this medication. In the taxi, I slipped one fifty behind my passport, in this special wallet I have for it, one fifty in my pocket, and one in my purse.
Istanbul is extremely large. It's like the entire bay area, but all considered a single city. We drove for about fifty minutes, finally ending up in this industrial area with lots of warehouses. After asking directions three times, we found the building. My driver assured me he'd wait in the parking lot and wished me luck. (I was very glad for this, because I hadn't seen another taxi for miles.) Although, I was concerned about the fare amount because I didn't have any more cash in the room and they don't accept cards. It was 48.90 just to get there.
I go into this building that I can only compare to...maybe a DMV office from the 70's..in Honduras. Luckily, even though it was a balmy 78 degrees, I had the idea to wear a long sleeved turtle neck and slacks. I didn't see any women the entire time I was there, though lots of men gave me funny looks. Not in a sexual or threatening way, more of a "what do you think you're doing here?"
I get in line, clutching the small piece of paper the Concierge was so thoughtful to have given me, with instructions in Turkish as to who I was and what I wanted. I gave it to the man at the window and he began rapidly speaking in Turkish. I apologized in English and he called for someone else. Again, he reads the note, then speaks to me in Turkish. Seriously. The third guy finally tells me to leave this office and go to the big creepy warehouse behind the building.
In the next building, I entered this hallway with exposed light bulbs and yellowing wallpaper. I think, thank god I bugged the desk so much, at least he really knows my name now..in case I disappear. I get into line and repeat the process. This man gives me a stern look and says I have to pay a fifty lira customs tax. I pull out the bill from my pocket, receive a receipt, and he tells me to go to another line. Once I get to that window, he reads my papers and gruffly tells me to sit down and wait. I wait until a man comes in and points at me to come, then I follow him into an interrogation room. It was a tiny room with a table and two chairs on either side. We sit and he starts asking questions in Turkish in a demanding tone. I repeat four or five times that I don't speak Turkish and that getting louder isn't going to help. By this point, I'm frightened and my eyes are tearing up. He says something then leaves me alone in the room.
Maybe ten minutes go by and then another man comes in, holding a small USPS package. I spot my father's beautiful handwriting and eagerly nod--yes! That's mine! He opens it and says, "these are drugs."
"Yes, there should be two prescription medications." I carefully answer. He then asks to see my doctor's prescription for them. I panic slightly because--I gave those to the pharmacy! There was an envelope in the box and I opened it. It had some official looking letterhead from my insurance company, with the medication names, amounts, and my doctor's name, so I gave it to him.
He read them for a few minutes and then the questioning began. Essentially, the issue was that these medications were not available here, they were prescribed to me, and addressed to Brian. He wasn't with me and since we're not married, we had different last names and of course, no marriage certificate like the man requested. It was a large quantity of foreign 'drugs' and I couldn't prove I knew Brian.He asked the same questions over and over again, with me repeating the same answers. Forty minutes later, I'm weepy at this point, and he asked to verify my passport. I struggle to pull it out of the wallet and out pops my hidden fifty lira bill. He roars at me, insinuating I'm trying to bribe him. I break out bawling and plead for it back--it was an accident and for god's sake, I need it for the taxi ride home!!!
I know I was a mess at this point (one of the medicines is for anxiety, after all), so he tells me to come back and either bring my husband, or a copy of his passport and our marriage certificate. He walks me out of the room, back to the lines, and releases me. I fled down the hall out to the parking lot and fling myself into the taxi. The driver looked concerned and asked if I got my package. I woefully say no, we take off towards home, and I call Brian in tears. We make arrangements that he'll come back with me on Friday.
Due to traffic, I knew the bill would be over the remaining 100 lira I had, and I really wanted to tip the nice driver. I explained and asked him to stop early and point me in the direction of the hotel. He was so kind, he quietly turned the meter off and took me all the way home. We did finally get my medicine and the front desk actually clapped when I told them.
My trouble with customs in Turkey began when I had two prescriptions sent here. Neither are controlled substances in the US, but they are not available in this country. My insurance company and doctor decided it would be a good idea for me to have ninety days worth, as we'll be travelling so extensively. These are in my name, but when my parents mailed them, we were still in France, so we suggested sending it under Brian's name to the hotel in Istanbul.
Once I arrived, I contacted the US postal service with our confirmation number, trying to see how far they had gotten. They told me that they did indeed arrive in Turkey, had cleared customs, a delivery was attempted once, then they went back to the Turkish post office. Unfortunately, that was as far as they could help me.
This status remained the same for two weeks. I became great friends with the Concierge desk, as I'd spend an hour or so each afternoon with them as they tried calling various offices in Turkish. We couldn't seem to find my medicine. I asked the USPS to try to recall them, but again, was told that they could not.
Finally, after twenty-three days, my friend, the concierge, called my room with great news. They located the office! I needed to pick the medicine up in person, and if I came down right now, I might be able to make it there before they close.
I grabbed my passport, all of the cash I had, (three fifty lira bills), and ran downstairs. The valet told me he knew what was going on and said that we were heading across the city to a rough spot of town, so he'd ask the driver to stay with me as long as necessary. That worried me a bit, but the hotel taxi drivers are all friendly, and sweet fancy moses--I needed this medication. In the taxi, I slipped one fifty behind my passport, in this special wallet I have for it, one fifty in my pocket, and one in my purse.
Istanbul is extremely large. It's like the entire bay area, but all considered a single city. We drove for about fifty minutes, finally ending up in this industrial area with lots of warehouses. After asking directions three times, we found the building. My driver assured me he'd wait in the parking lot and wished me luck. (I was very glad for this, because I hadn't seen another taxi for miles.) Although, I was concerned about the fare amount because I didn't have any more cash in the room and they don't accept cards. It was 48.90 just to get there.
I go into this building that I can only compare to...maybe a DMV office from the 70's..in Honduras. Luckily, even though it was a balmy 78 degrees, I had the idea to wear a long sleeved turtle neck and slacks. I didn't see any women the entire time I was there, though lots of men gave me funny looks. Not in a sexual or threatening way, more of a "what do you think you're doing here?"
I get in line, clutching the small piece of paper the Concierge was so thoughtful to have given me, with instructions in Turkish as to who I was and what I wanted. I gave it to the man at the window and he began rapidly speaking in Turkish. I apologized in English and he called for someone else. Again, he reads the note, then speaks to me in Turkish. Seriously. The third guy finally tells me to leave this office and go to the big creepy warehouse behind the building.
In the next building, I entered this hallway with exposed light bulbs and yellowing wallpaper. I think, thank god I bugged the desk so much, at least he really knows my name now..in case I disappear. I get into line and repeat the process. This man gives me a stern look and says I have to pay a fifty lira customs tax. I pull out the bill from my pocket, receive a receipt, and he tells me to go to another line. Once I get to that window, he reads my papers and gruffly tells me to sit down and wait. I wait until a man comes in and points at me to come, then I follow him into an interrogation room. It was a tiny room with a table and two chairs on either side. We sit and he starts asking questions in Turkish in a demanding tone. I repeat four or five times that I don't speak Turkish and that getting louder isn't going to help. By this point, I'm frightened and my eyes are tearing up. He says something then leaves me alone in the room.
Maybe ten minutes go by and then another man comes in, holding a small USPS package. I spot my father's beautiful handwriting and eagerly nod--yes! That's mine! He opens it and says, "these are drugs."
"Yes, there should be two prescription medications." I carefully answer. He then asks to see my doctor's prescription for them. I panic slightly because--I gave those to the pharmacy! There was an envelope in the box and I opened it. It had some official looking letterhead from my insurance company, with the medication names, amounts, and my doctor's name, so I gave it to him.
He read them for a few minutes and then the questioning began. Essentially, the issue was that these medications were not available here, they were prescribed to me, and addressed to Brian. He wasn't with me and since we're not married, we had different last names and of course, no marriage certificate like the man requested. It was a large quantity of foreign 'drugs' and I couldn't prove I knew Brian.He asked the same questions over and over again, with me repeating the same answers. Forty minutes later, I'm weepy at this point, and he asked to verify my passport. I struggle to pull it out of the wallet and out pops my hidden fifty lira bill. He roars at me, insinuating I'm trying to bribe him. I break out bawling and plead for it back--it was an accident and for god's sake, I need it for the taxi ride home!!!
I know I was a mess at this point (one of the medicines is for anxiety, after all), so he tells me to come back and either bring my husband, or a copy of his passport and our marriage certificate. He walks me out of the room, back to the lines, and releases me. I fled down the hall out to the parking lot and fling myself into the taxi. The driver looked concerned and asked if I got my package. I woefully say no, we take off towards home, and I call Brian in tears. We make arrangements that he'll come back with me on Friday.
Due to traffic, I knew the bill would be over the remaining 100 lira I had, and I really wanted to tip the nice driver. I explained and asked him to stop early and point me in the direction of the hotel. He was so kind, he quietly turned the meter off and took me all the way home. We did finally get my medicine and the front desk actually clapped when I told them.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
The Conrad, Hilton Istanbul
Let's talk about the Hotel.
It's very large with stunning views of the city and of the water. It's on it's own street, kind of a long private drive. There are perhaps ten guards posted along the street, and more are near the entrance. Before advancing to the hotel, all vehicles are checked for car bombs. They use a sweeping wand and detectors to look under and around the car and they check the interior and the trunk. Car bombs are a real issue here and detection is standard around the city. You walk into a revolving glass door that has a large vase of flowers in the middle and a chandelier lights the inside. Before you can enter further into the lobby, you must pass through metal detectors and bags are inspected with an x-ray machine, just like the airport. (This screening also occurs at malls and restaurants.) I'm getting used to it and I do feel safer with the checkpoints, but it's a little unnerving that they're even required. However, I'm still uneasy with the soldiers, police, and guards. They are armed with AK-47s and wear bullet proof vests. I'm glad they are equipped to handle any insurgents who may be similarly armed, but still..
There are three restaurants located within the hotel, a chocolate shop, an incredible jewelry store, Women's and Men's salons and a gift shop that carries Turkish souvenirs. There are indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, a fab gym where you can book sessions with personal trainers, a spa, saunas, and a jogging trail.
Due to the length of our stay and the number of rooms the team requires, we have some pretty sweet upgrades. We have member access to the top floor, which is the Executive Lounge. Sweet and savory snacks are served, there is open access to wines, beers, sodas, gourmet teas and coffees--all inclusive with the membership. The lounge has a marvelous balcony that is a wonderful place to go in the evenings and watch the boats pass. I'm currently inside the lounge; I come up for an hour or two each day and write or read with a cup of tea. I'm the youngest person I've seen here by far. Last week, a couple was politely asked to leave as they weren't members. They glared at me and asked if I was a member and the hostess just waved at me. You give your room number to the host before you're allowed entry and they check the list. They know me now and let me pass freely. It's a cool feeling.
Our room is spacious and has a lovely bed with down blankets and pillows. If you don't like the pillows, you can choose one of a dozen types they provide from the pillow menu. There are robes and slippers, heated towel racks.. The hotel handles our laundry and it comes back pressed, folded with tissue, and sealed inside plastic. Our socks have never been fluffier. I don't really use the mini bar, especially with the lounge access. We do use room service, which is directly from the menus from the restaurants.
I've been having some mail issues, and have spent quite a bit of time with the concierges. Everyone knows me here and I try to smile and acknowledge the staff. Some people I've witnessed completely ignore them, as if they don't exist. I think being friendly has helped, I'm certain that they provide excellent service, but they've really gone out of their way for me. The hotel has a fleet of taxis and a gentleman who wears a top hat and tails will tell them where to take you. He and I are a little more familiar than he is with other guests (he can be very formal). He smiles at me and says "Good morning Madame Katz, where are we off to today?" (The room reservation is under Brian's name and it's a Muslim country, so we just go with the name.)
It has been a mind boggling experience of opulence. I am thankful to be here, not just in these luxurious accommodations, but also to get goodnight kisses. I know the time will come where I won't be able to accompany Brian so I enjoy the time I'm here with him.
It's very large with stunning views of the city and of the water. It's on it's own street, kind of a long private drive. There are perhaps ten guards posted along the street, and more are near the entrance. Before advancing to the hotel, all vehicles are checked for car bombs. They use a sweeping wand and detectors to look under and around the car and they check the interior and the trunk. Car bombs are a real issue here and detection is standard around the city. You walk into a revolving glass door that has a large vase of flowers in the middle and a chandelier lights the inside. Before you can enter further into the lobby, you must pass through metal detectors and bags are inspected with an x-ray machine, just like the airport. (This screening also occurs at malls and restaurants.) I'm getting used to it and I do feel safer with the checkpoints, but it's a little unnerving that they're even required. However, I'm still uneasy with the soldiers, police, and guards. They are armed with AK-47s and wear bullet proof vests. I'm glad they are equipped to handle any insurgents who may be similarly armed, but still..
There are three restaurants located within the hotel, a chocolate shop, an incredible jewelry store, Women's and Men's salons and a gift shop that carries Turkish souvenirs. There are indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, a fab gym where you can book sessions with personal trainers, a spa, saunas, and a jogging trail.
Due to the length of our stay and the number of rooms the team requires, we have some pretty sweet upgrades. We have member access to the top floor, which is the Executive Lounge. Sweet and savory snacks are served, there is open access to wines, beers, sodas, gourmet teas and coffees--all inclusive with the membership. The lounge has a marvelous balcony that is a wonderful place to go in the evenings and watch the boats pass. I'm currently inside the lounge; I come up for an hour or two each day and write or read with a cup of tea. I'm the youngest person I've seen here by far. Last week, a couple was politely asked to leave as they weren't members. They glared at me and asked if I was a member and the hostess just waved at me. You give your room number to the host before you're allowed entry and they check the list. They know me now and let me pass freely. It's a cool feeling.
Our room is spacious and has a lovely bed with down blankets and pillows. If you don't like the pillows, you can choose one of a dozen types they provide from the pillow menu. There are robes and slippers, heated towel racks.. The hotel handles our laundry and it comes back pressed, folded with tissue, and sealed inside plastic. Our socks have never been fluffier. I don't really use the mini bar, especially with the lounge access. We do use room service, which is directly from the menus from the restaurants.
I've been having some mail issues, and have spent quite a bit of time with the concierges. Everyone knows me here and I try to smile and acknowledge the staff. Some people I've witnessed completely ignore them, as if they don't exist. I think being friendly has helped, I'm certain that they provide excellent service, but they've really gone out of their way for me. The hotel has a fleet of taxis and a gentleman who wears a top hat and tails will tell them where to take you. He and I are a little more familiar than he is with other guests (he can be very formal). He smiles at me and says "Good morning Madame Katz, where are we off to today?" (The room reservation is under Brian's name and it's a Muslim country, so we just go with the name.)
It has been a mind boggling experience of opulence. I am thankful to be here, not just in these luxurious accommodations, but also to get goodnight kisses. I know the time will come where I won't be able to accompany Brian so I enjoy the time I'm here with him.
My Food was Lost in Translation
Judge all you'd like, but I'm in Turkey for ten weeks and sometimes local cuisine...I just miss some good old fashioned American junk food.
Ordering food at the small places is always a lottery for me. The larger restaurants usually have servers who speak some English and the menus are in English.We typically eat in lovely, fancy places as the team has a ridiculous daily food allowance. These are the type of places where a server wears a full suit, places your napkin in your lap for you, and heaven help you if you try to pour something into your own glass (the horror!) The wine and water (sparkling or still--never 'flat') I am getting used to, but occasionally I'll order a coke (glass bottle, a tiny cousin of the American or Mexican version) and even that I can't refill into my own glass. I was lucky enough to take years of etiquette classes and I consider myself versed in international manners, so I don't have too much trouble and can hold my own in the fanciest of places. I'm going to be so spoiled when I return to the states--I'll wait patiently in the cab for the valet to open my door, for a waiter to be assigned to our party only, and apparently, I will be the thirstiest at the table.
Sometimes, dinners with 'citrus foam' and 'saffron infused' and 'cheap' wine that's priced at $80 a bottle gets to be old. (I'm telling you, I feast like a queen here--thank you, Bank!) Maybe once per week, I'll sneak away and have a secret lunch that I eat in shame, hiding the take away bag inside a larger nylon one as I walk through the gilded hotel lobby. I rush up to my room and wonder what mystery the bag holds--as indeed, it's always a damn mystery. A couple of blocks away from the hotel, there's a complex with some American fast food. A Burger King, Pizza Hut, and the KFC from my dreams are nestled together, a Mecca for the obese and my secret lunches.
First, I'd like to point out that although the words are in English, no one speaks English here. Sure, it says Whopper on the board, but I cannot fathom why they don't understand when I say that! I've been reduced to holding up my fingers to correlate to the meal numbers and pointing out the door. They roll their eyes at me, walk back to the board and point to the picture. Yes, I'll vigorously nod, or we play the lean and point game. No, no, to the right! Over, over--wait, you passed it--go back! No, not back to the first one! Whopper! Whopper! Geeze, I'd settle for any of the cheeseburgers.
Second, it says Whopper, but it's all different. The patty looks irregular, hand shaped, perhaps? The ketchup tastes different, yellow mustard doesn't seem to exist here, it's all Dijon, even the bun is different. I've had some tasty fries abroad, but not the bastard children that you find at Burger King Turkey. Thin, pasty, and so pale. Did I mention they are served with mayonnaise? Bleh.
I was in for a shock last week, when I unwrapped my Whopper (it even said so on the wrapper-success!) and reached for my book. I took a bite without looking and spit it out so fast--the meat has gone bad! They tried to poison me! Upon further inspection, I realized they gave me chicken, because clearly 'take away' sounds like 'chicken' in Turkish. (It doesn't, I looked it up.)
Pizza Hut wasn't any better. I pointed at the picture on the menu and out the door, when three different waiters were frustrated because none spoke English. Finally, to my mortification, one started shouting in Turkish at the families eating! A young girl shyly spoke in halting English to me, and translated my request. Do you know how she translated? She pointed at the picture and out the door.
KFC...I had such high hopes. This one had all of the items listed in Turkish, so that was fun for me. I saved my potatoes and gravy last, wanting to savor the instant, gritty flavor that reminded me of so many dinners at the Lodge... Imagine my sadness when I discovered it was a cup of gravy, and not even the gravy from American KFCs. The biscuits were not their signature flaky biscuits, but a hard roll. If you've ever seen the South Park episode where KFC was banned in Colorado and Eric has to go to a Methadone clinic to break his addiction...well, that episode is starting to make more sense to me.
Ah, it's lunch time for me now, so I'm off to have some lentil soup and a panini. Oh the injustice of it all ;-)
Ordering food at the small places is always a lottery for me. The larger restaurants usually have servers who speak some English and the menus are in English.We typically eat in lovely, fancy places as the team has a ridiculous daily food allowance. These are the type of places where a server wears a full suit, places your napkin in your lap for you, and heaven help you if you try to pour something into your own glass (the horror!) The wine and water (sparkling or still--never 'flat') I am getting used to, but occasionally I'll order a coke (glass bottle, a tiny cousin of the American or Mexican version) and even that I can't refill into my own glass. I was lucky enough to take years of etiquette classes and I consider myself versed in international manners, so I don't have too much trouble and can hold my own in the fanciest of places. I'm going to be so spoiled when I return to the states--I'll wait patiently in the cab for the valet to open my door, for a waiter to be assigned to our party only, and apparently, I will be the thirstiest at the table.
Sometimes, dinners with 'citrus foam' and 'saffron infused' and 'cheap' wine that's priced at $80 a bottle gets to be old. (I'm telling you, I feast like a queen here--thank you, Bank!) Maybe once per week, I'll sneak away and have a secret lunch that I eat in shame, hiding the take away bag inside a larger nylon one as I walk through the gilded hotel lobby. I rush up to my room and wonder what mystery the bag holds--as indeed, it's always a damn mystery. A couple of blocks away from the hotel, there's a complex with some American fast food. A Burger King, Pizza Hut, and the KFC from my dreams are nestled together, a Mecca for the obese and my secret lunches.
First, I'd like to point out that although the words are in English, no one speaks English here. Sure, it says Whopper on the board, but I cannot fathom why they don't understand when I say that! I've been reduced to holding up my fingers to correlate to the meal numbers and pointing out the door. They roll their eyes at me, walk back to the board and point to the picture. Yes, I'll vigorously nod, or we play the lean and point game. No, no, to the right! Over, over--wait, you passed it--go back! No, not back to the first one! Whopper! Whopper! Geeze, I'd settle for any of the cheeseburgers.
Second, it says Whopper, but it's all different. The patty looks irregular, hand shaped, perhaps? The ketchup tastes different, yellow mustard doesn't seem to exist here, it's all Dijon, even the bun is different. I've had some tasty fries abroad, but not the bastard children that you find at Burger King Turkey. Thin, pasty, and so pale. Did I mention they are served with mayonnaise? Bleh.
I was in for a shock last week, when I unwrapped my Whopper (it even said so on the wrapper-success!) and reached for my book. I took a bite without looking and spit it out so fast--the meat has gone bad! They tried to poison me! Upon further inspection, I realized they gave me chicken, because clearly 'take away' sounds like 'chicken' in Turkish. (It doesn't, I looked it up.)
Pizza Hut wasn't any better. I pointed at the picture on the menu and out the door, when three different waiters were frustrated because none spoke English. Finally, to my mortification, one started shouting in Turkish at the families eating! A young girl shyly spoke in halting English to me, and translated my request. Do you know how she translated? She pointed at the picture and out the door.
KFC...I had such high hopes. This one had all of the items listed in Turkish, so that was fun for me. I saved my potatoes and gravy last, wanting to savor the instant, gritty flavor that reminded me of so many dinners at the Lodge... Imagine my sadness when I discovered it was a cup of gravy, and not even the gravy from American KFCs. The biscuits were not their signature flaky biscuits, but a hard roll. If you've ever seen the South Park episode where KFC was banned in Colorado and Eric has to go to a Methadone clinic to break his addiction...well, that episode is starting to make more sense to me.
Ah, it's lunch time for me now, so I'm off to have some lentil soup and a panini. Oh the injustice of it all ;-)
Monday, September 24, 2012
Istanbul has been fun
Brian and I went to the sixth largest mall in Europe this weekend. It was insanely large, with six levels and a roller coaster inside the mall!! We spent the day shopping amongst familiar brands like Loft, The Row, and a Victoria's Secret that was strangely dark..like movie theater dark. I was ecstatic to see a Converse store as I need a new pair of walkabout kicks, but apparently I have an extremely common shoe size and they were out in the three styles I wanted.(School just started here, so I think that had something to do with it.) Still, Brian was able to find some pieces to expand his professional wardrobe and we had a very enjoyable time.
On Friday, I joined the team for dinner at BAR 360, a rooftop place that turns into a nightclub between midnight and five am. There are places here that with your admission, you are allowed entry to breakfast after six at the same location! The team works really long hours, usually they get home after nine, so I'm struggling to adjust to dinner between ten and eleven. (It's currently four pm as I type this, and I'm just now thinking about lunch.) We shared sushi roll appetizers and bottles of wine before our meal and were entertained by some bizarre 'dancing'. A young lady did a fantastic hula hoop routine that reminded me of something off 'America's Got Talent.' One of her later numbers was accompanied by two assistants. The assistants LIT HER HULA HOOP ON FIRE and she continued her routine. It was crazy and the crowd went wild. I was duly impressed, and Ezra, our Turkish team member said it was very unusual and not anything she had seen before.
Three of us left 'early' around three am and like usual, we took a taxi home. I had thought the drivers in Paris were dangerous, but wow!! We went down the wrong way on a one way street and the driver shrugged off our concerns, saying 'That is the street we need, down there. It is oh-key." The Turks use their horns every couple of minutes. A driver explained as we drove down the middle of the yellow dotted line that separated two lanes-we became imaginary lane number one and a half- that the horn lets other drivers know we're coming-HONKKKKK. And there are no seat belt laws!! The drivers don't wear them and most of the taxis we've taken haven't even had them in the backseats!! I find that I travel easier with my eyes tightly closed, gripping the seat back in front of me, wedged against Brian or the door. The drivers seem to get exasperated every time I'd gasp, which is quite often. Now I just tell myself it's like I'm on Space Mountain in Disneyland. It's a fluffin' nightmare and Brian and I both agree we're grateful that at least we don't have to drive in this madness.
On Friday, I joined the team for dinner at BAR 360, a rooftop place that turns into a nightclub between midnight and five am. There are places here that with your admission, you are allowed entry to breakfast after six at the same location! The team works really long hours, usually they get home after nine, so I'm struggling to adjust to dinner between ten and eleven. (It's currently four pm as I type this, and I'm just now thinking about lunch.) We shared sushi roll appetizers and bottles of wine before our meal and were entertained by some bizarre 'dancing'. A young lady did a fantastic hula hoop routine that reminded me of something off 'America's Got Talent.' One of her later numbers was accompanied by two assistants. The assistants LIT HER HULA HOOP ON FIRE and she continued her routine. It was crazy and the crowd went wild. I was duly impressed, and Ezra, our Turkish team member said it was very unusual and not anything she had seen before.
Three of us left 'early' around three am and like usual, we took a taxi home. I had thought the drivers in Paris were dangerous, but wow!! We went down the wrong way on a one way street and the driver shrugged off our concerns, saying 'That is the street we need, down there. It is oh-key." The Turks use their horns every couple of minutes. A driver explained as we drove down the middle of the yellow dotted line that separated two lanes-we became imaginary lane number one and a half- that the horn lets other drivers know we're coming-HONKKKKK. And there are no seat belt laws!! The drivers don't wear them and most of the taxis we've taken haven't even had them in the backseats!! I find that I travel easier with my eyes tightly closed, gripping the seat back in front of me, wedged against Brian or the door. The drivers seem to get exasperated every time I'd gasp, which is quite often. Now I just tell myself it's like I'm on Space Mountain in Disneyland. It's a fluffin' nightmare and Brian and I both agree we're grateful that at least we don't have to drive in this madness.
Our Hagia Sopia Sunday
The Hagia Sophia Sunday
Brian and I went on an afternoon adventure with two of his teammates from Tunsia. Jacem has spent time in Istanbul before, so he acted as our guide. We took a taxi to the old city and wandered through some neighborhoods on our way. We passed the Spice Bazaar, but didn't go in because we could literally spend an entire afternoon there. Due to my fair skin and freckles, the vendors always call out to me in English, which is kind of funny, except that I stick out so much. We passed a plant stall and I wanted to pick up some seeds for my father's garden. This led to a long discussion about customs and FDA and Ag board limits, which in hindsight, I really should have known better. I'd like to think my momentary diztiness was thanks to my pure excitement. I keep having 'holy cow' moments--I'm in ISTANBUL!!
But I digress, the Hagia Sophia.. It was built as the largest Catholic Church in Europe in 534 ACE, and then in 1174 was converted into a Mosque by the then ruling party. In the early 1930's, it was made into a museum and it's spectacular. There are paintings on the walls and ceilings of the Madonna and Child, of the Archangel Gabriel, of St. John the Baptist.. In Islam, they do not depict any faces whatsoever, so the Islamic art is beautiful and intricate words in Arabic. I think that it is wonderful that when it was converted, they did not destroy the Christian art and that it has lasted through the centuries. It was humbling to be in a place with such history and religious significance to so many. They say that it was covered in gold accents and jewels were once on the walls. Centuries ago, they were stolen or sold to fund wars so all that remains are the incredible facades. I took some pictures, so please check out the meager album on my Facebook page. Many of the Christian depictions are actually large mosaics; the talent and skill of making these are astounding.
Beyond the main sanctuary, there are a number of surrounding buildings. After walking through the Supreme Door (only the Emperor was allowed through it), we came across the baptismal chambers. It had a large tub carved of stone, and Brian-the-Jew exclaimed "Look at the size of that hot tub!" Even our Muslim friends shook their heads, and I hope the whole experience was enlightening to him. I tried to explain and teach him things and I think he learned about other cultures, haha.
After the Hagia Sophia, we went to a sacred tomb that held the graves of daughters, sons, and wives of the Sultans. Before entering these holy places, you must remove your shoes and women must wear a head scarf. Luckily for me, they had some to borrow and Miriam showed me how to wear it. Jacem explained that as a sign of equality in death, grave stones must not be raised more than 30 centimeters above the ground, if you are a Sultan or a beggar. The walls were adorned with prayers in Arabic, the calligraphy was stunning. Beautiful chandeliers hung above, and silk draped each coffin. These tombs are scattered around Istanbul and are the resting places of Emperors and their families.
We had lunch in a restaurant over the Bosphorus River in a seafood place that had incredible views. It's common here that when you go to a fish restaurant, the servers proudly bring over a table filled with different kinds of fish. You then get to choose which creature you'd like. It was a little different, but Jacem informed me that it's the norm here and you just don't look them in the eyes...
It was a great afternoon on a wonderfully warm and sunny day. So far, so good in Turkey
Brian and I went on an afternoon adventure with two of his teammates from Tunsia. Jacem has spent time in Istanbul before, so he acted as our guide. We took a taxi to the old city and wandered through some neighborhoods on our way. We passed the Spice Bazaar, but didn't go in because we could literally spend an entire afternoon there. Due to my fair skin and freckles, the vendors always call out to me in English, which is kind of funny, except that I stick out so much. We passed a plant stall and I wanted to pick up some seeds for my father's garden. This led to a long discussion about customs and FDA and Ag board limits, which in hindsight, I really should have known better. I'd like to think my momentary diztiness was thanks to my pure excitement. I keep having 'holy cow' moments--I'm in ISTANBUL!!
But I digress, the Hagia Sophia.. It was built as the largest Catholic Church in Europe in 534 ACE, and then in 1174 was converted into a Mosque by the then ruling party. In the early 1930's, it was made into a museum and it's spectacular. There are paintings on the walls and ceilings of the Madonna and Child, of the Archangel Gabriel, of St. John the Baptist.. In Islam, they do not depict any faces whatsoever, so the Islamic art is beautiful and intricate words in Arabic. I think that it is wonderful that when it was converted, they did not destroy the Christian art and that it has lasted through the centuries. It was humbling to be in a place with such history and religious significance to so many. They say that it was covered in gold accents and jewels were once on the walls. Centuries ago, they were stolen or sold to fund wars so all that remains are the incredible facades. I took some pictures, so please check out the meager album on my Facebook page. Many of the Christian depictions are actually large mosaics; the talent and skill of making these are astounding.
Beyond the main sanctuary, there are a number of surrounding buildings. After walking through the Supreme Door (only the Emperor was allowed through it), we came across the baptismal chambers. It had a large tub carved of stone, and Brian-the-Jew exclaimed "Look at the size of that hot tub!" Even our Muslim friends shook their heads, and I hope the whole experience was enlightening to him. I tried to explain and teach him things and I think he learned about other cultures, haha.
After the Hagia Sophia, we went to a sacred tomb that held the graves of daughters, sons, and wives of the Sultans. Before entering these holy places, you must remove your shoes and women must wear a head scarf. Luckily for me, they had some to borrow and Miriam showed me how to wear it. Jacem explained that as a sign of equality in death, grave stones must not be raised more than 30 centimeters above the ground, if you are a Sultan or a beggar. The walls were adorned with prayers in Arabic, the calligraphy was stunning. Beautiful chandeliers hung above, and silk draped each coffin. These tombs are scattered around Istanbul and are the resting places of Emperors and their families.
We had lunch in a restaurant over the Bosphorus River in a seafood place that had incredible views. It's common here that when you go to a fish restaurant, the servers proudly bring over a table filled with different kinds of fish. You then get to choose which creature you'd like. It was a little different, but Jacem informed me that it's the norm here and you just don't look them in the eyes...
It was a great afternoon on a wonderfully warm and sunny day. So far, so good in Turkey
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Cue the Music, Or The Best Date Ever
My last day in Paris was arguably perfect. It was just Brian and me, and utterly romantic. This is shaping up to be a mushy post, so bear with me as I boast.
We woke up to a beautiful sunny day and shared some leftover Italian for breakfast. (What can I say, garlic bread before nine in the morning--this man gets me.) Our only real plan was to stop by the Lover's Bridge and the rest of the day was to be an adventure. We strolled along the Seine River, gazed up at the Eiffel Tower as we passed, and people watched. When solicitors would approach us asking if we spoke English, we'd stop our conversation, say 'Non' in a Frenchy accent, then continue on in English (they were from the UN, legitimately, but we had already donated and they were stationed every thirty yards or so.) We teased each other about our hypocrisy, but we were young, in love, in Paris. There are more important things to consider at that moment.
The Lover's Bridge was about three miles away from our hotel and the streets are dotted with vendors. As we approached, we chose a glittery gold lock and wrote our initials with the date. As we will be frequently in Paris, we thought we'd place a new lock each year. We took some silly pictures and threw our keys into the river. After, we sat in an outside cafe and ordered 'the big beers'.
Just around the corner from the cafe was a farmer's market. These are unlike any I've ever attended in America. They have booths with fresh fish, artisan cheese, wines, local art. We continued wandering the streets until we came upon an open square. There were booths and picnic cloths spread with goods-the closest I can describe is a sort of city yard sale. There were vintage furs, dresses, and shoes. Tables were covered in books, china, and antiques. We oohed and awed, and wished we knew what we were looking at.
We needed some winter wear so we stopped in some clothing stores, but discovered they don't come in until October. I was completely turned around, as by this point we were about six miles from the hotel, but luckily Brian is excellent with reading the street maps that can be found on every corner. We actually weren't too far from his work, so we trekked along until we came upon our favorite Parisian Sushi restaurant. Sushi here is different than Californian sushi, in that I'm used to rolls filled with different ingredients, but instead of Maki, you're more likely to find sashimi on the menus. After a late, albeit incredible lunch, we walked to a nearby bookstore before taking a taxi home.
For dinner, we went to a restaurant on the river, just beneath the Eiffel Tower. There is a light show on the hour and we had an amazing view. We chose some quintessential French entrees and shared some red wine, enjoying our last night in Paris. It was dreamy and enchanting; I look forward to our next visit in November
We woke up to a beautiful sunny day and shared some leftover Italian for breakfast. (What can I say, garlic bread before nine in the morning--this man gets me.) Our only real plan was to stop by the Lover's Bridge and the rest of the day was to be an adventure. We strolled along the Seine River, gazed up at the Eiffel Tower as we passed, and people watched. When solicitors would approach us asking if we spoke English, we'd stop our conversation, say 'Non' in a Frenchy accent, then continue on in English (they were from the UN, legitimately, but we had already donated and they were stationed every thirty yards or so.) We teased each other about our hypocrisy, but we were young, in love, in Paris. There are more important things to consider at that moment.
The Lover's Bridge was about three miles away from our hotel and the streets are dotted with vendors. As we approached, we chose a glittery gold lock and wrote our initials with the date. As we will be frequently in Paris, we thought we'd place a new lock each year. We took some silly pictures and threw our keys into the river. After, we sat in an outside cafe and ordered 'the big beers'.
Just around the corner from the cafe was a farmer's market. These are unlike any I've ever attended in America. They have booths with fresh fish, artisan cheese, wines, local art. We continued wandering the streets until we came upon an open square. There were booths and picnic cloths spread with goods-the closest I can describe is a sort of city yard sale. There were vintage furs, dresses, and shoes. Tables were covered in books, china, and antiques. We oohed and awed, and wished we knew what we were looking at.
We needed some winter wear so we stopped in some clothing stores, but discovered they don't come in until October. I was completely turned around, as by this point we were about six miles from the hotel, but luckily Brian is excellent with reading the street maps that can be found on every corner. We actually weren't too far from his work, so we trekked along until we came upon our favorite Parisian Sushi restaurant. Sushi here is different than Californian sushi, in that I'm used to rolls filled with different ingredients, but instead of Maki, you're more likely to find sashimi on the menus. After a late, albeit incredible lunch, we walked to a nearby bookstore before taking a taxi home.
For dinner, we went to a restaurant on the river, just beneath the Eiffel Tower. There is a light show on the hour and we had an amazing view. We chose some quintessential French entrees and shared some red wine, enjoying our last night in Paris. It was dreamy and enchanting; I look forward to our next visit in November
Three Minutes of Terror, Or The Front Desk Hates Me-Part 2
Due to some various reasons, the assignments were delayed for about ten days, so we left Paris later than we expected. Fashion week coinsided with this and our hotel couldn't extend our reservation as they were completely booked up. We were moved to their sister hotel, the Adagio- Eiffel Tower, and we couldn't have been more pleased!
For one, our new apartment was meant for four guests and we had it all to ourselves. Up on the 26th floor, we had incredible panoramic views of the city and of the French Statue of Liberty. Unfortunately though, it meant about a thirty minute commute for Brian, and about twenty minutes away from the other hotel. It seemed like a nce, modern hotel and I encourage you to look it up.
On the second day we were there, we had a true 'near' death experience. The day started normally and we joined a family on the ground floor to head up to our apartment. The family was French and it was Dad with two sons, about 14 and 11. They were headed to the 25th floor and we nodded at each other when we got in. These elevators are meant to hold 19 people and are quite grand. We continued our seperate conversations as the elevator headed up. We reached about the 17th floor when suddenly, the elevator shook and the lights flickered.
Brian grinned at me and said "at least we have food with us!"
The father started approaching the wall of buttons to hit the operator switch, when suddenly, the car dropped out from beneath us! We all gasped and clung to the rails as the car free fell eight stories, the floor numbers rushing in a count down, then it caught itself. The lights flickered again and it began to climb. It felt like the Tower of Terror ride at Disney Land, except this was not fun and truly frightening. The oldest son tried to open the doors at the next approaching level, except the doors wouldn't open and it kept climbing.
Again, it free fell. I dropped my water bottle and the youngest son wailed. We all had crouched down as it fell, and my mind raced about if you're supposed to lay down or what when accidents like this happened. It stopped suddenly, and we all started talking at once, the family switching to English. We could hear the cables groaning and the car shuddered. Brian and the father kept urging the son to hit the next floor button so we could get off this elevator of death, but it had jammed or something, and wouldn't open the doors.
Again, the car began its slow ascent of horror. For the third time, it free fell, though this time it was only a few stories before it caught. I can hardly began to describe the panic we felt as we watched those floor numbers fly down and knew we could do nothing to control it. I have never been in a free falling elevator before and I would wish it on noone. In those fleeting moments, I honestly thought "this is it, it doesn't matter if I'm laying down or standing. I am going to die." Finally, it rose and the doors let us off at floor 23.
A man was waiting for the elevator and we shouted (seriously, it was like a movie chorus) "NO!" and rushed out. We shakily explained it was broken and accompanied the family to the stairs as we spoke about our shared participation. I don't know if you've ever been in a scary situation, but anyone you share it with immediately becomes your friend after. We both agreed to call the desk as soon as we arrived.
My legs were genuinely weak and my hands were shaking as I dialed the desk. I explained what happened and the man apologized and said he'd get a technician on it right away. My voice was trembling and higher pitched than usual and I repeated what happened. He agreed he understood and tried to hang up. I was slightly hysterical and repeated a third time, insisting that he comprehended the situation of death and which of the four elevators it was.
It was awful and unnerving and for three days after, we took the stairs to the 26th floor everytime.
For one, our new apartment was meant for four guests and we had it all to ourselves. Up on the 26th floor, we had incredible panoramic views of the city and of the French Statue of Liberty. Unfortunately though, it meant about a thirty minute commute for Brian, and about twenty minutes away from the other hotel. It seemed like a nce, modern hotel and I encourage you to look it up.
On the second day we were there, we had a true 'near' death experience. The day started normally and we joined a family on the ground floor to head up to our apartment. The family was French and it was Dad with two sons, about 14 and 11. They were headed to the 25th floor and we nodded at each other when we got in. These elevators are meant to hold 19 people and are quite grand. We continued our seperate conversations as the elevator headed up. We reached about the 17th floor when suddenly, the elevator shook and the lights flickered.
Brian grinned at me and said "at least we have food with us!"
The father started approaching the wall of buttons to hit the operator switch, when suddenly, the car dropped out from beneath us! We all gasped and clung to the rails as the car free fell eight stories, the floor numbers rushing in a count down, then it caught itself. The lights flickered again and it began to climb. It felt like the Tower of Terror ride at Disney Land, except this was not fun and truly frightening. The oldest son tried to open the doors at the next approaching level, except the doors wouldn't open and it kept climbing.
Again, it free fell. I dropped my water bottle and the youngest son wailed. We all had crouched down as it fell, and my mind raced about if you're supposed to lay down or what when accidents like this happened. It stopped suddenly, and we all started talking at once, the family switching to English. We could hear the cables groaning and the car shuddered. Brian and the father kept urging the son to hit the next floor button so we could get off this elevator of death, but it had jammed or something, and wouldn't open the doors.
Again, the car began its slow ascent of horror. For the third time, it free fell, though this time it was only a few stories before it caught. I can hardly began to describe the panic we felt as we watched those floor numbers fly down and knew we could do nothing to control it. I have never been in a free falling elevator before and I would wish it on noone. In those fleeting moments, I honestly thought "this is it, it doesn't matter if I'm laying down or standing. I am going to die." Finally, it rose and the doors let us off at floor 23.
A man was waiting for the elevator and we shouted (seriously, it was like a movie chorus) "NO!" and rushed out. We shakily explained it was broken and accompanied the family to the stairs as we spoke about our shared participation. I don't know if you've ever been in a scary situation, but anyone you share it with immediately becomes your friend after. We both agreed to call the desk as soon as we arrived.
My legs were genuinely weak and my hands were shaking as I dialed the desk. I explained what happened and the man apologized and said he'd get a technician on it right away. My voice was trembling and higher pitched than usual and I repeated what happened. He agreed he understood and tried to hang up. I was slightly hysterical and repeated a third time, insisting that he comprehended the situation of death and which of the four elevators it was.
It was awful and unnerving and for three days after, we took the stairs to the 26th floor everytime.
A Last Meal, Or How the Heck Did We LOSE Weight Here??
Our last few days in Paris were eventful. Brian was assigned to Istanbul, A to Sao Paulo-Brazil, S to Paris, and C to a multi-nation assignment in Europe. Brian and I were the most excited, I think, and A was down right terrified. Her assignment not only took her to a dangerous city, but she also must travel to Columbia. Did I mention she's a gorgeous blonde who's face screams 'American!'? Still, we know that the company wouldn't send us to a place where our safety is severely threatened.. or at least we'd like to assume.
On one of our last nights together, we had dinner at a fondue restaurant. It was a delicious experience that I highly recommend. One of the coolest things was how we received the fondue. Instead of a melting pot over a small burner (we did have one of those as well), the chef started with large slices of cheese cut from a cheese wheel. The slices were put into a heating machine that stood directly on our table. (Forgive me, I forget the name of this type.) The machine looked like a giant metal T, with hot plates that extended down on each arm of the T. The cheese wheel slices were held in the middle and you could adjust the melting speed by pulling away the hot plates. It was served with warm chunks of soft potato, meat platters that included prosciutto, ham and salami, as well as thin slices of bread. As the sides of the cheese wheel softened, you pulled a knife down the cheese and over your potatoes. Our favorite combination was a slice of meat on a potato, smothered by the warm cheese. We also had the more traditional fondue pot with a cheese mixture and mushrooms. It was so much heavy food and cheese, but it was just delightful.
After, we made our way to our favorite tavern that was located on the same block as the hotel. We often ended a night with a drink here, and the owners knew the rest of the auditors as they'd frequent it each time they visited Paris. One of our favorite unusual things about the cocktails was that they were served with a sugar covered and flavored marshmallow! Caan (pronounced like Ken--probably for our benefit) was Turkish and a sweetheart. He'd place roses in the cocktails for the ladies and gave us excellent service and travel advice. Once, he shared some traditional cookies that his mother had homemade for him. He was enthusiastic when we mentioned we were headed to Turkey, and asked us to bring home a sweet bread for him when we return in November. (Brian and I can't remember exactly what he asked for, probably due to the superbly poured drinks, but we plan on bringing a couple to share.) We asked if he thought we'd be safe and he eagerly confirmed. A asked the same question about Sao Paulo and he gave her sad eyes and brought her a complimentary basket of chips.
With hugs, we bid each other safe travels and a fond 'Adieu', promising to keep up via email. I truly enjoyed their company and look forward to sharing our experiences when we meet again in ten weeks. I loved sharing inside jokes, crazy music videos, and chanting "HR-HR-HR!!" when someone would tell a dirty joke or a 'that's what she said!' We really couldn't have asked for a better group of strangers <3
On one of our last nights together, we had dinner at a fondue restaurant. It was a delicious experience that I highly recommend. One of the coolest things was how we received the fondue. Instead of a melting pot over a small burner (we did have one of those as well), the chef started with large slices of cheese cut from a cheese wheel. The slices were put into a heating machine that stood directly on our table. (Forgive me, I forget the name of this type.) The machine looked like a giant metal T, with hot plates that extended down on each arm of the T. The cheese wheel slices were held in the middle and you could adjust the melting speed by pulling away the hot plates. It was served with warm chunks of soft potato, meat platters that included prosciutto, ham and salami, as well as thin slices of bread. As the sides of the cheese wheel softened, you pulled a knife down the cheese and over your potatoes. Our favorite combination was a slice of meat on a potato, smothered by the warm cheese. We also had the more traditional fondue pot with a cheese mixture and mushrooms. It was so much heavy food and cheese, but it was just delightful.
After, we made our way to our favorite tavern that was located on the same block as the hotel. We often ended a night with a drink here, and the owners knew the rest of the auditors as they'd frequent it each time they visited Paris. One of our favorite unusual things about the cocktails was that they were served with a sugar covered and flavored marshmallow! Caan (pronounced like Ken--probably for our benefit) was Turkish and a sweetheart. He'd place roses in the cocktails for the ladies and gave us excellent service and travel advice. Once, he shared some traditional cookies that his mother had homemade for him. He was enthusiastic when we mentioned we were headed to Turkey, and asked us to bring home a sweet bread for him when we return in November. (Brian and I can't remember exactly what he asked for, probably due to the superbly poured drinks, but we plan on bringing a couple to share.) We asked if he thought we'd be safe and he eagerly confirmed. A asked the same question about Sao Paulo and he gave her sad eyes and brought her a complimentary basket of chips.
With hugs, we bid each other safe travels and a fond 'Adieu', promising to keep up via email. I truly enjoyed their company and look forward to sharing our experiences when we meet again in ten weeks. I loved sharing inside jokes, crazy music videos, and chanting "HR-HR-HR!!" when someone would tell a dirty joke or a 'that's what she said!' We really couldn't have asked for a better group of strangers <3
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Soapbox, Or Reflections on a Mournful Truth
I have been so fortunate to have such an opulent experience in France. Paris is often mythicized as a beautiful, romantic place, but I found that that is not always true. It is a city, after all, and it can be gray and concrete filled with reminders of poverty on every corner.
Before we moved to a San Fransisco suburb, we had seriously looked at apartments in the city. Ultimately, I confessed that the timing didn't feel right to me; that I wasn't yet emotionally prepared to face the serious homeless problem that plagued the streets. (What a luxury, to choose my home based on sentiment.) Granted, San Luis Obispo had a large transient population, but generally speaking, it was a younger crowd of mid-twenties kids on their way up or down the coast. They looked more like hipsters and the college crowd was unusually generous and friendly to them. San Fransisco had more of an older homeless population and my heart went out to the sad looking souls curled up against buildings, fighting the fog and cold. There seemed to be more veterans and people with disabilities as well. With my background in social services, I do understand the available programs for aid; yet I also know how short these programs fall in helping our fellow citizens.
We rush to rescue stray animals, placing them in warm shelters and finding homes that have been vetted for safety and comfort... Too often, we ignore the pleading eyes of 'stray' humans and hurry past them, blocking their needs from our thoughts.
San Fransisco did little to prepare me for the problems of Paris.
Due to benevolent immigration laws, in recent years there has been a large influx of foreign nationals who have fled to France seeking opportunity. On a grander scale than what is seen in America, plenty of these people have true difficulty finding employment and housing. I was not braced for the sheer numbers of families that make their homes living on the streets. On my route to the grocery store, a mere two blocks, there were at least sixty members of homeless families. Please remember, we were in a very nice part of the city and I've been told it's much worse in other districts. Sometimes they'd take refuge on the steps of churches, but mostly I was struck by groups of children sleeping clustered on dirty mattresses on the edges of the street. At night time, the families would make circles and you could hear them telling the children stories. The laughter of the young echoing through the night wrenched my heart, especially as I thought of the children of friends and family back home...
As always, I am reminded of the fact that I was in 'one of the greatest cities of the world' and that this is nothing compared to other countries. Still, I relish the chance I was given, being born into the life I know and the favorable circumstances that led me to here. I don't have any grand illusion of a solution, but rather I ask that today you take a moment, and appreciate who and where you are.
Before we moved to a San Fransisco suburb, we had seriously looked at apartments in the city. Ultimately, I confessed that the timing didn't feel right to me; that I wasn't yet emotionally prepared to face the serious homeless problem that plagued the streets. (What a luxury, to choose my home based on sentiment.) Granted, San Luis Obispo had a large transient population, but generally speaking, it was a younger crowd of mid-twenties kids on their way up or down the coast. They looked more like hipsters and the college crowd was unusually generous and friendly to them. San Fransisco had more of an older homeless population and my heart went out to the sad looking souls curled up against buildings, fighting the fog and cold. There seemed to be more veterans and people with disabilities as well. With my background in social services, I do understand the available programs for aid; yet I also know how short these programs fall in helping our fellow citizens.
We rush to rescue stray animals, placing them in warm shelters and finding homes that have been vetted for safety and comfort... Too often, we ignore the pleading eyes of 'stray' humans and hurry past them, blocking their needs from our thoughts.
San Fransisco did little to prepare me for the problems of Paris.
Due to benevolent immigration laws, in recent years there has been a large influx of foreign nationals who have fled to France seeking opportunity. On a grander scale than what is seen in America, plenty of these people have true difficulty finding employment and housing. I was not braced for the sheer numbers of families that make their homes living on the streets. On my route to the grocery store, a mere two blocks, there were at least sixty members of homeless families. Please remember, we were in a very nice part of the city and I've been told it's much worse in other districts. Sometimes they'd take refuge on the steps of churches, but mostly I was struck by groups of children sleeping clustered on dirty mattresses on the edges of the street. At night time, the families would make circles and you could hear them telling the children stories. The laughter of the young echoing through the night wrenched my heart, especially as I thought of the children of friends and family back home...
As always, I am reminded of the fact that I was in 'one of the greatest cities of the world' and that this is nothing compared to other countries. Still, I relish the chance I was given, being born into the life I know and the favorable circumstances that led me to here. I don't have any grand illusion of a solution, but rather I ask that today you take a moment, and appreciate who and where you are.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Stupid Americans, Or The Front Desk Hates Me -Part 1
Like most people our age, we love electronics. We've got laptops, Kindles, phone chargers, etc, and I don't think it's too much to ask that they're charged properly. However, we only brought two french outlet converters with us, but that's okay because we brought power strips!!
On one of our first nights here, we had had a long day and were just exhausted. We came back to the hotel and rummaged through the suitcases to find said power strips. It was very late and we changed into pajamas, calling out to each other "have you seen this?" and "what bag was that in?"
I was in the bathroom when I heard a loud POP and Brian cursing. When I rushed into the main room, there was an acrid smell in the air. He told me that the power strip had sparked blue and that the outlet had blown. We located the little breaker box and reset it. Brian confidently strode over to a different outlet on the other side of the room, with a different power strip. Now I'm not one to say I know everything about electronics, but this seemed like a bad idea to me. I explained that I didn't want him to die from electric shock. He looked at me like he was talking to a child, saying, "Well, we know what went wrong. THAT was an older strip. THIS is a newer one." A slightly heated conversation happened, and I stayed on the far side of the room from this very bad idea. (Girlfriend interjection--sometimes we just have to let them do it their way.)
Brian looks at me triumphantly and says "watch!" As he pushes it in----ALL OF THE FUSES BLEW and we were plunged into darkness. So now we're standing in the dark, in our pajamas, and have to go tell the front desk that the stupid Americans (us) blew the fuses up on the third floor. I opened the curtains and we dressed from the street lights. I was concerned that some weirdo across the way got a bit of a show, but more concerned about starting a wiring fire. We trek downstairs and my face is bright red as Brian tries to explain to the night desk man. In broken English, we think the man understands, because he leaves the desk quickly. He returns with a big smile and hands us the same converter we have upstairs.
No, no, we say and then try to mime darkness like a pair of idiots. He stares at us with this totally confused look on his face (he probably thought we'd been drinking or something). This continues for five or six minutes and finally we get our message across. He tells us that he's the only desk person for another couple of hours so he can't leave. My face just fell so he tells Brian where the breaker box is and asks him to flip the big switch. Again, this doesn't sound like a great idea to me, but this time it worked out.
Now we can look back and laugh, but we know--one plug per outlet, no power strips.
On one of our first nights here, we had had a long day and were just exhausted. We came back to the hotel and rummaged through the suitcases to find said power strips. It was very late and we changed into pajamas, calling out to each other "have you seen this?" and "what bag was that in?"
I was in the bathroom when I heard a loud POP and Brian cursing. When I rushed into the main room, there was an acrid smell in the air. He told me that the power strip had sparked blue and that the outlet had blown. We located the little breaker box and reset it. Brian confidently strode over to a different outlet on the other side of the room, with a different power strip. Now I'm not one to say I know everything about electronics, but this seemed like a bad idea to me. I explained that I didn't want him to die from electric shock. He looked at me like he was talking to a child, saying, "Well, we know what went wrong. THAT was an older strip. THIS is a newer one." A slightly heated conversation happened, and I stayed on the far side of the room from this very bad idea. (Girlfriend interjection--sometimes we just have to let them do it their way.)
Brian looks at me triumphantly and says "watch!" As he pushes it in----ALL OF THE FUSES BLEW and we were plunged into darkness. So now we're standing in the dark, in our pajamas, and have to go tell the front desk that the stupid Americans (us) blew the fuses up on the third floor. I opened the curtains and we dressed from the street lights. I was concerned that some weirdo across the way got a bit of a show, but more concerned about starting a wiring fire. We trek downstairs and my face is bright red as Brian tries to explain to the night desk man. In broken English, we think the man understands, because he leaves the desk quickly. He returns with a big smile and hands us the same converter we have upstairs.
No, no, we say and then try to mime darkness like a pair of idiots. He stares at us with this totally confused look on his face (he probably thought we'd been drinking or something). This continues for five or six minutes and finally we get our message across. He tells us that he's the only desk person for another couple of hours so he can't leave. My face just fell so he tells Brian where the breaker box is and asks him to flip the big switch. Again, this doesn't sound like a great idea to me, but this time it worked out.
Now we can look back and laugh, but we know--one plug per outlet, no power strips.
Magic Micheb, Or Is This Really What They Think of Americans??
The following post contains adult material and I do not apologize for this. If you don't want to read it, stop here. Please know any criticism will be ignored and may result in my exasperation and you being shunned.
You've been warned.
The three Americans have stuck together and have bonded over our foreign experiences so far. The Belgian fellow in our group travels home each weekend and the French guy spends every weekend with his sister, so we're on our own with our limited knowledge of this culture. Sometimes they'll offer suggestions, but mostly we wander about and play tourist.
Last week, the two guys mentioned they stopped by an American restaurant and the food was 'weird' so they didn't eat there. We were immediately interested about a taste of home and peppered them with questions. Apparently, the menu had pictures of the food and usually that means it's for children or is a low class place. (It looked just like a Denny's menu or any other number of familiar diners.) Additionally, the food was strange to them, but sounded great to us! Chili dogs, messy burgers, grilled cheese sandwiches, burritos--a greasy slice of heaven. Maybe it is owned by ex-pats and we could talk Monday Night Football with someone who didn't think it was Monday Night Futbol! (That was a sad trick, we thought this game night was NFL, but it was soccer.) The guys gave us the location and we set out to find this mecca.
I was struck by all of the decorations and STUFF hanging on the outside and inside walls. It was kind of like the Hard Rock or The Bear, with memorabilia covering every inch. There was a giant neon Elvis waving us in, a movie prop Frankenstein in a glass case, a stuffed lion, life size pirates; so many things it was a little overwhelming. The hostess said there was a show about to start upstairs, but we asked for a seat at the bar so we could be seated without waiting. It was full of people so we thought this was a good sign. Downstairs was sushi and karaoke, a bizarre mix of levels.
Looking at the drink prices, we saw that we could have a drink and attend the show for only five more euros. The hostess said it was an authentic American dance show, with go-go dancers. Visions of Las Vegas in the seventies, of Austin Power movies swirled through our heads, so we decided to go for it.
Imagine the look on our faces, two ladies and one shocked fella, when we discovered that American go-go dancers were co-ed strippers. After our initial shock, we burst out laughing and decided to stick around. I don't really have any experience relating American strip clubs, but there were some differences than in the movies. No one tipped, which is more of a culture thing, but I've always thought you do. A and I were the only women in the beginning, but even when the male dancers came out, the crowd of men in their twenties still cheered and clapped to the music, respecting them. It was more subdued than the cheers for the women, but I thought it was nice.
Since we were the only women, we received 'special' attention. The female dancers would make eye contact and faces at us, like "can you believe these jackals?" And we were "lucky" enough to be called on stage.
Most of you know I have germ related issues, and frankly, I'm a little uptight. When this 6'5, extremely muscular black man pulled me on stage, all I could think was "Breathe, Micheb!! Don't be that girl who causes a scene. Be cool, Be cool!!" He lifted me up with one arm and I hissed "be careful, I'm heavy!" and he hushed me, laughing. Behind me, my companions were roaring with laughter as I gave them crazy eyes and my body froze. After some insane feats of strength where I channeled CHS cheer Coach Mary (how she prepared the flyers for being tossed), he set me on a chair and did his dance. The crowd was cheering and my friends told me I looked like a deer-in-the-headlights, but I was thinking that I didn't have enough hand sanitizer with me to rub on my arms. Mercifully, our song ended, he kissed my hand and shooed me off stage.
I weakly walked back to my chair and shakily said, "so that just happened," setting my friends off into more peals of laughter.
It was so ridiculous and one of those memories we'll have for ages. Now we know what go-go dancers mean, but I pity the French men who think a typical American diner will have them on staff.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Confidence is Key, Or Now the French Call Me Murphy
I've been using the Rosetta Stone computer program to learn French and I like it. It shows you pictures and words, you repeat the words aloud and the computer even corrects your pronunciation. You also are 'graded' on typing the words using the correct spelling and any accent marks, so it's in depth and has really helped here. I'm finding that because of my background in Spanish, I'm able to read some French so that's helping.
My mother used to say "Pride comes before a fall" whenever we'd act overly confident or arrogant. Let me tell you, hearing your mother's voice echo in your head after you've done something stupid is possibly one of the most annoying things on the planet. (Love you, Mom.)
I walk into the grocery store, feeling more at ease with shopping. This 'winning attitude' comes from a combination of pure avoidance (if it doesn't have a picture and I don't recognize the words, I just move on) and a limited but growing collection of food related words. This has actually been working for me, except for the directions on packaged food and some mysterious looking meat pack that Brian chose, but that's what Google translate is for!
Brian needed some lotion for his foot and I confidently said that I could pick it up for him one afternoon. The body section is a little overwhelming, but I found some pump style bottles that helped clue me into the right category. I chose a bottle that said 'hydrate' and was 'lait' scented, which I understand means milk.
When I got back to the apartment, I decided I wanted to try it. I pumped some into my hands and it had a weird clear bubbly look. I'm pretty skeptical at this point, but rub it on my leg, where it turns a white color before I spread it out. It had a lotion-y feel to it, so I thought, 'what the hell,' and kept using it.
At the team dinner that night, I tell A, our American lady friend, about how weird French lotion was. S was listening and said, "that's not what our lotion looks like. That's not what anyone's lotion looks like. What did you buy?"
Ladies and gentlemen, I bought hair gel. I bought hair gel and rubbed it all over my body.
For now, I only grocery shop with one of the French guys, who double checks my purchases.
Good God, I hope we don't get sent to Singapore.
My mother used to say "Pride comes before a fall" whenever we'd act overly confident or arrogant. Let me tell you, hearing your mother's voice echo in your head after you've done something stupid is possibly one of the most annoying things on the planet. (Love you, Mom.)
I walk into the grocery store, feeling more at ease with shopping. This 'winning attitude' comes from a combination of pure avoidance (if it doesn't have a picture and I don't recognize the words, I just move on) and a limited but growing collection of food related words. This has actually been working for me, except for the directions on packaged food and some mysterious looking meat pack that Brian chose, but that's what Google translate is for!
Brian needed some lotion for his foot and I confidently said that I could pick it up for him one afternoon. The body section is a little overwhelming, but I found some pump style bottles that helped clue me into the right category. I chose a bottle that said 'hydrate' and was 'lait' scented, which I understand means milk.
When I got back to the apartment, I decided I wanted to try it. I pumped some into my hands and it had a weird clear bubbly look. I'm pretty skeptical at this point, but rub it on my leg, where it turns a white color before I spread it out. It had a lotion-y feel to it, so I thought, 'what the hell,' and kept using it.
At the team dinner that night, I tell A, our American lady friend, about how weird French lotion was. S was listening and said, "that's not what our lotion looks like. That's not what anyone's lotion looks like. What did you buy?"
Ladies and gentlemen, I bought hair gel. I bought hair gel and rubbed it all over my body.
For now, I only grocery shop with one of the French guys, who double checks my purchases.
Good God, I hope we don't get sent to Singapore.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
The Louvre, or The Best Ten Euros I've EVER Spent
We are lucky enough to live about ten minutes away from The Louvre and that's where our friend A, Brian and I spent our Saturday. There are several hundred pictures on Facebook, if you'd like to take a look. We only made it into two of the wings and I'd love to return.
I didn't know this, but the museum is actually inside the palace and it is enormous!! To be honest, I spent an equal amount of time gazing up at the fresco on the ceilings as I did the actual art. There are multiple stories and levels and it spans several city blocks. I loved the grand marble staircases, sweeping courtyards, and the incredible mouldings. It was humbling, actually, to stand in these magnificent rooms and imagine how it looked when the King held court. We shared some wine on one balcony and sat in awe of where we were.
We saw the Mona Lisa and there was a crowd of perhaps seventy people, all trying to get pictures. There was a velvet rope that separated the crowd from where she was encased in glass and four bored looking guards stood next to her. A and I commented that the crowd was made of all nationalities, and marvelled at how popular she was. (I do understand the mathematical beauty, etc.)
There was a similar flurry of activity at the Venus de Milo, but my favorite parts were in a different part of the museum.
First, they've taken the time to restore the Kings apartments as authentically as possible. Coming from my last job, I eagerly pointed out different clever furniture pieces and my companions would listen politely. There was so much gold in each room, from gilding on the furniture to the walls and ceilings, to the fabrics and candelabras. Brian was surprised about how small the King's bed was, perhaps a modern full size, though not as long. The dining area was vast, and we counted 48 chairs at the long formal table. We joked about how our last apartment could have fit at least six times in the grand salon, his private entertaining room. Among the settees, numerous bistro style tables were scattered, with a few chairs at each one. It was truly beautiful and so impressive.
The Louvre has the second largest collection of Egyptian antiquities in the world and that may have been my absolute favorite part. It was so large and spanned several different floors and wings that we didn't get to see everything, but what we did see took my breath away. They had an entire TOMB that you could walk through, with the hieroglyphics etched in the walls. Some of the colors were still vibrant and it was amazing. There were also complete stone walls and columns, a room of ten foot stone sphinxes and Osiris' tomb. There was a collection of sarcophagus and intricately wrapped mummies. There were rooms of jewelry and sacred amulets. One of the coolest parts, to me anyway, was that they had a Book of The Dead, laid out and covered in glass on a wall. It spanned 19 meters and was delicate and Brian took a neat picture of Osiris weighing a heart down in the Underworld. It was spooky and fascinating.
This was a fantastic day that I will remember for the rest of my life.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
International Bonding, or We Made New Friends
Brian's team members include an American lady (age 28, called A), a French man (age 28, called S), and a Belgian man (age 27, called C). I'm the youngest, but four of the five of us will be celebrating our birthdays every two weeks through Oct and Nov. The other night, S took us on a walking tour and it was incredible!
First, I'd like to point out that August in Paris is ridiculously hot and humid. (This is why the wealthy escape the heat and spend the entire month in the Southern part of the country.) The heat lasts long into the night and we started our adventure around six pm. We walked through Paris' version of Central Park, over the Seine River, through the Louvre (you can walk through the courtyards without seeing the museum), past Notre Dame, and into a district that reminded me of the bustle of SF's China Town.
The sights were amazing and we stopped to take pictures often as we walked. S had a particular restaurant for dinner in mind, about thirty five minutes away from the hotel, but he sneakily kept telling us "it is only five more minutes!" The streets narrowed and owners stood in the doorways, calling to us to come try their food. Many food types were around, but we went to a tiny place that served Gyros and it was fabulous! It was tasty and the portions were huge. We ate ours Israeli style, putting our fries inside (thanks Sarah & Matt!) I was feeling a little dehydrated, and C and S kept insisting that beer was the best way to hydrate, after water. I said no thanks, and loved the European logic lol.
S entertained us with a story that explained why these sandwiches were called Greeks and not Gyros. We were at a Turkish owned place, and the Turks and Greeks fought for many years. The Turkish army would awaken in the morning and declare, "I'm going to eat a Greek for breakfast!" If we can figure out how to get back there, we'd love to return.
Night had fallen after dinner, and we saw the Notre Dame in lights. The architecture and sculptures are astounding, especially when you consider that it is celebrating it's 750 year this summer. I really hope to go back for a service or tour. There were entertainers and hundreds of people milling around the front grounds.
S shooed us along, and we continued down narrow, dark streets. We were having a great time, laughing and chatting, though we teased him that he was taking us somewhere sketchy because of how quiet it was. Suddenly, we came onto this large square full of people! There were lights and cafes, people eating dinner at ten o'clock, bars open, and smokers every place you looked! We were amazed, but we continued past, once again plunging into the quiet darkness. Again, after some blocks, we came upon another busy square, and it continued like this, neighborhood after neighborhood.
We decided that this must be 'the real Paris' and I'm hoping we can make it to that side of the city again soon.
We all got along so well, and even though we came from very different places, we discovered we weren't so different after all.
First, I'd like to point out that August in Paris is ridiculously hot and humid. (This is why the wealthy escape the heat and spend the entire month in the Southern part of the country.) The heat lasts long into the night and we started our adventure around six pm. We walked through Paris' version of Central Park, over the Seine River, through the Louvre (you can walk through the courtyards without seeing the museum), past Notre Dame, and into a district that reminded me of the bustle of SF's China Town.
The sights were amazing and we stopped to take pictures often as we walked. S had a particular restaurant for dinner in mind, about thirty five minutes away from the hotel, but he sneakily kept telling us "it is only five more minutes!" The streets narrowed and owners stood in the doorways, calling to us to come try their food. Many food types were around, but we went to a tiny place that served Gyros and it was fabulous! It was tasty and the portions were huge. We ate ours Israeli style, putting our fries inside (thanks Sarah & Matt!) I was feeling a little dehydrated, and C and S kept insisting that beer was the best way to hydrate, after water. I said no thanks, and loved the European logic lol.
S entertained us with a story that explained why these sandwiches were called Greeks and not Gyros. We were at a Turkish owned place, and the Turks and Greeks fought for many years. The Turkish army would awaken in the morning and declare, "I'm going to eat a Greek for breakfast!" If we can figure out how to get back there, we'd love to return.
Night had fallen after dinner, and we saw the Notre Dame in lights. The architecture and sculptures are astounding, especially when you consider that it is celebrating it's 750 year this summer. I really hope to go back for a service or tour. There were entertainers and hundreds of people milling around the front grounds.
S shooed us along, and we continued down narrow, dark streets. We were having a great time, laughing and chatting, though we teased him that he was taking us somewhere sketchy because of how quiet it was. Suddenly, we came onto this large square full of people! There were lights and cafes, people eating dinner at ten o'clock, bars open, and smokers every place you looked! We were amazed, but we continued past, once again plunging into the quiet darkness. Again, after some blocks, we came upon another busy square, and it continued like this, neighborhood after neighborhood.
We decided that this must be 'the real Paris' and I'm hoping we can make it to that side of the city again soon.
We all got along so well, and even though we came from very different places, we discovered we weren't so different after all.
The Great Grocery Store Adventure, or I Understand Poor Julia Childs
Further research on my part probably would have informed me of some of the following, but to be honest, I mostly had focused on the many amazing sights Paris has to offer.
We have been able to go to a 'large' chain style store that offers cosmetics and some clothing, as well as the largest selection of food that we've been able to find so far. The selection is much more limited than an American grocery store, and frankly, I think even Corning's small Sav-Mart could put them out of business. (Before you start grumbling, yes, I am aware that most Parisians in this part of the city shop for a day or two at a time and that eating out is far more popular. However, old habits die hard, and everything is so darn expensive at restaurants around here.)
The street level has big garage door style doors (fairly standard around here) and you take an escalator down to the store, so it's all underground. Don't forget to bring your own bags or you'll have to buy some.
I think the most unusual difference is that they don't refrigerate dairy as cold as we do. We found the eggs on a shelf near the chips, and the milk was cool, but not cold. Additionally, open mayo is regularly left on cafe tables, like our ketchup. (By the way, squeeze style red bottle are still ketchup, but yellow bottles are not mustard, it's mayo. We're big mustard fans, and had to spend some time scraping globs of warm mayo off the first time we used the bottles.)
Popular yogurt flavors include Rhubarb, Prunes, and Fig, but I went with the familiar strawberry.
The produce section was an interesting adventure. Cherries from the US (the only selection available, one variety only) were $19.84 per LB!!! Strawberries were shockingly small and made California's "look like doping fiends", as described by our American team member.
Sliced meats inundate the meat section, but are more like smoked prosciutto than deli meat. They had an entire Pate section in the 'deli' counter, and Foie Gras was everywhere!
The ethnic food section was nothing like ours, they had a small section of Indian ingredients and that was where peanut butter was. We saw jars of Skippy brand (the only we saw) that were about half size of 'regular' jars, but were priced around $7. The Mexican food was disappointing, with just a couple of tortilla sizes and teeny jars of salsa, but EL PASO brand did make it over here, with the hard taco shells.
Mostly for fun, we picked up a set of Lays' snack size potato chips that had 3 flavors. BBQ, Bolognaise, and Chicken. (We passed on the Ketchup flavor.) The bolognaise tasted kind of like bolognaise, so think tomato-y. The chicken had an intense flavor that reminded us of a concentrated top ramen flavor packet. The BBQ also seemed to have a slightly different flavor than home.
My absolute favorite part of the store is the bread! Yes, they do have packaged and sliced bread, but they bake fresh bread four times a day and it smells incredible! They also have beautiful tiny pastries, in addition to loaves and rolls.
Oh, in this grocery store, you have to insert a Euro coin to release a shopping cart, and you get your coin back when you return the cart. That was fun, the three of us had to ask for help, and then we realized it was like the rental carts at the airport. (I didn't really understand this, because the store is underground and you are prohibited from taking them into the disabled patron elevator, so theft seems unlikely.) The plastic hand baskets have an extendable handle, like a luggage handle, so you roll it along behind you. I thought that was brilliant lol.
A quote from Marge Simpson echoed in our minds as we shopped, and I'll leave it in closing,
'Remember, an elevator is called a lift, a mile is called a kilometer and botulism is called "steak and kidney pie".'
Monday, August 20, 2012
An Introduction, or An Arrival
Louis CK Airplane Horror Story
Please click on the above link to a YouTube video. This is one of our favorite comedians, please excuse the language!
Brian and I had been joking about this particular stand up routine on our way to the airport, and even made his mother and sister listen to it in the car. Our first flight, from SFO to NY went smoothly, and so did the next flight from NY to Helsinki, Finland. When we boarded in Finland however, we had our very own Louis moment.
We had been on the tarmac for about twenty minutes when the captain came on the intercom. He first spoke in Finnish, then would repeat the message in English.
"O-key, Lay-dees and Gentlemen. We are having a discrepancy with the ground crew about how much fuel we need to complete this flight. We thank you for your patience and will take off shortly."
Brian and I spun to look at each other and I had wild eyes. "WHAT??? No discrepancy, just take the bigger amount!!" This seemed like a no-brainer to us, but what do we know? They do this every day, and we just want to live.
Another twenty minutes goes by, and finally we take off. I had never taken an international flight before, but I learned something about language differences. The captain seemed to speak twice as long in Finnish, then the English bit was much shorter. I became convinced that if we were going to die, he'd tell his country folk first, and let the rest of us battle for the oxygen masks.
Landing was really the terrifying part. Our others had been gentle and mostly turbulence free. I quoted a line from "Captain Ron" as we started to descend, "We must be close! We had just enough fuel to get there, and we are out of fuel!!" We shared a laugh until the plane suddenly dropped a few thousand feet, causing passengers to cry out in terror. It happened a second time, and Brian choked out "Is this his FIRST landing???" I had just spotted the Eiffel Tower and the plane careened again, prompting me to say, "NOO!! Now that I've seen it, I'm going to die!"
The plane had two cameras on it, one in the front directly under the pilots' windshield, and one under the plane. The screens on board would switch which camera it broadcasted, which was neat, until the damn landing. We clutched each other's hands and stared at the screens, as the plane lurched again. We could see the runway getting closer and closer as the plane hurled itself with a frightening speed at the concrete and we did another big drop. Women all around us were gasping as our stomachs pitched upwards into our throats. I didn't think planes could bounce, but I swear it happened once the wheels hit the asphalt.
Upon collecting our luggage, two men approached us at the airport doors and some quick French was exchanged. I'm still working on the basic levels, but I completely trust Brian to keep us safe...At least, that was what I kept repeating as we followed a strange man into the bowels of the dark underground parking garage to an unmarked, regular looking car. He was nice enough, except we drove past a car on the freeway that was engulfed in FLAMES and we didn't call emergency services or stop to help the men that were running for their lives away from the smoky wreck.
Some streets in Paris (including the one we live on) are hardly big enough for a single car. We're in the Opera District, which is an older part of the city, and there are actual cobblestone avenues!
The hotel is newer and has quite a modern feel. We have a tiny studio-style place, but it does have a mini kitchen. The refrigerator has a built in wine rack! Ah, Paris!
Please click on the above link to a YouTube video. This is one of our favorite comedians, please excuse the language!
Brian and I had been joking about this particular stand up routine on our way to the airport, and even made his mother and sister listen to it in the car. Our first flight, from SFO to NY went smoothly, and so did the next flight from NY to Helsinki, Finland. When we boarded in Finland however, we had our very own Louis moment.
We had been on the tarmac for about twenty minutes when the captain came on the intercom. He first spoke in Finnish, then would repeat the message in English.
"O-key, Lay-dees and Gentlemen. We are having a discrepancy with the ground crew about how much fuel we need to complete this flight. We thank you for your patience and will take off shortly."
Brian and I spun to look at each other and I had wild eyes. "WHAT??? No discrepancy, just take the bigger amount!!" This seemed like a no-brainer to us, but what do we know? They do this every day, and we just want to live.
Another twenty minutes goes by, and finally we take off. I had never taken an international flight before, but I learned something about language differences. The captain seemed to speak twice as long in Finnish, then the English bit was much shorter. I became convinced that if we were going to die, he'd tell his country folk first, and let the rest of us battle for the oxygen masks.
Landing was really the terrifying part. Our others had been gentle and mostly turbulence free. I quoted a line from "Captain Ron" as we started to descend, "We must be close! We had just enough fuel to get there, and we are out of fuel!!" We shared a laugh until the plane suddenly dropped a few thousand feet, causing passengers to cry out in terror. It happened a second time, and Brian choked out "Is this his FIRST landing???" I had just spotted the Eiffel Tower and the plane careened again, prompting me to say, "NOO!! Now that I've seen it, I'm going to die!"
The plane had two cameras on it, one in the front directly under the pilots' windshield, and one under the plane. The screens on board would switch which camera it broadcasted, which was neat, until the damn landing. We clutched each other's hands and stared at the screens, as the plane lurched again. We could see the runway getting closer and closer as the plane hurled itself with a frightening speed at the concrete and we did another big drop. Women all around us were gasping as our stomachs pitched upwards into our throats. I didn't think planes could bounce, but I swear it happened once the wheels hit the asphalt.
Upon collecting our luggage, two men approached us at the airport doors and some quick French was exchanged. I'm still working on the basic levels, but I completely trust Brian to keep us safe...At least, that was what I kept repeating as we followed a strange man into the bowels of the dark underground parking garage to an unmarked, regular looking car. He was nice enough, except we drove past a car on the freeway that was engulfed in FLAMES and we didn't call emergency services or stop to help the men that were running for their lives away from the smoky wreck.
Some streets in Paris (including the one we live on) are hardly big enough for a single car. We're in the Opera District, which is an older part of the city, and there are actual cobblestone avenues!
The hotel is newer and has quite a modern feel. We have a tiny studio-style place, but it does have a mini kitchen. The refrigerator has a built in wine rack! Ah, Paris!
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