By the way

With the help of my father and co-conspirator, I snuck home for Thanksgiving and stunned the rest of the family.

My adventures in getting from Grenoble to Paris' Charles de Gaulle airport deserve a separate paragraph. I'll try to summarize briefly: let's just say it involved 10pm flunkyball, 5am train ride to Paris, frantic search for non-existent Air France coach to airport, sharing a cheap, fast and comfortable taxi to Charles de Gaulle with three French wome and successfully convincing French authorities that just because my ticket has my first and last names mixed up, I'm still the same person. I heaved an enormous sigh of relief once I was on the plane and was able to sprawl out in the empty seat next to me. My adrenaline was still pumping when I landed in Chicago NINE hours later, though I would fall asleep during the brief hop to Indy. Dad picked me up with his usual punctuality.

Dad, Mom and Dan had dinner reservations but Dad used a ruse about having to go do an estimate to leave the house alone. He picked me up from the airport and called Mom and asked her and Dan to meet him directly at the restaurant ; he said he'd had a car accident and would be running a little behind. Liar! We arrived 10 minutes before them and were able to get settled at our table. Dad had to hold his menu over his mouth to hide his chuckling and I just stared contemplatively at mine, with my back to the entrance. Mom walked by, with her nose slightly upturned. She later explained she hadn't recognized me from behind and felt indignant that Dad had invited someone to dinner without informing her. As she walked by, she glanced at me and stared, completely stunned, for several seconds. Know the expression "she did a double-take?" Mom did a quadruple-take -- and then the game was up and we beamed and embraced and tried to avoid crying while the entire restaurant grinned. Dan was equally astounded and we gave each other strong hugs. The rest of the meal felt surreal and we often randomly broke out into smiles and laughter.

I loved returning home. It felt so strange to be surrounded by so many American accents which are in such short supply here. I occasionally had moments where I thought, "Wow, this isn't as interesting. I understand EVERYTHING everyone's saying," but they were fleeting. Mom indulged me with home-cooked meal after home-cooked meal, with pancakes, Belgian waffles, French toast, sausage and scrambled eggs galore; it's been 48 hours since I returned to France and despite having only a granola bar, sandwich, raisins and in-flight meal I don't feel hungry in the slightest. Thanksgiving was spectacular. I can still smell and taste the delicious turkey, stuffing, creamed corn, mashed potatoes a la Dad, green bean casserole, warm apple sauce, pumpkin and apple pies.

We all saw the new Harry Potter movie - I fell asleep for less than 10 minutes, I promise - and enjoyed it. A carefully limited excursion to the mall on Friday let us take advantage of post-Thanksgiving specials without being sucked into the usual fashion black hole. I enjoyed shopping without the constant scrutiny of store security personnel. Driving came back instantly, though I annoyed Dan by making constant comparisons between the TL batmobile and my former BMW mistress (always siding, of course, with the latter). I spent Saturday afternoon with my friends at BW3s. It's likely to be the last time we're all together until next July - an odd feeling. I would've devoured the boneless chicken wings in seconds if they hadn't been so hot.

The return trip provided ample opportunity to sleep; there was an hour delay on the Indianapolis tarmac while we waited for traffic at O'Hare to clear up. The pilot reassured us that "if we're backed up, so is everyone else," but I was skeptical - with good reason, I found, as I ran off the plane and discovered that there was 15 minutes remaining before my Paris flight left. Worried I'd have to go through customs, immigration or some other nonsense, I was enormously relieved to discover that the plane was in the same terminal and only a few gates away from mine. I sprinted and the check-in desk attendant greeted me by name... I think I almost had a backpack strap caught in the door as it closed behind me. I mostly slept on the plane, reflected fondly on my brief sejour home and watched Intolerable Cruelty - quite a good performance by Mr. Clooney! Took the dreaded Air France coach bus to Paris Gare de Lyon train station, grabbed a train to Lyon and waited there for the 8pm Coldplay concert - details and pics coming soon!

Font d'Urle

Little behind in posting... je regrette. Here are pictures from last weekend's awesome excursion to Font d'Urle, a quaint refuge nestled in the Vercors mountains, about 90 minutes west of Grenoble. I went with a student association called IntEGre (International Etudiants de Grenoble) - for twenty euros we received transportation, lodging, food, hikes and two rousing scavenger hunts Sunday morning: the regularly planned one, and an unintended sequel for a lost glove and hat... both mine... and both lost at separate times. Embarrassing, indeed.

I took this picture during a rest-stop along the way. I have no idea how this road was built.


Looking in the opposite direction... it's a long way down!


Font d'Urle, the little mountain refuge village we stayed in. There was only a bit of snow on the ground so only a couple of the chalets were occupied.


After arriving, we dropped our bags off and started on a hike immediately. This cave was one of the first Cool Things we found!


A beautiful bush glazed with snow.


The light dusting of snow made the terrain look like the lunar surface!


Wooden post + Snow + Wind = Natural Sculpture


The views were absolutely breathtaking and enthralled me... leading to another Japanese tourist award.


I wanted to explore this little gap but was fearful of what lurked beyond the loose gravel.


We spotted all sorts of natural wonders, like this spectacular hole - you can see one opening out into the valley, but there was another larger one directly below it -- really quite fascinating!


My German friend Matthias flirts with death.


I flirt with death - and the end of the world.


We picked up the pace back to the refuge once visibility dropped to 25 meters.


An evening meal with Germans and Italians... fortunately we all spoke French.

The Sono

On Friday night, my friends and I - desperate to forget the heavy-handed French police crackdown of the evening before - went to 'Sono,' a large venue fifteen minutes away from our dorm. We had a fabulous and enthusiastic evening. Here are a few pictures:

From left to right: Yacine (Morocco), random French guy, me, Rachel (England), Rishi (India), Tarek (Tunisia)


Isabelle (Sweden), Rishi, Tarek, me, Yacine, Maria and Lina (Sweden), Sophie (France), Matthias (Germany), Alexia (S. Africa)


It was so cold on our walk back - at most 20 degrees (Fahrenheit, I still haven't mastered Celsius).


Oh, I forgot to mention my basketball game Thursday night, before the Beaujolais celebration. My team and I were absolutely mauled by our opponents; the refs called perhaps one in five fouls. A couple of our players had to restrain our coach; Monsieur DeValuez resembles Bobby Knight in more than appearance. Nevertheless, we were able to come from behind and tie the game right before the last buzzer. Excited for overtime, we watched in stunned silence as the refs blew a final whistle and started packing up - apparently the concept of overtime, along with most other standards of fair-play and generally accepted norms of athletic competition, doesn't exist in their rulebook. Another bizarre twist: after a shooting foul, the first free-throw is worth two points (thankfully then, there's no second foul shot; otherwise that would be a remarkably easy four-point play).

It's true

I don't know how these things happen.

COPS

My friends and I - and at least a couple thousand other people - were tear-gassed last night. November 17 was "Beaujolais Nouveau," a celebratory release night for a mediocre wine. Somehow it's built up an international reputation, with bottles selling in China for 150 euros - when the same product sells for 3.60 in grocery stores here. Flocks of people were downtown and apparently the celebration was getting out-of-hand... so around 12:40am police started launching tear gas canisters. There were thunderous booms as they were released; I thought it was a riot shotgun or some type of noise machine at first. Then my nose started aching and people around me were coughing, rubbing their eyes and covering their mouths with scarfs. Throngs of people left the "Place aux Herbes," the main gathering point, and streamed down side streets. After watching the situation from a distance (tried filming it, but the video is lousy quality), we walked half an hour back to the dorms. Perhaps 10 police cars raced in the opposite direction, towards downtown. A friend said he saw police in full riot gear in a van but I don't know if they were actually deployed. Another exciting night in Grenoble, to say the least.

Relatively calm

The past week in Grenoble has been relatively calm: a little bit of classes, a lot of mulitculturalism. We had a massive water fight on the third floor last Wednesday; I was the designated videojournalist until I was forced to put down my camera and join the fray. The mess didn't take too long to clean up... under the watchful eye of the stern dorm "guardian." I let my inner nerd venture out Friday night and played Counter-Strike on a wireless LAN with several French guys. We also swapped a lot of music and movies. I've been listening to Ben Harper, Bloc Party, Bob Dylan, Bright Eyes, Coldplay (going to their Lyon concert in 12 days!) and Elliot Smith.

Our ability to go downtown was restricted for several days; the trams stopped running at 8:30pm every night (instead of the usual 12:30am) until Monday, November 14th, in an attempt to avoid possible confrontations with rioters in the Grenoble suburbs. That's really been the only visible sign of the "urban violence" I've seen in the past three weeks. I noticed more groups of young hoodlums' downtown, but never felt unsafe - mainly because I've avoided going to Grand'Place, Arlequin, Malherbe, Villeneuve, Residence Universitaire Olympique or any of the other sketchy areas south of the city.

I'm trying to book my flight home for winter break, but the final exam schedule hasn't been decided yet - and the administration won't release it until "the first week in December." The university system can't be privatized soon enough.

Main group of friends continues to be... English, Swedes, Colombians, Mexicans, French and Americans, with various representatives from Tunisia, Morocco and South Africa thrown in. Dorm life is really fantastic; it was with great regret that I left a dinner party last night (followed by a movie and an excursion downtown) to go play korfball. I left my frustration on the court: we won 18-7 and I had several goals (and no reprimands from the referee, of which I usually receive four or five a game).

There's a student association sponsored trip to a "mountain refuge" in Font d'Urle, about an hour away in the Vercors mountains, this weekend. We leave Saturday morning, spend the day in the mountains, sleep in a cabin (I hope; my sleeping bag's not warm enough for the outdoors!) and then return Sunday evening. If there's snow, we'll go luging!

I'm off to the theater to see "Lonesome Jim" - reviews so far have been positive!

Les Anglais!

Before I continue with the pictures, here are several highlights from the trip:

- Chelsea buns: We bought these sweet glazed delicacies at Fitzbillies, a niche pastry shop and quintessentially English. Chelsea buns are like cinnamon rolls, but instead of icing, they have glazed honey (?) and little soltanas (some little fruit similar to raisins). We could feel the pounds being added to our stomachs, but kept eating anyway. I had my first Cornish pasty at the same shop. It's rather difficult to describe - imagine three flaky croissants combined, with meat and onions inside, and then baked to an almost unbearably hot temperature. Apparently they come in lots of varieties; I'd like to try a ham and cheese one next time.

- The "hostel" where Rachel lives is more like a hotel. High-speed internet access, a luxurious common room (where I was violated. Read on...) with TV and DVD, several fully equipped kitchens, sheets changed weekly, bedroom floors vacuumed daily and the bathrooms are, well, I guess they're still bathrooms in a student residence. Some were actually smaller than the smallest French bathrooms; I was shocked!

- Approximately twelve yards from the entrance of said hostel is a square with a fantastic open-air market each day; we visisted a couple times but had always just eaten and thus passed on the ostrich sandwiches. (What kind of barbarian can eat an ostrict anyway? Imagine how frightened the creature is when it's being pursued; it panics and shoves its head in the ground! What really must kill it when it's yanked from the ground is a brain aneurysm or cardiac arrest from the sight of a sharp, shiny machete.)

- After one late night outing, we had chips and cheese - French fries liberally covered with shredded cheese and kethcup, mmmm - from a little white van that mysteriously opened up shop in that square.

- Dojo: an excellent Japanese/Chinese/Thai/Vietnamese noodle shop with super-generous portions.

There were lots of other neat, quaint attractions, but I forgot them all in my hurry to return to second-world, riot-ridden, expensive, unhelpful and unfriendly France. Here's the rest of the pictures:

Getting ready for the Emma formal. This was a *ahem* quick process.


I had to sneak this picture after the head waiter reprimanded people for taking pictures. Apparently dinner photography violates some sacred culinary covenant. I was woefully under-dressed and kept my jacket on until the very last moment possible.


Rachel also snuck a photo - we were all stunned at her boldness, and fearful of being kicked out for guilt by association. Our dinner companions were all history grad students, and very interesting people. The guy to my right was friendly and extraordinarily intelligent. I enjoyed conversing with him and exercising vocabulary dormant for months. The fellow with glasses across the table was also smart, but a bit of a philanderer... apparently all the ladies were wooed by his performance on a British reality show.



With friends like these, who needs enemies? Yes, half my left shin is shaven. No, I didn't notice it until it was far too late. Yes, everyone at my korfball practice pointed and laughed. Note to self: don't fall asleep around mischievous WANKERS. Just kidding. It was pleasantly smooth but now's been overrun by evil stubble.



Unfortunately, the rest of my stay was marred with typical English weather - clouds and drizzle. Otherwise, we would have gone "punting" on the Cam - like gondolas in Venice, except it's do-it-yourself!


The mishaps continued as aforementioned reality fellow let his drink explode all over me at his otherwise very cool flat party. The napkin he handed me was nice...


Open defiance of the Emma maitre d'. Rachel, thank you for such a great time!

Just let me play one round of golf on it

I'll need Rachel to remind me which college is which - there are 31 in Cambridge and very few of them properly labeled (usually the ones constructed within the last two centuries). This is one of the first she showed me, but it would reveal a common theme: beautiful, classic architecture, finely-manicured lawns and carefully trimmed vegetation.


A replica of the Venetian "Bridge of Sighs." I saw the real thing two days before :)


The grounds of St. John/Trinity.


Take a look at the clock... or the lack of it. An old Cambridge city code prevented more than one clock-tower within a mile of the city center - and this college lost the race.


The King's College "quad." There are automatic sentry turrets in the center gazebo and they're designed to immediately fire 50-caliber bullets at anyone who steps on the grass for more than 1.3 seconds (accurate time - I witnessed the unfortunate demise of more than one ignorant Japanese tourist.)


The Trinity College "quad." I wanted to re-enact Chariots of Fire, but I left my running shoes back in Grenoble.


Another view of the King's College Chapel and the Bates Building.


The King's College Library had the most pleasing "library" smell that I've ever experienced. There were all sorts of little nooks and crannies, wonderfully creaky floorboards and rows and rows of classic books, inches away from my fingertips. It's open 24 hours, but if you're the last one to leave, "please turn the lights off."


The famous "Backs" view, looking towards King's College Chapel and the Bates Building from across the Cam River.


Rachel pointed out this sign a few yards from her hostel. She said she just discovered it a couple weeks ago. The actual church was fairly well-hidden by dense shrubbery.


Emmanuel College's "quad." The next evening, we would attend a formal dinner in their dining hall, but first...


...we strolled among the famous Emma surely-they-are-heavily-sedated ducks. They were bold little creatures and we decided to leave before they grew incensed at us for not bringing food.

London-is-really-35-miles-away Luton

Cambridge was absolutely awesome. The taxi driver who drove me from the Cambridge train station to King's College Porter Lodge asked if I was visiting to consider studying there. I said, "No, I'm just visiting a friend. I think I'll go to grad school in the States." But I would consider changing my mind after experiencing a few days in the life of a Cambridge student. (Unfortunately, this experience didn't include anything from the academic realm - I arrived too late for lectures on Thursday, Rachel didn't have any on Friday (I wonder where she learned that scheduling tactic) and I left early Monday morning.)

Getting to Cambridge was extraordinarily difficult. We took the rental car back to the dorm around 5am; it didn't have to be returned until 1pm... a deadline that would come in handy later. I unpacked and went to sleep around 6am. I didn't wake up until 10:15; I'd wanted to start doing laundry around 8:30. I pulled on some shorts, threw my laundry in my suitcase and started as many loads as possible.

While my clothes were spinning, I went back to the dorm and started packing my backpack with other essentials: laptop, umbrella, miscellaneous cords and chargers, my trusty Economist. My laundry didn't finish until 12:15pm; I'd had to dry it three times because of the lousy dryers. Everything else was packed, so I hastily folded what I needed and left the rest strewn on my bed. I put my clothes in my big blue marshmallow suitcase and technological essentials in my backpack, then snagged the tram west to the bus station.

I had planned to take a bus to the airport (35 minutes away), but while I asked the bus station cashier where the bus was, he called a colleague and proceeded to chat with the person for five minutes - a huge delay, because my plane's departure was 3:00pm, and flight check-in would close, promptly, at 2:30pm. As he babbled away, the one bus that had appeared to be going to the airport left. The cashier finished his conversation, simply looked at me and said, "Taxi" and pointed at the line of taxis outside. I resisted the urge to strangle him and after frantically searching for another bus, approached a cabbie to ask what the fare would be: 68 euros ($80 USD), he told me. I didn't have that much cash, so I tried to use the only ATM at the station - but it would only accept French cards equipped with a little microchip. Most of my money was in my US Visa account, and I couldn't remember my PIN code for my French account!

Completely desperate, I began to contemplate taking the evil bus station operator hostage with a baguette and commandeering one of the nice Mercedes taxis to the airport. However, just as I was going into la boulangerie to buy a stiff loaf from last week, Isabelle called - she and Rachel had just finished returning the Hertz car and were at the train station! Overjoyed, I quickly met them and explained my plight. Isabelle didn't have her bankcards with her but Rachel instantly offered me 100 euros from her account. Eternally grateful, I hugged them and sprinted to the nearest cab, first confirming the price - now 65 euros. Only briefly tempted to see if I could lower the price further, I threw my bags in the back and said, Allons-y!

I arrived at 2:10 and swiftly made my way through check-in and security (talk about redundancy; no less than five different checkpoints inspected my passport). I slept on the uneventful plane ride, only waking up to fill out an immigration landing card - and staying awake while 45-mph winds jostled the plane on its descent. Undaunted by the less-than-pleasant greeting from the English weather, I took a bus from London Luton Airport (what a stretch - "London" Luton is 35 miles northwest of central London) to the Luton train station, where I bought a ticket to King's Cross Thameslink station. I timed it perfectly and only had to wait a couple minutes before that train arrived. I lugged my huge suitcase aboard just before the doors closed. An hour later, I arrived at King's Cross Thameslink station. I bought a ticket there to Cambridge, but had to go to a different station, King's Cross, to take the right train. Rachel had reminded me to take a picture of a certain platform and I took this picture with 2.5 minutes before my train left:


I hopped aboard and eagerly looked for an open seat, but the train was jam-packed. Simply happy to be going the right direction, I perched myself on my suitcase and leisurely read the Economist. 52 long minutes later, I arrived at Cambridge Station! I exited and found the taxi stand. While waiting, I experienced my first taste of the British fixation with lines ("queues"). No less than three people asked me, "Is this the front or back of the queue?" I replied that it didn't matter to me, and they happily shuffled into line behind me. My Thai taxi driver was pleasant but not particularly adept at navigating small, dark streets.

Breathing a sigh of relief as I left her vehicle, I met Rachel at the King's College Porter Lodge at 6:25pm. We went to the last part of her King's Voices choral practice - and I received my first impression of the tremendous talent at Cambridge. There was no hesitation between the choir director's commands and the group's singing; they instantly responded to his commands and spontaneously adapted to different requirements. I politely declined his invitation to join in the singing, remembering that apart from my best-selling "Broadway: Super Shower Soundtracks" performance, I hadn't formally sung since 8th grade.

Practice finished at 7pm and we went to her graduate student housing building. The English term for it is a "hostel," but it's a far cry from the youth hostels in Prague or Geneva. Her room was quite expansive and there was more than enough space for the oversized spare mattress (a pleasant change from my French dorm mattress, about half the size) that we dragged out from a storage closet. However, there was little time to inspect the bedding - we had to change and dress-up for "Curry and Clubbing" night with her women's soccer team and the Christ's College men's Rugby Club ("CCRC" was chanted so many times that evening, it's forever imprinted on my memory). I imagine that 500 pounds sterling ($880 USD) is also forever imprinted on two rugby players who had to pay the sum after damaging a sink and mirror in the Indian restaurant we ate at. The English are currently engaged in a nation-wide debate over the harmful effects of the country's infatuation with intoxication - and I think I'm now qualified to testify as an expert witness. The rest of the evening was fun and full of interesting people only slightly tainted by snobbishness. On Friday, we went sightseeing - pictures coming soon!

Pigeons. I hate pigeons.

This tower used to be a lighthouse and we took an elevator (I wanted to climb the stairs, but that wasn't possible) to the top, for more breathtaking views.


The front of the Basilica. The inside was incredible; I barely resisted the temptation to whip out my camera, but didn't want to incur clerical wrath.


More pigeons. Yuck.


Unfortunately, while you could see much of the city from the top of the lighthouse -- you couldn't see a single canal!


A quaint little island.


Another shot from the lighthouse.


We ate lunch at a horrible tourist trap (the food wasn't bad, but the prices - argh!) and were further aggravated by the toilets, apparently designed for dwarfs.


I tried to get a clear photo of the Basilica, but there were too many tourists, pushy maitre d's, construction and peculiar flagpoles in the way.


This Best Western, tucked away on some backcanal, is only accessible by boat - it's impossible to enter by foot.


Venice at sunset.


More fabulous architecture.


Arrivederci, Venezia!


We left Venice around 6pm and headed back to Grenoble, but had to wait an hour on the Italy-France border while the mountain tunnel was "repaired." Having lots of faith in the quality of joint French-Italian construction, we let a couple cars enter ahead of us... just to be courteous. We arrived back in Grenoble at 4:30am... and I left for Cambridge seven hours later.