Cover Letter Insight

I have been working on job applications, a process which feels to me both sort of impossible and arbitrary. Everything is limited, militantly organized (250 characters, no room for out-of-the-ordinary circumstances, out-of-the-country addresses) and pathetically impersonal. The genre rules of the cover letter dictate little personality, no humour, no color, just stiff and formal conventions. It seems disrespectful, maybe even purely rebellious, to traverse the boundary lines and do something different. (Elle Woods in "Legally Blonde" and her pink paper?)

French formats are different. Limiting, but different. Color is okay. A photo is required. No details or brief sentences lacking subjects. Cover letters are HAND WRITTEN, and white-out is not such a good idea... but after last year's experience of mailing out 30 of those bad boys, I can tell you, more than half of mine went out with a few little "whoopsie daisy" spots on them.

This feels suffocating. Teachers are supposed to come across as enthusiastic, optimistic, creative and patient... but we are not supposed to be too different, or too liberal. I want to say that I want motivated students. Because I do. But should I?

I want to be honest, and say that I want to teach them to learn from them -- but does that make me seem self-centered?

Is wanting to be a good teacher enough to eventually make you into one? I am struggling with the confines of this process.

French Voyage à Trois

Like a true maximum-efficiency traveler, having spent every second of available time visiting, exploring, admiring, photographing or consuming, I fell asleep on my train home, awaking suddenly to the sound of a violent snore on my right, to several disconcerting regards. As inconspicuously as possible, I wiped the little pool of saliva from the corner of my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket and hoped intensely that the stares were in honor of my white-bearded neighbor and not for my sake.

The night was short, and despite a nearly direct route to the train station (the RER A to the Gare de Lyon, and then just one stop on the metro line 14), when I arrived at 7h45 I felt like it was going to be a long ride.

Reflecting back on the week while chowing on an American trail mix bar and resting my feet on my battered blue duffel bag, I watched the station fill up with families of all kinds. Having spent a week alone with my parents for the first time ever, I wondered how our family looked to other people... I was taken for a student in Montmartre, a painter offering a "student discount" for a portrait I didn't want, and then was later charmed in the language of Moliere at a restaurant not far from the Eiffel Tower, the waiter suggesting that I need not translate everything to my parents, as we twirled our tagliatelles on our forks and ate in the solitude of an empty basement room.

A journey in a different country, in a different language, in a place that has become home for me. My parents found their way to M, after a small detour following a bit of confusion concerning the A5 and the A6 (no one should ever ask me for directions here. Ever) and an apparently pleasant pizza lunch at a countryside restaurant owned by a fellow Harley fan. After a visit to see my goat and a good-bye to a good friend, my dad set to work on lighting the grill in the courtyard while my mom and I worked on preparing chicken & veggie skewers, while my already-prepared strawberry/rhubarb pie baked in the oven. Two of my American friends came over for dinner, bringing with them the makings for Mimosas, and we spent Easter evening enjoying good food and good company, in my little happy home in the heart of France.

The following morning, my parents got a tour of M by day -- a deserted city, thanks to the national holiday of Easter Monday. After breakfast, we headed deeper into Auvergne, following the GPS's every whim, testing the turning capabilities of our rented Ford Focus on the twisting, tortured rural roads, and eventually caught our train in St Etienne after a rapid parallel parking job, and a short run to the platform. Seated across from us were two retired hikers, one of whom spoke excellent English and engaged my parents in friendly conversation about bikes, America and Robert Louis Stevenson. The train wound its way around a myriad of sleeping volcanoes, alongside the Loire river, glittering in the midday sun, cutting through tunnels and traversing impressive bridges built to facilitate the journey. I remembered taking that train for the very first time, exhausted from jet lag, overwhelmed by the language barrier, and terrified to be heading to the unknown place that would become my new "home" for 9 months.

Upon arrival, we met up with my host family and wandered around the city before stopping to "boire un coup" at a café conveniently located at the base of the cathedral. My parents were delighted to speak English with the parents of the host family, learning about their work as journalists and Sarkozy's "American film" visit to their town a while back. At the same time, I delighted in the constant chatter of "les enfants" who caught me up on all the details of their lives, and handed me a thoughtful gift of chocolate, reminding me that they knew me well: "on sait que t'es très gourmande!" And it is so true :)

After the family headed off to return to their jobs and their moving preparations, we finished our visit of the little city, climbing up the steps to admire the black virgin and then ordering the country's absolute best nutella crêpes from the little stand in the middle of the park.

Finding the bed and breakfast proved to be a great challenge, and we finally arrived at a welcoming farm in the base of the Allier department, more exhausted than hungry, and decided to skip dinner to go straight to bed.

We attacked the day early on Tuesday morning, enjoying a hearty breakfast before heading off to the land of the French châteaux. We started with Chenonceau, a sprawling castle with an incredible view of the Cher River as it extends across with its impressive arches, and a rich history (given to Diane de Poitier's by her lovah Henri II, then taken back by his wife Catherine de Medeci upon his death), our initiation to the crazy lives of the super wealthy French royalty had officially begun. Planning it just right to see the feeding of the hunting dogs at 17h00, we sped over to the castle of Cheverny.

A massive throng of people was crowded around the oval kennel, in the middle of which lay a massive pile of small animal corpses and dog food pellets. My dad suggested that perhaps it was time that I watch a dog eat (this was definitely not his idea of fun) and let me get as close to the front as possible... only to see that the spectacle was entirely less interesting than the guidebook made it out to be. A few minutes later, the dynamic had completely changed, as a nauseating stench had filled the air, and my only desire was to FLEE. How foolish we tourists can be.

The castle itself was pretty interesting and we took a nice walk around the grounds before heading further east to our bed and breakfast for the night. Housed in an ancient mill, on the grounds of a working farm and fishery, we enjoyed the charm of its historical value, as well as the superb cuisine and kindness of the farmer and his wife.

After breakfast with a couple of very friendly retirees (one ex-teacher), we got back in our car and headed for a troglodyte farm near the city of Saumur. This was a superb example of how resourceful people could be; building homes is expensive, so these people decided to simply dig their houses out of the limestone in the ground. While we learned about what it was like to live somewhat underground, we also learned about pre-19th century farming techniques and toured the now-empty homes of two farming families.

In the afternoon, we headed to Villandry, which is rightfully famous for its incredible gardens. At the risk of being cliché, I found myself admiring the "love gardens" and appreciating the universality of this human experience. The gardens are divided into four different sections, each representing a different type or effect of love.

The "tender love" garden is symbolized by hearts which are separated by flames.
The "passionate love" garden features hearts which are broken by passion, sculpted in a form which suggests dancing.
The "fickle love" garden has four fans in the corners which represent the fleetingness of feelings.
And the "tragic love" garden has three knife blades which represent amorous rivalry.

For dinner, we drove to the town of Chinon, which boats a medieval castle which towers over the city. After a nice dinner and a perfect photo-op, we went back to the bed and breakfast for a night of restful sommeil.

In the morning, over a feast of home-made bread, jam and yogurt, coffee, brioche and orange juice, we enjoyed amicable conversation with the two hosts and the seven other guests. Our bellies full of nourishment, we headed to Chartres, the site of a magnificent cathedral which is fitted with magnificent stained glass. Currently, they are in the midst of cleaning the cathedral and the effect is truly night and day; the carbon residue left from the burning candles has darkened the inside so that some of the windows are barely visible, and the walls look as thought they are completely black. The section which has been meticulously cleaned using brushes, sponges and water, and vacuums, looks as though it is an entirely different cathedral, almost a peachy ivory color which reflects the light which filters through the brilliantly colored windows. I would love to return once the cleaning project is completed in a few years. I'm sure I wouldn't recognize it as the same.

The weather turned cold and rainy, and we headed for Giverny, hoping that it would change. Unfortunately, it didn't, and we marveled at his vibrant flowers, Japanese bridge, and lily ponds under a light drizzle. Despite this upset, we found ourselves extremely lucky to be there while they were setting up to film a made-for-TV-movie about Claude Monet -- and we saw him in the flesh!

We stayed in a bed and breakfast about 15 minutes from Giverny, in an enormous home with a fireplace large enough to roast an entire human being on a spit, and a two-story library which would make any bookworm envious. We had dinner in a mill-turned-fancy restaurant, and proved to be the only customers in the whole place. Needless to say, our server was attentive.

When the sun came up the next day, it was already Friday, and we were off to the Palace of Versailles. An enormous line snaked around the front of the courtyard, and we queued up to wait our hour-long turn before breezing through security, obtaining our audio guides, and beginning our visit of the over-the-top indulgences of Louis the XIV. In the afternoon, we visited the Petit Trianon and my favorite part of the grounds: the Queen's Hamlet. An afternoon of sunshine, fresh air, and history made me hungry for ice cream and so, following the style of the French monarchy, we indulged our craving from a cart just across from the canal.

Battling with the parking meter and then braving Parisian rush-hour traffic, we slowly made our way towards our hotel in La Defense, having ignored the insistent GPS who suggested over and over that we turn down one-way-streets, and finally giving in to the advice of the hotel concierge, who declared that backing up on one-way streets wasn't the least bit illegal... The car safely parked underneath the ten-story hotel, our bags stashed in our room and our stomachs grumbling, we jumped onto the RER to see Paris by night, and find something to eat.

Deciding to marvel at the Cathedrale de Notre Dame, which took 600 years to build, we took a few pictures and then ate at a restaurant just across the river, with a beautiful view of the massive structure. Absolutely exhausted, we went back to the hotel and I fell asleep listening to a play-by-play of the Royal Wedding, too tired to watch it, despite my curiosity.

On Saturday morning, we started with the symbol of Paris -- the lovely Eiffel Tower. After breakfast and a stroll around the Champs de Mars surrounding the base, we headed to the Musee d'Orsay and strolled through the Jardins des Tuiléries, before descending through the great glass pyramid into the Louvre. A visit to the Orangerie museum gave us a view of several original Monet water lily paintings, and we enjoyed the calm and quiet of Monet's personally-designed museum.

In a drastic change of scenery, we took the metro in the direction of Montmartre, the famous art district and site of the Basilique de Sacré Coeur. A short ride on the funicular and then three-hundred steps up into the dome, we got an incredible panoramic view of Paris, and watched as a rainstorm rolled in over the city, turning the sky a deep gray-blue. After descending the three-hundred stairs, and observing the artists, we decided to check out the Arc de Triomphe, and so, climbed back onto the metro.

Coming out of the underground station, the Arc de Triomphe loomed above us, located in the center of a gigantic round-about which unites 12 different streets. Three-hundred steps later, we were at the top of the arch, watching the cars -- and bicycles -- navigating the complex flow of traffic as the sun slunk down behind the horizon.

It seemed like a good time to eat, so we headed back towards the Eiffel Tower and went to my favorite pizza place just across from the metro station Bir-Hakeim. A chatty Armenian waiter and a delicious plate of pasta in a neon-lit, air-conditioned basement room in which we were the only customers made for a perfect evening meal at the conclusion of our trip.

Instead of dessert, we indulged on a boat trip along the Seine, delighting in two viewings of the sparkling Eiffel Tower, and excellent explanations of the historical significance of various bridges and buildings in the city. Returning to our hotel a little after midnight, we had certainly made the best of our day.

And then it was morning, my parents were heading back to the airport, reliant completely upon the GPS as the resistant concierge refused to give detailed directions, insisting that it was easy to find the way, and I was lugging my bag back down into the depths of the metro, happy for empty cars so early on a Sunday morning, ready to go home and go to sleep.

Honesty, Honestly

To be a good ex-patriot, even a temporary one, you have to be willing to divide everything, make a life of fractions, of parallels. I see it like water skiing, that it's super fun until your thighs start burning, your arms beg you to give up, and the cracked rubber of your boots digs into your delicate ankles... at some point your weight distribution will become unbalanced, or you will do it yourself, having had enough, and the sudden change will be uncomfortable, unpleasant, painful. I don't know, but it feels like a divorce.

It feels dishonest to love people when I know I will leave. To allow myself to attach, to know them, to love them, only to leave. Even if I know it isn't worth less because it lasts less long, I don't know that everyone knows that. And I don't know that everyone believes that.

It feels disloyal to love a different kind of life, to have a makeshift family here, to feel adopted almost when I left my own perfect family back home, to have a sacred routine, familiar and comfortable, to feel divided in two and to imagine watching the scenery from the train by for the very last time.

(We talk of vacations, and "one days," but no one ever believes it.)

I feel such judgment, so much loneliness, knowing this is my decision in which everyone plays a part... everyone is heartbroken or happy, everyone sees with their own set of blinders, and NO ONE can be neutral enough to just sit with me in the sun, hold my hand, and tell me it's okay to want everything, it's okay to have been wrong, it's okay to have been away.

He will be okay when you're not there, when he buys bread by himself, when he feeds the 254 her chocolate without your polka-dotted boots. He won't be angry that you told him you could live forever in the farm house, chase the chickens and open a bed-and-breakfast that you REALLY WANTED TO DO IT, cut his perfectly wild loops of hair, and make cakes every Sunday with farm-raised eggs.

He will forgive you for your adventure, for your tourism in and out of his life, for your year in the house with green shutters and a yellow kitchen, for your free driving lessons, for his help with your French. He will push open the barn door that you almost broke, and one day think of it without feeling betrayed for himself, for his family, his generous parents who let you drive their precious material and play with their livelihood, who asked you about your own world, who cut articles from the newspaper about Americans who moved and married the French. His mother who hemmed your work pants and bought you new socks for Christmas because your boots were cold.

They will all forgive you for wanting more than that, for missing your own language, your favorite cereal, your best friend and your mom's home-made bread, your family vacations and your shared time-zone. He will forgive you for leaving one half of the closet empty, for ruining Nutella for a while, and mushrooms and brioche bread and a pre-programmed coffee maker. Every thing that will be sans toi, the running shoes, the broken bicycle, the colorless wall, the empty fridge. I thought I could do this. I thought I could be happy enough.

I feel so sorry about everything every time I have to think about it, the choice that I am making, that I have made, the first real time that forever means something other than maybe a lifetime together. Such a good team, such a pretty language, we might have been such solitary two.

But I'll be the one who walked away, the one to explain it stupidly, it's a very bad job, it's a very hard thing, it's so far away, it feels very lonely to put so much one one single person, there is so much responsibility. It feels like there is too much judgment, it's all easy on the outside, it all looks simple when seen one's own personal investment.

Why would you leave France? Why would you leave him?

Why would you stay? Why would you leave us?

It feels horrible to be intersecting in no other circles than my own, finding no one who GETS IT without gaining or losing, without wanting the scales to tip a little to one side.

And it all came out at 7:35 am, after breakfast, a fresh pot of coffee and a good night's sleep, because of a bitter housemate and a thoughtless landlady.

He doesn't want to think about that before his work day even starts.

I wanted him to KNOW IT every time I cried, I couldn't stay here, I couldn't do it.

I didn't want to have to SAY IT, I wasn't strong enough.

There is no way to understand it in an intellectual way, without feeling something horrible.

I will hurt him. I will hurt. Everyone will except America, and even they will when I am not happy, when I miss my farmer and my goats, his crepes and his jokes. They will feel like it's not enough, and it isn't enough -- I want the everything. The France and the America. The two lives melded together like two pie crusts with milk and a fork.

One day everything will be different. We won't even remember it clearly. We will start new routines with new people, will not think of our goats, of our house, of our beautiful future we created in our heads, of the possibilities, the perfectly possible forks in our lives. Or maybe we will be smart enough to think of it often, to remember that such greatness exists, is possible, and that we were lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, to be in the same little town, at a stupid German party on the same Saturday night, to both like cows and going to sleep early, watching old episodes of "Friends" and playing Bananagrams.

If we're smart enough, we'll think of it all the time, pay it homage by remembering it fondly and recognizing the unlikely odds that we would live such things together, that we would learn and change together, become better versions of ourselves before spinning off into our unknown futures, passing onto d'autres choses.

Pair a docks

Your life is a pie graph, is a beaker full of golf balls and sand and spaces.

The work part is like looking out the window on a plane flying over the Salt Lake, and feeling sure you're going to crash down right in the middle of it.

The scene seems like one big monologue, always solitary, with a phone that rarely rings, singly running, singly shopping, singly working, singly walking.

The family tree branches don't stretch far enough to cover oceans, the friendship circle severely distorted and stressed.

But the weekends and the after-sevens are like hot pains-au-chocolat at ten am on sunny Sundays, like genuinely laughing, like drinking from the garden hose in a hot summer afternoon. We drive dusty tractors, often awkwardly occupying the space meant for one, a hand braced behind the seat back, a foot alongside the accelerator on the right. We pet baby cows that lick our coveralls like Popsicles and make cleaning out the pens impossible. I feed # 254 the biggest black pieces of "chocolate" I can find in the feed bin, and she looks for me when I walk in. Home-made meals and the beautiful routine of the farm, the tired drive home as we re-hash it all entre nous.

The baby animals at the best friend's house, the bike rides and coffee cups, the Friends episodes and red-wine dinners.

Like suddenly stepping off a scale, the needle swings violently from one end to the other, and the Absence Of is often impossible to consider. I find I'm often lacking creativity when it comes to realistically imagining my very own life.

Stories from the Mine Field

1. It is Tuesday morning, and class is progressing relatively painlessly; a group of six students, sprawled out in their chairs, hiding cell phones behind school bags, in pencil cases, in coat pockets, uninteresting, unresponsive, disengaged.

There is a teacher, endlessly soliciting them for answers, "(translation:) What do we need after the 'HOW LONG' to complete the sentence?" her pale hands turned black with dry-erase marker dust, her clothes tired and un-ironed, unfashionable, unfitting. She asks one question, and is annoyed that the student ignores her, instead starts talking to another girl, sitting on the opposite site of the room.

The girl never looks at her, never hears her, and in one single blink of an eye, both adolescent girls are screaming, now standing, lunging toward another, and the clueless, powerless foreigner stands in the middle, trying to separate them, trying to DO SOMETHING.

The man next store rushes in and saves the day. What a hero. What a miracle. No, no -- don't send them to the Administration. He stands there, gives a nice speech about being respectful towards each other, about needing to grow up and the absurdity of leaving his 28 students next door all alone to come take care of a class of only six, imploring them, "Give us teachers some peace, for God's sake!" then promises that after class he will talk to the two snarling teenagers. He leaves. One girl leaves (where does she go?) and then she comes back.

Clueless as usual, the useless teacher continues her lesson, adrenaline surging through her trembling hands.

2. In the space of one hour in a class of only nine, the French equivalent of the F-word is uttered at an astonishingly elevated frequency. Without thought. Without consideration. At the end of a long day, hearing the word all morning in hallways, in the teacher's lounge, in the echoes spilling out from the bathrooms, the French F-word tolerance bucket has been filled to the b r i m.

The teacher says, "(translation:) Enough with that word. I don't want to hear it anymore!" And they say, in a massive jumble, how the word is not important; the word is just an utterance that they've used since they were tiny children; how she doesn't understand the real meaning because she does not come from the culture, and does not understand the real sense of the word.

Emerge the fire-breathing demon. "This is a word you will not use in my classroom. If you continue, you'll get detention."

Ten minutes later, first P-bomb explodes. Laadddiieesss and Gentlemen, we have a winner!

Two minutes and there is a second.

"You're going to have a blast together on Wednesday afternoon."

Austria, Germany, and the Ritual of the Return

Yesterday, I spent six and a half hours on trains, crossed the border of two countries, took three metro trains and read 200 pages to finish my book. An S-Bahn train in Germany offered the possibility of six languages, but none of them explained the steps necessary for buying a ticket to train two stations up the line. Feeling lucky to have figured it out after letting only two trains pass me by, I stepped on and sped toward the Frankfurt station, where I waited and ate a superbly crumbly cranberry muffin.

Frankfurt is a city that feels familiar, but strange, with its big buildings and neon lights, its wide streets and new everything. We tried to think what it reminded us of: Chicago? Dallas? But we couldn't say. The restaurants around the train station represented a myriad of cultures, and the luxury hotels, huge banking centers stratified the populations. In a tiny corner of the renovated city sits a historic quarter, a collection of old German-style buildings that serve as reminders, as evidence, that despite the newness, and the American-ness of the rest of the city, you are, indeed, still in Germany, a place with long history and delicious apfel strudel.

It was the last stop on our trip, a hopping-off point for our two-pronged departure, and the return location for our unpolished yet luxurious Renault Laguna rental car, equipped with: leather seats, side mirrors that automatically retract, a rear-view mirror that automatically dims at night, an extremely useful GPS, excellent and numerous indications that the car requires Diesel fuel and an annoying insistent and useless system that detects objects in front of and behind the car, beeping hysterically at inopportune times (constantly during city driving, and always at stop lights) and unable to be disconnected.

J, C and Uncle S picked it up from the airport and met up with me in Strasbourg. While they were going through customs, rejoining their luggage and signing rental contracts in the early hours of the day, I was wandering about in the seat of the European Parliament, snapping pictures of bicycles pedaling past the Ill river which wraps around the city like a Christmas ribbon, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets and puffing out breath clouds like a little blue train, chugging along in the winter sunshine. There was some kind of fair going on in the space in front of the Strasbourg mall, and I bought a sugary pretzel which I devoured as I walked in front of window displays, avoided trams, and marveled in the German-influenced architecture while half of the city still slept.

At the hostel, I met a few interesting people, who affected me in different ways. In the 4-bed-female-dorm where I stayed, there was a Mexican student who was studying in Tours, an English opera singer who had come for a one-day audition that she apparently completely failed, and an Algerian scientist who was looking for an apartment. The shower was loud, but the bed comfortable. The singer was beautiful and serious, and understood what is it to find foreign places eventually completely familiar. We had breakfast together at 7 am, and saying goodbye felt like souls parting.

There was also an American English teacher from a university in Marseilles who sat with me at dinner, and tried to raise my teaching morale. I appreciated the gesture -- the uninhibited cafeteria approach, as I sat alone with my plate of limp pasta and he set his tray down across from me, using the formal "you" which was entirely endearing. We ate amongst groups of high school students on some kind of trip, and I wondered what kinds of students they were, what kind of teacher I would be for them. It was interesting, and refreshing, to meet once again with the familiar philosophy of teaching I met at the College of Ed -- the student-centered, sugary, silver-lined one that I witnessed run over in my rear-view mirror a few months back. I exasperated him, the energetic science man trying to explain complex atomic concepts to me, as I tried to convince him that his kindness and optimism was appreciated, but I wasn't going to promise myself a miracle over cold carrots and a stale roll. I liked meeting America again, a Georgia-raised college man, who laughed a lot and seemed genuinely happy. It pleased me to see, a few days later, a little "hello" from him in my e-mail box, wishing me good luck and lots of courage for the start of the new trimester. We can be such a friendly people!

I was freezing by nine-thirty a.m. and had already walked a fair distance around the city, so I sought shelter in book shops and internet cafes, and then found a sunny spot outside of the train station parking garage, and read until my family arrived several hours later. We discovered a delicious pasta restaurant in the center of the town, and delighted in spinach and ricotta tortellini smothered in a tomato basil sauce.

Our first Strasbourg discovery was the Cathedral Notre Dame in the very center of the town, and we listened a bit to C's downloaded audio guide on her smart phone before taking a tour on a glass-enclosed tourist boat. Aside from the cool views and the trip through the locks, the most impressive thing about the tour was how they managed to give an absolute minimum of details, filling the spaces with a maximum of muted pan flute music. It was warm, though, and our confused, hurried searching for which building the man was talking about provided a bit of humor to the endeavor; as soon as we had correctly identified the building, the explanation was already over.

The sun was setting when we returned to the cathedral to try and identify the religious symbols and scenes carved into the front, and we walked around a bit before stopping at a supermarket for picnic dinner supplies. After paying 15 euros for very few hours of parking, we drove about 60 km south to the town of Fouchy, where we stayed in an incredible wooden marvel of a farm house. The family had several horses, goats, donkeys, chickens, a dog and three cats, as well as a stone bread oven and extremely comfortable beds.

In the morning we had a hearty breakfast with home-made bread, local-made jams and the woman's own honey, which was an enigma... we searched the whole trip for an adjective that could accurately describe the taste, but I think Uncle S nailed it best when he said you could actually taste the bees in it. In summary, the honey was not well-liked, and it quickly become a reference point for comparisons of what we would call "Interesting" food.

While J, C and Uncle S wandered around the farm and packed up the car, I talked with the woman who owned the farm and delighted in friendly French conversation -- serious, honest, and philosophical despite the early hour, and the fact of being total strangers. She advised us to visit a castle nearby, and we did exactly that.

Le chateau du Haut-Koeningsbourg impressed us from the outside, but we didn't want to shell out the money to visit the inside. We were raring to go to GERMANY so we delighted in the view, piled back in the car, and headed for the border.

Before crossing over, however, we stopped at a Memorial for the Maginot Line. This is one element of history that I don't know much about (another thing to add on the "read and learn more about" list) and the memorial didn't really clue me in. Aside from the impressive portable gas stove on display, and the fact that so many men were cramped inside such a small bunker, I just left bewildered as to why the French thought it would work...

After thoroughly scouring the tourist guides, we decided to head towards a town called Freiburg to visit a cuckoo clock museum, as the Black Forest is known for its production of cuckoo clocky wonders. On the way, we passed through small villages, following a twisty road that snaked sharply around mountain curves and brought us to surprising places.

In one particular town, we noticed lots of people dressed up in costume, all heading in one direction. With our powers combined, we decided it must be something related to Carnival, and guessed that it might be a parade. A debate about whether to stop or not ended in a decision to keep going, so we followed the detour signs posted in the town. After advancing maybe 200 yards, traffic came to a stand-still and we waited inside of our car. In front of us, a man agitated in his driver's seat and we could see the pressure building up like a cartoon, his face getting redder and redder, the intensity increasing steadily until it shot him out of his car, and he charged up to the police man standing in the road, smiling, zen-like, with his hands casually in his pockets.

We watched as Anger Man gesticulated wildly, waving his hands about and opening his mouth wide, the policeman nonchalant and calm, seemingly unperturbed by this man's display. Their short conversation ended in Anger Man hopping back in his car, and zooming around the line, leaving the rest of us perplexed, idling in neutral. After a few minutes, I decided to try my luck -- with the possibility of two languages, I figured there was a chance we could communicate -- and lucky I was! He spoke French well enough to tell me that it was, indeed, a parade for Carnival and that there was only one way to get through town, which was blocked. We could either wait there in the car, or go and watch the parade.

We debated, driven by our desire to learn about cuckoo clocks and a growing need for a restroom, and decided to do a million-point turn around and ask our GPS to find us another way. It didn't want to, and kept insisting that we do a U-turn to take us back to the stand-still parade town. Instead, we forged on, ignoring all of its pleading, driving further away until finally it caved in. Man - 1, Machine - 0.

There must be some joke about driving a big French car on tiny German mountain roads, because it is something else. Whether it was worse for me as the white-knuckled driver, or the helpless passengers buckled in the back, I could not say, but we definitely learned our lesson about ignoring the magical man voice giving us advice.

We ended up arriving in the town too late for museums, and even too late to visit the House of 1000 Clocks, a famous shop that was ironically closed ten minutes before its posted hours ("You'd think they'd be able to tell time here...!"). We attributed this, as well, to the reason for the parade in the other town, as we encountered trucks-turned-parade-floats and costumed drinking people in the streets.

All is well that ends in dessert, so we decided to get some famous Black Forest Cake from a bakery that was praised in our guide book before continuing along our journey. Full of sugar, we got back in the car, and drove a few more hours to Füssen, a town near the famous castle Neuschwanstein, determined to attack early the following day. A clean and simple youth hostel that discriminates against people over the age of 27 with a three-euro price increase, we laughed a bit and got in some good sleep followed by some decent breakfast at this place.

The castle Neuschwanstein was, as Uncle S correctly predicted, one of the "highlights" of the trip. We arrived early in the morning, as the sun was climbing up behind the mountains encircling the ticket office. Standing at the base, we could see honey sun rays reflecting off fog, and the outline of a majestic structure jutting out from the mountain peaks, almost as if it were floating in mid air, or actually an inherent part of the rock itself.

Our stay at the youth hostel saved us 5 euros each off the entrance ticket, and we started the visit with the Castle Hohenschwangau, just a short distance from Neuschwanstein. A huge German man draped in a heavy black wool coat gave a succinct but humorous commentary throughout the yellow castle. The castle claims to be home to not only the first La-z-boy chair in the world, but also the first ever central heating system (impressive!)

A short but steep uphill walk brought us to the main event, the castle Neuschwanstein! Magnificent and enormous on the outside, I was surprised to see that it was very incomplete.

The rapid-fire visit snaked through very few but elaborately decorated rooms, and we were all truly enchanted by what we saw. The king's bedroom took four and a half years to complete because of the intricate woodwork everywhere inside. The rooms were light and airy, painted with brilliant colors in intricate patterns, and perhaps my favorite of all was the unfinished throne room which could easily be mistaken for a chapel with its gold-plated domed ceiling, rich colorings, huge chandelier, and mosaic tiled floor. The ballroom at the very top of the castle is truly a sight to behold, and I could imagine people dancing around its wooden floors in the golden sunlight, wearing elegant clothing, dripping in jewels, drinking fine wine and nibbling on expensive appetizers, laughing in an unburdened manner, carried away by the music, the beauty and the luxury.

Once we had completed the castle visit, we climbed up to Marienbrücke or Mary's Bridge, a precariously positioned pedestrian bridge that gives an incredible view of the Neuschwanstein Castle. I braved my way onto the snow-covered contraption for just long enough to take a few pictures and marvel at the view. As hordes of tourists poured onto the bridge like sand filling up a jar of marbles, I could no longer see the sense in that situation.

Our return to the near-by town of Füssen presented us famished visitors with a gift from the Gods, in the form of an authentic German lunch complete with spaetzel, schnitzel, sauerkraut, radler (beer mixed with lemonade) and apfel strudel. We stuffed ourselves and then went on a quest for a place to sleep in Munich.

After encountering numerous difficulties with the internet at the Tourist Info office, troubles with the phone card and a no-reservations-by-phone policy, we ended up finally making reservations for a hostel in central Munich. Upon arriving, we lugged our stuff up to the 3rd floor, and opened the door only to find... nothing. Except an empty condom wrapper.

A quick trip back to the welcome desk got us an actual room with beds, and accompanied by J, I carried all my dirty clothes to the laundry room in the back yard. Creepy statues, discarded junk and dumpsters led the way along the alley to the solitary room with three washers, three dryers, and a vending machine selling powdered soap.

While waiting for the load to finish, we went in search of something to drink and ended up in the McDonald's. Having successfully made my order in German (thanks to the incredible coaching of J-boy) I drank my apple juice happily, and watched as a series of strange events unfolded. Uncle S was the first to order, and carried his tray upstairs while the rest of us waited in the line. By the time we joined him, he had half finished his fish sandwich and had done some intense people watching.

A wafer-thin pre-teen girl came up to J, holding out 300 euros in cash, looking panicked and speaking rapid German. In a jumble of verbal exchange in two languages, I came to understand that she had found the money on the ground and thought it was his. J quickly looked for his wallet, verified its contents, and told her that it wasn't. In a succession of shrugs and German sounds, she took the money and descended the stair case, as we all talked about how weird that was. All the while, Uncle S started mentally re-tracing what he had observed.

"It was probably one of those Serbian guys that was sitting over there!"

We further discussed, and then a very concerned-looking man came up the stairs, frantically searching for something. S asked him in English if he was looking for money and we figured out that he didn't speak English; J spoke to him in German, and that didn't work either... but eventually we figured out that he was looking for money, and S told mimed to him to go down to the counter for the money.

Realizing that he would probably have no way of communicating, Uncle S went down after the man to try and intermediate. When he came back up looking dejected, we realized our conjectures were correct: the girl didn't go to the counter, but instead took off with the cash.

This episode provided a topic of conversation for quite some time, during which I convinced myself that the little girl went home and told her parents about the serendipitous event (because she looked nice, and she probably had a nice family) and her mom told her immediately she would have to return it to the counter. Perhaps someone would come looking for it! And the next day, as soon as the McDonald's opened, the two of them returned the cash money, just in time for the man to come back in search of it, in the hopes that some honest person came back with his cash. What a happy ending.

In truth, I have no idea what actually happened; all I know is those salty, greasy, delicious McDonald's fries that Uncle S shared with me rekindled the American flame that I dare not indulge in France (the horror of affirming the stereotype!) and my clothes came out clean and dry, safely protected by the scary, cluttered courtyard behind our somewhat dumpy hostel.

The following morning, we started our day with fresh fruit and donuts at a local pastry shop, then wandered into Munich under one of the ancient gates of the ancient wall that once surrounded the city. An anti-climatic viewing of the Glockenspiel was followed by several visits to Baroque-style churches, and then we set off on a four-hour bike tour of the city.

Aside from the light and unorganized presentation of historical information, the smattering of bigoted and stereotype-ridden jokes, and the whole frat-boy feel of the -- yes, sadly -- American tour guide, the bike ride was wonderful, we saw lots of important sights in the city, and we managed to cover far more ground than we could have otherwise on foot. Highlights for me included the two lion statues in between the government building and a church, one facing the government with its mouth open (you should openly question and criticize the government) and one facing the church with its mouth closed (you should do the same to the church, but do it silently); the White Rose memorial for the students who protested against the Nazis; eating huge pretzels in the biergarten smack in the center of the English Gardens, with a group of beer-drinking musicians playing in the sunshine; the surfers playing around on the man-made wave in the river; and the Angel of Peace statue, in which she is extending an olive branch, offering peace, but holding a small Athena in the other hand. It was a beautifully sunny day, and I loved the idea of pedaling around a European city on a blue bike with a basket!

When the tour was over, we explored the open-air markets in town, got gelato (I had a disgusting mango chili flavor that truly had chili pepper in it! My lips were burning and I had to throw the ice cream away so I could eat the deliciously sweet and crunchy cone) and then headed back toward the hostel for dinner. We ate at a restaurant called "Movies" which was -- you may have guessed it already -- in the same complex as the cinema.

The following morning, we headed off to Austria, toward a city called Salzburg. Having found an enchanting bed and breakfast, we dropped our stuff off and then headed to the Steigl beer factory for a lesson in the process of beer making. The museum was fascinating, thoroughly translated into English, and full of cool beer steins, sound effects and old beer labels. The museum tour was followed by a beer tasting! Along with flat and salty beer crackers, we got to try the eight different types of Steigl beer offered at the restaurant.

Feeling good and ready for some exercise, we headed off for a walking-tour guided by the written wisdom of our trusted friend Rick Steve. I was surprised to learn that Salzburg is not actually a salt-mining town, but was named, instead, for the frequency with which salt was transported along its river. Aside from being the setting for "The Sound of Music" (Rick dispelled a lot of SOM myths for us, as well, during this trip), Salzburg is home to a fantastic imposing fortress that sits over top of the city, as well as some magnificent churches and a solely-musical Glockenspiel (no use in getting your hopes up there).

The Cathedrale Saint-Rupert in Salzburg is cool; if you stand in exactly the right spot in front of the statue of Mary, it looks as though the angels on the facade of the church are crowning Mary the statue.

To the right of the cathedral is a weird statue of a boy standing on a giant gold ball, looking perplexed; the story goes that this was the winner of a 2008 art contest, and the artist's statement explains that the boy is contemplating paying 10 euro for the funicular or making the difficult climb up the hill on foot. This is next to a giant-sized chess board, which is equally awesome, and across from an ancient horse bath which is currently under construction.

Our night in Salzburg ended with a fantastic dinner at an Indian/Austrian restaurant (thank you again, Rick Steves!) and a walk along the river.

The following morning, we had an excellent breakfast and visited a house where Mozart once lived. The museum was full of fascinating old instruments, books, letters and photographs. The audio guide was filled with clips of Mozart's music, which was awesome, but the actual information was extremely scattered and I think the audio guide assumed you already knew something about Mozart, which I definitely didn't. Random facts I did not know about Mozart: his sister Nannerl sacrificed her piano career for her brother, and his dad was a famous musician who published a famous book about violin.

We waved goodbye to the city of white gold, and then sped back into Germany, preparing mentally for a visit of Dachau. Half-way there, C discovered in the guide book that it is closed on Mondays so we pulled off at a rest stop, half-disappointed and honestly half-relieved, to come up with a Plan B.

We decided to visit the city of Ulm, somewhere between Munich and Stuttgart on the highway, which was famous for having the cathedral with the highest spire in the world, and being the birthplace of Einstein. Upon arrival, we discovered that it also was home to potentially the BEST food ever, and potentially the most magical thing I have ever seen -- an entire store devoted to Gummi Bears.

As the sun started to set on the city, we climbed back in the car and headed for Heidelberg, where J had reserved us two hotel rooms for the amazing low price of 19 euros each (breakfast included). For dinner, we went to a Thai restaurant, but I had eaten so many gummi bears at that point that I had no need of further sustenance.

Our day in Heidelberg started out with sunshine and good breakfast. We walked into the old part of town, exploring small streets, posing next to the weird monkey statue by the bridge, wandering through churches, creeping around the university library and, eventually making our way up to the Heidelberg Castle. Climbing around the ruins, wondering at the world's largest keg (amazing!) and meandering through the German Pharmacy Museum, we learned about the "love" story of Elizabeth and Frederick V and his monument to her that was built in a day, and drank in the breath-taking views of the city nestled in the valley down below.

When we walked down from the castle, we saw lots of costumed people everywhere, all heading in the same direction, and we all got a sense of weird déjà vu. Upon asking a shopkeeper, we discovered that there was to be a Carnival Parade in about an hour, so we found ourselves a spot along the sidewalk and waited for the festivities to begin. The costumes ranged from subtle to sexy, from offensive to endearing; just like Halloween in the US, there seemed to be certain go-to get-ups (cowboy, hippie, ghost) and the ages of costumed humans ranged from the smallest to the most elderly of all. One big difference between American Halloween and German Carnival? Beer. EVERYWHERE.

Once the parade started, we were pelted with hole-punch confetti. I could imagine on bad days the desk workers punch their holes and smile to themselves just imagining the day when they will not be working, but instead pelting others with loads of little paper circles, drinking themselves silly, dressed up as a brave knight or a dinosaur. Once the confetti passed us by, the marching bands came through, and the flag twirlers waved their heavy poles precariously close to the heads of vertically challenged spectators. Trucks/floats with techno music blasting and people costumed in crazy fashions rolled past, and even members of the marching band treated themselves to a little alcohol once in a while; one rebellious trombone player seemed to have forgotten the point of his marching down the street, having abandoned the idea of actually playing music and instead, lifting his hand only to put a beer glass to his lips. Ahh, life is good.

Candy also held a large role in this cultural event, as the parade stars marched by, crying something that sounded like "ey oh!", pelting us with candy, as children scrambled madly around us, holding out hats and bags, stopping at nothing to pick up every last piece of sugary confection. We got smarter as the parade wore on, and hid behind our hats and glasses as soon as we saw their arms wind up, crank back and start to realease, we ducked and waited for the painful rain to pass, laughing at the absurdity, the delight, and the beauty of the party Tuesday to precede calmer days ahead.

Near the end, after a cowgirl next to us got swept away into a make-shift jail cell on a parade float, S and J's noses were christened with sea foam paint from a little square sponge, slopped on by sea-foam green sea monsters that waddled past, their whole faces spray-painted with sea-foam green sparkles. At least they each got free beer handed to them during the parade!

When the last float had passed, we filed into a German bar/restaurant for some lunch. Again, leaving nothing to be desired, we ate delicious German dishes and washed them down with beer and passion fruit juice. A little girl played "keep-it-up" at a corner table with her family using brightly colored balloons, and once came over to us asking for her "luft ballon" that had drifted over near us. We really were in Germany.

As we trudged back to our car, we walked down the nearly-deserted streets, the discarded candy wrappers and tons of confetti littering the ground as if the city had been in a happy battle. The street sweepers would certainly be busy that night.

Once reunited with the car, we drove to Frankfurt, the final stop on our seven-day tour. We recapped the trip over two pieces of apfel strudel, and before I knew it, we were awkwardly hugging goodbye in our tiny hotel room in the morning, linking up the chain of a beautiful week-long circle.

Reflexes and Reflexions

The day was off to a bad start, which I knew when I started talking to myself, when the students took 15 minutes to take out a notebook, and open to a clean page. When the students uttered more French vulgarities than simple words in English, and when I slapped two of them with two hours of afternoon detention, to be completed the Wednesday following vacation.

The day got worse when I got a hard-to-comprehend phone call in the teachers' lounge from a concerned Head Teacher about a mistake on the report cards currently sitting in the students' mailboxes. Upon asking another teacher to confirm that I had entered everything correctly (a 16/20 + a 0/20 does, indeed, come out to an 8/20) I discovered it is ILLEGAL for teachers in France to give zeros on assignments. I'm sorry, but what kind of country IS THIS?

I tried to psych myself up for my second class of the morning, but as soon as I discovered that my students could not print out their projects in the library as I had planned, and the Internet did not work in our impromptu new classroom, I realized that optimism and positive thinking were probably not going to help me very much in my mid-morning battle: me vs. the world.

The third class was honestly unlucky. Maybe if the day had started differently, I would not have been so irritated by the boy with the pen that has a tape measure in it, who seems convinced he is living in Star Wars land, and that the writing utensil is much more useful as a light sabre; and, maybe, the groups who did not listen as I carefully explained the assignment at least three times, but then proceeded to repeat the same dumb questions over and over again would not have seemed like a big deal; and certainly the ubiquitous cell phones popping in and out of pockets, hidden in pencil cases and just under the table tops would not have seemed like such disrespectful and insupportable irritations... but that is not how it went.

So when the bell rang, mercifully, at 12 o'clock, and I sat down to fill out the detention forms, I felt defeated. Not even having the time to eat the apple I had packed for lunch, I was whisked away in a group of angry teachers to a Grade Meeting that had as much of a negative vibe to it as the class dynamics, and my mood.

It was raining when I finally left, and I felt grateful for that, because at least things were consistent.

The good news is, tomorrow, after only two hours of class, I will be on vacation. For thirteen days, I will not think about school, or students, or grades, or obscure French laws I didn't know about, or lesson plans, or administration, or anything remotely stressful or unpleasant in any way. I will escape it all, go to Paris, take an airplane, visit a medieval city with my red-haired French love, feel lost in the foreignness of an unknown language, an unknown land, fall asleep in a hotel room, have big breakfasts, take lots of pictures, and buy presents.

I am LUCKY, and I know it -- I am learning from my challenges, and am proud of myself every time that I feel like I did this morning, and yet find the strength to stick it out, to wait for the three-toned signal that frees me, like the countdown on a rigorous exercise program, counting the seconds, thinking about the tricks that time play on all of us.

To be here in the first place is proof of my luxuries, my family, my education, my teachers, my friends. My backpack full of flags, my head full of memories, people, and language.

Here's to vacation, and to anyone who know what it feels like to have a morning like mine.

Here here!