Londtontown

Sept. 29, 2008

This photo album includes shots of many of London's tradiational tourists stops, including some photos from inside the British Museum where my favorite things to see were all the mummies. Did you know the Egyptians mummified their pets including goldfish? So weird.

Exactly the same but with a different accent

Sept. 29, 2008

One of the things about travelling is you come to realize that people everywhere are really the same. Yes we have different languages, different religious beliefs, different customs, but when it comes down to it, we are all more alike than we realize.

Back in Strasbourg at the film festival I attended, New York filmmaker Ari Taub made that exact point about the common bonds of people in his feature film Last Letters from Monte Rosa. The film about the Italian and Nazi perspective of battles in World War II portrayed the soldiers not as the monsters we learned about in American History class. They are just men struggling with the situation they are thrown into, yearning get home alive to be with their family and friends.

In London, I stayed at a household full of Australians. We spent one night just hanging out, drinking beers and playing Uno which the Australians pronounce "you know." The Aussies were all talking about the then upcoming Grand Final for the AFL (Australian Football League). The underdog Hawthorn Hawks would be taking on the Geelong Cats, last year's Grand Final victor. The Aussies I was with are all rabid Hawthorn fans. The team hadn't won a Grand Final in 17 years.

"If they win on Saturday I will actually cry," my friend Rob told me.

I sat back for a second sinking into my own thoughts. A sudden deja vu struck me about the situation, an unexpected comfort in this house in a foreign land. Just a month earlier I had been hanging out in a living room in Stamford, Connecticut with some friends drinking beers and listening to conversations about the New York Giants. I realized then it was the same exact situation as back home. Just a different game with a different accent.

Update: Hawthorn won. I wish I had been with my Aussie friends to see that.

The long road to London

Sept. 24, 2008

I don't know with the election and the banking crisis going on in the States if any of you there even heard that there was a big fire in the Channel Tunnel on Sept. 11. No one was killed by the fire, the cause of which has yet to be determined, but the incident has limited the amount of traffic in between France and England.

It also threw a big wrench into my plans to head to London.

Bus tickets doubled in price overnight. With limited access to the tunnel, the companies now have to ferry all the buses over the English Channel. The bus lines, trains and boats have all run into major snags and delay issues because of the need to reroute and rethink travel. This turned my six hour bus ride into a ten hour nightmare.

The worst was when I asked a clerk at the duty-free shop on the ferry how long the drive from Dover to London would take. She guessed an hour. In reality, with all the weekenders returning from the coast, it turned into a three hour, stop-and-go torture session that left me clawing at the windows. My iPod had long since died, I'd read The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing cover to cover, and I just wanted to get the hell off that bus.

When we finally arrived, my friend Rob who who had been waiting for me at the station for two hours found me in a zombie state. I had trouble forming full sentences or expressing rational thought. But after a stiff few drinks and a good night's sleep all felt better again in the world. London's been fun (photos to follow), but I'm off again tomorrow, this time to Rome.

Enough with buses and trains for a little while. I'm flying to Italy.

Paris part deux: Different fireworks

Sept. 24, 2008

Completing a near perfect loop around France, I returned to Paris last Friday. When planning this trip back in Connecticut weeks ago, I hadn't intended to stay in France as long as I did. The dream was to follow the sun to the warmer climes of Croatia, Italy, Greece. But one little thing held me up: My passport was stuck at the Indian Embassy in Paris for two weeks to secure a tourist visa.

Paris had been such fun the first time around, I didn't mind what I expected to be a glorious return. It also afforded the opportunity to make a trip up to London to visit a new friend who I'd met weeks earlier while in the City of Love.

Paris felt different the second time around, however. I spoke with my Aussie friend Rob and asked him what I should do there without him.

"You'll be fine," he said. "Go find yourself a drinking buddy."

That seemed like a fine plan to me. The problem was it was difficult to meet people at the hostel where I was staying. The place lacked a common room where travellers tend to congregate and make friendships for a day. The only person I ended up meeting was a girl from the States who happened to be my bunk mate.

One of the interesting things I've learned from travelling is how intense these little temporary friendships can be. Within five minutes of talking, my roommate confessed that she is in Alcoholics Anonymous.

"It's so strange I'm telling you this," she said. "Some of my friends that I've had for years at home don't even know that."

My new non-drinking buddy and I decided to set out to walk the city together. We found a giant flea market ("Marche aux Puces") and wandered through Montmartre and ended up at a Salvador Dali museum. Later that Saturday evening, I met my new friend after an AA meeting, and we headed to a strange and spectacular fireworks show that combined pyrotechnics with Circ de Soleil-style dance and movement.

This time in Paris was a very different experience from the one I'd had several weeks earlier. Though it lacked the same romance and excitement of discovery that I had found earlier, the city still had it's fireworks.

Notes from the Strasbourg Film Festival

Sept. 22, 2008

The Strasbourg Film Festival which ran from Sept. 12 to 21, was meant to be a showcase of "creative, edgy, out-of-the-box and maverick filmmakers of all genres including experimental and avant-gard as well as more traditional dramas, thrillers, romantic comedies, daring documentaries and wild ride animation," according to the festival Web site.

Unfortunately, the general consensus of most of the filmmakers to whom I talked was that the whole affair was pretty poorly organized. I was in town to hawk my mom's short documentary Dinosaurs and Rocketships (See earlier post). However, despite my efforts, only a handful of people showed up for its international debut.

There was practically no advertising for the festival. None of the locals I talked to even knew there was a film festival going on in their city. And there was no information pamphlet or schedule of events printed up. To find out what was going on, you had to practically stumble by chance into one of the venues when a film was showing.

Despite all that, I did see some pretty wild films and made some good new friends. Among my favorite films were two shorts by Canadian filmmakers, one called Tumbling After by Bryan Skinner, a mockumentary about a misfit burlesque troop, and the other called Birthday Girl by Erin Laing, a dark comedy about a 12-year-old girl who plans her own funeral for her birthday party.

I also watched a feature film called Last Letters from Monte Rosa. The World War II movie by American filmmaker Ari Taub told a story of battle from the perspective of soldiers in a Nazi defense unit who are joined by Italian reinforcements. The film was interesting in offering a view of the war from the side of the enemies. Mr. Taub said the picture was supposed to show the humanity of the soldiers and their hopes and fears which are universal for nearly all men. Needless to say, Mr. Taub who is half-Jewish, said he received some flack from the Jewish community in his hometown of New York.

The dialogue was entirely in German and Italian and translated with French subtitles, so watching the film was an interesting experiment for me. But my comprehension of French has improved so much over the past few weeks, and the subtitles were simple enough that I pretty much got it.

After the film premier, Erin Laing, Bryan Skinner, Ari Taub and some of his actors and his producer went out to dinner with some of the festival organizers. One of the actors, an Italian American named Carmine Raspaolo, mistook me for one of the film fest organizers and asked why my English was so good.

"Because I'm from Connecticut, baby," I said.

"Oh man, I live in Long Island," he said. "We're neighbors."

Mr. Raspaolo is recognizable from tri-state area television commercials and from a recurring part on season one of The Sopranos. I find it kind of weird that I'm meeting so many actors on this trip.

I spent another night in Strasbourg before hopping on an early train back to Paris last Friday. I had fun in the city, but it was too cold and too small for me. Though pretty with lots of medieval and Swiss-German influenced architecture, Strasbourg center reminds me of a big, expensive outdoor mall. Every street is lined with dozens of clothing and shoe shops and beauty parlors.

And there are teenagers everywhere. Inexplicably. They just hang out in their hipster clothes, talking and laughing loudly, not sullen so much as too cool for school. I felt like I was in high school again and unable to find a table to sit at in the cafeteria. Screw that.

A kind stranger

Sept. 22, 2008

I arrived in Strasbourg near 10:30 p.m. last Tuesday and the first thing I noticed about the city was the cold. It was a shock from the warm sun and gentle breezes that I left behind in the south of France.

I was coming to the Alsacian city to attend the Strasbourg Film Festival in which my mom had a short documentary entered. (See post below and watch a 30 second preview of her film Dinosaurs and Rocketships).

When I got off the train, I was in a bit of a panic. It was night and I didn't have my bearings in this new strange city. There were no cabs at the train station and I couldn't figure out how to get the ticket machine for the tram to work. So I did what I was told to do in one of those inspirational travel books I read before embarking on my trip: I asked help from a nice and safe-looking woman.

"Parlez-vous Anglais?" I asked a woman who looked like a librarian.

"Only a little," she said warily. After eying my pack and listening to my horrible Franglish explanation of the situation, she let her guard down and decided to help me. She explained I needed coins for the tram machine but I had only bills. I watched her consider the situation for a second before she smiled and gave me her last tram ticket. She then boarded the tram with me and told me she would take me to my hotel.

I was bowled over by her generosity. I could tell she was going home from a long day and probably had a long ride ahead of her. From inside the tram, the city looked pretty safe and well-lit and I saw people around everywhere. I told the woman it wouldn't be necessary for her to escort me as long as she could point me in the right direction. But she insisted and walked me right up to the front door of my hotel.

I scribbled my name and e-mail address on a piece of paper and told her to come to my mom's film screening. The woman smiled and took the paper, but I haven't heard from her yet and she never came to the show. But it again was yet another act of kindness I have found from strangers on the road.

Dinosaurs and Rocketships

Sept. 22, 2008

After two weeks in the warm and slow-paced south of France, I took a train last Tuesday from Aix-en-Provence to the Alsace city of Strasbourg. The visit wouldn't just be a tourist stop for me however. I was there on business matters.

My mom, Liz Fulton, had a short documentary accepted into the Strasbourg Film Festival, and I would be attending the event as her rep. A longtime television journalist who now does freelance editing and producing for the news segments for NBC and CBS's morning show programs, my mom had created the documentary with her colleague and friend Bruce Stanberry of Hastings on Hudson, N.Y. The 17-minute documentary called Dinosaurs and Rocketships is about a wacky artist from Woodstock, N.Y. It offers a glimpse into the life of Steve Heller, a 60-something year old eccentric who creates life-size dinosaur sculptures out of scrap metal and rocketships out of valuable old car parts. He is essentially a Peter Pan figure, someone who never outgrew his love for tinkering and toys.

The film was a pet project for my mom and Bruce who shot the piece over the course of a few days and edited the piece over several weeks.

"It's a little film with a big heart," my mom has said.

The documentary was one of 155 accepted out of about 750 entries for the festival. It has also shown at the Simon's Rock Festival and will be shown at the Woodstock Film Fest in October.

What Kris misses

Sept. 18, 2008

Kris, my old buddy and one time eighth grade boyfriend from Redding, Conn., has been living in Europe since he graduated college. Originally from France, he is tri-lingual speaking his mother tongue in addition to English and Spanish. He's also working on his Dutch.

Kris lived for a while in Amsterdam before moving to Bilbao, Spain where he presently resides.

One day during our brief travel time together I asked him what he misses most about the States. He answered quickly.

"My family. I miss my mom and dad and sisters."

OK, I said. That answer was too obvious. I wanted to know what he missed culturally, the day-to-day kind of stuff.

He thought for a while, a long while actually, before brightening with an answer.

"Mexican food," he said.

Une brève leçon de vocabulaire

Sept. 18, 2008

Here's a fun little vocab lesson to freshen up your French:

puce - flea
poux - lice
pousse - push
pouce - thumb
poutre - beam
pute - prostitute

I especially like the last one. The more you spit on the P, the better your pronunciation.

Rocamadour

Sept. 18, 2008

Last week, my friend Kris took me to visit Rocamadour, a tiny town built into the side of a canyon wall above a tributary of the River Dordogne. The town was founded in honor of Saint Amadour whose body was discovered there in the 13th century fully intact resting in a rocky alcove. The place is a tourist attraction for the French and has long been a pilgrimage site for religious figures, noblemen and kings, though it seems off-the-beaten path for many other visitors to the country.

The place is also known for its award-winning goat cheese. I happen to think the stuff smells and tastes of petting zoo.

But the town is beautiful in its own right. Kris took me to meet the mother of his cousin's girlfriend who lives in the town. She is an artist who runs a shop and sells stain glass artwork and jewelry.

Later, we went to canyon's edge and watched a demonstration involving eagles and condors and other big and beastly birds. It was probably one of the coolest and weirdest things I have ever experienced.

From out of the air dove birds with eight-foot wing spans. Falcons swooped in plucking fish from a puddle. A parade of parrots and parakeets lit up the sky in a rainbow of color. Then they brought in falcons to come sit atop our heads. Why? I don't really know, those crazy Frenchies. I just clenched my teeth and hoped the pretty bird digging its talons into my skull wouldn't poop on me.

Sick on the road

Sept. 18, 2008

They say a traveller's greatest fear is an empty bank account. I would add that a traveller's second biggest fear is getting sick in a strange land.

Shortly after arriving at my relatives' house in Sos, I began to get a scratchy throat. I kind of passed it off as the result of too much fun in Paris. My sore throat didn't keep me from eating or drinking the wine and Armagnac local to that region. I didn't have a fever or any other maladies.

When after a few days the sore throat persisted, my cousin Toby took me to the local pharmacy and got me this awful, minty throat spray. I took that and popped a few aspirin and felt fine.

Late last week, Kris Caren, an old friend from Connecticut, picked me up from my family's house. He was doing a trip from Bilbao, Spain, where he works, to the tiny town of Cotignac where his family lives, near Aix-en-Province, and asked me to come along for the trip and meet his family. I told him I was in.

We drove first to central France to a region called Le Lot to meet up with his cousin who lives now with his girlfriend and infant daughter. They were nice people and gracious hosts, though I spent much of the time just trying to decipher what they were saying in French. It was a good lesson in immersion but I kind of felt a little lonely not really being able to participate in the conversations. And my mood began to darken as each day in the cold, damp countryside the pain in my throat started to sharpen.

Last Saturday, I woke up with my right ear ringing and my throat on fire. The worst effect of the pain was probably on my mental well being. I suddenly wanted my mom and my cat and my bed. But Kris, who is from my hometown Redding, turned out to be my savior.

As it was the weekend, most doctor's offices were closed. Kris got on the phone and organized for a doctor to come in and meet me for an emergency visit. He then explained to that I had mal à la gorge. The doctor worked quickly taking my blood pressure and heart beat then digging his fingers into my neck to feel my glands.

"Angine," he pronounced. Strep throat.

The doctor wrote up a prescription for Amoxicillan and some heavy duty aspirin and sent me on my way. But even before taking the anti-biotics, I felt better. It was invaluable having someone with me who could speak the language and who took charge of the situation. Though Kris is a good friend, I found the situation to be yet another act of human kindness that I have found everywhere on the road through France.

Fun facts about France

Sept. 16, 2008

I have been without access to the Internet for almost a week and it has been killing me because I have so much to share. To start I offer a few fun facts about France:

Driving through the southern countryside, one frequently happens upon straight stretches of road with perfect rows of trees lining each side. These trees were not just planted for their aesthetic appeal. According to my learned 17-year-old cousin Guy, the trees were planted by Napoleon so his soldiers could march in the shade. Thoughtful guy, that Napoleon.

Now, however, the French government has outlawed the continued planting of these trees and has even ordered many of the trees chopped down. The reason is to prevent motorists with epilepsy from having seizures as they drive through the dappled shade.

Another fun fact comes from several fellow travellers in Paris. They say traditionally the French work 35 hours or less per week. Up until recent changes were enforced by President Nicolas Sarkozy, it was illegal for employers to ask their employees to work more than 35 hours per week.

Also, workers get two hour lunch breaks and the entire month of August off. People here live at a more leisurely pace. Each of their meals is a celebration of the food and company.

Three weeks into this trip, I have yet to find a café where I can order a coffee-to-go.

Jenny's jugs

For the past several days I have been staying with family in the southwest of France deep in the country about halfway between Bordeaux and Toulouse. These family members, who I had never met before being picked up at the train station, are situated on a very distant branch of the family tree.

We share a great-granddad. Or actually that's not right. Graham, the father of the family here, is my maternal grandmother's first cousin. My great-granddad was his grandfather. Graham is my mother's age, and his cousin, my grandma, is 91. Graham's kids, Flossie, Ned, Guy and Toby are all a little younger than I am, but they are a step up in terms of generations. So I am actually the baby of the family, I have learned.

Though we are practically strangers, far genetically removed from each other, I have been warmly welcomed in this household. The family lives in a lovely old converted farmhouse surrounded by fields and forest. No other houses are anywhere in sight.

The house itself is a happy clutter. Since the family moved in here about a decade ago, they have started a series of building projects that never seemed to be finished. There are unpainted walls and unfinished rooms. But the house is lived in and full of life and light.

The heart of the household is the kitchen. Fresh tomatoes from the garden sit in a bowl on the table. Three old dogs lie on the floor next to overflowing laundry baskets. The kitchen smells of warm food, of mussels and garlic, or roasting duck, or whatever other delicious meal Jenny, the mother of the family, is preparing.

The thing that stands out most vividly in the kitchen is Jenny's choice of decor. From the ceiling hangs dozens of yellow jugs. The cabinet is also filled with them, and so are several pieces of furniture in the other rooms. Jenny loves her yellow jugs. (I asked the boys Toby and Guy if it would be too forward of me to tell their mother that I too liked her jugs).

Jenny, this little, blonde Scot with her eccentric taste, is so funny. When I asked her, jokingly/obviously if yellow was her favorite color, she said "Oh God, I can't stand it anymore."

"My favorite color is gray."

In the countryside of sullen sunflowers

It has been several days since I left Paris on a speeding train to the southwestern countryside of France. I arrived in Agen on Saturday and was greeted at the station by my very distant Scottish cousin who I'd never met before. We drove through golden fields of vines and maize onward to his tiny village called Sos.

Like nearly all little fiefdoms in France, you first see the church steeple as you approach. Then you enter the square and drive pass the patisserie and the boulangerie and the little old women gossiping in the shade. The house where my distant relatives live is just outside the village proper, through a forest of trees which grow in neat straight lines and above fields which have only just been planted.

Anyone who has ever seen the film or read the novel Chocolat will know the type of place where I am. All the villagers are familiar with nearly every aspect of one another's lives and exchange lengthy greetings in the grocery store or at the post office. The sun shines brightly down here, away from the cold and rain of the north country.

What has struck me most in this pleasant area are the fields of sunflowers. I have just missed them in their full glory. After a summer of dazzling jaune, of wind dances and sweet pollenation, their petals have withered and the flowers have gone to seed. Now they stand sullen, bowing their heavy heads. Nearby a small church where medieval graves are still covered in offerings and candles, the sunflowers seem to also to mourn the dead. Or maybe they hunch their shoulders and shun the bright blue sky grieving the memory of their lost beauty.

This is Paris

Police in Paris

My only question is, what do they do if the criminal they are chasing runs up a flight of stairs?

Conversations en Francais

So it has already been pointed out to me that mon Francais est tres pathetique. One of my new friends, Piotr of Poland, noted that I have an error in my last blog entry's title. It should read "Paris, je t'aime". But despite my shortcomings, I've spoke more French in the past few days than I ever have before. That's saying a lot since I took two years of the language in high school and went to university in Montreal. 

Here people have been patient with my butchering of their beautiful language. Parisiens at the bars and cafes seem to want to engage in conversations with me and my fellow travelers. Last night I had a lengthy conversation with an old man originally from Turkey who only spoke French. With the aid of some over the top gesticulation we covered topics ranging from my travel plans, American politics, the beauty of Paris and even the Olympics. We really had a breakthrough in understanding when we put on a reenactment of  the Americans stunning victory in the 4 X 100 meter men's swim relay using a handful of peanuts.  Michael Phelps was quite delicious.

What I discovered was how quickly one can improve in a language just by diving in and holding little conversations with the locals. Within one afternoon of just talking and asking questions, I was already noticeably more fluent by the end of the night. 

So I would encourage people visiting a foreign country to attempt these little conversations in the foreign language. Just swallow your pride, and perhaps a little wine. And some impromptu food puppetry couldn't hurt in the slightest.

Paris, j'taime

I have fallen in love with the City of Lights. The present capital of the European Union, its centerpiece the Eiffel Tower dressed at night in blue, is one of the most beautiful and romantic places I have ever been.

Everywhere you look, on nearly every street corner there is a vision of history and art. I have already stayed two days longer than expected. I missed my train to Agen this morning partly because I overslept, but partly because I have made some friends and want to linger.

Something keeps me in this city. As I booked yet another night at my hostel in le Republique this morning, the girl at the front desk said that perhaps I am supposed to be here.

With Paris however, it wasn't quite love at first sight.

My first night in an uncomfortable hostel left me disoriented and nervous walking around the city alone. On my first day, I climbed the steps in Montmartre up to Sacre Couer to get a panoramic view. The vastness of the city was overwhelming.

Walking alone through the city is a bittersweet experience. Everywhere it seems couples fawn over one another, touching hands and exchanging tender caresses. Those first few days, it felt quite lonely.

Then on Tuesday I walked into Notre Dame to sit alone in the dark and gather some courage. Tourists walked the perimeter snapping photos in the hushed cathedral. In the pews, several people their heads buried in their hands, prayed for mercy and forgiveness. I'm not really religious at all, but the place stirred something within me. I lit a candle and asked for safe travels and some ease for my heavy heart. I also asked for some companionship.

When I left, a weight had lifted. And very soon I made some friends.

That night I went out to a bar near my hostel just to have a drink and write in my journal. Sitting at a table on the street, a young Romanian man and his hoodie-wearing friend came up and started to heckle me. It wasn't threatening but it was annoying. The ponytailed Romanian professed to me his endless devotion. I told him that it would really piss me off if, when I wasn't looking, my new love ran off with my camera.

Eventually the bartender saw what was going on and got the two men away. I think he liked me and was looking out for me because I gave him a one Euro tip. (I had yet to learn that you don't tip at all in France). Several middle age French men and two German girls who witnessed the exchange invited me over for a drink. All except for one were very nice and quite interested in my plans for travel. The one however told me I talked too loud, "a typical American." Well, he was a typical pompous French guy, I thought.

But one man, a French film actor named Marc Duret bought me a beer and talked about his experiences working the states. He had just that night come from the premier of his new film Commes les Autres and was sipping champagne in celebration. I thought the film was some small Indy-type project. But the next day, everywhere I looked were posters for the film. And in the post office on TV there was a preview for the film and my friend appeared before me and the rest of the country. It was a brush with celebrity and I didn't even realize it.

The next day I went to the Catacombs with my roomate in the hostel, a Welsh girl named Sarah. Deep beneath the streets among the bones of six million Parisiens we made another friend, Piotr from Poland. He took a picture of Sarah and me grinning next to a pile of skulls and femurs stacked like wood. Afterward, he joined us on a stroll along the Seine and a visit to the Eiffel Tower. He is finishing up six months of study in Paris and plans to travel himself, perhaps to India. Perhaps we will meet again.

I also met an Australian named Rob who now lives in London. We spent most of today running together to train and bus stations to book our tickets in seperate directions. It maybe wasn't the most romantic of afternoons, but we got along well and he's promised me a place to stay and a grand tour if ever I should come to London.

One of the most surprising things I've learned is how nice and helpful the Parisiens are. Last night Sarah, Rob and I spent a night out on the town and lost track of time before realizing the Metro had closed and there were no taxis around. We were kind of lost and quite far from the hostel when we flagged down a bus. The driver gave us a free lift home.

Several times I've found myself standing on a street corner with a map and people actually have come up to me to help me get where I'm going. And even when someone doesn't speak English and I at least attempt French in my pitiful, bumbling way, we can hold silly, disjointed conversations.

I've so much more to share and photos to post soon. Ahhhhhh Paris. J'taime.

La cuisine

It's been nearly a week since I arrived in France and in these few days I've had some of the best meals of my life. My uncle's partner Nicolas is an excellent chef and the two of them absolutely spoiled me during my time at their house in Lhuys.

For my uncle's birthday we had a fruit plate with melon, figs and raspberries along with thinly sliced viande de grisons. That was followed by Nepalese pork with saffron carrots, potatos with shallots and flat greenbeans.

One night we had sausages of wild boar, Polish buffalo and ostrage. And of course cheese! So much cheese! And with names like poetry!

We had Maroilles, an orange crusted cheese from Burgundy, Appenzell from Switzerland, Brie de Meaux, Reblochon from Savoie, Cantal from Auvergne, Roquefort, Buche de Chèvre, Munster Alsace from Strasbourg, Comté and a gooey creamy Dauphiné.

C'est magnifique. What is unfortunate is I probably won't eat this well again the rest of my trip.