a thanksgiving day journal: 3 bakeries, 8 trains, 1 job interview.

6:00 am - we're woken by the sound of a strident alarm clock in boppard, germany; there's snow on the ground
6:37 am - a hurried thanksgiving breakfast. the menu: 1 banana, coffee.
7:21 am - train #1: boppard (germany) to mainz (germany).
8:13 am - reservations secured: thanksgiving night train to nürnberg, germany.
8:24 am - bakery stop #1. purchase: quarkstollen.
8:39 am - train #2: mainz (germany) to mannheim (germany).
8:47 am - breakfast #2: Brötchen with butter, jam.
9:39 am - train #3: mannheim (germany) to offenburg (germany).
10:34 am - train #4: offenburg (germany) to strasbourg (france).
11:04 am - arrival, strasbourg (france).
11:16 am - bakery stop #2. purchase: french Brötchen.
11:45 am - 2:06 (!) pm - a (very) french lunch amongst friends.
2:06 pm - 3:47 pm - soaking up winter sun in the streets of strasbourg.
3:50 pm - bakery stop #3. purchase: (warm) baguette, almond sable.
4:01 pm - the supermarche. purchase: ingredients for thanksgiving dinner on the train (wine, crackers)
5:00 pm - 6:06 pm - "interview" with prospective employer. (our discussion centers on obama, sarkozy and the social implications of consumerism).
7:15 pm - arrival, strasbourg central train station. i need a beer...
7:46 pm - train #5: strasbourg (france) to karlsruhe (germany).
8:32 pm - arrival in karlsruhe; pit stop at the train station bar for a delicious hefe-dunkel. (i love dunkel beer).
9:01 pm - train #6: karlsruhe (germany) to mannheim (germany).
9:31 pm - train #7: mannheim (germany) to frankfurt (germany).
10:18 pm - train #8: frankfurt (germany) to nürnberg (germany).
12:37 am (the day after thanksgiving) - arrival, nürnberg.

sleep promptly followed.

-jared.

the procedure: observations from the french medical system.

If ever you desire an exercise in humility/cultural immersion, I suggest the following: visit a doctor in a country where you don’t speak the language. It’s fascinating, really (if occasionally unnerving), and you’re guaranteed a story. It’s the ever-elusive, authentic cultural experience that we all desire but seldom find when we travel. Upon visiting a doctor in Japan, I had the good fortune of receiving a sponge cleansing from three giggling women and was given a basket of oranges upon leaving. The other day in France, well, let me briefly summarize:

I’ll start with a sweeping generalization: despite what you may have heard about the French to the contrary, they are a remarkably pleasant, friendly, even extroverted people. At least in hospital waiting rooms. When I walk in, everyone – between coughs – greets me. I leave, everyone bids me farewell. Good day. Good weekend. It’s great. Doubting the integrity and nature of the French? Hang out with more influenza patients – they’ll talk your ear off.

Observation #2: Doctor’s offices in France rival Guggenheim exhibitions in style and sophistication. I’m having a conversation with my doctor (well, sort of. I don’t speak French, she doesn’t speak English – lots of gesturing, lots of pointing, some grimacing). She’s an upper-west sidish, neo-marxist, designer non-prescription eyeglasses, haute bourgeois type. I’m having difficulty concentrating: the chair I’m sitting in looks like a Saarinen design and there’s a couch (!) adjacent to me. Instead of the standard medical office pastiche (illustrations of the anatomy of an ear; brochures explaining the importance of testicular self-exams...) there are coordinated color schemes and coffee table books (“The Flemish Masters”; “Expressionism”; “Feng Shue for Medical Practitioners”). I’m starting to doubt whether this woman is a doctor: there’s no white lab jacket in sight, she’s sipping coffee whilst taking notes on an apple laptop and her references to my anatomy sound like art movements: abdomino-pelivenne, sable urinaire, varicocele bilaterale. I need to see a medical doctor, not Juliard faculty.

Observation #3: going to see a doctor abroad is arguably the fastest track to lingual fluency. Before coming to France, I knew approximately four words: oui, eiffel, Zidane, sava. I can now say the following: “Go to the wait room”; “Take off your pants”; “Do you have insurance?”. Actually, I can’t produce them, but if someone says one of the above to me, I know what they mean. Some phrases I’d recommend learning before going abroad: “That hurts”; “Do I have to get completely undressed?”; “Do you have a student discount?”

Observation #4: Being a doctor in France seems really fun. Doctors whistle patriotic-sounding tunes in the hallway; sometimes they exchange kisses (2 in France) with patients; my second doctor smiled a lot and used “voila!” while performing procedures on me that weren’t fit for the feint of heart. Maybe it’s all that wine at lunch; or the complacency and nonchalance that socialism purportedly encourages; or...

Observation #5: the souvenirs. Ooh la la...the souvenirs. For slightly less than the price of an ipod, I got: 2 personalized letters (original signatures), 1 8X10 x-ray, 12 3X5 sonogram images, 1 prescription (on official letterhead) and one unforgettable cultural experience.

Sure, my privacy might be a bit violated. And I’m still not sure what the final diagnosis was. But for a couple of hours, I saw France through the eyes of a local. (and the souvenirs are pretty good...)

-jared.

Snow is Falling

Winter has arrived.

Snow began to fall on Strasbourg yesterday as we ventured out to the weekly Saturday morning market with our gracious hostess, Dominique. She heads for this small market each weekend, stocking up on local fruit and veg, cheeses, meats, whilst gathering ingredients and inspiration for her weekly menu. Had we arrived in this French-German border town in the region of Alsace previous to the handing out of our One Month Awards, she would have easily won Best Chef. The last 4 days have been some of the most delectable of the trip: a master class in simple French cooking, coupled with scintillating and informative conversations with our hosts, all in the fairy-tale setting of Strasbourg: the "Capitale de Noël."

At the market, Dominique catches up with each vendor, letting them know of last weeks' successes in the kitchen thanks to their quality products, then proceeds to give us the inside scoop on who has the best of what. We purchase some treats we plan to take on the road with us the next day, because tomorrow we head for Germany. The snow begins to fall harder. Dominique heads back to their flat with her purchases tucked away in her roller-basket, but we stay back in town, wanting to soak up as much of this place as we can. Sure, we're excited for the few weeks that lie ahead in Germany, but we really don't want to leave this place yet. On top of eating well and enjoying the sights, we've had some very Saturn-inspired experiences during the last week. We just want to make sure we're not missing anything.

I refer to events, certain words of advice given to us by people here in France - I don't think it would be foolhardy to call them "sages" - about life and happiness that have resonated with us. If you would, please consider the following cases:

Exhibit A
Mr Blaiz - director of "Street Gospel" Paris, France

On Tuesday night in Paris, I accompanied Carolina (our hostess in Paris) to her weekly Gospel choir rehearsal. After a very enjoyable two hours singing and swaying in unison, we sat down with Mr. Blaiz, the director, at a Cafe for a post-rehearsal drink. The Cameroon-born Blaiz came to Paris 25 years ago with one thing on his mind: music. He teaches, he sings, he performs, he directs, but most of all, he mentors. He made the case that all people need an artistic outlet. "You either go to the psychiatrist, or you come to me." Carolina and I started referring to him as "Dr. Blaiz" after that comment. To be fair, the evidence did suggest he was having a positive impact on the lives of his students. For Carolina it is certainly true. She feels joy each week after rehearsal. Alex, her beau, told me afterward that "Carolina is always happy when she comes home."

"Artists have a place in society: when I am sick, I go to the doctor. When I am hungry, I go to the... how do you say? Cooker? When the doctor and the cooker is tired, they come to me. We, artists, must claim our place in society."

Exhibit B
Unidentified Elderly British Gentleman - Vin Stube, Strasbourg, France

On our first night in Strasbourg, we ducked in to a small cafe for a pre-dinner sampling of the local vin. There were two customers: one seemingly deranged (and heavily intoxicated) woman mumbling to herself, and one elderly gentleman sporting a serious mustache and a full head of white hair. We ordered, sat, and felt very uncomfortable, as the drunk woman had begun to focus her attention on us. We tried to keep to ourselves, but the man addressed us in English, inquiring where we were from. We gave him the short version and then listened as he told us of his younger days, his wife who was now gone, his work for tobacco companies, banks in Africa, and massive travels all over the world. It was an impressive monologue. Of course I couldn't attempt to reproduce it, but as we finally left, he gave us some advice:

"It's better to have souveniers than regrets."

Exhibit C
Returning to the Alcandres - our hosts, Strasbourg, France

I couldn't remember how my parents had known Dominique and Jean-Jacques, so as we sat around the table, eating our first meal together, we asked. My dad and Jean-Jacques had met studying in Germany at the same time back in the day. To make a long story short, it turns out that I was around back then, and that when my parents had wanted to make a sight-seeing trip to Paris, the Alcandres offered to take care of me. That was in 1981...in November. They took care of me as a baby, almost exactly 27 years ago. Ok, that seems very Saturn-returning-ish to me.

Well, what does it all mean? Not sure yet. All I know is that, for some reason, things are starting to make sense in a weird way.

Always forward... to Germany...

steph

one month (awards)

bon jour,
one month in: hundreds of pictures taken, multiple pounds gained, our lives richer for the experience. are we closer to some elusive epiphany than we were 30 days ago? doubtful. our biggest feat? 0 starbucks in 30 days -- the caffeine withdrawal headaches are worth the satisfaction.

today, we remember the places and experiences that have made this journey: wacky, tasty, (occasionally) unnerving, and formative.

the honors:

biggest city (in the world?) without a starbucks: ghent, belgium
best free toilet: the louvre (paris, france)
best coffee: le cafe (ghent, belgium) *we actually just can't remember the name. Eva? Help us out!
best beers:
1) sint-bernardus abbey ale (belgium)
2) trappistes rochefort 8 (belgium)
3) meantime wheat ale (england)
best free tourist attraction:
1) eiffel tower sparkling light show (paris, france)
2) the saatchi gallery (london, england)
3) arthur's seat (edinburgh, scotland)
best cheap (under 5€ ) activity: the wimbledon dog races (london, england)
best expensive activity: the eiffel tower summit (paris, france)
best pub:
1) "the two pigs" (corsham, england)
2) "the turf tavern" (oxford, england)
3) "de trollekelder" (ghent, belgium)
best street food: the burrough market (london, england)
best sweet treat:
1) cream cake (bremen, germany)
2) eccles cake (england)
3) chocolate ecclair (paris, france)
best bakery purchase:
1) dark bread (oldenburg, germany)
2) pain au chocolate (paris, france)
3) brioche (paris, france)
best native dish: stoofvles (a meat stew made with a bottle of beer to which a piece of bread with a spread of mustard is added at the end of cooking to thicken, usually served with frittes. Genius)
best new, strange food: speculoos spread (intended to taste like ginger cookies dipped in coffee - the winner of a reality show featuring Flemish inventors.)
most scenic landscape:
1) castle combe vicinity (england)
2) stonehenge (england)
3) paris (from atop the eiffel tower)
best wireless internet: TGV from brussels to paris
best museum: the saatchi gallery (london, england)
longest wait for ladies toilet: the british museum - almost 20 minutes!
shortest wait for ladies toilet: bristol city football match
biggest waste of money: the 8 euro mango (to be fair, it was quite good, but still)
most loved hosts' pet: 3 way tie - Emile the hamster, Chippy and Buffy the pups
biggest celebrity sighting: Yannick Noah (a famous french tennis player, seen at the royal oak, Edinburgh)
strangest moment: watching Jon's 14 year old cousin Doug learning how to skin a rabbit from local butcher, Billy Baxter
best muesli: Jon's - from the corsham natural foods shop (though Bob's home-made in Oldenburg is a close second)
top 5 things we wouldn't have done without guidance from locals:
1) The Wimbledon Dog Races (london, england)
2) searching for the elusive artwork of banksy (everywhere, europe)
3) countryside walks (rural england)
4) private art collection (zelzate, belgium)
5) chinatown (paris, france)

special thanks to our kind hosts - past, present, and future. without you we'd be completely lost.

Yes, we are weary, but it's the good kind of weary. We're going to keep it up for at least another three weeks. We're looking forward with excitement. Stay tuned.

ok,
jared and steph.

letter to jared, from your pants

dear jared:

please wash me.

you're wearing me for the 6th day in a row today, and though that might be lost on everyone else, it's not lost on me. I need cleaning, I need it now.

Exhibit A: black smudge mark, sector 3 (left hip)
Exhibit B: whitish streak, sector 4b (right, rear calf)
Exhibit C: increasingly suspect smell (pervasive)
Exhibit D: wrinkles...everywhere.

you wouldn't not clean yourself for 6 days -- why should I be treated any differently? I cover your ass, literally, on a daily basis. and I'm cool with that; I just need a bit of liquid tide and a spin cycle or two.

i'm aware that being leader of the pack comes with certain requisites: starting everyday, matching nearly all shirts, serving as your pseudo-dress pants. truth is, I don't even mind that you don't throw me a warm press every now and again. the tan khakis on the other hand, well... and the jeans? sure, jeans get all the fanfare, but are your jeans out there in the rain?

I hardly mean to complain, man, it's just -- you haven't been yourself. skipping showers, drinking tea, going to art museums. what's wrong with you? i hope you wake up soon from this wannabe, ex-pat, neo-"bohemian" fantasy that you're indulging. you're not yourself, dude.

toss me in the washing machine, jared. now.

Anxiously,

A. Greenish Chino

Lesson For Today

The secret of happiness is this: Let your interests be as wide as possible, and let your reactions to the things and persons that interest you be as far as possible friendly rather than hostile.

-Bertrand Russell

the art museum.

It’s a good thing Steph speaks German. (jared)

We find ourselves during this leg of the journey in Oldenburg, Germany. It’s a small-ish University town. A self-proclaimed center for art and culture, Oldenburg boasts a number of theatres, including one funded by the State, which seems reputable, a music academy, libraries, the University, and a number of museums of which the city is particularly proud. (steph)

It was a pretty ordinary day;

We explored the city by bike (lent to us by our kind host, Bob), began our conquest of Bratwurst and Brötchen, and spent some time catching up on election news and email over mediocre coffee.

until we entered the Landesmuseum Oldenburg (the region’s Art Museum). I should preface this amusing tale by pointing out that, at 4:05 pm, I was advocating passing on this one. The museum was closing at 5:00; admission was going to set us back about 8 bucks; there were no Hirsts or Monets waiting inside. Nonetheless, Steph had a feeling about this one. I acceded, we went in.

So far we hadn’t absorbed our “culture” quota for the day. My intent was to justify our relative laziness by getting in at least one solid culture-saturated hour. So, we pushed open the tall, solid-oak front door.

Immediately thereafter, frenzy -- particularly from my perspective (I had no idea what was being said) -- ensued.

Three well-dressed, official looking people headed for us, arms extended:
“Endlich sind Sie da! Wir haben schon lange auf sie gewartet!”
(Finally you’ve arrived! We’ve been waiting for you for quite some time!)

A woman (tallish, attractive, well-dressed) immediately accosted Steph, bearing an enormous smile (this was my first clue that something was terribly amiss – Germans don’t smile much) and a bouquet of flowers. Wonderful, I thought, we’ve walked into someone’s wedding reception. These folks think Steph is someone else, we’re going to be publicly shamed and likely sentenced to community service.

I was just as confused. I too was convinced that these people had mistaken me for someone else. Perhaps an artist who’s exhibit was opening? I wonder if I could have pulled that one off had it been the case...

My bewilderment and indignation (this was her idea, not mine) deepened when 2 other equally magnanimous, academic-looking types joined this ensemble. Pleasantries were exchanged (I got that much); notes were taken; hands were shaken; Steph was handed books; the security guard beamed. I wasn’t sure if Steph was playing a character at this point or if she had learned something that I clearly hadn’t. We were whisked away for a photo op with these people.

I answered all of the questions: Steffi Long, my husband, Jared, from Wyoming in America, we’re traveling around Europe and just arrived in Oldenburg yesterday. All were met with approval: “Das ist ja toll!” said one of the women to the other as she took down the information on a small note pad. I believe the fact that we were foreigners made it all much more exciting. I suddenly realized that poor Jared didn’t know what in the world was going on. I asked the group to excuse me while I explained.

It turns out that Steph was the 25,000th visitor to this museum...

Apparently they had counted. Oh, those Germans. That is so like them.

which made me #25,000... and 1. (I’ve never been so elated for Steph to have walked through a door ahead of me). These people, as I later learned, had been waiting “for hours” for someone to walk through the door. They were taken with Steph’s fetching personality (and decidedly unimpressed by my silence, stupor).

Not true at all. They insisted on including Jared in the picture and congratulated us both in English on the Obama win.

We were showered with gifts, given free entry to the museum and are anticipating a spot in the local newspaper.

It certainly turned a rather uneventful day in a random destination into one we won’t soon forget. Luck? Being in the right place at the right time? Or is Saturn’s return playing a part here?

Germany is a special place indeed ... I just wished people smiled more.

Yes, they are awfully serious I suppose. But they sure can bake some delicious treats, and brew some lovely Heffeweizen.

letter to barack.

Dear President Obama,

Congratulations on your well-deserved victory! I’m sure you’re tired; I’m exhausted from merely reading about what you’ve been up to. Right on, man. The socialist revolution begins now! Say ... I know you’ve got a lot on your plate: the economy, operation shit-storm in Iraq, health care (yawn...), social security, yada yada yada. The thing is, I’ve got a problem that needs your attention.

I’m tired of seeing other Americans when I’m abroad. They’re loud, they’re always wearing bright colors, complaining about high prices, starting every other sentence with “In the US, we...”; they’re likely to believe they’re the first (and only) ones daring and original enough to venture beyond American borders. And they take a lot of pictures. It’s a killjoy seeing these people, dude, and it’s nigh time something be done about it. I propose the following: One group (max 4 individuals) of Americans, per country, per week. Period.

I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, Mr. Obama. Those GOP’ers really left things a mess. But the coffee shops, cobbled lanes and “authentic” pubs in Europe (and undoubtedly elsewhere) are a mess too. If I hear one more American substitute “cheers” for “thank you” in a middle-American accent, I might be provoked to violence. Action is needed ... now.

Thanks for your urgent attention to this matter, President Obama.

Concerned, but optimistic.


Jared Long

P.S. As I’m currently unemployed, I have plenty of time to answer any questions you might have or to elaborate further. I don’t have a cell phone, though, so: A) we could set up a skype date! –or- 2) failing that, drop me an e-mail at: jaredtweedy@gmail.com.

P.P.S. “tweedy” isn’t my real last name.

we're sitting in a coffee shop in edinburgh...

there's a woman on the couch who looks like she just missed the cut for one of the harry potter films; the BBC is predicting a landslide victory for mr. obama; our clothes are visibly (and smelling) dirty; terriers are everywhere and the sun is shining. 24 hours from now, we'll be in germany.

if i had a pound for each time that i've been asked if i own a gun, this trip would nearly be paid for.

18 days in, 0 starbucks consumed.

jared.