Marrakech, or: "I like you because you are nice"

“We are in the life just to live our life as we want” – Moustafa, the best tourguide around.

Perhaps the most stressful travel of this vacation was the voyage from Palma to Marrakech.  So far all of my Ryan Air flights had ended with a little trumpet fanfare and “Welcome! You have arrived on yet another on time flight. Last year over 90% of Ryanair flights landed on time, beating every other European airline.” In order to get to Marrakech from Palma, I needed to fly through another city, so I chose Valencia. I would have about 1 hour in Valencia, no problem. But in reality – yes, problem. Of all my 6 Ryan Air flights, this was the only one that wasn’t on time. We got in about 30 minutes late, so by the time I debarked and exited security the departures board read ‘now boarding’ for my flight, and I still had to get my ticket stamped by a passport checker and get back through both security and customs, since I was leaving the country. No good. I waited in line at the wrong window and was told in Spanish that I needed to run to the other window, then once I got my stamp was told in English that I needed to run to the terminal. Thanks, guys, I wasn’t aware that I had negative minutes to get on this flight. At this point, I’m running my options through my head for when I miss the flight, which in my mind is inevitable. I don’t really speak Spanish, I have no way to get ahold of my friends who are waiting for me in Marrakech, and the next flight on this airline isn’t til 7pm the next day. I settle on trying to find a flight back to Madrid that night, staying with Dave, then catching the first flight to Marrakech in the morning. This is all running through my head as I am literally running across the airport to security. I make it through incredibly quickly, and as I’m running to customs/the gate I’m told once again that I need to run by an announcement that the flight is fixin to take off. I barely make it through in time, but I do, am told to run down the ramp and across the tarmac to the plane. And here’s the kicker – this is the exact same plane that took me from Palma to Valencia. Are you serious, Ryan Air? While I was standing in lines and running from one end of the airport to the other, my plane was being leisurely taxied across the tarmac and my flight attendants (who were giving me funny looks because they recognized me from the last flight) were collecting garbage and tidying. Miserable. BUT I made the flight, got into Marrakech where the hostel had sent a car to meet me, was driven/walked to the hostel and met up with Krista, Richard, and our roommate for the night, another British guy named William.

              

  After throwing down my stuff, we walked to the square for my first Moroccan meal. This is the main square in town which during the day is filled with spice vendors and orange juice stands, but at night transforms into a food court of sorts. Basically it’s just a canopy of white tents, who all have the exact same menu with the exact same prices, only differing slightly in spicing and whether or not there are chick peas in the couscous. So as soon as you’re in sight of the tents, there will be guys in white aprons shoving their menus in your face, promising you free tea (which is turns out they all have), and telling you “we’re all the exact time, so just eat here!” We chose the first place we were invited to and I had a delicious chicken couscous for 30 dirham – aka 3 euro. I love this country already.

free tea!

  In the morning we said bye to William and decided to search out some museums and palaces or some such cultural sites. While wandering through the souks (the insane winding streets filled with shops of anything and everything), some guys illuminated us to what should have been the obvious fact that everything was closed because it was Friday. Duh, whities – how eurocentric of us. They do tell us, however, that the tanneries are open, and point us in the direction. Alright, we think, why not. (at this point, you can skip this entire paragraph and just watch this video instead, or keep reading. Your funeral) So while we’re wandering some more a super nice guy sort of saves us from getting run over by some cars, then tells us we should go this way for the tanneries and goes on his way. A nice refresher after the kids everywhere who will take you where you want to go but only for a price. We start walking that way and are quickly told by the same guy who has reappeared, that it’s this street, not that one, then calls his friend over and says he’ll show us the way. No no, we say, we don’t want a guide, we don’t want to pay. ‘no money no honey’ he tells us, which apparently and counter intuitively means we do not have to pay him. He’s on his way home from work and he lives this way anyway, he tells us. As part of a new thing I’m trying where rather than assuming that everyone is creepy and not to be trusted I have a bit of faith in humanity, I trust the guy, and we go with him across town. He’s very friendly, and tells me all about the tanneries and Marrakech in general while Krista and Richard follow behind. We get to the tanneries and he hands us off to a Berber man, shakes our hands, and goes on his merry way. What a nice guy. The Berber guy gives us some mint leaves ‘for the smell’ and walks us through 2 different tanneries, explaining the dying and drying process  and warning us to watch our feet for all the pigeon droppings. Apparently in order to get the smell of the lime out, you attack it with an equally rank smell, so the hides are soaked in pigeon crap water. Now I don’t curse, but maybe my favorite quote of the trip was his explanation of the process – “shit contre shit – no shit.” Ah, now I see. After the tour he asks if we want to see the finished product. For future travelers, this would be a good time to say no. He takes us across the street to a shop filled with leather bags and hand us off to the owner, an incredibly jovial man who takes us into a back room lined with rugs, sits us down, and brings us tea. “We made you smell the tanneries, so now we have to give you tea” he says. While we enjoy our tea he explains the different types of rugs which his ‘young accomplice’ (as put by Richard) unfurls one after another and lays at our feet. Then the negotiations begin. It’s actually a fun process – the accomplice holds up a rug and we say either ezjma (no dice) or ralay (keep it), then once we get it down to about ten we go back through and do it again until we’ve got the one we want to purchase. Except we don’t want to purchase. After working this out the owner who is now exponentially less jovial shakes our hands, asks for some money for his helper, and sends us out, where the guy who showed us through the tanneries is waiting and also asks for money. Turns out ol such and such who saved us from the cars was actually the first in a 4 man sting operation – kudos to you guys, I don’t even mind that you took my money. It only ended up costing us about four euro a piece and an hour or so, with which I’m fine. We spent the rest of the day exploring the souks, eating, and hanging out on our rooftop terrace playing cards. Lovely.

living the dream on the rooftop

A note about the rooftop: it was here that I had my first experience with the call to prayer. As those of you that have been to Islamic nations know, this is something that happens five times a day and lasts about 10-20 minutes, starting at 5 am. A pretty integral part of my experience in Morocco, thought I should mention it, anyway.

  On Saturday we went on a day trip into the Atlas mountains, where we visited an old Berber home and were fed a delicious breakfast and  taught to make mint tea, visited a ‘Moroccan pharmacy’ with herbal cures for everything from snoring to herpes, took a short hike into the mountains, ate a bomb lunch at a pretty classy restaurant, and rode some camels. I’d say the best part of the whole thing was our tour guide, Mustafa. On the drive there he asked if we knew what the plan was for the day, and when a fellow excursioner said no, exclaimed “then why did you come!” Pretty shortly afterwards he serenaded us through the vans crackly sound system (which is equipped with a mic) with Enrique’s ‘Hero.’ Fantastic.  Later we rounded a corner and he yelled out ‘o my god! Camels!’ which he repeated at least 4 times throughout the day.  He’s starting his own tour company called Desert Dreams, so if you ever go to Morocco, look him up, he’s phenomenal.

                

That night we went back to the square for the 3^rd time and had a very friendly server named Antonio. He deduced that I speak a poco of Spanish, and from there on out only addressed us in español. He was the guy in charge of bringing in clientele, so he was running back and forth in front of our table, and each time he passed us he would throw out a line in our direction – my favorite of which was ‘I like you because you are nice.’ Thanks, Antonio, I like you too. We exchanged facebook info before parting, but sadly that is not a friend request which has popped up. C’est la vida. After dinner we went back to our place to relax and were serenaded by a really beautiful prayer service from across the street. Here's a clip.

                The next day, my final day in Morocco, we got ourselves psyched up for the souks. The man at our hostel had told us not to buy anything until our last day, so that we would be familiar with the prices and know what we wanted. Tell you what – terrible idea. I’ve never bartered before, and it is exhausting. At the end of the day I came out of the souks with a pair of sandals, a ton of earrings, a purse, a couple bracelets, and an avocado icecream for all my hard work. Another afternoon spent on the roof with tea and crosswords, another dinner in the square, and my Moroccan adventure drew to a close. In the morning I gave Krista my remaining dirham, got a taxi to the airport, and headed back to Madrid. Let the one day visits begin!

i don't even like orange juice and i will miss this

p.s. click here to see the rest of the photos from marrakech, and here for my pics from spain!

Palma, or: Sobrassada, Ensaimada, and the many traditions of Mallorca

After our short flight across the water, we landed in lovely Palma de Mallorca, the palm tree laden island paradise where Julia works. This was a Monday, and Julia had school neither Monday nor Tuesday, for reasons unbeknownst to her. On our shuttle from the airport to town, however, we met another language assistant named Dave who enlightened us to the reason for the vacation - Día de las Islas Baleares, Balearic Islands day. This would be Tuesday, so we put a pin in it and spent a relaxing day exploring the town. Because I was still recovering from my stupid illness, we took it pretty easy and decided to have a lazy night in, making a super delicious goat cheese and veggie pizza and watching Mamma Mia. I say we made a pizza, but really Julia did most of the work while I hung out with Charlie, the enormous sheep dog of the family that she lives with, and my new best friend. Charlie had the good fortune to be the first dog I’ve been around since I left home and my two puppies died, so we spent a lot of time together during my stay in Palma.

isn't is precious?

The next day I was fully recovered, so we headed to the Castell de Bellver, one of just a few circular castles in Europe which is conveniently located just across town from Julia’s place. We climbed the 504 stairs up the hillside to the castle where we were lucky enough to experience a break in the clouds for some wonderful views of the island. This was actually one of the only monument type things I did/saw during my whole vacation, and it was definitely a good one. After we took a good many pictures of and around the castle, we wandered back down the hill to a nice picnic area where we enjoyed some fruit, cheese, bread, and sausage. Not quite the paddle-boat picnic which is normally the only time I see Julia each year, but lovely in its own way. Later that afternoon we decided to check out some more of the town, with plans to see the cathedral and a few important boulevards. On our way to the cathedral we stumbled upon what appeared to be a little street market to celebrate the Balearic Islands, with all local and traditional foods and crafts. We decided to check this out and hit up the cathedral after, but this was no little street market. It wrapped around 3 boulevards (one of which was entirely lined with palm trees), and had more cheese, sausage, and leather goods than I’ve seen in one place. We sampled a good deal of the former two, and near the end while watching some women make traditional donut-hole like pastries and debating whether we could manage 12 of them between us, we were offered samples – lovely!

we certainly didn't have such stylish life vests on our Palma picnic

 By this point we’d sacked the cathedral and were heading back towards Julia’s when we stumbled upon what was probably my favorite single experience of the vacation. We could hear music from a square up ahead, so we followed it and pretty soon we were on the edge of a plaza that was filled with people dancing to traditional mallorquin music (which I found to be surprisingly similar to traditional English music – think pride and prejudice). These people weren’t just dancing, though; they were doing a mesmerizing circle dance, each circle led by 3 or 4 dancers with castanets. There was a lot of spinning and jumping involved, and there were people from 4 to 84 in each circle, all seeming to at least understand the basics and taking cues from the leaders so it all flowed very smoothly. At the end of the song during which we arrived, one of the guys in the band made an announcement (in mallorquin, so we had no idea what he said), and all of the circles collapsed into one big group near the stage with a sizable open space in the middle. Everyone seemed pretty excited about whatever was going to happen as two dancers took their places in the middle of the clearing. As the music began, the couple started circling one another, slowly at first, then speeding up with the music until they were at a pace quick enough to begin the twirling and jumping of the previous dances. After a minute or two, a woman came out from the crowd and twirled into the place of the first woman, who twirled away into the crowd. After a bit another man came to replace the first man, and the cycle began. Whenever anyone felt like it, they would spin into the place of one of the dancers, and stay until they were replaced. Sometimes a man would spin in and shortly after his wife would spin in and jokingly push the first woman back into the crowd, and the dance would become closer and more romantic until the next person came in. Young and old alike were dancing, including a boy of about 16 who stayed in and held his own for a surprisingly long time (the men always had to dance a little longer than the women, who were more eager to join in). The music was continually growing faster and faster until the original two dancers found their way back to the middle and finished off in an impressive and dizzying jump and twirl. I am absolutely in love with Mallorquin dance, and I can’t express how joyful it felt to be in that square and feel the community of the dance. That one dance could have strangers dancing together with huge grins spread across their faces as well as couples, bringing the spins closer and keeping their eyes on each other – it was absolutely spectacular. This was the last dance, and as we left the square with the dissipating crowd, I felt a general happiness around me.

another bit of traditional dancing we came across earlier that day, but this time with traditional garb to boot

That evening was the Ruta Martiana, a weekly festival of sorts, where all the bars in a neighborhood of Palma have ‘rutas,’ or 2euro caña-pincho combos. Pinchos are tiny toasts to go with the tiny beers, with a variety of toppings, from anchovies and cheese to curried potato salad. In an evening reminiscent of our night out in Madrid, we went to three different bars, having 4 or 5 rutas before heading in for the night. The next day Julia had to work, so I spent the morning doing laundry and hanging out with Charlie, and the afternoon exploring the town (this time the cathedral made the cut). That night we made some chicken curry and hung out with the kids of the family, Sergio, a 13 year old boy, and Monica, a 16 year old girl (as well as Monica’s friend whose name I don’t recall). My entire venture in Spain surprised me with how much Spanish I actually learned during my 3 semesters at Willamette, and I found that I could understand nearly everything that was said to me, but had the inability to respond. I did understand that the girls were going to Madrid to see Bieber, and managed to form a sentence (with Julia’s help) – “soy muy celosa.” The next morning Julia made some delicious apple scones and we enjoyed a leisurely brunch on the patio, and before I left we made some traditional Morrocan avocado milkshakes to prepare me for my journey south. I said goodbye and got my shuttle to the airport where the next chapter of my vacation commenced. 

"soursop"

Nantes àParis à Madrid à Palma à Valencia à Marrakech à Madrid à Paris à Dijon à Champagnole à Mouchard à Paris à Nantes

This is how I spent my 2 week vacation, traveling for 16 days nonstop. I actually spent time in only 6 of these places (Madrid twice!), but that’s still pretty ridiculous. This being the first time that I’ve actually travelled in Europe, I thought I ought to take advantage of it. It turns out that the most expensive leg of the journey was getting from Nantes to Beauvais airport in Paris, but once you’re there, the world is your oyster, with flights all over Europe (and a bit of Africa!) for as little as 12 euro. Like I said, thought I should take advantage of it. I don’t think I can do this voyage justice here, if only because the beginning seems like much more than a month ago, but here goes.

Madrid, or: I like to sit on the floor where I don't have to worry about falling down, like with chairs

My trip started with a train to paris, a metro across town, and a shuttle bus to Beauvais airport. One of the most stressful parts of my trip was the fact that all 6 of my flights were with Ryanair, the Dublin based budget airline that I’ve heard countless horror stories about. I was told that my backpack might be to big (yes, one normal school sized backpack for 2 weeks of traveling, in climates as varied as northern African and the Jura mountains of France), that the planes were unreliable at best, and to expect to have flights arriving late if not cancelled completely. Arriving at Beauvais I was pretty nervous about these three warnings, however, I made it through security with my backpack no problem, and on finding my seat onboard, I looked up at the security card (pasted to the back of the seat in front of me) and read ‘Boeing 737.’ I fly Frontier Airlines, people – where the aircraft literally creaks – give me a 737 anyday; when I see the name Boeing, I relax. I arrive in Madrid on time, no problem, and on entering the baggage area see my best friend from when I was a tiny little kid walk into the restroom. I wait outside for her and after a brief reunion we exit security to meet my good friend and host for the next 4 nights David Davidson (of my most recent post fame). We catch the shuttle back to his place and crash (my flight arrived around 11pm).

sweet, Seattle-built safety

Dave’s mom and aunt are supposed to be in town, so I’m not expecting to get to spend much time with him, but their flight was delayed so to my happy, happy surprise we got to spend all of Friday with him (toma!), an excellent guide around the city. Based almost entirely on this one day, Madrid was my favorite part of the vacation. Maybe it’s because I got to spend it with two of my very close friends, maybe it’s because it was probably about 80 degrees after months of rain and winter in Nantes, or maybe it’s because the city itself is marvelous. We explored a bit then ran into a few of Dave’s friends in a huge park who invited us to join them for a picnic. It being a splendid day, we obliged. While Julia and I are chatting with some American girls who are in Madrid to play volleyball professionally, Dave turns to me and says, “Mary Ochs, we know her, right?” In fact we do – she’s in my sorority, I tell him. “Oh!” says his friend, “she’s on her way here right now!” I knew Mary was working in or around Madrid, but jeez. This was the first of many experiences this vacation to remind me just how small of a world it is that we live in. After the quick DG reunion we meet up with another of Dave’s friends for an afternoon “caña,” which I’m pretty sure is Spanish for “tiny beer,” then head back to the homestead for a sit down.

this guy really wanted a pic with me. obviously the feeling was mutual

Around 9:30 we meet up with yet more of Dave’s friends, this time mostly Spanish, and head out for “the real Madrid experience.” Rodrigo, a teacher at the school Dave works at, is our guide for the evening. What a man. He is incredibly welcoming and friendly, and spends the night teaching us “useful” and “colloquial” phrases, as well as humoring my attempts at Spanish. I use quotations because I honestly don’t know if anyone besides Rodrigo uses these phrases, but they’re entertaining, none the less. So at about ten pm we start our dinner at a little bar where we order more cañas, a plate of fried mashed potato like things, and a plate of fried fish. Once we’ve finished these we head to another bar where we order more cañas, some fried pigs ears, fried peppers, and fried potatoes with hot sauce. I’m noticing a trend. I’m surprisingly full after this melee of a meal, and we head to a final bar where the men order purple lavender flavored frozen cocktails, the women order smoothies, and I order a beer. While contemplating which smoothie flavor to get, Julia asks our 3 Spanish companions what a guanábana is. “It’s red. And it’s red on the inside.” Ooook. We ask the server. He tries to explain but after beginning to form a few words he tells us he’ll look it up. He comes back with a small piece of receipt paper on which is scrawled one word, in quotations: “soursop.” There is no way this is correct. There cannot possibly be a fruit called a soursop. We spend the next half hour coming up with new definitions for soursop, settling on ‘the waiter who neglects to bring you the beer that you ordered,’ because at this point, the purple drinks are halfway gone and I’m still parched. Someone signals the soursop and he apologizes profusely, brings me my beer, and doesn’t charge me for it in the end. Excellent. About 2am we head home through the incredibly alive streets. I’ve heard about how late everything goes in Spain, but I was still a little surprised to see even restaurants open in the middle of the night. What a night, what a day, what a city. I even wrote a horrible poem about it – in Spanish. The books coming soon, keep your eyes out.

Rewind to “based almost entirely on this one day.” Sometime during said great day, I started feeling the symptoms of whatever miserable disease sees fit to attack my body once or twice every month. By day 2, it was in full swing – fever, aches, chills, general misery. Julia and I headed to Toledo for the day, and it was a lovely place, but my usual ‘pump Tylenol all day to keep the fever at bay’ tactic wasn’t working, and even when increased to 2 every 2 hours, I just wasn’t able to properly enjoy the city. Kudos to Julia for humoring me and my ill-temper (get it?). That evening we were very kindly invited to dine with Dave’s family at their rented apartment, which was a perfect way to spend a sick evening abroad. Great food and great company, and a comfy couch to sit on. The next day we were slated to go to the rastro, the huge open air market, for which I was totally pumped. I got up later than I meant to, ate some toast, unate said toast, and went back to bed until 4pm. Julia picked me up some sunnies at the market and that evening we had another excellent dinner with the fam. In the morning Jules and I headed back to the airport and caught our plane to Palma, chapter 2 of my adventure. 

turns out it's real, but in no way is it red

y2k11

Christmas, Dave and Emily’s visit, New Year’s in Paris, Foosball world cup, masquerade ball! So much has happened since I last updated – hand it to me to drop the ball… again. Let me try to recap in the least boring way possible.

Christmas day was spent at Keri Ann’s house with four American girls and one British boy. We got there around 3 pm, at which point we popped the champagne and started our day with mimosas. Basically the entire day was spent drinking, cooking, eating, dancing, singing, and playing silly card games. What better way to forget that you’re 4300 miles from your family on the day you most want to be home? Around 1am I took my computer outside into the freezing, dark night to skype my family chez Helgeland (Keri Ann’s internet was only working outside). Illuminated by a streetlamp I got to spend a good 15 minutes on speaker phone with the entire Helgeland clan (minus my immediate relations). The fact that all I could see of myself in the video window was my face on a black background was made slightly creepier by the fact that Torger doesn’t have a webcam, so I couldn’t see any of the 11 or so people addressing questions to my floating head. Regardless, it was definitely the highlight of my Christmas, making me perhaps equally happy and sad (not to be there). Another highlight came just before, when in the last ten minutes of Christmas I declared that we should all sing our favorite carols. We went around the circle and as a group sang each person’s favorite song. After maybe 3 classic Christmas favorites, we arrive at Misty, an assistant from Idaho. When asked her favorite Christmas carol, Misty, without hesitation, launches into a song which begins “America, America, how can I tell you how I love you.” No, Misty, CHRISTMAS songs. She starts again. We skip her, finish up the circle and at 11.59 sing Silent Night in at least 2 languages (at this point my French neighbor has joined us). Then we learn Misty’s Christmas favorite:  America, America, how can I tell you how I love you? You have given us your riches. We love you so. Sung to the tune of Rose, Rose (alternately, Hey-ho Nobody Home, or the Delta Gamma Round, for the anchor inclined). After learning this song, Misty and I proceeded to improvise several new classics, mostly revolving around the theme of washing our hair, feet, hands, and various other body parts, in snow. Apparently white Christmas is the most hilarious thing, ever. Fortunately most of these songs made it into videos, so we can publish them and send them to all the major Christmas labels.

boxing day morning - the graveyard.

Between Christmas and the New Year, my good, nay, great friend David Davidson came up from Spain with his girlfriend (and also my friend/physics lab partner extraordinaire) to check out France and visit one Lindsey Arrington. We passed a leisurely few days exploring Nantes and living the French dream. Sadly for Emily the weather was very ‘Nantaise,’ aka exactly the same as Salem, Oregon. Grey, drizzling, and cold. Sorry, Em. New Year ’s Eve we got up bright and early to catch a 5am train to Paris, where we spent the day checking out the tourist sights and snacking. After seeing far too many people posing as if to hold the pyramid at the Louvre in their hands, I decided that from now on every time I’m in a picture in front of a famous monument, I’m messing these poses up.

why didn't you guys tell me it doesn't look like i'm holding it?

A probable cause of the huge amounts of kitschy photos was the huge amount of foreigners. Due to all these foreigners, I called the UK, Emily called America, and Dave called Italy, Russia, and I think Germany, so that every time one of these accents/languages was heard, a point was gained. By the end of two major holidays in the city of lights, Emily was far ahead of both Dave and I, although slightly surprisingly, Dave was well ahead of me. Who knew the Russians loved Paris so much? We checked into our hotel, which I had booked for one person, around 5pm and decided to have a nap before heading out for dinner and the big celebration at the Eiffel Tower. On our way out to dinner, around 8pm, the doorman actually chased me out of the building when I didn’t realize he was addressing me to confirm that it was just me staying in the room. “Just one, not three – right? Just you.” I assured him I would be staying alone and we went on our way. This was going to be a problem. I was hoping that rules were as lax here as they seem to be stateside (even Canada side, where Dave theverysame Davidson and I once fit 5 into a room reserved for 2). During our meal we worked through several plans to trick the doorman, who we deduced was going to be working all night long, but finally ended up settling on the fact that he would already be t’d from having to work new year’s eve and trying to trick him would only further annoy him, thus leaving us to wander the streets of Paris all night. Around 9:30 we get on the metro, 2 bottles of horribly fruity champagne in tow, and head to the Eiffel tower. We’re scheduled to meet Annika and her family at 10, and because of the absurd amount of people at the tower, we’ve set a location, assuming cell service will be shoddy at best. I, being a genius, don’t realize that Trocadero bridge is NOT, in fact, the quaint small bridge we had crossed earlier in the day, but in fact an enormous plaza that I have never actually been too, so the meeting place is a joke. But first, we have to get out of the metro. We arrive at our stop and squeeze out of the doors into the tightest packed space I have ever encountered. Wall to wall people in every direction, moving no faster than a meter a minute towards who knows what exit. Dave and Emily and I do our best to stay next to each other, which mostly works out. Emily has latched onto a tall man in front of her, I’ve been latched onto by a not-so-tall man behind me who seems to think this is a good opportunity to pick up women, and Dave is being pushed along with the flow of people sans problème. At one point I actually fear that I will be crushed and trampled against a wall, but after maybe 30 minutes of surprisingly jovial shuffling towards the universal destination (the location of which I am entirely unaware), we make it to the street and follow the general crowd, hoping they are headed to this mysterious bridge.

not, as it turns out, a small bridge

 I try to call Annika but there is absolutely no connection with tens of thousands of people trying to meet up and one big, famous cell tower to bounce the calls off of. We decide to give up on that and settle in with a great view of the tower, eerily illuminated in the thickening fog. Surprised that no one around us is popping champagne and wary of the large groups of French Military Police milling about, we decide to save the champagne for … later. I decide to give finding Annika one last go and wander down the hill to the actual bridge, which is blocked off by yet more military police. After nearly giving up hope for maybe the 5^th time, I sight a beret, and knowing from facebook that Annika’s dad often wears such a beret (creepy), head in that direction. This is not, as it turns out, Annika’s dad, but lo and behold, Annika is right behind him. There are less police here, and the Geilens have definitely taken advantage of that fact, now into their third(?) bottle of REAL champagne, plastic flutes and everything. I embarrassedly get out our 2 euro strawberry drink and pour up 3 plastic dentist cups for my crew, and we wait for midnight. I have to say, after all the hype, 12 am rolled around and I was a bit let down. The tower sparkled. It sparkles on the top of every hour, all year round. Where are the fireworks?! Where is the singing!! Where is something special to ring in y2k11!!?!?! The Minnesotans in front of us that we’ve befriended are pretty sure that something happens at 1am. Don’t ask me why we believed a coupla northerners about the Parisian new year’s tradition, especially with something as far-fetched as a 1am celebration – that doesn’t even make sense. None at all. But we stay – why not? We still have a bottle of peach drink, after all, and nowhere to stay. 1am rolls around, and whaddya know – they turn off all the lights and the tower sparkles. I mean really sparkles. It was beautiful. It was magical. It was worth it. Out of the light mistiness of a big city night, the sparkling outline of this country’s most well-known symbol. After 10 minutes it stopped, but the lights didn’t come back on, and this was almost better than the sparkling. The Eiffel Tower is ALWAYS lit up. The city lights were diffused enough by the fog that you could still see the silhouette, and without modern lights it felt like the Paris I never imagined – the one you see in movies and postcards – old and crackling but magnificent.

magical!

 Annika’s parents graciously offered us a place to stay in their rented apartment, so we accompanied them back to the Champs-Elysees, ate some gouda and soup, and went to bed earlier than I ever have on new year’s eve. In the morning we went back to the hotel to check out, and by the look the doorman (now dubbed, ‘the falcon’) gave us, I’m fairly certain he was trying to figure out how we snuck past him, not once but twice, to stay the night but come in from outside in the morning. We spent the day goofing around Paris, just wandering the streets and relaxing, before I sent Dave and Emily on their train to the airport. Needless to say, this was an excellent visit, a much needed taste of home, and a shame to see end.  

This is already far too long, so if I update in the next month I’ll get to those other things. Probably.

Even more pictures!