New Year's trees

As my Christmas winds down to an uneventful end, the festivities are just about to begin. In all honesty, New Year's Eve is a really big deal here. I kept thinking about buying a miniature Christmas tree, but I never bothered, figuring they'd all be gone soon anyways. But they're all still there, all people are going all out. I asked some of my students if they were ready for New Year's, and one of the ladies in my class told me she absolutely had to get....and here she hesitated, "A Christmas tree? No, a New Year's tree." Well, to be honest, I guess it's all the same, just 6 days later.

As much as I tried to decipher this holiday which most of us Americans use as a big excuse for a party with friends, I'm still not sure quite what it's all about in Moscow. Some people spend the time with their family, and have a big dinner with plenty of presents, but it also seems to be true that many people are out with their friends at night too, and the amount of partying already promised seems endless. The Red Square should be crowded, the trees lit, and lot's of merriment. Any excuse for a party.

Life as an English teacher

Admittedly I don't talk about my job much, which is rather ironic since these days the majority of my time is spent working. Becoming an English teacher in another country is surprisingly easy, and as long as you're open-minded and courageous, you can teach just about anywhere....that is, if you're a native speaker. I'm not sure if native speakers make the best teachers, but that's the way it is.

Anyways, my life as an English teacher is surprisingly different from what I thought it would be like. For one, you have to be flexible, able to adjust to many different types of students, coming from different backgrounds and from all sorts of age groups and levels of language capabilities. What may work great for one group of students may be a disaster for another group. Or perhaps a group of 2 students can't really play the same games that a group of 10 students can. It really depends.

The second thing I've noticed is how mobile you have to be. I don't have a permanent school for the moment since I just arrived, and I've been sent out in virtually every direction of the city, teaching at all sorts of places. As a new teacher who is under hours on their contract, you can get called at any time to substitute teach a class, which means you never know your schedule really.

Although it might get old after a while, always moving about (which fortunately later on I will have my own classes when they start up in January), I actually enjoy all of the excitement. The best part is getting the chance to meet all sorts of people, and learn a lot about them, in class! I've taught businessmen, accountants, teenagers, bored housewives, the boss of a big company...Most of these people are really invested in learning the language, and it's inspiring to see their drive and motivation, as they ask me questions about grammar, pronunciation, vocabulary. Even the teenagers, who are studying for an exam, had an argument over past continuous in class that got very heated!

I find it really interesting to teach in companies, since you end up in a meeting room with a white board, and you never know what will happen. Sometimes the students are coworkers who get along really well, and can debate in English. Other times they somberly walk into the room at 9 in the morning, dreading the class that I haven't even taught yet. There are the ups and downs of teaching, but you have to admit, how often do you end up in a Russian executive office, drinking champagne and eating chocolates with two beginner students who make 10 times more money than you do? Indeed, it's an odd life.

Ice Skating

When I first signed up to teach in Russia, I secretly thought of how wonderful it would be to have a white Christmas. After all, for Christmas back in California, we often just wake up, open presents, eat breakfast, and then go for a nice hike on a sunny, cool day. Snow is just something you see on tv, or if you get enough energy to drive the 3 hours to Lake Tahoe to go skiing. But to have a snowy Christmas, that's special.

There are a few things I hadn't thought of when I made the assumption that I would be having a white Christmas in Russia. First of all, sometimes the temperature does rise just above freezing point, which will not make all the snow disappear, but it also means that if it rains, you have horrible slush and ice everywhere. Secondly, Russians don't celebrate Christmas on the 25th. If they celebrate Christmas at all (which many don't), it's on the 7th of January, after the huge festivities for New Year's. Oops.

Nevertheless, where there's a will, there's a way. Rounding up friends who were willing to wake up before noon on Christmas morning was somewhat of a challenge, but in the end, success was mine. Valentina and I headed out, later joined by Casey, to do what I had been dying to do even before I got to Moscow: ICE SKATING. And not just regular, indoor rink type ice skating, oh no. Real, outdoor, in the park ice skating.

Ice skating is one of those precious things that make Moscow special. What usually are summer amusement parks in June magically become transformed into skating parks, where all of the pathways are icy surfaces. Instead of just skating in circles, you can skate around the park, going wherever you like. As you take a skate in the park, music plays, and at night there are Christmas lights all around. It's mostly very pretty with plenty of trees and snow all around, although somewhat strange to see carousels, and park rides that are abandoned, not really in use until summertime.

It's somewhat of a challenge for a beginner like me, since there are no railings to cling to, nor is the ice groomed very often....but fortunately that's what friends are for. As Val and I skated around, we held hands, tripping over the massively uneven surfaces, struggling not to fall over. Casey struggled behind us, although she seemed to be having more success at looking a little more graceful. I was surprised that these two Russian girls weren't pros at this national sport. I asked them both, "When's the last time you went ice skating?" Val replied, "4 months ago, in Florida," and Casey thought about it, then said, "A year ago, I think. What about you Laura?" I laughed, because I knew I had them both beat. I went ice skating last month! Sadly you wouldn't know it from the way I was skating....

And of course, there are so many pro skaters, who just zip by you as you waddle along. But if you're going to be in Moscow in the winter time, I can't think of a better way to pass the time, so long as it doesn't rain!

Happy Holidays!

Rush hour

Ok, so I apologize in advance for yet another entry about the Metro, but I feel it is justified due to the large portion of my day devoted to being underground. On any given day I could be in the system for 2-3 hours, and when you consider that there are only 6 hours of daylight....well you get the point.

So rush hour. I'm sure that I've seen large crowds before, but this is different. For example, I've never seen a human jam of people waiting to get on the escalator, or to walk up the stairs. Nor have I been almost run over the amount of times that I've been in the wrong place at the wrong time....Fortunately the system is so efficient, traffic runs pretty smoothly.

I was thinking the other day about how life parallels in funny ways. I often think back to Reunion Island, and how different my time there was in comparison with Moscow. And yet, I was laughing when I saw something in the Metro. For each metro stop they usually have at least 4 escalators running during peak hours, so that everyone can get in and out. Sometimes, when there is a backup on one end, a policeman (called "militzia") will stop the flow of traffic for one escalator, which will then get stopped by and operator and run the opposite direction. Almost like opening another lane of traffic to get more people through, like they do on Reunion on the highway, so that more people going the proper direction will have more lanes to their disposition. It's pretty efficient, all things considered, although you really have to see it to believe it.

So as you can imagine, if there are backups trying to get onto escalators, the trains themselves during rush hour can be quite squished, or as my friend Valentina says, "we Russians call it morning sex." Let's try not to picture that image too much, especially depending on who you're squished next to. As my parents have always told me, in Japan they have "pushers," or hired people to shove people into trains so that they all fit. You would think that they would need the same system in Moscow, but the other day I discovered that Moscovites can be very clever, and can push themselves onto the train quite well. I even watched almost horrified but more impressed, as a man ran down the steps of the station and hurled himself into the train, jumping on top of the people, who crushed his fall just as the doors closed and the train took off. A professional crowd surfer in the making.

Fortunately this chaos is not all the time all day long. There is a lull in the afternoon, as I hop on to go to my favorite park to go jogging, further north on my line. And in the evening, right before the metro stops running at 1:30 in the morning, you have a peaceful lull, as us early party goers return home, while the rest of Moscow stays up late, waiting for a taxi ride home, or later, the 5:30 AM train. In those moments of silence, it's hard to imagine that the train could be any different.

Street sweeps

I remember the first time in snowed in Portland, Oregon. I was jogging on the track, late at night when it started to snow. At first I just smiled at the little flakes that were melting as soon as they fell. Oh well, I thought, at least they're pretty. But with each lap I made, the flakes got bigger and bigger, and after 4 laps, I couldn't believe it, the snow was sticking! Everyone was so excited, none of us slept that night, throwing snowballs, making snow angels. The next day there was chaos everywhere, crashed cars, people sliding on the slick ice, the city was a mess.....all over a few inches of snow!

In Moscow in the winter it snows so often that it would take a lot more than a few inches to stop them. What's the secret behind their efficiency? The street sweeps. Every morning, snow or shine, there's a huge city wide crew of people, scraping away at the snow and ice, gritting the streets, adding all the chemicals. Regardless of where you live you can be sure that by the time you walk out onto the street, it will be relatively slick-free. Of course most Moscovites appear to be expert ice skaters, who when faced with a particularly slippery spot on the sidewalk just glide over it. Nor would they be phased if there were a huge pile of snow, it's just snow after all.

Of course the snow gang doesn't just clear the roads. They are in charge of keeping the Metro entrances cleared, so the steps don't get too icy, and more impressively, there's a group that shovels off snow from roofs! One evening, as my Moscovite friend Diana walked me around her old neighborhood where she grew up, we saw a team of men shoveling snow off of someone's roof. "I remember them," she smiled wistfully. "Every morning I would watch the huge waterfall of snow come off of the roof. They were always there." Admittedly shoveling snow is probably not the best paying job, but you must admit, we are all grateful that these jobs exist.

Beautiful Moscow

So I know I'm a little biased since I'm snow obsessed, but I really do believe, more than anything else, snow makes things look BEAUTIFUL. It's this magical property, that really has nothing to do with the science of it all. I was wondering how I felt about Moscow this weekend, when it happened. It started snowing. And not just a simple light trickle from the sky, but full out, huge flakes, falling down fast, without a sound.

Luckily I was in the Red Square to witness this glorious snow. The church bells were chiming 5 in the evening, time for mass. You could hear the choir singing, the priest chanting. I went in for a moment, just to appreciate the sounds from a bench just by the door. As I continued on, the music started changing. All of the sudden I was by the ice skating rink, set up just for the holidays next to GUM, the sparkly elegant mall across from the Kremlin. As it continued to snow, people were ice skating to Russian pop music, which is so cheesy it sometimes makes me laugh. And then there I was, in front of Lenin's tomb, the Kremlin, St Basil's Cathedral, watching it snow. GOrGEOUS. Moscow's a pretty cool place after all.

The Fish Bowl

When you show up at a new place, there's always at the beginning that period of time where you desperately grab for whatever is given to you. Be it resources, advice, information, kindness, and especially....friendship. Finding friends is always top priority in my opinion, because without people to spend time with, you might as well be sitting in front of your computer, in your room, at home, instead of using all of that energy and money to get halfway across the world again. Let's ignore the fact that that is precisely what I'm doing right now. I'm leaving in the next hour, though, so there.

Anyways, I discovered that the best thing about working for Moscow's biggest language school is that you are part of a group of interesting people already, who speak English and love to travel! All you have to do is find them....which I did. For various reasons, I've decided to camp out at one of the bigger schools, Kuznetski Most because there's a big library, helpful people, but also because there's what they call the "fishbowl," which is the teacher's room. It gets its name from the fact that most of its walls are panes of glass. This sounds scary, being so exposed, but actually its great. Not only are you visible to everyone, but everyone is visible to you, which leads to inevitable socializing, since teachers of course never miss an opportunity to gab. By the end of 4 hours yesterday, I was not only directing other teachers to resources, or how to use the printer (already been there, check!) but I had new facebook friends, invitations to parties, coffee breaks. Oh, and I got some lessons planned. It just makes life that much easier, when you know that you will have things to do, and friends to go do things with, and the sooner the better, before the work really kicks in!

Starting from 0

As the school sorts out my so far relatively non-existent work schedule (fortunately I’m getting paid all the same), I still have plenty of time to wander around this city, and figure out the metro a little more. Although I’d like to consider myself an expert in the business, I have to admit it’s still a little daunting when there is no indicator on the train, nor can you always read the sign in the station telling you where you are….the trick is to either count (which I as one of the most distracted people on the planet I fail at after having perhaps 100 thoughts in between stops), or you have to listen, and learn to read. It’s become sort of a game for me, guessing what the stop name sounds like, and then comparing it to the recorded voice over the intercom. It sure helps in learning the alphabet, which I’m becoming a pro.

Or trying to. Sometimes for lunch my friend Iulia and I will go to MyMy’s (pronounced Moo Moo’s with a kitsch little cow on the sign to go with it), which is great, because it’s cafeteria style, you grab what you want, or point at it, and they dish it up for you. The biggest challenge is always at the end, when they ask you what beverage you want (or rather I think that’s what they’re asking, because what more could I possibly need?). I look at the menu, which is half in Russian, the bit they understand, and half in English, the part I understand. To get between the two, I try to find the English print for what I want, and then attempt to pronounce the Russian part, assuming I get all my letters right.

To date, I have had about 5% success rate…that one time at another sandwich place where I asked for something that I didn’t know what it was, but the picture looked pretty. I’m hoping that’s what I got, anyways. There was another time that I asked for “borsch” which is simple enough, since it is the same word in English after all. The rest of the time, the waitress looks at me with an exasperated expression and then holds up the menu, waiting to look at whatever thing I point at. Ah yes, she nods, the %*!@#$%E. Da, da, that one. Fortunately I have yet to eat anything I didn’t like, and I haven’t mistakenly ordered shrimp. Although it’s frustrating to have to start at zero, I’m refusing to give up hope, and I play the alphabet game as I walk down the street, trying to make sense of every sign and every print. I feel like a little kid, learning to read for the first time, waiting for that exciting moment when those silly symbols take on more meaning than ever before. I can’t wait.

Fashion in Moscow

Everyday I walk out of my door, I’m wearing my one coat, and my one pair of boots. I smile at the simplicity of it all, I almost don’t even think of what I’m putting on underneath so long as I’m wearing something. But inevitably I’m always passed up on the sidewalk as I dawdle by someone, and about half of the time that person is followed by a persistent clickety clack of, dare I say it? High HEELS. If your eyes just got big at the thought of someone wearing high heels in ice and snow and grit, then you know just how I feel every time I see a “muscovite” of the feminine persuasion. It’s almost as if they defy physics, although it is amusing to see them carefully toe their way down slippery steps, which could trip up the average person in boots. Oh, and these are always topped off by a luxurious fur coat (needless to say that most animal right activists against fur would probably faint if they ever went to Moscow in winter).

I think what amazes me the most is how they have this almost mystical immunity to feeling cold. A lot of these top notch women don’t feel the need to wear a hat or scarf, which I’m assuming is because it detracts from the overall outfit. As goofy as I look in my hat, I couldn’t imagine a day without it here, especially when it’s already dropped below 28 degrees Celsius. Fortunately I’m not completely alone, there seems to be a younger generation that has although still stylish, at least a more practical outlook on what to wear. To explain how many different fashions, hair styles, or hats I’ve seen on the street would take weeks, and I’m too fashion stupid to really say. I’m not abandoning my hat at any rate, for the sake of my ears.

Comfort level?

"What's your comfort level here?" my new friend Iulia from Romania asked me, with a mischievous grin, as if she already knew the answer. Not quite. So I drew it out for her on a cline (pardon me for those of you who don't understand English teacher speak, think of it as a line on a graph). I used my arms, at the top of the cline is where I feel most comfortable, say a dinner with my family. At the bottom, is where I've felt say, the most vulnerable or out of place, like Madagascar. So let's put Moscow below Italy and Budapest, but above anywhere in Africa.

I've come to the conclusion that as much as someone can travel, it's not what I would call "easy" to adjust to every new place you go to. Of course the food is different, the music can be odd, and the people may not randomly smile on the metro. You're likely to get lost, get off at the wrong stop on the metro, or fumble with the money. But all of these things are manageable, in fact they are part of the adventure that make life fun, exhilarating, new.

I think what has made Moscow a little lower on the cline is due to the language. Not only have I never learned Russian (aside from my friend Jamie's crash course before I left), but the alphabet is completely new, and for someone who loves reading roadsigns, menus, etc, this is another speed bump. Talking to my mother about this before leaving, she told me how much she hates not being able to speak the language of the land when overseas. I shrugged it off, figuring I would just learn. And admittedly my Russian has improved exponentially. Each day I seem to double my vocabulary - from one word to two, four, 8.....! So if you want to know my comfort level, it's rising everyday, everytime I have a new verbal interaction with someone: the first time I asked for 2 oranges from my favorite fruit stand lady, or the first time I ordered something from a menu. At least I blend in enough it seems. As usual I'm always the person people ask on the street for directions, or on the metro for which stop to take. Who would have thought, an American that can blend in?

In Desperate Search of Green

Today I decided it was time to go adventuring on my own. My mission: to find at least one green place in this somewhat overwhelming city, a place to relax, be at peace, and maybe even go jogging, if I could handle it without falling and breaking something. As I looked through the guidebook, I discovered a botanical garden, right next to the VVT, or the “All-Russa Exhibit Centre” according to the book. Aha, a quick stroll between metro stops, it seemed.

Unlike many places in the world, such as San Francisco where it seems pitiful that they should have so many stops on a metro line, when you can walk between them in less than a few minutes, Moscow’s stops are more serious. Admittedly I got a little lost towards the end, but we’re still talking a 2 hour walk.

Anyways, back to the VVT. It’s probably one of those places that is lovely to visit in the summer, but in the winter it’s a little bleak, and rather drab. The VVT as far as I can tell consists of many memorials, buildings, museums, including a pretty cool looking space museum with an awesome spacey –looking tower. There are fountains, sculptures, all soviet style, elaborate and overbearing. Don’t forget the ferris wheel and amusement park, which take up the first part of the VVT. And of course, intercoms, blaring what I hope are commercials and Russian pop music.

The park seemed to stretch on forever, until I crossed the river into the Botanical Gardens, 82 acres that seriously contrast the VVT. There if you covered your ears against the sounds of traffic, you could almost believe that you were in a snow covered forest besides a river, with hardly anyone to distract you. The park must absolutely be beautiful in the summer, at least from the photos that were shown on the map. It was beautiful now, with the little bit of snow left over from the weekend. My new jogging place.

As I attempted to find the Metro stop, I asked a random woman walking down the street. “Metro?” She looked at me, and motioned for me to follow her. As we walked she asked first in Russian, and then resorted to broken English: “Country?” “American,” I replied. Her eyes widened a little in interest. We stepped onto the same train, and she pointed to herself, “Babushka, grandmother.” In the end I gathered that she had 3 children, (she showed me a photo of one of her daughters) and she was 64. For a lady who didn’t speak English, she sure knew her English words enough for me to understand. Not too shabby. Although Russians seem serious as they walk down the street, they do stop when you ask them a question, and most try to help, even if they don’t speak English.

The Red Square

Before I made it Moscow, I knew the one thing I had to see before anything else: the infamous Red Square. My friends swore by it, my grandparents praised it, I knew it would be amazing. As my roommate guided me out of the metro to the café where we’d meet her friends for lunch, she casually turned around and pointed. “Oh, and there’s the Red Square.”

Turns out that although the name is appropriate (it is a square after all), what I expected ended up being confused by the number of sights of interest. There’s Saint Basil’s Cathedral, Lenin’s Tomb, Gum Mall, not to mention the Kremlin, which stretches out in all directions, it’s difficult to know quite where it begins or ends. Oddly enough this time of year there’s an ice skating rink in the middle, that seems somewhat artificial and bizarre in the middle of such impressive buildings. Next to it there’s a very artificial Christmas tree, that seems very dwarfed in such a huge space. Like everywhere else I have been in the past few days, loud Russian music is played all day long from some intercom hidden somewhere.

I think it’s going to take me years to discover this place! As Kirsten walked me around we managed to arrive just in time to see the changing of the guards for the Kremlin. Although they have thick coats and those awesome fur coats, I really can’t imagine a more difficult job than standing still, outside, in Moscow for any period of time. It didn’t take us long to run indoors again, to the GUM, which is one of the more elaborate shopping centers I’ve seen. Even though it’s a shopping mall, and I hate shopping, at least it’s warm.

A friend of mine and I discovered a beautiful chapel in the square as well, to make up for the fact that St Basil’s was closed for renovation. We had good timing too, as they had just started an evening mass. Never having been in a Russian Orthodox church before, I realize now that my grandmother was right: they don’t sit! What’s more, attendees must bow and perform hail Mary’s every few seconds. And yet, as the priest chanted, and the four part choir sang, as I inhaled the incense I was awed by the beauty of the church walls, and music that was reaching my ears. It’s not every day you hear musicians in perfect tune, with perfect harmony, nor do you get to see such beautiful murals on the walls. As we walked back into the bitter cold, I felt a little warmer, inspired by this new home of mine.

My first traffic jam!

It was Saturday afternoon, and I had just made it through customs, grabbed my bag, and out the door. Through the throng of taxi drivers, there it was, a sign: “Laura Preston.” “Sasha” (as I later discovered, that was his name) waved it back and forth, nonchalantly until he saw my eyes meet his. As if by magic, he suddenly became animated, grabbed my bag, and off we went. Through the “das” and “nyets,” I was able to get my first tour of Moscow.

And my first traffic jam. I know they say the city is large, but I never thought it would be a web of confusing roads, packed with cars of all sizes and styles, zigzagging and driving on parts of the road I didn’t even know were driveable. As we listened to Russian pop music Sasha groaned as we waited in stopped traffic for half an hour. An hour later and we were still driving towards the city center, as Sasha pointed and most likely swore about the hundreds of stopped cars on the other side of the freeway; his route home. As he smoked what was probably his 8th cigarette, I pointed to some sky scrapers and asked, “Moscova?” Nyet, further ahead.

As long as it took to get to my flat, somewhere on the opposite side of town, I decided I would never feel the urge to drive through this town, as we turned and continued onto to large road after large road. Who knows where we were????

Later on I discovered that there is a solution to this congestion problem, which is ultimately doomed to happen with 10 million people in one place: the metro. They aren’t lying when they say it is one of the most lavish and beautiful undergrounds in Europe. Believe me, the best part of the metro is waiting for the train as you stare at the tiled ceilings, or marbled halls adorned by crystal chandeliers. Too bad the longest wait time is 3 minutes. The metro seems to go wherever I need to go, and faster than anything else. The trick is to read the signs and know the stops. Time to practice my Cyrillic reading!

Round two - Moscow

So for those of you who haven't talked to me in a while, it's time for a new adventure overseas. After a lovely summer in Europe, it was time to run back home in California for a while, to spend some time with my family, recharge the batteries, and of course the inevitable, look for a job. Which I found - the perfect change, something to contrast my last year on a tropical island, surfing - somewhere with a different climate, attitude, language. A completely new experience.

I decided to go to Moscow, Russia for the following reasons:
A – It’s a new country that I have never been to, and if I add it to my “Where I’ve been” map, it will look like I’ve seen the whole world.
B- Russian is a new language with a new alphabet, which I think will be fun to learn, and might even be useful someday.
And C – SNOW. After a year of summer, as much fun as it is, I am more than ready for a little chilly weather and finally, I can live in a place where it snows a LOT. Well, I hope so at least.

But the truth is more subtle than all of these things combined. More than anything, after all of the gossip, myths, and legends of what has been, what is, and what will be, I want to find the truth. People tend to have very strong opinions about Russia. I can’t count the number of times someone has asked me, “Why on earth do you want to go there? Of all places!!!” And yet, my curiosity gets the best of me. I am out to discover what was, what is, and what may be considered Russia…to finally put the records straight in my mind.


That's how I stumbled on Russia. Or rather, it stumbled on me. Why not? A new language, a new location, and definitely a different climate? After waiting for a visa, and a lovely Thanksgiving with the family and Agnes, it was time. Time for a new adventure, teaching English in Moscow, Russia. What's the worst that could happen?

A year to reflect on

Written from the Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, September 4th, 2010.

As my travels come to an end, and I slowly make my way back to the place I call home, I feel like I should make some sort of reflection on this year. And my, how this year has gone by so fast! I feel like I have seen and learned so much, I only hope that I never forget. And so, what have I learned?

I have completely changed how I feel about Africa. A lot of times it’s easy to make assumptions and assume that after having read all those books on African politics that I knew what Africa really IS. But I think I was wrong on some things, and I think the situation is in some ways more complicated than I thought, but in some ways simpler.

I’ve come to realize how important and crucial it is for people to give, and help those in need. Especially around the world where people are starving, have no access to health care or education, they need help from those that do. I’ve always felt unsure about helping in other countries where I don’t understand the culture or really belong, but I’ve come to realize that in many of these places people need all the help they can get, no matter where you are from. It’s not their fault that they have nothing, just as much as it’s not our fault that we do. Instead of feeling guilty, I’ve decided that something needs to be done, and I want to do it.

Most importantly I have learned how incredible human beings can be. I met so many people who have done amazing things with less money, education, and help than we could ever imagine. There are some brilliant minds that I never knew existed, some of the smartest people I met came from the most humble and simple beginnings, and perhaps will always be that way. Just imagine if they could study at Harvard or Stanford!

I know people can be cruel, they can be selfish, of course, but I saw so many examples of people who were so selfless and gave without thought, without even having much to give, that I’ve realized that people can be good. You can’t always trust people straight away, but there have been so many people that have helped me as well as other strangers, that have shown that sometimes you can have faith in someone you may not know.

I think I have changed a lot as an individual. Perhaps I have gained some self confidence, or at least some sort of independence and inner strength that I didn’t have before. There are some situations that I came across that weren’t always easy, but somehow I survived, and even managed at times to come up with some sort of solution. I can’t say I’ve always succeeded in what I set out to do, but at least these days I seem to be trying harder to put myself out there and take some healthy risks. And now, I think it’s time to continue the journey, to see what lies ahead. I think I’ll take a nap first.

Into the wild

As I hiked my way up the Swiss Alps, I looked down below on a huge glacier field. In awe, at the same time I couldn't help but think of home, just a little bit. What, I wondered, is the difference between these beautiful, impressive mountains to those of the Sierra Nevadas? Why is it that I marvel at something so far away from home, when I could see almost the same thing a few hours from where I grew up?

Well of course, you have the excitement of greeting people in another language. But then again, I think the most amusing difference is a silly one. As a child, I used to complain constantly when we went hiking. To convince us that it was worth getting to the top, my dad always said, "Come on everybody! At the top of the mountain there's A&W rootbeer floats!" (For those of you who don't know what a rootbeer float is, just imagine a beer instead, although it has nothing to do with rootbeer....anyway). We'd always walk to the top, knowing, and then discovering of course, that his logic was flawed.

However, I discovered that this is not necessarily the case in Switzerland. As I trudged for 3 and half hours to the top of a peak, passing up weary backpackers right and left, I finally made it. To my amazement, in the horizon, there it was, a refuge (where this photo was taken)! But not in the sense that we have in America, where it's a stone shelter for emergency situations, with nothing much to go with it. No, this refuge not only had indoor seating and flush toilets, but you could order hot "rusdie" (think hashbrowns, American readers, except better), and to my amazement, BEER. I guess Dad had to be right sometimes. I have to admit the view was quite amazing, as I sipped at my beer, watching the hikers put on their ice clamps and grab their axes, heading up towards the glacier. As I finished the last little bit of what was in my mug, I thought, wow, this sure doesn't happen too often in Cali!

St Moritz - er, Sankt or San?

So now we are back in St Moritz, Switzerland. The classy, world famous ski resort/ celebrity hang out....so they say. It is beautiful, if you wander through the forests and manage to avoid other people, somehow. It's nicknamed "The top of the world," because of elevation, both physically and reputation wise.

Even on top of the world, however, you can have bad weather. I can't believe it, but it's actually snowing in St Moritz...in August. Well, up high in the mountains at least. And worse, down here, it's raining, a cold, miserable rain, which never seems to end. One of the girls' tennis instructors, Donato told me that anything is possible in St Moritz. Even snow isn't unusual for this time of year. It used to always snow in the summer, he told me.

The nature is still beautiful, if you ignore how cold it is. While we ride our bikes around, I like to play my favorite game: guess the language of the tourist. It's always kind of a challenge to decide what language to use to say, "Watch out," or "Coming up on your left!" It's easy to resort to Italian, since half the people here are either from Italy or speak the language as their native tongue. However you also always have to weigh in the potential for a Swiss German to walk by, which more than 50% of the time this happens. Then you have the handful of Swiss French, or Swiss that speak Romantsch, that language that nobody seems to know about, hidden in the mountains somewhere. In the end, it takes me so long to decide what to say, I just ring my bell, and hope they get the point.

Milan in August

It's only logical that I write about Milan too, since I wrote about Vienna and Zurich, although admittedly I've been to Milan even more times than I've been to Zurich.

There are unique moments that can happen in Milan, however. For example, Milan is very different in August, when everyone magically disappears to go on vacation. Although it is the ultimate concrete jungle, filled with business men and well to do upper crust, in August the place is practically a ghost town. You can walk on one of the biggest streets in the city, and feel like you own the place, walking by all of the closed stores and shops. In a way it's a rather peaceful feeling, since you feel unique, and individual.

The problem with Milan in August is that it's usually really HOT, which is an understatement in a way. I've never seen such a hot an humid non-tropical location in my life, and that's saying something. Well, I suppose Budapest is pretty bad too. At any rate, that may be the other reason why people hide away in August, because they all have air conditioning in their offices and homes, and to walk outside in the heat is a less enjoyable experience than normal. They hide away, or run to the beach as fast as they can.

Despite the emptiness, it's still a treat to see Milan and the area in the summertime. Everything is so bright, and it couldn't feel more like summer anywhere else. I went to Monza, a city near Milan, for the first time, and to my surprise it was very beautiful. What the city lacks in size and sheer massiveness, it keeps its quaint town style, as well as an impressive castle and huge public park that dwarfs any of the parks in Milan. It's surprising how places that seem so insignificant become actually interesting once you go there.

Zurich

Ah Zurich.....after having been there for at least 8 times, I feel like this city merits a post or two, at least.

There's something about Zurich that's very appealing. Even though the people have a reputation for being somewhat...."apathetic," (my great aunt loves telling me the story of how she fell on a sidewalk in Zurich and nobody helped her up....)I disagree. As a matter of fact, I find Swiss people, even in Zurich to be rather friendly folk. Admittedly the few times that people have attempted to talk to me, they don't get very far before they realize that my German is what we would call nonexistent.....I've still had a surprising number of laughs with people on trains, or in stores, those few times I've attempted to buy chocolate on my own....

Nevertheless, whether or not the people are polite, or shy, or too stressed about being on time, I hold judgement. As for the city itself, it is like magic. Everything works, clocks are always set to the right time, and trains always arrive on time, or early. Somehow everything is clean, and the public restrooms are really stylish.

Yet, once you get past the touristy "old town," or the scenic viewpoints of the lake, where there are always mobs of tourist, there are always things to see. The best part is finding those hidden places that you didn't know existed, because they aren't publicized for the tourists, and the locals don't always tell you about them. Everytime I've been, for example, I've always found a green house, large parks, and hidden odd places. Everything is so neat, green, and very "natury," you know, the kind of stuff I like.

There's never a shortage of greenery or forests, and sometimes you just wonder how the Swiss got it right. Is it all that money they have from the banking that makes them want to show off their wealth in some "green, environmentally friendly" style, or do they just have some connection to nature that would exist, regardless of how expensive their standard of life is? Is Zurich pretty because of its wealth and cleanliness, or is it all the room they have for nature? I'll go with the latter, because I've never spent time with the wealthy and powerful in Zurich, and instead have friends of more reasonable standards of living. And I have to say, the best times have been kicking back in the large green lawn, in the summer heat (well, not this summer), drinking a beer and just talking.

Vienna

Before I left for Vienna, I heard different comments from almost every person who had been there. Some people really loved it, others absolutely hated it. I could not wait to test it out for myself. And finally, a moment to go back to old traveling techniques of what I fondly call the "wander and conquer" approach. For a person like me who completely lacks what we call "sense of direction" but is pretty good with a map if enough time is allowed, this technique is probably the most efficient.

So I finally made it to Vienna, to the 19th century apartment of my relatively new friend and fellow couch surfer Sophie. Admittedly I dont know very many Austrians, but the ones I do know make me wonder if there are common trends in the overall population. For example, the funny sense of humor, the mountains of stories to tell, and the ability to talk??? Who knows, but that is definitely Sophie in a nut shell. We spent most of the evenings talking about traveling.

So today I just woke up, grabbed my map, and ten minutes later was walking around in some sort of loosely defined direction that my relatively new friend Sophie advised. Somewhat to my surprise, it seemed like almost any direction I chose ran me into a sort of perfectly groomed palace garden, or huge marble statues. The boulevards were so green and it seemed like I couldn´t find a place that didn´t have something interesting. Perhaps travelers who don´t like Vienna find it too groomed, or too clean? I guess I´m not one of them.

I took the metro to the palace, wondering if I could maybe peek in through the gates without paying, but to my sheer joy and amazement the palace gardens were all free, and I wandered around for hours, photographing the huge fountains and walkways that I stumbled upon. I think Marie Therese was pretty impressed by the French when she started vamping up the gardens, because it almost seemed like something out of Versailles. And, like Versailles in August, it was sweltering hot.

Although it´s pretty hot in Vienna in the summer, at least it seems cooler than Budapest. It´s surprising how different Vienna is from other places I have been. Admittedly I didn´t meet very many locals aside from Sophie, but then again I was only here for a day. Despite what people say, I think the city is very authentic, with quite the history. Tomorrow I´m going to visit Beethoven´s grave (sadly he´s not an Austrian). I´m so excited.

Budapest: the city of a thousand histories

While I'm studying in Budapest, it's time I wrote something new and exciting. After all, I have internet again....

I've finally made it to Budapest, a city full of surprises and excitement at almost every corner. Admittedly I haven't had a lot of time to explore since I'm taking a very intensive TEFL course (for those of you unfamiliar with the acronym, it's fancy speak for English teacher training). Still, if you're living in a foreign city, it's your responsibility to explore, no matter how busy you may be.

Hungary is such an interesting country, that has been taken over so many different times that it has become influenced in so many ways by other cultures. It's odd to think that the first people to establish themselves here were the Magyars, a group from Asia somewhere. Then you have the Ottomans, the Austrian-Hungarian Empire, the Germans, the Soviet Union....and yet Hungary proudly keeps its unique language, Magyar, one of the most complex languages in the world.

And Budapest is the capital, with its bustling, unique mix of Turkish baths, Medieval castles, and exciting nightlife. I think the most attractive things about Budapest is how different each district feels. Every day when I cross the Danube River, I feel like I'm changing cities, from one side to the other, which ironically is logical since Buda and Pest used to be two different cities that outgrew their boundaries and merged to became what they are today.

It seems that Budapest is almost too dangerous a place....to study that is. While I slave away trying to learn how to teach English verb tenses, all I really want to do is hop on the oldest underground metro in continental Europe and go explore the gardens, cathedrals, and parks of this place I only get to call home for such a short time.

A brief update from Madagascar

So while I have internet at my disposal, I think it's a great opportunity to update my blog. However I don't even know where to begin with Madagascar!!! Sometimes it's difficult for me to explain a place that is so different from anywhere I've ever been.

First you have to realize that I'm traveling with my good friend and former neighbor Roxanne, an eager and well traveled young lady from the London area. With her expertise and my general desire to adventure, we have been traveling in our own unique way. We wake up in the morning, look at the guidebook, and decide where we want to go, and where we want to stay. Admittedly Madagascar is probably the best place to do this, as almost every hotel we've stayed at has been rather empty and the people around us have been more than eager to host two "vasahas" (malagash for foreigner).

We've also confused almost everyone we've met with our method, since we've refused to stay in the four star hotel and insist on eating in the street with the locals. In addition we don't have a private driver but have been using the "taxi brousse," a van like vehicle that is used for public transportation all over the country. Needless to say we've had many laughs with the locals, and despite the language barrier at times, everyone seems interested and eager to meet us.

Here in Madagascar we have met so many people, whether by traveling together or just a random crossing of paths in the street. What sticks out foremost in my mind when I think of all of the people we've seen, from the wealthy doctor of the town to the poorest family in the tiniest shack is their appreciation of life. Even though the people in Madagascar may be some of the poorest people in the world, living on less than a dollar a day at times, they seem to have some secret to being happy. While we wander around, you see an array of smiles and laughs, and snippets of conversations. Even when these people don't see us and greet us with smiles, you can still tell that amongst themselves, they are enjoying a private moment of sheer joy. I wonder how often that happens in our lives?

As we pass by, we see so many people living their lives: mothers talking to their children, brothers playing together in the street, school children running around each other, a couple taking a walk in the evening, lovers falling in love. These are the things you can see, and are things I've seen all around the world, no matter what culture or place I've been. It just reminds me that we are all very human, and there are many things that are commonplace for everyone.

So whoever you are, and whatever you are doing right now, take a moment to remember to forget about all of those things that bog you down, and aren't really important. Do what the Malagasy do: appreciate those things in life that really matter, take a deep breath, and just laugh.

Saying goodbye

It's difficult to leave a place, especially one you know so well. Of course it's easier when you know you're going to somewhere new and exciting. Yet still, saying goodbye to all of those friends you leave behind, and letting go of all of those fond memories, that just become distant past souvenirs of what was. It's hard to say goodbye, but not hard enough to avoid saying hello to what is new.

Mafate, a valley of mystery

The “Cirque” of Mafate is somewhat of a ghost story. At least in the past, it was the place of the devil, a place the white man feared, and the escaped slave hid. Many of the “marrons,” the term for the runaway slaves established their villages hidden in this valley, high up in the mountains far away from civilization.

Today Mafate still holds a lot of that mystery. With no road access whatsoever, this significant portion of the mountains on Reunion Island is inhabited only by those Creoles who seek seclusion, away from many of the “realities” of the rest of society. Although they are far from completely disconnected from the rest of the island, Mafate is still very different from anywhere else I’ve seen here.

One of my strongest interests in Mafate came from my students, interestingly enough. One day I was working with six students from 6eme (ages 11-12), and I started taking advantage of the small group size to get to know them better. When I got to Alexandre, I asked the smiling, somewhat pudgy boy, “Where are you from?” He just smiled, and Sybilla responded for him, “Madame, he’s from Mafate!” I remember I had had some students from my other classes who had responded the same, but I hadn’t really had a chance to ask them about all of the questions I had for children who were from there. I guess the first one was, “If you go to school here, where do you live?” The obvious was that they couldn’t possibly live in Mafate and commute to middle school in La Possession every day. That’s at least a 7 hour walk. Again, Sybilla, eager to be helpful told me, “He lives with a host family.” So there you have it. Although there are elementary schools in some villages of Mafate, by the age of 11 all students have to move to La Possession (the head of the county that contains Mafate) and live with family members or host families. The only chance these kids get to go home is probably during the weekends and holidays, if they feel like really walking…

So this weekend being my last on Reunion Island, Mafate was a must. Although we got a late start, by the time we started the steep climb down, we wandered across our first novelty: a hand painted sign, saying “Art de Mafate: expo” with an arrow indicating a path. Of course my fellow adventurer Carrie agreed that we should see what “art expo” meant, already 3 hours into our hike. We were surprised when we came across a lovely gated garden, and a kind looking man opened the gate to invite us in. Admittedly instinct told me this probably wasn’t a great idea to wander into a stranger’s house in the middle of nowhere, but in the end we were shown his interesting stone sculptures, and offered bananas and tea. I asked him if he had received many visitors, and he shook his head. “A few come, but not very often. I just started selling my art however.” I asked him about his life, how long he had lived there. He was pleased to show us around his lovely garden, with an amazing rose bush, and explained that he had been living alone there for about 8 years. We left sooner than I had wanted to, but we had to find our fellow traveler Ben before he started thinking we had been attacked by a man with a machete somewhere in the wilds of Mafate.

Every day we passed more and more villages, which were simple “creole case” style houses, with tin roofs, and separate buildings for each part of the house: the kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. We also ran into the occasional bar or café, and even saw signs for a boulangerie. Of course there were “gites,” or cabins everywhere, for visitors to stay in comfort. But we took our tent anyway, which gave us the fortunate possibility of camping anywhere along the way, including on a ridge in the middle of the trail one night. As we walked along, I couldn’t help but rest in awe at the isolation of the place. It took us over two days to cross the valley, and every time we ran into a tiny village, we couldn’t help but notice gates, dogs, and friendly, but less friendly than your average Reunionnais people. People seemed to enjoy gardening here, and along the way it was easy to pick out somewhat wild fields of corn and green beans, along with the splendors of wild Reunion, such as the chou chou plant, guava fruits, and the “goyavier,” a small red and tart fruit that grow in the forest. We ran into chickens and goats, even next to the school house, which seemed even more absurd.

It’s hard to imagine how different life must be there. Whenever the people need anything in town, they either have to walk, or wait for a shipment of goods by helicopter. Normally, they just walk, walk and walk. One guy we ran into was listening calmly to his MP3 player as he literally sprinted down a steep hill, disappearing from view in less than a minute. We had a hard time understanding this, as our knees gave way to each down hill step, and we panted along the uphill bits, walking for hours and hours. In the end we made it to Salazie, the rainiest place on the island, on the East end, and managed to hitch a ride part of the way home.

By the time we got back to St Gilles, we seemed worlds apart from where we had been just hours before. All I could think of was that somehow my students are able to bridge between these two worlds for at least six years of their lives, perhaps choosing to remain in the “bains” of the island forever. The last night, as we slept along the trail, choosing the best place we could find to camp, I could see far off in the distance La Possession. As the lights glittered in the wind and fog, I couldn’t help but laugh at how odd it was to realize I was seeing an inverted view of what I normally see from work. Looking from Mafate to my world below.

Getting to the top

3,074 meters doesn't seem that far (over 9,000 feet) to climb...until you're halfway there, and your legs are already sore....But we were determined to make it to the top of the tallest peak in the Indian Ocean (so they say), so we packed our gear and trudged up the fastest, but steepest route to the "gite," or cabin, halfway up to "Piton des Neiges" (french for Snowy Peak). Everyone we met there seemed in good spirits, drinking hot tea and playing cards.

That night before heading off to bed we sneaked a peek at the stars. needless to say that high up, you can see everything. This night it was especially odd to see the sky, with all of the constellations completely mixed up, or non existent, making up that strange southern hemisphere sky. You may see Orion all year round, but he's laying funny, not quite the right way up. Worse, the big dipper and the north star are nowhere in sight. It would be worrisome not knowing which way is north, except my friend pointed out the Southern Cross, explaining how to find south. At last, things make sense again!

In order to get the best conditions for Piton des Neiges it's best to wake up at 3:30 in the morning and start hiking up the last 2 hours to the top. That way, by the time you get there, you have a clear view of the sun rising over the entire island, with a 360 degree view of everything. As we trudged to the top we ran across ice on the path, justifying our multiple layers of clothes. I don't know how cold it was exactly at the top, but it definitely wasn't Reunion beach weather. As everyone waited in the cold, slowly it grew lighter and lighter, and all of the sudden, the sun came up above the clouds. It was kind of like being in an airplane, looking down on all of the clouds below, hiding the world underneath. Cameras were clicking right and left as the sun went higher and higher, and finally everyone left. We were the last group to leave, starting the long walk all the way back to the car we had left behind two days ago. My knees may be shot, but I can safely say that was one of the best moments I've had on this island.

Mayotte....several weeks after serious reflexion

For some reason, I have difficulties writing about Mayotte. Not because I have nothing to say, but rather there are so many things to say about this tiny island. And needless to say, completely different from Reunion. Despite the fact that Mayotte is considered by many to be the "Reunion of 20 years ago," I'm not sure I'm completely convinced. Perhaps in terms of development there are some similarities to what Reunion was....but Mayotte cannot be placed in the same mold as Reunion.

Summer days coming to an end

Today you could really feel the weather changing. It was abrupt almost, that feeling I got as soon as I opened the door this morning: summer is slipping through our fingers. After nine months of almost consecutive summer (aside from that month of extreme cold in Switzerland), it was one of the most refreshing feelings I have felt in a long time...so sweet and fresh that I went running. With the change in weather, however, comes some other more interesting changes. Although it's mostly due to a storm sweeping across the island, you couldn't help but notice the massive waves, crashing against the shore. Most people watched from a safe distance as the pro and someday expert surfers/kids fought for every huge wave that came crashing down. I watched in shock, wondering how people surf those things without seriously hurting some body part of some sort. The worst part is that I had a student's words echoing through my mind: don't worry, the waves get bigger. A lot bigger in winter. These may seem like positive words, considering how puny the swells look in January. But for a beginner who loves those one footers, it's fear that strikes you when you see that 9 foot wave wipe out half a dozen surfers. Time to get good, fast.

French schools...

I know that these days in America parents complain about the workload of their students. There are all of the new stresses, more books, more classes, more activities...students seem to have more and more homework every year. Although this might be true, the more and more I learn from my students about the French school system, the more I realize how lucky we have it in America.

Today we had a discussion about the two types of school systems, and how they were different. We figured out that while most American students have probably 6 or 7 classes freshman year of highschool, the French students of the same age group have 11-12 classes. Better yet, while we start school either at 7:30 or 8:30, and finish at 2:30 or 3:30 in the afternoon, they are stuck in the classroom from 7:30-4:00 guaranteed. As for after school activities? Half of the students said they would rather go home after school than stick around for a sport or theatre group. Fortunately the other half reassured me they had after school activities, and that they were quite enjoyable.

It all came down to a few things, that made the systems different in a way that the students and I had different perspectives: In the US we get 40 minutes or so for lunch time, and in France, it's at least an hour and a half! I asked the students, which would you prefer, a shorter lunch break so you can go home sooner, or a longer one that makes you stay at school until later? They all agreed they would rather have a longer day at school than give up that precious hour and a half they have with their friends.

Next were the foreign languages. Most of them took at least two languages, sometimes three. All of them had started learning a foreign language at the age of 11, if not sooner. When I told them that some of my friends didn't even take a foreign language in school because it wasn't required, their eyes popped, and their mouths opened wide. They couldn't believe it. American students don't learn languages until high school, and even then, only one? How could that be? I think we all agreed that it was fun to learn languages....well, most of us did.

Finally, and interestingly enough, the students had all of their classes with the same group of kids. I guess that's similar to what we had in middle school, but I can't imagine how different it must be to spend your entire day with the same 25 odd students, all year long. I asked one girl how she felt about this, and her response was, "I like it. We feel more unified, as a group." Fair enough.

I guess there are some things that I may never understand, but I can definitely appreciate. One thing is for certain: these kids could be in any high school in the US, with their sense of humor and comic timing. I laughed so hard while my students were role playing a fight between Sarkozy and Obama, as Mickey Mouse tried to intervene to calm them all down. Some days are just crazy like that, where you couldn't get them to stop speaking English if you tried. I just go with the flow.

on foot

As I have said way too many times, there are too many things to do on this island. If you are an adventurer and somewhat creative, you find that there is just not enough time in the week to do everything you want to do. Worse, if you become passionate about one hobby (such as surfing, or salsa, for example), you find yourself realizing you can do that ALL the time. This can definitely be said for any person that has access to a vehicle, sturdy shoes, and a will to walk.

A few friends of mine have almost what we could call an obsession with exercise. Every minute it seems like they are either swimming, running, biking, and of course hiking. I only went with them once, but they take their sports seriously, including hiking. As they hiked up and down each hill, I panted behind with the others, wondering when the uphill bits would end, as we sweated out of every pore. They're the kind of hikers who always want more. The cool part is, there are so many "randonees" on this island, even if they were able to finish them all, by the time they got back to doing round two, everything would have changed. There are so many that when you look at the books of hikes on the island, you can't decide which one to do first.

There seems to be many challenges in hiking during the summer season however. In mid February you risk bad weather. Not only might it be sweltering hot, but the sun could burn you to a crisp. Worse, and more usual is when you hike in the mountains if you don't wake up and go before 6 AM you're more likely to miss out on the spectacular views and end up with your heads up in the clouds....that is in the literal sense of course, with fog hiding everything from sight by 9 in the morning. More than likely, also it seems, is that you end up with rain, especially when you're away from the dry West coast. While it may be sunny one second, the next it will be pouring down, and you end up walking in the mushy mud, trying not to have an embarrassing slip while someone is looking.

Despite all of these complications, we still hike. Perhaps we're bored (very unlikely), or excited to do something new. Every place seems enticing somehow, with the opportunity to get away from the beach, to explore the forests, waterfalls, mountains. The best part is that even if it is really hot, you can be sure that it still way cooler up high than at the beach, where the water seems to make it even more humid. Still, it seems as if somedays you get bad luck, and that raincloud is just hovering above your head. We can only hope for the "dry/cool" season to start, where the rain will stop coming and the threat of cyclones will be non existent.

And the US military???

Some sort of scene out of South Pacific, my roommate couldn't wait to tell me who she had run into at the grocery store: a large, noisy and obviously American group of army men. I couldn't believe it. What were they doing here??? What could the US military possibly need from Reunion Island? Turns out fuel, food, and R & R. Or at least that's all they could tell us.

I finally had my brush with another group that night, walking home from salsa dancing. I'm not sure who was more surprised to see whom, but they seemed rather amused to run into a California girl on a tropic island in the Indian Ocean. The guys told me that their van had taken then from the port in Le Port and dropped them off in St Gilles for the day. While they waited for their bus home, they asked me what I thought of Reunion. I responded with a resounding "Love it," which they echoed, having sadly only seen St Gilles, which as close and dear to my heart as it is, is still nicknamed "z'oreille land" for a reason. It really makes you feel like you're in France, as opposed to the rest of the island where you have true Creole influence and people living there.

As amused as I was at meeting a few soldiers, the next day we kept running into them. I helped one order a sandwich, and ran into a few other guys on the beach who were playing "real" football (American style, not that silly soccer stuff). Most of them asked us how we liked it here, and of course, where all the good places to go out at night were.

It's just strange because when you stay here long enough, you forget what it's like to run into American tourists. Anywhere else, you name it they're there. But Reunion truly is a place for the French, and very few other foreigners ever venture this far away. Carrie seemed kind of frustrated, seeing all of these Americans invading our secret island. I just reminded her that as soon as she leaves, she'll see plenty more of them when she gets home. There are worst things in life. After all, who are we to talk anyways?

St Denis

St Denis may be the largest city and the capitol of the island, but even in guide books St Denis is considered the city where you book your gites, plan your trip, catch a taxi and get out. It's not that it's a very dangerous place. In fact most people claim it's rather "French," and it's got the most shopping on the island. I guess its biggest flaw is its lack of a nice beach with some pretty bars and restaurants to go with it. Unlike Hermitage, which has a beautiful lagoon and crystal clear waters, St Denis has got plenty of rocky coast, with waves crashing in with muddy brown water that is probably more inviting for fisherman and sharks than swimmers.

However there are some great parts of the city. For one, you can check out all of the museums, that line up along Rue de Paris, which is quite a nice little avenue with old style creole houses and plenty of trees to provide shade along the way. There's also the jardin de l'Etat, which after its recent renovation is quite the treat.

I guess what really makes my head turn when I'm in St Denis is the strange array of cultures you can find there. Typical of most big cities you have a better mix of cultures than anywhere else. When I was finally able to spend a night out on the town in St Denis, I was lucky enough to catch glimpses of the Chinese New Year, in full swing. You could see drummers, dancers, streamers were thrown everywhere. It made me think of Chinatown for a bit in San Francisco, but I shrugged that thought out of my mind as I munched down on an Indian buffet with a Creole family, dancing the night away for a 14 year old girl's birthday party.

Not only were the Chinese celebrating, but everyone was dealing with Valentine's day at the same time. Since it was his first time out in St Denis as well, I let my friend drag me along to the most happening place in town: Le Boys, a gay night club. Surprisingly there were more people than I expected in the bar, dancing the night away, guys eying guys while dancing around the club, trying to flirt without even talking. For an island where homosexuality is less excepted than you would think, this place surprised me, especially for how many people I saw there. I guess city life is such a mix of cultures and lifestyles that it is the great equalizer. Everyone is different, and thus accept each other.

Welcome to your out of this world experience

When you go to Reunion, there is a long list of things you have to do, see, experience, eat....If I were to write a list of the absolute "must see" top 10, it would probably be something like this (in no particular or meaningful order):

1: surf at Trois Bassins, my favorite surfer spot
2: Spend the night in a gite at Cilaos, the most beautiful mountain on the island I've seen yet
3: An around the island tour, stopping at all of the cool places along the way, including a lunch near the lava floes to eat rougail saucisse
4: have a bonfire and camp out on the beach at Grande Anse, the best beach to camp out on ever
5: Go paragliding in St Leu, over the ocean and the biggest/best waves on the island
6: Go snorkeling at Hermitage to see all of the colorful fish and coral reefs
7: Walk along the peaceful and mostly deserted stretch of beach from St Gilles to Boucan Canot to check out all of the pretty houses along the way
8: Go to Coco Beach on Sunday night to watch the sun set and then salsa dance outdoors (well I had to put in some sort of salsa event, sorry!)
9: Explore the 3 Bassins/ Cormorants waterfalls and go for a refreshingly chilly swim

And finally, we get to the point of this list: #10, and an absolute must must must, is the hike directly to the center of the volcano: Le Piton de la Fournaise.

My friend Ben and I have started our official Tuesday adventure club, where we are the only members, since everyone else has to work. Every Tuesday our new goal is to see or experience something new, before our time on this island is up. This week was the volcano, and we couldn't have picked a better moment to do it.

First, it was raining so hard. While we got out of the car Ben teased me relentlessly since after all my bragging of being a pretty tough hiker and backpacker, growing up out of a backpack in the Sierras....I had forgotten my rainjacket. Despite the downpour, we pressed further, we hadn't driven 2 hours to sit in the car. As we hiked towards the trail, we made it to the edge of a sheer cliff, and as we looked down, the view took my breath away. It was as if we were on the edge of the planet, looking into some sort of moon crater, barren of almost everything, except for some brightly colored shrubs. As the mist cleared, we carefully hiked our way down into the crater, every moment getting more and more drenched. At that point I stopped caring that rain was falling down in torrents so that I could hardly keep my eyes open, or that my clothes were dripping so wet that whenever we stopped you could hear the water running down. It didn't matter that my hands were really numb. I was so amazed at how barren the place was.

I've seen a few volcanoes in my time, Mt St Helens to name one, but this one was different. On one side you could see multiple cones, just rising off in the distance, and on the other you could see the steep cliff that we had just clambered down. All around was a stockpile of oddly shaped rocks, that had been melted and molded into such strange designs no artist could have ever come up with. We didn't talk much, but just kept walking along, listening to the silence. You couldn't even hear the rain very much, as it hit the rocks without making a single sound. I just took pictures from time to time, admiring the array of colors. Sadly we had to do the shorter hike, because of time restraints and the fact that by that point I was pretty well, waterlogged. I looked off in the distance to the big cone, noting that I would save that "big guy" for next time. We walked back mainly satisfied by how very few tourists had come today, to hike around in the rain. What they didn't know was it was the best time to see this place, all shrouded in fog, nice and cool without a single ray of sunshine. You can only imagine how hot that crater gets when it's sunny, since there's not a spot of shade in sight.

It's places like these that make Reunion seem like "paradise" quite a lot of the time. By the time we got back to the beach it was time for some french fries at the snack bar near the "Big Left," one of the best surf spots in the world. As the sun set, I again could not believe how magical this place is. Yup, paradise. But even vacation has to come to an end someday. And as much as I love this place, it's time for other adventures.

Hidden cultures on the island

So, even though most of the time I notice what makes Reunion unique, its Creole culture, sometimes I can't help but notice the huge influences that make Reunion still, well, French. I can't help but notice how often I can relate to something that happens in Reunion to something that happened in Nancy. That word that I learned at one time that keeps coming back, the funny quirks in people, the fact that I'm learning more French geography here than ever before thanks to all my friends from "Metropole." That one night I enjoyed a delicious croissant....only in French territory could you find a moment like that.

Sunday just seems to prove my point. Although I was somewhat unsure about the nature of French "trad" dancing (folk dance), I figured it must be something like the folk dance I knew from college. After all, the goal of folk dances is so that "everyone can dance, because the steps are so easy," (this is not a quote from me, but from my friend Gabriel, so you should take his word for it). What made me laugh was a realization that this "folk dance" class my friend Gabriel was dragging me to was also some sort of "Briton" type club, or at least most of the people in the group seemed to be fans of Brittany, that lovely northern part of France that seems somehow even further away from here when you think of how much snow must be on the ground over there as we speak.

After all of the dancing, which I was pleased to note were very similar to other Celtic folk dances that I knew, like Irish and Scottish, I was trying to solve the mystery of why 50 some odd people were assembled in an overheated, overcrowded room on a Saturday afternoon, dancing to relatively mediocre accordion music. Then I suppose it came to me: perhaps these people, who seem to really love this culture, perhaps they are from Brittany, and miss their homeland. It was almost as if they had their own club, as inclusive as it was, to remind them of what they used to know. I understand that feeling all too well. In french the term is "depaysagement" or when you are displaced from your country, to be removed.

It was a pretty old crowd, but just as lively as any Ceili party I had ever attended in Portland, with all of the students very eager to learn. I ended up getting roped into coming back when one of the teachers discovered that I knew how to Irish folk dance. "You have to teach us!! It will be so much fun. You have music don't you?" I felt like I was back in Folk Dance club, getting coerced into leading a dance. Oh well, I suppose I could try....

Even though we were there on a very hot day on a tropical island towards the end I got that shiver of cold and rain while I watched the dancers finish off the lesson with a great "Scottish." I would have stayed in the stupor of "Metropole culture," especially surrounded by all of my French friends, until we walked out of the room. There it was, Creole children running around with their mothers, men sitting on the corner, talking. I got "repaysaged." No matter how you try to hide back into your own culture, surrounded by people with the same background and ideas, you can't hide from the real world overseas. But would you really want to?

American culture is always around the corner

One of the most frustrating parts of my job is somewhat ironic: How can I share my culture with kids who already see it broadcasted on their tvs, know all the lines from the movies....Some of these Creole teenagers know more about these American actors than I do. Its like those women who tell me how thoughtful they think Obama's autobiography is....ok, that was in Italy, but you get the point.

Today was just an example of how there are still a lot of holes in their knowledge of the American culture. Sometimes I forget that they are further from California than I realize, and even though they may be Twilight addicts, they still don't know everything about prom. I explained that it was a dance, you usually go with dates, girls wear corsages, sometimes we go to the ball in a limo....It's almost as if they have a fuzzy vision of America, but all of the deep meanings behind our traditions and cultures are still somewhat hidden. Not that prom is a good example of deep, meaningful, American tradition. Still, I'm sure they have no idea why we celebrate Thanksgiving...I'm not sure if we do, either, to be honest.

Surfing etiquette

The first time I ever tried to surf was in late November, when I bribed a friend of mine to teach me how. He showed me a few tricks, and casually we paddled our way out into the water, as half a dozen of my other friends watched for their own amusement on dry land. As scary as it was to try to catch my first wave, as small as it was, I managed to even stand up a little bit, just in time for my friends to wave and cheer. Mainly we just sat around, waiting, along with the other two dozen surfers that showed up for the day. What I remember most was how Ben explained the life of a surfer to me, while we were sitting in the calm of the ocean. "You see," he said lazily, "Surfing isn't really a sport. It's not organized, or all the time active. You spend a lot of time just relaxing, connecting with the waves, with nature."

After several months of surfing I have finally bought my very own long board. Upon reflection, I agree with what Ben said on both accounts. I can confirm that I have "connected with nature," or at least my bruised body can account for my connection with the wave, as I have tumbled, fell, slipped, numerous times. Many surfers on Reunion island also come back with lovely souvenirs of sea urchin bits stuck in their feet, or coral that cut up their legs.

Secondly, surfing is definitely not what I would call "organized," especially at 11 AM on a Sunday morning. Not only do you have all of the aggressive "professional" surfers out yelling at everyone who cuts them off from their perfect wave, or shoving people out of the way, but you also have all of the surf schools, with students that accidentally plow over everything that is in their way. Learning the "rules" of traffic in surfing is like learning a new language. It seems pretty straight forward, but there always seems to be exceptions or people that break the rules.

Despite the hardships, especially as a beginner surfer, it's also proven to be a great way to interact with others. You never know who you will meet up with in the water, whether it be a twelve year old boy who is learning English in school, or a kind boogie boarder that takes pity on you and gives you advice. Slowly over time, faces and people start to look familiar. People of all ages, all sizes. The only thing that appears to be out of place is the fact that most of these people are....white. Although some people claim to know the reason for this phenomenon, be it money or lack of interest, it is rather strange that almost everyone I know is not from here originally, or whose origins are from "Metropole" (France). I suppose just another thing to think about as I chase down more waves.

"Vacation over?" I think not

Sometimes in life it pays to be spontaneous, especially when it comes to traveling. Although I could have spent two glorious weeks in Milan, in the end I opted to go out an explore Europe, since I've still got quite a few countries left to add to my collection. Sad to say I have visited more countries than states at this point in my life, although that will have to be dealt with later. At any rate this time I packed my one backpack (amazingly enough everything fit), and headed off to visit a good friend of mine in Pecs, Hungary.

Turns out for a snow addict like me this is a good time to visit Hungary, where the landscapes are all covered in a light layer of fresh powder. Admittedly I didn't know much about the history behind where I was going, or much about the culture for that matter. Fortunately I had my guide, Kitti, an authentic Hungarian, and fellow travel addict. We spent a lot of time discussing all the places we had been since last we had met two years ago, and where we wanted to go...turns out this type of person is universal, I suppose, found in every country.

Kitti cleared up a little of the mysterious, well rather to me, history of the country. All I could honestly remember about the country was from a French history class I took in Nancy, where we learned about the Austrian-Hungarian Empire. Yes, there's that hazy recollection about Maria Theresa, the mother of infamous Marie Antoinette, and also one of the most powerful women in Europe in the 18th century. Of course Hungary has changed hands many times, which is not surprising considered how it is conveniently located in the middle of the continent without any pesky mountains or oceans in the way. What I never realized was that the Turks established themselves there for a while, and there are even some mosques left as little reminders of what used to be.

Even though it was freezing, we still managed to get outside and wander around in the cold. Pecs is a tiny city, rather charming with a nice downtown complete with cute cobblestone streets. There was plenty of unique architecture to check out. The best was the colored tiles on some of the roofs, that were so bright in some ways that you spend a lot of your time focusing on them, as if they were moon rocks or some other brightly shining object. Maybe they inspired Mr. Rubik, the Hungarian who invented his famous cube? There was definitely a lot to see, and Kitti told me happily that Pecs was elected as one of the three "cultural capitols" of the EU this year. I remember two years ago when Luxembourg had been elected, how many cultural events were hosted there. It's a neat idea, to try to inspire people to visit a new place, and help the city grow. Almost like the Olympics, without the sports.

After a few days in Pecs, Kitti took me back to her home town of Komlo, to visit her family and see where she's from. The nice part of visiting cold places is the food is usually very delicious, and warm, and Hungary is no exception. Kitti's mom prepared a feast for us when we got to her house, and despite the language barrier, I think I was able to get across the sentiment of "Yum, this is delicious!"

The thing about visiting towns like Komlo is that you get a taste for a country, while avoiding the tourists. We wandered around the woods, explored the lakes, looked at the town, and for me it felt really authentic, really unique. The best part was discovering my friend's roots, to meet her family, and see how she grew up. I asked her if she could ever see herself settling down in Komlo, and the response was a resounding, "Never." I guess the need for something bigger, and more exciting can be international too. We walked back to her house and made chocolate chip cookies to go with our fish stew and mushrooms, enjoying each others' food and culture while laughing over a game of cards.

Florence, the city of my dreams

For various reasons, I have dreamed of going to Florence for over 10 years. The more and more I heard about it, the more and I more I built it up in my mind as this magical place. This was also cemented by the fact that everytime I've been in Tuscany, I have been wowed by how beautiful that part of Italy is. I've also always been frustrated by how close I've gotten to the city, and yet, never been there.

Well, sometimes dreams come true, sometimes they don't. I've come to realize over time that while traveling, things can go wrong, even if you really try to plan everything to the last minute detail. Florence is one of those times. As much as I'd love to write about the city, I honestly did not meet anyone this time, and didn't see anything that struck me as "purely Florence."

Yet this time just proves, as always, that despite the glories of public transportation, there are some downfalls. I used to complain about how American trains, buses, and coaches are always late. You could always count on showing up at least 15 or 20 minutes after the printed scheduled time, and at the worst more than an hour. I always proudly bragged to everyone at home how organized the European system is, how smooth those trains are, and how buses show up on time. I should make at least one exception to this rule, of course, if not more as soon as I discover them. The first being the Italian train.

The first few times I've been late on Italian trains I wrote it off as exceptions to the rule. This last trip, however, with a train 2 hours late getting in to Milan, I started reassessing the situation. Maybe there is some truth to what Antonella has been telling me. Those beautiful (cough), clean (cough cough), trains that I have been taking back and forth around Italy have been late one too many times.

The best part is watching the Italians. Compared to the average train going crowd in say, Hayward California, they looked pretty calm, considering how late the train was. However on the train, if you were to compare them to the average group of bus passengers in Reunion, they were definitely more agitated. More In my compartment, there were three of us, listening to our iPods, talking on our cellphones, and lulling off to sleep. Of course the instant we got back to Milan, everyone bolted out the door, running around. Again, the rushing, bustling city life. Even I ran out, hoping to have at least enough time to meet up with my friends. Never again, will I make the assumption that all trains in Europe are equal. I guess I'll have to move to Switzerland.