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.

an ode to Milan

Most people I talk to who are not from Milan but have been there hate it. There's something about the city, especially in the summertime, when it's hot, muggy, and too many cars. The word "pavement" often comes to mind to those who try to describe Milan. It's exactly a green city, with parks everywhere the eye can see, like Portland. Milan is buildings, shops, city streets, buses, cars, taxis, more shops. It is after all, the fashion capital of Europe, and of course, the financial center of Italy.

Even though I'm one of those foreigners who has come to know this city, instead of hating the wall to wall sprawl of Milan, I love it. You can spend literally hours, walking around, listening to music, and just wander. I hardly ever take pictures here, because there are no truly breathtaking parts of the city to admire. It's more of the atmosphere as a whole, the bustle, the movement. Perhaps it reminds me of home, where everything is open all week long until late (except of course for the month of August, when the entire city is vacant while everyone is on holiday), and people work hard. I think the word "hardworking" is what comes to mind when I look at all of the business workers, in their business suits running around the city from dawn to dusk, always looking industrious. Even the youth seem pretty busy, walking around in directed motion, as if they have somewhere important to be. And especially during the wintertime, you don't see anyone sitting around, because it's a little too cold for that.

I suppose compared to Reunion, however, anywhere looks busy. I can only imagine how hot it must be there right now, and how relaxed everyone must be, since they're all on vacation. I can picture at this moment where everyone in the town of St Gilles are: you have the fruit stands open, with my favorite vegetable seller organizing his produce. You have the women in the other stand next door sitting around with glazed expressions, waiting for the tourists to buy their tomatoes. Then there is that group of old men by the bus stop, still working on their bottle of rum while they play cards. Oh, and don't forget out two homeless men, who wander around from spot to spot, talking to people or talking to themselves, as they go to the bakery to pick up their daily bread. I know where everyone should be in St Gilles on a Tuesday afternoon. The only people out of place are the assistants, still traveling around, exploring the world before we go back to work.

Switzerland in sum

I don't know if this is a cultural difference, or rather due to the fact that I have never skied outside of California, but I can tell you one thing. There's a certain ring to the phrase, "I've skied in the Swiss Alps." No, better yet: St Moritz. Despite all of those years of ski lessons and attempts at keeping up with my parents, who always wait for me at the bottom, I was still nervous to try skiing in front of the familiy I au pair for. I just knew they were going to laugh at me, as I slowly meandered down the slopes, always kind of afraid to go fast and hit it big time. Falling on my face that is.

Fortunately the day I skied with Matilde and her parents was a good day, and there was someone at the bottom of the t-bar lift to help me each time, which made up for that one time that I grabbed on for dear life to that piece of plastic that wasn't quite placed where it was supposed to be. I secretly think the Swiss must laugh at us silly tourists that don't know how to put the t-bar behind our bottoms so we can sit comfortably instead of getting dragged up the hill.

I think the thing I liked best about skiing in St Moritz was taking the chair lift. Even though it is easier to get a chair lift, the main reason why I liked this safer mode of transportation was because you could eavesdrop on all of the people speaking different languages. Skiing on my own meant I would grab any old chair with a mix of three other people, and listen to them chat to each other, on their phones (it's surprising how many times this happened), or instructors attempting to talk to their students in another language. Whenever I was sitting with Italians, I would amuse myself with their conversations about lunch, where to ski, who was meeting whom. With the Swiss Germans, I didn't even try to understand, just listen to that really cool accent that just kind of smoothes out the rough German language. The best time was when an Italian instructor was talking to his students (who were most likely German speaking) in English. As he struggled along with the words, I couldn't help but laugh on the inside, since he mumbled the words in Italian. Finally, I couldn't take it any longer, and blurted out the answer in English, just in time to ski off the lift. "Ah yes, that is the word! Thank you!" He called out, and we all had a good laugh.

So although skiing was a success, surprising the best time for all ended up being the day of sledding. My fellow nanny friend and aussie Kiera and I decided it would be a great idea to go for a fun day of sledding. As we rode up the funicular, it slowly dawned on us that we were going pretty high up, and wondered if this "little adventure" of ours was going to become more than we bargained for. Despite the fact that we didn't really know how to turn, and it wasn't exactly what I'd call smooth sailing to the bottom of the hill, we laughed our way down that 4.6 km trek....four times, taking pictures at every spill. I'm starting to think that it must be true that those who take care of children love their job because they act like kids themselves.

So I got my white Christmas after all. Even though it wasn't always relaxing (like New Year's eve where two of us nannies were left in charge of serving 13 kids dinner), it was nice to come back to cold weather. It's not every day that you get to build giant snow/igloos, and go swimming in an outdoor pool while it's snowing. And every time I see the girls, they keep growing older, more beautiful, and more sophisticated, almost as if they were turning into two fine young ladies. I think I'm turning sentimental.