top of the world

vendredi 2 mai 2008

Well, perhaps not the top of the world, but certainly the top of Europe.

Le Mont Blanc, the highest mountain of The Alps at 4,810 meters, was our focus today.  Annecy is just an hour drive from the city of Chamonix, which is the starting point for our ascent.  Chamonix itself is pretty much a ski resort for tourists from all over the world.

The cable car doesn't actually go to the summit of Mont Blanc.  It reaches Aiguille du Midi (midi means noon or south in French), which stands at 3,842 meters, and it's plenty high for anyone.  By the time we got up, it was clear that oxygen is a bit thinner there, since just five steps up the stairs caused some dyspnea, which cannot be attributed to not exercising for one whole month and consuming cheese, ice cream, duck confit, grilled chicken, and steaks everyday.

So I guess the view was literally breath taking.  I've got a large collection of photos now and share with you five.

what a day!

jeudi 1 mai 2008

Today was beautiful - the sky was blue, sprinkled with creamy whte clouds here and there, the air smelled freshly green from the lush vegetation.  Didier had planned a trip to the top of Mont Veyrier nearby Annecy.  "It's an easy walk to the top, no problem," he said.

In general, I'm not too much of a mountain person; I don't go camping or mountain biking nor do I hike on trails more narrow than my arms extended.  But I thought it would be fun to have a leisurely walk and enjoy the beautiful view surrounding Lac d'Annecy.  Yes, fun.

First problem - mountainous roads.  To get to the starting point of our "easy walk," we drove about 15 minutes up the mountain.  My genes tell me that I suffer from fairly severe car sickness, especially on tortuous roads like the ones today, and my stomach believes everything my genes say.  To make the twisted story short, by the time the car reached its destination, my breakfast had made its journey up toward my throat.  Luckily, after ten minutes or rest, I was feeling better.

Second problem - it rained last night.  Within 30 seconds of our walk, I was stepping in mud.  Since I hadn't brought appropriate shoes, I was wearing my white Diesel sneakers; you can imagine what they look like now.  With my baton (stick) in hand, I carefully traversed through the muddy terrain.  Unfortunately, another 30 seconds later, I slipped and fell heavily onto my butt, which, thanks to all the feasts I've enjoyed along the trip, cushioned my fall fairly well.  But my jeans and jacket were now coated with mud.  Not good for someone who doesn't even like to sit on dry grass.

Third problem - my fear of height.  After a three-minute walk in the mud, the path started to get better and not so wet, but by that time, I realized this wasn't an "easy walk."  What Didier had meant was a hike.  And it wasn't a typical hike.  Oftentimes we walked on trails barely wider than a foot, and the slightest slip meant a tumble at least 30 feet down - it was steep.  Several times I came to a very narrow path and just couldn't get myself to cross it.  I told myself, "go ahead, it's okay, you can do it.  Even the 70-year-old French woman ahead of you passed easily."  At the same time, my mind envisioned a long and painful fall down the muddy and bushy slope.  I guess what the mind sees is stronger than what it hears, since my body just wouldn't move, especially if I thought about the journey back down.  Many times I wanted to stop and turn backward, but two things prevented me - one, not knowing how to even hike down the steep hill, and two, not wanting to quit.

I know I've had a relatively easy life compared to most people, and I am grateful for that.  I also admit that oftentimes in the past, whenever something didn't go so easily as I had hoped, my first instinct was to give up and simply do something else.  So, as my easy and fickle life flashed before my eyes each time the fear of height prevented me from moving forward, I recited the mantra "I cannot quit again" and very slowly moved on, with the encouragement of Didier and Alim, who, by the way, each slipped a few times themselves.

I was elated after reaching the top at 1,400 meter altitude one hour later, but honestly, I was very concerned about how I would get down.  The mountain was definitely gorgeous.  The snow-capped Alps were within sight, and I knew I would be there tomorrow (not by hiking, so promised Didier).

Thankfully, there was another route down, so we took the route more travelled, and it was much easier.  At one point, Didier admitted that he must have taken a wrong turn on the way up and ended up taking a very difficult route.  At that moment, I was able to practice several French words and phrases I had learned but seldomly used, most of which included the word "merde."

To bring the hike back to a full circle, I managed to slip again on the way down and ended up with more mud everywhere.  I guess I got the mud bath I had always wondered about, and it was free!

So, at the end of the day, I am happily alive with just a couple of new scrapes, my clothes are in the washer, my white sneakers are still caked with mud after a good cleaning, and I can say I've taken roads both less and more travelled.  Did I conquer my fear of height?  I don't think so; I am certain that the same feelings would return if I were to return.  But at least I know that the next time I encounter something of which I am fearful, I can convince myself to take little steps, to hold on to my supports, and to count on my butt to brake my fall so long as I keep eating.  It doesn't hurt much, really.

from the sea to the mountains

mercredi 30 avril 2008

A day of transition.

We're going from the region of Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azure (PACA) in the South to the region of Rhone-Alpes in the department of Haute-Savoie in the Southeast, near Geneva.  The name Provence isn't a region nor a department, it is just a name for the area.  Our base for the next few days will be the town of Annecy, which is Didier's hometown.  It has approximately 5,000 inhabitants and receives tourists all year round - skiing for the winter, and all sorts of water sports during the other season thanks to a grand and beautiful lake, Le Lac d'Annecy.

Today we visited a smaller laker, Le Lac du Bourget in St. Germain la Chambotte, which was on our way.  The two photos you see were taken there.

A word about the geography of France.  It is divided into regions which in turn have several departments each.  There are approximately 100 departments in France, each given a number, in alphabetical order.  How do you know what the number is?  Easy, there are two ways other than memorizing them.  Just like the U.S., there are zip codes.  The first two digits in the five-digit code is the department number.  Also, all automobile license plates end in two digits - the department in which they are registered.

For example, the zip code in Paris always begins with 75, and the last two digis correspond to the arrondissement.  A common game that French children play during long road trips is to recall the number of each department.  I guess that's better than repeatedly hearing "are we there yet?"

it's all cheese

mardi 29 avril 2008

Our final day in Provence.  On our agenda today - two of the top 100 most beautiful villages in France (there really is an official list) - Beaux de Provence and Gordes.

We began our tour in Beaux de Provence.  In all honesty, I don't think you could call it a village.  Sure, it's old, it's beautiful, but I saw no sign of inhabitants, just tourism.  Gordes, on the other hand, was quite nice, and indeed there were people living in this old and charming village.  Another city we visited was Roussillon, which is famous for its naturally red rocks, quite similar to Sedona in Arizona.

Didier made a reservation for lunch at "Le Bistrot du Paradou, Chez Jean-Louis" one month ago.  Paradou is the name of the town, and it means paradise in the old local language.  I don't know if the town really is heavenly, but the food at Chez Jean-Louis came pretty close.  People who have dined here inclue Nicolas Sarkozy in 2006 (before he became president of France), Sharon Stone, Tom Cruise, and now Alex Lin.

The concept is quite similar to Alice Waters' Chez Panisse.  There is no selection for your meal except for the entrée.  I began with the tarte aux tomates, which was absolutely delicious.  I love savory pastries, and this one was done perfectly.  The other choice, in case you were wondering, was escargot.  The bread was house made of course, just like everything else here.  The plat was gigot d'agneau (leg of lamb); the portion wasn't enough for me, but the flavor and the accompanying potato gratin were to die for.  We finished our lunch with a selection of cheeses and dessert.

Cheese - something I love but don't know much about, so Didier and Alim taught me a bit about the etiquette of eating cheese.  There were more than 15 types of cheese on the platter, so I stopped Didier after he named three, as I was sure I wasn't going to remember any that I didn't already know.  The ones I do remember:  Comté, Roquefort.  Although some Americans think the Roquefort is strong, it really isn't, relatively speaking.  There was a goat cheese marinated in olive oil that I caught a whiff of every now and then; I wished now and then didn't come every now and then.  I did taste it.  What can I say - cheese is pretty much mold.  There was one that Didier warned me about - the taste wasn't too bad, but if you happen to get any of it on your finger, it would smell for days.  I don't know if he was exaggerating, but I didn't want to find out; the cheese went carefully from my fork to my mouth.

And so concludes our stay in the South of France.  Overall nice, even though we didn't got to Nice.  Cassis is definitely my favorite town.  As for the people here, they are generally more friendly and willing to engage in a conversation than Parisians, but that probably has more to do with the style of living.  Here people are more relaxed, it's sunny (except when I visited Marseille), there is no hurry to do anything except taking the lunch break; so why not be nice.  I was warned in advance about the dialect, and I find that the French here isn't as nasal; all the nasal vowels (four of them) have a slight, flatter twist, somewhat like the Quebecois French.  Secondly, they're more relaxed with their pronunciation.  Oftentimes they drop the very end of the final syllable of each word as if they were too lazy to finish it.  Maybe living in this relaxed atmosphere does affect you in all aspects of life; maybe I should move here and see if it'll rub off on me.

Maybe not - I prefer the life in Paris.

H2O, Harbor 2 Oursin

lundi 28 avril 2008

The forecast for today was showers by the afternoon, so we were hoping to get everything done as quickly as possible.  And no, oursin isn't our sin.

First stop was Cassis, a small seaside town not too far away from Marseille; it is also the name of an apéritif.  As soon as we got to there, I imagined returning there for a month or two while working on a script.  It has vibrant colors in its architecture, which is typical for Provence.  Even though it was a bit cold and the sky was menacingly gray, the town was still enjoyable.

The highlight for today was definitely our discovery for lunch.  Like any harbor town, there are numerous restaurants lined up along the harbor waiting for tourists.  We found one a little further away called "Le Mistral."  It was obviously a family-run business as the two portly gentlemen who greeted us at the door and behind the bar greatly resembled each other.  Its feature, like many other restaurants in town, was "dégustation de coquillages du 1er septembre au 1er mai," meaning "taste of shellfish from the first of September to the first of May."

I had wanted the seafood platter with oursin (sea urchin, uni for those of you familiar with sushi), oysters (huîtres), and an assortment of mussles, but oursin isn't in season.  So I settled (settled probably isn't the best choice of words here) for the bouillabaisse.  Just as a side note, I had always hated oysters in the past (cooked) until recently when my cousins N-bah and J-bah forced me to try a raw oyster for the first time.  I was actually very tasty.  I don't understand why the Taiwanese (and some other cultures) eat oysters cooked; it changes the texture to one that is plastique and... I guess disgusting would be the right word here.

So Didier and I ordered the bouillabaisse.  To be exact, we didn't actually have the bouillabaisse.  The menu states it was a fish soup cooked like the bouillabaisse.  Didier says it's the best he's ever had.  Me too, since it was my first.  Perhaps you need a special license to cook bouillabaisse, and they couldn't claim it to be that since they didn't have the license.  Who knows.  Later that night, Alim would order the bouillabaisse from a different restaurant; it was bland and poorly made in comparison to our non-bouillabaisse.  

Indeed our lunch was delicious, and the price (18 euros) couldn't be beat.  Huge - and I mean huge portions (some of you know how much I eat) - for each of us, with flavorful croutons and a great blend of sauce called rouille.  There were four kinds of fish, along with tender potatoes that have soaked up all the flavors of the fish.  Marvelous.  If you happen to come to Cassis, you must try this restaurant.

By the time we reached Marseille, it was starting to drizzle.  Marseille and Lyon fight for the title of the number two city in France.  Personally, I didn't care for Marseille that much, but keep in mind this judgment is based on a short visit of a few hours on a rainy day.  The traffice was awful (I was told that Marseille has this reputation), even though there were beautiful tramways that mostly went empty.  The trams looked quite new, with beautiful wooden benches inside as seats.  Heck, I'd take that over driving.  The city also has two metro lines, which is not too impressive compared to the fourteen that Paris boasts.

Marseille has an area called "vieux port," the old port, which is the napping place for tons of sailboats, similar to the Marina in San Francisco.  Again, plenty of restaurants along the harbor; we chose one and were quite disappointed.  Typical tourist routine - I knew it was bad before we entered since they served French food and sushi (what kind of a combination is that?), but it was raining and I didn't want to complain (more).

is it all bull?

dimanche 27 avril 2008

Second day in Provence - Nîmes.  I was transported back to my high school days when I ruled the world like Julius Caesar.  Actually, it was more like when I studied Latin, except I don't remember much of it now.

Nîmes is a very old city.  Proof?  There is a coliseum built by the Romans 2,000 years ago.  Les arènes (the arenas) isn't as large as the Coliseum in Rome, but it is a bit better preserved in my opinion.  It was built for spectacles involving gladiators and more recently has been used for bullfighting.

We also visited an ancient temple (again, built by the Romans) called La Maison Carrée in which we saw a short film in 3D depicting the history of Nîmes.  The title was Heros, and after recounting the stories of past citizens, it ended with the victories of a bullfighter whose name I cannot remember (not that I tried).  Someone explain to me why a bullfighter is a hero.  That's like saying Russell Crowe is a hero for making movies.  As much as the French criticize Hollywood and other American customs such as worshipping athletes, an act which I also find despicable, they themselves are also guilty of glorifying entertainers.

Nevertheless, to be in the midst of these monuments that date back to the Romans two millennia ago is truly astounding.  Just think I walked on the same stones that Augustus once graced with his sandals.  My Latin teacher Mr. Shickle (RIP) would be proud.  Well, maybe not, since I've forgotten most of my Latin.

After Nîmes, we headed to Le Pont de Gard, also a remnant from the Roman era.  It has three tiers, and it is truly magnificent to behold.  Didier tells me that because of the frequency of visits by French citizens who probably weren't taking their Prozac (or Paxil, Zoloft, Celexa - take your pick, I am not endorsing any of them, nor do I own stocks in any company that makes them) - meaning they jumped - the top tier was permanently closed to visitors.  I am a bit surprised since I think jumping off the lowest tier would probably produce the same result.

A demain (until tomorrow).  I'm too tired to write in French, so that will have to do for now.

far above, but not too far away

samedi 26 avril 2008

I woke up early this morning to make sure I would get to Gare de Lyon on time.

To have major train stations accessible by a short metro ride is simply marvelous.  Certainly that doesn't exist in San Francisco.  Gare de Lyon, by the way, isn't in Lyon; it is in the heart of Paris, and it is beautiful.

There is something about arriving at a train station and watching and hearing the hustle and bustle of adults and children all around, the adults scrambling to track their trains and validate their tickets, the children chasing each other and seemingly finding every way to annoy their parents.  The smell of croissants and pains au chocolate permeate the entire station.  Lines of TGV trains extend beyond what the vision can perceive as it is temporarily blinded by the rising sun peeking out behind them.  The senses are stimulated beyond what a visit to the airport can conjure.

By the way, a few of you have asked if I am eating croissants everyday.  No.  I've had exactly one croissant in the past month.  Typically, I prefer pain au chocolate (I'm not a masochist nor do I have a strange fetish for sweets; pain is in French), roulé au myrtille (a very delicious blueberry roll), or viennoserie au chocolat.

But back to my journey that was about to begin at Gare de Lyon.  The ride at about 300-350 km/hr from Paris to Avignon would take a little under three hours.  There was no point in taking pictures; the speed of the train was too great.

Alim and I met Didier at the TGV station in Avignon, after which we drove into the ancient town of Avignon, which is surrounded by a "rempart," which, as you may have guessed, is a rampart.  Avignon is famous for a few things "Les demoiselles d'Avignon" by Picasso, "Sur le pont d'Avignon," which is a famous French folk song (notice my not so clever alliteration); and the papacy.

The Palace of the Pope was constructed in Avignon in the 14th century; it was the center of Christianity prior to its settling in the Vatican City.  Now you all know I'm not a religious person, but after a visit to the palace, it was even harder to contain myself.

The Pope and his entourage really lived in luxury beyond perhaps the king.  There were several towers and "treasure rooms" in the palace, conveniently located above and below the pope's chamber.  God only knows what kind of treasures these people held.  I couldn't help but repeatedly ask myself:  If Jesus Christ suffered for humanity and is a symbol of the religion, why do people so blindly accept that the Christian leaders should live in luxury?  Even if they don't accept it, why do they allow it?  Yes, I use the present tense correctly.  My classmate Giovanna, who comes from Rome, tells me that many residents of Rome scramble to make ends meet while the select few (or many in this case) are living luxuriously in the Vatican; unfortunately, this isn't something that Italians from other cities experiences.  Additionally, a classmate from Berlin revealed that Germans who identify themselves as Christians must contribute a percentage of their income tax to the church.

But then I thought: perhaps people don't want to wake up.  Perhaps they know very well what they are paying for their so-called religion.  We are, after all, only human.  We all make mistakes.  We all know we do things that we shouldn't.  Perhaps some of us feel that by paying and contributing, these mistakes can be erased and we can then deny that these mistakes were ever made.  After which, of course, we can do the same things over and over again.  Maybe that's why some of us proudly march on the streets telling one group they are sinners and another they are going to hell.  Is this the price and the message of Christianity?

I know not all Christians conduct their lives this way, and I know that the people I've described exist under all religions; it's just that the power and wealth of Christianity is simply incredible and... unreligious and anti-Christ.

After exiting the palace, I got the feeling that it was really a big closet.  I gladly walked out of it into a warm spring afternoon.  The spirits of the past, however, seem to have trapped themselves inside.

Not too far away in a foreign city, there is a far grander closet whose residents continue to trap, continue to control the present, the past, and very likely the future.

P.S. In the pictures, you see images taken from and around the Palais des Papes as well as Le Pont d'Avignon.  You are also blessed with picture of Saint Didier - notice the halo above him.