Four Wonders in Four Days

In my on going quest to see the Wonders of the World, I recently hit four of them in four days:

The first was an original Shakespeare folio in Stratford-upon-Avon. Despite the weirdness at the visitor’s center, Stratford was somewhat enjoyable. Long before I ever thought of going there, I realized that Stratford would be a tourist trap. What I didn’t count on was the fact that it was ONLY a tourist trap. The entire place was like Main Street at Disneyland. They have raped the memory of the Bard and turned him into a money making machine…

The next day, I made it out to Stonehenge. After a winding drive out to Salisbury from Bath, we came down a long road in the middle of nowhere. Every half mile or so were signs that said, “Tank Crossing” accompanied by a drawing of a huge armoured tank. Interesting: Salisbury, home to crop circles, the great white horse drawings of Wessex, Stonehenge and secret British military bases…

Stonehenge was amazing to look at. Those massive stones whose true meanings and methods of construction can only be guessed at. I received a free audio guide with my ticket. I listened to it for about 5 seconds:

“Stonehenge, rising from the mists of time across the Salisbury plains… ” I turned it off. Somethings are better enjoyed in silence.

The next day, I went to the British Museum and saw the Rosetta Stone. Another amazing site to behold. The idea that this stone unlocked the secrets of the Egyptian hieroglyphics was astounding. Unfortunately, the museum put the stone right near the entrance. I had imagined that I would have to walk through a few halls of artifacts to see it (like the Mona Lisa at the Louvre), but nope – it was right there at the opening of the Egyptian wing.

My final day in Britian, I went to Dover. What a depressing town. And since they have NO luggage storage to speak of, I had to haul my suitcase with me all over Dover.

“Don’t mind me, sir, I’m just taking my suitcase out for a walk…”

I made my way down to the wharfs and there, rising over the channel were the gorgeous white cliffs of Dover. I wish I had remembered to bring my iPod, I’d have loved to listen to Eric Johnson’s “Cliffs of Dover” while I was there… oh well, nothing is ever perfect.

I made my way back to the train, up to London and by plane back to Paris. I am now back in Dijon, which is hard to imagine. And with just over two months left I realize just how much I am going miss living here…

We’re Both Speaking English, Right?

There’s a quote, I can’t remember from whom, that essentially says, “The U.S. and England are two countries separated by a common language…” Ain’t that the truth.

I was in Stratford-upon-Avon yesterday, trying to find out WHERE in Stratford one can view an original folio of Shakespeare’s works.

I figured, hey, head to the tourist center. As a side note, they have ingeniously located the tourist center at the opposite end of town from the train station, so one has to walk clear across town and pass through all the tourist traps to get to the center… very clever!

I found the tourist center and asked the staff member, “Where can one view an original folio of Shakespeare’s works??

She looked at me, confused.

“Do you want to see his house?”

I was stunned…

“No, not his house… I want to view one of his original folios.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve no idea what a ‘folio’ is.” she tells me.

“One moment, please.” I tell her. The I stepped outside, looked at the sign and sure enough, I was indeed at the tourist center for Stratford-upon-Avon, Shakespeare’s birthplace.

I went back inside.

“You’re kidding me, right? You work at the tourist center for the birthplace of the greatest writer ever, and you have NO idea what a folio is?”

“Is it his house?” she tries again.

“What? No it is NOT his house… it’s a collection of ALL his plays, arranged by The Bard himself. There were several hundered copies produced. They’re worth several million £.”

“Maybe you want to see his house?”

“NO!!! What is your obsession with his house?”

I sighed, exasperated.

“Can I have a map of the different Shakespeare museums in town, please.”

“I don’t have a map.”

I was stunned. I excused myself for a moment, stepped outside again… yes the sign STILL said, “Welcome to the Stratford-upon-Avon tourist center, birthplace of William Shakespeare.” Not, “Welcome to Wonderland, abandon all sense of logic and reason.”

I went back inside.

“You have NO maps of town?”

“Nope.”

Okay… that is weird.

“Not even one I could pay for?”

“Sir, we don’t carry maps of town here.”

“And by ‘here’ you mean ‘The Tourist Center for Stratford-upon-Avon, birthplace of William Shakespeare?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And no maps?”

“No maps.”

“Okay, well, I’ll start at his house… how do I get to his house from here?”

“Well, there’s the house he owned and the house he was born in. Which do you prefer?”

“The house he was born in.” I said, thinking it was more likely to have a copy of his folio there.

“Very well, let me get a map out.”

She pulled out a small, folded, pocket sized glossy map of Stratford. She unfolded it and said, “We’re here.” circling the tourist center on the map. “His birthplace is just up the road here on the right hand side.” she circled his house. “You may keep the map if you need one.”

I was about to fall over.

“This is a map?”

“Yes.”

“But, just two minutes ago, you told me you didn’t HAVE a map of Stratford.”

“That’s true.”

“And now, you’re handing me a map. Of Stratford. Stratford-upon-Avon. The birthplace of Shakespeare.”

“Yes sir.”

“Even though you don’t have a map.”

“That’s right, sir. No maps.”

“But I have one in my hand, from you, clearly for use by tourists, not some sort of tourist center only map. A map, for use by tourists.”

“Yes.”

“But you still say that you don’t have maps?”

“That’s right, sir… no maps.”

I looked around for Eric Idle or John Cleese, a camera, something.

“Riiiiight. I have to go. Bye.”

I walked to his birthplace.

They had a folio.

I took a picture of it.

I left Stratford and went directly to Bath… directly, that is, except that my train brokedown, the replacement was delayed by someone on the tracks and was too full for me to get on. Then the next train, someone had a heart attack and that, for some reason meant closing down the closest rail hub for the rest of the night. I waited 2 and a half hours for a train that went remotely towards Bath. It was full, but I squeezed on. I got into Bath finally around 22h00. My hostel was nearly closing reception for the night. I got in just under the wire.

I’m going to Stonehenge today. I can’t wait. I realize it won’t be as cool as I want it to be, but I have waited nearly my whole life for this… I am quite excited.

The Elephant House

I’ve been in Scotland for a few days. It’s beautiful, though Glasgow was filled with whores… and No! I will not pay you for the pleasure of your giving me VD. Thanks for the offer though…

I’m currently in Edinburgh. The train from Glasgow to here was amazing. Green hills, sheep grazing… and the beautiful sight of a huge wind farm on the horizon. I am not sure why people get all NIMBY about wind farms. As long as it is at a distance (as opposed to say, right next to my house) I find wind farms peaceful to watch.

Today I went to The Elephant House. A biggish cafe filled with elephants – photos, figurines, drawings, paintings, carvings, articles; some of the chairs were carved to look like elephants and the drapes were elephant laden tapestries. I loved it.

And, even cooler, this is where J.K. Rowling wrote a large portion of the first Harry Potter book.

It was incredible to sit there and imagine her in the corner with her child, writing about young wizards in training.

Tommorrow, a hike from Arthur’s Seat to Edinburgh Castle. A small walking tour; fish chips and ale and then maybe some live music.

Can’t wait.

Dammit

I just received word today that I didn’t receive an interview with JET.

I know that, no matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to stop worrying about finding a job when I return to the states…

Regardless, I’ll do all I can to make the best of France until I return home.

Holidays – The Uncensored, Soap-box Version

t_b

There's a balance I like to strike in my blog. I want to be honest and forthright in my writings, but I want to protect the identity, privacy and self-respect of those I write about.

One recent example where conflict can arise is in an entry I wrote about my trip to Paris. In the original version, I wrote about my friend's brother and how he insulted me. I called him some derogatory names, etc. I didn't think anything of it. Then my friend came to visit Sunshine and me in Dijon. She talked to me about how she felt hurt by what I said about her brother. Part of me wanted to tell her that I meant what I said, that this is my blog and I say what's on my mind. Another part of me wanted to retract the entire entry, rewrite it with a kinder and gentler ending and drink rainbows and ride unicorns…

I took a small walk that evening. I went by a local internet cafe (this was before I had limited internet access here at my dorm) and rewrote the posts in questions (here and here).

In one, I deleted the offending part of the entry. In the other, I removed the harsh language – but still kept the spirit of how I felt, and then added a little about how nice of host my friend was. Then I went and bought her a rose as a peace offering.

What can I say? I'm a softie…

However, life isn't easy, nor is it always nice. I'm not some war worn veteran that's seen people killed in battle. Nor am I the survivor of years of abuse. I haven't been around the block, but from what I have seen I know at times we find ourselves in places we don't want to be, associating with people that not just offend us, but actively set out to hurt us. They may be young, they may be socially inexperienced, they may be naive… but what they do or say still affects those around them, and I am not above calling them out on it.

Before I continue, this is NOT directed at my friend in Paris – this is me explaining how I feel to that small portion of the world that reads my blog. Because what comes next goes beyond the general spirit of my blog.

My intention for this blog is first and foremost to allow my friends around the world to know what's going on in my life as I travel the globe spreading the gospel of English. I admit that I complain a lot in my blog (as I do in real life – can I get an "amen"?) – but complaining lends itself to humor much more easily than compliments. Which is the second point of this blog – to entertain (if you want to see this done well, visit Outpost Nine). My third point is to occassionally be blunt, honest and open, in a way that I am normally not… which leads me to the more honest and uncensored version of my holidays.

Nearly Adulterous in Munich

Steph, dear sweet Steph. What the hell were you thinking? I love you sweetheart, but c'mon…

My friend Steph – I met her while on vacation in the Southwest US. We had a small hook-up (if kissing in Yosemite counts as a hook-up) on the last day of the trip. I found out at the same time that she had someone backhome in Munich. However the guy is a complete a*hole and their relationship is on its last legs… so no harm done… we didn't sleep together and it's not as if this is her husband…

Oh guess what little surprise she had up her sleeve? Yes, her "someone back home in Munich" was in fact her husband, NOT her boyfriend. And when does she tell me this? Not then and there in Yosemite. Nope. Not the next few days when she wanted me to come up to San Francisco to spend the night (I didn't, thank God). Not via email when we're trying to make plans to meet. Not when I email her to tell her about my (incredibly awesome and oh so gorgeous) girlfriend here in Dijon. Not even when we begin to make plans to meet in Munich for Christmas (why I wasn't in Austria with my beau is a whole other story of shoulda, woulda, coulda). No, she tells me this after she picks me up at the train station. And then, not at the station where I could have turned around, hopped on the train to Graz and been in Austria tout de suit. No, she tells me half way to her parents' house. Going down the highway at 120 KM/H is NOT the time to open the door and leap out of the car.

So, I show up for Christmas at her parent's house. And what did they think? Sure, she's leaving her husband (or at least trying to) and her parents know this. But to see their daughter come home for the holidays with someone who isn't her husband – hell, he's not even German. She met him (me) on a trip abroad…

It was awkward for me and I am sure it was odd for them.

The first night, she and I went to a bar. She got a little drunk, I had hot chocolate. She tried to talk me out of dating my Eskimo (yes, that's my nickname for my girlfriend, she calls me her honeybear, cause I'm sweet like honey and, well, hairy like a bear). She told me that she was probably back in Austria cheating on me like women usually do when they are away from their boyfriends…

[sigh]

I'd have made a stand… but you choose your battles… and usually ones partner's honour is a good battle to choose. But she was drunk and I knew she'd not remember a single word of what I'd have said to her.

I spent the entire holiday in Munich counting down the minutes until I was back on the train to Dijon – just to get the hell out of there and away from her. And that is no way to spend a holiday.

Yes, Steph paid for almost everything (except my train ticket). She covered my meals, my hotel, etc. She was generous… but I feel she was just compensating for the lie… but there is no compensating for it on this level. Not that huge of a lie. I was pissed, and really this is just borderline adulterous behaviour.

I hope you get the hell out of this marriage – for your sake and your husband's.

Czech-mate! (Yeah, it's an old joke… deal with it)

"Daniel, how was your trip to Prague?"

"It sucked!"

Before I go one word further… avoid using NEW EAST travel and Voyages Wasteels.

14 hour bus rides to Prague suck. Add to that the inability to SLEEP on the bus, inaccurate directions from your reps on where to meet (would it kill you to have put the address ON THE ITINERARY?), and then being yelled at for not being at the right place to meet the Prague bound bus (hey, you told me the wrong place, a*holes). Even more, there were 10 monkeys on the bus. These idiots felt they could talk all through the night, blast their music players (via headphones or through speakers) the whole trip and keep their lights on w/out reprecussion. And wow, turns out, they were right. We'd ask them to shut the Holy Hell up, but they just ignored us. We spoke to the program cooridinators, they refused to do anything about it. So 14 hours of hell all the way to Prague.

We arrived around noon. We checked into the worst hostel I have ever been in. The bathrooms had no doors. The showers had small wooden doors with cloth that neither closed all the way nor locked. The showerheads were loosely attached to the wall and occasionally they gave hot water. All the windows in the hostel were open, which I couldn't figure out why – until I realized that everyone was smoking. Dammit!

It was snowing in Prague. The streets were covered with sludge, a nice mix of ice, snow, dirt and trash. Yum. It was tracked all over the floors of the hostel.

And I got sick. Since apparently everyone in Prague smokes, including the unborn, the dead and the undead – I inhaled about 18,000 metric tons of second hand smoke… I had a bad sinus infection on the second day and I am still battling it.

New Year's was great. Three of our room mates got drunk. One spent the night vomiting, another passed out in front of the door ('That wasn't such a bad deal', said Sunshine… that's because you didn't have to drag his butt from the doorway all night – how he kept moving back there is beyond me). The last guy showed up at 7:00 in the morning, a huge cut on his swollen left cheek. He was missing his wallet, passport and all other identification. The last thing he remembered was going to a German bar and drinking some green fairy.

The monkeys from the bus were in the room next to us. They put a hole in their door and kept trying to come in our room whenever they got drunk.

People actually can't understand why I quit drinking… 

The ride home from Prague was the the same as the ride out, except I was sick. That made it that much more enjoyable.

The irony of it all is that I really didn't want to go to Munich OR Prague. I set these plans to motion about 6 weeks ago – and, instead of backing out, I tucked my tail and made plans to do things I knew I would hate. I could have done Prague for cheaper on my own (as opposed to using Voyages Weasels). But, for all the money I spent, I could have had a nice week in Sicily, or had snowboard lessons in Switzerland…

Like I said, all my fault for going against my will. From now on, I'm doing things I enjoy – unless someone is paying for the entire trip.

Travel Tips

Apparently many people out there have NO idea how to travel with consideration for those around you. So here is a short list of how you can travel and not piss off me everyone around you:

1. Do not bring your screaming child on a plane, bus or train. There's a reason your child is screaming, it doesn't want to be there. There's a reason people around you are giving you dirty looks, they don't want your child to be there, either. If you're child is too young to travel quietly, get a sitter or stay home.

2. Do not bring your pet on a plane, bus or train. Here in Dijon, there are signs on the buses that have the "not allowed" circle with a slash over a dog, but next to it, in green, is a drawing of a dog in a purse. Translation: No dogs allowed on the bus, unless it's in your purse. (I promise you I will have a picture of this one day… it isn't easy to pull off). Listen, unless your are impaired and need a dog to help you around, DO NOT bring your pets with you on vacation or around town (I suppose there are pet friendly vacations, in that case, go for it). But I don't want your dog pissing on me, barking in my ear, fidgeting, whining, etc. I paid good money for a quiet trip so I can sleep. I did not pay this money to listen to your dog whimper in wonderment as to why someone who supposedly loves it decided to bring it on a trip and cram into a compact space for ten hours at a time.

3. Shut the hell up and turn down your music player. I don't want to hear your conversation, I don't want to hear your music. Talk quietly, keep the volume on your music player low and we'll all be happy. And if someone asks you to keep the noise low, comply. Don't be a pain in the butt about it. Respect the people around you. And if you don't and I accidentally shove my foot so far up your @ss that you can taste shoe leather, don't act surprised.

4. Stop smoking. Really, seriously, what the hell are you thinking? What are the down sides to smoking:

- You smell like an ash tray.
- You're killing yourself.
- You're ruining your health.
- Your teeth turn yellow (as do your finger tips).
- It can lead to impotence.
- Second hand smoke will piss off everyone arond you.
- And hey! You're paying for the pleasure.

What are the benefits of smoking? Someone? Anyone?

Yeah, so all you geniuses out there, make yourself a slave to tobacco corporations and kill yourself. See if I care, just f'n do it where I don't have to see, smell or inhale your flammable suicide.

Interesting note: In France, cigarette packs say "Smoking kills" in French in HUGE letters on the face of the box. Yet people still buy it – I guess Dennis Leary is right about that:

"Doesn't matter how big the warnings are. You could have cigarettes that were called the warnings. You could have cigarrets that come in a black pack, with a skull and a cross bone on the front, called tumors and smokers would be lined up around the block going, "I can't wait to get my hands on these f'n things! I bet you get a tumor as soon as you light up! Numm Numm Numm Numm Numm" Doesn't matter how big the warnings are or how much they cost. Keep raising the prices, we'll break into your houses to get the f'n cigarettes, ok!? They're a drug, we're addicted, ok!? Numm Numm Numm Numm Numm *wheeze*"

Just f'n quit already. Really, you'll be happier about it in a few weeks, once the withdrawl is over.

5. Don't f'n lie to me. If you're married, please tell me ahead of time. I don't have the money to do a background check on everyone I meet.

Nobody Strikes Like the French

At the beginning of December, the bus drivers went on low capacity strike. What this means is that they run fewer buses than normal at any time they feel like. You can see this coming already, can't you?

Yes, folks, the buses actually ran PERFECTLY on time that day. Generally the buses are off by a few minutes, no big deal (except for the number seven, it runs when it wants). But on this day, they were all on time, even the number seven. It was like the train system in Switzerland. F'n amazing.

You all should go on low capacity strike more often.

Near the end of December, I went to "The Titty Twister" with a college student I tutor (no joke, it's coffee place near the University. I ask people there if they know what the name means, they just shrug and go back to smoking).

The door was open, and there were a bunch of employees standing around.

"We're closed!"

"But it's 6:00 PM and the door is unlocked."

"We're on strike!"

"Of course. How effective for you to strike by showing up to work but not working!! Keep up the good work, guys."

Next Time on My Blog

If I remember, I'll tell you how much fun it is to use the toilets.

Munich in Passing

I spent Christmas in Munich, Germany. I had expected Germany to be a depressed country, like the way Eastern Germany and Soviet Europe had been portrayed during the Cold War – however, it was beautiful. The country side outside of Munich was covered in a light layer of fresh powder, and it snowed lightly the entire time I was there.

There was a lot off oddities that I won’t go into, but I will say that my friend Steph was an excellent hostess and her family was very welcoming.

Soon, I’ll be leaving for Prague in the Czech Republic. I hear it’s beautiful and cheap. I like that.

I hope everyone had a great Christmas. May your New Year be even better.

Laundry

I’m amazed at how some things that would be a simple task in the U.S. are incomprehensibly difficult in France. Take doing laundry for instance:

I live in a university dorm room in Dijon. There are nearly 20,000 students that attend the university. There are over 20 dorms here at the University. We share ONE room to do laundry. This laundry room has THREE washers and THREE dryers. Let’s do the math:

Each dorm has 33 people per floor. Each dorm has four floors, that’s 132 students per dorm plus the service staff (who also live in the dorms). So, nearly 140 people per dorm building. 140 people in each of 20 buildings is 2800 people over all, with just three washers and dryers among us.

The washers hold very little clothing. I can easily fit twice as much clothing in a U.S. washing machine than I can fit into one of these small, Lilliputian machines. I swear these things were designed by Handy to accomodate Schtroumpfs.

As if all this isn’t a big enough pain, it costs €2.30 to wash one load of laundry and then €1.60 to dry my clothes completely. Since the washers are so small, I have to do five loads a week. This means I spend nearly €20 a week on laundry or €80 a month! The only thing that costs me more is my rent. And if you wonder what €80 translates to, that’s about $100. I could go to Switzerland for a weekend on €80. I could take my girlfriend out for a nice dinner, a movie and dancing TWICE on €80. It’s insanely expensive. In the U.S., I spent MAYBE $10 a week on washing…

And since there’s only three machines for the entire campus (and they’re only open from 9h00 to 22h30) I have to queue for nearly 2 hours just to get a machine. Then, as it takes me 2 hours to wash and dry one load of laundry, it takes me literally ALL DAY to wash all my clothes.

I’ve been able to cut down on the incovenience by wearing my jeans two or three times before washing them and using special dryer sheets to clean my sweaters. But while this saves me a little money, it still takes over half the day to wash my clothes.

You may think it would be better for me to go to a different laundrymat, but the others are more expensive, costing €5 to wash and €2 to dry.

Oh, and the method of payment is great. There’s no change machine in the laundry room, so I have to to the Post Office to get €20 in change for the machines (yes, the POST OFFICE, I am neither kidding nor lying when I say that the BANKS here don’t actually have money). Then the machines themselves don’t have a slot to pay, there’s one central payment box where you drop in your money and press the number for the dryer or the washer you’re using. No change is given if you don’t have exact change AND if you accidentally over pay on the dryer, you don’t get any extra time credited. You get 26 minutes exactly. No more, no less. Even better, if you open the dryer and the dryer stops, you still run down the timer, whether or not the dryer is actually going.

When I visited Nice, the hostel I stayed at charged us €5 to do ALL our laundry, including folding it!! It costs €40 round trip to get to Nice and €20 a night for the hostel plus €5 for the laundry, and since breakfast is included, hmmm it’s cheaper for me to go to Nice to do my laundry than it is to do it here… and somehow that doesn’t surprise me.

Afterall, in France, peanut butter can only be found in the international aisle at the supermarkets…

However, as I’ve said before, I love it here and I am glad I came here.

Rumi

I enjoy reading Rumi’s poetry. I’ll share one of my favourites with you all as a Holiday gift:

“Come to the orchard in Spring.
There is light and wine, and sweethearts
in the pomegranate flowers.

If you do not come, these do not matter.
If you do come, these do not matter.”

Nathan Fisk

When I was younger, over half of my life ago, I had a friend named Nathan Fisk. I can’t say we were best friends, though at times we were close – and I can’t say that we had much animosity between us, though at times we argued.

What I can say with certainty is that he was a fun friend. We met in 1984 when I was in sixth grade and my family had just left “The Italian Church” and moved to Bethel Church.

We hung out a lot until the mid 1990’s. At that point, we had both graduated from High School and he had joined the military and moved to Texas. (I may have some of those details wrong, not sure…).

One particulary fond memory I have is of he and I and Todd at our youth pastor’s house. Todd and I managed to date the two best looking girls in the youth group (How did we manage that, Todd? Was it being in the church band?). The youth group was headed to Disneyland, and our youth pastor invited ALL of us to spend the night at his place, go swimming, hang out, etc. With two rules:

1. We were in bed by midnight

2. Boys in one room, girls in the other

Well, the three of us never really followed the rules (nor did we often cause problems) so we hung out in the kitchen chatting about, of all things, the economic situation in Russia (it was 1991 and communist Russia was collapsing). Our girlfriends came into the kitchen and asked us what we were talking about.

“The economic situation in Russia.”

“No, really, what are you talking about?”

“The economic situation in Russia.”

“Look, if you don’t want to tell us, just say so!!”

Todd and I still laugh about it.

I wish I could say that Nathan and I remained close, but, as I said before, we drifted apart. And, not only did we drift apart, the last time we spoke, I was quite rude to him. I won’t recount what happened or what I said, that’s between him and me. It was certainly not my finest moment.

Unfortunately I never got to apologize to Nathan for what I said and did. He died April/May of this year. The same day I found out about receiving the job here in France is the same day I got word that he had died.

The first few weeks here, I did nothing but dream about Nathan. It was almost always the same thing – either he was still alive, he had come back to life or he as visiting me as a ghost. In my dreams he kept saying that he never understood why I was still upset about what happened or he would say it wasn’t such a big deal. I finally accepted that what had happened was in the past and to let it be, let it rest with Nathan. It was then that the dreams stopped.

Nathan was nothing if not forgiving, and I would like to think that had I called him and apologized he would have accepted and then acted like nothing had happened between us to begin with.

I’ll never know. But I am sure that’s how it would have happened.

I was talking to Katharina about this last night. It’s odd how his memory creeps up on me from nowhere… She said nothing and simply hugged me.

I miss you, Nate. Somehow, for some weird reason, there’s a little bit of you here in Dijon.

I hope I get to see you again someday.

The Thanks That Kept On Giving

Thanksgiving last month was such a huge success that we have decided to hold a large meal every month. Last week we hosted a Christmas dinner. We had nearly 20 people show. We ate all sorts of great food brought by different people from around the world.

Next month we’ll host our “Half-way” dinner. We’ll be celebrating the halfway point between our arrival here in Dijon and our departure. It’s hard to believe I’ve already been here for 2.5 months!

Harry Potter

For you Yanks, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire was released before Thanksgiving. For us Frogs here in France, it was released at the end of November. Last weekend, I arranged a special showing for my students and teachers. The teachers were free (woot!) and the students were only 3€. And generally, the most I have paid for a movie in Europe is 5€… so why is it I pay nearly 11 dollars US to see a movie in the States? Probably the same reason it costs 300 USD to round trip to NYC, but it costs 600 USD to only go one way.

Boggles my mind.

Christmas in Europe

I’m leaving on the 24th to go to Munich for Christmas. I’ll be meeting up with a lady friend I met on a Green Tortoise Trip in Sep. Her name is Steph and we’ll be spending time with her parents.

After Christmas, I’ll head to Prague for the New Year. It shold be quite exciting!!

In Case You’re Interested…

According to my students, the name for Father Christmas in the U.S. is NOT Santa Claus, it is actually Santa Fe, capitol of New Mexico (cleaner and better smelling than the original).