Day One

To understand the evolution of stress levels in a French university, imagine a ski slope. Envision yourself starting at the bottom and working your way up. At the beginning of the semester, the route is long, flat, and easy. Halfway along, things start to get a little more difficult. The workload starts to accumulate. The end of the semester-- which we're precipitating toward now-- is straight up-hill. 

Admittedly, I enjoy working. (Really.) Still, it's impossible not to look back on those initial, empty days with a pang of nostalgia. 

I found this post, which I wrote upon arrival in France, while searching for a homework file on my computer. It was fun to go back to those days in early August before I got here, the excitement of an unknown city and the fantasy that I would have nothing but time. Nothing. Like, not even hot water.

Well, I made it. No bad luck on my thirteenth transatlantic flight. Dragged my bodyweight in luggage through the train station with great comedy and pain, but no accidents. The rental agent showed up on time at the train station and took me to my new apartment.

Which I am loving.

The photos I had received by email called to mind some modern rendition of La Bohème: attic room, skylight flanked by unfinished wood, pockmarked stone walls, big wooden beams lending some old-timey architectural interest. The theme was solidified by the agent’s caveat that-- by the way-- I may or may not have electricity when I get there. And since it’s August, it could take up to a week to see an electrician. So bring some candles.

(Note to self: start writing tragic opera!)

Not willing to sacrifice the fabulous location of this apartment, I packed a small flashlight and some warm clothes. In a way, it was comforting to know what the problem would be before I got there. Because there would most certainly be some problem. This is France, after all. Last year, it was a broken heater immediately followed by broken light fixtures. This year, no electricity.  Totally manageable.

But (almost to my dismay) I did in fact have fully functional electrical outlets when I arrived. And hot water. And the rental agent just gave me a well-labeled map of Clermont. And he’s going to help me set up Wifi.

What? Where is all the red tape? How can this possibly take less than six weeks?

Where am I?!

I realize it’s only my first day, but this all seems to be going a little too smoothly . . . Have I found a way around the bureaucratic nightmare that clings to France like a stubborn tick? Only time will tell, my friends. Only time will tell.

Central Europe: Summary

As if a summary of Central Europe were even possible. Nonetheless, I'm going to try to recap what I learned on my tour through Bratislava, Vienna, and Budapest:

These three countries (Slovakia, Austria, and Hungary) once formed a major chunk of a vast empire ruled by the Hapsburg family. The Austrians remember the glory of the Hapsburgs fondly, while the Hungarians speak of them as an oppressive regime (though not the worst they’ve encountered). The Hapsburgs managed to suppress independence movements within their empire, and thus to survive, until the twentieth century. The victors of World War I divided the family's holdings into a collection of smaller states, between which the next world war would drive an even deeper wedge: the Iron Curtain fell right along the Austrian borders with Slovakia and Hungary. The collective Eastern mind has yet to find closure from the dark days that followed. The Cold War’s insistence on separating “East” from “West” in cultural as well as political terms became something of a self-fulfilling prophecy: while today, Vienna is every bit as Western as Paris or London, Bratislava and Budapest seem somehow different. This unique flavor is a source of frequent comment from travel journalists, but hard to define.

Despite this difference—or maybe because of it—these former Eastern Bloc countries are in the process of asserting their Western values. Massive, American-style shopping malls attest to an embrace of capitalism. Foreign tourists swarm the streets. English is spoken widely and well.

While each of these cities has a different level of experience in the tourism industry (Vienna's museums have marshaling tour groups down to a science, while Bratislava's seem clumsy), they are fascinating and wonderful places to visit. I have to insert a shameless plug here for the hospitality of Central Europeans. After the history, the architecture, the culture, and the food, it’s the people that make Central Europe so addictive for travelers. This is a region that demands more than one visit. . . . So stay tuned.

Budapest: Hey, At Least They're Not Totally Naked

Do you have qualms about jumping into an unchlorinated pool full of strangers? Do you become squeamish at the sight of elderly men in Speedos?

What's that? You don't? Well then, head on down to the Hungarian bathhouse!

I sure did. I spent the afternoon at the Szchenyi (no idea how to pronounce it) baths, the largest and most popular bathhouse among many in Budapest. The city sits right on top of a number of thermal springs, which the Ottomans took full advantage of to engender this cultural habit.

The experience was gross, fun, awkward, and relaxing all at the same time. As I mentioned, the pools are not chlorinated. Supposedly, the water is not recycled like it is at the one in your neighborhood, but rather, constantly drained and replaced with fresh, mineral-rich water from the springs. (Nonetheless, posted signs constantly remind guests to shower with soap before getting into a pool or sauna . . . Honor system?) At any rate, it's probably safe to say that Szchenyi would not have remained in business so long if people got diseases there. (I'll keep you updated.)

The huge complex features three outdoor pools, several indoor pools at varying temperatures, steam rooms, a fitness center, and probably some other stuff, but the layout of the building was so confusing that that's all I saw. There were indeed a good number of old-timers flaunting their goods, but Szchenyi, along with being the most popular bathhouse, is also the most clothed. Apparently Budapest offers other, more . . . um . . .  "traditional" set-ups as well.

In addition to soaking up the minerals with dozens of my closest international friends, I decided to indulge in a Thai massage while I was there. Thai massage is the one where they lull you into a deep state of relaxation by rubbing you down with oil, then have you sit up and proceed to punch you like they're tenderizing a piece of meat.

But yes, when all is said and done, the bathhouse is definitely a worthwhile use one's time in Budapest. It's deeply cultural, and at the same time, great for what ails the tired tourist.

Budapest: The Cool Kid on the Bloc

If Paris and New York moved to Istanbul and had a baby, it would be Budapest. And if you understood that metaphor, congratulations, because I only sort of do. 

Budapest looks vaguely like Paris to me due to its plethora of tall, ornate buildings. The architecture is more varied, however. During the city's construction heyday in the late nineteenth century, Neo-Historicism was all the rage, meaning that architects picked and chose their designs from whatever past era they felt like. Hence, the Parliament building's crimson Renaissance-style dome is surrounded by a multitude of Neo-Gothic spires, and a flat, glossy Art Nouveau exterior coexists with the bas relief-ridden Baroque façade next door. 

But the city feels gritty and urban, as if it were dreaming of New York. Budapesters are sassy and tough. During the 70s and 80s, even the Communist regime was a little afraid of them, and began to allow the Hungarians more freedoms than other satellite states in order to keep their rebellious spirit at bay. 

The influence of the Ottomans, who occupied Hungary for a century and a half, can be seen in the cultural details. Soaking in one of the city's many Turkish baths is a top activity for tourists and locals alike. The food combines Eastern spices and fruits with Germanic meat and potatoes into something slightly exotic and utterly delicious.  

Above all, Budapest is itself: stubborn in its uniqueness, it forces the traveler to conform to its customs, not the other way around. In other words, it's very, very cool. 

Budapest: Why You Should Be Happy that You Can Vote

The "House of Terror" museum was, appropriately, terrifying.

Or rather, moving. Or haunting. All of the above.

The neoclassical building that houses the museum sits right on the "Hungarian Champs-Élysées", Andrassay Út. It makes one wonder if people strolled this boulevard in the fifties and sixties like they do now, and if so, if they knew that hundreds of people were being murdered in the building next to them.

The structure served as the headquarters of the Nazi's Arrow Cross (like the Gestappo) during WWII, then of the Soviets' AVO (like the KGB) from then until the late 1960s. The museum serves as a chilling guardian of the memories of that time as well as a memorial to the victims.

You start the tour on the second floor. In the atrium below, a rusty Soviet tank hints at what's to come. This floor gives an overview of the Nazi and Soviet eras in Hungary. Particularly chilling is a room containing a dining table set with china bearing the Arrow Cross emblem and, standing at the head like a host, a mannequin in Nazi uniform. The difference between civilization and humanity has never been drawn so clearly.

The middle floor focuses more on the Soviet regime. The old surveillance equipment and presentation of gulags render the subsequent displays of communist propaganda nauseating.

From here, an attendant lets you into a glass elevator. The doors shut and everything goes dark. A TV screen lights up with the image of the building's former janitor describing (with English subtitles) the execution process. The door opens, and you fin yourself in a damp-smelling stone basement: the prison, torture, and execution rooms.

The guidebook having warned me that this was coming, I read through this part of the tour before getting on the elevator in case I needed to walk through it quickly. Specially-designed prison cells, electric cables, out-of-use gallows: the basement puts the "terror" in the museum's name.

Finally, you enter a room commemorating the anti-communist uprising of 1956. Then a room about the 200,000 Hungarians who fled the country after the brutal suppression of said uprising, most of them to America (a woman sings "Dreams Are Made of This" in Hungarian through the speakers). Finally, video screens show footage of the last Soviet military officers leaving Hungary in 1991-- the soldiers look as relived as the citizens. The tour ends with a memorial to the victims and an accusatory hallway displaying photos of the bureaucrats who killed them.

The museum does an amazing job of transmitting both the knowledge and the horror of those times to the visitor. You can practically feel the Hungarians' personal outrage against their former oppressors as you walk through.

This is a positive step in the country's quest to deal with its dark history-- and the first time I've seen such a thing on my trip to the former Soviet Bloc. I never heard the word "communism" in Bratislava. The city's history museum focused on its 19th-century Golden Age and ended with the 1920s. I hate to think what happened there.

Vienna: Notes from Sacher

This morning I paused, undecided, right in the crossfire on the street between Starbucks and Café Sacher. I walked to Sacher. Looked in the window at tourists eating cake. Back to Starbucks, almost caved for a Pumpkin Spice Latte. Finally, chose to do the cultural thing and entered Sacher.

Sacher is where I'm writing from now. I have to say: so far, I'm pleasantly surprised. Guidebooks had lead me to expect old-world stuffiness crossed with a tourist attraction, but the atmosphere is actually somewhat laid-back. It's not as packed as I'd feared. (Maybe the competition across the street has something to do with that.) It's pretty small, too, just a gathering of high-top tables around a horseshoe bar. Jazzy, reggae-type music wafts from the ceiling. Of course, the primary clientele consists of tourists eating cake. The waiter speaks perfect and easy English. But it's okay. It's even-- dare I say-- comfortable.

The downside is that it's way overpriced. (Small avocado salad: ten euros. Lukewarm hot chocolate: five.) Starbucks may also be overpriced, but at least there you have the satisfaction of a big hot cup to go with the big hot price.

So now that I've had my dose of ambience . . . Back to Starbucks for my eight ounces of caffeine.

Vienna: Rise of the Green Mermaid

Vienna was the original gateway for Europe's favorite drug, coffee. The Ottomans brought it with them when they invaded the city in the Middle Ages. Hey, they may have pillaged and plundered-- but they left some tasty, tasty brew. Eventually, the beverage migrated its way across Europe, including to Paris, where (so I've read) it has been partially credited for the sudden burst of mental activity called the Enlightenment.

With such a long history, the Viennese coffee house has understandably become an institution. And it doesn't get much older or more institutional than Café Sacher. This café, once home to the world's greatest chocolate cake (before HoHos were invented), now serves its rather dry sweets and overpriced coffee to tourists.

Across the street, a younger, hipper institution serves its dry sweets and overpriced coffee to tourists: Starbucks. In 2003, the company chose to locate its first branch in Vienna right across from one of the most venerated coffee houses in the city. The sheer ballsiness of Starbucks' move offended the Viennese, and the coffee Decepticon was not able to open as many locations as planned.

As far as I've seen, however, every Starbucks in the city (especially the one across from Sacher) is packed. And not just with tourists. It seems the Viennese have discovered the beauty of free wifi and portable coffee on a cold day. It's not quite as ubiquitous as in the States, but judging by the discrepancy between Vienna's initial disgust and its popularity today, it's only a matter of time before the green mermaid conquers all.

Vienna: You Might Be Pecking Last

The tourist trail of Vienna is dominated by the Hapsburg imperial family, who ruled various swaths of Europe for 800 years or so. I toured the elaborate, Versailles-style staterooms of one of their residences, the Albertina (which is also an art museum). The audio guide told me that at least one Hapsburg had lived there until the end of World War One. Can you even imagine? Louis XVI was kicked out of Versailles in 1789, but Austria had a ruling monarchy until well into the twentieth century! Anachronism, to say the least.

According to a particular book on Viennese culture, the incredible longevity of Austria's imperial culture translates today into an obsession with titles and hierarchy. Fortunately, I won't have the chance to experience Austrian bureaucracy, where apparently this makes life miserable. But one can still get a hint of it upon closer examination of the day-to-day. Yesterday was the first time I have ever seen well-dressed men wear white gloves-- and not for warmth or as part of a uniform. It's also easy to see by looking in the window which cafés are intended for the white-gloved. No matter where you go, people will most certainly be polite and speak English to you without getting huffy about it. Nevertheless, it may also be clear that you, the tourist, are a slug. And you will be seated at a small table improbably nestled between the restroom door and a wall and which is labeled "Reserved" for slugs. (Literally. Speaking from experience here.) Again, people are very nice in general and you will be treated well. There is simply a pecking order, and depending on how you look, little doubt as to your place in it.  

A Nerd's Love Letter to Vienna

Are you the kind of person who would DVR a History Channel special while you went to the theater? Then Vienna is your candy store, my friend.

Cultural offerings abound at all price points (12-euro opera tickets, anyone?). There are more museums and churches and historical sites than you could possibly shake a stick at. So many, in fact, that even with a full week in Vienna, I will not end up seeing everything I wanted to. This realization followed me in a cloud of remorse yesterday. Until, gradually, it dawned on me that will never be enough time. Vienna is like Paris: you can only measure your experience in amount of time spent, not in number of sights seen. So, one week down. More to come.    

Bratislava Day Two: Shop Irony

Okay, enough silliness. Back to communism!

The Novy Most (New Bridge), with its Trekkie-esque tower, represents Soviet design at its most enthusiastic. Back in the late 60's or early 70's, when the cement on the bridge was still wet, someone carved this into the pedestrian walkway:

The construction crew either didn't see it or just left it there.

In a delicious twist of irony, the New Bridge today is en route to this:

Aupark, the shopping center that the taxi driver pointed out to me when I first arrived. Now, this mall is huge. I mean, really huge. The only vantage point from which I could get a decent picture of the exterior was (irony again!) from the top of the Novy Most's tower, also know as "the UFO":

See those two illuminated red signs, and all the shorter buildings surrounding them? That's it. 

One can satisfy any desire at Aupark. Need a TV? Fur coats? Insurance? A workout? You can get it all right here! (I settled for a sweater.) The sheer wealth of consumer options was not the only difference between Aupark and the American malls of my personal experience, however. Unlike the mall of my hometown, whose atmosphere leans toward stressful and depressing, Aupark is a happy place. The rather chic cafés were filled. Children were entertained. Adults were smiling. One gets the impression that this shopping mall is quickly becoming the new center of daily Bratislava life. 

Bratislava Day One: Disappearing Museums, Accidental Catholicism, and Tasty, Tasty Meat

I woke up early today, ready for my first full day in Bratislava. Bratislava, however, was not so ready: it turns out that nothing opens until 11am on weekends. (I can only wonder if this has something to do with the stellar reputation of the city's nightlife.) So I waited at a café, just me and the barista at 9:30am. He brought me a cup of bitter, almost Turkish-style coffee with one small cloud of steamed milk. I sprinted laps around the old city for the rest of the morning.

Bratislava's compact Old Town is a pedestrian-only tangle of cobblestone streets so cute you could just eat it right up. The narrow lanes converge at the Main Square, which features a complete hodgepodge of buildings ranging in color from white to pink to mint green. The Rick Steves guidebook tells me that each building dates from a different era and has been recently restored to its unique original splendor, and color.

This square is home to the City Museum, located in the old town hall. It contains information about the building it's housed in, as well as mostly 18th and 19th-century artifacts of Slovak life. It's about as interesting as you make it.

My ticket to the City Museum came with dual entry into the Apponyi Palace, which I hear is not actually a palace, but the restored former home of a Hungarian aristocrat. I also heard-- later-- that it's only open during the summer months.

Not all was lost, however. While searching for this nonexistent museum, I ducked into a church to escape from the sudden onslaught of spectacularly miserable weather. As I sat in the back defrosting, more and more people began to file into the pews, and stay there. So I figured I would stay, too. I ended up participating in mass. The ceremony featured as special guests a Gregorian chanting choir, a group of young men with lovely voices. The music went well with the dramatic black-and-gold church décor.

All of the sit-stand-kneel acrobatics of mass sure worked up my appetite. Fortunately, it turns out that the Slovaks make really, really good food. For the price of 2.5 café crèmes in Paris, I was served duck meat that fell off the bone, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth potatoes, syrupy local wine . . . Even the cabbage was delicious. I think I understand now what keeps Slovaks going in the face of late-October wind and rain.

Bratislava: First Impressions

If you're wondering, "Where the hell is Bratislava?", it's in Slovakia. And Slovakia is a land-locked bubble nestled between Austria and the Ukraine. Quick history: After World War I, Slovakia merged with the Czech lands in the north to form Czechoslovakia.  The next world war turned it into a Soviet satellite state, under which it languished for the next forty years. After slipping out of the Soviet Union in 1989, strife cropped up between the Czech and Slovak governments. They decided to quietly part ways just a few years later. This "Velvet Divorce" of 1993 posed a major problem, however: most of Czechoslovakia's money had come from Prague, and when that city suddenly found itself in the Czech Republic, Slovakia was basically left to fend for itself with few resources.

And it suffered. According the Rick Steve's guide, as few as ten years ago the center of Bratislava was a place where "only thieves and fools dared to tread." But soon enough, money started flowing in from foreign investors, creating what is today one of Eastern Europe's boom economies and a very different picture of Bratislava.

I knew nothing about Bratislava a few weeks ago, not even where it was. Before arriving here, I expected to find something along the lines of stereotypical Soviet-- grim faces, grey coats, and the like. Flagging down a taxi driver in front of the airport, I thought: "And there it is."

I immediately forgot the Slovak word for "hello." We stared at each other for an awkward moment. Then I just nodded, for lack of ideas. He said nothing.

We drove in silence for a while, past ugly industrial zones under a grey sky.

He must have seen me staring at one Gargantuan, all-glass shoebox stretching a length of highway. "Aupark Shopping Center," he said with a note of pride. Shopping center. Looming like a giant middle finger flipped to communism right outside downtown.

The ice was broken. From there he began to point out sights left and right: the ultra-modern presidential palace, onion-domed Saint Michael's Gate, cobblestoned Old Town packed with students day and night. A chocolate shop. "I'll be visiting that," I said, and he laughed. Actually, he giggled. For the first time I saw a big grin spread across his face, saw his eyes light up in the rearview mirror as he bounced a little in his seat. This taxi driver is a good representation of my first impressions of Bratislava: staid and dour in appearance, but underneath, it's positively giggling.

Bonjour!

And bienvenue to my blog, “Francecapades: My Escapades in France (Part Deux)”. It will serve to chronicle my forthcoming year in France as a graduate student and frequent traveler, and also to transmit to you some of the fantastic weirdness and ironies of living abroad.

“If this is 'Francecapades Part Deux',” you may wonder, “is there a 'Part Un'?” You are astute. I wrote the original Francecapades two years ago, when I was a high school teacher in a small town in northern France. You can access it here.

NB #1: I have been writing posts since I arrived in Clermont a month ago, but have not until now had the technological means to set up a blog. Ergo, there shall be retroactive blogging.

NB #2: If the page appears for you in French, as it likes to do sometimes, contact me and I will try to fix it.

Thanks for visiting my page, and happy reading.