Cakes and Thanksgiving

Hello Codets. Just got back from a few cake deliveries this morning. Our cakery is severely growing. I even handed out business cards in an elevator while on delivery this morning. These babies take a lot of work but their turnover is fantastic. Biggest issue cropping up is enough space to make multiple cakes at a time and of course....delivery. I'm a nightmare when delivering cakes. Delivering cakes in the midst of Sao Paulo morning traffic is hell. I have to hold the cakes on my lap to prevent annihilation during the common event of slamming on the breaks for a rogue motorcycle or not-so-stealth lane changer. Sao Paulo drivers remind me of big dogs who live with small dogs; the big dogs act like the small terriers and try to get into places they really shouldn't. Two foot gap? Of course my car fits. Perhaps who has it the worst during a delivery is H, whose every tweak of the wheal I curse at. I'm learning to relax, but cakes are precious cargo. For today at least, all our little cakes made it safely to their destinations.

Cakes aside, this Thursday is Thanksgiving.  I won't be doing anything special. We celebrated an early Thanksgiving last Wednesday (a holiday here) with a large group of our gringo friends. Giant turkey, mashed sweet potatoes, apple crumble, wine, wine, wine and i made cornbread stuffing, roasted balsamic pears and a pumpkin torte. The best part about a hot (meaning weather) Thanksgiving is that you really can pile on the ice cream. I am thankful to have this large misfit group of friends in Sao Paulo to act as my surrogate family. To fill in the void of like-minded ideas, gestures, customs that come with your own culture. Then again only a few of us were actually from the US or Canada. Perhaps we share these things simply because we are all out of place. My friends here come from everywhere. From Malaysia, Spain, New Zealand, South Africa, France, Argentina--but we all feel at home at Thanksgiving knowing that we made one of the largest cities in the world feel a little bit smaller. Well, that and getting a giant group of international hard core foodies and wine-enthusiasts together usually results in a good time. Happy Thanksgiving!

My cakes this morning were both small; about 15 cm in diameter. The Tiffany blue textured cake comprised of brown sugar vanilla cake (and was gluten free) and had two layered fillings of Irish cream chocolate truffle and Swiss meringue butter cream. So overall ten distinct layers. The outer frosting was traditional butter cream. The pink cake was a vanilla angel cake with two layered fillings of vanilla Swiss meringue and strawberry cream, also a total of ten distinct layers, also finished in traditional butter cream. viva la cake.

I have one final and quick announcement to any Sao Paulo residents reading this---please come to the SP Night Market in Jardins this Saturday, it is the final market of the year and is focused on Christmas shopping. I will be there selling Vietnamese pho (come at lunch time!) a few sweets and a few fun edible Christmas gifts that yes, will last until Christmas. see you there -and to the rest of you, have a lovely Thanksgiving.

Let's Go Down to China Town

Snack Attack in BellevilleIt appears that in nearly every major city in Europe and in the Americas there is to be found a Chinatown, a Little Tokyo--maybe a Petite Hanoi? a bitty Bangkok, a Seoul-ville? Mini-countries, one inside the other. Of all the world cultures found transplanted into another through immigration, it is the cultures of the East (for me a western-centric egoist) more often than not who profoundly establish a replication of their old world in their new.

Not to imply Asian cultures are the sole builders of ethnic districts-- there are grandiose Jewish quarters found around the world, central European and middle-eastern burrows in small and big towns, and of course (particularly in the southern US) Spanish districts in which foreign culture is streamed in through restaurants, markets, goods, language, entertainment, and society. All of these aspects join together to form not just a "Little Stalingrad" or a "Taco Town" inside a Seattle, LA, Munich, or Paris, but rather a true part of the city's identity, part of the culture, the countries culture, the peoples culture. That is what a cities cultural identity is; there is only one Paris, one that is French, Chinese, Arab, African, Jewish, Muslim, America(s)n; whether you like it or not everyone is affected, the city is affected, the city is made. The world is not big anymore, we all share with each other now. What is New York City without Little Italy, San Fran without Chinatown, and where would the whole world be, for that matter, without that damn street kabob!

But why does it seem that there are more established pockets of Asian cultures in cities around the world than of any other ethnicity? There are many reasons, and I will try a few of them as I sit here munching on a white rabbit (it's a Japanese candy, not an actual rodent lagomorpha, you may rest-assured Alice's pocket watch carrying bunny is not in danger. for tonight at least.) Are the Chinese, Japanese, Thai, and Vietnamese just more organized? maybe. But there is more to it. I think.

One word, you are thinking, mallory kick it with the annalysis--all you need to say is immigration. True, I suppose. Immigration explains how one group of peoples ends up living among another group of peoples. Immigration is quite the interesting subject don't you agree, the United States would not exist without it. Australia-- same as the US. France's immigrant population markedly consists of North Africans and Muslims, which has had a major impact on Parisian culture, food, and even language. Right now Brasil is celebrating its 100th anniversary of Japanese immigration, as we all know, Brasil has the largest population of Japanese outside of Japan. Spokane--Spokane houses a huge number of Ukranian and Russian immigrants. Speaking of Ukraine, Ireland has recently experienced a Ukranian influx of migrant workers. Each community is made different, made better, made itself by the variant cultural makeup of historical and current immigration. But immigration in itself does not explain why there is a Chinatown and not a Ukrainiatown.

Hypothetical (yet evident) reasons: western and eastern cultures are markedly different from one another (no way!) and therefore any "setup" in the other is much more noticeable. China is the most populated country in the world (no way!) and therefore numerically there has, and continues to be more immigrants establishing themselves around the world. The earliest Chinatowns in America, and around the world for that matter, emerged from both need and availability. We don't need to hide our imperfect history, our human historical error of racism--it's a fact. What do people do when faced with racism? They learn to cope, they institute familiarity to bring comfort and a sense of community into their new lives. Often times, centered around food. For the availability--with large communities it is possible to have the butcher the baker and the candlestick maker.

But let's face it, most modern Chinatowns are there nowadays for us, the tourist and visitor. We like the stuff, we want the stuff. Chinatowns are huge attractions for foreigners, as well as nearby locals. Imports and wholesales often times make the markets quite the bargain, and the international charm of the whole experience is enough to pull you down town and over to the international district to buy candy instead of just popping down the road to the supermarket. And besides, who wouldn't rather eat some szechuan chicken and some kimchi cooked by real people who know the food they are actually cooking, who know how to pronounce it, know its history, know its purpose, than say that sticky orange sweet and sour crap smoldering under a hot glass at the deli take away counter at the supermarket. That's what I thought.

There are two Chinatowns--quartiers chinoises--in Paris, the largest and older is in the 13e arrondissement in the southeast of Paris near the porte d'Italie. The second is in the 19e at Belleville, the quartier chinois we will pay a visit to right now.

A bit on Chinese immigration to France: the first major waves hit the country during and after the first World War as Chinese immigrants were welcomed as manual laborers. The Chinese population remained in Paris during and after the second war, briefly taking over the wholesale market in the Jewish district le marais. Through the years the locations of the Chinatowns have changed, leaving only traces of there previous installments. The modern locations have been in establishment since the early 1970's.

What makes a Chinatown? First, a large number of Chinese residents. Second: markets, stores, and stalls that sell Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, Korean, and or Thai products, oftentimes for very low prices. Third: restaurants, restaurants, restaurants. Fourth: Video, book, magazine, newspapers available in Chinese and other Asian languages. And fifth: street signs are almost always in the the countries language as well as Chinese. A mini country inside of another.

What does Paris Chinatown have? I'll tell you. Many supermarkets selling everyday products you'll find everywhere for lower prices, but located on a shelf next to myriad rice crackers and packets of dried powders and spices. Paris Store is a large chain that is quite popular and found throughout France. Produce markets, restaurants, patisseries where next to the croissants are sesame and wasabi cakes, hair salons and travel agencies , it is really in the end just two cultures smashed up against each other to form a new, better one.

Personally--I was thrilled to find the beloved sweet rice cake snacks available at the markets back home in Poulsbo--not to mention the white rabbits, banana chips fried in sesame oil, and a Thai tapioca pudding whose ingredients consisted of coconut milk, tapioca, green beans, red dates, garbanzo beans, lotus leaves, and algae--- it was quite good.

Chinatown at Belleville--good name, it is quite a belle ville. On the side of an apartment building you will find a mural and the words, Il faut se mefier des mots--be wary of words, but in Chinatown, you do not need to be wary of words, whether you understand them or not, they are welcoming you, as long as you can taste the melon, you don't need to be able to pronounce it, words will come when they come, whether your language or not, you just have to let them.

à bientôt

Benvinguts a Barcelona

Basking in Beautiful GraysIt is a testament to any city, or any noun for that matter, to be found breathtaking on an off day--smeared makeup and wild hair, rain, clouds and a color absorbing hue apt to tango with the aperture. Through all of this, the first rainy days in months, Catalonia's capital city was an unquantifiable treat; for if marvelous on an overcast stage, what must a strong sun reveal? Oasis. Barcelona is yet another European gemstone I will return to down the road. The world capital of architectural art nouveau, ever present smell of the sea in the air, paellas, chocolate, palm trees, fruit markets, a new language (Catalunian), ham--what else could a human want? Benvinguts a Barcelona.

Traveling in the European Union can be quite easy; rarely does a customs agent ask to see a passport, flights from country to country are relatively short--as is flying from Seattle to Portland, and if booked correctly, can be inexpensive. For example, Ryanair draws patrons with ticket deals for 0.01euros--no way! Yes you were correct, no way. Add 15euro tax, check in fee, 16euro luggage fee, and then factor in the 50euro transportation from Paris to the Beauvais airport, and from Girona airport to Barcelona, and you've saved no money, and lost 6 hours to buses. Pas grave--the Girona to Barcelona highway stretch is a wonderful sight indeed. It is worth, however, comparing the overall costs to direct flight into the city of destination itself. Thats all for travel advice. Later we will touch on the importance of choosing compatible traveling companions--perhaps it is you who can help me on this one. On y va!

Once off the bus in barcelona, a quick look at the map shows the way to the hostel leads us through a park. Excellent--parks are my heroine. With our mini-rolling suitcases (as I have no patience to wait to return after luggage check in) I lead my comrade through the Parc de la Ciutadella and begin my traveling (I travel, I do not tour). Palm trees. The only palm trees I am experienced to have been in glass houses and along greasy boulevards in San Fransisco and Orange County.

Humid, windy, gray, though warm--the surreal aura solidified the notion that I indeed came to the right city. Barcelona was exotic for me, yet curiously I felt in place, and began to consider the fact that if this is exotic, then what will the rest of the world will be like. How does one feel in place if in complete incommunicado? I don't know. Though it was hard to tear my eyes from the Mediterranean beach on which the hostel sat, we set the first stop as the arc de triomf--smaller than its Parisian sister, though richer in its pigmented terra hue. Next stop: Gaudi.

Officially the the architectural capital of modern art or not--wait I thought that was Brasilia? Barcelona is antique with a rounded artistic charm. I just completed a modern art class in an attempt to try and ameliorate my aversion to the genre. Though I wary from plain sentences, here it is: I hate modern art. I will clarify, I do not hate Gaudi, his work is quite beautiful and has instilled Barcelona with an unrivaled uniqueness. Antoni Gaudi is of the art nouveau movement, and though the movement is much more practical in jewelry and furniture, it transformed the city into a fairytale village with vibrant colors, intricate tiles, glass, and swooping curves.

My first contact with Gaudi was paying 13euros to enter his house, which, I am sure, was also home at one point to Bilbo Baggins. His other namesakes--the Park Guel and La Sagrada Família Church were enjoyed from the non-financially binding outsides. La Sagrada Família (an architectural equivalent to the microsoft word font type comic sans) is not a Spanish equivalent of the cornea-burning boil known as Centre Pompidou, but actually is under continual construction. Its construction began in 1882 and remained under the supervision of Gaudi for 40 years until his death. The church is therefore an organic part of the city, continuing off of the blue prints of Gaudi (and modern adaptations), it continues to grow and in a way defines Catalunias 20th century character to this day. Religious scenes line the cathedrals outer walls--according to Gaudi Jesus was a sudoku addict.

Guide books are useful for maps and street indexes. Thats about it. Traveling without extensive research into the destination--make sure there is a hookup or friend telling you where to go, else the tourist track will be at the end of ever ally turn. Me--I had my Gonzaga friend C to show me the "real" sights of Barcelona, and Nuria from Spanish Recipes to direct me to the the "real" tastes. Result: Comfort of familiarity that nearly brought me to tears, and the food--coconuts haves forever replaced my love for the apple, and the ham quest gave me a purpose--though a small accomplishment, an accomplishment none the less. Yes Nuria, I quested your ham; and I thought fois gras tasted like candy.

"You want to do what today?" Search for a ham store, I don't fault you if you choose to not accompany me. Rather in fact I believe I am a diseased person, for I find greater pleasure in solo adventures. No--I just have not found my Sam, thats all (Tolkien, it's my theory, passed many a vacance in Barcelona, in Gaudi's house.) Ham--I was told to search for this ham, Anthony would do it, I am doing it. So I walked. Three days in a city--every minute underground is a waste of it. I was given a name, an address, and a product: once there my plan ended. Hola, erm, pas de espagnol, parlez vous francais ou anglais? "Er, a little." After confusing the poor ham man beyond belief with my sordid attempt at recounting my story for why the hell I was there, we just ended it and decided to HAM yes try the ham.

Ooh, damn, damn that is really good. Yes you're amazing! I guess I will purchase the smallest piece. 78euros! ok thats slightly humorous, yes, its good enough to be worth 78euros I'll give it that, but thats my entire food budget. 35euros? No still no good, but it was fun anyways. I'm a poor student. The manager arrives: I have his name, yes I do. English. Excellent. The story--I came from Paris just to see you yes, yes indeed. Already sliced for 8.50euros--sold! You will tell my friend I was here? Gracias! Small conversation ensues--that is how a food traveler would handle things, laissez-faire. Laissez-faire. Iberian Acorn ham: without a doubt the best pig product available for human consumption. What should I cook with it? Screw that I'm eating it as it is--touch it and it melts. Gracias Nuria. Gracias.

Aside from the ham--whose history is incredible, as C informed me that its Spanish importance stems from periods of Jewish expulsion--fruits of the sea reign supreme, one word: Paella. Twice did I try, twice did I love. The more variation to the ingredients the better--shrimp and mussels are basic, but the addition of other mollusks and squid is a now necessary must. Cod salad for a tapas could not be avoided. Barcelona gelato is fabled to rival that of Italy, mine can and will only be compared to Mora: Mora wins dulce de leche, Mora wins Cinnamon, Mora wins mango, Barcelona wins Crema Catalana, perhaps because Mora does not serve said flavor. Can this be true? Can it? Anna, Jerry, I am plugging for you. Give my sister a raise.

It is coming--you can feel it--Mallory poetically comments on food markets in every city she visits: behold la Boqueria, yes it is famous enough to have a website. Located off of La Rambla, the market is a garden of Eden housing dozens of fruit, vegetable, cheese, chocolate, candy meat, fish, and myriad gastronomic stalls. What can be said? Tears. Though I bought three apples one was perfect, the snack size containers of cut coconut for 1euro--ecstasy. Hola, hola, yada yada, whether they are shouting Spanish or Catalunian at me I know not. I point and use fingers to aid my "Uno, doce, treis quatro." The chocolate--2.50euro for a small chocolate mousse in a fondant ganache topped with an easter spring chic--mmmmm. worth it.

If it were truly possible to expound on all the magnificences of Barcelona, you would be reading for hours. The history, atmosphere, people--a city of charm and warmth, even in the rain. My day is made by the young man in the truck stopped at the traffic light, windows down, music blaring--but rather than the old Kanye West, I receive Ella Fitzgerald. What more--Dragons, history tour with C, Franco and the civil war--I could go on forever. Football, Football is Europe, Europe is football. Ronaldinho, Thierry Henry--even I knew that. Time passes in small cafes, coffee houses, and wine bars; pure pleasure. The Spanish grind a good espresso.

Two evenings on the beach spent with--two Quebecois, a Frenchman, a pack of Brazilians, and a couple of Alaskans? Welcome to hostel traveling. Though to compare the Mediterranean and Pacific ocean would be folly, any salty sea coast reminds me of home, makes me feel at ease. Ports, boats docked, fishing town--paradise. I was shown not but kindness, Barcelonians are used to gaggles of tourists. Although--a city of pickpockets is an understatement, witnessed firsthand an attempted purse snatching, though the champion ring fighter C is, the tug of war and shouts ended in her favor. Zip and hook.

But a scratch, but a scratch is three days. I will be back some day. Barcelona je t'aime. Foreign is beginning to become less foreign in my mind, the world does indeed get smaller the more one departs and arrives. Differences, many differences, but in the end I only see the similarities. And the ham. Oh boy that ham.

A bientôt

Wazemmes Market

The Soul Mate of ChèvreThis will be the last post of Lille I promise you--yes I have been back in Paris for a near week now, but in reality there could never be enough time, space, or patience to do justice to any one city. And yes, I have made many a post on the outdoor market--Munich, Koln, Aix, but this one is actually in France--how bout that! So say adieu to Lille through the crowded walkways of the immense and permanent market of Wazemmes, a weekend ritual for many in the northern French town since the turn of the century.

The 'downtown' center of Lille is split into three districts that have existed since the medieval era: Fives, Old Lille, and Wazemmes. The preserved antiquity of Lille is apparent through the lose cobblestones that keep you on your toes, and the omnipresent mal-odor that seeps through the stone walls, alleys, and streets of old Lille. Fine, sewer smell. The market that bears its locations name is opens its indoor and outdoor stalls and booths on and around rue Gambetta every Monday, Thursday, and Sunday to produce and bargain seekers both local and on the tourist track. Inside the covered Halles de Wazemmes one finds the assortment of shops found on any Parisian or French street--though all in one place. the crémerie, bucherie, poissonnerie, fromagerie, boulangerie, pâtisserie--as well as your specialty organic honey and--gasp--organic gluten free shop! Though there was no cod to be found bathing on the ice of the fishing stalls, the assortment of dressed chèvre for snacking (goat cheese) found in the windows of the fromagerie stalls has changed my entire outlook on the use of the curds.
While I adore goring on little morsels plain and pure, or accompanying a salad or slice of apple--these snacks give flair to any idea of "party cheese". Small slices or balls of goat cheese are rolled in a plethora of varying treats--from dried fruits ranging from golden raisins, pinapples, and tropical fruits, to crushed hazelnut, diced shallot, ground peppercorns--any small delight that will stick--then placed in a small cupcake sized wrapper, et voila! The cocktail party appetizer of the century. To wander the market with one in tow makes the experience all that more enjoyable, a French market, eating a ball of goat cheese rolled in dried pineapple--vive la France. Goat cheese and dried fruits were made for each other. I am starting to miss Mora's Goat Cheese & Fig ice cream.

The crowded outdoor alleys proffer as good a bounty as the indoor halles, though may the claustrophobic be warned, for the old-world market style comes alive in the pushing grunting throng of shoppers eager to get in out and eating. The Chances are your feet will be crushed, and sides poked and jammed by shopping bags and protruding baguettes. The produce vendors aid the chaos with their ear piercing cries of prices, bargains, and deals. The shear volume of imported fruit, local vegetables, hot roasting chickens dripping on electric spits, honeys, jams, and rustic breads galore is overwhelming for the first-time marketer (and short people, poor M). Easily passing over 100 varying vendors of non-edible items, their wares including bargain clothing, shampoos, jewelry, imports from china, India, and Turkey, antique vendors, and, anything and everything one could find at a garage sale. The flower row catches one on the descent, a last item to juggle amongst all of the purchases.

What, you ask, did I purchase--2 mangoes, 3 apricots, 7 lychees, 1 pear, 2 nectarines, an eggplant, goat cheese covered in dried pineapples, and a bag of gluten free granola. Let me lose in a market, and--well let anyone loose in a market and they will buy things. Conversing with salespeople what and how many you wish for is not only an amusing activity, but an opportunity greater than the classroom to practice language. When asked why, out of the myriad fish offered, there was no cod to be found, the monger replied "what would you want that for?" Well, the French do have their downfalls, I never said they were perfect.


Adieu Lille, I leave you; your markets, ancient streets, goat cheese, northern accents, jellied meats, and Brazilian themed restaurants until next time we meet.

A bientôt

Going Dutch & Deutsch for the Weekend

Köln, Aix la Chapelle, and MaastrichtThough the title implies a weekend in the nude, my petite adventure east sadly did not reach such heights. Rather the time spent was an out-of-country shopping trip to myriad Christmas markets as well as Cathedral touring. Markets and churches? Oui mesdames et messieurs I do in fact know how to party. Wooden ornaments and a German Saint Nicolas aboard a dinner boat on the Rhine--I did, however, have a cup of coffee in a Marijuana cafe owned by a round little Irish man in Holland, but that is for later.

I would like to say that I had some say in the planning of this trip, alas though I did not. The director of my academic program here in Paris sent the five of us on the northern market tour as part of a bus tour. Yes a bus tour. You have seen the movies; now just imagine 13 hours aboard this auto cab packed to capacity with we the five famille Gonzaga, and a large portion of Paris's retired community. A cozy bus full of sleepy quiet elderly is generally not a bad way to travel, unless of course one belongs to the disproportionately long-legged spider family and must sit knee-to-chin for hours as the gentleman in front leisurely reclines his seat. Blood clots... Anyways, Köln is one of the oldest cities in Germany, founded by the Romans in 38BCE, the city is of the top 5 largest and one of the most booming tourist destinations behind Berlin, Munich, and Hamburg. To the English and French speakers of the world, the German city of Köln is pronounced Cologne--our first stop. Aside from the 6 adorable medieval Christmas markets scared throughout the city center peddling an abundance of pretzels, china, chocolates, crafts, and gluhwein--hot wine--Köln's main attractions are the Calogne Cathedral, or Kölner Dom. Built in 1248, it is among the first Gothic cathedrals of its time, tailing behind by but one century. The Dom is a mammoth batiment, one that even with a pollution-blacked facade puts majestic Notre Dam to shame. Aside from the awe-inspiring beauty, size, and overall daunting presence, the Dom's celebrity pilgrimage point is its housing of the remains of the Three Wise Kings. Tres chouette.If one does not have an ample amount of time to explore a city, river tours, it is said, are an excellent way to see the city and rural landscape. Dinner aboard the Rhine, Santa was on board, and I proudly got the 5 of us through the German menu. Surprisingly, as I have said before, the farther my German classes in high school slip into the past, the more German I remember. And oh yes, I sang the Christmas carols, and I sang loud, with Santa. If anything, this girl-bonding trip--which I am generally no good at--was quite ego-stimulating for myself, as no one wanted to by, order, or speak to anyone without me doing it for them. Is it that difficult to say Eins bitte? Either way I'm finally popular for a weekend. On the river cruise the ladies all clinked German Biers and munched sticky Apfelstrudel. I had peppermint tea. But I drank beer and strudel in spirit! However the highlight of Köln, I will say, was the German breakfast at the hotel: meat, cheese, and fruit. Meat. Cheese. Meat....cheese!! Who would even bother looking at
that dry crumbly bread when there is such a plethora of cold cuts, wurst, and kase to be wrapped around apples, pear, and oranges? I do believe I was German in another life, I have no other way to explain my Germanophilia. Aufwiedersehen Köln.
A modest bus ride took us north the next morning, to Aix la Chapelle, the ancient capital of the first Franco-Germanic Empire and home to non other than Mr. Carolus Magnus Charlemagne himself. Aix is known in the local tongue (ja, Deutsch who would have thought) as Aachen, though the name Aix comes from the Latin for hot water springs, for the city sits atop an abundance of bubbling spa pools. Once in the city it's ties to antiquity become quite apparent. Quainter than a tea party in your Grandmother's backyard, the city centre of Aix is like a medieval fun fair with wooden toys and sausages the length of your arm. All in a cluster in a quartier de pietons, the famous Rathaus, Aachen Cathedral built in 786, and medieval shopping alleys form a cozy German fairytale straight from Hansel and Gretel's woods. I suppose I will now mention the city's infamous specialty: gingerbread.

As if the Rhineland weren't enough for one weekend, our autocab takes us a step further! Back on the bleeding bus she says...grumble grumble ich komme ich komme, tragst deine Hemd für gottes Willem! I will surmise the spelling and grammar to be horrifically incorrect...but notice I capitalized the nouns like a good little frauleine. Frau S, if you cared, I know you would be proud. Aufwiedersehen Deutschland--Ich gehe auf die Nederlands, ou pour les Francais, les Pays-Bas, and for you SJP, Hello Holland!

Maastrich, Netherlands, is quite the example of homogeneous Europe confused by superfluous borders; more German and Belgian than the Smurfs themselves, the populous culture of Maastricht is markedly non-Dutch. The Christmas market that awaited us was slightly frightening, reminiscent of a summer fun fair with carnival rides and penned animals. As well as plaster statues of my little buddy Napo-B, who, it is said, had quite a soft spot for the city while it remained in his empire. A few hours spent in a city is shameful, though that is all we could tender. For those of you who have been to a christmas or traders market, one knows that by the third or fourth one begins to detest all things reminiscent of pot potpourri and tinned crackers.

Alas, I tell the others, I need coffee to remedy this Dutch headache of American 80's music playing at the market centre ice rink.So I wander away from the people...searching...searching...ah a sign that reads Coffee Cafe, perfect. Shuttered windows...must be a Dutch thing. Cling, door bell announces my entrance, into a dark pub. Not your typical coffee shop I suppose as I make my way to the bar when a little fat man in an Irish football jersey jumps up and salutes asking for my ID. ID? What on earth do you need my ID for? He points to a sign, "No Entrance Under 18", Do I look under 18 to you? At this point he moved to English in his syrupy Irish accent, "An American! So you're on holiday and want to smoke a little weed--It's always the innocent looking good girls." Say what? I want a cup of coffee. It turns out coffee cafe in Holland means cannabis house. Go figure. I'm in a pot house. Well can I still have some coffee? I got my coffee and extracted the story from the owner; an Irish ex-pat whose owned Heaven 69 Coffee Shop for over 30 years and dearly misses his green motherland like the dickens, though has lived in Maastricht for so long that it too has become his home. When I asked why he left in the first place, his eyes glassed over in memories of no work in the Eire. Oh the travesty of how occupations and work must dictate and run human life, though, to state the overused platitude, home is where you make it, I am beginning to understand, as I travel around, that It is possible to live anywhere, one can adapt, learn the language, put on (or take off) the extra pair of socks, and just remember that people are people everywhere; there is only one kind of human.

Back to Paris by 21:30 Sunday night, quite the modest weekend. My city rains to welcome back her cramped-legged residents, reminding us (me) that no matter how much one (I) may love Germany and Germans, France is (my) home, and (my) language, and there is nothing that could make me forget how truly lucky I am to be given the chance to be tucked away inside her borders. Vive la France.

A bientôt