Lights out, camera on!

For a couple nights last week, the fog decided to invade Montreux right as the sun fell discreetly behind the mountains. And while I was out for a run one night after dark, I was kicking myself for not taking my camera with me--not that jogging with my camera hanging over my shoulder would be the smartest idea anyway. Well, lucky for me, the fog came back again, so along with my trusty Nikon companion, I went trekking in hopes of learning some new photo skills. Shooting at night: not the easiest task, though a slow shutter speed can have some really cool effects on the images taken.

So I went back to some spots that I mentally marked, set up my tripod, and took photo after photo while trying to keep my fingers from going numb. The good news is that I think I only freaked a couple people out with my camera and seemingly strange photo shoot spots. But along with my snowy white ski hat and pink fleece, I really couldn't have look that threatening.

Well then, here are some of my favorite shots from my evening walk. My next goal? Tackle a busy street so I can get streaks of light in both directions. Add some heavy fog and boom, you have the perfect setting for your next horror movie. Ooo! Or maybe I'll try a cemetery, you know, going for an Edgar Allan Poe effect. Ah, just so many options!

Date night

That's right. I went on a date last night. With whom? you ask. Myself. Ha! Yes, ladies and gents. I took myself out on a date to the grand opera house in Lausanne. The national Ukrainian ballet company was coming through for two nights only, and since I am a self-proclaimed ballet/classical music junkie, I could not pass up the opportunity. So, I got all dressed up to see Le Lac des Cynes also known as "Swan Lake". Tchaikocsky has been one of my favorite composers since I can remember (thank you Mom and Dad, The Nutcracker, and Mr. Gala), and "Swan Lake", one of my favorite pieces.

Needless to say, it was incredible. And I splurged on the seat, so I could not have been happier--especially since there was no giant 6'7'' man sitting in front of me. Sometimes I love the fact that everything in Europe--including the people--is smaller here. And the ballet? Well, the music is still playing through my head on repeat, along with twirling and leaping ballerinas dressed in glittering winter white tutus. Under the lights of the stage, the dancers looked luminous, like the surface of a lake under a full moon. It was truly magical and I felt like I was floating when I walked out of the theatre.

So, in celebration of Thanksgiving and my lovely night out, I'm including a short list of--appropriately--what I am thankful for this year. And in traditional fashion, if you'd like to share your list, don't hesitate to leave a comment below!

I am thankful for...

1. Friends and family. Always and forever number one. Miss you all like you wouldn't believe.

2. My adventure. Without even realizing it, I needed this time here and I am so thankful to have been given the opportunity to take this trip. And work of course :).

3. Internet. Because without it, oh I can't even think about it. Let's just say that I would be VERY homesick.

4. The patience of those I work with. Without them or their understanding, I would have no chance of ever learning this language--which I actually feel that I'm getting a grasp on!

5. College, and more specifically, USD. Four years ago, I would have laughed at the though of actually LOVING my college experience. But the time I had in San Diego prepared me for more than I ever imagined. And most importantly, I met some of the best people I know there. You know who you are.

I could go on and on about food, shelter, health and all those other things that I take for granted every day. So instead I will say that I am thankful for this life and the people I know in it. You all mean more to me that you could ever know. Sending all my love to you and wishing you the best Thanksgiving yet. Just remember, take a few extra bites in my honor. That way, figuratively at least, I was there with each and every one of you!

Peace, love, good health, turkey and pumpkin pie,

Mel

Twinkle lights, tinsel, and rosy cheeks . . . It must be Christmas!

I know that it still may be early to talk Christmas for those of you who are just about to gather around the family dinner table for turkey and cornbread stuffing and pumpkin pie. But since I won't be taking part in the traditional Thanksgiving meal this year (unless of course someone wants to airmail me a Thanksgiving feast by Thursday, which I in no way would object to), I believe I have a special right to start my Christmas season just a tad bit earlier. And with the help of the city of Montreux, this should be no problem at all. Christmas lights have been dangling over streets for about two weeks now, and almost every store window has an array of all things red, green, and gold to further convince everyone that the holiday season is indeed here.

I, personally, have no problem with this whatsoever because it all just gives me an excuse to start listening to Christmas music a few days earlier. And since this is the first frosty and bundled Christmas season I've had in four years--a little different than sunny San Diego, I'd say--I'm loving every moment of the pre-Christmas spirit in the chilly air and on the decked out streets.

This evening, while I was out strolling lakeside on the way back from the market, I inevitably walked through the beginnings of le Marché de Noel (Christmas Market) that begins this Thursday--perfectly enough on Thanksgiving day. Right now, the market is more like a skeleton of what it will be, but even that was fun to see. There is an entire Christmas village complete with Santa's Workshop and a BIG ferris wheel--so not what I expected considering that nearly everything is substantially smaller here. Most of the market is blocked off right now anyway, but I walked by many of the little wooden chalets that line the main street of town and on the opposite side up against the lake where vendors were decorating with tinsel, rich colored fabrics, pine cones, snowflakes, lights, wrapping paper and anything else shiny and glittery that screams, "Come and see how much Christmas spirit I have! Look! My tinsel is shimmers more than hers!!!"

And all of this under the spell of hot wine, warm Christmas sweets, and twinkling lights? It's a Christmas lover's paradise! And maybe by the time Christmas actually does arrive, I'll have made friends with some vendors, picking up my free cup of steaming hot wine after work every afternoon. Hey, a girl can dream, right?

And just because I like sharing, here are some happy Christmas photos to get you in the spirit too!

Thursday fruits and veggies market in Aix-en-Provence at Christmas time.

Canopy of lights at le Marché de Noel on the Cours Mirabeau in Aix-en-Provence where we frequented the vin chaud (hot wine) stand almost everyday.

The annual Grimsley Christmas Party and the loves of my life in traditional caroling attire (a.k.a. every item of clothing you brought and a bottle of peppermint schnapps in each pocket for warmth).

Spotted

Just having walked through the door from my evening run--my heart beating rapidly still-- I immediately sat down at my desk to share my most recent discovery with you.

I have a usual route that I take when I go running, though it changes slightly on occasion, taking a new staircase here or following some barely lit path to see where it ends up. Tonight, I was running along the train tracks when I passed a building on my right that stood slightly lower than the platform so I had a near bird's eye view of what was going on inside. Upon first glance, I saw referees in purple track suits with black whistles dangling from their necks and hands posed seriously on their hips while they focused intently on what was in front of them. So I figured, "Oh cute! It's a tiny indoor football (soccer) field where little kids play at night!" But when I stopped for a moment to get a better look, I realized that this was no little children's football league with juice boxes and oranges and trophies. No, instead of a baby soccer field, there were--from what I could see--three ping pong tables set up. And scattered on both sides of the tables were men over the age of 70 dressed in sunny sky blue polo shirts holding their paddles with confidence and staring intensely at their opponents over the five-inch net. "Gee whiz!" was all that kept running through my mind. I watched them play for a minute or two, checking out their moves and tricks with the tiny white ball. Not bad, guys. Not bad at all.

I'm just bummed that I'm not old enough to take part. Hmmm . . . Maybe I'll ask JP if he knows anything about this league. Perhaps he can persuade his peers to allow a 22-year-old to come play once or twice. I'll even offer to bring juice boxes and oranges and trophies if they let me in on the gig! But only if I get a shirt. Besides, I think that color blue would really bring out the color of my eyes.

A concert for one

Sundays in the hotel restaurant are usually pretty slow. Okay, let me rephrase that. They are painfully slow. Nearly all the hotel guests want to sleep in as late as possible and arrive for breakfast at 10am (the same time we usually start taking down the buffet)--though I don't blame them. If I had the option of staying in bed past 5:45 am, you could find me still wrapped in a cocoon of the feathery goodness that is my duvet, reading a book and sipping my second cup of coffee. But instead, Christiane and I take some chairs from the tables and sit upstairs chatting and reading while we periodically check our watches and wait. . . and wait . . . and wait.

After all chores are finished and we are clean and prepped for lunch, we move the party to the downstairs part of the restaurant and continue playing the waiting game there. And today while I was searching for something to do other than counting cracks on the floor or staring out the window and daydreaming about waves and sand and the dance floor at Comber, I made my way to the kitchen to polish silverware. Exhilarating, yes indeed.

The kitchen staff was still downstairs loitering on their third and fourth cigarettes, so the clanking of pots and pans, exchanging of vulgar jokes, and blaring hip hop music were not echoing off the white tiled walls like most days. Today there was almost an eerie calm in the air, as if anticipating the noise and chaos that would later ensue.

And that's when I heard the music. Piano notes sprung into the air and eagerly danced in through the side door that connects to le Grand Salle--the largest seminar room reserved for weddings and banquets and other elegant events. If there ever was a remake of "Beauty and the Beast," this room would be the perfect setting. Huge crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling that is artfully carved with swirls and painted with warm, creamy colors and gold.

I put down the knives and spoons I was holding and let the notes lure me in like sirens. At the far end of the room just against the windows that open to face the now charcoal-colored lake and sky was a grand black piano. The man playing sat alone in the nearly dark room, the only light coming from the cloud covered sky outside. As I listened to him play, I pictured his hands, fingers gliding across the keys patiently but with purpose and necessity, the silences and piano notes twisting around one another like professional ballroom dancers twirling in midair, their bodies indistinguishable but their harmony unmistakable.

He continued playing and I continued standing there, letting the music take me away to some far off place where the kitchen and hotel and thought of work was a distant and forgotten memory. And when the dance finally ended, the golden notes still lingered in my veins like tiny glowing fires keeping me warm for the rest of the day.

I went back to polishing forks and knives and spoons amidst the harsher sounds of the kitchen, but not without feeling a little lighter. Maybe it was not the most exciting or interesting of work days, no crazy clients or dropped plates, no new friends 50 years older than me or strange requests. But there was still something there to make it, hmmm . . . what's the word? Enchanting. And that it undoubtedly was.

The epic train ride, round two: En route to Chamonix

(Note: this post is very past due, but it is too good not to share, so enjoy! And hopefully you can learn a thing or two as well.)

Yes, when there is a round one, there must be a round two. And probably three and four in due time, so no worries. This life will never be boring. It can’t be, especially when you’re traveling. By train. In a foreign country.

Allow me to explain the trip to Chamonix in the first place. It’s no simple task, I assure you.

Step 1: Train from Montreux to Geneva. Easy enough.

Step 2: Find and get on Geneva metro/tram to get to Gare Geneve-eux-vives--or within walking distance of it.

Step 3: Pay attention to signs on metro/tram in order to know where Gare Geneve-eux-vives actually is. Walk/run to train station.

Step 4: Board train for St. Gervais Les bains Le Fayet at Geneve-eux-vives. (This is essentially the French train station for SNCF trains. Of course having French and Swiss trains in the same station would be much too complicated.)

Step 5: Get off at St. Gervais and find Mont Blanc Express Train to--you guessed it--Chamonix.

So that’s what we were dealing with in the first place. We should have known that this train ride would be memorable. Perhaps Marki’s words from the last train adventure, “Why can’t anything just be normal?” should have tipped us off. But no. We were naive and too excited about our final destination to think much about the joys of public transportation.

And now hopefully you’re starting to wonder. . . What happened? Given our recent train history, maybe you’re thinking that we took the wrong train? Ended up in Italy? Or got stranded in the middle of nowhere with no one and no phone reception?? No, no, and no. This is so much better than that.

Steps one through three went fairly smoothly--except for one small mistake with the metro. No biggie. But things got interesting on the train to St. Gervais. First, there was an issue with Marki’s ticket. Long story and I don’t have the patience to tell it here. All you need to know is that we sweet-talked the conductor and violà. We were good to go.

Now allow me to set the scene: Marki and I are sitting on the deserted end of the third train car, chatting, reading, picnicing, and taking in the scenery of this tiny corner of France. At one of the many stops we made on the way to St. Gervais, a young woman got on and made her way to our end of the car where she proceeded to stand in the hallway talking on her phone mindlessly and staring out the window. Just after her, a young man came down to our end of the car as well but he was, well, slightly strange. He had a limp in his walk and seemed to have some sort of mental disability--or at least I’d like to assume the later considering his consequent actions.

He stopped right next to Marki and I and stood there, staring at us for at least a minute while we were in the middle of a conversation. We continued talking--or Marki did--and I did the best I could to hold back fits of laughter. (Yeah, I’m one of those people that often laughs in the most inconvenient and uncomfortable situations, a quality I’m not proud of since it usually makes the situation even more unbearable.) Eventually--thank GOD--the boy decided to sit down and abandon the conversation he had awkwardly invited himself into. My back was turned toward him, but Marki still had a clear view and was keeping an eye on the little creeper while we tried to figure out what the hell he was doing.

All of a sudden, Marki gasped. Her face quickly turned to one of shock and disgust, followed by several ‘Oh my god’s in rapid succession.

“What’s wrong? What happened?!?!” I asked, too scared to turn around and survey the scene for myself.

“Oh. My. God. Holy shit.”

And that’s when I figured out what this young man was doing--although I was really hoping that I might be wrong. Can you guess? And yes, you can let your mind go there, if that’s what you’re thinking. While staring down the girl talking on her phone at the end of the train car, the guy stuck his hand down his pants and, well, you can fill in the rest.

Without much hesitation, Marki and I grabbed our things and were practically running to the opposite end of the car where there were more people--thankfully none of whom where jacking-off to keep themselves busy. Marki went in search for the train conductor to try and explain the situation... “Monsieur, il y a un homme malade et un peu bizarre qui regarde une fille et...” One problem. I never learned the term for ‘masturbate’ in my French class. Damn vocab lists. Whatever happened to learning useful things in college?

And to make the situation even better, the ticket man was nowhere to be seen. That’s when we figured out that the man who checked our tickets when we first boarded the train was the same man who was now driving the train. Not very good planning. I mean, what the hell are you supposed to do if there is an emergency? What if someone has a heart attack? Or there is a robbery? Or a young man decides to masturbate in broad daylight? What are you supposed to do then?

Thankfully, Mr. Creeper I-can’t-keep-my-hand-out-of-my-pants-for-five-minutes left the train a couple stops later, though I still felt violated for the rest of the train ride. Yes, I am aware that sex is less taboo in Europe--all you have to do is watch tv, pick up a newspaper, or look at the next billboard--but masturbating on a train? Really?

So the next time you find yourself traveling by rail in Europe, remember to keep some Purell handy. And never expect the ride to be just normal. Nope, it doesn’t work that way. However, if it’s an adventure you want, that you will get! Bon voyage!

Hand ball!

For those of you who do not follow world soccer news as a second job, allow me to enlighten you on the latest scandal. And as much as I love soccer myself, I am only hyper aware of this game and the details thanks to my friends in the kitchen--90% of them being French themselves. They take this stuff seriously. Like superbowl status.

Now, this past Wednesday, France and Ireland played to win a qualification to the World Cup in South Africa next year. Ireland had to score at least two goals and win the match in order to qualify, while a win for France by any number of goals would give them the spot. And the final score? Zero to one, France. But, there's a catch. While French player T. Henry was going for the ball just outside the goal post, his hand conveniently smacked the ball (keeping it from going out of bounce) in route to his foot, which allowed for a near perfect assist to William Gallas who then headed the ball right into the net. Whoosh. Goaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal!!! Yeah, but a cheap shot. And in addition the the blatant hand ball issue (watch it for yourself on youtube--there's no denying it, as T. Henry says so himself), several are claiming that France was offsides. No, a replay will not occur, so the final score and France's dreams of World Cup glory will remain unchanged, though not without leaving the French with a murky and not-so-sweet victory that still has people riled up all around the world. And to make the scandal even more exciting--I mean, outrageous--authorities have begun an immense investigation to 32 matches that were supposedly fixed and 17 people have already been arrested. No wonder why the refs didn't do much about the hand ball issue they saw in the Ireland vs. France game.

And why do I care? Well, when you work with people who take soccer--or football--this seriously, you would too. Even the Swiss chef (who you'd assume to be neutral like his country) made sure to express his distaste by drawing a fantastic mural on the kitchen's white board with a few choice words included. And of course, everyone has an opinion and feels entitled to express theirs. As long as I don't get caught in a kitchen fight of food or pots or knifes, I'm good.

Home Sweet Home

And no I'm not talking about my little room in Switzerland, though I have come to adore my nook in this hotel. No, instead I'm referring to my visit to Germany and, more specifically, Omi's house. It never fails. The moment I walk through the front door, the smell immediately brings back memories of past visits with mom in springtime, the Euro-summer with Chels, and a feeling of pure relaxation that can only really be described by a heavy and happy sigh. Ahhhh. The feeling of home.

And every time I leave Omi's house, I try to hang on to that smell for as long as possible, keeping at least one item of clothing tucked away in a safe place so that when I pull it out again weeks later, that scent still lingers and summons the memories and feelings of utter contentment all over again.

So to say that I had a great time in Germany would be an understatement. I ate Omi soup, ratatouille, pancakes, and melt-in-your-mouth, almost-to-good-to-be-true chocolate that Omi left on my pillow at night since she knows that I love to have one small piece of chocolate in the morning, a habit I don't really care to break. And obviously, the company made everything that much better. A big family dinner with the cousins and aunt and step-uncle, wine and stories, and of course, conversation infused with German, English, and French that ends up becoming very confusing and absolutely hilarious.

For now, I end here. But don't you worry, I will post some photos and tell you more tomorrow. I'm still trying to catch up on the sleep that I didn't get last night or on the train ride back. So more soon!

Happy weekend everyone!

17.11.09

Ah, the weekend! I am officially finished with the work week and am taking a short vacay to, drum roll please! . . . Omi's house in Germany! My train departs for Stuttgart in about an hour, so I have to get all my things together (including a backpack full of dirty laundry). Oooo, I cannot wait! And the first thing she asked when I told her I was coming?

"What would you like to eat??"

Yes, she knows me too well. So, for the next two and a half days, I will have the pleasure of indulging in homemade soups (an Omi trademark item), pretzels (the Germans seriously know how to make these like you've never tasted before), and pancakes with maple syrup (my very special request). Like I said, I cannot wait. Home at last, or something very close to it.

I will try to write while I'm away, but if I'm too busy chowing down on pancakes and watching German soap operas with Omi, I wish you all a very happy Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday!

Much love! Bussi bussi! (Kiss Kiss! As they say in German)

Mel

Word of the week: November 9th-15th

Okay, I think I skipped a week there, but please, bear with me! I rarely know what day it is since my "weekend" is always changing. Actually, this is the only way I really keep track of the days in the first place. Ha. So, the word of this week is...

Tac

*Pronunciation: just as it looks, like the english tack you stick in the wall to hold up photos or the like.

*Meaning: Now this one is tough to describe. My best attempt? It's more like a sound affect or something you say while you're doing something. Allow me to provide a scenario... You are setting an elaborate table and and placing knives and forks and spoons and glasses tediously in their places. Often people will say to themselves, "Tac...tac...tac..." when putting things in order, as if saying, "Boom...boom...boom," but with less force. Does that help?

*Where I learned it: I think this word (or more often series of repeated words) actually dates back to my first French class at USD with Sophie Halvin. I don't remember if she told us that French-speaking people use this "sound effect" (if you will) or if I just heard her use it on occasion. But nevertheless, I fell in love with the sound of it, especially because most people here don't even realize that they are speaking when it comes out of their mouths, as if the words are synched with movement.

*Additional notes: Trust me, it's fun to say. And I've adopted the succession of words and use it every chance I get. Place a spoon, "Tac!" And the knife and fork, "Tac, tac!" And the cup, saucer, spoon, sugar, cream, and chocolate? Okay, you get the picture.

Practice this one at home next time you throw a nice dinner party. It will go along nicely with your Switzerland-inspired penis-shaped napkins.

"Tac!"