Cheers to Six Years: A Europhile Reunion in Toronto

When I moved to France in 2007 for an eight-month stint as a high school English teacher, I had already chatted with Stephanie via Facebook because we'd both been placed in the same city -- Angers. We formally met one afternoon in the central plaza, where she introduced me to Becca, whom she'd just met at a regional orientation and who was living in Nantes, a 40-minute train ride away. We'd only been teaching for a week and were already due for our first vacation. 

Welcome. To. France. 

Less than a minute into our conversation, we were planning our first trip:

Becca: "So, for the October break, Steph and I were thinking we'd like to go to Greece. Are you in?"

Me: "Sign me up."

That evening, I was texting Steph my credit card number so that she could book my flight. 

The Ugly American

- "I haven't been to Mexico. We get enough of that as it is."

Flying out of Norfolk would be a joy, I thought. Small airport, short security line, friendly airport staff. Well, it might have been a joy had my flight not been cancelled. I hustled, calling American Airlines and working out an early (really early) morning flight out of Richmond so that I could still make it to work the next day. Jen offered to wake up at the crack of dawn and drive me all the way there. Thanks, Jen!

On our way back to Jen's place, we decided that this turn of events called for a night of wine, cheese, and Zoolander.

The following morning, running on nearly no sleep, I boarded my Richmond flight and found myself sitting directly behind a man who brought the caricature of the "ugly American" to new, dare I say artistic levels. He was in high spirits, talking jovially to the man seated next to him, who politely laughed at a joke or two and nodded a lot but mostly kept quiet. Once my brain was awake enough to process the chatter, nothing seemed more important than jotting it all down for posterity, so I reached for my phone and began typing vigorously into my Notes app. Below are some of the actual words that came out of this man's actual mouth. Verbatim:

How I Argued with a Grumpy Old Frenchman and Won (sort of)

- "Look, monsieur, I don't know who you're talking about, but I booked a room for two."

Grand Hôtel du Loiret is a classically Parisian budget hotel -- small, quaint, locally owned, and centrally located. After checking out the official website and reading mostly positive reviews on Trip Advisor, I decided to give this hotel a shot. I booked over the phone and then emailed the hotel to request a confirmation. Below is a translated and heavily abbreviated version of that email exchange:

Not Doing Things in Porto

We arrived in Porto, a picturesque city in northern Portugal, ready to sample tons of port wine. As soon as we checked in, we took a cab across the river to Vila Nova de Gaia, where all the wine cellars are. We insisted on beginning our tour at the wine cellar that also sold cheese and crackers because we were famished. Thing is, our cabdriver was capable of finding any wine cellar but that one. He drove round and round, practicing his French with me, talking about keeping up with French news and keeping in touch with French friends and loving all things French. He also spoke extensively about Porto -- pointing out the architecture and providing a detailed history lesson -- all in French. This was amusing, but we were hungry and wanted our cheese right now. Now! At long last we found the cellar, bid adieu to our Francophile Portuguese cabdriver, and ate some freaking cheese. We managed to tag along on two wine cellar tours and sample four ports that afternoon. Success!

Sintra: Chasing the Fairytale

Once upon a time, there was a quiet, enchanted town where castles and palaces sat atop wooded hills, beckoning visitors to enter and explore.

This was the image projecting in my mind when I headed to Sintra. I felt compelled to make the short day trip from Lisbon after reading and hearing so much about the town’s beautiful castles and stunning views. I had read words like “mythical” and “magical” used to describe the UNESCO World Heritage Site, and a friend had told me that she’d felt like Cinderella there. Of course, reality is never quite like a fairytale. The castles are striking, and the views are impressive, but that uphill climb kills!

A Night Out in Lisbon

- "Do I look Portuguese?"

In the middle of a pedestrian, bar-lined street in Lisbon, Ali and I had a 30-minute conversation with a couple of guys who were convinced I was Portuguese. "But I don't even speak the language!" I insisted. "You're just messing with us," they theorized.

In a jumbled blend of Spanish and Portuguese (Spantuguese?), we talked to the boys about economics, American politics, and how they were entirely too young for us. They disagreed on all counts. Suddenly, a fight broke out, the police arrived, and Ali and I bolted and hopped in a cab.

A Portuguese Light Drama

- "It's not a European vacation unless the lights go out."

Our apartment in Lisbon is fully-furnished, centrally-located, roomy, and beautiful. It has a wraparound balcony with views of the castle and the sea. It has cable TV, a hairdryer, and a free bottle of wine. What it doesn't have is electricity.

"It's not a European vacation unless the lights go out," quips Kellie. It's 1:30 a.m., and we're sitting around the couch soberly discussing whether or not to flip a mysterious switch above the breakers.

"I think we should do it," Kellie declares. "It's the one thing we haven't tried."

"But what if it's the gas? You said it might be the gas!" Ali isn't feeling daring tonight.