I thought I’d share some of the photos I took of this tiny little french village in the northern countryside.  We were a five minute walk from Belgium and a half hour drive to Luxembourg.  Surprisingly central for what upon first glance seems to be the middle of nowhere.

We took a leisurely walk through the village one of the days and it took approximately 20 minutes to walk from one end to the other.  It was fantastically charming, as one usually expects the french countryside to be.  It’s as unsuburban as you can get.  Each house shares at least one side with another.  And each house is distinguished from the other by a different color, door, window, or shutter.  It’s marvelously diverse and quite an aesthetically pleasing place to live.  I feel fantastically lucky to have had the opportunity to stay here for a couple of weeks with the family of my mom’s old university friend.

And of course people here have chickens casually living in their yards.

Theo the cat would like to know what he can do for you.

And now this, this is beauty.

Good work, Katya, good work.  That sort of dedication is going to get you really far.

Enough self-criticism.  There are more important things to discuss.  Such as my experience in and impressions of the french countryside.  Let me sum it up as briefly as I can.  The french countryside is stunning; I have never felt so profoundly about a landscape. I have also never felt so well nourished.  I forgot what hunger was during the 11 days we stayed with my mom’s old university friend from Russia. Our day would begin with a leisurely breakfast that would begin with fresh coffee brewed italian style and freshly squeezed orange juice, which would then be followed by a selection of pastries, leftover desserts from the day before, a selection of charcuterie, and chocolates.  This was followed by lunch just mere hours later, at just about the same time I had half digested my breakfast.  This is when it got typically french.  Our gracious hosts would insist we have wine upon sitting down for lunch.  Often this escalated to a couple of glasses of wine.  And maybe a beer.  Well ya know… when in France…

Our afternoon would then consist of some sort of car driving, sight seeing, museum attending, and rain.  It seemed that we had unluckily arrived at the rainiest period of the year – there was always rain.  There was also always wine.  At one point, I recall there being three bottles of red wine open at one time.  It was repeatedly suggested that we help consume them to the best of our abilities.  We tried our best to do so.  Despite the copious amounts of wine (and also belgian beer) we drank, we ate even more.  Amongst the many delicious things we ate for dinner, I most vividly recall frog legs, snails, quiche lorraine, pot au feu, salad nicoise, coucous with a fantastic selection of roasted meats, beef bourguignon, and rabbit.  And dinner was always followed by a marvelous selection of cheese.  Cheese, marvelous cheese.  How I love you so.

And each day featured a different dessert.  Naturally.

Before those 11 days in France, I don’t think I had ever enjoyed such a large concentration of extravagant eating and drinking in such a short period of time.  And I didn’t even gain that much weight, my jeans just got smaller.

With suitcases full of slightly tighter fitting clothing, we departed for London.  After five nights, I was left with the impression that if we were to have stayed any longer I would have had to sell myself into prostitution to afford it.  In justification of the obscene amounts of money that were spent, I feel it is fair to say we had a smashing time in London (despite the persistence of the rain).  Also, our attempts to eat/drink all things typically British included steak and ale pie, beef suet pie, fish and chips, scones, a traditional English breakfast, and beer.  And just when I thought I had spent all the money I could possibly spend, we went to Camden Town on our last full day in London which luckily turned out to be sunny and warm.  And it’s possible I spent more in the market in Camden than I had in the past four days.  I have no shame.  I also have no money.

Thankfully, just before my remaining savings dipped into the negatives, it was our time to depart from London and to head up north near Manchester to start our farm experience through an organization called WWOOF (world wide opportunities on organic farms).  The way it works is you contact farms you would like to volunteer on, they respond with a yes or no, you arrive at the farm, you’re given a place to live and food to eat and in exchange you work an average 6 hours each day and you get two days off every week.  We are currently residing in a comfy two bedroom caravan in a field enclosed by an electric fence and with a lovely view of the pigs.  The toilet in the caravan is good for one thing, so the other thing requires ducking underneath the electric fence and running to the toilet in the house.  I don’t think further elaboration is required.  Conveniently, the shower in the caravan doesn’t work either, so showers must be carefully timed and taken also at the house.  And the stove is out of gas.  And the main heater doesn’t work, but we still have heat in the form of two space heaters.  All minor inconveniences really.  In fact, I think it gives the place a bit of character.

A typical day begins at 9:30.  We feed the pigs.  Water the plants in the polytunnel.  Make sure the cows have enough water to drink.  Let the chickens out of their coop.  Let the goose out of his coop.  Clean out the poopy straw from both coops and replace them with new straw.  Gather any eggs the chickens may have laid.  Run around with the lambs just for fun.  Mill pig food.  Accompany any hay or straw deliveries.  Cook lunch.  Eat lunch (super important).  Do other farm related things.  Feed the pigs again.  Water the plants in the polytunnel again.  Check on the cow’s water again. Maybe take a shower.  Cook dinner.  Eat dinner (extra super important).  And then we have the evening to ourselves.

Life is simple.  I take every opportunity I can to get dirty.  I’ve had chicken poop splatter in my eye.  I have dirt under my fingernails and I don’t care.  There seems to be an unspoken agreement to not give a damn about appearances and I am relishing not wearing makeup.  I intentionally walk through deep muddy puddles.  I would chill with the pigs for hours if I didn’t have other things to do.  I wish I could pet the chickens.  I also wish the sheep and lambs would accept me as their own.  I’ve been nibbled on by horses, dogs, the goose, pigs, and sheep.   I’ve been threatened and hissed at by the goose on multiple occasions.  I’m incredibly pleased to have the opportunity to cook legitimate meals twice a day for everybody.  And I’ve eaten the most delicious meat of my life here, from the pigs and cows raised on this farm.  Notably, the pork sausages have forced me to reassess what a sausage should taste like.

There’s loads more I could ramble on about, like a certain double decker bus and its owner who reside here on this farm.  Or about a certain baby lamb.  Or about how I feel fully equipped to travel back in time to become a 1960s housewife.  However I will leave this precious writing material for a later time.  Like for when I haven’t already written eight paragraphs and included an overwhelming amount of pictures summarizing the past month of my life. Till next time!

Cheers, friends.

I have no shame.

When faced with the departure from a country, I become overwhelmed with all the foods I absolutely must eat but have not eaten yet.  Take this instance for example.  With a mere 24 hours left in Germany, I simply refused to leave without eating kuchen, eis (ice cream), and generally stuffing myself with everything that looks delicious.  Hence, I grew an extra two stomachs.

It went something like this.  We awoke to a late breakfast of assorted breads, cheeses, cold cuts, and coffee.  After a round of goodbyes, we left my relative’s house and made our way to the city center to test the limits of our stomachs.

I began what I like to call a pastry crawl with a berry and custard filled, streusel topped roll.  It continued with a couple of bites of berliner bretzle (sweet pastry dough pretzel) filled with vanilla pudding.  Next was a slice of zuckerkuchen – basically sweet bread baked like a cake and topped with sugar and toasted almonds. And finally, half a nut filled, sugar glazed, chocolate dipped puff pastry roll.  I felt like the guy who has tons of money and just throws it all in the air and makes it rain.  Except I imagined myself doing so with german pastries.  Needless to say, I was incredibly content.  And astoundingly, I was prepared to eat more.

Ha, who am I kidding.  I wasn’t even astounded.  This was normal glutton behavior.

We continued to galavant about the city, seeking nourishment to satisfy the black hole that had appeared inside my stomach.  That black hole was quickly quenched with a large mug of hot chocolate.

this is what a life-changing cup of hot chocolate looks like

Now, listen up kids.  I’ve had a lot of hot chocolate throughout my 18 years of life.  Based on my extensive experience with hot chocolate, I like to thoroughly judge each hot chocolate I drink.  For example, swiss miss is dirty water.  The marshmallow variety seems to include some sort of white styrofoam pieces that were somehow mistakenly called marshmallows (if it wasn’t evident, I have a bit of a grudge against powders that are mistakenly marketed as “hot chocolate”).  Anyhow, this german hot chocolate – I’ll call it german for a lack of any other way to differentiate it from the other hot chocolate’s I’ve had – it was unlike any hot chocolate I’ve had before.  When I drink hot chocolate, I like to asses the drinkability.  For example, italian style hot chocolate has the drinkability of pudding.  Thus it’s easier to “drink” it with a spoon.  French hot chocolate is somewhere in the middle on the thickness scale.  It’s thick enough that a small sip will suffice, but not so thick that you begin to doubt your ability to finish off an entire cup.  Now, this german hot chocolate was on the opposite end of the scale, closer to the drinkability of chocolate milk.  And yet… it had this deceptive richness that I’d compare to that of french hot chocolate.  It’s as if there were tiny particles of chocolate suspended in what seemed to be regular hot chocolate made with steamed milk that melted on the tongue and created the allusion of extreme chocolaty-ness.  This was a very satisfactory cup of hot chocolate.  I could even call it life changing.

At that point I was slightly surprised that the immense amount of sugar I had eaten hadn’t knocked me out.  However, I decided to take advantage of the fact that I was still conscious and we continued our afternoon of gluttony with some ice cream.

Firstly I would like to make the general statement that all dairy products in Europe, and particularly Germany, taste better than those of their counterparts in America.  I have no desire to divulge in this topic but suffice it to say that some of the best ice cream I’ve ever had was in Germany.  I ordered some sort of sundae type object with vanilla ice cream, frozen yogurt, yogurt and a medley of fresh fruits in an attempt to bring some sort of balance to my diet (HA).  It came with some sort of magical berry coulis that gave me the impression that I was frolicking through a beautiful meadow perfumed with the sweet scent of happiness.  But the ice cream itself, the vanilla, was something entirely different.  It was some sort vanilla bean speckled, lovely lemony and ever so slightly fruity concoction that I would have very much liked to bathe in if it were possible.

And so, with an obscene amount of sugar coursing through my veins I was content to leave Germany having eaten nearly everything I had been set on consuming (except for that elusive/non-existent speatzle, which we wandered about for a good two hours looking for).  Thanks Germany, it was delicious.  Until next time.

Ciao!

After a debilitating two days of gastronomical distress I am more than ecstatic to announce that I am back to my normal, gluttonous self.  Woo!  Two days of fearfully munching on bland crackers and obtaining a meager caloric intake from the honey I added to my many cups of chamomile tea, really put my life in perspective.  I became a listless, defeated shadow of myself.  I was saddened and nauseated by the thought of food.  I became borderline depressed, thinking about all the beer I should have been drinking and all the spätzle I should have been eating.  It was one of the darkest times of my life, being in a foreign country (Germany) and not being able to eat anything.

Gladly, those times have passed and I’ve more than made up for it by consuming everything in my field of vision for the past two days.  This has included a day of amusement park food at Europa Park, a fantastic amount of bretzles, a shnitzleburger, loads of candy, chocolate, homemade meals, and delicious german yogurt and juice.  Yes, Germany has really delicious juice.  I declare it my favorite.  However, my consumption of beer has been less than satisfactory and I have yet to try a multitude of baked goods.  Luckily, we have yet another week in Dusseldorf (for which we are departing tomorrow from Pfungstadt – where we are staying now with my family) to fatten ourselves on German cuisine.

Other than that, I haven’t much to share except the customary photographs and a few pieces of factual information.

The area in and around Pfungstadt features many asparagus farms.  Asparagus is a very temperamental spring vegetable and can only grow in certain circumstances.  It seems to be that these circumstances occur here.

Pfungstadt makes its own beer: Pfungstadter.  It is delicious and is only made in Pfungstadt.

Every house is unique.

There is lots of flat, green land.  Which is periodically interrupted by not so flat green land.

Their “system” works better than our system.  At least it seems so to me considering no one goes hungry or homeless unless they choose to.

Despite it’s best efforts, Europa Park cannot compete with an American amusement park (such as Six Flags) in respect to roller coaster intensity.  Aesthetically wise, definitely.  Europe is just prettier.

Everything important in Pfungstadt is walking distance: school, restaurant, hair dresser, fire department, main street, etc.  This makes more sense to me than having to drive everywhere.  Ahem, suburban America, ahem.

There is graffiti everywhere.  It seems to be the chosen form of catharsis for angst afflicted teens.

If you are an employed woman, and become pregnant, you may take up to three years of paid maternity leave and be guaranteed your job when you come back.  Three years are added with each additional child.  Three kids, nine years of paid maternity leave.  Family is important in Germany.

Likewise, employees are guaranteed 6 weeks of paid leave (this is also true of France).

I never want to eat yogurt in America again.  I want all my yogurt to come from Europe.  Germany especially has some of the most delicious yogurt I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating.

let’s just blame capitalism for all our woes. such as yogurt lacking in deliciousness.

Now I rest easy knowing I’ve shared all this valuable information on the world wide web.  Until next time my friends!  (I’m hoping that next time will not be preceded by more gastronomical distress but rather with more eating and exploring).  Ciao!

The impression it proceeded to leave upon me was unparalleled to that of any fish I have ever eaten before.  And this was not only because it was ridiculously delicious, but also because this special meal was served by an accommodating and friendly couple, shared in magnificent company, and we felt as if we were dining upon hidden treasure.

Based on the lack of customers on a Saturday night, I couldn’t help but be surprised this place was still in business.  But then again, based on the deliciousness of the food and the friendliness of the proprietors, I couldn’t help but be surprised that there wasn’t a line of people out the door.  So as a general consensus, I was surprised concerning all aspects of this business which epitomized the concept of a hidden gem.

As another general consensus, this was seriously one of the best meals of my life thus far.  And therefore, it deserves a thorough recounting.  An explanation of how we ended up at this inconspicuous african restaurant is in order.  Two weeks into our stay in Nice, we met a girl from sweden at school and she invited us to eat delicious fish.  Of course, we agreed to go.  She had been first introduced to the restaurant by an african guy who had attended the school earlier, and now the recommendation was being taken up by six new people (me and my travel companion, and four other students from the school).  That Friday night, now what seems so long ago, was a revolutionary fish and dining experience and I admonished myself for not bringing my camera.  I promised myself I would return and take an obscene amount of pictures.

This past Saturday, I did just that.  Weeks after that first dinner we returned as a slightly different group of six, composed of some of the funniest, friendliest, and kindest people who I’m so happy to call my friends.  The proprietress recognized us and greeted us with friendly acknowledgment.  Of course, we’d all be having the fish.  In addition we ordered a bottle of each red and white wine.  This was going to be a good dinner.

We were served a drink on the house, of which I can’t remember the name now, but that was like a sweet, pink, ginger juice.  In fact, it was sweet, pink, ginger juice.  And it was delicious.

What followed was an unnecessary amount of picture taking, laughter, knife fighting, fork intervention, more laughter, some more picture taking, peanut snacking, and before we knew it the time to eat fish had arrived.

We descended upon each of our fish, frantically picking apart the tender white flesh from bone, savoring each bite of crispy skin, devouring everything from head to tail.  Literally.  Turns out fish tails are like a crispy fish chip.  And fish eyes taste… well, fishy.  The mountain of salsa served atop the fish was fantastically fresh and ever so perfectly spiced.  And the three accompaniments (rice, some unidentified but delicious grain-like stuff, and plantains) formed a delicious sort of love square between themselves and the fish.  Oh and if you were wondering what kind of fish it was, all I can tell you is that it was fish of the delicious sort.  I was too busy enjoying it to bother to ask.

Likewise, I’ve been too busy enjoying the company of the friends we’ve made here to think about the fact that we depart Nice this Saturday.  I’m anticipating that we’ll be busy seeing the sights we haven’t yet seen, eating the things we haven’t yet eaten, destroying what’s left of our livers, and seeing the most of the people we’ve come to love in the next few days leading up to our fated day of departure.  So, I’d like to bid you a bittersweet farewell, Nice.  May we meet again one day (not too far in the future).  And thanks for the fish.

As my travel companion and one of our friends from school eagerly devoured their kebabs, I insisted upon a lighter lunch in anticipation of my second and third lunch.  Ignoring the tempting, unhealthy call of my favorite beignet from the bakery near to the kebab stand, I settled instead for something slightly more wholesome: a slice of pissaladière with a marvelously unbalanced ratio favoring the delicious caramelized onions to crust.  Sadly, standing in the middle of the street eating a slice of pissaladière does not make for an ideal photo taking opportunity.  But imagine, a square slice of thin pizza, the sauce and cheese replaced with caramelized onions, a few anchovies, and an olive (or two if you’re lucky).  This is pissaladière.

This is not pissaladière.

In addition to being delicious, pissaladière also makes the perfect light salty “lunch” before two scoops of what some claim is the world’s best ice cream.  I can’t affirm if it is truly the world’s best but of the flavors I have tried from Fenocchio’s (coco, almond, pistachio, and cafe) the coco and pistachio were the best I have ever had.  Mind you, I’m not an especially avid ice cream eater, but I like to think I can appreciate a good ice cream when I taste it.  As I ate my two scoops of ice cream (one almond, the other pistachio), I wondered, how do the two other ice cream serving establishments within one minute walking distance stand up to this sort of competition? Here you have a wonderful establishment which does in fact serve pretty damn delicious ice cream.  So what would make one think one could ever stand a chance against a place such as this that serves a myriad of delicious flavors from the customary vanilla and chocolate to the not-so-customary riz au lait and tomato?  I’ll leave this question unanswered for it would require many more months of research and ice cream eating from numerous ice cream serving establishments, and I simply don’t have that kind of time.  I’ve got other countries to travel to.

This is ice cream.

Plus, I’ve got hot chocolate (chocolat chaud) to discuss.  After lowering my internal temperature with ice cream, I was prepared for a sugar coma inducing cup of hot chocolate.

I can confidently say that chocolat chaud is one of the things I really like a lot in this world.  I usually have difficulty naming favorite foods because all foods hold a special place in my heart and stomach.  But to put my love for chocolat chaud in words, it is on the same level of love as sunshine, peanut m&m’s, puppies, kittens, and listening to Bob Marley.  As avid consumer of chocolate, there is something fabulously naughty (and delicious) about drinking your chocolate.  Mind you, I speak not of Swiss Miss or of some sort of processed powder that’s supposed to resemble chocolate when added to hot water.  I speak of a beverage of a completely different nature.  I speak of what hot chocolate should be – so rich that it makes you almost uncomfortable.  So chocolaty that you suspect somebody must have melted an entire bar of chocolate into your cup when someone wasn’t looking in an attempt at assassination by chocolate.  So velvety smooth that it is as if you bought your tongue a new velvet sweater made of chocolate.  So delicious that you have to re-assess what your definition of delicious is.  This is chocolat chaud.

And this is the absence of chocolat chaud.

And so concluded yesterday’s lunch.  With a surprisingly non-churning stomach, brain function fuzzed by the large quantity of sugar coursing through my blood stream, and a deep sense of content that I had accomplished something terribly important.  That’s my kind of lunch.

Amid the numerous profound discussion/debates we engage in during french class, one of the most memorable topics for me has been that of the difference between tourists and voyagers.  In one of my brighter moments, I made this observation:

“Tourists see what they want to see.  Voyagers see things for what they are.”

As I sat basking in personal glory of this observation that I had voiced in mediocre french, I fell deeper into thought about the distinct difference between these two species of travelers.

Let us begin with tourists for these are usually the most conspicuous and universally recognizable.  When tourists travel, it is to affirm the image of a place.  To go through the guide book and check off the recommended list of sights to see and expensive activities to pay for.  To stay in the most convenient, safest, and comfortable hotel, the one place you should be at least when you’re traveling to a foreign country.  All too often, tourists frequent resorts, confining themselves to a gated, pretty, all-inclusive, free-drinks-all-day idea of whatever country they may be visiting (I am guilty of a past littered with resort vacations, however in my defense I was young and naive and had no other choice than to suffer through pina coladas all day long with my family).  The irony of resorts is that they effectively hide some of the poorest places, perpetuating the ignorance of the world that exists beyond the problems of there not being enough recliners by the pool and too much sugar in that strawberry daiquiri.  Tourists travel to say “oh yes, I’ve been there” but continue to be blindly ignorant to where they have actually been.  Souvenirs, in french, means memories.  Tourists bring back plastic souvenirs to display proudly on their shelves and fridge, minus the souvenirs. You can’t buy memories.  Tourism is a superficial business.  And thus, when tourists travel they only see the printed, glossy surface image of a place much like the ones in the guidebooks.  To “tour” is to color in your personal map by the number.  Mind you, this isn’t meant to be offensive but frankly, when most people speak of tourists it has a bit of a negative connotation and these are the reasons I find this to be true.

Voyagers may travel with a guidebook but they see it for what it is, merely a guide and not a strict schedule of things to be seen and done.  Rather, voyagers will read between the lines, breaking through the glossy surface the tourism industry works so hard to keep from being tarnished.

To voyage is to travel into uncharted lands on your personal map without preconceptions or expectations.  It is to appreciate a place for what it is: cuisine, architecture, government, economy, religion, language, people, and attitude.  And all of this is to be appreciated with an open mind.  Just because something is done differently somewhere else does not mean it is right or wrong.  It is just different.  To voyage is to connect with a culture on a personal level.  To learn the language (or at least attempt to).  To make new friends.  To make an effort to understand a different way of life rather than stubbornly resist it in order preserve your own special agenda. To voyage is to attempt to live life as the locals do. But also to allow yourself to explore as you like, rather than as the guidebook instructs.  To voyage is to gather souvenirs in the form of unforgettable meals, unforgettable friends, and unforgettable experiences.  To voyage is to color in your personal map of previously uncharted lands with the colors of culture, outside of the lines.

The fundamental difference between these two species of travelers is attitude.  There is nothing wrong with tourism (although it may have a negative connotation it does not make it “wrong”), just as there is nothing wrong with voyaging.  They merely represent two different attitudes.  It is up to the traveler to decide which attitude suites themselves best.  But, I think we could benefit from more voyagers, people who dare to see the world for the way it is.  And possibly even dare to accept, maybe even appreciate other ways of life.  People who dare to be surprised by what they might see when they aren’t looking.

Me, I’m busy living the Nice way, lazily, slowly, and carelessly.  Rough life, I know.  A “nice” way of living if I do say so myself.  Here, you never know what the night life entails until it begins.  Plans are more loosely made than your favorite pair of oversized sweatpants.  And a stroll through the old town usually ends up as rendez-vous with someone you know.  It’s fabulously carefree and  it’s been consistently astounding how things just seem to work out in the end.

Equally as astounding, is the sun.  There is always sun.  Well, except at night time obviously, but it’s an incredibly rare moment when the sun isn’t out during the day.  I haven’t seen a drop of rain in the past three and a half weeks that I’ve been here.  The temperature hasn’t dropped below 55, and is usually at a lovely 60 degrees.  For a weather-worn new englander, it’s like living in an alternate universe where beautiful, consistent weather actually exists.

There is no such thing as the best view in Nice because all the views are beautiful.

Everything is delicious. Pain bagnat. Socca. Pissaladière. Baguette. Croissants. Pain au Chocolate. Pain aux raisins. Chocolate chaud. Beignets. Crepes. Butter. Macarons. Roasted Chicken. Yogurt. Wine. Pizza. Fresh Pasta.  Gnocchi. Chocolate. Avocados.

I’ve meet the loveliest, kindest, friendliest people here than I ever have in my entire life. A personal theory of mine is that Sweden and Norwegia breed people like this (there is a large majority of Swedes and Norwegians at the international school I go to for classes).  Besides Northern Europeans, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Brazilian, Japanese, Chinese, Russian, Canadian, and American students.

Rue de france

Last weekend, I attended a crepe party.

My french has improved.  This is especially true after a couple of glasses of wine.

Cashiers at major supermarkets sit in chairs. This is smart.

People generally use their own grocery bags that they’ve bought or recycled rather than polluting the earth with a copious amount of plastic each time they go grocery shopping.  This is also smart.

From between 5 and 7 pm you can observe nearly the entire population of Nice carrying baguettes.

Order “un café” and you are ordering a shot of espresso.  I like it better this way.

Poop.  It’s everywhere.  Watch your step.

Watching disney movies in french has become my favorite method for improving my mastery of the french language.

My life has likely been shortened by one year from the amount of second hand smoke I’ve inhaled.  No regrets.

Copious amounts of fat and sugar.  Also, no regrets.

And these are all the things I’d like to say about Nice.  Stay tuned for another inconsistently blogged post.

So this is supposed to be the least stressful time of my life, or some nonsense like that.  Yet somehow, I’ve still managed to slack off in the writing department.  It’s not that there’s nothing to write about, oh, there’s plenty, it’s just that I’ve been just too darn busy roaming the streets of nice, making crepes, overdosing on sugar, ripping apart roasted chickens, watching movies in french, and eating porchetta.

When I imagined living in Nice, I pictured myself sitting outside a cafe, writing on my laptop, slowly savoring a coffee and croissant, watching all the handsome european men walk by, and letting the afternoon pass me by.  Thus far, I haven’t fullfilled this fantasy, but reality has turned out to be quite lovely despite the fact that a cup of coffee here is actually a shot of espresso, and thus barely enough to savor for more than a couple of sentences.  And contrary to my day dream, there aren’t nearly enough handsome european men passing my way.

Rather, my friend (with whom I am traveling) and I have been wandering along the streets of Nice, becoming acquainted with the streets and people inhabiting them much more quickly than I had expected.  We’ve been here for two weeks and we have a favorite fruit and vegetable shop, a favorite socca shop (socca is a regional specialty – a giant pancake made of chickpea flour with the loveliest crispy edges), and a favorite boulangerie/patisserie that we frequent nearly daily.  We’re slowly working our way through our list of things to eat; checking off crepes a la nutella, macarons, porchetta, socca, pain bagnat, pizza, croissants, cheese, baguette, roasted chicken, and madelines.

You could say it’s a pretty carefree lifestyle we lead, but it’s far more stressful than it seems.  Just the other day, we had to decide what we’d have for lunch.  It’s actually an excruciatingly difficult decision to make when your heart is torn between gnocchi and pain bagnat and your stomach doesn’t care what your heart wants because it’s so effing hungry.  We settled upon a grand pain bagnat each from our favorite boulangerie and were able to return to our regular state of contentedness.  And you don’t know what stress is until your friend is leaving you and you have 14 different food vendors/restaurants/cafes to try and only a few days within which to try them in.  Try prioritizing between roasted pork and steak frites.  Impossible.

Also impossible?  Not eating nutella when it is in your presence.