Fortuitous News; or, A Valentine to Austin

Do you like how I posted about how I need to be like Ferdinand recently, as in, I need to chill out and enjoy life more, and worry less, and now we are headed for the land of Ferdinand?

It was seriously a coincidence.

I have had friends congratulating me and tell me that I "deserve" a great place to be, but I don't feel it's something I earned; ending up in Spain is fortuitous and I did nothing special to get there. There are so many amazing and wonderful teachers in the system also waiting for their own golden ticket to somewhere else, and they may end up having to wait another year. They, too, "deserve" to transfer, so I feel very uncomfortable when anyone says that to me. It's all a numbers game and I just happened to have the right combination of certifications, years, and places I was willing to live ("worldwide," by the way). I am lucky; I am not deserving.

So I'll just say "thank you" for all the congrats. THANK YOU! 

absolutely awful picture---but I think the only one I have---of Austin (center)
with my friend J.Carol and my husband

You know when something big happens in your life and you have to call someone to tell them? We called our family as soon as we found out that we are moving to Rota in the summer, but there was someone we really both want to call but can't. I have thought about her so much the last few weeks (and honestly, a lot since we moved to Cuba). 

Dr. Karen Austin---or simply Austin, as all her students who loved her so much called her----was one of the best teachers I've ever had, and as I've gotten older, I've realized the best lessons from her classes stretched way beyond the books and lectures in the classroom at USM.

I had Austin for several upper level Spanish classes---advanced grammar (seriously fun---I'm not kidding, I love grammar and I love conjugating verbs), Spanish history (she made the Spanish Civil War comprehensible), and maybe a Spanish linguistics or conversation class. I really don't remember too much about exactly WHAT she taught; it was her fervor of the nuances of the Spanish language, the stories behind the history, and her own personal connections that made it so interesting and made her memorable.

And she was larger than life---she was tall and not a small woman, with wiry, crazy hair, and smoked like a chimney when I first met her (so did many of my other profs---even in the classroom. She quit, and by the time I graduated, you couldn't get near a building with a cigarette in your hand). She had a boisterous laugh and a lively spirit. I was devastated when I heard that she had died shortly after we got here, because in the whole process of moving here, she is the person my husband and I wanted most to talk to about Cuba. She would understand more than anyone else why we were dropping out of civilization, giving up life in the US, and starting over in the unknown. She loved risks and was a hero to me---she broke the glass ceiling at my college by becoming one of the first tenured female professors. She helped take care of a friend dying of AIDS in a time when most people were terrified to get near anyone with the disease. She had lived in Spain as a single woman under Franco's rule. She was adventurous, unafraid, opinionated, and brilliant.

As much as I loved and admired her, you can triple that for what my husband felt for her. She was his advisor and did so much more for him than any advisor I ever had---she took time to get to know him and her door was always open for him (or any other student). She advised him on life as well as college. He will always (deservedly) give her more credit than anyone else for motivating him to graduate college, and she had a soft spot in her heart for the skinny kid who would let her insult and scream at him in her Spanish for Law Enforcement class and played along as she read him his Miranda Rights in Spanish.

When our son decided to go to college in Madrid, I wanted nothing more than to pick up the phone and call her. I wanted him to meet her. The last time I saw her, he was only a toddler, and she sat him on her lap and sang him a lullaby in French. My adventurous son would love the crazy lady with the wild hair, the big laugh, and the great stories. I can imagine the pure joy on her face and her excited voice and animated manner as she would tell him the best cuisine and places to see, and share some of her hilarious stories as a young lady in Spain that would amaze and amuse all of us.

I was driving home a few days ago again lamenting the fact that we will be in Andalucía, the area where she lived and loved the most in Spain, and I can't tell her how excited we both are about it. 

My husband and I hadn't discussed this at all, but later that night, he said, "you think Austin's watching over us?" He feels it, too. I just feel like she's guiding us along the way. I'm not superstitious and don't feel she's literally watching over us, but I do feel like her life has influenced us both to be brave, adventurous, and helped plant the seed for a good case of wanderlust. And we know that without her in our lives, living in Spain would not have even been on the radar. 

She's been gone 4 1/2 years, but as her obit reads, she "was a force to be reckoned with." (If you get a chance, read her obit---she LIVED life).  I hope we do her proud in our adventures in Spain, and I will think of Karen Austin and her infectious laugh often; instead of sadly regretting the stories we didn't get around to sharing, my husband and I will be telling our sons stories about Austin and creating our own Spain story.

Exiles, Wanderers, and Travelers; or, Boy 1 Escapes Guantánamo Bay

Oh, happy days! 

Oldest boy got to Spain without a hitch. The planes were on time, he was able to get through customs with his visa that (thank god) barely made it on time, and he has settled in with his host family. After a couple of days of orientation, he will officially be a college freshman this week! 

Friends keeps asking me if I am worried about him. Well, of course. I'm sure my parents worried about me going to college, and I was only about 25 miles from home my first year. 

There is, honestly, a lot about Madrid that is very appealing to me as a parent. Things you don't want to talk about but I'm just throwing it out there: the homicide rate in Madrid last year was 1 (yes, ONE) per 100,000 people. In San Antonio, Texas, his #2 choice for college, it was 104 per 100,000. And less scary: he can use public transportation that is reliable, cheap, and safe. There aren't many places he could live in the U.S. for four years of college and survive without a car. Madrid is a great location for travel, and he can be on a plane and back in the southern part of the U.S. in about 11 hours, with probably one layover thrown in there, for about $600. Getting to GTMO is a whole other story; it took us almost that long just to get from the airport in GTMO to our hotel in Jacksonville. But that's another blog for another time, and honestly, I'm sick of talking about the ridiculousness that is travel on and off of this place.

So travel is done. I wasn't obsessing or anything, but I did manage to stay awake for most of his trip to Europe. 

He was able to enjoy the Reina Sofía Museum today (it's free certain hours of certain days) and saw one of my very favorite pieces of art, Picasso's "Guernica." It was painted for the World's Fair as a war protest painting. It protests the bombing of the Basque town of Guernica that was destroyed by carpet bombers during Franco's regime. Picasso was already living in exile in Paris (he never returned to his home country of Spain in his lifetime). 

image source and more info found here: http://www.pablopicasso.org/guernica.jsp

So here's my connection to Book Challenge #2: G. Cabrera Infante's Three Trapped Tigers 

Again, if you are only here for my snark about life in GTMO, year five, or occasional stories about my kids and other diversions and don't want to read about books, adiós, muchacho. Otherwise, read on, reader: 

It's weird my first choice for the book challenge I chose for this year, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, was about someone feeling trapped in his body ("locked-in syndrome"), and my second book is named Three Trapped Tigers. Is there a subliminal theme going on here? Feeling a little trapped on La Isla Bonita, maybe? I swear it was completely coincidental. 

This selection is "a book that's been on your To Be Read list for way too long"---before there was a husband and children, and Cuba wasn't even on my radar, I was taking a ton of undergraduate and grad level Spanish courses  and this book came up over and over again in class discussions. G. Cabrera Infante, like Picasso, lived in exile. He moved from Cuba to London after Castro took over.  Although this story takes place before the revolution and he wrote it while exiled in Europe, there is interestingly no mention of an uprising on any page. 

This novel is often called  "the Spanish Ulysses." Well damn, now I have to finally read that book (it's on this year's list) to see if it's true. It's divided into several sections, with much being stream of consciousness----think Benjy, the "idiot" in The Sound and the Fury. (As Macbeth says, "A tale. Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. Signifying nothing.")  Much later in the book, a character explains Cuba as "an island of double or triple entendres, told by a drunk idiot signifying everything" (128). 

There are 3 main characters telling stories of the nightclub scene in Havana at the height of the tourist boom and pre-Castro. They are all artists of some sort---an actor, a writer, and a photographer. Are they the Three Trapped Tigers? 

I don't think so. . . it's just the weird translation from the original title, Tres Tristes Tigres, which if you've ever taken a Spanish class, you probably had to learn the trabalengua to help you roll your Rs: "Tres tristes tigres tragan trigo en un trigal." (Three sad tigers swallow wheat in a wheat field). The entire books is a tongue twister---Infante loves to play with words----one character calls an annoying guy who is always trying to hang out with his friends as they travel from nightclub to nightclub "peripathetic." And that's just one of 100s of examples and in a translation from Spanish---it's probably much funnier in the original language.

The book is split into several sections, and sometimes the characters are not directly connected to each other. There are nightclub singers, underaged heiresses, and lots of people scheming to get by. There are people of all classes, races, and sexual orientation. The backdrop is the cabaret/Jazz scene and most of the book takes place at night. You get the feeling that Havana was a never-ending party and wonder what it could have been, had the revolution not occurred. 

There's a travelogue from a husband, who is corrected by his wife, who then re corrects hers, and so forth and so on. In that section, the humor reminded me much of David Sedaris. There is a section called "Some Revelations" that are just blank pages. There are characters who make puns in literally every single sentence. It's smart and sarcastic, snarky and sometimes somnambulant (like that alliteration??)---there's a sleep-walking, half awake quality of the wanderings of the main characters from nightclub to nightclub all night long. 

Chapter title: "Some Revelations"

 

One of his narrators says this:  "Cuba. . . was not a fit hangout for man or beast. Nobody should live here except plants, insects and fungi or any other lower forms of life. The squalid fauna that Christopher Columbus found when he landed proved the point. All that remained now were birds and fish and tourists. All of these could leave the island when they wanted" (96). 

However, you know better. They love the nightlife, the sketchy characters involved, and even all these things they complain about. They also love the music, the dancing, the food, the many, many beautiful and complicated women, and even the tourist traps. It makes me sad for a place I never got to experience, and for what could have been for Cuba. If we ever visit, I seriously doubt it will be from this base. Instead, we will see a version of Cuba that's much different than what's explained in the book. But then again, are NYC or Miami or Paris the same cities 60 years later, either?

I wouldn't necessarily recommend this to most people just because of all the references to Cuban writers (there is one section where Infante parodies famous Cuban writers telling the story of Trotsky's assassination in Mexico---random, I know, but hilarious at the same time).  It can be tedious and it almost needs footnotes for anyone who isn't familiar with Latin American literature and history. Parts of the book are in Spanglish. I'm glad I finally got around to reading it 25 years (!!!) after my last Spanish class, and I'm happy that somewhere in my brain is a part that gets many of the cultural references and understands the language. Book 2 is down, only 30 or so to go. 

Next up: Nigeria and the amazingly titled book, Blackass.

We All Sail On; or, Closing Out the Year

December is a landmark month in many ways. 

December is a month of reflection on what I could have done better these past 12 months. How I could have handled situations (and people) with more grace, how I could have been more patient, less reactionary, more organized. Maybe the main question is, how could I more safely handle kitchen cutlery? Should I really cook ever again? 

I also think of ways I have accomplished goals and I'm proud of many things that have happened this past year. I managed to spend a month in Germany and traveled all over Europe, some of that trip with just my youngest son, and in countries where I didn't really speak any of the language. I got a lot of new stamps in my passport, and although I didn't always have my camera out, I have images indelibly stamped in my mind. Some I will carry in my heart and don't want to share---most of these involve my two boys, who are constantly growing and changing. I sometimes find myself startled at photographs from just a few months back. I selfishly want to keep these memories for myself, because time is moving too fast. 

Our summer in Europe was sometimes exhausting and even frustrating (and I really did get my fill of churches for the next few years), but I loved the adventure and history and watching my children's faces as they took in Europe for the first time. I loved watching my husband navigate the streets of his childhood town in Germany and somehow meander through small streets right up to the door of his favorite toy shop from when he was 7 or 8 years old---and 40 years later, it's still there. 

Then in early August, I had to get on a train to board a plane back to the U.S., leaving my 18 year old son knowing that he was going to travel alone to destinations unknown for 6 weeks or more. He went where his heart (or wallet) led him, traveling to places like Bulgaria and Italy, where he has friends, and to Hungary, Poland, Austria, Egypt, Israel, and the West Bank. He saw pyramids, museums, and a famous Banksy. He argued with vendors and shopkeepers, he negotiated taxi prices, he learned how not to get ripped off, sometimes learning these things the hard way. He learned that you can't always hide you are an American, even if you don't always dress like one. If you've lived or worked or traveled outside the U.S., you understand why you don't want to always be known as an American. 

He stayed in hostels and nice hotels. He rode on trains, in planes, and used Über, too. He navigated this on this own, sometimes making mistakes, and never once was I completely at ease until he was back home in Cuba. But I was excited and at awe at how brave he was, how creative he could be when it came to problem solving (and it wasn't all smooth sailing), and how thrifty he was most of the time (since he spent mostly his own money). At 18, I never knew you could take off alone on a train with a backpack and a few hundred dollars and see the world. I am happy he got this opportunity. 

Many people (some to my face, some to other people behind my back who, naturally, told me) have questioned why I would "let" my 18 year old son travel so many places alone. Wasn't I scared? Was that really a responsible thing to do as a parent? How could I allow him to do such a dangerous thing? Yet most people who have asked these questions have rarely, if ever, left the United States, and if so, not any time in recent history. Or they don't understand that you really can't stop an 18 year old stubborn kid (he got a good dose from both parents) who is determined to see the world. Do you "let" an 18 year old do anything? Especially when he's spending his own money and making his own plans?  In Europe, he could rent a hotel room and order a beer with no trouble. He was treated more like an adult there than in the U.S.  It was sort of trial by fire, and in less than a month, he will be going back to Europe again, but this time to live---in Spain, going to college in Madrid.   

So this is a year of letting go of the child who, when I was 25, was told I would probably never have (boy, that doctor was wrong), and who, at 4 years old, drove me absolutely crazy and made me question my parenting abilities every single day of my life. The child who went from an only child and center of our world to a big brother at 7 1/2, and never once showed anything but love and acceptance and pride in that role. He's a kid I would have wanted to be my friend in high school, and now I'm sending him to college and feeling those crazy feelings all parents have---and maybe even more, since we will be on two completely separate continents, and just getting to see each other will take a major act of persistence and coordination, especially for us living in GTMO, the Hardest Place to Leave on Earth. 

2016 meant seeing GTMO friend Erika (with Kim) at St. Simon's Island; saying goodbye to Ana (and later Elena and Uliana) at Ferry Landing; seeing Leslee (with Michelle) in Jacksonville; seeing my high school buddy Michelle in Pensacola; getting a long, wonderful stay with Anna in Germany; going to my first GTMO formal with Uliana; and seeing Ana again in Macedonia. 

As it marks the end of the year, I think of the many, many people I've met because of living here that I am thankful are part of my life, and I desperately hope that I've shown each of them the gratitude they deserve. 

We've made new friends and had some dear, wonderful friends leave island in 2016. Living in a community that is constantly in flux many times allows us to become fast friends with people for an intense 1, 2, or 3 years. As a result, we have friends from all over the world who, like our friends in Macedonia, give us reasons to visit places we've never even considered going before now. It also means that with every goodbye, you have to be willing to open your heart again to opportunities for friendships. I'll be the first to admit that sometimes I shy away from warming up to new people because it really does hurt losing people you really trust and enjoy spending time with. So many people I've clicked with have moved on and we lost touch. Others I talk to every week. It's the struggle of living overseas, but it is also the beauty of living overseas---you have friends all over the world who understand your need to not call one place "home." 

I also did not get good news about the transfer round that I was hoping this week. It's out of my hands and there is no special consideration for our hardship area, so I figure the chips will fall where they may. Another year here or a new adventure elsewhere in the world will not change the facts in 2017 that I am a mom who is going to worry about her son living alone abroad, or a mom who is going to worry about her "baby" becoming a middle schooler, or a teacher who is always tired (and my feet---I really can't wait to retire so I'm not on my feet 8 hours a day). In April, the two campuses will combine to one, so I will be back on campus with my youngest again. I will lose one of my very best GTMO friends (the best) in early 2017. 

Time marches on, and even slow island life goes on, as well. Many big changes are around the corner, and finding ways to deal with the trials, tribulations, and celebrations of GTMO will still be here. 

Toe Magic, Those Aren't Chickens!, and More; or, A Spa Trip to Czech Republic

Františkovy Làzně, Czech Republic

July 25-26, 2016

Frantis. . . wha? That's basically what I said to my friend when she said we were going to the Czech Republic. 

I'll be the first to admit that all I know about the Czech Republic is that it was once part of Czechoslovakia, and Prague is somewhere in there. One day in this little town was not really enough to enjoy what it has to offer, but it is a great (and really cheap) destination for a spa get-away. 

almost all buildings are a buttery-yellow color, 
and the town is charming and easy to walk around

Why visit a small town with a big name?  

F-L is part of the "Bohemian spa triangle" and is a candidate for inclusion as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. (I didn't mention this in the last post, but Metz is also on the candidate list). 

Unlike my other adventures, this was a girls-only trip. My host Anna, another Lori (who also is an USM alum AND a Mississippian!) and I drove the couple of hours from her house in Vilseck to the Czech Republic. The drive through Bavaria is always beautiful, and going into the Czech Republic was not a major ordeal. Or even a minor one. 


The Czech Republic is part of the European Union, but unlike most EU countries, it does not use the Euro. Instead, it uses the Czech Koruna. 

That being said, many businesses and restaurants will take the euro (and probably American dollars, if you ask). What I did learn through various signs in the area (and the internet, of course) is this used to be part of the Bohemian province of Austria-Hungary until WWI, and after WWII, the Germans were expelled by the Allies as part of an effort to ethnically cleanse E Europe of Germans. Wow. When you visit today, many people speak fluent German, and many speak English. It is a spa town with a large influx of tourists yearly, although I did not see any other Americans while I was there. The mineral springs there are known for their healing properties, and people have come for hundreds of years to this area for spa treatments and "cures." 

What to do and see

While in Františkovy Láznē, we stayed at the Wellness Hotel Ida. This is a family run hotel and we met 2 Idas there--a mother and daughter. The hotel building is from the early 1800s. The rooms have been recently renovated and are modern and clean, yet with the tall, vaulted ceilings and lovely balcony, I was always aware that we were staying in a historical building. No air conditioning, but the evening breeze made it more than bearable. 

If you are been to a hotel/spa, this one is not fancy by any means, but it as much to offer as many high-dollar spas in the US. When you arrive, you have a "menu" of spa choices----everything from a traditional massage to stone massage to reflexology. I chose a head massage and reflexology. I hadn't had either before. 

The massage area is not like any other I've been to. The windows were wide open and a fresh breeze was blowing in. No whale sounds or sea gulls or any of that other cheesy music---just the sounds of the outdoors. No low lights, either---lots of natural sunlight. I knew this was going to be a little different experience. 

The head massage was. . . interesting. At one point, my masseuse was pulling my hair, which is odd but also oddly relaxing. He did some work on my head and face based on pressure points---at least I think that's what he was doing, because he didn't speak any English, and I don't speak German or Czech. 

I immediately thought, "wow, I should have just opted for a traditional massage." I had a pinched nerve under my shoulder blade that hurt so much, I hadn't been able to lift my arm for a few days. But with that whole language barrier, there was no way I could tell him that, and I didn't even think about it when I was setting up my appointments with one of the English speaking Idas. 

Then came the foot reflexology. I didn't know much about reflexology---I just knew that my tired feet hurt and thought a foot massage would be amazing.

source: http://reflexology-map.com/hands-map/

Holy cow. I don't know what wizardry/voodoo/magic was involved, but I'm telling you---it was amazing. And I will definitely do that again. 

The masseuse worked on each toe and various parts of my feet doing different things, sometimes kneading them and sometimes rubbing his hands together and putting heat to them. Suddenly he stopped on one specific toe and worked a long time.  It was weird, but I knew he was doing it for some purpose. Once my time was up, he pantomimed to my hurt shoulder blade. Again, I had never told him that it hurt, but somehow by working on my feet, he a)knew I had a pinched nerve and b) knew how to make it stop hurting. 

Magic, I tell ya! 


Otherwise, I enjoyed walking around the cute little town. Goethe and Beethoven both came here for the healing waters. (Those waters, incidentally, smell a little too much of sulphur for me to drink them). 


The town has a cute little train that for a small price will take you around. The tour is in Czech (or maybe German---again, that whole language thing)---and it weaved through a pretty little park and by more 19th century beautiful yellow buildings, colonnades, and small fountains. 

Can you find us on the train? 

On the train, we passed a hotel with sculptures on the grounds. What are those? Chickens? They looked so interesting from afar. 

And then close-up, it was a whole other story. Those aren't chickens. . .  

Those aren't chickens. They are nekkid people. Oh my. . . 

Those are some freaky pieces of modern art. It's like everyone has their heads up their. . . posteriors. 

The town is small but charming. There are a few little shops and our hotel had a nice restaurant. I enjoyed walking around and seeing the signs---I'm a little obsessed with signs in other languages. 

And then we sadly missed a local production of Romeo and Juliet: 

and even more sadly, we missed the local drag show: 

We did see this sweet little monument for the American troops who liberated Frantiskovy Lazne during WWII: 

The take away: 

If you are not living or staying in the Bavaria region of Germany (or anywhere else in Eastern Europe), you may not think of this as a destination. As I mentioned with our Macedonian trip, there are really, REALLY reasonable airfares from smaller airlines once you are in Europe. Depending on where you are, you can spend much MUCH less on a round trip ticket to the Czech Republic than on a full tank of gas (and yes, gas is very expensive in Europe). So if you are spending a week in London and get bored (I guess that can happen. . . ), consider taking a 2 day trip to Eastern Europe where hotels and food are SO much more reasonable, and you find unexpected adventures in places you never would have considered visiting. 

When most Americans think of visiting Europe, they first think of France, Germany, and Italy. Those seem to be at the top of people's wish lists. 

I found a rural area of the Czech Republic and the country of Macedonia as both wonderful surprises. The food is inexpensive and good. The accommodations are also inexpensive and modern. People are lovely and very accommodating. When you are one of a few Americans, you don't have to worry about other obnoxious Americans giving your country a horrible reputation (something we run into every time we visit Mexico). You will run into a slower pace of life in many ways, where you are encouraged to sit a while and enjoy a meal. Store clerks don't follow you around. Waiters don't hover over you. People may wait in line patiently like Americans, or may feel the need (as they did MANY times in Germany) to just cut line because they don't want to wait. And you can choose to get angry or realize it's a ridiculous thing to stress about. We'll all get through line eventually. 

I think with Europe I've come back a little more patient about some things, and quiet frankly, more pissed off about others. Getting my son from Europe to the US was easy; getting him from the US to GTMO was an utterly frustrating, exasperating, and expensive process. I miss the fresh and nutritious food we had in Europe. I miss the cost of things---groceries are a LOT more expensive at our commissary than the commissaries we visited in Germany. And it's our only choice. I miss driving in the countryside (and driving over 35 mph). Yes, it's a slower pace of life here, but in a frustrating, bureaucratic sort of way. I can still only dream of getting that magic ticket and FINALLY getting out of here after five years. 

But we'll always have Germany/France/Macedonia/Czech Republic, right?  

NEXT TIME: 

More on travel (as in, how to spend a month overseas for cheap) and "letting" my son spend a couple of months on his own traveling all over Europe (and a little of Africa). 

The Grateful Dead, More Churchapalooza, and I *heart* Marc; or, Metz, France

Metz, France 
July 18-19, 2016

Our little family continued our mini-road trip across the western part of Germany and crossed through Luxembourg into France. This is my second time in Metz and I couldn't wait for my family to visit one of my favorite places (so far) in Europe. 

Why Metz? 
Um, why not? Metz is in the Lorraine region of France and is on the Moselle and Seille Rivers. It has a Gothic cathedral, museums, gardens, and beautiful views from all over the city.  There is an open air market that sells everything from cheese to meats to vegetables. When I was in Metz in 2012, it was on the Tour de France map. 

Our Day in Metz
For anyone who has done a road trip with multi-stops, you know how tourist fatigue sets in. We could have easily spent 2-3 days in Metz to do it justice. That would have included seeing museums and getting to walk around more of the city. 

Instead, we arrived in the afternoon and worked on seeing the St. Stephen cathedral, getting something to eat, and getting up the next morning to hit the patisseries and the market. 

Metz has these parking garages that are, well, incredible. There is a whole system of lights that tells you where there are available slots, and everything is much more organized---and compact---than in the U.S. It was a little challenging getting our rented Audi into the close spaces.

don't think we're fitting our car in this place. . . 

Both times I've visited Metz, it's only been to the Metz Centre. I definitely want to come back to see other parts of the city and spend more time here. 

beautiful waterways coming into the town center

Another thing to know about Metz---it's hot and humid in the summer. Like steamy, stifling heat. The two times I've been there in July have been quite miserable. Not much is air conditioned, so your cute little outfit for France is going to stick to you like Saran Wrap. You are going to sweat. Your hair will frizz or wilt. Forget being cute in France in the summer. Metz is NOT the place for that. 

What it is for me is (what else?) a great place to visit yet another cathedral. Churchapalooza 2016 officially came to an end in Metz, but what a place---St. Stephen Cathedral is one of my favorite churches in the world. 

Walking around you see some of the same as the Dom: flying buttresses, stained glass, and gargoyles. The church (and many other buildings in Metz) are made from a yellow limestone unique to that area. 

The entrance way has beautiful rows of martyrs and saints: 

I know the Janus goddess has 2 faces, but I have no idea who these people are with 3 faces. 

Walking inside, you are greeted by walls of gorgeous stained glass. The church itself is not fancy in any way---there are chairs instead of pews, and lots of simple stone pillars and walls. There are no saints and martyrs in any form except stained glass. But boy---that's a reason in itself to see St. Stephen. 

Then there is the St. Stephen name itself---here's the quick (100th disclaimer---I'm not Catholic) version: he was the first Christian martyr and was stoned to death. 

And just as important to a Deadhead, it's the name of an amazing song that goes something like this: 

St. Stephen with a rose

In and out of the garden he goes

Country garland and the wind and the rain

Wherever he goes the people all complain. 

What does this have to do with a guy who was stoned to death? 

I don't know. 

Honestly, I don't really care. 

Because when in Ohrid or the Dom or Prüm or anywhere else where we saw Stephen, my youngest (who is oh-to-inquisitive about those saints) would ask, "What did he do?" and I'd sing a line or two of the song. And any day you get to sing a little Dead is a good day, right? 

You can go all over the internet and try to figure out the meaning of the song as it goes with Catholicism and the St. Stephen story, but really, it doesn't matter to me and it probably doesn't really connect. All that matters is I love the song and maybe Jerry Garcia's family did, too---his memorial service was held in a St. Stephen Episcopal Church. 

Here's the other random thing I love about the cathedral: it has amazing and beautiful windows by Marc Chagall. 

The construction of the church started in 1220 and it was completed in 1550, but in the 1950s, Chagall installed a series of colorful windows. 

So how did a Russian Jew with French citizenship end up with windows in a Catholic cathedral? 

A 1999 article in the New York Times tells of how Chagall installed similar windows in Germany as a "reconciliation" between Germany and France and between Christians and Jews. 

Next to the highly stylized, traditional windows are Chagall's, with their ethereal, colorful figures depicting stories of the Old and New Testaments. 

In addition to the church, there is a wonderful market across the center with the same yellow limestone. Built in the early 1800s,  it has a little bit of everything you'd ever want. 

There are also amazing patisseries near the center with every type of beautiful and tasty sweet you can imagine. Most charge one price for take out and another to eat in (more expensive to eat in), so the kids and I took a large box of pastries and wolfed them down sitting in the square outside our Novatel hotel. 

My take on Metz

I love it for the art (Chagall!!), the little tiny bit of French I know and can use, and the beautiful city center. I want to explore more. 

And I want more of France. 

I was amused how in the hotel, I completely understood everything the desk clerks said in heavily French accented English, but my husband didn't understand a single word---because this is how I felt for 99% of the time people spoke to us in German-accented English. For once, I didn't feel like an idiot. (Hell, I understand French accented English more than Glaswegian, or English in Glasgow, Scotland, but that's a whole other story).  

The first foreign language I was exposed to was French, at a rather early age. Maybe all those Babar books my mom read to me in French and songs she sang---"Sur le Pont D'avignon"---paid off a tiny bit. Or the hours I played with my Babar doll that spoke many phrases in French until I literally wore it out. Or that one semester of French I took in college. All I know is I could actually read and understand a whole lot more than I did in Germany, and that felt SO good. French is a language I feel very comfortable listening to and reading, and want to learn how to speak it fluently. 

My oldest son was fascinated with France, too. It's more laid back---you wait even longer there than in Germany for the waiter to bring you your check, if at all. I think it's considered really rude in most of Europe for a waiter to hover over you or bring you your check right after you are done eating. You are supposed to take your time, savor each bite, enjoy the company of your fellow diners or perfect your solo people watching. France is more relaxed to me than Germany. It's hard to explain in words, but it's more of a vibe you get throughout the city. 

There is also the effortless style of French women, even in the town of Metz. Women wear simple colors, simple hair, little or no makeup. They are laid back and yet elegant. How did they do this when it's hotter than 7 hells outside and I'm sweating with frizzy hair and rumpled clothes? I wish I knew the secret. 

Can you tell I love France? And no, I didn't encounter any snobby French people. Maybe that's because I speak a teeny tiny bit of grammatically ambiguous French and just smile. A lot. People like when you try to speak their language and smile, even if it's when you are pointing and grunting, which I also did a lot of in France. In fact, I am fluent in grunting and pointing and smiling in all languages. 

H taking in the cathedral---his expression says it all

Of course, all of these generalizations of France are JUST based on Metz (and the little tiny time I've spent in a few other small villages in 2012). I could be completely off the mark about Paris or other larger cities. 

in my happy place

Whatever the truth is, this is for certain: I am happy that Churchapalooza 2016 ended in one of my favorite churches in the world, where a Jewish artist created beautiful art of Jesus, and where the name evokes my favorite Grateful Dead song. (And this: eventually, all roads lead to randomness when you travel with me).