The Bayers in Bordeaux

After hearing how much fun everyone had in April, Jason's father Jay decided that he should visit us in Bordeaux, if for nothing else than to see what all the fuss was about. It took quite a bit of convincing and there was even a moment when I thought he might just say forget it and never come, but Jason's powers of persuasion are strong. Julie was, as she always is, just excited to be spending time with us.

Jason is quite the planner when it comes to vacations, so he had their whole 10-day adventure laid out: Day trips to a few nearby towns, plus a night in San Sebastian, all strategically interspersed with downtime in Bordeaux. Some of you may be thinking to yourselves "Ten days with your in-laws sounds like a lot" and you would be right, BUT it's a long time to have ANYONE stay in your house and keep them entertained. I must admit that the time really flew by because we had so much to do thanks to Jason's expert organization. No visit is perfect but we got pretty darn close. Here are some highlights:

Cognac
We stole this one from when Kelly and Kate were here. Tour a maison, drink lots of cognac, hang out by the river. Check, check and check. The only negative point of the day was the wait time on our dinner. I swear it was a full hour between our appetizer and our main dish, with no one coming to offer us more wine or an apology for the delay. Service in France isn't maniacal constant badgering like in the US but it's not usually total abandonment, either. I swear, I nearly got up to go fishing for my own damn merlu... And then I remembered I was having a three-course meal in Cognac and I felt just a bit pretentious!

If I had any artistic ability, this is what I would paint.

Portes Ouvertes in Graves
This was such a hit with my mom last year that we decided to do it again with Jason's parents. (Jay is not one to miss out on the fun if everyone else is doing it.) We rented a car and dragged Rick along for the ride for a perfectly sunny day of wine tasting and touring. As is often the case, I got to play translator at a few places and show off my bilingualism a little bit, and Jay discovered how tricky it can be to separate two Romance languages :"I keep saying 'Sí' but I know I'm supposed to say 'Oui'! This is ridiculous." Also, wine!

Château Cerons

Château Castres 

Toulouse
As a girl, Julie had a couple of pen pals from Toulouse so she had always dreamed of visiting. Jason and I are in the business of making dreams come true so we hopped a train and off we went for a day in the ville en rose. It was our first time, too, so we had plenty to explore and discover, and it was kind of cool to share Julie's wide-eyed wonder in this new city. We almost got stuck with a 50-minute delay on our return to Bordeaux, but I was able to get us home on time by requesting seats on the train prior to ours that was also late. Bam! Nicole saves the day.

Finally talking to Jay
My relationship with Jay has always been a bit... strained. I don't know if it's because he thinks I'm encroaching on his time with his one and only baby boy, or if it's because we have such vastly different opinions on literally everything, or maybe it's because I don't fit his ideal of what a "good woman" is. I got on like a house on fire with everyone else in the family while Jay and I were barely making sparks.

One night after some escargots and a few glasses (bottles) of wine, the two of us ended up getting in a very intense conversation about everything from white privilege to systemic racism to socialized health care and everything in between. I'm not saying that we see eye to eye on all of these issues now, but I do think that I helped him see the flaw in the "bootstraps" argument that he believed so earnestly. So you mean black and brown people aren't just inherently lazy? And that even though I grew up a poor kid in the country, I still had certain advantages afforded to me simply because of my skin color? It took hours, but if I can get a staunch republican to admit that there are systems in place in the US that keep certain people in power and others marginalized, it gives me hope for humanity.

In addition to the higher moral victory, it was also the moment that finally got Jay to see me as someone worthy of his time. There was a very tangible shift that night from my being some know-it-all liberal girl corrupting his only son to a well-educated, well-spoken person with passion, and even Jay can appreciate that. I don't necessarily need us to be best friends, but I do need him to respect me and I think we're finally getting to that point.

San Sebastian and Basque Cider Houses
In the final leg of Jay and Julie's trip, we drove down to our favorite Spanish town for the evening and relished in the local flavors of bacalao, rioja and endless pintxos. Rows upon rows of small plates, lined up across the bar, luring us in with their bright colors and intoxicating aromas. I love French food, but there is something so playful about tapas-style eating. You can try so many different things, a little at a time, taking a little culinary voyage with every bite. It also doesn't hurt that San Sebastian is a stunningly beautiful city.

Pintxos for dinner

The view from our hotel

After a night of snacking and drinking, we ventured outside of town a bit to the Petretegi cider house for a fun day of learning about the Basque region, cider making and of course lots of drinking. The giant barrels were so pressurized that the cider would come shooting out of them and lightning speed. You had to be pretty quick with your glass to catch it all!

With over a week's worth of memories and new experiences to share with their friends, Jay and Julie headed back to Pennsylvania. We can't be sure, but something tells me they'll be back...

Fall-ing in Love

They say no one can tell you when you're in love; you just know it. Well, baby, I am smitten.

I am in love with Bordeaux
As our summer drew to a close, I had to take a moment to appreciate how amazing it was. We visited six different countries, a dozen cities, and made countless new friends, all in just four short weeks. This is the kind of thing that's really only possible in Europe. International borders are fluid and never that far away, making it incredibly easy for eager travelers like us to get our adventure fix. Looking through the pictures back home in Bordeaux just reminded me how fortunate we are to be here and to be on this crazy journey together. We live in an amazing city that continues to surprise me everyday.

We finally climbed to the top of Pey Berland. Seen here: Pont de Pirre, St Michel spire, and the Grosse Cloche

September is the rentrée, when everyone goes back to work with colorful stories, fresh tans, and a positive attitude, which, I might add, is harder to find in France than a bakery without baguettes. It's always a blur of bisous and innumerable apéros en terrasse to catch up while the weather is still nice. Do you remember how happy you were to see all of your friends again on that first day back after summer break? It's like that, but all month and with way more wine.

One of many beautiful days in Bordeaux. Visiting Palais Rohan @ Hotel de Ville

Freshly scrubbed free of soot and grime. Thanks, Alain Juppé!

During the first weekend in October, we were treated to unseasonably warm weather for the harvest in Bourg. As a beer-loving American, I always had this vision of wine as being something chic and inaccessible for laypeople like me. Fancy glasses, fancy tastings, fancy words like "sommelier" and "connoisseur"... It all just seemed beyond my simple tastes. But then I came to Bordeaux and learned that vintners are nothing more than grape farmers who like to drink. Unlike last year, when all the grapes were ruined by the ultra-wet weather, we easily filled our harvesting baskets to the brim at every vine. There is something uniquely beautiful about getting out in the fields and being close to the earth after spending so much time in the city.

The harvester was much faster at grape-picking than we were.

Typical Jason

The fruits of our labor... GET IT?!??!?

No, you don't get to stomp on them.

La Garonne and the town of Bourg

I am in love with Gaelic Football
After nearly two years of laziness/cowardice, I finally decided to grow a pair and find myself a sports team. The women's rugby teams here are not really my speed (either novice students or semi-pro) and I found the Ultimate team to be uncharacteristically boring and not that friendly. Enter: Gaelic Football. A few of the girls from Chesapeake used to play in the off season or as cross training so I knew that the sport existed but that was about it. Since my life is apparently one giant serendipitous moment after another, I just happened to be at the CEL when one of the new teachers was hanging a promotional poster for the team. An obscure sport, you say? Where do I sign up? I sent the club president an email, dragged along my Kiwi friend Laura and trucked out to Bordeaux Lac to give it a try.

On our first day at practice, most of the team was in Sweden for a tournament so we had a very laid back initiation to the sport. Hand pass, kick pass, solo, dribble... There are a lot of skills to master and it's all a bit complicated at first glance, but I swear there is some method to the madness. Plus, if you've ever played any field sport ever, you realize very quickly that it's all kind of the same thing: Pass the object in some special fashion so that it gets to other side of the field. GO.

My hand-foot coordination, and thus my ability to consistently execute a solo (kicking the ball back up into your own hands) left a bit to be desired, but everyone was incredibly supportive and encouraging, even when I booted the ball in the wrong direction for the 72087th time in 20 minutes. The thing that really got me to stay, though, was this instant feeling of camaraderie. After practice, everyone hung around for a couple of beers and some snacks and without even mentioning it, we had offers for rides back into town from three different people. It felt so much like the days playing rugby and Ultimate back in the US that I immediately felt like part of the team and knew that I had found my niche. It's good to be home.

(I'm just right of center, in orange)

I am in love with my husband
Maybe it's corny to say it, but it's true. Do we just gaze into each other's eyes all day long, tears brimming because we're so overwhelmed by our love? No, because we have jobs. Ain't nobody got time for that. Do we ever fight about stupid things? Yes, because we are human beings. I can't tell you how many times we have bickered about my obsession with right-side-out socks or his inability to replace the toilet paper roll and HEAVEN HELP US if we have to make a joint decision on what to watch or where to eat...

But we're comfortable and we're happy. I like being with him. I like that he makes me laugh. I like that we are starting to know each other so well that we can be proactive about situations where the other might be upset. (Note to self: always eat before going to the market on Sunday morning. H'anger is a real thing.) Of course there are days when we seem a little out of sync, and they are that much more striking because we are normally in lockstep, but it just tells me that we're still figuring it out. And that's okay! We're growing together and learning together and making mistakes together. But we always figure it out and I am really looking forward to a lifetime of figuring it out with Jason.

*Cue sappy music and "awwww"s*

It's good to be in love.

We are Aoûtiens - Part 4

August 28-29: Olivia and William's Wedding

We had just one evening at home before we were off for our final adventure of the summer. One of  Jason's colleagues, Olivia, was getting married and we were on the guest list. The wedding took place in Jonzac, a little town not too far from Cognac, just over an hour from us in Bordeaux. We hitched a ride with our French friends Guillaume and Alexia, and our ol' pal Rick was along for the ride as well. The five of us jammed into the car, with our sleeping gear and dancing shoes.

I had attended a few parties with Olivia and her crew before so I suppose I should have known that this wedding was going to be an epic event. The ceremony at the church involved a lot of hymn-singing, which was made even more difficult because they were all in French, but we gave it our best effort. After what was (probably?) a lovely service, the newlyweds came out into the church yard for photos and mingling. It looked like something out of a Disney movie.

Over to the reception where more impossibly beautiful and perfect things would happen. The invitation said it was at a château, which is par for the course in France, but I was not prepared for what we rolled up on.

Really? When did I have friends with homes like this?

Firstly, it belongs to Olivia's grandfather, which is already extra cool. I know someone with their own château! Secondly, the yard was set up for cocktail hour. To me, cocktail hour is some veggies and dip, cheese and crackers, and lasts exactly one hour. WRONG. This cocktail hour included smoked salmon, sliced meats, pâté, gourmet mini-soups in tiny plastic cups, all the champagne in the world and 3000 oysters. That means 10 oysters for everyone who attended the wedding. There was a freaking jazz trio. Unlike the name would suggest, cocktail hour lasted for a good four hours. I kept waiting for them to announce it was time for dinner so I was pacing myself on the snacks, but I should have just gone hard when I first got there. It would be ages before we sat down for dinner.

Boats of oysters!

Keep the champagne coming, sir.

When it started getting dark, they brought us into the chai for dinner (because I know people with a place other than their adjacent châteaux that can seat 300 people comfortably) and we had a beautiful meal of salad, foie gras, pork medallions, roasted vegetables, and even a cheese plate. There were speeches from the fathers, a musical number by Olivia's cousins, more speeches from the bride and groom. This was followed by a spread of desserts like none I have ever seen. There were little strawberry-basil smoothies, macaroons, mini crème brûlée, and a self-serve ice cream truck. Not like the powdered stuff you used to have in the dining hall but real hand-crafted French ice cream. And in case you were somehow still sober after cocktail hour and the wine at dinner, there was more champagne and cognac for the digestif. All. Night. Long.

But who has time for drinking when there is a dance party going on? The DJ was spinning one great song after another and the dance floor was packed all night. It seemed like every guest knew how to swing dance, and the room was a blur of bouncing curls and swirling coattails. The last time I went to a party with Olivia, we were up dancing until 5am. This time, the sun was coming up before we decided to call it a night. We had been at it for 13 hours, after all.

We were invited to crash at the other château on the property (two châteaux?!?!?) and Olivia had explained to Jason where we should sleep. There must have been some misunderstanding because when we went to set up our air mattress, Jason insisted Olivia had told him that we were supposed to sleep in the vestibule of the bathroom. You know, that little room outside the toilets that has the sink and maybe a linen closet. I was skeptical, but he seemed awfully sure of himself and I didn't have the physical or mental energy to fight with him about it. Jason has a tendency to snore when he's been drinking and this evening was certainly no exception. Maybe it was best that we were in our own little area so he didn't keep the rest of the house up all night (morning?). Unfortunately, every time someone had to use the bathroom, which was often after a night of drinking, they had to stumble over our semi-comatose bodies, sprawled in front of the door. Needless to say, it was not the most restful sleep I ever got in my life.

It was around noon when we finally started moving again and we were met with a little good-hearted teasing from Olivia. "I don't know how you sleep at night with that snoring, Nicole! And why were you in the bathroom? You couldn't have gotten any sleep with people disturbing you all night!!" Yes, yes. Laugh at my pain. And for the record: I WAS RIGHT, JASON.

I was expecting to pack up our things and head down the road, but we were invited to a post-wedding brunch of leftovers from the night before. We had plenty of oysters to finish, the rest of the cheese plates, hard-boiled eggs, cold cuts and what French meal is complete without a bazillion baguettes? Oh, and that ice cream was not going to eat itself!

We spent the rest of the afternoon on the patio, soaking up the sun and letting the bread soak up the booze that was left in our bellies. By 5pm, we decided it was probably time to go back to real life. Guillaume and Alexia were staying a bit longer so we bid our hosts goodbye and Rick, Jason and I hopped a train back to Bordeaux.

As the summer drew to a close, we were tired but happy, with a whole bunch of new memories and a few more places checked off the bucket list. The new school year is already back in action but at least I have a few light days to ease me back into the swing of things. I'm still recovering, that's for sure.

So long, sweet summer. See you next year.

We are Aoûtiens - Part 3

August 25-28: Valencia, Spain

While the UK was lovely, we were craving a little sunshine. It was summer after all. The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain, which was a good thing because we were headed to the coast. Valencia is Spain's third largest city but still manages to maintain that sleepy village feel in the old part of town. 15th century architecture, picturesque parks, and beautiful sandy beaches abound, but our main reason for visiting was the annual Tomatina festival in nearby Buñol. You have probably seen or heard of this event: It's the one where they dump truckloads of tomatoes in the street and hoards of drunk tourists sling them at each other in what must be the world's largest food fight. Yup, we're doing that.

Jason had organized the whole trip, as per the usual, and got us a place with the tour group This Is Valencia. They arranged a welcome party with plenty of snacks and drinks so that we could mix and mingle with other folks on the tour.  Our fellow festival-goers were a ragtag bunch of people who were probably too old to be doing this, but nothing says reclaiming your youth like day drinking and throwing tomatoes at strangers! In a group of 150 tourists, you're bound to have a few weirdos, but we seemed to have them in spades on this particular trip. The first guy we met ACTUALLY opened with this line: "Do you have a little Irish in you? Would you like some?" Oh, sir. I will have a tomato ready for your face tomorrow. We sat down with a crew of American colleagues who were passing around a goatskin flask of Jager, which is kind of funny when you're 20 but kind of sad when you're 45. Sadder still was that the most mentally stable and well-adjusted people we met the whole weekend were Canadians. What is this world coming to???

After a night of free sangria and awkward conversation, we donned our shittiest clothes, knowing that they would be completely covered in tomatoes after the fight, and boarded the 9am bus for Buñol.

Ready for action!

Our path from the parking lot to the city center was lined with vendors offering drinks, waterproof disposable cameras, goggles, t-shirts, and a great number of Spanish street snacks. We were walking a bit aimlessly and didn't even realize that we had strolled right into the main square of town where the festivities would kick off.

Here's the scene: 30,000 festival attendees at various levels of inebriation filled the tiny streets, cheering and chanting for the arrival of the tomatoes. The residents had draped long tarps over their street-facing windows and some of them were manning "water stations" (read: fire hoses), strategically dispersed along the festival route. The occasional blast of cold water brought welcome relief from the already sweltering heat of the morning sun. A soapy 15-ft pole was positioned at the edge of the square, with a leg of jamón tied to the top. At the sound of a cannon blast, those who were close enough to the pole tried to scramble up it and cut the ham down, thus signaling the start of the festival. Many attempts were made, and a few came close to loosing the ham from its slippery perch, but the mob was more interested in yanking people down than lifting them up.

Watching people trying to climb the soapy pole

At 11am sharp, another cannon blast was heard and the trucks arrived. Not even Moses could have cleared a path so quickly, and as soon as the tomatoes were dumped in the street, we had our own Red Sea to navigate. Festival rules dictate that you have to crush the tomatoes before throwing them to avoid serious injury, but when you're surrounded by tens of thousands of crazed tourists, the real thing you're worried about is getting crushed yourself. On several occasions, I was moving forward but my feet were not touching the ground.

Tomato throwing was nearly impossible because there was no room to bend over and pick one up from the street, and if by some miracle you were able to get one, you couldn't get enough arm room to actually throw the damn thing. The goggles that were provided by our tour group were instantly broken and fogged up, rendering them absolutely useless. Between the tomato juice and the hose water, if I had brought some cilantro, we would have been up to our ankles in gazpacho. Someone had a large cup that they were using to scoop the liquid from the street and dump it on people, and I was lucky enough to catch a full face of this incredibly sanitary cocktail. I don't know if it was the acid from the tomatoes or the grime from the streets, but my eyes started to burn with the fire of a thousands suns.

After an hour or so of this insanity, a final cannon shot signaled the end of the event. We narrowly escaped death by stampede on our way to find somewhere to wash off. There were a few shower stations, but they all seemed to have super long lines so we opted for the low-tech route: villagers with hoses. While I was grateful for their generosity, it did strike me as a bit suspicious that the Spanish men would give the guys about 30 seconds under the hose and the girls got a solid minute and a half. "You still have a little tomato right there. Let me just get that for you..."

I can't see anything at this moment.

We made our way slowly back up the hill to our bus, and they drove us to a lovely little spot for lunch. There were real showers, buckets of paella, endless sangria and a pool surrounded by nice, shady trees. It would have been nice to see it but I was temporarily blinded from all the dirty tomato juice in my face. My eyes tried to combat the intrusion by pumping out gallons of mucus and no matter how much I wiped it away, it kept coming back. I had a goopy cloud over my eyes for the rest of the day. Thanks for this very attractive biological response, immune system!  I'm glad this was a day when I was talking to lots of strangers!

We spent most of the afternoon eating, drinking and chatting with our Canadian friends from the night before. We were pretty tired when we got back to Valencia, and I was still blind, so we got some take out and went to bed early.

My vision returned the next day and we decided to venture out and explore the city a little. We saw lots of cool thing but I couldn't tell you what any of them are. I was tired, okay? I left the guide book at home. It was also 42˚C that day, making it much too hot to think or remember stuff. All in all, our time in Valencia was pretty solid. Some quality R&R on the beach was much needed and it's always great to explore a new city. Despite a little blindness and a little blistering heat, we were glad to have experienced the Tomatina, if for nothing else but to know that we will never, ever do it again.

Here are some pictures that were not taken on a shitty disposable camera!