we KNOW what rain looks like!

Adding Chamonix to the list, we've now had at least one storm in every destination... thunder and lightening in all but the Riviera (& time will tell about Chamonix)! Chamonix is our last stop before the journey home begins (including a short night in Paris). We'd really like to take advantage of our final hours, but alas, the rain has diverted our activities. It IS nice to take a few moments to continue to record our experiences, however. I fear I've already forgotten so much.

We left the sea (Nice) for the mountains (Annecy & Chamonix) on Tuesday. We spent the night in Annecy, a sweet little town on a lovely lake, with a canals weaving through the city. We had a hotel scare that night, but ended up settling into an... interesting... place, which was perfectly sufficient. We crawled into a little cave for dinner (most of the streets in Annecy are lined with cave-like structures that provide sheltered outdoor eating opportunities) and had a delicious meal of pork in a goulash-like sauce and polenta. Mmmmm. Thunder and lightening (par for the course at this point in the trip) provided our entertainment, as did the pedestrians scampering from cave to cave, unsuccessfully avoiding the impending drenching. We bundled into our hoodies and made ourselves lick down cones of gelato (creme brulee gelato even tastes good in the rain). In the morning, we enjoyed strolling the streets in search of cafe for our morning coffee (surprisingly difficult to find) and paddle-boating around the lake (= sunburn no. 2 for the trip). It was an adorable little town (not actually that little), that would probably make for a lovely French hometown.

After spending an hour attempting to free ourselves from the Annecy parking garage (language barriers were rather insurmountable to remedy our ails), we got to Chamonix without a SINGLE WRONG TURN! (First time.) Chamonix is a resort town set at the foot of the French Alps, including the highest mountain in Europe - Mont Blanc. We strolled the town in the surprisingly warm weather yesterday, enjoying the views and snapping up as many postcards as we could. Towns in alpine settings like this are just magical to me... there's something so uniquely humbling about the enormous moutains towering just over my head and something uniquely comforting about the geranium-lined chalets serving more varieties of melted cheese than I could possibly dream of. The waterfalls are so high, the snow so brilliant and the cafes so satisfying. My career aspirations as of the last 20 hours include designing and running a modern alpine hotel...

It looks as though the rain has stopped for good, so we're going to attempt to make the most of our last two days. Miss you all! Love, - b.

always follow personal rules

We've developed a rule of thumb in our travels, whereby we insist on staying a minimum of three nights (and thus, two days) in every location on our itinerary. We made an exception for the Riviera, because I was dying to make a stop for some world-class modern art viewing, and while I'm glad we did (see more below), I'm reminded of why we don't like to build our intineries this way... four hours (plus getting-lost time) in the car will be a welcome relief for my tired feet tomorrow.

We hit the Matisse & Chagall museums in Nice today (The Musuem of Modern & Contemporary Art is closed on Mondays... whoops). Both were great (and managable! All musuems should feature just one artist...). I really enjoy modern art in general, but especially so in contrast to the likes of the Louvre (& most European museums). The bright colors, contemporary interpretations & abstract depictions of timeless themes, simple shapes and creative mediums do me well.

The Chagall Museum was particularly interesting for his Old Testament paintings (done especially for this museum). I love the way he draws out themes of the relationality of God's character in some of the seemingly-cruelest stories of the biblical narrative (the sacrifice of Isaac, the fall, the flood, & on & on & on...). Chagall was raised a Hasidic Jew, so his use of the crucifixion to represent the suffering of the Jews (particularly in his time - Holocaust) is pretty interesting.

Backtracking on our intinerary... as I mentioned previously, Provence was absolutely wonderful. We stayed at a great B&B, which, in many ways, made our time what it was. Our hosts, John & Monique, were so (SO) knowledgable on the area. All their recommendations were spot-on, and John's impecable directions didn't lead us astray a single time. We day-tripped from our B&B each of our four days in Provence, and John seemed pleased that we had really tasted an authentic glimpse of Provence by the time we left. If he thinks we have an accurate picture, I'm more than willing to take his word for it.

Perhaps the highlight of our time in Provence was just the simple daily routine of breakfast in the garden. John & Monique would prepare a wonderful array of fruit salad (including a particular apricot combo I'm going to be attempting to recreate upon returning home), homemade jams with lovely baguettes, big/fluffy croissants, yogurt (which I took as an opportunity to consume more of that yummy melon jam), coffee in a FRENCH press (no one else seems to be serving French presses... perhaps we should start calling them Freedom presses?), etc. We'd take an hour or so for breakfast each morning, nibbling our way through John's thoughtful creations, perched upon our little Provencal daybeds, discussing with John & Monique what was in store for our day's discovery. What a special experience...

Since I'm on highlights, Collioure was certainly one. This little beach town is oh-so-romantic (perfect for a mother/daughter getaway!), makes a great French/Spanish fusion (Catalan) in all respects and was surprisingly peaceful (despite the hordes of French vacationers - I can't say the same about Nice). Save for our dinner of raw seafood, Collioure was just a perfect little French beach vacation from our vacation.

And finally... Paris will definitely make my list of favorite major cities. I was prepared to be disenchanted, realizing it was just as noisy, dirty and slimy as Rome... but it's not. Now don't get me wrong, it's no Vienna - but its public transit alone is enough to make a Portlander convert. In many ways (and showing my true lack of worldliness), I found Paris a happy medium between Rome and Vienna. It has Rome's style with Vienna's moderation. It poo-poos Vienna's stuffy attitude (which I didn't mind) for Rome's appreciation of things uncouthe. It's professional with all the comforts of real-life (baguettes tucked under suit-clad arms on the way home from work). Its residents appreciate its cultural signficance (pinics at the foot of the Eiffel tower), but aren't defined by it (a modern monument that says 'peace' in countless languages sits opposite the walkway from the Eiffel Tower).

It's going to be rough to return to a land where croissants are not a normal breakfast (I found a cinnamon roll this morning [which a French twist, of course] and ohhhhh... I realized American pasteries may be a welcome shock to the system after all), where baguettes are not served with every meal and where the cheese selection is not in the hundreds, but BBQ IS sounding pretty delectable at the moment. (And ice cubes. And milk.)

I expect this will be the last blog posting until I return home, sift through pictures, recount my trip enough times to figure out which stories are worth telling, etc... Until then, much love! - b.

americana, in disguise down under.

Yes, this would be the FIRST blog I've written about France 2009... and yes, we've been here two weeks now. Who knew the French aren't hip to the internet cafe? (Or that Beyth wasn't hip to traveling with her laptop. Free "Wee-Fee" abounds.) Given the scarcity, prices are nothing short of outrageous, so I'm going to make this a down-n-dirty update. Musings, reflections, ponderances and fantasies of French living will be expounded upon when I return to the States.

Sunday, May 24: LONG PLANE FLIGHT. That's all. Just so long.

PARIS
Monday, May 25: SO JET-LAGGED. Went to the Luxembourg Gardens, which were lovely. Fell asleep watching a game of Boules (French Bocce Ball, I think?).
Tuesday, May 26: The Orsay Museum, which is house in an old Parisian train station. Awesome.
Wednesday, May 27: Versailles. Louis XIV was a crazy dude. That place is gigantic.
Thursday, May 28: The Pompidou Center (fabulous modern art musuem, with a great exhibit of female artists [not to be confused with feminist art]) & the Orangerie (includes 2 circular rooms built to display Monet's enormous Water Lilies canvases). Went up the Arc de Triomphe after night & watched the sunset. Lovely.
Friday, May 29: The Louvre. In one word? Overwhelming. Mom made it through this place in about two hours - shortest musuem trip she's ever had! After the Mona Lisa, the Sphynix and my Rick Steves' audio guide, I peaced out...

COLLIOURE
Saturday, May 30: Flew to Toulouse & rented a Mercedes! Boo-yah! Figured out how to navigate the ubiquitous French roundabout and called it a night.
Sunday, May 31: Went to the Salvador Dali Musuem, just a short hop over the French/Spanish border. Yes, the musuem is just as bizarre as his work. The printed "guide" made many apologies for their attempt to offer a path through the place, saying, "Dali would never expect you to approach his work with any sort of order. We only offer these suggestions so you might see everything. Please don't think this is any indication of chronology or theme."
Monday, June 1: Detoxed from Paris & Dali by sitting on the beach. Collioure is a beautiful, romantic and picturesque town in the South of France and we thoroughly enjoyed floating on our backs in the ocean, strolling the streets with baguette in hand, investigating every viewpoint and dangling our feet from every sea wall. We accidently managed to order two plates of raw shellfish. ONLY RAW SHELLFISH. Lots of it. We each put on our best carnivourous smiles for about a third of the plate and then promised we'd find a pizza...

PROVENCE
Tuesday, June 2: Ripped ourselves away from Collioure, assured we wouldn't find a more beautiful destination on our trip. We were wrong. We arrived at our Provencal B&B, met our incredibly (unstated) gracious hosts and settled in for a little time in the country.
Wednesday, June 3: Froliced through hill towns. Pulled out at every viewpoint on the impossibly narrow/winding roads.
Thursday, June 4: Went to this incredibly cool natural water feature (I'll have to look up the name & offer a link later) en route to the Pont du Gard, which is a fascinating Roman aqueduct. Google it - it's in remarkable shape. We attempted to visit an ancient Roman Theater in Orange, but arrived after closing (we took our breakfast too leisurely - story of the week). Peaked through the gates and, after stumbling through an alleyway of used needles and condoms, decided we'd had enough of Orange.
Friday, June 5: The Camargue. We saw flamingoes. Nesting. Flying. Eating. Real flamingoes. We got lost. Really lost. We drove down dirt roads. Tested our rental car's agility (pretty good!).
Saturday, June 6: Took a "Wine Road" driving tour, which wound us through the most pictureseque vineyards (go figure), took us to a great winery and a fun "Cave Cooperative" (lots of wineries, one tasting/purchasing room). This drive had our most spectacular and diverse views/hill towns, all within 80-ish kilometers of one another. Crazy! Mom accidently got more raw meat for dinner (liver and bacon).

RIVIERA
Sunday, June 7: We drove through the Grand Canyon du Verdon, en route from Provence to the Riviera. Spectacular. The water is a very unnatural color of tourquiose (the water in the Riviera is also breathtaking, but this lake looked... diseased or something).

That's all for now. See most of you in a week, with many pictures and stories in hand! Much love, - b.

well, at least it's not just the Christians who are confused

I just had one of those I'm so old moments... not that I was especially hip to my times, but evidently teenage sexual behavior has experienced quite the evolution. 

This phenomenon of "sexting" (a term I fully intend to propagate, seeing as how I take partial credit for getting the term "MTV virgins" into minor circulation) is obviously concerning to those of us over, oh, I don't know, sixteen. Nevertheless, I can't help but recall some of the brilliant ideas that my friends and I came up with at the height of our hormonal development. Fortunately, to my knowledge, there are no public records of the pant-less jaunts through the football field or our (in retrospect) bizarrely strip-tease-esque moments in Mt. Tabor Park (sorry Mom... you had to find out someday, right?). The defining ethic of those events laden with indiscretion, however, is innocence. 

Much as I agree, these little "sexters" must be taught a lesson for their own protection, let's not go overboard in painting them as some sort of malicious criminals. They're experimenting. They're trying to find acceptance. They're discovering their sexuality. Who among us can't say that we strove to meet all those goals through sometimes inappropriate and even harmful means? Let's redirect behavior. Let's establish a healthy way of conducting sexual education - something that moves beyond the abstinance/condom debate and onto holistic sexual identity. Let's empower, rather than repress. Let's teach kids to value their sexuality, rather than communicate that it's something criminal.

Amen?

homogeneity

This article (http://www.slate.com/blogs/blogs/bigsort/archive/2008/10/30/how-running-a-campaign-is-no-different-than-building-a-megachurch.aspx) struck me as particularly profound in reference to the ongoing conversations Consuming Jesus (www.consumingjesus.org) and its related issues have spawned. 

"Self-government, however, is the opposite of self-love. Democracy is about meeting and coming to terms with people who look, talk, believe, and think differently from us. Government might work better if that democratic exercise began for voters during the campaign rather than the day after inauguration." 

You're welcome. In Christ, the Consumer Church model. 

I'm sorry. In Christ, Beyth.

ebenezer raising...

Last night I was out with some old friends, people who’ve been in my life for quite some time. As is the general nature of such friendships, we’ve grown apart and history often seems the only tie that binds. In an effort to avoid spending the entire night reminiscing about decades-old memories and catching up on mutual acquaintance gossip, conversation awkwardly danced between stories of dates gone awry and lusterless inside jokes.

It didn’t take me long to realize that I was the one from whom secrets had been hidden, the one to whom half the table shot sympathetic “I’m sorry” eyes at the very insinuation of questionable activity. And while I felt suffocated by an old identity at that table, I found an unfamiliar contentment with my own dissention.

That’s been the beauty of the past year. In the most cliché way possible, I’ve been learning to love myself. Though the girls sitting around that table probably wouldn’t believe it, I’ve honed the discernment of saying no, the art of taking care of myself and even the ability to balance leadership and followership. In my weaker moments, I take baby steps, acknowledging that it’s okay to prefer my Americano in a mug, use Suave and diligently compose thank-you notes. In my bolder moments, I can sit at a table of girls discussing the value of getting married in your thirties and affirm that healthy marriages can also be built in your twenties. In my strongest moments, I can cancel a coffee date or forget to return a phone call and know that I’m still a loving, compassionate friend who cares deeply for those she loves.

But I knew I’d be there someday. Even when I used to say “yes” to everything, I knew it was just a reflection of an immature understanding of my values. What I find surprising is that I’m happy. I don’t think I ever expected to be. Perfectionism made me perpetually dissatisfied, unwilling to rest in process. Perhaps what’s most strange is that I’m not doing anything I thought would make me happy. In fact, I’m doing the very things I was convinced would make me miserable – studying Bible and theology, living alone, working in publishing, making my adult life in my hometown. But maybe that’s exactly it… maybe I’ve found that point in life where I’ve realized it’s not my things or my accomplishments that make me happy, but, well, being comfortable in my own skin. It’s this feeling that I’d be happy no matter what my circumstances were, even though I’m grateful for the ones I’ve been given.

I know this is the coming-of-age story, the story of living your twenties in the United States. But for once, I’m glad to be a stereotype, not wishing I were extraordinarily unique. I’m just one more twenty-two-year-old woman, learning from my mistakes, occasionally doing things right the first time and finding pleasure and beauty in the midst of it all.

Here I raise my myself as an Ebenezer… yes, this Beyth will always be for me a symbol of redemption and transformation.

in the end, he's not one of us after all

As many of you know, I'm an avid reader of the editorials. I often find myself less interested in the news, and more interested in what people think about our news. (Sociologist to the core...) Hands down, my favorite columnist is Leonard Pitts Jr. Always provocative and insightful, he's nearly always spot on. Today was no exception, as Mr. Pitts pointed out that President Bush has failed miserably by all measures.


Here's how it is out there. Awhile back, I was at the self-checkout counter of a hardware store. A young man approached and offered to put my $20 purchase on his store gift card if I would give him $10 in cash. He said he had no money for gas.

I let him put my purchase on his card, but I gave him the full amount back. It was the second time in a week I'd been asked by a stranger for help in filling the tank. And this was before last week's prediction of a spike in gas prices to $4 a gallon.

So I am intrigued by the following exchange between President Bush and CBS News reporter Peter Maer at a news conference last week. ''What is your advice,'' began Maer, "to the average American who is hurting now, facing the prospect of $4-a-gallon gasoline, a lot of people facing . . .''

The president stopped him. "Wait, what did you just say? You're predicting $4-a-gallon gasoline?''

Well, it wasn't him personally, explained Maer. ''A number of analysts are predicting $4-a-gallon gasoline,'' he said.

The president was stunned. ''Oh, yeah?'' he said. "That's interesting. I hadn't heard that.''

Headline news all over the country, but he hadn't heard it. And it's "interesting.''

It will come as a surprise to no one that many, if not most, of our leaders are out of touch with the realities of everyday American life. One is reminded of the president's father pronouncing himself ''amazed'' back in '92 when he encountered a simple bar code scanner. And of candidate Bill Clinton scoring debate points because he knew the price of a gallon of milk. The Beltway crowd wondered why that mattered.

We are used to them being disconnected. But this particular disconnect is telling.

When it comes to our national leaders, we have historically required two incongruous things. We want them to be one of us, but we also want them to be better than us. That is, we want them to have gravitas and smarts and yet be just one of the guys or girls. That's why every election season finds millionaires and Ivy League alumni hanging out at county fairs, pleading for votes while eating fried Oreos.

With George W. Bush, one of those requirements -- gravitas, smarts -- was taken off the table. He was, we were told, just an everyman, a simple, God-fearin' guy guided not by pointy-headed intellectuals with their pie charts and prognostications, but rather by his feelings, his instincts, his gut. So he didn't need, for instance, to consult a bunch of State Department eggheads about Vladimir Putin because he'd seen Putin's soul.

It is perhaps no coincidence that Bush has said he regards his presidency as a vindication of the C student. Even the editorial page editor of The Wall Street Journal, as reliably conservative a newspaper as exists in the English language, once described him as having ''no intellectual pretensions.'' It was meant as a compliment.
Bush is the perfect president for an era wherein the nation seems increasingly disdainful of intellectualism, where it turns out that many of us are, indeed, not smarter than a fifth grader, and educators and politicians can breezily dismiss the theory of evolution and not be hooted off the public stage.

George W. Bush, Average Joe, fits right in. Except that seven years, a useless war and a disastrous presidency later, the price of gas is headed for a ruinous record and President Average Joe hasn't even heard. Yeah, yeah, I know. Cut him some slack. It's not like he has to gas up the presidential limousine himself.

But I see nothing unfair in judging the president on the terms he himself has chosen. He may not have gravitas, the thinking went. He may not have piercing intelligence. But he's one of us.

Think again. Apparently, he's not even that.


In other presidential musings, I do feel I ought to temper my well-known opinions with the agreement that Mr. Bush has, in fact, done some very good things in Africa. He's sent large sums of money to fight AIDS and malaria (though the world I would like to see would prioritize healing over fighting with their dollars, this is certainly a step in the right direction), which is more than can be said on this issue for our past administrations. John Oliver, of The Daily Show fame, explains why this admission is perhaps more problematic than encouraging, "Just when I came to terms with his [President Bush's] incompetancy, I realize he's capable of doing good. That means he's been choosing to do bad for seven years."

Finally, today President Bush offered John McCain his endorsement. I'm quite certain this does not, in fact, bode well for Sen. McCain. Had Mr. Bush exercised any knowledge of political science, I suspect he would have endorsed Sens. Clinton or Obama.

320 days and counting...