Spring Break: Could This City Possibly Have Any More Cathedrals? Part I

Caen, Lower Normandy, France, a city I had never heard of it until I began making my spring break plans. Sometimes it is worth visiting a city that does not make an appearance on the Top Ten Cities You Should Visit Before You Die list. After all, the obscure corners of the world are the ones we remember most. Not that Caen is anywhere near obscure. Walking out of the train station, I was unnaturally happy to see the tram, or any public transportation, for that matter. Two days in Bayeux had made me hungry for city life.


I spent my single full day in Caen walking through the old streets, exploring the castle, and constantly running into cathedrals and churches--not literally. Caen is a purely medieval town, with the occasional H&M or McDonald's. A massive castle wall surrounds the hill that rises slightly above the city. The paths and various levels of the wall provide a slew of beautiful city views. Within the castle walls is a complex of museums and gardens. I visited the Museum of Normandy but largely remained outside, climbing the castle walls and gulping in the city, which, despite the day's gray weather, really was a sight for sore eyes (and a sight for eyes that were eager to see anything but Bayeux).




After my leisurely tour around William the Conqueror's stately castle property, I ventured towards the women's abbey, orientating myself by following the abbey's gothic towers. I found myself traversing narrow, cobblestone streets lined with gray-brown stone buildings with white shutters.

Not to sound boring, but after I got to the women's abbey and took some pictures, I headed to the other side of town to see the Hôtel de Ville and the men's abbey. On the way, I ran into some more cathedrals, resting nonchalantly on huge city blocks. Coming from Spain, I am accustomed to one cathedral and maybe a monastery or two in every small city. Caen is apparently a different story:

Spring Break: D-Day Part IV

Seven and a half hours is a long time, especially when you are alone in a tiny town on Easter Sunday. Stepping out of the van after the D-Day tour, I tried to tell myself that I would somehow find a way to pass the next seven and a half hours before my train to Caen swept me off the Bayeux platform and took me 18 minutes south. As much as I tried, I only managed to make it through four hours, and I combed through every square inch of Bayeux.

Hungry after the tour due to lack of breakfast that morning, I sat down in a café and ordered a café au lait* in my best French accent. Attempting to not look pathetic and lonely, I pulled out of my purse the only reading material I had with me: a booklet on Bayeux tourism. Unfortunately, I had left my copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover in my suitcase. After a mere 30 minutes, I had drank all my coffee, eaten the accompanying sugar cubes, and read through the booklet multiple times. Uneagerly, I ventured outside.

I did have an itinerary for the day. I just wasn't sure if it would occupy seven and a half hours. I was headed for the British War Cemetery, which was located next door to the Battle of Normandy Museum that I had visited the previous day. I decided to take my time walking and chose a completely roundabout route that took me around the very borders of Bayeux. On the way, I saw a quaint little plaza,

a random church,

and a park/square, which turned out to be called Place Charles de Gaulle.


Finally, and at the same time too early, I got to the British War Cemetery. In the bright April sunshine, the grass shone a vivid, juicy green. White marble tombstones dotted the field in perfect rows. Like the American cemetery, the British cemetery exuded a feeling of peace and tranquility as well as the unmistakeable hint of sadness.


I made it until about 4pm, at which time I realized that I had absolutely nothing left to see in Bayeux. Collecting my luggage from the hotel, I walked to the train station, where I spent three hours in the waiting room watching movies on my iPod and reading. So much for seeing France.

*coffee with milk

Like a Kid in a Candy Store

You cannot get more Spanish than Burgos. Small, conservative, and vastly populated with fur stoled señoras*, Burgos is Spain, its lack of bullfighting arenas made up for by dozens of locales that serve mouthwatering chorizo**. However, there is no such thing as perfect; typical Spanish brings with it la hora de comer***, which is actually more like three hours during which most stores are closed so food is not easy to come by (bars and restaurants excluded). Ironic, no? For certain American college students who are always hungry and cannot possibly dar unas vueltas**** without a tasty, and cheap, snack, la hora de comer is a disagreeable chunk of time.

Candy stores populate Burgos, but they all draw down their garage doors and metal gates come 2pm. Except one. Located right in the bustling center of Burgos, the nameless candy store always has its glass door open, even on Sundays, which is practically unheard of in Spain. In the tiny shop stand stacked plastic bins filled with every candy and novelty snack food imaginable: gummy candy, sour candy, sugary candy, chocolate candy, chocolate and yogurt covered nuts and strawberries, dried fruit, toasted nuts, and fried corn kernels. Bags of various popcorn, chips, and fried pork rinds line the wall. There is fresh ice cream and a refrigerator full of refreshing soft drinks, such as the very popular Kas, a Spanish version of Fanta. And I cannot forget the Hello Kitty Cheetos, a favorite of my pierced and tattooed amigo***** Juan Carlos.

My name is Sima Kalmens, I am 21 years old, and I still eat gummy worms and peach hearts.

*old Spanish ladies
**sausage
***the "hour" of rest which lasts from 2pm-5pm, also known as siesta
****to take walks
*****friend

I'm Still Here

I suspected that with the surge of spring break posts a few weeks ago, the trend would continue and I would not only finish all spring break stories quickly but also be able to write life updates in a timely fashion. Unfortunately, I have been ridiculously busy lately and free time has become a bit of a luxury. With the end of the semester come papers and projects from all possible directions. Needless to say, I am slightly buried with my assignments. On Wednesday, I have a morphology paper due about the suffix -al. On Thursday, I have a pragmatics paper due analyzing an announcement. The same Thursday I am due to turn in my script and short film for screenwriting, on which my group and I have been working tirelessly for the last two weekends. Morphology and pragmatics will both require hours of studying for the final exams and I need to write my thesis paper about French influence in the Spanish language for my two-credit research course with BU. I am definitely never going to get a Ph.D if I lack the motivation to write 15 measly pages.

On a brighter note, I am now officially a Russian citizen. I was beginning to lose hope about my Russian passport being completed in time for me to go to Russia--for the first time in eight years--before leaving Spain, but the gods seem to have been on my side on this one. After a week in St. Petersburg, I have my last final exam and then a brief trip to London. I sincerely hope that no volcanoes will deter my trip this time. I am unhappy enough to return to the United States; two failed trips to London will not aid my emotional well being. Needless to say, I have a rather busy month ahead of me.

Holy Hangover

Due to the amount of work left to do for my screenwriting project before its rapidly approaching due date, I spent the majority of the weekend at my group's apartment working on the script. Subsequently, and because the apartment is located about 40 minutes away by foot from my dorm, I was barely in the dorm and spent three consecutive nights sleeping on my friends' super comfortable mattress in the living room. However, this is not the focus of my story, but merely a prelude.

Sunday afternoon, after a particularly raucous Saturday night, I went on a brief excursion to the neighboring pueblo* of San Pedro de Cardeña. Never heard of it? Don't worry, it's not a big name. San Pedro de Cardeña lies amidst the gentle rolling hills of Castilla y León. It houses a beautiful monastery of the Order of the Cistercians where the remains of El Cid's daughters are buried. El Cid Campeador was a Castillian nobleman and military leader in the 1000s. He is the national hero of Spain as well as the subject of one of the most famous works of Spanish literature.


Trying to ignore my very light headache and bear the cold of the stone-walled chapels, I followed the monk around the monastery with the rest of the tour group, learning about history and listening to a live--albeit brief--Gregorian chant. Now that's one way to get rid of a hangover.

*town

Welcome to Patillas, Where the Players Play

Photographs and yellowed newspaper clippings cover every inch of the wood-molded walls, some pictures overlapping, some pictures beginning to curl at the corners. The old light fixtures produce a yellowy brown interior, aged but cozy. The air is thick with loud conversation and cigarette smoke--mostly Winstons and Lucky Strikes. The crowd is a heterogenous mixture of young students, long-haired rocker types, and middle-aged regulars. But age here is nothing more than a physical facade, a mere number. Everyone is talking to each other while downing 1E beers and Chupa Chups.

Old acoustic guitars of different shapes and sizes create an unusual border at the top of the wall. Below, a man sits at a wooden table strumming a guitar. The woman next to him leads the entire bar in Spanish songs with her unprofessional yet low and beautiful voice. Everyone sings, claps, cheers, and continues conversations all at once. Beer bottles empty and ash trays fill at a surprising rate. This is the famous Patillas, a tiny--yet popular--garrito* on a completely normal street in Burgos, far away from the fancy clubs and bars of Las Llanas. Patillas is teepeecal Espahnis (typical Spanish), as my friends here proudly say.

I did not expect to end up in Patillas this particular evening, but I am glad that I did because the authentic Spanish lifestyle only rears its head with spontaneity. I was spending Thursday afternoon, the dawn of my weekend, with some friends. Nobody was horribly keen on going out so we consented on a lazy afternoon/evening of colimochos.** However, while discussing the difference between American and Spanish bars, my friend Juan Carlos got the idea into his head that the American girls must experience Patillas. So at the tender hour of 1am, we went.

And experience Patillas we did. Patillas is the kind of place where it is unclear which people know each other and which do not. Over a bottle of Mahou, everybody is your best friend, which is why, upon our exit from the bar, our barely sane party of five was an eccentric party of seven pushing the envelope of sanity. It isn't that we were drunk, we weren't. Rather, we had made the acquaintance of quite a character of a woman. Tiny and somewhere in her 40s or 50s, Blanca was a chain smoking, beer guzzling ballet teacher with the raspy voice of a transvestite lounge singer. She thought everything was muy interesante,*** especially Chicago and Boston, neither of which she had ever visited. I contemplated telling her I was actually from Russia, home of the Bolshoi Ballet, but I opted against it. Chicago and Boston were interesante enough. After a short while, I had difficulty understanding what she was saying, but as long as I laughed, nodded, and said si**** repeatedly, all was golden. Muy interesante.

*kitschy bar
**typical Burgos drink of red wine and Coke
***very interesting
****yes

Spring Break: D-Day Part III

As previously mentioned, the reason I came to Normandy was to see the D-Day beaches. I refused to leave Normandy without seeing them and told myself I would do whatever it would take to get to the darned beaches. In general, getting to the northern coast of France, where the five beaches are located, is very simple from Bayeux. However, that pretty little fact applies to people with motor vehicles. Not willing to pay tens of euros for a tour, as comprehensive as they are, I thought I would just take a taxi the six miles to Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery. At the last minute, while perusing the Bayeux tourism website, I found a D-Day tour for 30E, a sum I was willing to pay. The three and a half hour tour would take me to Pointe du Hoc, Omaha Beach, and the American War Cemetery.

Pointe du Hoc-On a cliff hanging over the English Channel, Pointe du Hoc was a German post during the war. This was the only spot along the coast protected by the Germans. On the morning of June 6, 1944, the allied troops took the unsuspecting Nazi bastards by surprise. Almost sixty six years later, the German bunkers are still there. Dark gray stone, some of it crumbling a little. Dirty stone floors, cold and hard. Artillery holes sparsely scattered throughout the bunker walls. The grassy field leading up to the cliff, once smooth, is now a series of giant bomb and shell craters--a result of the attack. The gray morning and cold April wind cover the cliff in a somber blanket, like the grainy, black and white photographs of Pointe du Hoc in 1944 that our tour guide shows us. Looking at the frothy waves of the English Channel slapping the rocks, I try to imagine the bunkers and fields filled with soldiers, fighting and yelling. Somehow, I can almost see it. History does not leave the cliff.


Omaha Beach-Located on the seaside village of Vierville-sur-Mer and surrounded by bluffs, Omaha Beach was one of the two American beaches during the invasion, the other being Utah Beach. The pale beige sand stretches five miles, the soldiers' footprints long gone. Pieces of floating harbor, makeshift structures built to facilitate the unloading of supplies, peak out of the water. Several bunkers stand eroding on the perimeter of the beach, chunks of stone gouged out with artillery. The tide is fairly low. The vast, empty beach makes me sad. I cannot seem to separate myself from the chilling feeling that I am somewhere else in time, somewhere that is not quite 1944 but not 2010, either. Is this what history does?


American War Cemetery-The cemetery, erected in Colleville-sur-Mer, overlooks Omaha Beach below. The pristine green lawn stretches far into the distance, spotless white gravestones neatly aligned in rows. The beautiful cemetery gives off an unmistakeable feeling of peace, rest, and tranquility. The countless rows of marble gravestones are visual proof of how many men lost their lives during the war, and these are just the Americans.


P.S.-The tour was worth all 30E.

Spring Break: D-Day Part II

Staring at the cloudburst in utter disbelief, I considered my options. I could, a) idly wait an unspecified amount of time for the rain to stop or, b) employ my scarf as a meager head covering and hurry towards the hotel as fast as my short legs could carry me. I chose the latter. As I neared the center, the rain started falling harder and I decided on a whim to go see the Bayeux Tapestry, an activity I had been saving for the following day.

The Bayeux Tapestry is an almost 265-foot tapestry (surprise!) that depicts the story of William the Conqueror and his conquest of Normandy. The tapestry is almost as old as the tale it tells, dating back to the 11th century. The tapestry was mounted behind a glass wall and photographs were prohibited, but the good people of YouTube have provided me with a video panorama :


Apart from a slight drizzle, it had stopped raining when I left the museum and I began to once again enjoy my day, no longer in a hurry to return to the hotel. Sauntering down the puddle stained streets of Bayeux, I admired once again its medieval charm and style. The post-rain gloom added a touch of authenticity, in a way.




I explored some of the busier side streets, observing French shopkeepers and teenagers, before making the executive decision to purchase some food at at the supermarket that was thankfully opened on a Saturday evening before Easter and finally return to the hotel. Intending for my edible loot to last until my arrival in Caen, I bought a bushel of grapes, two apples, Lay's barbecue potato chips (the store did not carry salt and vinegar flavor), and Prince chocolate and white chocolate sandwich cookies, which would end up being my main source of food the next day because I could not afford actual meals.

I expected to enjoy a very long and quiet evening in the hotel room with the television, my assortment of books and movies on my iPod, and the safe knowledge that despite not having a computer, I could still be reached on my cell phone because incoming calls are free. It was not until after my conversation with my parents ended mid-sentence that I realized that the luxury of incoming calls only applied in Spain. I was now officially isolated from the rest of the world, with only D.H. Lawrence, French-dubbed Simpsons, and potato chips to keep me company and fend off my once again impending panic.

Spring Break: D-Day Part I

On the morning of Saturday, April 3, I arrived in Bayeux, Normandy, which is located in the north of France, several miles south of the English Channel. Although I had left behind a cold, rainy Paris, the train pulled into a warm and sunny Bayeux. Thank goodness. Making my way around all the cars in the parking lot, I headed towards the town center, my suitcase rolling jubilantly behind me. I made it to the center without a single issue, using the cathedral as a landmark. Unfortunately, I had some difficulty finding my hotel. Bayeux is not a big town--2.75 square miles--so I embarrassingly circled the same areas three or four times in search of the hotel before finally finding it tucked away on the quiet rue des Bouchers.

The real fun began when I decided to quickly check my e-mail before exploring Bayeux. My computer chose that exact moment to cease working; I was alone in a tiny town and I had very little credit left on my cell phone because all the stores in Spain had been closed the previous couple of days because of the Easter holidays and I had not been able to add money to my account. Panic took absolutely no time at all to instill its unfriendly self in me. Call me materialistic, but this was a bigger problem than going a few days without Facebook. I had quite a bit of work to do and it was all lost somewhere in hardware purgatory. I had also depended on the internet as my main mode of communication since calling from France was rather expensive. If there was ever a time when the word fuck was appropriate, this was it. Despite my calamity, I went to explore Bayeux, consoling myself with the fact that the following night I would be in Caen with my couch surfing hosts and I could use their internet.

Bayeux is a charming little town, medieval and historical. It played an important role in the days of William the Conqueror, almost a millennium ago, and it was the first town in France to be liberated after the June 6, 1944 invasion. The main street is lined with stone buildings--stores, ice cream shops, and restaurants. Due to its proximity to the five D-Day beaches, Bayeux receives quite a lot of tourists. The little town was abuzz with a variety of nationalities the weekend I was there, including some very obvious Americans ("Lisa! LISA! Do you want ketchup on your fries? Lisa!").


I began my sight seeing with the Bayeux cathedral, another Gothic church, yet impressive all the same. I admired the stained glass and the ornate chapels and descended to the catacombs, cool and dark stone lit up by the thin streams of light from upstairs.

After the cathedral, I took a quick lunch break of chicken kebab. Enjoying the warm sun and feeling considerably better about the laptop situation, I then headed towards the Battle of Normandy Museum. I had been waiting eagerly to go to this museum since finding out about its existence. The museum is meticulously filled with quotes, biographies, photos, videos, artifacts, and recreations. A novice World War II junky, I was satisfied. However, my newly found good mood did not last long because during the two hours I was in the museum, the weather had drastically changed. It was pouring rain and I, fooled by the midday sun, had left my umbrella in my hotel room.