Once Upon a Time...

Remember how I said last time that big things have been happening in my life these past few months? Well, to sum up the story, I've been considering changing my blog name to be "Poppins Goes to France and Falls in Love With an Italian..." BUT, I think that would be a little less catchy. However, this does mean that I have some explaining to do! I've been turning this story over in my mind for months, trying to figure out the best way to share it on here--should I tell it like a fairytale? Should I make it funny? Should I just give an account of everything that happened? In the end, I've decided to tell it to you the way I see it--as a story of faith, healing, and learning to deeply trust God's promises after recognizing that my trust was wearing thin. And of course, there will be JOY! (And love and maybe some mushy stuff...) I guess that means that for the first time on this blog, things are about to get very personal around here... :)

When I came to France last September, I was very unsure of what I was getting myself into. Most people were excited for me and I was pretty excited for myself. But there were a few people who said to me that deciding to live in France for three years would probably mean that I was limiting my marriage possibilities--I know that might seem like a strange thing to say because there surely isn't an unusual imbalance of men to women in France, but to a 28 year old Mormon girl like myself, those kindly expressed concerns nagged at my mind. Couple that with all-too-many dear souls who for several years have asked me the tremendously personal question, "why aren't you married," and I guess you could say the pressures were running a bit high when I embarked on this adventure.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm a deep thinker. But not only do I think a lot, I also thrive on talking through my thoughts to a good human sounding board, especially a practical one who can tell me to be realistic. Unfortunately, my first few months in France were seriously lacking in sounding boards, and frankly, I was pretty lonely. Don't get me wrong--I was surrounded by very good people and I was unbelievably well taken care of by the Roney family. But I didn't feel like I had any friends that I could really talk to. As a result, those nagging concerns started turning into feelings of desperation and even despair. Part of me is embarrassed to admit that I really thought my chance at getting married was past--and I was pretty upset about it. Retrospectively, I'm telling myself that I was being dramatic. People get married in their much older age all the time--28 is not the cut-off for marital bliss! I guess it all goes back to that nun thing I joked about once...

Ooo--who is that handsome fellow?!

Anyway, I started the new year with a sense of quiet desperation and a bit of resignation. I wasn't going on dates at all, and I wasn't really seeing any dateable guys around. But, as I've said before, when life starts looking grim, that's when the "magic" (or I would say miracles) happen. One day, I was killing some time (a terrible expression, isn't it?) on Facebook and I saw a new profile picture of someone I hadn't seen in a few years--five and a half, to be exact. Back in those days, I was a teacher at the Provo Missionary Training Center (MTC), and I had many missionaries file through my classroom. And, of course, being a good teacher (hee hee), I am now friends with many of them on Facebook and like to follow up on their lives. I hadn't heard much from this particular former missionary (he wasn't and still isn't a big Facebook-er), so seeing his face lead me to wonder how he was doing and what he was up to (and I won't lie: I thought he was pretty cute...). So, I commented on his picture--I figured it was my teacherly responsibility, right? HA...ahem. Well, it turned out that an innocent Facebook comment has now changed my life forever.

Do I have your attention yet? Oh, good! Well...I'm afraid the rest will have to wait until next time. And don't worry, the preamble is over and there are still many awesome things to come!

Among the Dead

I know what you're thinking, but no--the reason for the temporary demise of my blog is not because I have been among the dead. Actually, some very exciting things have happened in the past few months which, frankly, I ought to have been writing about. BUT...when life gets exciting, isn't it better to just live it and then write about it later? At least, that's what I keep telling myself... Anyway, the recap on exciting events will wait for next time, because today, I just feel like giving you all an interesting snippet of French culture. And what better way to revive a blog, after all, than by talking about a cemetery! :)

It may seem strange to most people, but I have a confession--I have long had a mild fascination for cemeteries. There was a time when this fascination was connected with ghost stories and the supernatural, but for a much longer time, it's been more a question of interesting history. It all started when I was a little girl and my parents would bring flowers to their grandparents' graves on Memorial Day. My siblings and I would spend that time running around looking for the oldest headstones in the cemetery--and being from Utah, they didn't usually date much farther back than 1850.

This cemetery in Nice is much better-kept than the one I encountered
as a missionary in Metz--no cracked tombstones here!

When I first came to France as a missionary several years ago, I expected cemeteries to be absolutely fantastic--packed with ancient graves and looking just as green, tree-lined, and generally lovely as the average American cemetery. Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered for the first time why some people consider cemeteries to be creepy: in addition to the gravel walkways (no grass in sight) and the imposing monuments, some of the cement coverings on the tombs were so cracked and broken that I honestly wondered if I'd see bodies poking out of some of them. I was also very disappointed to learn that in France, a burial plot is sold to a family for a specified period of time--usually not more than 100 years--after which time the family has the option to renew their contract. However, if they choose not to renew, then the body is exhumed, the bones are either put in an ossuary or cremated, and the plot is sold to someone else. Alas...the rules that accompany overcrowding... And thus died my dreams of seeing graves from the 14th Century. In fact, it's rare to see graves dating back past, well, around 1850... HA! The irony!

Fortunately, I finally came across a rather lovely cemetery yesterday during a stroll through Nice, and I'm happy to report that my faith in French cemeteries has been partially renewed! No, there still wasn't any grass or trees or park benches, BUT--I discovered that some monuments can be really beautiful instead of frightening and certain cemeteries are actually well-kept and free of broken tombs. Not to mention the fact that this hilltop burial ground afforded a spectacular view of the sea. Perhaps I'll have to take up my old habit of evening strolls among the dead...

Anyway, that's all for today, friends. But stay tuned for next time in which I'll tell you all the details of this century's greatest love story!! Well, at least most of the details... :)

Bits of Bordeaux

Have you ever felt like a city was speaking to you? I mean, not in the literal "hello there, how are you doing" sort of way but in a "you belong here" sort of way? I still know remarkably little about Bordeaux, even though this was my third time visiting it--but something clicked for me this time. And for those of you who saw my crazy hotel pictures all over Facebook, no--it wasn't because I stayed in my very own "princess tower." Although, while we're on that subject, check out the accommodations!

Yes, that is a real rose on the edge of my
marble bathtub...

I even matched that day! It was just too perfect...

But anyway, back to the topic at hand... I've always been a fan of classical music; I took piano lessons for years and even started my college career as a music minor. I love going to the symphony and the music that seriously pumps me up is...don't laugh...Beethoven's 5th Symphony (the 3rd and 4th movements). And so the thing that really hit me about Bordeaux is the feeling that the opera house--rather than the standard gothic cathedral--is the heart of the city. Its surrounding streets are all teeming with people seeming to emanate from the opera's plaza. Somehow, I think if cities had a pulse, Bordeaux's would be pumping to the tune of Mozart's 40th Symphony. And it was wonderful.

Place de la Comédie (in front of the opera)

But as if the classicism and nearly palpable musicality weren't enough, artsy types seem to be drawn to this gold-stoned city. The most common mode of transportation was bikes--I've never seen so many business men and women on two wheels in my life--and as I walked around the city on my own, I understood why; who would want to be trapped in a car when there is so much art to be seen?! Further, the city is just incredibly artsy-bike-rider friendly. To illustrate, here's a small sampling of the Bordeaux I instantly fell in love with.

Just a standard movie theater...!

And a standard city gate

Yeah, I think I could live in Bordeaux...

Why I Will Never Live on the Riviera

Is that a heavenly light shining on my hotel room?
Might as well have been--it felt just like home!

Last weekend, we spent a few days on the Riviera--that idyllic piece of Mediterranean loveliness that has attracted people from all over the world for centuries. I've become particularly fond of Nice--it's bursting with color and history and it's officially the location of my new favorite hotel room. Why then, you might ask, would I never want to live in this enchanting city?

Do you see what I mean by color?

Well, it all started innocently enough. After a morning of rain, the sun finally decided to show its face and tempt us outside for a walk by the sea. We spotted a rickety old staircase at the bottom of a cliff and decided to try our chances skirting around the rocks and rolling waves to see what we could see. The boys ran down the standard stairs first, and I gaily traipsed after them down to the pebble-strewn beach.

There was a 20-something couple off to one side of us, but I didn't pay them any more attention than you normally pay to the average stranger. When I glanced over towards them, I saw the girl getting ready to pull her shirt off. I naturally assumed she had on a bikini or something underneath--what else would come to an unprepared mind? Imagine my momentary confusion when I realized she suddenly wasn't wearing anything at all... I just stood there for a second feeling like a very stupid and very embarrassed American. When I snapped back into gear, I rushed the boys back up the stairs as quickly as possible, ensuring that they didn't turn around and become pillars of salt...

What are the odds?! It was probably only 55 degrees that day, and that crazy woman was the only one on the whole beach to sport her summer swimming attire...and it just had to be right where we were. Alas--even March isn't a safe month for a walk on the Riviera. Oh well--I'll stick with my own beliefs on modesty and go off to explore friendlier shores! :)

Explore Roman ruins in your Sunday best? Sure! As long as it's far away from the beach... :)

Food Blunders

Recently, we went to a French buffet restaurant--Flunch--with the missionaries. I'd never been to a buffet in France before, so I wasn't quite sure what to expect. Well, it was exactly what you might find at the nearest Chuck-a-Rama if it were given a distinctly French flair. For example, the drink section included a wine dispenser (as in a soda machine that dispenses wine), the dessert table had a selection of cheese plates, and the meat included some French specialties in addition to the familiar roast chicken and fries.

At any rate, after we all puttered around and gathered some food that looked moderately good, we found a table to sit and enjoy the spoils. Then, one of the elders sat down with a plate of this...

Regrettably, I didn't think to take a picture of his actual plate, but this version that I stole from Google images comes pretty close to what he had. For those of you who don't recognize it, it's known as andouillette--sounds fancy, right? Well...let's just say that even though it's served in some high-end restaurants, I wouldn't order it no matter who made it! (And to get it at a cheap buffet? I shudder at the thought...)

I think we all know what hot dogs and sausage are made out of, but I still find them delicious and appetizing, because they are sufficiently ground up so as to disguise any thought of them containing bits of offal. Besides, most of them don't really have offal, do they? Ahem...well, andouillette is not quite so discreet. It's a loosely-packed sausage that quite obviously contains chunks of...pig parts...and is clearly wrapped in an intestinal casing. Sounds yummy, right? Ha...yeah...I've never been gutsy enough (no pun intended) to try it for myself.

So when this bold elder sat down, I couldn't help but stare at him--in fact, my jaw probably dropped a bit.

"You got andouillette?!" I said.
"Weeelll," he responded, "I always like to try regional dishes and get a true French experience!"
"Me too, but I've never liked the idea of going that far. You know what it is, right?"
"Uh, yes."

I'm still not sure he did know. Because when he cut into the casing and all sorts of...indescribable bits of I-don't-know-what tumbled out, he looked a bit concerned. Not to be dissuaded, however, he plunged in and ate several bites while we all looked on in wonder. But as he was eating, I noticed something slightly odd; it looked like bristly animal hair was still attached to one of the pieces. I couldn't very well let him eat that, so...I pointed it out. Upon closer investigation, we discovered I was correct. And thus ended Elder Arnold's andouillette experience--however brief it proved to be. Lesson learned.

Porcelain Control

Although most of the stereotypes about French people are a bit untrue, the idea that French women are remarkably and almost universally thin is actually quite true. So what's their secret? Some say it's because they resist the impulse to snack, but from what I've seen of French restaurants, I think it all comes down to the old classic: portion control. Nearly every restaurant I've been to has a funny way of serving each little dish in its own special container--almost always of the white porcelain variety. By this point, I'm somewhat convinced that if someone was ever seized with the whim to go into making white porcelain dishes, they could make a small fortune by setting up shop in France. Ultimately, the idea is to present a well-ordered plate to a customer--but the everything-in-its-place mentality also means that there is a specific amount of each food item. Case in point, take a look at how my small skewer was delivered with its sides. (The salad was a bit larger than its container, but it's still spilling out quite artfully!)

Of course, portion control is not always the rule of the day. In fact, not long ago, I ordered what I assumed was a simple roast duck dish (yes, duck is considered commonplace in these parts) and was served with this lovely terra-cotta-bowl-enhanced mammoth. (Regardless, notice the white porcelain accents throughout the picture...)

Hearty medallions of roast duck swimming in a creamy blue cheese sauce with lentils, onions, and carrots. Wow...I had no idea that something so homey as lentils could taste quite so incredible! If only I could figure out how to reproduce the amazingness... As for the portion control, I have a feeling--judging by the waitress's face when I ordered--that French women typically shy away from something so...well...guaranteed to stuff you beyond your normal capacity.

If Luxury Had a Lap

Cannes--what comes to mind for most people? Glitz? Glamor? Film festivals? For me, the name is now synonymous with sunshine, fair weather, and a welcome vacation. Kicking our all-to-brief break off with four hours of driving may not sound particularly appealing, but road tripping through France is actually not so bad--especially when you are going south and seeing an increasingly blue sky. But rather than bore you with free-way glimpses of quaint provençal villages or ancient castles teetering precariously on cliff edges, I'll skip straight to the part where I stepped back into my pretend life of luxury.

Although we got to our hotel a bit late, it was still early enough to appreciate its splendor. The Carlton is celebrating its 100th anniversary this year and has been known for just as long as one of the loveliest hotels on the French Riviera. Yes, I really stayed there. Yes, it was strange and yet fantastic.The lobby was fairly intimidating--packed with ridiculously expensive merchandise (diamond-studded heels, anyone?) locked behind glass windows (who knew hotels promoted interior window shopping?), framed with crystal chandeliers, and accented by marble pillars. I wasn't quite sure if I would like staying in an overly magnificent room. But you know what? I was pleasantly surprised--the rooms felt positively homey! That is, of course, if you're staying in a home tastefully decorated in a neo 19th Century look.




At any rate, the best part was being treated to an incredible sunrise the next morning; it was worth skipping my rare chance at sleeping in...

Of course, breakfast in the lovely hotel café was also nice--ever heard of rose petal jam? Yeah--me neither...but of course I tried it! It tasted like...perfumed sugar. I preferred the flaky pastries...

Owing to my desire to be surreptitious,
this photo is less-than-great...but you still
get the idea!

But enough of the hotel! Take a look at some of our other adventures!

Excuse me, my carriage awaits...

Jack Sparrow...?!

Can you tell which windows are real?

Million dollar yacht... Sure--
why not?!

Wave dodging--if only the water hadn't
been so cold!

Just some of that color
that I can't ever resist...
No post is complete
without it!