"Les soldes" come to Denmark

Like Santa on double-duty, les soldes (the sales) come but twice a year. Any Parisienne can tell you that these are the times to hit the stores without breaking the bank: January-early February, and July-early August. So what's a displaced Parisian with a thing for shoes to do in a city with a disappointingly drab sense of fashion? Let me introduce you to my new favorite way to lose (at least) a half hour: spartoo.com.

This French shoe site sells every sort of shoe you can imagine, from bargain basement to runway fashion. The deals come January/July (or better yet, tail-end super mark-downs in early February/August) are unbeatable when it comes to massive selection and bang for your buck (or euro, or kroner, or whatever your preferred currency). This site became my favorite way to blow off steam (and spare euros) when I discovered it while writing my doctoral thesis. What really did me in this year was my recent discovery of spartoo.dk. (And don't think you're immune, dear non-French non-Dane reader: there's spartoo.co.uk, .de, .es, .it, etc, but if you're still not covered, spartoo.net offers free delivery to over 150 countries.) With over 1000 brands, free returns, free exchanges, and customer advice on sizing of each individual shoe model, what's not to love?

An assortment of Spartoo goodies to have greeted me in Denmark

And now that I'm gearing up to become a businesswoman, scouring this site has become a gleeful obligation! This season's July "soldes" have officially launched this week, and I was all over them. From the confines of my damp and chilly Scandinavian country, I just had to share the joy that came with these little parcels of Parisian pleasure. I might not be able to step foot in Paris these days, but my feet have Paris all over them.

Graduation Day

Many months after the fact, and hailing now from not just France but the US, Canada, and Denmark, we made it! It was fantastic to get one last (unexpected) chance to see some familiar faces from my PhD days in the Ecole des Neurosciences de Paris, as well as, of course, to see Nicolas without all that last-minute packing pre-move stress.

My PhD graduation

The French didn't quite seem to get just how a graduation ceremony is supposed to work. For one thing, having never given their high schoolers nor undergrads a graduation any sort of ceremony, they didn't realize that doctors shouldn't be wearing mortarboards. (That said, I think you would have seriously let down a lot of French grads had they shown up to find themselves given soft, squishy doctoral hats and hoods instead of the classic graduation cap and gown from the movies.)

Though they didn't quite know the ropes, to their credit, the organizers clearly put a lot of effort into making the day memorable for us. The ceremony began with a fifteen minute classical music concert performed by a full orchestra. Then a parade of professors in full regalia, including someone who seemed to be carrying some sort of scepter, marched up the aisles. After a couple of introductory talks, the keynote speaker, French Académie des Sciences member Ghislain de Marsily, gave an amusingly left-wing political call-to-action speech. He recounted his days fighting during the May '68 student rebellions which nearly toppled the French government, and he went on a brief anti-creationism rant. He argued for better gender equality, questioned how we define "the greater good," commended the class for including so many foreigners, and encouraged us to use our imaginations, creativity, and originality to go out and change the world together. (He later explained to me that he was inspired by Steve Jobs's 2005 Stanford commencement speech, though he wanted a more group-oriented, less individualistic, perspective.) He actually dared to finish his speech with a quote not only from an American president (JFK), but spoken in English. He may have been an old man in full academician regalia, but he was not bound by French tradition. Coming from the Parisians, it was a really heart-warming note on which to send off the new PhDs into the world.

And of course, no French ceremony would have been complete without a champagne reception. And so my French education is officially complete. For now.

Now the recipient of-- count 'em-- four PhDs (for just one thesis!)

The big move

Heartbroken as I was to have to finally leave, I don't think this move could have been more perfect in all its unplanned, delayed, and imprecise style. Packing my apartment was a whirlwind in and of itself.

At last, my apartment was packed and (nearly) ready for the movers.

Over the past few weeks, I've had at least a half-dozen goodbye gatherings, including two for some other friends' departures which I high-jacked to say my own goodbyes, a few random one-on-one coffees/ drinks/ dinners with various friends, a party or two (including a last-hurrah pool party on my rooftop), and a picnic on the Seine.

Our last illicit rooftop pool party

We really got down to business yesterday: movers day. And at just the same moment when it seemed that the last of my happy moments in Paris had been boxed up and shipped off, that the last of my living ties to the city were being trimmed away, I found myself surrounded by unexpected kindness, support, joy, and even fun. When a near-disaster with my movers resulted in a call for back-up muscle-power, my last night in France morphed into a final evening enjoying the panoramic views from the off-limits parts of my rooftop and a celebratory five-course dinner in a fantastic restaurant, La Cantine du Troquet in the 14th.

Spending the evening with good friends really helped soften the blow of it being my last night in Paris.

Our fantastic impromptu five-course dinner at La Cantine du Troquet made memories with a much longer aftertaste than the food.

And today, my race through my last day in Paris required me to store a few suitcases in a friend's lab at the Institut Pasteur, which of course required me to do one last coffee with my Pasteur friends just before heading to the airport. Like a scene straight out of a movie, two of my best friends even waved me off as my Uber taxi drove me to my airport shuttle. I nearly cried. And then came the weirdest part:

When it was all finally done-- bags packed, apartment keys handed in, final letters in the French postal system, extra bags stocked in Nicolas's dad's spare Parisian apartment, group hugs hugged-- when I was sitting there in the Orly airport shuttle watching the ticker-tape count down the minutes until my many bags and I would arrive in the airport, I found myself overwhelmed by a strange sense of euphoria. Though there were many moments when I imagined it impossible, Paris really had become home over my nearly six years there. And now this much anticipated move was really happening. It was unscripted yet better than I'd have hoped for, and I felt so much love. Even strangers kept offering to help me with luggage. I don't know if it was the lack of sleep, or the fact that at this point I'd realized that I had forgotten to eat all day (and we were rapidly approaching 8pm), but I was suddenly on the brink of *happy* tears. And I've ridden the high until now-- though no longer on an empty stomach-- as I find myself starting to fight the heaviness of my eyelids from the comfy seat of my Aarhus-bound train.

Denmark, I have arrived.

Land of the vikings, prepare yourself: Emilienne is here.

Beaune, take six

I have a confession to make: Paris isn't the only place for me in France. In fact, there is another town with which I've been in love for the past 4+ years: Beaune. Nestled in the heart of the Burgundy wine country, this picturesque medieval town is the perfect weekend escape from Paris, and the epitome of a travel show special on touring the French countryside. You have your Saturday morning farmer's market, your cobblestone streets, the centuries-old architecture, and of course, the bike paths through the vineyards connecting village to village in the neighboring countryside. The only thing more you need is an eccentric wine expert who knows you by name and will gladly teach you all about this year's produce (tasting included) while intermittently insulting you and your false immpressions that your home country may also produce "drinkable" wine. Oh, right, Beaune has that, too.

This time, I sold Nicolas, my MIT-Paris friend Samuel, his brother Mitchell, and his friend Reid on the town. Not that it was a hard sell.

My sixth visit to Beaune since 2011

This place, short of a trip back to Thailand, may just be my ticket to heaven on earth. Even with the overcast weather and the downpour that hit in the final fifteen minutes before our wine tasting began, it was still glorious. How could it be otherwise?

♥

A Biarritz-Bayonne birthday weekend

Biarritz is a town famous for its surf, but my feet never touched the water. I can, however, assure you that the soft sand cushions for a good nap. It's also famous for its casino, but we didn't get much further than its market. The cheeses, veggies, shrimp, fresh fish, and chocolate mousse cake were all fantastic. And we found the stuff for one mean (read: fantastic) sangria.

A lazy Saturday in Biarritz

The next day we discovered that we'd poorly planned: Bayonne, our Sunday destination, was recovering from the massive festival it had hosted while we lounged on Biarritz's beaches on Saturday. The remnants could be seen in the brightly colored confetti between the cracks in the pavement. Though the town was quiet, we found a very friendly (and French-- yes, it turns out they're nice once you leave Paris!) server who kept us happy with several rounds of regular and finally dessert tapas along the Bayonne riverfront. The city is rich in history, having changed hands over the centuries from the Romans to the Vikings to the English to the French, but we didn't spend so much time learning about the culture as just enjoying the scenery. And no regrets there.

Sunday afternoon along the riverbanks and through the city of Bayonne

Sunday afternoon tapas

The weekend was over far too soon, but not before we packed more party (and people) into one night-train car than I'd ever seen, making this a strong contestant for best birthday weekend ever.

To leave you on a tasty note, here is our killer sangria recipe:

Ingredients (for 15 people)

- 150 cl red wine
- 20 cl Porto
- 20 cl Cognac
- 5 oranges
- 1/2 liter of lemon-lime soda
- 15 ice cubes
-optional: bananas/apples/pears/peaches/strawberries

Instructions

Mix the wine, porto, cognac, and the freshly squeezed juice of 1-2 oranges

Wash and dry the rest of the oranges and cut them into very small wedges

Add the fruit to the mix

Right before serving, add the lemon-lime soda and ice cubes

If you choose to use additional fruits, add these now

Serve

Enjoy!

Stay tuned for my next installment of funemployment in Southern Spain!

Making the most of my youth

Taking advantage of my last day as a young person, at least according to the French national rail system SNCF, I caught one last youth-discounted train yesterday afternoon headed south. I woke to my 28th birthday in the Basque Country, hosted by a few generations of a lovely, hospitable, local family who made me feel like I was waking up at grandma's. The Basque grandmother I never had, that is. I split the day between Ciboure and Saint-Jean-de-Luz, which wrap around the two halves of a little bay:

Ciboure's claim to fame is the composer Ravel's birthplace, which still stands. (it's the cream colored one toward the right.)

On the other side, Saint-Jean-de-Luz made its mark when it hosted Louis XIV's marriage to Maria-Teresa of Spain.

This is the house in Saint-Jean-de-Luz where Louis XIV and Maria-Teresa spent their first month as newlyweds. And while I only spent time on the Saint-Jean-de-Luz beaches, both towns boasted beautifully sandy coastlines.

The Basque cross and the unusual local font immediately caught my eye. They were surprisingly modern and trendy for such traditional marks of the community. Over tea at L'Acanthe, I even treated myself to a Basque cross brownie. It paired well with my Ceylon-blend chocolate, vanilla, and rose flower tea. Happy birthday to me.

To wrap the day up, I hopped the border into Spain, about fifteen minutes away by train. Though staying in the little town of Irún, a former Roman town, my hostess (with whom I could only speak Spanish-- oh, but that was just the start of the adventure!) insisted that I use my evening to explore Hondarribia, a nearby hilltop town whose Renaissance walls still encircle the old town. Without enough Spanish to argue with my overly enthusiastic hostess that I was just looking for a simple dinner and an early evening, I soon found myself directed to the nearest bus stop after dropping off my backpack in her home. Some sort of confusion or miscommunication between us, totally plausible given my Spanish level, led to my completely missing the stop. Eventually, I hopped off the bus and wandered back in the dark along my best guess as to the route the bus had just taken. At least I had a brilliant moon to lighten the moment. (Bad pun, sorry.)

And eventually, I even managed to trace the bus trail all the way back to what turned out to be Hondarribia, whose walled hilltop city was completely charming.

I hadn't bargained on missing my stop again on the way home, nor ringing half a dozen random doorbells after 10pm to ask in my broken Spanish if my hostess were there, but I suppose these moments make the trip more memorable. Though I was much more ready to laugh after finally making it back into a warm home and slipping into some cozy pajamas. 

In between the evening's confusion, I found myself completely fascinated by the linguistic division I'd observed today. For centuries, this region was united by the Basque language, a linguistic isolate with unknown origins. However, I think my host family in Ciboure is fairly representative of the current situation: the grandmother spoke both fluent French and Basque, though a local Ciboure-variant which doesn't totally line up with the "unified Basque" since codified by the region in an effort to preserve the language. Her daughter, a middle-aged woman, spoke mostly French and just a little Spanish, no Basque at all. On the other side of the border, Spanish was clearly the lingua franca. I was shocked by the stark contrast in communication between cities which so strongly resemble each other. How is the culture of this region that straddles a national border, this region with centuries of shared history, with the same traditional symbols and architecture, evolving in response to the rise of the national languages and the disappearance of their shared Basque over the last several generations? Unfortunately, that was a question which would require more than a day and a significantly more advanced Spanish vocabulary.

This was undeniably one of my more unusual birthdays. I'm looking forward to what the rest of the week, and my 28th year, have in store.

Catching up

Autumn in Paris- yes, a few leaves do redden!

I've hardly had time to come up for air since my thesis defense last September. That said, it hasn't all been the in-over-my-head workload kind of stress. Only sometimes. In between, I enjoyed another classic autumn in Paris, complete with the (minimal) reddening of the leaves, another Nuit Blanche and Salon des Vins, and my 7th annual Expat Thanksgiving.

Another classic Nuit Blanche adventure outside Hôtel de Ville

Expat Thanksgiving Round 7 was a smashing success

But I hardly restricted myself to the confines of the périph (the beltway around Paris which separates the true Parisians from everyone else). There was the unseasonably hot weekend in late October that we spent out in Brittany, where I discovered that thatched-roof houses are not just a thing from a Disney movie.

Ah Bretagne, home of wonderful crêpes, thatched roof houses, sandy beaches, and Azad's sexy pose.

Then there was that nearly-20-hour layover in Warsaw on my flight home for Christmas-- way to check off country #28!

Warsaw, Poland. Totally worth the layover, even though the downpour did require me to scour the Christmas markets for a fresh pair of warm, dry, wool socks to survive the subsequent transAtlantic flight.

Of course, no trip back to the US is complete without a stop through New York, which this year included pre-noon cocktails (in my defense, it was 5pm in Paris! And so rainy outside...), the windows at Saks, and a showing of the 2014 Tony Award winner for Best Musical, A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder.

Living it up on Christmas Eve in New York City

And we can't forget the third annual grown-up Christmas-Edition Cousins' Campout, which even came complete with a crowdfunding campaign to bring home Professor Flinghopper.

Crowdfunding campaign ad to bring home Professor Flinghopper

Cousins' Campout- Christmas 2014. Enough said.

2015 got off to a crazy start, minus a break for one last mulled wine of the season at the Champs-Elysées Christmas Market.

One last vin chaud (mulled wine) at the Champs-Elysées Christmas Market to start the new year right.

The rest of my time was split between running to meetings with the Pole Emploi (French Unemployment Agency) and the bureaucrats who decide whether I can stay in the country, sneaking into lab to continue working (and manage collaborators) while legally unemployed, and throwing together a fellowship application and a couple of presentations in an effort to sort out my future as a postdoc. It wasn't easy and it wasn't always pretty. Welcome to my life as a freshly minted PhD.