Deauville, Trouville & Blonville-sur-mer

July 16, 2016:
 

Deauville is the closest seaside resort to Paris, and as such, it has long been cottage country to French high society. Sometimes it is referred to as the 21st arrondissement of Paris. It has a race course, harbour, international film festival, fancy hotels and the Grand Casino. So basically, Niagara Falls with a beach.

We were stoked. The drive was not too bad, and we arrived in Blonville-sur-mer, one of the neighbouring beach front towns, where Marie had made a reservation at an adorable bed and breakfast called La Villa des Fleurs. The owner was so friendly and charming. We loved him instantly. He recommended a restaurant on the beach called Key West, and it wasn't the greatest meal we'd ever had, but considering the price points we were about to encounter, it was very affordable.

We were eager to get to the beach so we put on our sunscreen and drove about 5 minutes and we were in Deauville. The beach is immense.

Marie and I wanted to put our feet in the water, so I rolled up my pant legs (cursing myself for not having brought sunscreen for my legs), and the water was really not too cold. We'd imagined that there would be no one swimming - this is the English Channel/Baltic Sea region, after all - but there were many people in the water. 

The beach is nearly as long as it is wide and we were a little worried we wouldn't be able to find Julien again, but we did so without too much trouble and we opted to play a French dice game called Yam's.

I will definitely be introducing this to future French Immersion math classes I teach. So much probability! And it is actually played in France! And it is fun!

Julien left to explore the city a little and Marie and I decided to hang out in the sun for a little while. I was reluctant to roll my pant legs down because my calves were covered in sand. I don't know how long we stayed there. I may have fallen asleep at some point. The result was comical. I *still* (12 days later) have a diagonal tan line just below my knees. Various people have suggested I wear knee-high socks and burn the rest of my leg to the same degree to resolve this dilemma, but I kind of like it.

We went in search of ice cream and found this cool Hollywood Walk of Fame-esque situation:

Look, Dad! It's Matt Damon!

We also began the search for a suitable restaurant for dinner. Everywhere was excessively expensive, or completely booked. We were lucky to find La Plancha, a tapas bar, where we made a reservation before returning to La Villa des Fleurs to shower off the sand and make ourselves presentable.

It was a good choice. At first, they tried to tell us that as a group of three we had to take the menu option that was set by the chef. We had discussed this, but Marie doesn't like fish, and I don't eat meat, so we were concerned that they might not have anything we could eat in the "chef's choice". The waitress reluctantly conceded when we asked what was included in the chef's option for the evening and 8 out of 10 were meat dishes. We got to construct our own shared meal with 9 tapas which was exactly the right amount of food, decently priced, and so good. I'm at a loss to explain exactly how good.

Most of the shops in the town are high-end boutiques - Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Coach - typical stores for the rich and famous. It is a fun fact I learned while researching Deauville that this was Coco Chanel's second shop and that it was where she began designing clothing. As we moved further away from the casino, the shops became more affordable, and I discovered Papa Pique et Maman Coude. From what Marie tells me, everything is made in France, and that this was the first physical store she had encountered, as most of their business is conducted online. It reminds me of Cath Kidston in the UK, which I am a huge fan of, because if there is one thing I can't resist, it is patterns (or motifs en français).

Our last stop of the evening was the Casino. Julien realized he didn't have any photo ID, so he opted to Pokémon GO while I had my first experience gambling since the single scratch card I'd played on my 18th birthday. I was glad to learn that Marie is a responsible gambler. She plays 20 euros and if she is winning she cashes out. If not, she doesn't spend more than her 20 euros. I decided to do the same. I have never been a fan of the concept of gambling; playing my hard earned money against the house which must win more often than they lose to stay in business. For one night, I could treat it as entertainment.

We played the slots and Marie was disappointed that they had made the machines digital - no coins came pouring out if you won - and it was more difficult to tell how much money you had spent or won. We took turns. She played 10 euros and won another 10 so she cashed out. Then she played her second 10 euros and lost. In the end, she came out even. I had exactly the same outcome. So in the end, we were entertained for twenty minutes for free! Well done, us!

We were just hungry enough to finish out the night with Nutella waffles and whipped cream. For three, it cost 22 euros (!!!). They were better entertainment than the slot machines, though. I got whipped cream all over my face as we sat and ate them in front of Deauville's town hall.

July 17, 2016:

We had lunch reservations at Les Vapeurs in Trouville before the sweltering drive back to Paris, and we opted to spend the morning exploring the city's marketplace and beach front. 

I found a bunch of suggestions for French movies to watch (yes!) and tried some local cheeses and things. It was packed.

Les Vapeurs is a well-known seafood restaurant in the area, and I ordered salmon which I rarely have because my diet is still pretty land-locked, and Julien ordered the 51 euro seafood platter.

It was impressive. It came with crab, oysters, mussels, various sea snails, shrimp, and lots of other things I could not identify. Julien was also impressive. He nearly finished the entire thing on his own. He encouraged me to join in, but I had only tried oysters and mussels for the first time a month and half earlier, and although I liked them, I wasn't feeling courageous and the salmon was more than enough for me.

The ride back to Paris was slow and extremely hot. I sang my heart out to various classic songs and shared some of my own music with Julien and Marie before falling asleep.

That night we watched La famille Bélier before bed and cried because that movie is wonderful and heartwarming.

July 18, 2016:

I said goodbye to Marie and Julien in the morning, finished packing my bag, and headed for the RER train. I had given myself lots of time to get to the airport for my 12:45pm flight, but I didn't anticipate that the RER train I had intended to take all the way to the centre of the city would only take me two stops. I couldn't determine the reasoning, but I made my way to the metro at Javel to continue my journey. I arrived at the Saint Michel-Notre Dame stop just in time for the next RER train I needed to catch. The signs in the space between the trains said that the trains only went to the airport (as there were other trains that would take you to the banlieue of Paris), so I had no reservations taking any train as long as it was headed in the right direction. I boarded the first one that arrived in the station and sat back, knowing it would be a long ride.

When we came to the fork in the track, I realized I was on the wrong train. Somehow, the screens and signs had miscommunicated, and I'd gotten on one of the trains headed to the banlieue. I got off and waited for a train going back the other direction so that I could board the right train at the fork. I watched the minutes ticking away as I waited. When I finally got back to the station at the fork, I waited on the platform where I had been dropped off for 15 minutes for the next train to the airport. But when 15 minutes was up, I realized a few minutes too late that I wasn't on the right platform. I missed that train, and learned I'd have to wait another 22 minutes.

I arrived at the airport an hour and a half later than expected. I now had only an hour to get my boarding pass, through security, and to the gate. I let out a sigh of relief upon reading that my flight was delayed. I waited forever to get my boarding pass. Security was relatively efficient. For some reason, I had to go through French customs before leaving the country - I don't remember every encountering this before. I found my gate, and even had time to buy something to eat (cauliflower mac and cheese) and read before my flight started boarding. I was not too worried about making my connection in Montreal - there was a 3 hour layover there. On the plane, I watched The Martian (Matt Damon is a god) and Zootopia (lived up to the hype), read some of my book Labor of Love by Moira Weigel (very interesting read about the history of dating), and tried to ignore the crying babies who seemed to playing a game of call and response. I sincerely love the French language and love having opportunities to speak it, but a little part of me was relieved that I could speak English and not feel guilty about it.

The best part of traveling with only a backpack is not having to wait for baggage claim after you've already waited for everyone in front of you to get off of the plane. I was lucky to be right near the doors, although some kids tried to slow my roll while walking down the gangplank. Everyone in the airport seemed to be meandering which was making me snappy, but I was so happy to see my mum waiting for me at the end of it all. For some reason, whenever I arrive back in Canada and pass the "Welcome to Canada" sign, I think to myself, "Home again, home again, jiggity jig." (It may or may not have something to do with Jillian Jigs...)

When I got to my parents', Mum put aloe vera on my very bad burns and I invented a new hairstyle for the occasion:

After early 24 hours of travel, I was sound asleep.

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Happy 100th Post!

I just wanted to take a second to acknowledge that this is my 100th post about my travels, and to thank everyone who has read or commented or reacted to it in the 4 years it has been running! It has been a pleasure for me to write this blog, and it makes it feel worth writing when I know that I have an audience that enjoys it.

Here are some quick stats about the blog since it started.

First post: Warszawa on August 29, 2012

Most popular post:  Porto, Portugal: Hipster City (3493 views) 

Total Views: 17 814

Most popular month: July 2016 (1084 views)

International Audience: 92 countries (including Peru as of July 2016)

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A Love Affair with Apollinaire

July 15, 2016:

I woke up to too many Messenger notifications to fit on my screen. I love my friends and I don't say this because I feel sorry for myself, but I am not that popular. I had this weird moment of knowing there was something very wrong and flashing back to the morning of March 24, 2013 when I learned the news about my sister. I opened the first message from Jan saying that he'd seen what was happening in Nice when we saw my message. I hadn't heard anything about Nice. The next message was from my mum saying something about Nice, and I responded that I'd just woken up and didn't know what had happened yet. Andrea's message cleared things up for me a bit:

Tess r u okay

did you hear about the Bastille thing?? 80 dead? in France

plz answer I'm freaking out

Her panic was completely understandable. She knew I was at the Bastille celebrations based on my Instagram/Facebook updates, but she didn't know that it might be going on in more than one city. After responding to all the messages that I was fine, and posting something generic so that anyone else who was worried would see that I was okay, I walked to the living room where the news was on and ate my breakfast while learning about the attack. I felt like I should feel more lucky that it didn't happen in Paris, but I just felt kind of strange about it. Marie and I talked about what it had felt like when the attack happened at Charlie Hebdo and how they had insisted that everyone should stay inside, but that the Parisians didn't agree - they wouldn't be made to feel afraid in their own city. Fear and hatred were the goal of Daesh, and they didn't want to give them the satisfaction.

In the same spirit, Marie and I set out to spend the day doing something we liked. Unfortunately, we first had to go to the bank. And what should have taken a few minutes ended up taking Marie 3 hours in a waiting room. She mercifully let me go out on my own (I was sad not to be able to spend the time with her). I had seen a poster advertising an exhibit about Apollinaire at the Musée de l'Orangerie, and I was excited to see it as I'd fallen in love with his poetry during my undergraduate years. He had been drafted during WWI and shot in the head, but he had survived and continued writing poetry. He invented "caligrammes", a revival of shape poems that had been used by the Greeks and in 14th century religious poetry.

« Colombe poignardée et jet d'eau » - Apollinaire

On my way to the exhibit, I stopped at a boulangerie Marie had suggested and bought a Brie sandwich. I was in my glory - I had known all the social cues necessary for ordering, I didn't need to look apologetic about botching the language, I got a baguette and Brie cheese out of the whole deal. Seriously, what could be better? I forgot how much I loved baguettes. Like, I knew how much I had previously loved them and badly wanted to have one again, but I sank into a reverie worthy of true love as I ate my sandwich one bite at a time on the metro. No one else was eating, but I had zero concern for how uncouth this might have seemed to the locals. It was sublime.

I had been to the Orangerie before, and remembered that it featured Monet's impressionist paintings, but the exhibit was in the basement, which I had not realized existed. It was the best discovery. The entire basement was filled with paintings by my favourite French artists. I watched as a fellow tourist went from painting to painting, stopping only long enough to snap a photo of the painting for later. I don't like leveling judgments against others, but this behaviour is so characteristic of my generation. Will she ever look through all of those photos? How will she be able to see the movement in the brushstrokes or feel the wonder of standing in front of that canvas? We're so obsessed with "catching them all" and have so much "fear of missing out", that we do miss out. Forgive me for the cliché, but taking time to smell the flowers is exactly what we need to do, as a generation, to experience more joy and feel satisfied by our days. I wanted to encourage her to slow down and enjoy it, but she was in too much of a rush. I don't spend a long time looking at every painting, but when I connect with one, I spend as much time as I like letting its effect wash over me.

Mr. Apollinaire himself said J'émerveille. I release wonder. The exhibit was full of wonder for me. As a literary geek, it was exciting to see what an influence he had had on the artistic movements of his time. He brought artists and writers together, exposed a young art dealer to the works of Picasso, André Breton, Gertrude Stein, Marc Chagall, and Marcel Duchamp, among others - that art dealer went on to donate his collections posthumously to the Musée de l'Orangerie. He was an art critic who supported Cubism and coined the terms for Orphism and Surrealism. Basically, he was just an incredibly awesome guy and I did not feel guilty at all about the hours I spent reading nearly every piece of information in that exhibit.

My university class where I first encountered Apollinaire was called "Texte et image" and one of our assignments was to write our own (French) poetry based on Apollinaire's work. Mine is featured in the PDF documents below:

• Il y a... (PDF)
• L'ordinateur, le clavier et la souris (PDF)
• Cartes postales (PDF)
• ti< Vol.1, No.1 (2012)

The only other Paris destination I was curious to see this trip were the jardins de Versailles. I'd seen the gardens and the château several years earlier on a trip with the Brock French Club, but it was in February during our reading week and the gardens had not been much to look at. I had no interest to return to the palace, especially with the crowds I knew would be there (the palace had been impressively packed with tourists even in February), so I paid for the entrance into the "musical gardens" exhibit, not fully understanding what the point of that was, and set out somewhat aimlessly through the towering bushes. 

Apparently, my 9 euro ticket was supposed to cover the art installation that was playing on the theme of water, but none of the exhibits were running so I was a little cranky that I had paid so much to see them. The classical music was a fun addition to my "turn" around the gardens (as an Austen heroine might say).

I felt a little like I was walking through Hagrid's maze for the third task in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

I ordered soft serve from an ice cream place - chocolate-vanilla swirl - and sat for a while in the grass next to the lake watching couples in paddle boats, and friends taking selfies on the grass. It was a really good choice for a serene afternoon in semi-nature. I can see why Marie Antoinette liked this place so much.

I met Marie, Julien and Jango back at the apartment and we tucked in to a "typically French" dinner of cheese.

And I convinced them to watch Bon Cop, Bad Cop, that classic Canadian action film about hockey and English-French relations. (Watch out for some choice language from the "Quebecker" in this clip, and it's a bit gruesome at the end, if those are things you like to avoid).

A day that started out not so great, turned out to be a pretty good one when everything was said and done.

The Fireman's Ball & Bastille Day

July 13, 2016:

On my travels home to Paris, I was treated to my first glimpses of Belgium. It was so charming! It has moved up on my bucket list of countries to explore. I navigated the Paris transit system like a pro, arriving at Marie's workplace with no setbacks. I got to meet her lovely colleagues and then returned to her apartment for a rest.

In Paris, each of the fire stations organize Le Bal des Pompiers (the Fireman's Ball) on the eve of Bastille Day. The idea is that the celebrations of the French Revolution can begin directly at midnight, and it is a way for citizens in the community to pay tribute to their emergency services.

The firemen also put on intermittent "shows". In one instance, they climbed the side of a building one handed using a rope, in order to rescue a doll. It was glorious. It was all outdoor, and the dance floor was initially occupied by small children who had some of the best moves I've ever seen, but soon enough the adults took over and it became comfortably crowded.

 Several of Marie's friends and neighbours joined us, including a mother and daughter from Portugal, and the daughter's boyfriend from Réunion, an island in the Indian Ocean, east of Madagascar. They taught me that "Danza Kuduro", which I had always known was a Portguese song, was actually a line dance. This video isn't from that night, but it is a little bit of Lyon nostalgia:

I also learned great French classic songs like this one:

It also featured fun hand gestures. By the end, I had most of the words and actions and everyone was so proud of me (in my own head.... probably they didn't really care).

I taught them all the actions for the verses of the YMCA and they joked about how most French people are so terrible at English that they don't realize that the chorus is the letters Y, M, C, A, and that they just make sounds and copy the actions without realizing what they are doing. I don't doubt it.

We had a blast dancing until we were sufficiently tired out. The only déception of the night was that I hadn't managed to dance with a firefighter. I guess I'll have to go back?

July 14, 2016:

Bastille Day celebrates the French commitment to republican values and laïcism (the separation of Church and State. The French Revolution was a revolt against the monarchy for the good of the people. It also represents a commitment to democracy - liberté, égalité, fraternité. I don't know what Canada's motto is. Do we have one?

According to the Canadian Encyclopedia:

The motto of the Dominion of Canada is a Mari usque ad Mare which is officially translated "From Sea to Sea" and "D'un océan à l'autre."

It's not quite as inspiring. (Also we have three seas, so probably it should be From Sea to Sea to Sea.... just saying.)

Marie, Julien and I planned to attend the défilé (parade), and we watched the pre-parade news coverage on television as we ate breakfast. To me, it seemed as though it was advertising and recruiting for the military as much as it was celebrating the role of these public servants in maintaining French security. As we walked toward the parade route, we discussed the soldiers throughout Paris armed with machine guns - machine guns are something I've only really seen in films and in Belize City when unloading from our cruise ship. It's a surreal experience to walk around and to know that there is someone in close proximity to you that could kill you if you make a "wrong move" or something perceived as suspicious. Marie and Julien talked a little about their training - how they are trained to fire these guns only as a last resort - and how these armed guards make them feel safer in light of the Charlie Hebdo massacre and other attentats (terrorist attacks) in Europe.

Our bags were checked by police as we entered the zone along the parade route, and there were police stationed at most metro station entrances and exits. The most we were really able to see of the parade were the overhead flights by the air force.The coloured jet stream was pretty cool though.

A friend of Marie's captured this photo near the Arc de Triomphe.

We tried several options for getting within the sight lines of the parade, but we were too late, so we continued on.

We walked along the Seine, and I learned that famous Pont des Arts where everyone in Paris puts their love locks had been altered. The weight of locks was too much for the bridge to bear, so they replaced the wire panels with glass panels.

Beginning to get hungry, we walked towards the Saint Michel neighbourhood across the Seine from Notre Dame de Paris, which is a good neighbourhood to find something to eat according to my Parisian guides. We chose to eat at Le Paradis du Fruit, a chain restaurant which offered a number of delicious vegetarian options, and I saw the Fontaine Saint-Michel for the first time.

The central figure is the archangel Michael depicted defeating the devil. (After searching it on Wikipedia, I learned it was attacked by the French in 1870 after Napoleon was captured by the Germans because it had eagles on it - the German symbol.)

We considered going to the Musée d'Orsay, one of my favourite art museums in Paris, wondering whether it would be open on a national holiday only to find outrageously long lines and crowds of people taking advantage of their day off to appreciate art. Julien, having just joined Pokémon GO, was eager to go to the Jardin de Luxembourg where there was some sort of meeting happening, but we were all a little tired of walking and of having our plans thwarted that we opted to return to their quartier in Paris for a drink. The name of this open-air cantina was La Javelle, and it's located at the Port de Javel bas. Apparently they frequently host live music, dance classes and other activities. The central seating area is surrounded by various food trucks and the bar, and they are all right next to the water.

It was a great way to spend the afternoon, and it was nice and easy-going so we wouldn't be too tired out before the feux d'artifices (fireworks). We spent the time after dinner, and before the fireworks watching OSS117: Cairo, Nest of Spies, and OSS117: Lost in Rio. Both are parodies of spy movies like the James Bond franchise. They star Jean Dujardin and they are hilarious.

There was a decent view of the fireworks happening at both the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower from the hill in Issy-les-Moulineaux where their apartment is located, but we were a little too late, once again, and all the good spots to see were taken up by very tall men who then added insult to injury by propping their children up on their shoulders. We watched for a few minutes next to some local police officers while standing on the median in road which was raised enough that we could see, but it wasn't particularly comfortable so we turned in early, completely oblivious to the terror attacks happening at the fireworks in Nice.

Being Depressed in Europe

July 10, 2016:

It's not fair to Cologne, but this post is mostly about my depression, because that's what I spent most of my day realizing was going on.


I spent almost the entire day in bed. I was reading, but reading for longer than an hour is an at-risk behaviour for someone with depression. Since Berlin, I had been struggling to feel excited about doing anything. Seeing Jan reminded me that so far during the trip, I hadn't had any of my usual support people around, and that is one of the four critical things I need to keep from slipping into bad patterns. And before I get too far ahead of myself, I need to stop and explain part of a much longer journey that has not factored in to any of my previous travels.

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When my sister died, I returned home from France and dealt with the things that bereaved people need to deal with like visitations and funerals, telling people that hadn't heard about it yet, and making sure my family didn't fall apart. I didn't have an opportunity to experience the reverse culture shock that is characteristic of long trips to countries with other customs and cultures, because the trip I had taken back to Canada was to a foreign reality with new understandings of the world and new challenges to face.

My grieving process was obviously difficult. What I didn't count on was that when I was having a good day I would be really annoyed by the expressed grief of my parents or sister. Or that the hardest things would be the most inconspicuous - meeting someone new and having to answer the question, "Do you have any siblings?" Realizing that one day I would have to say that she had died 10 years ago, instead of only two months ago. Andrea and I used to stay in bed all day together, just taking turns crying.

I took a course for a few months a month after it happened, and on the days I had to be at the University, I stayed overnight in my cousin's guestroom which was in the basement. I spent hours crying in the privacy of this space where I knew my grief wouldn't affect my family members trying to have a good day.

We did family counselling with a woman who wasn't helpful, but the distance from our home did lead to some honest discussions about what we were each dealing with, and the ways that we could help each other. When I started teachers college in the fall, I didn't tell any of my new friends about it. I was still worried that someone would say something careless, by accident, and that I would lose respect for them. I started seeing a grief counsellor near the University who explained to me that grief is a wave pool that comes on like tidal waves at first and you're sure you'll drown, but if you swim into it, accept it as normal and necessary and healthy even as it crushes you, then gradually the waves will become smaller and less frequent. This was comforting to me, and I have found it to be true. Eventually, this counsellor and I ended up having discussions about education and children, rather than grief, and she didn't think I needed anymore help, but I had a nagging feeling that there was still something that wasn't right.

Spending hours alone in my apartment, and not feeling like I could reach out to anyone was a problem. Binge watching television shows to escape from my reality was also a problem, but I survived, and the close friendships I forged with my fellow teacher candidates have been so important for helping me to succeed. I was hired as an occasional teacher in Hamilton, but I decided to find an apartment in St. Catharines instead because my sister would be starting her first year at Brock and I wanted to be there for her, as much as I was looking forward to having her near me for my own sake. I also wanted to stay in proximity to the friends that I had worked so hard to make. Starting over is scary, and having to tell my grief story and to share myself with new people was scarier.

When I was sad or sluggish, I thought it was only grief. I was given a long-term assignment at a school with a new principal and vice principal who were learning their roles, and no teachers in French Immersion on either side of my grade range. I met some amazing teachers in the English track who supported me and that I am so grateful for. It was one of the hardest years of my life. On my birthday in October, I broke down in the Walmart parking lot where I was buying Halloween candy for my students' party the next day. I was afraid to drive because of the intensity of sobbing. A friend told me he would come over to support me and every time something like this happened, it felt like I was being rescued from something. I was still alone more often than not, dealing with the stresses of teaching a challenging class, with very little support. I commuted 80 minutes a day, and spent my evenings preparing for the next one. It's normal for a new teacher to feel incompetent. An additional qualification course in Math that happened once a week in Thorold was a blessing. In February, a student with mental health concerns said that they wanted to die. I didn't go to school the next day. Instead, that evening, I went to a walk-in clinic and the doctor sent me to the hospital to talk to a psychiatrist in the Emergency Room. The next day, my mom came and cleaned my house while I wrote report card comments. I called the union to find out about counselling.

My therapist treated me for anxiety for 8 weeks, and I felt free of something. As if knowing that I had anxiety gave me permission to sometimes feel like I didn't have everything worked out. And it gave me permission to do things that would bring me joy even if it meant shirking some of my responsibilities, because my mental health was allowed to be a priority.

I decided to move to Hamilton during the following summer. I became vegetarian, and started running. I felt like I had sloughed off the coat of grief I'd been wrapping tightly around myself for two and a half years and was rediscovering the self I had loved so much before my sister had died. I had energy and was excited about things. I didn't always have to feel sad. But this happiness felt precarious, as it had always done, and the moment I started to feel as if I was coming down off of a high, I called my therapist and started seeing her about depression. I realized that I had experienced forms of depression during my undergraduate years, especially in first year when I remember sleeping for entire days and thinking that it was only because I was learning so much and my brain needed extra sleep. And summers as a teenager when I spent entire days reading, and never felt "motivated" to do anything. During the school years, and when I had a good balance of extra-curriculars, I was always happy and felt productive and motivated. If I had too many things to do, my anxiety eroded my mental health until I slipped into depression. If I had not enough things to do, I spent too much time doing "escape"/"at-risk" activities like reading or watching movies or napping.

My therapist taught me that I could maintain my mental health by ensuring that I included four types of activities in most of my days:

• Physical
• Pleasure (activities that bring joy; for me these include dancing, painting, singing, playing piano, watching live music or live theatre, walking in nature)
• Relaxation (mindful meditation, yoga, taking a bath, drinking a cup of coffee; this book was a great resource for finding relaxation activities for anyone, not just people avoiding emotional eating)
• Support (going for hot chocolate with a good friend, chatting on the phone with someone you trust, visiting your parents)

For some people, depression is severe enough that they might need to consider medication, but that is an individual decision that they would make with their own doctor. These four types of activities are things that anyone can do to help maintain their mental health. My depression is mild enough that maintaining these activities keeps me feeling good. Since last August, I've had one of the best years I can remember. There were certainly low moments, and there were moments where I wasn't keeping up with my routine, but I can feel the difference now, and I know that I can do something to make myself healthier. I feel stronger.

My therapist also taught me that motivation is a myth. If you wait to feel enough motivation to do something, you will never do it. It doesn't matter if you feel motivated. If it is something you should do, just do it.

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Throughout my trip thus far, I had been doing my best to be grateful for the opportunity I had to be in Europe. I was keeping my Instagram/Facebook posts upbeat. Even now that I've returned, I have trouble articulating that the trip was great, but that it was also really hard for me. I didn't have a routine. I was having trouble "just doing it", because being in a country where I don't speak the language was also really frustrating and hard at times. I didn't want to look for somewhere to eat because I didn't know if they would have a vegetarian option, and ordering was always a challenge. The metro was a frequent obstacle in Berlin.

The obstacle on my first full day in Cologne was that I needed to take a shower, and the showers were shared by all the dorm rooms. I would have to gather all of my belongings and take them to the shower room, meaning I had to walk in a public space with my hair probably sticking out at weird angles and looking super greasy. I needed to shower within a certain time frame to make it to the morning buffet in the hostel. It was too much, so I stayed in my bed. Maybe I looked at my phone, or decided to read one chapter. Meanwhile, my roommates all cleared out for the day, and I felt less pressure to make any decisions. Then the cleaning crew came in singing songs in German while I hid out behind my curtain like a rat, hoping they wouldn't open it to find me in there reading. They didn't, but they were there for such a long time, and I had no interest in emerging from my cocoon to their horrified expressions, so I kept reading. I finished the book.

I didn't have anything to escape into and it dawned on me that all this time I had needed to "just do it". That in Berlin, I had been slipping slowly into a depression, and that the long train rides spent reading had not helped. All the physical activity on regular days was not making up for entire days spent sitting on the train. I had no routine. I had no certainty about where or what I would eat. I crawled out of my bunk, and took a glorious shower. I had to make a difficult choice. There was a guided tour leaving in 15 minutes from Rudolfplatz (the hostel's metro stop), and it would last for a few hours, but I hadn't eaten anything all day and there was also a McDonald's in Rudolfplatz. I didn't have enough time to eat before the tour left. I chose my veggie burger at McDonald's. I had purchased a tourist pass for the metro the night before because I had had enough in Berlin, so after my stomach was satisfied, I went to the Dom.

I sat in the pews for a while and relaxed consciously.

I went to the tourist office to find a map of the city, and to inquire about a chocolate factory that Jan had told me about. Unfortunately, the chocolate factory would be closed too soon for me to be admitted. I had Googled the top attractions in Cologne and asked next about the Skulptur park. And with my map, I opted to walk there.

The juxtaposition of nature and artwork was my pleasure activity for the day. I enjoyed soaking in the leaves on the trees, and considering what each sculpture might mean.

The park was on the banks of the Rhine River. I don't know how else to say this, so: Bodies of water are my favourite. I sat down on a bench next to an old man and drank it in.

I walked along the water's edge where runners and couples were making their way. I marveled at the architecture of the various bridges - they each used a different type of structure.

Knowing that I was dealing with my depression, I had an opportunity to try to go out that night, but the hostel bar was open to the public and is known as a place that locals frequently hang out. The effort to put myself into the middle of another person's conversation had been used up on my first night in Munich, so I packed my things, anxious to get back to Paris the next day.

Dear Reader, if you made it to the end of this one, thank you. I promise the rest of the posts in this series will be much less introspective and gloomy. ;)

Swedish Aachen

July 11, 2016:

I had made my train reservations in advance to avoid having to take ten million of them to get to my destination, and I seemed to have worked out the train system, but it involves a lot of running around the train station looking for monitors listing the platform numbers/running past every platform in search of the right one. I only had one connection to make, and although my first train was running 20 minutes late by the time we got to Düsseldorf, by some miracle, my connection was also late. A young girl and her father asked me, in German, if we were at the Aachen West station, and I felt really proud that I could understand AND tell them yes because I knew where I was. I made it to Aachen only 20 minutes later than I expected, and Jan, a fellow Hamiltonian who also happens to be the only Belgian I know, and who was also happened to be in Europe visiting his family during my trip, was waiting for me. It was such a relief to see someone I knew.

My original plan had been to spend two days in Cologne (Köln), but Aachen (or Aix-la-Chapelle) was only an hour beyond that, and it was an hour from Jan's parents' home in Belgium. It turned out to be a really great suggestion.

We stopped for lunch at a restaurant where I ordered a baked potato with cheese and mushrooms, like every reasonable girl from South-Western Ontario would be wont to do, but apparently this was the most German meal I could have ordered, on the authority of my Belgian friend. We played a game of trying to figure out where the tourists walking by were from. The only one I managed to guess was because a Dutch man in the group was wearing his socks very high up on his legs. Jan didn't think this was a thing. It probably isn't, but I guessed right so...

The main attraction in Aachen is the Dom (Cathedral) which was founded by Charlemagne, the Holy Roman Emperor, who ruled over large parts of Europe from Aachen. The medieval German kings were crowned there for 600 years, and there are some important relics that people still do pilgrimages to come and see. We went in and found a French brochure which gave us some vague information with a map that didn't seem to correspond with the structure we were in. There were no English brochures. We noticed an English tour group approaching the back of the Cathedral where we assumed Charlemagne's Shrine might be, so we attempted to blend in, hoping that we didn't need tickets. When they asked to see our tickets, we were typically Canadian: "Oh! We needed tickets? Oh, I'm so sorry. We didn't know!" Later in the day, there was a Belgian couple that tried to do the same thing to a German tour.

We were keen to see Charlemagne's Shrine and whatever other treasures they might be hiding behind the gate, so we went to the Tourist Information centre and asked about tours (speaking Flemish with a German accent was an effective communication strategy). They told us English tours were only offered at 2pm, so we'd just missed it. Jan asked about French tours and they scoffed at us. That was what the French brochures were for, I guess. They did have a German tour coming up at 3:30pm, they said, and Jan said that at least we could see the relic and he could translate for me, so we bought tickets and went in search of something to entertain us for the next half hour.

We opted to troll tourists.

They were all taking photos of this extremely bizarre fountain. There was a bench directly in front of it, so we sat there and took selfies so that no one else could take pictures. Hahaha we're hilarious.

In spite of warning looks from Jan, I also made quiet Hitler jokes. (Just to clarify so that you don't think I'm a terrible person, dear Reader, these were not anti-Semitic jokes. Those are disgusting. These were jokes about what a sad horrible man Hitler was.) After several days of not really talking to anyone I was bursting with stories and having the opportunity to tell them fired me up. I was like a little ball of energy bouncing around.

During the tour, I got a little pamphlet in English with some of the information that would be covered during the tour. Jan would occasionally take a break from listening intently to tell me that the tour guide was still talking about the marble columns and explaining that they had been dragged over the Alps or something. I have some knowledge about architecture thanks to my friend, Arthur, and his world class tour of Caen and Normandy, and because of the book Pillars of Light by Jane Johnson, but I wasn't particularly interested. The only new learning for me was about the Franks and Germany during the 12th century. I was curious about the Wolf's Doors that were mentioned several times in the French brochure and on the English information sheet, but no one explained the legend that was supposed to be associated with them, so I still don't know. Now that I've broken the fourth wall, I'm going to invite anyone who discovers this mystery to please comment and let me know. It will probably bother me forever.

Jan was floored by the depth and details of the questions that the tour participants were posing to the tour guide. They were just ridiculous things to ask or to want to know (as a teacher, there are no inane questions, as a fellow tourist, there definitely are). It reminded me of the education system in France where students are expected to become extreme experts in all the details associated with a broad topic. I didn't learn much about the Belgian education system from Jan (although I don't know if math is the same way in France, and that is his area of specialization) but he seemed fascinated to learn about the French system, so I imagine it's different.

We had a beer at a terrace and noticed a lot of people were flocking to the square in front of the Town Hall that had been empty when we passed only a short time before. Curious, we followed the crowd, which usually turns out well for everyone.

Lo and behold! The King and Queen of Sweden who were announcing that Aachen will be the location of the World Equestrian Festival in 2017. Sweden was the partner country this year, so they announced it? Everything was a little uncertain for me. Jan was translating again. What I do know is that the marching band played ABBA while some guys rode around on horses wearing Viking helmets. I'm certain it was borderline offensive to the people of Sweden because it was just a parade of Swedish stereotypes, but the King and Queen were cool with it, so who am I to harsh their mellow? I cherished the opportunity to do a Mindy Kaling dance to Take a Chance on Me.

A woman started giving me the death stare. I pointed it out to Jan who had also noticed. I thought it was funny. He thought we should move to another part of the crowd, and I started to agree with him when I realized that she watched me the entire time I walked away. Hatred of North Americans is a thing, I think. Or maybe I was just too cheerful to be in Germany.

The icing on the cake of this glorious Swedish moment, was that the Germans also wanted to share their culture, and so we were regaled with German folk dancing for approximately 10 000 hours.

I was spared by not being tall enough to see over the crowd, so Jan recorded this video for me so that I wouldn't feel left out (I did not).

My train back to Cologne was leaving in about an hour, so we found a restaurant to have a snack before dinner. Truthfully, this was my real dinner. Jan didn't want to spoil the dinner his mum was making him.

Inevitably, I missed my first train. It really would have done no harm to wait for the next high-speed train that was coming in a half hour, but I had such a panic about missing trains that I hastily said goodbye and got on the one that was leaving in five minutes. Both trains would've arrived in Cologne around the same time. No time to reflect! Gotta go!

And then I awkwardly sat and waved at Jan from the train for a full five minutes.

The first glimpse of the city of Cologne through the glass walls of the Hauptbanhof was the Cathedral.

It was imposing and elaborate and beautiful. I was excited to see it again in the morning.

die wohngemeinschaft Hostel was quirky and beautiful, too. After a quick conversation with my new roommates - one who was visiting from the Netherlands for a solo birthday celebration, and the other who was taking a two-week course in Cologne - I tucked myself in behind the curtains of my bunk to keep reading the His Dark Materials trilogy in the ballet-themed dorm room.