Home is where the tea collection is.











A Dream, Realized

The Pic d'Anie, day 9









The beach at Hendaye

A horse blocking my path on day one

Endless ferns

Pillbox from the Spanish Civil War

A mushroom that grew overnight 

Crossing the Camino de Santiago

A cromlech

The Pic d'Orhy

Scrambling on a ridge before the Pic d'Orhy

From the summit of Orhy, snow in sight

"pastoral zone, free-roaming herds/flocks"

Desolate limestone plateau and the west face of Pic d'Anie






Cirque de Lescun

Pic du Midi d'Ossau, from west

Pic du Midi d'Ossau, from south

The Passage d'Orteig

The Refuge d'Arrémoulit

The Lacs d'Arrémoulit

Traversing snowfields 

Balaïtous, first peak above 3000 meters

Vignemale, from the west

Vignemale, the southwest face up close

The north face of the Vignemale massif at sunset 

Vignemale, from the east

The Cirque de Gavarnie





The mist receding

Vignemale, in the distance from the east 

Pico Posets, second highest in the Pyrenees

A birthday party for John 

Estany de Rius

Brushing teeth at sunrise 

Estany de Tort de Rius

Estany de Mar


From Montardo d'Aran, looking southeast towards the Parque Nacional de Aiguestortes

The Estany des Monges

Over halfway across the Pyrenees 




Sunrise to the east of Salardú


Not a road within miles 






The Pic Carlit, notice the trail 

The summit of Pic Carlit 

Pic du Canigou in the distance at sunrise 

Ascending towards Canigou in the mist 

The Brèche Durier underneath Canigou 

The summit of Canigou 

A break in the clouds 

Arles-sur-Tech, approaching the Mediterranean

An abundance of wild blackberries

Canigou from the east 

Banyuls on the right


Celebrating in Banyuls 





Before and after

See my video of the HRP here.

What I'm Bringing



If you're interested in the logistics of my thru-hike of the Haute Randonnée Pyrénéenne, this is the post for you! My (annotated) packing list and some general comments are below. I have a total weight for my pack, but unfortunately I didn't have a scale accurate enough to weigh each item. I've decided not to use brand names as I don't want it to turn into a gear obsession list. If you have any questions about my general approach or about specifics, send me a message (however you won't get a response for quite some time, as I'm currently hiking and this is a timed post).

Things Worn/Used [Not included in the base pack weight]

-Full grain leather waterproof boots

-Wool hiking socks

-Softshell hiking shorts

-Synthetic boxer briefs

-Synthetic button-up t-shirt 

-Altimeter/barometer/compass watch

-Trekking poles

-Waterproof map case

Things Carried

-55 liter internal frame backpack

-Pack cover

-Ultralight 20 liter day pack

-Waterproof bivy bag [I am not bringing a tent]

-Tarp and cord [I can set up a shelter with this and my trekking poles if weather gets really bad, but it will otherwise serve as a ground sheet]

-Stakes [So my bivy doesn't blow away]

-Closed-cell foam sleeping pad

-Down sleeping bag and waterproof compression sack [Bag rated for 0 C/32 F]

-Sleeping bag liner [To add warmth when it's cold, function as an ultralight bag when it's hot, and keep my bag cleaner]

-Inflatable pillow [Okay this is a bit of a vice, but it weighs almost nothing and it’s worth the extra comfort and convenience to me. Most hikers use a sack of their clothes as a pillow]

-Instep crampons [There will probably be snow in some parts of the mountains, and the security is worth hauling them all the way across]

-Snow attachment for trekking poles

-Waterproof hardshell jacket

-Waterproof hardshell pants

-Down vest

-Synthetic fleece

-Light synthetic gloves

-Synthetic fleece cap

-Synthetic/wool base layer upper

-Synthetic base layer lower

-One extra pair of underwear

-Two extra pairs of hiking socks



-Synthetic hat [To add some extra sun protection]

-Flip-flops [As camp shoes]

-Small microfiber towel

-All purpose biodegradable soap

-Toothbrush [Sawed-off] 


-Floss [Also useful for repairs]

-Tongue scraper [I know it’s weird but for me a fresh mouth is a real morale booster, and it weighs almost nothing. Especially when it's also cut in half]

-Small nail clippers 


-Foot powder [Not for feet]



-Drugs [Antihistamine, anti-inflammatory, anti-diarrheal, a few strong pain killers in case something goes very, very wrong]


-Blister pads

-EpiPen [Most people don't know, but I'm actually allergic to beef now]

-Biodegradable toilet paper

-Hand sanitizer

-Water purification droplets

-3 liter hydration system 

-3 liter dromedary [Primarily as a second container to hold water while it’s purifying. I won't be lugging around six liters of water everywhere]

-Titanium spork 

-Empty peanut butter jar [I’m going no-cook. That means no stove and no hot food. This peanut butter jar will be where I soak my dinners to life in cold water]

-Various spices [How I'll keep my sanity] 

-Stainless steal multitool [On the heavy side, but I'm still willing to take the weight for a sturdy companion. I also keep it in the waist belt pocket of my pack, so the weight goes directly to my hips]


-Duct tape [Rolled around a plastic straw to save space]

-Repair kit [Nylon patches, thread and needle, safety pin]


-Stormproof matches [Backup]

-Aluminum space blanket

-Maps [Number will vary according to where I am on the trail]




-Cheap, light cellphone [For calling emergency services if needed]

-Electronic tablet in waterproof case [See comments below]

-External battery

-Universal USB charger

-Wallet [Well, a ziplock bag that contains things that wallets do]

-Extra ziplock bags

-Earplugs [For cowbells and snorers]

The total base weight of my pack is just at 12 kilograms, or about 26 pounds (the final weight will fluctuate drastically based on how much food and water I'm carrying at any moment). That's heavier than I wanted, but much of that comes with the territory of solo hiking: I can't split gear with other people. In a group of three, for example, there would be one first aid kit, one repair kit, one tent, etc. Well I still need all of those things but there's only me to carry them.

In other ways I want to be conservative with my gear selection, because the consequences of an accident are amplified when hiking alone. I have an EpiPen, extra matches, and a space blanket even though I am almost certain I will never touch them, because they could mean the difference between life and death in an emergency. 

As I'm a little early in the hiking season, I want to be on the safe side with protection from the elements. The weather in the Pyrenees is notoriously unpredictable and temperamental. Maybe I could make it without a down vest and a sleeping bag liner, but I don't want to push my luck—especially because I'm not bringing a stove and can't easily warm myself if needed.

On that note, I decided after careful consideration to make it a no-cook hike. Even among hikers it's often considered an odd choice, but eventually I became convinced of its merits. I save a fair amount of weight by not bringing a stove or fuel. I don't have to hassle with cooking when I'm tired and hungry. What’s most appealing to me, however, is the time saved—depending on how many meals I would normally cook a day, up to two hours including cleanup. It means I can get going quickly in the morning and get to bed quickly at night. Plus, I can probably get a hot meal every once in a while when I go through a village to resupply. 

The question of technology was for me one of the most difficult when considering what to bring on my hike. Would bringing an iPad inhibit my ability to connect with my environment and live in the moment? Would it over complicate the trip? Is it cheating?

It quickly became clear that it was a going to save me weight. The iPad alone weighs less than the HRP guidebook, which I downloaded instead of bringing a hard copy. It's also functioning as a journal, reading material, a camera, and a video recorder. I could theoretically use it for GPS as well, but I don't think I'll have the need and it drains the battery.

It is certainly practical to have some contact, at least intermittently, with the outside world. I'm not certain how often I'll be able to find internet access, but I estimate about once a week. I can find weather forecasts and prepare accordingly. I can update my itinerary with the people I've entrusted it to, which is important because I'm solo hiking. In case of an emergency I would be able to contact family and change plans. 

I could also check my email, Facebook, Snapchat, and Instagram at every chance I get. I could theoretically download a ton of movies and entertain myself every night. I could play video games alone in the woods until my heart was content. But instead I intend to abstain from social media, games, surfing the web, etc. I feel like those could indeed become a distraction, and I relish the opportunity to let go of them and have some mental peace for a time. 

But I think this touches on a deeper philosophical issue: the relationship between humankind and nature. Firstly, this is a false opposition: humans are nature, but we separate ourselves from the rest of nature. That didn't start with the iPad. If I wanted to have a “pure connection” or “true encounter” with nature I would ditch my boots, all of my gear, my food, and instead dance around naked in the mountains foraging for plants. Then I would die, because our ability as humans to manipulate and insulate ourselves from the wild is the only reason we've survived and thrived. Ultimately, wise usage of gizmos on my hike will require personal responsibility and self-discipline—qualities that everyone in the 21st century needs to cultivate in relationships with technology in order to live healthy and fulfilled lives. 

What's in my pack will no doubt change as the hike goes on. I suspect that, no matter what, it will gradually become lighter. Some things will work well, some things won't. Some things I'll really need, some things I won't. If there's an interest, maybe I'll post an analysis of my equipment afterwards! 


A Dream—The Haute Randonnée Pyrénéenne



I awoke in the cold mountain hut the same way I went to bed—alone. It was the second day of my hike through the Parc National des Pyrénées in October 2012. The day before, I had slowly ascended the Gaube Valley towards the Pic de Vignemale, the highest peak in the French Pyrenees. But as I had drawn closer, the weather had worsened. From my map I could tell that I was close to the base of the mountain, but I hadn't actually seen it yet due to the thick gray mist. As I stirred some nuts into my oatmeal, I glanced outside to see the clouds retreat for an instant, revealing a dramatic wall of granite right before my eyes. The rush of perspective overwhelmed me with awe, and then the valley was veiled again with clouds just as quickly as it had been uncovered.

Nevertheless, I set off and hiked for the entire morning without seeing more than fifty feet through the fog. It was a grueling path, working up to the highest point I would reach in my entire trip. The air became thinner: I made a push, paused, and restarted without any proof of progress from my surroundings. Then, suddenly, the sun burst over the ridge-line to my left, immediately banishing the mist. Everything around me glistened with dew, and directly in front of me—close—the spire of Vignemale shone brilliantly.




I think that moment of rapture, when both the light and the jagged mountains pierced through the clouds, was when I first sensed I would return to the Pyrenees. It was a slow realization that I wasn't anywhere near done here. In the months following my trip, the sense turned into an idea: to traverse the entire range from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. In the months following my return to America, the idea turned into a dream. Then over time the dream intensified and crystallized into a plan—the Haute Randonnée Pyrénéenne.

The Pyrenean Haute Route, as it's called in English (or even more commonly just the HRP), is just one of several ways to hike across the Pyrenees. The GR 10 runs all the way across on the French side. It has a twin on the Spanish side, the GR 11. Both of these trails are well-developed and well-traveled, often providing a mountain refuge for the hiker each night. The HRP, on the other hand, is more of an idea than an actual trail. It attempts the follow the highest walkable path all the way across the Pyrenees, frequently crossing the border while linking together bits of the GR 10 and GR 11 with local trails, livestock paths, and bushwhacking. Over the course of 45 days the HRP thru-hiker travels almost 500 miles with 140,000 feet of elevation change. Quite the ambition.

Yet even though I've had this dream for so long, it's often proven difficult to communicate—most of all to a close friend whose wedding I'm missing, to parents concerned for my safety and unclear future, and to a woman I love dearly but from whom I'm voluntarily prolonging separation. When I tell people I'm going on a 45-day hike alone in the mountains, the nearly unanimous response is, “You're crazy.” The rest say, “Be careful.”

Part of what draws me is the challenge. I’m guessing the HRP will be the most physically demanding thing I've ever done, and that's very appealing. It will also be a test of my wilderness skills—most of all, navigation. There will certainly be a mental challenge as well, which I've heard can often be the most taxing part of a thru-hike. I crave the feeling of success and accomplishment that can only come from pushing oneself to the absolute limit and overcoming.

A few people expressed interest in doing the hike with me, but an essential part of my dream has always been solitude. This of course amplifies the challenge and raises the stakes, but I feel that solitude has inherent value, especially when interacting with the natural world. Being alone enables deeper introspection and reflection—maybe even making them necessities. Of course it'd be nice to experience some self-discovery or revelation along the way, but you can never expect these things. 

I think it'll be good for my health. I'm not in peak physical condition at the moment, and that's not a great feeling. I’ve known the vitality that comes from having a fit mind and body and I wouldn't mind returning to that level of fitness. Also, as a sort of experiment, I'm abstaining from caffeine, nicotine, and alcohol for the duration of the hike. It's not that I consume any of these in excess, but they are easy things to cut out and I'm curious to see if it will have any effect on me. Finally, and possibly most importantly, I want to look tan and lean for all those pool parties I'll attend when I get back to the U.S. in August. 

So here I am, about to start this hike. I’m about to begin what I’ve dreamt of for more than two years. After spending so much time gathering information, reflecting, and planning, the moment has finally arrived. Just like any other major event, it doesn’t seem real now that it’s here. Whether it feels real or not, tomorrow morning I'm going to walk down to the beach in Hendaye, touch the water, and turn to walk east. Wish me luck. 


An Update

I owe all of my readers (and my mother) an apology. Fortunately, I’ve been extremely busy over the past two months: travelling all over, seeing the world, and just generally transitioning. Unfortunately, it’s left me little time to process, write, and share. I’ve been on the move so much someone recently asked me if I was “perennially homeless.” It’s not far from the truth. Here’s a little life update on what I’ve been up to, what I’m doing now, and what’s to come.

The first of my trips was over Easter weekend. The other English assistants and I went to Chamonix, France as a last hoorah together. The town itself is bustling with tourists, but that’s for a good reason—the surrounding mountains are magnificent.  


Mont Blanc


Shortly after, during my school’s spring break, I spent two weeks in the Rhône Valley and Southern France. I couch surfed, saw heaps of Roman ruins, met up with a friend from college, and reunited with the host family from my high school trip in 2009.


The Calanques, featuring Derek Franklin


When I returned I had only a week left at my school. I said farewell to my students, colleagues, and roommates. Some friends in Chambéry have been kind enough to allow me to keep all of my things in their basement during this nomadic period of mine.


Saying goodbye to some of my favorite students


Next was my month-long voyage. The first stop was Paris, where I spent five days doing obscure things that I had never been at liberty to do. All of my prior trips were with first-time visitors eager to see the main attractions, so I ended up repeating the same things. This time I saw Paris on my own terms.


Place des Vosges


Ireland was my second destination, where I spent about nine days touring the island. I greatly enjoyed the lively cities, the lush countryside, and the welcoming people. I will no doubt return someday.


The Cliffs of Moher


I took a ferry across the Irish Sea to Scotland, where I spent more than two weeks exploring both the Lowlands and the Highlands. I had originally planned to descend to England, but I found Scotland so agreeable that I simply decided to spend the rest of my time and money there. I visited distilleries, heard a lot of bagpipes, and shared quality time with two dear friends from back home.


The largest scotch whisky collection in the world


I intend to post about all of these in greater detail, but it may still be a while. That is because I am currently preparing for a challenge I’ve had in my sights for over two years. On June 19th I’m going to start the Haute Randonnée Pyrenéenne, a 45-day hike across the Pyrenees from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. At this very moment I’m squatting in a friend’s living room in Chambéry for a week, digesting my travels and preparing for the coming expedition.

For the next month and a half I’ll essentially be off the grid, but I hope to prepare some pieces in advance that will automatically post while I’m gone—stay tuned. If all goes according to plan, which is not a guarantee, then I’ll finish with my hike in early August and return directly to the US.

My post-European future is less definite. I plan to apply to creative non-fiction MFA programs this fall (which would start in the fall of 2016), and I’ll search for a job in Missouri when I return. I’m sorry again for my silence, but I hope you’re now up to speed!


Here's some random Marseille street art for you

An Exceedingly Humble Guide [Part Three]: Lyon

Lyon is an unequivocally terrible city. It is, simply put, a wretched hive of scum and villainy. You, dear reader, will have lived an enviable life if only you can boast that you never entered its miserable confines. Still, Lyon’s matchless unpleasantness deserves a review of sorts. This guide will outline exactly why it is an awful city and specifically what you should avoid if you are ever forced to visit.


Once the prestigious capital of Roman Gaul, Lyon is now the decrepit center of the French Rhône-Alpes region. The metropolitan area is the second largest in the country, home to some two million pitiable inhabitants. The layout of Lyon is determined by the surrounding hills and rivers. The confluence of the Rhône and Saône creates a peninsula called the Presqu’île. To the north of this peninsula is the neighborhood of La Croix-Rousse. On the left bank of the Rhône several neighborhoods are grouped together as the “Rive Gauche.” On the right bank of the Saône are Vieux Lyon—or “Old Lyon”—and the neighborhood of the Fourvière, which overlooks the entire metropolis. Travel between these areas is a continuous ordeal thanks to the sorry state of Lyon’s infrastructure: there’s only 1 international airport, 3 train stations, 4 metro lines, 5 tram lines, 123 bus lines, and 340 bicycle-hire service stations.


The office of tourism in Lyon has developed a clever little stylized slogan: “Only Lyon.” They would have you think that Lyon is filled with manifold attractions, but don’t be fooled dear reader—it is but a cheap trick. Lyon would be a terrible place to take people who are visiting you from America. There is nothing worth seeing, but there is indeed plenty to avoid.

Photo credit: Anne Donnelly

Definitely don't bring friends to Lyon or they'll look like this

Stay away from the Fourvière hill. There’s no point in looking out over the vast urban panorama. The Basilique Notre-Dame de Fourvière has an unoriginal exterior and the décor inside is terribly bland. The ancient Roman theatre and odeon are uninteresting and they certainly don’t offer a fascinating view into the lives and cultures of ancient peoples.


No views to be found here...

The exterior of the basilica

The interior of the basilica 

The (restored) steps of the Roman theatre 

Don’t even think about visiting the Presqu’île. The Opéra Nouvel hosts no events worthy of note. There is no pleasure to be derived from strolling along the banks of the rivers and taking in the city views. The whole neighborhood seems haphazard: the Place Bellecour, Place Carnot, Place des Jacobins, Place des Terreaux, and all of the expansive avenues connecting them seem as if they were organized by a blind person.


The Saône

At Place Bellecour looking up to the Fourvière

Statue of Louis XIV in the center of Place Bellecour

Rue de la République 

The Hôtel de Ville in the Place des Terreaux 

Keep away from La Croix-Rousse, dear reader, if you know what is good for you. Just walking down the streets, one can sense the oppressively bohemian and lively atmosphere. The Roman amphitheater located there is just like every other Roman amphitheater. It is a neighborhood completely bereft of history and culture (apart from it being the capital of the European silk industry for several centuries).

Graffiti in La Croix-Rousse 

Kevin from Up

Don’t waste your time with Parc de la Tête d’Or; it is one of the oldest, largest, and dullest urban green spaces in France. It has nothing to offer in any season: the gardens are lifeless in the spring, you shouldn’t bother boating on the lake in the summer, the foliage lacks any color in autumn, and it’s a miserable place to spend Christmas Day biking around with the woman you love.

Cherry blossom

Steer clear of Vieux Lyon at all costs. For some reason UNESCO has declared it a world heritage site—probably as some sort of joke. The Cathédrale Saint-Jean is just a modest little chapel of no cultural significance. The narrow pedestrian streets and Renaissance architecture throughout the neighborhood leave much to be desired. Vieux Lyon is known for its traboules (covered passageways originally used for silk transportation in wet weather), but what’s so special about a few tunnels?

Cathédrale Saint-Jean

Traboule marking

In addition to all of these places to avoid, it should be noted that Lyon offers an embarrassingly meager selection of museums. The tourist unfortunate enough to travel to Lyon can see it all in a short afternoon: the Gallo-Roman Museum, the Fine Arts Museum, the Modern Art Museum, the Institute of Contemporary Arts, the Confluence Museum (of science and anthropology), the African Museum, the Hôtel-Dieu (medical museum), the Center for the History of the Resistance and Deportation, the Decorative Arts Museum, the Gadagne Museum (history of Lyon), the Museum of Automated Puppets, the Lumière Museum (the birthplace of cinematography), the Miniature and Cinema Museum, the Silk Weavers’ House (museum of the Lyonnais silk industry), the Printing Museum, and the Laundry Museum.

Roman mosaic 

Roman keys


Regarding Lyonnais culture, there’s not much to be said. While Lyon might be lauded as the gastronomic capital of France (and sometimes the world), anyone with a sense of taste will disagree. There is a dearth of regional ingredients, excellent markets, and international restaurants. The traditional Lyonnais eatery, the inhospitable bouchon, serves minuscule dishes of a quality barely rivaling Kentucky Fried Chicken. Any culinary culture that Lyon once had has been thoroughly stamped out by the infamous chef Paul Bocuse (whose only praise comes from fringe organizations, such as the Culinary Institute of America who named him Chef of the Century). Worst of all, dear reader, you’re forced to wash this so-called food down with the obscure and tasteless wines of Burgundy, Beaujolais, and the Rhône—too insignificant to warrant further review.


quenelle, just try it

Lyon is widely known for its annual lights show, the Fête des Lumières—although it’s difficult to understand why. The Fête des Lumières is one of the top three biggest festive gatherings in the world in terms of attendance (after Rio Carnival and Munich Oktoberfest). Three to four million people come to see the hackneyed train wreck each year. It is a truly pedestrian event in both senses of the word: every road closes to traffic and swells with spectators. The entire city of Lyon is lit up by dozens of unimaginative installations, ranging from run-of-the-mill psychedelic animations projected on the cathedral to giant, bromidic puppet shows. You will see more originality, dear reader, by driving around your neighborhood in Christmastime. 

Cathédrale Saint-Jean 

Giant puppets and interpretive dance 

The Hôtel de Ville

The festival is actually dedicated to the Virgin Mary

Sure, Lyon may have ranked as the second best city in France by the Mercer Quality of Living Survey, but anyone who visits can observe otherwise. As you can discern from this guide, dear reader, there is nothing to see or do in Lyon. Its only redeeming features are six Starbucks locations and transportation to other destinations. It is utterly devoid of vitality, diversity, and culture. You will lose a fragment of your soul for every second you spend in such a miserable place, just ask any of two million people who reluctantly call Lyon home.

Notes from Andalucía

The notes, spelling errors and all
















-It is good to fall asleep reclined at the brasero.







-Why Mary so decked out?

-This church brings out my iconoclastic tendencies.












-In churches they pay to change the flowers every day.



On top of the Sierra de Aras

The Virgen de Araceli


Panorama from the Sierra de Aras


Patio decoration



-The streets are lined with orange trees. Quite charming.









-Tapas number two: olives and almonds.





-We see the Holy Week carriers of the icons practicing.






The first thing you notice in Córdoba

The Roman bridge and Mezquita beyond

The minaret of the Mezquita, now a bell tower 

Looking up at the dome of the church section

The mihrab

Practicing for the Semana Santa 

Looking out from the Alcázar de los Reyes Cristianos 

A lot of olive oil...



-All of my friends hyped up Sevilla.






-Meeting up with more friends, eating more tapas











Catedral de Santa María de la Sede de Sevilla

La Giralda 

La Torre del Oro

Metropol Parasol

Looking across the river at the Calle Betis 

Nuestra Señora de la Esperanza 

Plaza de España 

Gloria, Isabella, and Chumi


Granada: ancient capital, cultural junction, fiesta epicenter




-Every dwelling I’ve seen in Granada contains hookah.









-The sun crashes against the walls of Alhambra.







-All of these gardens must be wonderful in summer.










Tuna de Ciencias de Granada 

The ugliest dog alive

Catedral de Granada

A street musician playing the hang/handpan 

Alhambra from the Plaza de San Nicolas 

Carlos V Palace

Inside the Moorish palace 

Patio de los Leones 

Inside the Alcazaba

Looking out on all of Granada


Málaga: idyllic Mediterranean city, tourist magnet, my last stop




-Palm trees remind me where I am.


-The roads are littered with the leftovers of Carnaval.






-Hiking up to Gibralfaro… it was hot!

-I love it when museums are called interpretation centers.











Catedral de Málaga

The altar 

Plaza de la Merced

The Roman theatre, with the Alcazaba above it

Inside the Alcazaba 

Looking down at the Plaza de toros de La Malagueta 

The Mediterranean 



-Spanish is a good language for rap, it’s rhythmic.

-When Spanish people laugh they say jajaja.





Mason signatures in the Mezquita de Córdoba

I've never visited a place that loves salad as much as Spain








-In Andalucía many houses are decorated with Catholic iconography.

-Cat-calling seemed more common.


-It takes forever to leave a gathering of people.


-Nail salons are operated by Asians in Spain as well.

-I will still never, ever, use a bidet.



Saying goodbye

An Exceedingly Humble Guide [Part Two]: Grenoble


Grenoble has much in common with Annecy: they are both cities, they are both located in France, and they both contain people. Grenoble is a truly majestic city, nestled beneath the Vercors, Belledonne, and Chartreuse mountains. It is so nestled that the amalgam of concrete buildings stretches all the way up to the slopes of its geographic confines. If you, dear reader, ever have the chance to visit, you too might feel nestled—suffocated in a beautiful way.


If you are working as an English teaching assistant in Savoy, Grenoble will probably be the nearest real city. With the resources to sustain and entertain 600,000 people, you will frequent it in an attempt to satisfy your cosmopolitan inclinations. It is to this metropolis that you will voyage in search of important government offices, a movie theatre showing Interstellar in English, and a Mexican restaurant that you will have convinced yourself is the best in all of France (your desperation for margaritas having clouded your judgment).

Grenoble has the air of an old capital. Evidence of the city’s former political clout remains: expansive boulevards, elegant apartments, and—most notably—an immense prison-fort looming over the entire city from atop its hill. This last item, the Bastille (a note to the debutant: not the infamous Bastille of the French Revolution), has become a considerable attraction. Instead of serving as a bastion of punishment, it is now a citadel of tourism—a citadel whose import is readily apparent in the volume of Asian visitors it attracts. If someone from the Orient is on vacation in Europe, it means they have travelled a great distance and their destination is a worthy one. Millions, if not billions, of Asians visit the Bastille every year. They summit the fortress by way of the téléphérique: a system reminiscent of a ski lift, but with magical glass space globes. This is, of course, a destination that you do not want to spoil by physical exertion: from the Bastille you can see the glorious mountains, the winding river, the expansive city, the marvelous high-rises, and an enchanting haze of pollution that renders the whole landscape mysterious and ethereal—if a little obscured. 

But dear reader, someone as cultured as you will not be contented so easily with the main attraction. Grenoble has so much more to offer: rapid public transportation, modern shopping centers, a myriad of ethnic food, and an abundance of bars and dance clubs in which you can completely redefine your previous notions of personal space. The Museum of Grenoble is like a miniature Louvre. The iron-lined balconies and mansard roofs near the Place Hubert Dubedout are reminiscent of Haussmann apartments in Paris. Notre-Dame de Grenoble is just like Notre Dame de Paris, in that they have the words Notre-Dame in their name. Why would you go anywhere else (for example Paris), if you could go to Grenoble? 

A Haussmann apartment building in Paris

As you probably know, dear reader, a city is so much more than its attractions. Grenoble is a rich tapestry woven of beautiful and diverse neighborhoods. Take, for example, Arlequin. It was here in 2010 that, after a robbery suspect was killed in a shoot-out with the police, massive riots erupted throughout the housing projects. In the following days gunmen fired upon police, SWAT teams sieged apartment complexes, and protestors burned dozens of cars. Such culture! On your visit to Grenoble, it is likely that a friend of a friend will invite you over for a raclette party at his hippy commune located in a condemned house in the middle of Arlequin. You will probably attend this event with your friend (a local) after you (not a local) assure her that the neighborhood is probably just fine. It is not, you will emphasize, one of the most dangerous in all of France. As if the universe seeks to prove your point, you will certainly not find a knife just lying on the ground as you approach the commune, and your perception of Grenoble will certainly not be thus undermined.


The knife that was not found


Overall Grenoble is splendidly existent, magnificently populated, and lavishly urban. You, dear reader, will almost certainly visit at some point. It might be that you don’t have many choices for real cities, but there’s no need for other choices when you have a metropolitan paradise like Grenoble.


An Exceedingly Humble Guide [Part One]: Annecy

Dear reader, it is to you, the curious and enlightened, that these exceedingly humble guides are addressed. Truly they are intended to be amicable, for in the wake of such novelties as the Internet and television this culture finds itself lacking in goodwill and classical sensibilities. Surely there is no better way to restore them than to become acquainted with France—that heart of classical beauty. France is a country rich in history, culture, and diversity. Therefore, it would behoove you to explore it a little, either in person or in contemplation.

Furthermore, dear reader, if you ever happen to find yourself working in the French Alps as an English teaching assistant, you shall find the following guides to be of especially great utility (and they may mirror your experiences). In such a circumstance, you will be working only twelve hours a week in a tiny city, and you will have both the time and the desire to organize some excursions; your only hindrance shall be your pocketbook. Without further ado, here is the first episode.

Annecy is the most beautiful city in France.

Actually, upon further reflection, Annecy is the most beautiful city on planet earth.

Actually this second claim could be considered modest: while science has yet to explore extrasolar planets and the potential civilizations thereupon, it seems probable that Annecy is a significant contender for the most beautiful city in the observable universe.

If you, dear reader, are in the region of Savoy someday, you will be humbled by the mere thought of your proximity to Annecy. As it is only a short train ride away from where you might reside, you will no doubt make multiple pilgrimages to adore this crown jewel of a city. Truly you will be a pilgrim, for there are no tourists in a settlement as glorious and hallowed as Annecy.

If you arrive by train and intend to make your way into the town center, you will be greeted shortly by Annecy’s picturesque canals, the first of many gifts this place will bestow on you. These waterways of the Thiou River, while few, form the vital arteries of this city of fifty thousand. The pristine alpine currents of the canals put to shame the matrices of lagoon and rubbish found in Stockholm, Amsterdam, or Venice. 


The Thiou River


These arteries are lined not with flesh but with benevolent walkways and delightful houses, whose walls of windows sometimes push right up to the water. It is common to see these paths and bridges filled with booths from which locals sell their foods and wares. There is one particular booth that traffics in Native American flute covers of such classics as, My Heart Will Go On. The vendor is generous enough to project this music, filling the air with a soundtrack perfectly suited to a French mountain town.


Street markets


Follow the current upstream, and you will eventually arrive at the Lac d’Annecy. If the canals are the arteries of Annecy, the lake is its heart. What was one of the most polluted bodies of water in France fifty years ago is now crystal clear and exceptionally pure. The lake is hemmed in by Annecy on one side and a crown of mountains on the other. On a calm day, you can witness the breathtaking marriage of peak and heaven numinously mirrored on the surface of the water. Truthfully, the allure of Annecy does depend largely on the weather. There is, however, only one imaginable reason that the Fates could deliver anything but beautiful conditions to Annecy’s shores: jealousy.


Lac d'Annecy


Dear reader, there is no greater temporal pleasure than to stroll along the edge of the Lac d’Annecy. If you follow the path northward, you will encounter the Pont des Amours: the Lovers’ Bridge. It arches over the tree-bordered Canal du Vassé, simultaneously dramatic and humble. Here, like on all of Annecy’s waters, pairs of swans pass the time together. Of course, they are not the only ones! Any place called the Lovers’ Something is bound to attract lovers; it is not so much descriptive as prophetic. These couples are frequently seen gazing into each other’s eyes, holding hands, and (even!) kissing. It is also common for lovers to take self-portraits with their portable telephones—framed by a flawless backdrop worthy of their everlasting commitment.


Canal du Vassé


If you have the good fortune of making a pilgrimage to Annecy, you will encounter no shortage of attractions. After all, such a destination is certain to have many other pilgrims, each demanding as much entertainment as the last. Go visit the Château d’Annecy: the previous residence of Geneva’s nobility is filled with historical objects, as well as windows so clean that American girls are prone to collide into them with great force in their haste to take a picture of the view. Explore the Palais de l’Île: a really really old building whose purpose is difficult to understand but whose charm is not. Absorb one of the most transcendent sunsets of your entire life while resting in a field of perfect grass.


Palais de l'Île

Dear reader! There is one last attraction that absolutely necessitates your attention. It could only be the last subject of this humble guide, for it dwarfs all other natural and cultural treasures found in Annecy. In the old quarter, past the clock tower, nestled on the first floor of a building from the seventeenth century, is a boulangerie. This bakery is unlike any other bakery anywhere, because it produces what can only be described as the apex of the culinary arts and the human experience of taste: the maxi pain au chocolat. Not only is this French pastry infinitely superior to its bumbling Anglophone cousin, the chocolate croissant, its dimensions are unparalleled in the history of mankind. The maxi pain au chocolat alone, dear reader, justifies any amount of effort required to visit this corner of our planet!


The Supreme Maxi Pain au Chocolat

An apology is warranted here: perhaps it was imprudent to begin the series with this installment. It is likely that now every successive guide will pale in comparison to Annecy, the most beautiful city in the observable universe. 

Panorama at sunset

The Wealth of the Mountains

The Bauges, looking north from just under the Dent d'Arclusaz

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings

–John Muir











The blanket







A gap in the trees




A triumphant Dawn




Adam looking out on the valley




Traversing the Chartreuse


Over the last several years, traveling and living abroad have made me a sort of real life Yes Man; I try to accept every opportunity that presents itself. Special access to a cathedral spire? Sure. Spontaneous trip to Turin? Absolutely. Sharing a bottle of exorbitantly expensive wine? Please and thank you. So naturally, when my new friends Léo and Antonin invited me last minute to join them on their weekend traverse through the Chartreuse, I said yes.

The massif of the Chartreuse stretches between Chambéry and Grenoble, and—even though the peaks reach only modest altitudes when compared to the high Alps—it’s not a geological formation to be trifled with. This is real hiking, Léo warned me; we would span the entire range from north to south: about eighty kilometers of distance, five thousand meters of ascent, and five thousand meters of descent in three days. I, however, was thoroughly psyched, and the fact that these measurements were metric made them all the easier to ignore. The weather forecast was ominous as well, but I was not to be deterred.


Last minute preparation


Day one:

On Friday, October tenth, I met up with Léo and Antonin at their house. We were joined by an Austrian named Bernhard, a friend of Antonin from his time studying in Calgary. I learned that we were also to rendezvous with a British girl named Emily somewhere in the mountains—as of Friday the location wasn’t very specific.

This ambiguity seemed characteristically French—as were many other aspects of our voyage. As we split the group gear and loaded up our packs, I couldn’t help but notice our food: paté, taboulé, cassoulet, saucisson, Nutella, and on our way out of Chambéry we purchased no less than six fresh baguettes. This was also a francophone journey in that it started far later than originally anticipated—after a lackadaisical lunch and some desultory preparation, we left at four in the afternoon.


I felt our departure from the city slowly; we went from downtown to the suburbs, then outer villages, then the countryside, until finally there was nothing but a lone trail in the forest. We followed the French grandes routes—primarily the GR 9. Much to my disappointment, I quickly distinguished myself as the weakest member of our party. I had the shortest legs, the heaviest pack, and I was the most out of shape. The difficult trail only widened this gap: I learned quickly that the switchback is a trend that never really caught on in the French trail system. Instead of zigzagging up the mountain, the path went straight up at a relentlessly steep incline. Even worse, the trails were nothing but mud as a result of the recent rain. With every step, the ground absorbed my energy. Any momentum gained after a short break was quickly sapped away by the fluid earth.

The GR trail marker

If the first day of the hike discouraged me with its challenges, it consoled me with its views. We walked through the picturesque meadows of the countryside, passing furry cows as they grazed. When I periodically looked behind me, I could see all of Chambéry, nestled in the valley. As we pressed on we caught larger and larger glimpses of the dramatic northern face of Mont Granier. We ascended into the clouds, feeling their cool moisture envelope us. Then we climbed above the mist as the sun was setting: we found ourselves in a numinous plane, punctuated by mountaintops. 

Mont Granier


The most impressive panorama, however, waited for us at the Pointe de la Gorgeat. At 1486 meters it was the highest elevation we achieved on the first day. Although the sun had set, the valleys we straddled were still illuminated in the glow of twilight—it was just barely too dark for pictures. Behind us, we looked down at the lights emanating from Chambéry and the surrounding towns; the giant Lac du Bourget was a dark void surrounded by glimmering settlements. In front of us, the entire Chartreuse massif presented itself in an otherworldly scene. Only the outlines of the mountains were defined; their dark masses jutted out from the earth like broken, contorted teeth. The clouds hung in the sky as dark smoke, and the scattered lights of small villages in the distance burned like the last dying embers of some epic cataclysm.


After absorbing it all in amazement, our party began a whirlwind descent. The conglomeration of mud and leaves that was so tiresome on the way up proved to be sympathetic in descent. With each lunging step, the ground cushioned the impact; we could safely rocket down the slope without destroying our joints. An hour or so later, we arrived at the outskirts of a village and stopped. In the darkness we set up camp, ate, stretched, and discussed the imminent storm. 

An unexpected friend

Day two:

At six in the morning there was a break in the rain. All four of us awoke simultaneously, and when we transitioned out of a sleepy daze and realized our fortune, we moved. As quickly as possible, we took down the tents and loaded our packs. We went down into the village to make breakfast (if you can really make soggy baguettes and jam, that is), finding shelter under someone’s deck. After a slight scare about our dwindling water supply, an early riser in the village pointed us toward a public restroom where we could refill our bottles.

Antonin, Bernie, and Léo navigating

Before the sun had risen, we were back on the trail. For a while, the hiking was relaxed as we moved forward in the valley. Eventually though, it was time to get up on the ridge. I was confused as we approached a small cirque. Eventually I realized that we were to follow a solitary forested corridor up the cliffs. An ominous sign read: Col de l’Alpette .9 km; 1 hr. It doesn’t usually take an hour to walk one kilometer…

We hiked up that


More mud, more ascent, no switchbacks. As we pressed up the slope, no one had the breath to talk. The only sound came from the cowbells below us in the valley. The multitude of bells reverberated and echoed into one, continuous drone. It was both charming and eerie.

As we neared the top, the sun peaked over the ridge right above us. The sudden burst of light created intense shadows, and the energy of the sight gave me motivation to keep going. Once we reached the crest, we stopped for a moment to enjoy some chocolate and our sense of accomplishment.

Nearing the Col de l'Alpette

The next section of the trail was sublime. We continued underneath the backside of Mont Granier into a brilliant meadow, which was covered by the lushest grass I have ever seen. The blanket of green was wet from the night before, and it glistened in the directional sunlight. We weaved in and out of rocky glades and diffuse evergreens. Bernie proved to be quite the forager: he found wild blueberries, blackberries, and cherries. I have never met an Austrian before, but somehow this seemed to be fitting.


South side of Mont Granier

Bernie's bounty

Around this time, Antonin’s knee started giving him significant pain. Apparently the morning’s ascent had revived an old injury, and as we moved Antonin struggled to keep up with his limp. As much as I could sympathize with Antonin (I’ve had intermittent pain in my left knee since my hike in the Pyrenees two years ago), I was also relieved to no longer be the slowest. While Léo and Bernie eagerly progressed, Antonin and I stuck together and followed at a slower pace—a trend that continued for the rest of the trip.

After the meadow, we transitioned into the high plateau of the Chartreuse. At the risk of sounding less-than-literary, the whole landscape truly felt like something out of Lord of the Rings. We were on a great journey through misty clouds, ancient forests, and dramatic mountains. Within the course of the day we passed through a dozen distinct environments; the diversity gave the impression of elapsed time—as if we had been traveling for months.

The Chartreuse is powerful. Even in the daylight, my impression from the night before at the Pointe de la Gorgeat lingered: you can’t escape the sense of being immersed in a brutal geology, something both mythical and violent. The mountains are giant shards, and you can almost feel the pressure that formed them. In some places, it’s as if you are walking amid the collapsed ruins of a giant stone table. In others, you can see the enormous folds of rock that were formed when some ancient colossus kneaded the peaks in his hands.

On the high plateau


After some more ascending and descending, we stopped for lunch. It was a hardy backpacker’s lunch—comprised primarily of different forms of fat (and a little bread). I shamelessly sucked on a heaping sporkful of Nutella for dessert. It amazes me that, when I'm backpacking, I can feel my energy being restored after a meal. 


Beaufort and pâté, garnished with bread

We followed the GR 9 into a thick forest. It wasn’t long after we left that I slipped in the mud and bent one of my trekking poles. I wasn’t too happy, and my mood sunk further once we entered the woods: the trail became a disgusting trench. Whereas at other points on our journey we could just walk beside the trail when it was particularly muddy, in the forest it was flanked by the most combative of thistles—there was no choice but to trudge through the deep, watery muck. I could also surmise from several of my senses that the mud was in no small part composed of cow feces (local herders also use the GR system to graze cattle). Mud, mud, mud—it was the constant of our voyage. Memorial of mud; millennia of mire.

After the forest we worked our way toward the Col de Bellefond, a pass situated in a beautiful crown of mountains. The approach was littered with boulders of all sizes, and once again we felt ourselves in a fantasy as we weaved in and out of the rocks and trees, passing a pack of chamois. When we arrived at the top, we were shrouded by clouds. Although the weather had been far more agreeable than we expected—it was supposed to rain on us all day—it was a little disappointing to not be able to devour more spectacular views. In another way, I suppose, the clouds did make the occasional glimpse all the more titillating.

Looking up towards the Col de Bellefond

A glimpse of the other side of the pass


Again we rocketed down the mountain. Antonin was able to get cell service, and he contacted Emily. We would meet up her and her friend first thing in the morning. As the sun began to set, the trail seemed never-ending. We had been hiking for almost twelve hours straight, and we just wanted to be done for the day. After becoming tired, then becoming numb to the stress, our muscles were reaching a third wave of fatigue. Léo and Bernie kept pushing on, hoping to find a campsite before dark. Antonin and I lagged behind, out of sight and out of earshot. We were both in pain now, as my ankle had started to hurt with every step. I don’t know exactly how long that final leg of the day lasted, but it felt interminable. Finally, well after dark, we stumbled upon the other half of our party. In an exhausted hurry we ate and then collapsed.


Sketchy bridge


Day three:

Although Antonin and Bernie woke up at six, Léo and I slept in for another forty minutes. I use the word sleep liberally, for most of the previous night had been an attempt to find some modicum of comfort with a giant rock in the middle of my back and while sliding down to one side of the tent. The briskness of the morning and the beautifully blushing sky, however, quickly invigorated me.

Shortly after we hit the trail, we ran into a section of very steep rock. We descended slowly using all limbs, but the rock was polished from the friction of thousands of other hikers. At one point I slipped, and the only thing that stopped me from a ten foot fall was landing on top of Antonin, who was down climbing directly below me. Scrambling with a pack on isn’t very fun.


After the rocky section, we rounded a corner and caught our first glimpse of Grenoble in the distance. Even further beyond that—about 70 km away to be precise—Mont Aiguille poked up above its neighboring peaks. We continued on for a bit until we were above another pass, the Col du Coq. Léo spotted Emily waiting below us, and he started sprinting down the switchbacks (apparently they do exist, just where you don’t need them). When I reached the bottom, Emily, topped with blonde dreadlocks, greeted me with a full hug. To my utter surprise, I looked over and saw that Emily’s friend was none other than Dawn—a British teaching assistant who I had just met at our training a week before! Once the six of us had all been introduced or reunited, our formidable multi-national coalition set off for Grenoble.

An ecstatic Léo


I want to brush it off as mere coincidence, but soon after the women joined our group we started having navigational issues. We took the wrong trail, doubled back, and then decided to take a shortcut. This shortcut somehow led us to a peak, the Bec Charvet. To get there we climbed off the trail up a blank, steep face of loose rock. Then we continued up yet another steep path of mud, on which everyone slipped at least once. Even though the original goal of making our trip shorter was a failure, the view was astounding. From there we swooped down yet again and then followed a gravel road for quite some time. It had a gentle negative slope, which left us all with enough breath to socialize—a welcome change.

Looking down at the Grésivaudan from the Bec Charvet

On top of the Bec Charvet

For the next leg of the trip we would follow a ridge for several kilometers up until the Fort du Saint-Eynard. The effort it took to get up on the ridge was worth it; for a couple of hours we commanded a view of the winding Isère and the outskirts of Grenoble in the Grésivaudan below. A breathtaking view awaited us at the fort. We peered over at the Vercours and Belledonne ranges, and we looked down at Grenoble and the Bastille (which, in turn, overlooks Grenoble). It felt simultaneously as if we had already arrived and as if we still had a long way to go. The latter was more accurate.

Grenoble from the Fort du Saint-Eynard


As the group made our last big plunge, we realized that we were all out of water. I was surprised by how quickly thirst gripped us all. No one spoke on the way down, almost as if to safeguard the moisture in our saliva from evaporating. As we descended lower and lower, I could also feel the temperature rising; I had become accustomed to the chill of the mountains. At the Col de Vence we stumbled upon a spigot, and we guzzled down as much water as we could fit in our stomachs. There was only one stretch remaining before we arrived at the Bastille, but just like the day before it seemed unending as we drew nearer to the close of our journey. Trees encased the trail; the only thing to focus on was my feet. After a sign identifying the Bastille as one kilometer away, I began counting my paces to distract myself (it took 823). At long last, we arrived just as the sun was about to set.

I had imagined myself coming up to the Bastille from Grenoble at some point as a tourist; I would have never guessed that I would descend upon it as a stepping stone at the end of a greater adventure. Sitting there on top of the Bastille, yet again I was struck with the same powerful scene from the Point de la Gorgeat. This time, however, it was just light enough to record. Although I hesitate to share such a poor approximation of the real experience, maybe it can impart something to my words.



Léo led us down a secret path below the Bastille that he discovered when he lived in the area (which was, this time, an actual shortcut). After just over fifty hours from our departure, we stepped off the trail and onto the city streets of Grenoble, elated and exhausted. Before we ate and caught the last train, Antonin snuck off to the nearest grocery store and bought a bottle of green Chartreuse, which is produced in and named after the massif we had just successfully crossed. Sitting in the company of friends, enjoying the complexity of an herbal liqueur, and feeling the heat of fifty percent alcohol—I can think of no better way to have celebrated traversing the Chartreuse. 


In March I hiked back up to the Pointe de la Gorgeat in daytime, as I promised myself I would in October. Instead of snow, imagine it ablaze in the dying sunlight. 


Looking out at the Chartreuse range from the Pointe de la Gorgeat in early March

Three Weeks in Limbo

The outskirts of Chambéry


I am in France! For the last three weeks I’ve been occupied with getting acclimated to my new city and preparing for my work as an English teaching assistant. I had forgotten how much I love this country and language. I had forgotten that everyone looks beautiful, I had forgotten that everyone smokes, and I had forgotten that every single toilet is different.

Unfortunately, I had also forgotten about the bureaucracy. France has a cultivated and rich tradition of administrative entanglement. The paperwork is simultaneously nightmarish and impressive. Over the past few weeks I’ve had to accomplish a series of tasks: find a temporary place to stay, get a cell phone, find a permanent place to stay, open a bank account, register with my school, get a bus pass, and finalize my working visa with the French government (to name a few). To complete these tasks I’ve had to furnish a multitude of proofs, circumnavigate catch-22s, schedule and reschedule meetings, message and call, message again and call again, seek the help of others, exaggerate my helplessness, and smile.  



Finding housing has proven to be the greatest challenge. Teaching assistants are required to organize their own housing, and there are many different options. There was a possibility that I could live at my school (they have housing for students as well), but I didn’t receive a response from the school before I departed—so I arrived in Chambéry relatively unprepared. The first night I stayed in the cheapest hotel that I could find (still expensive), just to give me a little bit of flexibility. The next day a girl named Perrine accepted my Couchsurfing request, so I hauled all of my luggage over to her place—I’ll describe my experience there later on. I only planned to stay for the weekend, but once I told Perrine and her roommates about my situation they welcomed me to stay until I found a permanent place.


My hosts' chicken


Once I set up camp in their living room, I started wholeheartedly searching for an apartment. I continued searching for two weeks. As it turns out, there is a shortage of real estate in Chambéry. Even the most undesirable of accommodations will fetch at least three hundred euros a month. Something approximating nice will cost around five hundred. I wanted to share an apartment or house with French people. It’s cheaper, I could practice my French, and I could make some easy friends. For two weeks I scoured close to a dozen different sources: websites, agencies, university postings, and friends of friends. After incessant calls and messages, I received dismally few responses. Again and again, promising opportunities fell through. I became discouraged.

Taking a photo while biking


This period of instability would have been even more distressing if it weren’t for my hosts. Perrine lives in a colocation with four other young people: Amel, Antonin, Jean, and Léo (colocation doesn’t have a great English translation, so I’ve chosen to use the French word—or its abbreviation—throughout: it is a name for a living situation with multiple roommates, flat mates, or housemates. It commonly connotes conviviality and community). In one of the most vulnerable periods in my life, I have experienced profound hospitality. From the moment I arrived they not only put a roof over my head, but they invited me in on their meals, conversations, and plans. Antonin and Léo took me hiking (although we got rained out). Amel introduced me to all of her friends and brought me to her English class. Jean included me in all of his game nights and movie nights. Perrine took me climbing. In particular, Amel was immensely helpful in assisting me with my paperwork and housing search, and she was a constant source of encouragement. I also just returned from a three-day backpacking trip with Antonin and Léo through the Chartreuse mountain range—although I’ll save that for another post.



The coloc quickly became more than just the place where I slept—it is now where my closest friends in Chambéry live. Although installing myself in this city has been a slow process in other regards, I am tremendously fortunate to have established the roots of friendship so rapidly. I have no doubt that they will remain close for the duration of my stay in Chambéry—and long after.



Eventually my housing search started to yield results. I secured a visit to an apartment about ten minutes from the center of the city. It is a coloc with two other guys: one Asian student and a French man who I suspect is around thirty or thirty-five. I met them both, along with the landlord, during my visit. I saw the room being offered and the amenities of the apartment. My impression: it seemed to have neither spectacular advantages nor significant drawbacks. It was attractive because it existed and because it was available—which is more than I could say about any other option I had pursued. I told the landlord that I was interested and that I would decide within the next couple of days. In the meantime, I was still waiting for responses and seeking other leads.

Several days later, there were no new options. After three weeks in limbo, with my job about to start, I decided that it was time to make a decision and get settled. Exactly one week ago I accepted the offer, signed the papers, and moved in. The relief that comes from transitioning out of virtual homelessness in a foreign country is difficult to qualify; for the first time in the better part of a month, I was able to unpack my suitcases. I could organize my belongings. I had privacy. I felt secure.



Over the past week I’ve made this apartment my home. It is quite nice! So are my new flat mates, Xiao and Cédric. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the coloc had Wi-Fi: I was told it didn’t. There haven’t been any nasty surprises yet, and the bathroom is pretty normal (you never know in France). As I explore the neighborhood, I’m also realizing how practical the location is. The bus stop is right in front of my door, there are multiple grocery stores nearby, my favorite restaurant is only a couple minutes away, and the old coloc is right up the hill.


A party at the coloc


I am getting established with my job. A couple of weeks ago, all of the foreign language assistants in the area of Grenoble (about two-hundred and forty) congregated for two days of training. We met our colleagues, we were guided through the impending administrative obligations, and we attended workshops on pedagogical strategies for assistants.


So-called training


Last week I started at Lycée Louis Armand as the English teaching assistant for the entire school (there is also one Spanish assistant and one Italian assistant). The English faculty has been welcoming, and the students have been surprisingly agreeable. Although French classrooms are known for being a bit more rowdy, my students have been engaged and interested—for now, at least, I’m novel. I am enjoying my work, and I feel confident in my ability to do it well.

After three weeks of uncertainty, I am finding equilibrium. I have a home, I have friends, and I am fulfilling the purpose for which I am here. It is no longer the beginning. 

Exodus; Genesis




