Fishing for Doradas at the market in Vaison

Front entrance to the farm house. Built in 1790, it's not a bad place to call home for a while.

The topic of discussion on the way back from the market in Vaison la Romaine (la Romaine because of the ancient Roman ruins in the city center) was Foie Gras (we had just bought some at the [french] super market, it's currently "out of season" -- so we, Chef and I, bought frozen Foie Gras, shhhh, dont tell anyone.) This lesson in questionable French cuisine took place as we ripped around corners in the beat up Peugeot (1980's), the fresh baguette danced from one side of the dash board to the other as the countryside whizzed by.

Seeing as I am the Chef's assistant it only makes sense that we took a walking tour of the beautiful little town of Vaison after we bought the Doradas (fish) for the first dinner at the cooking class, you know, some of that fresh white meat, caught yesterday just off the coast of Marseille.

Chef putting the finishing touches on dessert.

It was a rainy day in Provence, but the market went on regardless. We bought eggplant, then the fish, then tasted samples of some amazing nougat which Vaison is famous for, then bought some fruits, and finally the quintessentail baguette.

A view of the countryside as I eat and drink my way through the south of France.

I better run, my Creme Brulee is getting cold.

Down and Out in Paris and London

Although I am feeling neither down nor out, Orwell's (1933) book about poverty in Paris and London is befitting of my current situation. I equate the next chapter of this blog to a cross between Ferris Bueller's Day Off and Eat, Pray, Love...

"I shall never again think that all tramps are drunken scoundrels, nor expect a beggar to be grateful when I give him a penny, nor be surprised if men out of work lack energy, nor subscribe to the Salvation Army, nor pawn my clothes, nor refuse a handbill, nor enjoy a meal at a smart restaurant. That is a beginning."
Down and Out in Paris and London p. 216

I'm not Paris bound (at least not yet, that story will come later) but rather to the south of France, to a tiny village at the base of the French Alps southeast of Lyon.

Just as Orwell slaved away in the dark corners of Paris' culinary underworld so too will I, if you call assisting a chef at a high-end cooking school the "underworld" of French cuisine. Armed with my camera and a hunger for adventure I continue along this nomadic journey into the unknown. Rest assure my fellow reader(s) I will pass along a tale or two whenever internet access permits.

Interested to find out what will come of this gig?
That makes two of us.

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

Of all the history that surrounds London none seems to match the mystic of The Globe Theatre. For the price of five pounds (about $7.50) I stood like a "groundling" in the pit last night and watched Shakespeare's The Comedy of Errors. Thought to be one of the first plays he wrote, The Comedy of Errors was amazingly funny and a testament to Shakespeare's emerging genius.

A beautiful open air theatre, The Globe was reconstructed in 1997 based on records of Shakespeare's Globe (built in 1599) which burned to the ground in 1613 because of theatrical cannon that misfired during a performance of Henry VIII.

Walking around London

"Just lock the door and drop the keys through the mail slot when you leave" was my cousin's reply when I informed him of my 6AM departure to downtown London.

The best light for taking photos is dawn or dust, plain and simple. Having witnessed too many sunrises from the apartment I decided it was time to set out and have a look how London wakes up.

The sunrise over Trafalgar Square.

Getting out at Waterloo station I glanced around for Jason Borne then crossed over the Thames, in search of a cup of coffee. I had heard good reviews about Monmouth Coffee House, a small shop which opened near Covent Gardens in 1978 and started roasting coffee beans (from single farms, estates, and cooperatives) using old fashion direct-flame machines.

I found a seat on the bench, having arrived 10 minutes before the shop opened, only to watch as a flood of eager caffeine addicts rushed to form an informal line minutes before 8AM.

The door swung open and i found myself in a line with regulars who knew the routine. "You getting take-away?" a Brit dressed in biking spandex asked me. Not knowing my options and thinking that was the only option I quickly answered yes, the dumb look on my face reminded me of Mr. Bean.

The bikers passed and took a seat at the back of the tiny shop. Realizing I could/should do the same, I headed for the back and took a seat with a couple from Torino. Turns out space is limited so a "communal seating" notice is posted on the wall next to each hard wood table. The tables, located right back in the heart of the action gave the feeling like you were not only the customer but also an all-star barista. The tapping of extinguished espresso grounds, the explosions of steam from the machines, the pressurized white foam, all this caffeinated chaos taking place next to the tables.

Not pretending to be a connoisseur of coffee, I would like to say my cappuccino was mighty pure, leaving a pleasant fair-trade after-taste in my mouth.

The Italian couple was replaced by a sweet lady who had the look, sound and gentleness of an older Mrs. Doubtfire. Looking up from her newspaper from time to time, she would pass a question, "Have you ever been to a bull fight?" as she showed me a picture in the paper of a bull in a ring with its horns on fire. "I hope they (Spaniards) stop this activity, it's just so cruel."

I left Monmouth Coffee House and headed across town to the Churchill War Rooms Museum. This underground bunker gives a fascinating look into where Winston and his team pounded out strategies against Hitler's Germany.

The War Rooms provide a detailed look into those dark days when England's fearless leader declared "Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few"

After a long but enjoyable visit to the War Rooms I found myself at the Grenadier, a tiny pub tucked back in a neighborhood at the south end of Hyde Park. This place has a great historic feel to it and feels like a little oasis away in the loud, busy streets of London. But you better hurry, the lease is up in 2015...

Once used as military outpost a couple centuries ago, this pub is said to be one of the most haunted places in London- after finishing a pint on an empty stomach I swear I saw Churchill in the corner feasting on Beef Wellington, his favorite meal.

layover in london.

A view of the Thames from Embankment Station. It was one of those days where you could feel autumn in the air.

I awoke to a bright blaze of orange light painted my cousin's living room wall. I put on my glasses, crawled out of my sleeping bag and saw the sun rising over London's skyline.

My cousin and his wife, both teachers enjoying the last days of summer break, are kindly hosting me for the week. Coming from Kyrgyzstan I have enjoyed the trusted face of a family member, laughing about days long past, and my cousin's carefree attitude.

Friends in the field

The airline representative tossed my duffel bag crammed full of funky felt slippers and Kalpaks — traditional Kyrgyz hats — onto the conveyor belt. Early for my flight, I found a seat near my departure gate with a view of the tarmac. I glanced at my watch — it was just before 8 a.m. I knew Alymbek, the security inspector for Mercy Corps/Kompanion’s office in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan was greeting staff with that same giant smile he gave me every morning I passed him on my way into the office.

Every day across the globe, heartfelt goodbyes are exchanged between foreign and local humanitarian staff. Employment contracts begin and end. Grants are awarded and spent. Programs are implemented and completed. And, in this case, interns come and go. According to the statistic around the world, 95 percent of Mercy Corps team members are nationals of the countries in which they work. Belonging to the other five percent I realize friendships formed with local staff, although inherently transitory, are an invaluable reward of fieldwork.

Friends in the field are often defined by the sum of very simple moments. A genuine smile, like Alymbek’s daily greeting, can make all the difference when working in remote locations under stressful conditions. Even a spontaneous trip to the rural reaches of a country to monitor a program or survey beneficiaries can be a catalyst for making an unexpected friend. I enjoyed the name-dropping by Mercy Corps staff members who referenced their enduring friendships they have with expatriate staff, some dating back to 1994, when Mercy Corps opened its first office in Kyrgyzstan.

The plane climbed above snow-capped peaks as I watched massive mountain ranges slip beneath the cloud cover. Thoughts of friends and family had me anticipating their amusement and interest in the souvenirs and anecdotes I’ve collected from this fascinating region of Central Asia. Surely some will ask what I miss most about my time in the field. Recalling cherished moments and loud laughter traded with local staff members, I will reply without hesitation — my friends.