Banff Shenanigans - Day Two

6:15am: I'm up! Shower and dress presentably. What colour is my poster again? Pink shirt and baby blue necklace means I am ready to snub my teachers at today's poster session. Grandma is up a few minutes later and we leave for an early, leisurely breakfast in the amazing Vistas restaurant. Cinnamon raisin french toast with fresh fruit, eggs, and hashbrowns makes me happy. The three cups of coffee don't hurt either.

8:30am: First sessions begin. Two talks, one "nutrition break", three more talks. Nutrition my foot - welcome to scone and danish heaven. One cup of coffee per two talks = heart-stopping stimulation. Good thing too, since I received an oddly enthusiastic endorsement in my supervisor's morning talk. My labmates tell me I am going to be mobbed at the poster session and I prepare myself for a lynching.

12pm: Lunch in the beautiful restaurant again. Hello broccoli soup and delicious salads. Cherry poppyseed torte? Mocha cheesecake? Maple walnut ice cream? Pass the insulin please. We stroll into the poster session late because a lunch like that requires more than a half an hour to enjoy.

1pm: Uh-oh. There are many labels missing from my poster. Also, the pink seems to be warding away many of the male faculty members who expressed interest in the project initially. They catch sight of my pink shirt and the pink headings and then make a beeline for the other end of Cpx row. Except for the structural biologist with a vendetta against periplasmic-facing OM lipoproteins ... when he is satisfied that I don't know the answer to his questions, he leaves to grill a labmate. Surprisingly, the poster session makes me feel like I know what I'm doing. Inappropriate jokes mean it's time to leave.

3pm: The pool is smaller than I thought, not that I need a large pool for my skills. I throw deflated yellow balls at Grandma's head while she swims laps and make pathetic attempts at shooting hoops in the water. Lack of hand-eye coordination confirmed. Shampoo and body wash is PROVIDED in the showers. I am easily impressed and enjoy all of the many benefits being a patron of the Banff Centre offers.

4:30pm: We're off to Sukiyaki House for some sushi. Plum wine is a sweet aperitif. The vegetable sushi combo is ridiculously filling and ridiculously delicious. ET eats a whole mound of wasabi and everybody's stomach turns. The training chopsticks are broken out and I have to remind everyone that I am NOT Japanese. Racist bastards.

7:30pm: Back at the Max Bell Building, we're still full but I grab another cup of coffee. The first speaker is hilarious, which is great because the power fails in the middle of his talk. My attention fails by the next coffee break. Four talks at night? Really? I conclude that biofilms are just not my thing.

10:45pm: Props Pub is tiny but perfect for an informal gathering like ours. The Doppler Effect, Pynchon's novels, and words that are impossible to pronounce make their way to our conversation. More racism, more made up laughs, and scientific sexual innuendo bring us to the bottom of two pitchers before we give up and leave. RM manages to catch a terrible video of us. So much blackmail in so little time. I stay up until 2am, wishing I wasn't too drunk to write up that scholarship application.

Banff Shenanigans - Day One

Hour 1. Speedy SL takes off for Red Deer before us because JI was late picking SV and I up by, maybe, five minutes. Blasting Madonna's "Like a Prayer" from a sporty blue Honda, we take off for Starbucks so that I can feel my face again. Grande soy cinnamon dolce latte secured and I am at least partly human as we take off for Banff.

Hour 2. The 90s are back for good. Ace of Base, Backstreet Boys, and N SYNC join the ride. SV may or may not have taken blackmail-worthy video from her backseat view. Grandma SL meets us outside a purple ceramic teapot gallery beside the Donut Mill for a brief stretch before we head for Cochrane.

Hours 3 and 4. Hanson blares through Airdrie, though the locals pretend not to notice. The four blocks of Cochrane's downtown afford us little eating choices and we settle for an Opa/Quizno's split. Guacamole means Quizno's trumps Subway's veggie delight anyday. McKay's ice cream anyone? How can SV call herself a vegetarian when she eats flavors like "spotted cow"? I have never eaten Halo Halo, you racist bastards. I am NOT Phillipina for the umpteenth time. I choose white chocolate raspberry truffle, hailing the beginning of the end for my pancreatic beta cells.

Hour 5. Winding roads into Banff are occupied by people who like to drive on the double solid yellow line. When the signs say "Mountain sheep - next 2km", they literally mean 2km worth of mountain sheep. The Banff Center is lofty and beautiful. How could I have let so much time elapse between the last time I saw the mountains and now?

Hour 6. Sprawled on our large double (queen?) beds, Grandma and I break out the candy. Our very own Backstreet Boy joins us for some Mead, Aprikat, and sloppy ballet. Lazy is an understatement.

Hours 7 and 8. There's already mead on the carpet but none of us can bring ourselves to clean it up. Wait ... Grandma is anal enough to fight the laziness and finish off a box of mono-ply facial tissue to sop most of it up. We pull ourselves from the luxurious beds and head to registration.

Hours 9 to 12. It's an intimate meeting alright! Three ambitious talks with plenty of comic relief. Thank goodness microbiologists are so good-natured. A million samosas, cakes, squares, mousses, late spanakopita, and a glass of red wine later, Grandma and I are tucked in and ready for sleep. Our computers finally connect so we can check our e-mails (for peace of mind) and day one closes uneventfully.

The plane we almost missed

We left early for Charles de Gaulle because we needed more Metro tickets to get to the airport. Without Elise's guidance, however, we were pretty lost. We bought tickets at Gare du Nord and boarded the wrong train, which took us in the right direction but not all the way to the airport. We disembarked when somebody said this train does not go to Charles de Gaulle and we waited anxiously on the platform for an announcement that would tell us where to go. Eventually, Matt stretched his French tongue muscles and inquired of a woman,"Excuse-moi - Charles de Gaulle?" She pointed to a platform on the other side of the tracks, so we moved. I ate the rest of my millefeuilles, which was lovely even the day after. We finally boarded a very very crowded train to Charles de Gaulle and disembarked at Terminal 1, which turned out to be very wrong, regardless of what our reservation told us. We hopped back on the train and took it to Terminal 2, which passed through two parking lots en route. We walked the long way to our gate where we were greeted by familiar accents and non-accented English.

"Just note that your baggage must be transferred yourselves once you get to Toronto. This is not done for you."

Oh. I have never done that before, so good to know. We went through security painlessly and we walked through the gates. Matt and I stopped for coffee and a croissant before looking for things to spend our last euros on. Matt, ever the Grinch, refused to lend me euros to buy perfume. Instead, I bought magazines and hard candies at a Relay before we used the last French bathroom of our trip (*sniff sniff*) and then boarded our flight to Toronto. Air Canada is so smooth - I watched Doubt and attempted to watch Revolutionary Road before falling into a heap of brainless nothing in the middle. I couldn't watch Kate Winslet throw around old-school abortion tools and yell at Leo DiCaprio for his insensitivity. It was too real.

Once in Toronto, we had to go through customs and declare our items.

"The cheese and wine must be good. Everyone's bringing it through." It is France, after all. The Customs agent asked why we had spent so much, since we wrote down the wrong amount to declare. We said we had spent $1500 on gifts when we meant $500. The former amount was what we had brought total. We were waved through and Matt and I caught dinner at some diner that really liked beef and large portions. Ahh. Back in North America. We wasted time looking at ice cream and toques and novels and magazines and ... was that our plane? We heard an announcement:

"Final boarding call for flight 870 to Edmonton. Please make your way to the gate." Matt and I dashed for the gate at the end of the hall, where we were greeted by smiling flight attendants who handed me a National Post. Matt and I settled in just as the plane seemed to have small electrical problems. Matt leafed through a brochure that showed all of the Air Canada flights that go through Edmonton, which is not many.

"Edmonton is where planes go to die," I admonished. The man beside Matt in the window seat chuckled. He was our buddy that we never talked to. On the way to Edmonton, he ordered an entire pizza for himself and we watched him eat it while drinking our orange juice and coke. Ironically, the only plane we came even close to missing was the flight within Canada - from Toronto to Edmonton. Oh well.

This flight was fraught with turbulence and not even until we were over Edmonton skies. Just before we landed, we hit a frightful bout of turbulence that sent hands to the armrests and clenching. I did that on every landing, so it was no big deal for me, but Matt was grabbing the headrest of the passenger in front of him and our Window Buddy was laughing into the window as we went up, down, faster forward, up up up, and down down down down. Worst. Landing. Ever.

But we were on home soil. Matt's dad picked us up and took our bags to put them in the back of the van.

"Whoa! What smells so bad?"

Uh. Yeah. Matt's duffel. Tom made a face. It's his socks, I said innocently. It's the cheese, Matt said, glaring.

"Whatever it is, you're not bringing that into the house."

We were home.

Paris sans Planning

The next morning, Elise met us at our hostel and we set out for La Defense, which none of us had been to. Unfortunately, it was rather far and a longer ride on the Metro than I had anticipated. Once we were there, however, it was quickly apparent that it was the most modern part of Paris. There was a geodesic dome and a glass sculpture ... thingy, and a gigantic thumb thrust out of the ground. Like France wanted to give the world a gigantic thumb up! Only one, though. We took some crazy pictures outside before going into the mall and starting our day of shopping. I looked but didn't find too much. Matt had a pretzel and we looked at a bunch of stores before Elise showed us Auchan, which is the best all-round grocery store ever. I went crazy and bought all of the treats, cheese, and novelties that I wanted to bring back home, including olives, and then lunch for that day. On the way out, we stopped at Zara and I bought my black and white striped tunic for 9,99 euros.

We took the Metro to Concorde, which has a lovely fairground that we watched from a shaded wall. We ate our lunch and I scarfed down my three part sandwich slowly. My juice was made of clouds. It said so on the bottle. We walked in the sunshine for a bit, then opted to sit in the shade and chat. Elise told us of the most common English phrases taught to every French student who is learning English. What's his face is in the kitchen and what's her face is in the bathroom. It can be made very dramatic, actually. We then attempted to shop in the district, but found even the chocolate stores intimidating. We contemplated heading to the Latin Quarter, but our plans were quashed when we started buying wine and realized we would be rather bogged down by so many bottles when walking around the Latin Quarter. I guess that district and the Sorbonne were left for my next time in Paris.

Elise helped me select wines to make Kir and Matt bought wine for his parents from a fancy wine cellar. Elise bought a bottle for her parents and we promised to deliver it. Which I did. Eventually. We went back to our hostel to drop off our purchases then bought macarons at the bakery just around the corner from Caulaincourt. Elise promised us that we would not regret trying the Millefeuilles, which were just what they sound like - thousands of layers of pastry and alternating custard with delicious chocolate and almonds spread thickly on top. We walked to a nearby cemetery, where what appeared to be an independent film was being shot on the stairs, and we settled on a stairway in the shade to eat. I could not finish my millefeuilles - it was too hot and too large. I wrapped it for tomorrow. We got up then, and walked farther down from Montmartre, where we stopped at a corner cafe for a drink. We were seated directly in the sun, which was uncomfortable. The bartender said it was okay to sit inside, so we switched tables. I finally had a bright red Kir Royale and a Coke Zero. Just outside of the cafe and across the street was Chicken Corner and an adorable diner called Flunch. The French are so quirky. Before taking a picture in front of Chicken Corner, I went to the bathroom, which was posh and clean. In fact, it was the cleanest bathroom I had seen in a while, minus Elise's apartment toilet. Everything was automated, including the lights and the air freshener, which turned on automatically when you entered and ... well, shut off while I was on the toilet. But energy saving is worth it, I tell you.

We stopped inside Castorama to see if anything interesting might be around, but no such luck. We walked back near our hostel, searching for places to eat. Elise picked up some grapes, which were special to her. We do the same thing - freeze them and eat them frozen because they are a real treat that way. We eventually found a place to eat and the waiter agreed to bring Elise's food out quickly. Matt and I wanted to treat her to dinner for being such a lovely hostess to us in Paris and she ate and ran for her train. We had a more leisurely dinner, which I enjoyed very very much. The dessert was the best part, even if it meant stuffing myself beyond recognition with frozen slabs of chocolate drizzled in raspberry sauce and whipped cream. Matt and I walked up the hill to burn off some of these calories and around Montmartre before settling in our hostel room and holing up for one last night in Paris. It was dark and the night was still warm and, for once, I was happy to be going home tomorrow. It was not that I disliked Europe, but more that being home would mean not feeling guilty for sitting at home, drinking tea, and reading a book. I had seen much. Now, I would sleep much.

Pleasures in Plaisirs

The next morning, we had agreed to meet Elise at her house in Plaisirs-Grignon, but we had to check out of the Montclair Montmartre and back into Square Caulaincourt first. Matt went searching for showers but I just bathed in the sink in our room. The hippies were unmoveable and did not mind the sounds we made, dressing and going down for breakfast. Matt found the showers and I took breakfast while he went clean. Downstairs, a Chinese lady guarded the milk and coffee viciously - "only one roll!" - and I sat beside a good-natured boy who introduced himself as a Canadian from Waterloo. We exchanged vitals and talked about the sights we had seen. I said we were going to Plaisirs to see a friend and he said that he had not been out of the city for two weeks.

"There's too much to see, you know? But I'm getting tired of Paris. I wish I had planned to go to more cities."

I nodded. I told him a few details of Spain, which he was excited to hear, before Matt joined us and the boy decided he had better start his day. We finished breakfast, packed our stuff, and checked out. It was nice to be outside the stuffy hostel and into the cool, Paris morning air. First, I misread the map and walked the opposite way of Square Caulaincourt. Matt corrected me and we turned around and walked up the hill. Of course. You can never go downhill in Europe. Everything is an uphill struggle, really.

Finally, we dropped our stuff in the hostel and set out for the train station. We would have to go all the way down on the four and then take a train on the Ile de France side to Plaisirs Grignon. This time, neither Matt's nor my credit card worked, so we had to walk up to a cashier with a sticker on the plexiglass that protected him with a Union Jack on it and a small "I Speak English" slogan at the bottom. Thank goodness.

"Two tickets to Plaisirs-Grignon, please." He passed them without enthusiasm under the glass and pointed in the direction of the gates. We walked through to hear our train about to take off, so we ran through the doors and up the stairs to the top of the train where it was sunny and the PA system with a woman's voice was speaking beautiful French phonetics. I listened to see if I could try and divine the soft r sounds from her, but my French-Canadienne accent was not going to go away. A man sat a few seats in front of Matt and I, facing us. He was in a casual grey suit and he was well groomed. He had white hair and a soft leathery face that seemed full of rue and anxiety at this very moment. At his side was a gigantic navy blue gift bag sprouting ballet pink tissue from its opening. There was a large box of chocolates that seemed very expensive peeking out of the top of the bag. Beside the bag lay a gigantic bouquet of flowers, throwing orange, red, purple, and yellow light around the cabin. I watched as he got more and more agitated as the trip wore on.

Outside, the train to Plaisirs was not like the train into Paris from Charles de Gaulle. Ivy crept up the brick tunnelways and houses sat on green hillsides in soft sunshine. It was hot, but you could not tell. A bunch of people unloaded from the train at Versailles. The man got off a stop after Versailles, picking up his bouquet and the bag and hurrying off of the train. His face was eager. I leaned into the aisle to watch him embrace his wife. The anxiety was gone. He just couldn't wait to see her.

At Plaisirs, the end of the line, we met Elise just outside the station where she attempted to give me a hug, but I assured her that I smelled. She laughed when we tried our hand at giving her kisses on the cheek. North Americans are so absurd - they actually try to plant one on your cheek! We walked through the gates and into the parking lot to get Benoit's car. We were already late for lunch, which couldn't be helped because we were such confused and helpless little tourists. It would help if our French was more understandable, I think.

Benoit said something in French that I didn't quite catch and I asked Elise for a translation. "He said we're going to ... an open chicken restaurant." She shrugged. You'll see what he means. I guess so. The restaurant was hedge-lined and really quite perfect. Inside was cool and elegant, outside was shaded and lovely. We chose to sit outside where we took the menus and I had the menu of the day, as I have all throughout the trip. It included a zucchini and goat cheese salad, with tender meat and potatoes, accompanied by some red wine.

The infamous Kir story happens here. Kir is an aperatif taken before a meal and can be flavored with different liqueurs. (As a side note, Arrested Development makes a reference to Kir Royale in the third season. This is Kir made with champagne.) The waiter took our orders. Benoit will take peach - peche. Elise will have raspberry - framboise. I will have blackberry - mure. And for you sir? Matt looked up and said, carefully, "Fromage?" The waiter paused only for a millisecond before saying,"Ahhhh, oui. Framboise." before scooping up our menus and walking away without a single hint at Matt's mistake. He was slightly pink in the cheeks when I turned my eyes on him. Benoit was looking for chickens in the bushes.

"Did you just say fromage?" He reddened. "You know that means cheese, right?"

Everybody laughed. There was even a bleeding nose.

"He knew what I meant. They're practically the same."

Right. We ate our meal, which was admittedly the best meal I have ever had while in France, and went to Elise's apartment. She was concerned that it was messy but her living space met the conditions of "clean" in my books. Clean on a good day, really. It was nicely lit and they had a balcony that looked out over the village. The bedroom was about the size of my apartment and their shower was the size of my bathroom. They even had in-suite washer/dryer that sat under their counter and leaked wonderful blue stuff out of the bottom. Elise fretted at the stains. To me, it seemed wonderful. Even more whimsical was the bathroom, complete with decorative red toilet seat (the subject of heated debate as to how it broke) and a quirky gnome, made by Benoit's uncle. He apparently looks cross-eyed at you when you use the toilet.

Elise was generous enough to let us have expresso and sit in her clean apartment. Benoit made fun of how she broke the toilet seat, which she adamantly denied. After a good time sitting and chatting, we left for Paris, where we found a Michael Jackson tribute occurring underneath the Eiffel Tower. Matt's parents had informed us in Lisbon that both Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett had died on the same day. Apparently, Paris loved Michael very much (sorry Farrah) and they had imitations galore occurring on stages and in tight circles of people. Everybody for miles was dressed in black and white, with velvet blazers, white, glittering gloves, and the iconic hat. Billy Jean was droning constantly from somewhere in the crowd. We crawled through the people and onto the other side of the Seine for pictures. We watched the hubbub before deciding to get some ice cream at Berthaillard. A walk around to see the bumper boats, a stop at a mistaken Metro station, and a brief remembrance of Princess Diana, and we were headed to Berthaillard on Ile St.Louis. Ross had made me promise two things to him before we left Lisbon:
1. Take these postcards home with you.
2. Have a triple ice cream at Berthaillard and ask for the following flavors: Cannelle, cannelle, et cannelle.
After such a lovely meal in Plaisirs, I could not stomach a triple but cinnamon ice cream was a welcome idea on the hot and humid day. Unfortunately, they were not serving cinnamon, so I got green apple instead and found out that Berthaillard makes green apples better than God does.

We walked back to a Metro station and took it to Montmartre so that we could see the Sacre-Coeur basilica, one of the famous sights of Montmartre. Up and up we went, watching crazy people jog the height and back down, then up again. We walked into the tourist part of Montmartre, where restaurants and bars were overflowing with people and the infamous Chat Noir decorated store windows. We walked past and through them to get to the Basilica, which was crowded with people looking out over the entirety of Paris. Elise told us that you can go up to the top of the Basilica and see a 360 view of the entire city. Inside the Basilica, there were candles and people praying. I looked into the basin carrying holy water and felt the same pang of reverence I used to feel when I went to church regularly. But I was no Catholic and holy water could be Gatorade for all I knew of it. I exhaled a small prayer for the souls of those beside me and walked back out into the twilight. We walked slowly back to the hostel, stopping at a candy shop so I could pick up sugared violets and chocolates for my sister. Postcards were also in order, including my personal favorite and one I contemplated sending to Twila: a map of the Paris Metro and RER.

We watched girls get frightened by mimes and then we found our way back down the hill. On the way, we saw a bronze statue coming out of a wall, so I coordinated a photo shoot that Matt reluctantly became the star of, even though it was one of the photos his friends liked best. Use that one as your profile picture, douchebag.

ANYWAY, we walked down the hill and said goodbye to Benoit and Elise. This would be the last time we would see Benoit because he would work for our last day in Paris. Elise made a quip about how he is French and likes things that smell like feet. I dare not repeat it (and I don't remember the exact joke) but he said we may have to spend the day alone the next day. She may not survive the night. We left them to duke it out on the long ride home and we retired to our ... what's this? Private suite? I forgot what I had booked. It was a private suite that contained its own shower and sink. The bathroom to use was the one in reception or just down the hall. We showered and climbed into our double bed, which was really two twins shoved together. We read Catch-22 and ate candy until we got sleepy (which wasn't too late) and we fell asleep to the sound of our hostel receptionist telling girls sitting on the hostel steps how pretty they were.