R.I.P? No, wait...

Wow. Some realness went down this week… Well not this first part, so feel free to skip the next bit if you’re not feelin’ it. But later.

First off, we had a game in St. Raphael on the Med coast and it was maybe the single most ridiculous volleyball game I have ever been a part of. I don’t even want to revisit the sad event but suffice it to say that good competition doesn’t take place when both teams are trying to lose. To get all poetic on y’all, the essence of sport is lost. So why were we wanting to lose?

Well there are 2 major leagues/competitions here, the French Championship and the Coupe de France. If you finish in the top 4-5 places in the Championship, your team earns a bid for the following season in the Champion’s League or one of the 2 European cups. For example, we finished 3rd last year in the Championship, hence the journeyings to Romania, Italy, etc. this year. Anyway, this is all pretty important and prestigious and basically everyone competes in their country’s leagues for this chance.

Anyway, since you don’t earn a berth by winning the Coupe - and since Cannes, the top team in the French league has won every year since about 1904 - everyone figures there’s no point in spending more precious club bills to make the trip to wherever each round is played. So somehow this works out to, “let’s go to the first round and hopefully lose so we don’t have to advance” or something of the sort. We went with 5 players and a player with a torn ab, so we were fit to put up a good fight. We played the drawers off that game and (successfully?) lost. That’s about all the reminiscing I need to do about that. Not too sure why I wrote all that out now. Apologies.

Anyway I was less than pleased with the whole experience but when we got home Saturday afternoon, I realized that other than Christmas break, for the first time since September we had a Saturday evening off. The American and I located some tickets to the local pro rugby game and went in for round 2 of spectating. For the record, I still only understand approximately 50% of what’s going on.

I was late to the game but apparently before it got underway, the locals had a minute of silence for an older gentleman that used to play for the team and was a member of the club (or something like that) who had passed away. Please just take a sec to picture the scene with me y’all – some club official gets on the mic, gives some sort of tribute, and fond memories are quietly recalled during the minute of silence while the crowd of 10,000 strong remembers a lost friend… People are sad. Some people are also pretty shocked for reasons to become apparent.

Now fast forward to Monday - it comes out that this guy is not in fact, dead... Yeeeah.

Dude was ON VACATION.

Oh. Snap.

So ya screwed up...

Yeah I know y’all are sittin there, minds blown like, Say whaaaaaaat. Bahaha. And please believe, I couldn’t, heck, I wouldn’t make that up. Word on the street is there was an apology to the family in the local paper and such but ya can’t really take that one back too easily… Either way, that’s the way to get a warm welcome home after a nice holiday. On the bad side, the day this guy’s time actually comes, nobody’s gonna know to believe it or not. Took me a sec to process all that ridiculousness in one sitting, but try as I might I can’t even really begin to figure how someone just jumped to the conclusion they did. He missed the local bridge club meeting last week so he couldn’t be anything but automatically just dead, straight up…? And then they go ahead and even organize some public tribute without, I dunno, checking with the wife and kids? Pretty funny. More unbelievable.

I Dunk, Therefore I am

So I just got back from a little trip to Italy on Friday night. Started in Albi, mini-bused it to Barcelona and then flew to Rome and some other Italian city next to Jesi where we played. "France to Italy via... Spain?", you say. Sounds like a logical way to travel. Go west to get east my son!

As predicted we got pretty much owned in 3. I believe the scores were 25-14, 25-20, 25-19 and though we played well, they played better. A lot better. Actually it didn't go as bad as I thought it might so thanks for the prayers on our behalf. No noses were broken and other than a few egos, we got out unharmed. Unfortunately as soon as the game ended, I realized we get to recreate the drama a week later when they come to our house for the rematch next wednesday. All we have to do is beat them in 3 at home and then win a sudden-death "golden set" to take the series...

We played this...

In a word, we're about to be eliminated. And sadly, that means my days of gallavanting across (predominantly eastern) Europe are soon to be over... Pour out a little liquor of your beverage of choice for me.

Side note - back in France, we won yesterday in a record quickness of 1 hr 13 mins vs. the last team in the league. I'll take it.

Also, in keeping with the _______ of ______ album theme (see: "Hats of Romania" post for that reference to make any kind of sense), The American and I almost did an "Artwork of France's Neighbors" album on this trip since we saw some pretty clutch paintings in the hotel and truckstop restaurant throughout our travels... But the title didn't quite have the right ring to it.

Selections would've included a vivid watercolour of hot pink and red wild horses and a still-life of a lobster on a telephone. Not talking on it (that would be a reasonable artist's depiction) but sitting on the phone. Unfortunately we never got around to taking pictures of pictures, or of anything else much for that matter, so this post is conspicuously low on photos... Our bad. Either way, obviously I've been deeply moved since I'm for some reason writing about these paintings and though I don't know who's painting them - keep doin' your thing. I'd try to speculate what the deeper meaning or message behind the art could've been but it will only end badly in puns or stupid metaphors so we'll move on...

I was watching the NBA dunk contest this fine Sunday afternoon, a mere 12 hours late because of the unfortunateness of time zones and my need to sleep at night. And dayum, I wasn't too impressed. Other than ridiculously bad commentating and someone (not naming names, DWIGHT HOWARD...) attempting the oft attempted and boring dunk-from-the-foul-line, it was underwhelming. Nate Robinson, the 5'9" phenom, took the title with less-than exciting displays of physical freakishness. Here's to hoping Lebron does it up right next year.

Re-reading that paragraph, I realize nothing I just wrote really makes sense, so scratch all that. It just wasn't good. For any of you who missed out, this play-by-play was a lot more entertaining. Dude said it right:

"And he dunks the ball into the hoop, and people are ecstatic. Also, keep in mind ... same gag as last year. NBA: Where Creativity Happens."

This, That & The Other

I'm bored and I don't really have anything good to say... So here goes another post. So what have I been up to lately, you ask.

Well as I said, not much.

For example, in an effort to do something more productive with my time, I applied to a graduate program through a university in Sweden last week. Pray for me to your respective higher power that I get in. It's a Master of Child Studies, which I don't know what I'll do with or if I actually want to break my back to get, but since I've about the most indecisive person I know when it comes to my life and I'll likely not make a decision as to what I'm doing with my post-volleyball career anytime soon... I figure it's something. Whatcha gon' do. Great reasoning, I know.

Also related to life direction & time usage, I decided to make a new year's resolution for the first time ever this year. This is normally the part of the post where I have a passionate reason for not doing one before... but in this case, I guess it's just 'cause I was too lazy for the first 22 years of my life. Anyway, instead of only one grand 2009 resolution that I'd never remember, let alone fulfill, I decided I'd do 12. One per month. If I like it, I'll keep doin it... If not, it's out. It's all dramatic like that. Anyway these mini-resolutions aren't exciting enough to mention here but I'll indulge y'all on one example.

I unfortunately have a genetic weakness for chocolate (runs in the fam. It's my cross to bear...) and February is that time of the year where I realize I have 3 months til people I know will see me again and will be horrified by the way French cuisine has treated my bod. So I decided it was time to reign in the beast and give up my vice. (See what I mean about the resolutions not being exciting...) Unfortunately I shared this idea with The American back in January and a couple days later she decided she was gonna give up drinking for 4 months. I couldn't be shown up just like that, and so to make it fair and due to the challenge, my chocolate-less life has been extended to 2 months, starting yesterday. It sucks already. For example, in the 2 days since starting I've
had the following eaten in front of me - chocolate-filled crepes, a box of belgian chocolates, and homemade white chocolate mousse. I knew this endeavour would suck, but it's like people are inadvertently pullin' out all the stops for me to fail. Why do bad things have to happen to good people?! Why.

Cancel the Valentine's shipment

In other areas of life, things are little better. Kidding, life is good for the most part but we're going to Italy for a match soon and it's about to be rough. We made it to 1/4 finals of CEV cup and consequently we get to play Vini Monteschiavo Jesi, aka the 3rd ranked team in Italy's A1 Series. Italy is the best league in Europe and who knows if we would've even beaten the Ukrainian team we didn't have to play in the 1/8 finals... this might all sound pessimistic but for those in the know, it's more like reality. To break it down, think of it like we're a high school team playing the Bulls in their MJ heyday. I've had at least 5 different fans tell me we have absolutely no chance whatsoever... Oh the love. Those would be our "fans". So yeah, the people are behind us and should be fun. On the bright side, free trip to Italy?

Are you there God? Its me, Co.

I won't get into personal volleyball frustrations, but this is about the time of year where one feels the need to start a countdown to the end of the season... Which I'd be looking forward to if, for various reasons, I had any idea what or where I'm gonna be for the summer... And that about wraps up another round of super optimistic upate of the latest whatnot that's goin' down in my hood. Don't say I didn't warn.

New Year Newness

Turns out 2009 has started out right and January has been the month of unprecedented events. Haircuts, road trips, and cut up hands, to name just a few.

Let us begin with the hair situation. I blame the American for this since she put the idea in my head one day and I ruminated about it day and night until one day in a fit of spontaneity I finally decided to go for the gold and chop it all off. 3 years of hard work, all gone in the snip of a blade. Fortunately the stylist that was fixing to redo my melon was the world's happiest French girl and hated every second of it. I think we came in, oh I don't know, 2 hours before closing time, and in this country that means 6 hours too late. Sometimes that gets lost in translation. Needless to say it was a fail in a bigtime way and I came home looking like a 6 year old. The German was horrified but pretended to like it and Matt attempted to tell me he didn't know how he'd feel but "I could pull it off".... I'll tell you one thing sir - Nobody pulls off 6-foot 6 year old.

Round 2 came the next day when I went back to our old standby at the salon by the post office. She was so memorable when she cut my hurr a couple months back that I still don't know the name... but the important thing is she did me a solid and fixed the 'do. So I think I've come around and have jumped on the bandwagon. Shout out to my sister Sarah who cut hers a few weeks ago. Sorry to steal your thunder, but you know you're prettier anyway.


Besides the road trip to Carcassonne the other week, I took a couple of trips in this fine month. First was Saturday morning which isn't really a road trip in the true sense of the word since it was only 20 mins down the freeway but I had to test the limits of our new wheels to attempt to get to practice in time.

It all started when a certain friend of mine, who I won't call out by name 'cause I'm a lady like that, was supposed to catch a train to the airport at 9:04 AM but miraculously slept in til 8:45 when I woke him up and we have 3 minutes to leave. I'm shakin' my head. The cat decides to take a shower.

Dudes. I'll never understand.

So we miss the train from the Albi station by approx. 2.3 minutes and decide to pull a Bond move to try to beat the train to the next town on its way to Toulouse. The 90-year old behind the wheel of a white Renault on its last legs foiled that plan though and we missed it once again by 2 minutes. Just how many of y'all can say you've missed the SAME train twice? That's what I thought. Respect.

So at this point it's like 9:40 and I tearfully leave the friend to take the next train at 9:51 and pray he makes his flight. Meanwhile I got more pressing concerns in the form of practice in 20 minutes, no court shoes with me and a 23 minute drive ahead. So I kick the Kia into high gear and attempt to beat the clock. I failed and despite going 170 km/h for most of the drive was 8 minutes late. Unexpected road trip vol. 2 of 3 unspectacularly complete. The GPS lied to me and my coach was none too pleased. Luckily he was a little distracted when I arrived and this is where the next event seamlessly comes in...

The American. I'ma choose my words wisely here - it's obvious we're tight and I've got nothin' but love for her, after all she's my literal saviour in this country - but she has the unfortunate habit of accidentally getting hurt in one way or another everyday. I mean EVERY day.

Case in point, Friday night while cutting fruit (I'll once again not name names but it was produce of the yellow variety, and ends in 'nana') somehow the knife slipped and she filleted off the side of her left pointer finger. So bananas, knives and bits of finger are flying and the blood starts gushing. Luckily we worked some magic and pieced it back together so she made it through the night.

The next morning our coach gets the news and being that The American is a setter and her hands are literally her livelihood, this was kind of a big deal. As he's trying fruitlessly to redress the wound I come flying through the gym door - hair unbrushed, sweating and gasping for breath. I thought I was off the hook for the first 3 minutes and attempted to pretend I had been warming up in the parking lot... but I was busted shortly thereafter.

So in an attempt to redeem a bad start to the weekend we won a game Saturday night. Just kidding. Well, we did, but actually The American and I redeemed it by taking a little trip Sunday on down to the French village of my youth 2.5 hrs away. I've been back to Montagnac twice since back in the day of running those streets as a 6-year old but with the new haircut, this time I finally looked the part. We poked around a little and I found my old house only to sadly discover nobody was home and the front window was boarded up.

#34 Rue de l'Hospice. The house formerly known at #26...
until the renumbering of 2003 came along.

So in the spirit of nostalgia, I took a walk around the way to what my siblings and I affectionately called Geezer Corner to catch up on the latest village gossip and chew the fat with the local elderly. Suckily, I'm sad to say that times have changed and these days, between me and the scraggly pigeon, I'm the oldest thing sitting on that classy cement bench.

Lost as last year's Easter egg

Montagnac tour complete (yeah back off, it's a small place) we were on to bigger and better things to watch a some men's ball in a town next door. Some Canadian players were in the house and represented for the home and native land. Side note - to me, men's volleyball is like the kid to get picked second last in gym. He's the kid that wants to be taken seriously and somewhere under the too much exposed man-thigh, short shorts and cheering & hugging between every point, he has talent. It just gets overlooked sometimes. And don't worry, I would kill to watch it daily and I am bearing in mind I play the women's version of that sport so I'm not sure what that says about me... or my kid brother who tears up the guy's game... but it's all love.

So yeah. That's about all I got. But last piece of newness - turns out since the Ukrainians screwed up their visas for this round of Euro cup, they had to forfeit and my dream to play against Severodonchanka Severodonec was foiled. Fortunately my dream to get HANDLED by an Italian team will finally be fulfilled as it looks like we automatically advance to quarter finals against Jesi who beat Cannes who beat us. That means nothing to anybody but me and French kids but suffice it to say you can all start praying for me now. And for The American please. We need her. Fingers and all.

Crazy castle-y type place we found on the way

My future home

Admiring my future digs

Doin' my best Ray Charles

Raw Pig Parts

The holiday vacationing continued with a train trip from Munich to Paris en route to Barcelona in the wee morning hours of December 27th. After hangin’ out at the train station from midnight to three AM (during which my aforementioned German convo with a drunk Britney Spears fan took place), we saddled up for our journey across The German’s motherland back to France.

We finally arrived in Paris at 10 AM and were feeling great. “Hey everyone! Come and see how good I look!” A quote was never so fitting. We were also tired and hungry but lucky for us, only had 9 hours to kill before our flight to Barcelona. Also lucky for me, the high quality bag I packed all my goods in decided to fall apart piece by piece such that by the time we arrived in Paris, the extendable handle had long since lost a screw and wouldn’t come out of its home, I had only one wheel and one strap. Don’t worry though, the other wheel and strap would fly off at untimely moments before the trip was through, leaving me to carry the bag in both arms as if it were a small child rather than filled with dirty socks.

Anyway, it was cold and the wind was angry that day so we sought refuge in a mall where I promptly fell asleep for a couple more hours sitting totally upright… My neck never felt so good. We took our luxurious RyanAir flight (I’ll not go into further detail but I know y’all out there that are familiar are shaking your heads right now) and finally arrived in Barcelona a full 24 hours after we left Munich.

The next few days were a delight. It’s hard for me to use that phrase seriously but in the spirit of a new 2009 (as opposed to an old one…?) I’m trying to do better with the cynicism. Update: It’s been a week and I’m already struggling. I digress.

An American friend of ours – also known as Matthias - decided to make a pilgrimage to the continent of his forefathers and met up with us in the citay so it was three’s company for the rest of the trip.

The man, the legend.

The next 4 days consisted of shopping, old buildings, a lot of walking, and a bit too much fast food in the form of kebab, aka delicious spiced meat of the gods. We saw the requisite sights; Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia, Catedral de Barcelona, Las Ramblas, etc. and it was in a market at the the latter that I witnessed my first pig head just chillin’ for sale, complete with eyelashes still attached. And a bargain at only 4 Euros! Just the perfect belated Christmas gift I was looking for. There were also a plethora of cured pig thighs hanging about, also with hoof intact, in case you wanted to take your leg for a brisk jaunt trip the block before digging in. I was tempted.

Smile and some pig heads smile with you.

New year’s eve in Barca was interesting. We went for dinner and were enjoying a lovely meal when we remembered they have a tradition where you’re supposed to eat 12 grapes, one at each stroke of midnight, to represent good luck in each month of the new year. Or the old year. Crap I forget. But we definitely missed the boat on the first half-dozen strokes of the clock (or in our case, waiter banging a pot lid. Stay classy Barcelona.) and were forced to shove the grapes in 3 at a time to get ‘em all in in time. That’s tougher than it sounds when there are seeds involved. Anyway, I’m not sure if that’s a bad omen for those months in the coming year or a representation of 2008… but either way I’ve been a little on-edge since. Right right right, now I remember why I don’t let fruit decide my fate.

After dinner and the grapes incident we decided to walk down Las Ramblas which can only be described as a complete gong show. From what I understand, there are no laws against public intoxication or consumption so the Spanish just cut loose and wander the streets in droves. The specific street they frequent is Las Ramblas and the ground was literally wet all over with alcohol… It’s raining wine! Hallelujah! I was offered drugs by at least 8 shady lookin’ fellas and only tried a couple different varieties of Spanish Charlie before deciding it doesn’t compare with the pure coke on the streets back in my ‘hood. Just kidding mom. It was enlightening though and for the first time in my life I actually felt somewhat unsafe (I tend to delusionally believe people aren’t gonna eff with a 6’+ giant. There are some perks to being this large & in charge after all) and was pretty glad to have The German & Matt as wingmen. Fortunately they had bought the same black wool coat and aviators - their rugged individualism had kicked in – so they looked like bodyguards and I was just giving them some work.

The German and Leroy were sleeping soundly when I peaced out the next morning at 7:30 AM since they stayed in Spain for a couple more days to see the FC Barcelona game on the 3rd. The early morning New Year’s Day wakeup was the highlight of the trip but I had to catch a train back to Albi to get home for training on the 2nd. Someone has to work around here.

And that pretty much sums it up. Hope you all had a good one. Here’s to a solid 2009.

Breakin' it down

Starting 2009 off right with 5 desserts for 3 people...

...5 was a bad choice.

The American legacy abroad.

About to chocolate key a fool

The carnage

Juuuust around the riverbend

Contemplating the meaning of life
or how anyone could construct something so... stunning? Ahem.
Outside Sagrada

Bavarian Shuffle

I realize Christmas is already long past so this is probably a good week overdue but... that's the way it goes around hurr. I couldn't even come up with a better excuse than that.

In light of last-minute changes to the original Christmas plan, The German and I headed back to his motherland to spend the holiday of all holidays with his parentals in their little village in the woods about an hour outside Munich.

The original plan was Venice and though I won't go into details of how it got axed, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise seeing as how the city got a lot more water than usual (hard to do, you say... but it seems it's possible) and the streets were flooded. So rather than invest in a quality pair o' rubber boots and splash around for a few days, we headed instead to the land of schnitzel and wurst... Wow that's weird, my first reference to a country mentions their food. That's never happened before.

I never thought I'd say it but I actually hoped for snow while I was in Deutschland. Shocking, I know, and unfortunately my wish was never granted. I thought 18 years in Canada would tide me over for life without feeling the need to see snow ever again, but turns out my heart longed for a white Christmas. Who knew. Instead it was just really cold and I found out really cold + snow = somewhat better than without snow, since you can throw it at people and at least things look pretty for a few days. Lesson learned.

The German, gettin' his cold face on.

It was cool to see how The German & his fam do it up for Christmas since his moms is Slovak and his pops is of solid German stock so holidays around his place are kind of a mixture of two worlds. Come to think of it, life at The German's house is kind of a crazy tower of Babel-type experience all year long. The young genius speaks Slovak with his mom and Bavarian/German with his pappy and - this probably comes as a surprise - English with me since my German/Slovak sucks too bad to say anything intelligible and I've decided Bavarian is a full-on language of its own, so it's clearly hopeless there.

Actually I didn't really decide that myself since I'm told by my other German friends from the north that whenever someone from Bavaria is speaking on TV it's also subtitled in High German so everyone outside their Southern 'hood can figure out what the eff they're goin’ on about. It turns out Bavaria is basically the Quebec of Germany (or Texas if that analogy speaks more to you), since they think they should be their own country, have their own constitution, are very proud, and speak a language the rest of the country could care less about. Kidding, kidding.

I may or may not be putting my relationship with The German in jeopardy here, but all in the name of truth for the masses... He's already preppin' the "You don't care about how many people you leave dead and bloodied along the way just as long as you can make it as an investigative journalist, no matter how many people you leave dead and bloodied along the way?" Zoolander quote, I can feel it.

Anyway, it really was nice to be with a fam for Christmas and I'll take off my cynical hat for a sec to warm your hearts with stories of Christmas lore. I'm not sure what that means but I've always wanted to say lore... We went to midnight mass, decorated the tree and ate like kings. In my case, a bit too king-ly and I have my work cut out to recover my girlish figure. Yipes.

That's one cookie, or 8, too many...

So the whole trip was a delight until we left on our 3 AM train from Munich to Paris. This sucked in every single respect except one solitary glimmering moment in the whole ordeal which was when I had 2 "conversations" in German; the first was with a drunk man at 2 AM who told me & The German about the book he'd written on Britney Spears(he was the "only one that believed in her! And where did she go? Right back to #1. Minimum #1! Maximum #3! I'm just waiting to get paid. Any day now."), the other was with a cleaning lady who straight up told me my German was good. Say what...? The cleaning supplies may have been intoxicating her too.

Part 2 of holiday adventures, the Barcelona chapter, is coming soon…ish. At this rate, I should get my game face on and write about it sometime before Valentine’s day.

'Twas.

Cross-Country Journeyings

After enduring what can only be described as a road trip of epic proportions, I unfortunately no longer have usable legs or a tailbone. My sports career has been a long and fruitful one and though I'm forced to walk away from the game I love, I'd like to thank my parents, my teammates and the many coaches that have been there for me al--

K, bad jokes aside, I'm semi out of commission because we had a match up in Calais this weekend and instead of flying - as I'm told the club used to back in the pre-economic fiasco days - we decided it would be fun to drive. And by "we" I mean the president and coaches.

So Friday after training we once again saddle up the ol' mini-buses and the caravan across the entirety of France begins. According to Google maps, it's supposedly only about a 9 hr trip... but somehow that translates into more like 11-12 hrs when you stop for multiple bathroom breaks and oh, I don't know, a full 3 course proper sit-down lunch. Forget making good time, it's apparent these people appreciate a good meal. I mean really appreciate. Then again, I guess you know you're in the culinary capital of the world when...

So, many hours later, we arrive in at our destination. The gym was old-school sweet and channeled somewhat of a hockey rink feeling. Naturally, as a Canadian, I felt right at home. The hockey rink vibe was due to the fact that the stands directly behind the bench were divided into what can only be described as penalty boxes. Enough room for maybe 3 people in each, I liked to think each walled section could either be utilized for crowd control to maintain the peace during a rowdy upset. Or sold as exclusive high roller court-side suites... The marketing department and I are in negotiations.

But I digress.

So we roll in and took care of the biznass we came for, winning in 3. Holla. Nevermind we won the first set 25-15 and then somehow barely came out alive with a 31-29 W in the 3rd... A win's a win. Oh and I played pretty well, which is a refreshing change from my on-court antics of late.

Anyway, travelling to/being in Calais was interesting for a couple of reasons... First, being a native of a Commonwealth country, and the fact that we were so close to Britain I could almost taste it, I felt a special connection with the (true) motherland I hadn't felt before. Heck, a couple times I almost burst into a rousing solo rendition of God Save the Queen. I'm not sure if all the driving was getting to me but I think it was just the proximity to the English-speaking world and the possibility of hearing decent music that warmed my heart. It doesn't really make sense, but allow me to explain:

In my opinion, the French do many things well. They do a good meal. They do a good wine. They do a good revolution. However, they do not do good music. I'm sorry, but it had to be said. 4 months in and the standard French musical fare is starting to get to me... I've been fed a steady diet of bad dance music, campy guitar singalongs and old Rihanna. And I don't get it.

The English - while their traditional cuisine leaves more than a little to be desired - I say they know how to do good music. Obviously and especially good rock, to which I'm particularly inclined. I recognized a couple songs in the restaurant during the post-game meal that nearly brought tears to my eyes since they were both 1) new, and 2) decent. And both by indie English bands that have not seen the light of day further south of the "border". I love France, don't get me wrong, but ah for a moment I pined to be back in a land of decent musical taste.

Moving on.

This trip was also interesting because the Canadian in me was brought out more than once. Obviously the hockey-gym thing was a factor but also because it started to snow heavily on the beginning of the return drive home. My panicked coach - being an inexperienced southern driver - handed the team wheels over to me and let me just say - the mini-bus might not look like much, but she handles like a beaut.

Actually, I chilled in the back of the bus and just hoped the unfortunate weather wouldn't tack on an extra 3 hours to the already lengthy voyage. It did make me reminiscent of home though... For about 2.4 seconds. A swift snowball to the face from my asst. coach snapped me out of it though, and I quickly remembered this was why I left Alberta in the first place.

So cold, so bored.

The real Canadian in me also shouldn't have been complaining about the voyage because this little joy ride was chump change compared to many a road trip I've taken in my youth. I don't know if Canadians don't believe in jet travel or are just too cheap for it, but I've concluded it's more something like a twisted rite of passage. 14-hr team trip to Vancouver? Check. 20-hrs solo drive to Winnipeg? Check. Oh wait, twice? Check. 36-hr family vacay drive to California? Check. Check. Check. (We made that trip a lot...). You get the picture.

So 10 hours across France shouldn't have been a big deal but, just my luck, I was sitting on the only chair in the van that was more of a jump seat than a real spot. Less padding, more pain. Basically, after my laptop died I had nothing left to focus on but the soreness of my bod, the van's mood lighting (there was an actual button on the ceiling, next to ON/OFF and DOOR that said MOOD. When pushed, it cast an appealing orange glow about the interior of the vehicle. I swear I'm not kidding this time) and the horrible music playing on the radio.

Not to be a downer, I'll finish this by returning to the fact that we played well, and more importantly, this trip is done for the year. Calais comes to us next and I will appreciate every minute I spend not in a mini-bus rumbling down French freeways... Which, at some point during the trip, ALWAYS lead to rolling down the main street of a small village going, at most, 40 km/h. Who planned these "highways"? It's another thing I don't think the French do well... But that's a story for another day.

Internationally Known To Rock the Microphone

So December is shaping up to what looks to be a solid month of travelling adventures.

First, since we lost to the Ukrainians in the first round of CEV (aka Euro) Cup we've been assigned to play against CV Unic Piatra Neamţ, a Romanian team, for the next round. They come here on the 10th and then we roll out to yet another former Soviet satellite on the 16th-ish. And yeah, I just like saying 'former Soviet satellite'.

Yes, please.

Truth be told, I'm pretty psyched about goin' to Romania since it's somewhere new but considering there was once the posibility that we'd be playing in Azerbaijan, I'm a little disappointed. I was all set to finally take full advantage of the chance to use my Azerbaijani with some native speakers... Plus, it's not everyday you get the opportunity to travel to a country that's priviledged to be the prime real eastate between Russia, Georgia and Iran. Maybe next year, but by then they might have discovered that it's barely still actually in Europe and therefore can't be in the Euro Cup... so I might not get lucky after all.

Back to Romania - We're playing in a city called Piatra Neamţ in north-eastern Romania, about 8 hrs from Bucharest. Word on the street is it's one of the "most picturesque cities in Romania" so let's hope it lives up to that description. Either way it has to be more picturesque than the Ukraine so I'm not too worried. My standards are low.

My expectations for ridiculousness, however, are high. Last time my club played in Romania a couple years ago they had some stories to tell. Apparently they actually passed a couple horses & buggies on the drive through the countryside to the city they were playing in. No word of a lie. Upon arriving at the gym, they found the Romanian army - complete with automatic weapons - surrounding the court. No big deal - you shank a ball and potentially take out some guy's loaded A-K... The soldiers stayed there for the duration of the game, presumably to protect the foreigners from the onslaught of cigarette butts and vodka bottles after beating the home team? Apparently people were allowed to smoke inside the gym during the match so I'm wondering if it'll be the same where we're headed. Should make for an interesting time. Here's to hoping nobody's asthma flares up during a long rally...

After Romania and the craziness that should ensue, it's back to Paris for our last match before Christmas break. We have an unheard of 12 whole days off so I intend on capitalizing fully and getting the eff outta Albi. Fortunately, My German will be in the house and we're rollin' to Venice for Christmas. I haven't been back to Italy since I was 6 so I'm lookin' forward to it. If Italian cuisine treats me anywhere as well as French has, I don't foresee any problems.

For New Year's we're hoping to head to Barcelona since there are cheap flights from Paris and I figure I should complete the French neighbouring-countries trifecta, as I was in Germany in August. Now if I can just fit in Belgium, Switzerland, Luxembourg, Andorra, and Monaco sometime before midnight I should be good on actually visiting all of France's neighbours before the end of 2008... D'oh. Yeah, I spoke too soon.

So that's what's been up lately. Planning trips and lookin' forward to a little change of scenery. It's a little crazy to think I've been over here for comin' up on 4 months. Yipes. What do I have to say for myself in terms of getting anything tangible accomplished off the court? Not a lot. Record amounts of time spent online and improved, but still pretty terrible, guitar skills. Rough. I think it's clear I need to spend some serious time planning some legit New Year's resolutions. I'm open to suggestions. For the rest of '08 I'm just focused on ball and takin' in more eastern European fabulousness. Should be good.

Back in the USSR

So I got back from the Ukraine* for the first round of the European Cup last night at 3 AM. It was a trip. Literally.

Ok, wow. Bad puns aside, it was certainly an interesting couple days. Here's a quick recap...

We roll out in usual mini-bus form from Albi to Lyon Sunday evening. Not before being informed that the foreign kids, aka the American and me, need our French visa paperwork to get back into the country on the way home. I hadn't seen that piece of paper in many a week...No big deal though. The whole team will just wait for you guys in the car while you go on the hunt...

Luckily I located mine pretty quick... but the American wasn't so lucky and ended up looking for about half an hour before they decided to leave her to come in the second fleet, with the other half of the team, a few hours later... The trip was off to a stellar start.

So we get to our hotel in Lyon that night after taking an extra hour on the road cause one of the freeways was closed due to flooding... but the flight the next morning was on-time and we were finally Odessa-bound. Whoever booked our flights was a gambling man but impressively we made our 15-minute connection in Prague so God was smiling down favourably upon us Monday.

Tuesday, He stopped smiling.

Just kidding... except not really.

Actually, first let me back up. We practiced Monday evening to work out a little of the stiffness that invariably comes as a result of being tucked into tiny airplanes for hours on end. We hadn't eaten anything since breakfast 12 hours before so it naturally follows that an appropriate pre-practice snack consists of Mars bars and oranges. Something about chocolate seems to spell pre-workout nutrition to the French because we have been fed it more than once before games. Strange, but I guess it's my cross to bear while I'm here. I don't want your pity.

Dig in

Anyway, Tuesday we had a light practice in the morning and it was game time at 5 PM. After getting locked in the elevator due to a lack of room key (for some reason it was necessary to get out. I didn't understand it either but had plenty of time to contemplate while I waited for somebody to push the button and open the doors from the outside. Surprise, I'm in here.) and discovering the hotel's public bathroom has a mirrored ceiling (which makes for some uncomfortable moments when the American is the stall next door...), we were ready to play.

Allow me to sum up the game in a few words:
The team we played was Jinestra Odessa.
We lost 3-1. They had a 6'5" outside hitter. Russians can ball.
That's about it.

So we didn't take care of business. God stopped smiling. And it was a long trip... Luckily, we saw some crazy stuff and some of my stereotypes about the Ukraine were broken so it wasn't all bad.
First - it was ridiculously hot indoors. Like everywhere. I was expecting to freeze, but it was quite the opposite and we sweated our ____s off pretty much the whole time. Our hotel room temperature was stuck at 25 degrees and we couldn't turn it down. The gym was stifling.
Second - the food was really good and the gym and hotel were luxe. In this area I shouldn't say I had pre-conceived notions about either being bad but we'll say I was just pleasantly surprised.

To be fair, I should say that certain stereotypes were reinforced. For instance, we saw a lot of babushkas in flowery scarves.

What else. The country is in rough shape and a lot of buildings and such were really really run-d0wn. For example, the aiport was basically a one-room bus station. The people also seemed to be somewhat "run-down" and we saw exactly 2 Ukrainians smile the whole time we were there. The American even attempted a social experiment to see how many people would smile back at her while we walked around downtown Odessa. The final score? Ukraine - 8, the American - 1. She gave up pretty quick, especially after the only person I smiled at returned the gesture and I undermined her whole operation... I was always told only a mother, and I now found out a Ukrainian, could love this face.

So that's about it. We took the 15 hr journey back yesterday and leave again the day after tomorrow for Paris to play Clamart. The Ukrainians then come to us next week for round 2. If we win in 3 sets or less, it's off to Belgium or Germany. If we lose, who knows where we go for round 2. If I'm lucky, maybe back to another part of the Ukraine. Stay tuned for part 2.

Only 9075 km to Vancouver...

They know how to pick store names in this country

The only man to ever smile for an extended period of time in the Ukraine was immortalized in this statue

Roamin' the streets

Worldwide takeover... You have to make that shape with your mouth to say McDonald's in Ukrainian.

*NOTE: I am told it's incorrect to say "The Ukraine" but rather should simply be referred to as "Ukraine". I tried... It sounds weird. I'm sticking with the The. I'm sorry.