Update

I my Internet is partially back -- in the classroom a few doors down the hall from me. However, I can only use it on the weekends and after dark (when the students and/or construction workers aren't there), meaning that I have to bundle up tight, since the heat is turned off during these times. It's better than nothing.

Speaking of which, it has been cold -- hovering just above freezing for the past few weeks, which makes for misery: near-freezing rain, wind (can't use an umbrella), and no snow. This is my normal get-up:

This is also pretty much what I'm wearing right now (in the unheated classroom), plus a vest and a sweatshirt. Meh.

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These are the cheeses of the past few weeks:

 

 Tomme des Vosges: sharp, smoky, and tastes a bit like dirt. Rather like the Vosges themselves. I really like it.

Chevre frais (fresh goat cheese -- not affine, or aged) rolled in sun-dried tomatoes and herbs, with reblochon, a runny fromage de lait cru (raw milk cheese) that's like a very strong camembert with pronouned smokiness.

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Latest local event: Saint Nicolas. Different from le pere Noel (Santa Claus), Saint Nicolas is based on the Catholic Nicolas de Myre who, according to Wikipedia, is the patron saint of students, teachers, boatsmen, barren women and sterile men, glaziers, butchers, and travelers. I can attest at least to the butcher, because he was up there in the sledge alongside Saint Nicolas and pere Fouettard (Father Whipper), who is Saint Nicolas' partner in crime when it comes to doling out gifts. The "Naughty List" doesn't exist here; you just get thrashed.

I didn't have my camera on me (of course), but Becca, my roommate, did, so here are a few pictures from Gerardmer's celebration last night:

 

Sledge that led le defile (parade) through the streets of Gerardmer; you can see Saint Nicolas standing up in his pope-like hat, with Pere Fouettard right next to him (dressed all in black, as per the tradition), and then the butcher.

 Some pretty great fireworks were let loose.

The street at night. 

It was quite a festive atmosphere. Saint Nicolas threw some bonbons from the sledge to all the kids sitting on their dad's shoulders, while Pere Fouettard looked like an insane Jack Nicholas wearing sunglasses at night  and grinning like a maniac. The butcher just waved.

As cheesy as this all sounds, what made this event kind of cool was that it is very strictly regional. Lorraine and Alsace are the only regions of France that celebrate la fete de saint Nicolas on December 6th since it's a tradition that has spread over from Germany and the Netherlands. The whole event is so winter- and mountain-oriented: you go to the parade, shop at the Christmas market, drink vin chaud (hot wine mulled with spices), eat choucroute garni (sauerkraut with many meats) and tartiflette (a mess of potato, ham, and cheese baked in a casserole dish), and march back home, up the mountain, to get drunk on homemade mirabelle liquor beside your indoor wood furnace. They take pride in this kind of stuff, you know?

The night before the festivities, I was lucky enough to be invited to dinner by my friend Danny and an grizzled old man friend of his, Claude. A crusty-handed mountaineer who distills his own pear liquor from fruit he gathers wild in the Vosges, Claude served us a veritable (and unfortunately meat-laden) Vosgien meal: quiche lorraine, a casserole of spiced potatoes, chunks of local ham, an assorted cheese plate (chevre affine, comte, etorki, roquefort, aged munster), a plate of choux pastries, fresh walnuts from his backyard. All of this was accompanied by proper drinks: la biere de Noel (spiced beer) for the quiche, Alsacien white wine for the potatoes and ham, Bordeaux for the cheese, a post-dessert cafe, and a variety of homemade liquors for digestifs.

The French don't drink water (it's true!), so I was an overstuffed and staggering mess by 11:30 -- the time that dinner was officially "over." If there's one French tradition that I've truly come to love, it's multiple-course meals (minimum of four) and everything that comes with them: lazy chatting, eating slowly and savoring flavors, not having anywhere to be (because after a French dinner, you simply can't have other plans). It's an art that shouldn't have to be.