La Bande de Bergues

In the North of France the grand finale of the Carnaval season (which lasts approx. 3 months and includes somewhere between 30 and 50 different celebrations) is capped off with La Bande de Bergues. Seeing as we had missed all the other major celebrations – i.e. Carnaval de Dunkerque which is the largest – because of our trip to Spain, this was something we couldn’t pass up. We had been invited by one of the other English assistants to meet him and some of his students there. They had a much more intimate understanding of how the festivities were coordinated so it was a great opportunity to have locals showing us the ropes. From the little bit of information we could gather before the event it was quite clear that to arrive sans some kind of bizarre costume would definitely be frowned upon. The general idea for a déguisement for the men is to come up with the most sleazy um…”lady of the night” outfit possible, and girls usually sported flashy bright colors, or dressed as an animal.

Seeing as this was another relatively last minute decision – and we were already low on funds from our Ibiza trip – we had to scale our costumes down to a simple wig/hat ensemble (one of Joel's students was nice enough to help Kathryn out with a bit of face paint to get her more in the Carnaval spirit). The town of Bergues is only about a one hour train ride from Lille, and SNCF was obviously prepared for debauchery when selecting the train to use. It looked like a Paris metro train that spent the last 10 years rusting in a junk yard, and as the hour of departure grew closer it became clear they knew what they were doing. Wave after wave of red-lipped, faux fur coat wearing, dirty wigged partiers began pouring onto the train, sloshing bottles of liquor and beer, and disregarding the posted “Non Fumer” signs.

The train ride was a great introduction to the kind of people we could expect to encounter for the rest of the day. As the train was pulling away from the station three French guys – dressed to impress – sat down across from us, and began applying the finishing touches to their costumes. Including lipstick, rosy cheek makeup, and…well just take a look ----->>> They were really pumped for La Bande. They even explained the reason for the celebration and the story behind dressing up like prostitutes. Apparently the tradition started hundreds of years ago with the fisherman of the town. They would come back from weeks or months out to sea, and would be in the mood to party. They would get all liquored up and dress as women to attract the ladies of the town out to join them. Seemed logical.

Another thing our friends on the train taught us were the words to some of the songs everyone was singing. As soon as they stepped foot onto the train not a moment passed without someone belting out a song, and the rest of the group joining in. Everyone knew all the words to every single song. There had to be close to a dozen of them. This came in handy later in the day because they were the songs of Carnaval, and all of them were constantly being played and sung by everyone throughout the entire festival. They were blasting from speakers aimed out people’s apartments that overlooked the streets, and played by roaming miniature marching bands that circled the city.

It turned out to be a beautiful day with hardly a cloud in the sky, but even with the sun shining it couldn’t have hit more than 30°F all day. As we began to pull into Bergues station the train started going nuts banging on the ceiling, stomping on the floor and rocking the train car almost to the point of tipping it off the tracks (I’m sure it never came close to actually derailing, but they were going wild). One by one people poured (some staggered) off the train and instantly formed a line along the fence to “relieve” themselves. This was something that became quite a common sight along the streets of Bergues as Port-o-Johns were few and far between. We also heard a story from someone we met there that a friend had gone into one of the scarce portable toilets, and had it subsequently turned over on its side by a drunken group of partiers. After hearing that bit of information we decided to avoid them at all costs.

Waiting for us on the other side of the tracks was our friend and a couple of his Seconde students. After introductions we headed off to one of the students homes where a group of friends met up before all of us heading out into the insanity that was La Bande. First I want to make it perfectly clear that everyone was dressed up. Men, women, children, young, old, and really old it did not matter so I was happy that we at least had something of a disguise. Another thing was that cheap faux fur coats were a dime a dozen; so next year if we get the chance to do this again I’ll most definitely be sporting one of those (both for the fashion and the warmth). We spent the first hour or so mingling in the Grande Place where a majority of people we congregating before La Bande started. We had a couple of drinks and met a few other assistants who had ventured into town for the celebration. Finally we were dragged off by the students leading us around to go find La Bande.

Now I’ve mentioned this Bande a couple times now, and if you are unfamiliar with it I’ll explain: La Bande is a big march of almost everyone in the village. It is led by one of the aforementioned mini-marching bands. Everyone links arm-in-arm in rows that stretch from one side of the street to the other, and then begin marching while singing the different songs of Carnaval. There must have been about 20,000 people all dressed up. Another tradition of La Bande is to carry around one of two things: either an umbrella (but not just any umbrella). I’m talking about an umbrella that has been duct-taped to the end of the longest pole that one can find. Some people we carrying umbrella’s that had to reach over two stories in height. The second option was to carry a similarly modified feather duster. In fact these we so common that there were signs around the train tracks cautioning to be aware of one’s umbrella because if they came in contact with the electrified wires overhead that powered the trains there was the probability of electrocution.

Another tradition of La Bande that caught us relatively by surprise (we had been informed about it just not told when it would occur) was called Le Rigodon. It is part of La Bande and occurs rather spur-of-the-moment which made it very difficult to avoid. The way it works is at certain points during the march everyone comes to a stop. This usually happens in streets that have people hanging out windows waving and taking pictures. Sometimes (I’m guessing if there isn’t enough people there to watch) they pick the pace back up again and continue on their way. However, there are other times when all hell breaks loose, and I did notice that there is a certain song that is played when this happens. The band starts playing again and instead of everyone continuing forward, the people at the front begin pushing backwards while the people at the back start pushing forwards. What results is utter chaos. Everyone gets smashed up against one another almost to the point of asphyxiation, and then starts moving as one back and forth stomping on each other’s feet and legs and occasionally jumping up and down. If it weren’t for the shear lack of space countless participants would end up trampled on the ground. Being a bigger guy I was less concerned for myself, and more concerned for the teenage girl behind me. She was smashed so tight I was worried she couldn’t breathe, and at times I could tell she was literally lifted off the ground while moving with the crowd (this happened to Kathryn as well which was the last straw for her, and after that we decided to hang towards the rear of the pack to keep out of the ruckus).

La Bande continues for most of the day, but we could only take about an hour or so of marching along with them. We spent the rest of the day as spectators as we explored the city of Bergues. It is actually a really interesting village in itself. It is one of the oldest towns in the Pas de Calais region of France, and is still totally surrounded by a medieval wall and moat. In fact we had to cross a drawbridge (guarded by cops stopping people with open containers of alcohol from entering before they had consumed them) just to enter. Our train was scheduled to take us back to Lille at about 9pm that evening, but on account of the freezing cold and biting wind we decided to catch an earlier one. All together it was an immensely fun time, great company, and a whole lot of drunken weirdo French people dressed up as dirty hookers. I can’t wait to do it all again next year!

A bientôt,

Jordan and Kathryn

Y-M-C...Jesus?

Kathryn and I accepted an invitation to Paris to round out our vacation with a weekend in the La Ville-Lumière. Soon after we returned from our holiday trip to Chicago we had gotten the urge to revisit the city. At the suggestion of my friend Yann we planned this to be that weekend. The reason was a 25th birthday celebration in his honor had been planned for the 20th, and it was an offer we couldn't refuse. Our anticipation rose days later when we were informed the party guests we required to find celebrity déguisements, and seeing as we missed out on Halloween this year it felt like we had been given a second chance.



Our train arrived in Paris Friday afternoon, and since the meteorologists in France seem to be just as oblivious as those in Chicago (predicted thunderstorms, had sunny clear skies) we took advantage of the nice weather to marché around. We started at the Bastille and finished blocks away from Gare du Nord where we rested our weary feet on the terrace of a café to enjoy the espresso and people watching. As dusk rolled around we met up with Yann who had just finished working, and made our way back to his parent’s home for a quick bite to eat. The meal was speedy because we were in a rush to get back out the door and over to the local soccer pitch where Yann’s community team was playing a friendly match against another from the area.


The game went well until late in the second half when Yann’s team appeared to run out of gas, and let up two quick goals with only minutes left in regulation. However, we’ll have to qualify the game as “incomplete” because at 10:30pm – on the dot – the field flood lights went out and the game ended slightly premature. Even though a comeback seemed highly unlikely “it ain’t over till it’s over,” so in my book I won’t chalk this one up in the loss column.

The following day Yann was preoccupied with preparation for the evening’s soirée so Kathryn and I took the train in to the city to walk along Le Rive Gouche. We also took the opportunity to stop into the Musée d’Orsay, and thanks to our work visas we were entitled to the EU under-25 discount of free admission. The museum was under construction so the top couple floors were closed off, but they had moved the most well renowned paintings by Monet, Renoir, Van Gogh and the sort to the main galleries on the first and second level. We spent a good couple hours walking around checking out the artwork, and dodging tourists (the place was packed and from what we heard in passing a majority were American).

When we got back the house had already been “party-proofed.” Chairs were set up along the walls on the veranda, tables had been moved out of the way, and anything breakable had been relocated to somewhere safe (an art perfected back on High School days). Yann was just putting the finishing touches on his Tommy Lee costume which included multiple press-on tattoos. His girlfriend Marion dressed as Pamela Anderson to complement the Motley Crue drummer. With only about an hour before things kicked off Kathryn and I quickly changed into our costumes as Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.

The party was a major success. Every one of the guests showed up dressed to impress and aside from two French “celebrities” that we had never heard of there was: The Joker, Charlie Chaplin, Mario and Luigi, Brittney Spears, Marilyn Monroe - just to name a few - and the whole group was rounded out by Jesus, Mary (who was actually pregnant) and Joseph (Mary’s baby’s daddy). As the night went on everyone mingled and it gave Kathryn and I a great opportunity to further practice our French skills. The highlight of the evening (for Kathryn and I) came after a few bottles of champagne had been laid to rest, the lights dimmed and Jesus got up to lead everyone – including Mary and Joseph – in an emphatic rendition of YMCA. In actuality the only part of the song that anyone knew the words to was the chorus, but when it came time to spell out Y-M-C-A they really put some force into it (probably to make up for the lack of vocals during the rest of the song). The party wound down close to 4am, and being out of the party scene for a little while now I’m not sure if we could have lasted much later anyway.

The next day we embraced the opportunity to faire la grasse matinée, and made it down in time for lunch. That afternoon Kathryn was pretty wiped out so she took a “nap” (for four hours) while Yann, his Dad, Marion and myself played nine holes of golf at their club. It’s always a treat to play golf with Yann because it brings back such great memories. The very first time we took him to play when he visited Chicago was an outing filled with golf-cart football, lots of mulligans, and a whole lot of swearing in French.


We got back home just as Kathryn was waking up from her – let’s call it a petite dormir – and Yann’s Mom had hors d’oeuvres set out. We enjoyed a bottle of white wine while watching les Jeux Olymiques (the only footage we saw of the games), and waited for dinner to be ready. Our train left Gare du Nord just after 11pm and we were whisked back to Lille with just enough time to catch the very last tram heading towards Wasquehal. It was definitely the perfect end to a very eventful deux semaines de vacances.


A bientôt,

- Jordan and Kathryn

P.S. – Kathryn thought it would be helpful to italicize the French words to make it easier to pick them out, and so you wouldn’t assume I just didn’t know how to spell.

Nightmare on Fernhead Road

The first speed-bump we encountered came shortly after landing. We had flown into London-Stansted airport which is about an hour by train outside of downtown. By the time we got through customs (which took longer than it should have because I apparently wrote my name on the incorrect line of the immigration card and the border officer was quite anal about the placement), onto the “Stansted Express” train, and back into the heart of London it was 12:40am. Not extraordinarily late but the underground ceases to run at 12:30am so we had to hail a (famously expensive) cab to get us over to Kathryn’s friend’s apartment.

While in the cab on the way to the flat Kathryn dialed the roommate’s number to inform him that we were en route, and would be arriving shortly. First try – no answer, second try – no answer, eighth try – no answer. So we try Kathryn’s friend…no answer. By this time the driver pulled up to what we assumed/hoped was the correct building. Now the problem was that we had the address but not the apartment number, and we had been under the impression that someone would be there (and hopefully waiting) to let us in. After trying the roommate two or three more times with no avail Kathryn got out to go ring the bell.

Seconds after the buzzer sounded a woman yelled into the intercom that we needed to leave and the police had been called. This obviously gave the impression that we had the wrong building so Kathryn very kindly apologized and began walking back towards the cab while trying to call her friend. Before she had even reached the street a “creature” (that could best be described as a cross between a character from “Where the Wild Things Are” and the real life version of the bus driver from the cartoon “South Park”) emerged from behind the plate glass door of the apartment building hurling fowl-mouthed insults our direction.

“What tha [expletive] do you fink you’re [expletive] doin’ ringin’ my [expletive] bell in tha middle of tha [expletive] night!” “You’d betta get tha [expletive] outta ‘ere ‘cause I called tha [expletive] police and they’re on their [expletive] way right now!” etc…

At this point I stepped out of the cab and – as calmly as possible – explained that we were searching for our friend’s flat, and reminded her that no one wanted to be out in the middle of the night (and she should watch her language, shut her mouth, and go back inside). The cabbie made a comment about having a “pleasant introduction to London,” and drove us down the street to an ATM so we could take out money to pay for the ride. It was about this time that Kathryn finally got a hold of her friend and explained our situation and that we believed we had the wrong address. She, unfortunately, explained that we had the correct building, but when you ring the buzzer for their apartment the ringer sounds in the landlady’s flat as well. So we had the taxi take us back to the building where he left us with parting words of: “make sure you have someone to let you right in because this isn’t the type of area to be hangin’ out in or wandering around in during the daytime, let alone the middle of the night. Drugs and whatnot.”

This time as we approached the building the roommate finally answered his phone. It was a welcomed relief until he uttered the only words we got from him the whole of the night, “The landlady says you pissed her off and so she won’t let you stay here.” Then he just hung up! So here we were in a “dodgy” area of London, in the middle of the night with no ride and nowhere to go. We called back Kathryn’s friend who told us there was nothing she could do. We asked if it was possible to stay with her at her friends place, we didn’t even need a bed; a floor to sit on for a few hours would be enough. She said no. This was when we started getting a little nervous because using a French cell-phone in London costs about 1euro a minute, and we were quickly running out of talk-time. The friends next suggestion was to take a taxi to the airport and sleep there; when we reminded her that we were leaving by train she said go to the train station, (it was closed for the night). Finally she asked if we could just stay outside, obviously out of the question. It was at this point that phone gave out and we were left completely stranded.

It was now 2:30am; Kathryn had been shivering uncontrollably so I gave her my coat to wear over hers. This left me in nothing but a track-jacket carrying both our bags, Kathryn was crying, bewildered that: the landlady had no compassion to let us inside (and that she said she’d stay up until 6am to make sure we were not let in), the roommate had no balls to defy her (or even the decency to call us back to tell us what was going on), and we were left to fend for ourselves with little money and no phone in the ghetto carrying luggage.

Always the calm voice of reason I explained that there is no use trying to find logic and reason behind illogical and unreasonable actions, and we started walking. When the cab took us to the cash machine we noticed a police station on the corner so the plan was to get there and hopefully find some help. As luck would have it only three blocks away we found a 24hour cab stand with some very helpful attendants. They let us come inside to warm up and then drove us about ten minutes away and helped us find a hotel for the night.

I want you to picture the nastiest, ugliest, dirtiest hotel you have ever stayed in…this was probably worse. The walls were cracked and the carpet was stained unusual colors in a number of different places. There was a sink in the room but no bathroom. To use the facilities you had to go down the hall, turn the corner, go down another hall and squeeze into the toilet room on the right with a door that would not close, or the “shower” (by shower I simply mean a drain in the floor and a hand-help water spout) on the left that was missing a door altogether. All this luxury for 45pounds(approx. $80) a night.

We slept in our clothes to avoid catching any diseases or bugs from the bed, and took off bright and early the next morning. The biting wind and cold from the previous night had turned into snow by morning. Since it more or less felt like we hadn’t slept at all a breakfast of a double whopper with cheese at the train station was the perfect dinner/breakfast. That and a large latte from Starbucks got us in the perfect mood to return to Lille, and we couldn’t have been happier when we finally made it back to our room on Rue du Molinel in Wasquehal France. 

I can’t say it was the perfect end to our vacation, but it was one more unforgettable event in a week that will forever be etched in our memory.

A bientôt,

Jordan and Kathryn

Winter in Ibiza - Our Final Day

We have finally reached the end of our week long vacation to Ibiza. The final day (including the trip back, and the night in London) turned out to be the perfect gradual reintroduction to Lille. To go from a place as warm, relaxing and enjoyable as Ibiza right back to Lille would have been a major shock to our systems, and could have left us longing for days past. Our night in London made sure we would see Lille in a whole different (incredibly welcoming) light. Even though at the time the forthcoming events were more traumatic than humorous we were well aware that sometime in the near future we would look back and laugh. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The day started out great (well aside from Kathryn hurting more than ever from her flu symptoms).


After we returned the rent-a-car to the dealer we packed everything up which only took about five to ten minutes (in an effort to avoid baggage fees that cost 4x as much as our flight we stuck with carry-on sized bags). We asked the lady at the front desk which direction to take to get to the bus station and then we were out the door. In her broken English the woman made it seem like the station was miles away on the edge of town, but by following signs we found it in no time. The bus was an amazing alternative to taking a taxi (2euros compared to 30), and proved just as quick and reliable. In about 30min we were off and wandering around Eivissa, the largest city on the island.

It turned out to be a smart choice saving this city for our final day. It had much more of an inner-city feel. The buildings were taller than anywhere else, and the streets were surprisingly crowded with bustling pedestrians. Being the gentleman that I am (and due to Kathryn’s illness) I shouldered the load of our bags as we traipsed around the city. First up on our list of things to do was check out the overwhelmingly large castle-type structure that we had spotted as we initially flew onto the island. This task was easily accomplished since the fortress (Dalt Vila) towered over the city. It could easily be spotted once we made it to a clearing not totally surrounded by office and apartment buildings.

Apparently the name simply means something like “Upper Town” or “High Town” and that is exactly what it is. The town is surrounded by enormous stone walls and is built at the highest point of the area with the back protected by a massive cliff face. From the top it offers unbelievable views of both the city itself and the harbor and sea that it defended. Once we entered through a gate we began hiking along the top of the outter wall that rose at a relatively steep angle (this made ever more difficult by the 30+lbs of awkwardly slung backpack and computer bag I had over my shoulders). We climbed up as high as possible before our path was impeded by scaffolding and a crane. As beautiful as most ancient European structures can be it takes a keen historical imagination to picture them removed from the renovation work that normally obstructs a significant portion of their exteriors.

The town was built as a series of successive levels culminating with a massive church at the very top. We spent the next hour or so weaving our way along the narrow streets between homes and shops that seemed as lively as…well a town not enclosed in a medieval fortress. Every now and then either through a door left ajar, or looking down at a lower level we could see many buildings opened up to magnificent courtyards and interior plazas. Another great aspect was thanks to being a national monument every couple hundred yards or so the city had placed plaques with historical information about everything from construction and empirical occupation to significance of individual buildings and churches. We easily could have spent hours searching around the town and visiting the sites and museums. Unfortunately our vacation was running out of time, and we decided it would be best to eat a big lunch before heading to the airport incase (foreshadowing) it was our last opportunity to have a decent comfortable meal.

Lunch was once again delicious. We found a little Mom-and-Pop restaurant whose dining area looked similar to how I’d imagine an old Spanish grandmother’s sitting/sewing room. The server was very nice and helpful using the bit of English that he spoke, the food was homemade, the sea bass fresh, and the beer cold. After lunch we parked ourselves in the sun on the terrace of a little café down the street from the restaurant to enjoy a cappuccino before catching our bus to the airport.

To this point everything was going quite smooth. The buses were quick, efficient and cheap, and I even made it through security without losing the bottle of shampoo we bought that was stuffed in my bag.

A cause de the cheap price of our plane tickets we had no control over the hours of their arrivals and departures, and the only flight back landed us in London at about 11:20pm. This proved to be a problem for the simple fact that Eurostar’s last train to Lille left sometime around 10pm. In anticipation of this prolonged layover Kathryn had contacted her friend’s older sister who is studying in London to see if we could possibly pass the short couple of hours at her place before our train departed the following morning. I know it’s hard to tell from all the fun adventures we are having here, but as English assistants’ salary-wise we are living slightly below the poverty line to the tune of 792euros per month. This coupled with the extravagant prices for hotels in London drove us to the request, and it was graciously accepted.

While at the airport Kathryn phoned her friend to confirm what time we would be arriving, and to once again double check everything would be OK. She informed us that she had arranged to stay at a friend’s flat that evening so we could have her room and more than just a floor to sleep on. She also gave us the number of her roommate and instructed us to give a call when we got there and he would let us in. Sounded great.

Winter In Ibiza - Just Winging It

First and foremost on our list of things to do was to re-rent the car for one last day. There were still a number of points around the island that we needed to visit, and accomplishing that would take wheels. After the paperwork had been updated we took off in the direction of Santa Gertrudis de Fruitera, a small village in the center of the island. It was there that we hoped to find Bar Con Costa which had been recommended to us by the bartender at our hotel. He described it as the best baguettes on the island, and seeing as we had been eating rather exquisitely the past couple days we figured a cheap sandwich lunch wouldn’t lighten the wallet much.

This day was the very first we had without sun, but even with the stratus clouds hovering overhead the weather was temperate. A sprinkling of rain fell while we drove down the winding back-roads in search of the town, but it had subsided by the time we arrived. We parked on the outskirts and walked the rest of the way in, but Santa Gurtrudis wasn’t made up of more than an old church in the main square surrounded by a few shops, restaurants and bars. We had our fingers crossed that the bar would be open because the man who told us about it warned that they were not open Tuesday’s, and even though it was Monday there was always the possibility.

Lucky enough Bar Con Costa was one of only two establishments open in the entire town. From the outside it looked cozy and inviting, and we could see a fire blazing in a fireplace just through the door. As we entered a few things became quite apparent. The first was that the interior in actuality was much larger than it appeared. There were dining areas that swept all the way though the back, up two flights of stairs, and they easily could have accommodated a hundred patrons or more. Secondly it was obvious our barman friend from Hotel Puchet had not been exaggerating when describing the specialties of the restaurant. Hanging over the bar were at least two dozen cured ham legs ready to be sliced in to baguette sandwiches.

We followed the server through the main hall up a few stairs where they had another large circular fireplace that was situated in the center of the room surrounded by tables. We took our seats against the wall looking out at the bar in an optimal place for Kathryn to warm herself without feeling any draft from the open entrance door. At the recommendation of our server we both ordered jamón ibérico baguettes which were brought out within minutes. I am at a bit of loss as how to describe the sandwiches which were simplistic yet extraordinary. A few superb slices of ham over cheese and tomato then drizzled with Spanish olive oil and toasted. I have said it before a couple of times, but always follow recommendations from locals. I have yet to eat a meal this good for such a reasonable price in Europe.

After lunch we still had half a day to kill, and so we pulled out our map and randomly chose to visit an area called Punta Grossa just north of Cala Sant Vincent. As we were winding along through the forest heading east we drove past a large butte that appeared to offer a spectacular view of both the island and the sea. There were no specific signs designating how we might be able to reach the summit, but we passed one road that was heading in that direction so we turned planning to follow it as far as it would take us. That happened to be over three quarters of the way up. The street just kept turning and winding and in almost no time we had reached the top. It was a great view, but the most intriguing part was a sign marked “ES CUIERAM 425-125 A.C./B.C.” and designated by the Consell Insular d’Eivissa i Formentera. We weren’t sure what it meant, and even though the sign said “closed on Monday’s” we decided to follow the arrow on foot. It took us to a path that ran along the side of some cliffs and eventually opened up to a labyrinth of closed off caves that had been dedicated to the Goddess Tanit dating back to the time of the Phoenicians. The carved out caves opened up a space of over 200m² and four different worship chambers. It was really interesting and a little eerie since we were all alone on the side of a cliff looking at a 2500 year old sanctuary that was covered with a number of candles and offerings left by recent visitors.

After coasting down from our impromptu archeological hike we got back on our way to Punta Grossa. The journey required a keen eye for posted signs as well as the guts to drive past a construction site where heavy machinery was being used - apparently - to tear down the side of a mountain. When we reached the vantage point we were afforded a 360° view of beaches, forest and the sea. We were perched on a 100m cliff looking down on mostly deserted land except for two extravagant mansions that were built on top of an adjacent cliff.

During our drive home we stopped in Sant Carles for a café at the only open bar in town. By the time we left it had started raining again so we decided to call it a day and return to the hotel for our daily siesta. Even though it was overcast and a little more subdued, our last full day on Ibiza couldn’t have been better. We were dreading having to leave, and returning to cold snowy Lille. One good point was that our flight home didn’t leave Ibiza until almost 10pm the next evening so we would have ample time Tuesday to explore the one city on the island we had yet to visit: Eivissa.

-Jordan and Kathryn