If nothing good had ever happened since I got here, if this whole semester was completely for nothing, what happened to me last night made it worth it. No, really... I’m not kidding. Probably this is the best story I have had to tell since coming to Paris. Last night, it was sometime around 21h00, or 9pm, and I was making dinner in the kitchen. Now, I am leaving this country on Sunday morning, and I am almost out of groceries, so I didn’t want to buy any more... and I didn’t feel like cooking, and honestly, if I see one more quiche, one more tortellini, or one more scrambled egg, I will throw it or myself out the window. My aversion to quiche will not last, I am sure, but the other two? I have eaten those at least 3 meals a week for the last 3 months. I don’t think I can do it anymore.
Back to the story. I didn’t feel like cooking and couldn’t think of anything to make that didn’t involve eggs or pasta, so I bought a demi-baguette and was prepared to eat a demi-baguette with honey for dinner. I am 21, I am totally allowed to do things like that. I may have had a glass of wine with it, who knows? But then, a care package from the US arrived, and the demi-baguette was suddenly much less appetizing. Because in this package, which came from my favorite Deepher ever, was maple syrup. And AirHeads, and Milky Ways, and an Emory newspaper, and a lot of other things that I have not seen in months. But there was maple syrup. And though some of it had leaked out and become maple cement that glued the box together, the rest was still intact, and suddenly I had never been so hungry in my life. But I couldn’t let the demi-baguette go stale... "I know," I thought to myself, "I will make french toast. Oh, this is so ironic, since I am in France." So I sliced the demi-baguette... and realized that I had no idea the exact measurements of french toast batter. But I made a traditional Swedish cake sans recette, and if I can do that, I can do french toast, right? I mean, I speak the language, no big deal. One egg, a splash of milk, and way too much cinnamon later, I was dipping my tiny slices of baguette (real French baguettes are only about the size of... I don’t know, a small roll of tape, so I had a lot of tiny slices. I put them in the pan to fry, and toute de suite, in walked Madame Laudet to make her dinner. So we begin to chat, and I try desperately not to burn the bejeebees out of my dinner, when she leans over my pan and says, with utmost gravity, "qu’est-ce que tu fait?" What are you making? My dad says french toast was named after an American whose last name was French, and thus it is not actually from the country of France. But my dad says a lot of things that are not true, so I never really believed him; who keeps track of those kind of things anyway? But as soon as she asked, it hit me that I have never in this country seen French toast on a menu anywhere. "Grille-pain français?" No. Quite excited that for once I get to explain something to Madame, I grin from ear to ear, flip one slice of baguette over, and say, "Oh, c’est mon dîner. Aux États-Unis, on le mange; en anglais, il est ‘french toast.’" Oh, this is my dinner, it’s an American dish called french toast. "How strange!" she says, "so charming! What is it?" Oh, right, that would be good to explain. "It’s a little bit of egg, milk, and cinnamon," I say, pointing to the bowl of batter. "Oh, so you bake that?" she asks, thinking it must be like a cake. "No..."
"Oh, you pour it over the bread?"
"No..."
"Oh. Well, what are you going to DO with it, then?" I think she had begun to think I made it up. Alas, then it would be called Hurm Toast, which somehow does not have the same ring to it.
"I dip the bread in there, and then put it in the pan to cook. You eat it with... uh..." here I forgot the word for syrup, though I probably never knew it, since they don’t eat it here, at all. But Madame filled in the blank for me.
"Avec des legumes?" "With vegetables?"
"What?! No!" I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.
"With cheese? Like a sandwich?"
"No, not at all... with syrup, actually."
"Ahh, I love syrup! I never know what to put it on, though." Yeah, that’s because you don’t have pancakes here.
"Do you want to try it?"
"Sure! You eat it for dessert?"
"No, it’s a meal... usually breakfast, but I decided to make it for dinner." So I take out the prettiest, least burned looking morceau, put it on a dessert plate for her, and poured some syrup on it. I assumed she would know that you eat it with a fork, which was a stupid assumption, so she picked it up and ate it with her fingers, but immediately pronounced it delicious.
"This is amazing! I bet kids love this! It tastes like dessert, though, I can’t believe you eat it for a meal!"
And thus a 21-year-old American girl introduced an 81-year-old French woman to the world of egg-coated fried bread, only ironic because all the American world thinks it is a French food anyway.
~Just a few more days,
B
Friday, December 22, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
I look so French it hurts.
When I arrived in this country, I thought I was going to have to quit listening to rock music and dressing like a rock star and wearing my hair as though I am a groupie or left-handed bassist. I soon realized I was wrong– the French rock/emo scene is crazy, full of hipsters who wear better clothes, listen to worse music, and wear more eyeliner than the American ones. But unfortunately for me, I got my hair cut into this sophisticated, terribly chic and unbelievably short style three days before moving to this country, so I have been condemned to not looking like a hipster for months now. I kept putting off getting a haircut because, though unbelievably glamorous, I knew it would cost my first born child for me to get a decent cut in Paris.
Enter the Quartier Latin, street where the riches of ages are sold. No, wait, that is somewhere in London, but still, the Quartier Latin, streets where everything you thought you couldn’t afford is suddenly 35% cheaper when you brandish your student ID.
(I’ve noticed, by the way, that I have become significantly more impulsive since living in this country– there are several plausible reasons for this, all of which are too complicated to explain here, but it helps to know that when listening to any adventure which occurs in this lovely city.)
Completely randomly, I decided to get my haircut today– I passed a window of a salon offering student rates, it looked nice, I didn’t have anything ELSE to do, so I went in and asked for an appointment. I had just enough time to run back to my cybercafe and print a picture online of a haircut I liked– though in the US I usually just talk it over with the stylist and leave it in their hands, I figured here it would be way simpler to have a picture. So I went and printed the picture, which happened to be of a male American rockstar. This is not unusual for me– I wear my hair short, rockstars wear theirs long, and so on the off chance I DO bring a picture for the stylist, it is, more often than not, at least since graduating high school, of a guy.
But that is in the US.
And here in France, "why would you want to look like a man?" So as I am trying to explain that, no, I don’t want to look like him, I just like the layers on the sides of his head and the diagonal bangs... I realize I am completely unprepared for this experience. When I go to the salon in the US, we use words like "bangs," "messy," "piece-y," etc., and I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO SAY ANY OF THAT IN FRENCH. So I come armed with my black and white picture of a man with emo hair, and more or less nothing else. I don’t even know the word for "part," when I have to explain to her that she is doing it on the wrong side. (In case you are wondering, it is "le raie.") But the thing is, the stylists have to check with you before they just start whacking your hair off. So she keeps saying, "Il n’est pas tres jolie; vous devez etre plus jolie que lui..." "He is not very pretty, though– you really ought to be prettier than him, we will make you look much better." And then she starts explaining to me, in complicated terms I am sure not even a neuroscientist could understand, the exact process my hair is going to go through in the next 40 minutes, to which I nod my head and pretend I understand, till she gets to the back and says, "VOL-OOOOOM! Ici, PLUS DE VOL-OOOOOM!" "Back here, MORE VOLUME!" but in this tone of voice which suggests I have not been doing my own hair justice by wearing it messy and slightly flat. I wanted to explain to her that I do not have a diffuser or flat-iron compatible with her country’s ridiculous electric current, but I realized it was useless and she was right anyway– I did need more volooooom. The place was amazing... they massaged my head and shoulders, brought me coffee to drink while she cut my hair, wrapped me in a black kimono to keep the hair off my clothes... all the while chatting about my hair, the guy’s picture I had brought, etc. Slightly awkward, but it went off without a hitch, and now, I promise you, I look so French I fool myself. Sometime after I moved out, I started wearing my hair over my eyes, which everyone in the USA over the age of 35 hates, and everyone with any style under the age of 30 loves. This cut is no different, but in the French winter wind, with all the layers and voloooom, it is ridiculous.
Last night a friend called me and wanted to know if I could go to the circus... in an hour. She had extra tickets (four of them) that her famille d’accueil had given her, and needed someone to go with. Because the circus is, quite possibly, number 3 on my list of favorite things to do (after, incidentally, going to concerts and getting my haircut), and because I am a college student and thus completely incapable of passing up things that are free, I had to say yes. This particular circus (Le Pinder Cirque) is located in the 19th or 20th or something, and is thus as far away from my apartment as it is possible to go while still remaining in Paris. It is also about 30 feet from the periphérique, the edge of Paris.
(Sidenote: I have a grave fear of the periphérique. Once you leave it, you are in veritable no-man’s land, with no guarantee of a Metro stop for kilometers around, no maps, and a high likelihood of no one understanding when you open your mouth, even if you do speak Parisian french. Beyond the periphérique is the Wide Real World, le Grande Monde Vrai, and it terrifies me. I stay away from it as much as possible. In Paris, it is completely impossible for me to become truly lost because I have this fabulous book of maps of every quartier, that fits neatly in my poche and goes everywhere with me. But beyond the periphérique... no maps. No guarantee of ever returning to Paris, or the US, or anywhere really.)
But the circus is pretty much ON the periphérique, so I had to conquer my fear for the night... We thought the circus was outside, so we were both dressed like onions– a synopsis: camisole, oxford shirt, wool sweater, heaviest winter coat ever (which comes to my knees); gloves, scarf, hat, boots, knee socks. But we get there to discover it is in a legitimate tent. A REAL one. Which is amazing. It was just like walking into a Killers video... Everything was red and gold and navy, with a huge tiger head at the entrance, carnies yelling things in French, selling gaufres, crepes, popcorn sucré, barbe à papa, orangina and 1664 bière. The fact that they were selling beer should have been our first hint that this was no Ringling Bros., but we continued like nothing was amiss. We noticed signs that read "soiree privee," private night, but didn’t think about it because we had tickets... apparently, though, we got some kind of exclusive circus night, since it was a private function. It was a one-ring circus, which at first made me think it would be lame, but it was most definitely not. Growing up, I remember going to the circus every year with my whole family– not surprising since my dad worked his way through undergrad as a professional clown/magician (what?), but this was nothing like the American version.
Anyway, the ringmaster (ringbearer? ringleader? What is the word in English?) came out and introduced everyone in French, obviously, and it was so... cinematic. The tent was warm and heated, and the canvas ceiling had gold stars painted on it. Delightfully kitsch. The clowns were all old-school, the kind one sees in Art Nouveau books, with the pointed hats that are so scary. The acrobat act came out– the Famille Baeta de Brasilia... The two women of the act wore feathers on their heads and thongs... and not much else. And this was a family event. I wanted to cover the eyes of the little kids sitting next to me– there is no reason anyone should ever be 30 meters in the air with no pants on. But here’s the real kicker: the women were not even acrobats. They didn’t do anything but climb up the platform and make Price-Is-Right style gestures at the men who did the tricks. The reason French circuses (circi? Cirqui?) are cooler than American ones: there are none of these silly concerns in France with things like... you know, safety... so no one used nets, not even the woman who came out in nothing but a corset and sheer pants to do a gymnastic act on a hula hoop hanging precariously 40 meters above the ground. (These meter distances, by the way, are approximately one third of what I think the distance would be in feet. This means that they are wrong for several reasons: 1) a foot is not 1/3 of a meter; 2) I can’t tell distances in feet at all anyway.)
The whole circus was amazing, much more R-rated than any circus in the US ever would be, in short, exactly what one should expect from a French circus– more Moulin Rouge than Barnum and Bailey, but I digress. High point of the show: "Far Western Jack," the "american" act. "Far Western Jack" came out driving a covered wagon, which held his menagerie. He wore rolled-up jeans, a plaid shirt, and a neckerchief. Not a bandanna, but like an ascot. What? Anyway, his covered wagon contained a gray poodle that can ride a Vespa (perhaps it is the same one I witnessed in my neighborhood a few weeks ago?), one of those dogs from Dutch Master paintings who let the guy stack a cat on his back, and a chicken that would lay an egg on Far Western Jack’s head on cue. So many objections to this as a representation of American culture, but perhaps the biggest problem was that, though I immediately wanted to repudiate (is that the right word? My English is failing faster than my French is improving) their idea of American culture, I couldn’t because as soon as the guy came out, "Cotton-Eyed Joe" came blaring over the speakers. I hate that song. I mean, I detest it, almost as much as the Hokey Pokey. But as much as I think it should be wiped off the face of the earth and never spoken of again, the fact remains that if there is one staple song of every event I have ever been to with dancing, it is "Cotton Eyed Joe." And, for someone who doesn’t really dance very well, I think I have been to an abnormal number of dancing events in my life... It doesn’t matter if it is a high school dance, prom, a sorority formal, a frat party, a camp dance, a wedding, or a nightclub, that song is always played– the only one that is on par with it is Nirvana’s "Smells Like Teen Spirit," but that is different because you obviously can’t play that at a wedding (though I probably will at mine), AND Nirvana, though American, is kind of just the quintessential angsty youth band worldwide. So the point is, despite the fact that poodles and those whippet looking dogs both originated in Europe, they still nailed the USA when they picked that song. And what’s even worse: now YOU will have it stuck in your head all day long.
Sucker.
The whole circus was amazing, but the fact that it was in a real tent made it unbelievably cool... and there was a magician act that consisted of 5 men and a woman dressed like The Matrix, who danced and cut each other in half.
But as I said, it has been an unusually eventful 48 hours... Yesterday a friend of the woman I live with called me. She’s a journalist for an international TV station based in Paris and she is doing a series on young foreigners living in Paris. ("I want to do something about strangers in France," she said in broken English on my voicemail.) And she asked me not if I was interested, but if I would meet with her today to discuss it. Because I can hardly speak French on the phone, and she can hardly speak English (though she does it better than I speak French), and she wanted to see what my language skills were like in person. She only lives around the corner from me, so I went to her apartment in the afternoon to discuss the series, which I didn’t completely understand. Apparently, it is (any amount of this may be wrong, we were both communicating in second languages) something between a documentary and MTV’s Real World... She has already written the storyboard for it, and they are going to film what she called a "pilot episode" to see if the network will buy it, and if they do, then they do a season of it... and if not, they don’t do a series, but just newsbites twice a week on the nightly news with updates or stories about the "strangers" they are covering. So when we met, it was pretty much an audition or interview or whatever to make sure I was interesting, not boring, could communicate, etc., and when I got to her apartment she said, in French, "Oh, I am so glad you could come, I just wanted to see what you looked like and make sure you were compatible with the image we are trying to present." I don’t know what that means. But whatever. So she is supposed to call me later on to tell me if they want me to be involved in the whole thing or just one or two episodes or whatever... She said, and I quote, translated, "The only problem I could foresee is that your French is very much in the middle– you are good enough that the average French person could understand you, but not good enough that they would want to listen to you for more than 15 minutes, and I don’t know if the network wants someone very good so they don’t have to pay for an interpreter, or someone very bad, so it looks like a true foreigner who can barely speak the language. But you speak pretty well, and much better in person than on the phone." I felt as though there were approximately the same number of insults in that speech as compliments, but since I had only just met this woman and I have only been studying this language for two years AND she called me to be in her show, I decided to forget the insulting parts and just go with the fact that a French person told me my French is decent.
That, mes amis, is huge.
~Tadpole
When I arrived in this country, I thought I was going to have to quit listening to rock music and dressing like a rock star and wearing my hair as though I am a groupie or left-handed bassist. I soon realized I was wrong– the French rock/emo scene is crazy, full of hipsters who wear better clothes, listen to worse music, and wear more eyeliner than the American ones. But unfortunately for me, I got my hair cut into this sophisticated, terribly chic and unbelievably short style three days before moving to this country, so I have been condemned to not looking like a hipster for months now. I kept putting off getting a haircut because, though unbelievably glamorous, I knew it would cost my first born child for me to get a decent cut in Paris.
Enter the Quartier Latin, street where the riches of ages are sold. No, wait, that is somewhere in London, but still, the Quartier Latin, streets where everything you thought you couldn’t afford is suddenly 35% cheaper when you brandish your student ID.
(I’ve noticed, by the way, that I have become significantly more impulsive since living in this country– there are several plausible reasons for this, all of which are too complicated to explain here, but it helps to know that when listening to any adventure which occurs in this lovely city.)
Completely randomly, I decided to get my haircut today– I passed a window of a salon offering student rates, it looked nice, I didn’t have anything ELSE to do, so I went in and asked for an appointment. I had just enough time to run back to my cybercafe and print a picture online of a haircut I liked– though in the US I usually just talk it over with the stylist and leave it in their hands, I figured here it would be way simpler to have a picture. So I went and printed the picture, which happened to be of a male American rockstar. This is not unusual for me– I wear my hair short, rockstars wear theirs long, and so on the off chance I DO bring a picture for the stylist, it is, more often than not, at least since graduating high school, of a guy.
But that is in the US.
And here in France, "why would you want to look like a man?" So as I am trying to explain that, no, I don’t want to look like him, I just like the layers on the sides of his head and the diagonal bangs... I realize I am completely unprepared for this experience. When I go to the salon in the US, we use words like "bangs," "messy," "piece-y," etc., and I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO SAY ANY OF THAT IN FRENCH. So I come armed with my black and white picture of a man with emo hair, and more or less nothing else. I don’t even know the word for "part," when I have to explain to her that she is doing it on the wrong side. (In case you are wondering, it is "le raie.") But the thing is, the stylists have to check with you before they just start whacking your hair off. So she keeps saying, "Il n’est pas tres jolie; vous devez etre plus jolie que lui..." "He is not very pretty, though– you really ought to be prettier than him, we will make you look much better." And then she starts explaining to me, in complicated terms I am sure not even a neuroscientist could understand, the exact process my hair is going to go through in the next 40 minutes, to which I nod my head and pretend I understand, till she gets to the back and says, "VOL-OOOOOM! Ici, PLUS DE VOL-OOOOOM!" "Back here, MORE VOLUME!" but in this tone of voice which suggests I have not been doing my own hair justice by wearing it messy and slightly flat. I wanted to explain to her that I do not have a diffuser or flat-iron compatible with her country’s ridiculous electric current, but I realized it was useless and she was right anyway– I did need more volooooom. The place was amazing... they massaged my head and shoulders, brought me coffee to drink while she cut my hair, wrapped me in a black kimono to keep the hair off my clothes... all the while chatting about my hair, the guy’s picture I had brought, etc. Slightly awkward, but it went off without a hitch, and now, I promise you, I look so French I fool myself. Sometime after I moved out, I started wearing my hair over my eyes, which everyone in the USA over the age of 35 hates, and everyone with any style under the age of 30 loves. This cut is no different, but in the French winter wind, with all the layers and voloooom, it is ridiculous.
Last night a friend called me and wanted to know if I could go to the circus... in an hour. She had extra tickets (four of them) that her famille d’accueil had given her, and needed someone to go with. Because the circus is, quite possibly, number 3 on my list of favorite things to do (after, incidentally, going to concerts and getting my haircut), and because I am a college student and thus completely incapable of passing up things that are free, I had to say yes. This particular circus (Le Pinder Cirque) is located in the 19th or 20th or something, and is thus as far away from my apartment as it is possible to go while still remaining in Paris. It is also about 30 feet from the periphérique, the edge of Paris.
(Sidenote: I have a grave fear of the periphérique. Once you leave it, you are in veritable no-man’s land, with no guarantee of a Metro stop for kilometers around, no maps, and a high likelihood of no one understanding when you open your mouth, even if you do speak Parisian french. Beyond the periphérique is the Wide Real World, le Grande Monde Vrai, and it terrifies me. I stay away from it as much as possible. In Paris, it is completely impossible for me to become truly lost because I have this fabulous book of maps of every quartier, that fits neatly in my poche and goes everywhere with me. But beyond the periphérique... no maps. No guarantee of ever returning to Paris, or the US, or anywhere really.)
But the circus is pretty much ON the periphérique, so I had to conquer my fear for the night... We thought the circus was outside, so we were both dressed like onions– a synopsis: camisole, oxford shirt, wool sweater, heaviest winter coat ever (which comes to my knees); gloves, scarf, hat, boots, knee socks. But we get there to discover it is in a legitimate tent. A REAL one. Which is amazing. It was just like walking into a Killers video... Everything was red and gold and navy, with a huge tiger head at the entrance, carnies yelling things in French, selling gaufres, crepes, popcorn sucré, barbe à papa, orangina and 1664 bière. The fact that they were selling beer should have been our first hint that this was no Ringling Bros., but we continued like nothing was amiss. We noticed signs that read "soiree privee," private night, but didn’t think about it because we had tickets... apparently, though, we got some kind of exclusive circus night, since it was a private function. It was a one-ring circus, which at first made me think it would be lame, but it was most definitely not. Growing up, I remember going to the circus every year with my whole family– not surprising since my dad worked his way through undergrad as a professional clown/magician (what?), but this was nothing like the American version.
Anyway, the ringmaster (ringbearer? ringleader? What is the word in English?) came out and introduced everyone in French, obviously, and it was so... cinematic. The tent was warm and heated, and the canvas ceiling had gold stars painted on it. Delightfully kitsch. The clowns were all old-school, the kind one sees in Art Nouveau books, with the pointed hats that are so scary. The acrobat act came out– the Famille Baeta de Brasilia... The two women of the act wore feathers on their heads and thongs... and not much else. And this was a family event. I wanted to cover the eyes of the little kids sitting next to me– there is no reason anyone should ever be 30 meters in the air with no pants on. But here’s the real kicker: the women were not even acrobats. They didn’t do anything but climb up the platform and make Price-Is-Right style gestures at the men who did the tricks. The reason French circuses (circi? Cirqui?) are cooler than American ones: there are none of these silly concerns in France with things like... you know, safety... so no one used nets, not even the woman who came out in nothing but a corset and sheer pants to do a gymnastic act on a hula hoop hanging precariously 40 meters above the ground. (These meter distances, by the way, are approximately one third of what I think the distance would be in feet. This means that they are wrong for several reasons: 1) a foot is not 1/3 of a meter; 2) I can’t tell distances in feet at all anyway.)
The whole circus was amazing, much more R-rated than any circus in the US ever would be, in short, exactly what one should expect from a French circus– more Moulin Rouge than Barnum and Bailey, but I digress. High point of the show: "Far Western Jack," the "american" act. "Far Western Jack" came out driving a covered wagon, which held his menagerie. He wore rolled-up jeans, a plaid shirt, and a neckerchief. Not a bandanna, but like an ascot. What? Anyway, his covered wagon contained a gray poodle that can ride a Vespa (perhaps it is the same one I witnessed in my neighborhood a few weeks ago?), one of those dogs from Dutch Master paintings who let the guy stack a cat on his back, and a chicken that would lay an egg on Far Western Jack’s head on cue. So many objections to this as a representation of American culture, but perhaps the biggest problem was that, though I immediately wanted to repudiate (is that the right word? My English is failing faster than my French is improving) their idea of American culture, I couldn’t because as soon as the guy came out, "Cotton-Eyed Joe" came blaring over the speakers. I hate that song. I mean, I detest it, almost as much as the Hokey Pokey. But as much as I think it should be wiped off the face of the earth and never spoken of again, the fact remains that if there is one staple song of every event I have ever been to with dancing, it is "Cotton Eyed Joe." And, for someone who doesn’t really dance very well, I think I have been to an abnormal number of dancing events in my life... It doesn’t matter if it is a high school dance, prom, a sorority formal, a frat party, a camp dance, a wedding, or a nightclub, that song is always played– the only one that is on par with it is Nirvana’s "Smells Like Teen Spirit," but that is different because you obviously can’t play that at a wedding (though I probably will at mine), AND Nirvana, though American, is kind of just the quintessential angsty youth band worldwide. So the point is, despite the fact that poodles and those whippet looking dogs both originated in Europe, they still nailed the USA when they picked that song. And what’s even worse: now YOU will have it stuck in your head all day long.
Sucker.
The whole circus was amazing, but the fact that it was in a real tent made it unbelievably cool... and there was a magician act that consisted of 5 men and a woman dressed like The Matrix, who danced and cut each other in half.
But as I said, it has been an unusually eventful 48 hours... Yesterday a friend of the woman I live with called me. She’s a journalist for an international TV station based in Paris and she is doing a series on young foreigners living in Paris. ("I want to do something about strangers in France," she said in broken English on my voicemail.) And she asked me not if I was interested, but if I would meet with her today to discuss it. Because I can hardly speak French on the phone, and she can hardly speak English (though she does it better than I speak French), and she wanted to see what my language skills were like in person. She only lives around the corner from me, so I went to her apartment in the afternoon to discuss the series, which I didn’t completely understand. Apparently, it is (any amount of this may be wrong, we were both communicating in second languages) something between a documentary and MTV’s Real World... She has already written the storyboard for it, and they are going to film what she called a "pilot episode" to see if the network will buy it, and if they do, then they do a season of it... and if not, they don’t do a series, but just newsbites twice a week on the nightly news with updates or stories about the "strangers" they are covering. So when we met, it was pretty much an audition or interview or whatever to make sure I was interesting, not boring, could communicate, etc., and when I got to her apartment she said, in French, "Oh, I am so glad you could come, I just wanted to see what you looked like and make sure you were compatible with the image we are trying to present." I don’t know what that means. But whatever. So she is supposed to call me later on to tell me if they want me to be involved in the whole thing or just one or two episodes or whatever... She said, and I quote, translated, "The only problem I could foresee is that your French is very much in the middle– you are good enough that the average French person could understand you, but not good enough that they would want to listen to you for more than 15 minutes, and I don’t know if the network wants someone very good so they don’t have to pay for an interpreter, or someone very bad, so it looks like a true foreigner who can barely speak the language. But you speak pretty well, and much better in person than on the phone." I felt as though there were approximately the same number of insults in that speech as compliments, but since I had only just met this woman and I have only been studying this language for two years AND she called me to be in her show, I decided to forget the insulting parts and just go with the fact that a French person told me my French is decent.
That, mes amis, is huge.
~Tadpole
Sunday, December 17, 2006
I spent last night at a Swedish friend’s apartment, helping her get ready for the church Christmas party that was going to be at her place. It was supposed to be traditional French-style, we had decided, so she bought foie gras and toast; I made mulled wine, we had grapes and cheese and couscous salad and pasta salad and canapes and baguette of course, and rose wine and chocolate covered strawberries... It was amazing. And somehow it seems that no matter where I end up I always am one of the sort-of hostesses of the Christmas party of the year, as my friends and I in the States always do the same thing.
I got to Lydia’s apartment a few hours before everyone else was supposed to so that I could help cook, decorate, etc. We put the wine on to cook, cut and washed salad, chopped veggies, all in her tiny kitchen. Wait a minute– this kitchen is legitimately no bigger than... well, a walk-in closet. Two people can fit in it ONLY if neither of them is doing anything, they stand shoulder to shoulder, and the one on the doorway side leaves before the other. So fitting the two of us in there for a few hours was... excruciating. The top of the cabinet became the shelf for already cooked pasta, which had to be made in 4 sections because there was not a pot big enough to hold it all by itself. The couscous was the same; but the drainer Lydia has is less of a drainer and more of just a hole– the bottom is mostly broken out, so it doesn’t really work... at all. The pot of couscous had to be put in a kitchen cabinet after it was made because it wouldn’t fit anywhere else... Add to this the fact that Lydia, though fluent in English, is still Swedish, and I, though learning French, do not know words like "strainer," "ladle," "nutmeg," etc. AND I still don’t really understand measurements here (in grams and milliliters) or temperatures (in Celsius), and you have quite an adventure.
Before the guests arrived, we had ruined my shoes by splashing them with boiling wine and olive oil, splattered both of ourselves with chocolate, butter, and orange juice, and nearly peed our pants from laughing so hard.
Excerpts of my favorite conversations of the night:
"Lydia, do you think I should put nutmeg in the mulled wine?"
"Nut what?"
"Meg?"
"Who’s that?"
"No, no, nutmeg– in the wine?"
"Oh, I don’t think mulled wine usually has nuts in it, does it?"
"I don’t know, I’ve never made it. I’m American, remember? We don’t drink it."
"Oh, well, no, then, no nuts."
"No, wait, that was not the point– it’s not nuts, it’s like... a spice. Like cinnamon– cannelle, you know? You put it in things...?"
"Oh. What’s it taste like?"
"Ummm... like pumpkin pie?"
"What is that?"
"Um, nevermind. It tastes like Christmas."
"That’s not a taste!"
"Never mind, the cinnamon will be enough I think."
No, the cinnamon was not enough. Write this down: if you are ever making mulled wine, IT MUST HAVE SUGAR IN IT. A LOT. Because somehow all the sweetness evaporates when you heat wine, so you have to add sugar. Like a lot.
Later that night:
"Hey Blair, maybe you should start making the cake now?"
"Ok, did you buy a box or are we doing it hardcore, from scratch?"
"Hardcore? What does that mean? It sounds like something only rock stars say!"
"I mean, do you have cake mix? Or should we make it from scratch?"
"Blair, I wish I could speak English like you-- you talk like a rockstar!"
"Yeah, but I am 21 years old and my own grandmother thinks I speak like a California Valley Girl!"
"I would rather talk like a California... a California what girl?... than a Swedish one with an accent! I sometimes don't understand when you talk because you go so fast. But you know all the good English expressions that I still have never learned."
"Lydia, you are nearly fluent in three languages! I would trade with you in a minute!"
"Oh, but it is so cool to listen to the Americans talk... they have such good expressions, way better than English people. But oh yeah, we have to make it from scratch, I couldn’t find any boxes at Franprix."
"Ok, where is the recipe?"
"I lost it. But it’s ok. It’s all in my memory, you know."
"Oh, ok, well you want to tell it to me?"
"Yes. My mom sent it to me. It’s a traditional Swedish cake. You start with 150 grams of butter."
Two minutes later, after the butter has already been put on to melt...
"Or maybe it is 200 grams of butter... Oh well, 150 will work. It will just be a little healthier."
"Ok, what’s the next ingredient?"
"Mmm, eggs. Yes, definitely eggs. And then do flour, sugar, and cocoa."
"How many eggs?"
"Two? Three? I don’t know, how many are usually in a cake?"
"Well, you only have two in your fridge, so I think for this cake there will be two."
So the traditional Swedish cake ended up being made with 150 grams of butter, 2 small brown eggs, all the sugar in Lydia’s apartment, about a handful of flour ("Lydia does that look like 100 grams to you?" "Sure, I mean... I think. You know, just do what you feel." "Yeah, but I don’t feel anything since I have never seen a gram of anything in my life."), 4 heaping spoonfuls of cocoa powder, and about 2 tablespoons of milk.
That is not the recipe for a cake.
I don’t know what is a traditional Swedish cake recipe, but I am fairly confident that is not one.
"How long should we cook it, Lyds?"
"I think, until it is dry on the top."
"At what temperature?"
"Whatever the oven is at right now when we take the toast out."
Twenty minutes later, as we are removing it from the oven...
"Um, Lydia, I didn’t put baking powder in it."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn’t think of it till right now, because you didn’t say it and I thought maybe they don’t use baking powder in Sweden."
"Yeah, we definitely use it. Maybe that is why the cake is so flat?"
"Yeah. Well, at least it will be chocolatey."
"How much cocoa did you put in?"
"Four spoonfuls, and then a generous sprinkle."
"Sprinkle?"
"Like, a little more."
"Oh. FOUR SPOONFULS? That powder is FRENCH cocoa– it’s like pure ground cocoa beans– it’s going to be REALLY chocolatey. Did you put enough sugar in?"
"Um, I put in all the sugar you had."
"THE WHOLE HALF A KILO?"
"I don’t know– that whole jar over there."
"Maybe we should say a prayer over it first..."
"Maybe we should taste it before we serve it."
"That’s a good idea. You are so clever, Blair."
"I like that you say ‘clever.’ It is a highly underused word in America."
"But it is English, right?"
"Yeah, you definitely got the language right."
"Blair, you have gotten stuff all over you! Is that mulled wine? And what’s that spot?"
"That’s the olive oil that spattered on me when you were trying to open the lid using my oxford shirt as a grip."
"Oh, right. Maybe you need a... what’s the word for that thing you use so you don’t make a mess?"
"A maid? Une femme de menage?"
"No, you know, like this!" Lydia explained, brandishing a dishrag like a matador.
"Apron? A tablier?"
"Exactement! Oui! Maybe you should tuck this into... I don’t know, your neck?"
"But then it would be a bib."
"Well, you have stuff all over yourself. Maybe you need it."
"All over me because you ran into me when you were holding an avocado!"
"Oh. Well, here, put this on, it will make you feel more official."
Later on...
"Blair, will you cut up the percy– the purs– parc– what do you call that green stuff in English?"
"Mold?"
"No! That plant stuff?"
"Parsley?"
"No no, not parsley! That is a name, not a salad plant! In French it’s persilia... what’s the English word?"
"Parsley!"
"No, that is a person’s name! Like that guy, Rod... Rod Parsley!"
"You mean Rod Burgundy?"
"No, who is that? Rod Parsley! The American preacher!"
"I don’t think I have heard of him. But in the US we don’t really eat parsley. We just kind of use it for... you know, garniture."
"Oh. But why don’t you eat it, since it is edible?"
"I don’t know. Lots of things are edible, but we don’t eat them all in the US. We leave that to the French. Hand it to me, I’ll cut it up and put it on the foie gras."
Ten minutes later, after the plate of foie gras crackers has been put on the table with parsley on each cracker...
"Blair, you did wash the persilia, right?"
"I thought you did!"
"No– it wasn’t wet, was it?"
"No... I just thought it had been dried really good. Oops."
"Oh well, there aren’t really that much pesticides in France at this time of year..."
"Lydia, we are like Lucy and Ethel."
"No, we are Lydia and Blair."
"No, I mean... have you ever seen ‘I Love Lucy?’"
"No, I never really played video games when I was growing up."
"What?"
"Lucy who?"
Thus I realized that the concept of fluency in a language is as much a matter of culture as it is language. Lydia knows who Jared Leto is– a B-list American celebrity that my own ROOMMATE has never heard of; she knows who Rod Parsley is (even I don’t know that one); but she can’t remember the word for crackers, doesn’t know what nutmeg is, and can’t understand why we don’t eat parsley in the US.
I on the other hand know the word for "fire extinguisher," "goat," and "lightbulb," in French, but can’t figure out how to ask my professor when the final is without hitting on him, I don’t know Monica Bellucci’s husband’s name, and I don’t know whether Michel is a man or woman’s name. I think Lydia is better off than I am.
Joyeux Noel,
The highly misunderstood B
I got to Lydia’s apartment a few hours before everyone else was supposed to so that I could help cook, decorate, etc. We put the wine on to cook, cut and washed salad, chopped veggies, all in her tiny kitchen. Wait a minute– this kitchen is legitimately no bigger than... well, a walk-in closet. Two people can fit in it ONLY if neither of them is doing anything, they stand shoulder to shoulder, and the one on the doorway side leaves before the other. So fitting the two of us in there for a few hours was... excruciating. The top of the cabinet became the shelf for already cooked pasta, which had to be made in 4 sections because there was not a pot big enough to hold it all by itself. The couscous was the same; but the drainer Lydia has is less of a drainer and more of just a hole– the bottom is mostly broken out, so it doesn’t really work... at all. The pot of couscous had to be put in a kitchen cabinet after it was made because it wouldn’t fit anywhere else... Add to this the fact that Lydia, though fluent in English, is still Swedish, and I, though learning French, do not know words like "strainer," "ladle," "nutmeg," etc. AND I still don’t really understand measurements here (in grams and milliliters) or temperatures (in Celsius), and you have quite an adventure.
Before the guests arrived, we had ruined my shoes by splashing them with boiling wine and olive oil, splattered both of ourselves with chocolate, butter, and orange juice, and nearly peed our pants from laughing so hard.
Excerpts of my favorite conversations of the night:
"Lydia, do you think I should put nutmeg in the mulled wine?"
"Nut what?"
"Meg?"
"Who’s that?"
"No, no, nutmeg– in the wine?"
"Oh, I don’t think mulled wine usually has nuts in it, does it?"
"I don’t know, I’ve never made it. I’m American, remember? We don’t drink it."
"Oh, well, no, then, no nuts."
"No, wait, that was not the point– it’s not nuts, it’s like... a spice. Like cinnamon– cannelle, you know? You put it in things...?"
"Oh. What’s it taste like?"
"Ummm... like pumpkin pie?"
"What is that?"
"Um, nevermind. It tastes like Christmas."
"That’s not a taste!"
"Never mind, the cinnamon will be enough I think."
No, the cinnamon was not enough. Write this down: if you are ever making mulled wine, IT MUST HAVE SUGAR IN IT. A LOT. Because somehow all the sweetness evaporates when you heat wine, so you have to add sugar. Like a lot.
Later that night:
"Hey Blair, maybe you should start making the cake now?"
"Ok, did you buy a box or are we doing it hardcore, from scratch?"
"Hardcore? What does that mean? It sounds like something only rock stars say!"
"I mean, do you have cake mix? Or should we make it from scratch?"
"Blair, I wish I could speak English like you-- you talk like a rockstar!"
"Yeah, but I am 21 years old and my own grandmother thinks I speak like a California Valley Girl!"
"I would rather talk like a California... a California what girl?... than a Swedish one with an accent! I sometimes don't understand when you talk because you go so fast. But you know all the good English expressions that I still have never learned."
"Lydia, you are nearly fluent in three languages! I would trade with you in a minute!"
"Oh, but it is so cool to listen to the Americans talk... they have such good expressions, way better than English people. But oh yeah, we have to make it from scratch, I couldn’t find any boxes at Franprix."
"Ok, where is the recipe?"
"I lost it. But it’s ok. It’s all in my memory, you know."
"Oh, ok, well you want to tell it to me?"
"Yes. My mom sent it to me. It’s a traditional Swedish cake. You start with 150 grams of butter."
Two minutes later, after the butter has already been put on to melt...
"Or maybe it is 200 grams of butter... Oh well, 150 will work. It will just be a little healthier."
"Ok, what’s the next ingredient?"
"Mmm, eggs. Yes, definitely eggs. And then do flour, sugar, and cocoa."
"How many eggs?"
"Two? Three? I don’t know, how many are usually in a cake?"
"Well, you only have two in your fridge, so I think for this cake there will be two."
So the traditional Swedish cake ended up being made with 150 grams of butter, 2 small brown eggs, all the sugar in Lydia’s apartment, about a handful of flour ("Lydia does that look like 100 grams to you?" "Sure, I mean... I think. You know, just do what you feel." "Yeah, but I don’t feel anything since I have never seen a gram of anything in my life."), 4 heaping spoonfuls of cocoa powder, and about 2 tablespoons of milk.
That is not the recipe for a cake.
I don’t know what is a traditional Swedish cake recipe, but I am fairly confident that is not one.
"How long should we cook it, Lyds?"
"I think, until it is dry on the top."
"At what temperature?"
"Whatever the oven is at right now when we take the toast out."
Twenty minutes later, as we are removing it from the oven...
"Um, Lydia, I didn’t put baking powder in it."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn’t think of it till right now, because you didn’t say it and I thought maybe they don’t use baking powder in Sweden."
"Yeah, we definitely use it. Maybe that is why the cake is so flat?"
"Yeah. Well, at least it will be chocolatey."
"How much cocoa did you put in?"
"Four spoonfuls, and then a generous sprinkle."
"Sprinkle?"
"Like, a little more."
"Oh. FOUR SPOONFULS? That powder is FRENCH cocoa– it’s like pure ground cocoa beans– it’s going to be REALLY chocolatey. Did you put enough sugar in?"
"Um, I put in all the sugar you had."
"THE WHOLE HALF A KILO?"
"I don’t know– that whole jar over there."
"Maybe we should say a prayer over it first..."
"Maybe we should taste it before we serve it."
"That’s a good idea. You are so clever, Blair."
"I like that you say ‘clever.’ It is a highly underused word in America."
"But it is English, right?"
"Yeah, you definitely got the language right."
"Blair, you have gotten stuff all over you! Is that mulled wine? And what’s that spot?"
"That’s the olive oil that spattered on me when you were trying to open the lid using my oxford shirt as a grip."
"Oh, right. Maybe you need a... what’s the word for that thing you use so you don’t make a mess?"
"A maid? Une femme de menage?"
"No, you know, like this!" Lydia explained, brandishing a dishrag like a matador.
"Apron? A tablier?"
"Exactement! Oui! Maybe you should tuck this into... I don’t know, your neck?"
"But then it would be a bib."
"Well, you have stuff all over yourself. Maybe you need it."
"All over me because you ran into me when you were holding an avocado!"
"Oh. Well, here, put this on, it will make you feel more official."
Later on...
"Blair, will you cut up the percy– the purs– parc– what do you call that green stuff in English?"
"Mold?"
"No! That plant stuff?"
"Parsley?"
"No no, not parsley! That is a name, not a salad plant! In French it’s persilia... what’s the English word?"
"Parsley!"
"No, that is a person’s name! Like that guy, Rod... Rod Parsley!"
"You mean Rod Burgundy?"
"No, who is that? Rod Parsley! The American preacher!"
"I don’t think I have heard of him. But in the US we don’t really eat parsley. We just kind of use it for... you know, garniture."
"Oh. But why don’t you eat it, since it is edible?"
"I don’t know. Lots of things are edible, but we don’t eat them all in the US. We leave that to the French. Hand it to me, I’ll cut it up and put it on the foie gras."
Ten minutes later, after the plate of foie gras crackers has been put on the table with parsley on each cracker...
"Blair, you did wash the persilia, right?"
"I thought you did!"
"No– it wasn’t wet, was it?"
"No... I just thought it had been dried really good. Oops."
"Oh well, there aren’t really that much pesticides in France at this time of year..."
"Lydia, we are like Lucy and Ethel."
"No, we are Lydia and Blair."
"No, I mean... have you ever seen ‘I Love Lucy?’"
"No, I never really played video games when I was growing up."
"What?"
"Lucy who?"
Thus I realized that the concept of fluency in a language is as much a matter of culture as it is language. Lydia knows who Jared Leto is– a B-list American celebrity that my own ROOMMATE has never heard of; she knows who Rod Parsley is (even I don’t know that one); but she can’t remember the word for crackers, doesn’t know what nutmeg is, and can’t understand why we don’t eat parsley in the US.
I on the other hand know the word for "fire extinguisher," "goat," and "lightbulb," in French, but can’t figure out how to ask my professor when the final is without hitting on him, I don’t know Monica Bellucci’s husband’s name, and I don’t know whether Michel is a man or woman’s name. I think Lydia is better off than I am.
Joyeux Noel,
The highly misunderstood B
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Remember that midterm I didn't know about last week, the one for the archaeology class? Yeah, he handed it back yesterday.
I didn't think I had done that badly.
I got a 6.5
Now, before you think to yourself, "This chick must be ridiculously stupid; a monkey with a keyboard and half the time she had to take the test could get better than a 6.5. Don't they give you more than that for writing your name on the sheet?"
The answer to that question is yes, they do give you more than that just for writing your name-- IN THE USA. But since I was taking this test in the good ol' R of F, they don't. But on the bright side, the French grading system is terribly weird, so a 6.5 does not equal 6.5 in the US. Their grades are on a scale of 20-- but not on a scale of 20 like you can multiply 6.5 x 5 and get my actual grade (which would then be a 32.5, which is still nothing to write home about, as it is still flunking.) But because the grades are on a scale of 20, they (because they are so terribly logical with everything, the French) count each letter grade as the same number of points. So, since there are five possible letter grades (some classes have six because in France you can get an "E" on a test), and twenty total points, each letter is 4 points.
Thus an A is 17 and up; a B is 13-17; etc., (This can not be that complicated if The Girl Who Refused To Take Calculus can understand it, right?). This means that my 6.5 is ACTUALLY a pretty solid... well, D, but still, it's better than an F, right?
I can laugh about the 6.5 because I am American and because I don't think I have ever actually gotten a D on anything in my life... Prior to this incident, I would have gone so far as to say that after a semester of constantly being unable to communicate and being forced to resort to gestures (combined with two summers spent working with middle schoolers in sweaty outdoor climates, as well as a lot of other really ridiculous things I have done), I thought I was above being embarrassed.
I was wrong.
The professor handed the stack of tests to the kid sitting at the end of the first row and told him to fish his out of the pile and pass them on. But then, perhaps realizing that I would be embarassed to have everyone in the class SEE my 6.5 (though it really doesn't matter since none of them know my name anyway), he grabbed the stack back from the kid, pulled my test out of it, hands the stack back to the kid, and comes over to me. Now I started to get nervous.
A transcript of what was to follow, as translated into the Modern English by me:
Blair, in her head: "Shoot, this means he is going to talk to me."
Archaeology Prof, out loud: "FRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrench."
Blair, in her head: "Oh no, that is my test he is holding. He is probably talking about it. I should probably start listening to what he is saying. Dang it, why am I thinking this in English, quick, switch to Francais. Ok, ok, je pense, je pense, mais qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?"
[nods head when Professor pauses, as she guesses appropriate]
Archaeology Prof, still in French, translated: "You didn't do too well on this, but don't worry, it's really not a big deal..."
Blair, in her head, in French: "Right... right, easy for you to say not a big deal-- it's not one of YOUR two grades for the semester in this class."
Archaeology Prof continues: "it's not a big deal at all, don't worry, you did fine considering you are American and this is not at all the scale you are used to, so this grade does not mean the same thing that it would in the US, so don't think you are going to fail or anything."
Blair: "ok, ok, no problem, all right, thank you!" thinking "Please stop talking to me, this is so awkward, and you must think I am so stupid! Should I tell you that I didn't know about it, or will that make it worse since then it is just stupid that I couldn't figure out what you were saying?"
Archaeology Professor: "Oh, also, we need to schedule a time for you to meet up with me to do your oral interrogation for this class."
What Blair thinks is going to come out of her mouth: "Do you want me to do the oral final before Christmas break or after?"
What actually comes out of her mouth: "Vous me voulez...?" ("Do you want me?")
I should have kept talking then, ignored the rather awkward mistake I had just made (It's a pretty dirty thing to say in French, also a pick up line), but when I realized what I had said I got so nervous and freaked out that I just stopped talking because I didn't want to make it worse. So he tries not to grin and says,
"Pardon?"
Blair trying to fix what just happened: "I mean, uh, do you want me to take the test in January?"
Prof: "Wait, you are going to be here in January? Oh, that is fabulous news! Yes, we wait until January then! Perfect!"
This is the same professor that, about three weeks ago, I tu-ed mercilessly in conversation, calling him by the informal "you" instead of the proper one, despite the fact that even though HE is the professor he has always called me by the formal one. So after first asking him, more or less, to be my friend by calling him "tu" instead of "vous," I now have also tried to pick him up. Great.
Oh well, my only hope is that someday he will be walking down the Champs-Elysees and pass a Presse, and see a smiling brunette face staring at him from the ads on the side of the kiosk and think to himself, "Cette femme-la, elle me parait tres tres familiere... je pense que je lui ai connu, peut-etre? That woman in the ad looks so familiar, I think I must have met her sometime... but why would I have ever met a woman who lives in Paris and is working as a band-aid? And what is this, since when do band-aids and groupies make it on to the cover of Le Monde? Oh, but look at this gramatically proper sentence that she is quoted as having said, she must be a vrai parisienne after all. I wonder why she looks so familiar? I know, it must be because she looks so much like that Molly Ringwald who was in all those movies from the US when I was a kid."
Je rigole,
B
I didn't think I had done that badly.
I got a 6.5
Now, before you think to yourself, "This chick must be ridiculously stupid; a monkey with a keyboard and half the time she had to take the test could get better than a 6.5. Don't they give you more than that for writing your name on the sheet?"
The answer to that question is yes, they do give you more than that just for writing your name-- IN THE USA. But since I was taking this test in the good ol' R of F, they don't. But on the bright side, the French grading system is terribly weird, so a 6.5 does not equal 6.5 in the US. Their grades are on a scale of 20-- but not on a scale of 20 like you can multiply 6.5 x 5 and get my actual grade (which would then be a 32.5, which is still nothing to write home about, as it is still flunking.) But because the grades are on a scale of 20, they (because they are so terribly logical with everything, the French) count each letter grade as the same number of points. So, since there are five possible letter grades (some classes have six because in France you can get an "E" on a test), and twenty total points, each letter is 4 points.
Thus an A is 17 and up; a B is 13-17; etc., (This can not be that complicated if The Girl Who Refused To Take Calculus can understand it, right?). This means that my 6.5 is ACTUALLY a pretty solid... well, D, but still, it's better than an F, right?
I can laugh about the 6.5 because I am American and because I don't think I have ever actually gotten a D on anything in my life... Prior to this incident, I would have gone so far as to say that after a semester of constantly being unable to communicate and being forced to resort to gestures (combined with two summers spent working with middle schoolers in sweaty outdoor climates, as well as a lot of other really ridiculous things I have done), I thought I was above being embarrassed.
I was wrong.
The professor handed the stack of tests to the kid sitting at the end of the first row and told him to fish his out of the pile and pass them on. But then, perhaps realizing that I would be embarassed to have everyone in the class SEE my 6.5 (though it really doesn't matter since none of them know my name anyway), he grabbed the stack back from the kid, pulled my test out of it, hands the stack back to the kid, and comes over to me. Now I started to get nervous.
A transcript of what was to follow, as translated into the Modern English by me:
Blair, in her head: "Shoot, this means he is going to talk to me."
Archaeology Prof, out loud: "FRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrenchFRENCHfrench."
Blair, in her head: "Oh no, that is my test he is holding. He is probably talking about it. I should probably start listening to what he is saying. Dang it, why am I thinking this in English, quick, switch to Francais. Ok, ok, je pense, je pense, mais qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?"
[nods head when Professor pauses, as she guesses appropriate]
Archaeology Prof, still in French, translated: "You didn't do too well on this, but don't worry, it's really not a big deal..."
Blair, in her head, in French: "Right... right, easy for you to say not a big deal-- it's not one of YOUR two grades for the semester in this class."
Archaeology Prof continues: "it's not a big deal at all, don't worry, you did fine considering you are American and this is not at all the scale you are used to, so this grade does not mean the same thing that it would in the US, so don't think you are going to fail or anything."
Blair: "ok, ok, no problem, all right, thank you!" thinking "Please stop talking to me, this is so awkward, and you must think I am so stupid! Should I tell you that I didn't know about it, or will that make it worse since then it is just stupid that I couldn't figure out what you were saying?"
Archaeology Professor: "Oh, also, we need to schedule a time for you to meet up with me to do your oral interrogation for this class."
What Blair thinks is going to come out of her mouth: "Do you want me to do the oral final before Christmas break or after?"
What actually comes out of her mouth: "Vous me voulez...?" ("Do you want me?")
I should have kept talking then, ignored the rather awkward mistake I had just made (It's a pretty dirty thing to say in French, also a pick up line), but when I realized what I had said I got so nervous and freaked out that I just stopped talking because I didn't want to make it worse. So he tries not to grin and says,
"Pardon?"
Blair trying to fix what just happened: "I mean, uh, do you want me to take the test in January?"
Prof: "Wait, you are going to be here in January? Oh, that is fabulous news! Yes, we wait until January then! Perfect!"
This is the same professor that, about three weeks ago, I tu-ed mercilessly in conversation, calling him by the informal "you" instead of the proper one, despite the fact that even though HE is the professor he has always called me by the formal one. So after first asking him, more or less, to be my friend by calling him "tu" instead of "vous," I now have also tried to pick him up. Great.
Oh well, my only hope is that someday he will be walking down the Champs-Elysees and pass a Presse, and see a smiling brunette face staring at him from the ads on the side of the kiosk and think to himself, "Cette femme-la, elle me parait tres tres familiere... je pense que je lui ai connu, peut-etre? That woman in the ad looks so familiar, I think I must have met her sometime... but why would I have ever met a woman who lives in Paris and is working as a band-aid? And what is this, since when do band-aids and groupies make it on to the cover of Le Monde? Oh, but look at this gramatically proper sentence that she is quoted as having said, she must be a vrai parisienne after all. I wonder why she looks so familiar? I know, it must be because she looks so much like that Molly Ringwald who was in all those movies from the US when I was a kid."
Je rigole,
B
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
There's a generation of future deaf people being raised in Paris right now. I read somewhere since coming to this country that Paris is the loneliest city on the planet. I have no idea how one goes about measuring that, but if they did it by number of MP3 players per capita, Paris wins, hands down. Because I cannot go anywhere (really, no one my age goes anywhere) without an MP3 player and headphones. Whether it's grocery shopping, wandering the Jardins de Luxembourg, riding the Metro, or drinking a cafe au lait alone in a cafe, I nearly always have my headphones with me. This started as a defense mechanism to keep me from either 1) going crazy from hearing too much French when I first arrived or b) being macked on by Frenchmen in a language I still don't know too well. Now it has morphed into this obsession to have a soundtrack of every moment. This would be weird except that it seems all the French people my age seem to share it. None of this is a problem, though it probably makes us all a little antisocial (really, though, no one has any business striking up conversations on the Metro anyway, so it is probably for the betterment of society). The problem, though, is that because the Metro and this city in general are such loud places, we all listen to our headphones at top volume and are probably going to lose our sense of hearing by the time we are 30. Perhaps me, Mademoiselle Illegal-groupie-promoter-of-a-French-rock-band more than anyone else.
Until then, I have every intention of filling my moments of boredom with the Love Actually soundtrack, 30 Seconds to Mars, The Sounds, Rufus Wainwright, Ryan Adams and other terribly non-Parisian bands.
Today on the Metro on the way to class, a guy got in a few stops after me and sat down across from me with his easel case in tow. He was clearly an art student, judging from the tousled Charles Darnley-esque ponytail, careless scarf and velveteen blazer. Anyway, he sat down and pulled a paper bag out of his pocket, which evidently contained his breakfast. Though he tried to keep it contained in the bag, it didn't work, I saw it, and he was eating a chocolate sandwich for breakfast. Like, 2 pieces of sandwich bread with a bar of dark chocolate stuck between them. I think I fell in love. Hahahahaha.
Joyeux Noel,
B
P.S. The Marche aux Fruits down the street from me just put up Christmas trees for sale outside it. You have not lived until you have seen Parisian businessmen in 1000Euro Armani suits trying to haul a sapin de noel wrapped in netting into their 4th floor apartment. Or trying to strap it somehow to the back of their motorscooters. Trust me, life does not get better than this.
Until then, I have every intention of filling my moments of boredom with the Love Actually soundtrack, 30 Seconds to Mars, The Sounds, Rufus Wainwright, Ryan Adams and other terribly non-Parisian bands.
Today on the Metro on the way to class, a guy got in a few stops after me and sat down across from me with his easel case in tow. He was clearly an art student, judging from the tousled Charles Darnley-esque ponytail, careless scarf and velveteen blazer. Anyway, he sat down and pulled a paper bag out of his pocket, which evidently contained his breakfast. Though he tried to keep it contained in the bag, it didn't work, I saw it, and he was eating a chocolate sandwich for breakfast. Like, 2 pieces of sandwich bread with a bar of dark chocolate stuck between them. I think I fell in love. Hahahahaha.
Joyeux Noel,
B
P.S. The Marche aux Fruits down the street from me just put up Christmas trees for sale outside it. You have not lived until you have seen Parisian businessmen in 1000Euro Armani suits trying to haul a sapin de noel wrapped in netting into their 4th floor apartment. Or trying to strap it somehow to the back of their motorscooters. Trust me, life does not get better than this.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Things that scare me:
Parking garages
My archaeology professor
The French consulate, and all the people who work there
30 Seconds To Mars music videos
Roaches (this should probably be at the top of the list, since I once broke my wrist in an effort to avoid a roach. Uck)
Burkas
The Gendarmerie
Large bouncers
To Do:
Stop making ridiculous lists and do homework
Buy a masquerade mask
Find a masquerade party to which I can wear the mask
Get a haircut
Stop watching YouTube and do homework
Throw up the rock fist.
I think it is time we accepted certain inalienable truths: I will never be productive on days I don't have class; I care more about finding a good summer job than getting a tutoring appointment for my final history paper; I will never stop biting my nails; Paris will always be more beautiful than... well... anywhere else; Vegetarians will always be the coolest people on earth.
That is all, good night.
~B
Parking garages
My archaeology professor
The French consulate, and all the people who work there
30 Seconds To Mars music videos
Roaches (this should probably be at the top of the list, since I once broke my wrist in an effort to avoid a roach. Uck)
Burkas
The Gendarmerie
Large bouncers
To Do:
Stop making ridiculous lists and do homework
Buy a masquerade mask
Find a masquerade party to which I can wear the mask
Get a haircut
Stop watching YouTube and do homework
Throw up the rock fist.
I think it is time we accepted certain inalienable truths: I will never be productive on days I don't have class; I care more about finding a good summer job than getting a tutoring appointment for my final history paper; I will never stop biting my nails; Paris will always be more beautiful than... well... anywhere else; Vegetarians will always be the coolest people on earth.
That is all, good night.
~B
Life here has settled into a comfortable routine of days that begin with coffee and Muesli, classes in which I take more notes than I ever have for any American class, errands to the post office or the tabac to buy minutes for my phone, always always being bundled up in the most amazing winter coat I have ever seen in my life, and then no-longer awkward dinner with Madame, which usually includes long pauses as I realize I have no idea what I am saying, but she just waits for me to get it out, corrects my pronunciation, and marvels or commiserates appropriately. Lately the weather has been alternately clear and beautiful (but freezing) or gray, foggy, windy, and rainy... which makes it perfect for sitting in a cafe with a cafe au lait that you pay significantly too much for and a book.
I think I booked the first gig for the band today. See, again, notice the "I think" that precedes that, which should indicate that I am in significantly over my head when it comes to life in this country. Anyway, I got in touch with a club in the 1oth, somehow made myself understood (I think they think I am IN the band, but that is irrelevant), and then the programmateur says, in french, "That sounds great, how about the 28th of March?"
WHAT? Don't I have to, like, send you an email, or a press kit, or a CD or... SOMETHING? The French, who are known for their bureaucracy, have suddenly come through for me, perhaps, and I don't even know what to do with myself.
But since I kind of think it is too good to be true, I am keeping the news to myself till I can call again and confirm everything, negotiate a price and make sure they have all the right equipment... again, I cannot say enough what an adventure this has become, not to mention that all of it sounds so simple, but picture me with my paperwork, french dictionary, list of clubs to call, pencils, highlighters, and laptop spread across the tiny breakfast nook table, which has become my makeshift workspace because somehow the neighbor's wireless network works in there. I sit there with a cup of coffee or mint tea, pouring over the dictionary looking for words like "amplifier," "bass"-- the guitar, not the fish, "salary," "merchandising," "cover charge," and "rehearsal fee." Everything I have to ask must be scripted out to the letter before I pick up the phone, lest I say something completely incoherent (like today when I asked about scheduling a concert "chez vous" (at your house), instead of "chez le restaurant" (at your restaurant)), which was kind of awkward, but I keep going back to the fact that, really, if I can do this for a small band part-time in another language/culture/country/continent, then surely I could do it for a bigger band in my own language/country after college with a degree fulltime... right?
Hahaha, I wish. Ok, time to get on it.
From the city of blinding lights,
B
I think I booked the first gig for the band today. See, again, notice the "I think" that precedes that, which should indicate that I am in significantly over my head when it comes to life in this country. Anyway, I got in touch with a club in the 1oth, somehow made myself understood (I think they think I am IN the band, but that is irrelevant), and then the programmateur says, in french, "That sounds great, how about the 28th of March?"
WHAT? Don't I have to, like, send you an email, or a press kit, or a CD or... SOMETHING? The French, who are known for their bureaucracy, have suddenly come through for me, perhaps, and I don't even know what to do with myself.
But since I kind of think it is too good to be true, I am keeping the news to myself till I can call again and confirm everything, negotiate a price and make sure they have all the right equipment... again, I cannot say enough what an adventure this has become, not to mention that all of it sounds so simple, but picture me with my paperwork, french dictionary, list of clubs to call, pencils, highlighters, and laptop spread across the tiny breakfast nook table, which has become my makeshift workspace because somehow the neighbor's wireless network works in there. I sit there with a cup of coffee or mint tea, pouring over the dictionary looking for words like "amplifier," "bass"-- the guitar, not the fish, "salary," "merchandising," "cover charge," and "rehearsal fee." Everything I have to ask must be scripted out to the letter before I pick up the phone, lest I say something completely incoherent (like today when I asked about scheduling a concert "chez vous" (at your house), instead of "chez le restaurant" (at your restaurant)), which was kind of awkward, but I keep going back to the fact that, really, if I can do this for a small band part-time in another language/culture/country/continent, then surely I could do it for a bigger band in my own language/country after college with a degree fulltime... right?
Hahaha, I wish. Ok, time to get on it.
From the city of blinding lights,
B
Sunday, December 10, 2006
I spent Saturday in Belgium. I love living in a place where I can take a day trip to another country. It’s only about an hour and a half away on TGV (train de grand vitesse, literally, "really quick train"), so I went to Brussels by myself and spent the day wandering the town. Even though it’s a big city when it comes to population, the city is pretty small area-wise, so it still has that small town feel to it, which was cool. My main goal in going was to see Tassel House, this building I wrote a paper on for an architecture class one time, arguing that the construction of it began the modern architecture movement. Once I got there, I found out it is kilometers outside of town, and since I didn’t even know if it was open, I decided to forego it. BUT there was the most amazing Christmas market going on all through the city, so I spent most of the day wandering that. Christmas markets are a European invention, I believe, and happen mostly only in smallerish towns, because I suppose in big cities there are too many people who do not celebrate Christmas to pull off a successful one (speaking of which, I couldn’t believe how many mosques and Arabic stores there were in Brussels, WHO KNEW?? Unrelated but still odd: the city also apparently has a vibrantly booming gay population...). So I wandered the Christmas Market, which winds its way from one end of the city to the other, chatting in French with chocolatiers and people who sold reindeer pate. Reindeer pate. From Norway. Which means it is legit, because everyone knows that Norway is called NORway because it is where the NORth Pole is, and thus Santa, and thus his reindeer, who are native to there. I wanted to buy some because it was so unbelievable, but the former vegetarian in me could not support it AND it cost as much as beluga caviar, so I gave up on that. BUT from the Norwegians I did buy, I kid you not, a "lingonberry polar express drink," which is basically lingonberry cider, heated, with lingonberries sprinkled through it, and vodka. I thought it was just CIDER until I saw the woman pull a fifth from behind the counter, at which point I was like, "Um, peut-je boire ça sans le vodka, s’il vous plaît?" Can I have that without vodka, please? Because it was about 5degrees below zero Celsius, and the last thing I wanted was to be drinking spiked lingonberry juice as I walked around Belgium, a country with three official languages including FLEMISH, which sounds like nothing and has got to be the most useless language to be fluent in. All that detracts from the important part though. I ATE A LINGONBERRY. I didn’t even actually know they really existed, I always kind of thought they were some sort of mythical thing and that lingonberry syrup actually came from kohlrabis or something. But no, they exist, and apparently are a prime staple of the reindeer diet. (This place also sold reindeer furs. At least they weren’t letting it go to waste. But I am still not ok with that.)
Yesterday I made my first phone calls for the band promoter/tour manager "job" that I have somehow scored. I still can’t talk about it without giggling, because not only is it so cooooool, but it’s also exactly what I want to do for a living and it’s just so ridiculous that I somehow ended up with a job like that in another country. Now, let me remind you of something that happened a very long time ago and may or may not have been covered here.
I got sick. And when I did, I had to go to the doctor. So obviously, I had to call the doctor to make an appointment to see her. And when I did, I conducted my first PHONE conversation in french, and promptly swore off using the phone in french, ever, at all, no matter what. Because the receptionist couldn’t understand what I was asking for, or what my name was, or when I wanted an appointment for, or whether I was french, etc. But then I got this job, and all bets were off.
So I started calling Parisian nightclubs yesterday. Most of them I had already sent an email to, but a few of them were brand new. Not only is calling nightclubs intimidating anyway (because the people there are always so cool) but this time I was doing it in FRENCH. It went better than it potentially COULD have... I managed to make myself understood (this "my-name-is-Blair-like-Tony" trick works WONDERS; they understand what I am saying, they always laugh, and then they are like my best friend. It doesn’t hurt that it probably makes them think I am British too, which is always good.); left messages for the "programmateur," a word that is KEY when I call places and which I am still excellent at mispronouncing; AND I even managed to understand when one secretary explained to me that the programmateur refuses to consider bands unless he is sent a CD and press kit.
BUT no callbacks yet. And I am not discouraged by that as in, "maybe this band is not good" but as in "maybe they think I can not speak their language, so they are not calling." But I suppose this is really an excellent way for me to practice, because my comprehension of French is through the roof, since all I do is eavesdrop on people’s conversations in the Metro and take classes in French, but my actual SPEAKING skills? Still lacking. A lot. So now I am getting thrown into this crazy world of French slang, words like "booking" and "management" and "gig" and "amp" and "sound system" that I know in English but am now having to learn in French... it’s fun because it is something I enjoy, but it is wicked hard because I have no idea what I am doing, and have to do it in another language. But the band has been nothing but helpful... I got an email from the lead singer on Saturday morning giving me more advice, and they have all been cool about the fact that this is my first time doing this in my second language.
Today I went to Angelina (a ritzy cafe near the Louvre) that is well-known for it's hot chocolate. This place is in every French guidebook I have ever seen, and I had been there once with my dad (years ago, before I had heard of it or spoke French), so I returned today... and it was exactly as amazing as I remembered it. The building is amazing-- all crown mouldings with gilt trim, one wall with a pastoral 19th-century mural painted on it, the other floor to ceiling mirrors, a wide staircase leading to the upper floor, and cases upon cases of viennoiseries, patisseries, etc. So cute, directly across the street from the Tuileries (the huge garden that abuts the Louvre), and full of people brunching after mass or before a visit to the biggest museum on the planet, in their fur coats and Prada bags... I paid 6,50 Euros for a hot chocolate-- that's about $9. But it's not terribly outrageous for a specialty drink in Paris, and this hot chocolate... well, it served as my lunch, so take that for what it's worth. I ordered a "chocolat chaud blanc" (white hot chocolate), which was brought to the table in a pitcher (solid white), with a pitcher of warmed cream (because this stuff is too rich to drink straight), and a teacup to pour it in. And, literally, I think there is a good chance it is nothing but melted white chocolate with whole cream stirred in. It's hot, thick, sweet, and gooey, and tastes like eating a white chocolate bar.
And, on a random note: Tonight I went to a Lessons and Carols service at an Anglican church here in Paris. All the Christmas Carols they sang were some kind of weird reverse remixes, where everything is made more... classical. The only "american" one they sang was "Go Tell It On The Mountain," which is a song I have never really liked without knowing why, until tonight, when in the midst of them singing it, I suddenly remembered my kindergarten Christmas pageant. Now, granted, I probably had pitched all kinds of fits about this pageant because I hated things like this when I was young, but that is not the point of the story. I have this distinct memory of that song being the song my class had to sing by ourselves. And we had to dress up like we were from another country. I don’t know if kindergarten was assigned the middle east and the older kids got something cooler, or if my family just decided to dress me as an Arab woman, but I am quite sure I did not decide it myself. I distinctly remember wearing this shawl/scarf thing as a dress, all wrapped and pinned around me, that my dad had bought in Turkey or India or Ghana or something, and I remember thinking even as my teacher re-pinned it around me for the 30th time before we went onstage that I looked ridiculous. (I probably did, but it is also insanely weird that someone decided having 38 suburban kindergartners dress up like middle easterners to do a Christmas pageant was a good idea.) Anyway, we sang that song, and I have retained a dislike for it ever since.
I am, as always,
over the hills and far away,
B
Yesterday I made my first phone calls for the band promoter/tour manager "job" that I have somehow scored. I still can’t talk about it without giggling, because not only is it so cooooool, but it’s also exactly what I want to do for a living and it’s just so ridiculous that I somehow ended up with a job like that in another country. Now, let me remind you of something that happened a very long time ago and may or may not have been covered here.
I got sick. And when I did, I had to go to the doctor. So obviously, I had to call the doctor to make an appointment to see her. And when I did, I conducted my first PHONE conversation in french, and promptly swore off using the phone in french, ever, at all, no matter what. Because the receptionist couldn’t understand what I was asking for, or what my name was, or when I wanted an appointment for, or whether I was french, etc. But then I got this job, and all bets were off.
So I started calling Parisian nightclubs yesterday. Most of them I had already sent an email to, but a few of them were brand new. Not only is calling nightclubs intimidating anyway (because the people there are always so cool) but this time I was doing it in FRENCH. It went better than it potentially COULD have... I managed to make myself understood (this "my-name-is-Blair-like-Tony" trick works WONDERS; they understand what I am saying, they always laugh, and then they are like my best friend. It doesn’t hurt that it probably makes them think I am British too, which is always good.); left messages for the "programmateur," a word that is KEY when I call places and which I am still excellent at mispronouncing; AND I even managed to understand when one secretary explained to me that the programmateur refuses to consider bands unless he is sent a CD and press kit.
BUT no callbacks yet. And I am not discouraged by that as in, "maybe this band is not good" but as in "maybe they think I can not speak their language, so they are not calling." But I suppose this is really an excellent way for me to practice, because my comprehension of French is through the roof, since all I do is eavesdrop on people’s conversations in the Metro and take classes in French, but my actual SPEAKING skills? Still lacking. A lot. So now I am getting thrown into this crazy world of French slang, words like "booking" and "management" and "gig" and "amp" and "sound system" that I know in English but am now having to learn in French... it’s fun because it is something I enjoy, but it is wicked hard because I have no idea what I am doing, and have to do it in another language. But the band has been nothing but helpful... I got an email from the lead singer on Saturday morning giving me more advice, and they have all been cool about the fact that this is my first time doing this in my second language.
Today I went to Angelina (a ritzy cafe near the Louvre) that is well-known for it's hot chocolate. This place is in every French guidebook I have ever seen, and I had been there once with my dad (years ago, before I had heard of it or spoke French), so I returned today... and it was exactly as amazing as I remembered it. The building is amazing-- all crown mouldings with gilt trim, one wall with a pastoral 19th-century mural painted on it, the other floor to ceiling mirrors, a wide staircase leading to the upper floor, and cases upon cases of viennoiseries, patisseries, etc. So cute, directly across the street from the Tuileries (the huge garden that abuts the Louvre), and full of people brunching after mass or before a visit to the biggest museum on the planet, in their fur coats and Prada bags... I paid 6,50 Euros for a hot chocolate-- that's about $9. But it's not terribly outrageous for a specialty drink in Paris, and this hot chocolate... well, it served as my lunch, so take that for what it's worth. I ordered a "chocolat chaud blanc" (white hot chocolate), which was brought to the table in a pitcher (solid white), with a pitcher of warmed cream (because this stuff is too rich to drink straight), and a teacup to pour it in. And, literally, I think there is a good chance it is nothing but melted white chocolate with whole cream stirred in. It's hot, thick, sweet, and gooey, and tastes like eating a white chocolate bar.
And, on a random note: Tonight I went to a Lessons and Carols service at an Anglican church here in Paris. All the Christmas Carols they sang were some kind of weird reverse remixes, where everything is made more... classical. The only "american" one they sang was "Go Tell It On The Mountain," which is a song I have never really liked without knowing why, until tonight, when in the midst of them singing it, I suddenly remembered my kindergarten Christmas pageant. Now, granted, I probably had pitched all kinds of fits about this pageant because I hated things like this when I was young, but that is not the point of the story. I have this distinct memory of that song being the song my class had to sing by ourselves. And we had to dress up like we were from another country. I don’t know if kindergarten was assigned the middle east and the older kids got something cooler, or if my family just decided to dress me as an Arab woman, but I am quite sure I did not decide it myself. I distinctly remember wearing this shawl/scarf thing as a dress, all wrapped and pinned around me, that my dad had bought in Turkey or India or Ghana or something, and I remember thinking even as my teacher re-pinned it around me for the 30th time before we went onstage that I looked ridiculous. (I probably did, but it is also insanely weird that someone decided having 38 suburban kindergartners dress up like middle easterners to do a Christmas pageant was a good idea.) Anyway, we sang that song, and I have retained a dislike for it ever since.
I am, as always,
over the hills and far away,
B
Thursday, December 07, 2006
The good karma streak is over. It's probably my own fault for eating lardons last night.
I got a run in my favorite pair of argyle tights today (ok, so they are my only argyle tights, but I bought them in the States and have no idea where to get more here) AND I had an archaeology midterm.
I wish I could explain accurately the depth of unsurety which follows me everywhere I go in this city. I am trying my hardest to learn this language, but it is so complicated, and so I feel often like my language skills are not improving and I am just getting much better at my "I understand and am just too cool to respond" face. Which really means "I have no idea what just happened, so I won't respond so they can hear my terrible accent, and I will just wing it." Because I spend at least one-third of the time that I am not in my apartment wondering what in heaven's name is happening around me. And when I am in class, it skyrockets to five-eighths. It makes for insane adventures and a lot of ridiculousness.
Now, let's review. Yesterday I run into my archaeology prof in Paris, randomly, and get NO WARNING about this midterm. Probably that is normal, since it would have been kind of awkward for him to be like, "Bonjour, now take off your headphones and let me ask, have you or have you not begun studying for the midterm in my class tomorrow, because I know you don't speak this language very well, and you better get a move on." Nevertheless, I would have appreciated it. Because no one else in the class seemed surprised, but I somehow missed the announcement that there was a test this week... So I walk in, he gets there late like always, and starts handing out these sheets and tells us not to turn them over yet, then says, "ok, go, you have 20 minutes" and I am still thinking "This must be a joke. If there were a test, I would have known about it..." But then I realize everyone else in the room is writing furiously, and oh, it is not a joke, but a controle, which is really unfortunate. AND it gets worse-- my archaeology prof is one of those ones (as are all the French) who thinks that they should account for random guesses, so wrong answers deduct points. I HATE TESTS LIKE THAT. Because I am really pretty GOOD at guessing. Anyway, it wasn't really a big deal, and I was not really upset by it, but it just leaves me shaking my head again at the fact that I am sure everyone else in the class spent hours studying this week, and I HAD NO IDEA THAT WE HAD A TEST. Also funny since I only get three grades in the class, and that was one of them. Oh well, maybe participation will boost me up, I talked in that class, remember, so my participation will be through the roof...
But I guess the streak is not completely broken... I got the best belated birthday/early Christmas present of my LIFE today.
It's just been such an insane week, and I have spent the whole thing working for the weekend... tomorrow no class, so I am gonna spend the day picking up my Killers ticket and then... this is really weird... visiting clubs to try to convince them in French to hire this band... HAHAHAHAHA MY LIFE IS COMPLETELY INSANE.
Love,
Adam Ant.
(Blair, like Tony Blair.)
I got a run in my favorite pair of argyle tights today (ok, so they are my only argyle tights, but I bought them in the States and have no idea where to get more here) AND I had an archaeology midterm.
I wish I could explain accurately the depth of unsurety which follows me everywhere I go in this city. I am trying my hardest to learn this language, but it is so complicated, and so I feel often like my language skills are not improving and I am just getting much better at my "I understand and am just too cool to respond" face. Which really means "I have no idea what just happened, so I won't respond so they can hear my terrible accent, and I will just wing it." Because I spend at least one-third of the time that I am not in my apartment wondering what in heaven's name is happening around me. And when I am in class, it skyrockets to five-eighths. It makes for insane adventures and a lot of ridiculousness.
Now, let's review. Yesterday I run into my archaeology prof in Paris, randomly, and get NO WARNING about this midterm. Probably that is normal, since it would have been kind of awkward for him to be like, "Bonjour, now take off your headphones and let me ask, have you or have you not begun studying for the midterm in my class tomorrow, because I know you don't speak this language very well, and you better get a move on." Nevertheless, I would have appreciated it. Because no one else in the class seemed surprised, but I somehow missed the announcement that there was a test this week... So I walk in, he gets there late like always, and starts handing out these sheets and tells us not to turn them over yet, then says, "ok, go, you have 20 minutes" and I am still thinking "This must be a joke. If there were a test, I would have known about it..." But then I realize everyone else in the room is writing furiously, and oh, it is not a joke, but a controle, which is really unfortunate. AND it gets worse-- my archaeology prof is one of those ones (as are all the French) who thinks that they should account for random guesses, so wrong answers deduct points. I HATE TESTS LIKE THAT. Because I am really pretty GOOD at guessing. Anyway, it wasn't really a big deal, and I was not really upset by it, but it just leaves me shaking my head again at the fact that I am sure everyone else in the class spent hours studying this week, and I HAD NO IDEA THAT WE HAD A TEST. Also funny since I only get three grades in the class, and that was one of them. Oh well, maybe participation will boost me up, I talked in that class, remember, so my participation will be through the roof...
But I guess the streak is not completely broken... I got the best belated birthday/early Christmas present of my LIFE today.
It's just been such an insane week, and I have spent the whole thing working for the weekend... tomorrow no class, so I am gonna spend the day picking up my Killers ticket and then... this is really weird... visiting clubs to try to convince them in French to hire this band... HAHAHAHAHA MY LIFE IS COMPLETELY INSANE.
Love,
Adam Ant.
(Blair, like Tony Blair.)
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
In the US, I think there is a show called "Best Week Ever" or something. I have never actually WATCHED it, but there used to be ads for it on MTVU, which I listened to religiously when I used to have actual homework to do, at an actual college campus. I have never seen this show, and thus have no idea what it is about, but I think I might audition for the role of the main character, because this week has truly been the best... ever.
I got a job.
I got a Killers ticket.
I got an extra day to work on my grammar presentation.
I had the best peppermint mocha of my life today.
I ran into some random person from my class at University of Paris today... in the middle of the city, nowhere near the University itself, and it was so... weird!
I am living this ridiculously insanely charmed life, and I just keep waiting to wake up (or have someone call me out) and remember that I am not actually Parisian and I still don't actually speak this language that well...
Despite that, it is almost Christmas, I have a silver metal Christmas tree gracing the coffee table in my bedroom, I have a job doing what I have always wanted to do, and to put it in the words of my best friend,
MoxieRingwald: oh, you know, I'm single and young in paris, how much better does it get, i guess?
Emorly: well...when you put it like that, you are basically the cover girl for cosmo...
I have found myself on the Metro or walking the streets of Paris lately, grinning uncontrollably, like a crazy person, because I just can't help it. So I start grinning, realize I must look crazy, start blushing and duck my head, because if I can't stop the grin, I might as well stop the world from thinking I am nuts. So now it is off to attempt to perfect my grammar to the point that I can send an email to a club owner in Paris, ask for a gig, and then bargain to an appropriate price. All this from the girl that won't even attempt to bargain at the flea market because it is just too awkward.
So I'll listen to The Sounds and the band that I now "rep..." (?) and do my best to be a Real Person and not just a college student thrilled by Life.
"We're not living in America, and we're not sorry..."
~The Sounds.
~B
I got a job.
I got a Killers ticket.
I got an extra day to work on my grammar presentation.
I had the best peppermint mocha of my life today.
I ran into some random person from my class at University of Paris today... in the middle of the city, nowhere near the University itself, and it was so... weird!
I am living this ridiculously insanely charmed life, and I just keep waiting to wake up (or have someone call me out) and remember that I am not actually Parisian and I still don't actually speak this language that well...
Despite that, it is almost Christmas, I have a silver metal Christmas tree gracing the coffee table in my bedroom, I have a job doing what I have always wanted to do, and to put it in the words of my best friend,
MoxieRingwald: oh, you know, I'm single and young in paris, how much better does it get, i guess?
Emorly: well...when you put it like that, you are basically the cover girl for cosmo...
I have found myself on the Metro or walking the streets of Paris lately, grinning uncontrollably, like a crazy person, because I just can't help it. So I start grinning, realize I must look crazy, start blushing and duck my head, because if I can't stop the grin, I might as well stop the world from thinking I am nuts. So now it is off to attempt to perfect my grammar to the point that I can send an email to a club owner in Paris, ask for a gig, and then bargain to an appropriate price. All this from the girl that won't even attempt to bargain at the flea market because it is just too awkward.
So I'll listen to The Sounds and the band that I now "rep..." (?) and do my best to be a Real Person and not just a college student thrilled by Life.
"We're not living in America, and we're not sorry..."
~The Sounds.
~B
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Oh, Life.
Um, so I have somehow gotten a job as a promoter for a French rock band here in Paris. I DO NOT KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED. All I can say is that life, when you least expect it, turns out be... ridiculous. So... rewind like 3 days, and here is my life:
Thursday: I find an ad for a "tour manager" for a Parisian rock band. Despite my lack of experience, despite the language barrier, and despite the fact that I do not live here permanently, I called.
Friday: I leave town for London.
Sunday: I return to a voicemail from the lead singer of the band, asking when I can get together.
Monday: I make an appointment with the lead singer and guitarist for Tuesday. I also somehow score a Killers ticket for... well, MARCH, but the point is I am going.
Tuesday: I wake up to a call from my program telling my grammar class today is cancelled, excellent karma since I was supposed to have a presentation today anyway. So I sleep in, get up for the interview, go to the lead singer’s apartment, and love it. The whole band, apparently, thought I was going to be a guy (thanks, unisex american name), but they were stoked about my (meager) experience, love that I am american, and are willing to help me out with whatever I need. Lead singer is highly bilingual, lived in the US for a few years, but the others speak English about the way I speak french, that is to say, not well. Which is fine, because we can get by with each other, but it’s pretty insane. The lead singer is about 5 years older than me, and she works full-time as a model, just does the band on the side. Intimidating? To the max.
Basically, my life is turning into "Almost Famous," and I am totally ok with that. Though I suppose it’s maybe more like "Rock Your World," since I am in Europe and it is not the 70's.
Oh, and the highlight of the meeting with them today was this conversation:
LeadSinger: "It might be easiest for you to communicate with the club owners if you go TO the club, since I know the phone is probably harder for you to understand."
Blair: "Yeah, definitely, that would probably be the way to go."
LeadSinger: "When you go, though, I think you have a great look, you are very chic and have your own style, I can tell, which is great, but when you go, you might want to dress a little bit hipster, you know, black jeans, boots or Converses, or something, because I really do like your look, but I know these clubs cater mostly to a hipster kind of rocker crowd, and it would probably make a difference, you know?"
Blair: "Right, good idea." [Thinking to herself, "WHY DID I CHOOSE THIS OUTFIT??"]
Last night I tried on every outfit in my closet trying to figure out what to wear, finally decided to go typical Parisian, military skirt, high boots, turquoise camisole, and a white wool sweater thing– it was a very typical Blair-in-Paris outfit, but not particularly Blair-in-real-life, since I left all my rock star/real life clothes in the US. So the poor lead singer thinks she just hired some fancy-dressing American, when the truth is that I disregarded all my black clothes for the interview because I didn’t want to look like I was too casual. Bad call.
Nevertheless, I have a job. Doing what I want to do for the rest of my life. In a foreign country. For a band that is decidedly decent. And basically, all this means that it is time for me to stop writing and start dancing around my room to 30 Seconds To Mars.
I am off to do that, and I bid you, as always,
Farewell,
Blair
Um, so I have somehow gotten a job as a promoter for a French rock band here in Paris. I DO NOT KNOW HOW THIS HAPPENED. All I can say is that life, when you least expect it, turns out be... ridiculous. So... rewind like 3 days, and here is my life:
Thursday: I find an ad for a "tour manager" for a Parisian rock band. Despite my lack of experience, despite the language barrier, and despite the fact that I do not live here permanently, I called.
Friday: I leave town for London.
Sunday: I return to a voicemail from the lead singer of the band, asking when I can get together.
Monday: I make an appointment with the lead singer and guitarist for Tuesday. I also somehow score a Killers ticket for... well, MARCH, but the point is I am going.
Tuesday: I wake up to a call from my program telling my grammar class today is cancelled, excellent karma since I was supposed to have a presentation today anyway. So I sleep in, get up for the interview, go to the lead singer’s apartment, and love it. The whole band, apparently, thought I was going to be a guy (thanks, unisex american name), but they were stoked about my (meager) experience, love that I am american, and are willing to help me out with whatever I need. Lead singer is highly bilingual, lived in the US for a few years, but the others speak English about the way I speak french, that is to say, not well. Which is fine, because we can get by with each other, but it’s pretty insane. The lead singer is about 5 years older than me, and she works full-time as a model, just does the band on the side. Intimidating? To the max.
Basically, my life is turning into "Almost Famous," and I am totally ok with that. Though I suppose it’s maybe more like "Rock Your World," since I am in Europe and it is not the 70's.
Oh, and the highlight of the meeting with them today was this conversation:
LeadSinger: "It might be easiest for you to communicate with the club owners if you go TO the club, since I know the phone is probably harder for you to understand."
Blair: "Yeah, definitely, that would probably be the way to go."
LeadSinger: "When you go, though, I think you have a great look, you are very chic and have your own style, I can tell, which is great, but when you go, you might want to dress a little bit hipster, you know, black jeans, boots or Converses, or something, because I really do like your look, but I know these clubs cater mostly to a hipster kind of rocker crowd, and it would probably make a difference, you know?"
Blair: "Right, good idea." [Thinking to herself, "WHY DID I CHOOSE THIS OUTFIT??"]
Last night I tried on every outfit in my closet trying to figure out what to wear, finally decided to go typical Parisian, military skirt, high boots, turquoise camisole, and a white wool sweater thing– it was a very typical Blair-in-Paris outfit, but not particularly Blair-in-real-life, since I left all my rock star/real life clothes in the US. So the poor lead singer thinks she just hired some fancy-dressing American, when the truth is that I disregarded all my black clothes for the interview because I didn’t want to look like I was too casual. Bad call.
Nevertheless, I have a job. Doing what I want to do for the rest of my life. In a foreign country. For a band that is decidedly decent. And basically, all this means that it is time for me to stop writing and start dancing around my room to 30 Seconds To Mars.
I am off to do that, and I bid you, as always,
Farewell,
Blair
Monday, December 04, 2006
Reasons why today is the best day of my life, or at least perhaps of my 21st year thus far:
It's Monday, but no class.
I slept for like Eleventy million hours last night... (That's not a nap, that's a coma! Say you took a coma!)
I got a call back for this interview thing for this rock star apprentice job in Paris...
And.
Best of all.
Killers spring show?
WHO is gonna be there?
Oh, Yes, that would be...
YOURS TRULY.
I don't know how these things happen, except by SHEER LUCK. We won't talk about how much the ticket cost if converted into dollar amounts, because really that is irrelevant.
What is relevant is that this is, seriously, ridiculously amazing.
Now, ROCK ON.
Au revoir,
Mrs. Brightside.
It's Monday, but no class.
I slept for like Eleventy million hours last night... (That's not a nap, that's a coma! Say you took a coma!)
I got a call back for this interview thing for this rock star apprentice job in Paris...
And.
Best of all.
Killers spring show?
WHO is gonna be there?
Oh, Yes, that would be...
YOURS TRULY.
I don't know how these things happen, except by SHEER LUCK. We won't talk about how much the ticket cost if converted into dollar amounts, because really that is irrelevant.
What is relevant is that this is, seriously, ridiculously amazing.
Now, ROCK ON.
Au revoir,
Mrs. Brightside.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
London Calling...
London vs. Paris, a comparison:
Language: English vs. French. In terms of efficiency, London takes the cake. BUT French= much prettier, and Frenchies tend to be more bilingual. Also handy.
Verdict: Tie.
Food: Fish and chips vs. Quiche. (Keep in mind that the "fish" is cod. And the "chips" are fries.) Verdict: Paris.
Style: Ok, so all good designers come from Paris then return every spring and fall for fashion weeks. And Londoners can’t seem to match to save their lives. That said, LONDON IS FULL OF PEOPLE WHO DRESS LIKE ROCKSTARS. Since fashion is really a matter of personal taste, I suppose I should leave it up to you.
But I am the one writing this, so forget it.
Verdict: London.
Music: The Clash. Queen (I think). Lost Prophets (from somewhere in their country). Vs. Rufus Wainwright. London outnumbers Paris, BUT they also spawned James Blunt. Minus 5000 for London.
Verdict: Paris wins by a little.
Public Transportation: London= cleaner. Paris= more efficient, widespread. Also London costs 3Pounds a ride, or about $6.
Verdict: Paris.
Museums: In London are free. What? AND they have 6story slides in the Tate Modern right now, for free. Paris ones are free for me, though, since I study it.
Verdict: Tie.
Prices of everything: Paris wins. No matter what, Paris wins. I refuse to deign to elaborate on this one. Just know this: there is 52 US cents to a British Pound. (And 64 Euro cents to a British pound, making it terribly, prohibitively expensive.)
Driving: Now, I admire the British for sticking to their guns about this left-handed thing. I am left-handed, and it probably would have been easier for me to learn to drive there than in the US. And they won’t let themselves be swayed, so that is cool. But honestly, how does anyone ever leave their country to move anywhere else? NO one else in the world drives on the left (with the possible exception of Australia, which I am not sure about but which was a colony until about 3 years ago, so who knows.) So how do they ever leave their country? Paris drivers are crazy, but at least they are crazy on the right side of the road.
Verdict: Paris, but London takes points for being unique.
Kitsch factor: London. This is a good thing in my book, though. Where else can you buy a furry pink toilet seat cover with a photo of David Hasselhoff in the middle of it? And all the signs say "way out" instead of "exit" which is pretty cool.
P.S. A Queen’s guard soldier outfit weighs 3stone. That is 45 pounds.
Come to London, tonight...
Up until this weekend, all Englishmen to me were Peter O’Toole. All Englishwomen were Julie Andrews. Now I have learned that all Englishmen over 40 are Peter O’Toole, but all younger than him are just straightup rockstars.
I woke up today in London...
I spent the weekend in London at a friend’s flat... so fun. After Paris, definitely my favorite European city. Friday we went to Westminster Abbey, walked past Parliament (which looks just like in Monet’s paintings because, cliche though it may be, London IS that foggy) checked out Big Ben (which I expected Peter Pan to fly around the corner of any minute), saw the London Eye (more like London EyeSORE, but people said that about the Eiffel Tower too, so whatever), wandered in the Tate Modern for about 5 minutes, toured the new Globe, and basically just painted the town red. Oh, and it got dark at 300. Literally. Sunset there is at 345pm. It was cloudy, though, so it was pretty much pitch black at 245pm. It’s not supposed to be that way. Anywhere. I mean, I guess it IS supposed to be that way in London, it just is really... odd.
Follow tourists to Trafalgar Square...
Top 5 Favorite Places in the World:
1. Medici Fountain, Paris, France.
2. Walt Disney World Magic Kingdom, Orlando, Florida, USA.
3. Top of Wolf Pen, Irvine, Kentucky, USA.
4. Camden Market, London, England.
5. Tie: The Majestic Diner, Atlanta, Georgia, USA. And Marienbrucke, Fussen, Germany. And Forestville Farmhouse, Raleigh, North Carolina, USA.
I guess that means it’s really my top 7 favorite places, but I don’t care.
Street where the riches of ages are sold...
Anyway, we spent most of Saturday at Camden Market, which is this astoundingly amazing place where rockstars go to meet each other, buy their clothing, and listen to rockstar staples, like THE CLASH and Bob Marley and The Sex Pistols and lots of other bands who are Truly Very Legendary. So I am wandering through this part called Camden Lock, because it is on a lock in the Camden Canal or something, I don’t really know, and this guy is standing in his stall yelling something about how his bracelets are only 98shillings or some kind of British nonsense, and then the song switches from "Eleanor Rigby" to the opening notes of "All You Need Is Love" and the guy stops midsentence and pronounces for all of us, "We should all stop and listen to the words of THIS song!" then sits down and doesn’t talk again until the song is finished, I suppose as a memorial to his previously hippie days, because this guy was probably Pete himself, the guy the Beatles kicked out in favor of the much uglier Ringo.
Then I keep walking and pass this very Peter-O’Toole-ish man sitting at his booth of high quality sterling silver jewelry, his glasses down his nose where only very smart people wear them, and without looking up from his paper, he says to the guy in the booth next to him, "Oh, Mack?"
Mack grunts in response. My booth owner continues. Apparently Mack’s grunts are a generally accepted form of communication. "Mack, as a matter of interest, why [only he pronounces it "woi"] ‘ave you written ‘macaroni’ across the top of the page?" At which point I started laughing uncontrollably at the gravity with which Mack’s friend had asked the question. Mack saw me laughing and scowled, and grunted in a menacing way. His friend looked up and saw me and said, "Oh, don’t mind him, I think I might have to have him lesioned. He’s gone mad, this time I’m sure of it." And I am trying to compose myself when Mack pipes up with "I wrote it, not that it’s any of your business since that is MY paper you’re reading, because I ‘ad to count the letters for the puzzle. See, right ‘ere it says ‘tubular pasta’ [which he pronounced "tubula past-a" like to rhyme with nasa.] and I thought that might be it." Mack’s friend looks at Mack suspiciously, then back at me before stage-whispering conspiratorially to me, "Last time I checked, love, there was no ‘t’ in ‘macaroni’." To which I suggested "manicotti?" and finished the puzzle for Mack, much to his annoyance.
From there I found a stall that sold shirts that said things like "tea, biscuits, and death metal" and "Let’s Hunt James Blunt" and lots of other clever things, so I stopped to look at them, and the guy comes back to the booth and asks "you all right, then?" and I thought I must have looked sad or something, but apparently that is just the way the Brits ask if they can help you. But now I am not used to this being able to communicate with shop owners/t-shirt makers thing, so to demonstrate my proficiency in the chap’s native tongue, I quite accidentally struck up a conversation. We talked for nearly half an hour, about t-shirt sizes, and his inspiration for making them (the one I bought was inspired when lightning struck his brain in the form of an Eagles of Death Metal album), and he was shocked when he found out I live in France.
"But you’re American, aren’t you? Either that or you have a great accent for being French!"
"Yeah, no, I am American. My French accent is not nearly that good."
"But you are American and you live in Paris? I thought the Americans hated the French, or is that a myth?"
"Well," I responded, "I thought the British rather liked James Blunt, so I guess we are both mistaken."
"Oh, I hate that fellow. He’s given our whole country a bad name, now everyone thinks we sing like raspy soppy idiots with rosy cheeks. I suppose some people like him here, but no one with any taste."
It was amazing. And apparently John Cusack has bought his shirts before. Multiple times. If I had lots of pounds, I would have bought more, because they were amazing, but for now, I will have to settle for one.
Then I keep walking through the market and pass this girl who says to her boyfriend in this terribly Robin Leech-esque accent, "Well, DUH, she HAD to buy it because everyone needs a pole-dancing skirt when they leave home to go to University!" Only in London, I suppose.
Yeah, if I had a job that would somehow pay for me to live in London (yeah right, I don’t think anyone in London has a job like that) I could totally live there. Though it’s such a different vibe than being "on the continent," which seems more... I don’t know, more different from the US. Not that London is like the US... I suppose it is more like it than Paris, definitely more like it than most of the continent, but if you told them that I think they would be terribly offended. It’s just that I think moving there would be way less... traumatic? than moving to, like, oh, say, Paris, France.
Sidenote: I found a shoe store in Chinatown on Thursday and bought new perserk boots in brown– completely a legit purchase, not only were they cheap, but I desperately needed them. Because before you think it is impossible to "need" boots, keep in mind that all my jeans drag the ground because I can’t dry them, and it rains here now more or less every other day or something, and wandering with wet jeans = the worst feeling in the world. Boots are the remedy to that and all the world’s problems, I think, because the heel keeps the jeans from dragging, if they get splashed anyway, the tall boot part is encasing your leg, AND the tall part keeps one’s calf much warmer than jeans alone...
Hot.
Obsession of the moment, via Julia from Annie: http://radio.blog.com
For the expat on the run, this is amazing. I don’t know how it is legal, but for now it is, so I am not complaining!
Time for bed in the wintertime through the fall,
Blair Poppins
London vs. Paris, a comparison:
Language: English vs. French. In terms of efficiency, London takes the cake. BUT French= much prettier, and Frenchies tend to be more bilingual. Also handy.
Verdict: Tie.
Food: Fish and chips vs. Quiche. (Keep in mind that the "fish" is cod. And the "chips" are fries.) Verdict: Paris.
Style: Ok, so all good designers come from Paris then return every spring and fall for fashion weeks. And Londoners can’t seem to match to save their lives. That said, LONDON IS FULL OF PEOPLE WHO DRESS LIKE ROCKSTARS. Since fashion is really a matter of personal taste, I suppose I should leave it up to you.
But I am the one writing this, so forget it.
Verdict: London.
Music: The Clash. Queen (I think). Lost Prophets (from somewhere in their country). Vs. Rufus Wainwright. London outnumbers Paris, BUT they also spawned James Blunt. Minus 5000 for London.
Verdict: Paris wins by a little.
Public Transportation: London= cleaner. Paris= more efficient, widespread. Also London costs 3Pounds a ride, or about $6.
Verdict: Paris.
Museums: In London are free. What? AND they have 6story slides in the Tate Modern right now, for free. Paris ones are free for me, though, since I study it.
Verdict: Tie.
Prices of everything: Paris wins. No matter what, Paris wins. I refuse to deign to elaborate on this one. Just know this: there is 52 US cents to a British Pound. (And 64 Euro cents to a British pound, making it terribly, prohibitively expensive.)
Driving: Now, I admire the British for sticking to their guns about this left-handed thing. I am left-handed, and it probably would have been easier for me to learn to drive there than in the US. And they won’t let themselves be swayed, so that is cool. But honestly, how does anyone ever leave their country to move anywhere else? NO one else in the world drives on the left (with the possible exception of Australia, which I am not sure about but which was a colony until about 3 years ago, so who knows.) So how do they ever leave their country? Paris drivers are crazy, but at least they are crazy on the right side of the road.
Verdict: Paris, but London takes points for being unique.
Kitsch factor: London. This is a good thing in my book, though. Where else can you buy a furry pink toilet seat cover with a photo of David Hasselhoff in the middle of it? And all the signs say "way out" instead of "exit" which is pretty cool.
P.S. A Queen’s guard soldier outfit weighs 3stone. That is 45 pounds.
Come to London, tonight...
Up until this weekend, all Englishmen to me were Peter O’Toole. All Englishwomen were Julie Andrews. Now I have learned that all Englishmen over 40 are Peter O’Toole, but all younger than him are just straightup rockstars.
I woke up today in London...
I spent the weekend in London at a friend’s flat... so fun. After Paris, definitely my favorite European city. Friday we went to Westminster Abbey, walked past Parliament (which looks just like in Monet’s paintings because, cliche though it may be, London IS that foggy) checked out Big Ben (which I expected Peter Pan to fly around the corner of any minute), saw the London Eye (more like London EyeSORE, but people said that about the Eiffel Tower too, so whatever), wandered in the Tate Modern for about 5 minutes, toured the new Globe, and basically just painted the town red. Oh, and it got dark at 300. Literally. Sunset there is at 345pm. It was cloudy, though, so it was pretty much pitch black at 245pm. It’s not supposed to be that way. Anywhere. I mean, I guess it IS supposed to be that way in London, it just is really... odd.
Follow tourists to Trafalgar Square...
Top 5 Favorite Places in the World:
1. Medici Fountain, Paris, France.
2. Walt Disney World Magic Kingdom, Orlando, Florida, USA.
3. Top of Wolf Pen, Irvine, Kentucky, USA.
4. Camden Market, London, England.
5. Tie: The Majestic Diner, Atlanta, Georgia, USA. And Marienbrucke, Fussen, Germany. And Forestville Farmhouse, Raleigh, North Carolina, USA.
I guess that means it’s really my top 7 favorite places, but I don’t care.
Street where the riches of ages are sold...
Anyway, we spent most of Saturday at Camden Market, which is this astoundingly amazing place where rockstars go to meet each other, buy their clothing, and listen to rockstar staples, like THE CLASH and Bob Marley and The Sex Pistols and lots of other bands who are Truly Very Legendary. So I am wandering through this part called Camden Lock, because it is on a lock in the Camden Canal or something, I don’t really know, and this guy is standing in his stall yelling something about how his bracelets are only 98shillings or some kind of British nonsense, and then the song switches from "Eleanor Rigby" to the opening notes of "All You Need Is Love" and the guy stops midsentence and pronounces for all of us, "We should all stop and listen to the words of THIS song!" then sits down and doesn’t talk again until the song is finished, I suppose as a memorial to his previously hippie days, because this guy was probably Pete himself, the guy the Beatles kicked out in favor of the much uglier Ringo.
Then I keep walking and pass this very Peter-O’Toole-ish man sitting at his booth of high quality sterling silver jewelry, his glasses down his nose where only very smart people wear them, and without looking up from his paper, he says to the guy in the booth next to him, "Oh, Mack?"
Mack grunts in response. My booth owner continues. Apparently Mack’s grunts are a generally accepted form of communication. "Mack, as a matter of interest, why [only he pronounces it "woi"] ‘ave you written ‘macaroni’ across the top of the page?" At which point I started laughing uncontrollably at the gravity with which Mack’s friend had asked the question. Mack saw me laughing and scowled, and grunted in a menacing way. His friend looked up and saw me and said, "Oh, don’t mind him, I think I might have to have him lesioned. He’s gone mad, this time I’m sure of it." And I am trying to compose myself when Mack pipes up with "I wrote it, not that it’s any of your business since that is MY paper you’re reading, because I ‘ad to count the letters for the puzzle. See, right ‘ere it says ‘tubular pasta’ [which he pronounced "tubula past-a" like to rhyme with nasa.] and I thought that might be it." Mack’s friend looks at Mack suspiciously, then back at me before stage-whispering conspiratorially to me, "Last time I checked, love, there was no ‘t’ in ‘macaroni’." To which I suggested "manicotti?" and finished the puzzle for Mack, much to his annoyance.
From there I found a stall that sold shirts that said things like "tea, biscuits, and death metal" and "Let’s Hunt James Blunt" and lots of other clever things, so I stopped to look at them, and the guy comes back to the booth and asks "you all right, then?" and I thought I must have looked sad or something, but apparently that is just the way the Brits ask if they can help you. But now I am not used to this being able to communicate with shop owners/t-shirt makers thing, so to demonstrate my proficiency in the chap’s native tongue, I quite accidentally struck up a conversation. We talked for nearly half an hour, about t-shirt sizes, and his inspiration for making them (the one I bought was inspired when lightning struck his brain in the form of an Eagles of Death Metal album), and he was shocked when he found out I live in France.
"But you’re American, aren’t you? Either that or you have a great accent for being French!"
"Yeah, no, I am American. My French accent is not nearly that good."
"But you are American and you live in Paris? I thought the Americans hated the French, or is that a myth?"
"Well," I responded, "I thought the British rather liked James Blunt, so I guess we are both mistaken."
"Oh, I hate that fellow. He’s given our whole country a bad name, now everyone thinks we sing like raspy soppy idiots with rosy cheeks. I suppose some people like him here, but no one with any taste."
It was amazing. And apparently John Cusack has bought his shirts before. Multiple times. If I had lots of pounds, I would have bought more, because they were amazing, but for now, I will have to settle for one.
Then I keep walking through the market and pass this girl who says to her boyfriend in this terribly Robin Leech-esque accent, "Well, DUH, she HAD to buy it because everyone needs a pole-dancing skirt when they leave home to go to University!" Only in London, I suppose.
Yeah, if I had a job that would somehow pay for me to live in London (yeah right, I don’t think anyone in London has a job like that) I could totally live there. Though it’s such a different vibe than being "on the continent," which seems more... I don’t know, more different from the US. Not that London is like the US... I suppose it is more like it than Paris, definitely more like it than most of the continent, but if you told them that I think they would be terribly offended. It’s just that I think moving there would be way less... traumatic? than moving to, like, oh, say, Paris, France.
Sidenote: I found a shoe store in Chinatown on Thursday and bought new perserk boots in brown– completely a legit purchase, not only were they cheap, but I desperately needed them. Because before you think it is impossible to "need" boots, keep in mind that all my jeans drag the ground because I can’t dry them, and it rains here now more or less every other day or something, and wandering with wet jeans = the worst feeling in the world. Boots are the remedy to that and all the world’s problems, I think, because the heel keeps the jeans from dragging, if they get splashed anyway, the tall boot part is encasing your leg, AND the tall part keeps one’s calf much warmer than jeans alone...
Hot.
Obsession of the moment, via Julia from Annie: http://radio.blog.com
For the expat on the run, this is amazing. I don’t know how it is legal, but for now it is, so I am not complaining!
Time for bed in the wintertime through the fall,
Blair Poppins
Dear USA,
If you could please start making your dollar worth a little more, it would really help me out.
Yours Sincerely,
Blair
P.S. I don’t care who your president is, I don’t even KNOW who your secretary of defense is anymore, and I never actually found out who won the House after the November elections. Nevertheless, I am still a citizen. I know how competitive you like to be, and the euro is winning. And the pound has lapped you. So please get on the stick.
If you could please start making your dollar worth a little more, it would really help me out.
Yours Sincerely,
Blair
P.S. I don’t care who your president is, I don’t even KNOW who your secretary of defense is anymore, and I never actually found out who won the House after the November elections. Nevertheless, I am still a citizen. I know how competitive you like to be, and the euro is winning. And the pound has lapped you. So please get on the stick.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Lesson #438,973 since coming to Paris:
It is nearly impossible and completely inefficient to attempt to read a book in French about Paris between World War I and I while listening to the Backstreet Boys.
At some point in my life I would like to stop eating things that come out of machines, whether it be sodas, candy bars, or coffee. Now is really an inopportune time to commence with that plan, but perhaps on my 30th birthday I can quit cold turkey. In the meantime, file café au laits from vending machines under the list of things that help me make it through the day.
I live with the coolest old lady in the world, and the longer I live here, the more convinced I am of her status as such. She’s amazing. There are always friends here, always the phone ringing, as Jessi once put it, "I think we live with a celebrity..." and I won’t lie, it kind of does feel like shacking up with Coco Chanel, who lived in the penthouse of a hotel in Paris for the last 30 years of her life. Now you can stay in her penthouse for your vacation, if you want. For 8900Euros a night. (Or about $11,000).
I go to a church where the average age is 24. I have never seen any kids there– no one is old enough to have them. The pastor is 30, single, and has hair approximately the same length as mine. The congregation is half white and half not, half French and half expats like me, but everyone speaks at least a decent amount of English and French... and most people something else as well. Pretty much the place is amazing.
I found the most glorious café down the road from my apartment today– it’s a good 15 minute walk, but the place is amazing. It’s next-door to a building designed by Hector Guimard, an uberfamous Art Nouveau architect. The place is all red leather seats and tiny round tables with chalkboards on the walls with the day’s specials, and I was the only one in there that did not get greeted by name by the waitstaff, who apparently caters mainly to local regulars. It’s called Café de la Fontaine, and I ended up there for the better part of three hours, trying to squeeze every centime out of my 4Euro café au lait and reading "Le Pieton de Paris," a book about...well, Paris, that I have to write a paper on by Wednesday. Still though, sitting in there with my book and dictionary, it was impossible to feel stressed in the cozy little place, looking out the window at the blustering wind.
The thing about living in Paris is that it is completely impossible to forget, even for a few minutes, that I am not in the midst of the greatest adventure ever. Even though things here seem "normal" now, it is still impossible to treat any day as "routine" because I never know what is going to happen when I leave my apartment. One could argue that I don’t know that kind of thing when I leave my dorm room in Atlanta, either, but I have never had such a myriad of adventures in such a short time in the US as I have here. Because every day here holds some kind of adventure, some kind of mystery, some kind of thing that I will probably never understand, whether it is some concept my prof tries to explain, the reason the lunch lady at the restaurante universitaire makes me get back in line to get fruit before she will give me chicken, or the reason Jessi and I never seem to pick the line at the supermarket where they give you grocery bags, I generally finish each day with at least one experience that can only be explained by the fact that we are americaines living somewhere we clearly don’t belong...
But I don’t mind.
C'est la vie, je pense,
Miss Murder
On a gingerbread cookie in the window of a bakery on my street: "Le seul vrai langue au monde est un baiser..." (The only true language of the world is a kiss.)
Addendum: the meaning of that language changes drastically when one has mono...
It is nearly impossible and completely inefficient to attempt to read a book in French about Paris between World War I and I while listening to the Backstreet Boys.
At some point in my life I would like to stop eating things that come out of machines, whether it be sodas, candy bars, or coffee. Now is really an inopportune time to commence with that plan, but perhaps on my 30th birthday I can quit cold turkey. In the meantime, file café au laits from vending machines under the list of things that help me make it through the day.
I live with the coolest old lady in the world, and the longer I live here, the more convinced I am of her status as such. She’s amazing. There are always friends here, always the phone ringing, as Jessi once put it, "I think we live with a celebrity..." and I won’t lie, it kind of does feel like shacking up with Coco Chanel, who lived in the penthouse of a hotel in Paris for the last 30 years of her life. Now you can stay in her penthouse for your vacation, if you want. For 8900Euros a night. (Or about $11,000).
I go to a church where the average age is 24. I have never seen any kids there– no one is old enough to have them. The pastor is 30, single, and has hair approximately the same length as mine. The congregation is half white and half not, half French and half expats like me, but everyone speaks at least a decent amount of English and French... and most people something else as well. Pretty much the place is amazing.
I found the most glorious café down the road from my apartment today– it’s a good 15 minute walk, but the place is amazing. It’s next-door to a building designed by Hector Guimard, an uberfamous Art Nouveau architect. The place is all red leather seats and tiny round tables with chalkboards on the walls with the day’s specials, and I was the only one in there that did not get greeted by name by the waitstaff, who apparently caters mainly to local regulars. It’s called Café de la Fontaine, and I ended up there for the better part of three hours, trying to squeeze every centime out of my 4Euro café au lait and reading "Le Pieton de Paris," a book about...well, Paris, that I have to write a paper on by Wednesday. Still though, sitting in there with my book and dictionary, it was impossible to feel stressed in the cozy little place, looking out the window at the blustering wind.
The thing about living in Paris is that it is completely impossible to forget, even for a few minutes, that I am not in the midst of the greatest adventure ever. Even though things here seem "normal" now, it is still impossible to treat any day as "routine" because I never know what is going to happen when I leave my apartment. One could argue that I don’t know that kind of thing when I leave my dorm room in Atlanta, either, but I have never had such a myriad of adventures in such a short time in the US as I have here. Because every day here holds some kind of adventure, some kind of mystery, some kind of thing that I will probably never understand, whether it is some concept my prof tries to explain, the reason the lunch lady at the restaurante universitaire makes me get back in line to get fruit before she will give me chicken, or the reason Jessi and I never seem to pick the line at the supermarket where they give you grocery bags, I generally finish each day with at least one experience that can only be explained by the fact that we are americaines living somewhere we clearly don’t belong...
But I don’t mind.
C'est la vie, je pense,
Miss Murder
On a gingerbread cookie in the window of a bakery on my street: "Le seul vrai langue au monde est un baiser..." (The only true language of the world is a kiss.)
Addendum: the meaning of that language changes drastically when one has mono...
Monday, November 27, 2006
JEREMY SPOKE IN CLASS TODAY...
No, wait, he did not, BUT I DID!!!!
If last week I made a complete and utter dunce of myself in front of my archaeology prof, today I blew everyone else in the class completely out of the water...
Ok, so it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but I am thrilled. I was in archaeology today, thinking that it was going to be a normal class period, lecture, take notes, try to pay attention and not get distracted by this professor, who is hilarious...
He never calls on anyone. He never has. I never thought he would. But then today he is talking about some villa in Pompeii and the three parts that it is divided into, and I somehow made eye contact, completely by accident, but thus prompting what happened next, which was probably completely my fault.
A transcript of the conversation, as translated by yours truly:
Prof: "This, then, is the pars urbana, a large peristyle surrounded with a portico just here..."
[Points to the slide, demonstrating large portico]
"Pars Urbana," Blair writes. "Big peristyle at top of house with portico. Sidenote: look up pars urbana, peristyle."
[Blair looks up. Prof turns back to class. Eye contact is made. Blair remains calm. "After all," she thinks, "he knows who I am, and thinks I can’t speak his language. Plus he never calls on anyone anyway. I am safe."]
Prof, to Blair: "And you, tell me what you know about the peristyle and what is contained therein."
[Blair’s jaw on ground, eyes size of quiches.]
Blair: "Ahh, well, the peristyle? Oh, of course."
[Thinking to herself, "HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? IF I ASK HIM TO REPEAT THE QUESTION IT WILL JUST DRAG THIS OUT MORE. JUST GO WITH WHAT YOU THINK."]
Blair: "Right, the peristyle. Um, the garden is there."
Prof: "Oui..."
Blair: "Oh, and also, um, the eating room. With the benches. For eating on."
Prof: "Oui, the garden, yes, and the dining room, complete with seats, yes."
Ok, so maybe not blew them out of the water. But the point is, the whole class was listening, and I OPENED MY MOUTH. I haven’t done that in ANY class yet, since my French is terrible compared to everyone else’s and the profs don’t really care anyway... And I had gotten along just fine like that and probably would have continued had he not FORCED me out of my shell.
The unleashed lion,
B
No, wait, he did not, BUT I DID!!!!
If last week I made a complete and utter dunce of myself in front of my archaeology prof, today I blew everyone else in the class completely out of the water...
Ok, so it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but I am thrilled. I was in archaeology today, thinking that it was going to be a normal class period, lecture, take notes, try to pay attention and not get distracted by this professor, who is hilarious...
He never calls on anyone. He never has. I never thought he would. But then today he is talking about some villa in Pompeii and the three parts that it is divided into, and I somehow made eye contact, completely by accident, but thus prompting what happened next, which was probably completely my fault.
A transcript of the conversation, as translated by yours truly:
Prof: "This, then, is the pars urbana, a large peristyle surrounded with a portico just here..."
[Points to the slide, demonstrating large portico]
"Pars Urbana," Blair writes. "Big peristyle at top of house with portico. Sidenote: look up pars urbana, peristyle."
[Blair looks up. Prof turns back to class. Eye contact is made. Blair remains calm. "After all," she thinks, "he knows who I am, and thinks I can’t speak his language. Plus he never calls on anyone anyway. I am safe."]
Prof, to Blair: "And you, tell me what you know about the peristyle and what is contained therein."
[Blair’s jaw on ground, eyes size of quiches.]
Blair: "Ahh, well, the peristyle? Oh, of course."
[Thinking to herself, "HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? IF I ASK HIM TO REPEAT THE QUESTION IT WILL JUST DRAG THIS OUT MORE. JUST GO WITH WHAT YOU THINK."]
Blair: "Right, the peristyle. Um, the garden is there."
Prof: "Oui..."
Blair: "Oh, and also, um, the eating room. With the benches. For eating on."
Prof: "Oui, the garden, yes, and the dining room, complete with seats, yes."
Ok, so maybe not blew them out of the water. But the point is, the whole class was listening, and I OPENED MY MOUTH. I haven’t done that in ANY class yet, since my French is terrible compared to everyone else’s and the profs don’t really care anyway... And I had gotten along just fine like that and probably would have continued had he not FORCED me out of my shell.
The unleashed lion,
B
Sunday, November 26, 2006
The following picture is real, I swear. I promise you, on everything I hold sacred, that yesterday afternoon I was walking home from the market-- not the grocery store, but the market, and came across what you are about to see. Not faked, not posed.
This is precisely why I never leave my room without my camera. Because when you live in the seizieme you never know what you will encounter. I walked past on my way into the boulangerie, went in and bought my baguette and pain au chocolat, came back out and saw the dog was still there and knew then I had to stop for a picture. No owner in sight. AMAZING.
With regard to the past week:
In honor of a holiday I am no longer allowed to celebrate,
Things I am thankful for...
1. HOT COFFEE every morning.
2. My archaeology prof not making me do a presentation in front of the class.
3. My free pass to the Louvre.
4. Hillsong Church Paris. Who knew?
5. Ex-roommates who send amazing care packages.
6. Ice.
7. Warm radiators on cold mornings.
8. Comte cheese. Don’t ask.
9. Scrambled eggs– whoever invented these has saved me an awful lot of work thinking up meals.
10.Being fluent in the English language without having to LEARN it.
11."Yeye" music.
12.The fantastic city I live in presently.
13.Pink champagne.
14.Holidays celebrated here and not in America– Toussaint, anyone?
15.The fontaine des Medicis; Canova’s Cupid and Psyche. My 2 favorite places in Paris.
16.A bed with a down duvet.
17.8-feet tall windows in my room with a view of the Eiffel Tower.
18.Small children in too many layers to move properly, skipping down the Paris street.
19.Being 21. Is there really anything cooler?
20.Orangina.
21.Amazing summer jobs that keep me longing to come back to the States.
22.Street markets.
23.People who speak this language better than me and still deign to help me out with it when I don’t know what is going on.
24.Travelling the continent of Europe with my best friends and on my own...
25.Good jeans.
26.Rockstars.
27.Groseilles.
28.Chocolate.
29.Nutella.
30.You...
I guess there is really nothing like living in another country to show you how much of a citizen of your own country you really are... I never would have considered myself particularly American, but this whole not celebrating Halloween OR Thanksgiving thing is really bothering me. Especially Thanksgiving... I miss the stress of this week before getting to drive home for the long weekend (with Kate, of course, the girl I have randomly driven back and forth between Atlanta and Raleigh with more times than I can count.), the cooking, Christmas just around the corner and all the shopping...
Thus, no leftovers, no cutout pilgrims in the windows, no children running around with construction paper Indian feathers sticking out of their hair, and no Charlie Brown movie.
And.
I won’t lie.
This may be the worst.
I can deal with the lack of a special meal, since most things here are delicious anyway. But the worst part is this...
No Black Friday.
Pas du tout.
What am I going to do with myself when the day after Thanksgiving dawns and I have no reason to be already in a parking lot waiting the unlocking of department store doors?
See, with my friends, this is tradition. Because no matter what happens, we all end up in the same city for Thanksgiving. So we spend it with our families, and then meet up before sunrise on Black Friday to battle the crowds and fight for bargains, and take breaks every few hours for hot chocolate or coffee, later on in the day nachos and queso... I can remember every year since before I moved out waking up at 430am to be in my car by 530 and at my best friend’s house by 6, where we would leave my car, get in hers, and ride to the far away mall in Chapel Hill, working our way, mall by mall, progressively closer to home. Last year I did it with a cast, which I used to beat people away when they tried to jump in front of us in line, and this year it makes me terribly sad that I am here... with nothing to do since I have no class on Friday anyway, so I could technically go shopping, and probably will, but it won’t be the same because nothing opens before 9, there are no special sales, and all the "Grands Magasins" (department stores) have had their light displays up since my birthday. Even Madame said at dinner a few nights ago, "Oh, Thanksgiving, I love it. What a lovely party... I wish we had something like that here..." Only she pronounces it "TONKS-geev-ng." Nevertheless, if even the FRENCH wish they had it, the Americans hit something right with that one.
More later, but in the meantime, consider a visit to me in this city where poodles wear sunglasses and ride motorscooters while 21-year-olds who have been driving for 5 years are stuck hoofing it.
~Blair
This is precisely why I never leave my room without my camera. Because when you live in the seizieme you never know what you will encounter. I walked past on my way into the boulangerie, went in and bought my baguette and pain au chocolat, came back out and saw the dog was still there and knew then I had to stop for a picture. No owner in sight. AMAZING.With regard to the past week:
In honor of a holiday I am no longer allowed to celebrate,
Things I am thankful for...
1. HOT COFFEE every morning.
2. My archaeology prof not making me do a presentation in front of the class.
3. My free pass to the Louvre.
4. Hillsong Church Paris. Who knew?
5. Ex-roommates who send amazing care packages.
6. Ice.
7. Warm radiators on cold mornings.
8. Comte cheese. Don’t ask.
9. Scrambled eggs– whoever invented these has saved me an awful lot of work thinking up meals.
10.Being fluent in the English language without having to LEARN it.
11."Yeye" music.
12.The fantastic city I live in presently.
13.Pink champagne.
14.Holidays celebrated here and not in America– Toussaint, anyone?
15.The fontaine des Medicis; Canova’s Cupid and Psyche. My 2 favorite places in Paris.
16.A bed with a down duvet.
17.8-feet tall windows in my room with a view of the Eiffel Tower.
18.Small children in too many layers to move properly, skipping down the Paris street.
19.Being 21. Is there really anything cooler?
20.Orangina.
21.Amazing summer jobs that keep me longing to come back to the States.
22.Street markets.
23.People who speak this language better than me and still deign to help me out with it when I don’t know what is going on.
24.Travelling the continent of Europe with my best friends and on my own...
25.Good jeans.
26.Rockstars.
27.Groseilles.
28.Chocolate.
29.Nutella.
30.You...
I guess there is really nothing like living in another country to show you how much of a citizen of your own country you really are... I never would have considered myself particularly American, but this whole not celebrating Halloween OR Thanksgiving thing is really bothering me. Especially Thanksgiving... I miss the stress of this week before getting to drive home for the long weekend (with Kate, of course, the girl I have randomly driven back and forth between Atlanta and Raleigh with more times than I can count.), the cooking, Christmas just around the corner and all the shopping...
Thus, no leftovers, no cutout pilgrims in the windows, no children running around with construction paper Indian feathers sticking out of their hair, and no Charlie Brown movie.
And.
I won’t lie.
This may be the worst.
I can deal with the lack of a special meal, since most things here are delicious anyway. But the worst part is this...
No Black Friday.
Pas du tout.
What am I going to do with myself when the day after Thanksgiving dawns and I have no reason to be already in a parking lot waiting the unlocking of department store doors?
See, with my friends, this is tradition. Because no matter what happens, we all end up in the same city for Thanksgiving. So we spend it with our families, and then meet up before sunrise on Black Friday to battle the crowds and fight for bargains, and take breaks every few hours for hot chocolate or coffee, later on in the day nachos and queso... I can remember every year since before I moved out waking up at 430am to be in my car by 530 and at my best friend’s house by 6, where we would leave my car, get in hers, and ride to the far away mall in Chapel Hill, working our way, mall by mall, progressively closer to home. Last year I did it with a cast, which I used to beat people away when they tried to jump in front of us in line, and this year it makes me terribly sad that I am here... with nothing to do since I have no class on Friday anyway, so I could technically go shopping, and probably will, but it won’t be the same because nothing opens before 9, there are no special sales, and all the "Grands Magasins" (department stores) have had their light displays up since my birthday. Even Madame said at dinner a few nights ago, "Oh, Thanksgiving, I love it. What a lovely party... I wish we had something like that here..." Only she pronounces it "TONKS-geev-ng." Nevertheless, if even the FRENCH wish they had it, the Americans hit something right with that one.
More later, but in the meantime, consider a visit to me in this city where poodles wear sunglasses and ride motorscooters while 21-year-olds who have been driving for 5 years are stuck hoofing it.
~Blair
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Mmm, lovely weekend, lovely dinner, lovely life.
Some useless knowledge for your entertainment, because if it's cluttering up my brain, it might as well yours too.
~In French, the word for "lawyer" is the same as the word for "avocado." Discuss.
~I learned, in the last week, the word for the shine that comes off of oil paintings-- glacees. I also learned the word for a person who works at the fabric counter at a store like JoAnn's. I don't even know the word for that in English.
~Today was Beaujolais Day. I don't really know what that MEANS, except that for some reason ALL of this year's beaujolais wine is sent out on the same day and all the bars in France celebrate with some kind of weird beaujolais-drinking fete. LUCKILY I found this out just in time to participate.
~Last week I was walking through my neighborhood and noticed a store I had never been in was having a sale. I thought to myself, "Well, everything in my neighborhood is ridiculously expensive, but if it is on sale, how bad could it be?" so I went in. The first thing I picked up was a long-sleeved shirt. For 356Euros. I dropped it out of shock, picked it back up, acted like everything was normal as I re-folded it, then busted tail out of there.
~There is a Fiore in my neighborhood. This is a hip Parisian store... thus I have always avoided it. (See Above.) But they were going out of business (probably because everyone in my neighborhood is over 65 and doesn't really want the newest 20-something fashion statement), and since I hadn't learned from last week's foray into the world of Trendy Boutiques in the 16eme Arrondissement, I went in. Who am I, an American college student, to resist a 75% off sale? Good choice this time. I am now stocked on shirt-dresses and other things that can be worn with pants under them.
~If anyone knows a way to get a ticket to the Killers spring tour, I would be, basically, your slave for life.
~Other useless facts about me: I know how to say "not allowed" in 5 languages.
Prohibido
Vietato
Verboten
Interdite
Forbidden.
~Today the firefighters of Paris were on strike. When we asked my grammar prof what that meant for the city of Paris, she said, and this is a direct quote, translated carefully into English by me: "It means if you catch anything on fire today, you are SOL, my friend." Or, more definitively, apparently there were no backups who weren't on strike... I really don't know what happens if something starts burning on days like this.
~Madame told me at dinner on Monday-- Jessi wasn't there-- and she told me that I am getting better at speaking and she is "sure that I can understand better now than when I got here." (!!!!) Coming from her, this is big... I mean, granted, she got me at my worst when I first arrived, but for her to think I am getting better makes me think perhaps, just maybe, I AM learning this language... it seems so often that I am not-- that I know all these words like for the cracks in oil paintings, or the French translation of the latin "necropolis" or even "extincteur"-- fire extinguisher (which, really, would be a handy word on days like this if the city goes up in flames), and not USEFUL things like, "pass the flan." Or "Where do you want me to take my final exam?" or "Do you have these shoes in a size 39?"
~Also, I think Madame is the coolest person in the world, and if I could think of a way to tell her such without her thinking I was crazy, I totally would.
Probably, though, she already thinks I am crazy-- who leaves the US to move to a country with another language and dogs who roam restaurants and garbage men who go on strike and no cars and no ice and friendly bartenders and cheap croissants and too much quiche at the age of 20?
Really, though, in theory, how much crazier is that than wading through waist-deep mud in a valley on a mountain, playing tackle football in the middle of a torrential downpour in the southeastern corner of Kentucky?
I'm just saying. My life has never really resembled any sort of normalcy.
~blair, comme Tony.
Some useless knowledge for your entertainment, because if it's cluttering up my brain, it might as well yours too.
~In French, the word for "lawyer" is the same as the word for "avocado." Discuss.
~I learned, in the last week, the word for the shine that comes off of oil paintings-- glacees. I also learned the word for a person who works at the fabric counter at a store like JoAnn's. I don't even know the word for that in English.
~Today was Beaujolais Day. I don't really know what that MEANS, except that for some reason ALL of this year's beaujolais wine is sent out on the same day and all the bars in France celebrate with some kind of weird beaujolais-drinking fete. LUCKILY I found this out just in time to participate.
~Last week I was walking through my neighborhood and noticed a store I had never been in was having a sale. I thought to myself, "Well, everything in my neighborhood is ridiculously expensive, but if it is on sale, how bad could it be?" so I went in. The first thing I picked up was a long-sleeved shirt. For 356Euros. I dropped it out of shock, picked it back up, acted like everything was normal as I re-folded it, then busted tail out of there.
~There is a Fiore in my neighborhood. This is a hip Parisian store... thus I have always avoided it. (See Above.) But they were going out of business (probably because everyone in my neighborhood is over 65 and doesn't really want the newest 20-something fashion statement), and since I hadn't learned from last week's foray into the world of Trendy Boutiques in the 16eme Arrondissement, I went in. Who am I, an American college student, to resist a 75% off sale? Good choice this time. I am now stocked on shirt-dresses and other things that can be worn with pants under them.
~If anyone knows a way to get a ticket to the Killers spring tour, I would be, basically, your slave for life.
~Other useless facts about me: I know how to say "not allowed" in 5 languages.
Prohibido
Vietato
Verboten
Interdite
Forbidden.
~Today the firefighters of Paris were on strike. When we asked my grammar prof what that meant for the city of Paris, she said, and this is a direct quote, translated carefully into English by me: "It means if you catch anything on fire today, you are SOL, my friend." Or, more definitively, apparently there were no backups who weren't on strike... I really don't know what happens if something starts burning on days like this.
~Madame told me at dinner on Monday-- Jessi wasn't there-- and she told me that I am getting better at speaking and she is "sure that I can understand better now than when I got here." (!!!!) Coming from her, this is big... I mean, granted, she got me at my worst when I first arrived, but for her to think I am getting better makes me think perhaps, just maybe, I AM learning this language... it seems so often that I am not-- that I know all these words like for the cracks in oil paintings, or the French translation of the latin "necropolis" or even "extincteur"-- fire extinguisher (which, really, would be a handy word on days like this if the city goes up in flames), and not USEFUL things like, "pass the flan." Or "Where do you want me to take my final exam?" or "Do you have these shoes in a size 39?"
~Also, I think Madame is the coolest person in the world, and if I could think of a way to tell her such without her thinking I was crazy, I totally would.
Probably, though, she already thinks I am crazy-- who leaves the US to move to a country with another language and dogs who roam restaurants and garbage men who go on strike and no cars and no ice and friendly bartenders and cheap croissants and too much quiche at the age of 20?
Really, though, in theory, how much crazier is that than wading through waist-deep mud in a valley on a mountain, playing tackle football in the middle of a torrential downpour in the southeastern corner of Kentucky?
I'm just saying. My life has never really resembled any sort of normalcy.
~blair, comme Tony.
Monday, November 20, 2006
So last week we had dinner with Madame as usual, but this time the first course was some kind of orange soup– we asked what kind it was and she said "citrouille." Jessi and I looked at each other cluelessly and then asked, "Pardon?" and she replied, "Citrouille. Comme... courge." We looked at each other again, trying to see if the other had any idea what she had said. Upon seeing our confusion, Madame interjected, "Oh, comme... Halloween?" "Ohhhh, oui." Only she pronounced it "Al-o-when," the French way, and then we realized we were eating pumpkin soup. Yum.
The main course was what she called "Pain de Poissons," literally, "Fish Bread." Umm, what? I guess it’s like the french version of tuna casserole, only it’s actually good. It’s not bread at all, made with tuna, some kind of lemon sauce over it all, and then you eat it with hard boiled eggs. This one took a little bit of guts to take a bite of– I mean, really, TUNA BREAD? But it was, of course, delicious.
For dessert she had "fromage blanc"– white cheese, literally, and Jessi and I had a gateau chocolat. Because we didn’t understand what fromage blanc was (it’s not cheese...), she let us try some. It looks like yogurt, but tastes... well, according to the French it tastes creamier. To me, it was more bitter. But you put a dollop of it on your plate, and then completely cover the dollop with table sugar. Then you eat it. Ick. But they make it into cakes too, and the cakes are good...
And THEN after all that we were all cleaning up the kitchen and Jessi spotted a glass of neon green liquid. Now, wait. When I say "green" I mean, like, if you shut off the lights this stuff would GLOW. It had the vibrancy of liquid soap, which is what I supposed it was. Knowing better, Jessi asked, "what is that?" And Madame, who probably knew Jessi would not want to try it but that I was a willing victim, turned to me and said, "Go get a glass." I obediently did, and then somehow found myself with a glass of the viscous liquid in MY hand! ME! The one who was content thinking it was soap! Jessi turned to watch me, as I said to Madame, "I can DRINK this?" "Oh, yes, yes, it’s very popular with the young people. France just loves this stuff!" (NOTHING in the natural world, with the exception of some types of coral, is as bright as this stuff that I held in my hand.) But, for the sake of France... I threw it back. "It’s... minty?!" I said in astonishment. "Do you like it?" Madame asked. "I think so... it tastes like... toothpaste." Madame laughed at this, and heartily agreed: "oui, oui, tu as raison. Un peu comme dentifrice." But the french drink it... It’s called Sirop de Menthe– I always thought it was for making peppermint cocktails, but apparently you just add tap water to it and DRINK it, if you can get past the color and the fact that, in general, you are supposed to spit out minty liquids and not swallow them. Every time I took a sip I had an uncontrollable urge to throw my head back and gargle. Luckily I refrained.
Last Saturday here was Armistice Day. Nothing spectacular happened, since it fell on a Saturday, except a big parade from the President’s house (the Elysee, at the end of the Champs) to the Arc de Triomphe (NOT a far way for a parade– half a mile max). Armistice Day, which is the same day as Veterans’ Day in the US, commemorates the ending of World War I, which happened in a train car in a field in Northern France at 11:11am on November 11 in 19... I don’t know, 1919? 21? I forget. Irrelevant, anyway. BUT unlike in the States, instead of stores being open and having sales, most things in France close. In Paris, though, it is becoming less and less that way. Madame told us, disapprovingly, that nearly everything was open in Paris and why they couldn’t commemorate just a little more she didn’t understand, pas du tout. But the stars of the parade, which we missed because we were busy hitchhiking through Northern France, were all the living French veterans of World War I. There are only 4. The youngest is 107. And I think they all fought in BOTH World Wars, but I am not sure. Madame said the US has way more than France, apparently we have 14 living veterans of World War I, which is a rather embarrassing fact to have to be told by a Frenchwoman about your own country.
On another note, my archaeology professor (who, legitimately, can not possibly be over 25) has decided that, because he thinks it would be too difficult for me to write a paper "chez toi"– at home– that I should just do an interrogation instead, which will count as more or less my whole grade for the semester. The French people in the class (ie, everyone but me) have to do interrogations in class, one of them each week gets in front of the class and he just pretty much interrogates them on what we have learned in the course thus far. Luckily he is not making me do that. I think I would probably drop out of college altogether if he did. BUT because the French universities do not have offices or study lounges or anything, I apparently am going to have to set up a time and a place to meet up with this professor outside of class to do my interrogation. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except that last week when he told me this, I asked, "And do you want me to do this at the end of the semester?" and he said, "Yeah, or in two weeks." So what does that mean? What? Further example of the disorganization of French... well, life.
Speaking of classes, I got in trouble last week in my grammar class. I don’t know what it is about this country, I go the better part of 20 years without getting in trouble ONCE in my life in the States... except for that one time I lied to my boss... and I get to Europe and get yelled at in other languages weekly. And there is really nothing like getting in trouble in a different language. Because half the time you don’t even understand what you are in trouble for, or the words that they are saying, and when someone is in the middle of yelling at you, you can’t very well interrupt to say that you don’t understand what such and such a word means, because then they’ll lose their thread and have to start all over.
This time it was because (having mono) I skipped a meeting thing on last Monday for my grammar class. Now, let’s talk this out: I found out I had mono a week before classes started. I have never missed one regularly scheduled class. Classes are on Tuesday and Wednesday, the professor RANDOMLY schedules something for Monday, I miss it, and what?? Basically, I got a speech about how "I know you might be sick but it is EDUCO policy to deduct grades when you miss class..." But what I don’t understand is whether my final grade is deducted a percentage point, or a letter, or what. AND WAIT, it gets better. I got that speech after class, when everyone else had left– she made me stay after to tell me all that. BUT last Tuesday, when I returned to class after having missed this thing on Monday, I explained to her why I was not there, and then the next day during class, she actually used my excuse as an example of how not to speak! She said, "For example, you cannot say, ‘I was sick, but I haven’t gone back to the doctor, that is why I didn’t do my homework.’ You must say..." and then she explained something about the conjunctions I had used wrong. Only as soon as she said it, everyone knew she was talking about me because I had said that in front of the whole class last week, so all of a sudden all heads swivel to me, then back to her. Nothing like getting called out in front of a whole class of Americans in France.
Enough about that. I suppose I have nothing to complain about... I have turned in exactly one assignment since coming to this country. ((Which I bombed, but it was an 8page paper in another language on the Popular Front. I don't even really know what that is in English.))
Bonsoir,
Blair
The main course was what she called "Pain de Poissons," literally, "Fish Bread." Umm, what? I guess it’s like the french version of tuna casserole, only it’s actually good. It’s not bread at all, made with tuna, some kind of lemon sauce over it all, and then you eat it with hard boiled eggs. This one took a little bit of guts to take a bite of– I mean, really, TUNA BREAD? But it was, of course, delicious.
For dessert she had "fromage blanc"– white cheese, literally, and Jessi and I had a gateau chocolat. Because we didn’t understand what fromage blanc was (it’s not cheese...), she let us try some. It looks like yogurt, but tastes... well, according to the French it tastes creamier. To me, it was more bitter. But you put a dollop of it on your plate, and then completely cover the dollop with table sugar. Then you eat it. Ick. But they make it into cakes too, and the cakes are good...
And THEN after all that we were all cleaning up the kitchen and Jessi spotted a glass of neon green liquid. Now, wait. When I say "green" I mean, like, if you shut off the lights this stuff would GLOW. It had the vibrancy of liquid soap, which is what I supposed it was. Knowing better, Jessi asked, "what is that?" And Madame, who probably knew Jessi would not want to try it but that I was a willing victim, turned to me and said, "Go get a glass." I obediently did, and then somehow found myself with a glass of the viscous liquid in MY hand! ME! The one who was content thinking it was soap! Jessi turned to watch me, as I said to Madame, "I can DRINK this?" "Oh, yes, yes, it’s very popular with the young people. France just loves this stuff!" (NOTHING in the natural world, with the exception of some types of coral, is as bright as this stuff that I held in my hand.) But, for the sake of France... I threw it back. "It’s... minty?!" I said in astonishment. "Do you like it?" Madame asked. "I think so... it tastes like... toothpaste." Madame laughed at this, and heartily agreed: "oui, oui, tu as raison. Un peu comme dentifrice." But the french drink it... It’s called Sirop de Menthe– I always thought it was for making peppermint cocktails, but apparently you just add tap water to it and DRINK it, if you can get past the color and the fact that, in general, you are supposed to spit out minty liquids and not swallow them. Every time I took a sip I had an uncontrollable urge to throw my head back and gargle. Luckily I refrained.
Last Saturday here was Armistice Day. Nothing spectacular happened, since it fell on a Saturday, except a big parade from the President’s house (the Elysee, at the end of the Champs) to the Arc de Triomphe (NOT a far way for a parade– half a mile max). Armistice Day, which is the same day as Veterans’ Day in the US, commemorates the ending of World War I, which happened in a train car in a field in Northern France at 11:11am on November 11 in 19... I don’t know, 1919? 21? I forget. Irrelevant, anyway. BUT unlike in the States, instead of stores being open and having sales, most things in France close. In Paris, though, it is becoming less and less that way. Madame told us, disapprovingly, that nearly everything was open in Paris and why they couldn’t commemorate just a little more she didn’t understand, pas du tout. But the stars of the parade, which we missed because we were busy hitchhiking through Northern France, were all the living French veterans of World War I. There are only 4. The youngest is 107. And I think they all fought in BOTH World Wars, but I am not sure. Madame said the US has way more than France, apparently we have 14 living veterans of World War I, which is a rather embarrassing fact to have to be told by a Frenchwoman about your own country.
On another note, my archaeology professor (who, legitimately, can not possibly be over 25) has decided that, because he thinks it would be too difficult for me to write a paper "chez toi"– at home– that I should just do an interrogation instead, which will count as more or less my whole grade for the semester. The French people in the class (ie, everyone but me) have to do interrogations in class, one of them each week gets in front of the class and he just pretty much interrogates them on what we have learned in the course thus far. Luckily he is not making me do that. I think I would probably drop out of college altogether if he did. BUT because the French universities do not have offices or study lounges or anything, I apparently am going to have to set up a time and a place to meet up with this professor outside of class to do my interrogation. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except that last week when he told me this, I asked, "And do you want me to do this at the end of the semester?" and he said, "Yeah, or in two weeks." So what does that mean? What? Further example of the disorganization of French... well, life.
Speaking of classes, I got in trouble last week in my grammar class. I don’t know what it is about this country, I go the better part of 20 years without getting in trouble ONCE in my life in the States... except for that one time I lied to my boss... and I get to Europe and get yelled at in other languages weekly. And there is really nothing like getting in trouble in a different language. Because half the time you don’t even understand what you are in trouble for, or the words that they are saying, and when someone is in the middle of yelling at you, you can’t very well interrupt to say that you don’t understand what such and such a word means, because then they’ll lose their thread and have to start all over.
This time it was because (having mono) I skipped a meeting thing on last Monday for my grammar class. Now, let’s talk this out: I found out I had mono a week before classes started. I have never missed one regularly scheduled class. Classes are on Tuesday and Wednesday, the professor RANDOMLY schedules something for Monday, I miss it, and what?? Basically, I got a speech about how "I know you might be sick but it is EDUCO policy to deduct grades when you miss class..." But what I don’t understand is whether my final grade is deducted a percentage point, or a letter, or what. AND WAIT, it gets better. I got that speech after class, when everyone else had left– she made me stay after to tell me all that. BUT last Tuesday, when I returned to class after having missed this thing on Monday, I explained to her why I was not there, and then the next day during class, she actually used my excuse as an example of how not to speak! She said, "For example, you cannot say, ‘I was sick, but I haven’t gone back to the doctor, that is why I didn’t do my homework.’ You must say..." and then she explained something about the conjunctions I had used wrong. Only as soon as she said it, everyone knew she was talking about me because I had said that in front of the whole class last week, so all of a sudden all heads swivel to me, then back to her. Nothing like getting called out in front of a whole class of Americans in France.
Enough about that. I suppose I have nothing to complain about... I have turned in exactly one assignment since coming to this country. ((Which I bombed, but it was an 8page paper in another language on the Popular Front. I don't even really know what that is in English.))
Bonsoir,
Blair
Sunday, November 19, 2006
"Travel is only glamourous in retrospect."
~Paul Theroux said that, and I am beginning to agree.
Spent the weekend in Florence, Italy. Jessi and I took an overnight train there, which in itself is an adventure, mainly because I have spent 24 of the past 60 hours on trains. After doing a round-trip on overnight trains to go to Salzburg a month or so ago, I was fully prepared to never do it again, because it sounds so cool to be like, "oh, I took the train to Italy..." or even "I spent the night in a sleeper train," but the thing is that it IS NOT cool. It just bites. In case you have never done it, let me explain: a couchette is what you sleep in. It is basically like sleeping in the Space Shuttle. There are 6 beds per couchette, stacked three on each side of the space. None of them are high enough to sit up in, so once you get in bed, you are THERE for the duration of the trip. (Which, in this case, was 12 hours. Each way.) So you get in your little sleep pod, and then just hope that no one else in there will be a snorer. It’s really rather awkward, because you don’t KNOW these people, and all of a sudden you just have to go to sleep next to them. But anyway, then you wake up every 30 minutes or so when the train hits a bump or stops, giving a ridiculously bad night’s sleep and terrible bed head in the morning.
We got to Florence early on Friday morning, only to find out that our hostel (which claims to be "2 minutes from the train station") was actually 2 minutes from the OTHER train station, and about a 30 minute walk from ours. So we do the only logical thing and buy a 5-euro map of Florence that leaves out some streets, doesn’t include name changes of other streets, and is otherwise pretty typical of Italian maps (from what I have been told, the country of Italy is like the island of Tortuga: impossible to find your way around except by those who already know how). We get there and find out we can’t check in yet, but it is run by this hilarious Italian family which made up for all the confusion. We went and wandered the city, talked our way into the Galleria dell’Academia for free, where Michelangelo’s original David is housed. From there we found the Duomo– a church designed by Michelangelo in the center of Florence, 3rd largest Cathedral in the world... random fact of the day. THEN... we come out of the Duomo and somehow are in the middle of a Communist rally. Literally. Like, we walk out the doors and are pretty much swept into the crowd as they march and yell something we can’t understand because it is in Italian. Trying to go against the sea of people was NOT going to work, so we walked in their direction for a few minutes, trying to figure out what we were marching for. Pretty soon we noticed the hammer-and-sickle flags and the posters with words like "communistos" or something, and realized we were in the midst of a communist rally. Awkward. We pulled ourselves out of it, somehow, and found the most amazing outdoor market I have seen since coming to this continent. Good quality fake purses, cheap t-shirts, fun jewelry, and all the Italian leather you could ask for. Lots of Christmas shopping got done... : ) For dinner we drank Chianti (the Florentines are known for it– and it comes in bottles with those little wicker things around it) and ate Italian pizza... Yum.
Saturday we got breakfast at a coffee bar set up just like a real bar– the baristas make their own foam in martini shakers and toss chocolate flakes, cinnamon, or one of 6 types of sugar into your drink as they make it. We had planned to visit the Medici palace on the edge of town, so we made our way over there, crossing the Arno River via the Ponte Vecchio– the oldest bridge in the city and the only one not destroyed in World War II. We bought our tickets to the gardens and palace, realized it was a little cloudy, and decided to do the gardens first, just in case. The Boboli Gardens of the Medici palace of Florence, Italy, I now know, are approximately the size of the state of Vermont. But they are beautiful. So we wander, getting farther and farther from the palace, and all the time going downhill. Pretty soon we reach the most beautiful hidden fountain and reflecting pool I have ever seen... and feel our first drop of rain. "It’ll stop soon," we rationalize, "Let’s just sit and enjoy this amazing place." We get out our books and sit on the stone benches covered by squared-off topiaries, perfect. So peaceful, just like being in a fairy tale. And then the rain begins to sprinkle, but the leafy cover above us keeps us pretty dry. "Let’s wait till it blows over." And then the heavens opened. I lived in Florida half of my life, I have made it through numerous tropical storms and even one North Carolina blizzard, and I even spent one day last summer wading through waist-deep water in a valley on a mountain in Kentucky... I know what it looks like when the heavens open. And open they did. I have not seen a storm like this since coming to this continent. Jessi and I are both in light, hoodless, non-waterproof jackets... and my umbrella is still back at the hostel. "Perhaps we ought to try to leave?" We crowd under her umbrella, doing our best to stay dry, avoid puddles, etc. but within seconds of starting out, our jeans have come uncuffed and are drenched, weighing us down and keeping us from moving fast. My lightweight hiking boots are soaked through and sloshing with every step, Jessi’s cotton jacket is absorbing the rain as fast as it can fall. And we are about a mile from the palace, straight uphill. Oh, and the temperature dropped about 15 degrees when the rain started. So we march as fast as we can through the rain, over the mud, trying not to slip and not to knock the other one out from the umbrella, taking nearly half an hour to make it back to the palace courtyard (which, by the way, is beautiful and I am fairly convinced was the sight of a Zales commercial), at which point we realize our only real option (since we are LITERALLY dripping water everywhere) is to sit on the terrazza of the museum café and hope to dry off a little before we make our way into the museum. But everyone else out there is well-dressed and appears to be the kind of people who would never do something as stupid as get stuck in the rain at a reflecting pool. So we leave the terrace (with a large puddle as evidence of our departure) and make a dripping-water Hansel-and-Gretel style trail to the bathroom. I hate fleece jackets. I think they are lovely the first time you wear them but as soon as they are washed they look so ugly. That said, I own one. But I didn’t buy it– it came from lost and found at a place I used to work. Thus far, I have only worn it on long weekend train trips through Europe. I was wearing it when we got stuck in the rain, giving me the valuable lesson of Why People Actually Pay Money For Fleece Jackets. Here is the answer: BECAUSE EVEN WHEN THEY ARE COMPLETELY SOPPING WET, YOU CAN WRING THE WATER OUT OF THEM TO THE POINT THAT THEY ARE ALMOST COMPLETELY DRY. After that, 5 minutes under a bathroom hand-dryer and the thing is good as new. Genius. So we loitered in a castle bathroom for 15 minutes, drying our hair, arms, and clothing until our teeth had stopped chattering. I thank my stars for whoever left that jacket at camp– you have saved me from an awful lot of discomfort, and whoever you are, I thank you.
After wandering the palace for awhile, we made our way toward our hostel, stopping at a cozy-looking trattoria for frizzante bianca– some kind of really ultra-sour white wine drank from huge glasses at a green marble table in a tiny storefront whose walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with bottles of wine. So cozy and warm after The Afternoon Of The Blue Lagoon.
Florence was beautiful, and Italy looked just like it was supposed to... Hills everywhere, those tall skinny trees sticking up from the landscape, old towering buildings claiming residency at one point by Dante, another by Dostoevsky, and amazing flowers every we turned.
~Paul Theroux said that, and I am beginning to agree.
Spent the weekend in Florence, Italy. Jessi and I took an overnight train there, which in itself is an adventure, mainly because I have spent 24 of the past 60 hours on trains. After doing a round-trip on overnight trains to go to Salzburg a month or so ago, I was fully prepared to never do it again, because it sounds so cool to be like, "oh, I took the train to Italy..." or even "I spent the night in a sleeper train," but the thing is that it IS NOT cool. It just bites. In case you have never done it, let me explain: a couchette is what you sleep in. It is basically like sleeping in the Space Shuttle. There are 6 beds per couchette, stacked three on each side of the space. None of them are high enough to sit up in, so once you get in bed, you are THERE for the duration of the trip. (Which, in this case, was 12 hours. Each way.) So you get in your little sleep pod, and then just hope that no one else in there will be a snorer. It’s really rather awkward, because you don’t KNOW these people, and all of a sudden you just have to go to sleep next to them. But anyway, then you wake up every 30 minutes or so when the train hits a bump or stops, giving a ridiculously bad night’s sleep and terrible bed head in the morning.
We got to Florence early on Friday morning, only to find out that our hostel (which claims to be "2 minutes from the train station") was actually 2 minutes from the OTHER train station, and about a 30 minute walk from ours. So we do the only logical thing and buy a 5-euro map of Florence that leaves out some streets, doesn’t include name changes of other streets, and is otherwise pretty typical of Italian maps (from what I have been told, the country of Italy is like the island of Tortuga: impossible to find your way around except by those who already know how). We get there and find out we can’t check in yet, but it is run by this hilarious Italian family which made up for all the confusion. We went and wandered the city, talked our way into the Galleria dell’Academia for free, where Michelangelo’s original David is housed. From there we found the Duomo– a church designed by Michelangelo in the center of Florence, 3rd largest Cathedral in the world... random fact of the day. THEN... we come out of the Duomo and somehow are in the middle of a Communist rally. Literally. Like, we walk out the doors and are pretty much swept into the crowd as they march and yell something we can’t understand because it is in Italian. Trying to go against the sea of people was NOT going to work, so we walked in their direction for a few minutes, trying to figure out what we were marching for. Pretty soon we noticed the hammer-and-sickle flags and the posters with words like "communistos" or something, and realized we were in the midst of a communist rally. Awkward. We pulled ourselves out of it, somehow, and found the most amazing outdoor market I have seen since coming to this continent. Good quality fake purses, cheap t-shirts, fun jewelry, and all the Italian leather you could ask for. Lots of Christmas shopping got done... : ) For dinner we drank Chianti (the Florentines are known for it– and it comes in bottles with those little wicker things around it) and ate Italian pizza... Yum.
Saturday we got breakfast at a coffee bar set up just like a real bar– the baristas make their own foam in martini shakers and toss chocolate flakes, cinnamon, or one of 6 types of sugar into your drink as they make it. We had planned to visit the Medici palace on the edge of town, so we made our way over there, crossing the Arno River via the Ponte Vecchio– the oldest bridge in the city and the only one not destroyed in World War II. We bought our tickets to the gardens and palace, realized it was a little cloudy, and decided to do the gardens first, just in case. The Boboli Gardens of the Medici palace of Florence, Italy, I now know, are approximately the size of the state of Vermont. But they are beautiful. So we wander, getting farther and farther from the palace, and all the time going downhill. Pretty soon we reach the most beautiful hidden fountain and reflecting pool I have ever seen... and feel our first drop of rain. "It’ll stop soon," we rationalize, "Let’s just sit and enjoy this amazing place." We get out our books and sit on the stone benches covered by squared-off topiaries, perfect. So peaceful, just like being in a fairy tale. And then the rain begins to sprinkle, but the leafy cover above us keeps us pretty dry. "Let’s wait till it blows over." And then the heavens opened. I lived in Florida half of my life, I have made it through numerous tropical storms and even one North Carolina blizzard, and I even spent one day last summer wading through waist-deep water in a valley on a mountain in Kentucky... I know what it looks like when the heavens open. And open they did. I have not seen a storm like this since coming to this continent. Jessi and I are both in light, hoodless, non-waterproof jackets... and my umbrella is still back at the hostel. "Perhaps we ought to try to leave?" We crowd under her umbrella, doing our best to stay dry, avoid puddles, etc. but within seconds of starting out, our jeans have come uncuffed and are drenched, weighing us down and keeping us from moving fast. My lightweight hiking boots are soaked through and sloshing with every step, Jessi’s cotton jacket is absorbing the rain as fast as it can fall. And we are about a mile from the palace, straight uphill. Oh, and the temperature dropped about 15 degrees when the rain started. So we march as fast as we can through the rain, over the mud, trying not to slip and not to knock the other one out from the umbrella, taking nearly half an hour to make it back to the palace courtyard (which, by the way, is beautiful and I am fairly convinced was the sight of a Zales commercial), at which point we realize our only real option (since we are LITERALLY dripping water everywhere) is to sit on the terrazza of the museum café and hope to dry off a little before we make our way into the museum. But everyone else out there is well-dressed and appears to be the kind of people who would never do something as stupid as get stuck in the rain at a reflecting pool. So we leave the terrace (with a large puddle as evidence of our departure) and make a dripping-water Hansel-and-Gretel style trail to the bathroom. I hate fleece jackets. I think they are lovely the first time you wear them but as soon as they are washed they look so ugly. That said, I own one. But I didn’t buy it– it came from lost and found at a place I used to work. Thus far, I have only worn it on long weekend train trips through Europe. I was wearing it when we got stuck in the rain, giving me the valuable lesson of Why People Actually Pay Money For Fleece Jackets. Here is the answer: BECAUSE EVEN WHEN THEY ARE COMPLETELY SOPPING WET, YOU CAN WRING THE WATER OUT OF THEM TO THE POINT THAT THEY ARE ALMOST COMPLETELY DRY. After that, 5 minutes under a bathroom hand-dryer and the thing is good as new. Genius. So we loitered in a castle bathroom for 15 minutes, drying our hair, arms, and clothing until our teeth had stopped chattering. I thank my stars for whoever left that jacket at camp– you have saved me from an awful lot of discomfort, and whoever you are, I thank you.
After wandering the palace for awhile, we made our way toward our hostel, stopping at a cozy-looking trattoria for frizzante bianca– some kind of really ultra-sour white wine drank from huge glasses at a green marble table in a tiny storefront whose walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with bottles of wine. So cozy and warm after The Afternoon Of The Blue Lagoon.
Florence was beautiful, and Italy looked just like it was supposed to... Hills everywhere, those tall skinny trees sticking up from the landscape, old towering buildings claiming residency at one point by Dante, another by Dostoevsky, and amazing flowers every we turned.
Courtyard of the Uffizi Gallery-- Florence's equivalent of the Louvre. Amazing museum, but this guy was the highlight. Oh, he is totally real. And totally the coolest mime I have ever seen. Next to him was a Cupid mime hanging out in a chimney, but this guy was amazing. We stood there for 10 minutes before he even opened his eyes. 
This is a really bad view of the fountain/pool where we ended up stranded. Notice the rain already beginning to fall on the water.
In a parking lot in the middle of nowhere in Italy, we found this car. Here is Jessi and I being amazed.
And here is Jessi being confused at a random sign we came across in Alsace last weekend. And to think, all this time I thought we were ALREADY in Europe. Darn it.
Somewhere in the gardens of the Medici Palace, a girl took a bath... Me thinking it would be a good idea to jump in the bathtub of the gardens. "Oh, come on, Jessi, what's the worst that can happen? They come kick us out?" Yeah, orrrr I end up with green algae stains on the backside of my favorite jeans... either one.
Oh, the final proof that I will never be truly French: on Thursday, in the midst of my failed archaeology conversation, I realized that not only did I not know what I was saying but also I had forgotten to cut the tailor tacks out of the back pleat of the new Fiore skirt I was wearing for the first time that day. Ha!
Ciao Bella!
~B
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