The Final Countdown

Little by little my fellow exchange students are leaving the country, whether or not they will return after Christmas. I just said goodbye to my good friend Coconut/Stephanie. I've sent a box of books home and am preparing to send another to make room for Christmas presents in my suitcases. I'm about to buy the ticket for my train to the airport, and am trying to figure out how I'm going to drag my suitcases all the way down to the gare (I throw French words into my English now. I've forgotten how to pronounce train station). As the end of my stay here draws to a close, I have to ask myself "Did I accomplish what I intended?"

No, honestly. I wanted to see Europe, the entire country of France, and get and Educational Psychology credit for my major. I wanted to slake my thirst for travel and return to little Westminster refreshed and ready for the coming semester. I wanted to figure out whether a return to camp this summer is feasible. I wanted to focus on improving my piano skills.

But I can't ignore what I've gained: a semester in a country as wonderfully mixed up as my own, a deep appreciation for American television, new information on three important periods in music history, a taste for good cheese, fresh bread—never again will I be content with sliced—and a good kebab, a working knowledge of Paris and its subway system, and a second sight that allowes me to walk home at night and never step in the many piles of dog poo nor run into anyone while eating a kebab and watching a new episode of 30 Rock on my iPod. I also walk faster, have revised my definition of a long walk. I now feel confident that I could live on my own (heck, I bought my own insurance. I'm grown), I've remembered what it is like to live without constant internet and television access, which means I journaled a lot. I've come to accept the skinny jean as a part of this year's fashion trends (though I hope to high heaven it's not as big in the midwest as it is here) and no longer raise my eyebrows when I see a non-black person with dreadlocks. My hatred for dubbing has increased despite my willingness to, on occasion, watch two consecutive episodes of CSI, called Les Experts. I didn't even like CSI when I came here, and am still not sure how I feel about it.

I have a sneaking suspicion that I'll get smacked a lot over the next year as I consistenly compare everything to the way the French do things, etc. I'm already wondering how long I could go without a job if I decided to save my money and travel after university, or how well I would survive if I decided to get a job in France. I am filled with a wanderlust that consumes my waking thoughts and my dreams while I slumber. The sweet agony!

My hands are cold—the student union is not climate controlled (which is why all their pianos are out of tune)—so I'm going to stop before they freeze completely. Out.

I Was Not Meant for England

After two trips to this accursed island, I have decided that only if accompanied by a notoriously blessed voyager will I ever cross the waters to rainy Angleterre. Friday, December 8 was my good friend Herschel's birthday, and on my last Paris trip Nina had asked me to visit that weekend and surprise him. Sure, I said. Nothing major was happening that weekend, and I had been wanting to visit for a while. Then I learned the week beforehand that I was going to have one of my last Classical Music History classes, and I had yet to figure out what I was supposed to be doing for a final in that class. I mentioned this to my parents, and after a few unsubtle remarks about how they knew I would "make the right decision considering your studies" I was completely convinced that I shouldn't go. At least, I was until I found out that the class had been cancelled. Sign me up for a trip to England, please!

Thursday morning I got ready to head across Ye Olde English Channel by plane. I got about halfway to the train station when I realized I had forgotten my passport. So I ran back to the apartment, grabbed the passport, and ran to the train station. I also remembered why I quit cross-country. I was too late to hop on my original train, so I bought a ticket for the next one to Nantes, which would have given me a six-minute window of time to get on the shuttle to the airport. However, the train decided to be 15 minutes slow. By all that's holy. French trains are almost never cancelled, and are rarely late. Why me?

I missed my flight. Again. I was tempted to just give up and resign myself to a long weekend in my room, but Nina was counting on me. Herschel was counting on me, even if he didn't know it. I bought a ticket for the next plane to England, which happened to be to an airport equidistant from Norwich. That was a good sign, right? The flight went smoothly, I got into the Stansted airport without any troubles, and when I bought a train ticket for Norwich the lady said I could catch the next one if I ran.

So I ran and hopped on the train, happy to finally be on my way to Norwich. About two and a half hours later Nina and I had both begun to panick, since the train had not yet stopped an Norwich. I asked the ticket-puncher guy and he directed me to a map of our train line. WE WERE GOING THE WRONG WAY. The lady who sold me my ticket neglected to tell me I had to switch trains in Peterborough (which we had passed about an hour and a half ago), so I was on my way to Birmingham, which is four hours in the opposite direction from Norwich. Oh, for the love of chocolate chips, I thought. My stomach was in knots for the next hour as the train made its way to Birmingham, wondering how I was going to get to where I was supposed to be.

At about 9:30 pm (an hour after I should have been in Norwich) I hopped off the train in Birmingham and raced to the ticket counter. The ticket vendor asked how he could help me.

"I need to get to Norwich," I said.

He snorted a bit. "No chance tonight. The last train left at eight."

I wanted to knash my teeth and wail "Why, God?" and fall to my knees in the middle of the station, but instead I called Nina. I was on the verge of tears; this was supposed to be easy! These people spoke my language, for goodness' sake! Of course, the whole time I was thinking about how Mom and Dad told me not to come, then the song "Mama Told Me Not To Come," then how this kind of mess always seemed to happen to me. Oh, had I known what was to come.

Nina suggested I find a cheap hotel and she would text me with train times for the next day. Alright, big girl, I thought, you can do this. I grabbed a taxi and asked the Indian man driving to take me to the nearest inexpensive hotel. "Oh, I know just the place," he told me. "It's only a fifteen-minute walk from the station, and very cheap." I didn't care if I was sleeping with roaches as long as I could just end the day. I was hungry, tired, my head ached, and all that stress had worn me thin. The cabbie drove and drove as I called Nina to update her on my progress, then answered the cabbie's questions about why I was so desperate for a hotel. I did think we were going for a little longer than I had expected a fifteen-minute walk would take, but what did I know, this wasn't my city.

We went down a residential street and the cabbie stopped. I looked out the window to see a townhouse with the word Hotel on the side, but it didn't look like any hotel I'd ever been to. "Is this is?" I asked, a bit incredulous.

"Thees ees it," he said. "I give you my number so if you want cab tomorrow morning, you call me. I live on this street, too."

"Thanks," I said, paying him and taking his number. I had no intention of using it; the train station was supposed to be 15 minutes down the street.

"If they have no room, I do not mind if you come stay with my family," the cabbie offered.

That threw me off a wee bit. "Oh, er, thanks very much, but I'll try the hotel first," I smiled.

I walked up to the front door and the cabbie pulled away. I peered through one of the doors and was disappointed not to see anything resembling an office or front desk, but I knocked anyway. The cabbie had already left, I had no idea where I was, and I was tired. A little bit later a bleary-eyed, disheveled looking man (did he realize his pants were unzipped?) came and opened the door.

"Is this a hotel?" I asked. He stared at me. "My cabbie dropped me off here and told me this was a hotel."

The man invited me into the kitchen (the place didn't look like a hotel) and told me that he only lived there, he was not in charge, he and several other immigrants lived there, would I like something to eat? Wonderful. I had been dropped on the doorstep of an immigrant hostel, and the proprietor was nowhere to be found. I briefly explained my situation to the man who let me in, and asked if he knew of a nearby hotel.

Over the next hour I learned quite a bit about this man despite his broken English. His name was Sabah Kadir, the word "sabah" in his language meant morning, he also spoke Khudanese, Farsi, Arabic, a little French and German, had lived in Birmingham for eight years, had never had a girlfriend and was afraid it was getting to late in life for him to start a family, that of course he knew where hotels were, and that he was having troubles getting his citizenship in England. He was also drunk. He forgot much of what I said not ten minutes after the fact, and told me that instead of spending money on a hotel I should sleep in his room and he would go sleep in his friend's room. Not like that, not like, stupid, you know, he has a lot of sisters. No thanks, I told him. I really need to use the internet to get a hold of my friend. At 11 pm I stood up and put on my backpack.

"I'll just go find a nearby hotel," I said when Sabah protested. "I really need the internet."

Sabah looked disappointed. "To bad I don't have the internet. I could take you to the library in the morning, and you could use the internet there."

"Yeah, too bad I need to leave before the library opens."

Sabah offered to escort me to the street with all the hotels. I acquiesced, remembering that I was also still lost. I accepted his address in case I ended up needing to stay in the hostel (I'd sleep in a box first), he put on his shoes and finally zipped up his pants, and we were off.

Suddenly he was full of questions. What did my parents do for a living? Are they rich? How long will I be in England? Do I like Birmingham? Am I married? Do I have a boyfriend? Aha , I thought. All of a sudden I did indeed have a boyfriend, though I immediatly regretted telling Sabah that my man was in the States and not who I was visiting in Norwich. How old was I? I answered truthfully, figuring our age difference might put him off. But no, Sabah decided he was twenty-eight. Liar. He was at least in his mid-thirties, especially with all those lines about thinking it was too late to start a family.

"I'm sorry I have so many questions," he apologized. "It is just that our time is so short now, and I imagine that you, lost in England, and me from Khudar (is that even a country? I couldn't find it on Google), maybe we have something together." Yikes. My response was something like, "Oh. Okay." I walked faster.

As we approached the first hotel Sabah suggested I simply go in and use the internet, then come sleep in his room while he gave me the key and slept in his friend's bedroom. "Sure," I said. Not on your life, I thought. We both walked in and I asked for a room. The concierges at the desk told me sorry, they were all booked and thought it unlikely that I would find a room at any of the other hotels on the street, though I should try the B&B next door. I thanked them and started toward the door, while Sabah took it upon himself to explain the entire situation to the two men. I tried to ditch him there, but he was too quick for me. Guess that cold air sobered him up a bit. My heart was in my shoes. I was incredibly frightened that I was not going to find anywhere to sleep and would have to snuggle with Sabah for the night. Sabah redoubled his efforts to make me come home with him, reasoning that I wasn't going to find a room anyway. Please, God. Let there be room in the Quality Inn.

Sabah stayed outside to smoke as I went in to "use the internet." I saw the man at the desk and dashed up to him. "Excuse me but I'm stuck here for the night because I was supposed to be in Norwich but the lady at the train station didn't tell me I had to change trains in Peterborogh and now I'm stuck here and the cabbie told me he was taking me to a hotel and took me to an immigrant hostel instead and I don't know maybe my accent threw him off but now this guy won't leave me alone and the man at the other hotel told me there was little chance I would find a room for tonight since I have to leave as soon as possible in the morning but I really need a room otherwise I'll be stuck with this guy so is there any chance that you have a single room?"

The concierge said "Yeah, sure," then took a ridiculous amount of money from me for a single room. I ducked outside to get rid of Sabah, who wanted a hug and a kiss. I let him have a hug, and managed to turn my head to the side before his lips connected, and he told me to write him. Sure, Sabah. I ran inside and up to my room, scarfing down the junk food I had bought at the train station and texting Nina. She gave me a couple of train times and I went to sleep.

I wanted to be in Norwich before one, so I woke up early, showered, and left the hotel at about 7:45 to catch the 8:15 train. I followed the map the concierge had given me without getting lost once, yet it still took me an hour to reach the train station. I wanted to choke that cabbie. Cheap hotel, sure. Fifteen-minute walk, sure. I got on the 9:40 train and was tensely vigilant at every stop we made, leaping off at Peterborough then stationing myself at the platform where the next train was supposed to come in. That afternoon I was in Norwich!

As far as the weekend is concerned, it was a definite success. Herschel was shocked when he walked into the kitchen and saw me peeling potatos for dinner, the festivities went smoothly, and everyone to whom I was introduced was very welcoming and friendly. I was exhausted when I got back to Angers on Sunday (with no further travel snafoos), but I consided the entire experience worth the memories made. Like Jack Handey's pirates.

Trying To Go To London

Travel Troubles.

It all started with the loss off my most precious documents. The passport is okay, but the people who give visas seem to have decided that if one loses a visa, one must jump through teeny tiny hoops set at dangerous heights in order to get a new one. Except they won't tell you how to get to wherever the hoops are, and you might not see all of them because they're all hidden like little Easter eggs. I had scheduled a visit this weekend to visit my aunt and cousin+wifey in London, and the desk for the airline closes exactly forty minutes before departure. Exactly forty minutes.

Yesterday, (Happy Thanksgiving) my father mentioned that though I could leave France without a problem, I might have some issues if I tried to get back into the country without a visa. I had asked the woman at the American Presence Post in Rennes about this very subject, and she had indicated that I shouldn't have any problems, but I figured (a.k.a. between Dad and Aunt Rhoda I was half convinced that I was never going to be able to leave France, ever) it would be prudent to double-check. I went down to the Bureau of Foreigners (that's the exact translation) and waited for about an hour to have a lady tell me that all I needed to do was attach a couple documents, one of which I didn't have. This conversation, once she actually stopped interrogating me long enough to tell her why I was there, took about thirty minutes, and I was already starting to feel pressed for time. The missing document was something the folks in Rennes were supposed to have copied for me when I went there, but they didn't. It was 11:00 am.

Panic! All I could think of was how the last time I called the APP Rennes (who had the document I needed) it took them four days to respond. Of course, I forgot that I called them on a holiday, but that didn't stop my respiration and heartrate from increasing at a dizzying pace. I rushed to school and found the number for the consulate in Rennes, and with my heart in my throat I called. Success! The lady answered. Ambiguity! She said she didn't always keep a copy of the files she sent to Paris, but she would look. She also told me I would have to come to Rennes to pick it up, which is a two-hour train ride one way. Success? She said she could fax it, but I didn't have access to a fax machine. Panic! At the Disco! I was running around, trying to print off copies of all the documents that I thought I might need, and asking for a fax machine. Success! The woman in the Office of International relations offered to let me use hers. Bigger Success! The document came through, I made copies and trundled home to eat and finish packing and tidying my room. Small failure. I couldn't find a stapler, so I had to just paper clip the documents to my passport. Small success. My room is tidy for the first time in a month.

Success! I got on the train on time, and arrived in Rennes with about an hour until the Ryan Air desk closed for the flight. Failure! It turns out that the shuttle to the airport left while I was getting off the train, and the next one didn't come until 5:01 pm, and would reach the airport after the office closed. I sat down to wait for a taxi, but the most taxis were waiting for customers who had summoned them ahead of time, and there weren't a whole lot of them waiting around. I sat there for an hour. Tiny success. I grabbed a taxi. Failure. The taxi came at 4:40. I had 25 minutes to get to the airport and to the Ryan Air check-in point. Failure! The traffice was ridiculous. I know the taxi driver could tell I was anxious because he kept reassuring me that the traffic would ease up one we exited the city. Bigger failure! We didn't get out of the city until a little before 5:00. HUGE FAILURE I ran up to the desk at, according to the airport clock, 5:08:30, three and a half minutes after it closed. The crabby lady refused to let me slide by; I was obviously not the first late and desperate customer she had dealt with. Despair. I shed half a tear before trying to find another plane to London. There were none leaving from Nantes, so I called home, called Aunt Rhoda, bought time on the internet (which was achingly slow) to search for flights. There was one from Paris, but it would have cost my an extra 200 euros. Er, maybe not. I thought about sleeping in my own bed for the night, but by the time I gave up trying to find flights I had also missed the last train from Nantes to Angers.

So here I sit at the B&B, having choked down a nasty sandwich from the vending machines and reserved another flight (at twice the cost of the original, and this is one way), I sit typing this entry on free WiFi. The internet came with a room that smells as if someone had opened a can of air freshener from the '80s and added some nursing home smell on top of it, and I can oncly access said internet while sitting in the reception area. Thus far six guests have mistaken me for an employee. I don't even know how to end this thing

Thanksgiving and Peanut Butter

Two small points of interest and a postscript:

1. I will, for the first time ever in my short but venerable life, be missing all Thanksgiving celebrations. Not only am I outside any country that celebrates the day of great feasting, but the two American students who are hosting [separate] Thanksgiving dinners are doing so on Saturday. I am leaving to visit Aunt Rhoda and Company on Friday afternoon, and ergo will be absent from the possible overindulgence that will occur in Angers on a small scale. Hence, I charge anyone with a conscience to pray that I run across some pumpkin pie within the next two days.

2. I have a French nickname. Last Thursday I was sitting in the building that passes for a student union, typing up the Paris blog and reading emails, when a fellow American student popped a squat beside me. Andrea was waiting for a classmate from a translation class to meet her so they could do their homework together. When Stephanie sat down we introduced ourselves, but did not say much more than that. Eventually I pulled a bag of Peanut Butter M&Ms (courtesy of Jessy Elliott) out of my backpack and offered it to the two girls. Stephanie asked what was different about this particular brand of M&Ms, and when I tried to explain that "il ya a de beurre de cacahuètes dans les centres des M&Ms"—there's peanut butter in the middle of the M&Ms—she laughed uproariously at my pronunciation. To soften the blow to my speech ego, Stephanie patiently coached Andrea and myself on the pronunciation of cacahuète. It took me so long to finally say it right that Stephanie decided to call me Cacahuète for the rest of the night (she turned out to be a fairly hep cat), and when I saw her last night she yelled, "Ah, mon cacahuète!" when she saw me. Stephanie and Andrea did not emerged unscathed either, since Andrea could not pornounce the word for frog, grenouille (guess what her nickname is), and in retribution we poor browbeaten foreigners decided to call Stephanie by her favorite word in English—Coconut.

Postscript: When I was in French class this afternoon I repeatedly drifted into the land of daydreams and random thought, and a recurring thought was on the various names for my favorite carnival/fair food: "cotton candy", "spun sugar", and "candy floss". However, the more I thought about it (I was really bored), the stronger my conviction became that the name "candy floss" is a near-oxymoron. The purpose of floss and flossing is to prevent the development of cavities and other such oral afflictions while the effect of candy consumption is the appearance of cavities. Why on earth would anyone want to floss with candy? Isn't that basically putting cavities in your mouth, as in "Here, Mr. Cavity, why don't you just snuggle up between these two molars here?" Such nonsense.

Post-postscript: The correct pronunciation of cacahuète is harder than it looks on paper, and to an anglophone, would not seem at all phonetic. Ditto grenouille.

Examens Blancs

This week we had the French version of midterms, know as "Examens Blancs." It's a ridiculous practice, because they count for nothing, but they each take up three to four hours of one's time. They are scheduled outside of class time (similar to finals in the American system), but classes continue nonetheless. I had three exams, two of which counted as my finals. The two that were important went fairly well in my opinion. The other, well. It was as if I had never gone to that class before, showed up the day of the test, and said, "Hm, this looks fun! Let's see if I can sound like an idiot." So, in a sense, I succeeded there, too. I wiped out. This weekend is going to be completely dedicated to relaxation and figuring out how to delete songs off the computer while keeping them on my iPod.

Paris, Take 2

Permit me, firstly, to apologize for my long absences between posts. If you want to know why, try going to a foreign country for a while where you don't speak their language, going without consistent internet access, midterms that count for nothing for the French but count as your finals, and keeping a blog. So lay off me (Barron). This stuff takes time, expecially when some people thinks they need to point out my grammatical errors.

Well, on November second I packed my bag, bought a coat (that's another story), and shipped myself back to gai Paris to meet Mlle Nina Badoe, longtime friend and fellow international student. She flew in from Norrich, England, where she's studying for the semester, and arrived in the Charles de Gaulle airport about thirty minutes before my train came in to the same airport. As soon as I got in I gave her a call, and she said she had found a friend already (she does that. I don't know how, but she does) who could help her find the train station. I got a call back later saying she had found herself Charles de Gaulle 1, rather than CGD2, where the TGV station is located. No sweat, I thought. I asked a lady to direct me to CDG1, but I guess my thick accent made it sound like I was asking for Terminal 1, which is most certainly not the same. In the meantime, a young man walked up to me and started speaking in a language I didn't understand at all, though it sounded a bit like Spanish. He got across to me that he spoke no French, no English, and no Spanish, and that he was speaking Portuguese. That was about all we understood of each other. He was pointing to phone numbers on a sheet of paper, and I was asking him if he needed to use my cell phone, and he just kept speaking really fast Portuguese, and I was trying to tell him I had no idea how to help him (which I thought would have come across in my complete lack of Portuguese), and eventually he said something that might have been "Thanks anyway," and walked off. So I was misdirected, lost, had to give the phone to a Hertz employee so he and Nina's friend could talk to each other and figure out what was going on. Two hours and an empty stomach later, Nina and friend finally found me as I sat in Terminal One. That sure was encouraging.

We didn't do much that first evening, other than check in at the hostel and eat McDonald's (we had a craving. I have no excuse), but we did take a long walk around the block and freeze before returning for a good night's sleep. The people at the hostel seemed to take a liking to us, and used us to practice their English whenever we showed up.

The first day was the Eiffel Tower and the Moulin Rouge, plus a walk around the Montmartre area. Nina and I both were ridiculously tired after we climbed all those stupid steps, and that was when we decided not to see the Sacre Coeur up close until the next day. There was an American family coming down while we were going up, and the little boy was telling his mother that he was really tired and ready for a break. "My legs have been whining," he said, and I thought that was a very accurate statement. Not much was different from the last time I climbed that thing, save for it was sunny, and there was Buddhist monk running around in his orange robe and some really yellow socks with his sandals. I wanted to get a picture, but he was a sly devil, and I have no evidence of my monk sighting. After the Eiffel Tower we grabbed some lunch and subwayed over to the Moulin Rouge. Nina wanted to walk down the whole thing, but I was afraid of catching herpes. Then two tall transvestites walked past, and Nina changed her mind. Can't say I was sorry.

We stayed in the area for most of the afternoon, looking in shops around Montmartre, trying to find the breakdancers who had been there the last time (no dice on that), and marveling at Frenchiness of Paris. I could techinically sum up our trip in those three words: we wandered around. Or we wondered around aimlessly, because we didn't have a leader. That night we went dancing in a really crowded club, and stayed a lot longer than we intended, mostly because it was hard to move anywhere without climbing over people. We went to bed late, got up early, and headed back to Montmartre. The angry string/bracelet vendors were out in full force that Saturday, and cursed in English at everyone who didn't buy anything. I was really tired, so it was easy to put on a grumpy face that said "If you mess with me, I will rip out your spleen," whenever they came around.

There was also a harpist playing on the steps, which I thought was really cool. There was a family speaking something Germanic, and the dad was wearing giant yellow clogs. I would love to know how he fared climbing all those steps.
The Sacre Coeur was, again, very impressive, and I am of the opinion that everyone should see it at least once in their lifetime. The Moulin Rouge, on the other hand, looks nothing like it does in the movie, and is nothing special (save for the transvestites).




After the Sacre Couer we grabbed sandwiches and took the train to Versailles to see the famed palace. I was thoroughly astonished. I couldn't get the whole thing in a picture. When we walked through the gates there were, of course, more vendors, two who thought I should be able to speak Arabic, but it gets easier to say "no" every time I walk past a guy selling cheap Eiffel Tower keychains.



Versailles deserves its fame. It is massive, ornate, and gets more golden and fancy as one approaches the king's quarters. The chapel inside the palace is a very good idea—no excuses not to go. And, if all else fails, the church service could come to you. I did not, however, like the idea of waking up and going to bed publicly, though it might have been fun to have music accompany your every move. The queen, I think, was worse off. Who wants to give birth with half the court watching? I certainly hope Louis and his successors made that sort of humiliation worthwhile for their wives.



That night I tried to lead Nina back to a Fnac I had seen on my previous trip to Paris from the bus tour (she needed an adaptor for her computer). Apparently it's not easy to find things I've only seen while half-asleep through a bus window, because somehow we ended up walking down the Champs Elysées, and turned up next to the obelisk. Then we walked through the park and came out in the über-posh area, where Chanel and Gucci are located. We stared at expensive jewelery through windows and marveled at the prices, picked out the pieces that were deserving of our life savings, and continued to wander in search of Fnac (again, we were without a good leader), and by the time we discovered we were nowhere near that darn store we had walked for a good hour and a half. So we ate at a restaurant called Hippopotamus, dragged ourselves back to the hostel, and slept.


Sunday we went to mass in the famed Notre Dame, and it was fantastic. Marvelous music, marvelous cathedral, and hundred of tourists to snap photos and distract me from the sermon. It also happened to be the international service, so I heard Scripture read in English, Italian, Spanish, and French. Pretty cool. It was also freezing cold, but that's a side note. After the service Nina and I went to a café near the church, and the waiter spoke English to us the entire time even though I only spoke to him in French (Is that rude? I was offended, and need justification). Then we went to the Louvre. Wow. There is so much in there to see. We stuck mostly to the non-European displays, and took irreverent photos with several pieces of priceless art (I forgot my camera, so I'll post those pictures when I snatch them from Nina), saw the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo, and wore our feet to thin flappy pads. We were there for four hours, never stopping once, and saw maybe a quarter of all the Louvre has to offer. And we usually didn't read the display cards, either. That was pretty much it, that day. We were too worn out to do much else, and Nina had an early morning the next day, so we actually did homework that evening and rested. Then we went out to eat and the waiter asked me if I was from Beirut. Do I look Lebanese?

So it's settled. When I come back to France in a future summer or late spring, I will kayak on the pond at Versailles, see the rest of the Louvre, and find out what's the big deal about the Palais Japonais and the Hôtel des Invalides. Feel free to join me.

Are you happy, Barron?

Quick Note

I decided today that it is high time I catch up on my American music pop culture, so I went on YouTube and began watching music videos. Feel free to contest or echo my sentiments. Just in case anyone was wondering how I felt about this season's batch of media:

"Long Way to Go" by Cassie: Why is that girl always dancing in front of mirrors? I know she was a model and all, but I don't think the directors of her music videos should cater to such narcissism.

"Fergalicious" by Fergie: I will never eat cake again after seeing Stacy Fergeson rub it all over her body.

Girls: Who knew Beenie Man had such a washboard stomach? It does not, however, redeem him. And shame on him for allowing Akon in his video. Two ugly men surrounded by beautiful women…the everyman's dream, no?

"Jump" by Madonna: She looks like a Pink impersonater in that outfit. And she dances funny. Gotta give her credit though, she is 48. Maybe when I'm 48 I'll run around in tight leather outfits and dance around like that too. It might just be what happens at that age. My parents sure hid it well, though.

"Hurt" by Christina Aguilera: what is she doing on that elephant that merits a standing ovation? Nothing. I could sit on an elephant and no one would do anything, save for maybe permanently bar me from the zoo. Awfully melodramatic. I'll do an impression for you sometime, and it will mostly be me crying and falling down and reaching for no one in particular. Oscar material.

Letter to 50 Cent concerning his presence in "Hands Up" by Lloyd Banks: Dear Fiddy. You cannot sing. Please stick to what you're good at, like rapping and getting shot.

Rihanna's "We Ride" reminded me of Kae Chopin's book "The Awakening," at least in the beginning. I am also not impressed with her voice, her dancing, or her production. I begrudge Rihanna her fame.

"Promise" by Ciara: I want to figure out how to make a microphone do that gravity-defying trick. When God made Ciara, he said to her "Thou shalt have deadly dance moves, ridiculous abs, and always wear black." Ciara, the saint, rarely defies this decree. However, when God created Paris Hilton, he told her not to tease and tempt pubescent boys in her music videos. She didn't listen very well. I feel that her "Nothing in this World" video should be a little bit illegal.

K-Fed's "Lose Control": What can I say? He's hard now. We all knew this. I do not, however, condone rapping about money that he only recieves in his allowance from Britney. So what if his Ferrari cost more than my Sable? At least I bought it, stupidhead.

I also watched a black-and-white video of a guy dancing to Nelly Furtado's "Afraid," and was saddened by how cool he was trying to be. But I highly suggest it to other viewers. I got some great dance moves from it.

The Citrus Problem

Today, as in about ten minutes ago, I decided that I was in desperate need of a hot drink and a snack. I went with my camarade de class Rachel to our "Stand Up" café, and decided on a coffee drink called "Totally Toffee" and a slice of lemon coffee cake. I do love moist cake. First, I asked the friendly worker behind the counter for a Totally Toffee. She looked at me for a moment, then said, "Ah, un totally tofEE!" Okay, so I said it with an American accent. I usually feel like I'm making fun of the language if I say English words with a French accent, like Steve Martin in the new Pink Panther movie, but the French do it all the time.

I was determined to do better the second time around. The lemon coffee cake was entitled "Cake," so I asked for a piece (the pointing helped), then wanted to confirm that the cake was, indeed, lemon-flavored. Thinking of limonade, a Sprite equivalent, I asked "C'est limon?" The lady just looked at me. I tried again. "Le cake, est-ce que le goût du cake limon?" She stared. Third time's the charm. "Quel est le goût du cake?"

"Ah!" the lady said, "C'est citron."

For the love of great-grandmother's teacups. I had been saying "lemon" with a French accent (and a darn good one, I must say), and thinking I was making good use of my French vocabulry. I genuinely had no idea that I was trying to speak Franglish. Rachel laughed and laughed and laughed, and the lady behind the counter tried really hard not to let me see her smirking at me. It's as if I had walked into a Starbucks and asked for a "citron-flavored cake, please." I'm an idiot.

Voyage to Gay Paree

I came, I saw, I took pictures of ornate buildings. The Office of International Relations organized a day trip to Paris specifically for the exchange students, and I paid my 40 euros and signed up. I stayed up till 1:30 am reading a book that I hadn't realized I like that much till I saw the time, went to bed, and woke up at 4:15 the next morning to shower, pack a lunch and some snacks, and jog to school so I could be on the bus at 5:30. Sometimes my briliance and common sense astounds me.

After three sleepy hours we stopped at the Tour d'Eiffel and gave our legs a good workout. It was cloudy that day, so the pictures I took from the tower weren't fantastic, but I was amazed at the amount of time I spent simply looking out at what seemed like an endless city.

I had not thought to be surprised with Paris, having seen just about all of it in movies. But it was huge! I got tired just looking at the Louvre, and for some reason I had thought the Notre Dame would bear an unimpressive resemblance to FUMC in Tulsa. Hah. I gawked just like all the other tourists, took pictures because I didn't see the sign saying you weren't supposed to, and was a little glad that churches now aren't nearly as ornamental—anyone with even a mild case of ADD would never hear a word of the sermon. There is so much to look at, and it's wonderful to see the care with which churches were constructed. No moving into an old Walmart for the Catholics.

I saw the Moulin Rouge, and was only impressed with how many sex shops the French have managed to fit on one street. And here I thought that one was as good as the next. I saw where Chanel and Gucci and Louis Vuitton house their wearable art, and maybe someday I'll work up enough courage to set foot in one of those shops. Porbably not, though. I took pictures of many ornate structures (and now have no idea what they were), tried not to yawn when I realized that I had been awake for the majority of two whole days, and climbed a lot of steps at Montmarte. There were some angry men who tried to sell us some string, and my friend Ronan got caught by one of them until I went back and literally tugged him away while the guy yelled after us.

The Sacre Coeur was my favorite stop in Paris, despite the impolite African string men surrounding it. There I did see the sign that said no pictures, and I wandered in hushed awe through the massive chapel. It's an experience that is beyond words, so I'll not ruin it for anyone else by attempting to verbalize it.

All in all, there was not a whole lot to say about the trip, though I did manage to take 97 pictures. There was the Eiffle Tower, the boat tour of the Seine, the Notre Dame, the rest of the boat tour, the bus tour, Montmartre, back on the bus for a five hour trip home that took us three hours going the other way. I did get to see some wicked break-dancing in the streets, then hear the other students gush about how ripped the dancers were for the whole way home. So that was fun.

By the way

My sweet brother sent me another power adaptor for the laptop, so the day I got it, last Sunday, I spent a grand total of five hours wasting time on it. And that was without internet access. On Monday, a day without classes, I went to school , got online, and spent nearly seven hours on the computer. Yesterday my only class was canceled, so when I finally swung my legs over the side of the bed at 2 in the afternoon, I stayed on the computer until about 2 in the morning, save for food and exercise breaks here and there. I don't think it was a waste of time at all. God bless technology. And Barron.



Triumph! Small French children like me! My landlady's granddaughter, Perrine, is five years old and is as cute as a button (and believe me, buttons are cute), but she always seems intimidate by my presence. Perrine has meet me about four or five times, but never says anything more than "au revoir" when Mme Rey orders her to tell me goodbye. I was a little disappointed that I couldn't find a way to bring her out of her shell. I am an education major. I should know how to deal with children, right? But I could never think of anything to say to Perrine, so I would just smile and wave, and say "Cool!" when Mme Rey would tell me what they had done or were going to do that day. On Wednesday she was at the apartment again, and I was determined to find something to say to her. She was drawing, and so I complimented her color choices and her family of suns. I asked her what she did during the day and she said, "Ahm," and hid her face in her hands. I imitated her and asked, "So you did 'ahm' today? That is exciting." She giggled, I ran out of words, so I went back in my room.



A little while later I heard a knock at the door, and when I opened it, there were Perrine and Mme Rey. "Oui?" I said. Mme Rey told me that Perrine had wanted to say something, but now had her tongue tied. Perrine stepped right up to me, and Mme Rey said Perrine wanted " te donne un bisou sur le joue." She wanted to give me a what? But I bent down, and Perrine gave me a noisy kiss on the cheek. "Mer ci, Perrine," I smiled, and they left. But hey, even with less of a vocabulary than a five-year old child, I can still get bisous sur la joue. It was a small thing, but after over a month here, I figure it was high time all those toothy smiles I give paid off.



The guy sitting next to me just said that America has more of a culture than Canada does. Is this true?

The Nantes Trip

This past Saturday I went to Nantes with six other girls. I was excited, since there was a chateau and an old church to visit, and it was going to be my first excursion specifically to experience a little more of French history and culture. Four of the girls were from my school: Andrea (another American and the organizer of the trip), Fiona, Rachel, and Lisa (all British). The other two, Julie, a Canadian, and Nicky, a Scot, attend one of the grandes-écoles on the UCO campus for business. Well, we all set off on the 30 minute train ride, and I quickly discovered that our purpose in Nantes was not of a historical nature, but that of a consumer. In other words, we were going to go shopping. Internally I whined Why? We can shop in Angers. I held my tongue, not wanting to put a damper on the trip. Besides, I hadn't purchased any souvenirs for the good people back home who deserved them, and I was sure Nantes would have some quaint stores with a good selection of French memorabilia.

When we got off the train it began to rain, not good sight-seeing weather, and I immediately spotted the chateau and a pink tower that had been recommended by some students who had visited Nantes previously, plus there was a gorgeous park right across from the train station. When I pointed them out, the other members of the said no, they wanted to find the shopping district. We took a left. Into the ghetto. Made all the creepier by the overcast skies and the lack of people to be seen on the streets. Only Andrea had a map (of the tram routes, not particularly helpful, but it worked), and I learned that I was one of two who was able to find my cardinal directions. I took the map. I felt like I was back at camp, leading my cabin of 13-year-old girls on a hiking trip. We even had The Whiner in the group, who shall remain nameless, but by golly I wanted to give her a good smack. Plus, you'll probably figure out who it was by the end of the post.

We found the center of town, I coached them across the tram tracks (The Whiner reminded us constantly that trams have no brakes. But the light was green, there was no tram in sight…GO, woman!), and I announced that I was hungry and wanted to find someplace to eat. The majority of the group agreed with me. So I stopped us and asked whether we wanted to eat then find the shopping district, or find the shopping district then search for a café nearby. They wanted to find the shopping district first. However, we came across a small square with about six brasseries, some Kebab stands (not shish kebabs), and a couple more cafés.

Brasserie: A pub that serves food. The menu is limited, and usually one orders from a "formule," which basically states that for a fixed price one can order an appetizer and an entrée, or and entrée and a dessert. Your drinks are on your own. Part of the fun of ordering from places such as these is that I never actually know what I'm ordering (same as a French person probably wouldn't understand "Oriental Mandarin Gilled Chicken Salad" or "Iced Vente Half-Caf Skim Mocha Frappuccino"). It always tastes good, though, so I was eager to tuck into some French food. My party wandered around the square, squinting at the menus the brasseries had sitting out on the sidewalk. They wanted to eat someplace inexpensive (fine with me), have a fairly large lunch to tide them over until after our 6:37 train ride home (even better), and sit inside so that we wouldn't get rained upon (fantastic). Almost everybody complained that they couldn't understand the menus, or that there weren't enough choices. I reminded them that the point of a brasserie was not to provide an overwhelming array of food choices for the customer, but to serve a small selection of well-cooked food and an overwhelming array of alcohol (and believe me, even at 12:30 a stunning selection of alcohol was starting to sound appealing, if not necessary). We walked around and around. until finally I cried, "WHERE are we eating?!" The answer: McDonald's.

McDonald's? Mickey D's? Macdo? We're eating where? My outward response was, "Wait, are you guys serious?" They laughed: oh, Laurel, you're so funny. I smiled and pretended I was famished for a vanilla shake and fries (which did taste good, I admit). When we finished eating we went back into the square and passed a large Fnac, an electronics store. "Does anyone want to stop here?" asked one of the girls. I laughed, because who would want to stop at a store we already had in Angers?

Thirty minutes later we were still in Fnac, waiting for Rachel to get a French SIM card installed in her phone. Admittedly, they did give her the run-around, but I was already tired of standing and it was only the first store in which we had stopped. and in the back of my mind, a mean little voice whispered Now, why couldn't she have done that in Angers? The SIM card was acquired and we set off for the shopping district. I was starting to loose any illusions I may have had about the purchase of souvenirs, even more so as we went into clothing store after clothing store, often with products from American companies like Vans and Quicksilver. We went jewelry store with Claire's-type jewelry (if you don't know what I'm talking about, think: cheap, gaudy, easily broken), we went into a Sephora (a perfume shop. We have TWO of them in Angers), and a cosmetics shop (a novelty, I'm sure).

I did enjoy talking to the two girls from the other school, and in Sephora I convinced one of them, Nicky, to try a "Lip Injection" lip-plumper gloss, which worked in a terrifying manner. She complained that it was hurting, and her lips were turning red and looked swollen. I theorized that the gloss somehow broke capillaries, which is what caused the pain she felt and the swelling. We immediately set out to get the other girls to try it, and found Rachel and Lisa perusing a selection of lip glosses.
"Hey," I said, "you guys should try the lip injection stuff. Nicky did."
"It worked, too," Nicky added. Julie voiced her agreement.
"I had been wanting to try it," said Lisa, pulling a tube of the marked "Tester" off a shelf nearby.
"Do it," I said. We giggled as Lisa and Rachel liberally applied the gloss.
Not a minute later Rachel and Lisa both were rubbing their lips and complaining that it felt as if they were being poked with thousands of tiny needles. Julie, Nicky and I laughed out heads off. See, that's what happens when I get bored shopping and am surrounded by complainers.

I digress. We had decided to give ourselves an hour to find the train station and get on the train for Angers, and if we missed it we could catch the very last train to Angers for the day, which left about and hour and twenty minutes later (basically, at eight pm). The Whiner kept saying "I just have to find the H&M," which is apparently a big clothing store, and since I was walking at the back of the group I felt free to roll my eyes in a most liberal fashion. I had a raging headache, was hungry again, tired, and really prefered to find a café, have some coffee, and find the quickest route back to the train station. At about 4:45 we found the H&M. It was packed, and and body heat was almost visible. Yuck. Nicky, Julie and I decided to find a café and have that coffee I wanted so badly, and told Andrea that if they finished before we returned, that she should send one of us a text message.

We walked around the corner and immediatly found a nice little brasserie. I ordered Chocolat Viennoise, which is like deluxe hot chocolate with a sprinkling of extra goodness on top. Libreral whipped cream, made with real cocoa, and slight skin on the milk—it was perfect, and took the edge of my hunger and headache. We all three admitted to being a little disappointed with the outcome of the trip, and that we wanted to come back on a sunny day when we could see more of the historical sites around the town. It was obvious that none of us wanted to be the one to say, "This has been a complete waste of a day," but we did talk about what we should be doing on days like this: reading, drinking hot tea, watching TV, snuggling up in a fleece blanket, etc. At 5:40 we decided that it was time to return to H&M with the rest of the group, who would undoubtedly be ready to leave. Nicky mentioned that she wished she could run back to the cosmetics store (also around a corner, but a different one than the café) and get a mirror she had seen. I encouraged her to go, and told her that since it was on our way to the train station we could swing by and pick her up. Off she went. We had 50 minutes to get to our train.

When Julie and I got back to H&M, Rachel and Lisa were sitting outside on a stone bench. They informed us that the other two were still inside, probably just getting out of the dressing rooms. Rachel decided to go look for an ATM, so I told her to find Nicky at the cosmetics shop when she was done and we would meet the both of them. About 20 minutes after Julie and I walked back to the department store, The Whiner came out and started complaining about how Andrea was still in the store, and had at least eleven things to try on, and how we were surely going to be late because of her, and how The Whiner hoped Andrea certainly had decided not to buy anything, since that would definitely make us miss our train, and on and on. I sat through five minutes of this before sending Andrea a text message to ask where she was. She gave Lisa a call to let her know that she was in line for the cash register. Ten minutes later The Whiner was still going on about how she was hungry and tired and didn't want to sit down and get her trousers wet, and how she hoped that Andrea was buying a lot of clothes to make it worth the three-quarters of an hour she'd waited, because she'd kill her if Andrea had just gotten a scarf or something. I declared that I was going to go find Andrea, get the map of the tram lines, and figure out our quickest route back to the train station. I resisted the urge to shake The Whiner and yell, "YOU were the one who HAD to find the H&M! You brought this on your own head! And you haven't been waiting for 45 minutes, the rest of us have, and for a good part of it we were waiting on you!" then maybe shove her and her trousers into a puddle.

It took me two minutes to find Andrea, who was just beginning her transaction with the cashier. She was quick to remind me that I had taken the map (oops), and asked the cashier how to get back to the train station. The cashier pointed out the line and told us the direction in which we were to take it, then I went back outside to inform the others/get out of the sweltering heat. Nicky came back right before Andrea exited the store. I assumed that since Rachel and Nicky were not together that Rachel was still looking for an ATM. We waited for a while longer, The Whiner now blaming Rachel for what was surely going to be a missed train ride and a delayed return home. I asked Lisa to call Rachel, who then informed us all that Rachel's cell phone was dead. The Whiner said surely she could still turn it on long enough to recieve calls, right? How in the world was Rachel just going to know that we were calling her, and turn on her phone?, I wondered. I said I would go get her, since she was probably waiting for us down at the cosmetics shop. Andrea came with me. Before I left, I suggested that we prepare ourselves for missing the train, since we only had about thirty minutes to find the station and buy tickets. Andrea said that we should still try to find the station anyway, just in case we could make the train. We all agreed, and Andrea and I set off to find Rachel.

Rachel had just started walking back to find us, so within two minutes we were back with the group and hurrying back to find the area where we had seen all the trams earlier. The Whiner wanted to stop and find food, since we were probably going to miss the train since Andrea and Rachel had made us so late. Honestly, now. Rather than give her the swift kick in the pants she deserved, I told her that we needed to find the train first, just in case, and if we missed it we could find a resaurant nearby. It would do us no good to stop, try to fit a three-hour French dinner into one hour, then attempt to find the train station and get on the very last train to Angers within thirty minutes. Again. Lisa recalled seeing a café in the train station itself, and recommended eating there if we missed the train. Besides, we could buy snacks on the train itself if we made it in time. The Whiner grumbled, but acquiesced.

Back to the tram tracks. Again, "the trams don't have breaks!" "should we cross now?" Me: "the trams are stopped. Come on guys, people are still boarding them, let's go now." Them: "Laurel, do you have a death wish?" "Do those people realize that trams don't have breaks?" "When can we cross without getting run over?" Me and Andrea: "Now. Come on, we just missed a tram to the station." The Whiner: "We're probably going to miss the train. I'm starving."

By the time we got to the train station, we had ten minutes to get on the train. I was the last person of our group in line to get my ticket, and by that time we only had five minutes left, and we didn't know our way around the station. It was small, though, so Lisa and Rachel said they would hurry and look for it, then call back to me (I was standing in the open door to the platforms) when they found it. I sent Andrea and Julie in the direction of the other two, then asked where the other two girls were. Julie told me that [The Whiner] had decided that she needed to buy a pastry, and Nicky said that if [The Whiner] was going to, she would, too. I rolled my eyes and shooed the girls on, saying I would watch where they went and lead Nicky and The Whiner to them.

Right as the final two girls finished buying their pastries and started toward me, I saw Andrea and Julie start running. "Dépêchez-vous!" I yelled at the remaining two. "Hurry, come on, the others are running!" I started jogging. The Whiner groaned as she and Nicky followed suit. We hopped on the train, found seats, and not a minute later the doors closed. We breathed sighs of relief. The Whiner commented, "I don't see why we had to run." I smiled, clenched my teeth, and sat on my hands. Was it wrong of me to be relieved when she said she was going home rather than coming out to eat with us?

To top off the experience, yesterday I saw The Whiner, who asked me what I thought of Nantes. I hesitated and she laughed. I told her that I would like to return someday when it was nicer and see the historical sites. Her response? I paraphrase (I have to leave out the curse words).

"Yeah, I was disappointed that we didn't get around to that. I didn't think much of the city, but my boyfriend said it is really pretty when the sun's out. I want to go back and see some museum-y stuff."

I do not paraphrase "museum-y." That was her word of choice. I murmured something agreeable in response, and she went on to complain about the students who talk in class (a common occurence in continental Europe, which I had been warned about at Westminster. Thank you, Dr. Schaneman), and went on about how the Germans were the worst, not even bothering to lower their voices. There was no tactful way to tell her that the student sitting next to me was German (or spoke it, at least), and could understand English better than either The Whiner and I could understand French. I was tempted to take her by the arm and walk her away from the area, and then give her a concussion to remind her not to be so pig-headed. But I let her ramble on, laughing at all the appropriate times, trying to shoot apologetic glances at the German girl who kept looking at us from the corner of her eye.

Here's my souvenir from that long day: A picture of the creepy church beside the Camaieu (another store we have in Angers) where the group stopped. This is what I brought back with me from Nantes. That and the resolution that never again will I go on a trip with The Whiner, and I will always make sure that whoever is coming along has the same purpose as I. I made a mental checklist of people with whom I did not want to associate much in the future, and The Whiner's name is at the top of that list. Well, she and the guy who was peeing in the park. To God be the glory for giving me patience and the self-restraint to overcome my violent urges. Amen. Selah

The Days of Wine and Roses

Et alors. I think I should retitle my entire blog to "The Stupid Things I Say In French." The most recent was when a group on international students went out to a creperie (I can't do accents on this computer, but there are some) on Saturday. After enjoying some delicious food we strolled around the centre-ville shopping area. We stopped in Sephora, a perfume boutique. By the time we reached this shop, all the non-English-speaking girls had departed, so my compadres and I were jabbering in English, drawing attention from the salespeople and other patrons. As we were exiting the store, one of the British girls and I were discussing how one might buy a perfume simply for the look rather than the smell. I held up a bottle shaped a little like an apple, with a green perfume inside. "Like this one," I said, "just because I like green!" My voice rose about three octaves during that sentence and I got a bubble in my throat, so the whole thing came out sounding like a bad imitation of Ms. Piggy. The salesman was standing about a foot away from me, and gave me a funny look, so I decided to translate for him. What went on in my mind was J'aime bien le vert=I like green. What happened was that I put the bottle back on the shelf, gave the guy a brilliant smile, and said in French "I like the greens!" then marched out of the store.

Even simple things like doing laundry can completely throw me off course. It took me about ten minutes to figure out how to start the washing machine in the laundromat, then five more minutes to realize that at 4 euros per load, I had nowhere near enough change to pay for all the laundry I needed done. Thankfully I now have clean sheets and underwear, so I'm set for the day, but I'll have to go back later in order to have clean clothes for the rest of the week. School is back in session for all the French university students, and they smoke a lot more than the French I had encountered during the previous weeks. So now, though neither I nor Mme Rey smoke, all my clothes smell like smoke. So lavomatique, here I come, armed with twice the amount of change I had last night.

Some days, usually the days when I haven't said anything idiotic to a French person, I begin to feel like a part of this envrionment. For instance, today after I bought a Viennoise sandwich (think sandwich on a baguette with mayonnaise and butter. Delicious, but oh, my arteries) and an Orangina I headed to the Jardin du Mail, a public park that I walk through on my way to school. I sat in the park listening to jazz, eating and writing in my journal, taking the occasional picture, feeding a lone pigeon who, after discovering I had nothing more to feed it, simply sat down by my feet.

I'm getting kicked off the computer, so I'll have to postpone the rest until a later time.

Ah, Technology. Oh, French.

Last Sunday I noticed a strange crackling noise coming from the area near the laptop, and when I investigated I noticed that the power cord had twisted and frayed right at the point where it connected to the computer. When I attempted to twist it back to normal, it sparked and smoked a little. So I disconnected the power cord and left a message on my brother's phone, telling him to order another one for me, stat. Amazing how attached one can get to technology. I have been without a calendar, very near without media (thank goodness for the iPod), without liberal Internet access, and have no way to add pictures to this blog. It has been torture, no lies. What to do, what to do? I can't access my Westminster email from these stupid French computers, the keyboards are all weird, and I can't watch movies (I'd been renting French movies to see if I could build up my comprehension. Don't think it worked, but the movies were pretty entertaining). I tried to go see about ordering a replacement power cord from a local electronics store, but I couldn't understand what the man was saying and there were some people waiting behind me, so I just said "No, thank you," and left.

I've come to the conclusion that I seem rude to a lot of people because I don't have the vocabulary to be polite. For instance, some guy approached me on my way to a class and was asking for who knows what. Something about joining an organization, and there was money involved; I didn't have the time to sit there and ask for him to speak more slowly, and I didn't want to give him money anyways, so I just said "No, thanks. Good day," and walked off. I couldn't think fast enough to give a good explanation, so I just came off as abrupt. Or weird. Like when I went shopping and tried to tell the next lady in line that I was finished using the dressing room. Rather than "J'ai fini," or "I'm done," what actually came out of my mouth was "Je suis fini." Translation: "I'm dead." The lady gave me a little smile, like I just attempted to make a really bad joke about the pressures of shopping, or she could tell I was foreign by my accent, but she seemed to understand that the dressing room was no longer occupied. Success?

And for my last completely random note, what is it about seeing people urinating in parks that strips them of their environmental poetry? The last time I went jogging I ran around to the side entrance of the Jardin des Plantes, and there was a guy standing off the side of the path, urinating into the bushes. I had to chuckle, because the past took me right past and around him so he had to keep turning to avoid exposing himself to me. The encounter took about five seconds, but it was just so absurd that it's stuck in my memory ever since. I've also seen it late at night, after a festival and there were a whole bunch of drunk people stumbling around, and once when I got lost and cut through a park to get back on the main road. That guy was a little more discreet, and had taken his stance behind a sizeable topiary, but I saw him nonetheless. Parks are supposed to evoque a sense of tranquility, of communion with nature, etc. Not memories of people who can't wait till they get to a bathroom to go. Then again, maybe that's how those three men felt they could best commune with nature. I didn't ask them.

Faire du Jogging, Take II

Yesterday I went jogging again, and though I'm pretty sure that no one yelled at me again (they might have, but I turned my music up pretty loud) I did manage to get lost. I ran around, and ran around, and it started to rain, and I had my iPod in my bra and was really afraid that it was going to get ruined. Finally these guys in a maintenance garage urged me to take cover. In the five minutes I stood next to them, and with all that they Frenched at me, I was able to respond two ways: "Je ne comprends pas," and "merci." And I laughed a lot to cover up the fact that even when they started to speak a little English I still couldn't understand them. They teased me a lot, complimented my smile (French men, it would seem, flirt with women no matter what their age), and smelled like grease. Finally the rain let up a bit, I thanked them again (one of my favorite responses) and ran off. By the time I got back to the appartment, my thirty-minute jog had turned into an hour's worth of city scenery and sweat, and by the time I stopped I could literally feel the blood pounding through my leg veins. The next time I decide to go running I will probably stuff a map somewhere on my person, or at least plan my route ahead of time. Sure, the French mechanics were friendly, but it was still awkward.

The Roundabout

Permit me to give you a little taste of what it is like to sign up for classes here at UCO. In principal, all one has to do is show up to the classes you want to take on the first day and tell the professor that you're going to be there for the rest of the semester. In actuality, one goes to information sessions about the institutes and the departments they encompass, leaves more confused than when one began, then is told that one cannot view the schedule or location of classes until later in the week. Later in the week one might visit the institute secretary's office to ask for "l'emploie du temps," or the schedule, only to be told that one must find the department secretary. One goes to the department secretary to find that she only works in the morning, and so one returns the following morning to find that on Wednesdays, a lot of French mothers do not work because there is no school on Wednesdays, or something like that.

One might also attempt to find a schedule for other departments, such as history or music, only to find that certain courses do not meet every week, but the dates when the course does meet are nowhere to be found. One asks a French student what one must do to find the information, and he cannot understand the inquiry because of one's thick American accent. Finally, he sends one to the institute secretary who is not very accommodating and becomes visibly frustrated when one cannot understand her rapid French. And so, one hopes that by the time Monday rolls around one can find the elusive secretary, not miss one's first day of classes (which all begin at different times, perhaps some this week), and perhaps even have a preliminary schedule for the next semester, but it is likely that one hopes in vain.
I hope you liked the taste of that better than I do.


Also, a brief note about Skype, about which I was so excited. It's more of a gripe about the users than the program itself. When I am connected to the internet I leave Skype on, just in case someone I know chances to be on at the same time. However, I did not realize that Skype also serves as an international IM service. I have gotten messages every day from single young men in all different countries (Morocco, China, India, Venezuela, Switzerland, to name a few) asking to be my friend, if I'm single and if I want a boyfriend. Now, call me old-fashioned, but I just prefer to form romantic relationships with people I can see. When I get a message from mmJkaaa, a young single Cambodian, asking if I have a boyfriend and if he can be mine, it's not difficult for me to turn him down.

Okay, I'll admit it. Sometimes it's just fun to mess with someone who's trying to start an IM flirtation session, especially when that person's first language is not English. I've only done it a couple of times, but it's just so darn easy to pretend I don't know what these people are talking about, the poor fools. The following is an actual Skype chat conversation in which I indulged when I was bored earlier. This kid is from Saudi Arabia, has one thing on his mind, and ought to be ashamed of himself. I did take some liberties with my relationship status, but for right now I am married to Jesus, so I figure it counts. I haven't edited it, but you'll understand better the ridiculousness of Skype chatting thanks to the uncensored state.

9/13/06 11:49 AM
mohamed barakat
hi

Laurel Ryan
hola

mohamed barakat
how r u

Laurel Ryan
glech, alright I suppose. I'm attempting to sign up for classes.

mohamed barakat
can we b frindes

Laurel Ryan
sure

...
Won't you be my neighbor?

mohamed barakat
how old r u

Laurel Ryan
over 20

...
under 25

mohamed barakat
r u mmarried

Laurel Ryan
No, but not single

mohamed barakat
u have boyfriend

Laurel Ryan
sure do

mohamed barakat
u [insert heart icon] him

Laurel Ryan
of course I heart him. Why else would he be my boyfriend?

mohamed barakat
can h be u boyfriend

Laurel Ryan
h? what?

mohamed barakat
nevermind

...
u love sex

Laurel Ryan
that's a little personal, don't you think?

mohamed barakat
i want to know

Laurel Ryan
Why?

mohamed barakat
as iformation

Laurel Ryan
nope. not telling.

mohamed barakat
r u beutiful?

Laurel Ryan
Inside and out.

mohamed barakat
inside?

...
what means

Laurel Ryan
I have a beautiful personality. And my organs are very good-looking.

mohamed barakat
can i see

Laurel Ryan
My organs?

...
Or my personality?

mohamed barakat
yes

Laurel Ryan
That was an either/or question.

mohamed barakat
u organs

Laurel Ryan
That would be a little difficult, seeing as how I like to keep them on the inside. But trust me, I have a gorgeous set of lungs. And my liver is sparkling clean.

mohamed barakat
i mean sexual organs

Laurel Ryan
That's not what I was talking about. But no, they stay on the inside of my body, too.

mohamed barakat
u have photo

Laurel Ryan
Of my innards? Negative. I'm not sure I want to see them. And plus, x-rays are expensive.

mohamed barakat
i want to see u extrnal

Laurel Ryan
Sorry, no can do.

mohamed barakat
why

Laurel Ryan
I have a phobia

Laurel Ryan
I'm going to go eat lunch now. Bye.


Seriously, I am going to go eat lunch now. Bye.

Faire du Jogging

I'm sore. I've already talked about the shin splints, but yesterday I decided that it would be a good idea to go for a jog. Leaving my apartment building, seen at the right (and no, I can't pick out my apartment in this picture). While waiting for the trusty iPod to load I opted to do some sit-ups, making it to about 20 by the end of three songs. I know, I'm a beast.

At last, the iPod is fully charged and I have a playlist specifically for my exercise. I jog down the stairs, out the door, and around the corner to the Jardin des Plates, or for ye non-French-speakers, The Plant Garden. It's original. I run through the park, discovering a little bit more of it as I go (there are goats, ducks, two types of geese, and several parrots kept in the garden. Odd, but it's something to see). Though I'm not the only person exercising in the park, people seem to stare a bit more at me when I go past, and one man even laughs and says "Cours!" or "Run!" and I tried to smile but it came out as more of a grimace, seeing as how I was already out of breath. Note: It was very unusual that he even acknowledged my presence, so maybe I was breathing extra hard or something like that.

After I tour the park about three times I jog (and by that I mean I walk about half the distance) to UCO, around the campus, then back to the apartment. My legs feel like jelly, and today not only are my legs sore, but my back is killing me. I don't understand it.

On a completely different note, I'm about to go find out which level of French class I will be in for the rest of the semester. This should be interesting. I'll let you know how the revelation goes.

2:45 pm
I checked. I'm in the dummy class.

Le Quatrieme Jour

Firstly, I would like to clear a few myths about the French:
1) France is not dirty, at least not any dirtier than would would expect with so many people in such a small space.
2) The French are actually very helpful, specially if you sit in their seat on the train and then they tell you that you have the wrong seat, but you don't understand them and then have to tell them to speak more slowly, then they start speaking broken English for your sake and you think they're telling you to wait outside the car, so you go fiddle with your luggage until they come and get you and explain that you can sit anywhere you want, but if someone has a reserved seat you have to give it up to them. Then they help you get your massive amount of luggage off the train because you look so young and lost, and you drop your suitcase on your toe again and nearly break it.
3) Not all French folks take wine with their meals, nor do they all smoke. My landlady, for instance, has said that she does not like to drink, and she does not smoke. In fact, I have seen fewer people smoking here than on the Westminster campus, and half of those people have been either German or Japanese.

Today I wore a t-shirt out and about, and never have I gotten more stares from the average passer-by. If women wear t-shirts here they're cute and fitted, so there's no better way to scream "I'm American!" than to wear a faded, loose cotton t-shirt.

Good news, all. I have a Skype account, laurel12685, at which you can call me. So please, call me at a reasonable hour, keeping in mind that I am 7 hours ahead. I'm insanely jealous of the other international students who still can use thier cell phones in France ("Call me later if you want to come out with us. Oh, no cell phone? Too bad."), but one way or the other I'll work around it. I would find the group of cell phone-enabled students. Also, I'm not the fat American, as I anticipated. There are several other Americans who fatter than I. And they consistently speak English, so they stick out like sore thumbs. Hah. Then again, the Germans do the same, though they tend to be a bit mor trim in their physique. But I'm not worried, since it takes my short legs 20 minutes to get to and from school, and though I've some wicked shin splints I anticipate a massive increase in leg muscle and endurance by the end of the semester.

Jet lag has displayed itself in funny ways. I can sleep and wake when I want/need to, but I tend to take really long naps in the middle of the day, such as from 4-10, or 2-7:30. I've missed supper twice becuase I've been sleeping. It's extremely disorienting.

I would also love to speed up my learning process, because every time I try to tell a funny story to Mme Rey, my landlady, I end up lapsing into silence because I can't translate fast enough or actually enough. However, there are a bunch of American students sitting around me, using their laptops as well, and their accents and their vocabulary are worse than mine, so I feel a little bit better. It's easy to tell who's American by their accents, or because they say "uh" when they are at a loss for words. I'm trying to avoid them, because I'll be thinking in French, speaking French, then the Americans cluster and I forget how to speak French. Curse you, fellow Americans in Angers. Curse you.

Well, it's time for me to find some food, stock up on groceries for breakfast (which will be interesting), and find a darn birthday card for my brother. For the life of me, I cannot find one. But au revoir, mes amis, et n'oublie pas à prier pour moi.

No speaka French

My future landlady left two contact numbers with the Housing Department at L'Université Catholique de l'Ouest, so in order to get in contact with her I had to call her and speak in French. I wrote out everything I needed to say ahead of time, but when I got her voice mail, the instructions for which were given in French, I got flustered and so my message went something like this:

"Uh, hello, I am Laurel Ryan, uh, American student, rent room. I come September 4 at 5:50, uh, uh, I take taxi at train station, uh, uhÂ…you can me email." And then I gave her the wrong email address because I didn't remember how to say "hyphen" in French. "So, uh, thanks. Bye."

It's gonna be a long while until I stop sounding like I've been concussed. Oh, French.

Three Day Countdown

Well, ladies and gents, the only reason I am posting at this particular time is to ensure that my blog is working. I'm not going to lie, I'm not at all a fan of blogging; in my mind I picture angst-filled tweens breaking up with their boyfriends of one week while dreaming of becoming Sailor Moon. However, I figure that if I'm going to be updating everyone and posting Frenchy pictures at the same time, blogging is the best way to do it. Right now I should be cleaning up my room (yes, sorry Mom and Dad, I'm suffering from an incredible lack of motivation), but hey, this is also very necessary to my survival come France time. So here we go, folks. Here we go.