There was a spider loose in my house. I woke up this morning with a giant bug bite the size of a half dollar. I learned from a pharmacist how to say spider "l'araignee", although I explained it as "the thing which has the many legs." Lucky for me, after the scabies outbreak I'm stock full of allergy medication and didn't have to buy more. Today while studying for the French exam I have tomorrow (more about that later), I saw a giant spider crawling on my ceiling. My friend said to kill it, I wanted to throw it out the window. She won, I killed it. Now, after googling spider bites with my similarly hypochondriacal friend, I am sitting up in fear of a scenario circa Brokedown Palace where all the spider's little friends are going to come seek revenge on me in the night.
So I am currently studying more for the exam I have tomorrow afternoon which is worth 40% of my grade for my French class to keep a look out for spiders. Probably not the best plan. I need a C for my credits to transfer back to Michigan and worked myself into a panic, certain that I would not pass and would be doomed to an eternal life at the University of Michigan.
Yesterday my teacher told me that I speak French well but I need to work on writing. 40% of the entire grade is writing, 20%, which I have on Wednesday, is speaking. It's a cruel world.
Last night Roomie had a party. When I returned from a group study session, I found her and many a Frenchie smoking and drinking their little hearts out. They invited me to join the party but I said I had to study for my French exam.
"Merde!" Roomie yelled. Merde means shit.
"I mean, I don't think I'm that bad..."I said. And most of the Frenchies (at least the ones who speak some English and understood me), laughed.
Apparently "merde" is what one says to mean good luck in French.
I felt better. I resisted the temptation to practice my spoken French with her friends and instead hid in my room conjugating verbs and perfecting the difference between direct and indirect objects, which, I'm still not really sure I have down. Every half hour or so I would leave my room to ask her and her friends a question.
"One can say: To them the photos I show? or The photos I show to them?" They seemed highly entertained by my questions and I realized I too would find it funny if someone kept asking me questions like, "Do you say "I showed them the photos? or The photos I showed them". Where clearly the answer is obvious to them, not to me.
I've been finding the French language highly irritating these days. They make certain that every noun and adjective has its own gender, yet when it comes to words that involve actual human beings, like "She" and "them" they both go to the masculine, making and woman "him" and any group, even one with a hundred women and one man, the equivalent of "those guys". So I'm supposed to memorize that Michigan is masculine, North Carolina is feminine, and New York is officially referred to as "the state of New York", gender neutral.
Yet, for all my current dislike of French, I find it hard to hate a language in which I have recently discovered the word "se gauffre" which translates literally to "waffle oneself" and refers to the activity of eating waffles, one of my favorites.
I think that's all the updates for now. I hope you'll all wish me merde on my exam and on my mission to defeat the spiders!
Friday, May 23, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Italy, you're so good to me!
So, I (was when I started writing this, still innocent and scabies free) currently in Barcelona where I have been reunited with my parents and sister which has been tres exciting! But, I'm going to blog about Italy. Because I'm a little behind. First though, it has come to my attention that I need to do a little person identifying. It seems that some of you are under the impression that Little Texas is one person. Oh contraire. Little Texas is three people. They are three girls from the University of Texas who I find ever so lovely if a bit crazy. I guess for the purpose of this story I should name them. I'll call them Pity Party, Make Out Queen, and Happy Girl.
That being said, Little Texas and I went to Italy last weekend! All four of us, not two. And this is how it went.
After many an hour spent with my dear friend Mohamed at the train station, we managed to get ourselves on an overnight train from Paris to Milan last Thursday. Our train left at 7 pm. Given Little Texas's habit of running late, I told them to meet me at the train station at 6:00. At 6:30 they showed up. And decided to go to the grocery store. At 6:50, I was standing in front of the train with just one of them when the other two came running up with wine bottles in hand. I was feeling sick and a little sad about the idea of staying up drinking on a train all night. Lucky for me, that blasted Mohamed had put me in a separate car then they were in. So, I got to sleep peacefully on the train.
At 5 am we got to Milan and with my very limited Italian I managed to get us on a trai
n to Genoa, where it turns out Christopher Columbus lived (only after getting a coffee gelato in the Milan train station). Little Texas was either drunk or hung over or both and unentertained by the expedition I led them around in Genoa seeing all the sights. So I pulled us over for some pizza and learned that having a vocabulary of 27 words in Italian makes one fluent and a star! Where as having a vocabulary of a few hundred words in French makes one useless. What a pleasant change! I went to pay the bill in the restaurant and when asking for change kept saying 5 instead of 15 for some reason unknown to me. "Quindici," the cashier said. "Cinque," I said. "Quindici," She said. "Cinque," I said. "Quindici," the rest of the people chimed in. "Quindici!" I repeated and was congratulated with a round of Bravos. It was quite exciting.
Then we managed to get onto a train to Cinque Terre, which is this amazing place where there are five cities and they are all separated by mountains and sea. We staying in a campground right outside it (wh
o would survive in the wilderness now, Monica?). The people at the campsite were really lovely, a family business we would soon learn. The first night we went into the closest town to go to a wine bar. In God's little joke on me, it was pouring rain and freezing. On the Mediterranean. In April. When it's supposed to be an average of 70. In said wine bar, we met a lovely character name Antonio who seemed to fit the description of charming Italian who sleeps with every tourist he meets and can woo with his Italian charm. He tried to get us to go out but having spent the night on the train and then being in the pouring rain, I put my foot down and made LT (Little Texas) go back to the campground with me.
Then we got back to the train station and called the campsite to come pick us up in their shuttle. But no one answered. And we sat there feeling sad. Until three Italian guys happened upon us. One, named Fabio yet with no resemblance to an Italian model, had just been in the States and wanted to practice his English. Finally he asked us why we were sitting alone in a train station at midnight. We told him the campsite was not answering the phone and we didn't want to walk the three miles in the pouring rain. Lo and behold, dear Fabio turned out to be in the old campsite family and offered to drive us home. Feeling uninterested in taking a ride from strangers but even more uninterested in walking home in the pouring rain (and feeling frankly like I could take him if he tried to kidnap us), we agreed and dear Fabio took us home.
Anyhow, then it was Saturday morning and I used my firm voice with the campsite for not answering the phone. They said the line had gone out in the rain and they had come to try to find us but we were already gone. When I told them a character named Fabio took us home they all clapped in the little office "Ah, Fabio!" They exclaimed, "He save-a the day!"
And then in a grant of mercy it was warm and sunny and beautiful and we hiked between two of the towns and ate gelato and sat on a cliff overlooking all the beauty (it honestly felt like we hadn't seen that much sun in years only though it had only been a couple months). Then we went back to the campground where LT ganged up on me and tricked me into going out. Still having a cold and not really wanting to I made Happy Girl promise to take the last train (a midnight one) with me or take a cab. Having gotten a promise we ventured into town again to the wine bar of Antonio. Two members of Little Texas, Pity Party and Make Out Queen, were competing for the role of the lucky one who got to sleep with Antonio while Happy Girl and I peacefully drank our wine, knowing the drama we were about to encounter. Antonio and his friend, also named Fabio but not the same one, invited us out to the bar. At this time I said it was my bedtime and made moves to take the train only to learn it was later than I thought and I had missed the train. I asked Antonio about getting a cab. His English was, if possible, worse than my Italian, but we soon realized that in fact, there were no cabs in this city and I was trapped until the next train at 5 am. We were all trapped. So we figured, why not get drunk.
So we went to a bar with a bunch of Italians where Happy Girl and I entertained ourselves butchering the Italian language to the great happiness of the Italians, who, I think might have a bit of an inferiority complex with regards to French and were happy to spend the night bashing the French with us.
Then things turned sad. Make Out Queen and Dear Antonio ventured down to the beach and the rest of us followed. They ran off to a rock to make out while the rest of us sat there drinking out beers. Pity Party immediately got really sad and proceeded to spend the evening asking us if she was pretty, which, we told her, she was. Happy Girl and I were entertained by Antonio's friend, who told us in Italian that Antonio sleeps with an American a week. Pity Party, in an attempt to gain attention, ran into the ocean.
I was given the task of retrieving Make Out Queen and Happy Girl went off to fetch Pity Party. We reconvened with Antonio and decided the best plan of attack, given the coldness ensued by those who run into the ocean, would be to sit in his car for an hour until the train came. Which we did. And then we took the train. And then we walked 3 miles from the train back to the campsite. And I was sad, but entertained. And then we slept and finally made it back to Cinque Terre for some hiking and gelato eating. All was lovely and the next day LT and I parted ways, them for Florence, and me for Paris.
We took a lot of fabulous pictures, but my camera broke so I have to wait for LT to put theirs up!
That being said, Little Texas and I went to Italy last weekend! All four of us, not two. And this is how it went.
After many an hour spent with my dear friend Mohamed at the train station, we managed to get ourselves on an overnight train from Paris to Milan last Thursday. Our train left at 7 pm. Given Little Texas's habit of running late, I told them to meet me at the train station at 6:00. At 6:30 they showed up. And decided to go to the grocery store. At 6:50, I was standing in front of the train with just one of them when the other two came running up with wine bottles in hand. I was feeling sick and a little sad about the idea of staying up drinking on a train all night. Lucky for me, that blasted Mohamed had put me in a separate car then they were in. So, I got to sleep peacefully on the train.
At 5 am we got to Milan and with my very limited Italian I managed to get us on a trai
n to Genoa, where it turns out Christopher Columbus lived (only after getting a coffee gelato in the Milan train station). Little Texas was either drunk or hung over or both and unentertained by the expedition I led them around in Genoa seeing all the sights. So I pulled us over for some pizza and learned that having a vocabulary of 27 words in Italian makes one fluent and a star! Where as having a vocabulary of a few hundred words in French makes one useless. What a pleasant change! I went to pay the bill in the restaurant and when asking for change kept saying 5 instead of 15 for some reason unknown to me. "Quindici," the cashier said. "Cinque," I said. "Quindici," She said. "Cinque," I said. "Quindici," the rest of the people chimed in. "Quindici!" I repeated and was congratulated with a round of Bravos. It was quite exciting.Then we managed to get onto a train to Cinque Terre, which is this amazing place where there are five cities and they are all separated by mountains and sea. We staying in a campground right outside it (wh
o would survive in the wilderness now, Monica?). The people at the campsite were really lovely, a family business we would soon learn. The first night we went into the closest town to go to a wine bar. In God's little joke on me, it was pouring rain and freezing. On the Mediterranean. In April. When it's supposed to be an average of 70. In said wine bar, we met a lovely character name Antonio who seemed to fit the description of charming Italian who sleeps with every tourist he meets and can woo with his Italian charm. He tried to get us to go out but having spent the night on the train and then being in the pouring rain, I put my foot down and made LT (Little Texas) go back to the campground with me.Then we got back to the train station and called the campsite to come pick us up in their shuttle. But no one answered. And we sat there feeling sad. Until three Italian guys happened upon us. One, named Fabio yet with no resemblance to an Italian model, had just been in the States and wanted to practice his English. Finally he asked us why we were sitting alone in a train station at midnight. We told him the campsite was not answering the phone and we didn't want to walk the three miles in the pouring rain. Lo and behold, dear Fabio turned out to be in the old campsite family and offered to drive us home. Feeling uninterested in taking a ride from strangers but even more uninterested in walking home in the pouring rain (and feeling frankly like I could take him if he tried to kidnap us), we agreed and dear Fabio took us home.
Anyhow, then it was Saturday morning and I used my firm voice with the campsite for not answering the phone. They said the line had gone out in the rain and they had come to try to find us but we were already gone. When I told them a character named Fabio took us home they all clapped in the little office "Ah, Fabio!" They exclaimed, "He save-a the day!"
And then in a grant of mercy it was warm and sunny and beautiful and we hiked between two of the towns and ate gelato and sat on a cliff overlooking all the beauty (it honestly felt like we hadn't seen that much sun in years only though it had only been a couple months). Then we went back to the campground where LT ganged up on me and tricked me into going out. Still having a cold and not really wanting to I made Happy Girl promise to take the last train (a midnight one) with me or take a cab. Having gotten a promise we ventured into town again to the wine bar of Antonio. Two members of Little Texas, Pity Party and Make Out Queen, were competing for the role of the lucky one who got to sleep with Antonio while Happy Girl and I peacefully drank our wine, knowing the drama we were about to encounter. Antonio and his friend, also named Fabio but not the same one, invited us out to the bar. At this time I said it was my bedtime and made moves to take the train only to learn it was later than I thought and I had missed the train. I asked Antonio about getting a cab. His English was, if possible, worse than my Italian, but we soon realized that in fact, there were no cabs in this city and I was trapped until the next train at 5 am. We were all trapped. So we figured, why not get drunk.
So we went to a bar with a bunch of Italians where Happy Girl and I entertained ourselves butchering the Italian language to the great happiness of the Italians, who, I think might have a bit of an inferiority complex with regards to French and were happy to spend the night bashing the French with us.
Then things turned sad. Make Out Queen and Dear Antonio ventured down to the beach and the rest of us followed. They ran off to a rock to make out while the rest of us sat there drinking out beers. Pity Party immediately got really sad and proceeded to spend the evening asking us if she was pretty, which, we told her, she was. Happy Girl and I were entertained by Antonio's friend, who told us in Italian that Antonio sleeps with an American a week. Pity Party, in an attempt to gain attention, ran into the ocean.
I was given the task of retrieving Make Out Queen and Happy Girl went off to fetch Pity Party. We reconvened with Antonio and decided the best plan of attack, given the coldness ensued by those who run into the ocean, would be to sit in his car for an hour until the train came. Which we did. And then we took the train. And then we walked 3 miles from the train back to the campsite. And I was sad, but entertained. And then we slept and finally made it back to Cinque Terre for some hiking and gelato eating. All was lovely and the next day LT and I parted ways, them for Florence, and me for Paris.
We took a lot of fabulous pictures, but my camera broke so I have to wait for LT to put theirs up!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Paris 1, Alice 0
Once upon a time in Paris it rained for two and a half months. One person thought of building in ark and sailing south. Then one went on vacation and returned and found that the Paris she had left behind was no more. The sun was shining! The weather was warm! Not a cloud in the sky! Picnics galore! One decided the weather in Paris was not so bad after all. Then Paris laughed and returned to its true colors.
Yesterday I was walking with my friend Justine who is visiting from Boston to the Eiffel Tower. I thought I felt a rain drop but thought to myself, oh pish posh, it's summer time, there's only a few clouds, no need to worry. Then I felt more raindrops. Then it started pouring. Literally pouring down rain. And that was 7 hours ago. And it hasn't stopped. And theweatherchannel.com says that it is going to rain until Monday! And I am sad.
But I do have reason to rejoice! Yesterday was my last day of phonetics - and I passed! As a special treat for me and my teacher I decided to pronounce everything like Lumiere from Beauty and the Beast. At one point she came over my microphone to try to correct me but I stayed true to the Lumiereness of it all and she finally gave up. It was thrilling. In other French news, today in class it became apparent that I no longer speak French. Which was...really sad. Prize goes to whoever can explain an antecedent to me in English and the difference between qui and que in French. I'd ask Roomie but I think we'd run into the same woo v. who confusion of the last time she gave me a French lesson.
Yesterday I was walking with my friend Justine who is visiting from Boston to the Eiffel Tower. I thought I felt a rain drop but thought to myself, oh pish posh, it's summer time, there's only a few clouds, no need to worry. Then I felt more raindrops. Then it started pouring. Literally pouring down rain. And that was 7 hours ago. And it hasn't stopped. And theweatherchannel.com says that it is going to rain until Monday! And I am sad.
But I do have reason to rejoice! Yesterday was my last day of phonetics - and I passed! As a special treat for me and my teacher I decided to pronounce everything like Lumiere from Beauty and the Beast. At one point she came over my microphone to try to correct me but I stayed true to the Lumiereness of it all and she finally gave up. It was thrilling. In other French news, today in class it became apparent that I no longer speak French. Which was...really sad. Prize goes to whoever can explain an antecedent to me in English and the difference between qui and que in French. I'd ask Roomie but I think we'd run into the same woo v. who confusion of the last time she gave me a French lesson.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
I Went to Barcelona and All I Got Were These Stupid Scabies....Or, The Maybe Overshare Edition of This Blog
Once upon a time I went to Barcelona. You will all, surely remember that experience. Well, I brought back a little piece of Barcelona with me. I was a little itchy in Barcelona, but it wasn't til I got back to Paris that things turned bad.
On Sunday last I woke up with my eye feeling a little puffy. A few short years ago I had the same feeling of puffiness when I woke up. That time it morphed into me being unable to open my eye, running into my dresser so hard I still have a bruise today, begging for mercy from my boss to go to the doctor, and spending 7 hours in the George Washington University hospital ER only to be handed a bottle of eye drops and told I had Blepharitis, which, frankly, sounds like a made up disease. Anybody who knows me knows that if another person touches their eyes, my eyes start to water. I'm an eyephobe. If I ever have to get glasses I think I'll kill myself. For the next week I had a coworker drop eye drops into my poor little eyes. Usually one out of ten went in and it became a source of office entertainment.
So. You can imagine my panic when I woke up to this puffiness. Do NOT panic! I told myself, I'm sure it's just a little morning puffiness. Totalllly normal for one eye to have to exert a lot of energy to open and the other eye to feel fine. I crawled out of my bed and peered in the mirror, to find what I had feared. One puffy eye, one normal eye. I called the rents and my mother doctor promised to bring eye drops to the flea market we were going to.
So, running a little late amidst the eye panic, I boarded the metro instead of walking to meet them. Rookie mistake. One would think I would know by now that when I try to get on a train, chaos ensues. And so, of course, where I changed stations, the train I needed to get on was stopped, indefinitely, for an accident. So I decided to walk. Until I realized how actually far away it was. So then I decided to take the bus. For the first time ever. It was a treat! Friendly people, direction, no stopping, it has it's own lane and everything to drive in! The bus might be my new best friend! Who'd have thought?!
So, I made it to my parents, 45 minutes late. And my mother proceeded to drop eye drops into my eye while sitting at Starbucks and being looked at rather funnily by some Frenchies. But I figure, if you're French and at Starbucks, you have no right to judge.
As we were walking around the rather unexciting flea market, I decided to show my mother my increasing number of red bumps.
"I think it's scabies," I said. Certain that the disease my sister and I may or may not have contracted in Ecuador was back to rear it's ugly face. Not that I'm making a generalization here, but weird red bumps tend to appear on me in Spanish speaking countries.
"Bug bites," she determined with the same certainty she brushed away the idea of lice as I pulled bugs out of my hair eight years ago. In all fairness to the woman, in addition to being terrified of eyes, I've got a touch of hypochondria and could just as easily have determined the bumps to be a sign of an inevitable diagnosis of skin cancer as scabies.
Later in the day, however, Mama Karen sharpened her diagnosis and determined that, in fact, I did seem to be exhibiting signs of scabies. Such as, having mysterious itchy red bumps in clusters all over my limbs and back. And so she got to play her own fun game of try to communicate with the French at the pharmacy. And my was she successful! She got me some scabies cream, some itchy go away stuff, and a bottle of wine!
So I took the longest shower I have ever taken in my life. Became the cleanest I have possibly ever been. Doused myself in scabies goop. And shoved all my clothes away except for two little previously unworn outfits (scabies can live on clothes for three days! little buggers! no pun intended). I spent the day frolicking with my parents. In my stinky and diseased state they would still hang out with me, which I thought was nice of them. We had lots of fun diagnosing me, wandering Paris, eating falafel, and such.
On Wednesday my parents sadly left me all alone in Paris and I hopped a train to the south of France to see my friend Emily who is living in a town called Avignon teaching English. It was super fun and relaxing and we spent a lot of time laying by a river tanning and life planning! I think I might have even come up with one! Stay tuned for details!
And now I'm back in Paris apparently scabies and weird eye disease free. Here in Paris we have no screens on our windows and spring has finally reached us. I had hopes that maybe bugs didn't fly up as high as the 6th floor but they were proven false hopes when I woke up at 3 o clock this morning to a buzzing in my ear. This morning I had 5 mosquito bites! In a moment of fear I thought they might be Scabies, round 2, but they are decidedly different.
Oooh I have so much more to blog about my spring break! But I am sleepy and have an early wake up to go get my friend Justine from the airport who will have made it to Paris two days after her departure from Boston! Poor weary traveler.
On Sunday last I woke up with my eye feeling a little puffy. A few short years ago I had the same feeling of puffiness when I woke up. That time it morphed into me being unable to open my eye, running into my dresser so hard I still have a bruise today, begging for mercy from my boss to go to the doctor, and spending 7 hours in the George Washington University hospital ER only to be handed a bottle of eye drops and told I had Blepharitis, which, frankly, sounds like a made up disease. Anybody who knows me knows that if another person touches their eyes, my eyes start to water. I'm an eyephobe. If I ever have to get glasses I think I'll kill myself. For the next week I had a coworker drop eye drops into my poor little eyes. Usually one out of ten went in and it became a source of office entertainment.
So. You can imagine my panic when I woke up to this puffiness. Do NOT panic! I told myself, I'm sure it's just a little morning puffiness. Totalllly normal for one eye to have to exert a lot of energy to open and the other eye to feel fine. I crawled out of my bed and peered in the mirror, to find what I had feared. One puffy eye, one normal eye. I called the rents and my mother doctor promised to bring eye drops to the flea market we were going to.
So, running a little late amidst the eye panic, I boarded the metro instead of walking to meet them. Rookie mistake. One would think I would know by now that when I try to get on a train, chaos ensues. And so, of course, where I changed stations, the train I needed to get on was stopped, indefinitely, for an accident. So I decided to walk. Until I realized how actually far away it was. So then I decided to take the bus. For the first time ever. It was a treat! Friendly people, direction, no stopping, it has it's own lane and everything to drive in! The bus might be my new best friend! Who'd have thought?!
So, I made it to my parents, 45 minutes late. And my mother proceeded to drop eye drops into my eye while sitting at Starbucks and being looked at rather funnily by some Frenchies. But I figure, if you're French and at Starbucks, you have no right to judge.
As we were walking around the rather unexciting flea market, I decided to show my mother my increasing number of red bumps.
"I think it's scabies," I said. Certain that the disease my sister and I may or may not have contracted in Ecuador was back to rear it's ugly face. Not that I'm making a generalization here, but weird red bumps tend to appear on me in Spanish speaking countries.
"Bug bites," she determined with the same certainty she brushed away the idea of lice as I pulled bugs out of my hair eight years ago. In all fairness to the woman, in addition to being terrified of eyes, I've got a touch of hypochondria and could just as easily have determined the bumps to be a sign of an inevitable diagnosis of skin cancer as scabies.
Later in the day, however, Mama Karen sharpened her diagnosis and determined that, in fact, I did seem to be exhibiting signs of scabies. Such as, having mysterious itchy red bumps in clusters all over my limbs and back. And so she got to play her own fun game of try to communicate with the French at the pharmacy. And my was she successful! She got me some scabies cream, some itchy go away stuff, and a bottle of wine!
So I took the longest shower I have ever taken in my life. Became the cleanest I have possibly ever been. Doused myself in scabies goop. And shoved all my clothes away except for two little previously unworn outfits (scabies can live on clothes for three days! little buggers! no pun intended). I spent the day frolicking with my parents. In my stinky and diseased state they would still hang out with me, which I thought was nice of them. We had lots of fun diagnosing me, wandering Paris, eating falafel, and such.
On Wednesday my parents sadly left me all alone in Paris and I hopped a train to the south of France to see my friend Emily who is living in a town called Avignon teaching English. It was super fun and relaxing and we spent a lot of time laying by a river tanning and life planning! I think I might have even come up with one! Stay tuned for details!
And now I'm back in Paris apparently scabies and weird eye disease free. Here in Paris we have no screens on our windows and spring has finally reached us. I had hopes that maybe bugs didn't fly up as high as the 6th floor but they were proven false hopes when I woke up at 3 o clock this morning to a buzzing in my ear. This morning I had 5 mosquito bites! In a moment of fear I thought they might be Scabies, round 2, but they are decidedly different.
Oooh I have so much more to blog about my spring break! But I am sleepy and have an early wake up to go get my friend Justine from the airport who will have made it to Paris two days after her departure from Boston! Poor weary traveler.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Barthelona, Bane of My Existence
To be fair, it´s not really Barcelona´s fault. I guess this is a case of don´t shoot the messenger. But lets just say I am in Barcelona alone my giant back , 10 euro and a credit card that nobody seems to want to take and have been killing time for 7 hours and have another 2 to go. My parents I belive have arrive in Paris via plane, my sister is journeying through southern Spain, and I am paying to take an overnight train to Paris tonight. This is how it goes:
Today I went to the train station at 8 am to catch my train back to Paris via a few cities in France, Montpellier being the first one. First, I realized I was at the wrong train station. After yelling ¨Fuck!¨ really loudly in the middle of the station and having lots of people stare, I managed to ask how to get to the other station. I was given directions and told to run to the train. There I met a friendly man, who spoke no English. And a friendly translator, who spoke lots of English. The conversation went as follows:
Me, in Spanish, ¨Excuse me, do you know if this train goes to the other station? And how many minutes it takes for to arrive there?¨
Man, in Spanish, ¨Yes, it does. 10 minutes. Where are you going?¨
Me: ¨Montpellier¨
Man, in Spanish: ¨Ah...si, this train will something because huelga¨ (which I interpret as llega, arrive, which I interpret as him telling me not to worry, I will get there in time.)
Me: ¨Oh good, thank you.¨ (Man looks confused by my response but smiles)
Kind Stranger (KS) who has been watching this struggle to communicate, in English: ¨Do you understand him?¨
Me: "I will make the train?"
Kind stranger gets sad look on his face and says "This train does not go today, because of the strike"
Me "The train does not go? As in, does not go to Montpellier? How does this guy know?" I motion to Nice Man (NM), who, turns out to be a train conductor.
KS and NM man talk in fast Spanish for a really long time and I understand "I dont think she can go, She can go to the border, There are no other trains, The French are crazy." I nod in agreement on the last one.
KS sends me up to the information booth, where the person told me to run to make the train to the other station. That information person sends me back down to the train and tells me to run. I report back to KS and NM. NM is also going to the other station and says he will take me to the other stations information place. KS has to go on another train.
NM and I have an awkward 10 minutes to the other station where I try to make conversation by asking why the French are striking. He shakes his head and launches into a speech I did not understand. I nod my head in agreement and we go back to silence.
By the time we get to the other station, Nice Man has realized he has to speak much slower for me to understand him and leads me to the information booth.
He shows me on the screen that the train is not going, then tells me to ask for a direct train to Paris before sending me on my pathetic way.
Then, oh then, the games really begin. I go to an information booth where the woman claims to speak English but clearly does not. So I struggle to speak to her in Spanish with a creepy old man who keeps talking to me in French and English and Spanish and is also trying to get to Montpellier. The conversation goes as follows:
Me, in Spanish "I have a ticket for to take the train to Montpellier but I think the train does not go. But I need to go to Paris."
Information Lady, in English "The train no go to Montpellier"
Me, in Spanish: "Yes I understand that, so how can I get to Paris?"
Her, in Spanish "You bought your tickets in France so you cannot change them here"
Me, in Spanish "Okay, so if I dont have these tickets, and I want to go to Paris, how do I get there?"
Her, in Spanish "You cannot make a train reservation to go to France from Spain"
Me, to Creepy Man also waiting "Did she just say I cant make a reservation to go to France?"
Creepy Man, "I think so"
Me, in Spanish "So if I want to go any place in France, from Barcelona, I have to make the reservation in France?"
Her in Spanish"No trains go to France today. You can go to a town on the border and maybe from there you can take the train to Toulouse (a town in France)."
Creepy Man, in French, to me "You need to go to Montpellier?"
Me, "Oui, je veux...can we do this in English? I want to go to Paris, but my train is in Montpellier"
Creepy Man, in English, to me "We can rent a car to Montpellier!" To woman, in Spanish "Can go to Montpellier by car?"
Woman, in Spanish, and looking confused, "Yes, but you cannot rent a car in the train station"
Creepy Man, to me " Do you want to rent a car to Montpellier?"
Me, feeling sufficiently creeped out and fed up, to the man, "No, I want to go to Paris". To the woman, "Gracias"
I try another line where tons of people are standing waiting to try to buy tickets. I ask the woman in front of me who I hear speaking English if she knows if there are trains going to France. Why I think this woman has huge knowledge of the train system based on the fact that she seems to fluently speak Spanish and English is beyond me, but in the end it helped me.
She bought her tickets and then asked the man behind the counter what the problem was. Then she told me if I had a direct ticket to Paris I would be fine but if I had to change trains I wouldnt be able to go. I had to change trains twice to get to Paris.
So, I talked to the man myself and learned that the only train I could take was a 9 pm overnight train at a very high price. There were 12 more places on the train and a line of disgruntled Spaniards and Frenchies behind me. It was decision time. I went for the overnight train. And now, 9 hours later, here I am. In an internet cafe above a Subway restaurant. I have sat in the sun, written three term papers, charged iced coffee and a sandwich at Starbucks, the only place I could find that would take my credit card. And have spent a precious 3 euro on the internet. And have two hours before my train, allegedly, leaves for Paris. Im praying, and hope you will too, that I get on the train and that it does, in fact, go to Paris.
Stay tuned for exciting updates of my Spring Break journey to Italy and Spain and, hopefully, back. And pictures. My life will fascinate you, I promise. In the meantime, I'm off to investigate the chances of this Subway taking credit card.
Today I went to the train station at 8 am to catch my train back to Paris via a few cities in France, Montpellier being the first one. First, I realized I was at the wrong train station. After yelling ¨Fuck!¨ really loudly in the middle of the station and having lots of people stare, I managed to ask how to get to the other station. I was given directions and told to run to the train. There I met a friendly man, who spoke no English. And a friendly translator, who spoke lots of English. The conversation went as follows:
Me, in Spanish, ¨Excuse me, do you know if this train goes to the other station? And how many minutes it takes for to arrive there?¨
Man, in Spanish, ¨Yes, it does. 10 minutes. Where are you going?¨
Me: ¨Montpellier¨
Man, in Spanish: ¨Ah...si, this train will something because huelga¨ (which I interpret as llega, arrive, which I interpret as him telling me not to worry, I will get there in time.)
Me: ¨Oh good, thank you.¨ (Man looks confused by my response but smiles)
Kind Stranger (KS) who has been watching this struggle to communicate, in English: ¨Do you understand him?¨
Me: "I will make the train?"
Kind stranger gets sad look on his face and says "This train does not go today, because of the strike"
Me "The train does not go? As in, does not go to Montpellier? How does this guy know?" I motion to Nice Man (NM), who, turns out to be a train conductor.
KS and NM man talk in fast Spanish for a really long time and I understand "I dont think she can go, She can go to the border, There are no other trains, The French are crazy." I nod in agreement on the last one.
KS sends me up to the information booth, where the person told me to run to make the train to the other station. That information person sends me back down to the train and tells me to run. I report back to KS and NM. NM is also going to the other station and says he will take me to the other stations information place. KS has to go on another train.
NM and I have an awkward 10 minutes to the other station where I try to make conversation by asking why the French are striking. He shakes his head and launches into a speech I did not understand. I nod my head in agreement and we go back to silence.
By the time we get to the other station, Nice Man has realized he has to speak much slower for me to understand him and leads me to the information booth.
He shows me on the screen that the train is not going, then tells me to ask for a direct train to Paris before sending me on my pathetic way.
Then, oh then, the games really begin. I go to an information booth where the woman claims to speak English but clearly does not. So I struggle to speak to her in Spanish with a creepy old man who keeps talking to me in French and English and Spanish and is also trying to get to Montpellier. The conversation goes as follows:
Me, in Spanish "I have a ticket for to take the train to Montpellier but I think the train does not go. But I need to go to Paris."
Information Lady, in English "The train no go to Montpellier"
Me, in Spanish: "Yes I understand that, so how can I get to Paris?"
Her, in Spanish "You bought your tickets in France so you cannot change them here"
Me, in Spanish "Okay, so if I dont have these tickets, and I want to go to Paris, how do I get there?"
Her, in Spanish "You cannot make a train reservation to go to France from Spain"
Me, to Creepy Man also waiting "Did she just say I cant make a reservation to go to France?"
Creepy Man, "I think so"
Me, in Spanish "So if I want to go any place in France, from Barcelona, I have to make the reservation in France?"
Her in Spanish"No trains go to France today. You can go to a town on the border and maybe from there you can take the train to Toulouse (a town in France)."
Creepy Man, in French, to me "You need to go to Montpellier?"
Me, "Oui, je veux...can we do this in English? I want to go to Paris, but my train is in Montpellier"
Creepy Man, in English, to me "We can rent a car to Montpellier!" To woman, in Spanish "Can go to Montpellier by car?"
Woman, in Spanish, and looking confused, "Yes, but you cannot rent a car in the train station"
Creepy Man, to me " Do you want to rent a car to Montpellier?"
Me, feeling sufficiently creeped out and fed up, to the man, "No, I want to go to Paris". To the woman, "Gracias"
I try another line where tons of people are standing waiting to try to buy tickets. I ask the woman in front of me who I hear speaking English if she knows if there are trains going to France. Why I think this woman has huge knowledge of the train system based on the fact that she seems to fluently speak Spanish and English is beyond me, but in the end it helped me.
She bought her tickets and then asked the man behind the counter what the problem was. Then she told me if I had a direct ticket to Paris I would be fine but if I had to change trains I wouldnt be able to go. I had to change trains twice to get to Paris.
So, I talked to the man myself and learned that the only train I could take was a 9 pm overnight train at a very high price. There were 12 more places on the train and a line of disgruntled Spaniards and Frenchies behind me. It was decision time. I went for the overnight train. And now, 9 hours later, here I am. In an internet cafe above a Subway restaurant. I have sat in the sun, written three term papers, charged iced coffee and a sandwich at Starbucks, the only place I could find that would take my credit card. And have spent a precious 3 euro on the internet. And have two hours before my train, allegedly, leaves for Paris. Im praying, and hope you will too, that I get on the train and that it does, in fact, go to Paris.
Stay tuned for exciting updates of my Spring Break journey to Italy and Spain and, hopefully, back. And pictures. My life will fascinate you, I promise. In the meantime, I'm off to investigate the chances of this Subway taking credit card.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Roomie's Parents
Yesterday Roomie's parents came to town. I was at the apartment waiting to let them in because Roomie had to work and they didn't have a key. Roomie had given me a list of things that her parents were not to know about (i.e. she doesn't smoke, she eats very healthy, and her sister was not in Paris last week). I was feeling a little sick and wondering if I was going to have to talk and remember to lie to them for two hours in French. I had met Roomie's dad when I first got to Paris in January but had never met Roomie's mom (who is insanely stylish and French and made me feel really uncool in my flared jeans and socks).
But they were sooo friendly and talked to me in French really slowly and I totally understood them and then they must have gotten bored with my stalled French and decided to talk to me in English. Roomie's mom was really embarrassed about her English which was of course really good English. Roomie's dad told me all about how much he loves e-mailing with my dad (I think they were destined to be friends) and then he began a campaign to get me to move to France.
He started by telling me my French was good, that I had lost 5-7 lbs since last he had seen me (I imagined him converting kilos to lbs in his head before saying this and found it amusing) and the French life must suit me, and then suggesting different ways for me to sneak around the visa system and get a job. This morning I woke up to a newspaper article taped to my door that discussed how France "is the winner in the longest vacations in the world" and a note suggesting this might help me decide what country to live in.
We also had a small discussion about American and French politics that always makes me a little nervous because while the French feel free to bash on America, I just don't feel as comfortable bashing on France. But Roomie's parents seem capable of separating their dislike for George Bush with their fondness for America. He even said in two years they might buy a house in America since the dollar is so terrible. I asked if I could live in it.
And that's pretty much it. I just found them so highly entertaining. They will be back on Tuesday and I'm looking forward to the continued "move to France" campaign...I think it might be working.
I'm leaving for Italy tonight on an overnight train (ugh) with Little Texas and then will be back on Monday and then Sister dearest and my parents come and we frolic around Spain! I'm sure it will provide lots of good stories.
But they were sooo friendly and talked to me in French really slowly and I totally understood them and then they must have gotten bored with my stalled French and decided to talk to me in English. Roomie's mom was really embarrassed about her English which was of course really good English. Roomie's dad told me all about how much he loves e-mailing with my dad (I think they were destined to be friends) and then he began a campaign to get me to move to France.
He started by telling me my French was good, that I had lost 5-7 lbs since last he had seen me (I imagined him converting kilos to lbs in his head before saying this and found it amusing) and the French life must suit me, and then suggesting different ways for me to sneak around the visa system and get a job. This morning I woke up to a newspaper article taped to my door that discussed how France "is the winner in the longest vacations in the world" and a note suggesting this might help me decide what country to live in.
We also had a small discussion about American and French politics that always makes me a little nervous because while the French feel free to bash on America, I just don't feel as comfortable bashing on France. But Roomie's parents seem capable of separating their dislike for George Bush with their fondness for America. He even said in two years they might buy a house in America since the dollar is so terrible. I asked if I could live in it.
And that's pretty much it. I just found them so highly entertaining. They will be back on Tuesday and I'm looking forward to the continued "move to France" campaign...I think it might be working.
I'm leaving for Italy tonight on an overnight train (ugh) with Little Texas and then will be back on Monday and then Sister dearest and my parents come and we frolic around Spain! I'm sure it will provide lots of good stories.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Ha! A Rooster Would Never Say That...Or, Sometimes in France I Want to Crawl Under a Rock and Die
My phonetics teacher's favorite activity is asking Americans how to say something in English, and then pronouncing them with a fairly awful accent for someone who teaches people how to speak correctly. I'm just saying, I wouldn't be harping on people for saying imperfect U's if I couldn't say an H. But that's just me.
Today, dressed as normal in something blue with blue eyeshadow I thought went out of style sometime circa 1989, she asked how to say "mairie" in English. "City hall," we said. "Ha," she laughed, "You have a whole city in a hall?!" The Mexican girl, the Japanese girl, and the Saudi Arabian girl laughed along with her. The rest of us hung our heads in shame. Who were we to build cities in halls!?
This was similar to an experience in phonetics a few weeks ago where we were learning to but rrrrs with oooos. In French a rooster says "Cookiroocoo." Or something like that. Then she went to the Mexican, and it was similar, with more rolling of the rrs. In Japanese it says something like "Kookeekoo". In Arabic it's "Kocooko". Then, with a superior smirk on her face, she turned to the rest of us. "En anglais?" "Cockadoodledoo," we said, knowing this would be wrong. "Ha! What rooster says cockadoodledoo?!" I offered that, perhaps, and American one did.
Sometimes I hate the French people. Other times, though, I remember that I am dependent upon their kindness for every aspect of my current life.
Tomorrow I am doing a presentation in French class about the great state of Michigan. I had Roomie and her boyfriend correct all my notes so that grammatically it will be correct. In an effort to upstage my fellow students and make my French teacher forgive me for missing two days last week while I tracked down my eurail pass, I decided to make a traditional Michigan dish -fudge! Translated, loosely, in my French book as "chocolate and sugar" and my Roomie's boyfriend who lived in Canada for awhile as "bonbons americain" said with a dismissive air as he tried to explain it to Roomie.
In order to make said delicious treat, I had to go to the grocery store. I found a new grocery store called Champion which is big and beautiful like Meijer and felt, for a moment, like my day was going to be successful. Then I walked in the store. I managed to find evaporated milk on my own, and marshmallows, and asked someone for chocolate chips, which they do not carry, and instead bought chocolate bars to smash into little pieces, pretending they were my phonetics teacher.
Then I began the hunt for corn syrup. Not in the baking section, not in the weird condiment section, not in the foreign section, not in the candy section. I asked somebody for "Syrope de mais? De may? De mye?" (trying out different phonetic pronunciations of a language that is not spoken in the slightest way phonetically). Syrope?" He looked at me strangely, then sent me downstairs. To maple syrup. I tried my luck on someone else. He too, looked at me strangely, and then said in French, "Come with me" and led me to a cashier, who was checking out a long line of unhappy looking customers. He spoke to her in French very quickly and I did not understand, but the entire line looked at me.
"What do you want?" She asked in English. "Um...corn syrup?" She looked at me. "For cooking?" She kept looking at me. "For making cake?" She shook her head.
A woman in the line said "Quoi? For cooking? Are you making corn?" She turned to the man beside her and spoke in French too fast for me to understand. "You need to find some corn?" He asked. "To make a syrup"
I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. Finally, the guy whose groceries were actually being checked out spoke. "We don't have that in France," he answered in an only slightly flawed pronunciation of English. "What are you trying to make?"
"Fudge," I said. "It's like, a candy." He looked at me confused. "A cake sort of..." He shook his head, "I can maybe just use oil?"
"Oui," the line chorused. "Use oil," he said.
I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.
"Merci beaucoup, merci, merci," I said, and joined the end of the line, letting them get back to their buying of French foods in peace.
Then I made the fudge. Sans corn syrup. And it is now in the fridge, and I am hoping it will harden properly so I can woo my teacher tomorrow.
Today, dressed as normal in something blue with blue eyeshadow I thought went out of style sometime circa 1989, she asked how to say "mairie" in English. "City hall," we said. "Ha," she laughed, "You have a whole city in a hall?!" The Mexican girl, the Japanese girl, and the Saudi Arabian girl laughed along with her. The rest of us hung our heads in shame. Who were we to build cities in halls!?
This was similar to an experience in phonetics a few weeks ago where we were learning to but rrrrs with oooos. In French a rooster says "Cookiroocoo." Or something like that. Then she went to the Mexican, and it was similar, with more rolling of the rrs. In Japanese it says something like "Kookeekoo". In Arabic it's "Kocooko". Then, with a superior smirk on her face, she turned to the rest of us. "En anglais?" "Cockadoodledoo," we said, knowing this would be wrong. "Ha! What rooster says cockadoodledoo?!" I offered that, perhaps, and American one did.
Sometimes I hate the French people. Other times, though, I remember that I am dependent upon their kindness for every aspect of my current life.
Tomorrow I am doing a presentation in French class about the great state of Michigan. I had Roomie and her boyfriend correct all my notes so that grammatically it will be correct. In an effort to upstage my fellow students and make my French teacher forgive me for missing two days last week while I tracked down my eurail pass, I decided to make a traditional Michigan dish -fudge! Translated, loosely, in my French book as "chocolate and sugar" and my Roomie's boyfriend who lived in Canada for awhile as "bonbons americain" said with a dismissive air as he tried to explain it to Roomie.
In order to make said delicious treat, I had to go to the grocery store. I found a new grocery store called Champion which is big and beautiful like Meijer and felt, for a moment, like my day was going to be successful. Then I walked in the store. I managed to find evaporated milk on my own, and marshmallows, and asked someone for chocolate chips, which they do not carry, and instead bought chocolate bars to smash into little pieces, pretending they were my phonetics teacher.
Then I began the hunt for corn syrup. Not in the baking section, not in the weird condiment section, not in the foreign section, not in the candy section. I asked somebody for "Syrope de mais? De may? De mye?" (trying out different phonetic pronunciations of a language that is not spoken in the slightest way phonetically). Syrope?" He looked at me strangely, then sent me downstairs. To maple syrup. I tried my luck on someone else. He too, looked at me strangely, and then said in French, "Come with me" and led me to a cashier, who was checking out a long line of unhappy looking customers. He spoke to her in French very quickly and I did not understand, but the entire line looked at me.
"What do you want?" She asked in English. "Um...corn syrup?" She looked at me. "For cooking?" She kept looking at me. "For making cake?" She shook her head.
A woman in the line said "Quoi? For cooking? Are you making corn?" She turned to the man beside her and spoke in French too fast for me to understand. "You need to find some corn?" He asked. "To make a syrup"
I wanted to crawl under a rock and die. Finally, the guy whose groceries were actually being checked out spoke. "We don't have that in France," he answered in an only slightly flawed pronunciation of English. "What are you trying to make?"
"Fudge," I said. "It's like, a candy." He looked at me confused. "A cake sort of..." He shook his head, "I can maybe just use oil?"
"Oui," the line chorused. "Use oil," he said.
I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.
"Merci beaucoup, merci, merci," I said, and joined the end of the line, letting them get back to their buying of French foods in peace.
Then I made the fudge. Sans corn syrup. And it is now in the fridge, and I am hoping it will harden properly so I can woo my teacher tomorrow.
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