I have never been one for shoes. Due, perhaps, to the aforementioned large size of mine. I used to be happiest barefoot but in a traumatic experience circa 1992 where I stepped on a bee and it stung me, I began to appreciate the glory of flip flops. Apart from the months of November, December, January, February, and March, when the snowy Michigan weather sends me to my Uggs I tend to wear flip flops throughout the year. Sure on my biannual run I'll thrown on a pair of tennis shoes, or on the rare night where I feel like dressing up I'll rock a pair of heels. But generally, my Old Navy flip flops and I get along superbly.
But alas, in my realization that my beloved flip flops might make playing spot the American a touch too easy for the Frenchies, I left the flip flops. Which left me with only 4 pairs of shoes. Two heels, one boots, one tennis shoes. In an act of generosity, my parents and grandma sent me boots and two pairs of ballet flats. I put on my ballet flats and trotted off to class. By the time I got to class, the back of my ankles were bleeding and I had no idea why. Then someone told me about a little thing called breaking in shoes. Who knew that buying new shoes meant walking around with bleeding feet for three days? I tried the boots today and they were tres more comfortable. In the mean time, I will work on this so called breaking in of the ballet flats, as I'm promised once you break them in they are the most comfortable. I have also, in my switching of French classes, landed in the building which is requires a seven flight climb. But pas de probleme, I love a good hike up the stairs. Makes me feel like I am making up for years of not working out.
Which brings us to French, and phonetics. Back in the day, three days ago, I found phonetics highly entertaining. With a sing songy voice we learned to say nouzallon instead of nou allon. Now I find it irritating. My class is mostly made up of Americans, but also some Mexicans, Koreans, and Japanese. I used to think the Mexicans spoke really good French. Then I realized they were speaking Spanish with a French accent, my original approach, but they're better at it than I am and aren't as easily caught, those little stinkers. The Koreans and Japanese can't, for the life of them, recognize the difference between a P and an F. For 10 minutes, my professor tried to get them to say "Je paye" but they kept saying, "Je faye". She finally gave up. This leads us to the Americans. We can say a P and an F. We can get the basics of the pronunciation. Apparently, this is not good enough. When we are generally harassed until, half an hour later, our errs and oos and iiis are exhausted. I understand the insistence on speaking the language correctly, and understand that coming from English we have a better grasp than those coming from non-Roman alphabet languages. But, you would think a little acceptance could be allowed. I have also heard, though, that most Parisians don't think the French spoken in the south is correct and scoff at the idea that anyone from Quebec could possibly speak French anywhere near the accuracy they desire.
Which leads us to my politics, or, if you have a hard time with Ps, my folitics. Paris is obsessed with the election. Newspapers advertise "La Guerre Hillary et Obama". Most Parisians seem into Hillary, but generally because they think she was a good first lady. So, while it's becoming increasingly, painfully obvious that Obama is probably going to win, I'm still in Team Hillary. And I hope if you are in Ohio or in Texas and considering voting, you will vote for Hillary. Regardless, I hope one of them bows out to spare me the constant insistence of the Frenchies to ask me who I'm voting for, and why and why are Americans so stupid. Luckily, I usually confuse them by telling them Michigan got their votes taken away. They really like that one. Keeps them going for hours.
In the meantime, I'm off to brave my apartment, where Roomie is having a party full of Frenchies.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
ERRRRRRR
Let's talk pronunciation. You know how people who come to American who don't speak English as their first language sometimes mispronounce things? Well, sometimes people who come to France who don't speak French as their first language sometimes mispronounce things. Here is the difference, in America, we still understand them. In France, they act like we are speaking Chinese.
For example. If a Frenchie came to America they would say "What is zis cheddaire fromage? " instead of "What is this cheddar cheese" and we would respond "This is a cheese we make in America." No problem. Now let's try a different scenario. An American walks into her neighborhood Franprix to buy some groceries. She says to someone, "Excusez-moi, je cherce la lait ecreme" which means, I am looking for skim milk. However, that American has not yet perfected her errrrrr and so says ecreme instead of ecrrrrreme. The person stares at her blankly. The person calls another person over. American tries her question again. "Quoi?!?" The Frenchies demand. Finally, I try another technique. "Sans gras?" I ask, meaning without fat. "Quoi?!!" Again, they stare blankly as my errr is lacking. I try another technique, English. "Milk. Milk with out fat? Skim milk? Pas de fat!?" Ahhhh....suddenly they understand me. "Lait ecrrreme," they repeat, "sans grrras. No, we don't have that."
I smile appreciatively and try not to shoot myself.
I switched into a new class yesterday. I am in a lower level of French which is fabulous and I now take phonetics every other week where, for one hour, I sit and listen to a woman say phrases in French. Then I repeat along with 30 other hopeless American accents. I hear the difference, I cannot create the difference. Today she drew a diagram on the board of a mouth and throat to show us where the sounds are supposed to be coming from. It was not helpful.
I'm still working on creating noises which, the rest of the world seems to create flawlessly. In the meantime, whenever I'm around a Frenchy from now on I will try to use the "TH" sound, which they are incapable of reproducing, as much as possible.
In other news, I got home from phonetics and my traumatic trip to the grocery store to find a note saying I had missed a package. With my actually semi decent reading French skills I found my way to the post office and with little trouble picked up a package from my parents and grandparents filled with shoes that fit me, orbit gum, and how to fix your slowly dying computer software. All very thrilling! How France managed to get a package from the US to Paris in 4 days yet still has many a store which refuses to take credit cards is beyond me, but I'll take what they can give me.
For example. If a Frenchie came to America they would say "What is zis cheddaire fromage? " instead of "What is this cheddar cheese" and we would respond "This is a cheese we make in America." No problem. Now let's try a different scenario. An American walks into her neighborhood Franprix to buy some groceries. She says to someone, "Excusez-moi, je cherce la lait ecreme" which means, I am looking for skim milk. However, that American has not yet perfected her errrrrr and so says ecreme instead of ecrrrrreme. The person stares at her blankly. The person calls another person over. American tries her question again. "Quoi?!?" The Frenchies demand. Finally, I try another technique. "Sans gras?" I ask, meaning without fat. "Quoi?!!" Again, they stare blankly as my errr is lacking. I try another technique, English. "Milk. Milk with out fat? Skim milk? Pas de fat!?" Ahhhh....suddenly they understand me. "Lait ecrrreme," they repeat, "sans grrras. No, we don't have that."
I smile appreciatively and try not to shoot myself.
I switched into a new class yesterday. I am in a lower level of French which is fabulous and I now take phonetics every other week where, for one hour, I sit and listen to a woman say phrases in French. Then I repeat along with 30 other hopeless American accents. I hear the difference, I cannot create the difference. Today she drew a diagram on the board of a mouth and throat to show us where the sounds are supposed to be coming from. It was not helpful.
I'm still working on creating noises which, the rest of the world seems to create flawlessly. In the meantime, whenever I'm around a Frenchy from now on I will try to use the "TH" sound, which they are incapable of reproducing, as much as possible.
In other news, I got home from phonetics and my traumatic trip to the grocery store to find a note saying I had missed a package. With my actually semi decent reading French skills I found my way to the post office and with little trouble picked up a package from my parents and grandparents filled with shoes that fit me, orbit gum, and how to fix your slowly dying computer software. All very thrilling! How France managed to get a package from the US to Paris in 4 days yet still has many a store which refuses to take credit cards is beyond me, but I'll take what they can give me.
Normandy - War, Huitres, and David Sedaris (note to reader, this is not that funny in the beginning)
I had my trip to Normandy all planned out. Leave Paris at the crack of dawn, see some war sites and feel patriotic, eat some delicious oysters, and stalk David Sedaris.
Things did not go exactly as planned. I did leave Paris at the crack of dawn. I did see lots of war sites and feel way, way more than patriotic. I did eat some oysters and they made me want to vomit. I did stalk David Sedaris but he was nowhere to be found.
Here's how it all went down:
I left Paris before the crack of dawn. After sprinting, literally, sprinting to the metro and sprinting up the stairs I arrive at the metro to watch the doors close in my face and about 10 Frenchies stare at me with no attempts to help. Thrilling. And so, I was of course late for the bus. And of course, our activities director gave me a look of frustration for always being late. I think he's going to start telling me to be places half an hour before everyone else.
Anyway, I got to the bus and we left Paris. After a few hours of driving we made it to our first stop, the World War II museum. I've been to quite a few Holocaust museums in my day, I've been to the WWII monument in DC, I've watched Pearl Harbor for goodness sakes. However, nothing prepared me for the intensity of that museum and the intensity of the movie they showed us. We saw live footage of the attack on Normandy and watched as man after man of Americans, Canadians, and British fell down from German fire. Then we read letters written the day before the invasion from soldiers who died in the invasion. Then we saw a million other really, really sad things.
Then we got back on the bus. As we drove, I tried to sleep until I heard someone yelling "Alice! Michigan!" I rousted myself up kind of grumpily at my disturbed slumber and looked out the window to where they were pointing. There, in all its glory, was a giant store with MICHIGAN written in big letters. I have no idea what said store was. It looked like a jiffy lube. But we kept passing them everywhere we went. Tres bizarre.
Next we went to one of the British landing beaches called Mulberry Harbour on Juno Beach. The British came in the middle of the night and set up wave breakers and temporary docks for boats to come in to and then in the morning dropped off hundreds of soldiers. Intense.
Then we went to the American cemetery where grave after grave after grave overlooked, I think, the Utah and Omaha beaches where American battalions landed on D-Day
. I really have no words to describe how intense of a place it was. I can tell you I was twenty minutes late getting back to the bus because I got so lost in taking it all in. There was also a quote on the chapel there that read: "These endured all and gave all that justice among nations might prevail and that mankind might enjoy freedom and inherit peace." That phrase still has not left my mind. I felt so patriotic standing there it almost made me want to throw up a little in my mouth because now being that patriotic in America means something I can't relate to at all. The idea of inheriting peace was so deeply saddening because people really believed WWII would be the war to end all wars and look at us now. I wonder if it will ever be possible for a generation to inherit peace.
And then, we went to the German bunkers at Point-du-Hoc. Frankly, it really gave me the creeps and I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. This is where I think both Americans and British landed only due to a navigational error landed three miles away thus losing the element of surprise, quite the navigational error I would say. Soldiers there had to scale cliffs as the Germans cut ropes and shot at the Allied soldiers. Allegedly there are unexploded bombs still on the cliffs and it was all fenced off with barbed wire. Tres intense.
Finally we drove another two hours to a town called Saint Malo which was really beautiful. There I ate huitres, oysters, which are supposed to be this delectable treat in Normandy. It tasted like eating rubbery ocean water. I am used to eating canned oysters on triscuits on the beach in North Carolina. Some people think that is disgusting. I say the fresh oysters are disgusting.
The next day we wandered Saint Malo which is an old city surrounded by ramparts. It was lovely but that's pretty much all it entails. Then we went to a place called Mont Saint Michel. Now, I went to a place called Mount Saint Michael's in England and this is supposed to be the equivalent. Not the same. Mt St. Michael's you can walk out to during low tide. Mt. St. Michel is surrounded by quicksand during low tide so you have to drive. Part of me wanted to test out the quicksand theory but the smarter part of me decided against it. We wen
t on a lovely tour of the monastery and climbed a bazillion stairs (luckily, stair climbing is my specialty). During part of the tour the guide told us that the monastery used to have thousands of books but they were destroyed by Allied forces in the war. She said this with such bitterness at the Allied forces that in all my patriotic glory I wanted to yell, "At least you're not giving us this tour in German!" But I resisted.
After this we got back on the bus for a 5 hour journey back to Paris. We were told there would be no bathroom stops but after lots of water and coca light drinking, the better half of the bus had to pee. In fear, no one wanted to request the stop. Knowing, though, that the activities coordinator already though low of me for my constant tardiness, I braved his wrath and requested the stop. We landed in the most amazing convenience gas stop I have ever seen. If you are at all familiar with the rest stops on the Ohio turnpike, imagine those, times 10. It was glorious.
And then we arrived back in Paris, I metroed my pretty little self home and got ready for a week of classes in a new and improved, lower French class. Read more about this in the thrilling next edition of my blog. Which, I promise, will have no sadness, unless you count my inability to communicate above the level of a two year old.
Oh, and despite my many attempts to see David Sedaris from the bus, I had no luck. :(
Things did not go exactly as planned. I did leave Paris at the crack of dawn. I did see lots of war sites and feel way, way more than patriotic. I did eat some oysters and they made me want to vomit. I did stalk David Sedaris but he was nowhere to be found.
Here's how it all went down:
I left Paris before the crack of dawn. After sprinting, literally, sprinting to the metro and sprinting up the stairs I arrive at the metro to watch the doors close in my face and about 10 Frenchies stare at me with no attempts to help. Thrilling. And so, I was of course late for the bus. And of course, our activities director gave me a look of frustration for always being late. I think he's going to start telling me to be places half an hour before everyone else.
Anyway, I got to the bus and we left Paris. After a few hours of driving we made it to our first stop, the World War II museum. I've been to quite a few Holocaust museums in my day, I've been to the WWII monument in DC, I've watched Pearl Harbor for goodness sakes. However, nothing prepared me for the intensity of that museum and the intensity of the movie they showed us. We saw live footage of the attack on Normandy and watched as man after man of Americans, Canadians, and British fell down from German fire. Then we read letters written the day before the invasion from soldiers who died in the invasion. Then we saw a million other really, really sad things.
Then we got back on the bus. As we drove, I tried to sleep until I heard someone yelling "Alice! Michigan!" I rousted myself up kind of grumpily at my disturbed slumber and looked out the window to where they were pointing. There, in all its glory, was a giant store with MICHIGAN written in big letters. I have no idea what said store was. It looked like a jiffy lube. But we kept passing them everywhere we went. Tres bizarre.
Next we went to one of the British landing beaches called Mulberry Harbour on Juno Beach. The British came in the middle of the night and set up wave breakers and temporary docks for boats to come in to and then in the morning dropped off hundreds of soldiers. Intense.
Then we went to the American cemetery where grave after grave after grave overlooked, I think, the Utah and Omaha beaches where American battalions landed on D-Day
. I really have no words to describe how intense of a place it was. I can tell you I was twenty minutes late getting back to the bus because I got so lost in taking it all in. There was also a quote on the chapel there that read: "These endured all and gave all that justice among nations might prevail and that mankind might enjoy freedom and inherit peace." That phrase still has not left my mind. I felt so patriotic standing there it almost made me want to throw up a little in my mouth because now being that patriotic in America means something I can't relate to at all. The idea of inheriting peace was so deeply saddening because people really believed WWII would be the war to end all wars and look at us now. I wonder if it will ever be possible for a generation to inherit peace.And then, we went to the German bunkers at Point-du-Hoc. Frankly, it really gave me the creeps and I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. This is where I think both Americans and British landed only due to a navigational error landed three miles away thus losing the element of surprise, quite the navigational error I would say. Soldiers there had to scale cliffs as the Germans cut ropes and shot at the Allied soldiers. Allegedly there are unexploded bombs still on the cliffs and it was all fenced off with barbed wire. Tres intense.
Finally we drove another two hours to a town called Saint Malo which was really beautiful. There I ate huitres, oysters, which are supposed to be this delectable treat in Normandy. It tasted like eating rubbery ocean water. I am used to eating canned oysters on triscuits on the beach in North Carolina. Some people think that is disgusting. I say the fresh oysters are disgusting.
The next day we wandered Saint Malo which is an old city surrounded by ramparts. It was lovely but that's pretty much all it entails. Then we went to a place called Mont Saint Michel. Now, I went to a place called Mount Saint Michael's in England and this is supposed to be the equivalent. Not the same. Mt St. Michael's you can walk out to during low tide. Mt. St. Michel is surrounded by quicksand during low tide so you have to drive. Part of me wanted to test out the quicksand theory but the smarter part of me decided against it. We wen
t on a lovely tour of the monastery and climbed a bazillion stairs (luckily, stair climbing is my specialty). During part of the tour the guide told us that the monastery used to have thousands of books but they were destroyed by Allied forces in the war. She said this with such bitterness at the Allied forces that in all my patriotic glory I wanted to yell, "At least you're not giving us this tour in German!" But I resisted.After this we got back on the bus for a 5 hour journey back to Paris. We were told there would be no bathroom stops but after lots of water and coca light drinking, the better half of the bus had to pee. In fear, no one wanted to request the stop. Knowing, though, that the activities coordinator already though low of me for my constant tardiness, I braved his wrath and requested the stop. We landed in the most amazing convenience gas stop I have ever seen. If you are at all familiar with the rest stops on the Ohio turnpike, imagine those, times 10. It was glorious.
And then we arrived back in Paris, I metroed my pretty little self home and got ready for a week of classes in a new and improved, lower French class. Read more about this in the thrilling next edition of my blog. Which, I promise, will have no sadness, unless you count my inability to communicate above the level of a two year old.
Oh, and despite my many attempts to see David Sedaris from the bus, I had no luck. :(
Sunday, February 17, 2008
French Women Don't Get Fat
Today I showed Roomie the website of the book French Women Don't Get Fat (See here for entertainment).
She laughed hysterically, agreed with all the premises of it, extolled the virtues of fine French dining, and marched her skinny little self off to get her daily dose of Mcdonalds.
I ate my brie cheese, sipped my red wine, and thought about the injustice in the world.
She laughed hysterically, agreed with all the premises of it, extolled the virtues of fine French dining, and marched her skinny little self off to get her daily dose of Mcdonalds.
I ate my brie cheese, sipped my red wine, and thought about the injustice in the world.
Americans Abroad, Or, Yes, We're Very Sorry About That War.
Today roomie was studying for her exam in American politics. It gave me the opportunity to flashback to 11th grade government and also feel very wise. Up to a point.
I tried to explain why Wyoming and New York both have two senators. All I could come up with was something about a compromise, which may or may not have been great.
I tried to explain why, in Iowa, the caucus involves either raising your hand or moving to one corner for your candidate. "Don't you have more electronics than that now?" Roomie asked.
Then came the clinker. "Why do you not vote to the president direct? Why with the electors? This his how Bush, he became the president, yes? In France we do everything direct." To be fair, I thought, nothing I've experienced about France has been direct. In fact, everything seems to be set up to play a game of how long can it take. But okay, you can elect your president directly, we'll go with that. Why, then do we not do the same? Now, she did recall the 2004 French election in which a crazy conservative nearly got elected based on their popular vote, multi-party system. But all in all, it seems much better than this silly electoral nonsense.
Anyway, I started out feeling very wise when telling Roomie all about the US political system, then I felt very silly and stupid not being able to explain the rationale behind anything because, surprise, there is no rationale!
And then I remembered my Valentine's day, and the people I spent it with, and I suddenly felt like in the category of Americans abroad, I was doing significantly better than a lot of the rest of them.
This is how my Valentine's, here in the city of love, began to rank high on the list of most depressing Valentine's. One of my little Texans has a friend studying in Paris as well, at one of the best European business schools. We went to meet him and some of his friends for dinner. Having gotten into a few unpleasant Barack Obama vs. Hillary Clinton debates lately, I promised not to bring up politics at dinner with the conservatives.
In fact, through the following seven comments, I said nothing until the final one, when I could no longer hold in the urge to scream at the stupidity of my fellow Americans. The conversation, stated with complete intense I shit you not seriousness, went as follows:
Boy#1: I just prefer Obama to Hillary. I mean, it's not a I don't think a woman should be president thing, I just think a man would be better.
Girl #1: Yeah. I just don't think women should be presidents. Like, when I'm on my period, I get really emotional and make bad decisions sometimes. What if she was on her period and having a bad day and like, started a war?
(I drank a glass of wine to keep from mentioning a current war that started for no apparent reason other than someone was having a bad day, and that someone wasn't a woman).
Boy #1: Yeah, I mean, it's not that women aren't smart. It's just a biological difference thing. That's why Obama should get the nomination.
Girl #1: But, did y'all know that if Obama gets elected he's going to be sworn in on the Koran?
(I choked on the wine which I had been guzzling to stop from talking)
Boy #1: Really? That's crazy. We definitely don't want an Islamist running our country.
Girl #1: Yeah, he's not even American. He went to a school run by terrorists in like, India or something.
Girl #2, Voice of All Reason: Are you guys kidding? Barack Obama's a Christian from Chicago.
Well, whatever. At least people would respect him.
(I thought the misery had ended without me commenting, but oh no)
Boy #1: Well, whatever. At least the rest of the world would respect him. It's just, no other country has ever had a chick president before. Like, people won't respect us, ya know?
(I poured another glass of wine)
Girl #2: What about England? Margaret Thatcher?
Boy #1: Oh yeah. Well, okay. So one.
(I lost all self-control)
Me: Um, Israel? Pakistan? Argentina? India? Rwanda? Chile? The Phillipines? Germany? Liberia? Should I keep going?
Boy #1, looked slightly stunned as Little Texas laughed hysterically at my outburst, which they had been waiting for. He paused before coming up with what I can only imagine he believed to be a great come back: Whatever. Y'all are gay.
As soon as dinner was over I bolted from the restaurant and made my journey home. I was told, later, that the guy told the rest of Little Texas who stayed out for the night that he was kidding, and he totally knew about all those chick presidents.
So yes, I am now understanding the bad reputations Americans get abroad and where they come from. And yes, we're very sorry about the war. And the confusing electoral system. Our bad.
I tried to explain why Wyoming and New York both have two senators. All I could come up with was something about a compromise, which may or may not have been great.
I tried to explain why, in Iowa, the caucus involves either raising your hand or moving to one corner for your candidate. "Don't you have more electronics than that now?" Roomie asked.
Then came the clinker. "Why do you not vote to the president direct? Why with the electors? This his how Bush, he became the president, yes? In France we do everything direct." To be fair, I thought, nothing I've experienced about France has been direct. In fact, everything seems to be set up to play a game of how long can it take. But okay, you can elect your president directly, we'll go with that. Why, then do we not do the same? Now, she did recall the 2004 French election in which a crazy conservative nearly got elected based on their popular vote, multi-party system. But all in all, it seems much better than this silly electoral nonsense.
Anyway, I started out feeling very wise when telling Roomie all about the US political system, then I felt very silly and stupid not being able to explain the rationale behind anything because, surprise, there is no rationale!
And then I remembered my Valentine's day, and the people I spent it with, and I suddenly felt like in the category of Americans abroad, I was doing significantly better than a lot of the rest of them.
This is how my Valentine's, here in the city of love, began to rank high on the list of most depressing Valentine's. One of my little Texans has a friend studying in Paris as well, at one of the best European business schools. We went to meet him and some of his friends for dinner. Having gotten into a few unpleasant Barack Obama vs. Hillary Clinton debates lately, I promised not to bring up politics at dinner with the conservatives.
In fact, through the following seven comments, I said nothing until the final one, when I could no longer hold in the urge to scream at the stupidity of my fellow Americans. The conversation, stated with complete intense I shit you not seriousness, went as follows:
Boy#1: I just prefer Obama to Hillary. I mean, it's not a I don't think a woman should be president thing, I just think a man would be better.
Girl #1: Yeah. I just don't think women should be presidents. Like, when I'm on my period, I get really emotional and make bad decisions sometimes. What if she was on her period and having a bad day and like, started a war?
(I drank a glass of wine to keep from mentioning a current war that started for no apparent reason other than someone was having a bad day, and that someone wasn't a woman).
Boy #1: Yeah, I mean, it's not that women aren't smart. It's just a biological difference thing. That's why Obama should get the nomination.
Girl #1: But, did y'all know that if Obama gets elected he's going to be sworn in on the Koran?
(I choked on the wine which I had been guzzling to stop from talking)
Boy #1: Really? That's crazy. We definitely don't want an Islamist running our country.
Girl #1: Yeah, he's not even American. He went to a school run by terrorists in like, India or something.
Girl #2, Voice of All Reason: Are you guys kidding? Barack Obama's a Christian from Chicago.
Well, whatever. At least people would respect him.
(I thought the misery had ended without me commenting, but oh no)
Boy #1: Well, whatever. At least the rest of the world would respect him. It's just, no other country has ever had a chick president before. Like, people won't respect us, ya know?
(I poured another glass of wine)
Girl #2: What about England? Margaret Thatcher?
Boy #1: Oh yeah. Well, okay. So one.
(I lost all self-control)
Me: Um, Israel? Pakistan? Argentina? India? Rwanda? Chile? The Phillipines? Germany? Liberia? Should I keep going?
Boy #1, looked slightly stunned as Little Texas laughed hysterically at my outburst, which they had been waiting for. He paused before coming up with what I can only imagine he believed to be a great come back: Whatever. Y'all are gay.
As soon as dinner was over I bolted from the restaurant and made my journey home. I was told, later, that the guy told the rest of Little Texas who stayed out for the night that he was kidding, and he totally knew about all those chick presidents.
So yes, I am now understanding the bad reputations Americans get abroad and where they come from. And yes, we're very sorry about the war. And the confusing electoral system. Our bad.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Learning French, Or , How I Get Scammed By Small Children
Okay, I know I said I wouldn't multi-post but I felt this deserved its own.
Except for a few American children who I love dearly and think are the absolute greatest, French children are some of the most adorable children I have ever seen. Sure, it can be a bit depressing when you see a 4-year-old dressed more stylishly than you, and know that you'll never have the ability to live up to her already impeccable fashion taste, but all that can be forgiven when you realize you can actually have a conversation with a 4 year old and understand at least half of what she says.
And that makes those 4-year-olds hard to pass up when, while leaving your picnic in peace, you are accosted by them. In a heard they rushed up to us asking, politely and at a low enough level of French that I could understand them, if we would like to buy some metro tickets. We already have metro tickets, we explained. But, we were told, these weren't just metro tickets. In fact, they were used and would get you nowhere on the metro. These, were creations of art. And, folded into bizarre creatures we were told were a cat and a dog, my friend and I caved and for ten cents each bought little metro ticket animals. All because I was happy I could understand them. I'm thinking about introducing these children to the idea of a lemonade stand.
In other news, I've started French class. And have found that I am placed, once again, in far too high a level. But I'm going to try to tough it out, because I hear in the lower classes people are learning to count, which I mastered while wandering the streets of Cannes.
Yet I'm struggling, big time. Yesterday we learned which countries are masculine and feminine. I understand that English has many things about it that make no sense. But honestly, can't Japan just be Japan? Must it be He Japan? And so it goes, Russia, in all it's glory, is feminine. While Brazil is masculine. The United States is plural, and therefore seems to have no gender. And Taiwan, interestingly enough, has no gender, and therefore automatically makes it masculine. So, you must be asking, isn't it just masculine? And back in the day was the USSR a genderless plural? Or has it always had feminine qualities?
My struggle has been somewhat calmed after listening excerpts from David Sedaris's "Me Talk Pretty One Day". Which you should listen to, he's much funnier than I am. http://www.npr.org/programs/specials/lists/sedaris/. He also lives in Normandy and I have every intention of stalking him when I go there in a couple weeks.
I hope this has been somewhat entertaining for you all.
A bien tot!
Except for a few American children who I love dearly and think are the absolute greatest, French children are some of the most adorable children I have ever seen. Sure, it can be a bit depressing when you see a 4-year-old dressed more stylishly than you, and know that you'll never have the ability to live up to her already impeccable fashion taste, but all that can be forgiven when you realize you can actually have a conversation with a 4 year old and understand at least half of what she says.
And that makes those 4-year-olds hard to pass up when, while leaving your picnic in peace, you are accosted by them. In a heard they rushed up to us asking, politely and at a low enough level of French that I could understand them, if we would like to buy some metro tickets. We already have metro tickets, we explained. But, we were told, these weren't just metro tickets. In fact, they were used and would get you nowhere on the metro. These, were creations of art. And, folded into bizarre creatures we were told were a cat and a dog, my friend and I caved and for ten cents each bought little metro ticket animals. All because I was happy I could understand them. I'm thinking about introducing these children to the idea of a lemonade stand.
In other news, I've started French class. And have found that I am placed, once again, in far too high a level. But I'm going to try to tough it out, because I hear in the lower classes people are learning to count, which I mastered while wandering the streets of Cannes.
Yet I'm struggling, big time. Yesterday we learned which countries are masculine and feminine. I understand that English has many things about it that make no sense. But honestly, can't Japan just be Japan? Must it be He Japan? And so it goes, Russia, in all it's glory, is feminine. While Brazil is masculine. The United States is plural, and therefore seems to have no gender. And Taiwan, interestingly enough, has no gender, and therefore automatically makes it masculine. So, you must be asking, isn't it just masculine? And back in the day was the USSR a genderless plural? Or has it always had feminine qualities?
My struggle has been somewhat calmed after listening excerpts from David Sedaris's "Me Talk Pretty One Day". Which you should listen to, he's much funnier than I am. http://www.npr.org/programs/specials/lists/sedaris/. He also lives in Normandy and I have every intention of stalking him when I go there in a couple weeks.
I hope this has been somewhat entertaining for you all.
A bien tot!
Oh I've Got More!!
I'll categorize. Rather than make numerous blog posts. So this is going to be long. But y'all asked for it.
1) Old People in Paris: Or, Why I'm Terribly Out of Shape.
Yesterday, my friend Amani and I were huffing and puffing our way up the stairs, carrying bottles of laundry detergent, coca light (it hurts to say that, but it's the only option I have an I've succumbed. I just hope diet coke will forgive me when I get back), and alcohol. Having a heavier load than normal, half way between the 4th and 5th floors (remember, read 5th and 6th floors), we both slowed down to take a breather. Then, much to our dismay, an elderly couple, we're talking 80s elderly, walked out of an apartment on the 5th (read 6th) floor. And the man had a cane! And they live there! They live on the 6th floor of a building I dread coming back to when I'm tired. I have a new technique I'm using now where I don't look at what floor I'm on and I don't slow down. It's a sprint, not a marathon. If they can do it, I can do it. Hopefully, this will pay off already and I'll have super toned legs. We'll see.
2) I Have No Money, Or, How The French Taught Me To Steal American Television.
The other day I looked at my bank account and thought to myself, hmm...that's odd, there used to be money in here. Perhaps, I've been robbed, I thought. Then I thought about the dress I bought, and that cocktail with the egg in it, and the cheese I keep eating (I mean, it's really terrifying, I can't stop eating cheese. Cheese is like the new swiss roll cakes, and I think we all know where those got me. Nowhere good.), and those delicious baguettes, and those sales which thankfully are over. And then I figured out where all my money went. Wasn't a robber at all. It was me. And, to some degree, I'd like to blame George Bush for ruining the economy and making the dollar worth just about nothing. If not for him, I'd still have plenty more to spend after those drinks and clothes and cheese.
But fear not. I've found ways to entertain myself without spending any money! Aside from looking at the old historic buildings of Paris, I've found an even greater treasure. That roomie, she keeps popping up with great ideas like, go to this website and watch free movies and tv! So far I've watched Juno (really good), 27 Dresses (really bad!), Charlie Wilson's War (Pretty good but maybe a bit over my head), and P.S. I Love You (Which I had to turn off because it got too sad but which I might give another go tonight).
3) Excursions, Field Trips, or AIFS's way of making us feel better about giving them all our money.
We've gone on a few trips so far. The first was Chartres, a cathedral famous for its stained glass. Our British tour guide smacked his lips every five seconds and made us stand in the cold and rain and look at a statue while he mocked our president. Now, we all know one of my favorite activities is mocking our president, but I at least have the decency to do it in the warmth of my home. And to be fair, he's our bad president. Not yours. Deal with it. The stained glass was, quite a bit like the stain glass in EVERY OTHER ANCIENT CHURCH. Not all that exciting. The highlight of the trip was my first visit to a French Mcdonalds!
We also went to Versailles. Somehow, I wrote down the wrong meeting place and directed my friend to go there as well. When we showed up, no one was there, and a few phone calls told us we had missed the train. Fortunately, the train to Versailles was only 2 euro and we splurged to get the free tour. The tour, it turns out, was overrated. We saw lots of old things. That are old. And have historical significance. But when there are 50 other tours going on at the same time, it's a bit difficult to hear the history.
Artists. I like to think of myself as someone who likes art. Unfortunately, I also know that I am not someone who likes art. I like Degas' dancers because I want to be a ballerina. I like Van Gogh's sunflowers because I think sunflowers are pretty. Today I went to my first impressionism class at the Musee D'Orsay. A very famous museum in Paris. For two hours, I followed my teacher and 10 classmates from painting to painting. They commented on the light, the shadows, the brush strokes. When asked what I liked about , I stuttered for a bit and while I wanted to say "I think her boobs look funny and her legs are short, who looks like that?" but settled on saying "I think the colors are pretty?" Which, apparently, was incorrect. Which leads me to think I might be dropping impressionism and taking up architecture, where in Paris I believe the correct answer will always be "It's a phallic symbol."
The next field trip is a fondue party, and I expect it will be highly successful.
1) Old People in Paris: Or, Why I'm Terribly Out of Shape.
Yesterday, my friend Amani and I were huffing and puffing our way up the stairs, carrying bottles of laundry detergent, coca light (it hurts to say that, but it's the only option I have an I've succumbed. I just hope diet coke will forgive me when I get back), and alcohol. Having a heavier load than normal, half way between the 4th and 5th floors (remember, read 5th and 6th floors), we both slowed down to take a breather. Then, much to our dismay, an elderly couple, we're talking 80s elderly, walked out of an apartment on the 5th (read 6th) floor. And the man had a cane! And they live there! They live on the 6th floor of a building I dread coming back to when I'm tired. I have a new technique I'm using now where I don't look at what floor I'm on and I don't slow down. It's a sprint, not a marathon. If they can do it, I can do it. Hopefully, this will pay off already and I'll have super toned legs. We'll see.
2) I Have No Money, Or, How The French Taught Me To Steal American Television.
The other day I looked at my bank account and thought to myself, hmm...that's odd, there used to be money in here. Perhaps, I've been robbed, I thought. Then I thought about the dress I bought, and that cocktail with the egg in it, and the cheese I keep eating (I mean, it's really terrifying, I can't stop eating cheese. Cheese is like the new swiss roll cakes, and I think we all know where those got me. Nowhere good.), and those delicious baguettes, and those sales which thankfully are over. And then I figured out where all my money went. Wasn't a robber at all. It was me. And, to some degree, I'd like to blame George Bush for ruining the economy and making the dollar worth just about nothing. If not for him, I'd still have plenty more to spend after those drinks and clothes and cheese.
But fear not. I've found ways to entertain myself without spending any money! Aside from looking at the old historic buildings of Paris, I've found an even greater treasure. That roomie, she keeps popping up with great ideas like, go to this website and watch free movies and tv! So far I've watched Juno (really good), 27 Dresses (really bad!), Charlie Wilson's War (Pretty good but maybe a bit over my head), and P.S. I Love You (Which I had to turn off because it got too sad but which I might give another go tonight).
3) Excursions, Field Trips, or AIFS's way of making us feel better about giving them all our money.
We've gone on a few trips so far. The first was Chartres, a cathedral famous for its stained glass. Our British tour guide smacked his lips every five seconds and made us stand in the cold and rain and look at a statue while he mocked our president. Now, we all know one of my favorite activities is mocking our president, but I at least have the decency to do it in the warmth of my home. And to be fair, he's our bad president. Not yours. Deal with it. The stained glass was, quite a bit like the stain glass in EVERY OTHER ANCIENT CHURCH. Not all that exciting. The highlight of the trip was my first visit to a French Mcdonalds!
We also went to Versailles. Somehow, I wrote down the wrong meeting place and directed my friend to go there as well. When we showed up, no one was there, and a few phone calls told us we had missed the train. Fortunately, the train to Versailles was only 2 euro and we splurged to get the free tour. The tour, it turns out, was overrated. We saw lots of old things. That are old. And have historical significance. But when there are 50 other tours going on at the same time, it's a bit difficult to hear the history.
Artists. I like to think of myself as someone who likes art. Unfortunately, I also know that I am not someone who likes art. I like Degas' dancers because I want to be a ballerina. I like Van Gogh's sunflowers because I think sunflowers are pretty. Today I went to my first impressionism class at the Musee D'Orsay. A very famous museum in Paris. For two hours, I followed my teacher and 10 classmates from painting to painting. They commented on the light, the shadows, the brush strokes. When asked what I liked about , I stuttered for a bit and while I wanted to say "I think her boobs look funny and her legs are short, who looks like that?" but settled on saying "I think the colors are pretty?" Which, apparently, was incorrect. Which leads me to think I might be dropping impressionism and taking up architecture, where in Paris I believe the correct answer will always be "It's a phallic symbol."
The next field trip is a fondue party, and I expect it will be highly successful.
Je suis desolee
Let me start off by apologizing. Je suis desolee. I am of sorrow. I've been highly neglectful of this blog and my raging popularity has led to high demands for more. So fear not, I'm back. However, the reason I've been so neglectful is the lack of anything truly exciting happening to me. But, I'll try to make the mundane fabulous. Get ready.
Where to begin? Oh, here's a great starting place. Harry Potter. I realize I'm getting a big old for being as obsessed as I am, but c'est la vie. The other day I was walking with Little Texas down to the Marais (that's the Jew area - more on that later) to get my weekly stock of wheat bread and bagels, and what should I stumble across but a street sign which read "Rue Nicolas Flamel". Immediately, I knew this was no ordinary "Rue de Holy Saint" or "Rue de World War 2 we Hate the Germans Still Landmark". This, my friends, smack in the middle of Paris, was a reference to Nicholas Flamel, Dumbledore's co-worker of alchemy and discoverer of the Philosopher's stone. I stopped Little Texas (they looked at me oddly - who is this old lady who likes to talk about a children's book so much?), took a picture, and because we were running late went off to get my bagels.
But something was plaguing me. Yes, London can put a Platform 9 3/4 sign at their train station and not feel lame at all. They can have a cart halfway through the wall and not appear to be sell outs at all. But the French? They are far too superior to taint their city with the likes of a children's book - a children's book written by the British no less! They wouldn't dare do such a thing. So what was the deal, I wondered out loud to Little Texas as we stood in line for delicious falafel. That 1% of me that wanted to run through the wall at Kings Cross though, why, there must be a Hogwarts. This must all be real! I should head for London right now and see if I can't catch the Hogwarts Express! Then, sadly, reality set in.
Turns out Nicolas Flamel was a real person (Scoff all you want, father, the internet tells
me it's true!). There was something to do with a book about Abraham the Jew (you may know him from the bible) and some think he's still alive. Frankly, I lost interest when I found out it was unrelated to HP...although I may go check out the grave of Nicolas Flamel and see if it doesn't lead to some further mystery. It will at the very least entertain me. Feel free to do your own research on old Nick by reading here: http://www.alchemylab.com/flamel.htm#The%20Death%20of%20Flamel.
Also, in the accompanying picture you'll find some graffiti reading "sarkoverdose." If nothing else, those French are witty and dissatisfied with their government.
Where to begin? Oh, here's a great starting place. Harry Potter. I realize I'm getting a big old for being as obsessed as I am, but c'est la vie. The other day I was walking with Little Texas down to the Marais (that's the Jew area - more on that later) to get my weekly stock of wheat bread and bagels, and what should I stumble across but a street sign which read "Rue Nicolas Flamel". Immediately, I knew this was no ordinary "Rue de Holy Saint" or "Rue de World War 2 we Hate the Germans Still Landmark". This, my friends, smack in the middle of Paris, was a reference to Nicholas Flamel, Dumbledore's co-worker of alchemy and discoverer of the Philosopher's stone. I stopped Little Texas (they looked at me oddly - who is this old lady who likes to talk about a children's book so much?), took a picture, and because we were running late went off to get my bagels.
But something was plaguing me. Yes, London can put a Platform 9 3/4 sign at their train station and not feel lame at all. They can have a cart halfway through the wall and not appear to be sell outs at all. But the French? They are far too superior to taint their city with the likes of a children's book - a children's book written by the British no less! They wouldn't dare do such a thing. So what was the deal, I wondered out loud to Little Texas as we stood in line for delicious falafel. That 1% of me that wanted to run through the wall at Kings Cross though, why, there must be a Hogwarts. This must all be real! I should head for London right now and see if I can't catch the Hogwarts Express! Then, sadly, reality set in.
Turns out Nicolas Flamel was a real person (Scoff all you want, father, the internet tells
me it's true!). There was something to do with a book about Abraham the Jew (you may know him from the bible) and some think he's still alive. Frankly, I lost interest when I found out it was unrelated to HP...although I may go check out the grave of Nicolas Flamel and see if it doesn't lead to some further mystery. It will at the very least entertain me. Feel free to do your own research on old Nick by reading here: http://www.alchemylab.com/flamel.htm#The%20Death%20of%20Flamel.Also, in the accompanying picture you'll find some graffiti reading "sarkoverdose." If nothing else, those French are witty and dissatisfied with their government.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Public Transportation, the Bane of my Existence
Special note: This blog may not be appropriate for those who worry about my late at night decision making, but don't worry, I promise I was totally responsible.
The metro. I'm not a huge fan of New York's dirty subway. I don't particularly love the grumpy faces and the "Excuse me, is that your bag" announcements on the DC metro. I found London's tube hugely expensive and the bombing of it the day after I arrived three years ago to be a bit of a repellent. So I didn't expect to love Paris's metro system. I was right.
I understand that there are rats in cities, especially in underground railroad systems. I have only seen a rat twice in DC and never in New York, but never in the metro, ten feet away from me.
There I was, innocently sitting on a bench, waiting for the metro to arrive after leaving a very cool jazz bar. All of a sudden the woman next to gasped and said something that sounded alarmingly close to rat. I turned to where her outstretched arm was pointing, and lo and behold, there was a rat, scurrying it's little way across the floor. I leapt up, screamed bloody murder, and the rat went right back into his little wall hole. I then realized the entire metro station had gone quiet and was staring at me. Rule One of being in Paris according to my AIFS program: Don't make a scene and exaggerate the already obvious fact that you are an American. Oops.
Anyway, that was metro scenario number one. Here is metro scenario number two.
Saturday night I went out with Little Texas. Around 2 the bar we were at was closing and my friend and I decided to go home rather than wander the streets trying to find another bar. On Friday and Saturday nights, the metro closes between 1:45 and 2:30. In my desire not to take a cab, I convinced my friend to risk taking the metro with me. We made it onto the first train and felt victorious. However, when we got off at another stop to change trains, the sad truth settled in. We had missed the last train to my metro stop. I overheard some people speaking English and asked them if they knew where to get a cab. They (an Indian guy, and Australian guy, and a French girl) said they were going to the same metro stop as we were and we agreed to all walk together.
So we began our journey out of the metro station. We went through the turnstiles to find the stairs gated off. I jumped back over the turnstile but my poor short little friend just couldn't make it over. So the large Australian man had to lift her up over the turnstile. We finally found an exit that was still open and made it out of the metro. A twenty minute walk later we left the Indian, Australian, and Frenchy behind and made it up to my apartment, all in tact.
In summary: I will be avoiding the metro as much as possible.
The metro. I'm not a huge fan of New York's dirty subway. I don't particularly love the grumpy faces and the "Excuse me, is that your bag" announcements on the DC metro. I found London's tube hugely expensive and the bombing of it the day after I arrived three years ago to be a bit of a repellent. So I didn't expect to love Paris's metro system. I was right.
I understand that there are rats in cities, especially in underground railroad systems. I have only seen a rat twice in DC and never in New York, but never in the metro, ten feet away from me.
There I was, innocently sitting on a bench, waiting for the metro to arrive after leaving a very cool jazz bar. All of a sudden the woman next to gasped and said something that sounded alarmingly close to rat. I turned to where her outstretched arm was pointing, and lo and behold, there was a rat, scurrying it's little way across the floor. I leapt up, screamed bloody murder, and the rat went right back into his little wall hole. I then realized the entire metro station had gone quiet and was staring at me. Rule One of being in Paris according to my AIFS program: Don't make a scene and exaggerate the already obvious fact that you are an American. Oops.
Anyway, that was metro scenario number one. Here is metro scenario number two.
Saturday night I went out with Little Texas. Around 2 the bar we were at was closing and my friend and I decided to go home rather than wander the streets trying to find another bar. On Friday and Saturday nights, the metro closes between 1:45 and 2:30. In my desire not to take a cab, I convinced my friend to risk taking the metro with me. We made it onto the first train and felt victorious. However, when we got off at another stop to change trains, the sad truth settled in. We had missed the last train to my metro stop. I overheard some people speaking English and asked them if they knew where to get a cab. They (an Indian guy, and Australian guy, and a French girl) said they were going to the same metro stop as we were and we agreed to all walk together.
So we began our journey out of the metro station. We went through the turnstiles to find the stairs gated off. I jumped back over the turnstile but my poor short little friend just couldn't make it over. So the large Australian man had to lift her up over the turnstile. We finally found an exit that was still open and made it out of the metro. A twenty minute walk later we left the Indian, Australian, and Frenchy behind and made it up to my apartment, all in tact.
In summary: I will be avoiding the metro as much as possible.
Apartment and Roomie
Last week I moved into my apartment which is amazingly fabulous. It is on the sixth floor of a walk up which is (surprise!) actually the seventh floor because the French consider the 1st floor to be the 0 floor. So, three bags later and with a moment on the 4th (read 5th) floor where I thought I might just tumble back down the stairs with the hikers backpack on, I made it to the top. And, let me tell you, it's worth the hike. This is the absolute best apartment I have ever lived in. Everything about it is old and precious, except for the Ikea furniture which it is decked out in. Really though, it's super amazing and I'm hoping the stairs will give me fabulously toned legs.
The apartment has some definite quirks. Including the heating system which is gas and which every 15 minutes makes a sound like lighting a gas stove, which panicked me for awhile until roomie explained to me what was happening.
Roomie, whose real name is Celine but who I like calling Roomie, is hysterical and fabulous. Everything about her is classy and beyond French. She weighs approximately 7 lbs, has fabulous style, and sniffs wine before she drinks it and actually turns bottles away based on the smell. Her one American flaw is the fact that all I have seen her eat is Mcdonald's quarter pounders and cookies and alcohol, yet she remains tiny. Je ne comprend pas.
Roomie speaks pretty good English, but we still have breakdowns in communication. There is something in our kitchen that I believe is a microwave and which she explained as something that makes your food go from cold to warm, but does not cook it. I asked if you could make popcorn in it, to which she wrinkled her nose and said, "We do not eat popcorn in France". I have yet to use this mysterious microwave-like appliance.
I think Roomie also finds me pretty entertaining. From my severely broken French - I told her we were going to Chartres, and due to my inability to make the correct R sound, it took me explaining that it was a big church with stained glass windows and was very famous before she said "Ah! Chartres" - to the fact that the other night Little Texas and I made drinks before we went out and decided to mix champagne with fruity vodka. She tasted it and I believe it took all her will power not to vomit.
Roomie's boyfriend, who is actually named Pierre-Charles, as if he weren't French enough, owns a bar in the 2nd arrondissement which is called "Experimental Cocktail Club". Experimental being key. We went there the other night and they convinced me to order a drink which had raw egg white in it. Under the motto of "when in Rome", I caved and ordered it. It turned out to be beyond fabulously delicious.
All in all, Roomie and the apartment are great. Hopefully at the end of this journey my French will be better, her English will be better, I will be a little classier, and she will be a little less classy.
Shoes, shoes, shoes and Diet Coke
Here's the news you've all been waiting for. In Paris, "where zey are bigger zan zey are in Cannes", have I managed to find size 42 shoes? That's a negative. A no go. Non.
My roommate's sister works in a shoe store and, when I told her of my abnormally sized feet, she got a sad little look on her face and said "I think that in Paris it will be very difficult for you. Maybe you should visit Germany." To which Roomie followed with: "My friend flies to the United States to buy shoes."
Given my love of walking in cities and my aversion to public transportation (more on that later), my current black boots are quickly wearing out and I fear for their ability to make it to March, let alone May.
In another sad, fruitless hunt, I believe I may be giving up on my quest for Diet Coke. I have visited two "American" grocery stores with hopes of finding Diet Coke instead of the dreadful Coca Cola Light which they sell here. Roomie has been calling places for me asking if they have Diet Coke, to which these places say yes, only for me to show up and find Coca Light. Yesterday I tried as nicely as possible to explain that there was in fact a difference between Diet Coke and Coca Light to which the man at the grocery store said "Sorry we are not America." To which I bit my tongue not to yell "Then don't advertise yourself as America and only sell oreos!" Roomie has one more store she thinks might sell it and we are going on a mission on Saturday, but my hopes are low.
My roommate's sister works in a shoe store and, when I told her of my abnormally sized feet, she got a sad little look on her face and said "I think that in Paris it will be very difficult for you. Maybe you should visit Germany." To which Roomie followed with: "My friend flies to the United States to buy shoes."
Given my love of walking in cities and my aversion to public transportation (more on that later), my current black boots are quickly wearing out and I fear for their ability to make it to March, let alone May.
In another sad, fruitless hunt, I believe I may be giving up on my quest for Diet Coke. I have visited two "American" grocery stores with hopes of finding Diet Coke instead of the dreadful Coca Cola Light which they sell here. Roomie has been calling places for me asking if they have Diet Coke, to which these places say yes, only for me to show up and find Coca Light. Yesterday I tried as nicely as possible to explain that there was in fact a difference between Diet Coke and Coca Light to which the man at the grocery store said "Sorry we are not America." To which I bit my tongue not to yell "Then don't advertise yourself as America and only sell oreos!" Roomie has one more store she thinks might sell it and we are going on a mission on Saturday, but my hopes are low.
Cannes, Part Deux
Bonjour!
Translation of that subject, you ask? I don't speak French. In the slightest. At all. Hardly a word. My approach of speaking in Spanish with a French accent has failed miserably. However, I have been named most willing to make a total ass out of herself in order to try to speak French by the bulk of the people on my program. Which I have chosen to take as a compliment.
ut who is hooking up with who and pretend to be older and wiser. There is one girl on my program who is 26 and we like to sit and talk about how old we are, and how we never thought we would live in dorms again, and is it possible that 19 is so drastically different from 23 or are do we just think it is? Deep thoughts, I know. We have a cafeteria which yesterday served, I kid you not, a slice of turkey lunchmeat for dinner. With fried balls of mashed potatoes. I mean, we are in
Anyway, I believe that is the highlight of my little life in 
I miss you all and would love to hear how life in the States (or
Love,
Arrival in Cannes
Bonjour Everyone!
I have finally made it to France! I am currently in Cannes (home of the film festival but currently home of a bunch of Americans). I just finished a placement exam for our two week long French orientation. During this exam I learned that I speak no French. A fact I was pretty sure of but one that was made crystal clear to me during the oral section of the exam in which I sat and smiled as the girl next to me spoke rapid French to the instructor.
With a lot of xanax and a nice girl from my program beside me, I made it through the plane ride from Chicago to London despite a five minute period in which I felt fairly confident we were going down over Lake Michigan. On the flight I attempted to sleep and maybe would have had the sixty year old Indian woman next to me not woken me up to spend the duration of the seven hour flight telling me how her husband, who was sitting on the other side of her, didn't love her and she cried herself to sleep about it and did American boys smooch. She was coming back from visiting her daughter in Seattle and I suggested that maybe she divorce her husband and move to Seattle and look for American men to smooch. I felt really sad for her but also really sad for myself.
When we got to the airport at 5 am London time we had the pleasure of waiting three hours for students on other planes to arrive. When we finally got to our hotel (which was really very nice), we were sent out into the cold, pouring rain until our rooms would be ready at 4 pm. Exh
austed and cold we made our way to a pub where we ate fish and chips, drank beer, and took naps. The next day, when we had slept and it was sunny, we went on a lovely tour of London and then were sent off on our own. We went to the Portobello Road Market which was full of amazing clothes and little knick knacks all of which I didn't buy (proud, mother?). I managed to find some other Harry Potter fans and we journeyed to Kings Cross to take pictures at Platform 9 3/4 (an adventure long in the making since last time I was in London the tube was bombed and it seemed in poor taste to go take pictures). It took all my self-control to not actually try to run through the wall and make it to Hogwarts, mostly I didn't want the people on my program to think I was a complete lunatic. I also went to see Wicked in the West End which was really, really amazing - and the British sell ice cream at the theater!
We woke up really early yesterday to fly to Cannes and again, all xanaxed up, I made it here alive. I'm really happy to be in a country where the dollar is slightly better than in London (where it cost $8 to ride the tube!), but sad to realize my total inability to communicate. We are staying at a college right on the Mediterranean Sea. It is cold and rainy today but is supposed to be 60 on Friday and I plan on attempting to go swimming.
That's pretty much it for now but I'm sure there will be adventures a plenty up ahead as I struggle to communicate above the level of a two year old (if even that). My current technique is to pronounce words I know in Spanish or Italian with a French accent, but it's quickly proving useless.
I hope you are all well and that things are great in the States. We are supposed to have internet all the time from today on, so if anyone has Skype, holler at me. My Skype name is a-mish.
Love,
Alice
I have finally made it to France! I am currently in Cannes (home of the film festival but currently home of a bunch of Americans). I just finished a placement exam for our two week long French orientation. During this exam I learned that I speak no French. A fact I was pretty sure of but one that was made crystal clear to me during the oral section of the exam in which I sat and smiled as the girl next to me spoke rapid French to the instructor.
With a lot of xanax and a nice girl from my program beside me, I made it through the plane ride from Chicago to London despite a five minute period in which I felt fairly confident we were going down over Lake Michigan. On the flight I attempted to sleep and maybe would have had the sixty year old Indian woman next to me not woken me up to spend the duration of the seven hour flight telling me how her husband, who was sitting on the other side of her, didn't love her and she cried herself to sleep about it and did American boys smooch. She was coming back from visiting her daughter in Seattle and I suggested that maybe she divorce her husband and move to Seattle and look for American men to smooch. I felt really sad for her but also really sad for myself.
When we got to the airport at 5 am London time we had the pleasure of waiting three hours for students on other planes to arrive. When we finally got to our hotel (which was really very nice), we were sent out into the cold, pouring rain until our rooms would be ready at 4 pm. Exh
austed and cold we made our way to a pub where we ate fish and chips, drank beer, and took naps. The next day, when we had slept and it was sunny, we went on a lovely tour of London and then were sent off on our own. We went to the Portobello Road Market which was full of amazing clothes and little knick knacks all of which I didn't buy (proud, mother?). I managed to find some other Harry Potter fans and we journeyed to Kings Cross to take pictures at Platform 9 3/4 (an adventure long in the making since last time I was in London the tube was bombed and it seemed in poor taste to go take pictures). It took all my self-control to not actually try to run through the wall and make it to Hogwarts, mostly I didn't want the people on my program to think I was a complete lunatic. I also went to see Wicked in the West End which was really, really amazing - and the British sell ice cream at the theater!We woke up really early yesterday to fly to Cannes and again, all xanaxed up, I made it here alive. I'm really happy to be in a country where the dollar is slightly better than in London (where it cost $8 to ride the tube!), but sad to realize my total inability to communicate. We are staying at a college right on the Mediterranean Sea. It is cold and rainy today but is supposed to be 60 on Friday and I plan on attempting to go swimming.
That's pretty much it for now but I'm sure there will be adventures a plenty up ahead as I struggle to communicate above the level of a two year old (if even that). My current technique is to pronounce words I know in Spanish or Italian with a French accent, but it's quickly proving useless.
I hope you are all well and that things are great in the States. We are supposed to have internet all the time from today on, so if anyone has Skype, holler at me. My Skype name is a-mish.
Love,
Alice
Sunday, February 3, 2008
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