regarde-moi, je vais partir

(title from Le Tres-Bas, Christian Bobin)

One month ago, exactly, I was in the air flying over the Atlantic Ocean, after arriving at Charles de Gaulle much too early and spilling coffee on my carefully planned “plane outfit”. Knowing that I was going to surprise Niamh and Megan and that dad would probably film the event and consequently upload the video to the internet, I had to look my best after an eight-hour transatlantic flight. My worries about airport immigration and overweight bags, and even my appearance, were quickly conquered, and when I passed through the glass double doors that led out to Arrivals and dad’s face, the five months I spent in Paris rapidly took their place at the back of my mind.

The next few days were a blur of ‘break a leg’, ‘congratulations’, and ‘welcome home’. After seeing Niamh and Megan in their recital (admittedly through a haze of jetlag), Niamh’s graduation came and went, with aunts and uncles coming and going, lots of delicious home-cooked meals out on the deck, and the warmth of family & friends that I’d missed for a long time. I didn’t miss the humidity of Bucks County, but summer nights surrounded by the people I love were lovely to come home to.

Studying abroad presented challenges in finding a job for the summer, especially as I’d wanted to go beyond the gated walls of the Lower Makefield Township pool, where I’ve spent the last seven summers as a lifeguard. It was hard to land interviews, however, when I informed potential employers of my transatlantic location. Apparently phone interviews are out of the question most of the time.

After two weeks of relaxing at home, I begrudgingly took the few hours the management at the pool had allotted me, and sat at the front gate swiping membership cards, quite upset that such an amazing five months had left me sweating profusely in the sun, my skin sticking to an imitation leather desk chair. And then, quite unexpectedly, an interview presented itself, and a week and a half later, I was driving into Philadelphia for my first day at Night Kitchen Interactive, a small design firm in Society Hill. I’m not sure how I got here or why I was chosen for this summer internship, but I feel lucky every day to be here. The office is amazing and the people at Night Kitchen are really interesting, smart, dynamic individuals. I’m doing research for an interactive exhibit at the University of Michigan Museum of Art, and I’ve already learned a lot. It can be dull to sit in front of a computer for eight hours a day, but I’m getting paid and I’m just happy to be gaining some experience.

After calculating gas prices and tallying up thirty-five dollars a day in parking fees, I decided to invest in a weekly train pass from SEPTA.

My daily morning commute takes about an hour and fifteen minutes, but taking the train and subway (the El) every day has brought to mind certain things I never thought I’d miss about la vie parisienne. The Philadelphia subway system doesn’t have that nutty warm smell that the metro stations emit. People chat on the train into work, and make phone calls without nervously glancing around. I’ve found myself averting my eyes multiple times as I walk to work, instead of greeting strangers with a friendly smile—no doubt evoking negativity.

This morning, the metro, a commuter-friendly, international publication featured a tiny article on Sarkozy’s visit to Israel, and the worship Carla Bruni receives from many Israelis. Had I been reading metro in Paris, Sarkozy would have been not only on the cover, but probably five other places as well.

I miss Paris. It’s not one specific aspect of life in France, but so many things that made up my experience there. The food played a large part of course, as did the people and the language, but even after learning how to behave in public spaces, the elusive nature of Parisians in public was something I came to appreciate. I’m sure summer tourism is in full swing over there—I’m glad I got to see the city as more of a local and was able take advantage of fewer crowds and free entry at many museums, something unheard of in the summer months.

As I take in Philadelphia on a daily basis now, I’ve really come to love this city, practically in my backyard. It could never be what Paris is, but I don’t know if anywhere in the world could compare. Still, the culture, food, and people of Philadelphia constantly surprise me; I’m just thankful that I can still lead a relatively metropolitan life (for the summer at least), and I hope that I’ll be fortunate enough to land in an international city at some point in my grown-up life.

And if that international city is Paris, I’ll be the luckiest grown-up in the world.

the wheels on the bus go round and round...

The tour buses have started rolling into town. Every day, buses from the Czech Republic, or Spain, or even Germany. When my friend Wil was in town, we debated hopping onto a EuroLines bus and going anywhere for a few days, but time got away from us.

Now that high tourist season has arrived, I think I'm beginning to reconcile with the fact that I'm going home. The metro is too hot, the lines at sandwich shops are too long, and there are too many cameras around.

Yes, I think that when May 30th rolls around, I'll be ready.

somewhere in-between.

Last night, I found one of my favorite places in Paris.

I met up with Amanda, a girl from my program, after a failed attempt at doing some final assignments before exams. She had been out with a classmate and her classmate's very affectionate French boyfriend (see: previous entry); I offered her some relief from the public making out, and we headed down to the quay along the Seine.
The weather during the past fifteen days has been absolutely sublime. It took a turn for the worse, however, as the week came to a close, and the thunderstorms and grey clouds rolled in during the day yesterday. By 10pm, the rain had ceased, the ground had dried a bit, and the crowds returned to their perches in parks, on bridges, and along the river, cheap bottles of wine in hand.

A man with a guitar, who I had seen last week when Wil visited, was singing "Dust in the Wind", and a crowd had started to gather up and down the steps. As the audience became more numerous, the man got more excited, and soon, he had everyone-- tourists, locals, old, young, musical, tone-deaf-- clapping and singing along to Oasis, The Beatles, and a whole laundry list of crowd-pleasers that I have since written down, for future reference.

As I sat there with Amanda, a bottle of red wine nestled between us on the concrete steps, I looked up to my left, and there was Notre Dame, illuminated in the inky blue sky. To my right, just over the bank and behind the large leafy tree, Shakespeare & Company had just closed its shutters (to the public, at least) for the night. And all around me, the spirit of Paris burst out.

A massive monument recognizable the world over, a dynamic and personal space I've come to know and love even more than before, and the people who can't help falling in love with Paris-- all of it was just too well-planned.

cynicism in the city of "love"

The success of my post-spring-break/pre-summer fitness routine owes a lot to the weather of late. We've had nothing less than 75 degrees, clear skies, and sun every day since Saturday. With a five day weekend beginning tomorrow, I couldn't be in a better mood.

My daily run takes me to Parc Monceau, which lies just inside the eighth arrondissment, at the border where the 8th and 17th meet. It's a beautiful park and I'm lucky to have something so convenient in which to run so close by.

In the winter months, on my usually twice-weekly jog, I found the park to be almost empty and even closed a few times. Now, the lawns have been awakened from their winter "repose" and are open to use for picnics, studying, and taking in the sun. It's been interesting to see how the general demeanor of my neighborhood has changed since spring arrived. There are the usual nannies texting on their cellphones as little white, blonde children in matching linen dresses run around the playground, and on weekends, the handsome dads and pregnant mothers take over for their nannies, eating sandwiches and offering their children juice boxes in the shade.

And then, there are the couples.

I'm not a cynic, and although I may at present have a biased perspective, I'll champion Cupid's cause 'til the very end. Paris has been known as not only the City of Light, but La Ville d'Amour too, and in the spring, this seems to apply not to the romantic cafes spilling out onto the sidewalks, or the Tour Eiffel lights on a warm night. The City of Love has become the City of Public Displays of Affection.

My daily run allows me the pleasure of observing each group of people on each bench I pass as I circulate the park's circumference. More often than not, the aforementioned green benches are taken over by tangled limbs and faces pressed close together, often not kissing at all, just touching. On the grass behind and before the benches, teenagers and middle-aged pairs alike lie supine, holding hands, or one's head in the other's lap. They whisper (I assume) sweet nothings into each other's hair, pressing their faces together all the while. Occasionally during the three-hour embrace, they tear themselves apart to smoke a cigarette, or fix each other's hair.

It actually makes me laugh.

The other day, I saw a group of five people, probably around 16 years of age. There were three girls and a couple, presumably all friends. The three girls stood patiently, not talking, as the couple passionately embraced to say yet another long goodbye until they smoked cigarettes with each other no more than three hours later. If I, even as a girlfriend myself, had to stand by while my friend made out with her boyfriend before parting for the afternoon, I wouldn't stand for it. And I certainly wouldn't impose such a thing on my friends.

I realize I may be revealing myself to be so not a parisienne, but if being truly French means completely attaching oneself to a significant other from the age of fourteen, I'm content to have giggled at a quick kiss on the cheek at an eighth-grade dance.

les vacances, the second: prague, vienna, milan

Although a flat tire in the middle of Hungary seems like the worst thing that could ever possibly happen, and although it seemed that at the time, within fifteen minutes, we were back on the road. Who knew that a Czech student bus company would be so good with repairs?
We pulled into Prague slightly ahead of schedule, much to our surprise, and within half an hour, we were sitting at a McDonald's, gorging on value meals and catching up with Rob. We made our way back to his residence building, where the woman on duty who was about 80 million years old told us that there was no reservation for the night, only to find a sheet of paper right behind her that stated otherwise. She instructed us to pay the next day, then sent us on our way with our room key.
We didn't pay the next day, and as the secretary's office was closed all weekend, thought we'd get away with not paying at all. On Friday, we had plans to meet up with Justin Quinn, a professor at Charles University who did a semester of teaching at Villanova last year. He's an Irish ex-pat living and teaching in Prague, and went to Blackrock College in Dublin, meaning he probably played rugby against Dad. Coll and I had both taken a creative writing class with him, and after emailing to let him know we'd be visiting Prague, he offered to take us out for lunch at a "suitably disreputable Czech pub". We feasted on meat and potatoes, and were schooled in the art of Czech beer, enriched with vitamins.
It rained the entire time we were in Prague, until the moment we had to leave.
Rob did a great job of playing tour guide, and it was really nice to be playing the tourist for once, after being the tour guide so frequently with visitors coming to Paris. Although some of the history lessons were a little lost on me after a while, Prague is a beautiful city, despite the rain.
On Saturday morning, Coll and I found ourselves at a restaurant called Cafe Radost, where we feasted on a full vegetarian breakfast, complete with fruit salad. Any fresh fruits or vegetables were a treat at that point! That night, we paid the equivalent of $1.50 to see a performance of Mozart's Don Giovanni, which premiered in Prague, where Mozart was locked up until he finished writing the opera. The movie Amadeus was also filmed in Prague, so we got to see a lot of the buildings featured in the movie. The opera was great; at intermission, since our tickets only got us standing room, we scoped out empty seats and grabbed three together at the very front of the balcony. Delighted with ourselves, we took lots of photos of our VIP seats, only to be kicked out of them five minutes later by a very friendly (not), elderly Czech couple with tickets, who apparently had no problem showing up halfway through the performance.
After the opera ended, we searched the city for ice-cream and unfortunately ended up at McDonald's once again. We waited in line for about 20 minutes and had almost reached the register when a leggy blonde dressed in silver pushed her way to the front, and sat on the counter. Needless to say, neither we nor the group of large British men behind us were impressed. After canoodling with her American boyfriend/customer for about ten minutes, the manager kindly informed her that she would not be receiving her food unless she climbed down. She eventually did, but not without some really hilarious comments from the Brits.
Sunday saw the end of our time with Rob, and as we made our way downstairs with our duffel bags that just seemed to keep on getting heavier, we threw our room keys on the entryway desk and ran out the door, hoping to avoid having to pay altogether. The woman angrily tapped on the window and we made our way back inside, utterly disgusted that our plan had failed.
After paying and lunch at "Bohemia Bagel", we bid farewell to Rob and boarded yet another bus, which would take us to Vienna. Once we crossed the border, the bus was stopped by "border patrol", and although Coll's passport was underneath with her luggage, the police didn't seem to mind. Long live the E.U.

We checked into our hostel on Sunday night, and found ourselves pretty tired, so we relaxed with some beer and a game of Scrabble, during which I used all my letters and a Triple Word Score to become the Scrabble Queen, but only that once. Colleen's friend Will, who we had also hung out with in Budapest and Prague, managed to get a room in the same hostel, so we sat and chatted with him for a while before heading to bed.
The first order of business on Monday, as the sun streamed into our 8-bed dorm room, was to wander in search of flip-flops. Our limited baggage had limited our footwear options, as well as the fact that the constant rain had ruined Coll's shoes. Twenty minutes down the road, in classic European style, we found about 80 H&Ms, where cheap flip-flops & skirts were purchased and donned with glee.
Vienna was really beautiful. The weather was glorious and the buildings are absolutely magnificent, but I found myself a little bored by the time we had circled the Hapsburg Palace for the third time. We snacked on apple strudel in the afternoon, and eventually decided to buy a bottle of wine and settle in the park for an hour or two. It was really relaxing; I think by that point, our energy was running low. We bought some pasta in an effort to save money, and sort of made spaghetti carbonara, but the brand of ham we used had a distinct hot dog flavor, which sort of ruined the taste a bit.
We got up early the next morning so that we could get tickets to see the morning rehearsal of the famous Spanish Riding School, where Lipizzaner horses are trained to jump around and dance. We had to be quite pushy to purchase our tickets, much to the disgust of people in line around us. The rehearsal itself was decent, but we didn't stay for the full three hours, and went instead for a coffee at Cafe Central, where Trotsky hung out and apparently Hitler first started to write Mein Kampf. Lovely environment. After a failed attempt to find Beethoven's apartment, we grabbed lunch and then I visited the Fine Arts Museum while Coll went to an Architecture exhibit. Back at the hostel, we napped for three hours before eating weinerschnitzel at a little corner place down the street from where we stayed. Will left us for Italy, and Coll and I attempted another Scrabble game which was interrupted by a pompous French boy from Lyon. Amends were made when we met a really amusing Swedish girl. We chatted with her for a few hours, got some recommendations for our trip to Milan, and then collapsed into bed.

We arrived in Milan on Wednesday afternoon, after a slightly delayed flight and some overpriced airport food. The sun continued to shine, and we found ourselves at Hotel ABC by 6:00-- slightly more expensive accommodation, but for our own room and a free breakfast, it was worth it. We were also lucky enough to stay right next to the Duomo, one of the main sights in the city.
We feasted on pizza and red wine, followed by gelato, and sat back in our chairs, marveling that we were finally in Italy. It was a great place to end our trip, as things felt more familiar.
We were up early the next morning, as we'd purchased train tickets to go to Verona for the day. Before arriving in Milan, many people had not had good things to say about the city, and for the real Italian "experience", we thought that buying a cheap train ticket was a good idea. On a recommendation from the ticket girl at the train station, Verona would be "very beautiful" so off we went.
And beautiful it was.
Somewhere between the two aperitivos, ancient buildings, and sunshine, we found exactly what we were looking for: a day of genuine Italian life. We strolled around, felt completely at ease to see whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted. As Verona is the famed setting for Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, the city reaps the benefits by claiming one of their buildings as her house, and the walls leading into the courtyard are covered in graffiti proclaiming all sorts of lovers' vows. I'd been to Verona before, just briefly, to see Carmen performed in the ancient arena, and a visit to Juliet's house then proved very different. It's since been cleaned up and renovated, and just wasn't the same.
We ate delicious pasta and pizza for dinner in one of the piazza, then wandered to the train station in search of a train back to Milan. Our tickets were open, so we could take whichever train we wanted, but apparently not the high-speed ones, as we were promptly kicked off our chosen locomotive into the Italian countryside. As a train zoomed past us on the platform, we feared we'd never see Hotel ABC again, but the next train was for us, and we got back to Milano Centrale in one piece. After a nerve-wracking, expensive cab ride back to the hotel, we climbed into foreign beds for the last time.

Our flights out of Milan weren't until the late afternoon on Friday, so we took some time to see more of the city before catching the shuttle to the "budget airport". It was another beautiful day, and although we had to make another dreaded trip to the ATM, soaking up the Italian sun with a delicious cafe latte in my belly was a really great feeling.
Colleen's flight left about an hour before mine, and RyanAir wouldn't let me check in at the same time as her, so we killed some time at Bergamo's only cafe before hugs goodbye. It's strange to think that in a matter of weeks, we'll both be back in America, hanging out like we always did, and not running around Europe, experiencing new things, new food, and new currency.

I was really glad to get back to Paris, even though the trip was fantastic; I wouldn't have traded it for the world. As I took the escalator up towards Rue de Naples, after a lengthy shuttle ride from Beauvais, outside the city, the air smelled different. I looked around, and the few people on the streets weren't wrapped up in woolly scarves for once.

Spring has arrived. I have very little time left here, and it's starting to scare me. I had thought about going to Nice for the weekend, as we have 5 days off starting on Thursday (just when I needed another break!), but Paris has so much to offer that I have yet to take advantage of. I can't say I'll hate to leave; I'll be glad to go home, of course, back to the comforts of being with my family and friends in Pennsylvania. But I'll sure miss Paris.

les vacances, the first: dublin, london, budapest

Well, I survived. On the shuttle from Milan's central train station to the airport yesterday, Colleen and I debriefed the past 12 days, laughing about currency exchange, flat tires, hostel experiences, and everything in-between. I think both of us are surprised that A.) We didn't kill each other, B.) Mini mishaps remained mini mishaps, and C.) We're now left with very little time to enjoy studying abroad.

The weekend seeing all the family in Dublin was a really nice way to start off my trip. It seems very long ago now, but the delicious meals and unbeatable family hospitality was a breath of fresh air before twelve days of running around. I arrived to Nana & Granddad on Thursday evening, and Matt got into Dublin on Saturday morning. I think he enjoyed meeting everyone and hanging around. We took a tour bus around Dublin on Saturday (and part of Sunday), did the obligatory Guinness Storehouse visit, and got treated like royalty until our departure on Monday morning. We managed to book flights that left within twenty minutes of each other, and even though we both flew to London, we ended up in different airports, so I had to say goodbye until I see Matt again in June.

I spent about 24 hours in London, and went straight from Heathrow to Sudbury to spend time with the Egan-Hanlon clan, who I didn't get to see last time around. Aforementioned overstuffed backpack had already been abandoned in favor of a wheely suitcase by this point, and as I got off to switch Tube lines, the zip on the suitcase opened and my clothes fell out onto the track, so a close eye had to be kept on it.
Paula made a delicious dinner, and I really enjoyed seeing the house, and Semiole, again. It's been four years since I was there, and Rosie and Aron are not the little cousins I remember from a few years ago!
After hoisting the suitcase onto the Tube, I spent the night in East London with Colleen (once again), and we went to her local pub for "quid night" before settling down to sleep. The next morning, I repacked once again, as the pesky suitcase was traded for a duffel bag. It turned out to be less than ideal for carrying around, but at least my clothes stayed inside!
Our flight to Budapest was on Tuesday afternoon, and Colleen had booked us an "easybus" to get from the center of the city out to Gatwick. We were a bit delayed and missed our reservation, but thankfully had no problem getting onto the next shuttle. Little did we know, we were in for a very nauseating, rough drive through the English countryside. The driver decided not to drive on a motorway until the last 10 minutes, and Coll and I were both green and holding our stomachs as we got off. We settled our nausea (sort of) with an English breakfast of Meditteranean flavor in the airport, before boarding and leaving for Budapest.

As well-traveled as we both are at this point in our lives, Budapest came as a surprise. Neither of us had been to Eastern Europe (a.k.a. behind-the-iron-curtain-at-one-time) before, and the metro station where we were dropped off by the airport shuttle was quite an eye-opener, to say the least. That being said, we enjoyed free public transportation each day we were there, as there seemed to be no ticket checks of any type in the land. Our hostel was amazing, the best I've ever been to. (Endorsement: www.lofthostel.hu) Upon arrival, we were branded with luminous orange wristbands, and told that if we decided to go Hungarian wine-tasting, we could just show that wristband to a cab driver, and we'd get home in one piece. You think I'm joking...
That night, Farci, the owner (affectionately known as "dad" to Coll and I) and some of his friends made goulash for everyone to try. It was a real treat, as we were tired and glad to eat for free. Colleen's friend Will, whom she met in London, happened to be traveling at the same time as we were, and so we coordinated plans and hung out together quite a bit. Although he didn't stay at The Loft with us, we did have two charming roommates from Miami, who farted in their sleep and thought that buying us drinks was a ticket to a relationship. After spending about an hour at a club in the basement of a building that looked like City Hall, Coll and I went back to our tenement building that housed The Loft.
The rain seemed magnetically attracted to us throughout our trip, so our trek around Buda (on one bank of the Danube) and Pest (on the other) on Tuesday and part of Wednesday was less enjoyable as a result. Tuesday, we wandered aimlessly around Pest and saw St. Stephen's Basilica, stopping for lots of coffee breaks. We then took the funicular up the side of a hill to get to the old medieval part of town, and the rain stopped for a little which was nice. I was doubled over laughing most of the time, because Colleen's shoes weren't particularly suited for the weather, and thus fell apart mid-trek. As we were closely examining the hole where her big toe poked through, a German man poked her toe with his umbrella while his wife simultaneously muttered, "Ah! Da Schuh is Kaput!" After crying from laughing so hard, we stopped for beer and the best french fries I've had in a while before climbing back down to Pest.
Before catching our bus to Prague on Wednesday afternoon, we packed up at The Loft, kissed "dad" goodbye (literally), and climbed up another high point in Buda, the Citadel. The sun shone, of course, as we were due to depart that day, but we enjoyed the view and bid goodbye to Budapest with sandwiches and more beer. After another scary but free ride on the metro, we loaded our duffel bags onto our backs and wandered around a Planetarium on the outskirts of town, where we were due to take the bus to Prague. Luckily, we found it and pulled out of Budapest on time. The bus ride was surprisingly comfortable, minus the lack of bathroom for the first hour. About 2 hours into the ride, as Coll found two empty seats and lay down to take a nap, a thump shook the entire coach, followed by a burning rubber sort of smell wafting through the vents. With nothing but the Hungarian countryside around us, we attempted to figure out what the Czech hostess was announcing, and with the help of a nice man across the aisle, found out that we were experiencing an Eastern European flat tire.

To be continued.

15 days, 6 countries, & 1 very small backpack

Packing for spring break has never been this challenging or amusing in my whole life.
I just don't know how this is going to work. I'm really hoping Aer Lingus doesn't mind a very large handbag as a personal item!

I just want to quickly check in before jetting off until the 2nd of May...

I did 9 euros worth of laundry today, painted my nails and they look horrendous, and now I'm about to go and make myself a lunch out of all the food left in my refrigerator. I still need to put minutes on my phone and get out some cash to have on hand, ready to exchange into whatever foreign currency I happen upon.

Although Colleen and I have still not booked hostels for either Vienna or Milan, I hope we can do so either when I see her in London on Monday/Tuesday, or while we're in a hostel elsewhere.
She and her parents are in town so it's been crazy knowing that we'll have seen each other twice in our respective cities.

Ok ok I guess I'll write a bit-- Niamh's visit was really really great. Apart from overpacking a massive suitcase to haul from my foyer to our hotel on the other side of town, we had a great time. She was happy enough to go off on her own when I had classes (I had no problem skipping a few as well...) and we ate some delicious food, including L'Entrecote, a veritable Parisian institution with crowded tables, enigmatic steak sauce, and no menu. Our hotel was comfortable but certainly not luxurious-- I suppose if 53 euros a night can get you comfort in the heart of Paris, we didn't do too badly! Unfortunately I had quite a few tests and assignments due the week she was here, but I managed and we had a really great time. In between getting asked if we were twins, running around Rue Mouffetard, and eating entire fish still on the bone, we took some great pics and just generally enjoyed both being so in love with this city.

"It's bad that we're here together. I get enough compliments as it is, senorita!"

Mum's visit was quite different, as it started out on a train from Paris to the countryside last Thursday. The combination of fresh air, cows, lavender, and a comfy bed made my two nights in Beaufort absolute heaven. I also got a homecooked meal, with ingredients bought hours earlier at the market. I got my cough checked out at the doctor, filled myself with homeopathic medicine, and by the time we sprinted to catch our eternally-prompt TGV to Paris on Saturday, after a chaotic rental-car drop-off, I felt really refreshed and ready to spend the weekend back in the city. We stayed in a great area, smack between the Marais and the Bastille quarters. The weather was decent, meaning the rain was patchy, so we ate some great meals, did some boutique-browsing, ran into our old friend Sofia Coppola on the Ile St. Louis, and shopped at the Bastille market on Sunday morning. After a bottle of Spanish wine and tapas on Sunday night, we conversed with an Argentinian, Philippe, who was, we concluded, completely full of shit, but works with fashion photographers for French Vogue. He called me two nights ago to go and get a drink, but Colleen was in town so I'll have to save that little rendez-vous for after les vacances.

Les Blanchardieres in Beaufort.. just what I needed.

At the market, with the Bastille in the background

I was sad to see Mum leave on Monday morning, but I've been completely recharged and am now ready to take on this last month-and-a-bit of la vie parisienne, as well as 5 other countries, before Philadelphia and I catch up.

The sky has been blue every morning this week, the trees are budding and blossoming, the flowerbeds are planted in the Jardin du Luxembourg, and I think it's going to be harder to leave than I once thought after all.



So, if I survive budget-airline flights, 7-hour bus rides, and the languages of Eastern Europe, I'll be back on the 2nd of May. A bientôt!

prayers, chez le coiffeur

These past four months studying abroad haven't contained as many "firsts" as I'd expected, but this was unexpected: The First Time I Fervently Muttered Hail Marys While Getting My Hair Cut.
For as long as I can remember... realistically probably since our second year in the United States, I have faithfully visited David J. Witchell on State Street in Newtown, PA, every time I've wanted a haircut. When I chopped off eleven inches to give myself a more "mature" look in sixth grade, David was there for me. He's been there for prom hairstyles that cost way too much money, spa pedicures with friends, and the not-so-frequent trim in-between all that.

Now that I'm far away from Newtown, PA, the time came for me to brave the elements and head to "chez le coiffeur" to attempt a safe haircut.
I just wanted a trim, and was in dire need of one since my last haircut was during Thanksgiving break. Althought I had done a decent job translating for Matt in Geneva over the summer, the prospect of describing a hairstyle to Parisians "coiffeuses" was extremely intimidating.
I spent the night before in my room with Anna, poring through the four American magazines in my room, brought to me care of De and Becky. We tried to find a decent photo of a hairstyle I could imagine on my head, but of course neither the paparazzi-style shots in Us Weekly, nor the fashion spreads in Vanity Fair sufficed. We searched for "haircut" vocab on Google instead, and, armed with a little notebook with words like "dégradé" (layered) and "refraîcher" (refresh, a trim), I made my way to the little salon around the corner, where haircuts were advertised for 40 euros.... cheap by Parisian standards, unfortunately.

The women inside were really nice; I had to wait a while to get seen, and I had a literature test later that afternoon so the relaxed French attitude was getting to me. I was finally shampooed, and as I lay with my neck in the little nook that's never ever comfortable, I missed the trendy music and even trendier staff at David Witchell. I missed the fact that there, despite the perpetually uncomfortable neck situation, I could fall asleep to the feeling of a head massage instead of the rigorous scrubbing I received Chez Le Coiffeur.
The haircut itself was a short-lived, rough affair. The five centimeters I had requested were snipped off, a rough short piece was cut in the front, and when I responded that yes, it was in fact short enough, the hairdresser proceeded to snip at it some more. They do that trick at David Witchell too, but somehow I don't really mind as much.

A part down the middle and one incredibly flat, drab blow-dry later, I thought to myself, "She must be able to tell that I don't like it. I just cannot make my face look pleased."

After shelling out forty euros, I marched out of there, short pieces of hair flying into my eyes, and looked forward to showering so I could rinse out the middle part and flatness in an effort to improve my look.
I think it worked.

The cut is simple and definitely growing on me. I don't know if I'll ever jump at the opportunity to go through that again, but it's definitely a story worth telling.
Ah, language barriers.

I spent a fabulous weekend in Alicante, Spain with Matt from Friday night to Sunday. The sun shone, it was about 75 degrees during the day, and we had some delicious tapas, sangria, and paella to give ourselves the full Mediterranean experience. I was sad to leave that little taste of paradise behind, especially as I gazed out the airplane window at the other side of the Pyrenees, where the cloud cover prevented me from seeing any patch of ground. It was only as I sat on the bus back to the city center in Paris on Sunday evening that I realized it was not only cloudy in France, but snowing. I had to change out of flip-flops immediately.
My sunburned shoulders are starting to peel.

I've just come from the second of two very delicious dinners thanks to Finn and Adrian; I feel so lucky to have family close by that can treat me to a four-course meal at the drop of a hat. And tomorrow, FINALLY, I get to see mum. Unfortunately my train won't stop in Angers until 10:30pm, but that way I can still go to my history class tomorrow night and get to Montparnasse with time to spare. We don't have much planned; a market here and there, some yummy food, and a comfy bed in the countryside. We'll be coming back to Paris on Saturday and hopefully hit some of the spots I have yet to see.
I've started making my final list of "Things to Accomplish Before the End of May" as spring break lurks just one week away. I feel already as if my time is running out!

New guilty pleasure, thanks to dad: Catherine Tate comedy bits on YouTube.
If you can handle British humor, sneak a peek here.

how time flies.

I promise a real update soon.

April is upon me and she came out of nowhere; I suddenly find myself going to be away from Paris for the best part of the next five weekends. I also have less than two months to go before my semester here ends.

April 4-6: Alicante, Spain with Matt
April 10-12: Beaufort with Mumsy!
April 17-21: Dublin with Matt
April 21 & 22: London
April 22-24: Budapest with Coll
April 24-27: Prague with Coll to see Rob and Erica
April 27-30: Vienna with Coll
April 30-May 2: Milan "


What is my life.
I'm also only bringing hand luggage...



Bullet point updates:

• I think I'm getting sick; my glands are swollen and both Anna and I are suffering from a bit of a sore throat and cough.
• Niamh was here and I laughed for a week.
• I got an A on my first French exam.
• The sun shone yesterday & today, and it stayed light until 8pm (because Daylight Savings only just arrived on Sunday).
• New favorite dinner: mini leek & cheese quiche, salad with cherry tomatoes, glass of red wine.
• I'm taking my chances and trying my hand at French haircutting vocabulary on Thursday morning, when I'll venture around the corner to the "Coiffure" for a trim.
• I can't wait for the 70 degrees and sunny that awaits me in Spain!
• I find dealing with registration & summer internship applications really foreign as I sit at my desk in Paris.

And I leave you with a few glimpses of my humble abode, at 22 rue de Naples, Paris 75008.

my daily bread.

French bread must be tainted with a sort of addictive narcotic. I just can't get enough. I don't drink as much coffee or tea here as I do at home, and my caffeine-dependency headaches frequently make their presence known, but this bread addiction is something else entirely.


I spent last weekend in London, visiting Colleen and Matt, and I even got to spend some time with Paula and Ju, although unfortunately not as much as I would have liked. Colleen's friends threw a party on Friday night, and because the English freshmen are English freshmen, the party's title was GLOW and we were expected to dress the part.
Armed with neon paint from Poundworld and Hanes men's undershirts, Coll and I transformed old t-shirts into magnificent (and witty!) costumes, with the help of neon tights and glittery bangles. God bless Primark.

"Costume? My hair IS my costume."

I took myself on a little walking tour during the day, as Colleen had a full day of classes and Matt is now working at the Royal Bank of Scotland. We met for lunch, and afterwards I meandered along Oxford Street, saw Piccadilly Circus and Covent Garden, and perused the tabloid that Londoners call their daily metro paper. Instead of learning about Sarkozy's latest snub, I got to see what Bob Geldof's kids wore to their latest birthday party. Who needs real news when you've got celeb goss?!



After meeting Matt for dinner at an Indian restaurant on Brick Lane, Colleen and I went to the party sufficiently decked out and ready for a good time.

If this isn't appropriate "glow-wear", then I don't know what is.

The next morning, much to our chagrin, we found that the water had been turned off throughout the building as work was being done on the pipes. After a short meeting, we decided to head to Leicester Square to meet Ju and Paula for the Ireland v. England rugby match. I threw my facewash, toothbrush, and some makeup into my bag and we freshened up in the bathroom of the pub. It was hilarious.
Unfortunately, Ireland lost the match, but Matt, Colleen, and I got to see Ju and Paula and chat a bit before parting ways for dinner. I grabbed fish and chips at a pub with Matt before going to see his room in South Kensington, where I met his roommates and hung out a bit before going back to Mile End with Coll.

Paula, me, Coll, Ju, Matt (sleeping?)

It was a great trip and although I didn't stay for the St. Patrick's Day festivities, I was all celebrated out nonetheless. I'm luckily going back in April, en route to Budapest for spring break!

Our group went to see an opera called "Zampa" on the night of March 17th, and therefore, celebratory activities were limited to two drinks at a bar called O'Sullivan's after the three-hour performance. After paying 7 euros for a pint of cider, I preceded my next order by asking the bartender if there was any discount for "real Irish people". He looked at me, left my Guinness to settle on the bar, and refused payment, saying in his English accent, "There's your discount then." It made my night.

Niamh arrives on Monday morning, and I don't know if I'm prepared for the onslaught of sightseeing and activity her visit will inevitably bring. Unfortunately, I've been stuck with my first grammar test on Wednesday, as well as a petit résumé of "Bonjour Tristesse," a novel by French writer Françoise Sagan. I have a midterm on Thursday night for my History of France class, but luckily, that shouldn't be any chore for Niamh as she's quite enamored of l'histoire de la France. We have lots to see and I'm so excited for her to see my life here in Paris; although I have classes and homework this week, she speaks French well and will be glad to wander around herself a bit.


Paris never disappoints. I was feeling down earlier, and finding the trials of forced friendships preoccupying. I sat on the computer for too long, worrying about class registration, internships, the schoolwork of the upcoming week-- and then I decided to throw on some clothes and go out. I'm learning the art of being alone.
I sat in a café today after venturing to Montmartre for cheap postcards. The following is from those few hours:

I love the life of this city: the way it breathes, moves, seems to be a living being. Depending on my mood, Paris can be the coldest, loneliest space possible, but I think that the city is the best friend I've got here. It's just right. I love that little babies wear bonnets that fasten under the chin. I love the couple I see walking past this café right now, sporting identical knit green hats. I love that I meant to walk outside for just a breath of fresh air when I left the foyer over two hours ago. Only in Paris could I eat a delicious meal in the middle of the afternoon, in the same space that cigarettes in brightly colored packages are sold to busy people on their lunch breaks. Two girls sat outside under the canopy with their picnic lunch, just purchased at the market I can see from this window, as first the rain fell, then hailstones. The owner didn't mind their presence. Now they're inside, hands wrapped around steaming drinks.
The woman who I've seen looking in my direction out of the corner of my eye is on her third coffee, and I know she'll order another before leaving. I've been sitting here for about two hours. My croque madame and salad are long gone, I've order and subsequently finished a café crème, and all the waiter has said to me since is, "Ca va?" He knows I'm in no rush, and therefore he relaxes as well. It's really another world over here.

in like a lion...

I guess what I've been waiting for since Day One (now over two months ago!) is a routine. I like to think I'm compulsive and willing to take a chance on what each day brings, but I've found I may be a sucker for schedules after all.
But Paris hasn't really allowed me that.
And so, today I feel at peace knowing that I might have started to accept that, and had to content myself with a balance between the possibility of something new every day, as well as a little routine when the time allows.

My thirst for "normalcy" comes after over a week of visitors, museums, and touring the city I now call home. I had such a great time showing everyone around, from De last week to Maura, Becky, and Coll this past weekend. I think I've probably attained some sort of tour guide certificate at this point, but I can't take all the credit, as everyone was a trooper and paced the entire city mainly on foot, in order to minimize the 1.50 euro metro rides.



I got to see Paris from Sacre Coeur at nightfall, even if it was too cloudy to catch the sunset. I found I'm not the only one with an appreciation for Shakespeare & Co., and all the magic its shelves and visitors carry. I ate three crêpes in two days, thanks to the ever-faithful appetites of my roommates. I drank my cheapest pint of beer yet to be found in Paris, going for a mere 2.60, while the neon lights of Pigalle's "SEXODROME" glared in the background. I stole a sign from a bar by mistake (sort of) and finally figured out the ever-enigmatic night-bus, or Noctilien. I coerced my roommates into posing for jumping pictures on the Champs de Mars, again as hunchbacks at Notre Dame, and, when my wallet grew light on Sunday, mildly considered posing as a gypsy with a pashmina around my head, asking for English-speakers to help feed my hungry family at home.








I just can't complain.
Some of the most interesting conversations of the weekend were with the girls as we compared London and Paris, and the different experiences Coll and I are having as Villanova kids studying abroad for six months. Luckily for me, I get to go and see her London life first-hand this weekend, as I'll be taking the Eurostar under the English Channel on Thursday night. I'll also get to see not only Colleen and Matt, but Paula, Ju, and hopefully Andy too, as the St. Patrick's Day parade in Londontown calls.

Mondays aren't the best days, as most people know, and I found it hard to get out of bed for 9:00 class this morning after chatting to my family until the early hours. As we reviewed imparfait and passé composé yet AGAIN in class, gale winds roared outside and it poured with rain. After returning to the foyer after class finished at noon, I finished watching "The Graduate" and then, to my surprise, saw that the rain had cleared and the showers promised to hold back for a little while. I grudgingly pulled on leggings and my running shoes, and headed to Parc Monceau, only to find the gates closed, so I had to content myself with its periphery. There's nothing quite like being able to see the Arc de Triomphe, knowing the Champs Elysée is mere steps away, while going for an afternoon run.
I came home and grabbed my wallet, then made a visit to the Franprix around the corner. I discovered an "Agriculture Biologique" bakery on the way to school the other day, so after filling my shopping bag with goodies, I stopped there on the way back to Foyer de Naples for a fresh baguette.




If every Monday routine can be like today's, I'll never dread Sunday nights again.

a picnic, a panic, and presque le printemps!

St. Germain-des-Près

I saw my first "to-go" insulated coffee mug this morning, in the hands of a highly animated French man. Not only that, I saw its twin on the desk of one of my classmates this afternoon! Espresso just doesn't work that well with to-go cups I suppose, but it seems that Starbucks is making its mark in France nonetheless.

So I find myself sitting here, waiting for my nails to dry, clean and tired, after a whirlwind of a weekend with De. She arrived bright and early on Friday morning, and somewhere between the picnics outside Sacre Coeur in Montmartre, the nights out gallavanting in front of the Eiffel Tower, and fondue dinners in the Latin Quarter, six days passed and now she's (hopefully) almost back in Philadelphia.

Eiffel Tower from the hill

While we had a great weekend, I can't say I ever want to become a tour guide. I did enjoy playing tourist, however, and taking advantage of the "free first Sunday of the month" special at the Louvre. I've never been before, despite my previous visits to the city, and I was really blown away. The crowds were a little too much, but seeing the magnificent sculptures and works of art recognized almost worldwide was just incredible. I've really developed more of an appreciation for sculpture since being here, if only because I know I could never create something as beautiful as Winged Victory.

Bracing the wind in front of the Louvre



Winged Victory

De and I spent Saturday exploring Montmartre, a neighborhood I've visited before but without so much free time. The sky was so blue and clouds so few that we couldn't resist ducking into the nearest supermarché for a half bottle of red wine, some camembert, and a baguette. We settled ourselves on the steep lawn in front of the Sacre Coeur, and looked out over Paris as we ate lunch.

Looking out at the view from Sacre Coeur



Pique-nique!

Musicians in one of the many squares

I also got to discover a bit of the Bastille for the first time; my roommate is forever telling me to head over there one night for cheap student deals. With a lot of French students currently on break, we couldn't find much of a dancing scene but the bars were decent enough... although still not that cheap!

On Sunday, I decided that although house rules state no guests, I would attempt to get De inside so we could cook here in the kitchen instead of spending more money on a dinner out. It worked perfectly well, as no one made a comment when she walked upstairs with me, but after I had shown her my digs and eaten a yummy pasta dinner, I walked her downstairs only to get interrogated by the man sitting at the front desk. He demanded her room number, and when I replied that she was just my friend visiting for "a few minutes", he shook his head and reminded me that I was forbidden from having any guests. I informed him I had spoken to La Directrice the night before, but he obviously doubted me and told me he would check with her the next day.
I spent the entire night worrying that I was going to be kicked out on the street. Anne, in an attempt to make me feel better, informed me that a girl down the hall had had a crazy party two nights ago, and was given five days' notice before she had to evacuate the premises. Not much of a comfort, but so far nothing has been said and I still have a place to sleep.

Sunday-afternoon crêpes in front of Notre Dame

Gorgeous macaroons at Laduree:
framboise, fleur d'orange, blackcurrant, chocolat noir

Today I had my first real French education hurdle to conquer. I was assigned an "exposition" which is basically just an oral presentation, commonly required a few times a semester. Myself and another girl, Kathryn, had to comment for fifteen minutes on the French government's ban of religious attire in public schools, and after researching exactly why the government has taken this position, I find myself understanding a bit more the strange way in which French people view their liberty.
After the revolution, everything that had been aligned with the monarchy, a.k.a. the Church, was deemed oppressive, and so, like I saw in Loche when I visited in January, many statues of saints in cathedrals have no heads, a reminder of the destruction after the monarchy fell. French people became seen purely as citizens of the Republic, not associated with any group other than the state. State schools, then, cannot accept any sort of outward sign of religious belief, as that contradicts "liberté" in the French sense. Showing one is religious is demonstrating participation as a member of a group, and not as a pure citizen of the state.

Therefore, I've come to conclude that this might be where the strong pride and snobbishness of many French people, especially Parisians, comes from. After winning their liberty and the right to exist simply as citizens and for themselves, the French hesitate when anything seems to threaten that liberty, their autonomy, including when people bash into them on the metro, during rush hour on Wednesdays.

But I digress.

Welsh 312 arrives tomorrow! Becky and Maura want to take advantage of the full day, and are coming in on a 9 a.m. Eurostar; Coll will get to the city around 7 p.m. In all honesty, as tiring as it may be, I love getting to play tour guide and getting to see the museums and neighborhoods I could just as easily pass by. I have no plans as of yet, but I'm sure the weekend will be filled with crêpes, fondue, and possibly one or two things not involving food. The Musée d'Orsay is free tomorrow evening for students, so I think we'll go there and maybe the Louvre on Friday, because I think I could visit every weekend from now until June and still not see it all.

Springtime in the air in the Marais!

Keep the comments coming! Miss you all.

Oh, and HAPPY 15TH BIRTHDAY MOOGS! My little sister isn't so little anymore.

home and away.

I feel homesick tonight.
As I rode the metro home, after a full day of classes and a meeting with our program director, I longed to see a familiar face among the strangers.
It's funny to think that when planning to study abroad, one never really pictures having to go to buy books for class, or dedicating a few hours a week to actually doing homework. Although Villanova generously requests only a "C" in order for credits to transfer, finding out that I'm going to be expected to read a novel in French per week is overwhelming.
And so, as I left Gibert Joseph with more looseleaf that's the wrong size, a wave of longing came over me; longing for my own bed, my family, my friends... even for classes at Villanova, where I can fully express my ideas without stumbling over vocabulary and complicated verb conjugation.

Tonight, home just seems further than usual.

slacker.

That's what I feel like. I mean to update this silly website every day, and by the time I have a free moment, I find myself asleep.


The sky is hanging heavily over Paris today, but I find myself really enamored of this weather. It's very mild, as it usually is when the clouds come, and the possibility of rain lingers but I don't mind, because I've learned my lesson and always carry my little umbrella when I leave the foyer.


Where to begin?


This past weekend was really great. I turned 21 on Sunday, and apart from the generic celebrations that are to be expected, both Matt and dad were here, which just made the weekend that much better. It was very strange, all the same, to find myself surrounded by new faces, and I really did miss celebrating with everyone from home. I can't say I regret not being able to hit all the Villanova hotspots-- there'll be plenty of time for that once June rolls around.

Matt arrived with perfect timing on Thursday the 14th. By the time I met him at the Gare du Nord, it was already 10pm, so we found his hotel and then went for a bite to eat. We spent the weekend sightseeing and strolling around.


Friday was quite miserable, as the temperature plummeted to a frigid 34 degrees, but we made the most of it anyway, since I had skipped class just for the occasion. Although he's been to Paris before, I think Matt developed an appreciation for the smaller details of life in the city; away from the tourist traps, the smaller little neighborhoods and parks can be such a relief.
On Friday night, we found a little restaurant in the Latin Quarter advertising "la cuisine traditionelle" and had delicious steak, French onion soup (which is just onion soup in France of course), and dessert. As we were eating, the waiter approached me and asked, "Parlez-vous francais?" as I had been slipping in and out of both French and English throughout the night. I replied that I did, and he seemed relieved, then requested that I translate charcuterie into English for some tourists he was serving in the back of the restaurant. It was a proud moment for me, to act as translator for a French waiter in the heart of Paris.

Matt and I visited the military museum on Saturday, where they had a lot of memorabilia from the world wars, as well as the tomb of Napoleon, but unfortunately we forgot to visit the tomb as we'd already spent two hours wandering the other parts of the museum. Afterwards, we met up with dad in the Marais and had a coffee before going to the Hotel de Ville to see a free exhibition of color photos from the early twentieth century here in Paris. It was really interesting to see photos that normally would have been taken in black and white- in color.

Out for birthday dinner with the men in my life!

That night, dad took Matt and I to a very trendy restaurant in the Marais, where the food was so tremendously sculpted that we found it hard to eat! With things like potato marshmallow on the menu, it was, without a doubt, one of the most interesting meals I've ever had. Unfortunately dad was feeling a bit tired after we ate, so he headed back to his hotel while Matt and I met up with some people from the program to celebrate my 21st.

My Italian roommate, Anne

Me, Amanda, Deirdre, Lizzie, Nicole, and Anne

It was a lovely weekend, complete with a big American breakfast at a diner on Sunday morning, called "Breakfast in America". We had massive plates of pancakes and eggs, and real drip coffee! I hadn't realized my craving for non-espresso coffee until the steaming cup was set before me, with free refills at my fingertips.
After Matt boarded the Eurostar to head back under the English Channel on Sunday night, I was left with a very funny feeling. Celebrating a landmark birthday with people I've only known for a few weeks was very different. Once dad and Matt had gone, and I was back in my foyer, I felt quite lonely and really wished that my whole family and all my friends from home could have been here. I got some lovely phonecalls from Ju and Paula which really cheered me up, but I was quite homesick and missing everyone a lot. At least Matt and dad came; having bits of my life from home around made it a really special occasion.
Thank you for all your good wishes!

This week saw, at last, the grand finale of my seven-week French intensive language program. After a month in Tours and three weeks here in Paris, I'm just about ready to swear off the language classes altogether. We celebrated with white wine and Indian snacks today at the Catho-- I really enjoyed the class, despite the long hours and often-boring lessons. It's hard to believe that while some people are beginning spring break this week, my "real" semester doesn't start until Monday!
One of our teachers, Julie, is studying English and international relations, and hopes to get a job as a representative in South Africa, so she asked myself and the other girls from Central to have lunch with her today to do a little language exchange; half an hour in French, and then half in English. Unfortunately it didn't work out because she had some administrative stuff to do for the end of term, but she took down our email addresses and we'll hopefully see her later in the semester.

Everyone from my class at the Catho
Julie, the teacher is in front in grey

After classes I met up with my friend Jayne, and her boyfriend, who are both studying in Strasbourg. We had coffee at Les Deux Magots, a "literary" cafe where Hemingway and his cronies spent their days. It's now pretty much just a giant tourist trap, where cappuccinos cost 6 euros and the service is inattentive, but I guess the coffee was pretty good (I have to say that, it cost six euros).

Although the days are long and June seems very far away, time is going quickly. Villanova's spring break starts next Friday, which means a stream of visitors for me! De arrives next weekend, and then after she leaves, the majority of Welsh 312 will be here! Colleen, Becky, and Maura are coming from London and staying through Sunday. I cannot wait to see their faces!

I'm looking forward to the start of the real semester on Monday-- to me, it means I can finally settle into a semi-permanent routine and find time to sleep! With my schedule the way it is, I only have to get up for 9 a.m. classes twice a week, and Fridays are free.

Because we're staying in town this weekend, my friend Lizzie and I are planning on doing a bit of exploring tomorrow and on Sunday. Although there's snow on the ground in Philadelphia, the forecast promises 60 degrees in Paris tomorrow, and I think Montmartre is calling.

Book recommendation of the week: McCarthy's Bar, by Pete McCarthy. Absolutely hilarious.

a word on the wonder that is "la crepe".

I made Sunday a productive day. After paying 7 euros for tokens and discovering that the ONE washing machine and dryer for all 180 residents of the foyer was all booked up for the day, I headed around the corner to spend another six euros at the laundromat. After spreading my jeans out on the heater in my room after an unsuccessful two spins in the dryer, I showered and decided to take the metro to a stop I'd never been to before, right off ligne 4, a pretty direct cut through the heart of touristy Paris.

Line 4 hits a lot of the hot-spots listed in guidebooks: the boulevard St. Michel, St. Germain, Chatelet which leads you right to the Hotel de Ville, etc. It's hellish in the morning, when people are crammed up against the windows like a full glass jar of olives, and businessmen and university students struggle to open their "journal quotidien" to catch up on daily news.

Paris is, however, quite pleasant on Sunday afternoons. The tourists are still around, but I really can't totally exclude myself from those map-reading, photo-taking, overly-chatty crowds because I, like them, am continually awestruck and find it hard to keep my eyes to the ground, in classic Parisian style, as I walk around town.

After walking around the 14th arrondissement for a little while, I decided that, although I have given up chocolate for Lent, my penance for 60 of my limited days in Paris absolutely can NOT extend to Nutella filled crepes. With cold hands from the February air, I fumbled for my precious Carte Orange (my monthly metro pass) and in two minutes, had descended the stairs into the nutty, warm smell of the metro once again.

I rode for about twenty minutes, up to St. Michel, an area I knew that vendors found many tourists, lusting for all things Parisian, to prey upon. With my back to the fountain on the boulevard, which had been filled with bubbles one morning last summer, a large jar with a recognizable red, white, and black label caught my eye.

NUTELLA.

As I anxiously stood in line, two euro coins warm in my palm, I looked on in disbelief as the couple in front of me ordered galettes, savory crepes featuring some mixture of egg, ham, and cheese. With a sweet, oozing Nutella crepe on my mind, I couldn't imagine how anyone could order anything else.

After an agonizing wait, my turn had arrived. One word was all the man needed; I suppose the look in my eyes said the rest. I handed over my money, and at last, the heat from this glorious treat warmed my palms.

I have to announce my disclaimer here:
Stephen Cloughley makes a damn good crepe. On Sunday mornings in the Cloughley house, the big red one with the white trim, you will often find four (sometimes five or more) people happily munching on crepes that have been absolutely perfected over a year or so.

HOWEVER...

No amount of persuasion, or of Dad's masterpieces (sorry dad), could convince me that there is anything better than standing in the middle of the Latin Quarter in Paris, understanding what the man behind the counter just said to me in French, and seeing the color of the Nutella turn another shade of brown inside the crisp shell of the crepe.

I knew it was perfect as I licked the dregs off my now toasty hands, and I got that feeling-- I could drink three liters of water right now.

And so I've decided that Sunday will be crepe day. And if I have a previous engagement, crepe day will be moved accordingly. Also, if I have visitors, I will eat a crepe every day with aforementioned guest... the best hostess should, of course, show Paris in all its glory-- encased in a white paper triangle, crispy around the edges, and oozing with molten Nutella.

ups & downs

Somewhere among the 6 hours of French class (five days a week), evening soirees in the kitchen upstairs, a lack of constant internet connection, and being too tired at the end of each day to make the effort, I'm afraid this poor blog has suffered.

I have so much to say and I don't really know where to begin!
Because the spring term at l'Institut Catholique, or "Catho", runs from the beginning of March until the end of May, we American students have been placed into another month-long language intensive program here in Paris. This means that myself, three others from my group, and thirteen others (who range from Asian missionary priests to Swedish students taking a gap year) take French classes from 9-12 in the morning, and 2-5 in the afternoon. It's really tiring, but good I suppose.

Class is just so amusing.

There's a residential building near the Catho called MEP, which stands for Mission Etrangee de Paris, and the mission itself invites citizens of India, China, Vietnam, and other Asian countries to come to Paris, learn French, and continue their mission work, enriched with the ability to speak another language. This means that Kissinger, Joseph from Vietnam, Mien Chieng, Joseph from China, Dominic, and Stanislaus, all in the same class as me, are here in France to learn French and continue theological study.

I have never been so amused in a class before. Although the dynamic here is very different from the mostly-American-college-student classes in Tours, the differences are all positive and so interesting. For example:
I don't know if all these guys had a chance to continue their studies during their twenties. Now, these 30-40 year old men act like seventh graders during class. They really enjoy whispering the answers to each other when asked a question by the teacher, or poking fun at each other's responses and accents. Observing these guys who have come from so many different countries in one place, speaking a common language, is really something.

Speaking of which, I've recently realized an aspect of French, or foreign languages in general, that I never understood before. It may sound odd, but, in the past, in high school and even into college, learning a foreign language was something extra that happened only while in actual classes. Now, I've begun to understand that French isn't just a language I can learn for three hours a week in an American university-- here, it's an actual form of communication. In order for me to convey any sort of idea to the Indian and Vietnamese people in my class, I have to speak French, and they have to understand.

I guess I just never really perceived the language in that way before.

Here in Paris, I live in the 8th arrondissement, which places me just a fifteen minute walk north of the Champs Elysees. The building I live in, the Foyer de Naples, is close to the metro and 180 students from many different universities and nationalities are housed here during the semester. I live with an Italian girl named Anne from Milan, who studies theatre at the university in Bologna. She's here until July through Erasmus, a European student exchange program. I like her a lot; as far as roommates go, she's been really easy to live with so far and I hope we can start hanging out more when I begin my classes and electives in March.
We speak a mixture of French and English with each other, and late at night she occasionally slips into Italian, but I try to remember as much Italian as I can and we communicate just fine. I hope I can start Italian cooking lessons with her!


After a rather shady exchange last week in the St. Sulpice metro station with a stranger named Alain, I bought three tickets to the France/Ireland 6 Nations rugby match that took place today. Dad arrived this morning, much to my relief. It was really nice to see his familiar face walking into the foyer, and after quickly changing into my Ireland jersey, we walked into the city and had a coffee near the Champs Elysee before heading to L'Entrecote, a famous steak frites restaurant, for lunch. At noon exactly, a line had already formed outside the building, as they don't accept reservations there. Once dad and I had informed the waitress how we wanted our steak cooked, we settled down to enjoy a delicious meal of salad with dressing and walnuts (Mum you've done a great job of recreating it, by the way. I meant to tell you that!) We shared a small bottle of red wine, and then walked down to an Irish pub called James Joyce for a pint before meeting dad's friend Steve for the match.

The weather was absolutely beautiful today, so dad and I really enjoyed hanging around Paris for the day, and once Steve joined us, we each had a beer outside the stadium before the match began. Although Ireland lost, it ended up being a good game and it was really exciting to see it in person after so many trips to Philadelphia to watch games on TV in Fado!

I've never heard so much English spoken in Paris before. The metro was packed with Irish rugby supporters all day. Even after we lost, everyone was in a jovial mood, including the waiters at an Algerian restaurant where we had couscous and North African dishes for dinner.

It's funny how sports bring people together. Even the playful jabs that the Frenchies had been making at us all day were in good fun, and from the old man in a cafe this morning to the French family at the couscous restaurant tonight, the French were generally really receptive to the Irish presence in Paris today.

On the RER ride home from the stadium, a group of Irish people broke out into ballads, shattering the usually silent train ride. When they started "Molly Malone", I couldn't help but join in.

For the first time in a long time, I felt strangely at peace. My schedule may be demanding, the language and the people may be challenging, but today I felt comfortable as I straddled that line between Paris, and home.

a rough start...

Bonjour from Paris!

It's been a rough few days, settling in to a new place much bigger than Tours. On Saturday night, I left my bag (and worse, the bag that Matt gave me for Christmas) in a taxi after a night out at our friend Michael's friend's apartment. My credit card, camera, metro pass, and "plan de Paris" are all gone, and the bag too.

Things are being dealt with, but there's no worse feeling than being alone in these kind of situations. Thankfully my phone was in my coat pocket, so that was saved, but everything else is gone. As soon as we exited the cab and it pulled away, I realized everything was gone and in a futile attempt, I ran after it, in heels, on the cobblestone street and wrenched my ankle.

Paris is charming and can win my heart back within 20 minutes, but yesterday, it seemed just like every other large, cold, city.

I don't think I will ever lose anything ever again.

And now, I'm using free WiFi at a McDonald's one block from the Champs Elysee, because my foyer does not have any reliable internet. It blows my mind that a residence for students doesn't have working internet-- hopefully I don't have to do much research for classes or anything.

Anyway, I'm in Paris for goodness' sake. It just wasn't the smoothest of beginnings.

I'll try to update with more positive details soon... Bises!

scooter streets

Observation #145: Razor scooters are so not over in Tours.


My walk to school for the past almost-four weeks has become routine, yes, but in the best possible way. I always cut through the train station, a place so interesting in and of itself. Every morning, I see the woman in the beige coat with the Harrod's bag. She's just one of the many tourangeau/tourangelle who commute from the banlieues, or suburbs, into the city every day for work. A shuttle train brings people from St. Pierre des Corps to Tours regularly every day.

Then there's the man in a suit who follows either close behind me, or walks just ahead, depending on when I get out of bed. Every morning, he shakes the hand of a man with a cigar as they pass each other at the gate. Suit Man boards the TGV with all the others who work around Montparnasse; they'll be at their office doors in just over an hour. Cigar Man heads away from the station and towards his office. Maybe he works at one of the many law offices near my house.

There is a surprising number of bums on the streets this early too. Their malnourished dogs never cease their curiosity-- and the dreadlock sporting, parachute-pant wearing delinquents never cease drinking Kronenbourg out of cans bought at the nearest supermarket. After learning about the money given to those au chomage, or unemployed, I wonder if the men who sit outside the train station, smoking cigarette butts and talking to the sky have picked up their monthly allowance for more cigarettes and beer.

l'Institut de Touraine

Closer to the Institute, I have many an encounter with middle-school kids on Razor scooters. Despite the iPod headphones in my ears, I can hear the rumble of their rubber wheels before they're too close, and I always scurry closer to the wall as I walk, to avoid catastrophe. I also was on the verge of being hit by a car today-- I was attempting to cross a road when a maintenance van made a swift turn towards me. I probably could have argued, but I'm not ready for that yet.

Michael from Alabama is staying with his aunt and uncle here in Tours, and after informing his aunt that he was meeting up with friends at Place Plu, she offered him her scooter.
"I ride it all around town! It's very good! You will be in the Place in only 7 or 8 minutes!"

So forget riding bikes around with une baguette and a bunch of flowers in the basket-- wipe the dust off that Razor scooter instead, if you want to be really French!

As for me, despite the pending collisions, I think I'll stick to walking.

"J'en ai marre!"

I think I'm going to start keeping track of my favorite things to say in French, the above being one of them. For anyone familiar with the Smiths, the pronunciation of, "J'en ai marre!" (I'm fed up with...) is exactly the same as Johnny Marr, their lead guitarist.
Another of my favorites is spoken instead of "Cheese!" during pictures. The French say, "Oustiti!" which is a type of bird, apparently. "Fromage" just doesn't conjur up a smile the same way cheese does, I suppose.

I have a huge crush on my phonetics/oral expression teacher, Loic. I hope I can take a picture with him before Friday, so I can show all of you my flavor of the month. He's fantastic.

So here I find myself, with only four days left in Tours. I can't believe that I'm going to Paris on Friday; it seems like only yesterday, I was arriving here at 63, rue Jean-Jacques Noirmant, and meeting Serge and Marie-Joe. In a few days I'll have to leave their delicious cooking and comfortable bed behind and take on the big city. I have to say, I'm a little apprehensive, just because the program directors haven't been all that helpful in getting us set up for our semester there. I don't even know yet what level I'll be in at the Institut Catholique, or "Catho", nor do I know what electives I can take.

I've struck up a friendship with a few people from the other big program studying at the Institute, from Hartwick College in New York. We went out together this weekend, and our two groups do a lot of excursions together, so on Saturday we all took a bus to the chateaux Chambord and Cheverny, and on Sunday, we went to see an opera at the Grand Theatre, called "Le Pays". It was a great few days and I really like all the girls I've been hanging out with. I'll be really sad to see them go on Sunday, as their program is just for the month of January. I think some of them are starting to wish that they could stay too!

These are some of the people from the Institut on Friday night,
enjoying a few drinks in Place Plumerau before going dancing...

Amanda and I

Some of the 72 hunting dogs kept at Cheverny



Flashing the peace sign...
One of the most magnificent places in the world!






Girls from Hartwick- Becca, Amanda, myself, and Nat(h)alie

I find myself eating things I would normally refuse, to be polite to my host parents. Well, really, I just mean veal and steak that was almost still alive and way too rare for my taste. Everything else, I have no trouble eating, and enjoying (thanks mum and dad!) Unlike many of the other students I'm studying with, I have not, am not, and never ever will be a picky eater. You won't see me taking tomato sauce off my pizza or scraping pesto off my sandwich. No sir. I have, surprisingly, managed to steer clear of "chevre", or goats' cheese, and I wish so badly that I enjoyed the taste as it is quite a specialty here in the Loire valley, but alas, I just can't do it.

I've had to invest in a battery charger as my camera died over the weekend, bringing my total "investments" count to 4: another coat, the battery charger, a hairdryer, and a Longchamp bag. Hopefully I can get my "investments" out of the way before Paris....

Since our train leaves Tours at 12:09 on Friday, our group won't be attending classes and is therefore missing our weekly test. Quel dommage. I sure will miss Francoise and the black trousers she wears every single day, the way she casually makes fun of us hoping we won't notice, and her penchant for "travaillez avec vos voisins".

Hanging out with a goat on a leash in Place Plu.

Average Saturday night, I suppose...

I suppose the next time I write will be from Paris, hopefully. Bises!