I arrived in Paris last night, a day ahead of schedule, to meet Melissa, my former suitemate and close friend from DePaul. She's spending a semester in London and we picked Paris as a halfway point.
Like I said, I was supposed to leave today but took the last train out of Bordeaux last night because today the SNCF, the national train company, was striking, along with transportation workers nationwide. I was afraid that I would encounter problems today with the Metro, so I went ahead and took a cab to my Montmartre with my only major plans for today consisting of doing a load of laundry and switching hostels before Melissa's arrival with her two London roommates. It turns out that the Metro is simply fuctioning at reduced frequency, so it really isn't as earth shattering as everyone predicted.
I woke up this morning and walked around the neighborhood before checking out of the Square Calaincourt Hostel with my bag full of dirty clothes. I tracked down a laverie to wash my clothes, and read. I've been working on Les Misérables, Part I, 500 pages for the past two months, often putting it down to read something else.
Then I checked into the Montclair Montmartre Hostel, unpacked a bit, and set out to find food. I soon found a really charming café.(This is Paris, after all.) While I was eating my baguette, paté, prosciutto, cornichons and cheese, a flirtatious little boy spied on me through the slats in the back of his chair. After his father urged him to come over to my table and talk to me, we had a lovely chat. I learned that he was English, four years old, and lives in Paris. As I left him to eat his croque monsieur (a grilled ham and cheese sandwich) with his father, the little boy bashfully touched my arm and then smiled, looking away. It made me really how much I miss being with children of his age.
Soon Ida, one of Melissa's roommates who arrived in Paris this morning, will be back at the hostel and we'll leave to pick up Melissa and her other roommate, whose name I can't remember, at the Gare du Nord. Plans for tonight include a baguette, cheese, and a [some] bottle[s] of wine, and a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower. In all of the times I've been to Paris, I've never been to the top. This is partially the result of my terrible fear of heights, which I hopefully can conquer tonight in the spirit of adventure.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
today's program is brought to you by frog legs: quintessentially delicious!
Last night I went into town to watch Barack Obama's inauguration from the Café Gourmand. The event was hosted by the Bordeaux-USA association and the café was packed with Americans, American-loving Frenchies, and at least one woman who made it clear that she didn't love anyone as much as she loved her view of one of the two large televisions in the room as, from her seat at the back of the room, she shouted at people to get out of her way before the ceremony had even started.
I have to admit that I was moved to the point of tears. This seemed unjustified seeing as I've hardly been personally affected by what I would call Bush's tyrannies, and Obama's election will, in the immediate future, serve more to help me save face as an American abroad than anything else. Nonetheless, I cried.
One of the plethora journalists approached me and asked me why I was crying. I know he was just looking for a usable sound byte, but the question threw me off. "DUH," I wanted to say, motioning to the television screen, but I didn't know how to translate that into French. Instead, I tried to create grammatically correct sentences to express the hope Obama holds for Americans, BLAH BLAH BLAH. I won't pretend that anything I said was any better crafted than your average campaign ad, but cut me some slack! I was crying, for God's sake, and the difficulty of forming French sentences after watching CNN in English is not to be underestimated.
But the journalist saw through my shallow answers and wanted to know precisely which MOMENT had made my eyes well up. I was nearly frustrated by his persistence but gathered up all of my honest emotion and tried to put it into one sentence. I said, roughly (and in French):
"I never in my life expected to be proud to be an American, but tonight I am."
Today I received a text from Ethan that said, "Were you on the radio today?" I'm not sure why, but I hadn't really expected the journalist to use anything I said, and I definitely didn't expect for it to get back to me if he did. It turns out that a friend of Ethan's approached him at school saying that she had heard an Elizabeth from Ohio on the radio talking about the inauguration.
I was pretty excited to hear this. (Unlike Colin, I'm not used to hearing my own voice on the radio. Let's be real: I'm excited to be on WYSO. No, even better, I'm excited to be on local access television, so being on French radio was pretty cool.) In addition, my roommate Jessica greeted me this evening by telling me that I was famous: she had heard me, too!
I'm still having trouble expressing exactly what I'm feeling about President Obama. Ooh! Just writing "President Obama" makes me all tingly, though. Let's celebrate, America! Something has happened to us, and I may not be able to put it into words yet, but I know that it's amazing.
[NOTE: I'd like to find the clip and post it here, but I haven't yet been able to find it yet. I have a team of Frenchmen working on it though, so check back for updates.]
I have to admit that I was moved to the point of tears. This seemed unjustified seeing as I've hardly been personally affected by what I would call Bush's tyrannies, and Obama's election will, in the immediate future, serve more to help me save face as an American abroad than anything else. Nonetheless, I cried.
One of the plethora journalists approached me and asked me why I was crying. I know he was just looking for a usable sound byte, but the question threw me off. "DUH," I wanted to say, motioning to the television screen, but I didn't know how to translate that into French. Instead, I tried to create grammatically correct sentences to express the hope Obama holds for Americans, BLAH BLAH BLAH. I won't pretend that anything I said was any better crafted than your average campaign ad, but cut me some slack! I was crying, for God's sake, and the difficulty of forming French sentences after watching CNN in English is not to be underestimated.
But the journalist saw through my shallow answers and wanted to know precisely which MOMENT had made my eyes well up. I was nearly frustrated by his persistence but gathered up all of my honest emotion and tried to put it into one sentence. I said, roughly (and in French):
"I never in my life expected to be proud to be an American, but tonight I am."
Today I received a text from Ethan that said, "Were you on the radio today?" I'm not sure why, but I hadn't really expected the journalist to use anything I said, and I definitely didn't expect for it to get back to me if he did. It turns out that a friend of Ethan's approached him at school saying that she had heard an Elizabeth from Ohio on the radio talking about the inauguration.
I was pretty excited to hear this. (Unlike Colin, I'm not used to hearing my own voice on the radio. Let's be real: I'm excited to be on WYSO. No, even better, I'm excited to be on local access television, so being on French radio was pretty cool.) In addition, my roommate Jessica greeted me this evening by telling me that I was famous: she had heard me, too!
I'm still having trouble expressing exactly what I'm feeling about President Obama. Ooh! Just writing "President Obama" makes me all tingly, though. Let's celebrate, America! Something has happened to us, and I may not be able to put it into words yet, but I know that it's amazing.
[NOTE: I'd like to find the clip and post it here, but I haven't yet been able to find it yet. I have a team of Frenchmen working on it though, so check back for updates.]
Saturday, January 17, 2009
serosiusly pull together it
I've seen some awful misspellings and mistranslations during my time abroad, but I may have found the most atrocious perpetrator this evening.
I was reliving my near-death experience in the Gorges de Verdon, the Grand Canyon of Europe, on YouTube at Mama's suggestion when, in a particularly frightening video involving bridge jumping, I found this official-looking, most likely government-posted sign...
... to which I can only say "Huh?"
I was reliving my near-death experience in the Gorges de Verdon, the Grand Canyon of Europe, on YouTube at Mama's suggestion when, in a particularly frightening video involving bridge jumping, I found this official-looking, most likely government-posted sign...
... to which I can only say "Huh?"
the small-town girl in me made me do it
I took a day trip today and bummed around the medieval town of Saint-Emilion (see previous post). I’ve recently been musing about making such a trip, but finally decided to come at Lindsay’s suggestion that I meet her and group of Californians (veterans from last semester and new arrivals alike). They were going to take a walking tour of the city followed by a wine tasting, and Lindsay insisted that I could join them by slipping in among the fifty or so students unnoticed.
I called Lindsay this morning as soon as I had checked the train times. I would arrive in Saint-Emilion at 2:10 PM. “Perf,” she said, in the California tradition of abbreviation.
I debated at the ticket counter but finally settled on a return ticket leaving Saint-Emilion at 6:04 PM. I would be glad that I hadn’t opted for the tempting 7:40 PM return.
While I was waiting for my train, Lindsay called with some bad news. She wasn’t sure there would be time for them to meet with me because their excursion was more carefully organized than she had anticipated. If it wasn’t too late, maybe I would want to get refund on my tickets?
Not wanting to call it quits, I decided to go anyway. The train ride was only about half an hour and the weather was gorgeous when I stepped onto the platform in Saint-Emilion – sunny and almost too warm for the thin fleece jacket and cotton jersey scarf I was wearing.
I had been forewarned that the train station sits a little ways outside of Saint-Emilion, but as I stepped into the road it occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea in which direction the town lay. From my vantage point, I couldn’t even see it. I followed a gang of cyclists until they disappeared from sight and then, luckily, found street signs that led me into the southernmost tip of the city.
I grabbed a map from the tourism office and then set to exploring. I wandered through the twisted streets, not missing a chance to descend a crooked staircase or to explore nooks and crannies that reeked of medieval secrets. I walked through cloisters near one of Saint-Emilion’s churches and hiked through neat rows of vines at the town’s borders. I visited the only remaining medieval door to the city, of which some of the original wood remains from the fifteenth century. I’ve also been reading The Golden Compass, lent to me by Hannah during my family’s visit, and I frequently stopped to rest on benches throughout the city, basking in the warmth of the sun and falling into the brilliantly crafted story.
I met up with Lindsay and the others for a brief moment between their activities, during which Lindsay apologized profusely and unnecessarily. I wasn’t at all let down; I don’t need to be told that days to myself are to be treasured, but this was an honest reminder.
After saying goodbye to the Californians and trekking a bit more through the decidedly steep alleys, I needed a rest. I entered a small brasserie and ordered a café crème and a gauffre, a very crispy waffle eaten as a snack or dessert but never for breakfast. Hydrated and refueled, I started the two-kilometer walk back to the train station.
Julien was on his way back to his parents’ house for a weekend visit and while I was waiting for my train, he stopped to say a quick bonsoir and to see me off. The sun was setting when I boarded my train, and I slept the whole thirty-six minutes it took me to get home.
Check out my pictures by clicking here.
I called Lindsay this morning as soon as I had checked the train times. I would arrive in Saint-Emilion at 2:10 PM. “Perf,” she said, in the California tradition of abbreviation.
I debated at the ticket counter but finally settled on a return ticket leaving Saint-Emilion at 6:04 PM. I would be glad that I hadn’t opted for the tempting 7:40 PM return.
While I was waiting for my train, Lindsay called with some bad news. She wasn’t sure there would be time for them to meet with me because their excursion was more carefully organized than she had anticipated. If it wasn’t too late, maybe I would want to get refund on my tickets?
Not wanting to call it quits, I decided to go anyway. The train ride was only about half an hour and the weather was gorgeous when I stepped onto the platform in Saint-Emilion – sunny and almost too warm for the thin fleece jacket and cotton jersey scarf I was wearing.
I had been forewarned that the train station sits a little ways outside of Saint-Emilion, but as I stepped into the road it occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea in which direction the town lay. From my vantage point, I couldn’t even see it. I followed a gang of cyclists until they disappeared from sight and then, luckily, found street signs that led me into the southernmost tip of the city.
I grabbed a map from the tourism office and then set to exploring. I wandered through the twisted streets, not missing a chance to descend a crooked staircase or to explore nooks and crannies that reeked of medieval secrets. I walked through cloisters near one of Saint-Emilion’s churches and hiked through neat rows of vines at the town’s borders. I visited the only remaining medieval door to the city, of which some of the original wood remains from the fifteenth century. I’ve also been reading The Golden Compass, lent to me by Hannah during my family’s visit, and I frequently stopped to rest on benches throughout the city, basking in the warmth of the sun and falling into the brilliantly crafted story.
I met up with Lindsay and the others for a brief moment between their activities, during which Lindsay apologized profusely and unnecessarily. I wasn’t at all let down; I don’t need to be told that days to myself are to be treasured, but this was an honest reminder.
After saying goodbye to the Californians and trekking a bit more through the decidedly steep alleys, I needed a rest. I entered a small brasserie and ordered a café crème and a gauffre, a very crispy waffle eaten as a snack or dessert but never for breakfast. Hydrated and refueled, I started the two-kilometer walk back to the train station.
Julien was on his way back to his parents’ house for a weekend visit and while I was waiting for my train, he stopped to say a quick bonsoir and to see me off. The sun was setting when I boarded my train, and I slept the whole thirty-six minutes it took me to get home.
Check out my pictures by clicking here.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
bonne année and a happy new year
Once again, it's been forever since I've been in touch. I had a really wonderful two-and-a-half weeks with my family. We laughed, we cried, we got stuck in a freak snowstorm on the Côte d'Azur, we tasted wines and got Hannah hyper on too many espressos.
My pictures will soon be on Picasa but for now, you can view them in these Facebook albums (even if you don't have a Facebook account):
The Browns Go To France, Part I
The Browns Go To France, Part II
After a stressful drive to the Bordeaux train station on Monday morning, and after we finally found the Europcar office and returned our rental, Mama, Papa, Hannah and I had about 15 minutes to get them to their TGV platform and say goodbye. I wasn't quite prepared for how hard it was to let them go. In some ways, I was ready. I had so many things to accomplish this week, and I've been out of school for almost a month and I'm getting really sick of vacation. But I wasn't ready for them to go away for five months. Its hard to believe that we're entering the longer half of our separation.
We all cried on the platform, and when their train pulled up, I had to walk away.
We fought and bickered during their visit, as families do, but we also laughed and played. There's no complicated message here. I just miss them so much.
My pictures will soon be on Picasa but for now, you can view them in these Facebook albums (even if you don't have a Facebook account):
The Browns Go To France, Part I
The Browns Go To France, Part II
After a stressful drive to the Bordeaux train station on Monday morning, and after we finally found the Europcar office and returned our rental, Mama, Papa, Hannah and I had about 15 minutes to get them to their TGV platform and say goodbye. I wasn't quite prepared for how hard it was to let them go. In some ways, I was ready. I had so many things to accomplish this week, and I've been out of school for almost a month and I'm getting really sick of vacation. But I wasn't ready for them to go away for five months. Its hard to believe that we're entering the longer half of our separation.
We all cried on the platform, and when their train pulled up, I had to walk away.
We fought and bickered during their visit, as families do, but we also laughed and played. There's no complicated message here. I just miss them so much.
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