Springtime in Provence

I don't want to jinx it. I know it can be fleeting, teasing you one day with its temperate charms, taunting you the next with its cruel cold fronts and wind gusts.

But I surely am. Because there is a suitcase is sitting next to me filled with winter clothes just waiting to be exchanged with summer ones when I see my mom tomorrow in Paris. Because my rosy cheeks slightly twinge from my nap in the sunshine this afternoon in the park. Because I didn't need my winter coat for the first time since arriving as I sprawled out on a blanket, treating myself to a picnic lunch and a new book.

Oh, has spring arrived in Provence?

I hope so. I hope that when I return from my week-long Paris/London trip with my mom and aunt Lindell, the season will have permanently instated itself in the city I so love.

Today was perfection. A needed respite before I jump into traveling again tomorrow.

The most delicious raspberry tart ever. Literally. There has never been anything so sweet as treasuring every tart bite as the sun hit my face, causing little beads of perspiration to pop up on my forehead. Yes, I was sweating and I was simply sitting. I heart spring.

The park is not my little secret when the temperature exceeds 60 degrees. There were school children playing, couples cuddling, and teenagers flirting and smoking all along the hillside.

21 things to do in the 70s, in Oklahoma (but actually in France in 2009)

Turning 21 in America has evolved into an institution. It is a big deal. 21 shots, bar hopping, all your friends, and a shot book to document it all (21 pages for the 21 shots. You sign each page under the name of the shot [which is usually something like "blow job" or "mind {insert bad word}] after you take it, and later add a picture of you and the person who bought you the shot. Progressively, your signature looks less like a signature and more like a blob.).

*Important disclaimer: these are never real shots. They are probably 80% juice, 20% alcohol.

Turning 21 in France just means you are getting older. I saw a 12 year old smoking a cigarette today. 16 is the legal drinking age. Kids start drinking wine with their parents on special occasions before they hit double digits.

Although the French don't care about the big 2-1, I do, so I decided to party it up American style last night with my friends.

Annie, Haley and Karinne made me a delicious, some might say eclectic dinner of guacamole burgers, mashed sweet potatoes, and bread pudding-- exactly what I wanted. "Its like summer and Thanksgiving all rolled into one!" Haley said as we were sitting down to dinner.

This is Haley and I startled because one of the candles went out.

I managed to blow all 21 of the candles out in one breath. Whew!

I invited all the Abroadco students over for drinks before we hit the town. This is when the "American" portion of the night began. 21 shots for me, appropriately watered down with Bellini from Venice and about a dozen different fruit juices Karinne bought at the store.

This party also had a theme-- 70s and Oklahoma (I couldn't choose between the two). The dress was 70s, as were the snacks of "magic brownies" a.k.a. brownies I bought from the store and cut up and considered stuffing with dried lettuce before reconsidering because that would have ruined the brownies. The music was country (She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy) as were the cards that we used to play drinking games.

I made it through 21-- so I'm officially inaugurated into the institution. Although, if the institution requires that you regularly take 21 shots, I don't want to be a permanent member.

Shot number 1 with Haley.

Greta a.k.a. the party-goer who most fully embraced the theme.

This was in the middle of the drinking game. I'm not sure what Danni is doing (on the right) but I do know that whatever she was doing, Sam (on the left) thought it was bizarre.

Haley's scarf progressively became more gansta and less 70s as the night waned. Jill is just having fun.

Jill and I-- shot buddy for #4.

Toilet Paper and Dog Poop

Today was long. 6 hours of class still feels long. I'm hoping I will get use to it soon and time will fly, but alas, I find myself checking my phone to see that only 5 minutes have passed since I checked my phone the last time.

So, the subject of this blog: Toilet paper, dog poop, and obedience. Seemingly random, and rightly so.

Europeans are not keen on re-stocking this necessary amenity. I have taken to pocketing napkins at restaurants just in case I need to use the bathroom later in the day.

By Thursday at school, the bathrooms surely do not have any toilet paper left, as those who clean them seem to think one roll for each stall is sufficient for the week. One roll is not nearly sufficient-- not even close-- and I sigh every time I sit to find that there is, of course, not any toilet paper. I have found myself contemplating if I had time to run to the apartment to use my wonderfully stocked bathroom in between classes. 7 minutes there and 7 minutes back means no. Bummer.

Is this a trait of environmentalism? School budgeting? Simple ignorance?

(Interesting side note: I just put a roll in my backpack. Writing this down has made me realize this is what I should have been doing all along).

French people do not pick up after their dogs-- ever. When walking the streets of Aix it is an absolute necessity to look at your feet. Today was a little bit warmer (spring is on the way-- I can feel it!), and the smell of freshly lain dog poop permeated my nose on the walk to and from school. Aix's other charms make up for this unfortunate truth, and if I raise my head just for a glimpse of a hidden fountain or charming city street before looking back down to navigate the land minds, I am reminded of how much I love this city, despite its crap.

Why don't the French implement a pick-up-dog-poop law like New York? Why don't at least some of them pack a plastic bag on their dog walks? How can a dog poop on stairs (literally, it was scattered all down them)?

If there is an upside to this poopy situation, it is that French dogs are more obedient than American dogs. They are hardly ever on leashes, and listen to their owner's commands flawlessly.

I wonder why this is the case. Are French people more stern? Do they have more time for training (after all, the French work week by law is 35 hours)? Are Americans too lazy to train their pets effectively?

Hmm.... so many questions, so many random, unrelated topics.

Venice: Part 2

The top 10 of course. But in this case, it is the top 6, as Venice is a fantastic city, but is less about the sites and more about the atmosphere.

6. Costumed Carnivaliers The "ploy" of this trip (I booked it through a travel company, and they provided the bus ride, lodging, and breakfast) was that is is Carnival in Venice. This is the event the city plans for years in advance. For two weeks, Venice is jammed packed with tourists from all over the world, surely causing the island to sink with the weight of their luggage and expectation.

Masked Carnival-goers wander the streets of Venice (their destination is always San Marco, the central hub of Carnival) in unbelievably extravagant, extensive, colorful, and detailed period costumes. They usually come in couples, and they really only seem to have one thing on their mind: to be admired. Hundreds of tourists can crowd around an especially elaborate costumed couple, all taking pictures while ooooo-ing and aaaaahhhh-ing.

I'm not sure if these Carnival-goers were Venician or not. It was hard to tell anything about them, as I'm not sure I even saw their skin they were so thoroughly covered, and they could hardly speak, as their masks always covered their face and mouth completely. But I suppose that was the point, and the point of the original Carnival that originated hundreds of years ago in Venice. To lose your identity. To become someone else. And in 2009, to try and set the world record for the most people who don't know your name but have a picture of you in their scrapbooks at home.

5. The people: Italians truly are one of a kind. They are so warm and welcoming. They smile easily, and adjust when they realize the only words you know in Italian are "grazie" and "ciao".
But, they are also quick to speak their mind, and although I never saw an angry Italian while in Venice, I don't think I would want to be the path of an Italian chewing-out session.

The woman who served us breakfast at the hotel was the embodiment of a loving, yet severe Italian mother. She was attentive, but impatient. Always smiling and always joking. Her voice and laughter echoed off the walls every morning, and made me ready to face a full day of walking.

4. Basilica in San Marco: It is a "salad bowl" of architecture and art (according to Annie's travel book), but it was a salad I thoroughly enjoyed.

The inside was incredible-- the hours and hours of meticulous labor it must have taken to mosiac every surface is unbelievable. And most of the tiles were gold, so when the sun shone in at the right angle it was as if everything was shimmering.

By far the best part was sitting on the rooftop and enjoying San Marco square minus the thousands of people in masks and costumes in the street. It was a breath of fresh air. I could see the sun shining on the Adriatic Sea in the harbor, and all was right for the world for the five minutes I sat down and closed my eyes.

3. Venice is an island? I know, I should have figured, right? I suppose I just hadn't thought of it like that before leaving. Whatever the case, Venice's island-ness is a good thing because there are no cars in Venice. The streets never have a real direction, and are hardly ever more than 100 meters long before they dead end, merge with another street, or simply change names.

Rumor has it that the mailmen simply deliver based on numbers assigned and ordered a certain way by district, as the street names hardly mean a thing. I really liked this about Venice, but it meant finding ourselves on the map was a sit down at a cafe or grab a gelato kind of event.

2. Murano: The island famous for its glass, Murano was like a little Venice minus the crowds and confetti and silly string and stands upon stands of vendors selling masks.

The shops sell everything from lamps to cups to jewelry to ornaments to wine stoppers to glass candies to clocks. It was all beautiful and colorful and endlessly fun to look at. I was content to simply look and not buy, as my clumsiness hardly allows me to own anything glass. We spent all day Sunday on Murano, and it was by far my favorite day.

1. Gondola Ride: Although expensive, I'm so, so glad I embraced this experience. It may be a tourist trap. It may be something that was once authentic, but is now commercialized. Whatever the case-- I don't care. It is wonderful to sit in a boat as a nice man in a sriped shirt and straw hat navigates your through narrow canals, allowing you to marvel at everything around you. It was quiet. The first time I heard nothing in Venice.

I would love for everyone to think I live an idyllic life where traveling is easy and I never get tired/hungry/bored when exploring a new city, but this is simply not the case. But, I would say that the good things ALWAYS outweigh the bad. So, as an added bonus: The top 2 worst things about Venice.

2. The Crowds: I'm glad I saw Venice during Carnival, but I have never seen so many people in one place at one time. During one venture, we were stopped still in a street for about 10 minutes as people crammed their way through. I felt that Venice lost some of its Italian character with the swarms of tourists.

1. The Hotel: This is not Venice's fault. It is the company I booked the trip with. Our hotel was located about an hour and half from Venice. This just meant a long end to the day and early, early mornings as we had to plan for travel to the island. We couldn't experience the nightlife as we had to catch a certain vaporetto back to the hotel at a certain hour. The hotel itself was nice, the location simply left something to be desired.

You live, you learn. All in all, I went to Venice-- no complaints here.

Venice: Part I

I'm exhausted, but exhilarated. Venice was great.

I decided not to go back to sleep this morning when we got in (7:00 a.m. after the 10 hour bus ride) so I can go to bed really early this evening and sleep the blissful sleep only your own bed can bring after a weekend of non-stop sightseeing.

Here are some tidbits until I post tonight though.

I took this video Sunday evening after Karinne, Annie, Haley, and I had a really nice pasta dinner at a quaint, authentic Italian restaurant. Haley stayed 1 night in Venice, then went back to Aix Sunday night, so it was just Annie, Karinne, and I on the vaporetto back to the Hotel (which was located on the mainlain city of Mestre-- not the island of Venice). Sunday was by far the best day, and you can tell we are tired, but having so much fun.



You know what to do. Click here for pictures.

Venician Expectations

I'm leaving for Venice is five hours. I think that sentences says it all.

The below pictures were taken of my grandparents in Rome and Venice, probably in the 1950s. I like to imagine their trip-- what they did and ate and saw and how they felt about it. I wish I would have asked my grandmother about it now.

I think my Grammy Gant looks so graceful as she stretches out her arm to feed the pigeons-- its nice to remember her like that.

This is me guessing, but I believe they are in front of the famous Trevi Fountain in Rome. .

The Venice picture-- my favorite photograph. I believe they are in San Marco Square in Venice. My cousin Emily framed this photo for me as a gift about a year ago, and I always have it by my bedside so I can look at it before I fall asleep. It always reminded me why I wanted to go to Europe-- its is almost surreal knowing I will be where they were-- tomorrow!

I often find myself repeating the same mantra in my head. I'm in Europe. I'm in Europe. I'm in Europe. Or today, as I walked to the park as per my new Friday routine, I'm going to Venice. I'm going to Venice. I'm going to Venice.

I'll post Tuesday with pictures and details.

Who Knew?

I have been in France for one month, therefore, I am beginning to get my street smarts. Here are some interesting tid-bits I have learned on my journey thus far.

It is debatable whether it is appropriate to snap your fingers and say "garcon" when eating at a restaurant. Pam, our director here, says never to do such a thing, as it is deeply offensive. But Annie's French teacher taught in class that this is the French custom. I think I'll just raise my eyes and look expectant when I'm wanting a check at a restaurant. Or, I'll just wait it out, as lingering is more European anyway.

When the French think someone is acting "retarded", they have a French word "retarde" that is very similar to our English word, but they also say, "Il ne fini pas", or he is not finished. Sad.

Having a market guy is key. Annie and I don't know our guy's name, but we do know that he is polite, jolly, plump (always a good feature of a market guy if you ask me), and all-around awesome, as he gives us a free bunch of parsley every time make a purchase from his stand. Reading my description now, he almost sounds like a French Santa! He also makes recipe suggestions. He knows us, and we know him, simply not by name.

The French word for affirmative action is translated as "positive discrimination". I learned that in my France and Europe class yesterday when we were talking about equality, and I thought it was a phrase that went very much to the point.

Never, never smile at someone in the street in passing. They will think you are trying to come on to them, or that you are making fun of them. In Monaco, Pam told us we could smile at people in the streets because it was such a safe city, and it was a nice change. I flashed my pearly whites on the thirty minute walk to the restaurant, while exploring the Casino, and on the thirty minute walk back home.

Tips are not necessary at French restaurants-- really. Simply leave a few gold centimes and you are set. The first afternoon, me and a group of Abroadco students at lunch at a cafe. Our total was 50 euro, so we left about a 9 euro tip. I'm sure our waiter thought the stupid American/tipping gods were smiling upon him that day.

The French don't seem to have "diet" or "light" or "fat free" options available at the store. The milk Annie and I use is probably the equivalent of whole milk, and its better that I don't know that (although I dilute it was water sometimes), and I'll probably never know its true percentage.

Speaking of milk, Annie and I are the few people at the grocery store who buy it refridgerated. Most French buy their milk in these cardboard containers by the water/soft drinks. They are room temperature, and the minimum I've seen a French person buy at the grocery store is probably 6 (alot). I'm not sure if it is powder or liquid in the containers, all I know is that I'm unwilling to try it.

If you go to buy a baguette from a bakery, you must be careful if you are a foreigner, as if the bakery is also a cafe, they can charge you a restaurant tax and your baguette-to-go will cost more. Annie and I experienced this the other day, as we were charged (we think) a euro extra for our baguette. I should have said something along the lines of "We're taking this to go, not eating it here" but I could translate the phrase in my head quickly enough.

The French teaching style is vastly different from the American style. Natalie gave us a pop quiz on Tuesday, and handed them back Wednesday in order of grade (as she always does). When she hands you your paper, she says something a long the lines of "Excellent" or "You could do better next time, watch your articles". Therefore, I know how everyone is doing in the class. I know when someone bombs. Everyone knows when I bomb. Its very unnerving, and makes receiving tests and papers much more of an event, as it will sometimes take 30 minutes for her to hand back 15 papers, as she comments on everyone's work and read sections of your paper aloud to the class.

So there it is. I guess some are tid-bits, and some are interesting cultural differences. Whatever the case, I'm becoming much more acustomed to it all as I've had some real time here. It doesn't seem all that different/crazy/unusual as it use to.

Le Cuba Libre

The only light was the flashing blue strobe as it swept the club. The air was hot, compact. There were people everywhere, moving and twirling and swinging and shaking and turning. The music was blaring, pumping so loud I had to yell to Karinne, although she was sitting right next to me, "I really, REALLY like this place!".

I went to Le Cuba Libre last night for salsa lessons.

The instructor, a curious mix of Latin and French ("Bonne nuit amigos!!"), stood on a raised platform for the first part of the lesson, and taught us the basic steps for the dance. When he added in a turn, the lesson officially went over my head, but I stuck it out because it was fun and silly and so dark in there, no one will remember the girl with a flower in her hair (I was trying to add a Latin twist) tripping over her feet, but laughing the whole time.

For the second part of the lesson, the boys stood on the right and the girls on the left. The men were then told to seek out a partner. As the ratio of women to men was about 2:1, I was lucky that a quiet guy in a red Hollister shirt and jeans came and grabbed my hand. He introduced himself as Julien. He didn't look very Latin (before described outfit) so I figured we would be on the same dancing level-- the bad one.

I was wrong.

He was amazing, twisting and twirling me in ways that I didn't know I could go. It was so much fun. He dipped me on the last note, then lifted me up and kissed my hand before disappearing from the dance floor. I later saw him with a partner who equaled him in skill, and it was quite a show. Jillian yelled next to me, "Its like I'm watching Dancing with the Stars, live!".

The French Revolution: A Case of Church, State, and Expression

Today was great-- after 10 hours of sleep last night, I finally feel caught up after my amazingly busy weekend of travels.

I decided to wash my sheets when I woke up this morning, but as French washing machines hold approximately 3 pairs of jeans (and that's a tight squeeze) I had to do two loads-- one for the duvet cover, and one for the sheets and pillow cases. Alas-- who knew French washing machines also take 3 hours to do a single load. You think I would have noticed before now (I promise I have been doing my laundry), but I guess I simply hadn't noticed before. All this means I will be sleeping sheet-less tonight, and that Annie and I's apartment looks like a kid's fort with sheets and duvet covers draped over every available surface. Live and learn I suppose.

Anyway... the subject of my blog entry: The French Revolution, as decided upon after I learned some interesting information about French culture the other day in class.

The cause of the French Revolution is debated in academic circles around the world. Some attribute it to the intellectual currents circulating after the enlightenment, some to the ever-expanding power of the church, others to unfair taxes on the peasants, and still more to the corrupt monarchy and aristocracy. Whatever the case (and if you were to ask a scholar of the French Revolution, he/she would probably say it was a combination of all these factors and more), the French people entered into a tumultuous time in their history when in 1789 they charged the Bastille in Paris and set the revolution in motion. This included a rule of Tyrants, the beheading of King Louis XVI and his famous wife Marie Antoinette, and the even more famous rule of Napoleon.

While all this was happening, the French were debating how to handle the Catholic church. Their government and the church had once been intricately intertwined, but now with "power to the people", how would the church sustain itself without the once mandatory taxes and pittances it demanded?

Fast forward 200 years, and you will see a France that fully embraces the idea of separation of church and state. Natalie was lecturing in class the other day, and went on a tangent about those of the Islamic faith wearing headdresses at schools (we were discussing how to say "I went to school" and "I was going to school" in French-- there are two different past tenses in the language-- somehow this led to an intense discussion about the degree of separation between church and state in our home countries).

Anyway-- here is the interesting cultural tid-bit. French school children are not allowed to wear anything to school as a sign of faith. No cross necklaces. No pins in the shape of the star of David. And no covering for those of the Islamic faith. Nothing. The French Revolution took the country so far as to say in order for everyone to be equal, there can be no representation of your faith in a place like public school

Once you enter university, you are thought to have a mind of your own outside of your parents (a.k.a. you make your own decisions now), and therefore, you are allowed to wear signs of religion.

I was wondering how Americans would react to such rules. It seems to be that it is an encroachment on the freedoms outlined in the first amendment, essentially your freedom of expression.

But then again, I was thinking about rules imposed upon myself when I was in public school-- mainly one rule: you were not allowed to have hair that was not a natural color. This rule was clearly outlined in all the handbooks, and when an unfortunate rebel would dare to dye his/her hair green/pink/blue, they would inevitably be sent to the principle's office and return to school the next day with a hair of "normal" color.

In this instance, the school was encroaching upon my and the other students freedom of expression by saying hair of unnatural color distracted other students from learning. Is this truly that different from the French saying signs of religion "distract" students from learning? I know it seems odd to pit pink hair against God, but it made me think.

Possibly, our countries are not that different when it comes to a freedom of expression (one stemming from a desire to remove the church completely from public life, and another stemming from some school official wanting to define blonde/brown/black/red as the "normal" hair colors). But possibly, the French forcing someone to step outside the rules of their religion in order to make a level playing field for all means that culture and individuality are lost. But then again, when the school says I can't have green hair, am I losing some of my indivudality (although it is arguable not as important as my faith)? Have the French gone too far, or just far enough?

What do you think?

The Perfect Friday Tradition

My friend Allison studied abroad in Paris last spring. She kept a wonderful blog, which was the source of inspiration for my summer blog, and therefore, this current blog (I heart the blogosphere!). I anxiously checked Allison's blog every day, living completely and vicariously through her adventures. Reading about her stay in France helped solidify my decision to study abroad.

I remember an entry she wrote about Sundays in Paris. She had a very specific Sunday routine, and it therefore became her favorite and most looked-forward to day of the week.

I now have Allison's Sunday-- its called Friday.

Last Friday, with a day of no class and a weekend of the Cote d'Azur to look forward to, I wanted to take it easy. So, after sleeping in, I went to the local Aix market and bought fresh eggplant, zucchini, carrots, garlic, tomatoes, and onions for a vegetable spaghetti dish I had in mind for dinner. After depositing my ingredients at the apartment, I set off on a walk to take pictures of my normal running routine.

It was the most beautiful day. My walk was idyllic. I brought my iPod, but decided instead to absorb the sounds and smells of my surroundings. The constant chatter of pedestrians strolling the Cours Mirabeau. The smell of the trees in the park. The sound the small stream made as it rose and fell over pebbles in the riverbed. Even the smell of freshly baking baguette wafting from the plentiful boulangeries seemed to find my senses.

When I made it to the park, I sat down upon the greenest patch of grass and began to read my book. Within the first few pages, I looked up and noticed a man only a hundred feet away unpacking his guitar. He began to play, and it was really, really good. I simply closed my eyes and listened to clear, deep voice as the sun hit my face. He played a lot of Guster, and even a re-vamped version of Tiffany's "I think we're alone now". In my mind, I imagined he was playing it for me, as we were the only two atop the hillside.

My private concert lasted about an hour. As he was packing up his things to go, I almost said something along the lines of that was really good, but I'm glad I didn't. He was only playing for himself, I just was lucky enough to have found him.

On the way home, I bought myself a cookie shaped like a heart to make myself feel in the holiday spirit. Valentine's Day is much less commercial in France.

After a nap, Annie and I made the biggest pot of spaghetti ever. It was more delicious because we concocted the recipe ourselves. I talked to friends on Skype and read the beginning of great new book Annie recommended, What is the What by Dave Eggers, before falling asleep early.

It was the perfect Friday. I plan on repeating my routine exactly this Friday in hopes of stumbling upon my personal iPod again (maybe it is his Friday routine as well) and resting up for my weekend adventures (this weekend is Venice!).

Guitar man/my iPod.

I'm not sure if you can tell, but he was sort of situated on a hill, with a "mini valley" spread out below him. Sometimes his voice would echo off the surrounding "hills", making the concert even more enjoyable.

One of the sounds I absorbed: elementary school-aged children playing during their recess break in the park. I noticed something about little kids when they play-- it sounds the same in every language. The high-pitched giggles and constant yelling has the same feeling-- one of being carefree and youthful and jubilant.

Nice, Monaco, and Eze: The Top 10

10. The Beach: The bus ride from Aix to Nice was 2 hours, and I spent 1 hour or so glimpsing out the front window, waiting for my first view of the notoriously blue water of the Cote d'Azur. It didn't disappoint.

Upon arrival in Nice, the bus parked on the Promenade d'Anglais-- or the main walkway/rollerskating path/jogging path that lines the coast and stretches throughout the city. The sun was shining and the water was sparkling back at me. I felt the warmest I had in a month.

Some locals did as well-- a group of ladies were sunbathing topless with their husbands on the pebbly beaches. And, I saw a head or two bobbing in the waves of the Mediterranean. It was approximately 48 degrees outside.

9. Parfumerie Galimard: Sunday afternoon, we arrived in the quiet, hilltop village of Eze. Before exploring the village, we went on a tour of a perfume factory. Our tour guide was a skinny, glamourous, and sardonic French woman. She smelled lovely, and cracked jokes the entire tour ("Boys, see which ones the girls like so you can buy some for your many girlfriends back home", "Don't follow me, follow your nose", "My perfume is so delicious, the boys just eat me up. That is why I am so skinny")

She told us about "noses" a.k.a. perfume concoctors on the tour. Apparently, there are only 300 in the world. They work only 2 days a week, or else, their noses wouldn't be able to pick up subtle differences in smell. They receive millions of dollars for concocting blends for big name perfume companies. But-- alas, there is a catch (it was sounding like the perfect job, right?). They are not allowed to smoke, drink alcohol, or drink any tea or coffee and these "noses" are not allowed to swim in the ocean or in chlorinated pools.

8. Stairs (in general): What a weekend for walking up stairs! Nice is on a hill. Monaco is on two hills. Eze is a hilltop village. I swear-- I climbed too many stairs to count. The people who live in these towns surely have buns of steel.

7. Socca: Socca is a regional dish in Nice, made especially famous by the eccentric local Thereze. She is a heavily made-up, willy-dilly older woman who has a small restaurant in the very center of the Nice market. Her socca line is, minimum, 30 minutes long, and filled with locals and tourists alike waiting for her speciality.

Socca is essentially a salty crepe, made with a batter of garbanzo beans. It was good-- but the Socca experience was all about Thereze. She was doing a million things at once (wiping tables, warming up Pizza, cutting the Socca, serving diners wines and beer) all while speaking rapid French, cracking jokes, and tenderly serving her loyal customers. I would recommend Thereze-- the socca is just an added bonus.

6. Empire on a Rock: The Palace at Monacco was not nearly as grand or opulent on the outside as I would have supposed. But, with the changing of the guard at exactly 11:55, it felt much more official. Here is a quick video to demonstrate some of the ceremony.

5. Winding Streets of Eze: It was simply a charming place. The streets were narrow, cobblestoned, and almost dizzying-- I don't think they had a determined direction when they were first built hundreds of years ago.

Annie and I clamoured up to the top (more stairs of course) to the Cathedral-- which was a nice respite from the wind and cold. The views from the top were amazing. The village was quiet and peaceful and perfect for a Sunday afternoon where the best thing to do is wander aimlessly.

4. Monte Carlo: The first sign were the fountains-- they were massive and decorated with palm trees and tropical flowers. There were were three or four spread out in front of me and lit from all angles, as if leading to something.

Then, the cars. Ferrari. Porsche. The Mercedes looked like my Toyota Corolla compared to some of the models.

Finally-- it was in front of me. The building to which all the fountains and cars had been pointing. The Casino at Monte Carlo.

It was lit up as if there were a Hollywood movie premier, as I'm sure it is every night. There was a red carpet leading up to the grand building. Those walking in were dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns.

After dinner, we ventured in (wearing our most fancy of duds-- of course) to the lobby. It was impressive-- the most ornately decorate building I have seen in Europe. There were guards everywhere. Through an archway, we could glimpse men throwing 500 euro bills down on the blackjack tables.

We choose not to pay extra to enter the gambling area-- as what would be the fun in knowing that the cost to get in was worrying you, when such a thought had probably never crossed the minds of the 500-euro men? I prefered to observe, and found some happiness knowing that life would be very different if I had money like these people, but that there is a humanity in judging whether or not my budget can handle the 10 euro entrance fee.

Monaco often felt like this-- rich.

3. Nice Panoramas: The old city center in Nice is enclosed by two parks. One is on a hill, and provides the most amazing views of the coast, city, and Mediterrean.

Karinne, Haley, and I ventured up Saturday afternoon, and were given the most amazing reward for our climb. Every place in the park provided a new angle on the panoramic view. It was beautiful.

2. Miramar Dinner: On Saturday night, Pam (the Abroadco leader) reserved a rooftop restaurant called Hotel Miramar. The view was spectacular-- as the restaurant looked out onto Monoco's harbor-- and all the yachts resting there.

We sat down to dinner around 8:00, and left at 12:45! This is probably one of the reasons the dinner is so high up on the list-- I like to feel as if I am becoming more European.

We were served wine, tapas, heart-shaped rolls (it was Valentine's Day, after all), mustard chicken, fried potatoes, salad, and a chocolate cake/apple tart for desert. Three delicious courses in all.

Although it was cold (we were outside) the company was excellent. I really love my program and all the girls in it, and I love that sitting down to a long meal with them is so enjoyable.

1. Nice Carnavale: The pictures say it all! There were thousands of people lining the streets, music blaring on the speakers, and a feeling of excitement in the air while waiting for the parade to start.

It was a parade of flowers, and my whole goal was to catch as much Mimosa (a yellow flower that ushers in the start of spring in France, smells wonderful!) being thrown from the paraders as possible. I succeeded! Towards the end of the parade, those on the floats began to disassemble the structures and throw the beautiful orchids and roses off the float as well.

It was an exciting time, and really made my trip to Nice that much more special.

Here are the pics! Just click Cote d'Azur at the top of the page, then click slideshow.

Wanna go for a jog?

.... visually of course. These are the sights I pass on my morning jog.

The most famous, largest fountain in Aix, the Rotund Fountain is the center of town. It is a lovely fountain, but I prefer the quiet, more modest fountains I stumble upon while walking down winding side streets. They are less spectacular, but more quaint.

The second most famous street in France (The Champes Elysees being the most famous), the Cours Mirabeau is often packed with pedestrians taking "strolls". This is an Aix tradition, and means that the locals walk up and down the street with either friends, family, or dogs, showing off their duds, purchases, and generally, themselves.

I can't wait for spring, when the above trees form a canopy over the street.

Le Deux Garcons is the most famous, and most expensive cafe on Cours Mirabeau. When you grab a 4 euro cafe, you are paying for your seat to admire the strolling locals.

King Remy, the famous Provencial ruler, guards the Cours Mirabeau (you can't tell from this picture, but he is a fountain-- of course).

My first view of Parc de la Torse.

As described in an earlier blog entry-- rustic, don't you think?

When the weather warms, I plan on dabbling my toes in the babbling brook.

Duck pond.

This view makes it easier to keep running, especially when I can hear the river on my right.

Perfect picnic spot for the spring.

The closest fountain to my apartment, if you look in the lower right corner, you can see that it is a thermal fountain. Most of the fountains in Aix are fed by natural hot springs, and on really chilly days, you can see steam eminating from their basins.

I won't be writing for the weekend, as I am going to Nice and Monaco with all the Abroadco students. I'll take lots of pictures!

Cast of Characters

There are three people I am constantly mentioning in this blog. They have just entered my life here in France, but they were fast friends. Here is a quick run-down so you know who is who when I name-drop.

Karinnea.k.a. The Spitfire
Hometown: San Francisco
College: San Diego State University
If she could only shop at one store for the rest of her life, she would choose Nordstrom's.
Destination in Europe she's dying to see: Prague
Favorite Food: Mexican/Nutella Crepes
Loves to: Get excited about going out, then go out!


Haleya.k.a. The Kappa/French whiz
Hometown: McClain, Virginia
College: William and Mary
If she could only shop at one store for the rest of her life, she would choose J. Crew.
Destination in Europe she's dying to see: Strausbourg
Favorite Food: Pizza Capri
Loves to: Dream about working in American politics and learning different languages.


Annie
a.k.a. The Quaker/The Roommate
Hometown: Wallingford, Pennsylvania (right outside Philly)
College: Princeton
If she could only shop at one store for the rest of her life, she would choose Urban Outfitters
Destination in Europe she's dying to see: Amsterdam
Favorite Food: French fries
Loves to: Save the world (one African child and recyclable plastic bottle at a time) and read books.

Bavard comme un pie.

Last night, Karinne's French house mom, affectionately and simply called "Madame", invited Haley and I over for dinner. Wednesdays are her half-day at the hospital, where she works as a secretary, so she insisted Karinne invite us on a Wednesday, leaving her plenty of time to dazzle us with multiple courses and delicious food.

Madame is a single lady probably in her sixties. She is short and plump, but oh-so loving, especially towards Karinne. She hosts students for the companionship, as her husband left many years ago and her son now lives in village about an hour away.

Haley and I arrived with chocolate in our hands (it is customary to bring your hostess a gift in France-- and Karinne told us that she gave Madame chocolate for her welcoming gift, and Madame loved it so much it was gone in two days! I must say, Madame might be one of the first French people I would describe as "plump", but it is a grandmotherly, reminds-me-of-home sort of "plump") and ready to practice our French. Madame insisted we sit down and talk amongst ourselves while she finished preparing, but she also warned us that there would be a $1,000 fine for speaking in English. "Only French in my house!" she yelled from the kitchen.

She spoiled us rotten. Curry chicken, rice, salad, cheese plate, baguette, pear, apple tart, and nutella. The course precession just kept coming and coming, accompanied with a petit-French interrogation of course.

Where are you from? Where do you live in Aix? Do you have a boyfriend? What do you like about Aix? What don't you like? What do you think about Sarkosy? What do you think of the weather here? How close is your apartment to the school? Where have you traveled before? Where do you want to travel?

She was so inquisitive, and while my response in French might have been a few hastily put together phrases (for lack of knowing how to say more), her responses were reaching and complete. She talked slowly out of consideration for our French, and explained any unfamiliar phrases or words when I would shrug my shoulders and ask, "What is that exactly?”

I felt as if I could see loneliness in her eyes, but also a strong desire to remain youthful by questioning us about our "adventurous and carefree" lives. My heart was heavy as I left, but I suppose in a good way, as I think she appreciated our presence as much I as appreciated her generosity.

When she was mid tart bite, I ask her about a picture of a young girl with strawberry blonde hair I had seen prominently framed in the entryway. As she finished chewing her tart a tear came to her eye. "That's ma cherie, the love of my life. My granddaughter Lauren."

She was "bavard comme un pie", or talkative like a magpie (but only if the French mean that in a good way!). Karinne is so lucky to have such a doting house mom while here.

Le Special de Petit-Dejeuner

I love falling back into routine, and today was my regular Tuesday: run with Karinne, 6 hours of class, dinner with Annie (we made Chakchouka-- points to anyone who can figure out what it is. I ate it and I still don't know-- although it was excellent), email and blog catch-up time. So, here is a slightly bizarre anecdote...

In Quogue (the village on Long Island where Zach spent his summers as a boy, and the place he now calls home) the most reasonably priced item for Hampton mile after Hampton mile is the breakfast special. Zach loves them, and stuck up his nose at me the first time I timidly asked, "I feel as if I should know this... but what exactly is a breakfast special?"

A breakfast special Long Island style is a toasted kaiser roll topped with scrambled eggs, a meat of your choice (sausage, bacon, or ham), cheddar cheese, and ketchup. Sounds simple, and it is. They are really, really good, especially when made at the Quogue Market. Three years later with Zach as a boyfriend I am fully versed in the breakfast special ways, and have many a time made some for Zach and myself.

So, too a seemingly unrelated point: I am a college student on a major budget here in France. I've allotted myself the bare minimum for eating, as I feel it is the most disposable thing in my French life (traveling being the least disposable). In Barcelona on Sunday, I was out of funds, so I survived the day on a butter and jam sandwich, two muffins, and two bananas stolen from the complimentary hostel breakfast. I should go pro in cheap eating.

Hence: the French breakfast special. Cheap, delicious, and mostly just cheap. It is my daily lunch here in France, and I thought I would share the recipe, as it just might be better than the Long Island classic.

1/4 toasted baguette
2 scrambled eggs
a couple slices of brie cheese
turkey
raspberry jam

Toast and "jam" the baguette, melt the cheese on the eggs, and add the turkey. Tres magnifique!

For simply 8 euro for a week of lunch, I'm reminded of Zach and sufficiently stuffed until Annie and I venture into the French cookbook for dinner. Not a bad deal.

Barcelona's Top Ten

Barcelona was amazing. Karinne, Haley, Annie, and I met Karinne's good friend Shannon (who is studying abroad in Alicante) and Shannon's friend Emilio (also studying in Emilio) for an unforgettable weekend.

So, my top 10 Barcelonan adventures:

10. Spanish Tapas: Practically every restaurant in Barcelona is a Tapas restaurant, and these tiny treats are delicious and diverse. I had to choose between chicken croquettes, spanish meatballs, and German potato salad for lunch on Saturday-- and I think I made the right decision with the meatballs. Small, filling, and spicy.

9. Las Ramblas: This main street is absolutely bustling. We were warned by classmates who had already visited Barcelona to be very aware of pickpockets on Las Ramblas and to stay away from the main street at night-- but the street during the day is a fiesta of sorts.

Saturday morning, we lazily made our way down the wide street, admiring the souvenirs, flowers, pets, food, posters, and soocer jerseys all for sale. We also saw at least twenty varieties of "statue men" vying for tourists' petty change. Las Ramblas is also home to American familiarities that I suppose come with any city bigger than Aix-- McDonalds, Burger King, Starbucks, and Hard Rock Cafe.

8. La Boqueria: This huge outdoor market close to Las Ramblas made me feel as if the Aix market wasn't quite the feat I thought. Lines and lines of stands contain every ingredient under the sun-- meats, fruits, spices, vegetables, and prepared foods. The market buzzed with the noise of rapidly speaking Spaniards and Catalins, butchers chopping meat, and crowds navigating through the narrow aisles marveling at the array of food.

7. Club Razzmatazz: Saturday night meant one thing: we had to go out and experience the nightlife we had heard so much about from everyone.

We arrived at Club Razzmatazz around 1:30 a.m. and were faced with a very un-Aix-like conundrum-- a line. After about a 15 minute wait, the line began to move, and upon entering, we realized why-- the club was just opening-- at 1:30!

By the time we left around 4:00, the place was packed. Razzmatazz was a three story building with different floors and rooms dedicated to different genres of music. The music was blaring, multi-colored lights were dizzying, and everyone was dancing to techno. It was a lot of fun.

I had a conversation with a student from the U.K. who yelled to me over the music, "You are from America, right?!"

"Yes." I yelled back.

"America-- that is the greatest country in the world!!"

Definitely the first time I've heard that abroad-- and probably the only.

6. Parc Guell: Gaudi, the famous Barcelonan architect, worked on Parc Guell for many years, transforming a piece of land in the northern part of the city into a playscape of sorts.

Colorful tiled lizards, colums made of rock that look as if they are growing out of the earth, a huge square with a tiled bench that stretches the length, and hidden staircases made the park seem less like a place to relax from city life and more like a place to explore. I felt like a kid trying to discover all its hidden secrets. I love Gaudi's work.

5. Seapoint Hostel: If only it had been warm, this would surely have been my number 1 pick.

Our hostel looked out onto the beach, and the view in the morning as I ate my complimentary cereal breakfast was amazing. It was the perfect start to a day of sightseeing and endless walking as it was so relaxing to see the sun's rays reflecting of the calming water of the Mediteranean in the morning. I would recommend this hostel to anyone staying in Barcelona, especially because the people were friendly and very helpful.

4. Picasso Museum: I had never been to a museum that focused solely on one artist, and after my visit to the Picasso Museum, I have to say it is a style I prefer.

The museum chronologically followed Picasso's life work-- and it was truly incredible to see where he started (simply painting portraits) and where he ended (cubism, sculpture, ballet set planning, abstractionism).

I learned so much, and truly appreciated how the city affected Picasso's life and painting in various ways. Barcelona is very proud of Picasso, as they should be.

3. Authentic Paella: Saturday night for dinner, we made our way to a restaurant recommended by the hostel as having the best, freshest Paella in town.

It was incredible. I ate things I never had before (mussels, shrimp that still had their heads) but it was delicious. Everyone around us was a local (good sign), the waiter didn't speak English (better sign), and we ended up staying at the restaurant for about 4 hours (maybe I'm a bit European after all?).

2. Sagrada Family Cathedral: Amazing. Everything I had heard about and more.

The architecture of the church was unlike anything I had ever seen, but in such a good way. I feel sometimes as if churches can seem heavy with stained glass windows that let in little light and columns that appear to be holding up a heavy ceiling. Sagrada was completely different. Gaudi was inspired by nature, and while I think the outside is okay looking (definitely different), the inside was truly magnificient. The ceilings were soaring. Light was streaming in from every window. The columns looked as if they were leading up to heaven. I loved it. My neck hurt afterwards from looking up so frequently (with my mouth open in awe, of course).

1. My first glimpse of Barcelona in daylight: It was so inspiring. Looking at the city from the harbor made me feel as if there was endless possiblity for adventure and discovery. The sun was shining, everyone was happy, and I couldn't help but feeling so incredibly lucky. I said to myself over and over again, "I'm in Barcelona. I'm traveling around Europe like I always dreamed I would. You can't take a single moment for granted because this is actually happening."

It was a 'pinch yourself' kind of moment. I suppose it wasn't a "sight", but it is a feeling I will remember forever.


Click here to see Barcelona pictures. When you get to the page, click Barcelona on the top of the screen. Then, once it takes you to a new page, click slideshow after the brief description of Barcelona (I took too many pictures to put on blogspot!).

Turkey Time

After our interesting, yet delicious adventures in breaded turkey, Annie and I decided to utilize the remaining turkey breasts before freezer burn devoured them whole.

Hence, the idea for a French Thanksgiving.

Mashed sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, and turkey breasts with raspberry jelly (substituting in for cranberry sauce) comprised the main meal. Although the onions on top of the casserole were pan fried and the mushroom soup was a bit runny, all it all it was a fantastic meal that I was very much grateful for.

Doesn't my turkey breast look like a fish?

At the table, Annie and I took turns explaining the things in our lives that we are thankful for.

Family and friends of course made the list, but the big winner for both of us was the same: we are so thankful for our time here in France. A time to explore Europe, soak up another culture, and live in a city that is so charming.

Desert was the "French" portion of our Thanksgiving. Bread pudding with strawberry jam. I don't have words, but I can say that Annie and I ate at least half of it, and that I don't think there is any left this afternoon.

Just two baguettes, 100 g. of butter, 3 eggs, 100 g. of sugar, 1/4 liter of milk, and a layer of strawberry jam in a 200 degree C oven made this desert of perfection.

I won't be writing for the weekend, as I will be in Barcelona with Haley, Karinne, and Annie. We are leaving on the bus tonight, will arrive in Barcelona bright and early Saturday morning (5:15 a.m.-- yikes!), and leave Barcelona Sunday night to arrive back in Aix at 5:00 a.m. (yikes again!) Monday morning.

I'm so excited to see Barcelona, a city I have only heard wonderful things about.

I'll take lots of pictures.

Madame Moreels

Natalie Moreels is my professor for my core language class. I have her 12 hours a week. She is a tall, dark woman around 40 years old with short, brown hair and the classic, chic French style. She is extremely animated when she rapidly speaks French (which always helps with understanding), and she is always moving around the classroom, cracking jokes, and using her hands to talk.

She adores the class from last semester, and tolerates students quirks' very graciously (Danni takes extra long smoke breaks, Jesus listens to his ipod loudly during class sometimes, Yo Min is never there, Helena is brilliant but rarely speaks in class unless prompted).

Although we haven't gotten to know each other well yet, I can already tell that I really like her teaching style and her carefree, yet determined attitude. She loves her students, and will explain a concept at length to ensure every student grasps it equally. She may be blunt, but it is a bluntness filled with love.

Here are just a sampling of some classic Moreels quotes (translated into English of course) to give you a better idea of what sort of woman/teacher she is.

"Ohhh... when I was young, I never smoked, but I definitely got to know the men. You know what I mean? I may not be a wild person, but I am wild in bed!"

"I was at the beach once, just enjoying the waves, when I caught a rough one. I was thrown onto the sand. My hair was askew and I could barely open my eyes from the salt. But when I finally was able to stand up, my swim swuit was over here (she points to the side of her chest) and over here (she points to her knees). Ooooooo my!"

"All the other students in the Theatre class (an elective that she teaches, but full of students not in our 3A class) must think I am so mean. I try to tell them that it is just appreciated if you bring me a cafe before class, but not necessary!"

"Karinne! Turn your San Diego radio station off and redial to France!"

"I know all sorts of men. Chinese men, German men, British men-- let me tell you something, I was crazy when I was young. But now that I am a Madame-- it had to change."

"If you have a question, ask the question! It is more stupid to sit their like an idiot not understanding than to simply ask me what you don't understand. Look at Jesus here-- he never understands, but he is always trying to."

"Greta... I have to say, your paper was average. It had the language of a baby."

Oh Natalie. I have no idea what this next semester will hold.

The Olde Bulldogge

After 6 straight hours of class, a quick at-home workout (I used a cast iron skillet to do triceps), and a dash to the Monoprix for toiletries (shampoo, conditioner, and deodorant was 14 euro a.k.a. too expensive), I went for a language exchange at the local British pub: The Olde Bulldogge.

I arrived thirty minutes early, so I milled around the Old City Centre for awhile. Of course, the clouds opened up and it began to downpour. I ran to the nearest store, hovered inside, checked the price of an umbrella (15 euro too much) and decided I could wait it out. Luckily, five minutes later I was out on the street again.

The Olde Bulldogge can sit comfortable about 20 people-- and by the time I arrived, chose my seat by a friendly looking French girl, and ordered my hamburger and fries, the pub housed at least 25 students all eagerly waiting to practice their French or English.

The friendly looking French girl was named Julie. She is 18 and studying Chinese, law, and English at the local university in Aix. She was very patient with me, as I have had 2 years of French, but she has had 8 of English. She was very polite about correcting my mistakes, and didn't seem bored when it took me at least ten minutes to describe a funny incident involving Zach, the Castro District of San Francisco, and an ice cream shop.

I'm glad I went, and I will definitely be going again next week, if not for the practice, for the delicious burger. Karinne ordered a hamburger at a cafe the other day, and it was served to her bunless and slightly seared a.k.a. very, very pink (I might even describe it as red). The Olde Bulldogge does it up right, with buns, cooked meat, and even the luxury of ketchup.

Slightly unrelated note that might restore my faith in phonetics: I did learn one interesting thing in Phonetics about differing English and French word emphasis in sentences.

In French, all the syllabuls are strung together with equal emphasis until the last syllabul in the sentence, which is drawn out and emphasized. If I were to draw the sound, it would look like a flat line with a spike at the end.

For example: Je veut aller au magaSIN.

In English, we alternate emphasizing words, so our emphasis in a sentence goes up and down. If I were to draw the sound, it would look like waves.

For example: I want to GO to the STORE.

My phonetics professor was saying that Amerians think the French way is more "sexy" because of the big bang at the end, while the French think the American way is more "sexy" because it is up and down and all over the place.

Which do you think is more sexy? Have you ever thought about your sentence pronunciation being "sexy"? Think about it next time you tell someone you want to go to the STORE.

Phonetics as a Foreign Language

Phonetics is stupid. I officially hate the subject.

Example: the phonetic parsing of "lui" (the word him in French) is /lyi/

The professor gave us the final exam from last semester as an example of the kind of work the class entails. The paper looked like another language. Under every French sentence, the student was suppose to write the phonetics parsing. Like so:


So on top of learning French, I must learn this new "language of sounds".

The class always ends with the professor saying two French words that sound very similar, like "Louis" and "lui". The class must distinguish which word she is saying, the first or the second. If we think it is the first (Louis) we say "le premier" and if we think it is the second (lui) we say "le deuxieme". Here is a quick run-down of class today.

Professor: "Louis."
The rest of the class: "Le premiere!"
Me (meekly, quietly, with my head lowered): "Le deuxieme?"

I swear, she is saying the same word everytime, and this is some trick to try and make us think that "Louis" and "lui" sound at all different in pronunciation. The professor claims it is where the word exits your throat, I still claim conspiracy.

Although the two-hour phonetics class was frustrating, my four-hour language class was simply loooonnngggg, but at least it was in a language I semi-understood.

After class, Annie and I went to a mass at the local Catholic church. It was the equivalent of an American youth group with a meal of crepes provided after the service. I went to meet French people and to practice my language skills, and I think I might have accomplished my goal if the group wasn't celebrating the La Chandeleur-- or the national French crepe holiday.

The holiday was officially February 2nd, but during La Chandeleur the French take down their Christmas decorations and eat crepes.

Because La Chandeleur was yesterday, a lot of people showed up for dinner. It was a madhouse. After navigating through the crowd to grab my ham and cheese crepe, Annie and I ate and ran to prevent being trampled by the hungry French masses. Maybe we'll have better luck next week.

French Idioms

Slept almost twelve hours last night. I definitely needed it.

Today made me feel as if I'm finally getting a semblance of a routine here. Being a big fan of order and routine, I would say it is really nice.

Karinne, Annie, and I went on a jog at the park. It started raining, and upon returning to the apartment, Karinne's pants were soaked through to her knees. As I was running with her, all I could hear was the slapping of her sopping pant legs against the dirt and concrete. We came back soaked, but accomplished, as Karinne's ipod running chip informed us that the jog is about 6.7 kilometers. Not bad. We're going again tomorrow.

French class today was fun. We reviewed comparative and superlative phrases, and I learned some French idioms that I thought would be fun to share. The equivalent of "blind as a bat" in English. Here they are:

Elle est belle comme le jour.
She is beautiful like the day.

Il est blanc comme un linge.
He is white (innocent) like the wash (clothes).

Il est beau comme un Dieu.
He is handsome like a God (referring to Greek and Roman statues of their gods).

Il est bon comme le pain.
He is good like bread (referencing the Bible [bread at the last supper] and the French love of baguette).

Il est connu comme le loup blanc.
He is known like a white sheep (which are rare, so this is inferring that he is not well-known).

Il est forte comme un Turc.
He is strong like a Turk (possibly referring to the immense empire gained by the Ottomans?)

Il est heureux comme un poisson dans l'eau.
He is happy like a fish in water.

Il est malin comme un singe.
He is crafty like a monkey.

Il est ruse comme un renard.
He is clever like a fox.

Il est malade comme un chien.
He is sick like a dog.

Elle est jolie comme un coeur.
She is pretty like a heart.

Elle est aimable comme une porte de prison.
She is nice like a prison door. (maybe referring to the hope of release a door offers?)

I thought it was interesting that some are really similar to English, and some not as much. My favorite is the bread one, and I think I'm going to try and incorporate it into my everyday speech!

Annie and I made "pain du dinde" or "breaded turkey" for dinner. Very different, especially as it was flavored with nutmeg. I've really only had turkey for Thanksgiving or on a sandwich, so if you're ever feeling French-- look it up.

Slumber Party

Most of the students in my program at at homestays. Actually, Annie and I are two of only three students in apartments. The students chose homestays desiring cultural immersion and more exposure to the French language. The fact that breakfast and dinner are provided are big draws as well.

I didn't understand this at first. I thought every college student would choose the independence of an apartment over the free meals of a French family. Plus, it is difficult to adjust to living with someone in America, much less in France. I didn't even give it a second thought while filling out my application and immediately chose an apartment.

I don't want to brag-- but man did I make the right decision.

Hence: the slumber party.

Karinne, Haley, and Allison stayed with Annie and I this weekend, not necessarily escaping their homestays, but enjoying the luxuries of independent living.

It was a fun weekend that included failed crepe dinners, dancing until 4 in the morning, and numerous shopping expeditions to catch the last French sales, which only occur in January and July. Pictures below of my glorious apartment and the slumbering guests for the weekend.

Karinne making-up Annie for our Saturday night out. Annie doesn't wear much make up, and when Karinne asked her to put on some mascara, Annie quietly asked me if she should put in on her bottom lashes as well. I responded yes, and thought about how much I like having Annie as a roommate. We are different in some ways (like mascara) but similar in others (like books and music). A refridgerator that actually looks like someone is living here. About a week ago, it contained my nalgene and a block of brie cheese.

When our laundry comes out of the washer, it is literally soaking. I wringe it out in the sink before I hang it on our drying racks. I never knew a dryer was such a luxury!

Allison cecking out her "going out" outfit in the mirror on Saturday.

Note of Accomplishment and Error

I have now jogged at Le Parc de La Torse two times without getting trapped in private property and scaling concrete walls.

Annie and I made potato soup on Wednesday night from my French recipe book that was truly delicious. We are thinking of going pro. We're also considering calling the author to tell him an addition of bacon to the soup adds a saltiness that is definitely necessary.

Side note to this accomplishment: When we were at the store buying the ingredients, we could not find 1 liter of chicken stock amongst the many soup choices. After wandering for 15 minutes, Annie and I finally worked up the courage to approach an innocent shopper with our accented French. I asked her, brokenly, if she knew where we could find such an ingredient on the shelves.

"Don't worry you two, I speak English like you. I think you find it right over there." she said as she pointed to some bouillon cubes.

It was an anti-climatic ending to our search, and reinforced my suspicion that the French always seem to know immediately, possibly before I open my mouth, that I am not French.

The French are master crepe makers-- I am not. Last night for dinner, I made eggs, bacon, and crepes. The crepes stuck mercilessly to the pan every time. When I added oil to the pan to prevent sticking, the crepe just absorbed all the oil, making it inedible. I think I'll buy my crepes from the vendors on the street from now on.

I was able to book a bus ticket to Barcelona for next weekend. Karinne, Haley, and I are going, and I couldn't be more thrilled to start my traveling adventures (as I worked three jobs last semester to finance such luxury).

Karinne and I arrived early to class on Thursday, so I began to have a casual conversation with my professor. The class had written a composition about fashion on Tuesday, and she compliment my work.

I was basking in my French language glory, and therefore missed the meaning of her next comment. I thought she said something about changing classrooms and going up the stairs to a new one, as the radiator was broken.

Her eyes widened as she looked at me, expecting a response. After a short pause of indecision, I nodded my head and said "oui, oui" with a smile, which is my usual response when I'm trying to pretend as if I understood, but I actually have no idea.

Karinne then looked at me and said, "Katie, you are going to move up a level? You are going to leave me?"

I immediately told Karinne that was not the case. I thought that my professor meant moving up the stairs to a new classroom, not moving up levels.

I love that this anectdote illustrates perfectly that I do not need to move up levels. Not even a little bit. I approached my professor after class, and told her I was "tres content" in my current level.