3/31/09
Oh Amsterdam, my love!
I’m sitting on a Eurolines bus, reveling in the fact that at least for now, I have my own seat, which seems to gloriously stretch out from where I am seated at all directions, promising me, if not a great night’s sleep, at least a horizontal night’s sleep.
Amsterdam was great. Possibly, it has stolen the crown from Paris to become my favorite European city. Amsterdam seems to have a particular vibe about its many streets, canals, and bike baths. It is like the infamous coffee shops leak dopey smoke, intoxicating the people of the city into what I’m going to describe as “chillness”. All the Dutch people are chill. The Dutch restaurants are chill. Even walking down the main fare, called Rokin, as cars and the local buses whiz by (almost as fast as the bikers), the feeling in the air is still one of chill. The only thing not chill about Amsterdam is the Dutch language, which sounds more like throat gurgling and rasping than words.
So, here it is. Amsterdam’s top 7 (not 10—the city is too chill for 10 cool things to be seen and done)
7. Brown Bars and Heineken Beer
After dropping our bags at the hotel, we immediately ventured out to find some real, cannot-buy-it-on-a-Eurolines bus kind of food. Luckily, Greta, Karinne, Annie and I stumbled into a local brown bar where the walls were as “brown” as the smoke that made them that way.
After reading about the enticing, often fried, traditional Dutch fare in my guidebook, we immediately ordered homemade meatballs and pints of Heineken (after all, the brewery is located in Amsterdam). The meatballs were delicious, and the almost equivalent of an American hamburger, as they were served on freshly baked rolls with mustard and dill pickles. Locals surrounded us, chatting in their very strange foreign tongue. We had only been in the city for an hour, and I was loving it already.
6. The Scots
When I was booking the hotel in Amsterdam a few weeks ago, I was consternated to find that many of the cheaper hostels were already booked up, and I kept insisting that something must be happening in Amsterdam the weekend we planned to visit.
When we stepped off our bus, a sea of plaid kilts surrounded us, providing a strange welcome to the Dutch city.
“We didn’t hop over the pond on our bus, did we?” I asked as we stared open mouthed at the throngs of Scotsman, “I mean, it was a really, really long 20 hours.”
We didn’t make it to Scotland, but it sure felt like it. The throngs had come to Amsterdam for the Holland vs. Scotland soccer match, scheduled for 8:45 that night. We arrived around 1:00, but the celebration in preparation for the match had already begun, with lively drinking and singing in the streets.
After wandering through the seedy Red Light District that night, we found a bar with a big screen and settled in with our Heinekens for the match.
Holland 3. Scotland 0.
I was cheering for the home team, so I was happy with the results. The Scotsmen, were of course, very disappointed, and as we walked back to the hotel that night, we saw many with their heads and kilts dragging, bemoaning their disappointing loss to the team in bright orange.
5. Beware of Bikers
The “riiiiinnnnnnnnng-ring” of a bike bell in Amsterdam only means one thing: GET OUT OF MY WAY.
I learned this lesson the hard way after confusing a bike path with the pedestrian walkway and nearly being taken out.
If I had to gander, I would say that bikes outnumber cars in Amsterdam 3 to 1. With every street for cars, there is an accompanying path for bikes. I love that about Amsterdam, and if I could have done one more thing in the city, it would have been to rent a bike and explore the side streets of Amsterdam while hopefully scaring a few tourists.
4. “Dutch” fries
Although I’m fairly certain they are a specialty of Holland’s neighbor Belgium, the street fries of Amsterdam are to die for. You have to order them “special”, with mayonnaise, curry sauce, and onions. I know, it sounds gross, but it is oh-so-fatty in such a good way.
3. Van Gogh Museum
Just like the Picasso museum in Barcelona, I loved the Van Gogh museum because it is so much easier to appreciate art when you are witnessing an artist’s growth and changing style throughout the years of their life. This museum was so well done, and truly inspired me. I feel more connected to Van Gogh and his art than ever, as I have seen where he lived, worked, and walked in Arles, Paris, and Amsterdam.
I marveled at Starry Night again (I saw it once on a visit to the MoMa in NYC with Zach) on special exhibit as a part of the “colors of the night” display, documenting Van Gogh’s experimentation with the lights of the night.
I bought a matted print of one of Van Gogh’s sunflower paintings, on display at the museum, as sunflowers are my favorite flower, and Van Gogh’s sunflowers seem to say so much about happiness to me.
2. Rembrandt House
Our big tourist attraction for our last morning in Amsterdam, the Rembrandt House, was fantastic. Not only were we able to explore the famous artist’s bedroom, parlor, and studio, all furnished as they were when he lived there, we were also able to see a live demonstration of how Rembrandt created his famous prints.
A museum artist at the House gave Karinne, Annie, and I a private demonstration, walking us through the print making process. He demonstrated the three different techniques Rembrandt used to etch his impossibly intricate pictures into the copper plate coated with a wax-like mixture. He then filled the crevasses of the plate with thick, glutinous ink, which he then proceeded to scrape off tediously until only the quaint picture of a windmill remained. He then rolled the plate through the printing press, and removed a lovely, complete print. Rembrandt’s prints were so sought after during his lifetime, that it is rumored he had to pay the equivalent of $100 once in order to secure one of his own prints.
It was great. I wish we had had more time in Amsterdam to go to the museum that houses many of Rembrandt’s paintings, but two days isn’t nearly enough time to see all Amsterdam has to offer.
1. Anne Frank House
Museums in Amsterdam are so well done, and the Anne Frank House was no exception. It was as if I was walking through history as I explored the secret annex where Anne and her family hid for nearly 2 years, hoping to escape their inevitable fate in concentration camps simply for being Jews.
It was a powerful place. Seeing the actual journal that has reached so many millions of people was amazing. Although I know nothing of the suffering she endured, I do know she wanted to be a writer, sharing her stories with the world. In that way, I identify with her, and in that way, she gives me hope, as she is one of the most famous writers of history.
Oh, I loved it. Although another 21 hours remain before I am back home in Aix, I think I will survive just fine as I revel in my memories of Amsterdam.
Amsterdam was great. Possibly, it has stolen the crown from Paris to become my favorite European city. Amsterdam seems to have a particular vibe about its many streets, canals, and bike baths. It is like the infamous coffee shops leak dopey smoke, intoxicating the people of the city into what I’m going to describe as “chillness”. All the Dutch people are chill. The Dutch restaurants are chill. Even walking down the main fare, called Rokin, as cars and the local buses whiz by (almost as fast as the bikers), the feeling in the air is still one of chill. The only thing not chill about Amsterdam is the Dutch language, which sounds more like throat gurgling and rasping than words.
So, here it is. Amsterdam’s top 7 (not 10—the city is too chill for 10 cool things to be seen and done)
7. Brown Bars and Heineken Beer
After dropping our bags at the hotel, we immediately ventured out to find some real, cannot-buy-it-on-a-Eurolines bus kind of food. Luckily, Greta, Karinne, Annie and I stumbled into a local brown bar where the walls were as “brown” as the smoke that made them that way.
After reading about the enticing, often fried, traditional Dutch fare in my guidebook, we immediately ordered homemade meatballs and pints of Heineken (after all, the brewery is located in Amsterdam). The meatballs were delicious, and the almost equivalent of an American hamburger, as they were served on freshly baked rolls with mustard and dill pickles. Locals surrounded us, chatting in their very strange foreign tongue. We had only been in the city for an hour, and I was loving it already.
6. The Scots
When I was booking the hotel in Amsterdam a few weeks ago, I was consternated to find that many of the cheaper hostels were already booked up, and I kept insisting that something must be happening in Amsterdam the weekend we planned to visit.
When we stepped off our bus, a sea of plaid kilts surrounded us, providing a strange welcome to the Dutch city.
“We didn’t hop over the pond on our bus, did we?” I asked as we stared open mouthed at the throngs of Scotsman, “I mean, it was a really, really long 20 hours.”
We didn’t make it to Scotland, but it sure felt like it. The throngs had come to Amsterdam for the Holland vs. Scotland soccer match, scheduled for 8:45 that night. We arrived around 1:00, but the celebration in preparation for the match had already begun, with lively drinking and singing in the streets.
After wandering through the seedy Red Light District that night, we found a bar with a big screen and settled in with our Heinekens for the match.
Holland 3. Scotland 0.
I was cheering for the home team, so I was happy with the results. The Scotsmen, were of course, very disappointed, and as we walked back to the hotel that night, we saw many with their heads and kilts dragging, bemoaning their disappointing loss to the team in bright orange.
5. Beware of Bikers
The “riiiiinnnnnnnnng-ring” of a bike bell in Amsterdam only means one thing: GET OUT OF MY WAY.
I learned this lesson the hard way after confusing a bike path with the pedestrian walkway and nearly being taken out.
If I had to gander, I would say that bikes outnumber cars in Amsterdam 3 to 1. With every street for cars, there is an accompanying path for bikes. I love that about Amsterdam, and if I could have done one more thing in the city, it would have been to rent a bike and explore the side streets of Amsterdam while hopefully scaring a few tourists.
4. “Dutch” fries
Although I’m fairly certain they are a specialty of Holland’s neighbor Belgium, the street fries of Amsterdam are to die for. You have to order them “special”, with mayonnaise, curry sauce, and onions. I know, it sounds gross, but it is oh-so-fatty in such a good way.
3. Van Gogh Museum
Just like the Picasso museum in Barcelona, I loved the Van Gogh museum because it is so much easier to appreciate art when you are witnessing an artist’s growth and changing style throughout the years of their life. This museum was so well done, and truly inspired me. I feel more connected to Van Gogh and his art than ever, as I have seen where he lived, worked, and walked in Arles, Paris, and Amsterdam.
I marveled at Starry Night again (I saw it once on a visit to the MoMa in NYC with Zach) on special exhibit as a part of the “colors of the night” display, documenting Van Gogh’s experimentation with the lights of the night.
I bought a matted print of one of Van Gogh’s sunflower paintings, on display at the museum, as sunflowers are my favorite flower, and Van Gogh’s sunflowers seem to say so much about happiness to me.
2. Rembrandt House
Our big tourist attraction for our last morning in Amsterdam, the Rembrandt House, was fantastic. Not only were we able to explore the famous artist’s bedroom, parlor, and studio, all furnished as they were when he lived there, we were also able to see a live demonstration of how Rembrandt created his famous prints.
A museum artist at the House gave Karinne, Annie, and I a private demonstration, walking us through the print making process. He demonstrated the three different techniques Rembrandt used to etch his impossibly intricate pictures into the copper plate coated with a wax-like mixture. He then filled the crevasses of the plate with thick, glutinous ink, which he then proceeded to scrape off tediously until only the quaint picture of a windmill remained. He then rolled the plate through the printing press, and removed a lovely, complete print. Rembrandt’s prints were so sought after during his lifetime, that it is rumored he had to pay the equivalent of $100 once in order to secure one of his own prints.
It was great. I wish we had had more time in Amsterdam to go to the museum that houses many of Rembrandt’s paintings, but two days isn’t nearly enough time to see all Amsterdam has to offer.
1. Anne Frank House
Museums in Amsterdam are so well done, and the Anne Frank House was no exception. It was as if I was walking through history as I explored the secret annex where Anne and her family hid for nearly 2 years, hoping to escape their inevitable fate in concentration camps simply for being Jews.
It was a powerful place. Seeing the actual journal that has reached so many millions of people was amazing. Although I know nothing of the suffering she endured, I do know she wanted to be a writer, sharing her stories with the world. In that way, I identify with her, and in that way, she gives me hope, as she is one of the most famous writers of history.
Oh, I loved it. Although another 21 hours remain before I am back home in Aix, I think I will survive just fine as I revel in my memories of Amsterdam.
3/27/09
Yippee!
I'm off to Amsterdam with Karinne, Annie, and Greta!
We leave today at 5:15, ride 20 hours to Amsterdam, stay two nights, then take the night bus back Monday to arrive back in Aix at noon on Tuesday.
Lots of busing-- but I think it will be worth it. Maybe the tulips will be in bloom! My pictures will tell!
We leave today at 5:15, ride 20 hours to Amsterdam, stay two nights, then take the night bus back Monday to arrive back in Aix at noon on Tuesday.
Lots of busing-- but I think it will be worth it. Maybe the tulips will be in bloom! My pictures will tell!
3/26/09
Revelation
"I hate going to France and Europe," Karinne lamented to me today as we sat in the courtyard of IEFEE, basking in the sun after three hours of grammar with Natalie.
"I never want to go," I mournfully replied, as I too slowly forced myself to stand up and turn my back to the sun.
We were not complaining about the country and continent, we were dreading the class.
France and Europe is taught by a jolly, old professor whom rarely shows up on time (if at all), then proceeds to talk so slowly that I am forced into a coma of sorts in which I alternate between checking what time it is on my cell phone (only another hour!) and twirling my hair (did I use to have this many split ends in America?). He really is a joy-- his class simply is not.
Today, after a full night's sleep, I was fully coherent for his discussion on the education system in the European Union, and something he said actually stuck, and stuck hard. I felt as if a light was shining down from God, finally enlightening me to a French mystery I have been pondering for months.
How is it that the French can simply sit at cafes all day, leisurely sipping cafe au lait and playing cards as they watch the rest of the world pass by? How is it that there are hundreds of "25 euro plat du jour" restaurants in Aix that seem to be in no danger of going under and are always full? How is it that every time I see a French woman on the street, she surely has a Zara bag in tow, demonstrating a day of shopping well done? How is it that every Frenchy can smoke two to three packs a week no problem?
Basically, where do the French get the money to live a life I might describe as a bit luxurious, especially in this economic climate? (Given, most don't have cars and live in apartments that could be described as teeny-tiny.)
I have an answer.
Guess how much university costs for a French student. Just guess.
200 euros a year.
It is so clear now. I can just imagine my mother and father reading this, wondering what kind of coffee they would order if my college tuition was the exquivalent of $270 American dollars a year.
Of course, there are cons to the French education system, which I will discuss in a later blog entry if I feel so inclined, but for now, I'm simply basking in my revelation, as the world seems a bit more balanced than it did before 3:00 this afternoon.
"I never want to go," I mournfully replied, as I too slowly forced myself to stand up and turn my back to the sun.
We were not complaining about the country and continent, we were dreading the class.
France and Europe is taught by a jolly, old professor whom rarely shows up on time (if at all), then proceeds to talk so slowly that I am forced into a coma of sorts in which I alternate between checking what time it is on my cell phone (only another hour!) and twirling my hair (did I use to have this many split ends in America?). He really is a joy-- his class simply is not.
Today, after a full night's sleep, I was fully coherent for his discussion on the education system in the European Union, and something he said actually stuck, and stuck hard. I felt as if a light was shining down from God, finally enlightening me to a French mystery I have been pondering for months.
How is it that the French can simply sit at cafes all day, leisurely sipping cafe au lait and playing cards as they watch the rest of the world pass by? How is it that there are hundreds of "25 euro plat du jour" restaurants in Aix that seem to be in no danger of going under and are always full? How is it that every time I see a French woman on the street, she surely has a Zara bag in tow, demonstrating a day of shopping well done? How is it that every Frenchy can smoke two to three packs a week no problem?
Basically, where do the French get the money to live a life I might describe as a bit luxurious, especially in this economic climate? (Given, most don't have cars and live in apartments that could be described as teeny-tiny.)
I have an answer.
Guess how much university costs for a French student. Just guess.
200 euros a year.
It is so clear now. I can just imagine my mother and father reading this, wondering what kind of coffee they would order if my college tuition was the exquivalent of $270 American dollars a year.
Of course, there are cons to the French education system, which I will discuss in a later blog entry if I feel so inclined, but for now, I'm simply basking in my revelation, as the world seems a bit more balanced than it did before 3:00 this afternoon.
3/25/09
Two Walks: Two Disappointments
My lovely Theta sisters whom I miss dearly sent me a package almost a month ago! I was so excited to see the two postal slips waiting for me when I returned from winter break, telling me I could go pick up my package at the post office in Aix.
But, after a frustrating visit (because of what the lady told me, and because it was in rapid, barely discernible French) I learned my package was being stored at another post office outside of Aix located on a highway that is not reachable by bus. Basically-- the frustrating French postal system could have stored it on the moon and it would have been more accessible to me.
I was finally able to talk to Pam about it this past Monday at lunch. She, being the wonderful director that she is, said she could make the time to go by the office and pick it up for me. We agreed to meet in front of my school today for the hand off.
But, when I saw Pam this morning in front of IEFEE, she looked like I did when I was charged an extra euro for a baguette at a bakery because the woman could tell I was American. She had gone to the post office on Tuesday only to be told they had moved my package back to the office in Aix. She returned my slips to me and said I better go to the office today for fear that they would arbitrarily move the package again.
So, after six hours of endless class, I trekked to the post office, only to learn (after another rapid, barely discernible conversation in French-- this time with a man) that my package has been sent back to Oklahoma.
THE INFERNAL FRENCH POST OFFICES!
So, after a circuit workout with Karinne and Greta during which I sweated out my frustrations with the French postal system, I hastily ate dinner in order to make it to the Olde Bulldog for the weekly Wednesday night language exchange in time.
As I walked to the hamburger joint turning different French phrases around in my head, I was sure my day would turn around after I successfully had a conversation with someone in French (although I was positive such a conversation would entail a lot of hand motions and pointing).
No one was there. Not a single American or French person wanting to improve their second language.
THE INFERNAL STUDENTS OF AIX WHO DON'T WANT TO PRACTICE WITH ME!
Ugh.
But, after a frustrating visit (because of what the lady told me, and because it was in rapid, barely discernible French) I learned my package was being stored at another post office outside of Aix located on a highway that is not reachable by bus. Basically-- the frustrating French postal system could have stored it on the moon and it would have been more accessible to me.
I was finally able to talk to Pam about it this past Monday at lunch. She, being the wonderful director that she is, said she could make the time to go by the office and pick it up for me. We agreed to meet in front of my school today for the hand off.
But, when I saw Pam this morning in front of IEFEE, she looked like I did when I was charged an extra euro for a baguette at a bakery because the woman could tell I was American. She had gone to the post office on Tuesday only to be told they had moved my package back to the office in Aix. She returned my slips to me and said I better go to the office today for fear that they would arbitrarily move the package again.
So, after six hours of endless class, I trekked to the post office, only to learn (after another rapid, barely discernible conversation in French-- this time with a man) that my package has been sent back to Oklahoma.
THE INFERNAL FRENCH POST OFFICES!
So, after a circuit workout with Karinne and Greta during which I sweated out my frustrations with the French postal system, I hastily ate dinner in order to make it to the Olde Bulldog for the weekly Wednesday night language exchange in time.
As I walked to the hamburger joint turning different French phrases around in my head, I was sure my day would turn around after I successfully had a conversation with someone in French (although I was positive such a conversation would entail a lot of hand motions and pointing).
No one was there. Not a single American or French person wanting to improve their second language.
THE INFERNAL STUDENTS OF AIX WHO DON'T WANT TO PRACTICE WITH ME!
Ugh.
3/24/09
I love your toilet.
It is cold here. Uncomfortably cold. I was reminded of January this morning when I opened my shutters, expecting the warm glow of the spring sun on my face, and instead got a blast of frigid wind and droplets of cold rain to boot.
Miming the weather, class was uncomfortable-- uncomfortably boring. After a grueling phonetics test on which I'm sure received an 8 (the American equivalent of a C- or worse), I had to sit through 4 hours of language class with Natalie.
I love Natalie more than words can say. Therefore, I make every possible attempt to stay alert, focused, and attentive during four hours of uninterrupted class. I nod my head when I understand a grammatical point she is trying to explain, ask her the meanings of words I don't yet know, and try to keep a smile on my face for the duration of class.
But every good students has their limits. I was about to reach mine today and discreetly lay my head on my desk when Natalie saved me-- with baguettes and toilets.
As per usual, we were talking about relative pronouns, and landed on a completely different subject-- the double meaning of some French words.
For instance, the word "baguette" has come to mean only one thing to me-- deliciously fresh, oh-so-airy, yet crusty bread that I can buy for 1 euro at any bakery in Aix. But, baguette does not technically connote bread. It literally translates as "a little stick". So, a composer leading an orchestra uses "une baguette" to keep time.
Another word with a double meaning is toilet. "La toilette" is actually a fancy, going-out-on-the-town kind of dress. "Les toilettes" are, as Natalie says, for "le pee-pee".
So, instead of mentally exiting class today, I half-listened to Natalie, and half pictured Mozart leading an orchestra with a giant, French baguette or a poor girl asking her boyfriend if he liked her toilette. Of course, I had a smile on my face. Natalie must have thought I was simply in love with relative pronouns.
Miming the weather, class was uncomfortable-- uncomfortably boring. After a grueling phonetics test on which I'm sure received an 8 (the American equivalent of a C- or worse), I had to sit through 4 hours of language class with Natalie.
I love Natalie more than words can say. Therefore, I make every possible attempt to stay alert, focused, and attentive during four hours of uninterrupted class. I nod my head when I understand a grammatical point she is trying to explain, ask her the meanings of words I don't yet know, and try to keep a smile on my face for the duration of class.
But every good students has their limits. I was about to reach mine today and discreetly lay my head on my desk when Natalie saved me-- with baguettes and toilets.
As per usual, we were talking about relative pronouns, and landed on a completely different subject-- the double meaning of some French words.
For instance, the word "baguette" has come to mean only one thing to me-- deliciously fresh, oh-so-airy, yet crusty bread that I can buy for 1 euro at any bakery in Aix. But, baguette does not technically connote bread. It literally translates as "a little stick". So, a composer leading an orchestra uses "une baguette" to keep time.
Another word with a double meaning is toilet. "La toilette" is actually a fancy, going-out-on-the-town kind of dress. "Les toilettes" are, as Natalie says, for "le pee-pee".
So, instead of mentally exiting class today, I half-listened to Natalie, and half pictured Mozart leading an orchestra with a giant, French baguette or a poor girl asking her boyfriend if he liked her toilette. Of course, I had a smile on my face. Natalie must have thought I was simply in love with relative pronouns.
3/23/09
Nimes and Pont du Gard
Here are the pictures! I didn't take too many (for once, I suppose).
After the relaxing 1.5 hour bus ride, during which I alternated reading and admiring the French countryside, we arrived in Nimes. George commenced to give us a brief walking tour of all city's attractions so we could pick and choose the places we really wanted to explore afterwards. First was the Temple of Diana in the Jardins de la Fontaine, then the Tour Magne, the Maison Carree in the old Roman forum, and finally the amphitheatre.
In true French fashion, instead of using our remaining 2 hours to further explore Nimes' Roman offerings, the Abroadco students and I went to a cafe to luxurate in the sunshine while eating lunch. It was perfect. We admired the idea of the amphitheatre (and marveled at how non-discreetly a woman was breastfeeding her child at the table next to us) while munching on salads and baguettes.
After returning to the bus and driving for another 30 minutes, we arrived at Pont du Gare. This ancient Roman aqueduct spans the Gard River, and is a popular tourist attraction in France because it is extremely well preserved for its 2,000 years. The French government invested a lot of money a few years ago to improve the UNESCO heritage site with a museum and walking trails.
It was a wonderful place really-- not at all pretentious with its grandeur-- but more subtle. I breathed in the fresh air with big gulps, sat on a rock that had been smoothed by years and years of strong Mistral winds, and awed at the Roman architecture. The structure is held together by nothing essentially, as no mortar was used in the aqueduct's construction. The stones were hand cut to perfectly piece together to form every graceful arch. There are still carvings made by the Roman builders that you can see on the rocks indicating outside and inside stones.
I was glad to escape the fierce wind when we returned to the bus for the ride back to Aix. As always, it felt like I was coming home when I saw the familair fountains and quaint streets of my French town. I loved Nimes and Pont du Gard, I simply love Aix more.
After the relaxing 1.5 hour bus ride, during which I alternated reading and admiring the French countryside, we arrived in Nimes. George commenced to give us a brief walking tour of all city's attractions so we could pick and choose the places we really wanted to explore afterwards. First was the Temple of Diana in the Jardins de la Fontaine, then the Tour Magne, the Maison Carree in the old Roman forum, and finally the amphitheatre.
In true French fashion, instead of using our remaining 2 hours to further explore Nimes' Roman offerings, the Abroadco students and I went to a cafe to luxurate in the sunshine while eating lunch. It was perfect. We admired the idea of the amphitheatre (and marveled at how non-discreetly a woman was breastfeeding her child at the table next to us) while munching on salads and baguettes.
After returning to the bus and driving for another 30 minutes, we arrived at Pont du Gare. This ancient Roman aqueduct spans the Gard River, and is a popular tourist attraction in France because it is extremely well preserved for its 2,000 years. The French government invested a lot of money a few years ago to improve the UNESCO heritage site with a museum and walking trails.
It was a wonderful place really-- not at all pretentious with its grandeur-- but more subtle. I breathed in the fresh air with big gulps, sat on a rock that had been smoothed by years and years of strong Mistral winds, and awed at the Roman architecture. The structure is held together by nothing essentially, as no mortar was used in the aqueduct's construction. The stones were hand cut to perfectly piece together to form every graceful arch. There are still carvings made by the Roman builders that you can see on the rocks indicating outside and inside stones.
I was glad to escape the fierce wind when we returned to the bus for the ride back to Aix. As always, it felt like I was coming home when I saw the familair fountains and quaint streets of my French town. I loved Nimes and Pont du Gard, I simply love Aix more.
Goodbyes are never fun, but Nimes is.
Its officially wallowing time.
There is an episode of Gilmore Girls (the funniest, wittiest, all around best show that use to be on television) where Rory absolutely refuses to wallow after a unexpected break up with her dreamy boyfriend Dean. Lorelai enthusiastically urges Rory to eat ice cream, cry her eyes out, and confront the pain-- or else it will never go away-- but instead, Rory goes to the store to buy mundane, meaningless things, does her homework, and attempts to stay emotionally ignorant with business.
Well, I prefer to wallow Rory style. I have perfected it to an art, as I must say goodbye to Zach six or seven times a year after week long visits, as he goes to school at Cornell and lives on Long Island and I go to school at OU and live in Tulsa (or France!).
My plan of attack is always the same: keep busy. Hang out with friends. Have my mom take me shopping. Watch Gilmore Girls. Clean my room. Re-read a favorite book.
Yesterday was no exception-- especially as a new plan of non-wallowing attack stumbled upon me as I was walking back to my apartment after saying goodbye to Zach at the bus station. I was sniffling a bit, reliving Zach and I's best memories in Aix while contemplating which sponge I would use to clean my shower when I arrived home, when I saw a crowd of students in front of the tourist office waiting for a bus.
Quite suddenly, it dawned on me. There was an organized trip to Nimes, an old Roman city in southern France, scheduled for Sunday. This was my perfect non-wallowing solution. I quickly asked George, an older French man and organizer of the trip, if there were any extra places on the bus for me. He said he didn't think so, but that if there were, I would be the first to get a spot.
Karinne and Haley eventually showed up, already having booked their spots on the bus. I sadly watched them board, hoping that someone had overslept their alarm and would miss out on Nimes so I could avoid any shedding of tears later at my apartment (and the accumulation of hair that I know, but don't know, is the reason my shower won't drain).
Five minutes after the bus was scheduled to leave, George excitedly waved me on the bus. Only one person had not showed. It was a God thing.
So, my shower is still not clean and still resembles a bubblebath after a five minute shower. Instead, I had a wonderful day of sightseeing with my friends.
For once, I think Lorelai was wrong. Yes-- its good to gorge on ice cream and cry you eyes out-- but it is better to go travel across France and stay busy seeing things I know I will remember for years. I like non-wallowing, and I'm sticking to it.
There is an episode of Gilmore Girls (the funniest, wittiest, all around best show that use to be on television) where Rory absolutely refuses to wallow after a unexpected break up with her dreamy boyfriend Dean. Lorelai enthusiastically urges Rory to eat ice cream, cry her eyes out, and confront the pain-- or else it will never go away-- but instead, Rory goes to the store to buy mundane, meaningless things, does her homework, and attempts to stay emotionally ignorant with business.
Well, I prefer to wallow Rory style. I have perfected it to an art, as I must say goodbye to Zach six or seven times a year after week long visits, as he goes to school at Cornell and lives on Long Island and I go to school at OU and live in Tulsa (or France!).
My plan of attack is always the same: keep busy. Hang out with friends. Have my mom take me shopping. Watch Gilmore Girls. Clean my room. Re-read a favorite book.
Yesterday was no exception-- especially as a new plan of non-wallowing attack stumbled upon me as I was walking back to my apartment after saying goodbye to Zach at the bus station. I was sniffling a bit, reliving Zach and I's best memories in Aix while contemplating which sponge I would use to clean my shower when I arrived home, when I saw a crowd of students in front of the tourist office waiting for a bus.
Quite suddenly, it dawned on me. There was an organized trip to Nimes, an old Roman city in southern France, scheduled for Sunday. This was my perfect non-wallowing solution. I quickly asked George, an older French man and organizer of the trip, if there were any extra places on the bus for me. He said he didn't think so, but that if there were, I would be the first to get a spot.
Karinne and Haley eventually showed up, already having booked their spots on the bus. I sadly watched them board, hoping that someone had overslept their alarm and would miss out on Nimes so I could avoid any shedding of tears later at my apartment (and the accumulation of hair that I know, but don't know, is the reason my shower won't drain).
Five minutes after the bus was scheduled to leave, George excitedly waved me on the bus. Only one person had not showed. It was a God thing.
So, my shower is still not clean and still resembles a bubblebath after a five minute shower. Instead, I had a wonderful day of sightseeing with my friends.
For once, I think Lorelai was wrong. Yes-- its good to gorge on ice cream and cry you eyes out-- but it is better to go travel across France and stay busy seeing things I know I will remember for years. I like non-wallowing, and I'm sticking to it.
3/20/09
Did Cezanne just paint it, or did he climb it too?
Trail maps, like most other things in France, are not at all like they are in America.
Case in point: a day hike up Mount Saint Victoire.
The victims of bad French map to American map understanding: Zach, Me, Karinne, and Haley
Hours spent lost: 1.5
Hours hiked: 4
Hours it felt like we hiked: 8
Here is the story.
Zach and I woke up with the crowing roosters to borrow an awesomely detailed trail map from my friend Maggie, then to meet up with Haley and Karinne to take the bus to the foot of the mountain. This is Zach enojoying the bus ride, not knowing that in just hours, he will be wind-swept, slightly wet, and exhausted.
Ahhhh. The view of a quiet lake that spread before us the moment we stepped off the bus. We could see the lake on the map, which led us to believe we had conquered the map and actually knew what we were doing. Wrong.
The peak a.k.a. our ultimate destination. Little did we know that we were seeing the peak from the wrong perspective at this point-- we actually should have been looking at it from the other side. With our destination in sight, we hardly cared what color the trail markers were and that they didn't match the map, as long as we were headed in the general direction of up.
So-- insert your imagination here-- as I have no pictures of what ensued. To our bewilderment, the trail we were following suddenly ended just as we had climbed above the tree line. We could see the peak, but could see no plausible way to get there.
"If we just keep going up from here, it doesn't look that bad," said Haley, pointing at the rock face rising before us.
"Yeah-- its only about 70 verticle degrees up, we could totally do that," replied Zach in a tone that could have been construied as serious or sarcastic.
I took him for serious, and commenced a hands and knees climb up the face for about 500 feet with Karinne, Zach, and Haley in tow behind me. We kept laughing and repeating ourselves ("This definitely isn't the right trail!"), but we kept going too, as going down was not an option after we started up.
Our French savoirs, who I dubbed "couple". They were so kind, and hardly laughed at me as I came stumbling over the ridge, panting, and yelled almost straight down to Karinne, Haley, and Zach with a huge smile on my face, "I see people! I SEE PEOPLE!!". The man of "couple" showed us the blue markers (the trail we should have been following all along), and even offered to guide us the rest of the way to the top.
Zach and I enjoying actually seeing trail markers and feeling as if we knew where we were going.
The view from the very top. Wow. The mountain is only 3,000 feet tall, but it is by far the highest peak of the region.
Trouble was brewing. After eating our picnic lunch, I noticed goosebumps starting to creep up my legs. It may have been the feeling of a storm in the air, or the sudden 20 degre drop in temperature. We soon found ourselves admist the clouds as small droplets of water began hit our faces and the wind made it difficult to fully open my eyes.
Where we had been. Surprising, even though we followed the correct trail all the way down, it was much harder to go down than up. It requires every ounce of concentration to place your feet in such a way so you won't end up on your butt with every steep, rocky step.
This tiny blue marker, on a rock off the main road, indicated the trail we were suppose to take. When we saw it, we laughed, then made fun of the French ("Stupid baguettes! Stupid expensive coffee! Stupid trail maps with stupid itty-bitty markers!") for a solid 5 minutes.
Case in point: a day hike up Mount Saint Victoire.
The victims of bad French map to American map understanding: Zach, Me, Karinne, and Haley
Hours spent lost: 1.5
Hours hiked: 4
Hours it felt like we hiked: 8
Here is the story.
Zach and I woke up with the crowing roosters to borrow an awesomely detailed trail map from my friend Maggie, then to meet up with Haley and Karinne to take the bus to the foot of the mountain. This is Zach enojoying the bus ride, not knowing that in just hours, he will be wind-swept, slightly wet, and exhausted.
Ahhhh. The view of a quiet lake that spread before us the moment we stepped off the bus. We could see the lake on the map, which led us to believe we had conquered the map and actually knew what we were doing. Wrong.
The peak a.k.a. our ultimate destination. Little did we know that we were seeing the peak from the wrong perspective at this point-- we actually should have been looking at it from the other side. With our destination in sight, we hardly cared what color the trail markers were and that they didn't match the map, as long as we were headed in the general direction of up.So-- insert your imagination here-- as I have no pictures of what ensued. To our bewilderment, the trail we were following suddenly ended just as we had climbed above the tree line. We could see the peak, but could see no plausible way to get there.
"If we just keep going up from here, it doesn't look that bad," said Haley, pointing at the rock face rising before us.
"Yeah-- its only about 70 verticle degrees up, we could totally do that," replied Zach in a tone that could have been construied as serious or sarcastic.
I took him for serious, and commenced a hands and knees climb up the face for about 500 feet with Karinne, Zach, and Haley in tow behind me. We kept laughing and repeating ourselves ("This definitely isn't the right trail!"), but we kept going too, as going down was not an option after we started up.
Our French savoirs, who I dubbed "couple". They were so kind, and hardly laughed at me as I came stumbling over the ridge, panting, and yelled almost straight down to Karinne, Haley, and Zach with a huge smile on my face, "I see people! I SEE PEOPLE!!". The man of "couple" showed us the blue markers (the trail we should have been following all along), and even offered to guide us the rest of the way to the top.
Zach and I enjoying actually seeing trail markers and feeling as if we knew where we were going.
The view from the very top. Wow. The mountain is only 3,000 feet tall, but it is by far the highest peak of the region.
Trouble was brewing. After eating our picnic lunch, I noticed goosebumps starting to creep up my legs. It may have been the feeling of a storm in the air, or the sudden 20 degre drop in temperature. We soon found ourselves admist the clouds as small droplets of water began hit our faces and the wind made it difficult to fully open my eyes.
Where we had been. Surprising, even though we followed the correct trail all the way down, it was much harder to go down than up. It requires every ounce of concentration to place your feet in such a way so you won't end up on your butt with every steep, rocky step.
This tiny blue marker, on a rock off the main road, indicated the trail we were suppose to take. When we saw it, we laughed, then made fun of the French ("Stupid baguettes! Stupid expensive coffee! Stupid trail maps with stupid itty-bitty markers!") for a solid 5 minutes.Seemingly like every experience I have here, Mount Saint Victoire was something I'm so glad I did because of the challenges. We only got a little lost, a little wet, and a little tired, but gained so much more in learning and living.
Zach and I promptly napped for 2.5 hours when we got home, and if I can walk tomorrow normally, I'll be surprised.
Zach and I promptly napped for 2.5 hours when we got home, and if I can walk tomorrow normally, I'll be surprised.
3/18/09
Le Jour de Saint Patrique
Aix is a college town. Of the 140,000 inhabitants, almost half are students. When I read my guidebook called Go France: On a Budget!, curiously wondering what it would say about Aix, it said, "expect to find drunken debauchery on the weekends, as this is a college town full of bars and nightclubs."
So, when Karinne, Karinne's French roommate Beranger, Jill, Sam, Zach and I wandered to O'Shannon's, an Irish pub where a table is always open, we were suprised to find exactly what the book said "drunken debauchery", but in mass-- and in green.
There were close to 400 students clogging the street surrounding the bar. Some had their faces painted with four-leaf clovers. Some were wearing ridiculous leprachaun hats. Some were trying to jig like the Irish, just in a very French way. All were drinking Guinness enthusiastically-- so enthusiastically I know several stray drops found my coat and shoes, which now need a washing.
I attempted to use the bathroom in the pub, but was told that the line of people I had passed upon entering weren't waiting for the bar, but for the toilets, and that I was looking at about a thirty minute wait. After deducing that toilet paper would surely not be an amenity the bathrooms would possess after a night like this one, I decided to hold it.
After about an hour of pushing through the crowd and having half English, half French conversations with the intoxicated, jigging locals, Zach and I squeezed our way out to return to my wonderfully quiet, never crowded apartment.
Zach now has the terribly wrong impression that every night out in Aix is a night of "drunken debauchery". I keep telling him that is not the case, and that St. Patrick's Day simply brought out the latent Irish in the huge student population of Aix.
It was fun. It was green. If O'Shannons is any indication, I don't think I could handle Dublin on the 17th of March. I'm content with my Aix, forever infilitrated by students who, I would argue, are only "debacherous" on very special occasions.
So, when Karinne, Karinne's French roommate Beranger, Jill, Sam, Zach and I wandered to O'Shannon's, an Irish pub where a table is always open, we were suprised to find exactly what the book said "drunken debauchery", but in mass-- and in green.
There were close to 400 students clogging the street surrounding the bar. Some had their faces painted with four-leaf clovers. Some were wearing ridiculous leprachaun hats. Some were trying to jig like the Irish, just in a very French way. All were drinking Guinness enthusiastically-- so enthusiastically I know several stray drops found my coat and shoes, which now need a washing.
I attempted to use the bathroom in the pub, but was told that the line of people I had passed upon entering weren't waiting for the bar, but for the toilets, and that I was looking at about a thirty minute wait. After deducing that toilet paper would surely not be an amenity the bathrooms would possess after a night like this one, I decided to hold it.
After about an hour of pushing through the crowd and having half English, half French conversations with the intoxicated, jigging locals, Zach and I squeezed our way out to return to my wonderfully quiet, never crowded apartment.
Zach now has the terribly wrong impression that every night out in Aix is a night of "drunken debauchery". I keep telling him that is not the case, and that St. Patrick's Day simply brought out the latent Irish in the huge student population of Aix.
It was fun. It was green. If O'Shannons is any indication, I don't think I could handle Dublin on the 17th of March. I'm content with my Aix, forever infilitrated by students who, I would argue, are only "debacherous" on very special occasions.
Zach's Mission to Planet France
Zach is on a quest.
"I really, really only want two simple things," he keeps telling me, with a slight plea in his voice. "A Wall Street Journal to read and a gym so I can lift."
These rather quotidien things would seem simple enough to find in a city that has a newsstand in every charming square and is bursting with strolling Aixois who eat copious amounts of butter while maintaining a jean size I would kill for.
Zach has forgotten one simple fact though: he isn't in American anymore.
All the gyms we come across seem to have a naked or partially naked woman lifting weights on a poster out front. This automatically means Zach won't dare enter-- afraid to find what they advertise amongst his godly bench and saintly free weights.
All the newsstands do not sell his paper of choice. They sell papers in French, German, and Italian. They sell magazines and crossword puzzles and sudoku. We even checked a few bookstores, hoping their international section might contain an old issue. Absolutely no journals amongst the rows and rows of French literature.
Zach's mission has failed-- but maybe, this French culture hazing is good for my solidly American boyfriend.
Annie, thinking of Zach, bought him a copy of the Herald Tribune (the international section of the New York Times) today. He smiled from ear to ear when he showed me the paper after I arrived back from class this afternoon, and commenced to read outloud a hilarious article about Switzerland's problem with nude hikers in the Alps.
For those of you who do not know Zach-- he only needs four things to be truly happy.
1. A gym
2. Wall Street Journal
3. A full stomach
4. Access to his email on his Blackberry
So, maybe after date tonight, he will be half happy, as a 3-course French meal finished with an evening read of the Herald Tribune isn't a bad French compromise.
"I really, really only want two simple things," he keeps telling me, with a slight plea in his voice. "A Wall Street Journal to read and a gym so I can lift."
These rather quotidien things would seem simple enough to find in a city that has a newsstand in every charming square and is bursting with strolling Aixois who eat copious amounts of butter while maintaining a jean size I would kill for.
Zach has forgotten one simple fact though: he isn't in American anymore.
All the gyms we come across seem to have a naked or partially naked woman lifting weights on a poster out front. This automatically means Zach won't dare enter-- afraid to find what they advertise amongst his godly bench and saintly free weights.
All the newsstands do not sell his paper of choice. They sell papers in French, German, and Italian. They sell magazines and crossword puzzles and sudoku. We even checked a few bookstores, hoping their international section might contain an old issue. Absolutely no journals amongst the rows and rows of French literature.
Zach's mission has failed-- but maybe, this French culture hazing is good for my solidly American boyfriend.
Annie, thinking of Zach, bought him a copy of the Herald Tribune (the international section of the New York Times) today. He smiled from ear to ear when he showed me the paper after I arrived back from class this afternoon, and commenced to read outloud a hilarious article about Switzerland's problem with nude hikers in the Alps.
For those of you who do not know Zach-- he only needs four things to be truly happy.
1. A gym
2. Wall Street Journal
3. A full stomach
4. Access to his email on his Blackberry
So, maybe after date tonight, he will be half happy, as a 3-course French meal finished with an evening read of the Herald Tribune isn't a bad French compromise.
3/15/09
Zach is here (insert a million exclamation points)
That is all I was going to say really.
We spent today watching movies, walking to Parc de la Torse for a picnic, and practicing Zach's once non-existent, but now semi-existent (he can say "I am" with an American/Spanish accent) French.
I'm so happy!
We spent today watching movies, walking to Parc de la Torse for a picnic, and practicing Zach's once non-existent, but now semi-existent (he can say "I am" with an American/Spanish accent) French.
I'm so happy!
3/14/09
Day Trip to Arles
Today was Arles-tastic.
After an hour bus ride through the Provencal countryside, dotted with almond trees in spectacular white and pink bloom, we arrived in Arles. Famous for its ancient Roman ruins and once renowned, but now dilapidated cemetery, Vincent Van Gogh lived in Arles for two years and painted some of his most well-known works in the charming city.
After grabbing a quick cafe, Pam walked us through the weekly Saturday market to the outskirts of town, where we stumbled upon Alyscamps, an ancient, tragically beautiful Roman necropolis. Situated away from the main city center, as the Romans believed in separated spaces for the land of the living and the dead, the cemetery was once enormous and housed nearly 80 generations in its acres. Hundreds of years ago, people would send their deceased down the Rhone river to Arles, where a man would take a coin out of the deceased's mouth as payment for his burial services. Due to modernization of the 19th century, Alyscamps is now much smaller, but still has many of its original stone tombs and a Medieval church on its grounds.
It was an almost unsettling place-- especially the cave-like, dark and dank church where the cooing of pigeons echoing off the stone walls was magnified nearly ten times and sent chills down my spine.
Les Alyscamps according to Van Gogh.
After an hour bus ride through the Provencal countryside, dotted with almond trees in spectacular white and pink bloom, we arrived in Arles. Famous for its ancient Roman ruins and once renowned, but now dilapidated cemetery, Vincent Van Gogh lived in Arles for two years and painted some of his most well-known works in the charming city.
After grabbing a quick cafe, Pam walked us through the weekly Saturday market to the outskirts of town, where we stumbled upon Alyscamps, an ancient, tragically beautiful Roman necropolis. Situated away from the main city center, as the Romans believed in separated spaces for the land of the living and the dead, the cemetery was once enormous and housed nearly 80 generations in its acres. Hundreds of years ago, people would send their deceased down the Rhone river to Arles, where a man would take a coin out of the deceased's mouth as payment for his burial services. Due to modernization of the 19th century, Alyscamps is now much smaller, but still has many of its original stone tombs and a Medieval church on its grounds.
It was an almost unsettling place-- especially the cave-like, dark and dank church where the cooing of pigeons echoing off the stone walls was magnified nearly ten times and sent chills down my spine.
Les Alyscamps according to Van Gogh.After a quick run through of the everything market (food, clothes, fabric, jewelry, books, paintings, flowers, dishwear, knick-knacks) and a bite to eat, we hit up the Roman ampitheatre, then theatre.
Julius Ceasar rewarded Arles by officially "Romanizing" it in 80 A.D. This included building the 20,000 seater ampitheatre, public theatre for dramas, and baths. Today, the ampitheatre is still in use as a lively site for bull fights, and was used in the Middle Ages as a fortified city with nearly 200 houses and 2 churches. When we arrived, Pam led us into the arena, explained the history, then let us climb to the top of an old watch tower to take in the amazing views.
When Pam led us into the open-air theatre in the shape of a semi-circle next to the ampitheatre, she began explaining the significance of some columns behind the stage, and her voice echoed throughout the space just as the design intended it to. After wandering around a bit, we found ourselves simply lounging about on the stone seats, trying to think of lines from various monologues that we could dramatically preform (if we dared) on stage. "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!" and "Four score and seven years ago..." were thrown around a lot, but no one could bring themselves to move as the sun had sedated us into a brief spell of laziness.
After a quick dip below the ground to an old storehouse/place for cult worship (archeologists haven't quite decided) below the old Roman forum, we went to the hospital where Van Gogh was treated after her cut off his ear.
Julius Ceasar rewarded Arles by officially "Romanizing" it in 80 A.D. This included building the 20,000 seater ampitheatre, public theatre for dramas, and baths. Today, the ampitheatre is still in use as a lively site for bull fights, and was used in the Middle Ages as a fortified city with nearly 200 houses and 2 churches. When we arrived, Pam led us into the arena, explained the history, then let us climb to the top of an old watch tower to take in the amazing views.
When Pam led us into the open-air theatre in the shape of a semi-circle next to the ampitheatre, she began explaining the significance of some columns behind the stage, and her voice echoed throughout the space just as the design intended it to. After wandering around a bit, we found ourselves simply lounging about on the stone seats, trying to think of lines from various monologues that we could dramatically preform (if we dared) on stage. "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!" and "Four score and seven years ago..." were thrown around a lot, but no one could bring themselves to move as the sun had sedated us into a brief spell of laziness.
After a quick dip below the ground to an old storehouse/place for cult worship (archeologists haven't quite decided) below the old Roman forum, we went to the hospital where Van Gogh was treated after her cut off his ear.
The story goes that Van Gogh was fighting with Gauguin, another artist living and painting in Arles, and tensions rose between the two. After stalking Gauguin with a razor, Van Gogh chopped of his own ear lobe and gave it to a prostitute named Rachel, wrapping it in a newspaper and telling her to "keep this object carefully". Upon discovering what the object was, Rachel promptly screamed (I imagine at least!), then notified the police, who found Van Gogh almost dead on his apartment floor from loss of blood.
A self-portrait of Van Gogh sans one ear lobe.
A self-portrait of Van Gogh sans one ear lobe.And that was Arles. It was lovely to walk around and soak up a place that is without tourist pretension. The perfect day trip.
Pictures here! Click Arles at the top.
Pictures here! Click Arles at the top.
3/13/09
Je suis rouge comme un homard (I am red like a lobster)
I never thought I would be saying this on the 13th of March. There aren't even leaves on the trees yet. I have yet to wear anything besides jeans with my coat to class. Le Mistral, the strong northern wind native to Provence, has been tunneling through the streets of Aix this week, banishing all thoughts of spring and warm weather from my mind. But-- I'm saying it.
I'm sunburned.
Karinne, Haley, and I went to the park this afternoon with pizza, Ipods, and books in tow, planning to spend the perfect Friday afternoon lounging on a blanket and soaking up the 70 degree rays.
After about 2.5 hours, Haley and Karinne were feeling crispy. They awoke me from my sun-induced slumber and began to pack up. I wasn't quite ready to leave, as I felt I could stand an hour or so more glorying in God's best gift to earth, but I acquiesed and began to pack up as well.
Thank goodness for friends who are more in touch with their skin than I am with mine.
It isn't a bad sunburn, but it is a burn with strange tanlines (can you say farmer's tan!?).
Oh well, it was completely and utterly worth it. I'll take pink cheeks with sunshine and balmy Spring breezes over snow, ice, or biting wind any day of the week.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again (although I might be entering into a continuous cycle of jinxes)-- it is springtime in Provence! I'll let you know if I wear my coat to class on Monday.
Some might say we look pale in this picture. That is no longer the case, I assure you, as this was taken pre-sun bathing.
Pizza Capri, a small stand right off the Cours Mirabeau, has the best and cheapest pizza in town. 7 euros for a full cheese pizza!
I got her mid-bite. You can tell she thinks its yummy.
I'm sunburned.
Karinne, Haley, and I went to the park this afternoon with pizza, Ipods, and books in tow, planning to spend the perfect Friday afternoon lounging on a blanket and soaking up the 70 degree rays.
After about 2.5 hours, Haley and Karinne were feeling crispy. They awoke me from my sun-induced slumber and began to pack up. I wasn't quite ready to leave, as I felt I could stand an hour or so more glorying in God's best gift to earth, but I acquiesed and began to pack up as well.
Thank goodness for friends who are more in touch with their skin than I am with mine.
It isn't a bad sunburn, but it is a burn with strange tanlines (can you say farmer's tan!?).
Oh well, it was completely and utterly worth it. I'll take pink cheeks with sunshine and balmy Spring breezes over snow, ice, or biting wind any day of the week.
I've said it before, and I'll say it again (although I might be entering into a continuous cycle of jinxes)-- it is springtime in Provence! I'll let you know if I wear my coat to class on Monday.
Some might say we look pale in this picture. That is no longer the case, I assure you, as this was taken pre-sun bathing.
Pizza Capri, a small stand right off the Cours Mirabeau, has the best and cheapest pizza in town. 7 euros for a full cheese pizza!
I got her mid-bite. You can tell she thinks its yummy.Tomorrow, the Abroadco group is off bright and early for a day trip to Arles. Lots of pictures and history to come, as Pam, our director here, is always full of great information about the places she takes us.
Book in a Bar
Hidden on a winding side street of the Cours Mirabeau is a little world of many wonders.
The old wooden door creaks when I enter, causing all eyes in the shop to glance at me, then quickly return to the reason they ventured to this reclusive haunt in the first place. The merchandise is stacked in every crevise, every shelf, every spare space. Although the selection is not that of its more grandiose American counterparts, it still covers a sweeping range of topics-- from travel to Italian cooking to living in Provence. It is my new home away from home, away from home.
What else could I be describing but a bookstore. It is called Book in a Bar. It is so quiet. An immediate peace decends upon me the minute I begin to look through the four shelves that make up the fiction section. It is a popular place for students at my university, wanting to escape from France for just a bit to go somewhere, not familair, but somewhere where the books are in English.
I have firmly etablished my Friday routine, and I might possibly have etablished a Thursday routine, albeit a slightly more expensive one, as I can hardly resist buying a new book with each visit and an accompanying pot of tea. After class on Thurday, I venture over to Book and a Bar and stay until the sky begins to fade and I know I must return home for dinner.
This past Thursday, I enticed Greta, Jill, Karinne, and Haley to accompany me (how could they resist after my rave?). Karinne fell in love after stumbling upon the perfect French cook book for her chef-wannabee sister. Haley fell in love because her beloved town of Williamsburg was prominently featured in a travel book about the USA (it is so bizarre, after pouring over travel books about Europe, to pour over a travel book about America. Oklahoma had exactly two pages.).
Greta told us all about her Italian adventures, as she just returned from break Wednesday. Haley is just being goofy.
The fiction section. Fairly large, right?
My tea was German tea, and tasted of mangos and chocolate. Greta and Karinne had English tea, or caramel and vanilla.
Jill getting ready to hit the street and return home.
The old wooden door creaks when I enter, causing all eyes in the shop to glance at me, then quickly return to the reason they ventured to this reclusive haunt in the first place. The merchandise is stacked in every crevise, every shelf, every spare space. Although the selection is not that of its more grandiose American counterparts, it still covers a sweeping range of topics-- from travel to Italian cooking to living in Provence. It is my new home away from home, away from home.
What else could I be describing but a bookstore. It is called Book in a Bar. It is so quiet. An immediate peace decends upon me the minute I begin to look through the four shelves that make up the fiction section. It is a popular place for students at my university, wanting to escape from France for just a bit to go somewhere, not familair, but somewhere where the books are in English.
I have firmly etablished my Friday routine, and I might possibly have etablished a Thursday routine, albeit a slightly more expensive one, as I can hardly resist buying a new book with each visit and an accompanying pot of tea. After class on Thurday, I venture over to Book and a Bar and stay until the sky begins to fade and I know I must return home for dinner.
This past Thursday, I enticed Greta, Jill, Karinne, and Haley to accompany me (how could they resist after my rave?). Karinne fell in love after stumbling upon the perfect French cook book for her chef-wannabee sister. Haley fell in love because her beloved town of Williamsburg was prominently featured in a travel book about the USA (it is so bizarre, after pouring over travel books about Europe, to pour over a travel book about America. Oklahoma had exactly two pages.).
Greta told us all about her Italian adventures, as she just returned from break Wednesday. Haley is just being goofy.
The fiction section. Fairly large, right?
My tea was German tea, and tasted of mangos and chocolate. Greta and Karinne had English tea, or caramel and vanilla.
Jill getting ready to hit the street and return home.I know I'll be back to Book in a Bar next Thursday, and I'll see what Zach thinks of one of my favorite Aix spots.
3/11/09
Pink Purses and Other Random Thoughts
Random Thought #1: Annie and I had, potentially, the most bizarre dinner ever. Butternut squash soup and ham and mushroom pizza. That is what happens when you go to the grocery store without a plan, on a budget, and with a growling stomach.
Random Thought #2: Karinne and I did our weekly circuit workout today. Although it is tough, I like to think that Karinne and I were pretty inventive given our lack of gym. It goes like this...
1 min. jumping jacks
1 min. step-ups on my kitchen chairs
Repeat 3 times for a total of 6 minutes.
That is the Cardio Circuit.
Circuit #1 (do it all the way through three times)
15 squats held for 5 seconds each
15 arm dips
50 alternating crunches
Repeat Cardio Circuit for 6 minutes.
Circuit #2 (do it all the way through three times)
15 lunges
15 push-ups
Plank for 30 seconds
Repeat Cardio Circuit for 6 minutes.
Circuit #3 (do it all the way through three times)
10 dips on each leg
10 side crunches on each side
20 tricep curls (using a purse for weight)
15 inverted push ups (you lower your straightened legs until they almost touch the ground, then bring them up until they are perpendicular with your body and you are lifting your butt off the ground)
It takes us about an hour, and always has Karinne saying about half-way through the second circuit, "Man, I'm sweating like a pig!"
I always hastily agree with her, then return to grunting and panting.
Random Thought #3: I love tape. My bedroom wall is officially decorated now, with cards I have received in the mail, postcards/pictures I have particularly identified with in my travels, and a map of New York (which is still my favorite big city in the world).
Allison made me this one for my birthday. Try to read it and figure it out-- its fun.
Random Thought #5: How am I going to get from Aix to Florence to Naples to Rome to Athens to Santorini back to Aix for my two week break in April? The planning must begin. If anyone has any good travel tips for these destinations-- let me know as I will definitely be needing them.
I sat staring at train time tables and ferry boat schedules and discount air websites for an hour this evening, and my brain is offiically fried.
Random Thought #2: Karinne and I did our weekly circuit workout today. Although it is tough, I like to think that Karinne and I were pretty inventive given our lack of gym. It goes like this...
1 min. jumping jacks
1 min. step-ups on my kitchen chairs
Repeat 3 times for a total of 6 minutes.
That is the Cardio Circuit.
Circuit #1 (do it all the way through three times)
15 squats held for 5 seconds each
15 arm dips
50 alternating crunches
Repeat Cardio Circuit for 6 minutes.
Circuit #2 (do it all the way through three times)
15 lunges
15 push-ups
Plank for 30 seconds
Repeat Cardio Circuit for 6 minutes.
Circuit #3 (do it all the way through three times)
10 dips on each leg
10 side crunches on each side
20 tricep curls (using a purse for weight)
15 inverted push ups (you lower your straightened legs until they almost touch the ground, then bring them up until they are perpendicular with your body and you are lifting your butt off the ground)
It takes us about an hour, and always has Karinne saying about half-way through the second circuit, "Man, I'm sweating like a pig!"
I always hastily agree with her, then return to grunting and panting.
Random Thought #3: I love tape. My bedroom wall is officially decorated now, with cards I have received in the mail, postcards/pictures I have particularly identified with in my travels, and a map of New York (which is still my favorite big city in the world).
Allison made me this one for my birthday. Try to read it and figure it out-- its fun.Random Thought #4: I'm not one to typically carry around a purse that screams pink, but I love, love, love my birthday present my mom bought me in London. I love it so much, I had to take a picture to show the world.
Random Thought #5: How am I going to get from Aix to Florence to Naples to Rome to Athens to Santorini back to Aix for my two week break in April? The planning must begin. If anyone has any good travel tips for these destinations-- let me know as I will definitely be needing them.
I sat staring at train time tables and ferry boat schedules and discount air websites for an hour this evening, and my brain is offiically fried.
3/9/09
Back to Basics
Ahhhh. The sweet joy of routine.
I meandered around the apartment all morning, catching up on emails and sipping tea as I looked out my windows to the sun drenched street below. I took a jog to my favorite park, went to my favorite grocery store to buy lunch for the week, then tromped off to my favorite language class with Natalie. Annie and I made an apple and blue cheese salad with French onion soup for dinner, then watched an episode of The Office after wards. What a wonderful day.
I love to travel, but I love coming back to familiarity too.
All my feelings of homesickness have vanished, to be replaced by a deep and lasting loving for Aix and my simple life here.
I meandered around the apartment all morning, catching up on emails and sipping tea as I looked out my windows to the sun drenched street below. I took a jog to my favorite park, went to my favorite grocery store to buy lunch for the week, then tromped off to my favorite language class with Natalie. Annie and I made an apple and blue cheese salad with French onion soup for dinner, then watched an episode of The Office after wards. What a wonderful day.
I love to travel, but I love coming back to familiarity too.
All my feelings of homesickness have vanished, to be replaced by a deep and lasting loving for Aix and my simple life here.
3/8/09
London Photos
Pictures! Click London at the top.
There will be more of the second half of London, so just click on this link again and see if I have added a London 2-- I plan to ASAP!
There will be more of the second half of London, so just click on this link again and see if I have added a London 2-- I plan to ASAP!
Day of Departure
I’m sitting on the TGV from Paris to Aix now. I’m feeling very emotional and sad about leaving my Mom. It’s probably because we woke up at 2:45 this morning for our 6:15 departure from Heathrow. It was a tad early, and we ended up sitting in the airport contemplating which chairs looked the most bed-like while waiting for check-in and security to open. So, I’m probably just sleep deprived. I started crying when I quickly rushed off to my gate for the train in Paris, and I’m crying a bit now (Much to the disdain of the lady sitting next to me [after writing that sentence, I hope she isn't reading my screen or doesn't speak English])
It was just such a great trip, and seeing my Mom and Aunt reminded me of home. You start to forget in Aix, as everything is so new and different and challenging day in and day out. But hearing my Mom talk about the lake house, Tucker and Abraham, and Molly and my Dad made me remember why I’m only studying here for a semester. I’m a homebody. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so, so glad my parents have given me the opportunity to study abroad. I think it is one of the best things I will do with my life. I’m just homesick, and I’m sure these feelings will vanish the second the Parisian fog clears and I see my sun-soaked, quaint Provencal town.
Zach comes in a week. I can’t believe he is coming. I’m so looking forward to showing someone my life in Aix.
It was just such a great trip, and seeing my Mom and Aunt reminded me of home. You start to forget in Aix, as everything is so new and different and challenging day in and day out. But hearing my Mom talk about the lake house, Tucker and Abraham, and Molly and my Dad made me remember why I’m only studying here for a semester. I’m a homebody. Don’t get me wrong, I’m so, so glad my parents have given me the opportunity to study abroad. I think it is one of the best things I will do with my life. I’m just homesick, and I’m sure these feelings will vanish the second the Parisian fog clears and I see my sun-soaked, quaint Provencal town.
Zach comes in a week. I can’t believe he is coming. I’m so looking forward to showing someone my life in Aix.
Never what you expect
After our touring successes, we couldn’t resist the temptation of yet another tour. It was full day—12 hours! It got us out of the bustling city and into the English countryside. And, it came with lunch!
So, off we went on a tour of Windsor Castle, Stonehenge, and Bath.
Windsor Castle is only 45 minutes outside of London, but is the Queen’s favorite escape from city life. She says she works in London during the week, but lives in Windsor during the weekend.
Of course, the castle was not what I was expecting. Just like Versailles, Windsor is not in the city, but is not far from it either a.k.a. urban sprawl. Windsor does not stand alone on a hill, majestically guarding English farmland, Windsor stands alone on a hill, majestically guarding Windsor the city—home of Eaton College (infamous private school where Princes William and Harry attended), hotels, restaurants, boutiques, and tourist shops.
But, unlike Versailles, Windsor was not packed. It was quieter. The State Apartments were grand, but it was an understated elegance very different from the screaming opulence of Versailles. The English seem to use more carpets and woods, which gives the Castle a homier feel. There are paintings by the greats, but they are scattered in with countless portraits and other paintings and sculptures that makes it seem less like a show. I have to say, I might have preferred it to Versailles.
The Queen’s flag was flying, so she was there (after all, it was Saturday!), but of course, her private apartments are not available for public tours. Darn. My mom and I scanned the gardens for her corgis, but not luck there either.
After an hour drive, we stopped at a pub for lunch. Mom and I had bangers and mash a.k.a. sausages, mashed potatoes, gravy, peas, and carrots. It was delicious, as all British pub food has been.
Stonehenge was next. We were driving in the bus; gazing out at the rolling countryside, and very abruptly, it was there. Surrounded by green, green grass and grazing sheep, the monument was very straightforward—stacked, giant rock. Appreciation of its grandeur comes with appreciating the mystery. How were these stones hauled for miles and miles, and then stacked thousands of years ago? Why was this done? What kind of ceremonies took place here? There are all sorts of questions, and while some of been potentially answered (the latest theory is that they were a sight for healing), the shroud of mystery is what draws the tourists.
We walked around the monument twice to appreciate it from every angle (and to try to entice the sheep to come nearer with our “Baaaaahhhhhh-ing”). It was a unique experience, and I think I will always remember the wind blowing my hair every which direction, the smell of the grass, and thinking wow repeatedly.
Another hour drive, and we were in Bath. The story goes that there was once a beautiful Prince whom everyone admired, but one unfortunate day, he woke up with ugly, pink blotches all over his body. The people who once admired him were disgusted, and banished him to the countryside. There, the prince became a swine herder. The swine herder observed his pigs, and soon came to notice, as our guide Debbie said, that they were a creature “designed on a Friday afternoon”. With no sweat glands and no hair, pigs have a tough life. Whenever they rub up on a tree to scratch an itch, their skin often tears, leaving them with ugly soars. The swine herder noticed that his pigs would often roll in the water and mud, and therefore, their soars would heal more quickly. As he was still covered in ugly pink blotches, he figured why not, and took a dip with the pigs. Magically, he was cured. It is said that the natural, warm spring water from bath remedied his disease.
Hence: the baths in Bath. Later, the Romans came and built a huge complex, complete with steam rooms and altars to honor the gods, as they believed the warm water seeping from the ground truly was a miracle. Actually, it was rain that fell thousands of years ago, than sunk deep into the earth to be thermally heated, then rose again.
The tour of the actual baths was great, and so was the town of Bath. It reminded me of an English Aix, with narrow, cobble stoned streets and lots of shops.
Back on the bus, and two hours later we were dropped off at our hotel in London. It was another excellent tour. I’m glad I did it.
So, off we went on a tour of Windsor Castle, Stonehenge, and Bath.
Windsor Castle is only 45 minutes outside of London, but is the Queen’s favorite escape from city life. She says she works in London during the week, but lives in Windsor during the weekend.
Of course, the castle was not what I was expecting. Just like Versailles, Windsor is not in the city, but is not far from it either a.k.a. urban sprawl. Windsor does not stand alone on a hill, majestically guarding English farmland, Windsor stands alone on a hill, majestically guarding Windsor the city—home of Eaton College (infamous private school where Princes William and Harry attended), hotels, restaurants, boutiques, and tourist shops.
But, unlike Versailles, Windsor was not packed. It was quieter. The State Apartments were grand, but it was an understated elegance very different from the screaming opulence of Versailles. The English seem to use more carpets and woods, which gives the Castle a homier feel. There are paintings by the greats, but they are scattered in with countless portraits and other paintings and sculptures that makes it seem less like a show. I have to say, I might have preferred it to Versailles.
The Queen’s flag was flying, so she was there (after all, it was Saturday!), but of course, her private apartments are not available for public tours. Darn. My mom and I scanned the gardens for her corgis, but not luck there either.
After an hour drive, we stopped at a pub for lunch. Mom and I had bangers and mash a.k.a. sausages, mashed potatoes, gravy, peas, and carrots. It was delicious, as all British pub food has been.
Stonehenge was next. We were driving in the bus; gazing out at the rolling countryside, and very abruptly, it was there. Surrounded by green, green grass and grazing sheep, the monument was very straightforward—stacked, giant rock. Appreciation of its grandeur comes with appreciating the mystery. How were these stones hauled for miles and miles, and then stacked thousands of years ago? Why was this done? What kind of ceremonies took place here? There are all sorts of questions, and while some of been potentially answered (the latest theory is that they were a sight for healing), the shroud of mystery is what draws the tourists.
We walked around the monument twice to appreciate it from every angle (and to try to entice the sheep to come nearer with our “Baaaaahhhhhh-ing”). It was a unique experience, and I think I will always remember the wind blowing my hair every which direction, the smell of the grass, and thinking wow repeatedly.
Another hour drive, and we were in Bath. The story goes that there was once a beautiful Prince whom everyone admired, but one unfortunate day, he woke up with ugly, pink blotches all over his body. The people who once admired him were disgusted, and banished him to the countryside. There, the prince became a swine herder. The swine herder observed his pigs, and soon came to notice, as our guide Debbie said, that they were a creature “designed on a Friday afternoon”. With no sweat glands and no hair, pigs have a tough life. Whenever they rub up on a tree to scratch an itch, their skin often tears, leaving them with ugly soars. The swine herder noticed that his pigs would often roll in the water and mud, and therefore, their soars would heal more quickly. As he was still covered in ugly pink blotches, he figured why not, and took a dip with the pigs. Magically, he was cured. It is said that the natural, warm spring water from bath remedied his disease.
Hence: the baths in Bath. Later, the Romans came and built a huge complex, complete with steam rooms and altars to honor the gods, as they believed the warm water seeping from the ground truly was a miracle. Actually, it was rain that fell thousands of years ago, than sunk deep into the earth to be thermally heated, then rose again.
The tour of the actual baths was great, and so was the town of Bath. It reminded me of an English Aix, with narrow, cobble stoned streets and lots of shops.
Back on the bus, and two hours later we were dropped off at our hotel in London. It was another excellent tour. I’m glad I did it.
Shop til you drop—literally.
We slept in (7:30), and after getting ready and grabbing breakfast, we went to Oxford Street a.k.a. a fashionista’s paradise. The equivalent of New York’s Soho, it is a mile-long street lined with an endless array of stores. Finally, I did some shopping that didn’t involve windows, as even with the ghastly conversion rate, it was not unreasonable.
After a quick pub lunch, we braved the British Museum. A collection of historical pieces, the museum really was spectacular. We mainly focused on the Egyptian, Greek and Roman rooms. The museum has many pieces from the Parthenon, and it is a highly contested debate as to whether the British or the Greeks should have the right to display the sculptures and wall engravings. The museum had an “unbiased” packet explaining the situation, which left me feeling that the U.K. had every right to the pieces, and that those Greeks are just crazy!
Mom couldn’t handle all that history after our full morning, and had to step outside while Lindell and I went on a free “eyeopener” tour about Ancient Egypt. It was extremely interesting, and confirms my belief that while crowding around one woman who must yell in order for everyone to hear has its drawbacks, there is a lot of information, especially chronological, general history, the little plaques in front of sculptures/paintings/artifacts just can’t provide.
Next was the eveningsong at Westminster Abbey. Sheila gave us the tip that while admission to the church is costly, the daily eveningsong is free, and is an excellent opportunity to admire the inside of the church and the renowned boys choir.
Top 5 of the trip for sure. Ethereal is the only word I can think to describe it. Angelic. Goose-bump worthy. Amazing. Wow-- those boys can sing. They were made even more charming by their high-collared, frilly choir robes. When one of the boy’s necks would begin to itch, you could tell he wanted nothing more than to forget it and focus on singing instead, but alas, he always ended up giving into the annoying itch and scratching vigorously.
After debating whether it was worth a tube ride to try out a new pub, we decided to stick with a favorite and walked to the Builder’s Arms for our second visit. Once again, delicious. Annie would have been proud
After a quick pub lunch, we braved the British Museum. A collection of historical pieces, the museum really was spectacular. We mainly focused on the Egyptian, Greek and Roman rooms. The museum has many pieces from the Parthenon, and it is a highly contested debate as to whether the British or the Greeks should have the right to display the sculptures and wall engravings. The museum had an “unbiased” packet explaining the situation, which left me feeling that the U.K. had every right to the pieces, and that those Greeks are just crazy!
Mom couldn’t handle all that history after our full morning, and had to step outside while Lindell and I went on a free “eyeopener” tour about Ancient Egypt. It was extremely interesting, and confirms my belief that while crowding around one woman who must yell in order for everyone to hear has its drawbacks, there is a lot of information, especially chronological, general history, the little plaques in front of sculptures/paintings/artifacts just can’t provide.
Next was the eveningsong at Westminster Abbey. Sheila gave us the tip that while admission to the church is costly, the daily eveningsong is free, and is an excellent opportunity to admire the inside of the church and the renowned boys choir.
Top 5 of the trip for sure. Ethereal is the only word I can think to describe it. Angelic. Goose-bump worthy. Amazing. Wow-- those boys can sing. They were made even more charming by their high-collared, frilly choir robes. When one of the boy’s necks would begin to itch, you could tell he wanted nothing more than to forget it and focus on singing instead, but alas, he always ended up giving into the annoying itch and scratching vigorously.
After debating whether it was worth a tube ride to try out a new pub, we decided to stick with a favorite and walked to the Builder’s Arms for our second visit. Once again, delicious. Annie would have been proud
To tour or not to tour? That is the question.
Invoking possibly the most famous Brit of all time, non other than the great Bard himself, I have yet another question to pose to the void—is it worth the money to pay for an organized tour when traveling, or is it better to rough it yourself?
When I travel with my friends, there is no question—no tour. Budget wins, any potential tour benefits lose.
But, when traveling with my mom and Lindell, I find myself pondering this question again and again after two tours, one of Paris, and one of London.
My mind was made up several months ago when my mom said she was booking the trip through a travel agent, and our agent had set up a 9-hour, all day tour of London for us.
“MOM. We are going to be on a bus with fifty other people. They will all have their maps out and accents on—screaming that we are tourists. Don’t you want to get a real feel for the places we see? Not the version a tired, poorly educated guide will give us over a microphone as we drive by the major sites?”
I maintained this attitude until we toured Paris with Lido. He did not have a microphone. He drove a van. He let me practice my ever so slightly improved French.
Thursday in London was the dreaded, full day tour. Although my tour stereotypes were eased after Paris, I was still reluctant to believe this was a good idea compared with doing London on our own, especially when I saw the bus.
It was big, with the tour company’s logo prominently displayed in fat letters on both sides.
And then I saw Sheila, our 60-year-old Scottish tour guide, herding those on the tour onto the bus. I felt like a cow already, and I hadn’t even seen the microphone yet.
But, once we were off, Sheila started talking, and what she had to say wasn’t half bad. She cracked jokes. She answered all of our questions. And most importantly, she provided non-stop history of everything we were seeing.
The first stop, after a quick drive by Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament (where Big Ben rings), was St. Paul’s Cathedral. Built by the famous architect Sir Christopher Wren, the church was constructed after the great fire of London in 1666. It is a beautiful cathedral, flooded with light, and has only the best paintings, carvings, and mosaics as ordered by Wren. This is the church where Charles and Diana were married, and is the resting place of the Duke of Wellington and non other than Wren himself.
Sheila told a touching story about the Cathedral, one which I will never forget.
London was hit hard during WWII. Bombed for nights and nights without end, the city had the most civilian deaths in the war. St. Paul’s was of course in danger, being a dominating member of the London skyline. But, the people adored their beautiful Cathedral and couldn’t stand the idea of loosing such a monument. It was so beloved, Churchill issued a decree of sorts, charging those living around St. Paul’s to forget all else and protect the structure. The people took up Churchill’s charge, and every night as the bombs were falling, they would stand on the roof of the dome, prepared to fight. The bombs dropped were delay explosives, and therefore, could be smothered with sand to prevent damage, or quickly thrown and left to explode somewhere less majestic. So, smother and throw the people did. There are craters all around St. Paul’s where bombs were thrown off the roof and left to explode in the street. The people won the battle, risking their lives every night, as the cathedral was slightly damaged, but never destroyed due to their efforts.
Our next stop was the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Very ceremonial. Very traditional. Sheila had us following the old guards and new guards all over the place, across St. James Park and back, so we could see every aspect of the ceremony.
Next was Trafalgar Square. The equivalent of New York’s Times Square according to Sheila, it isn’t a London must-see just as Times Square is New York’s one hell hole.
After lunch, we went on a Thames River cruise from the London Eye to the Tower of London. It was chilly on the top deck, but completely worth it. Their was a separate guide for the 45-minute cruise, and he was a jokester as well (“I’m going to speak slowly because I know we have a lot of people from all over the world on this tour today. Raise your hand if you are from America? About 1/3 of the boat raises their hands. In that case, I’ll speak reeeeaaaalllllly slowly.”)
Tower of London was next. We hit the big sights like the Crown Jewels, the Bloody Tower (so named because two princes were supposedly murdered there before either had the chance to claim the thrown), and the lawn where 7 big executions (like Anne Boleyn) took place.
Then, we had a sights tour throughout the City. London is divided into boroughs, and the City of London is technically only one square mile north of the Thames. It contains St. Paul’s, the financial district, and the Tower of London. Sheila just blabbed on and on about this quaint pub and that bombed building, and the information began to blur for the first time that day as my eyes began to sag. We arrived back at the hotel, grabbed a quick bite, and literally hit the sack.
So, the big question-- was the tour worth it?
I have to say yes. Mom—you were right (I’ve told her this to her face already). I can admit it.
We saw practically ever major London sight with accompanying history and admission. There were only 25 people on our 50-seater bus, so we had plenty of room. Sheila was excellent. At times, I did feel herded and I know I screamed TOURIST as I obediently followed Sheila’s raised red umbrella through St. James Park, but who cares, I am a tourist.
So, lesson learned. If you have the money, take the tour.
When I travel with my friends, there is no question—no tour. Budget wins, any potential tour benefits lose.
But, when traveling with my mom and Lindell, I find myself pondering this question again and again after two tours, one of Paris, and one of London.
My mind was made up several months ago when my mom said she was booking the trip through a travel agent, and our agent had set up a 9-hour, all day tour of London for us.
“MOM. We are going to be on a bus with fifty other people. They will all have their maps out and accents on—screaming that we are tourists. Don’t you want to get a real feel for the places we see? Not the version a tired, poorly educated guide will give us over a microphone as we drive by the major sites?”
I maintained this attitude until we toured Paris with Lido. He did not have a microphone. He drove a van. He let me practice my ever so slightly improved French.
Thursday in London was the dreaded, full day tour. Although my tour stereotypes were eased after Paris, I was still reluctant to believe this was a good idea compared with doing London on our own, especially when I saw the bus.
It was big, with the tour company’s logo prominently displayed in fat letters on both sides.
And then I saw Sheila, our 60-year-old Scottish tour guide, herding those on the tour onto the bus. I felt like a cow already, and I hadn’t even seen the microphone yet.
But, once we were off, Sheila started talking, and what she had to say wasn’t half bad. She cracked jokes. She answered all of our questions. And most importantly, she provided non-stop history of everything we were seeing.
The first stop, after a quick drive by Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament (where Big Ben rings), was St. Paul’s Cathedral. Built by the famous architect Sir Christopher Wren, the church was constructed after the great fire of London in 1666. It is a beautiful cathedral, flooded with light, and has only the best paintings, carvings, and mosaics as ordered by Wren. This is the church where Charles and Diana were married, and is the resting place of the Duke of Wellington and non other than Wren himself.
Sheila told a touching story about the Cathedral, one which I will never forget.
London was hit hard during WWII. Bombed for nights and nights without end, the city had the most civilian deaths in the war. St. Paul’s was of course in danger, being a dominating member of the London skyline. But, the people adored their beautiful Cathedral and couldn’t stand the idea of loosing such a monument. It was so beloved, Churchill issued a decree of sorts, charging those living around St. Paul’s to forget all else and protect the structure. The people took up Churchill’s charge, and every night as the bombs were falling, they would stand on the roof of the dome, prepared to fight. The bombs dropped were delay explosives, and therefore, could be smothered with sand to prevent damage, or quickly thrown and left to explode somewhere less majestic. So, smother and throw the people did. There are craters all around St. Paul’s where bombs were thrown off the roof and left to explode in the street. The people won the battle, risking their lives every night, as the cathedral was slightly damaged, but never destroyed due to their efforts.
Our next stop was the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Very ceremonial. Very traditional. Sheila had us following the old guards and new guards all over the place, across St. James Park and back, so we could see every aspect of the ceremony.
Next was Trafalgar Square. The equivalent of New York’s Times Square according to Sheila, it isn’t a London must-see just as Times Square is New York’s one hell hole.
After lunch, we went on a Thames River cruise from the London Eye to the Tower of London. It was chilly on the top deck, but completely worth it. Their was a separate guide for the 45-minute cruise, and he was a jokester as well (“I’m going to speak slowly because I know we have a lot of people from all over the world on this tour today. Raise your hand if you are from America? About 1/3 of the boat raises their hands. In that case, I’ll speak reeeeaaaalllllly slowly.”)
Tower of London was next. We hit the big sights like the Crown Jewels, the Bloody Tower (so named because two princes were supposedly murdered there before either had the chance to claim the thrown), and the lawn where 7 big executions (like Anne Boleyn) took place.
Then, we had a sights tour throughout the City. London is divided into boroughs, and the City of London is technically only one square mile north of the Thames. It contains St. Paul’s, the financial district, and the Tower of London. Sheila just blabbed on and on about this quaint pub and that bombed building, and the information began to blur for the first time that day as my eyes began to sag. We arrived back at the hotel, grabbed a quick bite, and literally hit the sack.
So, the big question-- was the tour worth it?
I have to say yes. Mom—you were right (I’ve told her this to her face already). I can admit it.
We saw practically ever major London sight with accompanying history and admission. There were only 25 people on our 50-seater bus, so we had plenty of room. Sheila was excellent. At times, I did feel herded and I know I screamed TOURIST as I obediently followed Sheila’s raised red umbrella through St. James Park, but who cares, I am a tourist.
So, lesson learned. If you have the money, take the tour.
Travel Time: Paris to London
Is it just me, or does traveling always seem to take longer than you expected?
From the time I left my apartment, it took me seven hours to travel to Paris from Aix. I took two buses, one plane, and a taxi.
And it took Lindell, my Mom, and I about six hours to travel from Paris to London from hotel to hotel. We took a subway, the train, and the tube.
And that pretty much sums up Wednesday for us.
I’m not complaining, I suppose I’m just recognizing that life is rarely what you expect. You look at a map and see how close Paris and London appear. You look at a train ticket that says “Departure: 13.01. Arrival: 14:43.” (you lose an hour between the two cities). And you think, one quick Chunnel ride is all and I’ll be in a different country.
I suppose my rant on traveling also has to do with luggage. Up to this point, I have packed my weekend things in a backpack. I did well on this trip, but I don’t know if the same can be said of Mom and Aunt. We had four rolling suitcases between us, and I was in charge of two. Here I will insert a universal truth…
Public Transportation + Rolling Luggage = One hell of a headache (or should I said arm/back ache).
My mom chose to smile and act helpless whenever an eminent, looming staircase would approach, and some generous man would usually assist her plight up the stairs. I would lower my head, grunt, and charge forward, not lifting, but dragging the suitcases behind me on the stairs, unwilling to accept help and quick to lose patience with those in my wide, wide path. Lindell did it herself as well, simply more gracefully than I.
Well, we did make it to London. Our hotel charges for Internet, hence the delays in posting.
Wednesday upon arrival, we ventured up to Harrods and discovered, as we did at Lafayette Galleries in Paris, that having loads and loads of money means you buy more than just souvenirs at a store like Harrods. Of course, our light wallets didn’t mean we couldn’t gawk. And gawk we did. I also happened upon a new game— trying to think of things Harrod’s doesn’t sell. So far, I’ve got cars. That’s all. They literally sell everything—food, toys, clothes, jewelry, make-up, toiletries, electronics, and real estate. Everything.
After shopping, we went to a restaurant recommended by Annie called The Builders Arms. Annie came to London a few years ago and said she ate at this restaurant 4 times because she loved it so much.
Great recommendation. If you are ever in London, you must go to this funky/quaint pub-like restaurant with a fireplace, cushy chairs for seats, and an extremely friendly wait staff. The fish and chips with mushy peas were amazing. Possibly, they made up for six hours of dragging a suitcase up, down, and around two major metropolitan areas.
From the time I left my apartment, it took me seven hours to travel to Paris from Aix. I took two buses, one plane, and a taxi.
And it took Lindell, my Mom, and I about six hours to travel from Paris to London from hotel to hotel. We took a subway, the train, and the tube.
And that pretty much sums up Wednesday for us.
I’m not complaining, I suppose I’m just recognizing that life is rarely what you expect. You look at a map and see how close Paris and London appear. You look at a train ticket that says “Departure: 13.01. Arrival: 14:43.” (you lose an hour between the two cities). And you think, one quick Chunnel ride is all and I’ll be in a different country.
I suppose my rant on traveling also has to do with luggage. Up to this point, I have packed my weekend things in a backpack. I did well on this trip, but I don’t know if the same can be said of Mom and Aunt. We had four rolling suitcases between us, and I was in charge of two. Here I will insert a universal truth…
Public Transportation + Rolling Luggage = One hell of a headache (or should I said arm/back ache).
My mom chose to smile and act helpless whenever an eminent, looming staircase would approach, and some generous man would usually assist her plight up the stairs. I would lower my head, grunt, and charge forward, not lifting, but dragging the suitcases behind me on the stairs, unwilling to accept help and quick to lose patience with those in my wide, wide path. Lindell did it herself as well, simply more gracefully than I.
Well, we did make it to London. Our hotel charges for Internet, hence the delays in posting.
Wednesday upon arrival, we ventured up to Harrods and discovered, as we did at Lafayette Galleries in Paris, that having loads and loads of money means you buy more than just souvenirs at a store like Harrods. Of course, our light wallets didn’t mean we couldn’t gawk. And gawk we did. I also happened upon a new game— trying to think of things Harrod’s doesn’t sell. So far, I’ve got cars. That’s all. They literally sell everything—food, toys, clothes, jewelry, make-up, toiletries, electronics, and real estate. Everything.
After shopping, we went to a restaurant recommended by Annie called The Builders Arms. Annie came to London a few years ago and said she ate at this restaurant 4 times because she loved it so much.
Great recommendation. If you are ever in London, you must go to this funky/quaint pub-like restaurant with a fireplace, cushy chairs for seats, and an extremely friendly wait staff. The fish and chips with mushy peas were amazing. Possibly, they made up for six hours of dragging a suitcase up, down, and around two major metropolitan areas.
3/3/09
The Last of It
I think I took this video sideways, but hopefully you can still get an idea of the kind of procession that goes on before mass at Notre Dame.
Here are more pictures! Just click Paris 2.
The Last Day in the City of Lights and Love
Versailles Palace was what I was expecting, but not, all at the same time. I liked it, but didn't, all at the same time.
I did expect...
Extreme opulence.
Enough people to make me realize I was visiting a tourist hot spot.
Gardens for miles.
I did not expect...
For the palace to be anywhere near Paris. For me, 12 miles and an hour bus ride meant my view of the Eiffel Tower would be all but a memory. I always pictured the palace out in the middle of nowhere, as that was Louis XIV's intention as he built Versailles as an escape from Paris-- but the Palace is in the town of Versailles. It is metropolitan/suburban sprawl there, at the palace, and back.
For our tour to seem insignificant, but not. There are over 1200 rooms at Versailles, over half of which can be viewed. We toured 17 rooms in the span of about 1.5 hours, and although they were very well-known, very plush/ornate/incredible rooms like the Hall of Mirrors and the Queen's chambers, I felt as if there was so much more to see, like 575 more rooms! But then again, I saw where Louis XIV, XV, and XVI and their respective foreign wives lived, which is incredible.
I liked...
Our guide. She was a bright, blue-eyed French woman with excellent English. She made the tour mean more, as history accompanying the paintings, furniture, and wall hangings always makes the museum, or in this case palace, mean more.
The grounds. With fountains as far as the eye can see, you could spend days wandering Versailles palace, but you could spend weeks enjoying the gardens. If only it were Spring!
I did not like...
The endless line of buses waiting in front of Versailles.
The crowds of people I had to shove through to get a glimpse of Marie Antoinette's jewelry box.
The fact that the tour was advertised as being 4 hours, but 2 of those were spent in a bus.
Oh well. I'm very glad we went and saw the palace that Louis XIV built, Louis XV enjoyed, and Louis XVI paid for-- with his life.
We arrived back in Paris around 1:00 and decided to hit the tourist attractions we had yet to visit-- the Arc du Triomph and Champs Elysees. After passing on a ride to the top, but enjoying the massive structure all the same while paying our respects to the unknown French soldier, we strolled down the most famous avenue in Paris. A little shopping. A little crepe eating (mine had Grand Marnier, and was flambe-d by the waitress!). A lot of walking.
After a quick rest at the hotel, we decided to visit Saint Sulpice, the church famous for its Rose Line made popular by The Da Vinci Code. Although the outside facade was under construction, a massive fountain outside the entrance made up for the restoration project's unfortunate timing. The church was lovely, more like Sacre Coeur with its white stone and lighter feel, and less like Notre Dame.
We then grabbed a quick bite before strolling the bustling Latin Quarter. Our destination was an English bookstore I had read about in online reviews of the city called Shakespeare and Co. My mom said it looked like my house would look if I were a recluse a.k.a. wall to wall, floor to ceiling books in multiple rooms, on stair steps, and shoved in corners. I loved it. I could have spent hours there.
Tomorrow, we chunnel to London. Just as we have figured this city out, we embark upon a new, bigger city with a new language, new ways to get lost, and new sights to see! Oh, the life of a European traveler.
I did expect...
Extreme opulence.
Enough people to make me realize I was visiting a tourist hot spot.
Gardens for miles.
I did not expect...
For the palace to be anywhere near Paris. For me, 12 miles and an hour bus ride meant my view of the Eiffel Tower would be all but a memory. I always pictured the palace out in the middle of nowhere, as that was Louis XIV's intention as he built Versailles as an escape from Paris-- but the Palace is in the town of Versailles. It is metropolitan/suburban sprawl there, at the palace, and back.
For our tour to seem insignificant, but not. There are over 1200 rooms at Versailles, over half of which can be viewed. We toured 17 rooms in the span of about 1.5 hours, and although they were very well-known, very plush/ornate/incredible rooms like the Hall of Mirrors and the Queen's chambers, I felt as if there was so much more to see, like 575 more rooms! But then again, I saw where Louis XIV, XV, and XVI and their respective foreign wives lived, which is incredible.
I liked...
Our guide. She was a bright, blue-eyed French woman with excellent English. She made the tour mean more, as history accompanying the paintings, furniture, and wall hangings always makes the museum, or in this case palace, mean more.
The grounds. With fountains as far as the eye can see, you could spend days wandering Versailles palace, but you could spend weeks enjoying the gardens. If only it were Spring!
I did not like...
The endless line of buses waiting in front of Versailles.
The crowds of people I had to shove through to get a glimpse of Marie Antoinette's jewelry box.
The fact that the tour was advertised as being 4 hours, but 2 of those were spent in a bus.
Oh well. I'm very glad we went and saw the palace that Louis XIV built, Louis XV enjoyed, and Louis XVI paid for-- with his life.
We arrived back in Paris around 1:00 and decided to hit the tourist attractions we had yet to visit-- the Arc du Triomph and Champs Elysees. After passing on a ride to the top, but enjoying the massive structure all the same while paying our respects to the unknown French soldier, we strolled down the most famous avenue in Paris. A little shopping. A little crepe eating (mine had Grand Marnier, and was flambe-d by the waitress!). A lot of walking.
After a quick rest at the hotel, we decided to visit Saint Sulpice, the church famous for its Rose Line made popular by The Da Vinci Code. Although the outside facade was under construction, a massive fountain outside the entrance made up for the restoration project's unfortunate timing. The church was lovely, more like Sacre Coeur with its white stone and lighter feel, and less like Notre Dame.
We then grabbed a quick bite before strolling the bustling Latin Quarter. Our destination was an English bookstore I had read about in online reviews of the city called Shakespeare and Co. My mom said it looked like my house would look if I were a recluse a.k.a. wall to wall, floor to ceiling books in multiple rooms, on stair steps, and shoved in corners. I loved it. I could have spent hours there.
Tomorrow, we chunnel to London. Just as we have figured this city out, we embark upon a new, bigger city with a new language, new ways to get lost, and new sights to see! Oh, the life of a European traveler.
The Sacred Heart of Paris
Although it might not geographically be the heart of the city, the Sacre Coeur (or Sacred Heart) basilica perched atop the quaint Montparnasse district has a Parisian charm that exudes that special I-can't-believe-I'm-in-Paris something. Sacre Coeur won my heart with its spectacular views at the cost of dizzying staircases, and it is one of my favorite spots in the city.
Mom, Lindell, and I ventured there Monday morning to begin our first full day we planned ourselves. After exiting the Metro, I asked a local woman with a warm smile which way to go to reach Sacre Coeur. She laughed at me and said, "Always up. Always up."
So, we did as she said and went up, up, up. The basilica is the second highest point in the city (after the Eiffel Tower of course), and after meandering up quiet cobblestoned streets (which reminded me of my dear Aix) we stumbled upon the church at the tip top of the hill.
Our buns may have burned, but the view was well worth it. The sun was in rare form, reflecting off every rooftop in Paris and back towards us. The whole city seemed to sprawl before us, demonstrating that maybe we hadn't seen everything like we thought we had.
Lindell stayed at the steps to rest, and Mom and I decided to climb more than 300 stairs to see the views from the basilica's dome. These were some serious, serious stairs-- the kind that never seem to end as they wind and wind and wind, seemingly becoming narrower the closer you get to the top. But wow. Walking around the dome provided breathtaking view after breathtaking view. The sturdy Eiffel Tower in one glance, the sparkling Seine in another.
After lingering on the steps of Sacre Coeur (and visiting the inside of the church famous for its giant mosiac), we wandered toward the Moulin Rouge, taking our time to stop in boutiques along the way. But, as we came closer and closer to our destination, the shops began to change their merchandise (think less postcards, more lingerie), and after a quick pictures ("To say that we've been there!" as Mom would say) we began walking towards the Opera House.
About an hour later (things on a map always seem closer than they actually are), we discovered that the main chamber of the Opera House was closed for rehearsal. So after taking advantage of the wonderfully clean bathrooms and snapping a few pics (once again, "to say we've been there!") we uknowingly entered heaven/hell-- The Lafayette Galleries.
I don't know if I can accurately paint of picture of Lafayette. It was like Sacs Fifth Avenue on fashion steroids. It was 7 stories. It made me accutely, accutely aware of my college-student income. It had a ceiling Louvre-worthy. It had a map at the front desk because you could easily get lost in the maze of fashion houses. It was really, really warm, as if the heat was deliberately turned up so the chic Parisian woman could check their coats and stroll through the galleries in their thousand-dollar get-ups without breaking a sweat.
We didn't buy anything, but we spent two hours with our mouths permanently in an "o" saying the word "wow" repeatedly when we would sheepishly glance at a price tag.
After Lafayette, we metro-ed over to le Marais, a district of Paris known for its Jewish heritage and one-of-a-kind, boutique shopping, hoping to find something more in our price range. But, alas, boutique is a synonym for "not as expensive as Lafayette, but not nearly as reasonable as the Gap."
After a quick rest at the hotel, Mom and I walked approximately five steps down the street to a restaurant our guidebook recommended-- Le Ferrandaise. It was fancy French food. The kind of food where you don't know exactly what you are eating as the ingredient list is longer, more complex, and filled with more unknown vocabulary than a Shakespeare play, but that is really, really delicious. I'm so glad we went, as I had yet to experience a more modern take on French cuisine.
With our bellies bursting, Mom and I walked over to the Louvre to see the Pyramid alight, as Lido (our tour guide from Sunday morning) had told us that the museum was one of his favorite spots in Paris after the sun sets. It was beautiful. I have a whole new appreciation for the Louvre without the crowds of people lined up in front of the Pyramid and surrounding the fountains. At night it is peaceful, and therefore somehow more awe-inspiring. A saxophonist playing a soothing, yet mournful tune under an archway was the perfect soundtrack for the night. We could even see a star or two braving the city lights to dot the sky.
Mom, Lindell, and I ventured there Monday morning to begin our first full day we planned ourselves. After exiting the Metro, I asked a local woman with a warm smile which way to go to reach Sacre Coeur. She laughed at me and said, "Always up. Always up."
So, we did as she said and went up, up, up. The basilica is the second highest point in the city (after the Eiffel Tower of course), and after meandering up quiet cobblestoned streets (which reminded me of my dear Aix) we stumbled upon the church at the tip top of the hill.
Our buns may have burned, but the view was well worth it. The sun was in rare form, reflecting off every rooftop in Paris and back towards us. The whole city seemed to sprawl before us, demonstrating that maybe we hadn't seen everything like we thought we had.
Lindell stayed at the steps to rest, and Mom and I decided to climb more than 300 stairs to see the views from the basilica's dome. These were some serious, serious stairs-- the kind that never seem to end as they wind and wind and wind, seemingly becoming narrower the closer you get to the top. But wow. Walking around the dome provided breathtaking view after breathtaking view. The sturdy Eiffel Tower in one glance, the sparkling Seine in another.
After lingering on the steps of Sacre Coeur (and visiting the inside of the church famous for its giant mosiac), we wandered toward the Moulin Rouge, taking our time to stop in boutiques along the way. But, as we came closer and closer to our destination, the shops began to change their merchandise (think less postcards, more lingerie), and after a quick pictures ("To say that we've been there!" as Mom would say) we began walking towards the Opera House.
About an hour later (things on a map always seem closer than they actually are), we discovered that the main chamber of the Opera House was closed for rehearsal. So after taking advantage of the wonderfully clean bathrooms and snapping a few pics (once again, "to say we've been there!") we uknowingly entered heaven/hell-- The Lafayette Galleries.
I don't know if I can accurately paint of picture of Lafayette. It was like Sacs Fifth Avenue on fashion steroids. It was 7 stories. It made me accutely, accutely aware of my college-student income. It had a ceiling Louvre-worthy. It had a map at the front desk because you could easily get lost in the maze of fashion houses. It was really, really warm, as if the heat was deliberately turned up so the chic Parisian woman could check their coats and stroll through the galleries in their thousand-dollar get-ups without breaking a sweat.
We didn't buy anything, but we spent two hours with our mouths permanently in an "o" saying the word "wow" repeatedly when we would sheepishly glance at a price tag.
After Lafayette, we metro-ed over to le Marais, a district of Paris known for its Jewish heritage and one-of-a-kind, boutique shopping, hoping to find something more in our price range. But, alas, boutique is a synonym for "not as expensive as Lafayette, but not nearly as reasonable as the Gap."
After a quick rest at the hotel, Mom and I walked approximately five steps down the street to a restaurant our guidebook recommended-- Le Ferrandaise. It was fancy French food. The kind of food where you don't know exactly what you are eating as the ingredient list is longer, more complex, and filled with more unknown vocabulary than a Shakespeare play, but that is really, really delicious. I'm so glad we went, as I had yet to experience a more modern take on French cuisine.
With our bellies bursting, Mom and I walked over to the Louvre to see the Pyramid alight, as Lido (our tour guide from Sunday morning) had told us that the museum was one of his favorite spots in Paris after the sun sets. It was beautiful. I have a whole new appreciation for the Louvre without the crowds of people lined up in front of the Pyramid and surrounding the fountains. At night it is peaceful, and therefore somehow more awe-inspiring. A saxophonist playing a soothing, yet mournful tune under an archway was the perfect soundtrack for the night. We could even see a star or two braving the city lights to dot the sky.
3/1/09
Paris: Day 2
The sun might not have been shining, but that didn't mean today was a bust. Hardly.
Insert quick flashback to Saturday night...
Me: "Mom, shouldn't you set an alarm?"
Mom a.k.a. the woman who has never slept past 7:00 a.m. in her life: "Haha!"
Me: "You sure? You're going to be jet lagged and might oversleep."
Mom: "Haha... I'll wake up."
So, naturally, we woke up late.
Me this morning as we were frantically running around the room trying to get ready for our 9:45 pick up: "Haha!"
We made it with just 1 minute to spare. Lido (strange name, I know) picked us up for our city tour, and we were off in his van to see ALL the city sites. Literally, ALL of them. We were in his van for three hours (with stops to get out and take pictures/walk around), but we saw the Petit Palais, Grand Palais, the obelisk in Concord Square, Invalides military hospital, Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower, Ecole Militarie, Parliament, Louvre, Tuileries, Place Vendome, and more things I have surely forgotten. Lido was an excellent guide, delivering all the historical information (soon to come-- well what I can remember-- with the photos) while answering our questions.
After the tour, he dropped us off at Musee D'Orsay as per our request, as today was offically Museum Day as ordained by the fact that all the museums in Paris are free, yes free, the first Sunday of every month. This may mean they are more crowded, but as none of us are art experts, we figured "Why not?" (the gray sky which periodically spat droplets our way also helped seal the deal).
Musee D'Orsay is famous for its Pre-Impressionist/Impressionist/Post-Impressionist collection. Painters the likes of Monet, Sisley, Van Gogh, and Cezanne all have many, many works here. The museum is a restored train station, and the open-air feeling this gives is something I appreciated throughout my browsing. As I often find with museums, I tire out and the paintings begin to blur together before I am ready to stop exploring. After checking out the big Van Gogh room as a final hooray, Lindell, my mom and I left for a quick lunch, then our next feat.
The Louvre in one word: overwhelming.
So, so much to see, but with 17 kilometers of galaries-- it literally is not possible, especially in an afternoon. We decided to hit the big ones: Winged Victory, Mona Lisa, and Venus de Milo and catch interesting extras along the way. Of the Louvre's big three, I have to say the Winged Victory is by far the most impressive. She stands so strong and proud upon the rock, and the stone is carved with a supple touch that truly makes the statue luminous. The fact that her head is missing is almost better, as it allows you to imagine what could have been there.
Another highlight was Napoleon's III chambers. Incredibly opulent. Throughout the Louvre, you can't imagine anyone actually living there (as it was originally a palace) and walking down the marble halls as they are so, so, so big. But Napleon's III chambers-- wow. Lush carpeting and enormous chandeliers. I could definitely live there, no problem.
Now, we are back at the hotel, preparing for an evening cruise of the Seine and nighttime views of the Eiffel tower and the sparkling city at night. What a day, and its hardly finished.
Insert quick flashback to Saturday night...
Me: "Mom, shouldn't you set an alarm?"
Mom a.k.a. the woman who has never slept past 7:00 a.m. in her life: "Haha!"
Me: "You sure? You're going to be jet lagged and might oversleep."
Mom: "Haha... I'll wake up."
So, naturally, we woke up late.
Me this morning as we were frantically running around the room trying to get ready for our 9:45 pick up: "Haha!"
We made it with just 1 minute to spare. Lido (strange name, I know) picked us up for our city tour, and we were off in his van to see ALL the city sites. Literally, ALL of them. We were in his van for three hours (with stops to get out and take pictures/walk around), but we saw the Petit Palais, Grand Palais, the obelisk in Concord Square, Invalides military hospital, Notre Dame, Eiffel Tower, Ecole Militarie, Parliament, Louvre, Tuileries, Place Vendome, and more things I have surely forgotten. Lido was an excellent guide, delivering all the historical information (soon to come-- well what I can remember-- with the photos) while answering our questions.
After the tour, he dropped us off at Musee D'Orsay as per our request, as today was offically Museum Day as ordained by the fact that all the museums in Paris are free, yes free, the first Sunday of every month. This may mean they are more crowded, but as none of us are art experts, we figured "Why not?" (the gray sky which periodically spat droplets our way also helped seal the deal).
Musee D'Orsay is famous for its Pre-Impressionist/Impressionist/Post-Impressionist collection. Painters the likes of Monet, Sisley, Van Gogh, and Cezanne all have many, many works here. The museum is a restored train station, and the open-air feeling this gives is something I appreciated throughout my browsing. As I often find with museums, I tire out and the paintings begin to blur together before I am ready to stop exploring. After checking out the big Van Gogh room as a final hooray, Lindell, my mom and I left for a quick lunch, then our next feat.
The Louvre in one word: overwhelming.
So, so much to see, but with 17 kilometers of galaries-- it literally is not possible, especially in an afternoon. We decided to hit the big ones: Winged Victory, Mona Lisa, and Venus de Milo and catch interesting extras along the way. Of the Louvre's big three, I have to say the Winged Victory is by far the most impressive. She stands so strong and proud upon the rock, and the stone is carved with a supple touch that truly makes the statue luminous. The fact that her head is missing is almost better, as it allows you to imagine what could have been there.
Another highlight was Napoleon's III chambers. Incredibly opulent. Throughout the Louvre, you can't imagine anyone actually living there (as it was originally a palace) and walking down the marble halls as they are so, so, so big. But Napleon's III chambers-- wow. Lush carpeting and enormous chandeliers. I could definitely live there, no problem.
Now, we are back at the hotel, preparing for an evening cruise of the Seine and nighttime views of the Eiffel tower and the sparkling city at night. What a day, and its hardly finished.
Paris: The City of Calf's Head and Sunshine and more Sunshine
Paris Day 1: The Birthday Day Breakdown
2:00- I arrive at the hotel after a surprisingly long morning of travel. Ryanair is the cheapest way to get around Europe-- maybe. After paying 13 euro for the 80 kilometer bus ride from Beauvais to Paris, and then paying a cab to take me to the hotel, not to mention the extra fees for airport check-in and baggage check... lets just say I should have taken the TGV. But all that didn't matter because...
...I was so happy to finally see familair faces! Lots of hugs. Lots of smiles. I split a Parisian hotdog with my mom, with dijon mustard and herb cheese on a baguette a.k.a. the best, most gourmet hot dog ever.
2:30-4:30- We discover that our hotel is in an amazing location as the sun was uncharacteristically (for February) showing itself off for all of Paris. We strolled through the Luxembourg gardens, literally a skip and a jump away from our hotel. Children were playing with remote controlled toy boats in the gaint fountain, and the park was flooded with locals taking advantage of the weather. It was so warm I didn't need my coat, and we strolled through the Luxembourg grounds with our heads toward the sky and our hearts waiting to soak up all of Paris.
We then walked ten minutes to Notre Dame (oh-em-gee its so close!). We toured the inside of the monumental structure while a mass was taking place. The organ of Notre Dame is incredible, and made the experience one I won't soon forget.
4:30-6:30- Strolling time. We strolled toward the Louvre and took pictures as the last rays of sunshine were hitting the northern facade of the massive building. We strolled through some stores and did some window shopping. I treated myself to a cafe au lait with my mom (I know I don't drink coffee anymore, but its okay on your birthday, right?) as locals and tourists alike bustled along the busy Paris streets.
7:30-10:00- Dinner at Le Procope-- the oldest restaurant in Paris. Founded in the 1686, it is famous for its traditional, some might call bizarre French dishes and as being the old haunt of writers like Rimbaud and Voltaire. I ordered a meat pie appetizer (served chilled, wrapped in brioche, and with a dill pickle), calf's head for an entree (served like pot roast with broth, potatoes, and carrots), and chocolate crunchy for dessert (which is exactly like it sounds!). The restaurant was wonderfully orante, with velvet drapes and thick carpeting, and I loved my meal a.k.a. I was so glad I was adventurous and tried the calf's head.
We went back to the hotel after dinner and hit our beds with ours high heels still on.
Pictures to come!
2:00- I arrive at the hotel after a surprisingly long morning of travel. Ryanair is the cheapest way to get around Europe-- maybe. After paying 13 euro for the 80 kilometer bus ride from Beauvais to Paris, and then paying a cab to take me to the hotel, not to mention the extra fees for airport check-in and baggage check... lets just say I should have taken the TGV. But all that didn't matter because...
...I was so happy to finally see familair faces! Lots of hugs. Lots of smiles. I split a Parisian hotdog with my mom, with dijon mustard and herb cheese on a baguette a.k.a. the best, most gourmet hot dog ever.
2:30-4:30- We discover that our hotel is in an amazing location as the sun was uncharacteristically (for February) showing itself off for all of Paris. We strolled through the Luxembourg gardens, literally a skip and a jump away from our hotel. Children were playing with remote controlled toy boats in the gaint fountain, and the park was flooded with locals taking advantage of the weather. It was so warm I didn't need my coat, and we strolled through the Luxembourg grounds with our heads toward the sky and our hearts waiting to soak up all of Paris.
We then walked ten minutes to Notre Dame (oh-em-gee its so close!). We toured the inside of the monumental structure while a mass was taking place. The organ of Notre Dame is incredible, and made the experience one I won't soon forget.
4:30-6:30- Strolling time. We strolled toward the Louvre and took pictures as the last rays of sunshine were hitting the northern facade of the massive building. We strolled through some stores and did some window shopping. I treated myself to a cafe au lait with my mom (I know I don't drink coffee anymore, but its okay on your birthday, right?) as locals and tourists alike bustled along the busy Paris streets.
7:30-10:00- Dinner at Le Procope-- the oldest restaurant in Paris. Founded in the 1686, it is famous for its traditional, some might call bizarre French dishes and as being the old haunt of writers like Rimbaud and Voltaire. I ordered a meat pie appetizer (served chilled, wrapped in brioche, and with a dill pickle), calf's head for an entree (served like pot roast with broth, potatoes, and carrots), and chocolate crunchy for dessert (which is exactly like it sounds!). The restaurant was wonderfully orante, with velvet drapes and thick carpeting, and I loved my meal a.k.a. I was so glad I was adventurous and tried the calf's head.
We went back to the hotel after dinner and hit our beds with ours high heels still on.
Pictures to come!
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