Girl in Charge

Grandpa Gant

2009-08-31T12:20:00.000-07:00

I didn't ever get the chance to meet my Dad's Dad.

I do know a couple things about him, though.

One: He was shot in the side during WWII. The bullet traveled through his backpack, the pot of beans that would have been his lunch, and his body before exiting out his front.

Two: His job in the military meant that the Gant family had to move around-- a lot. One of my Dad's brothers was born in Germany. The family lived in the Philippines for awhile. My Dad, the youngest, actually got the best deal of the bunch, and lived in Oklahoma for all of junior high and high school.

Three: He died when my Dad was 23. That's not much older than me now. I can't imagine.

Four: He looks dashing in these photos. I love old photos.

My favorite of the bunch is the shot of him in Korea, overlooking the rolling hills. He looks morosely contemplative. What was he thinking of? His family? The war? Was he weary or invigorated? Hungry or full? Ready to face the challenges undoubtedly presented to him or not?

I write this blog (occasionally, I do admit) so my grandchildren can someday know what I was thinking.

I think my Grammy Gant looks especially beautiful in this picture.

Photos

2009-08-07T14:19:00.000-07:00

United Steak of America
I actually laughed out loud when I saw this.
I love that red meat is so quintessential American too.
Next time I buy a steak, I know I'll be tempted to carve it into something.

The post accompanying this photo said they spent $1000 on twinkle lights.
I heart twinkle lights.
I heart this picture.
I feel as if it is documenting my own, personal heaven of sorts.

Abraham, Queen Elizabeth II, and bodiless emails

2009-08-07T12:42:00.001-07:00

My mom sent me an email yesterday that read "You need a picture of Abraham on your blog" in the subject line.

I remember the first time my mom sent me a subject line email. I was terribly confused. I ransacked the page, looking for more text. Where is the body of the email? I wondered as I knit my brow.

She says its efficient.

I say its impersonal.

She says it gets straight to the point.

I say it makes people feel like their response doesn't matter.

She sends me subject line emails all the time.

I send her subject line emails back.

Anyway... this is one of my corgis. Abraham.

I'm going to make another universal statement (I established last week that sunflowers were undoubtedly the best flower). I think more people will take issue with this statement than the one about the flowers.

Corgis are the cutest dogs in the world.

You might disagree, but I have royalty on my side.

THE failure

2009-08-07T12:30:00.000-07:00

I am no longer cleansing.

Officially, as of a Subway sandwich for dinner last night. It was delicious. Heavenly. Inspired. Ham on honey wheat with lettuce, tomato, pickles, cucumber, and green peppers. I continued to chew even after I swallowed, relishing the simple joy of the everyday action.

I ate the other half for breakfast this morning ($5 footlongs). It was delicious, heavenly, and inspired all over again.

Colors are brighter, smells are more pronounced, and the sun shines brighter when you eat.

Lesson learned. Next time I say I want to do THE cleanse (which, if I'm a creature of habit, will be in about six months), yell and scream and kick "NO!". Then give me a cupcake. Or TCBY. Or a Subway sandwich.

I'm on the cleanse...

2009-08-05T11:11:00.000-07:00

... you know? THE cleanse?

Have you seen that episode of The Office? I think it is the first episode of Season 5. Kelly is on THE cleanse-- and faints.

It is also called the lemonade diet. Basically, I drink a mixture of lemon juice, maple syrup, cayenne pepper, and water. 2 liters a day. Doesn't sound so bad-- right?

Well, I don't eat either. Nothing. Nada. Rien.

I miss chewing.

My last meal was Sunday dinner. It is now Wednesday at 2:13 and I'm proud to say I have yet to faint. Actually, I have yet to really feel like fainting.

Everytime I'm hungry, I swig my lemonade, and surprisingly, the craving subsides.

I tried THE cleanse last December. I lasted two days. I blamed the stress of studying and homework on my lack of finish. Heck, I didn't even come close, as the recommended MINIMUM is 10 days. Apparently, a person can go up to 40 days without eating no problem.

Not me. I'm not Jesus [insert obvious "duhhhhh"].

I've already lasted longer than last time, and I'm feeling better than last time. These all seem like reassuring signs to me.

But, I miss chewing.

My boyfriend is a firefighter

2009-08-05T11:00:00.000-07:00

And I just like to tell people that sometimes.

He volunteers at Quogue Fire Department open houses, serving hot dogs to the young masses with a smile on his face... in the pouring rain.

Well, at least he did last Sunday. Maybe he wasn't smiling the whole time. Maybe he insisted I put away the camera after I quickly snagged this singular photo. And maybe, just maybe... I left after only 30 minutes, 3 clams, and 1 ice cream cone because my feet were beginning to prune from the downpour.

Unfortunately, the weather meant the department didn't raise as much money as it did last year, when the sun smiled upon the young-ens as they rode around in the department's signature yellow truck and frolocked on a moon bounce.

I'm just proud to say my intake of junk has significantly decreased from the monumental 7 clams, 1.5 hot dogs, 1 bag of popcorn, and 1 ice cream cone of last year.

Without argument, the best flower on God's green earth is...

2009-08-05T10:57:00.000-07:00

The sunflower.

They never fail to make me smile.

OMGee. The Zucchini are coming for me!

2009-08-05T09:32:00.000-07:00

I made a rhyme. It was silly. But, really. Look at them.

Zach's grandparents visited Quogue this weekend, and brought with them a GINORMOUS bounty from their garden. Zucchini that could easily be mistaken for dumbbells. Cucumbers that could come in handy if someone tried to pick a fight with you (one knock on the head with one of those suckers, and your terrorizer would be out cold). And too many baby carrots to count.

I made it my mission Sunday to try and make a dent in the zucchinis. I can proudly say there are only 6 zucchinis sitting on Zach's counter instead of 7. What a GINORMOUS dent I made.

Anyway... the recipe.

Here are the ingredients. Preheat the oven to 350.

Go ahead and shred your zuchinni. You'll need two cups, which was almost one, entire, killer zucchini for me, but could be two small ones for someone with normal sized produce.

Next, grab yourself three eggs. Crack em' in a big bowl.

Add 1 cup of oil, then admit how jealous you are of my measuring cups. Mix well after adding each ingredient to ensure the perfect texture a.k.a. no lumps.

1 cup of sugar next. Then, again with the jealousy thing.

Add the vanilla extract, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon. Then, if you are feeling extra adventurous, sprinkle the whole thing with freshly ground nutmeg. It gives the bread a yummy kick.

Mix it all up, then dump the 2 cups of shredded zucchini in.

Now for the one dry ingredient. 1 cup flour.

One final whisk, then pour in a greased and floured pan. I didn't have a loaf pan, so I used this square one instead. Let me explain the numbers....

1. This is the plain, ole' zucchini bread recipe. Easy and good.

2. Zucchini banana muffins: I portioned out about 1 cup batter, then added half of a smashed banana and mixed it all up. I placed a dainty banana slice on top so I would know which was which they came out (and because I thought it would be pretty).

3. Zucchini date muffins: I portioned out another equal bit of batter and added about 1/2 of chopped dates. Once again, I added a whole date on the top to distinguish.

No bakers job is done until the dishwasher is loaded. :o( But, dishes are the perfect thing to do to keep from sneaking a peak at the fragrant bread and muffins in the oven.

The muffins were done first. They took about 25-30 minutes.

The bread took a little longer-- about 30-35 minutes.

The muffins with the added banana were the biggest hit. There was just a hint of banana flavor, but the added moistness was perfect. Delish!

Did you know zucchini is actually a fruit? That is why it works in bread, I suppose.

Zucchini Bread Recipe

3 whole Eggs
1 cup Oil
1-¾ cup Sugar
1 Tablespoon Vanilla Extract
1 teaspoon Baking Soda
2 teaspoons Ground Cinnamon
1 teaspoon Salt
¼ teaspoons Baking Powder
Sprinkle of freshly grated nutmeg
2 cups Grated Zucchini
3 cups Flour

Extra goodies:
1/2 banana OR 1/2 cup dates or any dried fruit for three muffins
(2 mashed bananas or 2 cups dried dates if you wanted to spice up the entire batter)

Preheat oven to 350. Mix ingredients together in the order shown, mixing well between each ingredient. Add extra goodies if you wanna. Pour equal amounts of mixture into a greased and floured loaf pan/muffin tin. Watch the time (varies depending on pan used). Enjoy!

The Adventures of Xena the Yorkie

2009-07-30T13:59:00.000-07:00

Step One: Lift little Xena and carefully place her behind your head.

Step Two: Smile for the camera as the dog whimpers in fear. The photographer hastily snaps the photo for fear Xena might lose her lunch.

Step Three: Kiss and cuddle the poor pup. Apologize for pretending she wasn't a 5-pound, easily-spooked, but none-the-less adorable dog.

This is why I love Quogue: Part II

2009-07-30T09:09:00.000-07:00

The End (again).

Fourth of July & Friendship

2009-07-30T08:05:00.000-07:00

Chris and Chase are Zach's best friends.

They became friends in high school before I came along and supposedly, stole Zach away from them.

Now, they go to school in three very different places. Chase plays football at Stanford. Chris studies philosophy in the cathedral of learning at Pittsburg. And Zach is at Cornell.

It was infinitely important for me that the much talked about 4th of July reunion work. I needed them to see each other before college ends, jobs begin, and it becomes much more complicated to arrange a simple meeting between these three friends.

It may be stupid, but it feels like after college, they won't be able to infectiously laugh together like they use to in high school.

Almost magically, everything fell into place. Chase flew in from Cali. Chris drove from Pennsylvania. We met in the city, then traveled out to Quogue for a weekend of fireworks, mojitos, and the beach.

We mostly reminiscied and laughed the weekend away, as everything falls into place the second they see one another no matter how long it has been.

Chris and Chase are now my best friends. I suppose it comes with the territory of dating Zach.

Chris and I blubbered together the day Zach drove away from Tulsa forever. Chase patiently helped me through Latin Freshman year at OU. Chris is always willing to listen when Zach has done something absurd. I can practically see his smile over the phone as he says, "Well Katie, that's just Zach being Zach."

I don't think the "real world" will ever change things. Plus, in my mind, they will always be three boys debating the origin of evil while playing video games and drinking Martinellis apple juice.

Summer Reading

2009-07-30T06:53:00.000-07:00

Here are the books I have read this summer (all on my wonderful, magical, best-gadget-in-the-whole-entire-world Kindle).

I've ranked them, number one being my favorite and number ten being my least favorite. *Insert Disclaimer* They were ALL worth reading, I simply liked certain plots/characters/themes more than others.

1. The Help by Kathryn Stockett
2. Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese
3. The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski
4. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak
5. White Tiger: A Novel by Aravind Adiga
6. Child 44 by Tom Rob Smith
7. On Beauty by Zadie Smith
8. Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay
9. In the Woods by Tana French
10. When a Crocodile Eats the Sun by Peter Godwin

Anyway, I've compiled this list for several reasons. I'll enumerate them in yet another list.

1. To make me think about what I have read after I have read it.
2. Hopefully, to entice someone out there to pick up a book and enjoy the wonder of reading a good, recommended book.
3. I love to read. I love to write. So, writing about books is, essentially, my dream, my hope, and my passion.

I walked to work this morning via the Brooklyn Bridge

2009-07-30T06:39:00.000-07:00

This is why I love Quogue.

2009-07-29T18:35:00.000-07:00

The End.

My Name in Print

2009-07-29T18:25:00.001-07:00

Although I've seen it many times before (I am, after all, a yearbook nerd through and through, with five years of yearbooking under my belt) I can't help but glow with pride every time I see my name in print.

Here is the cover of the August issue of Hemispheres (United's inflight magazine).

And here is my name. Wow. It looks great. That "K" and "G" are especially impressive in that particular font.

And here is a tid-bit I wrote about currywurst. What a noble subject.

If you happen to be flying United, look me up, and let me know what you think of the currywurst write-up.

Hamburger or Cupcake?

2009-07-29T17:54:00.000-07:00

One weekend in June, it was hopelessly rainy in Quogue. I pestered Zach about going to see a movie. He said no. I asked him to play a game with me. He said no. I asked him to go with me to Blockbuster rent a movie. He said no.

I was noticing a pattern, so I decided to give up on the boring boyfriend and take on a project.

Two hours and a sink filled to the brim of dirty dishes later, I finished my Bakerella inspired rainy day treat.

I was completely tickled with myself because the little hamburgers looked so realistic. The sesame seeds really were the winning touch.

When I finished the first burger, I placed it daintily on a plate and took it out to the living room to show Zach.

"What is that?" he said as he turned up his nose.

"Its a yellow cupcake with a brownie as the patty and colored icing meant to look like lettuce, ketchup, and mustard of course!" I happily chirped.

"Can I eat it?"

I didn't even respond, simply whacked him in the head, leaving the plate and burger for him to munch on.

I was completely gleeful (but that might have been due to all the sugar I consumed licking the bowls and spoons and beaters) and practically skipped to the sink to start the mountain of cake-tins and bowls before me. As I was waiting for the water to warm, Zach yelled from the living room, "This is pretty good Katie."

And I smiled.

Hamburger Cupcakes

Bake a mix of yellow cake cupcakes according to the packaged instructions. Generously spray the cupcake wrappers to ensure nice and whole cupcakes when you remove the wrapper. Let cool.

Bake a batch of brownies in a 9x13 pan. Let cool.

Take a container of white frosting and divide it evenly into three bowls. Color one green, one yellow, and one red. Spoon the colored frostings into plastic bags, pushing all the frosting to one corner.

Split the cooled cupcakes down the middle with a serrated knife.

Take a drinking glass and use it to cut out your "patties" from the brownies. Once you cut all you can with the glass, scoop the brownie from the baking dish and form patties with your hands.

Place a "patty" on a respective "bun". Retrieve the frosting-filled plastic bags, cut a hole in the frosting-filled corner, and decorate the tops of the patties.

Finish by sprinkling the finished burgers with sesame seeds.

EAT!

Hmph: An End.

2009-06-11T14:06:00.000-07:00

I’ve been dreading writing this last entry. The second I do, my foray in French life will cease to exist, and I will just be that girl that once studied abroad and did really awesome, adventurous, cool, amazing, once-in-a-lifetime things that other, less awesome, cool, amazing people live vicariously through.

[Insert HUGE sigh]

Its over. It feels almost sacrilege to write this, as I haven’t really finished mourning.

It reminds me of the year my dog Annie died. She was the most loyal, kind-hearted, mellow pet a girl could ask for. My mom called me my freshman year at OU and dutifully announced that Annie had to be put to sleep.

It took me a year to visit her little grave, marked with a cross composed of hob knob twigs from our backyard.

I haven’t visited France’s “grave” yet, and I can’t bring myself to.

Instead, I will write blog entries on my lunch break and try to believe that New York could ever be as “glamorous” as my wonderful Aix.

Fat French chance.

3.97

2009-05-13T10:59:00.000-07:00

Our post sippin' photo (we had smoothies again).

Say "bonjour" to Aubin.

Today was another goodbye-- my final language date with Aubin.

We chatted about our upcoming exams, torture as an inefficient means to an end, and why the French think Americans only eat copious amounts of greasy "MacDo". We exchanged bisous and email addresses as we said goodbye, and we plan to keep in touch. As I was walking away from the cafe, I felt as if I should have met Aubin along the way, not at the end of everything.

I took three tests today, two of which were steps from impossible. The third was MI:4.

Natalie handed back our theatre exams in class. I got a 12.5/20. This, in American averaging, would be a D-.

I am not a D- student. I am not even a D+ or a C or a B student. I am Katie Gant and I have A written all over me. Or, at least I thought I did until freshman year of college. That year, my transcript was forever smeered by an honors professor who clearly didn't know that when he gave me my first B, my tiny world temporarily imploded. Tears were not enough for my all-consuming grief. I wrote furious emails to this professor-who-wil-not-be-named that I never sent, lamenting his unfairness and daring to give me, Katie Gant, a B.

Luckily, the French grading system different than the American grading system, and my 12.5 is more like a B+. But, the point to all this babbling in this: I am different now.

I have been thinking about what I have learned and how I have changed since coming to France, and in the way of grades, I think I have undoubtedly changed for the better. That is not to say I won't always try my best, but that is to say that when someone casually says "Don't worry, its just a grade." to reassure me after a tough test or difficult homework assignment, I will actually agree with them instead of nodding my head "yes", but secretly thinking "no, no, no, NO!".

My world is fully intact and I am not in the midst of my own personal Armageddon because I got a 12.5. Maybe, I'm a petit peu plus francais, or maybe, France has taught me that there is a grand difference between earning a grade and living one.

What I've been doing lately (as I definitely haven't been studying for finals)-- in pictures

2009-05-13T00:11:00.000-07:00

I took this picture Friday morning at the market. It is a huge hunk of dried meat. Annie and I simultaneously said "Gross!". I keep returning to the market day after to"stall shop". I wander the colorful produce, listen to the rapidly babbling French farmers, and wish that I had made more recipes with vegetables and fruit and honey and spices and cheese and baguette and basically any ingredient French.

Annie and I enjoying the goodbye BBQ on Friday.

Annie and Karinne doing the same thing.

We celebrated Karinne's 21st birthday party Friday night. This is the only picture I took during the evening (that's Allison), but I think it captures the mood of the event nicely.

I went to the beach in Marseille on Saturday. It was lovely-- I fell asleep as the Mediterranean wind messed my hair.

Look how clear that water is. A few of my friends ventured in, but I was not brave enough to face the cold. I dipped my toe in and exclaimed "No!" as I spread out my towel and tuned my iPod to my favorite sleepy listening-- Harry Potter on tape.

The group packing up to go. There is Greta, Jill, Danni's feet, Allison, and Annie.

I took this picture yesterday of one of the most known fountains in Aix-- The Four Dolphins.

Karinne, Haley, and I planned to go on an Aix photo shoot, but the weather didn't necessarily behave. Its so funny that I have pictures of me standing in front of the Sagrada Famille in Barcelona and Notre Dame in Paris-- but I don't have pictures of me in front of Aix's tiny, but none-the-less monumental landmarks. Well, now I have one pictures I suppose.

I can check Book in a Bar off the list of things to do before I leave. We played scrabble, and [insert gasp] I bought ANOTHER book. If it looks like I'm crying when I see my family at the airport on Sunday, it won't be because I'm glad to see them, it will be because security made me throw some books away because my carry on was too heavy. Just kidding family!

The most wondeful sight in the world-- a cup of tea at Book in a Bar. I feel soothed just looking at it.

Maybe, just maybe...

2009-05-12T00:44:00.001-07:00

... I've been avoiding writing my blog because I would have to write about leaving.

Sunday, I packed. Now my apartment looks miserably empty, and my two giant suitcases are haughtily sitting at the foot of my bed, taunting me because I actually have to carry/drag/kick them a mile to the bus stop on Sunday.

Friday, I went to a goodbye BBQ.

Yesterday, I passed out 18 magnets in class that featured the word "Oklahoma!" along with sauntering cowboys, grazing buffaloes, and jumping river bass as remember me! gifts to my classmates. Natalie loved hers.

Sunday, I made a list of the things I have to do in Aix before I leave.

1. Go have a cafe at Les Deux Garcons-- the hippest, most expensive cafe on the Cours Mirabeau-- and people watch.
2. Go to Book in a Bar and complete my mission of tasting every tea on their menu.
3. Have a picnic in Parc de la Torse.
4. Slowly appreciate one last nutella crepe from Crepe a Go-Go
5. Jump in the Rotonde Fountain.

Number 5 might be tricky. And, if I buy one more book while I'm doing number 2, they officially won't let me come back to America, as I will be over the book weight limit (I have about 12 stuffed in my bag right now).

Now, I'm off to study. And mourn. I have six finals this week.

Sippin' Smoothies With My Best Bud Aubin

2009-05-07T10:27:00.001-07:00

So, maybe he isn't my "Best Bud", but after two rendez-vous, I think we are taking steps in the bff direction.

Yesterday, Aubin and I met on the Cours Mirabeau and had a lovely Frenglish chat while we enjoyed raspberry/banana smoothies. Aubin is allergic to pollen and is suffering terribly from the Spring bloom, so we made a lovely pair coughing and blowing ours noses together.

Aubin asked me if Miami was in California. I said no, but that Oklahoma has a town called Miama (Don't worry-- I added the appropriate twang). I tried to explain how archeologists created the plaster casts of those poor souls who died in Pompeii, which involved few words and many hand motions (I mimed a volcano exploding, people covering their faces in fright, and an archeologist injecting plaster into a hole-- which any charades professional would admit is a hard thing to do). Maybe, just maybe, he understood what I was trying to explain. Or maybe, he thinks I'm a petit peu folle, and just nods his head and smiles to appease me.

Today, I took wonderous gulps of fresh Aix air while leisuringly strolling to class in the sunshine. Karinne noticed a hint of color returning to my cheeks, and Natalie even said I looked better (If Natalie says it, you know it must be true).

I was missing home so much today I drew an Oklahoma on my hand, counted down the days in my planner until I fly home, and generally wished that I could have a QT hot dog and large coffee instead of my compulsory baguette and frozen vegetable mix. Oh... only 10 days, and I will say "au revoir" to suculent tarts, constant second-guessing, and cobblestone streets and "howdy" to chocolate chip cookies (they don't have brown sugar in France), a language I know how to explain a volcanic eurption in, and an endless expanse of highways.

Sicky: Part II

2009-05-06T10:55:00.000-07:00

I made it to class-- barely.

I threw my cacophonous phone across the room when my alarm went off this morning, forcing the poor thing into what I fear is a permanent sleep mode. For those of you who don't know me well, I live by one general rule when it comes to waking up in the morning:

1. Never, EVER, no matter how many precious few minutes of sleep you may have received, snooze your alarm.

I guess I have a gift for waking up early, and I have always managed a life sans snooze. I even harbor an ever so tiny grudge against those who do, stupidly priding myself on my morning wakefulness.

Anyway.. back to the point, which is that you know I am not feeling like myself if I snooze. The sickness is getting to me-- especially my nerves. I'm trying to appreciate my final days in France. I want to smell the spring air. I want to revel in the glorious sunshine at Parc de la Torse. I don't want to walk at superspeed to my apartment after class, yearning for my beautiful bed with every step. I don't want to scare my teachers and elicit multiple "Pauvre, pauvre Katie"'s from Natalie. I don't want to scare poor pedestrians in the rue with my hacking-- their lingering glares seem to say, "You don't cough like a French person either!".

This bronchitis better run its course, and it better run it quick. My phone's life hangs in the balance... as well as my lungs... and maybe even a bit of my sanity.

Sicky

2009-05-05T11:59:00.000-07:00

I have bronchitis.

I finally forced myself to visit the doctor, as I was dreading the half-French, half-mimed conversation I was surely going to have (I could just imagine myself pointing at my throat, coughing, and making a sad face). Luckily, he spoke English, sparing me the charades, and luckily, he loaded me up with four different prescriptions.

Hopefully, I'll be feeling better soon. Until then, I plan to sleep twelve hours a night, watch Toy Story on YouTube (oh how I miss American television!), and not study for my finals.

Finally... pictures!

2009-05-04T11:28:00.000-07:00

The new links at Cork and Lismore, Rome I and II, Capri, and Dublin!

My Case of the Flu

2009-05-03T11:16:00.000-07:00

Wednesday was our sight seeing day in Dublin. Although we saw the city lights Tuesday night in Dublin when Kevin and Kit (essentially, Karinne’s cousins—too much family tree-age to explain) took us out, we wanted to see more than the interior of pubs and clubs.

To say the least, we were tired. We danced until the bars shut down at 3:00 in the morning Tuesday, and arrived home in time for bed at 4:00. Karinne came into my room Wednesday morning at 9:30 and asked if I was ready to see Dublin. I angrily grumbled/coughed “Yessssss” while attempting to throw a pillow at her.

But, despite a severe case of the yawns and my persistent cold that I caught in Rome, the city was great. We saw the beautiful campus at Trinity College, shopped Grafton Street, and attempted to listen to nightsong at Christ Church (it was cancelled due to the spring holidays).

When we signed up for a tour of Dublin Castle, my cough had reached annoying heights. I was diagnosed with asthma in eighth grade when I got a cold that never seemed to wane, and ever since then, my cough has taken on a distinct seal-like quality. Anyone who has ever heard water go down my wrong pipe knows what I am talking about. It is loud and barking.

We were touring around the castle, and I was trying to stifle the noise of my coughs in my coat sleeve when I heard the lady next to me murmur to her traveling companion, “That girl definitely has the swine flu.”

I giggled when I heard this, and Karinne smiled at me as well, as we both know that my cough simply sounds worse than it is. But this lady was convinced. Every time I coughed during the hour-long tour, she visibly winced, then covered her face in an attempt to block her mouth from my supposedly swiney germs. She even made a point to stand as far away from me as possible, even leaning away from me despite the twenty feet that stood between us.

After the tour, I decided a stop at the pharmacy was possibly a necessary thing to do, and after I took some medicine, my cough was much improved and much less frightening to the other tourists around me.

We made tomato soup and grilled cheese for dinner in Clontarf (my favorite sick food), and I took some cough medicine that completely knocked me out. I slept deeply and dreamed of rolling hills, grazing cows, and seemingly endless expanses of green.

Karinne's Family Tree

2009-05-03T10:41:00.000-07:00

I think I need to explain our reason for visiting Ireland, as we had originally planned to skip over to Greece after Italy and tour Athens and Santorini. But, while traveling in Europe is cheap, we didn’t factor in the costs of museums (why can’t they all be free like in England?), eating at least two times a day (we can always skip breakfast or have Linner/Dunch), and the souvenir must-haves that seem to come with every trip (I think I really do need that pencil shaped like a baguette after all). After looking at the cost of traveling to Greece, we decided to give Eileen a call.

Eileen is Karinne’s grandmother. She immigrated to California from Ireland when she was 18, leaving her two sisters, Cait (pronounced like Cotch) and Anne, as well the rest of her family.

Fast-forward fifty years, and Cait still lives in Dublin. Her daughter, Eleanor, lives around the corner from her mother and is married with two boys.

When Eileen heard that Karinne and her friends (that would be me and Haley) were looking for a place to go on a budget, she suggested we visit her family in Ireland. We, of course, immediately took her up on the offer (I remember us jumping up and down together in my kitchen, screaming “Ireland, here we come!!!”), and Eileen arranged everything for us.

We stayed in Cait’s house in Dublin, as she was away on holiday to New Zealand visiting her son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter who live there. It was a lovely home in a charming district of Dublin called Clontarf. We felt so grand staying in our very own Irish home and making delicious Irish brown bread buttered with you-could-eat-it-with-a-spoon Irish butter every morning before catching the bus into Dublin.

Karinne’s family was spectacular. Eleanor not only picked us up from the airport, but also stocked Cait’s house with food and cooked us lunches and breakfasts. She arranged our bus to Cork (more details to come), and had champagne and tarts to bid us farewell when we left Saturday.

Karinne’s Irish family felt like my Irish family, and truly made me appreciate the small, but tremendously welcoming country.

Three Simple Reasons to Visit Italy

2009-05-03T10:40:00.001-07:00

I didn’t want to leave. Haley and I dragged ourselves to the train station Tuesday morning, wanting to soak up every glorious Italian minute before we departed for Ireland. The weather mimicked our mood, and the sky opened up and thoroughly drenched the Roman landscape on our bus ride to the airport.

I can’t exactly explain why I fell in love with Italy, but here is an attempt. The three reasons I loved Italy:

3. The People

2. The Food

1. The People

You have to go. Skip Venice—as it is hooky in comparison. See Florence, see Naples, see Pompeii, see Capri, see Rome. They are more than my feeble words can try to explain.

The List: Rome's Top 10

2009-05-03T10:38:00.000-07:00

As I couldn’t bring myself to do anything more than lay on my squeaky bunk bed and repeatedly exclaim to Haley, “Is it really possible for anyone’s feet to hurt this bad?!”, I didn’t keep up on the blog while in Rome. So, as the Irish sun sets, bringing more clouds and more rain to keep this country eternally green, I’m going to recount my entirely different Roman adventures with a top 10 list.

10. The Roman Forum and Palatine Hill

After Pompeii, the ruins in Rome were a bit of a let down. The sprawling city with loudly honking car horns and souvenir stands selling Arch of Titus napkin holders also prevented me from taking a large step back a few thousand years in time and imagining how the Romans lived.

But, it was still worth the visit.

9. The Pantheon

Haley and I suddenly stumbled upon this treasure while wandering the old quarter of the city in the pouring rain. Maybe I liked it because it put a roof over my head and gave my umbrella some time to recover, but whatever the case, it was cool.

8. The Trevi Fountain

Crowded, but an unexpected treat in the midst of the city. We threw pennies over our shoulders and made wishes. I won’t tell you what I wished for, as it might spoil the wish, but it has to do with Europe and time and sadness.

7. Colosseum

Although a forty-year-old Roman tried to put the moves on me while I was admiring the exhibit on the Flavian family (“You think history is interesting? I know all about history—we could go discuss it over a coffee if you would like.”), the Colosseum was still spectacular.

The amazement came in imagining the gruesome gladiator fights and animal slayings that took place thousands of years ago, and Haley and I made several circles around the arena in silence as our imaginations raged with thoughts of ancient Rome.

6. Gelato

Any stand. Any store. Any flavor. Always delicious. Mom—the coconut tastes exactly like Mice’s coconut cake. I got it three times.

5. The Spanish Steps

I could have sat all day and admired the Piazza de Spagna while inhaling the fresh spring smell of the azaleas. Although it was packed with tourists doing the same thing I was (taking pictures of themselves climbing the infamous steps), I still really enjoyed taking a break from the walking and watching chic Italian women stroll by carrying shopping bags with labels like Chanel and Dolce and Gabanna, as the upscale shopping district is in the piazza.

4. The Sistine Chapel

It was beautiful. I wish I could have spread out a blanket in the midst of the crowd, laid down, and simply stared. I could have looked for hours and not grown tired. I could have looked for hours and continued to appreciate new scenes and new subtleties in Michelangelo’s work.

Pictures weren’t allowed, so naturally, I would quickly pull my camera out of a pocket, snap a quick photo, than discreetly replaced the forbidden device before a guard came to tell me off.

3. St. Peter’s Basilica

Mouth Open. Neck tilted ninety degrees. Repeated “Woooowwwww.”

It truly is unlike any Basilica I have visited before because of the unmistakable grandeur. It is as if you can feel the influence of the Catholic Church over the centuries in the gold leafing and bronze statues and enormous dome and the sheer size of the place.

Michelangelo’s Pieta was breath taking. I pushed my way to the barrier, and commenced to plant myself directly in front of the masterpiece and soak it up while countless tourists took pictures around me. Their camera flashes didn’t distract me though, as I was completely absorbed.

2. Its Small!

Cities on a map always look so much more daunting than they actually are. Rome is walkable, and learning that a city that I have learned so much about in school is not as big in space as it is in reputation was nice.

1. Chianti Hostel

I know—its silly for a hostel, a word that congers up images of cold showers, crowded rooms with snoring boys, and a constant babbling of foreign languages, to have been my favorite part of Rome, but me and Haley’s hostel was phenomenal. The staff was unbelievably kind, and planned our days out for us so we could see it all. They cooked us dinner and really tried to get to know us. I think I will always remember Igor (from Russia) and Scott (from Britain).

Bella Roma

2009-04-26T10:43:00.000-07:00

I have come down with a cold, so instead of forcing myself to write about my beautiful Roman adventures while sneezing, sniffling, and making those around me flinch everytime I so much as look like I'm going to cough, I'm just going to say that Rome is everything I wanted it to be.

Now, I'm going to eat my soup.

Pictures to come.

I know I don't sound ethused, but I am.

Capri is for Me

2009-04-25T08:55:00.001-07:00

I am currently luxuriated in roomy bliss on a high-speed train to Rome. Haley and I left Naples this morning, and once again, I was sad to say “Ciao!”.

I have loved every city I have visited in Europe in different ways. I loved Amsterdam for its museums. I loved Barcelona for Gaudi. But I have loved the Italian cities on this trip in a new way. I was always ready to leave and get back to Aix on previous trips, but I have never felt like I needed that something more like I have felt when leaving Florence, and now Naples. I want to stay longer. I want to see everything. I want to have local places and get to know every nook and cranny of artsy, vibrant Florence and dirty, but oh-so-charming Naples.

Yesterday, Haley and I took a ferry to Capri. We had heard the island was expensive, but a little piece of Mediterranean heaven. Expense or no expense—Capri is a must see.

Our first stop on the island was the Blue Grotto. I had read about it in a book, and it had been built up to giant, romanticized proportions in my book lovin’ mind.

We approached the cave-like opening in the cliff, and a man in a tiny rowboat plucked us four at a time from our “big” boat to his smaller one. We had to duck as we entered the grotto, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, an explosion of the purest blue erupted in every direction.

It was beautiful, but it was more of the feeling that settled over me that made it such an unforgettable experience. I felt as if I was alone in the world, and the blue was my comforting balm. I felt as if something like this exists, than anything is possible. It was wonderfully reassuring. It was as if time chose not to move once inside the grotto, as the blue will simply go on eternally in all directions, never waning in its beauty.

Once we returned to the mainland, Haley and I dipped our toes in the clear blue Mediterranean, and then headed up the hill to Capritown. Stores like Gucci and Roberto Cavalli ostentatiously presented themselves on Capritown’s winding streets, and we dared to enter some and chose to window-shop others.

We were windswept and sunburned on our ferry ride back, and mastered Naples confusing bus system to collapse on our beds at our hostel.

We finally managed to scrape the energy to go get some pizza, and we ate it from the box at our hostel with some Brits who shared a room with us. Charlotte, or Charlie, and Ollie, are from Northern England and are taking a gap year to travel Europe. It was lovely to nibble on my Neapolitan pizza and to discuss the healthcare system in England and what they were doing the day Princess Diana died. One of my favorite parts of this trip has been meeting other travelers, sharing common experiences, and learning what life is like for them back home. They were fascinated by Wal-Mart and laughed when I used the word “crosswalk”. I giggled when they repeatedly used the word “bloody”, and think that the word would make a fine addition to my vocabulary (only in an English accent, of course).

We are almost in Rome. I can’t wait.

Pictures! Pictures!

2009-04-23T11:54:00.000-07:00

Check it out! Florence AND Naples AND Pompeii!

"Is that steam coming from Vesuvius?"

2009-04-23T09:08:00.000-07:00

It is pouring buckets outside our hotel room. Thunder accompanies the ever present honking of hours (you can't get a hotel room for 55 euro a night and not expect one tiny, but loud flaw), but I don't care-- as I saw Pompeii today, and couldn't be more exhilirated.

My imagination went wild the entire time. What was the person in this house doing when they heard the volcano ominously preparing to erupt? Is this counter with a hole a storage space, or a toilet? Where in town would I have lived if I happened to be a resident of the doomed city thousands of years ago? Would I have been one of these poor souls forever immortalized in plaster casts that the tourist public now gawks at?

These thoughts were often interrupted by Haley quietly asking, "Is that a cloud, or steam over there?" and "Did you know that the volcano is still active? Yikes!". She was funny, and I always reassured her that I was sure it was a meandering cloud, not the sign of another cataclysmic eruption.

The excavated village of Pompeii is huge. We walked from 11:00 when the site opened to 4:00 when we left, and we still didn't see everything, and probably couldn't have in one day. The ruins are amazingly intact-- from tiled mosaic floors to frescoed walls. The city boasts two amphitheatres, a large forum, baths, many temples dedicated to various gods, and countless dwellings.

I think my pictures will say more (and Haley, Karinne, and I might have taken some goofy ones as well). I'll have the link up as soon as I can.

Now, we are drying off before hitting the crowded city streets to find some dinner, which will surely blow my taste buds away, as this is what I am coming to expect of all Italian cuisine. Tomorrow is Capri for Haley and I, and Karinne is off to Paris to meet her mom. I'll pray to the gods that it doesn't continue to rain, and that Vesuvius keeps it cap.

Florence in the morning, Naples in the evening,

2009-04-23T08:46:00.001-07:00

If you are ever in Florence, you must go to a restaurant called the Fox and the Lamb. Their balsamic vinegar could make dogs talk, pigs fly, and maybe even bring about world peace. It was heavenly. By the time my meal came, I was eating it by the spoonful, which elicited an odd look from the waiter. I just smacked my lips, smiled, and said, "This is really, REALLY good!" while pouring another spoonful.

After a wild night out on Florence town where at least three men called out to Haley, Kelly, and I as we were walking by, "Miss, Miss! You dropped something.... you dropped my heart on the ground!", we practically ran home to our beds to rest our throbbing feet, and awoke five hours later to a beautiful morning in Florence.

We hit up the Duomo, the local food markets, and the local leather markets. I was so very much content to lazily shop around, bargain with vendors, and soak up the city.

I shed a tear or two when Kelly walked away from us at the train station as I wasn't just saying goodbye to her, but to a new city that I now have an old love for.

Haley and I arrived in Naples, met up with Karinne (who was in Rome with another friend), and immediately went on the hunt for "the best pizza in Naples"-- or so said my guidebook.

Wow. Mon dieu! Was the guidebook ever right.

The place had two choices, margherita or marinara, in two sizes, normal or large. We all opted for the normal, and were shocked when three gigantic, steaming hot pizzas arrived at our table. It was fresh from the red brick oven, and tasted unlike any pizza I have ever eaten. The place was crowded with locals, making us feel as if we made the perfect decision for our first Napolitan pizza. The pizza was more than delicious, and I still can't put my finger on why exactly it tasted so wonderful. Light, but filling. Airy, but with the crisp from the oven on the crust.

I think we might be returning tonight.

The City of Katie

2009-04-22T11:15:00.000-07:00

Florence. I’m absolutely and irrevocably in love.

If only I had chosen Italian over French that fateful day of registration my freshman year at OU when my counselor asked which language I would like to study, then I feel certain my path would have led me to Florence.

I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the art, which seems to surge through every person, every building, and every feeling. Maybe it is the smile the Italians throw your way every time you enter a store and try to stumble out a decent “Ciao!”. Maybe it is the pasta, which is more than my taste buds could ever hope to discover in one sitting. Maybe it is the fact that I stood in line for three hours today to enter the Uffizi Museum, which houses the paintings of Michelangelo, da Vinci, Raphael, and Boticelli, and was so happy to do it because I heard the Italian lady next to me say, “This is definitely worth it.”. And it was.

After the museum, Haley and I hiked up to the Piazza del Michelangelo and marveled at the cityscape for almost an hour. The Duomo dominated the view, and the rolling hills of Tuscany provided the background for the countless red tiled roofs. We continued out hike up to the church at the peak of the hill, and listened to the monks there perform a traditional Gregorian chant. It was beautiful, but mournful. I felt somber, but culturally enriched as I wandered around the church’s graveyard and thought about all the great artists of Florence who have lived and died in this city of beauty as the chants replayed in my head.

Kelly, Haley’s friend from William & Mary, is studying art in Florence this semester, and graciously welcomed us plus our entirely-too-large suitcases into her apartment for two nights. Her love for Florence was apparent the second I saw her ear-to-ear smile when she greeted us at the train station. She absolutely loves it here. She practically skipped as she showed us around the city Monday evening, making me want to grab her and Haley by the hand and start to sing, “We’re off to see theartofMichelangelo, the wonderfulartofMichelangelo of FloRENCE!”.

Now, Haley and I are resting our throbbing feet (cobblestone can really take it out of you). It was a great, full day, and I wish we had more than a morning tomorrow to try and fit in all that we need to see. But, I am now more excited than ever to see more of Italy. Naples, here we come!

The two i's

2009-04-19T12:00:00.000-07:00

Italy and Ireland.

The "i" section of my Europe guidebook will be thoroughly worn by the end of my two week tour.

Here is the plan: Florence to Naples to Rome to Dublin to the Irish countryside, then back to Aix, utterly exhausted, but filled to the brim with homemade Italian pasta, rolling Irish hills, Renaissance art, and most importantly-- unforgettable adventures that I will take with me as long as the urge to see and do and learn rushes through my Europe-lovin' veins.

This weekend, everything seemed to gracefully fall into place. Pack my bags-- check. Book all our hostels-- check. Say a tearful goodbye to Aix-- check. Freak out a bit, then realized that I can totally do this-- check.

I'm ready to go. I'm not ready for my alarm to sound tomorrow morning at 4:25 so Haley and I make our 5:11 train out of Aix, but at least I will be traveling by roomy, high speed train rather than a crowded, seemingly eternal overnight bus.

I will post when I have access to the Internet, which I hope will be often.

I'm nervous. I've never been nervous for a trip like I am nervous for this one.

Lazy Hazy Days of Springtime

2009-04-17T09:27:00.000-07:00

I have officially been sneeze-less for 24 hours. Although breathing out of my nose was not an option on my run this morning (meaning I didn't have to say "Pardon!" under my breath when passing pedestrians because my heavy breathing alerted them immediately that somebody was laboriously lumbering up behind them), I feel much better.

Today was lazy. I went running. I went to the market. I had a picnic in the park. I played Scrabble again at Book in a Bar (Greta beat me with a well placed "Uzi"). I made boeuf aux carrots with Annie for dinner, marking the first time in several weeks that we have tackled the French cook book. Now, it is storming Oklahoma style. Thunder. Lightning. Flickering lights. I can take sunshine-less if there if there seems to be a purpose behind it.

Chateau Vendome is about a minute walk from my apartment's heavily grafettied door. The mansion/museum has accompanying gardens that are tres beaux and full of springtime wonder. Tulips in every color. Green, green grass. Tinkling fountains. This afternoon, Greta, Jill, Jesus, and I spread out a blanket in the shade and marveled. Jillian, Jesus, and Greta leaving the park.

This tree in brilliant bloom greets me every time I make a quick run to the grocery store down the road from my apartment. It says "Katie, Spring is here to stay." and waves its flowery branches at me as I pass.

The bean selection at the market. I thought the purple ones looked particularly exotic.

Two guitar players were serenading the marketers as they shopped. I felt like I was in a movie, because their jaunty tunes were the background music to my jaunty French life as I selected the perfect carrots for Annie and I's dinner.

I once wrote about my market Santa, and here he is in all his vegetable glory. He always smiles as he hands me my change and calls me mademoiselle. This in turn always forces an absurd grin onto my face. No one ever looked so happy about three onions as I did today when market Santa gave me my change and yellow onions in a bag.

Tragic Sneezes and Figgy Tea

2009-04-16T10:26:00.000-07:00

I haven't been feeling well. I sneezed 8 times in class today, and but the sixth or seventh sneeze, Natalie just laughed at me. Then Jesus sneezed, and she exclaimed, "Jesus! Are you trying to impersonate Katie today?!"

My France and Europe class was canceled, so, I practically skipped to Book in a Bar two hours earlier than usual as per my usual Thursday routine. What a treat. Greta, Jill, and I played a rousing game of Scrabble, where I managed to dominate with the 75 point word "queer".

Now, I keep replaying the sentence I don't have school for two weeks in my head. If only I could say All my travel plans are confirmed and set to go for Italy and Ireland, I would be completely content, and my runny nose and cold headache would not seem like such a tragedy.

Our scrabble board at Book in a Bar plus my teapot of Italian Tea. It tasted like figs.

Jill had all vowels. Tough luck.

Natalie is on the left. She is talking with Amanda and Grace, two girls in my class. This was during out "petit pose", which can range anywhere from 5 to 20 minutes depending on what kind of day Natalie is having. Today, she wasn't feeling well, so we had a 20 minute break in the sunshine.

What a beautiful courtyard we have at IEFEE.

Two things in this picture make me happier than words on this blog can express.
1) Sunshine!
2) Trees with leaves!!

Aubin, my language friend

2009-04-15T12:41:00.000-07:00

Last night, I found myself anxiously pacing in front of the tourist office, wringing my hands, and regretting the decisions that had led me there.

Why did I think I wanted a language partner anyway? Its just going to be awkward. What if he is amazing at English, and I stumble through my French the entire conversation.

From our very limited email exchange (after all, I had written him in French and he had replied in English) all I knew was that my new language partner was named Aubin and that he was studying at the Law University in Aix. We planned to get a cafe and talk, him in English and me in French, for about an hour. Pam set us up.

I realized the stupidity of our decision not to swap phone numbers, descriptions (I'll be the girl in the bright yellow jacket!"), or decide on a more specific meeting point after I hesitantly approached a man standing alone and asked if he was my language buddy Aubin. His blank stare made my cheeks burn with embaressment, and I quickly walked to another bench in front of the office, determined not to approach another stranger unless I was positive it was Aubin.

About ten minutes after our designated 7:00 meet time, I was about to pack up and leave when I heard a someone on the phone say many indistinguishable phrases in French, and then, a distinct "CAT-TEEE". I knew this was my man. I approached the man with some spring in my step, proudly stuck out my hand, and said "Are you ready to speak some English?! I'm Katie."

Aubin was great. He is from the Ivory Coast, and moved to France when he was a boy. He is studying law for another year before he takes his exams to graduate. He has a brother and two sisters. He smiled during our entired conversation, and graciously picked up the tab at the end of our hour long exchange, promising that I could pay next time. His English was the equivalent of my French, making it the perfect balance of tiny corrections and "How do you say [insert obscure word]?".

Aubin is my first French friend. It only took three months in France and hundreds of hours of Natalie for me to feel like I can have a friend to whom I only speak French. I can't wait for our next exchange.

Une photo ou deux

2009-04-14T11:31:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling rather tired tonight, so here are some photos that I took this past weekend. Enjoy.

The French aren't shy about hanging their undies out for everyone to see.

The Saturday market. It seems to go for stalls and stalls without end. Ginormous eggplants. Succulent berries. Countless carrots. Yum, Yum, Yum.

Its strawberry season. They were all over the market.

Literally-- everywhere.

The meat counter at the outdoor market. Although I'm brave enough to tackle the vegetable and fruit vendors, I'm scared of the meat. "One apple" is much easier to say than "[whatever the conversion is for

The best crepes in town. Nothing is more wonderful than strolling down the Cours Mirabeau with a crepe a GoGo in hand. All the French give you envious looks, wishing they held the Nutella bliss that you do in their hands.

The crepes a gogo lady. She is always there, she never smiles, and her crepes always taste like heaven.

Frioul

2009-04-13T10:07:00.000-07:00

The weather: 75. Balmy. Cloudless.

The island: Aqua water. Pebbly beaches. Breathtaking views.

My mood: As high as the clear blue sky.

When I stepped off the boat onto Frioul this afternoon, I let the Mediterranean air blow my homesickness from yesterday out to sea, to be replaced with pure and simple contentment. Frioul was a world away from the noise and bustle of Marseille, where Karinne and I caught the boat, and was so much more than I was expecting.

The island was un petit paradise, populated with countless seagulls determined to show off their harsh vocals and so many varities of wild flowers that the air smelled sweet. Karinne and I walked a rocky path to a small beach to the back of the island, spread out our towels next to a French family, and didn't move for three hours as the sun warmed my wet and tired heart.

It was bliss.

After we felt as if we might have developed at least the hint of a tan line, we hiked to the top of Frioul to explore the island's old fortress and to admire the calanques the island boasts. We wandered aimlessly, going down paths that looked like they might lead somewhere, but often just ended in rocky meadows filled with wild flowers and gusts of wind. I guess that was the somewhere.

Thoroughly and happily exhausted, we caught the boat back, and about an hour in a half later, I was eating dinner in my apartment and realizing that I have more than just a hint of a tanline. Sunburnt again. Oh well, it was completely and utterly worth it.

I've got the Easter blues.

2009-04-12T11:34:00.000-07:00

I wish it weren't so, but I miss home.

Maybe I wouldn't if I had dyed Easter eggs last Sunday in keeping with my family's tradition. Molly and I always compete for the prize of the most creative egg. The French don't sell white eggs, only brown, so the PAAS dying kit my Dad sent me will go to waste.

Maybe I wouldn't if I had gone to a traditional Lutheran service where the organ belts and the congregation choruses "He has risen indeed, Alleluia!". Although the catholic mass I attended this morning was lovely, it was long, and in French. Church is often a battle with consciousness in the early morning, but add in a different language and unfamiliar songs, and it is downright impossible to enjoy, even on the joyous occasion of Easter.

Maybe I wouldn't Annie, Haley, Maggie, and mine's Easter feast today had been spiral ham with potato salad and rolls as per another family tradition. Our Easter lunch this afternoon was beautiful, and the pigs in a blanket, potato casserole, and lemon cake tasted of America, but maybe, that made me miss home even more.

Maybe I wouldn't if it would simply act like Provence and stop raining already. This is day number three without sunshine, and I have come to realize more and more that my mood is entirely dependent on whether or not the sun decides to show its face.

I know I'll feel better about things tomorrow, but for now, I'm going to snuggle up with a book and wish that my television would suddenly play American programs in English and that the brie cheese in my fridge would magically transform into simple American cheddar.

Une Degustation

2009-04-11T10:15:00.001-07:00

I am officially a wine-o. Names like Pauillac and Domaine de la Fourmone actually mean something to me. I can say confidently that 2002 was a horrible year for Bordeaux, as the rains came early, diluting any precious sugar in the grape crop. Robert Foster is my new god. I know the subtle, yet vibrant differences between pinot noir grapes and cabernet sauvignon. I even do the incredibly obnoxious, yet oh-so-pretentious gurgling as I take a sip, letting the wine aerate in my mouth, then slowly swallowing to allow the drink to hit every part of my tongue.

I have converted to the religion of wine. My new faith is all due to one greatly experienced man who described a wine as "transcendental" at the tasting at my apartment last night. Bob is a friend of Pam (the director of Abroadco) and he has been in love with wine since he took his first sip at a dinner party in NYC his junior year of college. Thirty years and many, many bottles later, he is a professor of Classics at the University of Chicago (he is currently on loan to a university in Pisa) and a conisseur of French and Italian wines.

Nine Abroadco students came for the tasting. I had decorated the apartment with fresh flowers and candles, fumbling my way through first time hosting in hopes of impressing my intellectual, wine-loving guest. Of course, the first sentences out of Bob's mouth were 1) You smell lovely. Are you wearing perfume-- it can mix badly with the wine's bouquet? 2) Candles and flowers are such a good idea-- the bouquet thing again. 3) Lovely apartment-- where should I set these precious bottles of ambrosia?

Oh well. I promptly blew out the candles, moved the flowers to another shelf, and the tasting commenced.

We started with a white from Provence. The vineyards of Provence are famous for their roses and heavy-handed reds, but not so much for their whites, and after learning the gurgle and truly tasting the white, I had to agree with Bob when he said, "Eh."

The second was a rose that Bob has personally bottled straight from the cask at a tiny vineyard close to Marseille. Bob advised us to always stick to the cheapest rose, as a 2 euro bottle often tastes the same as a 10 euro bottle. We nodded our heads in agreement, as this is the kind of news poor college students studying abroad always want to hear.

We then moved on to the reds, the "true masterpiece of France" Bob proclaimed jubilently as he excitedly filled our glasses. Three from Provence, one from the Rhone Valley. The wines progressively became more tanic and oaky as we continued. They were all very strong, yet very classic, Bob said, and not for the light of heart.

We finished with my absolute favorite, a white desert wine called "Muscat de Beaumes de Venise". It tasted as if I were drinking honey, but smoother, and with a hint of floral.

I now understand what all the fuss is about, as I truly didn't before. A glass of wine sitting before you is like a mystery that must be solved in three sips or less. Seeing the glass in front of you doesn't contribute to your appreciation of the wine, therefore, you must rely entirely on your sense of smell and taste to decipher subtle flavors. Where does it hit your tongue? What is the finish? Does it taste consistent as it slides down your throat? And then, was it a good year? What combination of grapes were used? Where was it grown, and therefore, what kind of soil were the grapes grown in? There is so much to learn, and it takes years and years to develop a pallet worth buying expensive bottles of wine about.

I had such a great time, and I'm anxious to learn more. Bob was such a character, and the adjectives he used to describe the wine (intelligent, sexy, discreet) turned every bottle into a character as well, whom I got to know over a few sips and swallows.

Quick Update

2009-04-10T08:31:00.000-07:00

I find myself at Friday already, completely at a loss as to how it is the weekend already, and a little mad. Only five weeks more. Five weeks more to buy warm baguette fresh from the oven at my local boulangerie, where the woman smiles and says "Merci madame", making me feel as if I have finally fooled someone into thinking I am actually French. Five weeks more to try and discover every hidden street and fountain in Aix. Five weeks more with my friends here, who I now can't imagine my life without. Just five weeks. Zut.

Wednesday night was a treat. Karinne, Allison, and I decided to make the Rugh's a goodbye dinner to thank them for their kindness in including the three of us in their adventures around Provence. It was a lovely, candlelit dinner that included lively conversation about the vast differences between France and America, delicious potato soup and stuffed tomatoes, and plenty of laughter. I loved having Haley's mom over, as her motherly presence reminded me of home and of my mom. Although I often don't write about it, I think of good ole' Oklahoma every day, and do miss it un petit peu.

Last night was Annie's birthday celebration. I curled her hair long, blonde hair and Haley applied copious amounts of black eye liner to her watering, virgin eye lids. As we were walking to the the party, a French boy we walked past let out a "Heeellllloooooo" as his friend whistled. I think that is universal code for: you're looking hot tonight! And she did look beautiful. We had lot of fun, and ended the night dancing with French kids who clearly didn't know the words to the American tunes like I did (one of my great joys is hearing Frenchies mispronounce the words to songs in English, as it makes me feel slightly better about my heavily accented French).

Now, I'm getting ready for a wine tasting about my apartment. I'll let you know how it goes.

A good ol' Creole Time

2009-04-07T11:03:00.000-07:00

This morning began beautifully. I woke up and leisurely strolled to the bi-weekly flower market in front of Town Hall. After perusing the vast, colorful selection, I purchased a fiery bouquet of pink, yellow, and orange tulips, roses, and daisies. I felt utterly French as I walked back home with my beautiful bouquet wrapped carefully in brown packing paper.

Later in the morning, I met Haley at the train station when I was almost finished with my run, as that was the only time we could arrange to buy our tickets together for Italy. You should have seen the intense stares I received as I boldly walked into the ticket office with my red face pooling in sweat as I recovered my breath from jogging. Here, I will insert a universal truth-- carrying flowers home from the market: tres French. Stopping to arrange travel in the midst of exercising: NOT French.

One hour later I left the train station, thoroughly grumpy. I had 20 minutes to get home, shower, pack a lunch, and make it to Phonetics in time, as only the French could take almost an hour to book three train tickets for two students.

I made it to class just in time, but couldn't settle in for the daunting 6 hours comfortably. Even Natalie noticed, and asked me during break if I was feeling okay. I told her I was, then complained about my ticket booking experience as she listened sympathetically.

My mood was almost to the poorly carpeted IEFEE floor as we were doing yet more grammar when Natalie, of course, turned it all around. At the end of class, she rewarded us letting us listen to her favorite Creole song. As soon as the jaunty music filled the classroom, reminding me of a mix of Latin and reggae, I my mood elevated a bit.

Then, Natalie grabbed Jesus from his seat and insisted he dance with her. This was hilarious, but only because she kept bringing a relunctant Jesus closer and closer to her swinging hips. Jesus' eyes were screaming, "Natalie, you are my teacher!", and hers were simply saying, "Let loose Jesus and have some fun!".

I was officially feeling better as I walked home, remembering that I am lucky enough to be grumpy about, of all things, traveling to Italy, and that Natalie chose Jesus, not me, to dance with.

I caught the moment discreetly with my camera. Luckily, Natalie and Jesus were so distracted that hardly noticed as I snapped a few quick pics.

You think mayonnaise is something you buy in a jar?

2009-04-06T10:54:00.000-07:00

Before I explain the happenings of my class today, here are a few pictures I took of the Aix carnival on Sunday afternoon. I only stayed for a bit, as my mountain-weary legs could barely hold me upright, but I think these pictures capture the mood. It was a smaller carnival than the Venice and Nice equivalents, but it was quaint, just like Aix. The French children were dressed up like American children do at Halloween, and as I admired their costumes I revelled in the smell of fried food and the confetti that filled the air.

A float going down the Cours Mirabeau. It took me awhile to understand that it was a woman seated on a chair. When I did, I turned to Annie and said, "Oh, I get it. Its art."

Confetti floating amongst the trees, that still have yet to leaf! I keep yelling at them with my mind as I run in the park every morning, "Its April! Get leafy already!!!"

A couple strolling outside of my apartment, possibly headed to the festivities just minutes away. Such couples always make my heart smile.

Today, she was at in again. Most of the time, Natalie is reasonably outspoken and fairly flamboyant. But today she was in rare, outrageous form.

It was probably her charcoal dress, which she often wears on Wednesdays (the French often repeat outfits, living by the philosophy that it is better to buy something expensive and wear it often then buy multiple cheap pieces that don't last), but she wore today. It is a jumper-like, cotton ensemble that is the exact opposite of her personality: plain. The classrooms at IEFEE are often overheated, and as a result, every time she wears this particular gray number, her pit stains are enormous. They grow and grow throughout the class period, especially as she gets more and more heated in her explanation of intricate grammar or funny French-isms. I can depend on the gray dress when my concentration slips and I find myself daydreaming, as her pit stains always call me back, forcefully, to reality.

I was starting to notice the beginnings of a darker shade of gray under her arms today when Natalie, as she often does, burst into a random bit of very, very heavily French accented English. She likes to practice when she can, so she'll often say little phrases like, "You understand, non?!" or "This is tres, tres easy. Just think idioT!".

Today, she very timidly and un-Natalie-like said, "Programmation, that's the word in English, oui?" as she was explaining when to use the two different French tenses for the future. She meant the word program. The class burst into laughter, as seeing Natalie falter her way through English makes us feel slightly better about our stumbling French.

Natalie looked surprised, then loudly yelled, "Oh, SHIT!".

As she usually uses the French curse word equivalent of merde! we burst into more fits of giggles, as she had to have been really upset with herself to curse in, of all languages, English. Her outburst officially set the tone for the rest of the class-- ridiculouslness. Here are the highlights (translated for you, of course).

Natalie: "Charlain, you want to have a baby right when you return to the U.S., right?!" Referencing a joke she had with Charlain from last semester where Charlain mistakenly implied such a thing.
Charlain: "NATALIE! Of course not, you are embarassing me."
Natalie: "Ohhhhhh Charlain. I think you do, I think you do. This will be our little secret."

later on in the period while we were working on a grammar exercise...

Natalie: "This is a phrase parents in France often tell their children. Charlain... are you listening?!?!"
Charlain: "Natalie!"

still later in the period, same grammar exercises

Natalie: "Ah, Charlain. You would use this tense to say you were already pregnant, and this one to say you wanted to be."
Charlain (now red in the face): "NATALIE! You frustrate me to no end!"

"You Americans think mayonnaise is something you can buy in a jar?!? You are crazy. Mayonnaise takes work! It should make your wrists soar from whipping up the oil and eggs with a whisk, not from opening a jar."

"Knives. Oh my goodness I have such a fear of knives-- especially sharp Japanese knives. I once saw a man almost cut his finger off, and since then, I've been terrified of the things. When cooking at home, I wear gloves just to be safe."

"You think you hate learning grammar. I PROMISE, I hate it more. But, I suppose it will be useful for your French, so I keep teaching it to you."

I wish every class passed as quickly as today's three hours did. Natalie, oh Natalie. I wish I could express to you how much you have influenced by time here in France for the better, but I'm sure if I were to express such sentiments to my beloved Professor in her native language, I would be the next Charlain, admently denying that I was in love with turnips (called navets in French) or something like that.

Camargue and more mountain

2009-04-05T11:30:00.000-07:00

Saturday was amazing. I went horseback riding in the famous marshes of Camargue, filled with flamingos and other wild beasts of flight. I saw a real, provencal style bull fight, which is much more humane and much less bloody than the Spanish style. And, I touched the Mediterranean as I ate a picture lunch in the sand.

All in all, the perfect day trip. Absolutely perfect. Look at my picture blog for the pictures.

Today, I climbed Mount Saint Victoire again. Same path, same rocks, but much less scaling and trail confusion. It was a beautiful day, and I'm glad I did it, but it is also the reason I can barely keep my eyes open, and it is only ten o'clock. Goodnight all, I'll provide more details tomorrow.

Bull fight!

2009-04-04T11:54:00.000-07:00

I realize I took this video sideways, and I apologize, but you can get an idea of what the bull fight was like on Saturday.

Avignon: Rugh style

2009-04-03T11:39:00.001-07:00

Today was a special, totally unexpected treat that I will surely revel in for some time with a not-so-secret smile on my face.

Finally... AVIGNON!

Haley's mom and sister arrived in Aix Thursday morning, surely disappointed by the rainy weather, but ready to venture out into the welcoming arms of southern France. Haley called me yesterday and asked if I wanted to join her and her girls for a day trip to Avignon, the one city in France I had heard nothing but awesome things about. Without hesitation, I sputtered out, "OF COURSE!", and my heart soared!

When I popped into the tiny, rented Clio this morning with Karinne and greeted Mrs. Rugh, Haley, and Corbin, I knew I was in for an adventure. Cars don't go with the France I have come to know and love because I haven't donned one's door since leaving America. Mrs. Rugh was chancing the odds, navigating the impossible French highways while driving an extremely loose clutch, and therefore becoming my personal Virginian super woman by taking me to Avignon adventures yet unknown. As Karinne and I buckled our seat belts, she turned to us and said, "I don't know what I'm doing, but we're going to figure this out, together!"

1.5 hours later, 5 Americans graciously stretched their legs in a parking garage in Avignon, reliving a view-filled, charming drive through the French countryside. No stall outs. No getting lost. Just a little cramped, as the backseat didn't even offer a seatbelt for a third party, but less butt room.

I would give you the history of the Pope history in Avignon, but just click the link if you want to learn more. I think it suffice's to say that the castle was grand, the bridge was neat, and overall, Avignon reminds me of Aix, just bigger, and with a wall.

Here are the pictures!

Tomorrow, I'm off to the Camargue to ride horses, marvel at flamingos, and watch a bull fight. Pictures and stories to come, I promise.

Poisson d'Avril and other fishy French happenings

2009-04-01T10:14:00.001-07:00

Today is the first of April, otherwise known as Poisson d'Avril. The April Fool's Day equivalent of France, I was expecting to be secretly pinned with a cut-out paper fish by some sneaky classmate as per tradition, but zut alors, no luck!

Otherwise, today was blue. It transitioned between almost raining, then raining throughout the afternoon. Because rain so rarely darkens Aix's door, it was funny to see the local reaction today's Spring shower. Some looked surprised, some ran to hide under cafe awnings, but most simply looked offended, like God should rethink his plans for the weather and run it by the people of southern France before he decides upon a gloomy, blue day next time.

Translation, which is my most boring class after France and Europe, was somewhat redeeming today. We had a worksheet called "Match the Funny Phrases". After reading the title, I knew class was going to be more interesting than usual. Here is what I learned, with the English translation of the French phrase on the left, and the English equivalent of the phrase on the right:

To have the face of drinking-- To have a hangover
He was taking the hand in the sack-- He was caught red-handed
It is good the son of the father-- He's a chip off the old block
He feels sick like a dog-- He felt as sick as a parrot (Apparently, the French think we use this phrase often)
My ear!-- My foot!
She lost the bowl-- She has lost her marbles.
It is cold like a duck-- This is real brass monkey weather!

I thought these were rather aptly described with the worksheets title of "funny". I'm not sure if it is applicable to today's storm, but man-oh-man was there some real brass monkey weather today!

Pictures of Pays-Bas

2009-03-31T12:41:00.000-07:00

Here are the pictures of Amsterdam!

Oh Amsterdam, my love!

2009-03-31T11:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Yippee!

2009-03-27T07:42:00.000-07:00

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!

Revelation

2009-03-26T11:59:00.000-07:00

"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.

Two Walks: Two Disappointments

2009-03-25T11:20:00.000-07:00

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.

I love your toilet.

2009-03-24T11:39:00.000-07:00

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.

Nimes and Pont du Gard

2009-03-23T11:27:00.001-07:00

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.

Goodbyes are never fun, but Nimes is.

2009-03-23T10:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Did Cezanne just paint it, or did he climb it too?

2009-03-20T13:17:00.000-07:00

Montagne Sainte-Victoire according to Cezanne.

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.

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.

Le Jour de Saint Patrique

2009-03-18T09:50:00.001-07:00

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.

Zach's Mission to Planet France

2009-03-18T09:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Zach is here (insert a million exclamation points)

2009-03-15T09:18:00.000-07:00

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!

Day Trip to Arles

2009-03-14T13:22:00.000-07:00

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 Alysca mps, 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.

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.

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.

Je suis rouge comme un homard (I am red like a lobster)

2009-03-13T11:46:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2009-03-13T09:33:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Pink Purses and Other Random Thoughts

2009-03-11T12:27:00.000-07:00

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 #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.

Back to Basics

2009-03-09T13:34:00.000-07:00

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.

London Photos

2009-03-08T09:19:00.001-07:00

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!

Day of Departure

2009-03-08T09:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Never what you expect

2009-03-08T09:05:00.002-07:00

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.

Shop til you drop—literally.

2009-03-08T09:05:00.001-07:00

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

To tour or not to tour? That is the question.

2009-03-08T09:04:00.001-07:00

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.

Travel Time: Paris to London

2009-03-08T09:02:00.000-07:00

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.

The Last of It

2009-03-03T23:38:00.000-08:00

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

2009-03-03T13:30:00.000-08:00

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.

The Sacred Heart of Paris

2009-03-03T12:26:00.000-08:00

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.

Paris Pictures

2009-03-01T23:09:00.000-08:00

Here is the link for the pictures I have taken so far! More to come as our days continue.

Paris: Day 2

2009-03-01T09:32:00.000-08:00

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.

Paris: The City of Calf's Head and Sunshine and more Sunshine

2009-03-01T09:06:00.000-08:00

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!

Springtime in Provence

2009-02-27T10:11:00.000-08:00

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

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

Oh, has spring arrived in Provence?

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

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

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

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

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

2009-02-26T12:32:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shot number 1 with Haley.

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

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

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

Jill and I-- shot buddy for #4.

Toilet Paper and Dog Poop

2009-02-25T10:37:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Venice: Part 2

2009-02-24T12:29:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Venice: Part I

2009-02-24T02:13:00.000-08:00

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

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

Here are some tidbits until I post tonight though.

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

You know what to do. Click here for pictures.

Venician Expectations

2009-02-20T08:10:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll post Tuesday with pictures and details.

Who Knew?

2009-02-19T23:26:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Le Cuba Libre

2009-02-19T01:28:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

I was wrong.

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

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

2009-02-17T11:40:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What do you think?

The Perfect Friday Tradition

2009-02-16T11:17:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guitar man/my iPod.

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

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

Nice, Monaco, and Eze: The Top 10

2009-02-15T11:25:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monaco often felt like this-- rich.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanna go for a jog?

2009-02-13T06:43:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

My first view of Parc de la Torse.

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

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

Duck pond.

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

Perfect picnic spot for the spring.

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

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

Cast of Characters

2009-02-12T00:48:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

Bavard comme un pie.

2009-02-11T23:57:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Le Special de Petit-Dejeuner

2009-02-10T11:39:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Barcelona's Top Ten

2009-02-09T11:45:00.000-08:00

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

So, my top 10 Barcelonan adventures:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes." I yelled back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turkey Time

2009-02-06T06:53:00.000-08:00

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

Hence, the idea for a French Thanksgiving.

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

Doesn't my turkey breast look like a fish?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'll take lots of pictures.

Madame Moreels

2009-02-05T11:54:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Olde Bulldogge

2009-02-04T12:17:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For example: Je veut aller au magaSIN.

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

For example: I want to GO to the STORE.

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

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

Phonetics as a Foreign Language

2009-02-03T12:02:00.000-08:00

Phonetics is stupid. I officially hate the subject.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

French Idioms

2009-02-02T12:29:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slumber Party

2009-02-01T06:47:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

Hence: the slumber party.

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

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

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

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

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