Aaaaaaand she's back in action! I haven't written on this blog in a week, and I know you were all terribly saddened by my absence. It's been a busy few days for this one. Lucky for you, I have lots of exciting things to share!
First of all - my weekend in Loire Valley. The class and I took a 3 hour bus ride to a remote area of the countryside for the weekend; a place where the air is clean as it is crisp. After spending a month in dirty Paris, I got high just taking one breath outside in this truly and tremendously beautiful part of France. Loire Valley is the home of a lot, and I mean A LOT, of chateaux. And they are all spectacular. Most people would think that this trip would be rather boring, but frankly, it was a blast. First of all, there are the castles themselves: stunning, ENORMOUS, and filled with fun, secret factoids that only Maria, who played tour guide, knew to tell us. Second of all, the entire area is quaint and inspiring just to be in. Even our hostel was fantastic. There are also a few vineyards, which I happily frolicked in during sunset, thinking of my dear mother and Jeff who would have loved to have been doing the same. We also got to visit the home where Leonardo Da Vinci lived near the end of his life. Now this was really something. After going almost his entire life pretty much unrecognized and unloved, he finally got his; Da Vinci was asked by the King of France at the time, (Francois I), to come to the Loire Valley and serve as a sort of mentor figure to said king. In his home, we saw his furniture, his drawings, and on each wall, there is even a wise Da Vinci quote. One of the coolest parts, however, (which is hard to pin down because everything Da Vinci ever did was amazing), was the basement. In the basement, there is an exhibit of all of Da Vinci's inventions. Since the man was a genius and thought of everything before anybody else, i.e. cars, mills, airplanes... you know, the basic stuff, there wasn't the technology to really expand on his ideas. However, he made sketches. Lots and lots of sketches. When the sketches were posthumously found, IBM was nice enough to build models of all of his creations - all of which are in the basement. I was floored and ecstatic, riveted and overjoyed to be there. If any of you get the chance, GO.
Coming back to Paris, I resumed class and all the routine things that go along with that: dinners with my host parents, who continue to show generosity and kindness, homework, eating bread, so on and so forth. However, on Wednesday, even more historical, mind-blowing events happened if you can believe it! We got to go to Chartres, a stunning cathedral in.... Chartres. And in Chartres, we were lucky enough to attend a walking lecture with Chartres-expert Malcolm Miller, an adorable and truly genius old British man who has published books on his Chartres knowledge, (go to Amazon.com if you want to see!). The lecture was only an hour long, but I learned some incredible things... For example, did you know that in the secret relic room in Chartres, it's been said that they have a 16" piece of silk that is supposedly one of the pieces of fabric that the Virgin Mary was wearing when she gave birth to Jesus? I know, I know. It sounds impossible. Because not only does that imply that the Virgin Mary existed in reality, (sorry, but she could just be Bible fodder for all I know), but that is one freaking old piece of silk. Apparently scientists have done tests on it, and it's been proven to date back that far. Believe what you want to believe.
I could go on, but the amount of things that I learned in one measly hour, not to mention the extent of this man's knowledge, is unable to be expressed. Whoever you are reading this, we shall do lunch when I am back in the United States and I will tell you more. Better yet, go to Chartres too! And make sure Malcolm Miller is there!
This brings us to tonight... your typical Thursday evening, except not at all. My friends and I decided to go to a salsa dancing lesson. Unfortunately for us, we just so happened to miss the beginner's lesson and were lumped in with the intermediate dancers. Mmm... what a mistake. Now, I've been told I can bust a move. But believe you me - I am NOT good at salsa. Or any real choreography for that matter. And upon getting there, the group was asked to stand in a circle, boy-girl-boy-girl. There was one small circle of people in the middle for the best dancers, a circle of other people outside them for the second best, etc. , etc, you get the picture. We, of course, were on the outer-most circle. However, the MC/teacher was not pleased that we were standing 4 girls in a row. Upon being recognized for our incorrect line-up, a gentleman from the inner-most circle came over to us, said "Qui danse mieux?" ("Who dances best?"), at which point all of my friends look at me... Before I know it, I'm being dragged to the center circle - where the BEST DANCERS ARE. Well. Let's just say that Victoria failed miserably. But had great fun! To be honest, these dancers took it very seriously and seemed to feel that us Americans really harshed their mellow by showing up without any skill or hand-eye coordination, making it difficult to feel at all welcome. I still had a great time, but unlike the rest of my experiences this past week, I didn't learn that much. Everyone has a special skill. Mine is not salsa dancing.
In conclusion, it must be noted that today was my French final exam and tomorrow is my last day of class. On Monday, I begin my internship; I'm meeting with my future boss on Monday morning to discuss what it is exactly that I'll be doing with their theatre/company. Updates to come on that.
I can't believe it's been a month already. Judging by how much I've learned thus far, I'm hopeful and excited for what the future holds... really, truly ready. I just hope the future is ready for me too.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Checking In
What happens when you get caught in a torrential downpour in the Latin Quarter with your friends? You cover your head and run into the nearest cafe and order a bottle of wine, of course. What happens when you drink so much at 2 in the afternoon? You get a hangover before you even touch dinner, of course. Example: This girl.
This is going to be a short entry. Mostly, I'm just checking in. Greetings from a little bedroom in Boulogne, where yours truly sits on her bed with a raging headache. Stupid Victoria, stupid, stupid, stupid.
This week has gone by so quickly! This weekend will mark the 3-week anniversary of my arrival. Almost a month, how crazy. My class and I are going to the Chateaux de la Loire for the weekend; from what I understand, there are quite a few enormous castles that we'll be seeing over these next couple of days. Updates will come early next week. I'm sure you're all sitting on the edge of your seat about it.
During our little excursion to the Latin Quarter today, we stopped into the Eglise Saint-Severin, which was truly beautiful. I took a few minutes to watch a women have a very active conversation with God, (out loud), as she casually sat on a pew. I always like to observe people while they pray. Their processes are so different. Some are silent, and almost seem stoic. You can tell that some of them are really concentrating on their thoughts. And some, like this lady, act as if they're having a lunch date with the big man himself. Frankly, it looked like she was having a fantastic time. I was almost jealous of her.
In other news, there is no news. I've got an early bird special tomorrow morning, getting up around 6am Considering how I feel right now, I best get to sleeping. Or, at least something that doesn't require brain function.
This is going to be a short entry. Mostly, I'm just checking in. Greetings from a little bedroom in Boulogne, where yours truly sits on her bed with a raging headache. Stupid Victoria, stupid, stupid, stupid.
This week has gone by so quickly! This weekend will mark the 3-week anniversary of my arrival. Almost a month, how crazy. My class and I are going to the Chateaux de la Loire for the weekend; from what I understand, there are quite a few enormous castles that we'll be seeing over these next couple of days. Updates will come early next week. I'm sure you're all sitting on the edge of your seat about it.
During our little excursion to the Latin Quarter today, we stopped into the Eglise Saint-Severin, which was truly beautiful. I took a few minutes to watch a women have a very active conversation with God, (out loud), as she casually sat on a pew. I always like to observe people while they pray. Their processes are so different. Some are silent, and almost seem stoic. You can tell that some of them are really concentrating on their thoughts. And some, like this lady, act as if they're having a lunch date with the big man himself. Frankly, it looked like she was having a fantastic time. I was almost jealous of her.
In other news, there is no news. I've got an early bird special tomorrow morning, getting up around 6am Considering how I feel right now, I best get to sleeping. Or, at least something that doesn't require brain function.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Paris Je T'Aime
They say Paris is for lovers... My opinion on that has tweaked a bit since I've been here. I'm gonna say it flat out: What is with all the PDA in this God forsaken city? This may sound like a bitter argument against people who are in love, or an ignorant "Oh my god, the culture shock!" explanation of how I've never seen affectionate couples before, but it's not. It's so much different than that. Let's just call it a mere anthropological review of people in The City of Love.
On any given day, you can be walking down the street, minding your own business, and be visually assaulted by the sight of a couple. Not only are they beautiful, (or at least slim, fashionable, and sexy), but they're in love - the kind of thing that makes someone glow. Kind of like pregnancy, but without the vomiting. Well, there might be vomiting, but it's only on the spectator's end of the sexual spectacle that takes place. First of all, there's the kissing. No one here just kisses somebody else. They engage in an act that is unnaturally similar to the feeding ritual of penguins. You know, with the mother regurgitating food into her baby's throat. The female half of the couple is usually in some sort of headlock, whether the duo is walking down the street, sitting at a cafe, or lounging in the grass. The boyfriend will have his arm clamped around the girl's neck, forcing her to cock her head back and subsequently receive the tonguing from the man above. It's oddly violent, and I often feel compelled to stop them and ask the lady if she's okay.
Next comes the groping. Just this past Sunday, Jillian and I went on a little hangover picnic next to the Eiffel Tower. We were positively surrounded by young couples, one in particular that I studied with great curiosity. Between the intermittent making out, the boyfriend actually lifted his girlfriend's shirt to massage her breasts. She, of course, had no problem with this. If anything, it turned her on, causing her to grab her boyfriend's package and engage in another spit-swap. My interest was certainly not because I was voyeuristically aroused, appalled, or anything else like this... No, my thoughts were more along the lines of "That's curious... That's acceptable... In public... Oh, us Americans. How little we really know."
I got to thinking about how America is constantly being pointed at for consisting of a bunch of alleged sex-crazed weirdos who delight in watching porn and reading magazines with half-naked celebrities, when in reality, any person could come to France and get the show for free. Perhaps the difference in the sex obsession lies with the fact that as a culture, Americans get off on the artificial: air-brushed photographs, teen pop stars with too much make-up and age-inappropriate red carpet outfits, women who have had too much plastic surgery and therefore look like Barbies, and so on. In France, they seem much less concerned with that. Their interest in sex is within each other, and the need to constantly go at it in public as if they're in the privacy of their own bedrooms. Albeit overwhelming to watch all day, it oddly feels more real.
In conclusion, situations like this make you reevaluate the kinds of stereotypes we associate with the different places in the world. I'll just admit it: they're not all that far off sometimes. Shocking, right?! People say that Paris is a place for love and passion and oh my goodness, it's true!
Aren't you guys so happy you sent me here to learn...?
On any given day, you can be walking down the street, minding your own business, and be visually assaulted by the sight of a couple. Not only are they beautiful, (or at least slim, fashionable, and sexy), but they're in love - the kind of thing that makes someone glow. Kind of like pregnancy, but without the vomiting. Well, there might be vomiting, but it's only on the spectator's end of the sexual spectacle that takes place. First of all, there's the kissing. No one here just kisses somebody else. They engage in an act that is unnaturally similar to the feeding ritual of penguins. You know, with the mother regurgitating food into her baby's throat. The female half of the couple is usually in some sort of headlock, whether the duo is walking down the street, sitting at a cafe, or lounging in the grass. The boyfriend will have his arm clamped around the girl's neck, forcing her to cock her head back and subsequently receive the tonguing from the man above. It's oddly violent, and I often feel compelled to stop them and ask the lady if she's okay.
Next comes the groping. Just this past Sunday, Jillian and I went on a little hangover picnic next to the Eiffel Tower. We were positively surrounded by young couples, one in particular that I studied with great curiosity. Between the intermittent making out, the boyfriend actually lifted his girlfriend's shirt to massage her breasts. She, of course, had no problem with this. If anything, it turned her on, causing her to grab her boyfriend's package and engage in another spit-swap. My interest was certainly not because I was voyeuristically aroused, appalled, or anything else like this... No, my thoughts were more along the lines of "That's curious... That's acceptable... In public... Oh, us Americans. How little we really know."
I got to thinking about how America is constantly being pointed at for consisting of a bunch of alleged sex-crazed weirdos who delight in watching porn and reading magazines with half-naked celebrities, when in reality, any person could come to France and get the show for free. Perhaps the difference in the sex obsession lies with the fact that as a culture, Americans get off on the artificial: air-brushed photographs, teen pop stars with too much make-up and age-inappropriate red carpet outfits, women who have had too much plastic surgery and therefore look like Barbies, and so on. In France, they seem much less concerned with that. Their interest in sex is within each other, and the need to constantly go at it in public as if they're in the privacy of their own bedrooms. Albeit overwhelming to watch all day, it oddly feels more real.
In conclusion, situations like this make you reevaluate the kinds of stereotypes we associate with the different places in the world. I'll just admit it: they're not all that far off sometimes. Shocking, right?! People say that Paris is a place for love and passion and oh my goodness, it's true!
Aren't you guys so happy you sent me here to learn...?
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Midnight in Paris is like...
City Dusk
Come out... out
To this inevitable night of mine
Oh you drinker of new wine,
Here's pageantry... Here's carnival,
Rich dusk, dim streets and all
The whispering of city night...
I have closed my book of fading harmonies,
(The shadows fell across me in the park)
And my soul was sad with violins and trees,
And I was sick for dark,
When suddenly it hastened by me, bringing
Thousands of lights, a haunting breeze
And a night of streets and singing...
I shall know you by your eager feet
And by your pale, pale hair;
I'll whisper happy incoherent things
While I'm waiting for you there...
All the faces unforgettable in dusk
Will blend to yours,
And the footsteps like a thousand overtures
Will blend to yours,
And there will be more drunkenness than wine
In the softness of your eyes on mine...
Faint violins where lovely ladies dine,
The brushing of skirts, the voices of the night
And all the lure of friendly eyes... Ah there
We'll drift like summer sounds upon the summer air.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Come out... out
To this inevitable night of mine
Oh you drinker of new wine,
Here's pageantry... Here's carnival,
Rich dusk, dim streets and all
The whispering of city night...
I have closed my book of fading harmonies,
(The shadows fell across me in the park)
And my soul was sad with violins and trees,
And I was sick for dark,
When suddenly it hastened by me, bringing
Thousands of lights, a haunting breeze
And a night of streets and singing...
I shall know you by your eager feet
And by your pale, pale hair;
I'll whisper happy incoherent things
While I'm waiting for you there...
All the faces unforgettable in dusk
Will blend to yours,
And the footsteps like a thousand overtures
Will blend to yours,
And there will be more drunkenness than wine
In the softness of your eyes on mine...
Faint violins where lovely ladies dine,
The brushing of skirts, the voices of the night
And all the lure of friendly eyes... Ah there
We'll drift like summer sounds upon the summer air.
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Move Along, Move Along
I'm sitting in my room at home, trying to comprehend the fact that I've only been here for two weeks and it feels like ten years. Perhaps that's a good thing. I'm into a routine now and settling in finally. I still feel, however, like I'm in a crazy time zone where it all goes so fast, when in reality it moves at a snail's pace.
It's a beautiful day here in France. I only woke up about an hour ago after a hectic night trying to find a club that ended up having closed 2 years ago. This weekend, all museums/sites around Paris are free, so I'm thinking I should take advantage of that and have a Victoria Day walking around and seeing what I can. Yesterday, I went to the Chateau de Vincennes, where I watched an hour-long ceremony in which the students in uniform (complete with huge, black, moon-boots) from the Ecole Militaire got badges of honor. Otherwise, the weekend has been filled with nightlife-hijinks. A new lesson from Victoria's School for People Back Home: gay men love women here. I learned this by going to a cub called Banana Cafe with my friends where we were literally assaulted by topless men, one of whom, (with the body of Hulk Hogan, fyi), actually grabbed me and lifted me into the air, bouncing me up and down. I felt like a Jewish woman in a chair at her wedding.
Maria emailed me on Friday night asking if I would help her American-playwright-friend on Thursday. She was very vague, and didn't really get into what exactly I would be doing, but I said yes of course. Apparently this gentlemen had heart surgery recently and needs help doing God knows what with his current production, so she got a hold of me. More to come when I actually know what I'm doing with this man...
I must say, frankly, that any other updates I could give would be less than exciting, but I will say that I am finally feeling very happy to be here. I've reached the more-than-content zone, and it only just happened over a period of a few days. Let's just hope I don't jinx it...
Note: Shout-out to my mom and Jeff for the progress you've made on the store. The pictures look awesome! And I wasn't kidding about getting a life-sized dummy of me to put in the corner at the opening party so it would be like I was there, just creepier.
It's a beautiful day here in France. I only woke up about an hour ago after a hectic night trying to find a club that ended up having closed 2 years ago. This weekend, all museums/sites around Paris are free, so I'm thinking I should take advantage of that and have a Victoria Day walking around and seeing what I can. Yesterday, I went to the Chateau de Vincennes, where I watched an hour-long ceremony in which the students in uniform (complete with huge, black, moon-boots) from the Ecole Militaire got badges of honor. Otherwise, the weekend has been filled with nightlife-hijinks. A new lesson from Victoria's School for People Back Home: gay men love women here. I learned this by going to a cub called Banana Cafe with my friends where we were literally assaulted by topless men, one of whom, (with the body of Hulk Hogan, fyi), actually grabbed me and lifted me into the air, bouncing me up and down. I felt like a Jewish woman in a chair at her wedding.
Maria emailed me on Friday night asking if I would help her American-playwright-friend on Thursday. She was very vague, and didn't really get into what exactly I would be doing, but I said yes of course. Apparently this gentlemen had heart surgery recently and needs help doing God knows what with his current production, so she got a hold of me. More to come when I actually know what I'm doing with this man...
I must say, frankly, that any other updates I could give would be less than exciting, but I will say that I am finally feeling very happy to be here. I've reached the more-than-content zone, and it only just happened over a period of a few days. Let's just hope I don't jinx it...
Note: Shout-out to my mom and Jeff for the progress you've made on the store. The pictures look awesome! And I wasn't kidding about getting a life-sized dummy of me to put in the corner at the opening party so it would be like I was there, just creepier.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Art Imitates Life Imitates Art Imitates...
I think it's safe to say that autumn has officially arrived in Paris. Lucky for me, it's my favorite season, and I couldn't be happier to be sporting sweaters and boots. If only you all could see how pretty it is here. I had one of those magical watching-leaves-falling-while-contemplating-life moments today that I would love to share with everyone...
Today was a rather busy day - class in the morning, followed by a guided tour through a chateaux in the middle of the French countryside. It had belonged to a marquis who was clearly super rich and powerful, seeing as how his property was absolutely stunning. My favorite part of the trip, however, was not learning about the man, but his mistress: Ninon de Lenclos. While she was apparently extremely ugly, she made up for it in smarts and grew up to be a love doctor of sorts. After her stint as a mistress for several powerful men in France, she used her experience with lovers to provide advice for young men and women who would come to seek her guidance through their relationships. She was also, coincidentally enough for those of us who participated in "Tartuffe" this past spring at Lake Forest, asked by Moliere to edit "Tartuffe" when he was finished writing it. Go Ninon.
On top of this, there were the gardens, all of which were exquisitely designed and very well-kept. And as is the case with most things - be it paintings, portraits, statues, and the like - each garden had very specific symbolism. My personal favorite was the main garden, which consisted of a small labyrinth of hedges with a fountain in the center, surrounded by pink flowers. The symbolism goes as follows: the maze represents life, or the hardships we encounter and subsequently overcome. The end result is the fountain, or the clarity, knowledge, and wisdom that we gain with each experience. Not bad for a group of bushes and a slab of wet marble. It got me thinking about this very experience in Paris... Each day is like a roller-coaster. Every time I step foot out the door, I'm learning something new and feel that I will eventually reach that "A-ha!" moment, that moment when I say "Yes! This is why I came here." Unfortunately, these kinds of epiphanies are not the kind of thing you can go looking for. As the French say, we must "avoir patience", roll with the punches, and not force the outcome.
I suppose for me, the mission is not to find the sole purpose of this semester abroad, or any other period of time in my life that requires the aforementioned patience during drastic change. The mission in everything I do is to be more than content. I'm not somebody who enjoys change, sure, but I'm also not somebody who enjoys settling. During my freshman year at Lake Forest, I considered transferring a number of times; it wasn't because I was unhappy, it was because I was just okay. I wasn't ecstatic to be there, but I wasn't miserable either. I simply was. But becoming a seasoned expert in The Art of Being Content is not what I want for me, nor for anyone else in this world. There does come a time when we are given the tools to make something more than just good or alright, and that is what I strive for during my time in Paris. I love Lake Forest now, and I know what waits for me there: happiness, comfort, my friends... The kind of environment that I worked to make better for myself. As for this semester, I just want to walk away knowing that even though I may have felt lonely, homesick, longing to finally speak English, missing drinks with ice, or even that I smoked too many cigarettes, I was more than happy to have experienced all of those things...
Today was a rather busy day - class in the morning, followed by a guided tour through a chateaux in the middle of the French countryside. It had belonged to a marquis who was clearly super rich and powerful, seeing as how his property was absolutely stunning. My favorite part of the trip, however, was not learning about the man, but his mistress: Ninon de Lenclos. While she was apparently extremely ugly, she made up for it in smarts and grew up to be a love doctor of sorts. After her stint as a mistress for several powerful men in France, she used her experience with lovers to provide advice for young men and women who would come to seek her guidance through their relationships. She was also, coincidentally enough for those of us who participated in "Tartuffe" this past spring at Lake Forest, asked by Moliere to edit "Tartuffe" when he was finished writing it. Go Ninon.
On top of this, there were the gardens, all of which were exquisitely designed and very well-kept. And as is the case with most things - be it paintings, portraits, statues, and the like - each garden had very specific symbolism. My personal favorite was the main garden, which consisted of a small labyrinth of hedges with a fountain in the center, surrounded by pink flowers. The symbolism goes as follows: the maze represents life, or the hardships we encounter and subsequently overcome. The end result is the fountain, or the clarity, knowledge, and wisdom that we gain with each experience. Not bad for a group of bushes and a slab of wet marble. It got me thinking about this very experience in Paris... Each day is like a roller-coaster. Every time I step foot out the door, I'm learning something new and feel that I will eventually reach that "A-ha!" moment, that moment when I say "Yes! This is why I came here." Unfortunately, these kinds of epiphanies are not the kind of thing you can go looking for. As the French say, we must "avoir patience", roll with the punches, and not force the outcome.
I suppose for me, the mission is not to find the sole purpose of this semester abroad, or any other period of time in my life that requires the aforementioned patience during drastic change. The mission in everything I do is to be more than content. I'm not somebody who enjoys change, sure, but I'm also not somebody who enjoys settling. During my freshman year at Lake Forest, I considered transferring a number of times; it wasn't because I was unhappy, it was because I was just okay. I wasn't ecstatic to be there, but I wasn't miserable either. I simply was. But becoming a seasoned expert in The Art of Being Content is not what I want for me, nor for anyone else in this world. There does come a time when we are given the tools to make something more than just good or alright, and that is what I strive for during my time in Paris. I love Lake Forest now, and I know what waits for me there: happiness, comfort, my friends... The kind of environment that I worked to make better for myself. As for this semester, I just want to walk away knowing that even though I may have felt lonely, homesick, longing to finally speak English, missing drinks with ice, or even that I smoked too many cigarettes, I was more than happy to have experienced all of those things...
Monday, September 13, 2010
Pieds Sur La Terre
Bonjour, tout le monde. Another week has begun, (only the second?!), and things aren't even close to settling!
Yesterday, Gerard and Sybille brought me to their friend's picnic in the countryside, about an hour outside of Paris. I thought to myself, "Oh, you know, it'll be a quaint get-together, outdoor eating, very intimate." How wrong I was.... After driving 130 kilometers per hour (about 80 miles per hour) the entire way in Gerard's small FIAT, blasting triumphant classical music, we arrived at an enormous stone house, where we subsequently walked around to the backyard to find easily 150 guests. My heart was beating out of my chest - I just moved in, and I have to talk to ALL these people?! Are you guys insane?!! Lucky for me, nice people like Gerard and Sybille are friends with other nice people. Everyone, I truly mean everyone, was incredibly patient, engaging, and seemed sincerely excited that I was there. And if I may say, I think I held my own pretty well. I even met some people who had been to Connecticut, and one woman whose daughter lives in Larchmont, (why would anyone from Paris move there, I ask?).
It's times like those that you make the quite obvious realization that there are so many people in this world that are both wonderful and interesting, so many that it's unfathomable that we'd meet all of them in our lifetime. It was a lovely conglomerate of the French, the Germans, the British, even a few Americans, and so on the list can go. For those with whom I engaged in deep conversation, I learned their histories, the stories of how they met their husbands or wives, their passions, and their admirable love for their friends - all of whom had gathered for a beautiful picnic at a beautiful home in the beautiful countryside. Although I was extremely exhausted by the end of the day, having spent a straight 11-12 hours speaking and listening to French, I felt fulfilled. I might even venture to say that I felt a little bit wiser. If nothing else, my fluency improved greatly, even if by the time we left at 11pm I could only mindlessly mumble "Uh... uh... comment dit-on.... comment dit-on.... uh, je ne sais pas" in response to anyone's question... but maybe it was all the red wine.
Important side note: It was brought my attention, (even though I already knew), by my friend Zak that I should have more pictures on this blog. I must admit, friends, that while I brought both my camera and my camera charger, I did not remember to bring the cord that connects my camera to my computer. I'm sure I can buy it somewhere, but it doesn't matter enough to me. So, I apologize for the lack of photos, but they will most certainly be posted when I get home in December. It'll be like when you get a belated birthday present in the mail about 3 months too late and you remember how awesome your birthday was! Just like that.
Yesterday, Gerard and Sybille brought me to their friend's picnic in the countryside, about an hour outside of Paris. I thought to myself, "Oh, you know, it'll be a quaint get-together, outdoor eating, very intimate." How wrong I was.... After driving 130 kilometers per hour (about 80 miles per hour) the entire way in Gerard's small FIAT, blasting triumphant classical music, we arrived at an enormous stone house, where we subsequently walked around to the backyard to find easily 150 guests. My heart was beating out of my chest - I just moved in, and I have to talk to ALL these people?! Are you guys insane?!! Lucky for me, nice people like Gerard and Sybille are friends with other nice people. Everyone, I truly mean everyone, was incredibly patient, engaging, and seemed sincerely excited that I was there. And if I may say, I think I held my own pretty well. I even met some people who had been to Connecticut, and one woman whose daughter lives in Larchmont, (why would anyone from Paris move there, I ask?).
It's times like those that you make the quite obvious realization that there are so many people in this world that are both wonderful and interesting, so many that it's unfathomable that we'd meet all of them in our lifetime. It was a lovely conglomerate of the French, the Germans, the British, even a few Americans, and so on the list can go. For those with whom I engaged in deep conversation, I learned their histories, the stories of how they met their husbands or wives, their passions, and their admirable love for their friends - all of whom had gathered for a beautiful picnic at a beautiful home in the beautiful countryside. Although I was extremely exhausted by the end of the day, having spent a straight 11-12 hours speaking and listening to French, I felt fulfilled. I might even venture to say that I felt a little bit wiser. If nothing else, my fluency improved greatly, even if by the time we left at 11pm I could only mindlessly mumble "Uh... uh... comment dit-on.... comment dit-on.... uh, je ne sais pas" in response to anyone's question... but maybe it was all the red wine.
Important side note: It was brought my attention, (even though I already knew), by my friend Zak that I should have more pictures on this blog. I must admit, friends, that while I brought both my camera and my camera charger, I did not remember to bring the cord that connects my camera to my computer. I'm sure I can buy it somewhere, but it doesn't matter enough to me. So, I apologize for the lack of photos, but they will most certainly be posted when I get home in December. It'll be like when you get a belated birthday present in the mail about 3 months too late and you remember how awesome your birthday was! Just like that.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Gerard et Sybille
I'm officially moved into my new home in Boulogne, the first suburb outside Paris. I arrived this morning in time for lunch with Gerard Marty, his wife Sybille de la Forcade, and their 24 year old daughter Hortense. The new and different just keep on comin'.
Boulogne is not a small town, per se, but it seems to be one that families from Paris choose to move to when they decide to settle down with their children, not wanting to raise the little babes in a city. There are children everywhere. Children and teenagers. I arrived via taxi outside a gated-in garden, and up I went to the second floor apartment where Sybille was waiting for me.
Sybille can't be taller than 5'2". The same goes for Gerard. I am taller than both of my host parents by A LOT. The apartment... well, it's bizarre. It's very oddly decorated, but it gives it a sense of character, like the photos and paintings and posters on the walls tell a story behind this couple's life together. There's a terrace just outside that is absolutely covered with plants and flowers. I mean, COVERED. Lucky for me, the terrace extends to my bedroom, so I get a nice breeze and breathing room. My room is quaint - yellow with a floral wardrobe, a white desk, and a blue bed. Sybille was nice enough to put all of her fashion and art history books in my bedroom since she was told that those are two things I'm into. Needless to say, this is a very accommodating family.
I began my day with the Marty-de la Forcade family spending most of my time talking to Hortense, a spitfire of a young woman who was just dropping by to pick up some things for her apartment in Paris. Gerard came home about an hour after Hortense, Sybille, and I had got to talking. Four words: He is the shit. First of all, he's tiny; second of all, he's funny; third of all, he's weird as hell, and the ladies spend a lot of time yelling at him (all in good humor, of course) for being strange; fourth of all, he is always trying to speak to me in English, but I can't tell if that's because he wants to make me feel more comfortable, or he thinks I'm THAT bad at the language; and finally, he appreciates that I don't put sugar in my espresso.
After lunch - an entire cooked tomato stuffed with a mysterious meatball - I took a walk around Boulogne to try to get my bearings. I asked Sybille before I left if a walk was alright with her, and she graciously informed me by hand-demonstration that men around here are prone to flashing women. Well, then.
I found the Metro, found the main street, bought un coca-light, and finally had a moment to myself. I feel like I haven't been alone all week, and to finally be able to sit on a bench, smoke a cigarette, drink a soda, and just think and absorb this new environment was so pleasing to me. I'm so over-stimulated by transition right now that my mind feels like it has turned to mush. I look forward to the moment where the newness of everything has calmed and I feel at peace. Here's hoping that that ever happens before these few months are up.
I'm so glad to know that my host family is just plain nice, above and beyond all things. Sybille and I went grocery shopping for dinner together, and she explained her one-year working relationship with Karl Lagerfeld to me. When I asked if he was a nice man, she stopped to think and only said, "Il est intelligent." I just smiled and laughed.
It may take some time to feel at home here, but I really am lucky to have this family. Any sense of discomfort is due to the mere strangeness of accepting this as my environment, and it is something that I am solely responsible for. I can do it. Countless run-ins with the language barrier may occur, but I can do it.
Boulogne is not a small town, per se, but it seems to be one that families from Paris choose to move to when they decide to settle down with their children, not wanting to raise the little babes in a city. There are children everywhere. Children and teenagers. I arrived via taxi outside a gated-in garden, and up I went to the second floor apartment where Sybille was waiting for me.
Sybille can't be taller than 5'2". The same goes for Gerard. I am taller than both of my host parents by A LOT. The apartment... well, it's bizarre. It's very oddly decorated, but it gives it a sense of character, like the photos and paintings and posters on the walls tell a story behind this couple's life together. There's a terrace just outside that is absolutely covered with plants and flowers. I mean, COVERED. Lucky for me, the terrace extends to my bedroom, so I get a nice breeze and breathing room. My room is quaint - yellow with a floral wardrobe, a white desk, and a blue bed. Sybille was nice enough to put all of her fashion and art history books in my bedroom since she was told that those are two things I'm into. Needless to say, this is a very accommodating family.
I began my day with the Marty-de la Forcade family spending most of my time talking to Hortense, a spitfire of a young woman who was just dropping by to pick up some things for her apartment in Paris. Gerard came home about an hour after Hortense, Sybille, and I had got to talking. Four words: He is the shit. First of all, he's tiny; second of all, he's funny; third of all, he's weird as hell, and the ladies spend a lot of time yelling at him (all in good humor, of course) for being strange; fourth of all, he is always trying to speak to me in English, but I can't tell if that's because he wants to make me feel more comfortable, or he thinks I'm THAT bad at the language; and finally, he appreciates that I don't put sugar in my espresso.
After lunch - an entire cooked tomato stuffed with a mysterious meatball - I took a walk around Boulogne to try to get my bearings. I asked Sybille before I left if a walk was alright with her, and she graciously informed me by hand-demonstration that men around here are prone to flashing women. Well, then.
I found the Metro, found the main street, bought un coca-light, and finally had a moment to myself. I feel like I haven't been alone all week, and to finally be able to sit on a bench, smoke a cigarette, drink a soda, and just think and absorb this new environment was so pleasing to me. I'm so over-stimulated by transition right now that my mind feels like it has turned to mush. I look forward to the moment where the newness of everything has calmed and I feel at peace. Here's hoping that that ever happens before these few months are up.
I'm so glad to know that my host family is just plain nice, above and beyond all things. Sybille and I went grocery shopping for dinner together, and she explained her one-year working relationship with Karl Lagerfeld to me. When I asked if he was a nice man, she stopped to think and only said, "Il est intelligent." I just smiled and laughed.
It may take some time to feel at home here, but I really am lucky to have this family. Any sense of discomfort is due to the mere strangeness of accepting this as my environment, and it is something that I am solely responsible for. I can do it. Countless run-ins with the language barrier may occur, but I can do it.
Friday, September 10, 2010
The End to Week One
Well, I made it one week... I guess that's something. Tonight is my last night in the hostel and tomorrow I move in with my host family (dun dun dun)! We have to be out of here by 10am tomorrow, and off I go. More details on that to come....
As for these past couple of days, they've been both low-key and exciting. Class is going well so far. My professor is energetic and extremely helpful, so I have every reason to believe that our time together for the rest of the semester will go smoothly.
Last night, I made a trip to Montmartre with some of the people in the program and ended up having one of the most relaxing and pleasant evenings thus far. When we emerged from the metro, we walked up the cobblestone hills surveying the shops and cafes until we reached the steps leading to the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur (all 500 of them - my butt is going to look so good when I come home!), also known as the highest point in the entire city. When we reached the top, there was the church with its glowing dome; I frankly didn't even mind that I was sweating and my mixture of asthma-smoker's lungs-the cold that I've already developed was causing me some serious respiratory issues. Outside the church, hundreds of people sat in groups, stood taking photos, or simply stared.
Of course, we went inside. And upon doing so, I very literally almost lost my breath. Despite how much of a cliche it sounds like, going into le Sacre-Coeur was one of the most cathartic moments I've ever had. And like anyone would, I cried. Maybe it was because it was nighttime, so the glowing altar seemed that much more eerie; maybe it was that there were large groups of people inside, praying in such deafening silence that it seemed loud; or maybe it was the candles, each representing someone's wish or prayer for a family member, a friend, a loved one, or just themselves. I lit a candle. Not for anything in particular, per se, but more because I was so filled with emotion and overwhelmed by the sight inside this beautiful church that I needed to make my feelings tangible. What better way to physically manifest your feelings than in a small burning flame inside the most beautiful church in France?
Outside, I took a breath of fresh air and sat among my peers on the steps, looking out over the city. We could see the rain in the distance falling over different areas of Paris, but somehow avoiding us. The company that surrounded us on the steps at le Sacre-Coeur consisted of tourists, native Frenchmen and women, and about 20 or so beer-vendors who were all taught to say the same thing as they consistently approached us to shove Heineken in our faces and subsequently ruin the picturesque moment: "Beer? Fresh, very fresh."
The mood, however, stayed the same for the most part. A bald gentleman began to play live guitar, beginning his set with Billy Joel's "Piano Man", or as he sang it: "Monsieur le Piano Man". He then moved onto Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah", and then took a turn for the weird. Turning on a pre-set beat box machine, he continued to play guitar and sing to the Jackson 5's "I Want You Back", which pretty much killed the atmosphere even more than the beer ambush. Afterwards, a guest singer came up to sing, of all things, "Save Tonight" by Eagle-Eye Cherry. At least I love the 90's. Finally, the original musician's set was completed by "Don't Look Back in Anger" by Oasis. I guess the French love the 90's too.
As for tomorrow, I can only hope for the best upon my first day with my host family. I'm excited to finally feel settled and lose the whole living-out-of-a-suitcase-thereby-feeling-like-I'm-just-on-vacation aspect of the hostel. For now, I'm going to enjoy my last meal in this here prison-like place, and my last time rinse in this coffin-sized shower. Thankfully this time, I know better than to shave my legs.
Last thoughts: One of those incredibly coincidental moments occurred today that only happens every so often... or, if you're me, a lot. In class this afternoon, we discussed how when the metro in Paris was first built, there was a very high rate of suicide. People who would just throw themselves in front of the train. That being said, the metros took a long time to finish building because the suicide rate escalated and the whole endeavor seemed dangerous. Today after class and a cup of coffee, I got on the metro with my friends. We were stalled at the station for a few moments because somebody committed suicide.
These days are crazy, people.
As for these past couple of days, they've been both low-key and exciting. Class is going well so far. My professor is energetic and extremely helpful, so I have every reason to believe that our time together for the rest of the semester will go smoothly.
Last night, I made a trip to Montmartre with some of the people in the program and ended up having one of the most relaxing and pleasant evenings thus far. When we emerged from the metro, we walked up the cobblestone hills surveying the shops and cafes until we reached the steps leading to the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur (all 500 of them - my butt is going to look so good when I come home!), also known as the highest point in the entire city. When we reached the top, there was the church with its glowing dome; I frankly didn't even mind that I was sweating and my mixture of asthma-smoker's lungs-the cold that I've already developed was causing me some serious respiratory issues. Outside the church, hundreds of people sat in groups, stood taking photos, or simply stared.
Of course, we went inside. And upon doing so, I very literally almost lost my breath. Despite how much of a cliche it sounds like, going into le Sacre-Coeur was one of the most cathartic moments I've ever had. And like anyone would, I cried. Maybe it was because it was nighttime, so the glowing altar seemed that much more eerie; maybe it was that there were large groups of people inside, praying in such deafening silence that it seemed loud; or maybe it was the candles, each representing someone's wish or prayer for a family member, a friend, a loved one, or just themselves. I lit a candle. Not for anything in particular, per se, but more because I was so filled with emotion and overwhelmed by the sight inside this beautiful church that I needed to make my feelings tangible. What better way to physically manifest your feelings than in a small burning flame inside the most beautiful church in France?
Outside, I took a breath of fresh air and sat among my peers on the steps, looking out over the city. We could see the rain in the distance falling over different areas of Paris, but somehow avoiding us. The company that surrounded us on the steps at le Sacre-Coeur consisted of tourists, native Frenchmen and women, and about 20 or so beer-vendors who were all taught to say the same thing as they consistently approached us to shove Heineken in our faces and subsequently ruin the picturesque moment: "Beer? Fresh, very fresh."
The mood, however, stayed the same for the most part. A bald gentleman began to play live guitar, beginning his set with Billy Joel's "Piano Man", or as he sang it: "Monsieur le Piano Man". He then moved onto Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah", and then took a turn for the weird. Turning on a pre-set beat box machine, he continued to play guitar and sing to the Jackson 5's "I Want You Back", which pretty much killed the atmosphere even more than the beer ambush. Afterwards, a guest singer came up to sing, of all things, "Save Tonight" by Eagle-Eye Cherry. At least I love the 90's. Finally, the original musician's set was completed by "Don't Look Back in Anger" by Oasis. I guess the French love the 90's too.
As for tomorrow, I can only hope for the best upon my first day with my host family. I'm excited to finally feel settled and lose the whole living-out-of-a-suitcase-thereby-feeling-like-I'm-just-on-vacation aspect of the hostel. For now, I'm going to enjoy my last meal in this here prison-like place, and my last time rinse in this coffin-sized shower. Thankfully this time, I know better than to shave my legs.
Last thoughts: One of those incredibly coincidental moments occurred today that only happens every so often... or, if you're me, a lot. In class this afternoon, we discussed how when the metro in Paris was first built, there was a very high rate of suicide. People who would just throw themselves in front of the train. That being said, the metros took a long time to finish building because the suicide rate escalated and the whole endeavor seemed dangerous. Today after class and a cup of coffee, I got on the metro with my friends. We were stalled at the station for a few moments because somebody committed suicide.
These days are crazy, people.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Wet Wednesday
Salut from rainy Paris! Another day down, and I am one hot mess of frizz. I've decided that if anyone on my program doesn't know my name yet, I can imagine them asking another student "Oh, that girl with the bad hair?" and get an affirmative. I'll own up to it. It's not good.
Well, today was an eventful day. After getting caught in yet another rainstorm last night, we (a few girls in the program and I) made our way home, went to sleep, but were awoken at 7am by the fire alarm. The most hostile alarm sound you could ever imagine. Turns out it was nothing, perhaps a silly fellow tourist made it go off by mistake, but what a way to start the day: a bajillion people from different countries around the world rushing out of their hostel rooms in varying states of undress, worrying we'd all be burned to death. This was then followed by a return back to our rooms, where I subsequently fell back asleep, woke up again, and took a shower. But this was not just any shower. This was the shower in which I decided that I couldn't take it anymore and I needed to shave my legs. For a visual, our shower is like a human-sized plastic tube with a cylindrical shower-head that grazes the top of my hair when I stand under it. I knew this would be no easy feat; needless to say, I emerged after a few minutes, the color red dripping all down my legs in (I counted) 11 different spots. I suppose now I can imagine the aforementioned conversation going: "Hmm... Victoria... I don't know her. Oh, that girl with the bad hair and scabies?"
But believe it or not, friends, Paris is not all about humorously awful hostel bathrooms and inclimate weather. Oh no. The actual important part of this day was our trip to the Senat (the Senate, if that didn't register with you). We took the RER to the Luxembourg Palace, a beautiful building that requires you to walk around an entire garden just to get past it, to then be met at the Senat by Maria and a tour guide, (Pierre, of course). Cold, wet, and cut-up, I followed Pierre with the rest of my class into a small room where "un petit film" commenced, introducing the basics of their Senate building to us. The petit film, for anyone who is wondering, is actually a filmed tour of the Senat, led by two computer-generated children characters who can fly (activating a sparkly sound effect), as well as a smaller video box in the corner of the screen featuring a woman acting out the movie in sign language. Let me just say, she was really into it. When our virtual tour guides had to creep into a quiet room to overhear the senators in conversation, this woman crept as well. We all laughed... I don't think we were supposed to laugh, frankly.
Regardless, the Senat was beautiful. Everything is a lavish as you can imagine - gilded walls, velvet chairs, and lots of older Frenchmen in suits with manilla envelopes discussing things in very hushed voices. The history of the building is actually quite interesting: When Maria de' Medici came to France to marry Henry IV, she hated Paris. She hated the Louvre, she hated the smell of the Seine, she hated the dreary, cold weather, it all disgusted her. In order to make herself happy, Maria requested that she be built a home that was inspired by Florentine architecture and interior design in hopes that it would remind her of her dear, sweet, native Italy. However, one of the cooler French aspects of the building that was added after Maria de' Medici's death is the painted dome on the ceiling of the library, done by Eugene Delacroix. I certainly wouldn't complain if I had to look at that every day.
As for tonight, I have something very exciting to do.... drum roll please.... homework. For some reason, my idea of studying abroad never included homework because it always seemed like acclimating to a foreign country and living with a host family was work enough. Alas, I have grammar exercises in a bizarre book from Gibert Joseph due tomorrow, and I'm frankly happy to have a night in. I can take a moment to send my sister Caitlin good moving-to-New-York vibes, but try not to be too sad that I'm not there to help her. Maybe if I get cranky enough, I can get someone to build ME a beautiful mansion inspired by Westport, Connecticut that will later be turned into government facility. That sounds like a possibility, doesn't it?
Well, today was an eventful day. After getting caught in yet another rainstorm last night, we (a few girls in the program and I) made our way home, went to sleep, but were awoken at 7am by the fire alarm. The most hostile alarm sound you could ever imagine. Turns out it was nothing, perhaps a silly fellow tourist made it go off by mistake, but what a way to start the day: a bajillion people from different countries around the world rushing out of their hostel rooms in varying states of undress, worrying we'd all be burned to death. This was then followed by a return back to our rooms, where I subsequently fell back asleep, woke up again, and took a shower. But this was not just any shower. This was the shower in which I decided that I couldn't take it anymore and I needed to shave my legs. For a visual, our shower is like a human-sized plastic tube with a cylindrical shower-head that grazes the top of my hair when I stand under it. I knew this would be no easy feat; needless to say, I emerged after a few minutes, the color red dripping all down my legs in (I counted) 11 different spots. I suppose now I can imagine the aforementioned conversation going: "Hmm... Victoria... I don't know her. Oh, that girl with the bad hair and scabies?"
But believe it or not, friends, Paris is not all about humorously awful hostel bathrooms and inclimate weather. Oh no. The actual important part of this day was our trip to the Senat (the Senate, if that didn't register with you). We took the RER to the Luxembourg Palace, a beautiful building that requires you to walk around an entire garden just to get past it, to then be met at the Senat by Maria and a tour guide, (Pierre, of course). Cold, wet, and cut-up, I followed Pierre with the rest of my class into a small room where "un petit film" commenced, introducing the basics of their Senate building to us. The petit film, for anyone who is wondering, is actually a filmed tour of the Senat, led by two computer-generated children characters who can fly (activating a sparkly sound effect), as well as a smaller video box in the corner of the screen featuring a woman acting out the movie in sign language. Let me just say, she was really into it. When our virtual tour guides had to creep into a quiet room to overhear the senators in conversation, this woman crept as well. We all laughed... I don't think we were supposed to laugh, frankly.
Regardless, the Senat was beautiful. Everything is a lavish as you can imagine - gilded walls, velvet chairs, and lots of older Frenchmen in suits with manilla envelopes discussing things in very hushed voices. The history of the building is actually quite interesting: When Maria de' Medici came to France to marry Henry IV, she hated Paris. She hated the Louvre, she hated the smell of the Seine, she hated the dreary, cold weather, it all disgusted her. In order to make herself happy, Maria requested that she be built a home that was inspired by Florentine architecture and interior design in hopes that it would remind her of her dear, sweet, native Italy. However, one of the cooler French aspects of the building that was added after Maria de' Medici's death is the painted dome on the ceiling of the library, done by Eugene Delacroix. I certainly wouldn't complain if I had to look at that every day.
As for tonight, I have something very exciting to do.... drum roll please.... homework. For some reason, my idea of studying abroad never included homework because it always seemed like acclimating to a foreign country and living with a host family was work enough. Alas, I have grammar exercises in a bizarre book from Gibert Joseph due tomorrow, and I'm frankly happy to have a night in. I can take a moment to send my sister Caitlin good moving-to-New-York vibes, but try not to be too sad that I'm not there to help her. Maybe if I get cranky enough, I can get someone to build ME a beautiful mansion inspired by Westport, Connecticut that will later be turned into government facility. That sounds like a possibility, doesn't it?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
It's Only Been 3 Days?
Before I really delve into the meat of this post, I'd like to take a moment to mention the wonders of this hostel, (also known as the CISP)...
Plain and simple, the people who work here are mean. Now, I'm not complaining. "Free" room and board (courtesy of my tuition - thanks so much, guys) in Paris does not come easily, so I feel blessed to have a week here with my group from school to help us get a little bit acclimated. But to those of you who work at the front desk and in the cafeteria: I hate you. Thank you for working in an establishment that sees non-French-speaking travelers day in and day out, but refusing to help anyone. Love, Victoria.
Aside from the fact that the only thing the hostel serves for breakfast is one mini-croissant per person, (you're not allowed to have more than that; I learned the hard way) and pastries for breakfast unfortunately interrupt my entire gastrointestinal system daily, I'm enjoying myself. At this point, if the worst thing I can say is that my baby pastry for breakfast makes my stomach hurt, I think I'm doing pretty well.
Yesterday, I visited Les Printemps and Les Galeries Lafayette with Jillian, two enormous shopping centers that much like Barney's or Saks Fifth Avenue, except on French steroids. I drooled over most everything in the multi-tiered buildings, and watched as chubby Parisian viking-clones purchased expensive Prada purses for their waifish dates. Although I'm not always big on crowds, Jillian and I spent a considerable amount of time examining all that these places had to offer and dreamt of the day that the circular display table of Repettos (210 euro here) would be mine.
As for today, I finished off my mini-croissant and went off to meet the infamous Veronique Du Parc, my teacher for the rest of the semester. Important detail of this experience: Today marks another labor strike for Paris, (we all know how the French hate to work), and it took us 2 hours to get somewhere that should've taken 30 minutes because employees up and left their positions as Metro drivers. Gotta love their joie de vivre, right? Upon finally arriving at Le Forum, an old boarding school that now seems to host infrequent French classes in bizarre, beat-up, basement classrooms, there was Maria and soon there was Madame Du Parc! I'll put this easily: She is as nice as I was told she would be. She's tiny, she's blonde, and she's one of the friendliest people I've ever met. Sure, class was 4 hours long, but at least the woman can make it interesting.
In an effort to make these posts less laborsome for you few readers, I'll stop here. If there's one thing I can tell you, it's this: When you get a chance to go to a bar in Paris, order a demi-peche. It's delicious, it's cheap, and you sound cool when you order it.
Last but not least, my final word is for my friends and family who read this: I miss you all.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Well, Now That I'm Here...
Friends, Romans, countrymen, bonjour from Paris!
I have finally arrived. Let's start off by saying that Xanax is a miracle drug, seeing as how it allowed me to sleep through my entire 7-hour flight - even if that also meant that I slept through the meals. They weren't good anyway.
Secondly, the obvious: France is beautiful. As I was touching down at Charles de Gaulle, I could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, a landmark that can fill even the most frightened and anxious visitor with hope and excitement. Upon managing to get to the actual city, I met my darling roommate Jillian at a quaint French apartment where she had been staying with her family for the past week, (a familiar face in a foreign country might trump the sight of the Eiffel Tower in greatness and comfort). From there, I took my sweaty, jet-lagged, tired ass to the Centre du Pompidou with the clan of Jillian's family, ate some eggs benedict, and felt instantly rejuvenated.
To really get down to business, though, I'll cut right to the chase: Why am I here? I thought I knew the answer to that question before landing, but I learned much more at orientation with our Paris supervisor/teacher Maria Al Salem. The run-down goes like this:
For this week, the entire group of Lake Forest College students in the program will be staying in the CISP (a youth hostel) in the 13th arrondissement. I'm told the hostel is new, which I only really believed when I opened the door to my own bathroom to find very sexy lighting and a nice, clean shower.
On Monday, I will be shipped off to live with my host family - an elderly couple with one daughter who now lives in London doing something fancy. The female half, Sybille, used to be a chef, and following her stint in the food industry, did press for such fashion designers as Nina Ricci and Chanel. Hello, my new best friend.
We'll be taking French classes with Veronique Du Parc, a rumored amazingly nice woman who won't speak a lick of English, but will improve your French within days alone. On our off-days from class, we'll take historical excursions with the aforementioned Maria, a kind blonde with a sexy, ambiguous accent and a knack for addressing everything that moves with a pet name. I guess it also makes me feel better to have already been referred to as "kiddo", "dear", and "darling" in the few hours that I've been here.
And then comes the internship - this is the unusual part about the abroad program. As the classes with Madame Du Parc taper off, we enter into very intensive internships at real French companies; companies who did the same reviewing of our transcripts, photos, and resumes as any other employer. I have been lucky enough to have been placed working at a theatre outside Paris, (yes, I will have to commute to work. So what else is new). As far as I know, I'll be working very closely with a gentleman named Andrew, who I've gathered to be either the producer or the director of the production. Rehearsals start in November; until then, I'll be doing research for the project. I won't know more until I actually get there, but I have every reason to believe it'll be an invaluable experience. Fingers crossed, of course.
Until then, I'm filled with... what am I filled with? I'm excited, first and foremost. There's so much that I want to see, so many places I look forward to visiting, foods I hope to try, art I want to marvel at... the list goes on.
My tattoo is itchy. I still haven't showered. I can't figure out how to use the cell phone that was provided to us by the school, (how does anyone communicate in this country?). I always wish that all my family and friends were with me. But I'm hopeful. And if nothing else, I can live the next 3 and a half months having a relationship with myself. Despite the potential pending loneliness and feelings of alienation, homesickness, and the rest, I have me. And I like me. I think myself and I will have a very good time together.
I have finally arrived. Let's start off by saying that Xanax is a miracle drug, seeing as how it allowed me to sleep through my entire 7-hour flight - even if that also meant that I slept through the meals. They weren't good anyway.
Secondly, the obvious: France is beautiful. As I was touching down at Charles de Gaulle, I could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, a landmark that can fill even the most frightened and anxious visitor with hope and excitement. Upon managing to get to the actual city, I met my darling roommate Jillian at a quaint French apartment where she had been staying with her family for the past week, (a familiar face in a foreign country might trump the sight of the Eiffel Tower in greatness and comfort). From there, I took my sweaty, jet-lagged, tired ass to the Centre du Pompidou with the clan of Jillian's family, ate some eggs benedict, and felt instantly rejuvenated.
To really get down to business, though, I'll cut right to the chase: Why am I here? I thought I knew the answer to that question before landing, but I learned much more at orientation with our Paris supervisor/teacher Maria Al Salem. The run-down goes like this:
For this week, the entire group of Lake Forest College students in the program will be staying in the CISP (a youth hostel) in the 13th arrondissement. I'm told the hostel is new, which I only really believed when I opened the door to my own bathroom to find very sexy lighting and a nice, clean shower.
On Monday, I will be shipped off to live with my host family - an elderly couple with one daughter who now lives in London doing something fancy. The female half, Sybille, used to be a chef, and following her stint in the food industry, did press for such fashion designers as Nina Ricci and Chanel. Hello, my new best friend.
We'll be taking French classes with Veronique Du Parc, a rumored amazingly nice woman who won't speak a lick of English, but will improve your French within days alone. On our off-days from class, we'll take historical excursions with the aforementioned Maria, a kind blonde with a sexy, ambiguous accent and a knack for addressing everything that moves with a pet name. I guess it also makes me feel better to have already been referred to as "kiddo", "dear", and "darling" in the few hours that I've been here.
And then comes the internship - this is the unusual part about the abroad program. As the classes with Madame Du Parc taper off, we enter into very intensive internships at real French companies; companies who did the same reviewing of our transcripts, photos, and resumes as any other employer. I have been lucky enough to have been placed working at a theatre outside Paris, (yes, I will have to commute to work. So what else is new). As far as I know, I'll be working very closely with a gentleman named Andrew, who I've gathered to be either the producer or the director of the production. Rehearsals start in November; until then, I'll be doing research for the project. I won't know more until I actually get there, but I have every reason to believe it'll be an invaluable experience. Fingers crossed, of course.
Until then, I'm filled with... what am I filled with? I'm excited, first and foremost. There's so much that I want to see, so many places I look forward to visiting, foods I hope to try, art I want to marvel at... the list goes on.
My tattoo is itchy. I still haven't showered. I can't figure out how to use the cell phone that was provided to us by the school, (how does anyone communicate in this country?). I always wish that all my family and friends were with me. But I'm hopeful. And if nothing else, I can live the next 3 and a half months having a relationship with myself. Despite the potential pending loneliness and feelings of alienation, homesickness, and the rest, I have me. And I like me. I think myself and I will have a very good time together.
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