Lyon and Paris. The Last Stand.

Ready for a good read? I suggest you print this out and keep it by your bedside for a year or so. You'll get through it. 

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. 

On the way to Lyon, I had by far the best bus experience of my life. I know, I didn't think bus rides came in the "good" variety either. After watching Ratatouille (what else could you ask for?!?!!?), I opened the bus window curtain and found myself skating through the creamy center of the french countryside. Never before having looked upon the majesty of varied elevation, my mouth gaped. I stayed sitting perpendicular to my seat watching small mountains and cottage-speckled valleys whip past me. When we started to pull off the road, I was momentarily sad until we stopped at a rest stop on a hill. Kendall and I ate baguette sandwiches on top of a big-rock pile overlooking a valley. Well, a highway, then a valley. It was one of the best unexpected experiences I've had on the trip.

Lyon was the final side of France we were able to see, and was a nice contrast from the the two cities we'd seen previous. It was on the big side, the third in the country behind Marseilles and Paris. Built around two rivers, the city was a headquarters during the roman empire and the for the french resistance during World War II. It's residents are intensely proud of themselves. That night I caught up with a group to go to the downtown area to grab dinner. We found an Italian place to eat.

There are a surprisingly large amount of "Italian places" to go to eat. They have got to be the most abundant restaurant of foreign influence. Good, except when they put goat cheese on your pizza.  Backwards people.

The place was cute, for the first 20 minutes. Then it started to rain so they moved us inside... to the restaurant next door. They had no room for us. After about an hour went by without receiving our starter salads, we realized something was up. We oscillated between being starving and not wanting to offend french customs, but finally a member of our group, normally a reserved quiet boy, spoke out asking about our food and ended up threatening to leave. We got our entire meal within 10 minutes. Our waiter had forgotten about us. We left extremely disgruntled and mad that the service fee was included. 

The next day was our bus tour of Lyon. We had a lady from Wisconsin giving our tour, the first completely fluent english tour guide we'd had. We drove up the massive hillside to a church for giants at the top of the hill. There were a lot of Catholic things. The Virgin Mary is a big hit there. Friends and I went shopping and stopped at a foyer that someone made into a cafe. I had my first salad in three weeks. We went to a medieval store on our way back that sold old French swords and armory. When I'm rich, I'm going back there. 

Returning to the hotel I found myself restless. I didn't want to stay in that night. I went to the super market and got a few groceries including coke and a small bottle of Jack Daniels. That would assure I could go out affordably. My roommate and I joined a group who were going out to celebrate a birthday. We took the metro to the riverside and sat like homeless sailors. It was an awesome experience. The river was lit beautifully by the reflections of the buildings and the church on the hill. After drinking and regaling, a group of the group decided to party hike to a bar. I and a couple others, ducked out and cabbed back to the hotel. 

The next morning I slept. Too long. It was grand. We had wonderful baths in Bordeaux and Lyon, and in Lyon, our shower door almost covered our shower. A wonderful novelty since the 1/2  doors in both Bordeaux and Paris which were cleverly constructed to moisten the entire bathroom. After my waking process,  I met with Kendall and we left to have adventures in the old roman ruins of a theatre. We played in them, finding mostly that people used to be quite short, and that if we were neighborhood children, this would be our under-the-bleachers. We had to take a short metro up a giant hill to get to them. It was like being on a ski lift on the ground. Slanty. 

We finally caught up with our friends at the church on the hill which we actually got to enter and walk around. I maintain, lots of catholic stuff, big fans of VM. The church itself was ornate in its grandest meaning. I would love to know who mister moneybags was who put the funding for this behemoth into the collection plate.

Hunger strikes!

We go back towards our hotel. We see a Subway. no amount of french pastries could have strayed me away from that meatball sub and ice-filled Coke.  It was (quite possibly) the most satisfying thing I'd ever eaten. I went back twice more before we left.

That night we had awesome plans. We got tickets to go see a Lyon soccer game vs. Caen. Lyon has had the top soccer team in the league for like, 8 years, minus this one. They came in third this season. Though I don't generally follow soccer, I was thrilled to be experiencing something so culturally necessary here, (thinking of you, Skyler and Spencer). Waiting by the stadium for our group to regroup, a fight broke out next to us and a guy's face got bloodied. It was terrifying, but awesome. There were a a shit-ton of french police around the stadium. The Lyon team was clearly better than the opposition, who was placed near 16th (always fun for the home crowd, or the bandwagon tourists). I was actually able to discern a few of the french chants. "Allez Lyonnais!" was fairly common, as well as one for their star Brazilian player Juninho.  Much to our surprise the game we attended happened to be their last home game for the season, and Juninho's last game before retirement. This made the fans extra excitable and belligerent. Each play was either devastating or received like a gift from God.  The people in the stadium went through more emotions than most people do from birth to death. The opposing crowd on the opposite side kept lighting of flares and throwing them onto the field. A) I have NO idea how they got flares inside the building, after I got patted down and my friend got frisked because of her camera battery. B) I have NO idea how they didn't get thrown out, because the kept doing it! 

I could only tell it was the opposing crowd because of the fence built out of crowd control police stationed around them. Soccer is super fierce. There was a huge celebration after the game (we won) and a firework tribute to Juninho. The fireworks lasted for (not kidding) twenty minutes. It was one of the best displays I've seen live. COOL. Juninho paraded around the field with his adorable daughters and super-hot wife afterwards. It was cute. Turns out the whole Lyon team was staying in our same hotel for two nights. A couple of the girls got to meet them/get autographs. I saw a few of them in the elevator but couldn't bring myself to do anything but smile. I'm a big creep. I made it home through the treachery of post-game celebration. 

Market Day! Sunday mornings are time for market day. Our tour guide told us about an art market open on Sundays, so we decide to seek it out. We mistook a produce market for it, thinking the two might be connected, but we were wrong. So we strolled through some produce. It was packed and very amusing. I didn't ever imagine it to be a good idea to sell giant cheese wheels on a hot day under a tent. Turns out there's a market for it. There was an especially large number of booths selling produce, dairy products,  rotisserie chickens (yep), and flowers. So many beautiful flowers. I wanted to buy them all but I was purposeless. I would have bought all that I could and smashed my face in them, if only I'd had a better excuse than feminine instinct. We found the art market. It was adorable and made me think of my Auntie Rae and my cousins. You guys would love it!!.

This would be the last three days of my classes. My ethics class was insightful. It was interesting to take the class in a foreign setting; I think it made for some applicable learning. My writing class was curtailed, but I hope our product will still be worthwhile. 

Monday we had our next/final chapter of the team olympics. It was tournament spoons and it was not nearly as fun as it sounded. I lost in the first round, but my team went on to win (thanks Kendall!). I was a great support.

It was another friend's birthday that day as well, and she wanted to picnic by the river, so picnic we did. Friends Kendall, Bridget, Lindsey and  I ended up chillin  by the river until nightfall taking weird pictures and creating inside jokes. I made a band called "Katie and the Cranes" because we discovered that when I bend over, my 90 degree angle made me appear quite similar to the construction cranes on the horizon. We're a metal band. 

In Lyon we got a special treat. Instead of only having CNN International and the BBC, we also got a french version of MTV that played 60% english music.  This was cool for about an hour. The fourth time I heard Lady Gaga's Disco Stick an Britney d Spears's newest less-thn-disguised sex plea song I was just about done with that channel. While my friend and I were shopping, she asked someone local what kind of music was popular in France. They said "American! The French make terrible music!" 

Wednesday was our last day in Lyon, and I was able to fit in the French Resistance museum before I left. It was 1/2 French Resistance, 1/2 Holocaust. As soon as you were feeling supremely hopeful and spirited about the fight for freedom, the museum bat you down with stats of crematories and gas chambers. By the time I left the museum, I was stricken with the distinct urge to punch an authority figure in the face and jump off a bridge. Instead I went to a chocolatier and got french chocolates. 

To celebrate our last night, we went on a dinner cruise. I wore the awesome dress I bought in Paris, and my four year old Tevas. Telecom doesn't prepare you to have pumps at the ready the way PR does. They served us a raw salmon salad, wine, scallops and a cheese substance, followed by cottage cheese and fruit, and finally a delicious warm brownie thingy for dessert. The scallops and cheese were absolutely divine. The people who opted out got pasta, nothing fun or scary for me to laugh at this time. I ate with my roommate and the popular crowd. I fell in a bit, somehow over the course of the trip. I'm going to say it was my roommate's affability and coolness, not my standoffish humor and ill-timed smiling that got me there. 

Retournons a Paris! -Intermission-

Thursday was our journey "homeward." This time we were taking a train and having our accouterments meet us there in a van. This time I strutted in to Paris. After spending enough time there to be familiar, I felt like the big girl on campus. Walking back into the Pars metro system, the accordion players begging for change didn't scare me. The woman who uses her stroller more fiercely than Ty Cobb used cleats didn't phase me. I was a woman with a destination, and I knew how to get there. Pardon my ass. 

At the hotel I met up with Kim and Liz. 

At the beginning of the trip, my father told me to find a girl named Kim on the trip. She had interned with the Times previously and had done a good job, so she was probably a worthwhile person. He turned out to be quite right, and I was sad that I hadn't gotten to know her sooner/better.  She ended up doing me the extraordinary favor of taking my suitcase back to St. Pete.  I was/am extremely grateful still, because mailing that sucker home would have cost hundreds of dollars. My Dad was so happy he'll probably try to muster up a job for her at the Times.

We went to a market (again) to bide time until our suitcases arrived at the hotel. The market was at the Bastille, which is now only marked by a giant column with a statue on the top and cheap leather vendors. Kim and I  walked back to the hotel from the market instead of taking the metro. This was preparation for the tremendous amount of walking I'd be doing in London. We chatted and my muscles began their growth spurt of a lifetime. 

Our next adventure for the day took us to the Père Lachaise Cemetery to see Jim Morrison's and Oscar Wilde's graves. Why? Well, I've read a few of Wilde's plays and I've heard plenty of Morrison's songs, but beyond that, I wanted to be a part of an artistic pilgrimage. So I went. The cemetery was the eeriest place I've ever been. The graves are crowded, and the ones that aren't giant monuments with statues are beaten, old and desecrated, if not some combination of the two. It had a morbid beauty. Jim Mo's grave was fairly standard, it was the surroundings that made it distinct. There were cigarette butts, lyrics written on bits of paper, and picked wildflowers scattered around the grave. The tomb in front of his was covered in markings by mourning visitors. The markings included names and dates of visit, lyrics, and professions of love.  Moving on to Oscar's grave proved equally romantic. The big stone monument was covered in lip prints of every shade of red.  There were all kinds of love statements and confessions accompanied by play quotes and personal messages to the author. It was definitely a worthwhile trip.

We were ushered out of the cemetery by today's modern grave-keep, who walked around in a dark coat ringing a bell. He stopped us on our way out and asked our group of 5 something in french. Unable to respond, he then asked us in slow deliberate french where we were from, and if we'd like a private tour of Paris. As tempting as the gold-toothed grave-keep of about 45 was, we declined and left. I laughed afterwards, wondering how successful that pick-up line, accompanied by the cemetery badge and shovel, ever is. Guilt pang. 

We stopped by the Moulin Rouge on our way to eat dinner up near the Sacré-Cœur church. It was a lot more done up and modern than my mental image from the movie allowed me to believe. People were lined up for the show that night in their Sunday best. The shows cost around 100 euros to see, so I took a rain check, and took pictures of its showy outside. We grabbed hot sandwiches and hopped the metro to the church. Its the only church I've ever found to be a popular hangout for teen drinking. But come on! Everyone's doin it! We ate, toured the church, and left. The Monmartre area is the red light district of Paris and gets a little tricky after dark.

Friday was the final day and Paris and thus, a marathon day. It began with Kendall and I taking a morning stroll through the Luxembourg gardens of Napoleon, where we watched children play with ducks and men play tennis (it was the first weekend of the French Open, after all). We walked on grass we weren't supposed to, and then left. We went to the Hotel des Invalides, the place Napoleon built for his injured soldiers during war, and what is now a military museum and his final resting place. We chased pigeons and then went to get picnic materials at a convenience store. For me, that consisted of a baguette, salami, vanilla coke and chocolate. We walked to the Eiffel Tower, following like the north star. Kendall and I got harassed by children and beggars alike, but finally made our way to our friends picnicking beneath the tower. Apparently the cool thing to do is take your third grade class to the Eiffel Tower during the lunch hour. There were billions of children, running about picnics like locusts around Egypt. We ate and left for the Louvre. On the way there we passed a nine man band in the metro. It was by far the most impressive metro music I've ever heard. A crowd had gathered in the halls of the transit system. We couldn't stay, but we wished we could.

The Louvre went by too quickly. I saw all of the big things and was made giddy by our teddy bear of a tour guide. A rotund englishman who had clearly had been living in France long enough to break his fluency just a bit. He kept repeating himself, saying "And we go this way," every time we moved on to a different exhibit. My favorite statue was "winged victory." I think its because it reminded me of the statues constructed on the front of old ships. I like ships. 

This was one of those times you pause and realize the age a magnitude of the things around you. It was very cool and humbling. Oh, and the rose-line doesn't go over the inverted pyramid. I checked. 

After the museum everyone went to get ready for our final group dinner. It was back up near the Sacré-Cœur church, where I'd been the night before. We had musical accompaniment with our dinner by a fun old guy who sang Frank Sinatra for us. It was awesome. We were served escargot and steak. I tried and liked it. It was a bit salty and chewy, but I'm no worse for it. I got over the mental image of snails by telling myself I was eating steak. It was a bit of a disappointing steak but delicious compared to the idea of eating the dead things covered in table salt next to the elementary school cafeteria. Last night in Paris, I was glad to do something exotic. 

We stopped by the Arc du Triomphe before we headed back to the hotel, just so I could take a couple pictures before I left. I was up until 5 in the morning that night, readying my suitcase and deciding what I needed to take backpacking and what I could go without. I got two hours of sleep before my alarm went off at 7:30 so Kim could get my suitcase from me before she left to go shopping. I had a bit of time before I had to leave, so Kendall and I made a final excursion to Notre Dame and my favorite bookstore. I returned to the hotel, put my massive backpack on and headed to the train station. I was nervous and looked foolish. These nerves were compounded when I got to the metro and found that they had closed the metro line I needed for the day. I had to take 3 different metros to get to the station, only to arrive 5 minutes before it had to leave, and I hadn't gone through customs yet. Yes, I missed my train to London. Naturally I started panicking because I was alone, didn't have Kevin's number on me and didn't speak the language very well. Not to mention I could not afford to pay for another train ticket. I went up to the ticket counter, crying and hunchbacked, and got myself a ticket on the next train, no charge. Things worked out just fine. I waited in the station for an extra hour, but I was able to get food so I didn't mind. 

I was on the chunnel to London, to arrive by dinner time. Kristen and Kevin would (now begrudgingly) be there to receive me. The backpacking adventures begin.

Listen to Champs Elysee by Joe Dassin

Bord'oh!

Without a doubt, the thing I needed most at this point in the trip was a friendly face. I ran out of phone minutes, my skype was getting splotchy, and it had been cloudy in Paris for almost a week straight. Enter Jeanne from Brussels. I’ve known Jeanne since kindergarten, and I thought it was weird enough that we made it all the way to college together. She had been studying in Spain the past semester, and decided to do a bit of backpacking before heading home. She and her friend Susan popped into Paris for a couple days because they knew I was there, (to say nothing of the city itself). We met up for my last night (for now) in Paris, and ate near the Eiffel Tower. I had pizza and wine for dinner. Don’t worry, it was classy. We walked back and watched the light show at the Eiffel Tower from the lawn below it. I walked home happy, having cast a new vote of confidence in myself that I'd been lacking. It was time to pack for Bordeaux. 

            I found a cat at a rest stop near Tours. He scampered over to me and lay down. I named him Philippe. If you can tell me why, you get a surprise.

Entering Bordeaux I was nervous. Its not nearly as big as Paris, what was I supposed to do there for 6 days? Drink wine? Well alright. Turns out, this city was an absolutely beautiful alternative to the busy Paris. I had no idea how stressful the city was until I left it. In Paris, everyone wore black and looked down. The Bordeaux population immediately struck me as more cheerful. There were more colors and playfulness about the town.

            Everyone is probably drunk.

Our hotel gave us free buffet breakfast, which introduced the idea of a three-course breakfast to me. I’ve never eaten so many croissants. Contrary, they did not give us free Internet, which made me come to terms with my dependence on it. I do not like feeling disconnected.

France has a lot of narrow pedestrian streets that double as outside malls. We should get some. I ate lunch with Kendall and Bridget (friends!) at a café on one of these streets, and the people watching was fantastic. My favorite was the dog watching. People here have more dogs than children. It’s a statistical fact. And they take them absolutely everywhere. The anime teens had a poodle, the homeless man had a giant mutt, and the fluffy lady had a collie. The fashionable thing to do is to go walking with your dog and your petit ami. Every couple has a dog. And every couple takes their dog shopping to flaunt how happy they are and how cute their life is. Fact.

            My favorite part of Bordeaux was the most obvious part. The wine tour. Our bus driver was on meth, but the view outside of the bus window was positively breathtaking. It was what I pictured a place like Bordeaux to actually look like. Fields of green, hills covered in vineyards and enormous chateaus between them. Fortunately the weather that day acquiesced to my dream, and it was all I could do not to action-hero through the window glass and twirl around in the fields. We arrived and were politely guided through the wine making process. I caught the jist through her thick accent. Apparently peeps give the wine flavor. I deduced them to be seeds? Turns out there’s a lot of chemistry involved in the fermenting and aging- it’s something I’ve decided to try learning more about. Especially with my recent discovery that I can like wine. Most of the wine I’ve tried in the past I haven’t been crazy about, but there are a shit ton of wines available in the world. I’ve found some good ones. It’s a supported habit over here on a tight budget, as well. Wine is the Natty Light of France. You can get a half decent bottle for under 5 euros. Translating to about 7 dollars or so. We tasted two wines. The first was one exclusively sold at the vineyard, and the second was a concoction of merlot and other red wine formulas. I bought a bottle of the first for 7 euros and am bringing it to London to toast with Kevin and Kristen.

            Our last night in Bordeaux, we had a big group dinner. We were served this weird rum and orange juice mixture as an aperitif (they do that here). Our main course was duck with potato wedges on the side. About half of the group freaked out about the idea of duck and requested a different dish. I decided to go for it. Awesome choice. The duck tasted like a great steak. If someone had told me it was steak, I would have replied with “Man, this is some good steak.” The people who opted for the alternative dish were served fish. The whole fish. Needless to say, the people who back out of the duck were the ones skittish about weird food, so they pooped their Depends when they saw a whole fish delivered to them on a platter. It was brilliant. Our dessert was chocolate fried ice cream. I’d never had it before, and it was delicious.

            A few of us went to a pub (yes, English pub) called The Charles Dickens afterwards. We sat for awhile, musing at the old English men hitting on us, contrasting with the French men clustered around the local football game on TV. We returned to our hotel before the last tram. Time to pack for Lyon.

Listen to Lucky by Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat (The French love it!)

Stereotypes. I think, therefore I am.

France has mimes.

            I SAW ONE! He was in full make up and a striped suit. He was miming to music and luring the change out of children and tourists alike. While this was a terrific moment for me on this trip, as I was standing there watching him, I couldn’t help but be a little freaked out. His makeup was almost joker-esque. This reminded me of a favorite Family Guy joke, “Nice effort Brad, but let's remember our performance hierarchy: legitimate theatre, musical theatre, stand-up, ventriloquism, magic, mime.”

 French men are romantics.

            They are, indeed. It’s a generality that applies to most of the countries with “romance” languages. There is a certain old school mentality of the relationship being about the woman as long as she pleases her man. Some restaurants even have separate menus for women without prices. There aren’t many of them, but I didn’t even know such restaurants existed. Romanticism lacks some of its perceived daintiness, however. Many of the men, accustomed to being proactive ones in the dating, tend to blur the line of appropriateness (according to U.S. customs) in aggression. You won’t get bothered on the metro, mostly, but walking around at night, or wearing a skirt or shorts that fall above the knees is almost guaranteed to garner you some attention.

            Tuesday night, a few of us went to a bar. There were about 8 women and only 2 guys. What happened? A nice young Frenchman hit on one of the two guys. He bought us all drinks, and I had my first beer at a bar. It was gross. I drank it, but wanted to puke the whole time. Well, here’s to experience. The men at the bar (there were no women there aside from us) were a lot of fun and liked to sing a lot. They seemed to all know the same song/cheers and knew exactly when they were appropriate. None of them spoke English very well, but by god that didn’t stop them from wanting to be our best friends. Nor did it stop the girls from wanting to talk them up and squeeze drinks out of them.

Girls don’t get horny.

WRONG. A group composed of 80% women traveling around the city of love breeds the worst kind of starved libido I’ve ever seen. Many of the girls clearly came with a purpose that supersedes journalism. While everyone speaks make-out, the language barrier here has become more of an issue than initially suspected. As a result, the guys on the trip are getting themselves a stocked pond. Attractive, horny, desperate, and reckless girls, ready to give it all away in the romantic throws of France. For me, and a few others not in said mindset, we watch an interesting series of soap operas. Most of them involve estrogen and alcohol. Lethal when mixed in high doses. I’m not used to this many women in the same place. I need some testosterone. I’m going to weep, faint, and birth a baby if one more girl complains about “I need new boots” “It’s too cold here” “I can’t find any good food”  “I’m bored.” God, I’m so thankful that my parents beat the brat out of me. I hate women.

French hate Americans.

            Not true. We stimulate their economy. They don’t mind us. Most of them like us in fact, especially the younger people. They just have the same kind of joke relationship with us as we have with them. They associate fast food and obesity with the U.S., as well as the dumb cowboy. The past few years have given them reason to see these things. They also tend to think Americans are weirdly friendly. This is because of how afraid we are to offend them when we don’t speak their language, so we smile a ton and scare them with unwarranted friendship. Many also believe American women to be super-easy. If you reference my findings in the last paragraph, you could easily see where the evidence for this would be.

The French don’t hate Americans. They just have certain images in their heads, same as us.

Only once has my patience been tested because of someone’s judgment of me, but I quickly realized where he was coming from. I visited Notre Dame on Mother’s Day, hoping to get some pictures closer than I had before. I went during a church service, unintentionally, but it turned out to be quite beautiful. The pews were roped off for parishioners, but tourists were still allowed to come in and take pictures around the service. While it felt rude, I went in and took pictures anyway. I tried to make myself discreet, unlike many of the other onlookers. I had just gotten to the front of the church, against the wall where I leaned to look at the last picture I took. A man approached me with his hand out and said something in French. Initially I was startled, because I was alone and didn’t expect anyone to speak to me, but then I became scared because I thought he was upset at me having a camera. He continued to hold his hand out and repeat himself and I drew my camera away, telling him I didn’t understand what he was saying. He threw his hands up and walked away, but then turned and came back. He said to me, clearly frustrated, “Don’t forget you’re in a church.” I was offended immediately. I was angry with him for assuming my ignorance and lack of appreciation for the church. There were plenty of obnoxious tourists in there, why did he pick on me? Well, it was only after I watched him walk away that I saw him begin shaking other peoples’ hands. That’s all he wanted. The priest must have said the magic, “greet thy neighbor” and I looked at him with concern and recoil. Now I understood. I was still resentful that he didn’t give me a chance with the language barrier, but at least he wasn’t picking on me.

The French Armed Forces suck.

            Not sure. But they are extremely intimidating and well equipped. While on our way to the bar, we got a bit lost and found ourselves near a giant protest at the Bastille (yep). I think it was to protest the unrest in Sri Lanka, but I’m not absolutely sure. Well, accompanying these protesters were 20+ French SWAT team vans filled with armed men. A few got out and paraded their armor, weapon and shield before us and made us shit our pants a little. We asked a local woman how to get where we were headed, and she thought for a moment, before marching up to the driver of one of the vans and asking him how to get to our bar. We were immediately humiliated. He used his van’s GPS to show us how to get to our bar, and we sheepishly thanked him and melted away, before laughing at how irrelevant our needs were. It was happily recorded though- the French Special Forces gave us directions to a bar.

Listen to Green Fields of France by Dropkick Murphys

Pansies, Tansies and a Missing Ear.

From here on out-

I will not wait this long to post. It makes catching up too difficult.

This will be long, but it will be the last behemoth, I promise.

Thursday.

First day of class. I'm a lucky girl; my two classes are the latest in the day, at 11am and noon. I listen to my roommate's 8 am alarm go off and toss over in relief. My first class is Advanced Writing for Electronic Media. There are seven of us in the class. Our biggest objective is to write a single, half-hour long script for a new sitcom. We are split into two groups. My group seems fine, except the girl who's favorite show is gossip girl begins to take a bit too much charge for my liking. I tell myself that this script is not going to be something to judge my ability off of. I begin to feel better. I kinda wish I took this class over a semester. It seems like it might be a bit too curtailed for my liking. One of my other instructors suggested I do an independent study with Babanikos. Might be a good idea.

Ethics in Telecommunications is next. This class will be more work, but it looks like its going to be mostly discussion based, which I'm thinking is going to be great. It's interesting to hear how stone-hearted some of my classmates are. Arguing media honesty even if it means hostages are killed. Yeesh.

Next I hear some girls are going to a market in Montemartre, and I ask to go along. I'd like to go shopping. 

Didn't happen. 

We ended up walking the Champs d'Elysee after arduous decision making. I decide I'm planning my own excursions from now on. I hate people. It was beautiful though! We walked quite far, from the Arc de Triomphe to the Louvre, along the Seine River and the Tuleries Gardens. Everything makes me wonder how the city has money to do anything. It seems to me the entire city budget is spent on aesthetics. Which I totally appreciate as a tourist. 

I get back to the hotel to find the faculty sitting together in the lobby with 3 half empty bottles of wine and cheese wheels. I sit down and begin chatting. At first I squat just on the edge of my seat, with my backpack on my lap, ready to go after a quick recap of my day. After I drink a couple plastic water cups of wine, I notice my posture has become significantly more sedentary than before. Before long, I've told two of the faculty members about TSF (my improv troupe) and that I'd like to be a writer/director for television. That's nothing. I begin to get in to my feelings of inadequacy, personal discouragement regarding my skill, and how I don't feel like I have talent. It's only after I finish that giant breath of hot air that I realize how far I've gone. Before I could apologize the two faculty members I was talking to begin gushing about how smart I seem and how I just have to want to succeed and I will. If I hadn't just become brutally aware of my surroundings, I probably would have cried. They become my two new favorite people. 

They invite me to go to Giverny on Saturday to see Monet's gardens.

Friday.

80% of our group leaves for London, including unfortunately, most of the friends that I've made. I'm left with the choice of making friends or finding some personal activities for the weekend. See 'I hate people.'

So I decide to go shoppin'! I bought me some dress and some top. I'll note them in the pictures I post. I spend altogether too much money. I combat this in my usual fashion- I eat a 70 cent baguette for dinner and corn flakes for the next three meals. If I didn't have a resilient digestive system, this diet of bread, cheese, water, and corn flakes would send me into a shock. I finished my shopping by buying a pistachio/chocolate ice cream swirl from this french chocolate store. It was glorious. I skipped home repeating "I went shopping in Pear-iss," as if I was teasing the U.S. economy.

I could do homework now... but why?

Saturday.

I go to see Monet's gardens with the faculty. I am the only loser student. But I quickly realize how cool most of the journalism faculty are. We meet in the lobby at 9 to go get train tickets, but unfortunately are too late to make the early train. We wait until the noon train, no big deal.

Or was it?

When we finally get on the train, we learn that we can't get to our destination because the tracks are being worked on. We get off a stop earlier and are forced to literally, fight our way on buses to get to our next location. The city hadn't planned very well to transport the displaced train passengers. We were fighting harder to get on trains than people fighting to flee Gotham. Watching the clock, we realize time is quickly slipping away from our visit to the gardens because we have to make sure to get on the return train by 6 to get home that night. We drive through the beautiful french countryside to Vernon, to get on a second bus to Giverny. We finally arrive, only to be welcomed by a huge line of other tourists waiting to get in to the crowd-controlled "museum." Everyone is frustrated, but cannot hold on to tension for more than 5 seconds at a time. The overwhelmingly sweet smelling air and fantasy-beautiful flowers make you smile in the same way a sincere compliment might- modestly and involuntarily.

We get in, we see, we swoon, we jet.

The professors look at me with increasing concern that they've ruined my experience with all of the delays. I assure them otherwise. I had a wonderful time, and yes, the journalism/communications staff at UF is awesome.

Sunday.

I have the day to myself. I decide to go to the Orsay museum and go back to Notre Dame. I knew I wouldn't do them with the rest of the group, so I decided to do them a mano. I wake up at ten? Shower, grab my metro map, and head out for baby's first day navigating the city. A little nervous, I wore obnoxiously plain and covering clothing. Somehow, that would make me blend in, counteracting the map and backpack.

Going to buy my ticket, I walk up confidently, knowing what I want to say. "Un billet reduit, s'il vous plait. Je suis une etudiante." The man at the counter rolls his eyes up from his computer. 6 euros. Do you have an I.D? Utterly defeated, I hand him my driver's license and money, say thank you (in English) and sulk away, only to hear him speak french to the people behind me in line. I guess I really am that transparent.

For the record: The french have been, largely, completely kind and helpful to me. I've met maybe 4 people who haven't cared for me as an American speaking English. Three of them were on this day. Most people are very nice, and some even excited to talk to me. They're fun.

The museum was beautiful. I absolutely admire sculptors. I spent awhile just staring at some of them. I saw some Monet, Cezanne, Matisse, Renoir and Van Gogh to name a few. It was pretty cool for someone who still isn't sure if these people existed or if its a hoax. I believe it now. My camera stopped working halfway through the museum, but I hit it in rage, and it started again. The stupid thing goes through batteries like the cookie monster through carrots. 

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(I'M POOR!!)

Listen to Your Song by Elton John

Merlot is great.

Warning: I've had too much wine to post this. 

But I'm going to do it anyway. Please forgive any incoherence or grammatical errors. WEEEE!>@?#!!!

Last you heard I was sleeping... cool. 

Well, since then, I woke up. I know, right?! Weird. My roommate and I, Jeanna (pronounced Gina) went to "orientation" at our study center, or the place where our classes are. Turns out, she's awesome. We bonded last night after discussing how similar our lives are. She's also best friends with Drake Carden, my fellow AG-er as many of you know, and those of you who don't, it's the long-form improv troupe I was in this semester. So that helped to nurture our friendship even further. Cool things. The meeting was super boring. I met Shane and Tiffany. Also cool people. The first people I met (besides Jeanna) who aren't "nice." Perhaps friendly, but they have a level of bitterness that to me, makes them human. With the trip consisting of 90% females, the trip is far too "nice," - there is absolutely nothing to talk about with generically nice people. I appreciate a level of schadenfreude, or at least, multi-dimensionalism. Yes, they're exchangeable for me.

"Who cares?!" 

The meeting was just our AIFS guides being parents for those whose who weren't previously forewarned that, god forbid, life has people in it who know how to prey on obliviousness. After we finished there I had my first completely unsuccessful interaction with a French person. A few of us went to a cafeteria and a Frenchman asked if we wouldn't mind waiting two minutes, and I thought he asked how many people were in our party. Needless to say, when I replied with " no, five" he was a bit confused. My friend corrected me, fortunately. Yikes.

I ate what I believe to be fish pizza. I was too

 afraid to ask at this point. It was stomach-able.

 The dessert pie thingy was delicious!!!

Next was the bus tour of Paris!! It was absolutely stunning. I didn't really believe I was here until I did this. The stubborn, American inside of me fought, "Shit, you ain't seen the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, or the Arc de Triomphe? Sure enough hain't Paris, girl." When I finally got to lay my eyes on these landmarks, I believed where I was. Sure enough, in all of their indescribable splendor, they are here. Each took my breath away in way that can't be painted in words or ink. I was told how beautiful this city was, but nothing can prepare you for something this different. It baffles me how someone can just live here without stupor-ing to all of its history. I suppose the same way someone can live on the beach without wanting to be there everyday- an emotion I'm a bit more familiar with. While on the bus tour I realized something- I forgot to put my camera card back in my camera. Damn. Probably the best opportunity for photos I'll have... and there it goes. Well, I asked a couple people to take photos of me and I plan on stealing from others' facebook albums. Shamelessly.

While I have managed to make a few friends on this trip, I seem to have missed making a companion. My roommate is close, but she and I have been separated a lot. I noticed this on the bus tour when, after being one of the first people on the bus, finally a faculty member sat down next to me. There is something sad about being the lame kid on the journalism school's Paris tour. I talked to Tom, the advertising instructor. He reminds me a lot of my grandfather. He speaks in ultimatums and certainties. Great guy; probably too laid back with his students.

 Tour: saw a bunch of cool stuff I will post pictures of with witty (trying hard) comments.

Group dinner: All 90 or so of us ate on the Champs d'Elysee, the famous street that leads to the Arc de Triomphe. It was a fairly American dinner with mashed potatoes that made me tear

 with homesick joy. The creme brulee was nearly orgasmic. No elaboration. Burnt cream of the gods- Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Hindu, and all that stand for anything good in the world. After that.. 

Guess what I did?!?!?

Climbed the Eiffel Tower. Awwww yeaahhh.

Guess what I saw?!?!?!

A guy proposed to his girlfriend! I died. I was about to slap the bitch if she said no. Fortunately she said yes and then they made out for five minutes. It was great. Everyone watched and they went about their business.

Tangent thoughts-

Paris is the city of love. Right? Well hell, I don't know. What I do know- it is the city of shameless affection. People kiss and touch and make out everywhere you go. And the most surprising part of it- everyone else is totally okay with it. It's just another thing happening in the world as far as the public is concerned. It's awesome. I always want to high-five them, but realize my comfort limits too early to do so.

On the Eiffel Tower- The whole thing was lit, as per usual. But at eleven o'clock, a whole bunch of mini lights began to flicker rapidly, creating a wonderful light show. It was really quite magical. A couple of creepy German guys began following a couple of us around and trying to sniff our hair. It was weird. We escaped.

Off- There are men EVERYWHERE trying to sell you miniature

statues of the Eiffel Tower and scarves. If you acknowledge them for even one half a second, they begin to stalk you, trying to get you to buy something. While walking near the tower, a man approached us. He was pitching his product until he approached the girl next to me and said in her ear "I'm fucking you, I'm fucking you." She, naturally, was stunned, and we walked away quickly before bursting out with uncomfortable laughter. "Did he seriously?" "Yep, I think so." "Wow." I was just glad it wasn't me.

My favorite was the one who offered me, "Hey pretty lady, bling bling?"

HA. Awesome.

I'll report on today, tomorrow. I don't like compounding.

Bonsoir!

Listen  to "Belgium" by Bowling for Soup

And after all MIss, this is France!

Driving over the Howard Frankland Bridge, mind reeling. Listening to my parent's words oscillate cautiously between scaring me and encouraging me. Their concerns were more pungent than the salt air. I'd be deaf, dumb and blind if it wasn't for this cautionary beating though, I haven't a doubt. 

I eat pizza at the airport with my parents. I send out last texts and hand my phone over. The symbol of this makes me start crying enough to shame a baby. I can only guess the combination of leaving my parents and friends and the fear of being alone is what triggered this. The shiny eyes lasted until I went through security, though the gale-force tears stopped after I said good-bye to my parents and got on the shuttle to the terminals. While I was in line for security, they played "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?" over the speakers. I assumed this was a personal message and told God I appreciated it. 

There is a sort of temporary discomfort that is just accepted on flights less than two hours. On my flight to Charlotte, I'm seated next to a man who is nice but becomes enthralled by my trip. After briefly exchanging what we're doing in each location, he prods for more. What am I studying? How long? He's never been to France, he imagines its lovely. Don't you? I tried to indicate I was ready to move on but he was so kind I didn't have the heart to be obvious. Fortunately a lady yelled at a steward who had to check her bag because there wasn't enough room in the fuselage. That distracted both of us. It also reminded me how much I hate people. This lady had no  reason to be a bitch more than the sun coming up that day. The steward looked like Gerald Ford and the lady was wearing leopard boots. 

Charlotte looks like a nice place to live from the sky.

The flight to Paris I had two seats all to my ones-y. The guy who initially sat down next to me was everything I pictured a Parisian man to be. He was tall, dark hair, pale, dressed nicely and seemed a bit annoyed. I greeted him when he sat down and he was very kind, despite his seeming perturbation. He informed me, not to my offense, that he likes to sleep so he is going to try to find two empty seats. I was thrilled. Turns out three other girls from my trip were catching the same connecting flight and sitting in my row. Cool. Now I'd have help finding the rest of the group when I got there. I took out my war zone journalism book and would be reading that for the better part of the next 7 hours. 

Operation Scoli-Sleeper

During the thick of the description of the warring in Southern Sudan, my eyes grow heavy. I lean against the window, but my hip jabs into the arm rest. I move the arm rest and my butt starts to slide on the leather into the next seat. I try lying down- I don't fit. My rigid back prevents me from doing anything that doesn't nearly break my neck. Even with the two seats. I finally find this weird reclined pose that makes me look like I'm on my death bed. I eat my sourpatch watermelons resentfully until I nod off. 

I wake up when one of the Rorschach twins in front of me reclines his seat into my face. Hearing my indiscernible grunt, he mutters something back in French. They were nice, but boy did they made me appreciate my attractive boyfriend. I was stuck in there with them. 

After what seriously felt like a year, we began our descent. I glue my face to the window, despite its startlingly chilly surface. It's cloudy, and as it turns out the airport isn't actually near anything very interesting to look at. I exit the plane and officially have made plane friends- Lindsey, Lauren and other Katie. So that's something. 

I exhale after all of my baggage surfaces from the tapis roulant. We wait for an hour, before we realize we're waiting at the wrong terminal and run across the airport to intercept the group flight. We make it. My hands were sacrificed to the heavy luggage gods for the good of the tribe. 

People in Paris are shitty drivers. Really shitty. We drove a giant bus down multiple alleys. We almost killed 3 bikers. Pedestrians need to watch the fuck out. We finally get to the hotel. It's very pretty. I have a bathroom and a kitchen and a bed/living room (all are TINY.) Everything in Paris is tiny. Well, not tiny, but squished. Everything in Paris is squished together. It makes it look very quaint and lovely. Also, lots of graffiti. The kids here are rogue with their wine, cigarettes and free spirits. They all look tortured and like they just hear a mildlyentertaining joke. Smirk, eyes down.

I nap.

We did a short walking tour after moving in around our local neighborhood. Its very beautiful and easy to maneuver. Besides the cars. WATCH OUT. I see a man with a curly mustache holding a child with a beret holding a baguette. My day is made.

For dinner, I ate I cheese and chicken crepe and a coke. 6 euros. Not terrible. It was a French quesadilla. Pretty tasty. Then a couple of the girls and I go to the grocer next door and buy a few things for the morning. I got a baguette, nutella, strawberries, and tea. Because I'm here. 

I gotta fix this jet lag. I'm dying. A demain!

Listen to "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?" by Elton John

or Flash Dance, as my hotel lobby just suggested. Ha.

If you feel compelled to leave these cities, please do so, in an orderly fashion.

Punch! Welcome to Earth!

Bitch.

My last day in the U.S. for two months, so I decided to eat a Wendy's cheeseburger and watch Independence Day. I've never seen it before, and found that particular line rather empowering. I imagine that translating to a glove slap and big, curly mustaches in France. One might say I'm way overdue for some cultural enlightenment. 

I've officially tried on my backpack full. The end result is a utility pack with a Katie hanging off the front of it. I'll grace you with that visual as soon as I get settled in my hotel.  I've printed out my ticket and I'm ready to go. I fly at 1:40 pm tomorrow to a connecting flight in Charlotte, NC. From there, I head to Paris, arriving at 6:40 am on Tuesday.  My phone is going to be pretty useless beyond that point, as I won't have it until I return to Boston on July 2nd.  Facebook messages, comments, skype, and emails are encouraged!

I'm excited. My first trip to a new country. The first time I'll see people speaking a foreign language abundantly without realizing that I'm standing too close to a booth in Turlington Plaza. I have the opportunity to study my field in one of the biggest cities in the industry. I leave the comfort of my home to prove myself not as an adult (leaving for college) but as a citizen of the connected world. Maybe its cliche, but I like it.

I'm scared. I've never even flown alone before! Most people do that to visit their grandparents when they're in middle school. I will shit a Eiffel Tower sized brick if my things are lost. What if I can't find the group? How will I follow my step by step instructions to the hotel? I've got a pretty solid safety net, but my knees are still a'knockin. I want a special stewardess to bring me juice and crackers and a coloring book on the plane. They still do that for kids flying alone, I think. I want my wings!

I think I'll miss the cable the most. I gotta figure out how to watch Lost. No spoilers in statuses until further notice!!!!

Then probably the whole english thing. 

I'll be completely honest, I was going to write a more in depth emotional post, but Indepedance Day was just too damn entertaining for me to watch and write at the same time. Now I'm tired. Let me for now say, I'll miss you, eastern time zone. Stay sweet. 

Next time you hear from me, I'll be French. 

Bring me that horizon.

Listen to Save Tonight by Eagle Eye Cherry