Part 1: Dublin

My first impressions of this city were not great. Our hostel was kinda bleh. Walking around was kinda boring. We got on a city tour bus with an automated guide, and I fell asleep.

Ireland is supposed to be gorgeous, but we didn't see any of that in the city. So we decided to take a tour to the Cliffs of Moher, which is at the opposite end of the country.

Good choice. Our real-person guide was über Irish, gushing with equally useful and pointless information about the country's culture and history. The trip was several hours long, so we got more than an ear-full. We took in the scenery as we learned about the sport of hurling (gotta start when you're four years old), President Obama's irish roots (we drove through his ancestor's town) and how to avoid pissing off fairies (basically, just stay out of their way. And they like to steal little boys from their cribs, so that's why little Irish boys are dressed like little Irish girls).

When we finally arrived to the Cliffs of Moher, our guide instructed us to close our coats as completely as possible. It's entirely possible that the wind can whip through loose coats and suddenly turn them into parachutes! When we finally got up there, I believed him. The wind was frightening.

We were lucky to evade fog, so we could see the cliffs perfectly.


There was also a tower that I wished we could have gone up in for a better view. This man-made thing looked really strange against the backdrop of the nature-made expanse.


My favorite were these girls, who were on our tour. They kind of weren't that smart. Maybe they didn't hear the parachute warning, or they did, and thought they were immortal.


After the Cliffs, we made one last stop to check out the Burren (sidenote: totally thought the guide was saying "The Barn" because of his accent. I was quite confused, and was thinking, 'how cool could a barn really be?')




Here, I took the only up-close picture of Jake and me of the whole trip.


And those girls were still doing really intelligent things. As if losing your footing wasn't totally easy because there were a million cracks and jagged rocks.


Afterwards, we hopped back into our totally sweet tour bus and headed back to the city.


Back in Dublin, we hit the pups, where Jake drank Guinness (ick) and I drank cider. We both dislike The Beatles, but still sang along to live band's rendition of "Hey Jude" at Temple Bar. I concluded that the city of Dublin is not that bad. But the country side is better.

Update

I received a couple Facebook wall posts asking me where my blog had gone. It's still here. But I wasn't. For two weeks, I've been galavanting around Dublin, London, Paris, Geneva, Zurich and Lucerne. Updates take time and also money when you have to pay for internet, so I kind of just skipped out on this blog. But don't worry, I'm back now.

So you want to know. How was it?!??!

Blerg. Well I can say that being back in the routine of everyday life is not at all exciting. And I feel more like relaxing and watching a movie rather than recounting all my tales from traveling. So just a little bit more patience. Stories and pictures to come. Eventually.

As always, thanks for reading.

French School ≠ Creative and Fun

I've been doing various Valentine's Day activites with my classes. Making cards, learning the "Roses are Red…" poem, singing. Here in France, Valentine's Day is strictly for couples. So the kids are entertained by making cards for mom, dad, friends and teachers.

It's fun to do all this stuff, I can tell the kids are enjoying it, and that makes me feel good. But then one teacher made her students memorize the poem and write it from memory a couple days later. I had to give them grades on it. This did not make me feel good.

My whole point of being here is to get the students interested in English. I don't have enough time with each class to do much else. I spend a maximum of 1.5 hours a week with each class, oftentimes less. So my only goal is to get them to have fun with the language and learn a bit about the culture. Hopefully somewhere down the road they will more seriously persue the language.

But making some 10-year-olds memorize "Roses are red, Violets are blue, Sugar is sweet, And so are you"? What does this accomplish? How does this peak the interest of a child? It is boring, and the poem is pointless. I was mad that the teacher made the kids do this. I feel like it will make them hate English. It would make me hate English.

But I have to remember that this is how things are done in France. The schooling system is way more academic than the states. Kids aren't supposed to have fun in school. They are supposed to learn. The learning is inside-the-box. If you step out, you will fail. I'm not being dramatic. It's really how it is. Creativity is not encouraged. It's really sad.

And so that is probably why most of the class did so well on this quiz. Almost all of them memorized the poem perfectly. This is kind of my "stupid" class. They consistently perform terribly on my evaluations. I was so surprised that they received such high scores. But I guess it's because they're used to this memorize-and-regurgitate method.

All I can do is secretly fight back. I hope to subconsciously show them that learning doesn't have to be so sucky and boring. We learned about Valentine's Day in the U.S. as well as how to say "I Love You," in American sign language, thanks to a variation of this activity. Then I let the kids glue, color, and write however they pleased. Everyone's cards turned out a bit different, and I was happy again.

Ever Heard of Biarritz?

I like to browse Craigslist Paris a few times a week. Maybe I will find a writing job. Or do I need a new Frieling Stainless Steel Milk Frother for only five euros? Hmm this tickets sections looks interesting. Tina Turner for €136? EuroDisney for €40? How about this one: Nighht Train Tickets week-end in Biarritz mid March - EUR30

Maybe it's the three grammatical errors that sucked me in. Maybe it's the idea of a round-trip train ticket for €30, which is cheap cheap cheap. Maybe it's because I want to know more about this strange Biarritz place.

I verify two things. Am I free the weekend the tickets are available? Yes. Where is Biarritz exactly? Southern France, the ocean. Done. Email sent. Inquire if tickets are still available. They are. I decide to buy them.

I meet the seller by a metro stop and purchase the tickets. I don't do this normally. I don't meet random people off Craigslist to buy their random train tickets to some random town I know nothing about. But I did do it. I'm going to Biarritz solo, March 13. I feel like the young and spontaneous 22-year-old I am supposed to be. Glad to be living up to stereotypes for once.

More on the "Missing" Quarter

As far as I'm concerned, the quarter is forgotten. Someone stole it, it's gone. Let's move on.

The kids didn't forget though.

Today, in the same class in which the quarter disappeared, one of the students brought it up. Out of the blue "Did you get your coin back?," she asked me. I was totally taken aback. Me: "Oh… uh… no." Her: "I wish I could reimburse you for it." I get the feeling she gets why it was such a big deal. Because she can't reimburse me for it, even though she wants to. "It's okay, it wasn't you," I tell her.

Later, in a completely different class where quarter theft was never an issue, some other kids mention it. "We heard someone in Madame Labeille's class took a coin," some say. "Yeah, it's true a coin is missing. It's lost," I say, even though we all know it wasn't just lost. "It was Maxence," several agree. I shrug my shoulders. I am not sure it was Maxence, but the other kids are positive it was him. Secretly, I believe them. But I don't say anything and try to move the class along with recognizing the difference between thirteeNN and thirtYY.

"Here!" says one of the students. She pulls an American nickel from her pencil case and tries to give it to me. "You can have this!" It's adorable, these kids trying to make others' wrongs right. Of course I don't take her nickel. The offering of it was enough. This class gets stickers today.

Moment of Reflection in Metro Station

I am switching metros at the biggest station in Paris, where five metros and three suburban trains converge and where you can get lost just looking for a way to get out. Châtelet spans two arrondissements, and is always busy, no matter what time of day. Unfortunately, rush hour is just starting.

It's a traffic jam of people going all different directions. There seem to be an unreasonable number of people lugging suitcases, babies, and big packages. This slows down things even more. To top it all off, one of the major escalators is closed for renovation. So all up-down traffic is condensed to a staircase that is usually only reserved for down traffic. It's bottle-necking at its worst.

Finally I spill out at the top of the staircase and mentally prepare myself. I will need to fight my way to the moving sidewalk. But something stops me.

It's not the music, because metro musicians are nothing new. The real show stopper is all the newspaper. I don't know how and I don't know why, but for some reason the free nightly papers are scattered all over the ground, maybe hundreds of them. Then there is music, which is definitely part of it. An older man playing the double bass, singing blues. Then there are the people, hurrying and scurrying every which way.

The scene is totally bizarre, and I am the only one who realizes it. I pull off to the side and stand against the wall to observe. Thirty seconds ago, the only question of my mind was : "why is everyone walking so effing slowly?!" Now I have bigger questions of my mind. I wonder where all these people are going? I wonder how all these newspapers got here? I wonder where he learned to play the bass? And why he's here and all that. I stand for a couple minutes and think about these things.

I've never given a metro musician money, but this time I do. Maybe I'm paying him for being part of this peaceful moment I had while everyone else was wrapped up in chaos.

Merci beaucoup, bonne soirée he sings to me as I hop on the moving walkway. I flash him a thumbs up sign and get lost in the crowd.

$.25 Poorer

Today one of the students stole one of my quarters, and I cried.

I didn't let them see my cry. When I first realized I was missing a few, I very sternly demanded all 29 of my state quarters back, threatened that no one would leave for lunch until I had every last one. I got 28. For the next 15 minutes, the kids dumped out their pencil cases, turned their pockets inside out, and crawled under desks in search of the missing quarter. More time passed, and it became evident that the it would not materialize. I had no choice. I had to let them go to lunch. I can't starve children.

So they left, and I cried. Not because I miss my quarter. Because I work hard for them, and this class just doesn't care. Because I thought of them before I even knew them, because I lugged a coin purse full of quarters in my suitcase. Because I know money is cool to kids, and wanted each to be able to hold his or her own coin. Because the thief went to lunch with everyone else, knowing that he or she got away with it. Mostly, I cried because I still thought these kids were innocent and respected me. Because I was wrong.

The other teachers reminded me how difficult this group has been since they were in preschool. They are the terror of every teacher who has to teach them. And it's true that 28 out of 29 students returned the coins. But that doesn't change the fact that from now on, whenever I teach this class, I will always remember that one of them is a thief.

I tried to not let the quarter thief ruin my other classes, but nothing could be done. I was grumpy and upset. I didn't give everyone the energy I usually do. My last class was the worst. I was so mean to the poor kids, who were a little rowdy, but not too much. At the end of class, I told them they were bratty the whole time and I don't think they learned anything.

But we did! They said.

Oh yeah? What did you learn.

We learned all about quarters! And George Washington is on the front, and a P means it was made in Philadelphia, and a D means it was made in Denver, and every state has their own quarter and there is a picture on the back that represents that state, and the date on the top is the date when the state became part of the United Sates and the date on the bottom is when it was made!!

I can't be certain, but I think this class does respect me, at least a little bit. At least they were excited to learn new things. At least they didn't steal my quarters. I am sorry I was mean to them. I will try harder next time not to be mean to kids that are good.

Trains, trains and trains

I always arrive three to four minutes early to catch my train to work. Either the train is sitting on the track, ready for an exceptionally punctual departure. Or, the train is not sitting on the track. ::big sigh:: It will probably be five minutes late. Or ten. Or twenty. Or more.

I arrive to the station today to see no train. Everyone is standing around looking like they don't care. About five minutes after the train was supposed to have left, there is an announcement. The train departing from track 35 towards Valmondois will depart in 20 minutes. Everyone still looks like they don't care. Don't these people have places to be at on time? I am annoyed and call the school's director to tell her I will be late for class.

"It's always the same story with the train," I tell her. Because I was late on Friday for the exact same reason. "You've got the worst luck," she tells me. "See you soon."

I don't consider trains being on time a matter of luck. Later, when I apologize again to the director and the teacher whose class got cut short, they tell me not to worry about it. "I know this line, it always has problems," says the director knowlingly. "C'est la France," shrugs the teacher.

I try to explain to them that this excuse would never fly in the states. This is how it works: work starts at XX:XX time. Be to work at XX:XX time. Late train once? Okay. Late train twice? Yeah right.

The school doesn't seem to care about the late train situation, but I can't help that I do. I feel like it reflects on my own punctuality, my own reliability. I vow to take the 30-minutes-earlier train. If it is late, then I will be on time for work.

I still feel bad about being late when I leave school. I arrive to the station to take the train home when I realize the next three trains to Paris are supprimé (canceled). Oh come on. Are you serious? No explanation really, just a bunch of people standing around. Unlike this morning, these people look disgruntled. Three canceled trains is a little ridiculous, even for France.

I am about to get really pissed when an surprise train towards Paris comes from nowhere. No anouncement or anything. I assume it is going to Paris because trains to Paris go that way. Fortunately, I am correct. All right then. I forgive you, train. You have kind of redeemed yourself.

As I am leaving the train station to catch the metro home, I receive a handbill explaining that there were electrical problems today. I am kind of happy to have an explanation, even though it doesn't matter anymore. And honestly I don't feel that bad about being late for work anymore. Just because, well c'est la France.

Extremely French Things I Did This Week

- Wandered around the Louvre
- Had a wine and cheese lunch with my coworkers
- Caught myself wearing almost all black
- Ate a crêpe
- Visted a castle

Dimanche Parisien

On Sunday, everything in France is closed. Your Sunday entertainment options are limited to sitting at a café, going for a walk, or doing some open-air market shopping. My roommate and I headed to the market. Our fridge was empty, we were expecting a dinner guest, and the grocery stores were closed.

Every market I've been to in France feels the same. It's way more cramped and hectic than a farmer's market. Not only can you buy fresh produce, but also underwear, mousetraps, and freshly slaughtered meat, among other things.

As we were walking there, my roommate spotted the most stereotypical French couple either of us have ever seen. They were wearing only black and looked like models. Very trendy market shoppers. As if it were more a matter of being seen looking good rather than a matter of buying some meat, underwear and mousetraps. I, on the other hand, had just taken a shower, and went out with wet hair. I think this is considered blasphemous to the French. They always look good in their trendy black garb, their makeup and their hair parfait.

As my roommate and I decided what to cook, it started pouring. This is seriously so Parisian. It flipping always rains here. Paris has nothing better to do than to dumb grey icky rainy weather on people all the time. Neither of us had an umbrella, so we were in trouble. The market was almost closing, so we pushed on. Meanwhile, we saw the chic French couple from before, but in a panic. The woman had lifted her shawl-coat-trendy-thing over her head to protect her hair.

We got some veggies and waited in line to buy some meat. An old French dude selling wine tried to convince us to buy some to add to the soup we were making. We told him we aren't making soup, we are making Chinese tonight. He got offended. The French are really serious about their cuisine. He rambled a bit about that, then invited us to come to his château (castle) to work the welcome desk. We can live there, he says. A bit creepy, but harmless. The meat counter where we were waiting was already closed, so we tried to find another.

We finally did find someone still selling chicken. The meat woman hated us. She was mad that we were buying so little chicken. She wanted us to buy the whole tray, which was probably 10 or 15 pounds. At first we say we'll take two pieces, but realize that is too much, so ask for just one. She was pissed. She dramatically grabbed one piece of chicken with her bare hand and whipped it back into the case. Customer service nonexistant. So French.

The whole Sunday was French. The market, the blackly dressed couple, the rain, the old rambling man, the mean meat lady. I felt like I got a really good culture day in.

Quelle Chance!

I arrived to my new apartment, my third place of residence in three months in France, feeling kinda glum. There wasn't a bed. There were two crummy mattresses on the floor that looked about 100 years old. It was depressing.

But France is teaching me to go with the flow. I made a big shopping trip to Ikea, where I bought nifty protective coverings and crisp new sheets. I covered up the old mattresses and felt better. I didn't care that they were old anymore.

I didn't care until yesterday. Yesterday, when I became certain the mattresses have bedbugs. I itch everywhere. I know a lot about bedbugs, thanks to a heartbreaking This American Life episode about a family who couldn't shake them. I know you pretty much have to throw away the mattress to be certainly sure the bedbugs are gone.

My landlord is a bit weird, and I'm not sure he'll buy me a new mattress. He didn't even give me a bed. If I were here longer, I would buy my own. But a mattress isn't a practical investment right now. And I live on the 7th floor, no elevator, so I would have to deal with getting the new mattress up here.

I am falling into one of my I HATE FRANCE!!!!! moods, which happens semi-frequently. Why do I have to have bedbugs? Why me? I hate you France, I hate you. I hate you and your stupid French bedbugs. You are ruining my life.

When our neighbor is over for tea tonight, we talk about the bedbugs. Coincidentally, she just bought a new futon. The delivery guys are coming Saturday. They were going to take the old one. But do I want to just take it?

Saturday the bedbugs will be gone. Even though I have to sleep with them for a couple more days, I don't even care. Because I think I really like France now. It's not so bad. In fact, it's great. It's nice to have a little bit of luck.

Brushing up on my French Traditions

French people love to have me try their food. I love it, too. It really boosts my French culture points, and (usually) it's delicious. The funny part is when they don't necessary realize that other French people may have already introduced me to it.

Take "Galette des Rois," which is King Cake. It's eaten throughout the month of January. To divvy up the slices, the youngest person has to go under the table and call out who gets which piece. It's to be fair. There's a little charm hidden inside, and whoever has it is the queen or king. That person gets a crown, then has to crown someone else. Then those two have to cross arms and drink. **tangent: Meanwhile, everyone has ditched their spoons and has started eating the cake with their hands. I'm not sure why we are eating this cake with spoons in the first place, it's flakey and quite difficult to cut with the edge of a spoon. An old roommmate told me it's because French people don't like to use the same silverware twice in one meal, so forks aren't really an option. Whatever.**

I might have gotten all this information wrong. But I've eaten I think five Galette des Rois since I've been here. And this is how it all generally goes down. What's the date today? Oh yes, it's the 10th. And I have already tried this delicious French dessert five times. I'm not complaining. It's good. I even had a kosher one, which I think was the best. It's just The dessert right now, especially when a non-French person is at the table. I think I might be gaining a few pounds from all this cake. Ooops, I'm in France. I mean kilos.

Letter to my Mother

Dear Mom,

I did something very bad. I'm not even sure you want to know, but I feel like I have to tell you. I must preface this by saying I know this isn't how I was raised. It's not your fault.

I bought a pair of boots. And they weren't on sale. Not even close. I paid full price, and that price was a lot.

I'm sorry. I know the whole point of buying something is getting a deal. To be able to say: "I bought this for $10, but it was originally $80!!" (Although you never would have spent $80 on that in the first place). I know a pair of shoes or egg-shaped egg beater is exponentially cuter if you have paid less than 60 percent of the original price. I know you aren't even supposed to look at the normal-priced things in a store.

But mom, these boots were just different. I have wanted a nice pair of leather boots for sometime. And I tried to be a good daughter by waiting until the big sales started. And I went to the big sales and found these perfect boots. The only problem was that they were in the "non sale" section.

There were also some boots I kinda sorta liked for half the price. But I wanted boots that I really liked. So I thought hard and made the decision. I bought the expensive ones.

Thanks to your motherly influence, this was not easy. Then I thought about all the money I must have saved from a life of shopping the sales. And I figured just this once, it would be okay to pay a lot.

You may not agree that I made the right decision. That's okay. Regardless, we will always be mother and daughter. And don't worry, it will probably be many years before I buy something not on sale again.

Love,
Betsy

Protest

I think I got culture shook last night. A couple Americans and I stumbled upon a protest to the Israeli attacks on Gaza. At first we saw a pillar of fire and a crowd of people. Someone said something about a car being on fire. Surely not, I thought. You hear about people lighting cars on fire, but come on, does that really happen in this civilized city?

Turns out that I know very little about violence. After we watched the fire fighters douse the first burning car, we wandered down the street. It was complete mayhem. More burning cars, even more flipped over. Store and restaurant windows, phone booths, bus stops were shattered. People were pillaging a cell phone store. Pieces of mannequins scattered amongst signs reading "Israel Assassin."

It was very clear that what started out a protest became a game of smash and burn. In a safe area of Paris, a place where you might go shopping or grab a coffee. Transformed into havoc, while bystanders like me wandered around, snapping photos with their camera phones.

I don't think I've digested it yet. I don't understand how destroying someone's car or enterprise makes a point. I don't understand why they weren't stopped. Hundreds of police stood on the perimeter. And stood and stood and stood. I can't get over that.

I constantly force myself not to compare this country to America. But I couldn't help it last night, thinking to myself "this would never happen in America, things would never get this far, these people would have been stopped before they destroyed so much." But I guess there's nothing to say it couldn't happen. The real point is that I've never witnessed it at home.

Chicken Nuggets: Two Not-Really Reflections

1. Usually I get sweet & sour sauce with my American McDonald's Chicken Nuggets. At Paris McDo, I asked the cashier to list their sauces. I didn't hear anything slightly resembling my usual preference, didn't want bbq or mustard, so went for the myserious "Chinese Sauce." For some reason, I figured it would be some sort of soy sauce. Am I crazy for thinking that? Because surprise, surprise, it was really sweet & sour!! Miam miam. Really lucked out with that one. Also French McDo is effing expensive, but it's supposed to be better quality stuff. My McNugget meal was €6.20, and Yahoo's currency calculator tells me that is about $8.62. Thankfully all my income is in euros, not dollars.

2. Back when I was studying in Lyon about two years ago, I was standing in line at the dining hall. The French people in front of me were debating whether they should get the chicken nuggets or the other option. They decided on chicken nuggets for whatever reason. I remember standing there, thinking it was the first French conversation I understood in its entirety. Then, reflecting on how long I had studied French, and how hard I had worked to make progress. All to understand some boring conversation about chicken nuggets. It was a bit of an "ah yes! But… oh" moment.

Accumulating Stuff

I am moving again, and going through the process of sorting and packing. I arrived to France with a big suitcase, a biggish backpack and a carry-on. But now, after only three months, I have much much more. How does this happen?

Some of it is from packages I've received from my family (thanks Family, love you guys!!). But some of it… how do I have so many papers? Old worksheets I've drawn up, lessons plans, to-do lists. I don't even know what else. Just a bunch of… stuff.

I hate the process of going through what is essentially junk. Still you must think very hard about every single item. Do I need this? Am I willing to carry this up six flights of stairs to keep for another six months or more of my life? Maybe I don't need it now, but is it something I will need later? Is this piece of paper from my telephone company really important? Ahhhh so many questions.

But in fact I find this cleansing quite good. If I weren't moving, I wouldn't be doing it. Instead I am being forced to get rid of things I don't need.

Do as the French do

I am leaving tomorrow to spend Christmas with a friend's family in France. I thought a bottle of wine would be an appropriate gift. The problem? A France wine aisle is even more expansive and overwhelming than an American chip aisle.

I meandered up and down the aisle for several minutes, getting nowhere. There was just so much wine. I don't know anything about wine. In terms of buying wine for myself, I usually bolt for something cheap and red. But a €3 bottle certainly wouldn't do for a gift.

Then I spotted a French couple deep in discussion. They would select one bottle, chat a bit and put it back. They looked very intelligent on wine buying. I decided I would buy whatever they did. They spent about another 10 minutes trying to pick a bottle. I spent another 10 minutes pretending I was trying to pick a bottle. They chose a 2005 Antonin Rodet Nuits-Saint-Georges. Thirty second later, I did too.

I felt that this was very clever of me. I told the story to my roommate's family, who was over for dinner tonight. 'What wine?' they asked. I revealed the bottle. 'That is really good wine!!' they told me. 'What year?' they asked. 2005. 'That is a really good year!!!!!!!!' they told me.

This made me feel even more clever. I am so good at picking wine. Ask me sometime, I can give you some tips.

Why I am Constantly Tired

I'm approaching my three-month anniversary here in France, and I'm sure you want to know how it is. Have I settled in okay? Have I made friends? How's my French? I bet awesome, right? Am I loving Paris?

Well, let me ask you a question. On what day of the week are you asking? What time? Be specific, and I can more clearly answer your questions. I cannot answer generally.

If there is one thing I wasn't prepared for coming here, it's the giant swing from really sucky to really awesome. I expected this at the beginning, but still three months later, it's a constant. On any given day, multiple times a day, I'll find my mood changing dramatically.

When living in a different country, culture and language, little things become big things. Feeling stupid because I realize after the fact I've just asked two people for a "recipe" (recette) instead of a "receipt" (reçu). Why did I make that mistake? I learned these words years ago. I must have sounded riduculous. Then I am made happy by a warm baguette or a peaceful boulevard I see on the walk back. Delicious bread and ancient streets, things I could never get back home.

And big things are still big things. Feeling empowered and independent by going to the cinema alone. Feeling small and alone when I start hunting for apartments again.

Every day presents me with any combination of little and big things, good ones and bad ones. But this is the point, right? This is why I am here. This is The Experience. All I can say is that it's exhausting to feel so much and so often.

Did I explain this well? I don't feel like I did. Maybe some more examples would show my point better. But I am too tired to replay the last few days or weeks to find a good way to show what I am trying to say. Those days were challenging enough in real time.

Tomorrow is the day to think about. It could be a good day or a bad one. It could be a good day five times and a bad day six times. We'll see when we get there.

What Paris Sounds Like

Paris clicks.

In Chicago, it's considered acceptable, maybe borderline trendy to wear Asics to and from your downtown job. You switch into your work shoes once you get there. In Paris, I've never seen a pair of Asics on anyone not a tourist.

Here it's heels. Not necessarily high heels, but those too. It's wintertime, so boots for women. Men wear leather, brown or black, pointy. Man or woman, young or old, businessman or student, whatever you are wearing, it will certainly click.

No one talks during rush hour. Everyone is going their separate ways and rushing to catch the metro. So this sound, of hundreds of heels clicking on the lineleum corridors between metro lines, is a very loud one. And very Parisian.

Spoiled American; part 2

When I first arrived, I complained about this country's lack of shower heads and curtains. Now I've got another beef. Can we stop being so environmentally conscious and get a clothes dryer up in here?

Air drying is lovely. In the summer, smelling of the outdoors, fresh. But we're approaching the worst of winter.

It's cold right now, and my sole pair of sweatpants are in the process of drying. They probably won't be dry for another three to five days from now. At night I dream of my past life in the United States, where I could dry any article of clothing in 45 minutes. Of the drier that not only dries, but makes things warm and fluffy. What I would do for a pair of warm and fluffy sweatpants straight from the dryer right now. Or a warm and fluffy towel! Instead my freshly laundered and racked-dried towels are kind of… crunchy.

For Today

I will not admit that I am a bit homesick because I am living in Paris. It is just so freaking cool here. Eiffel Tower, wine flowing through the streets, the most beautiful language in the world… what is there to miss around this time of the year?

- marshmallows (necessary for hot chocolate and those yummy corn flake wreaths).
- peanut butter and Hershey's kisses. Peanut butter blossoms, my favorite cookie.
- crackling fires
- board games and other unusual happenings with dearest friends
- snowflakes
- reading on the couch in the company of pets
- marathon prep for holiday meals
- overeating every day from Thanksgiving to Christmas
- a person whose name starts with a J
- my family
- belonging

Born to Teach? Probably Not.

I have been having more betterish/better days at school lately than bad ones. Kids can be cool. Like the one that asked me if I go back to Chicago everyday after I am finished with school. That's cute.

But still at least once a week, I am completely wiped out and frustrated when things don't go my way. And sometimes I feel like a bad person. Today, I made a kid cry. Really, it wasn't my fault. He was being bratty all class. I told him to cut it out, and he didn't. I brought him to stand in front of the class, and he still didn't stop. So I put him in the hallway, where he cried. He was just bugging me, and I was stick of reprimanding him. But really, I had no idea that standing in the hallway was so traumatizing. If I had known, I wouldn't have put him there.

The kids have their days, just as I have my days. Sometimes our good and bad days match up in terrible ways, but sometimes, it's pretty okay.

But I know this isn't my passion, and I was reminded of this when a friend emailed me a story to look over. As I read the article, then read it again many times and wrote comments, I missed writing so much. Sure I write this blog, in my journal, posts for a website. But this isn't the kind of writing I get the most out of. It's not the kind where you are hunched over your computer perfecting a sentence word by word, delete, retype, think, think, think, what am I trying to say, and why does it matter? Hours of this is just as exhausting as hours of teaching, but at the end, I feel more accomplished in one than with the other.

I am inspired to start writing more, and with the heaps of free time I have on my hands, I'm going to do it. Maybe the warm and fuzzy feeling I get will trickle over into my teaching, thus making me a better teacher.

sorry :-(

Have you been looking for updates? Sorry, I haven't been giving any. I moved a week ago, and my new place doesn't have internet. This has been an excellent lesson in how I waste my time and in how truly necessary 24/7 internet access really is(n't). But I am ready for this lesson to be over.

Leaving the cozy comfort of my home to seek out free crappy wifi or to purchase decent wifi is not fun. Neither is working on a French computer at school, because those machines are soooo slow. Also, someone switched all the keys on those computers, because they are not where they should be.

So. We have received our router in the mail, which is a big big step. But now we are awaiting for the password for our network. The other roommates have been trying to secure an internet connection in the apartment for THREE MONTHS. So this almost-here-internet is a bigger deal for them than it is for me. Still, this past week has felt like three months. Internet, please come soon.

Condé Nast in the kitchen

Tonight is a Thanksgiving potluck at my new apartment, but I didn't feel like trekking all the way to the uncessarily over-priced American foods store. I've already paid them my $10 in Libby's Pumpkin and PET evaporated milk, and I don't feel like doing that again.

So I was thinking cheesecake for tonight. A simple cheesecake. Because I as much as I love to experiment, most of the time it doesn't go well (ask Jake about the Guiness cupcakes. Disgusting, which was all my fault). And when I must translate measurements and temperatures to metric… uh… forget about it. I need easy.

Back when I was a young student still in college, I learned about epicurious.com in one of my journalism classes. This is a website that pools together all or most of the recipes published in Condé Nast magazines.

It is there I found this yummy recipe for Deep Dark Chocolate Cheesecake. I actually don't know yet if it's going to turn out. It's still in the oven. But the uncooked batter was scrumptious. Just don't tell anyone I didn't use Scharffen brand, which the recipe INSISTS upon. I will take a picture and add soon.

Little Successes

When you start learning a language, it's easy to see improvement. It's a very steep learning curve, in which is there no way to go but up. Once you get to a certain point, the curve flattens dramatically. I know my French is better than it's ever been. But I feel I've hit that learning flatline. Eeking closer to fluency is a slower process now, with very little evidence to show if I'm getting there or not.

Last night, I watched a movie with my host family. Now I've probably watched more French movies that any non-French person I know. I always, always miss something. There's slang, multiple story lines to keep straight, weird French names to remember, cultural references, and so on. And once I miss some minor yet important detail, it's hard to force myself to concentrate.

Last night, I decided to focus very very hard so as not to miss anything. And I was able to follow it all the whole way through. I felt very content at the closing credits, becauce I think this is the first time I have competely understood an entire French film. It's nice to be able to see proof that I'm getting better at this.

Mid-November Goals

In the theme of change, I am moving in less than a week. I think it's also time to set some new goals for myself. I arrived with a few, but I've accomplished them. So time for some more:

1. Be nicer to my family
2. Budget wisely so I can blow all my money on my European vacation in February.
3. Go to one Paris museum every week. Or maybe every other week. Just more museums in general because Paris has a ton.

Thief

I was riding the train home from Paris. The guy across from me was experiencing varying levels of triumph and defeat on his PlayStation Portable. At one stop, I noticed a kid shuffling slowly down the aisle. I wondered why he was walking so slowly.

Then he ripped the guy's Playstation from his hands and dashed out the door. The guy chased after him, but the thief had surprise as his advantage. He was too far gone and only a minute later, the Playstation-less guy returned to his seat on the train. And that was that.

This whole 10-second event ruined my day. I've had things stolen from me before, but never from my hands. I would like to trust that people are good. I hate to admit that people so selfish and conscienceless exist in this world. But they do exist. I just saw one. That's just sucky. I hate you thief.

Etiquette at a Reading

I saw David Sedaris read his work last night. It was on the tiny second floor of a popular English language bookshop in Paris. I will spare you the annoyance of gushing about how funny, and down-to-earth, and insightful he was, even though that's all true. Instead, I dedicate this post to things that really super duper annoyed me, none of which concerned the author himself.

1. People who handed him 3+ books to sign. I think even two books is pushing it. He is probably sick of signing books, especially after just finishing a 33-city tour. So just give the guy one book and get on with it. That huge stack, one for yourself (Laurel, like Lauren, but with an "L"), one for your mom (Kirsten), one for your stepson (would you mind adding something like "to a fellow writer, because he wants to be a writer too") and another for your best friend… ok no. There are plenty of other people here and you are wasting everyone else's time by being greedy.

2. People who get really good seats but don't deserve them. I was within spitting distance of David Sedaris, and two people sitting by me hadn't read any of his books. (They intended to though. Because all their friends said he was great!) People who arrive the earliest get the best seats, I know. But I am sure there were many latecomers who deserved more to sit there, people who actually appreciated the author because they had taken the time to appreciate him by reading his work.

3. People who do not care to respect the author's wishes because they are more important than said author, obviously. David Sedaris requested that people refrain from taking photos. They're distracting when he's trying to read. The woman behind me took a photo. I wouldn't have known if she hadn't approached David Sedaris afterward and apologized, but "it's for my stepson." Huh? How does that make it okay that you blatantly ignored his request? That just makes it more rude. Also, I couldn't help but entertaining the idea that her stepson doesn't really care if he has a blurry photo of David Sedaris. So I will go on to assume that the photo was a waste.

Long Day in Line

Today I tried to make an appointment to apply for my residency card. I braced myself for it not going well. It did not. I went to one place, where I was told to go to another place, where I waited for three hours to be told to go back to the first place. Went back, and it was the correct place, yet I didn't have any of the documents I needed. So It was a wasted day.

The whole process was completely ridiculous and genuinely French. Doing anything of importance here requires 1. waiting in line, 2. being sent elsewhere, and 3. heaps of paperwork. If you're not from France, it's exponentially more difficult. I almost feel guilty for saying so, but this is a xenophobic country. It's not a stereotype. France chokes at the thought of outsiders coming in. So they purposefully make it hard for the non-french.

Even though today was miserable, I wasn't too bothered. France is France, with its gorgeous architecture, rich history, beautiful language. Oh, and also its sucky bureaucracy. It's part of the package. I'm not going to appreciate it, but I'll stomach it.

Cover Band

Last night I accompanied my host sister to see her work colleague's band play. I get kind of ick when I have to hang out with a room-full of unfamiliar faces. But I had nothing else to do, so no good excuse not to go.

I assumed this supposed cover band would play on the side while people chatted and drank 33cl beers. However, in this typical Parisian bar (read: tiny), the 12-man brass band overpowered any hopes of conversation. I never expected to hear renditions of "Toxic" and "Gangsta's Paradise" with so much heart and soul. While the audience started dancing salsa, there was a lot of emptying of spit valves on the makeshift stage. It was hot, and dancey, and fun.

The worst part of the evening was when we missed the last train home. So we had to call home and have my host dad come pick us up. It was really cold and awkward to stand by a train station for 20 minutes at 1:30 a.m.. But we eventually arrived home, safe and sound.

Ignorant

Does anyone remember when I mused about not knowing who Jean Nouvel was? Well. I need to give myself a big fat kick in the shins. Because he is a big freaking deal. He's a world-famous French architect who has designed hundreds of stunning buildings and recently won the Pritzker Prize. Opera houses, apartment buildings, museums, offices, restaurants… he has done them all, and they're always, let's be cliché here, breathtaking.

When I mentioned I was going to his book release, people were really impressed and expressed a tad bit of jealously. My host sister wondered if it would be totally ridculous to bring her portfolio with me (she just graduated from architecture school). My future roommate mentioned that she is doing her second internship in the Jean Nouvel office, but I'm not sure if she's met him before. This was actually a public event, and anyone was welcome. But I was the only one I knew that went.

His book was awesome, two volumes of photography highlighting all his work, with clever captions. It was also €500, so I didn't purchase it. And after I got there and snapped a few blurry photos, I really felt I should have him sign something. But I didn't bring a book. And I didn't want to buy something small and meaningless there. So I whipped out my Paris Moleskine and flipped to the back cover.

When it was finally my turn, I handed him my notebook. It's not a book, I told him, but this is where I keep all things France, all my thoughts and ideas. I said something about really liking the Lyon Opera house. He signed his name, for some reason wrote the date as 30/08/08, and then apologized for messing it up.

Now I am really excited about adding his buildings to my must-see list. And every time I see one, I will open my notebook. 'Look! Look!' I can tell anyone who is willing to listen. 'The same hand signed this notebook AND designed this building!'

Interview

I'm trying to think back on any job interviews I've had, and nothing memorable sticks out. Typically nervousness isn't an issue, when I've got a resume and a bit of self-confidece to fall back on.

But being interviewed as a potential roommate? This almost makes me ill. I saw an apartment last week that I loved. The people, location, price, apartment, all were great. But in order for this to work out, I had to pass the interview.

When competing for a job, you can always tell yourself that maybe someone had more experience, or knew someone who knew someone. There are all these factors that you can't control. But when competing for a roommate position, it's entirely personal. If they don't pick you, it's because they didn't like you. They did not like the person you are. When you think you're a good fit, this is pretty tough to stomach.

I got "called back" for a second interview last night for this apartment. I was so nervous. I was taking deep breaths and trying to make myself focus. Focus on being myself, I guess.

But I made the cut. I was the top pick. I don't know how many emails they sifted through or how many people they interviewed, but it felt good to be The One. I don't move in for another month, but I'm okay with that. This housing search has been stressful and time consuming. I'm glad to finally remove Craigslist from my homepage and delete my profile on all those housing sites. I'm excited to move to Paris!

Photos

Here's a sampling of some of my photographs thus far.

Sci-Fi Film

The initial excitement of being in France has worn off, and now I am starting to be grumpy pants when things don't go my way (which is often). Thankfully I had an unexpected distraction this weekend: shooting a sci-fi movie.

A friend was in Paris to help two friends shoot the film. These three persons made up the majority of cast and camera crew. Other characters were played by a drunk girl we met at the Eiffel Tower and someone who had replied to a Craigslist ad. A majority of the props were purchased from the dollar store. These included glow-in-the dark stars (weapons), wigs (for character changes), and a singing airplane toy (spaceship), to name a few. It was probably everything you would expect a low-budget sci-fi movie to be.

I never really caught on to the plot, but I did catch that it took place in the future after earth had been annihilated, there was Planet Tolerance, a mission to save something-or-other, a love triangle, and murder.

My contribution to the film was standing by bags to make sure no one stole equipment. I also waved glowsticks in front of the camera to create a space-like scene and covered a table in tin foil to set the Control Center scene. I felt mildly useful, and even got a free McDonald's lunch as a thank you for all my hard work.


The Filmakers.


The "Control Center."

Sample Post

This is the sample I submitted for the mentioned-below internship. Not my masterpiece, but whatevs.


"Barack Obama, Change & Progress"
Dorothy's Gallery

Bastille is unlikely destination for the marriage of art of politics, but if you turn down the right street, you'll find it. Dorothy's Gallery, 27 rue Keller, boasts a well-lit, blank canvas for its current exhibition, "Barack Obama, Change & Progress." The dozen or so pieces, created by both American and French artists, represent interpretations of what the Democratic candidate has brought to the American election, and what the artists hope he will have opportunity to bring to the United States. Several mediums are present. Some, such as the shadow box that lights an image of Obama's head, put his face front and center. Other pieces, such as the tiny Obama silhouette with a wooden leg, challenge more reflection from viewers. All of it is patriotic, reds, whites and blues so bright, you almost forget that one of the most important colors of the exhibition is black.

Will Write for Free

I applied for an internship at GoGoParis. They already filled the position, but the editor in chief really liked my resume. She said they couldn't offer me anything because the budget is so tight, but they'd happily take me on as an unpaid writer. I said absolutely.

Maybe I already did my time. I've had how many unpaid internships? Enough to cram a resume full. But did anyone go to journalism school to become rich? "Rich" and "journalism" don't belong in the same sentence. That's, like, grammatically incorrect, or something.

The reason I'm doing this teaching thing is because it came with a salary. It's not a lot, but it's enough to live on. And it leaves me extra time to do stuff I like. I like writing. I like poking around, learning something I would never have been interested in otherwise.

My first assignment is to cover the release of Jean Nouvel's new book, which spans his complete work of architecture. Who's Jean Nouvel? I dunno. But I will find out and write about it and not get paid for it. Happily.

Mean Landlady

The search for an apartment has begun. Or shall I say the miserable, disheartening and exhausting search for an apartment has begun.

Today I went to see a room rented out by this lady. Based on my keen journalistic sense (or because I saw a saint-like image in stained glass), I deducted that the building was at one time a priory. This would explain the many rooms with shared bathroom/toilet/kitchen and sink-in-room situation.

Anyway, the room was sweet. Hardwood floors and a huge Parisian window with lots of light. Awesome location very close to central Paris. The only uncool thing? This woman who owned the building was absolutely wretched.

She insulted my French constantly, and at first I wasn't sure why. Then I decided it was because she was hard of hearing and refused to admit it. While she was putzing around being old, mean and deaf, I snuck into the kitchen and chatted with a girl who lives there. I was able to get some good information. "She's strict," and "she likes money."

Okay forget it. I am not living under the iron fist of a greedy old French lady who is mean to me. I'm an adult, and I make my own decisions. Decisions such as… I will not live there.

And so. The search continues.

What the *&#$^?

I had my first Freak-out France moment today. Where I got all mad at France while peering through my American-colored glasses. It happened in the computer lab at one of my schools.

I spent about an hour last night preparing a Halloween wordsearch. Lots of clipart and stuff. Not hard work, just time consuming. Then saved both a pdf and word document onto my jump drive, with the intention of printing it off at school today.

Problems: Finding the someone to give me the key to the computer lab. Five minutes later, finding him again for computer's login information. Windows98 operating system. Locating jump drive on computer. Already existing hatred for PC computers worsening because this one is in French. Discovering several minutes later from fellow teacher that jump drives do not work. Last night's work wasted. Making new Halloween wordsearch. Internets slow. Keys on french keyboard all in weird places. Typing things such as 'It,s Hqlloween." Missing lunch.

The real problem is I'm spoiled. I own a MacBook Pro (well my credit card company owns about half). Those ancient days before wifi are kinda fuzzy. I guess it's not really fair to expect any primary school to have a magnificent computer lab. I'm lucky they have one at all. With a color printer, nonetheless.

Slice of Life

I was at a local grocery the other day, a small one with two checkout aisles. One cashier was working.

A mother came in with a stroller. She pointed out to the cashier that the stroller's bottom rack was already heavy with groceries. The woman was just grabbing something quick, and didn't want the cashier to charge her for the stuff on the bottom.

"Leave your baby up here with me," said the cashier. "I'll watch her." And so the mom did just that. She left the baby in the care of the grocery store cashier and disappeared into the store. I was gone before she finished shopping. But I'm sure the baby was perfectly safe.

Teaching; Reflections

I have eight classes, 20+ kids in each, 45 minutes every class period. After two days, I have seen all my students. I have introduced myself as Miss Betsy in front of them all, instructed them to write their names in BIG letters on a teepee-folded piece of paper, and directed the repetition of "Ello my nam iz…" more times than can possibly be counted. I will give rewards to those who keep their name cards the whole year, because I cannot possibly remember all the Margauxs and Axels and Maximes (boy's name) and Anaïses.

The key for my own success and sanity will be preparedness. For each class, I know I need to have 12 activities, ready-to-go to pull from my pocket, even if we only hit nine of them. Kids will take advantage of 10 empty seconds by chatting or flicking each other with their rulers. As soon as you turn to tell someone to shut his mouth, everyone's concentration is lost.

I also worry about gaining the respect of the teachers at my schools. I'm younger, and have officially been teaching for… mmm… two days. I don't have a closet-full of tried and true teaching methods, so I'll have to develop them. I hope the other teachers don't snicker at me along the way.

So here's to 9 months of getting back to the basics of my native tongue, drawing and photocopying so many worksheets I begin to dream about them, and making both kids and adults respect Miss Betsy.

An American-Shaped Head

Today I was sent to a school to observe an English class. I met the school's director before class started.

"Where are you from?" she asked me. When I said 'Chicago,' she nodded knowingly. "You have an American head. I have a friend's who's father is American. He has the same head. He's from Boston. You look very American."

I've thought about other things that might sell me out. Wearing sweatpants in public, or not styling my hair before I leave the house, or my accent. I never really considered the shape of my head.

It really doesn't matter much. I'm proud to be American, and I can tell you (in French, if you wish) exactly why. So I'm not ashamed of the shape of my head. I just didn't know it was so telling, that's all.

editor's note: Apparently I kind of gravely misunderstood this conversation. It was just an expression I translated too literally. Read the comments for a more detailed explanation.

Craigslist

Found a lovely room in heart of Paris. €500 a month. It's a family from the UK who only uses the house for family vacation. For a €300 deposit, they'll send their dad to Paris to "usher you into the house." They want to ensure that you are serious in taking the room.

We have had some bad experiences in the past where my dad scheduled to meet with people but on arriving Paris none of them came money,energy and time wasted.Since them my dad maintained that anybody that wants to rent our house must make deposit before he will leave UK to Paris.

Well I guess I better wire them €300 then.

Or flag the posting as spam.

Good Days and Bad Days

Here in France, everything does not always run as expected.

For example, my American debit card. After droppping a hefty €92.20 on a metro pass, my cash was just about out. So I went to the ATM to replentish my supply. Didn't work. Even though before I left, I spent hours on the phone, making sure this would not be a problem. Still it was. I will not go into the details of the new problems, of which there were several. All this on a day when the metro contrôleurs had fined me €28 because I was in a zone where my pass was not valid. That my friends, was a bad day.

But the unexpected also works in my favor.

According to my contract, I can be assigned work in up to three schools. Three schools means a lot of traveling, especially if they're far apart, and more classes and kids to keep straight. I was only assigned two schools. Even better, the directors worked together so that I work two days in one school, two in another. No travel between classes required. Even better, I'm not working Friday afternoons or Monday mornings. Or Wednesdays. My contract does not guarantee such a good schedule. But I was lucky. Receiving my schedule made today a good day.

Tomorrow, who knows? We'll just have to wait and see.

Metro tix and Apartmints

I went to Paris tonight for dinner at a friend's place. Getting there and back, I accumulated many metro tickets. I'm not metro savvy yet, which might explain how I somehow purchased a children's all-day ticket, valid specifically Saturday, Sunday and holidays, specifically in zones 1 through 5. Needless to say, that one was useless, so I had to buy another.

The friend has a real-life Paris apartment with two roommates, like I would like to get. We had a realistic conversation about apartment hunting. Everyone's looking now, so there's a lot of competition. It could take a month to find a place. The government may reimburse me for part of my housing, but it's not guaranteed. I already knew these things, but hearing them said again dampered my 'yay! France!' mood a bit.

Also a mood killer: losing my metro ticket in a pocket somewhere on my trip back home. To transfer from the city metro to the suburban train, I needed to revalidate my ticket. The one I lost. I found two others, but not the one I needed.

As I frantically searched, I heard someone say "Passez! Passez!" He had just validated his ticket and was waving me through before the doors closed. "Merci" I said with a smile.

A few minutes later, as I waited for the train, I found the correct ticket. I gathered it with all the others. Four frustrating tickets for one trip to Paris. Meh, whatever. A nice man helped me through, and I found the ticket eventually. I just had to look in every pocket.



Roundabout close to my close-to-Paris home (but not yet Paris apartment).

To shower or not to shower

Return from long run. Or wake up to the sun, when your body clock says it's really seven hours earlier.

Look forward to a shower. Stand lazily in tub and allow a strong stream of hot water on your face to work its magic. After a short time, all fatigue mysteriously evaporates.

Not in France.

The above senario requires that the shower head is attached to the wall. A shower curtain helps, too. These are foreign to European showers. So instead, one has to hold the shower head in front of one's face.

For an American who has been spoiled by the conveniences of American-style showers, this is just too much work. Am I supposed to sit or stand? Am I spraying water everywhere? My arm is getting heavy.

Maybe I'll start drawing more baths.


The dreaded shower. I know what you're thinking. It looks handsome. But as all girls know, a handsome boy isn't always worth your trouble. Same with showers. I'd be willing to ugly it up a bit with a curtain rod and shower curtain.

Life thus far; Taverny

This morning, I awoke from a 12-hour deep sleep and peeked out my window. Jean-Jacques was tinkering in the garden. I love that my window looks out into a garden, and I love that I am living in the home of someone named Jean-Jacques, a runner, biker, artist and Macintosh (AND Nikon D200) owner.

For a moment or two or possbly three, I considered making this my home for my whole 9-month stay. The Riou home is minutes away from my work, my room is comfortable and dinner always includes heaping vegetables. What more could I want??

Problem is, before I left, I made a list of things I absolutely had to acomplish in France. #2: Live with French roommates. Jean-Jacques and his family are great. But they certainly are not French roommates.

The point of making the 4-point list was to push myself out of my comfort zone. After less than two days here, I would already consider myself comfortable. Soon the idea of scouring websites and making phone calls and visiting apartments in the name of "French roommates" will be less and less appealing.

But it's on The List. I thought hard before writing The List, and each item is very important to me. So I'm sorry to say I cannot let myself live here for 9 months.

On a different note, here are some photos I snapped of my school today. Since it's Sunday, it was closed. So I may or may not have snuck in. Okay, okay I just followed someone else through the front door, that's all.

Under Construkshun

Okay so there is a weird grey (or perhaps you prefer gray. Not even sure what's grammatically correct myself) box outlining my posts, and I guarantee future awkward colors & shapes here and there. I'm trying my hand at a blog redesign. As I've only taken one worthless html classes a couple years ago, this will take a lot of trial, error and time. So bear with me, please. Thnx. <3 me.

Literature and Ink

While browsing other blogs for design inspirations, I found one of my favorite sentences from literature.


Five points if you know where it's from.

It's a gorgeous sentence. I don't know if I would ever get it in tattoo form. Maybe.

See more of Lou O' Bedlam's work on flickr.

Packing List

I haven't started packing. I will soon. But I have started the process of accumulating things on the dining room table. I'll put everything on there that I would like to take. Then, I'll have to take out about half. But here are some things I will absolutely bring.

- Stickers. I might have a couple thousand, from a summer of stalking Target's dollar spot and the like. Stickers aren't a part of French school culture. But kids of all cultures love their stickers. I plan to bribe those little frenchies to make them be good.

- Heaps of over-the-counter meds. Ibuprofen, NyQuil, DayQuil, Pepto-Bismol to name a few. In France, you have to go to the doctor, get a prescription, then go to l'pharmacie for any of those things. Also, the French versions suck. Also, not worth the time or expense, especially when I'm sick, especially when I can just bring the delicious American drugs in my suitcase.

- GU Energy Gels and powdered Gatorade. Again, not available in France. I just registered for the Paris marathon. I can't train without the proper energy replacements. What do French athletes eat on their training runs, wine, cheese and baguettes? (probably).

Departure: SOON

I am leaving the country in 10 days. What? I feel like I should be running around freaking out. But I'm not. Just sitting here with Libby, my cat.

What I Will Miss

I'm on Megabus right now, using the free Megabus wifi. Earlier, I was placing holds on library books with my library's online system. The bus was 45 minutes late, but round-trip from Chicago to Columbia only cost me $34. So there's not much to complain about.

Wifi is almost unheard of in France. So are free libraries, and convenient online systems from which you can order and renew books from your personal computer. Not being on time is pretty standardly French, but bus tickets this cheap are not.

And an unrelated end note. The dude sitting next to me on this bus is obnoxious. He's way too old for the college-aged Megabus crowd. But he is not above spending the whole bus ride on his phone, talking very loudly about how wasted he gets all the time. Shenanigans in Peurto Rico, Istanbul, Madrid, wherever. Miraculously, he's never been jailed. Nope, not once. He just told the dude on the phone that Noel is no longer with them, which "is between you and me." Since he just told the whole bus, I believe he is incorrect.

Faint Memory of Barcelona

In redesigning the format and purpose of my blog, the header I've had forever is going to have to go. This one:

"He said he could see the shadows of two people dancing. they're in front of the tables. they're waltzing around. Her head is on his shoulder. you can tell by the way he holds her that he loves her." "That's a nice story. I'm sorry I don't see it."

It's from an exhibit I saw at a museum in Barcelona in the spring of 2007. I was alone exploring the city, I didn't speak Spanish, and I remember feeling very lonely. Thus, I was in the perfect mood to poke through a museum, where I would not have to speak to anyone and could contemplate art and life.

The exhibit: dark and old looking, and quite creepy. Strange and unstrange scenes, such as a bedroom or a medical office. Dialogues and sounds were activated as you stepped into each space. You felt as if you were stepping into someone's life, getting a little piece of it, then stepping out.


The dialogue I liked the most was the one I wrote down, and later slapped on my blog. I sat in a chair and listened to the voices of a man and woman. I interpretted that it was about hope and about love. Maybe these are two people who can never be together because they cannot hope and love in the same way.

You can make whatever story you want out of it. But there is some story. I like people's stories, and that is probably why I liked this exhibit.

Learn more about the exhibit, titled "Dark Pool," here.

Bzz bzz bzz

After a week of furious cleaning, menu planning and weather worrying, Sunday's honeybee party went on without a hitch. Papa Mikel gave a brave demonstration to the guests, Momma Mikel worked furiously in the kitchen and Mikel sisters were as dashing and entertaining as they ever were. Here I present to you the photos. Don't be jealous you weren't there.

I bought a dog bee costume at Target. But all three of our golden retrievers are too big for it. Here, Addie sports just the hat.

Dad smokes the bees while Amy brushes them off. Dad admits to being stung once, but we wonder if it was more.

This would have been a lot cooler of a picture if I had reversed the focus. Why do I always do that?

The bees of Hive #12.

Try some Mikel honey? Watch out, this batch had ants in it.

Feeling Better

The other day, I sent an email to my friend expressing a lot of my concerns: shipping off to a foreign country, leaving friends and family, not knowing anyone, trying to get the hang living and working there. In reading his reply, I realized how negative of an impression I gave him.

I don't always feel hopeless and discouraged when looking forward to this whole France thing. Sometimes I do. But just as often, I'm excited about all these challenges. As I'm trying to push through the piles of paperwork I anticipate the French will throw on me, I can always take a break and picnic under the Tour d'Eiffel. I'm not complaining about that.

I booked a hostel today, because I fear that my constant efforts to secure some sort of interim housing while I look for an apartment might not work. So I'll have to stay in a hostel for a week while I look for some dingy futon to sleep on. Then while sleeping on the dingy futon, I will look for an apartment. It's not the worst thing ever, as I feared it might be. It really will be okay.

uncertain

I've been going to lots of doctors appointments and things lately, where I'm always asked if I'm going back to school. No, I'm moving to France, I say. And then they gush about how that is just so exciting, they wish they could do something like that.

Yesterday or the day before I cried a little because I am scared about France.

How nice it would be to get a job and an apartment here and start building a comfortable little life for myself! But instead I am shipping off to this whole other country where I know hardly anyone, hoping I can make a good year out of it.

I feel better today, more confident about the whole thing. I am excited. I am. And it's terrifying at the same time. Adventures are fun, just less fun when they're taken on alone. I am more prepared for France than I was last time, so I hope that I can get more out of it. I just wish I could be as excited as all those receptionists at the doctor are.

Like Ryan in "The Office"

While between two important stages in my life (finishing college/internship and moving to France), I have made the even more live-changing decision to be a temp.

Temping is okay. I'm making a little bit of money, and the whole time I'm reminding myself this isn't my real life. Makes it easier to spend the day shredding paper (last summer) or handing out little fliers to people who don't want them (current temp job).

But it is depressing. At my last temp job, I had a very strong impression that everyone in the office pretty much hated their work. I only had to do boring work for a few weeks. But these people had to do it every day. Working a job you hate for years? It was downright depressing. They hated their jobs. So I hated mine, because even after I left, I knew they would all still be there, still miserable.

Yet here I am, temping again. I like this job better, because I get to walk around. In speaking with my salaried coworkers, I wonder if I would ever do this job for real. It's not what I love, but it's not horrible. And they have health insurance. Pretty good deal. I hate how much of an adult I sound like right now.

Chicago Weekend

I was in the city this weekend, and was so sad to have to come back to the suburbs. But I have to work at 6:15 a.m. tomorrow, and so the fun was over. Ate at a BYOB restaurant, so Amy and I enjoyed some wine and sushi, caught some Olympics, then went to see Showgirls at the Music Box. It was horrible and long, but pleasantly campy. Seeing that movie with a rowdy audience was fun. Then Amy and I planned to wake up to check out the triathlon downtown, but never made it there because we slept late.

In the afternoon, I went to this cool hipster salon and chopped off a ton of hair, which I intend to donate. Then saw a friend of a friend's dance/rhythm performance, ate some ice cream. Went running with Amy, watched the Olympic closing ceremonies, drove home.

Good weekend.

What Claudia Wore

My sister and I sometimes play this game where we try to recall events from books we read as children. Usually it's Babysitters Club or American Girl Books.

Like this: remember when Mallory's dad lost his job and her little sister really wanted a new Barbie but she didn't get it because they couldn't afford it?

Or: remember when Samantha's aunt took her to get ice cream at the end of "Changes for Samantha," but Samantha decided to get strawberry ice cream like she always did, because some things never change?

Well, on a similar note, my sister discovered this blog that chronicles the babysitter club character Claudia's wardrobe.

Check it out here.

Crash!

I fell off my bike a little less than a week ago. I was speeding down a hill, decided last minute to move onto the sidewalk, got stuck in between the sidewalk and grass, found myself in a heap with my bike on the ground.

It hurt. I was going to walk home, but walked to a friend's house closeby instead. Her boyfriend drove the bike and me home, where I sat and felt sorry for myself for several hours because my left shoulder was killing me.

I should have been wearing a helmet, and I'm lucky I didn't hit my head. I'm most pissed at myself for letting it happen in the first place, because this shoulder thing really sucks. When I go running, all I can do is let my arm hang limply at my side. It's uncomfortable and not efficient. Putting my two-foot long hair up in a ponytail requires concentration. It's getting better though. And my bike wasn't hurt at all. The handlebars got messed up, so I took it in, but the dude just bent them back into place.

Once my shoulder is back in full swing, I'm excited to bike riding again. I'll just be a bit more careful.

Alternative Story Telling

Ira Glass of This American Life, one of my icons, believes heavily in music. The surface of his hour-long show is just a bunch of often strangely related stories. If it weren't for the music that plays under the stories and throughout the pauses, the radio show would lack a lot of depth, tone and general appeal.

I stumbled on this article from Good Magazine about urban rooftop bee keeping. Check out the video part of the package. This video isn't terribly complicated. This offers just as much information as a similar news story would. But I wouldn't want to watch the news. The problem with the news is it's boring. In my opinion, it sucks.

Why don't news reporters pull the camera off the interviewee for a second and show a different perspective, why don't they incorporate music into their newscasts, why don't they run relevant sound tracks and images together? Is it too featuresque?

I would really just like a frozen pizza

My fridge? Kind of empty right now. I really want to go to the store and buy glorious heaps of vegetables and goodies for the cupboard, but that would be silly. I'm leaving in less than a week, so the wisest thing to do is eat up what I've got. Hamburgers, sloppy joes and Mac & cheese are going to power me through till Monday.

But I don't like it. In my lonely Des Moines existence, planning and preparing meals is one thing that has kept me company. Throwing together the last bits and pieces of food left in my kitchen makes me sad. Especially last night when the taco shells were stale.

I know once I hit the homeland, I can pretty much eat anything I want. Even if the fridge is packed full of stuff I don't like, mom will pick up what I do like at the store. So it's only for a few days that I'm in this icky fix. I have no reason to complain. Yet I'm complaining still.

First Iowa State Fair

Everyone at my office has been raving about this all summer. Or a few people have been raving enough that it seems like everyone has been. So I expected the Iowa State Fair to wow me as the be all, end all of fairs.

It wasn't.

Maybe it's because I went alone, or because I didn't do or see the right stuff. But it just seemed like a big frickin fair. Like the Illinois State Fair I went to a million times in my preteen years. It's just a lot of walking, fried foods and animals. It's cool for a few hours, but when I think about how I have to go back at least two more times… boooo.

Back

I took a 2 month hiatus from blogging, because I had a blog here. But I'm back now. Blogging almost every day has massively improved my mad blogging skills, so I hope my posts are less boring than before. Until next time. <3 me

Pretty

Amy sent me this photo:


Found via lilwilli's flickr photostream.