Père Lachaise at Last

Yesterday morning, I was impatiently tapping my foot and waiting for a late train when I heard this announcement: "Ladies and gentlemen. Due to a signaling problem, there will be no trains departing from this station before noon." I thought the train gods must have been smiling on me. Already at 8:00 a.m., it was shaping up to be a gorgeous day. And there was no way for me to get to work.

I had been waiting for a day such as this one to do a special something in particular. Now that I had a whole sunny day free to do what I pleased, I could finally go to Père Lachaise Cemetery. Pictures below:

Collection for the poor people of Paris. I have never seen one of these before.

Standard photo of tombs, just to give you an idea of what most of them look like.

Steps down into the crematorium.

My favorite crematorium plaque. All the rest were etched with fancy gold script, so this one really stood out.

Do you think those tombs are expensive? Nah, you can probably buy them at Target. Well France doesn't have Target, so Monoprix.

Oscar Wilde's resting place. Forgot my lipstick, so I didn't leave a kiss.

I crept inside someone's monument to take this one. I hope I didn't disturb any ghosts.

There were a few memorials for concentration camp victims. They really gave me the heeby jeebies.

I refuse to post a photo of Jim Morrison's tomb because I spent such a long time looking for it, and it was SO disappointing! If you are so inclined, you can take a virtual tour of the cemetery, and maybe you can see it yourself.

30 Minutes in Paris

I leave babysitting around 8 p.m. I'm hungry but don't feel like going through the trouble of the grocery store and lugging things all up the stairs and messing around in the kitchen. So I head towards the street of a million falafels, a street in the old Jewish neighborhood that has seven or so restaurants specializing my new favorite food.

To order the best falafel in Paris would mean to wait a long time in line, and I am hungry now, so I go to a place that is maybe not as good, but pretty good. One falafel à emporter, but please not with those red vegetables. I don't even know what they're called in English. Maybe they're beets. I should probably learn the French word regardless, so I don't sound so ignorant.

Falafel in hand, so I walk towards the nearest metro station, but don't enter. Eating in the deep dark depths of a filthy, smelly, mouse-infested tube does not appeal to me. Instead I sit on a bench next to a woman also eating falafel.

She is very French, and I am not. She has removed one leather glove to aid in the eating of her sandwich. She is wearing these shoes, these Victorian-era laced high heels that are very popular amoung the chic French ladies. She does not spill falafel on her red coat. I, on the other hand, am dropping bits left and right. I am very self concious of my Americanness as I sit next to her. It's not so much the jeans and Converse shoes that give me away. It's my orange North Face backpack, which is definitely not French and definitely not chic.

She leaves to meet a friend and two new women sit down, one on either side of me. They are talking on their cell phones. I listen to their conversations and think about how there was once a time when I my French was not good enough to understand people's cell phone conversations.

A man asks for the time, and I get nervous. Not really nervous, just a little bit, because I am really bad at giving the time in French. I still translate the 24-hour clock into the 12-hour clock. It makes sense to me, in my head, but not to other people who understand the 24-hour clock in a normal way. I tell him it's a little after eight, but he gives me this very puzzled look, so I hold up my phone with 20:31 on it, but he can't see it for some reason, maybe he has bad eyesight, so finally I get my act together and tell him it's twenty o' clock and thirty minutes. He understands.

The woman on my left tells the person on the other end of the line that she is sitting next to someone eating… I don't know what… a falafel. I nod my head a bit as if to agree, because I feel it would be more awkward if I did not acknowledge that she was talking about me. She meets this person two seconds later, and off they go.

I pick at my sandwich for a few minutes more, but end up tossing the last third. Down into the metro. It's Line 1, which isn't really convenient for me. I'm not in the mood to make several metro transfers tonight, so I take this line as close as it goes to home and walk the rest of the way.

On the walk home, I think about how I'm starting a grown-up job tomorrow, and what that means. My thoughts are sidetracked when I decide to stop into a store. I buy some of that yogurt I was telling you all about for dessert, chocolate with coconut flakes. I get some tea too, because when I woke up this morning I had no voice, and after teaching all day, my throat aches.

And then I go home.

Best Yaourt in the World

I would like to dedicate this post to French yogurt. I've tried many times to "get into" yogurt back home. But it's either too liquidy or too Splenda-y tasting. French yogurt is way superior to United States yogurt. My favorite brand is Mamie Nova.

It comes in packets of two. There are unbelievable flavors, such as coconut, mint chocolate and acacia sugar & honey. Maybe that sounds nasty. I agree that a Yoplait version of mint chocolate sounds nasty. But this is no Yoplait. Marie Nova is more on the level of gourmet yogurt. It is so so so good.

I just had to write this post because I just polished off a caramel & chocolate Marie Nova yogurt, and I wanted to pay my respects. I can't wait to eat the other one tomorrow. If you ever come to France, you must get this yogurt. Forget about the Eiffel Tower or the Arc de Triomphe. Maire Nova yogurt. I'm telling you. Believe me. They also have a cute website (if you would ever have a reason to visit a site dedicated to yogurt), too.

Part 6: Luzern, Switzerland

The last and final leg of our trip was my favorite. Luzern was the smallest city we were in, and maybe that's why I enjoyed it. It was a nice change. And the mountains. Oh yes, the mountains. Luzern is surrounded by them.

But before we could go up high in the glorious mountains, we had some things to check off our list. Like take a walk around the city just after sunset.

I think this might have been the oldest bridge in Switzerland. Or maybe that was the next bridge over. The photo below is the oldest one for sure, though. I wouldn't have taken a picture of just any old bridge if it weren't the oldest in the country:

One of the highlights of the city was the expensive-but-worth-it transportation museum:

Basically we're talking about every vehicle ever invented. I think this museum has them all. Here, I beat Jake hardcore in an ergometer race, one of my finest moments.

The glacier garden sounded like it would be really cool, but wasn't. But just after the exit, there was this random mirror maze. I don't know what it had to do with glaciers or gardens, but it's no matter. We got pretty lost, but finally made it out without cheating. Not without taking some pictures first, of course:

There were more mirrors outside, which made us giggle:

Finally, we used our last day to take an excursion up Pilatus.

Mountains, mountains everywhere. Also rows of lawn chairs. So you could just chill up there reading a book or contemplating life or whatever, which a lot of people were doing:

A nice person took our picture, but I am a dummy. Our backs are facing the uncool, unmountainous part. Oops. Well at least we got to look at them while the picture was being taken.

And lastly, the coolest thing we did, my most favorite-ist, was sled down the mountain. I don't have any pictures because I dismantled my camera before we got on the sleds. I also don't have any pictures of the whopping bruise I got when my sled actually got air, then slammed me back down with powerful force. It was fun. My biggest regret of the trip is not taking the cable car back up and sledding down again.

The End. I have no more posts to write about our Euro-trip. It's over now. Sad. :(

Part 5: Zürich, Switzerland

We took advantage of our Eurail passes and off we were to Zürich.

Played some travel Scrabble, chowed down on delicious Haribo gummy bears (my favorite), and took some photos of the scenery.

Our hotel was quite a hike away. At least we got some exercise. The receptionist was kind of rude so I made a mental note to never stay there again. Also she tricked us into paying heaps of money for a not-that-impressive breakfast. She made it sound like it was free. Oh well, we're dumb tourists.

We saw some cool stuff here. We visited the birthplace of Dadaism. The exhibit there didn't make any sense, which I guess was the whole point of the movement.

I took this picture in the upstairs café. It was a pretty hip place, but we didn't stay for food or drinks. Instead we stopped at a Sprüngli, self-proclaimed "creator of the finest Swiss Chocolate."

I'll back them up. That hot chocolate was superb. Its richness made me feel like I overdosed on chocolate. I couldn't even think about eating the tiny square of chocolate that came on the side, so I pocketed it for later (although I never got to eat it. I think I gave it to Jake later when he was grumpy about something).

This exhibit at the Design Museum was pretty cool. I was reminded of how I wasn't very successful in Magazine Design back at J-School. Those designers would have aced the class. There was only one exhibit at the museum though, which made us sad. We were excited to see lots of Swiss design.

Also, isn't this monkey awesome?

This wooly mammoth was at the natual history museum. I would have taken more photos, but it wasn't allowed. I took this one by accident. I'm not sure how many natural history museums I've been to in my life, probably heaps counting all the ones they force you to go to on school field trips. But this was, hands down, the best one. Usually these types of places shove a bunch of rocks in a glass case, and you are supposed to care just because they are really old. But this museum found creative ways to peak interest. Funny I can't put my finger on a specific one. I do remember that Jake and I messed up one exhibit by going through it backwards. Yes, we went backwards in history. Heh. Anyway. It was interesting, so if you ever have a chance, go.

We had some time to do one last thing before we left, so it was the zoo. It kind of smelled funny (like more than a typical zoo), and all the signage was written in German. But I understood this one!:

Part 4: Geneva, Switzerland

I would never tell anyone to go here. Unless you're really into having nothing to do and being really bored, well then go ahead. Luckily we only had a hotel room for one night, and luckily that hotel room had a tv. Although there were only one or two channels in English. Anyway. It was not cool. We couldn't wait to leave.

Weekend in Biarritz

Followers of my blog may remember that I bought some tickets to Biarritz. A couple weekends ago, I hopped on a relatively uncomfortable night train and went off the Paris grid. Off to Biarritz, which I immediately realized was the type of place you could have the oldest, crappiest, most good-for-nothing camera and still take gorgeous photos.

It was mostly a weekend of seeing sites and relaxing, so not much discuss. I'll just share some photos.

I meant to walk to the bus stop near my hostel, but ended up at this lake instead.

The ocean, duh.

Message in the sand (not written by me).


Old dudes who had just gone swimming, which must have been frreeeeezing.

Up on top of the lighthouse. I'm not acting like I am totally terrified, which I kind of am.

The light house itself. Couldn't get a really good shot, or I might have fallen.

Octopus at the sea museum says no paparazzi please.

The shark, on the other hand, just doesn't really care.

Different view of that same lighthouse.

Dinner, a €13 plate of Paella.

Last purchase before my night train back to Paris: a glass of wine from this seaside bar.

Mini Reflection

I am writing this post in my little Moleskine while I am leaning against a tree outside my apartment. The air feels so fresh after I left the hot metro. It just rained. I feels so good to be starting a job soon that will pay me to write. It feels so good to have finally accumulated all the papers I need to apply for the CAF. It feels so good to have all my lessons planned for tomorrow. It feels so good to have spent hours writing and crossing out and rewriting and to have finally think I have got it. I am getting rained on a bit. It feels good.

Part 3: Paris

I'm continuing my unfrequent updates on our trip. Here are Parts One and Two, if you didn't catch them.

Jake and I just made our 8:35 a.m. Eurostar train to Paris. I had to check out of the hotel first, and the receptionist was late. But it all worked out, we made it through security, got our passports stamped and hopped on just in time.

Paris was a bit more relaxing than Dublin and London. We found the time to accidentally take a 14-hour nap. I've always wanted to go up in l'Arc de Triomphe and watch all the traffic coming in from a million different directions. It stands in the middle of 12 streets, which all collide with no rhyme or reason in a circle around the arch. And we had a nice little dinner at a not-too-expensive restaurant I found close to my apartment.

Jake was all excited about seeing some sweet Parisian djs, but we kind of failed at that. One night we arrived at a club 12 a.m., which turned out to be much too early. The 10€ beers weren't enticing enough for us to stay until 4:00 a.m. We went to a different club the next night, but the guy's set wasn't very good. I felt personally responsible for the Paris dj sucking.

Here are a couple photos from this leg of the trip:


That's supposed to be Paris behind me, but it was all foggy and rainy.


And that's the Eiffel Tour. Ever heard of it?

More tales from the classroom

There is one class. Their teacher hates them. She told me that out of the 30 kids, maybe two are at performing at their nine-year-old level. When I am in the classroom next door, I can always hear her yelling at the top of her lungs. There are always three or four of them being punished at recess. No teacher wants to take the class next year. No one can control them.

I used to hate these kids. At the beginning of the year, I would stand outside the door before I entered the classroom, giving myself a prep talk. 'It's only 45 minutes,' I would tell myself. 'You can do this.'

Now, six months in, I'm not afraid of them. They continue to be a challenge, but I'm determined to get and maintain control of this class.

The fact that I am 22 years old with no teaching experience doesn't help my situation. But I think not being French does help. If I were French, I would lose my temper every time a kid gets out of turn. Then I woud get in the kid's face and scream. If he talked back to me, I would scream louder. Then he would either cry, or rudely mumble under his breath. Either way, I would scream some more.

But like I said, I'm not French. So I'm doing it the American way. Which is stickers.

At the beginning of class, they each get these name cards. If they are too chatty, or reading comics at their desks or smacking each other with their rulers, I take their cards. The kids who are able to hold onto their cards until the end of class get a sticker. I promised a prize to the person with the most stickers at the end of the year.

It kinda works, but once the kids lose their cards, they have no reason to be good. So I adapted my method a little. Now I also give out stickers during class to students who answer questions. The other day, I got almost 100% participation, which is huge, considering I usually have between two and three volunteers. Also, when there is the instant gratification of getting a sticker on the line, they shut up; another rare occurrence with this class.

I'm not saying I've found the perfect solution to transform these into angel children, but maybe I'm getting there. Even if I don't succeed, at least I am learning something valubale. Outsmarting children into behaving well entails thinking like children think.

10 New Words

When I arrived home last night after a 9-hour babysitting bender, I decided it was time. I bought my ticket to Croatia.

I'll be going for 10 days in about a month. I am excited about this trip, and I am going to put a lot into researching and reading so I can make the most of my time there. I want to be prepared as possible. This will help me conquer the I'm-going-to-Croatia-alone jitters.

One of the best ways to do this is to learn a few new words. When Jake and I were in the German side of Switzerland, I was really embarrassed that we didn't know how to say simple things such as "excuse me." Even though a majority of people we needed to communicate with spoke English, I find it ignorant to not make at least a teeny effort to speak the country's language.

I predict I might be asking for a lot of help in Croatia, specifically regarding directions. So I am setting out to learn 10 new Croatian words. I'm sure there are resources online that can teach me pronunciation.

So what 10 hrvatski jezik words do you recommend I learn? I know I have some readers out there who have done a bit of traveling in their days. Leave me a comment on the blog, or send me a facebook or twitter message.

Part 2: London

Jake and I flew in from Dublin on our €5 Ryanair tickets. Our hotel was a sigh of relief after the icky hostel. It was definitely a budget hotel, a bit musty, with a hole in the bathroom wall hidden by a piece of computer paper. But it was a hotel nonetheless, breakfast included. We were happy.

So it was onto our two-and-a-half day grand tour of the city. We met up with some of Jake's friends and saw as much as we could in the time we had.

For me, London was a great change from Paris. I find Paris incredibly filthy, but London is not. This was very strange becaue Paris has millions of garbage cans, sometimes two or three clustered together in one location. Finding a garbage can in London was like playing Where's Waldo. I think there might be five in the whole city. But it's still so clean! How does that work?

Unlike Dublin, I loved walking around here. The architecture made me feel all warm and bubbly. Here's the street our hotel was on. I love how open and airy the buildings were. I understand why it's expensive to live here, because they're huge old classic buildings that take up a lot of space. Old and big is not cheap real estate. But it is beautiful real estate.


London is old city, that's definitely clear. But it's arms are open for the new. I took this pictue from St. Paul's cathedral. I like a city that is willing to change, while still respecting its roots.


I liked this photo too. In the backround, you can see the London Eye, the ferris wheel. That would have been cool to go up in, but it costs something like 35 pounds for a ride. Kind of like everything in London.



I'm not really happy with the pictures I took here. Nothing really captures what I am trying to say about the city. There was so much color in the buildings. Once again, I'm comparing it to Paris, where everything is old-yellowed-stone color. Here, white! Red! And old-yellowed-stone color too, but mixed in with other colors.

Out of all the sites we saw and things we did, I think my favorite was going to see a play. I probably wouldn't have done this if we hadn't been with a theater buff. I seriously had no idea how big shows and musicals are in London. The one we saw was called 39 steps.


It's an adaptation of a Hitchcock film, but funny. There are only four actors. The one main guy plays the same role throughout the whole show, then the other three play every other character. I enjoyed it.

I also liked the Tate Modern, which Jake and I squeezed in at the very last minute. My favorite there was a Roy Lichentein series paying homage to Monet's haystacks.

I wished we could have stayed longer in London and done more. Three days is definitely not enough time for the city. But I can always go back. It was soon time for us to leave the other two, who were heading to Dublin, while Jake and I made our way to Paris.

Flying to Croatia on a Whim ??

Okay, okay so it's not really a whim. I have been thinking about Croatia for awhile now, actually for months, ever since my friend Kate from J-School talked about how it changed her life. I want to change my life, too. So I have been planning to get there while I am on this continent.

I found a round-trip tickets on Orbitz for about $230. A great price, from what I am seeing with other flights. Much cheaper than other people have paid. It's even cheaper than the 30-hour cheapo budget bus, which is $280.

What's on the table? Croatia. For 10 days, a week or even two. And probably alone. Should I do it?

Cons:
- Impulse buys are bad. I impulsively bought what I thought was a cool hoodie for €60 and it is the worst hoodie I have ever owned in my life. It's pilling and falling apart and is all mishapen.
- What if my dream writing job falls from the sky during that time period, and I can't accept it because I am in Croatia?
- Can I spend two weeks with myself?
a. Will I get really lonely?
b. Will I get really lost? (VERY important question to consider. This happens to me often, even in places I have lived in for years. Maybe the better question is 'how many times will I get really lost?')
c. Will I get really ill and no one will be there to take care of me/feel sorry for me?

Pros:
- I have been thinking about going for months
- The weather should be almost just right for beaches and things
- I can do whatever I please as a solo tourist
- How bohème it would be of me. How bohème it would make me. You probably couldn't handle how bohème I would be after a trip to Croatia
- I keep hearing Croatia is very cheap
- I keep hearing Croatia is very beautiful
- I keep hearing Croatia is very awesome

Well I won't buy the ticket tonight. Maybe this weekend, after some more thought and research. Hopefully that cheap fare doesn't disappear in a couple days.

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.