Roma

Stage directions: Volcanic cloud drop down over Europe, stop me from going to Greece. Lady at the train station guichet finds me one of the last train tickets to Rome. The next day I board the train. What a compartment. 2 Americans who speak French (including myself), an Indian woman who speaks English, but no French or Italian, a French woman who speaks English, an older Italian man who speaks a touch of French, and an older Italian woman reading a French novel, who spends her time in and out of the compartment. Just making the seats into beds could have been a story in itself, with the parcels of languages swirling together to create the conversation. Then, we all shared the communal language of sleep. Upon waking, it was goodbye train compartment story, hello historic Rome. Ross, a friend from my baby group arrived at the station to receive me and off we went to his huge apartment filled with rowdy, fratty boys. The testosterone, although a bit much, was a nice change from the estrogen pumped days of Paris. Bag-drop at the apartment was quickly followed by a whirlwind tour of the city. Coliseum, the Forum, Piazza Venezia, Vatican, Pantheon, St. Angelo’s, check, check, check. To top it off, Rome decided to celebrate its birthday the first day I arrived in Rome, thus my night closed with the most amazing fireworks show I have ever seen, complete with an intense classical soundtrack blasting and an important Italian track race projected on the buildings. Welcome to Rome. The rest of the trip was as blissful as the first day was exciting. One night consisted of relaxing on a roof of a Roman apartment building, one of watching fire dancers from an 8-story high balcony, one of the Trevi fountain and one of a strange mélange of someone from every stage of my life (baby, elementary school, high school, college, Paris). Upon leaving Rome, the pouring down rain gave me a big wet kiss goodbye, knowing that the city had successively convinced me that a return would be a must.

Unorganized books: In and out of Paris

Unfortunately each detail, even major ones, such as my trip to Scotland are going to have to be skipped over a bit. I do want to keep updating, so I am going to jump into certain new experiences, events, emotions etc. If a backdrop is necessary I will try to provide one. My second half of my Paris sejour is in action and I am finally starting to acclimate. On the most noticeable level, my French skills continue to improve to the point where I feel wonderfully comfortable and excited to converse with others. Whereas before I attempted to avoid situations in which I was called upon to speak French, now I seek them out. Some of my favorite experiences have been due to this newly acquired French-seeker personality trait. For example, as a late birthday present my 30-year old man friend invited me to a wine tasting where I took in 3 hours worth of wine history, geography and of course taste. It ended up being much larger than I had imagined. Before I arrived, I pictured a wine cave with about 4 types of wine to try. Instead, we entered 3 auditoriums full of wine booths. For experiences here, information comes in clumps that can be both exciting and quite overwhelming. This was no exception. French language+wine terms+managing not to give too many flirtation signals to 30 yr old+3 hours of time. Outside of crazy wine tasting French-learning experiences, I have been spending time getting to know my French friends. It’s a blast to go in and out of English and French with ease when speaking with my bilingual frenchies. I have also learned some valuable grammatical lessons outside the classroom, such as using “nous” is incredibly formal and more of a written French than spoken, most frenchies use “on” when expressing “we.” French friends, wine tastings, picnics in the park and springtime are casting a new light on this city and I am feeling quite situated. This week after a ton of traveling debacles due to the Icelandic volcano, I am in fact off to Rome via train. Hopefully “Fille a Paris” will slide smoothly into “Fille a Rome.”

The Books: Part 1: Amsterdam

Amsterdam in the Netherlands. St. Andrews in Scotland. Both insanely beautiful. Each with its own unique personality. As everyone knows, Amsterdam has a personality. It seems though that within that, everyone finds his/her own definition and experience of the city. My friends and I stayed at the Flying Pig hostel, which was my first hostel experience, and the hostel definitely contributed to my overall impression of Amsterdam. The bar within the hostel was really laid-back, and an environment in which it was easy and exciting to meet people from all over the world. One night we spent some time with a group of guys from Spain who surprised their friend for his Bachelor party and flew everyone to Amsterdam for the weekend. Apparently a Spanish Bachelor party in Amsterdam consists of as many Yaeger bombs as there are countries in Europe and the about-to-be-married-man in a bull fighting costume, which he then changes out of and gives to someone else for the night. Well, at least that’s what we witnessed. Another late night, relaxing at the hostel, we met two very philosophical British men who insisted we write down books to read and movies to see and then email them with our reflections. I even received some personalized psychoanalysis input. The exercise began with imagining a cube in a desert. Then, the size and color indicated certain aspects. A car-sized blackish-green cube entered my mind. Size represents ego, and therefore my ego is a bit over medium, because it was not the size of something like an ant, but it also wasn’t a building. The colors were particularly interesting to my British analyzer, but he came to the conclusion that the green represented my organic and true nature, while the black exposed a bit of a guard that I put up. Anyway, it was a conversation I enjoyed and would have never expected to have. Nonetheless, the hostel was of course not the only venue visited in Amsterdam. Much of my time was spent exploring by walking. While it was quite confusing to have tons of canals when I am used to one river helping me locate myself in Paris, the canals gave the city an earthy feel. Since buildings and homes line the canals, creating a paradoxical harsh and quaint neighbor to the water, they create an almost cartoonish land in which one traverses. The large groups of swans add to that setting. The red-light district throws off your comfort, but also peeks interest because of its insane history. The Van Gough museum added even more beauty to the already attractive Amsterdam. Dynamic is the best word I can find to define the experience, the culture, the city.

The First Bookend: Parisian Date

Apologies for the belatedness, it became one of those things that I kept putting off because it had been so long and I had so much to catch up on that I didn’t want to face it. Thus, here I am, now with much to relate, so I might split it up. The first part will consist of Parisian outings bookending European traveling, and the second will hope to include the rest since those events. As usual, the French men appropriately infiltrate my blog entries. Before leaving Paris I was asked out on my first Parisian date, French man and all. I met this homme at a concert a few weeks earlier, and that night I spent time with him and a group of friends enjoying some great European electronic music and speaking French; I couldn’t ask for much more. Over French text message conversations we agreed to meet at a bar in my neighborhood (the 6th). I arrived. 15 minutes later, he arrived. We walked in and cozyied up in the corner. Once situated, we headed to the bar and spoke with the bartender about a good dry red wine we could drink. My date looked to me for an opinion, however as I informed him, my wine experience is quite minimal, so he was alone on the decision-making. Back to the table, bottle of wine and two glasses in hand, there I was, on my date—a place unfamiliar, a man unfamiliar, a concept (the date) unfamiliar. Pleasantly surprised aptly describes my impression of the whole experience. We ended up talking, yes in French, for 3 hours. While the chemistry was not apparent, my date’s goofiness was a blast and quite refreshing. After, he walked me towards my apartment, we “bise”-ed (cheek kisses) goodnight, and he said he would like if I called when I returned, but it was up to me. A day later, trusty facebook informed me of a couple of facts, the first being that my French date had friended me on the site, the second being his birthday—1980. At that moment, that made him 10 years older. Also, it should be noted that he definitely knew my age, because we discussed my upcoming birthday. Therefore, although I was just becoming fully adjusted to Paris, the timing of my 2-week trip to Amsterdam and St. Andrews came in a timely fashion, so that I could put off facing the 30-year-old man situation.

Paris, we need to talk

I just had my one-month anniversary with Paris. Perhaps we are still supposed to be in the honeymoon period, but that has not stopped me from some critical reflection. My reflections have included: Paris overwhelms me with so much to do, Paris amazes me, Paris makes me feel lonely, Paris shocks me, Paris doesn’t know me, I am not letting Paris in, I am trying too hard to let Paris in, Paris allows me to explore, Paris helps me be comfortable with myself alone, Paris isn’t what I thought it would be, I don’t know how to feel about Paris. It is so strange to feel angsty about the most renowned city in the world. I am peeling back its layers and it keeps on giving to me; for some reason I am searching for more. Maybe it’s the only child in me, maybe it’s that I only thought about the positives before arriving here, since I only had 10 days at home and reflection on studying abroad didn’t fit into my Blackbird coffee dates. Nonetheless, Paris is undoubtedly incredible at the same time. I have been quite spoiled by everything, ranging from viewing the stain glass windows of Saint Chappelle, trying the most famous hot chocolate in the world, seeing a view of almost the whole city while at Sacre Coeur, hiding under uncomfortable giggles while in the eroticism museum, buying wine for 2 Euros and promenading through Versailles for free on a Sunday morning. Wow, I should never complain. I do really like Paris, and I am loving improving my French, but I do miss home, whether that is my parents, Claremont, my friends, Bainbridge, Sparky, Grandma, CMC parities, Los Angeles, the sun, salads or just all of the above. But, perhaps Valentines Day will boost my intimacy with my new lover, Paris.

French friends? or...

Today’s topics: pick up lines accompanied with a casual Louvre visit and a wise Aunt’s advice, perhaps not in that order and perhaps not that cut and dry. All of us study-abroaders really want local friends. To truly live in your place (Paris for me) it would mean to have some kind of network in the city. In the past I have been put in situations in which everyone is searching for a friend in the place that they are in, therefore it’s simple. College, they throw you into a small room with a stranger; track, they throw you up cement hills with crazy coaches yelling—everyone needs the solstice of the others around. Here, the Parisians appear to be in their particular groove. Without me, they will go on in that chic groove. Kate G. told me that you lose a part of personality when you arrive abroad, because broken phrases transfer into broken personality. She is spot on. However, Aunt Linda says that it’s your energy and broken phrases are not always equivalent to a void in personality. So…game plan is to lose the insecurity energy pulsing through me, I’ll let you know how that goes. The convo with Aunt Linda was abruptly stopped by my rendezvous with Annie and Sarah at the Louvre. On Friday nights after 6pm people under 26 get into the Louvre for free. It was quite empty. It’s amazing how free you feel when you can waltz into rooms full of history, grandeur and art. While the Louvre is incredible, some might not think it is proper Friday night material, which is why it was followed up by rue de Princess, a popular street of pubs. As I waited, alone for a friend, I realized the comforts of home were MIA; no familiar faces, no ability to pop on the phone with Ali to have her keep me company, just the rue et moi et beaucoup de garcons. Up to this point, the encounters with unknown men in Paris had been interesting, but this night added an entertaining new chapter. Before, there were a few “tu es tres belle”s and some “mademoiselle…”s, oh there was also the guy who came up and asked me if I had heard of some band, after I responded with a no, he was like well you should check in out myspace and come to a concert. At the chance of maybe having a French friend I was somewhat interested and asked for the band name again, that’s when I led him to the place he wanted; he answered and told me that if I forgot the band name he could give me his number and I could give him a call. Uh huh. I told him I would remember. I think it’s Gachettes something… Anyway, that leads me back to last night, back on the street, alone in front of a few pubs. An older Italian man approached, “Ca va?” “Oui, ca va,” after introductions he told me to come with him for a drink. When I told him I was waiting for a friend, he goes, “Well, you have a mobile phone, yes? So, you call your friend and tell your friend you are having a drink with me.” No thanks. After that episode my friend Trevor arrived and we entered the pub, The Little Temple, a packed Irish-style pub. The music definitely gave it a fun character, swinging strangely from Jay-Z and Kanye to Motown and then a little Irish jig music. After chatting it up with Trevor for a while, the first move was made by a guy in the bar—a paper plate was thrown in my direction. Minutes later a new paper plate was accompanied by a French man who said he had been sent over by his friends and that it was imperative that he get an answer to a certain question, that question being, “what is your father’s name?” After receiving his answer he returned to his table chuckling. When I returned to my conversation with Trevor, not much was said before I got my big shock. A pinch of my toosh—the culprit a French guy at the paper-plate-throwing table. Now, this table was not super close, one must know that this was a reach and then pinch. When I approached he assured me it was an accident. Oh Paris, paper-plates and ass grabbing, no need to go to the Louvre, I’ve found the charm I’ve been looking for.

Food and Tights-under-jeans Cold

Today, an excursion to Dijon. Yes, it is a place, a place de moutard if you will. Except we ate everything but moutard. First there was a wait in a cold train station…never done that before. Then a ride on the TGV, which is great. Once we arrived in Dijon we went to a restaurant in which we witnessed a little cooking demonstration. The French chef made these wonderful cheese scone-ish delights consisting of butter, water, flour, eggs, a pinch of salt and cheese. Watching the chef make them was probably the highlight of the whole day. After the demonstration(read in a French accent) we sat down to a 200 course meal; some plates and drinks included: hardboiled egg soaked in something on bread, shredded carrots, beef and green beans, crème a cassis, red wine, cheese, bread, white wine, poached pear and cassis ice cream. Even listing it is tedious—imagine the meal. Apres dejeuner we headed out to the streets of Dijon for a detailed tour of the town, which potentially could have been interesting. However, snow and weather below 20 degrees greeted us as we walked for almost 2 hours outside. Everyone was miserable. When that was finally done we all went our separate ways for café crème or chocolate chaud and then some of us braved walking outside the cafes for a little shopping. Somehow after returning to Paris a group of 6 of us had enough room in our stomachs for more food, and we actually went to a great sushi restaurant that was quite reasonable. Tomorrow we shall see qu’est-ce qu’il passe, but I can probably guarantee more cold and more eating.