An American Girl in Avignon
Monday, June 22, 2009
Just an American Girl, who lived in Avignon, vive-ing ma vie...
June 21st What's next?
It’s been a week and a day and, here I am, finally finishing my blog and finally beginning to overcome that oh-so-nasty jet lag, listening to French music and reminiscing on my time in France. It’s an odd feeling putting your whole life on pause and then going to live abroad, leaving behind everything and almost everyone you know and love. You want to know an even weirder phenomenon?: going back. Did I have a life before France? It sounds weird, but it’s almost like you forget that your life “pre France” existed, and now that I have been home a week, it’s like France was all a dream. Or at it until I look at my pictures, hold my souvenirs, and go back and read my blog, and realize that it was for real! It happened. And even though it seemed too good to be true at the time, it wasn’t. It happened. All of it. France was an answer to prayer and exactly what I needed at exactly the right time in my life: an escape. Funny how this always happens. God always knows. Never fails.
I still feel the effects too, because the other day at the Chinese restaurant, I felt like a complete moron when I started speaking to the waitress in French.
As said, studying abroad couldn’t have come at a better time, and I still firmly believe that everything happens for a reason. My Minor is completed, and I changed while I was overseas. Got some culture, opened my mind to new ideas, saw and experienced so many new things. I think I grew not only in the area of French, but as a person. My character developed. I saw a commercial on TV today that said: “it seems when we get to a place where no one knows us, we become more ourselves.” Truth. I have changed for the better. I feel more condiment, almost empowered, to go after what I want and achieve my dreams. If you can live in a family that doesn’t speak English for three months and survive in a foreign country on your own, the sky seems to be the limit!
I was reflecting over my life these past two years and realized that God put everything in its perfect place at it’s perfect time, and although I may not have realized why certain things were happening at the time they were, and would constantly ask myself and wonder, “Why is this happening, God? I don’t understand,” well, He had a plan bigger and better than my own. He always does. I get it now.
My experience in France and my experiences abroad in China, Italy, Austria, Switzerland, England, Spain, and Germany (but especially China and France), have taught me that there is something bigger out there that we should all be fighting and striving for. I really feel that I am headed towards a career in international journalism or news. I’ve been bit by the travel bug, and it’s not going to die down anytime soon! Sure, it will be a hard life, but there’s so much to see and so much to learn! We’ve all been blessed with one life to live, so we might as well make the most of it.
So here’s a toast to France, to finding out who we all are (which doesn’t necessarily take traveling across the globe to find), and to opening up to new ideas. If you ever get the chance to study abroad, don’t let anything hold you back: money, love, attachment, fear. Drop it and…Go! The experiences you will have are life changing. You can’t put a price tag on anything I did these past three months, and I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world. So, “vive votre vie.” I was just an American girl living in Avignon, vive-ing ma vie (living my life).
It’s been a week and a day and, here I am, finally finishing my blog and finally beginning to overcome that oh-so-nasty jet lag, listening to French music and reminiscing on my time in France. It’s an odd feeling putting your whole life on pause and then going to live abroad, leaving behind everything and almost everyone you know and love. You want to know an even weirder phenomenon?: going back. Did I have a life before France? It sounds weird, but it’s almost like you forget that your life “pre France” existed, and now that I have been home a week, it’s like France was all a dream. Or at it until I look at my pictures, hold my souvenirs, and go back and read my blog, and realize that it was for real! It happened. And even though it seemed too good to be true at the time, it wasn’t. It happened. All of it. France was an answer to prayer and exactly what I needed at exactly the right time in my life: an escape. Funny how this always happens. God always knows. Never fails.
I still feel the effects too, because the other day at the Chinese restaurant, I felt like a complete moron when I started speaking to the waitress in French.
As said, studying abroad couldn’t have come at a better time, and I still firmly believe that everything happens for a reason. My Minor is completed, and I changed while I was overseas. Got some culture, opened my mind to new ideas, saw and experienced so many new things. I think I grew not only in the area of French, but as a person. My character developed. I saw a commercial on TV today that said: “it seems when we get to a place where no one knows us, we become more ourselves.” Truth. I have changed for the better. I feel more condiment, almost empowered, to go after what I want and achieve my dreams. If you can live in a family that doesn’t speak English for three months and survive in a foreign country on your own, the sky seems to be the limit!
I was reflecting over my life these past two years and realized that God put everything in its perfect place at it’s perfect time, and although I may not have realized why certain things were happening at the time they were, and would constantly ask myself and wonder, “Why is this happening, God? I don’t understand,” well, He had a plan bigger and better than my own. He always does. I get it now.
My experience in France and my experiences abroad in China, Italy, Austria, Switzerland, England, Spain, and Germany (but especially China and France), have taught me that there is something bigger out there that we should all be fighting and striving for. I really feel that I am headed towards a career in international journalism or news. I’ve been bit by the travel bug, and it’s not going to die down anytime soon! Sure, it will be a hard life, but there’s so much to see and so much to learn! We’ve all been blessed with one life to live, so we might as well make the most of it.
So here’s a toast to France, to finding out who we all are (which doesn’t necessarily take traveling across the globe to find), and to opening up to new ideas. If you ever get the chance to study abroad, don’t let anything hold you back: money, love, attachment, fear. Drop it and…Go! The experiences you will have are life changing. You can’t put a price tag on anything I did these past three months, and I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world. So, “vive votre vie.” I was just an American girl living in Avignon, vive-ing ma vie (living my life).
Reverse Culture Shock
June 13thThe 6:30 wakeup call came easier than expected. We knew we had to get out of there and fast. I had taken a shower at some early hour of the morning the night before, because I did not want to be gross when I saw my parents for the first time in three months. Sitting on a plane, in a car, in a bus, or train for hours on end is guaranteed to make one feel in need of a good scrubbing. I threw my clothes in my bag, did some rearranging, and made the triathlon bag-lifting challenge downstairs.
Riding in the taxi to Charles de Gaulle, which ended up costing a hefty 60 euros for the long trip and all of our bags, I thought: this is it. I am leaving France. I have to go to back to the United States. I wasn’t handling this well at all. I wondered if there was something wrong with me. Why didn’t I want to go home? Was home really that bad? Had I grown so accustomed to a culture so different from my own that I would never be able to look at my own the same way again? I watched the buildings seen by the revolutionaries, artists, and countless other famous figures go by my in the window, and as embarrassing as it is, I began to tear up a little. I didn’t want to lose myself right there in the cab, so I just swallowed and fought back the tears, vowing that I would return one day.
Getting to the first terminal, we said our quick adieus and went on our way, rolling pounds and pounds worth of luggage behind.
The Charles de Gaulle airport may be famous, but I think it earned its reputation from 1. Being in Pairs and 2. Being possibly the most confusing place on Earth. Tunnel-vision sloping moving walkways and creepy underground escalators that mirror something like the catacombs just add to the friendly touch. When I walked to my terminal’s gate, it was impossible for me to access the newsstand, because they have the security right by each section of gates and they trap you in there. It reminded me of the Frankfurt airport in Germany. They practically cage you in like animals. The only thing I could access was the café and the bathroom. I had a few euros left on me to spend, so I bought my last legal drink: a miniature rouge martini bottle to knock me out and my last pain o chocolat (bread with chocolate inside). I am going to miss those. Being me, I couldn’t resist some of that black, strong European coffee. Guess I haven’t changed that much, although I grew attributed to café au lait. I’m a black coffee girl any day.
Trapped, with no newsstand to access, I settled with sitting in the airport, I’m sure probably looking depressed and alone by just staring into space out of initial shock. I’m sure shoving that Martini bottle in my bag and lack-of-sleep bags under my eyes didn’t help my distressed appearance. The man next to me, probably feeling sorry for me, turned around and struck up a conversation. Who would have thought that I would be sitting next to an aerospace and medical research professor from MIT. Small world. He had been in Paris for a medical research conference and was going home to give his fiancé the ring he purchased in the city of love. P.S. this was where their honeymoon was going to be. I even got to see the ring! It was quite a rock. We talked for a little while longer and I told him about myself. What most stands out in my memory was his reaction when I said I was studying abroad as a freshman. He looked at me and said, “You studied in France as a freshman?! So, what’s next?” That was the moment. I’m usually really good at small talk, but I had absolutely nothing to say. What was next? It’s like winning the super bowl and then it’s over, so what are you going to do next? Well, I sure as heck wasn’t going to Disneyworld. I had a long plane ride to think of and answer it and finally found it.
What was next? Quebec next summer, of course and then… the internship in Paris for broadcasting. I’m sure as anything in this world that I am going to work like a dog to get it. I talked to my advisor about it this year already, and this is what I am working towards. I guess that means eventually working towards living and working in Paris for an international broadcasting corporation. The best part: you don’t even have to know French! Broadcasting major who knows French… I’ve got an up. I COULD see myself living in France one day. It would be hard leaving my friends and family behind, but when I have a goal in mind, most people who know me that I don’t take ”no” as an answer really well, when I know I can achieve something. I keep trying. “No” is only a reason to make me work even harder. Well, this is the goal/plan: Quebec next summer, which my parents approved, and Paris hopefully junior year. The excitement is not over, it’s only beginning. After all, la fin est seulement le début.
My plane ride home was restless. I was filled with nervous excitement about returning to the US. Thankfully, I had Melissa by my side, or I would have bawled and blubbered the whole way home. She traded seats with a cute French boy and his friend to sit next to me (dang Melissa, just kidding J, it was nice to sit next to someone you know. I wouldn’t have wanted to cry my eyes out in front of two cute French guys). I watched “He’s Just Not that Into You” while filling out that obnoxious customs/ “do you have anything to declare” sheet? Yes, I am bringing wine and illegal items and I am going to list every single thing I bought down to the last earring. Just kidding, but it’s kind of ridiculous.
After landing in Philadelphia, we had to recheck our bags. We went through customs where I was asked really absurd questions, and the guy looked at me like I was lying to him the whole entire time. It was quite comical. If he really wanted to know, I could have easily just opened my bag up for him if he wanted. We rechecked our bags and went through security for a second time, which was unnecessary. It’s not like we could have acquired any illegal items during the flight or from baggage claim to customs. The only thing in-between was a bathroom. There were lots of delays at the airport that day, so the place was an absolute zoo. People pushing and shoving every which way. I felt like I was in Europe again :)
During our year and a half layover of four hours, I did some shopping and then did some more shopping and walking around. Merely to distract myself. When I entered my home country, I experienced a phenomenon that people had been telling me about before I left. I thought that it was all a myth, but it’s not: reverse culture shock. I was shocked by how people dressed, especially the appearance of American boys. Where were the murses, or metro-influenced GQ collared shirts? Everywhere around me I saw sports team t-shirts and baggy pants. The American way of dress, hearing English spoken, and even the set up of the airport, the way people walked and carried themselves, all shocked me! It was foreign to me. I was experiencing complete and total reverse culture shock. What to do you when home doesn’t feel like home anymore? Where do you turn to? Elsewhere? No where? I didn’t know, nor did I have a clue. I was in shock. The initial shock is beginning to wear off, and things are getting easier, but as weird as it sounds, I’m still adjusting to living in America again. On the second plane ride, I knew I missed Europe. I felt out of place in my own country. When you don’t feel like you belong in your own country anymore, where are you supposed to turn? I guess to family and friends to make the adjustment easier.
I had no idea how to react when I saw my parents. I didn’t want to cry, because I had come too close to that on the plane, and I am not a crier. So, I clammed-up. I was upset, but I didn’t want to act like it, because I didn’t want to act like I wasn’t at least a little but happy/relieved to be home. We walked to the baggage claim in near complete silence after long hugs, not knowing what to say yet. One of my bags was missing, but finally turned up two days later. My first stop: Chipotle (I had missed it soo much. I’ve had it like five times since I’ve been home), then Starbucks, then it was home sweet home. Even though I missed Europe already, I was relieved to be home! I walked into my old room and plopped on my bed. Now, I felt at home.
Let Them Eat Cake
June 12Saving the best for last: this was it: my final, absolute last full day in France! Now was the time more than ever to see the sights and enjoy all that the beautiful country of France had to offer. I rose early and went down to get some of that oh-so-lovely vending machine breakfast. Hmmm…filling, only not really, but the croissant was surprisingly decent. It was really soft. Maybe I should be concerned about that fact?
Well, having a full day ahead of us, we spent most of the first half of our day walking to Notre Dame, stopping at a supermarket, going to an internet café to print out boarding passes, and then doing a little souvenir shopping. Scarves were on my agenda and at a price of three for 10 euro, I’d hit the best deal in Paris as far as I was concerned. I bought enough scarves to start my own boutique. Scarves for all! My brother is getting a French soccer jersey, and even though I don’t smoke, I bought the coolest Eiffel Tower lighter that shines an image of the famed Tower out the bottom.
I had been tapping my toe all morning, anxiously waiting to go to none other than Versailles, the overtly extravagant home of Louis the 14th , the Sun King. It was also the residence Marie Antoinette, the famous cake-eating Queen that I adore, and her less than worthy of a crown husband, Louis the 16th. I had been waiting for this moment the whole entire trip, and had been glad we decided to save the “best” in my opinion for last, until I realized we would not be arriving at Versailles until 1, which didn’t leave us much time. Most exhibits in the palace closed at 5, and I knew there would be a long line. This, after all, was Versailles.
In order to get there, you have to take the RER train from one of the RER stations around Paris, which are sometimes conjoined with metros, but oftentimes, you have to find one. We boarded a train with our all-day metro passes (best purchase you can make for the day. It’s a little over 5 euros and you can hop on and off the metro as many times as you’d like all day long) and kicked back for a thirty minute ride to the most ridiculously adorned, yet fabulous place on Earth! Okay, so I am bias.
The town was an absolute tourist Mecca. Standing in line, I heard more English at Versailles than I did in all of England. Paris is the number one tourist destination in the world after all.
I bought a passport ticket that got me into all attractions. I had done a project on Marie Antoinette several years in a row, and as you already know, the movie is my favorite, so I was willing to splurge a little in honor of the beheaded Queen. She was extravagant too.
The Palace was everything I expected to be and more. I saw the chapel where the famous young royal couple had their arranged marriage ceremony. The stairwell and hallways featured in the film by Sofia Copolla. The beautiful, art-filled rooms with their own color schemes. The ball rooms, the King and Queen’s bedrooms, and the decadent hall-of mirrors, which had just been remodeled. The walls were lined with blurry mirrors and the ceiling was dripping in chandeliers. It was overwhelming and breathtaking at the same time. Looking up above, all the ceilings were painted with masterpieces as detailed as the Sistine chapel. It was incredible. Now I know where all the tax money and bread shortages came from. I wondered if someone could really put a price tag on a place as overtly-wealthy as Versailles. I google-d it, and here was the result I got: you can’t put a price tag on it, but it would be somewhere in the billions of dollars range. Better believe it!
Kyle and Kristina decided to chill in the grass for a few hours while I went exploring the Royal Gardens. Thinking I could easily walk to the Grand Trianon, the Petit Tiranon, the Queen’s country paradise, and be back in my allotted 3 and a half hours, I began my stroll past the Neptune fountain and the huge gardens lined with perfectly manicured bushes and marble statues of Greek gods. I felt like I was living in a dream, walking by perfectly manicured circular gardens with flowers intricately and perfectly placed, leaving just enough room to not be crowded. Looking back at the chateau and the fountains lined with statues as I made my way down the seamlessly never ending gravel boulevard, I thought, “So this is what it was like to be royalty.” Feels pretty nice.
They sure had their exercise cut out for them! Walking past the reflection pond filled with rowboats and the pony rides in the stable to the left, it took me thirty minutes to walk to the Grand Trianon, the little palace Louis built for Marie. I had not even walked ¼ of the gardens or map and I speeded my way down the rocky road lined with trees. Now I understood what they were talking about when they said you could spend all day there. I wish we had arrived earlier, so I could have enjoyed the entirety of Versailles and at a more stable pace.
The purpose of building the Grand Trianon and the Petit Trianon as Marie Antoinette’s domains was so she could fulfill her country bumpkin fantasies and live “the simple life.” Well if this was the simple life, sign me up! Miniature versions of the palace’s gardens were located in the back of the Grand Trianon’s music room and the five minute walk to the Petit Trianon was paved with another path of trees. The petit Trainon was almost as luxurious as the first, but the gardens in back were what was the most stunning. Of course my visit would have to be interrupted by a mob of smelly, sweaty kids who were weaving their ways in and out of the rooms as while pushing people, like me, out of the way. Not to mention that it was close to one hundred degrees in there. I angrily ripped off my light sweater I had been wearing and swung it around my purse. I never saw the thing again. I am guessing one of the obnoxious little kids swiped it. Sorry. I just really don’t like kids that much.
Walking to the fields of Marie Antoinette’s little country village and gardens was as if you had been transported to a place far away from the gold-dripping ceilings of the massive Versailles. A lake with a lighthouse looking building across the way was covered with lily pads and dotted with swans. The trees were so green and the willows swayed in the breeze. I wanted to go lay down in the grass an just chill for a while, but I was pressed for time, since the others were waiting and I’m sure having a great time just sitting on the steps.
The village was filled with cottages and little fenced-in areas with horses, cows, rabbits, goats, and chickens. It was so perfectly constructed that Louis must have almost designed it in a theatrically ideal way. Well, it makes sense, since this was Versailles. Extravagance and “overdone” did not exist there. It was never too much and every extra golden loop around a fireplace was completely necessary.
Realizing on my way back that I had lost my sweater, I went on a mini hunt around the famous Temple d’amour (Temple of Love), only to glance at my cell, see the time, and stand in line for the one-stalled bathroom for thirty minutes. I was already late and my cell phone was out of minutes. I had two options: a. taking the train, which meant waiting and paying for it, but getting back quicker, or b. walking 40 minutes after I was already exhausted and late. I chose A. It must have been my lucky day because when I walked in line, there was just one seat left on the train for people who hadn’t pre-purchases tickets. Finally, a benefit of voyaging alone, which I didn’t mind one bit. I could travel alone all the time, well, not all the time, maybe like a day or two, then I’d be dying to drag someone to all the sights with me!
I sat across from a woman with a thick Provencal accent on the way back, and she spoke to me through the whole ten minute ride. Not once did she ask if I was English because of my accent or try to speak English to me. Mission accomplished. :)
Kristina and Kyle were waiting on the royal steps for me. I found out that their day had consisted of people watching, random picture taking, and bird harassing. Love them.
Hopping of the train by the Eiffel Tower, I bought my ticket for the night boat, but since Kristina and Kyle had already done it on their past two trips to Paris, they decided to go up the Eiffel Tower at night while I rode the boat.
For our last dinner in Paris, we had to do something traditionally French. Crêpes seemed appropriate. The St. Germain district was filled with reasonably priced eateries, so we picked the crêperie of the same name and sat down for our last meal together in France. It was so sad. We ordered entrées (galettes, or salty/meal crêpes) and dessert (crêpes sucres). But of course, paying can never be a simple thing. It took 30 minutes to take our check, separate it, and get the credit card machine working. We had a boat to catch and a tower to climb. We left in a hurry, arriving just in time to do both things.
The cruise along the Seine was amazing. I saw most of the major Parisian sights from the river as the sun sank below the horizon as well as witness some of that infamous partying along the Seine. This consists of people sitting along the river, paying games, telling stories, and making new friends, all over a bottle of wine and a baguette. The Hocking, French style.
The boat slowly made its way back to the port, offering the most magnificent view of the Eiffel tower at night. It was just like a postcard. I tried my hardest to capture what was in front of me, but my low-quality camera and half-visible screen made it difficult. I did eventually get a few good shots out of it. I hopped off the boat and on to the merry-go-round. Yes, the merry-go-round, just because I could and the other two weren’t finished.
I sat below the tower, wondering when they were going to be finished. Getting harassed by those gypsy vendors, saying, “one euro” for five mini Eiffel towers every five seconds made my wait more interesting. Sitting, cold and bored, I wondered if they were ever going to come down. It was at the moment when it was getting late and I was thinking I was just going to text them to meet me at the hotel (I had Kyle’s phone), I heard it: a gasp of, “oos” and “ahhs.” What was everyone so excited about? Sitting at the bottom of the tower, I looked up, and there it was in all its glory! The whole 990 foot tall structure was glistening and glimmering before my eyes! It sparkled and shimmered like someone had brought it to life. I had to shut and reopen my eyes a few times to be sure that I wasn’t dreaming. No, I was simply sitting on a park bench under the twinkling Eiffel tower.
Travel Complication, but Paris, I Love You Anyway!
June 11The ringing of the alarm hit me like a ton of bricks. This is the day that I had to leave Avignon. Leave? But I wasn’t ready to leave. I packed up some last minute items after ditching the majority of my toiletries. Martine said she would wake up early with me and walk me to meet the taxi on the corner to go to the train station. We walked to the corner, and I could tell that something was bothering her. Was she as upset that I was leaving as I was? While waiting for the taxi, she began to cry, gave me a big hug(something the French never do) in addition to bisous , told me I reminded her of her daughter, that she wanted to keep in touch with me through e-mail, and told me that I was welcomed back at her house whenever I wanted. I reminded her of her daughter? I thought I was going to lose it right there in the street next to the St. Pierre église with all the early bakery frequenters out and about. I contained myself as the cab pulled up. We loaded my things. I hugged Martine again, waved goodbye, and sat in complete silence on the way to the train station. I looked out at the window at all of the buildings passing by and realizing how much I really loved Avignon. It was time for me to go and find someplace and or maybe someone else. My time here was over.
While contemplating how ridiculously overcharged I was for such a short taxi ride, I went over to the bakery in the gare to get my last Avignon croissant. It was a sad moment. While sitting there in an absolute daze, I see John across the way, waiting with bags in hand. We talk for a little while and agree to meet in Paris if we can as the others show up. Although I knew it was the last time I was going to see any of them, I didn’t want to acknowledge that fact, so I just simply said goodbye. My friend Rachel is currently in London and I barely saw some of the others students in Paris (in fact, some not at all) that weekend besides Kristina and Kyle. I know I will see them all again in the fall, but it’s not quite the same.
During the ride, Kyle, Kristina, and I planned out or plan of action for the day: go to the hotel we reserved for the three of us (which we had canceled, then rebooked, since it was supposedly thought that Kyle would not be able to stay with us if we stayed in the hostel). Thinking it would be best to be prepared to run with our 50 bags in hand, we went down to the bottom of the train 30 minutes before we were supposed to arrive to pull out our 50 bags and prepare to run as soon as we hit the station. We were ready to get into that nice hotel and start our day.
When we arrived at the hotel, our reservation appeared to have never been made. Kristina neglected to mention that the reservation said “pending” on the hotel, but we thought that that meant we could stay. We knew that they were booked for the night, and they demanded to see a confirmation e-mail. Kristina pulled up her OU email, and had our old confirmation, which we had stupidly canceled thinking we would definitely have a room in the hostel, until we read the reviews. We showed him our first confirmation, and as always, the truth comes out and he saw our cancellation in addition to the fact that our second reservation had never been confirmed. Ugh. He at least let search the computer for a new room at another place. We found a place across town, and took a cap over there.
I thought that we were driving to Spain or something for how far we were going. The taxi ride cost us all a pretty 20 euro, and when we got there, the rude people behind the desk said that a reservation had never been made that day. Never, never, and I mean NEVER book a hostel through hostelworld.com. We have had problems every single time we have tried to. Wanting to cry and scream and punch something, I asked them for the number of our original hostel that Marie had reserved for us (which was where I wanted to go in the first place!), but no, things always had to be difficult. To top things off, our phones were out of minutes, so we had to sit around and use our last centimes on texts before asking to take another cab to the hostel. The rude man behind the desk called a cab, but neglected to ask for a big one. When the poor little old man arrived with the regular sized trunk and our army-worthy luggage, he knew it wasn’t going to work. I asked the man to request a big cab, but he insisted that it wasn’t possible. Well, excuse me, but the man at our hotel fail had done just that, and guess what…we got a big taxi. I wanted to slap someone at this point. He told me the taxi station was down the street and I should just walk there. Jerk.
Toting my two large suitcases, a duffel bag, a laptop bag, and a purse, I made my way slowly down the street, my top-heavy bag falling over every half block or so. Seriously I love Paris, but this was a little much. I was wishing that we had agreed to stay with Kyle’s friend whom we met at the Bastille for lunch that day, even though she lived an hour away. This was getting stressful. Finally, after a struggle, we get in a cab (a big one) with the first nice Parisian we had encountered during our half day stay. He took us to the Blue Planet hostel, located right by the Gare de Lyon. If we had stayed here in the first place, we wouldn’t have even needed a taxi in the first place. I’ll just keep my thoughts on this to myself right now.
We had our own room and breakfast every morning, which consisted of a pre-packaged croissant, pain o chocolat, and coffee….from a vending machine. There was one toilet and one shower on each floor, but at least there were locks on the doors. The shower was a scary closet-type thing with a nozzle above and no lighting. In our room there was a random area off to the side like a closet, only not, with swinging doors. We referred to as our changing room. Less than 20 euros a night, you get what you pay for, but it wasn’t that bad, I didn’t mind it at all. I was just happy we wouldn’t be sleeping under a bridge by the Seine that night with the other vagabonds.
Well after our grumpy and very long morning/afternoon, I walked outside, took a deep breath, and forgot all about it, because I was in the most wonderful place on earth: Paris, France. We were in Paris! What’s not to be happy about? They don’t call it the city of love and lights for nothing. As soon as I saw Paris, I fell hard. Paris, Je t’aime. Je t’aime, Je t’aime.
Our first stop on the list we had made earlier was the Centre Pompidou, the Centre George Pompidou to be exact, which doubles as a modern-art museum. Although we didn’t go inside, just walking around and seeing the outside was enough. There were so many people sitting outside in the square, sunning themselves, eating, playing guitars and singing, This is why I love Paris so much. We went and sat by the fountain with a bunch of little modern art statues and works within it. There was even a little spinning wheel that turned water round and round in the pond. It was so neat. This was the same fountain featured in the film Sabrina with Richard Gere. Remember the Vogue fashion photo shoot?!
Next stop: the Jardin des tuileries by the Louvre then Notre Dame again. Just walking along the Seine was enjoyable. Heck, I even bought a painting off of a street vendor and got a euro off. Hey, it’s better than nothing.
Wanting to see the Saint Chapel, a famous church that is almost all stained glass and gold on the inside and built specifically to house the supposed crown of thorns, I made my way over in that bank’s direction. But by the time we got there, workers were cutting people off in the line. Although I was disappointed, this just means that I’ll have something to come back for.
I went into the Concierge next, the jail for Marie Antoinette and other revolutionaries who lost their heads during the Reign of Terror. Inside, they had a list of those who were beheaded, and I could not believe the length. It was bothersome. I know why they chose the guillotine now: it was quick and efficient, but most importantly, it was quick. The French Revolution had cake, the American Revolution had tea, and the revolution of my pocketbook involved a lot of crêpe and souvenir purchases. Let them eat crêpes!
Not wanting to pass up a second visit to the oh-do scandalous and oh so endearing and intriguing Montmartre, we made it the next Metro stop. The evening would not be complete without some of that good French flatbread pizza that seems to be on every street corner in the old Red Light bohemian district. We picked out a pizza café and encountered our first non-rude waiter in Paris. Finally. Although, I was frightened though when he brought out the carafe d’eau and said, “This is special water, straight from Montmartre.” I think I may need to get checked for a few diseases now. “Great,” said Kyle, “Std infected prostitute water.” He added, “I’ll take a coke.”
After dinner we went to Sacre Coeur to enjoy the view of Paris. It was gorgeous. All of the people lying in the grass enjoying the view amongst couples waiting for the sunset. It was breathtaking.
We stopped at the Moulin Rouge to snap some photos before heading back to the hotel. Now excuse me, while I go rinse out my mouth with some Listerine.
A 180
June 10th Our grand entrance into the apartment last night was less than quiet, and the night was next to sleepless after the craziness that had occurred. Sakinah spent most of the evening on the phone with family members. I made her tea and we sat and talked for a little while before I went to bed. I’m pretty sure that she stayed up for quite a while after that though. Storming in our 5 story echoing apartment building with paper thins walls, being an emotional wreck, and then being up until 4:45 in the morning did nothing to make the neighbors fans of us. Martine came barging in this late afternoon saying she had been “attacked” at les Halles that morning because “the Americans” we making so much noise the night before. She was furious. I tried to explain to her the situation, but she didn’t seem to want to listen. I explained to her later on what had happened, and she seemed to understand. Buying her a box of chocolates and a card as a parting gift didn’t hurt either.
This morning, Sakinah was not feeling well, so I went to our final evaluation of the program that day. The time when we could finally express what we liked and what we didn’t about our study abroad experience in Avignon. When I got to the paper, I wasn’t surprised by what I had negative to say. Hardly anything at all. Although the program wasn’t perfect, no program was ever going to be. I didn’t have much criticism. I had had such a great time that it was like any problems along the road hadn’t even existed. They didn’t matter in the end. If you go to Avignon next year, save some space for me in your suitcase. I may just hop on that plane with you! That’s how much fun I had: I want to go back, and I wasn’t ready to leave! :)
I went back to my house after to going with Katie to give our French friend Alex back the keys to his apartment before beginning to pack. I had stood in line and bought a “colissimo,” a huge package I could send home that weighed a maximum of 15 pounds. I ran home, shoved in some champagne, books, clothes, and anything and everything else that could possibly fit. The box was near-bursting open when I got to the counter; so thankfully, the lady taped it shut for me. When reviewing the contents of my box, she told me to cross of champagne and put something else. Apparently that’s illegal. Oops.
She was so nice. My box even weighed a little over fifteen pounds, but she just let it slide without a second thought. On top of everything, I think she made the climax of my trip. It was nearing the end and was becoming frustrated with this whole French thing, but when I went up to the counter, she continued to speak with me in French and acted surprised when I said I was sending my box home to the United States. She looked up with wide eyes, “Oh, I thought that you were French.” STOP EVERYTHING! What?! You thought I was FRENCH? ME? MOI?! Really?! Finally, A BREAKTHROUGH! Sounds lame, but this was the nicest thing that anyone said to me the whole trip. That had been my goal since day one. At least sound French to one French person and then I’d know, I was finally improving and I should stick with trying to tackle a second language! Believe me, it’s harder than it sounds and looks. I left, heavy box sent off, with a huge smile on my face. Even though I was down about leaving, her compliment was enough to give my mood a complete 180.
Martine’s mood did a complete 180 as well after explaining the reasoning for our noise. We were threatened, so I think our noise was excusable, but only after something as serious as that. She was also in a much better state of mind after the card and chocolates. She took us to the opera and out to a crêperie for some hard cider and crêpes for dinner that night. It was so nice. The Opera was a free show, so it was packed, and inside was absolutely stunning. There were lots of kids there too, bobbing up and down with their heads trying to get a better view. Although I really enjoyed the opera, it was so long, so I stared to doze off in my chair. Hey, I was tired. Not much sleep the night before for obvious reasons.
It wasn’t until the song that they used to sing in the “movies, movies, movies, movies…” commercial that I woke up. I song I knew! The large choir sang beautifully, but I was happy after the show was over at 10:15. Although I should have probably gone to bed, it was my last night in Avignon, so Sakinah and I met Thomas for a short while one last time before I had to say goodbye. Parting is such sweet sorrow.
This morning, Sakinah was not feeling well, so I went to our final evaluation of the program that day. The time when we could finally express what we liked and what we didn’t about our study abroad experience in Avignon. When I got to the paper, I wasn’t surprised by what I had negative to say. Hardly anything at all. Although the program wasn’t perfect, no program was ever going to be. I didn’t have much criticism. I had had such a great time that it was like any problems along the road hadn’t even existed. They didn’t matter in the end. If you go to Avignon next year, save some space for me in your suitcase. I may just hop on that plane with you! That’s how much fun I had: I want to go back, and I wasn’t ready to leave! :)
I went back to my house after to going with Katie to give our French friend Alex back the keys to his apartment before beginning to pack. I had stood in line and bought a “colissimo,” a huge package I could send home that weighed a maximum of 15 pounds. I ran home, shoved in some champagne, books, clothes, and anything and everything else that could possibly fit. The box was near-bursting open when I got to the counter; so thankfully, the lady taped it shut for me. When reviewing the contents of my box, she told me to cross of champagne and put something else. Apparently that’s illegal. Oops.
She was so nice. My box even weighed a little over fifteen pounds, but she just let it slide without a second thought. On top of everything, I think she made the climax of my trip. It was nearing the end and was becoming frustrated with this whole French thing, but when I went up to the counter, she continued to speak with me in French and acted surprised when I said I was sending my box home to the United States. She looked up with wide eyes, “Oh, I thought that you were French.” STOP EVERYTHING! What?! You thought I was FRENCH? ME? MOI?! Really?! Finally, A BREAKTHROUGH! Sounds lame, but this was the nicest thing that anyone said to me the whole trip. That had been my goal since day one. At least sound French to one French person and then I’d know, I was finally improving and I should stick with trying to tackle a second language! Believe me, it’s harder than it sounds and looks. I left, heavy box sent off, with a huge smile on my face. Even though I was down about leaving, her compliment was enough to give my mood a complete 180.
Martine’s mood did a complete 180 as well after explaining the reasoning for our noise. We were threatened, so I think our noise was excusable, but only after something as serious as that. She was also in a much better state of mind after the card and chocolates. She took us to the opera and out to a crêperie for some hard cider and crêpes for dinner that night. It was so nice. The Opera was a free show, so it was packed, and inside was absolutely stunning. There were lots of kids there too, bobbing up and down with their heads trying to get a better view. Although I really enjoyed the opera, it was so long, so I stared to doze off in my chair. Hey, I was tired. Not much sleep the night before for obvious reasons.
It wasn’t until the song that they used to sing in the “movies, movies, movies, movies…” commercial that I woke up. I song I knew! The large choir sang beautifully, but I was happy after the show was over at 10:15. Although I should have probably gone to bed, it was my last night in Avignon, so Sakinah and I met Thomas for a short while one last time before I had to say goodbye. Parting is such sweet sorrow.
Epic: The Real World Avignon
June 9th Alright, Histoire exam let’s do this! I woke up early this morning to study, which was a complete waste of my time, because I had no idea what to study. My studying consisted of reading over the worksheets and Wikipedia-ing Napoleon and the French Revolution. When I got to history class, I was really starting to sweat it, but our exam turned out to only a worksheet, on which we were allowed to use our notes, so how exactly was one supposed to prepare for this? That’s just it. We weren’t. I was relieved. I took my time, rechecked my answers, and took the whole two hours. I was determined to get an A on this thing. It was my last exam after all. I figured: why not try my absolute best? That’s all one can really do.
So during our long break, I went shopping with Zoe. Since Longchamp is French and Zoe was wanting to update her longchamp wardrobe, we figured, why not stop in and buy one? The lady was really nice and was telling us all about her son who lives in Florida and just happens to work in the France part of Disneyworld at Epcott. Pretty cool, huh? Epcott had always been my favorite, but now there was even more of a reason…real French people worked there! Walt Disney is authentic.
Sadly we couldn’t stay and chat forever, because we had our last literature class to attend. I was confused as to why we were having class since we already turned in our exams, but we did need our grades. The professor, Professor Bory, is completely adorable, so even more of a reason to go to class. He lent me the CDs of Jacques Prevert’s songs, since that was the author I had chosen for my oral presentation a few weeks before. Getting our grades for the class was like getting our high school diploma. We all clapped for each other as we walked up to the podium to grab the three neatly stapled sheets with our final grades circled. We all got As. I don’t understand this, but I’m not complaining! :)
After class, there was only an hour and half to get ready for that night’s aperif with the host families, which was not near enough time when I had shoes to buy and we all had showers to get. The shower had finally been fixed that afternoon.
I took a speedy shower after running to the store down the street and picking out some fuchsia pink kitten heels to wear that night. My hair looked like a wreck, since I was the last one to get into the shower, so I just had to accept the fact that I was going to look horrid for the last soiree. My hair, looking like a mess, just fell down my shoulders. I am anxiously awaiting that haircut I am going to be scheduling as soon as I get home. Can’t wait to clean up my mess of a hairdo! It has not been cut in three months, and it is starting to show.
Thinking that the party started at 7:30, we thought that we were making good time since it was nearing 7:15, and we were all almost ready. It was at this moment that Katie informed us that she just now read the email, which all three of us had opted to ignore, which read that the party started at 7. Oops. Well, since we were late anyway. We took our time…and then ran out the door. Of course, we didn’t know where the tapas restaurant was exactly. Only had a general idea. Panicked thinking that we were beyond the point of fashionably late and nearing the point of embarrassingly late very quickly, we hurried ourselves in the restaurant’s general direction and ran into professor Bory and Christophe. Phew. Well if we arrive with the grammar director/professor and the adorable literature professor, I guess it’s okay. The party can’t start without them anyway. Talk about making an entrance. The only time it’s acceptable to be late: when the director and professors are late themselves and you show up with them!
Walking upstairs to the tapas bar when everyone else was there was made less embarrassing thanks to our escorts. I was just happy to be there. The drinks: red wine and white wine mixed with Sangria and fruit. The tapas changed every few minutes as new trays of food came out with yummy goodies being rotated faster that a dryer cycle. I tried everything, except for the fried sardines. Normally I like seafood, but the little salty fish were staring up at me. I think putting them in my mouth would have made me lose my drink and all of the zucchini in tomato sauce I had consumed. I decided to spare everyone the gross-out and stick to eating foods that weren’t staring up at me.
Meeting everyone’s host family was really nice. I was sad that Martine had been unable to go with us, but she was busy. It was amazing to me the range of different families present. Some had kids, some were younger, some were older, some were single women, but they all clearly served the same purpose: provide a welcoming home away from home. Christophe had each of us go up and read a poem we had written in that oh so drama-inducing writing project of a book that drove people to tears the week before. We all read our poems, said our peace, mingled, and took pictures, fighting back emotions, knowing that this would be the last time all of us would be together.
After this, I ran back to my house to get ready with Sakinah and Katie for our last soirée as a group at Cadillac Club of course! Red Sky was pit stop number one though. We met up with Thomas and his friend before going off to dance with the others. Little did we know what was waiting for us at Cadillac, or how the night would end.
By the time we arrived, everyone had been there awhile. We had had so much fun talking with Thomas and his friend that we had completely forgot about what time it was and that everyone was already dancing and having fun without us, not that weren’t having a great time ourselves.
The place was packed and the majority of people were wearing numbers on their shirts. We asked some girls in the bathroom what the numbers were for, and discovered why exactly the place was so packed: Singles night. Take a number. Of course we wanted one! Pourquoi pas? Zoe, Sakinah and I went up to a guy by the stage by the dj who was passing out numbers. Single and ready to mingle.
No night would ever be complete without its fair share of drama or weird something or other happening. This night was our last and when we go out with a bang, we go out with a bang! Now I’ve told you about our “we’re all on a reality tv show” theory. Well, I think we were either starring in The Bad Girls’ Club, Girls Gone Wild, or Cops that night. We would have been signed on for several seasons after this night.
So Sakinah, Zoe, Brad, and I and a bunch of our French friends and some other people are dancing on stage. Completely and seemingly harmless activity to do at a dance club, right? Wrong. Well, Sakinah dropped that preciously important “single ladies” number and bent down to get it…all while getting pushed and shoved by a five foot tall French girl with a bob. Things went downhill from there. The girl then proceeded to shove Sakinah and the next few minutes ended in an all-out catfight! The girl and her other 5 foot tall friend and some blond girl went after us. Mind you, Sakinah is between 5 foot 9 to 10, leaning more towards 10 to 11. I have no idea what these girls were thinking! They didn’t stand a chance. I ended up getting shoved of the stage and right near the table with the single numbers by the DJ. Zoe was shoved off about 5 seconds later. I turned around and saw a big mob of flinging hair and clawing girls. Our friend Adrien picked Sakinah up and moved her to the patio. Yes, you read right. He physically moved her. Well, of course everyone was staring. Uhh…”Bonsoir?! Quoi de neuf, French people all looking?!”
The patio was a good place for us all to cool off and calm down before going back on the dance floor, at least until the five-foot tall French girl and her posse of two FOLLOWED us all out there. Granted there were twenty American students, several of our French friends, and Miriam and Vincent (Caitlin’s host parents) with us. They tried to start something again, to which Sakinah ignored and started namedropping on the United States. I really kinda wanted to die though when she said, “Don’t mess with me French….(and some other colorful things). I’m from the United States! Yeah, AMERCIA (biotch)!!!” Oh my God. This where things got so scary that it almost turned comical. To provide some comical relief, it would be at this moment when two guys at the bar would turn around and ask, “Obama?!” Oh the French and their fascination with Obama never seems to fade, even in the middle of a bar fight. Well, armed with an army of French friends, they got the girls to leave, and we went back out, enjoyed ourselves, and tried to forget what had just happened. It was completely inappropriate and uncalled for.
Leaving at close, one of our friends noticed that the girls were glaring at us from across the room, then from across the parking lot. Not wanting to walk alone for fear of safety (best decision we made), we had everyone walk back with us in a big group. Even though we were in a large group, I was shocked to turn around and see the French girls still following us, then running, then attacking Sakinah, their weasel boyfriends trailing behind and watching every move while doing nothing. They tried to attack again, but we eventually got them off. This was just getting ridiculous. Couldn’t they just let it go? We had walked away, and they were still trying to attack us!
Thinking that they were gone, we continued our walk home down the road, only to see a zooming by car. Vincent ran ahead of me, and as usual in France, I was clueless as to what was going on. The black car zooming by was the crazy French girls who pulled up right next to us on the curb and jumped out with: a KNIFE, screwdriver, and pipe as weapons. They attacked Sakinah and scratched up her face while making a few dints in some other people. Thankfully, Meghan’s correspondent was side-by—side with Sakinah and told her, “run!” The girls eventually ran off and left, but how ridiculous, not to mention frightening!? You have to come after us with knives…and a screwdriver? And all over a stupid shove on the dance floor.
I was so thankful that the others were there, because my mind couldn’t resist from thinking about what could have happened if it had just been me and Sakinah walking home that night. We could have been killed.
Now the problem was finding out where Sakinah had gone off to. I had her purse, her cell phone, and the keys to our house. This was not good. We called several people (thank God Vincent and Miriam were there) and finally got a hold of Adam who was with Sakinah and at the police station with Meghan’s correspondent. John and I walked over there, fearing the worst, and when we arrived, I was shocked by how beaten up she was. I was so angry and scared at the same time. How could they do something so horrible to my friend?! I was furious. I asked Meghan’s friend about all this. His reply, “French girls are crazy.”
While they were inside filing a report, who do I see but the dreamy cop “Jacques” leaning against the wall. Fate? Figures I would see him like this.
A few minutes later, the cops looked like they had a lead, so Adam, John, and I went around the corner to identify the suspects. No such luck. The girls with knives and screwdrivers had gotten away.
After filing a report, Sakinah and I were too shaken up to go home, so the cops escorted us home in the back of a cop car. Guess who I was crammed next to? Yes, gorgeous “Jacques.” I thought, “Isn’t this ironic?!” I didn’t picture this being the way we would meet. I wanted a picture with him for “saving us” but thought that would be completely inappropriate at the time. Which it was: Dear Mom and Dad, so my next-to-last night in Avignon, I got in a bar fight, some crazy chicks came after us with knives and screwdrivers, and I got to ride home in the back of a cop car next to my fantasy future husband, who happens to be a French cop I like to refer to as “Jacques.” So, can I come back next year?
I know this situation is nothing to joke about, but we have started laughing at it amongst ourselves, now that it is over. Avignon: the Real World. Twenty OU college students, sent to live with host families in the South of France. This is more than a social experiment. This is real life. Where’s that season two contract?
So during our long break, I went shopping with Zoe. Since Longchamp is French and Zoe was wanting to update her longchamp wardrobe, we figured, why not stop in and buy one? The lady was really nice and was telling us all about her son who lives in Florida and just happens to work in the France part of Disneyworld at Epcott. Pretty cool, huh? Epcott had always been my favorite, but now there was even more of a reason…real French people worked there! Walt Disney is authentic.
Sadly we couldn’t stay and chat forever, because we had our last literature class to attend. I was confused as to why we were having class since we already turned in our exams, but we did need our grades. The professor, Professor Bory, is completely adorable, so even more of a reason to go to class. He lent me the CDs of Jacques Prevert’s songs, since that was the author I had chosen for my oral presentation a few weeks before. Getting our grades for the class was like getting our high school diploma. We all clapped for each other as we walked up to the podium to grab the three neatly stapled sheets with our final grades circled. We all got As. I don’t understand this, but I’m not complaining! :)
After class, there was only an hour and half to get ready for that night’s aperif with the host families, which was not near enough time when I had shoes to buy and we all had showers to get. The shower had finally been fixed that afternoon.
I took a speedy shower after running to the store down the street and picking out some fuchsia pink kitten heels to wear that night. My hair looked like a wreck, since I was the last one to get into the shower, so I just had to accept the fact that I was going to look horrid for the last soiree. My hair, looking like a mess, just fell down my shoulders. I am anxiously awaiting that haircut I am going to be scheduling as soon as I get home. Can’t wait to clean up my mess of a hairdo! It has not been cut in three months, and it is starting to show.
Thinking that the party started at 7:30, we thought that we were making good time since it was nearing 7:15, and we were all almost ready. It was at this moment that Katie informed us that she just now read the email, which all three of us had opted to ignore, which read that the party started at 7. Oops. Well, since we were late anyway. We took our time…and then ran out the door. Of course, we didn’t know where the tapas restaurant was exactly. Only had a general idea. Panicked thinking that we were beyond the point of fashionably late and nearing the point of embarrassingly late very quickly, we hurried ourselves in the restaurant’s general direction and ran into professor Bory and Christophe. Phew. Well if we arrive with the grammar director/professor and the adorable literature professor, I guess it’s okay. The party can’t start without them anyway. Talk about making an entrance. The only time it’s acceptable to be late: when the director and professors are late themselves and you show up with them!
Walking upstairs to the tapas bar when everyone else was there was made less embarrassing thanks to our escorts. I was just happy to be there. The drinks: red wine and white wine mixed with Sangria and fruit. The tapas changed every few minutes as new trays of food came out with yummy goodies being rotated faster that a dryer cycle. I tried everything, except for the fried sardines. Normally I like seafood, but the little salty fish were staring up at me. I think putting them in my mouth would have made me lose my drink and all of the zucchini in tomato sauce I had consumed. I decided to spare everyone the gross-out and stick to eating foods that weren’t staring up at me.
Meeting everyone’s host family was really nice. I was sad that Martine had been unable to go with us, but she was busy. It was amazing to me the range of different families present. Some had kids, some were younger, some were older, some were single women, but they all clearly served the same purpose: provide a welcoming home away from home. Christophe had each of us go up and read a poem we had written in that oh so drama-inducing writing project of a book that drove people to tears the week before. We all read our poems, said our peace, mingled, and took pictures, fighting back emotions, knowing that this would be the last time all of us would be together.
After this, I ran back to my house to get ready with Sakinah and Katie for our last soirée as a group at Cadillac Club of course! Red Sky was pit stop number one though. We met up with Thomas and his friend before going off to dance with the others. Little did we know what was waiting for us at Cadillac, or how the night would end.
By the time we arrived, everyone had been there awhile. We had had so much fun talking with Thomas and his friend that we had completely forgot about what time it was and that everyone was already dancing and having fun without us, not that weren’t having a great time ourselves.
The place was packed and the majority of people were wearing numbers on their shirts. We asked some girls in the bathroom what the numbers were for, and discovered why exactly the place was so packed: Singles night. Take a number. Of course we wanted one! Pourquoi pas? Zoe, Sakinah and I went up to a guy by the stage by the dj who was passing out numbers. Single and ready to mingle.
No night would ever be complete without its fair share of drama or weird something or other happening. This night was our last and when we go out with a bang, we go out with a bang! Now I’ve told you about our “we’re all on a reality tv show” theory. Well, I think we were either starring in The Bad Girls’ Club, Girls Gone Wild, or Cops that night. We would have been signed on for several seasons after this night.
So Sakinah, Zoe, Brad, and I and a bunch of our French friends and some other people are dancing on stage. Completely and seemingly harmless activity to do at a dance club, right? Wrong. Well, Sakinah dropped that preciously important “single ladies” number and bent down to get it…all while getting pushed and shoved by a five foot tall French girl with a bob. Things went downhill from there. The girl then proceeded to shove Sakinah and the next few minutes ended in an all-out catfight! The girl and her other 5 foot tall friend and some blond girl went after us. Mind you, Sakinah is between 5 foot 9 to 10, leaning more towards 10 to 11. I have no idea what these girls were thinking! They didn’t stand a chance. I ended up getting shoved of the stage and right near the table with the single numbers by the DJ. Zoe was shoved off about 5 seconds later. I turned around and saw a big mob of flinging hair and clawing girls. Our friend Adrien picked Sakinah up and moved her to the patio. Yes, you read right. He physically moved her. Well, of course everyone was staring. Uhh…”Bonsoir?! Quoi de neuf, French people all looking?!”
The patio was a good place for us all to cool off and calm down before going back on the dance floor, at least until the five-foot tall French girl and her posse of two FOLLOWED us all out there. Granted there were twenty American students, several of our French friends, and Miriam and Vincent (Caitlin’s host parents) with us. They tried to start something again, to which Sakinah ignored and started namedropping on the United States. I really kinda wanted to die though when she said, “Don’t mess with me French….(and some other colorful things). I’m from the United States! Yeah, AMERCIA (biotch)!!!” Oh my God. This where things got so scary that it almost turned comical. To provide some comical relief, it would be at this moment when two guys at the bar would turn around and ask, “Obama?!” Oh the French and their fascination with Obama never seems to fade, even in the middle of a bar fight. Well, armed with an army of French friends, they got the girls to leave, and we went back out, enjoyed ourselves, and tried to forget what had just happened. It was completely inappropriate and uncalled for.
Leaving at close, one of our friends noticed that the girls were glaring at us from across the room, then from across the parking lot. Not wanting to walk alone for fear of safety (best decision we made), we had everyone walk back with us in a big group. Even though we were in a large group, I was shocked to turn around and see the French girls still following us, then running, then attacking Sakinah, their weasel boyfriends trailing behind and watching every move while doing nothing. They tried to attack again, but we eventually got them off. This was just getting ridiculous. Couldn’t they just let it go? We had walked away, and they were still trying to attack us!
Thinking that they were gone, we continued our walk home down the road, only to see a zooming by car. Vincent ran ahead of me, and as usual in France, I was clueless as to what was going on. The black car zooming by was the crazy French girls who pulled up right next to us on the curb and jumped out with: a KNIFE, screwdriver, and pipe as weapons. They attacked Sakinah and scratched up her face while making a few dints in some other people. Thankfully, Meghan’s correspondent was side-by—side with Sakinah and told her, “run!” The girls eventually ran off and left, but how ridiculous, not to mention frightening!? You have to come after us with knives…and a screwdriver? And all over a stupid shove on the dance floor.
I was so thankful that the others were there, because my mind couldn’t resist from thinking about what could have happened if it had just been me and Sakinah walking home that night. We could have been killed.
Now the problem was finding out where Sakinah had gone off to. I had her purse, her cell phone, and the keys to our house. This was not good. We called several people (thank God Vincent and Miriam were there) and finally got a hold of Adam who was with Sakinah and at the police station with Meghan’s correspondent. John and I walked over there, fearing the worst, and when we arrived, I was shocked by how beaten up she was. I was so angry and scared at the same time. How could they do something so horrible to my friend?! I was furious. I asked Meghan’s friend about all this. His reply, “French girls are crazy.”
While they were inside filing a report, who do I see but the dreamy cop “Jacques” leaning against the wall. Fate? Figures I would see him like this.
A few minutes later, the cops looked like they had a lead, so Adam, John, and I went around the corner to identify the suspects. No such luck. The girls with knives and screwdrivers had gotten away.
After filing a report, Sakinah and I were too shaken up to go home, so the cops escorted us home in the back of a cop car. Guess who I was crammed next to? Yes, gorgeous “Jacques.” I thought, “Isn’t this ironic?!” I didn’t picture this being the way we would meet. I wanted a picture with him for “saving us” but thought that would be completely inappropriate at the time. Which it was: Dear Mom and Dad, so my next-to-last night in Avignon, I got in a bar fight, some crazy chicks came after us with knives and screwdrivers, and I got to ride home in the back of a cop car next to my fantasy future husband, who happens to be a French cop I like to refer to as “Jacques.” So, can I come back next year?
I know this situation is nothing to joke about, but we have started laughing at it amongst ourselves, now that it is over. Avignon: the Real World. Twenty OU college students, sent to live with host families in the South of France. This is more than a social experiment. This is real life. Where’s that season two contract?
French Frustration
June 8th
I can’t focus at all. My mid is anywhere and everywhere but the stupid grammar test that I had to take this morning. A store denied my credit card, and I just want to be done with school and vacation for the rest of my life. I know that this is not realistic and stupid to say and write, but that’s how I was feeling, and that’s what a blog is for. Honesty to a certain extent. That’s how I feel. And it stinks, because I have to leave. On top of everything, I feel that my study abroad has been an absolute bust, because the guy at the football store started speaking to me in English today. Is it STILL really that obvious?! Will I just suck at French forever?
Tonight, I just studied for history, even though I didn’t have a clue what to study. It’s better than nothing I guess. At least I can say that I tried if I go up in flames.
I can’t focus at all. My mid is anywhere and everywhere but the stupid grammar test that I had to take this morning. A store denied my credit card, and I just want to be done with school and vacation for the rest of my life. I know that this is not realistic and stupid to say and write, but that’s how I was feeling, and that’s what a blog is for. Honesty to a certain extent. That’s how I feel. And it stinks, because I have to leave. On top of everything, I feel that my study abroad has been an absolute bust, because the guy at the football store started speaking to me in English today. Is it STILL really that obvious?! Will I just suck at French forever?
Tonight, I just studied for history, even though I didn’t have a clue what to study. It’s better than nothing I guess. At least I can say that I tried if I go up in flames.
I Heard a Rave in my Dreams Last Night
June 7thSo it’s another lazy Sunday in France, which usually consists of waking up late, homework, walking around town, and the ever-important search for lunch. We started out going to a Chinese place, but there were pigeons everywhere, and since Sakinah insists that the birds are the spawn of Satan, not to mention, she is deathly afraid of the things, we left quickly and went to McDo (McDonalds) for the last time in France. I finally got to try the Petit Poivre sandwich that I had seen advertised on billboards, and it was really good. Normally I would have said, we can get McDonald’s at home, but France Mickey D’s is different…and better.
I walked around town and took pictures. I felt like everyone had already seen everywhere in France from my Facebook photos, minus the place that I actually lived and referred to as my home for three months. Walking around town made me sadder than I thought it would. Avignon Is beautiful and sometimes I forgot to appreciate its beauty simply because I saw it every day. I took its beauty and how much I really liked living there for granted. You truly don’t know what until it’s gone. The same is true for people, but you could also add, you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone…and found someone or someplace else. That hurts worse. I knew I would have to say goodbye very soon, and I wasn’t ready. I had been living in a little fairy tale world and the dream was almost over. It was almost time to wake up and face reality. But I’m slowly starting to accept that.
Martine insisted that we go to a concert that day, since it was free. It was at a fancy hotel in town, and located just off the Rue de la Republique. Sakinah and Katie weren’t feeling well, so they decided to stay inside and sleep, but I went anyway, and I am glad that I did. It was a classical singing group performing songs from the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and everything else up to modern times. What stunned me was that I mostly understood what the songs were saying. For me, I think it is harder to understand French songs than it is to understand speaking.
After the concert, I went back to the house to get some studying done before our grammar test the next day, but no matter how hard I tried, I just could not study. I was not motivated at all. I couldn’t sleep either when I tried to take a nap. I just laid there with my ipod on shuffle, flipping through, trying to find a song to inspire me to do something…anything…productive. No such luck whatsoever. I did thoroughly enjoy Martine’s couscous dinner of taboule, my favorite thing ever! So dinner, sad to say it, was the highlight of my evening.
That night I still could not sleep. Martine had left the radio on in her room and it was blaring some of that crazy European techno music. I thought, “Is a rave going on in my dreams?!” It sure sounded like a rave was going on in the next room! I would have just walked in there and turned off her radio and jumped back into my bed, but I had no flashlight, just the dim blue light on my cell phone, and I feared what her reaction would be if I woke her up. Tossing and turning with a headache from the dance music pumping through the walls, I did the only thing seemingly reasonable. I grabbed my comforter, threw my door open and went into the computer/living room to sleep on the couch. At least it would be quiet. Funny that the couch was more comfortable than my bed. What kept me awake this time you ask? The obnoxious humming of the computer, that’s what. It was unbearable! It took me five minutes to figure out how to turn the blasted thing off too! Irritated, sweaty, headachy, and out of patience, I pulled the plug and crashed on the couch for the lovely 4 hours of sleep I got. During my 4 hours (if even that), I had the oddest dream about Paris. I dreamt that my dad came to pick me up and it just spiraled from there. Bizarre. It would take up five pages to describe accurately, but I’ll leave it that it was weird and several people from my college and high school were in it.
Oh, and the water heater is broken again for the billionth time! So I will smell tomorrow on top of the bags I will have under my eyes. That’s one thing I thought would change when I got home too. I thought I would be able to sleep here too. Nope. I still can’t sleep very well. And there’s no raves going on the next room either.
Customers for Life
June 6th I hopped the morning bus with Shawna, Rachel, and Jenny to Ville Neuve, a little town with an abbey and a fortress, right across the river from Avignon. The bus ride was only 2 euro, so why not hop on the bus and see what the other side had to offer? Here’s what was there: we went to visit an abbey, tour the cute village, and browse through those antique markets filled with useless but loveable items (like those oh-so-adorable hugging salt-shakers!) What was strange about this town was all of the randomly stuffed jeans and pants placed in awkward positions throughout the town. There were stuffed pants sticking out of flower pots, on merry-go-rounds, climbing trees, and twisted in other odd fashions. It was really bizarre. Modern art expression, or just plain creepy and weird? You decide.
While trying to find our way to the abbey, I found a back barn garden where a small orchestra was playing, and asked, “Est-ce que le jardin gratuit?” Is the garden free? To my surprise it was. It quickly became clear why. It was situated two steps behind the orchestra in the barn. I didn’t get this. All of the plants were dead too. No wonder she looked at me so weird when I asked if there was an entry fee. “Hey, is there a charge to look at a bunch of dead plants?”
Since Ville Neuve turned out to be not that exciting, aside from the random pants and the market where I bought some really yummy honey, we decided to go back to Avignon to meet Kyle and Adam for some falafels and those kebabs and steak frites before going souvenir shopping. This was my last Saturday in Avignon, and I sure wasn’t going to arrive home empty-handed without souvenirs for my family.
I went a little overboard on my spending that day. Here is a list of what I bought: a ruler, a guitar case sticker of Avignon’s crest for my brother, a room sign for my sister, lavender, champagne, yes I said champagne (I am shipping it home), soap, and a few other little things for my family. Most shops were just endless repeats of what the shop before had to offer, just positioned in a different part of the store with sometimes ranging prices. The same aprons, the same tea sets, and the same ugly ceramic chirping cicadas. Ugh. I detest those things more than spiders, and that’s saying something!
As soon as I thought I had finished my shopping, I had to walk by the artists on the rue de la republique, where I saw a panting of the Pont d’Avignon that I knew I just couldn’t go home without. I asked the artist how much. She let me name the price after talking with me, because she said she liked me J. I said 30, and she let me have it for that. It would have normally cost me 75, yes 75 euros. The price was on the back of it and several other paintings. I felt pretty good after this, and when she signed it afterwards, I felt even better. A personalized painting, not too shabby.
Well, it was our last Saturday night in Avignon, and since Katie was out with her French lover boy, Laurent, Sakinah and I decided to go to dinner at this super chic place we walked by all the time, but never went inside. I am glad that we did.
The place was worthy of the word glamorous. Black lights and mirrors merged with an antique/modern mosaic with a color scheme of black, white, silver, sparkles, pink, and purple. It was like something out of a Hollywood club! The owner walked us to our seats. It was about 7:30 when we arrived, which would be considered a pretty late dinner for the US, but this was France, and it was Saturday night. We were the first people there. We ordered champagne, and got a free appetizer while we waited for our food. It was so yummy. I ordered something fancy off the seafood menu, not realizing that my shrimp would come with the shells and eyeballs still attached. It was like eating mini lobsters, but I didn’t even care, it was so good. The sauce was creamy with a mushroom flavor and thick, hearty consistency. I could have eaten a whole bowl of that sauce and been completely content. It was that good. Our meal came accompanied with the standard bread basket, and although we had intended on ordering dessert, we decided against it at the last second, because our fancy meal was not only delicious, but filling as well.
The owner talked with us for a while after the meal. That’s another thing I am going to miss about France. There is a personalization that restaurant and shop owners attempt to make with their customers. They keep customers for life. For example, the lady at Croq-o-pain gave me a free coffee a few times and would oftentimes set aside items for me, since we all came there so often. It was really sweet. The owner of this resturant gave us free martinis, and invited us back, and thanked us for our business. They need to do this more often in the United States. Not only is it classy and considerate, but it makes people customers for life.
After our fancy and filling dinner (surprising for a snazzy restaurant), we made an ATM run and went to meet our friends (here’s a heads up: a lot of times, not even fancy restaurants will take credit cards, like the one we went to, so we had to run to the ATM to pay. Keep enough cash on you for a nice dinner, and just watch your wallet. I know it stinks, but they are sometimes leery about taking credit cards in Europe. They prefer and oftentimes only accept cash. Keep this in mind). Our next stop was Cadillac Club, like usual, and Red Sky. We all had a really great time. One of our friends who usually doesn’t go out surprised me. She was a ton of fun! You just need to give people a chance, and you’d be surprised. People never cease to surprise me, but I think I’ve surprised myself most, not to mention shocked a few other people. Everyone has a few tricks up their sleeves. Not to sound conniving and deceiving, but I know I do. Just ask. You’d be surprised… :)
While trying to find our way to the abbey, I found a back barn garden where a small orchestra was playing, and asked, “Est-ce que le jardin gratuit?” Is the garden free? To my surprise it was. It quickly became clear why. It was situated two steps behind the orchestra in the barn. I didn’t get this. All of the plants were dead too. No wonder she looked at me so weird when I asked if there was an entry fee. “Hey, is there a charge to look at a bunch of dead plants?”
Since Ville Neuve turned out to be not that exciting, aside from the random pants and the market where I bought some really yummy honey, we decided to go back to Avignon to meet Kyle and Adam for some falafels and those kebabs and steak frites before going souvenir shopping. This was my last Saturday in Avignon, and I sure wasn’t going to arrive home empty-handed without souvenirs for my family.
I went a little overboard on my spending that day. Here is a list of what I bought: a ruler, a guitar case sticker of Avignon’s crest for my brother, a room sign for my sister, lavender, champagne, yes I said champagne (I am shipping it home), soap, and a few other little things for my family. Most shops were just endless repeats of what the shop before had to offer, just positioned in a different part of the store with sometimes ranging prices. The same aprons, the same tea sets, and the same ugly ceramic chirping cicadas. Ugh. I detest those things more than spiders, and that’s saying something!
As soon as I thought I had finished my shopping, I had to walk by the artists on the rue de la republique, where I saw a panting of the Pont d’Avignon that I knew I just couldn’t go home without. I asked the artist how much. She let me name the price after talking with me, because she said she liked me J. I said 30, and she let me have it for that. It would have normally cost me 75, yes 75 euros. The price was on the back of it and several other paintings. I felt pretty good after this, and when she signed it afterwards, I felt even better. A personalized painting, not too shabby.
Well, it was our last Saturday night in Avignon, and since Katie was out with her French lover boy, Laurent, Sakinah and I decided to go to dinner at this super chic place we walked by all the time, but never went inside. I am glad that we did.
The place was worthy of the word glamorous. Black lights and mirrors merged with an antique/modern mosaic with a color scheme of black, white, silver, sparkles, pink, and purple. It was like something out of a Hollywood club! The owner walked us to our seats. It was about 7:30 when we arrived, which would be considered a pretty late dinner for the US, but this was France, and it was Saturday night. We were the first people there. We ordered champagne, and got a free appetizer while we waited for our food. It was so yummy. I ordered something fancy off the seafood menu, not realizing that my shrimp would come with the shells and eyeballs still attached. It was like eating mini lobsters, but I didn’t even care, it was so good. The sauce was creamy with a mushroom flavor and thick, hearty consistency. I could have eaten a whole bowl of that sauce and been completely content. It was that good. Our meal came accompanied with the standard bread basket, and although we had intended on ordering dessert, we decided against it at the last second, because our fancy meal was not only delicious, but filling as well.
The owner talked with us for a while after the meal. That’s another thing I am going to miss about France. There is a personalization that restaurant and shop owners attempt to make with their customers. They keep customers for life. For example, the lady at Croq-o-pain gave me a free coffee a few times and would oftentimes set aside items for me, since we all came there so often. It was really sweet. The owner of this resturant gave us free martinis, and invited us back, and thanked us for our business. They need to do this more often in the United States. Not only is it classy and considerate, but it makes people customers for life.
After our fancy and filling dinner (surprising for a snazzy restaurant), we made an ATM run and went to meet our friends (here’s a heads up: a lot of times, not even fancy restaurants will take credit cards, like the one we went to, so we had to run to the ATM to pay. Keep enough cash on you for a nice dinner, and just watch your wallet. I know it stinks, but they are sometimes leery about taking credit cards in Europe. They prefer and oftentimes only accept cash. Keep this in mind). Our next stop was Cadillac Club, like usual, and Red Sky. We all had a really great time. One of our friends who usually doesn’t go out surprised me. She was a ton of fun! You just need to give people a chance, and you’d be surprised. People never cease to surprise me, but I think I’ve surprised myself most, not to mention shocked a few other people. Everyone has a few tricks up their sleeves. Not to sound conniving and deceiving, but I know I do. Just ask. You’d be surprised… :)
Dream Men: Is He Gay or European?
June 5The last day of classes never felt better!!!!! Next week: two exams and one oddly scheduled literature class for no reason. We had already taken the exam and turned it in and all, but hey, what can you do? It’s France. They’ll hold a class no matter what. I was exhausted after a night out, but going out on a school night isn’t just a Athens tradition. The French make a lifestyle out of it. I don’t know how they do it all the time. Yet, they remain disciplined. They don’t go out every night. They have a serious night, a fun night, a serious night, then vacation and fun. They know how to relax and enjoy life, that’s for sure.
One other thing they know how to do is to get away with carrying man bags, affectionately referred to as “murses,” without looking like a pansy. But then again, it’s sometimes hard to tell if a European guy is straight or not, because they all dress impeccably. There is even a song in Legally Blonde the musical called, “Is He Gay or European?” The lyrics: “they kiss on both cheeks…/ and depending on the time of day, the French swing either way.” The metro look is standard for the most macho of European men, and the bisous (those you-can’t-help-but-like-them cheek-kisses) amongst guy friends is common. It’s like they’re so close to begin gay, without actually being gay. It’s so bizarre. I like the metro look just as much as the next girl. In fact, it’s what I would prefer, but if the guy takes longer on his hair or to get ready in the morning than I do, then Calvin Klein, we have a problem.
I made a trip to the supermarket today to look for some of that delicious fromage blanc that Martine severs us for dessert sometimes in place of yogurt. It’s the consistency of yogurt, but it’s cheese, but it doesn’t taste like cheese. It’s hard to explain, but when you stick confiture (jelly) in it and mix it up, it is heaven in a tub! A plus: it is supposedly good for you. If it tastes good, and is actually good for you, then count me in, we have a winner! As mentioned before, I will be throwing plain yogurt and confiture parties next year if anyone wants to join (eventually accompanied by wine, olives, and cheese). Anyone want to join? But don’t judge until you try. Buy a tub of plain yogurt and mix some fruit-preserves in it. It sounds nasty, but it is soooo good!! I promise! Plus it’s so much better than the weird, rubbery rum-raisin fruit cake that our host mom keeps insisting we have for dessert or breakfast. Never have the words, “Non, merci,” come more in handy.
Anyway, while I was in the supermarket buying this heavenly fromage blanc (which, by the way, they sadly don’t have in the states. Then again, I haven’t checked Jungle Jim’s in Cincinnati yet. I refuse to give up hope! I am craving some right now. Ugh), I saw the most gorgeous French cop, or flic, I have ever seen! He was tall, slim, and standing in line right in front of me. The police station in town is conveniently located in Place Pie, which is conveniently located next to my house, which is conveniently located on my walk to school , and conveniently located next to the places we go out to at night or to eat. I think I may have to do a few accidental walk-bys (okay, purposeful) from now on. I honestly think I was in love. Haha. Just kidding, but seriously, I hadn’t been intrigued or star struck this much by someone in months…or in all of France. He was probably 22 or 23, obviously French, and the sad part: I was never going to see him again. I think that fact made me fascinated with him even more. Gotta love a man in uniform. Wanna know what’s even better?: a FRENCH man in uniform, who just happens to speak French, live in France, and have an accent. It ups the appeal factor. I officially had an overseas crush. Very ridiculous, but I wasn’t the only one who noticed him. Sakinah made a comment about how cute and adorable he was too. I am going to refer to him as Jacques for all intensives purposes, because he comes into my life again on this trip :) Maybe not in the most ideal way, but still, he makes an appearance! Oh well, I already decided that I am coming back. That is for sure. Maybe in the future! Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?
I can’t believe I leave in a week! I don’t want to think about it…
After class, without any previous plans, John invited Sakinah and I to go with him, Brad, and Shawna to a wine vineyard close by with his host dad. The vineyard was Chateauneuf de Pape, a famous vineyard in Provence. Hey, why not? When his host dad rolled by to pick us up in his fancy black SUV, he, I kid you not, was listening to Kid Cudi’s “Day ‘n’ Nite.” What is it with the French and this song? They love it more than we do! What I was even more surprised to find was what kind of music their 50-something richer than the Jones’s (or the the Pierre’s in this case) host dad was listening to: American rap and pop. It was Kiss radio in France. All of the dance club and Billboard chart hits. Wow. I tried not to laugh to myself when Britney Spears, Lady Gaga, and Flo Rider followed.
Pulling up to the vineyard, I got my laugh of the day. Sakinah asked, “What are those little trees?! Check those out! Aren’t they adorable?!” She didn’t know that they were grape vines. You learn something new every day. You can’t blame her. It’s not like there’s wine being harvested in Chicago, Dayton, or the hills of Athens anywhere. The chateau filled with wine was almost intimidating. A whole book full of vines, the specific vineyard, and year were available for sale. I, knowing absolutely next to nothing about wine, decided to take the employee’s recommendation after a few taste-tests of some exotic strong stuff (46%!!!) and other wines. I finally settled on the 2005 red straight from the vineyard as a gift, and to try myself. That is some good stuff. Unfortunately you have to wait six weeks before opening it after you land, due to the airplane pressure. I guess my homecoming celebration will have to wait a few weeks.
Our next stop after walking through town and visiting several more cellars was the famous chocolate shop of Provence (a student on last year’s trip walked all the way there) called Bernard Castelain’s Chocolaterie! It must have taken the student hours to get there, because it took us long enough by car, even though it was a short car ride. I think I died and went to chocolate heaven that day. Being a dark and white chocolate fan (I like the extremes), I tried this espresso cream-filled dark chocolate piece that melted so smoothly in my mouth. My mouth is watering typing and thinking about it. I sampled several other things after that, including the famous almond centered chocolate olive and famous nougat. So good. In the middle of the store, there was a huge chocolate fondue fountain for dipping marshmallows in: either white or dark chocolate. I bought a few things with all good intentions of bringing them back to the states, but of course, I ate them all before the end of the next week. I know, shame on me, but you totally would have done the same thing!
So, after having a great day, I have to come home, find something out, and then have another disastrous conversation with the homestead. This was not my afternoon. It’s amazing to me how much one thing can turn around the mood of the whole entire day. Feeling like crap and just wanting to go crawl and a hole and stay there for a little while…BRING!! A text! It was from John, God bless him. It literally made my night! “What are you and Sakinah doing? Let’s go out.” Answer to prayer! I just needed to get away from the house. I hurried up Sakinah and we met John at the hookah bar we had been at the night before. We had a great time, talking, hookah-ing (is that even a word?), and just relaxing after the week from hell. This was exactly what I needed: to get out and forget about some stuff. I felt so much better.
So my night ended with the 20-something year old waiter professing his love to me (he was sober). I swear I have the most messed-up love life ever. Being an American girl in France comes with its stigmas. Contrary to popular belief, all American girls are not going to fall all over you because you are cute, dress well, nice, happen to be French, and profess your undying love for us about 30 minutes after meetings us. Come on now.
Do You Speak British or American English?
June 4It WOULD be me. During my writing exam I realized that the dictionary I had purchased from the bookstore on the Rue Carnot was missing four letters of the alphabet in the English half of the “Bible.” Seriously? Dear Mademoiselle Mathis, let me explain why I avoided all words starting with “h,” “i,” “ j,” and “k.” All 26 letters on the French side were present, but if I needed to look up a word in English that started with an h, such as hometown, which I needed to use, I would just have to deal with it. I had lent Katie my other dictionary, with all of the letters of the alphabet, so I patiently waited for her to finish her exam so I could include that oh-so-important word. In addition, the dictionary I was using was a translation for British English to French.
Apparently British English is so different from American English that it is worthy of a spate dictionary. I find it amusing that in French schools they can choose if they want to learn British English or American English, as if they are two completely different languages. If this wasn’t confusing enough, they can also take Australian English! In general, most teachers focus on British English, but teach them all three accents: British, American, and Australian. I wonder if they teach Northern American, Bostonian, Brooklyn, or Southern. You see what I mean when I say that this can get complicated? I apparently speak French with a Southern American accent, according to one of our French friends who has never been to the states. :)
England is pretty darn close to France. It makes sense. But how confusing is it to discover that everything you have learned in English isn’t really “English” English? It is ENGLand, after all. I mean, I knew words like loo, biscuits, telly, and lift, but other than that, aren’t we saying the same thing? Most French people, who speak English, if they can get beyond their French accents, speak with a British one and use their vocabulary. It is adorable.
We also had to include a “le faite surpris” surprise twist in the writing we were doing (about being a student in a foreign country). I really don’t think I did this. I guess my surprise twist could be that I changed as a result of my travels…I don’t know. I still haven’t seen my grade on this exam, but I worked up until the last minute and turned all of the assignments in, so hopefully, it won’t be too frightening or shocking.
After that brain-draining, I had two hours to prep myself for some more before my Oral exam. I didn’t have any clue what to study. The professor had given us all of these random papers with different ways of speaking. That was another thing: it felt like all the French I had learned in high school or college had taught me nothing, because when I got to France, I had no idea what anyone was saying to me… That’s because they were speaking slang (much like Americans. We don’t speak like characters in literature either). They spoke the “language of talking,” or argot. In French, there are three ways of talking, all arranged by class and situation (yes, again, with the class thing. It’s a big deal I Europe. In fact, you can even tell a person’s social class by the first name they choose for their child. I wonder what Gwenth Paltrow’s child “Apple” would fall under? Hmmm? Fruit could be classy, I guess?): soutenu (classy-upper crust language), standard (what you are taught in text-books, the most widely used), and familier (conversation, language of talking, some slang), and argot (extreme slang, used among students, and the lower class). Hmmm.
The test turned out to be one of those tests that was impossible to study for. You couldn’t have prepared for this if you tried. You just had to have come to class and paid close attention to know what was being asked. Well, as I stated before, my brain was fried by this point, so again, I took up until the last minute to take the test, but I figure if you have the time, why not use all that they give you? I mean, this is what your grade is riding on. I was amazed and then concerned by how quickly the other students were finishing and couldn’t help thinking to myself, “Am I missing something here?” or am I simply just over thinking like usual? I couldn’t even think. I just analyzed, but since John and I were the only students left, Madame said she could tell that we were at least trying and even gave us the answers to some of the questions and helped us out a little J. There are some perks to staying after and talking with the professor. She by far had been one my favorites. I look back to the first day of classes when I walked in late with several other students when I couldn’t find the classroom and she had been angry. I got a bad first impression and misjudged her, thinking that she was going to be mean. But she surprised me and was awesome. She was the one willing to help Kristina and I move out of our old host families. Don’t ever go off of first impressions. I have had to learn this the hard way over and over. Maybe eventually it will sink in.
After the test, I just wanted to run out of the classroom screaming and jumping for joy! All there was left to do was two exams the next week and history class tomorrow (for which I had already done the homework the night before with Kyle and Adam ;)
Martine was mysteriously MIA that night. She said that she had to sing and didn’t return until the next morning. Sakinah, Katie, and I all think she had a secret lover she is hiding from us. Hmmm…interesting. Probably not, but we like to think so for some added excitement. I’m really surprised she hasn’t found anyone after her husband. She is nice, pretty, and successful. I don’t get men sometimes. But then again, maybe she does have someone?! Secret affairs don’t stay secret for long. It will only stay a secret if both of you are dead. Chances are someone is going to blab, or someone is going to find out…never fails.
Finalement, our water heater is fixed! No more Titanic-like conditions, holding the nozzle away from you, while dripping the stream of water over yourself for like two seconds before yanking it away! That night, I took the longest shower I had taken in all of France (sorry when you get the water bill Martine, but after a week or so of cold showers or going to strange places to use the douche, I had to bask in the glory of a warm shower a little!)
Since all the homework hype was over (for that week at least), it was party time!! I begged Adam to bring over “Across the Universe,” which he did, God bless him, so I could drool over Jim Strugess one last time while we all enjoyed some of that classy French wine and Spanish sangria I had brought back. Our low-key film fête and attempt to watch the movie turned into a “Let’s go out!”
We went to our usual Red Sky, the kebab place to visit our friends (to whom I am sending a postcard. I miss them!) Dang it, I am going to miss those Kebabs. I really don’t want to know what kebab meat is though. Someone told me it was veal and lamb mixed with some other stuff. “Mixed with some other stuff” is the part that scares me. I don’t really want or need to know. I am a falafel fan too, but at least I know what that is. I think that if they installed some kebabs in the United States they would make a killing! It’s quick, flavorful, and probably, no, not probably, IS horrible for you. Therefore, America would love it! Who wants to open one up with me and be rich? It would make a fortune in Athens! Beats Goodfella’s and Big Momma’s any day. The French know how to make late night out food that still tastes just as good anytime of day. Install some crêpe, Panini, and kebab stands in Athens, and we’re set. Give Goodfella’s a run for their money!
After a week of stress, I didn’t want to go home after all of this, so on our way back to the apartment, we walked by the Hookah Bar called Club Privée (which means private club). Thinking that they would never let us in, we just kept walking, but the owner, who happened to be by the front door, saw that we were clearly interested in coming in, so he invited us. A round of hookah for ten euro. Pourquoi pas? Now I had never done Hookah before, and I hate smoking and the idea of smoking (although I don’t mind when my friends do it, as long as it’s not inside. It’s their decision), but I was open to Hookah. Apple flavor for us, and surprisingly, I really liked it. It wasn’t until afterward that someone told me it was the equivalent of a pack or two of cigarettes. Oops. What doesn’t cause cancer nowadays?
I might as well be Across the Universe
June 3Finally! My epic daily conversations to Jean-Pierre, the name of my journal, are finally over! We no longer have to keep a journal! Yay! But in order to remember what I did, I decided to of course jot down what I did each day and update this blog when I got home. Although I resented writing in my journal when we had to, I am glad that this was an assignment. I look back at it now, review my French grammar errors, see how my writing improved over the three months, and also looked back on all I had done and how I felt. It’s a great souvenir which I plan on keeping my whole life, in addition to this blog, of course. :)
Yet this week seems to be the week of work before our two final exams. It’s really strange, because we have two final exams this week, while we have class, and two the next week, when we don’t. Yet, we are still required to go to our last literature class even thought we will have already turned in our exam (that horrid 4 page analysis). Strange but true. It’s France. Just go with it, and don’t ask. Just do.
So tomorrow is our writing exam, which we just found out we had in the midst of our writing class freak out! It was never clearer to me how stressed out everyone else was feeling until our writing class meltdown this afternoon. What an unnecessary disaster! Everyone started yelling at each other. It was hot; I was sweating and getting more and more stressed out by the minute. No one seemed to know what they were supposed to do in the assigned groups. Epic fail. Yelling broke out. A few people started crying…and all over a stupid class project. Deciding which cover to use was like picking favorites between classmates. The project was producing petty fights in every which way shape and form. Poor John, walking around the room trying to calm everyone down and figure out who was doing what with his method of “put your hand down if…” You have to give the guy credit for trying. No one else seemed to want to deal with the mess that was erupting in front of us. And poor Kristina. She had to throw the whole format together that night in addition to the other work all of the teachers were giving us.
Since this was the last week, the fight was a clear sign, that everyone was clearly done. Finished. Kaput with school. Mentally, physically, and emotionally checked out. Mademoiselle Mathis eventually managed to calm us all down before the end of the course, but still, everyone left in a foul mood and a bad taste in their mouth. Deciding who would fulfill what positions had already been a major argument a couple weeks before. After discovering that hardly anyone had done what they were supposed to ended, as predicted, in a big blow up. Man, I was ready to take another weekend trip after that! How much money did it cost to go to Bordeaux for the weekend again, Adam? It’s sounding pretty good about now.
Well that night left me feeling even more down. I don’t really want to say why, but the talk on the phone with my parents ended in a big argument. I really wanted to stay in France forever after something I had found out that day, even though I shouldn’t have really been disappointed about “it” and “it” shouldn’t have bothered me…it did. I hate when things like that happen. They don’t even matter, but for some reason or another, it gets to you. After writing in my journal for the last time (hallelujah. Sorry Jean Pierre, but my journal entries were getting less and less heartfelt. Probably because I was out enjoying myself a little more…it was coming to the end of my stay, after all!)
Knowing that we had history homework and an oral production exam the next day, I decided to call up Kyle and Adam to see if they wanted to study and finish our homework together. I thought it would make me feel a little better after my cruddy day. It did. We killed that homework, and watched the beginning of Across the Universe, with that oh-so-perfect Jim Strugess, that left me wanting to watch more! I can’t believe I had never seen this movie before! Pure artistic genius from what I could tell. Anyway, we wanted coffee and ice cream. Yes, I said coffee, and it was past midnight. I can drink coffee any time of day. It doesn’t even have that much of an effect on me anymore.
The weather in the Place d’ Horologe was beautiful and we sat outside under the moon talking about how we didn’t want to go home, why we weren’t ready, and how much fun we were having…minus the stress of school that week. It was exactly what I needed: a break. We talked, drank, ate ice cream, and got treated poorly by those oh-so-friendly French waiters (the one we had refused to give Kyle a carafe d’eau aka: water). Typical France. You don’t have to tip here, and there is no tax, because it is already included in the item’s price. Adam said he wished they did tip on occasions such as this. Maybe then they would be nicer. Now usually, I have had my fair share of rude waiters, but in general, the waiters in France are nice. My first blog about my stay in Paris those first four days, which seems like years ago, will show you if you don’t believe me. Again, there are rude people and there are nice people everywhere.
Different Time Zone
June 2
So on top of all of the papers I had to write, we had a grammar exam today, and since the classroom was so stinking hot, we had to move to another one and waste half of the time we could have been taking our exam on waiting to find out if another class was available. What a disaster. I miss air-conditioning. I wake up in a sweat some nights. I’ve started leaving my window open at night, but since we are in the center of town, I either wake up to people being obnoxious outside at ungodly hours of the morning, or loud tourists outside my window at 7am, not to mention the petite garbage truck that noisily drives through around six thirty. Again, I have just accepted the fact that I will be sweating, and not sleeping, most nights. I can sleep when I get back to the states. Again, I will NEVER stop thanking God for coffee. Some nights however, I really enjoy having my window open. I get a nice breeze and can look out at see the lit-up bell tower in the Place Horologe, or get a nice view of the moon. Monsieur le Chat still insists on sleeping either on the end of my bed or on my desk chair, so I am sometimes awoken by his meowing if he wants to leave the room and use the litter box. Oh well. I like him staying in my room. I love animals, so it’s nice to have some company at night.
After our exam, which I took up to the last minute checking and rechecking as usual, we had 6 hours of class, in between which (we had a two hour break), I went home and edited my grammar and literature papers that were due that afternoon via e-mail. I was stressed and pressed for time.
This night also happened to be when I had to register for classes, which becomes interesting when one tries to do this while abroad. My registration time, which would have normally been at 5:30 in Athens, was at 11:30 at night, meaning, I could not go out with the others that night. I had to sit in and register for classes, which proved to be okay, because frankly, I was mentally fried from the day.
I was happy that none of the classes I was registering for were filled, but when I tried to register for my journalism class, it said I did not have the pre-req. Seriously? I am thousands of miles away! I did not have the time or patience to deal with this. I emailed my advisor, but to avoid any unnecessary stress or trouble, I just registered for another class and decided to take the journalism class online during the summer. I just hope I can find a job as well to keep me occupied.
So on top of all of the papers I had to write, we had a grammar exam today, and since the classroom was so stinking hot, we had to move to another one and waste half of the time we could have been taking our exam on waiting to find out if another class was available. What a disaster. I miss air-conditioning. I wake up in a sweat some nights. I’ve started leaving my window open at night, but since we are in the center of town, I either wake up to people being obnoxious outside at ungodly hours of the morning, or loud tourists outside my window at 7am, not to mention the petite garbage truck that noisily drives through around six thirty. Again, I have just accepted the fact that I will be sweating, and not sleeping, most nights. I can sleep when I get back to the states. Again, I will NEVER stop thanking God for coffee. Some nights however, I really enjoy having my window open. I get a nice breeze and can look out at see the lit-up bell tower in the Place Horologe, or get a nice view of the moon. Monsieur le Chat still insists on sleeping either on the end of my bed or on my desk chair, so I am sometimes awoken by his meowing if he wants to leave the room and use the litter box. Oh well. I like him staying in my room. I love animals, so it’s nice to have some company at night.
After our exam, which I took up to the last minute checking and rechecking as usual, we had 6 hours of class, in between which (we had a two hour break), I went home and edited my grammar and literature papers that were due that afternoon via e-mail. I was stressed and pressed for time.
This night also happened to be when I had to register for classes, which becomes interesting when one tries to do this while abroad. My registration time, which would have normally been at 5:30 in Athens, was at 11:30 at night, meaning, I could not go out with the others that night. I had to sit in and register for classes, which proved to be okay, because frankly, I was mentally fried from the day.
I was happy that none of the classes I was registering for were filled, but when I tried to register for my journalism class, it said I did not have the pre-req. Seriously? I am thousands of miles away! I did not have the time or patience to deal with this. I emailed my advisor, but to avoid any unnecessary stress or trouble, I just registered for another class and decided to take the journalism class online during the summer. I just hope I can find a job as well to keep me occupied.
Je suis "slacker"
June 1
“Slackers,” that is apparently what we are. Well, if we were “slacking” before, all of that was over now, because it was work overload time! Wanting to keep some of my sanity that day, I uploaded Facebook pictures, and then worked on my papers. (This is also why it had taken so long for me to update my blog. We were slammed with work the last week, and I wanted to enjoy all the moments I didn’t have work…not spend them writing in a blog. The blog, I knew, would be waiting for me when I got home). Anyway, after catching up on posting those important Facebook photos, I had two papers to write. The challenging one for literature was an analysis of a text. The text happened to be about a paragraph long and we had to do a 4-page analysis. Wow. We also had to do a problematic on the text. I don’t even know what that is!! I winged and flowered-up the whole thing, trying the best I could to understand what the assignment was in the first place. The text was “Je refuse la guerre” by Cécile. It was a beautifully and creatively written anti-war text. Very artistic in the styling and structure. The analysis was easy, but stating your argument, answering your question, and doing a detailed line-by-line analysis in a four page French paper was almost as painful as pulling teeth. After working all day, I didn’t quite finish it, but at least the rough draft was done, so I could edit it the next day in between classes. Ugh. My brain was fired. French overload!
The second paper was a reflection on our stay in France, and, as one can imagine, was much easier to write. I talked about how I’ve changed and how much I wasn’t ready to go home. I know it sounds horrible, but France really was three of the best months of my life, and leaving is going to be harder than I thought.
Tonight, our shower is still broken, so we had to go take “douches,” haha. Laugh, yes, that it the French word for shower, at Martine’s friend’s house across town, which proved to be really enjoyable. She offered us aperitifs, orange juice, and sunflower seeds while we waited to use her shower. Maybe our water heater should break down more often.
“Slackers,” that is apparently what we are. Well, if we were “slacking” before, all of that was over now, because it was work overload time! Wanting to keep some of my sanity that day, I uploaded Facebook pictures, and then worked on my papers. (This is also why it had taken so long for me to update my blog. We were slammed with work the last week, and I wanted to enjoy all the moments I didn’t have work…not spend them writing in a blog. The blog, I knew, would be waiting for me when I got home). Anyway, after catching up on posting those important Facebook photos, I had two papers to write. The challenging one for literature was an analysis of a text. The text happened to be about a paragraph long and we had to do a 4-page analysis. Wow. We also had to do a problematic on the text. I don’t even know what that is!! I winged and flowered-up the whole thing, trying the best I could to understand what the assignment was in the first place. The text was “Je refuse la guerre” by Cécile. It was a beautifully and creatively written anti-war text. Very artistic in the styling and structure. The analysis was easy, but stating your argument, answering your question, and doing a detailed line-by-line analysis in a four page French paper was almost as painful as pulling teeth. After working all day, I didn’t quite finish it, but at least the rough draft was done, so I could edit it the next day in between classes. Ugh. My brain was fired. French overload!
The second paper was a reflection on our stay in France, and, as one can imagine, was much easier to write. I talked about how I’ve changed and how much I wasn’t ready to go home. I know it sounds horrible, but France really was three of the best months of my life, and leaving is going to be harder than I thought.
Tonight, our shower is still broken, so we had to go take “douches,” haha. Laugh, yes, that it the French word for shower, at Martine’s friend’s house across town, which proved to be really enjoyable. She offered us aperitifs, orange juice, and sunflower seeds while we waited to use her shower. Maybe our water heater should break down more often.
Island of Imprisonment and Inevitable Homework
Sunday 31The Hotel Relax’s breakfast was impressive. As I rolled downstairs after my usual night of restless and minimal sleep, being welcomed by a fresh basket of at least four different types of pastries accompanied by a scorching cup of that addictive café au lait was exactly what I needed. John, Jenny, and Rachel mange-d (franglais again) on their buttery goodies at the table across from me as we prepared to walk down to the port to board our boat to the islands and Chateau d’If, made famous by the Count of Monte Cristo.
The water and the large fishing port were beautiful. On our ride to the prison, France’s version of Alcatraz, we got a good view of the Bonne Mère looking over the city from the base of the famous church. Sailing up to the prison where they held famous people such as the son of King Louis and the author of the Man in the Iron Mask, I was shocked by the size of the place. It was tiny, and really, really eerie on the inside. They even had the Count of Monte Cristo playing in the supposed cellar of the prisoner. Now maybe I just need to do more research, because I thought that the story was all a legend. It’s hard enough to tell fact from fiction in today’s modern world. Try figuring it out in the 1700s. Before Blackberrys and Facebooks. Word of mouth and writing were the only gossip sources going, and still prove to be just as ineffective sometimes as modern day technology.
The next island we visited was where quarantine was stationed during the plague. A huge cemetery on the side of the mountain where they buried the dead was one of the only monuments on the beach-lined island. Eerie again. Marseille itself has a really friendly and upbeat vibe, but take a hike up the island’s mountains to see the cemetery or visit the prison, and you’ll start to think otherwise.
Eager to take the boat ride back, we stopped for some lunch at a kebab stand, where I tried falafel for the first time. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but man, was it good!
Wanting to further our cultural experience with the Marseillian trilogy, we decided to take the ferry boat ride that Escartefigue took across the bay each day. Man, what a boring job! All you have to do is go back and forth across the tiny Vieux Port, which you easily access more quickly by just simply walking to the other side. No wonder he dreamed d’ailleurs (of elsewhere). I would have too.
César’s Bar, or the Bar de la Marine, where most of the three plays takes place, was our next stop. I don’t know if the bar was built before the stories were written, but I assume that it had been, and was remodeled to be decked-out in Marcel Pagnol memorabilia after the series’ success. Pastis in César’s bar seemed like an appropriate thing to do, so that was what we did.
Our trip to the market for some of that famous soap was cut short due to rain, but that was okay with me, because I was exhausted and eager to get back to Avignon and sleep. What gets me is how all of the work we have to do they wait to assign us the week we have our biggest excursion as a group. Thankfully, we have no school tomorrow! I am going to bed.
Magnifique Marseille
Saturday, May 30Wow. Miracle: I woke up sans alarm. Factoring in how much I didn’t sleep the night before, I was handling things pretty well this morning. Thank you, Jesus for creating the coffee bean! Since we had neglected to buy lunch for our mountain hike, we strolled over to the supermarket to buy some food after going to the little bakery by our house called: Delices de Marius, which is themed after Marcel Pagnol’s Marseille trilogy. People in Provence seem to be quite fond of it, in case you didn’t notice. It was here where I purchased the best croissant I have eaten in my entire life! It was so warm, flaky, buttery. My mouth is watering just typing about it. For added ambiance, the café’s décor was all from the famous books and movies, whose location was the town we were going to spend our weekend away.
It wasn’t until the bus ride when my fatigue started to get the best of me. I was tired and I was about to HIKE up hill for THREE hours in the Calanques. Surprisingly, once I started moving, I felt okay. The human body amazes me sometimes. I managed to hike uphill for hours on slippery rocks wearing clothes and shoes I would go strolling through town in. Why do I always bring the wrong clothes to everything? Vraiment, je ne sais pas, mais c’est ma vie. Maybe that’s why I was chosen to write the section about wearing appropriate clothing to the activities and the excursions, because I never did.
The Calanques were absolutely breathtaking. I couldn’t believe how high up we were or how blue the water was. It was such a deep, clear shade that it almost didn’t even look real. It was postcard picturesque. I only wish that my camera would have worked better, because there was no way my cruddy fuji film with the half blacked-out screen could capture this on film.
Although it was really hot, I was glad that I sucked it up and decided to make the hike instead of hanging on the beach or just walking around in town all day, because the view was worth the climb. But since the rocks had been walked on by so many tourists over the years, the surfaces were worn down to the point where they were dangerously slippery. I am not ashamed to admit that I fell, because I was in the company of three others who did the exact same thing. After the hike, I was more than ready to lounge on the beach and do: absolutely nothing.
After some time on one side of the bay, I walked over to the other to find Brad, Zoe, Nina, and Sakinah. While I was over there, I had to o the bathroom so bad, so I decided to be brave and look for those lovely public toilets, which really aren’t that dirty in France, thanks to the fact that they usually charge a few centimes for an entry fee to keep them clean. After almost three months of living in France, and inevitably speaking French, I had no idea what anyone was saying to me, or where they were telling me to go exactly, so looking like an idiot, I wandered around for half an hour looking for the mysteriously camouflaged bathroom with no luck finding it. I was really ridiculous in every way, shape, and form. I wondered if I was on candid camera, or if there was no bathroom in the first place. Was it all a big joke? The lifeguard ended up showing me where it was, because I could not find this bathroom for the life of me! I turns out that I had walked past it ten times, but it was a hidden under this pretty little staircase off to the side of the beach, without any marking whatsoever. Anyway, I was embarrassed. And of course, on top on my embarrassment, I had to pay 50 centimes to use the toilet. Humiliation with a fee.
I went back to the beach after my find-the-bathroom adventure (you really could make a game out of this in Europe. It will go on for longer than you’d expect). I took on the role of personal photographer for Sakinah, Nina, and Zoe, who were bouncing around in the waves.
It wasn’t until Sakinah came running out of the waves with the look of death upon her face that I realized what had happened. She’d been stung by a jellyfish. Of course, it would have been useful for some of that French year one animal vocabulary to kick in about now, because when we went up to the lifeguard station and tried to ask for help, no one knew what the word for jellyfish was. We were doomed. Thankfully, Nina is legitimately fluent in French, so she helped us out. Sakinah first off had asked Brad to pee on the sting, but his humorous response was, “But I don’t need to go.” I honestly don’t know if I could have handled someone peeing on my hand, but if it would have saved my life, I could have dealt with smelling like urine. Whether or not my friend “needed” to go or not, I would have demanded they force out some urine to save my life. :)
Thankfully, urinating on her arm proved unnecessary, because we arrived in time for the lifeguard to give her some healing crème. Our little side scare meant that we were late for the bus (as usual), but at least we had a decent excuse this time. I don’t think you can fake a jellyfish wound or a story with four witnesses. No “I couldn’t find the bathroom” stories necessary this time (although most of the time, this was the truth. Case and point: earlier).
The next stop was Marseilles, a little port town right on the Mediterranean, which, as I said before, was made famous by the Marseille trilogy written by Marcel Pagnol. I have to give Katy and Christophe some major props for their hotel selection. The Hotel Relax was so nice. A tv, multiple outlets, a complete breakfast, a shower (with a stable showerhead), and, GASP, provided toiletries and towels! It was so nice!
Dinner that night was at a fancy restaurant right next to the Vieux Port, ironically enough, called the White House. The dinner came with red and rose wine, a salad, entrée, bread, and dessert. Crème brûlée pour moi, bien sûr, and my favorite, seafood. Seafood did seem appropriate, because this was a seaport town. Needless to say, the dinner was excellent. I sat with Sakinah, Adam, and Kyle and talked our first week together in Paris and our first impressions of each other. It was interesting and funny. I’ll leave it at that. First impressions really aren’t correct. Unfortunately, during our laughter-filled discussion, I slammed my wine glass down a little too hard and broke the glass stem. How embarrassing. I looked over to see if Christophe or a waiter had seen. Negative. I slyly shoved the top of the glass down my coffee cup and split smiling the whole way out. Whoops. I wonder if anyone noticed. I am going to have to go with no, because Christophe didn’t care that half of the students had left by this point.
This night happened to be the big play-off match between Marseille’s football (soccer) team and their rivals, Bordeaux. We walked around looking for a sports bar to join the fans and sit down to watch the game. Unfortunately, most places were packed by then, so we settled with standing outside amongst a crowd of rowdy fans. This was the craziest thing I have ever seen! Never in my life have I seen people get so excited over a soccer game. American football fans, look out! Those European soccer groupies are die-hard! They make American football fans look tame! The Marseillians were screaming and jumping and running in the streets with coke bottles and exploding fireworks! Shouting, parading through the streets as a victory march all while slinging, the Marseillean, the French battle anthem named after the song. It was insane, and we were right in the middle of it! After the victory march through town, the party continued elsewhere. I’d like to see how excited they get after they win the championship. The town will probably go up in flames!
After all of the excitement, going back to the hotel to sleep was kind of a downer, but we had things to do in the morning, so we at least had to get some sleep. Rachel and I, of course unable to sleep after the exploding coke bottles from about an hour ago, talked about what was on our mind: the fact that we would be leaving France soon…and we weren’t ready to go. We had the same fears: Will things be the same when I go back? (They aren’t) Will I be able to relate to my friends? (Yes, you can, but it’s harder) Will I experience reverse culture shock? (Yes) Will my home ever feel like home again? (It’s going to take some time) What happens when all of this is over? (I don’t know. Go back to school in the fall. Work?) Did I even have a life before France? (You did, but you just forgot about it.) What will I be like now? (Tough at first) Will I have changed so much that my friends and family won’t even recognize me or think of me in the same way? (Yeah, it’s noticeable that you’ve changed and are different, but you’re still you) And what about this fall? We both knew good and well that OU would never be the same after living and studying in France. It’s almost as if when we go back, we are going to be freshman all over again! Everything will be new, and yes, things will have changed, but then again, we have too. What do you do when home doesn’t even feel like home anymore? Where do you turn to? I am still struggling with this right now, but thankfully, I have the summer to get readjusted to “my life before France” so to speak, before coming back to school in the fall.
Wow. I really have changed. I’m not the girl from my first two quarters of freshman year. I mean, well, technically I am. I haven’t changed so much that people won’t know me, but let’s just say I will be doing things differently from now on. I’m not that scared little girl anymore. I now know what I want, what I don’t, who I am, and who I’m not. That’s the beauty about studying abroad. Not only do you learn about another language and culture, you learn about yourself. You grow up.
