Two Months and Counting

Two months ago today I arrived in France. It's been an interesting 60 days. I've explored a lot, eaten even more and had a surprisingly easy time adjusting to European life.

What did I do to commemorate this occasion? I walked. And then I rode the Metro. And then I walked. And then I walked some more. I walked all over the Latin Quarter and the Marais. Then I took the Metro over to the 8th and walked back to the Place de la Concorde.

It was a beautiful day outside, blue skies, colorful leaves, 65 and sunny. It was good to just wander around the city, stopping whenever a shop or park caught my eye. Paris is a great city for walking, and I ended up running across two beautiful churches, a little English-language bookstore in the Marais, the Parc Monceau, the ruins of the Arenes de Lutece and (most excitingly) the Irish Cultural Center. Then I went home and celebrated my physical exertions by eating half a box of cereal. Good day.

I have much to post about, including a recent trip to Normandy, classes, Parisian parks and pastries. But I'll leave those for another day, and instead give you a run-down of my second month in Paris.

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Countries Visited: 1 (with another to come this weekend)

Favorite New French Expression: "Berk!" It means "Yuck." But it only works if uttered with great conviction and disdain. (Bonus: "Yum" translates to "Miam"

Most Life-Threatening Moment: The boulangeries of Paris will someday have their own entry in this blog. They are like more charming, more delicious versions of Starbucks--there is one on every single corner and yet they somehow manage to stay in business. I stop in at least once daily for a sandwich and (more often than not) a pastry of some sort. Not exactly figure or wallet-friendly.

So the other day I decided to forgo my customary tart and chose the cheapest menu option at my regular boulangerie. I tucked happily into my cheese sandwich, but halfway through, I tasted a new flavor, something aside from the usual ingredients. It was then that I realized: I was eating a baguette filled with goat cheese, slathered with butter and with a special addition of mayonnaise. I thought my heart was going to stop right then and there. But I have never felt more French.

Worst Translation Job: One of the dilemmas I face constantly in my daily life here is whether I should use French pronunciation for English expressions. For example, French people can't say my name "uh-lah-nuh" with a heavier second syllable. Instead they pronounce it "ah-lah-nah," with stress on the first syllable. It's not a dramatic difference, but it's enough to create problems. In the interest of cross-cultural communication, I've pretty much surrendered to the French on this one.

Another example of this came in my theater class. We're going as a class tonight to see Moliere's The Miser at the Comedie-Francaise. My professor's instructions for picking up our tickets were as follows: "At 8:15 you will go the ticket counter and say 'Je voudrais prendre ma place pour Sweet Brie-are Coe-ledge.' You will not say 'Sweet Briar College.' They will not understand you, and you will not get your ticket. You say 'Sweet Brie-are Coe-ledge.'"

But even when you do say "Sweet Brie-are Coe-ledge," there is miscommunication. Case in point, the train ticket on a group excursion to Normandy last weekend. Clearly the reservations had been made over the phone, and the result was a new program name which I actually quite enjoy.



Sweat Brillard...miam.

Most Retina-Searing Image: Coming out of the Metro near my apartment this afternoon, I realized too late that I was walking in front of a man with a camera. I hurried out of his view, and then turned to see what he was filming. I didn't linger too long, but I caught a glimpse of a nearly naked man (think no shirt + something resembling a leather thong) interviewing a very perplexed woman. I have no idea what was going on, but it just proves that you can never really get used to Paris.

And, finally....

Best Online Ad: One of the nice things about living in a foreign country is that everything seems novel, even if it's actually annoying. Case in point: those sidebar ads that inevitably pop up on every website. You know the types: 1,000,000 VISITOR!! or Shoot the turkey, win a prize!!!

Except the prize advertised in the U.S. is always something lame like an iPod. Clearly, the French have raised the stakes:



Suck on that, Apple.

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There you have it. Despite all the fun I'm having (or because of it), I'm a little sad at how fast the time is going. It's not surprising; I feel like ever since high school the years have been zipping by at a frightening speed. But it's even harder to feel time slipping away when you're in Paris and it feels like you'll never have enough time to experience even half of what the city has to offer.

The downside is that I only have seven months left in Paris, and they'll be over before I know it. The upside is that I still have seven months left in Paris, unlike many of my friends who are leaving in six weeks. If I were leaving in December, I would have to be forcibly dragged onto the plane, so it's probably a relief for French transit officials that I chose the full-year option.

It's not that I don't miss home. I really do miss my friends and family, and all of the U.S.'s fall traditions (they don't get much into Halloween here). But I can honestly say that I haven't really felt any serious culture shock or homesickness yet. I guess I'm just immensely brave, eating fantastic food, visiting world-class museums for free and wandering the Champs-Elysees without even one complaint. I don't want to use the term saint, but...

At any rate, Moliere is calling. Not a bad way to kick off my third month in Paris.

A bientot,

Alanna

Normandy

One of the advantages of coming to Paris with a program like Sweet Briar is the opportunity to take trips for free. Okay, it's not so much free as it is pre-paid by my parents as part of the program fee. But free sounds nicer.

So, six days after my return from Belgium, I found myself on a train to northern France for a weekend in Normandie and Bretagne. The program for the weekend ran as follows:

Saturday
-Visit to the Bayeux Tapestry
-Visit to the American Cemetery and the D-Day beaches
-Visit to Pointe du Hoc (another D-Day location)

Sunday
-Visit to Mont-Saint-Michel
-Visit to Saint Malo
-Return to Paris

I hadn't even heard of most of these locations, apart from the American cemetery, but it was an absolutely fantastic weekend. If any of you ever have the opportunity to visit any of these sites (particularly the American cemetery), take it.

Saturday

Bayeux Tapestry

Bayeux is an interesting town in and of itself. Like just about every European city/street/backyard, it has an absolutely stunning cathedral. It was in this cathedral, according to reliable sources, that William the Conqueror forced Harold II to sign an oath of allegiance to him, an oath would later lead to the Norman Conquest. In a much later and more well-intentioned conquest, it was the first city to be liberated by the Allies during the Battle of Normandy.

But the centerpiece of the town is the Bayeux Tapestry. I've seen a lot of tapestries since arriving in Europe, some of them amazing some of them pretty boring. This one definitely fits into the amazing category. For one thing, it's not a standard rectangular tapestry. It's only about two fet high. But it's long. Really, really long. Think 70 meters (that's 230 feet, or 43.81 Alannas laid end-to-end for you non-metric people).

For another thing, it's really old even by European standards, probably embroidered between 900 and 1,000 years ago. In the meantime, it's survived several revolutions and the Nazis. Pretty cool.

It tells the story of the Norman Conquest, and it's got pretty much everything in it: laughing horses, fleets of warships, Halley's Comet and a guy with an eyeball full of arrows. Without the (English) audioguide, I wouldn't have known what was happening in each panel, but it makes for an impressive sight nonetheless.

American Cemetery at Normandy

Normandy is the name for a region in the north of France. But for me, and I suspect many Americans, the name always conjures up images of World War II. Few sites are more symbolic of America's involvement in the war than the Normandy beaches. And that involvement became very concrete when I got my first glimpse of the American cemetery, with its thousands of perfectly-spaced marble crosses overlooking Omaha Beach.

I broke off from the group to wander the rows of graves. It was a surprisingly affecting experience. Let me give you some context: I have been called an emotional monster on more occasion, most notably when I remained dry-eyed for the entire duration of The Notebook. But I was more than a little choked up at the thought that each one of the crosses (over 9,000 in all) represented a person who had traveled thousands of miles just to be killed on a beach far from home. Some had died on the 4th of July, others on Christmas Day. There were plenty who died on D-Day itself. Then there were the unknown soldiers, whose crosses read simply: "Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms known but to God." It was tremendously sad to realize that these were people with families, histories, aspirations that no one will ever know.

I don't know how what they must have felt sitting in those boats, looking at the beaches. I don't know how they brought themselves to storm the shore knowing that they would probably be dead within minutes. But, to me, the fact they did represents everything that is best about America. I left the cemetery with a better understanding of the war and the sacrifice it demanded of so many people.

Pointe du Hoc



Pointe du Hoc is an equally striking D-Day site that I never knew existed before this trip. Essentially, it's a point of land on the coast between Utah and Omaha beaches. It was a perfect location for inflicting heavy casualties on both beaches, and the Germans had control of it. So a group of 225 American soldiers scaled the cliffs in an attempt to take the Pointe and destroy the German guns. When they got to the top, they found that the guns had been moved, but they eventually managed to find and destroy them, limiting the number of American dead on the beaches. Then they held the point for several days until reinforcements arrived to help. At the end of the ordeal, 90 men were alive and in fighting condition.

The Pointe is one of the most surreal places I've ever been. Unlike the Normandy beaches, which show few if any traces of the war, this strip of coast is riddled with bomb craters, German bunkers and rusting barbed wire. It's an absolutely beautiful spot (one that really reminded me of Ireland, actually), but it looks like a moonscape because of all the fighting there. It was eerie, but it was good to see physical remnants of the war. Normandie and Bretagne were heavily affected by the war, but you would never know it from looking at the countryside, which is all green, rolling hills, stone farmhouses and cows grazing in the fields. It is absolutely impossible to believe that thousands died there. The Pointe bears the physical scars of the war, faded but still visible after 65 years, that make the conflict more concrete.

Saturday was difficult in some ways, but I am immensely lucky to have seen what I did that day. It's ironic that so much of America's history has been shaped on foreign soil, that I had to travel to a beach in France to really understand my own country. But I left Pointe du Hoc knowing something about America and its people that I didn't know before. It's corny and dramatic, but there it is.



Sunday

Mont-Saint-Michel

Mont-Saint-Michel was another place I'd probably never have visited without Sweet Briar. But it is one of the coolest places in France (admittedly, I haven't visited 96% of the country, but I'm pretty sure it would stand up to competition). "Mont" means "hill" or "mountain" in French. And this is not just any hill. It's an abbey on top of a hill, surrounded by a town, surrounded by a wall, surrounded by quicksand, surrounded by water. Those monks were not kidding around.



To get to the abbey you have to scale the hill, which should be simple. But, owing to my pastry-clogged arteries I was pretty winded by the time I got to the top. Fortunately, the view was well worth it, as the abbey terrace looks simultaneously onto the sea and the countryside. After two months of city living, it was nice to look around and see grass, hills and water everywhere. The abbey itself was also interesting, though most of the rooms are empty and the Sweet Briar staff had shamed me into taking a French audioguide, so some of the religious lingo was hard to understand. But the sense of history is enormous, considering that the site was first settled 1300 years ago. We had just enough time to visit the abbey and buy a few souvenirs before being herded back onto the bus for the last stop on our tour.


Saint Malo



After a busy weekend, some mid-afternoon fatigue was starting to set in. Fortunately, we had a perfect end to the trip in the walled port city of Saint Malo. The town is small enough to walk across, so it's easy to hit most of the main sights in an afternoon. Of course, I barely felt like walking at that point, so it was perfect to relax on the beach with a crepe (or two).

Some friends and I finally mustered up enough energy to visit the cathedral and (my favorite) La Demeure de Corsaire. It's a 300-year-old house that belonged to one of Saint Malo's richest citizens, a ship-owner and corsair.

For all of you who do not know what a corsair is:

a) You clearly didn't go to Carmel and therefore are missing out.
b) A corsair is a pirate. But not just any pirate. A mercenary pirate. Which means that they plunder in a patriotic spirit and supposedly follow rules stating that they won't attack neutral ships.

Anyway, it was an interesting tour. The house was filled with secret passageways, hidden rooms and creepy underground tunnels used to smuggle contraband goods between houses. Awesome.

After the tour, we headed back to the train station for our return trip to Paris. Overall, it was a fantastic trip. Yes, it suffered from some of the pitfalls that always befall group trips (a semi-creepy bus driver who really liked French 80s music, rushed site visits, a busful of people singing "Don't Stop Believing" as we pulled up to the D-Day beaches...), but it was a really interesting mix of activities. And although the American cemetery stood out above the other sights, it was great to see Mont-Saint-Michel, Bayeux and Saint Malo, places I never would have thought to visit on my own. When it comes to planning trips, my mind generally has two settings "Paris" and "the rest of Europe." I tend to forget that there is a France outside of Paris, and that it's equally worth exploring.

Bodily Fluids

So, last week I decided that I was over Paris. I'd seen the Eiffel Tower a couple times, consumed several hundred pastries, bought a few scarves...I was ready to blow this popsicle stand. So when a few Northwestern friends also in Paris invited me on a weekend trip to Belgium, I made a few last minute train reservations, hastily packed up a bag and headed off on my first international trip of the year. And what a trip it was...

I don't know how familiar you are with Belgium, my lovely readers. I certainly wasn't before this weekend. And if you listened to French people, you would never attempt any sort of communication with Belgians, as the French take delight in mocking their supposedly moronic neighbors to the north. Essentially, Belgium is Canada with waffles.

Anyway, plan was to spend three days visiting two of the country's most famous cities: Bruges and Brussels. Bruges is known for being Belgium's most well-preserved medieval city, and for being the setting of some movie featuring a lot of foul-mouthed Irish guys. And Brussels is known, of course, for being Belgium's capital, and for bearing an unfortunate linguistic similarity to one of the most disgusting vegetables known to mankind. Both cities are known for their lace, chocolate, frites and waffles. Clearly there was much sight-seeing (and eating) to be done. So prepare yourselves for a long entry.

Friday

I was traveling separately from my two friends, so I arrived at Paris's Gare du Nord Friday afternoon, tickets and passport in hand, unsure of quite what to expect. Considering that I go to college 45 minutes away from home, I'm not really accustomed to solo travel. I've only flown by myself once before (and I use the term "by myself" loosely, as my mother and aunt printed out my boarding pass, followed me until the security line and then stood tapping on the glass and waving until I headed off to my gate). And train travel was completely foreign to me. Considering this, I expected to end up in Romania by the time the day was over. But European trains really did live up to their reputation, and within four hours, I was safely settled into our hostel in Bruges.

That's not to say there weren't a few glitches. I almost missed my train from Brussels to Bruges because I had only 15 minutes to transfer between trains. After getting to Bruges, it took me a few minutes to figure out the bus system because Western Belgium likes to play a fun game called "Let's stick it to those nasty French people by speaking Flemish, which is like Dutch but not exactly. And not just any Flemish, West Flemish. Oh, and we won't put French anywhere on the signs either, even though it is an official language of our country." It's a fun game, let me tell you. Anyway, I did finally figure out which stop to get off at. Whereupon, I discovered that my friend had e-mailed me the link to the wrong hostel. So I had to walk 20 minutes north--in the rain I might add--to the correct hostel.

I was the first one of the group to arrive, so I picked up the room key and headed upstairs with my bags. It was here that the first signs of trouble emerged. When I put the key in the lock, I heard a man's voice say "It's open." I opened the door and came face-to-face with my roommates for the weekend: three beer-swigging German men (two in their mid-20s and one who looked to be in his 50s).

If one of those Germans had been holding a camera instead of a beer can, they would have captured the best deer-in-the-headlights/small-frightened-woodland-creature expression known to mankind. Unfortunately, they chose alcoholism over the arts. So I can only imagine what my face must have looked like.

Once it had been established that I was to be alone with my new roommates for the immediate future, I climbed onto my bunk and pretended to be very interested in organizing my purse. Everyone else pretended to be very interested in the brand of beer they were consuming. Finally, we reached a tacit agreement wherein the Germans went out for the night, leaving me to await Julie and Kathryn.

The rest of the night was relatively uneventful. Julie and Kathryn arrived not long after, and we made a failed attempt to find dinner which ended in us getting lost in the rain on the deserted streets of Bruges. After finally settling for a rubbery cheeseburger and fries in a fast-food joint near the hostel, we decided it was time for bed.

But one more obstacle stood between us and our beds. Just as we were returning to the hostel, we ran into our roommates. They asked if we'd like to have a beer before brushing our teeth. I declined (see the Nuit Blanche entry for a full explanation of my relationship with alcohol), but all of us stayed up for a while chatting and trading stories. Robert and Thomas, as they introduced themselves, seemed perfectly friendly if more than a little tipsy. Soon, however, exhaustion set in. We all got ready for bed. Julie and Kathryn put their bags into one of the room's six lockers and closed (but did not lock) it. I was inspired, for some unknown reason, to keep my two bags in my bed with me (remember this), and in short order I fell asleep.

Saturday

Saturday morning, I woke up after a good night's sleep to find our inebriated roommates gone, and Julie and Kathryn still asleep. When they finally got up, it turned out that both of them had had trouble sleeping. Julie in particular complained of a bad night's sleep. "I laid awake for five hours," she told us, "I could hear every little sound whenever anyone moved." There was a long pause.

It was at this point that she uttered the following troubling words, "It's the weirdest thing. In the middle of the night, I heard Thomas get up and walk over to our locker...And then I heard water noises."

I know what you're thinking. No. It can't be. There must be some other explanation. I regret to inform you, dear reader, that your worst suspicions are indeed true. When Julie and Kathryn opened their locker, they found that their bags and clothes were soaked. With German urine.

Needless to say, this dealt a significant blow to the general mood. But, as the culprit had scampered off for the day, there was nothing to do but wash everything in the hostel bathroom and head into town to try to salvage the day.

If you've ever seen the movie In Bruges, you know that many of the characters don't have the nicest things to say about the city. And it is true that the town isn't exactly hopping after 10:00 (or 6:00). But it's really a beautiful place: compact houses with stepped gables and red-tiled roofs, picturesque bridges spanning an extensive canal system, squares filled with medieval buildings and churches.

We started the day with a visit to one of said squares, where we got a view of Bruges's main attraction, the belfry. It dates back to the 13th century, and is topped with 48 bells. We didn't go up the tower, instead opting for the cheaper panoramic view from the Bruges concert hall. But, not wanting to miss out on Bruges's spiritual side, we walked a short distance to a much smaller, more unassuming church that contained the holiest body fluid we'd encountered all day: Jesus Christ's blood. That's right. Jesus' very own blood, after a long journey from the Holy Land during the Crusades, found its final resting place in Belgium.

And for any of you wondering what Jesus' blood looks like, the answer is kind of gross. Congealed and filmy are the two words that come to mind. Nonetheless, it was a really interesting experience, as I'd never seen a relic before. Obviously living in the U.S. means missing out on some of the history that Europe is absolutely saturated with. We don't have 800 year old buildings But I'd never considered that the States are also missing an entire dimension of religious tradition, simply because of our location.

I'm pretty sure that whatever was in that vial was not Christ's blood. But at least the story has a whiff of plausibility. Stories like that just wouldn't fly in America. No one's going to believe that the Virgin Mary took a weekend trip to Virginia and left a finger bone behind for John Smith to stumble upon. Nope, the best we can hope for is the odd piece of holy toast. Advantage Bruges.

The advantage also goes to Bruges when it comes to charming modes of transportation, notably boat tours. What better way to see the city called "Venice of the North" than from the water? Yes, it's about the most touristy thing you can do in Bruges, but it was a relaxing way to pass a sunny autumn afternoon, and the views of the town did not disappoint.

From there, the bodily fluids theme pretty much ends, unless you count my own saliva. Because the rest of the day was spent indulging in my favorite pastime: eating. The Belgians know what all the tourists are after, and they have no problem supplying it. Bruges must hold the Guinness world record for the world's highest concentration of chocolate shops, because there were about 25 of them on every street. And every store not selling chocolate was a frietshop. Frieten (frites in French, fries in English) are enormously popular street food in Belgium. They serve them to-go in paper cones with mayonnaise as dipping sauce. Sounds disgusting, tastes delicious. Finally, sated and tired, we headed back to the hostel and spent an awkward night giving the silent treatment to three very guilty-looking Germans.


Sunday

We awoke Sunday morning with no goal but to get to Brussels as early as humanly possible. Waiting for a bus to the train station seemed more palatable than spending another 30 minutes in close quarters with our German friends, so we headed to the bus stop when it was still gray outside. While waiting, we had a brief, seemingly-insignificant conversation with two South African girls staying in the same hostel (Hint: Not really insignificant).

The first couple legs of the journey went off without a hitch. We made it to the station, and managed to get tickets and get on a Brussels-bound train in less than 10 minutes. Unfortunately, that was to be the simplest part of the day. Upon arrival, Julie and Kathryn decided to reserve seats for their return trip to Paris that night They have Eurail passes, which means that they get free seats, but it's preferable to reserve spots well in advance to ensure that there's space on the train. Unfortunately, earlier reservations were needed in this case. All free seats from Brussels to Paris were filled for the day. Their only option was to take a train to Lille (in France) and pray that there were spots on a Lille-Paris train. Essentially, they had less than two hours in Brussels before they needed to catch a Lille-bound train.

With such a limited time frame, we decided to head for two of Brussels' major tourist attractions. First up: the Grand Place. Now, Brussels is obviously a much smaller city than Paris. And up to that point I hadn't been overly impressed by the architecture. But this main square is really spectacular.


(There was no way my camera could fit in the whole square. For a much more complete view, click here).

Mere minutes from the square lies what is possibly Brussels' most famous attraction. It's a small, relatively unimpressive statue. But, given the previous day's events this tiny sculpture took on a whole new level of irony. Behold, the Mannekin Pis:


Needless to say, the sight brought up painful memories for Julie and Kathryn, memories that could only be repressed with Belgian waffles. Fun fact: what we call Belgian waffles are actually American waffles. Real Belgian waffles are either of the Brussels or Liege variety. Julie and Kathryn opted for Liege waffles (which have sugar baked into the dough) with whipped cream and chocolate, while I went for the traditional Brussels waffle (a more rectangular form) with the traditional topping of powdered sugar. We were all very pleased with our decisions.


We made a brief stop in one of the city's cathedrals before it was time for Julie and Kathryn to strike out for the train station. This left me with seven solo hours to kill before my train left for Paris.

My plan was to head back towards the tourism office, pick up a few maps and hit a few attractions in the afternoon. On the way back, I figured I'd kill 20 minutes at a little market we had passed earlier. This turned out to be a surprisingly fortuitous decision. Because while perusing hats at one of the stands, I glanced to my left and saw one of the girls from the bus stop in Bruges. Long story short, we struck up a conversation and I spent the afternoon wandering Brussels with Catherine and Lies.

We wandered back to the cathedral, then headed over to the Eglise St-Catherine, a smaller church situated on a pretty little square. It was a Sunday afternoon, so the city was pretty quiet. But we did see, in the space of 30 minutes, a wedding and a fistfight.

That was too much excitement for us, so we stopped at a supermarket and fashioned a picnic lunch to eat in St. Albertine's Square (Camembert and a baguette for me, doing the French proud). After lunch we wandered over to the Royal Palace and the beautiful park that adjoins it. Catherine and Lies eventually had to leave to head back to Bruges, and I didn't have much time before heading back to the train station. So I spent another hour wandering around the park and ended my day in Brussels on a park bench with a book, a warm caramel-drenched waffle and a cup of steaming hot chocolate. All in all, not a bad weekend.

I really appreciated Belgium for its beautiful medieval architecture, quiet countryside (seriously, the whole country looks like one big landscape painting) and excellent street food. But what really made the weekend a great one was my mindset throughout. Nothing I did over those three days was rocket science (catching a train, figuring out the bus system, navigating around Brussels, etc). The revolutionary part was that I did it all without getting nervous or frustrated. Whenever a glitch came along (going to the wrong hostel, being left alone in Brussels, etc.) I didn't stress out about it. I told myself that everything would work out, and it did.

In case you are not impressed by my mental fortitude, let me remind you that just a few short years ago my mother had to push me from a car into a Panera to order coffee for her. Literally. She pushed me because I had never ordered coffee there before and was having a panic attack over what size to get and where to find the cream and sugar. So this trip was kind of a big step for me. In fact, I think this is the first clear difference I've seen between American me and European me. American me is a compulsive worrier. European me is apparently fine when things don't go exactly as planned.

Besides the change in mindset, I also had some really incredible luck. It probably would have been a lot harder to stay calm had all of my wearable clothes been drenched in pee. And my afternoon in Brussels wouldn't have been nearly as enjoyable if Catherine and Lies hadn't talked to us at the bus stop that morning. It's ironic and kind of terrible considering all nightmare that my friends went through, but it felt as though the weekend was determined to work out for me. In short, International Trip #1 goes down as a success.

I leave you with a short list:

Things Learned From My First Trip Abroad

-Two cities in 2 1/2 days is too much. It's not hard to see most of Bruges in a day, but Brussels definitely got short-shrift. Sure, we hit many of the major sights. But it's hard to get any sort of feel for a city in eight hours. Thankfully, the rest of the trips I have scheduled for this semester won't be as hectic.
-Take every opportunity to sample local cuisine. Multiple times if necessary.
-There's no place like home. I was clearly just kidding in the opening to this entry when I said I was sick of Paris. Even though I had a nice weekend, I was so happy to be back on the Metro, surrounded by French, Sunday night. It was surprising, but great, to realize that I feel like I'm in my element here.
-Look up some handy phrases in the local language before traveling. I didn't expect the sudden Flemish attack, and I felt like one of those terrible Americans who just expects everyone to speak English to them wherever they go.

And, most importantly...

-Lock up your stuff. Especially when Germans are around.

Stress Relief

So, I've been in Paris for a month now. But last week was my first real week in the city. By which I mean, it was the first week in which I had all of my classes, real homework and the real stress that goes along with that.

In some ways, it's nice to have a little more structure to my days. And, let's be honest, some of these classes are really more like "classes." That's not to say I don't have work. But when this work consists of going to see plays for free, or visiting the Parisian monuments, it somehow seems like less of an obligation and more of a treat.

It's hard though, to realize just how much less time I have to explore Paris. Whereas before I had entire weeks to traipse around the city, I now have to slot museum visits and long walks in between classes, meetings and homework. And now that my weekends are starting to fill up with trips (I'm going to be traveling four of the next six weekends), I have even less time to spend in my home city.

Okay, I just reread that last sentence. And you all have permission to slap me, either virtually or whenever you see me next (I would prefer virtually). I'm not complaining about the fact that I have to visit the rest of Europe any more than I'm complaining about my "classes." But I'm starting to realize just how fast my time here is going, and I'm starting to think that I may have to sacrifice some of my planned foreign vacations if I really want to do Paris justice. And if some homework has to fall by the wayside as well, so be it.

Anyway, I don't have time to fill you in on everything that has been happening to me in the past couple of weeks. You probably wouldn't find it interesting anyway, unless the idea of two hour discussions of the Fourth Republic really get you going. So I present the following primer on avoiding stress in the City of Lights.

Things That Will Stress You Out in Paris

-going to your first history discussion section, and finding out that you have two oral presentations to give in the first two weeks
-doing mental multiplication and realizing how much that 4.00 euro pastry costs in real money
-in every class, being handed a bibliography of 100 books with no guidance as to what you actually have to read beyond, "These seventeen might be interesting..."
-missing half of your first literature class at the Sorbonne because you can't figure out what the room number is
-realizing that you forget all your eight years of French whenever you get flustered

Things That Will Relieve the Aforementioned Stress
-watching a classroom of 9-year old French kids learn prepositions and Halloween vocabulary in English class ("Ze spider iss in ze box...")
-meeting up for Paris's best falafel with an elementary school friend
-autumn walks in the jardin du Luxembourg (and being told by adorable old men in said park that you speak French very well)
-walking home with a warm baguette in hand
-photo exhibits along the Seine and Champs-Elysees
-free front-row theater tickets
-late night cafe-dates with friends
-a daily pastry (eclairs, une tentation, chocolate pear tarts, chocolate banana tarts, raspberry tarts, religieuses...)

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To sum up...I'm still loving it here. Yes, there have been more stressful moments during these past few weeks than previously in my trip. Yes, I'm starting to miss more and more things about the U.S. (pumpkin carving, clothes fresh out of the drier, glorious water-wasting showers, football, muffins...and all of you guys, of course). Yes, I sometimes feel as though I am spending my entire life in the Metro, with all the finer elements of French society.

But the trade-off to putting up with those inconveniences is that I'm feeling more and more like a local. I have a routine of sorts. I have my favorite neighborhood boulangerie. I know the first 15 stops on my Metro line. The sandwich lady at the shop by my program center finally smiled at me today. And, speaking of the Metro, I had an experience with a repeat panhandler.

You see, it often happens that one will be sitting in a Metro car minding one's own business and struggling to keep one's English-language book inconspicuous for fear of muggers, when someone will get onto the car and make a plea for cash. I generally ignore these litanies, but they invariably include at least one of the following elements:

a) loss of job due to terrible economy (To which I say, you think your economy's bad? I'm an American, buddy.)
b) some sort of rare and previously undiscovered medical ailment
c) 17 children

Anyway, I generally act like a normal person and avert my eyes from these spectacles of human misery. But the other day, a speech started that sounded strangely familiar. After the mention of a chronic eye ailment, I was sure. I had heard this exact speech before. Yes, I have now lived here long enough to have a favorite boulangerie, a favorite park and a favorite panhandler.

It was perhaps not the most poetic moment of my week. But it did more than anything to remind me that I'm not here as a tourist. The fact is, I have a claim on Paris now. It's a mythical city for so many, but I'm one of the lucky few who can say, for the rest of my life, "I lived there."And despite all the stresses of the week, I was somehow cheered to realize that out of all the Metro cars in all the stations in all the world, this unemployed German waiter from Montmartre walked into mine...twice.

Nuit Blanche

Every time I look down on this timeless town,
Whether blue or gray be her skies
Whether loud be her cheers or whether soft be her tears
More and more do I realize

That I love Paris in the springtime.
I love Paris in the fall.
I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles.
I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles.

--"I Love Paris" by Cole Porter

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I do love Paris in the fall. And I'm pretty sure I'll enjoy spring. I have my doubts about the drizzly winter. But, with all respects to Mr. Porter, I would add something to the above lyrics. I love Paris in the nighttime.

My most vivid memories of my first trip to Paris happened at night. There was the first evening in the hotel room when my two roommates and I huddled together at the window, staring intently at the Eiffel Tower to see it sparkle. And there was my last night in the city, when my French teacher took the group on a nighttime tour. Walking to the Arc de Triomphe, my teacher took one look at my face and told me, "You're going to come here to study some day. And you're going to love it."

He was right. Three and a half years later, I'm back in the City of Lights. And there's still something magical about Paris at night. So this Saturday night, I ventured out with thousands of Parisians to celebrate Nuit Blanche.

Nuit Blanche (which literally translates to "White Night") is a one-night festival that runs from 7:30 Saturday evening to 7:30 Sunday morning. Museums are opened all night, monuments are lit, street performers and art installations fill the streets. It may sound familiar to Chicagoans, as it was an inspiration for Looptopia.

I almost didn't make it out, as my complete and embarrassing intolerance for alcoholic beverages reared its ugly head (at a program sponsored event, no less). Lest you think I am an alcoholic, as the program staff almost certainly does, I have to admit that I drank less than half a glass of wine. LESS THAN HALF. And literally almost passed out. There was roaring in the ears, blurred vision, dizziness, the whole nine yards. I turned freakishly pale. Yes, I am always freakishly pale, but this was extreme. Edward Cullen had nothing on me. Of course, this could also have something to do with the fact that I had consumed an entire baguette and a pastry shortly before the reception.

Fortunately, my Irish kicked in just in time for me to salvage the night. First, some friends and I headed over the Louvre. It was unfortunately closed for some mysterious reason (we surmised a bomb threat), but that hardly mattered. Seeing the building at night was more than enough to satisfy me. Also, there was a group of French boys who were taking running starts, then leaping into the hedges of the Louvre, which promptly bounced them off. Which reminded me of Northwestern. Afterwards, we headed over to the Pont Alexandre III to watch the Eiffel Tower's hourly light show. This doesn't come close to doing it justice, but here's a taste of how it looked. Or at least, how it would have looked had I been craning my head at a 90 degree angle:




Finally, we walked over the Grand Palais at midnight and enjoyed a nearly empty Renoir exposition. I'd actually seen the exhibition before with my friend Aisha, but had no qualms about going through a second time. It's a beautiful exhibit, and the colors in the paintings are absolutely stunning. I actually enjoyed the show more the second time around because (a) there was almost no one there and (b) I get a strange thrill out of being in museums after hours. Yes, I am a nerd. Don't judge me.

The funny thing was, we missed more than we saw. I didn't watch a single street performer, or stand in a huge line to see the disco ball in the Jardin du Luxembourg. But the night was fantastic anyway. It reminded me of Looptopia (or, strangely, Dillo Day) in that it's not really about what you do or don't do. It's about the atmosphere of relaxation and fun that pervades the entire city. Even the Parisians, who I would not generally describe as laid-back, unwind and celebrate their city at its finest. Living here, I sometimes feel as though I'm missing the excitement that comes with being a tourist. But exploring Paris at nighttime never fails to give me some of that magic back.

A bientot,

Alanna

Musee Rodin

Before bringing you your regularly scheduled post, a brief announcement: Happy anniversary Mom and Dad!! And no, I did not get the date wrong. Apparently the blog displays the date you started writing the post, not the day it was actually published. So it is your real anniversary today. Not many people get shout-outs on my blog, but since you're pretty cool (and since you are paying for essentially all of the experiences mentioned on this blog) you get a special mention. I hope you have a wonderful day.

Now, down to business. I have many aspirations for my time in France. Some are realistic, some are not. And then there are those that are mutually exclusive. For example, Aspiration #1 (sample every pastry variety in Paris) and Aspiration #2 (lose ten pounds so as to look more like a real parisienne) cannot coexist. Another, somewhat less contradictory pairing is the following: Aspiration #3 (explore as much as I can of Paris, France and Europe) vs. Aspiration #4 (update all of my six followers on every detail of said exploration). Because telling everyone everything that happens to me, would necessitate about 16 hours of blogging a day. And then I wouldn't do anything else, and I would have to start blogging about blogging and it would all become too unbearably self-referential and probably open up some sort of hole in the space-time continuum. Long story short, much of what I did in the past week is not posted here. But I do my best to compile the highlights of the highlights so that you don't miss anything too important. With this in mind, I would be remiss if I did not mention my visit to the Musee Rodin, even if it did happen nearly a week ago.

And yes, that was a really long introduction that has very little to do with the actual subject of my post. But I'm the one writing this thing, so all six of you will either have to deal with it or find a more concise, less pastry-obsessed blogger to follow.

Anyway...the museum. Oh the museum. It is duking it out with l'Orangerie for the prestigious title of "Alanna's Favorite Museum in Paris." Everything about it was perfect. Starting with the fact that I got in for free. You see, I have a very professional looking ID (read: a piece of green construction paper with my photo stapled to it) stating that I am an art history student and, as such, deserve free admission to just about any museum in Paris. I am not an art history student, but I'm managed to suppress my conscience for the sake of my wallet. Admirable, I know.

Truth is, I would have paid a considerable amount of money to visit this museum. For one thing, it has a perfect location. Perfect, but dangerous. I think the staff needs to add a sign stating "Caution: Your head may explode from simultaneous viewing of the Eiffel Tower, les Invalides and The Thinker. You have been warned." Seriously, how can you beat this?



The collections themselves are extensive, and housed in a beautiful old mansion. I've had much more exposure to painting than to sculpture, but I have to say I've always loved Rodin. The idea that someone can look at a solid hunk of marble or plaster and see a fully-realized figure inside of it is mind-boggling to me. So even though I knew that Rodin is generally considered to be an okay sculptor, I was still surprised by the detail in The Thinker. I've seen a million photos of it, but standing in front of the original is an altogether different experience. Apparently when Rodin described the sculpture, he said the following: "What makes my Thinker think is that he thinks not only with his brain, with his knitted brow, his distended nostrils and compressed lips, but with every muscle of his arms, back, and legs, with his clenched fist and gripping toes." That quote is either attributable to Rodin or a remarkably clever and accurate Wikipedia contributor. Either way, it is absolutely true.



The thing I loved most about the museum, however, were the grounds. I'm a big fan of parks, gardens and green spaces in general. And the Musee Rodin has extensive grounds with beautiful flowers, fountains and sculptures scattered throughout. It was a perfect place to spend a quiet afternoon with a book and a camera.

Speaking of cameras, I did go a little crazy with the picture taking. But I think you all have realized by now that I am more than a little obsessed with this museum. If you are ever in Paris, go. I command you. And if you need more convincing, I will leave you with a selection of the appromixately 5,000 photos I took there.