Modern museum. No, like, really modern.

My heart's feeling heavy as I write this. I'm not sure why; it was so long ago. But just anticipating writing about my last few days in France...

Anyways, I got some stories for you all from Wednesday. Sometime around 9:30 in the morning, the art class met at metro station Place d'Italie in the 13ème arrondissement of Paris.

I was almost lost.
Until I wasn't.

Usually we all take our respective metro lines straight to a location. This time, we actually met inside a specific metro line and then took the metro together.

We reached our destination, and it didn't seem like we were in Paris anymore. It seemed more like a neighborhood—not the hustle and bustle of Chatlet.

We must've been a sight. A long line of students walking down the sidewalk of a random residential street in France. Pierre, my art professor, leading the pack. You know what? I haven't really introduced you all to him, so let's do that now.

He has brown, curly hair and wears glasses. Despite his height, he could pretty much pass for a student. He always wore a dull green jacket with yellow stripes coming down the arms, and he always wore a bright green web belt that never seemed to fit around his waist. A little section never made it to the last loop and just hanged down right by the front belt buckle.

He hates the British. Hates. Sort of playfully, I think. Once he said they were the biggest mistake in the world or something along those lines. It's pretty hilarious to here him once you get him going.
For my Gators, think about how we feel about the Seminoles, and I think you'll get the picture.

I think I might have already mentioned to you all that his wife's from Spain, so he speaks Spanish at home, English (mostly), with us and French everywhere else. Of those, English is his weakest, of course ( though exponentially better than my French), so when he talks about art to us and stumbles on a word I'm hoping the poor man's brain doesn't explode.

That day, I figured out Pierre could singlehandedly make fast walking an Olympic sport. It must have been at least a mile from the metro station to the museum we were heading toward. He kicked it in turbo, man. The route felt endless. I wondered where this museum was, not to mention the fun walk back we had to look forward to.

We finally made it there, although we were missing two people. This museum would "literally" be the worst thing to find on your own (I've decided that when I put literally in quotation marks I mean figuratively, literally.). Luckily Getro (who was literally always late except like once. Notice the lack of quotation marks) and Molissa ended up meeting up and finding the place together.

So, we get to the museum, and this is our assignment:
Find the artwork you dislike the most, and present it to the class, explaining why (en français, bien sûr).

Andddd stop.

You know how a lot of modern European art is stereotyped as being all super interpretive and deep. Like, it's a piece of toast and people are acting like it's the Mona Lisa and you're all:

Do you love this shit?
Are you high right now?

Suddenly, you're not sure whether you're showing criticism or just singing along to a Drake song.

Well, that was this place.
It was every European art stereotype come true.

And it was beautiful.

I picked some random ugly thing (it was really pointy) and another girl picked it too. She mentioned she thought it was scary, and this may or may not have been the day when Pierre said the word "scareful," and some of the class (including myself) could not help loling.

But the visit didn't end there. Next, Pierre had us break up into groups and perform a skit based on a piece of art in the museum (en français). Guess what piece of art my group had?

Yes, folks. That is, in fact, a refrigerator on skis.

A refrigerator.
On.
Skis.

Putain, I love this country. *cues soft playing of La Marseillaise in the background*

No where else can something so ridiculous be found in a museum. It's beautiful, really.
Anyways, our skit ended up being about a robbery. Someone, stole a pair of skis, and since we're in France (where unlike Florida the ground is not flat and winter is actually a thing) somebody reported it to the police. After a little detective work, we found out the fridge stole the skis all along.
Case closed.  *Law and Order sound*

Other groups had some other crazy artwork, including a series of hair extensions dangling from a wall being blown by a fan (I swear I could not make this up even if I tried).

I wish I took more pictures of the art inside this museum, but here's my only other pic— something that might have freaked you out had you seen it in person.

It was relatively life-like.

So, that was our museum visit.

I've been trying to figure out the timeline for the boat ride, and my mind's telling me it was Wednesday night, but my camera's telling me it was Tuesday night, so I guess I should have talked about it in my last post.

We got to go on a boat tour on the Seine one night. It was beautiful, but it was not the best night for me. I felt horrible (probably from Rome). But who can't appreciate the beauty of Paris at night?

Paris: La Ville Lumière

Oui, ça, c'est la Tour Eiffel

Sûr le bateau

P.S.

You know that Kid Cudi song "Heaven at Nite"? That's pretty much Paris at night. 

BACK

It's been a while, hasn't it?

It really has. My semester of death at UF is nearing it's end, and now on Thanksgiving Day, I thought I'd make a little time for Paris.

We've been in Italy for too long.

But honestly, the huge delay is partly because I couldn't find the last page of my itinerary while I was in Gainesville, and it's gotten to the point where I need it in front of me to refresh my memory. At least so I can write this chronologically. Now that I'm in Apopka, I found an extra itinerary, so we're back in business!

After a three post digression, I think it's time to take everyone back to Paris.

I've missed it.

So let's see. I hop off the bus, and I'm at Porte Maillot. Bit of a back track. I already told you guys in the P.S. from the previous post I made it back to Paris without a hitch, but I didn't give any more details.

So I got off the bus straight from Paris Beauvais airport. I was finally home.

France.

Finalement. Now I just had to find the metro so I could get back to Malakoff. I started following the signs, but I still wasn't seeing that familiar stairway. Even though they literally head into the ground, those metro stairways were more like a stairway to heaven (Led Zeppelin?). I knew if I could find one, I'd never be lost. I kept going that direction, and I suddenly recognized a handsome fella from the bus wearing some Italia shirt walking past me. He, apparently, was also heading to the metro, so I followed him (way less creepy than it sounds).

When I found the metro, it was all good (except for that vending machine not working). I was hella soif and craving some Orangina like nothing else. But the good news is, class was starting two hours later than usual the next morning.

So looking back at the date of my pictures, I'm pretty sure Monday was the day we went to this pretty cool museum.

I took pictures of some of the cooler things.

The original Blue Man Group (except there's one—whatever just let me have this)

Yep. That's considered art.

It's pretty awesome.

There was something really freaking cool about this fountain that Pierre (my French art professor— cliché for the win) told us about, but I can't for the life of me remember. Merde.

Maybe some fact about the random, modernish artwork on the fountain?

Welp, that was the art class. Who knows what happened in the UF class that day.

OK, let's move on to a day I actually remember. Tuesday.

Nope, that's pretty blank too. It looks like art class was at the API center, and for the UF class "Film" is on the itinerary.

That must've been the day we saw "The Class." Or ""Entre les murs" if we're going by the French title.

Netflix it, people. It's like Freedom Writers, but more realistic and with less Hilary Swank jaw.

I recommend.

Well, that was Monday and Tuesday. Really tragic post. But no worries, Wednesday and Thursday will be better. I remember more from those days. I got some stories. 

Crois-moi, brah. 

P.S.

This is my last week in France, btw. In case you all were wondering when this blog would ever end. 

P.S.S.

I'm no Akeelah or anything, but I consider myself a pretty decent speller, so why oh why is it so difficult for me to spell itinerary? POURQUOI?

Roma: Vici

But did I?

Did I "conquer?"

I definitely Vini'd, and God knows I Vidi'd, but did I Vici?

I look back on everything I did that weekend...

And I really did profites en!

My time in Italy was coming to a close. Sunday afternoon we boarded the bus (or tram? One of those. I forget) to the Vatican.

And I found something out on my last day in Italia.

Some Italian people, well just a few, they sort of blatantly well, how do I put this...

Actually, I'll just tell the story.

So, Natalie and I are walking to the stop for the bus (tram? This is what happens when you finish a blogs MONTHS after the fact), and an old man waiting saw us approaching and began to yell-a-something-fierce in Italian.

I'm not sure if he was having a bad day, or it was directed at us because he clearly seemed to be looking and gesturing at us while he yelled.

I turned to Natalie and asked what the old man's problem was.

His Italian was so fast—she couldn't make it out.

Ah, whatever. I thought he was just annoyed by tourists—understandable, I guess. I mean, I certainly didn't look Italian.

So, forgetting about this, I hopped on whatever mode of transportation this was, and we began our journey to the Vatican.

At one stop a black man came aboard. A few moments later, Natalie spoke outta the blue.

Maybe he's just a racist asshole, she said.

Huh? I responded, at this point having no idea what she was talking about.

The old man, Natalie said.

Apparently he was all quiet until the black man got aboard, and then he started yelling and gesturing at him, similar to what happened when he saw me.

*Momentary fast forward* When I returned to France I ended up asking Getro about it (who was Haitian and knew a thing or two about European Culture). And he was like, yeah, that happens over there. You all may have heard about the soccer incident. Apparently it's a thing.

Anyways, we eventually made it to the Vatican, where I did a Hail Mary (heh, heh, heh) and went right in the middle of the street to get a picture of St. Peter's while Natalie looked out to make sure no cars where coming to run me over.

We looked at the line to enter.

Yeah...

That would not be happening. I already knew I wouldn't have the chance to go inside. In fact, this whole time I was traveling with my bags. I'd be going to the airport that afternoon.

Oh yeah! Almost forgot. A stand right outside of St. Peter's was selling Gatorade! I was so proud, y'all. Gator Nation represent.

Anyways, after looking through a few gift shops, we left the Vatican and headed to the place where I could catch a bus to the airport. I wish I wrote this earlier so I could have done a better job of explaining the situation at hand.

I was quickly running out of cash. I should have brought more with me to Italy, but I didn't anticipate the tour. Every few minutes, my mind was trying to calculate how much I would need to buy a bus ticket to the airport, and from there, how much I would need to get a bus ticket from the airport to Porte Maillot, where I could use my Navigo to get back to Malakoff.

 If my calculations served me correct, I had just about enough to buy the two tickets, and that was it. No room for mistakes. If anything happened, I wouldn't be able to afford a taxi.

So I couldn't mess around. The last thing I wanted to be was stranded at Paris Beauvais airport.

I bought my bus ticket (actually I stood by and let Natalie do the whole speaking in Italian thing). Apparently a few minutes after buying the ticket, I had to go right back in line to "verify" it or some nonsense like that.

So after that, we waited.

And Voilà.

Circle theory.

Some of you might remember my first day in Italy when Natalie and I got off the bus from the airport and a torrential downpour followed.

It was only fitting, then, that it began to storm while Natalie and I waited for the bus to take me to the airport back to France.

We were under a covering with a ton of other people waiting for their buses. When one bus came, a huge crowd of people left the covering to stand outside the bus (it was like a megabus type of thing) to show their registration and get their bags on. A mass of people, all pushing to get on the bus quick, were repeatedly pushed back by one of the workers.

And then it began to hail.

It was mess. A beautiful mess. (Really good Jason Mraz song btw)

So anyways, soon (who am I kidding? It seemed like it took forever) a bus was approaching—my bus, so Natalie and I said our good byes.

It wasn't until after she left that I realized it wasn't my bus. So I waited solo for a little longer. I was not happy standing with this wet, pushy mass of people. I was not happy at all.

I was through. J'en avais marre.

Finally, my bus came and I hopped aboard. A nice, dry place to sit. Eventually I reached the airport.

I'll get through the rest of this quickly because honestly it happened so long ago.

After security and check in, I searched for my gate. Bedlam. Just a super crowded mass of people. I couldn't tell where one line ended and the other began. When I found the section for my flight to France, I stood around the other passengers and suddenly my mood brightened a little.

Some passengers in line were speaking French.

I have never been so happy to hear French in my life. I felt relief. I felt comfortable. It didn't even seem foreign to me.

It took going all the way to Italy to realize I was slowly becoming a Parisien.












P.S.

I made it back to Paris without a hitch, but I only had about a couple of euros left in my bag. No worries, that was enough for Orangina at the metro stop. I was hyper soif, so I tried to buy one, but the machine didn't work. It was devastating, really.






P.S.S.
I know. Cool story bro.










P.S.S.S.

A special thank you to Natalie Sepulveda. I'll never forget that weekend—ever. Thanks for having me!

Roma: Vidi

Friday, I came.

Saturday, I saw.

But before we get to the sites, I'll explain to you a little something about Italy and coffee.

Natalie and I headed to a little place right near her apartment to eat breakfast. She recommended I try this thing that was like a croissant, but filled with a custard of some sort.

Not bad, but I think the French have the pastry game on lock.

But let's talk about coffee.

So Natalie and I went to order, and I was up. I even chuckle thinking about it now.

I stuttered latte to the guy behind the counter (who was really nice), and Natalie cut me off

and said "una cafe latte."

She turned to me.

You just ordered milk, she said.

Ohhh, so latte is milk in Ital—ohh.

It was a learning experience. I felt like such a foreigner (I obviously am, but ya know).

Anyways, we got our coffee and my-oh-my it was a masterpiece. 

Just, lawd. It came in a big mug and was all cute and geez. 

Between the two of us (we both got pastries and coffee) the meal hardly came to two euros (if that much, I forget).

Walking out of the place, Natalie explained to me places like that are the reason why Starbucks could not survive it Italy. 

She right tho.

I mean, why on earth would you pay for expensive-ass Starbucks when that exists?

Like, really. They could devote a whole SNL "Really!?!" skit to that.

Oh and before I forget, I stopped and marveled at the Coke.

I saw a bunch of names on the cans, and Natalie was wondering why I found it so interesting.

Don't they have that in France?

In hindsight–yes, but up until that point I'd never seen it before.

On the cans were Random Italian names. Davide, for example. Natalie explained to me the idea.
Basically, the cans said "share with" *insert name*. Really neat idea. I haven't seen that form of advertising in the U.S. Am I being weird here or is it a thing?

So now to the sites.

We hopped on the tram and—wait.

I need to discuss the bus police.

This has to be done.

So, in Paris, I was used to taking the metro everywhere. I took the bus a couple of times, but I hadn't even seen any trams in France so far.

With Natalie, we went places by tram or bus.

And the thing is, really, you're supposed to buy this card or something that lasts a certain amount of hours on the tram or bus, and you have to swipe it when you go on.

But nobody does that.

I mean, it helps the government of course, so a couple of good citizens will swipe it and leave others with a twinge of shame (who am I kidding? They probably don't care). 

Anyways, so technically you have to get the card swiped every time you walk on.

Here's what happens if you don't.

Nothing. 

Well, if you're lucky.

The workers for whatever the system is called will sometimes randomly hop on a stop and check everyone. If you didn't get it swiped, say hello to a fat fine. 

Hence, the bus police.

I didn't encounter any in my short time there, but be on the look out. They're vigilant...

So eventually we hopped off the bus to the area with the major sites. Now, Natalie is a history major, so even on the bus she was my own personal tour guide, telling me the "his" stories behind everything (lesbehonest it was a man's world back then).


It was hard to retain everything (sorry Natalie), but I did get one thing from this impromptu history lesson:

She really hates Stalin.

And moving on (this post might be longer than I anticipated. Oops).

So, Natalie and I were walking, and we ended up in front of the forum. We were thinking prices; deciding if it was worth it to pay to go in (might have been 10€ or 15€. I don't know).

Suddenly, a tall lady with tan olive skin approached us.

She was advertising a tour company that gave access to the forum and Coliseum for 40€.

We politely declined, but she was persistent (and nice) so we got to talking.

We explained we're both broke AF college students (this simile makes no sense unless you regularly eat ramen and don't (and cannot afford to) have a car.

But Jenna, you're studying abroad?

Yeah, with money I saved up from three different jobs and loans from Uncle Sam.

But, I digress.

Somehow, tour lady found out I was studying in France, and I found out she's French (can't remember which came first).

We spoke French for like a second. (Basically "Tu parles français?" Some response from me. Some response from her. Back to English for me).

Granted, I understood her if my memory serves me correct, so that was cool.

Anyways, back to prices.

She said the lowest she could go is 35€.

Natalie and I wanted to talk it over by ourselves for a minute and get back to her later, but the tour would be soon and we had to go with her to the office to pay.

Natalie told her we were in, and you know what?

I'm glad she did (hashtag hindsight).

But I did worry (if we're going to talk about the moment).

We followed her to the office, paid our euros, and I began think about how much money I just spent.

Never a good idea.

Natalie and I waited outside the office for the tour to start. It ended up being us, a group of aussies (God that accent), I think a family from the UK and our tour guide, who was also from the UK.

While we were waiting for the tour guide and the UK family (they had to work something out), one of the aussies turned toward us.

He said something along the lines of how much did they scam you for?

I told him 35.

He told us a guy originally told them 55 euros, until they haggled down to 35.

Dang.

Guess we got the nice one.

Anyways, we waited in the hot sun. Italy was way hotter than France. I know geographically it's a given, but I just wanted to tell you all.

I loved it, of course.

Eventually the tour started, and we headed for the Coliseum. We stopped at some incline with the amazing structure in view as the tour guide began to tell us about the history, a lot of which I didn't know/forgot.

I was so glad for the refresher.

Part of the tour was being able to skip the line into the Coliseum, so we walked straight in, and

let-me-tell-you

IT WAS FREAKING AWESOME.

I WAS AWED. STUNNED. AMAZED.

OVEREXAGGERATING?

MAYBE (I PERSONALLY DON'T THINK I AM).

BUT I WAS SO IMPRESSED.

Being able to walk inside the Coliseum, where so much history took place—I loved it.

He told us all about the seating in the Coliseum, how women generally weren't in any seats of honor unless you're one of the vestil virgins.

He was going to give us a hypothetical scenario. He turned to the only girl in the aussie group, and said something like, now let's say you're one of the vestil virgins...

Yeah right! shouted one of the aussie guys, and everyone started laughing.


Needless to say, it was an interesting tour.

It ended at the forum, and we went our separate ways. Natalie and I walked by a building, and she casually remarked it was where Peter and Paul were imprisoned.

WHAT!?? REALLY!??

I FREAKED OUT.

SO MF COOL.

SNFLANSLVKFNMDL;VMGDAJO

I don't know, actually being able to see firsthand the stuff I read about in the Bible—it was amazing. So Cool.

Cool, cool, cool.

I took pics of course.

Anyways, after that we headed to a nearby cat sanctuary.

What is that, you might ask?

A sanctuary.

For cats.

Unwanted cats chill there. Natalie said it's been called "Kitty City." People work there and take care of the cats. On the inside, the ceiling is really low. Like, sorry Lebron, you're not getting in here.

Anyways, after that we headed for linner? I dunno, it was like 4 but we were starving so yeah.

And the next thing I'm going to tell you is...

Well...

I think I had horse.

OK maybe not.

But really though.

I ordered spaghetti at the place we went to, and it tasted all right, but like I told you all before, I can be a bit of a red-blooded Ron Swanson, meat-eating American, so I know what beef tastes like.

That did not taste like beef.
In fact, it did not even look like beef.

I asked Natalie.

Yeah, it was beef.

"beef."

My mind immediately went to the whole horse-meat-sold-as-beef scandal that had been going on fairly recently in Europe.

but I was hungry as *insert decent comparison* so rest assured I ate that horse up.

OK really maybe I'm just weird maybe it was beef.

Later that night, I got to see the Parthenon, and I saw the most beautiful view of St. Peter's Basilica.

My-oh-my. It was just beautiful. I know, I need to find better adjectives, but it was just breathtaking.

Italy at night is the real deal. Like, take me to the highest hill in Rome and show me the view of St. Peter's Basilica so I know it's real.

Too broke for our original plan to go to a bar, Natalie and I decided to head back to her place afterward. She mentioned earlier that she liked certain aspects of the bar scene over there...

"The main thing is if you tell them to fuck off, they'll fuck the fuck off."

That's my friend, folks.

Anyways, we headed back via tram.

And oh God.

It was packed. The most crowded I have ever been on any form of public transportation in my life. Some of you might be familiar with the expression "packed like sardines."

Well, I lived it.

It was "literally" so close, you couldn't hold on to anything, but you didn't lose your balance. The mashing of body against body, flesh against flesh, kept us all in place like cattle.

No space at all. Never experienced anything like that in Paris. No, not even in Paris.



Not so fun fact:

It's ridiculous how easy it is to get low-key groped by some creep when the tram is that crowded. 

P.S.
Sorry for the language. I'm assuming so few people are reading this by now the ones left are the ones who won't care. I don't really see the point in censoring my own blog (hashtag First Amendment?). Plus, we can all assume *** = uck.

P.S.S.
If you didn't see these on Facebook, here's some of the highlights!

Monumento Nazionale a Vittorio Emanuele II

Coliseum!

THIS PLACE IS...

WHERE PETER AND PAUL WERE IMPRISONED

St. Peter's!

Inside the forum, I think. 

Cats in the sanctuary

Also part of the sanctuary, I believe. You can't see it here, but there are cats walking around in there. Like their own little playground.

Parthenon at night! Hyper belle!

And last but not least, a face to a name. Here's me and Natalie inside the Coliseum. Five points for dehydrated tourist photobomb. 

Roma: Veni

No customs no nothin'.

I pretty much walked off the plane and then walked out of the airport.

Uhhh...

Really?

I mean, I know I was coming from France, but that doesn't make me an EU citizen.

Anyways, I wasn't complaining. Less stuff to worry about.

I found some stair steps outside to sit on. In a few minutes, Natalie and I were reunited.

Time to decide how to get to her place. Taxi? Bus?

Well both. But bus first.

Bus.

Again.

But wayyy less stressful this time.

Natalie speaks Spanish (because she's Puerto Rican), which helps her with Italian. Add in the fact that she's been in Rome for like a year now. She's practically fluent to me (granted I know no Italian). She got us tickets without a hitch, and soon we were on the bus.

When we got off the bus, it poured. Poured like it never poured before.

It was only a few steps to the taxi, but by the time we got in we were soaked.

But still cheerful.

It was such a Rome moment.

Throughout the whole thing, I just couldn't believe I was there.

Rome.

It didn't seem real.

Anyways, the taxi eventually reached Natalie's apartment.

A second to get myself together, tour the apartment, breathe.

And then pizza.

We went to a nearby place. And one thing about Italy.

The water over there is...

not free.

Like really, to get water at a restaurant you have to pay (it's bottled).

However, (comma) the bread was free. And it came with a nice looking thing of oil and vinegar and my-oh-my how Italian it all was.

But let me get to the pizza doe (dough? Unintended pun. Punintended?).

It was a thin pizza with cheese and prosciutto (I think).

Now this thing was a huge personal pizza, and it was like two euros something.

Two euros!

Say Whaaaatttttttt?

Anyways, we had some super cheap coffee for dessert.

That's what I'm talking about.

After that, Natalie had to go work in the library at John Cabot ("The Italian Job." This time pun intended). During that time, I chilled at Rosa's (one of Natalie's friends) apartment with her friends from Cali (whose names escape me at the moment except for Posy cuz she was a character).

Natalie and I stood outside her building, where a group of Italian men sat at a nearby table.

"Oh Rosa!!!" Natalie called.

The way the building was, you could see Rosa's window from where we stood.

"Rosaaaaa!!!" the Italian men chanted in mocking unison.

Soon Rosa came down, and we went into the building. Like I said earlier, Natalie went off to work for two hours, and I chilled with them.

Mimosa's, man.

The thing is (all you Florida people will find this interesting), the orange juice was red.

It was made with blood oranges, I think.

I was to find out later from Natalie that actually orange orange juice is rare over there.

Who knew?

So in two hours that happened, someone made quinoa, we walked to a nearby store and Posy learned how to roll cigarettes.

During this time, there was an ongoing debate about a pan of hardly baked cookie cake in the oven, and whether we should just eat it like dough, or wait (forever) to cook it.

By the time Natalie got back, everyone was eating it.

And it was good.

Natalie and I made plans with them for later before we left. When later came, we met a few of the girls at a café.

I'm still 20, so it was my first time actually ordering a drink at a place.

Cool.

Natalie and I sat down, and I searched the menu for a Monaco (some drink Janelle said I had to try when I was in France).

It wasn't on the menu. Looks like it's an exclusively French thing?

Anyways, I was already in the "M" section and the lady was waiting, so I quickly scanned over the paper and looked for something. I ended up being American with it.

A Manhattan.

We weren't there long. After the café, we headed to a party.

I guess I got to "do as the Romans do" (cliché ftw).

That first day it was so hard to believe I was actually in Italy. I know I'm repeating myself, but it was just surreal. I'm not sure when it clicked, but in hindsight, there were a few indicators.

Some guy was walking around the outside tables where we were sitting at the café. He was selling some type of useless, glowing tourist trinket and had no qualms just showing it off like a prized piece of jewelry. I can't remember exactly what it was, but take my word for it—it was absolutely ridiculous.

There was a French family nearby and, uh...

They actually bought it.

Say Whaat?

I guess I really was in Italy—

The French are the tourists now.


























P.S.

I heard a woman say "Mamma mia!" over there.
It's actually a thing, you guys.
Mario did not lie (Where my N64 '90s kidz at?).

Transport

It was hectic.

It was last-minute.

But man, was it worth it. 

First things first. Was I sure about it?

This was our free weekend to travel, and most of the girls in the program were headed off to London. As you all know, it was sort of hard to catch up with everything on the first week when I arrived late. That being said, I found out the weekend we went to Versailles the girls already booked their hostel for London, and it was full.

So, what to do?

Well...

I have family in London. My cousin lives there, but I don't know how complicated it would have been to stay with him and keep up with the rest of the group. 

And honestly, London was never my first choice.

I would love to go there one day, but I was only in Europe for four weeks, and I only had one free weekend left to go abroad.

I wanted to do something a little more foreign. I wanted to stay out of my English-speaking comfort zone. I was thinking Spain, the Netherlands, maybe Italy. 

And voilà. It was like fate.

Natalie invited me to stay with her in Italy (she goes to John Cabot University in Rome). We go way back. Like, fifth grade. 

Suddenly, I had to hectically decide the cheapest way to get there.

Looks like it was the plane for me.

Next, I had to figure out how to get to Paris Beauvais airport. 

Pshh. Paris Beauvais was hardly in Paris. 

I couldn't take the metro there.

The girls were taking a train to London, and it looked like I would have to take a train to the airport.

So sometime before Friday, me, JD, Molissa and the girls going to London all headed to one of the train stations. The girls were just sort of verifying what they would do, but I was figuring out how to get to Paris Beauvais.

JD started talking to these guys at some info station about it, and they referred us to one of the lines (JD's Haitian, so his French is on point).

There, he started translating for me as the guy at the counter laid out my options.

It's funny. I guess we see "Oh la la" as the stereotypical French expression (which I hadn't heard at all). I quickly found out what the French see as the stereotypical American expression.

While JD and I were talking about my options with the train, I happened to say "Oh my gosh."

And like clockwork, I heard the French man at the counter behind me mimic me by saying "Oh my God" in a thick French accent. 

I'm not gonna lie. It was funny, if not embarassing. 

But the point of this is that I bought a train ticket despite the hell I knew I was getting my self into.

You see, that train would not go straight to the airport, so my Friday morning would look a little like this:

metro—train—bus—airport

Not to mention I'd be waking up at the crack of dawn to take whatever the first metro was.
 5:30? 6? 

And that's the time of the metro I'd take, not the time I would wake up. 

I knew it'd be horrible, but hey, if it gets me to Rome, it's worth it. 

But just like that, my host mom came in for the win. 

And you know what? I told you guys I would get to her. So let's do that now.

She's an architect who works at Centre Georges Pompidou, and she's also a sculptor.

In fact, she has a little studio in the back of her house. She loves flowers and planting, which you could quickly deduce after seeing the front of her house. It's beautiful.

She has two black cats, Suzanne and Tapette (not sure if the spelling is right). One of them is always afraid (I think it's Tapette), and the other is the exact opposite. 

I remember Alice (my host mom's daughter) told me they like to go in my room because it's "forbidden" to them. 

But back to my host mom. She lived in the U.S (New York, I believe) for 10 years, so her English is phenomenal.

But she knows I'm here to work on my French, so she'll usually only speak to me in French. 

One of the few exceptions was right before I left for Italy. 

She was looking online and found a closer bus. I wouldn't have to take the train.

Success.

She explained this to me in English to make sure I got everything.

Apparently it was the same bus my sister saw earlier, but Janelle thought I might miss it and be late for my flight if I took it.

But I was gonna go for it.

Suddenly my ride was a bit more simple. 

metro—bus—airport.

But I already bought the train ticket.

No prob. I headed down to Montparnasse to get a refund. I went to the wrong counter, but the lady at the counter was nice and told me in French that the place I was looking for was closed.

Unfortunately, it was Thursday night. I was heading to Italy the next morning. Then she looked at my ticket and showed me the expiration date at the top. I had time to get my refund later.

That night, I wish I could tell ya I got some sleep. I drifted off for a couple of hours but around 5ish I shot up.

Time for Rome.

It was pretty simple. I took the metro to Porte Maillot.

From there, I went into fast walk mode trying to follow the confusing signs to the bus. It was supposed to come soon. I walked all the way to a dead end where I saw another man also looking for the bus. Soon he was running.

Merde.

I followed him to find the bus. I went outside of the metro, walked a bit, crossed the street and voilà.

The bus.

With a long-behind line for tickets.

I nervously looked over and saw the bus for Paris Beauvais.

It would definitely leave before I got my ticket. I waited in line, nervously looking over at the bus. In hindsight, the line doesn't seem as long, but when a line of people is between you and a flight to Rome it seems endless.

The bus was leaving, so I wasn't even going to try to push my way to the front. Someone almost went in front of me, and I guess the person he was traveling with told him I was there first. At least the people in line were nice.

The guy at the counter was not. I went to get my ticket and started to ask him (in French) when the next bus would come, and he cut me off in English (with sort of an African accent) telling me basically not to ask him.

Connard.

I had no idea. Was it hours? Was I going to miss my flight?

Soon I realized the next bus was leaving just minutes after I bought my ticket.

It looks like the buses come periodically. Not just at the time I saw online.

Relief.

So I got on, and eventually I was at Paris Beauvais.

There, I walked in and went to one of the lines for Ryanair, the super cheap European airline I'd be taking.

The lady at the counter was nice. And I pride myself on this moment because it's one of the few times a French person spoke to me and I got every word she said.

I showed her my ticket.

"Ce n'est pas ici."

And then she told me it's at terminal "deux."

So then I followed the signs outside to make my way over to terminal 2.

The lady up at baggage claim was also nice to me. Earlier, I saw her in a heated exchange with a man whose suitcase was over by one kilo (I think).

Soon I was at security, where all my stuff got freaking thrown away.

Not really.

I was running short on Ziploc bags, and the two I brought were about to rip open, so the airport security lady replaced them for me. Gee, thanks.

However, apparently the face wash I brought was "too big," (this was in French so "trop grand"). I watched the lady throw the thing away like Bon Qui Qui herself said it "needs to go."

The result: My face "literally" attacked itself.  *Chris Traeger voice*

Anyways, in no time I was boarding the plane. I looked at my ticket: no seat number.

That's kinda a thing with Ryanair. I tried asking the lady behind me, only to find out her English was very limited (I think she was Indian, so I wasn't even going to try French). She didn't know where to sit either, so she said to ask the flight attendant.

The flight attendant was sort of like you can sit here for example and just started pointing at random rows.

Needless to say, it was a pretty ghetto airline.

I took a seat, only for a flight attendant to ask me to move later so a lady and her 3,000 (more like three) kids traveling with her could all sit together.

Ryanair does not play. To get any food on the flight, you have to buy it (not that I'd want airplane food anyway). No wonder it's so cheap to fly with them.

As if I wasn't already convinced it was the most ghetto airline in existence, when the wheels hit the runway I heard the blare of a tacky trumpet tune, followed by an automated voice celebrating Ryanair having another on-time flight.


But I was finally there.

Italia.

Bonjourno.

It just so happens that was the only thing I knew how to say in Italian before my arrival.



























P.S.

The front of the house! My host mom's ballin' gardening skillz, yo 

My room! Where Suzanne and Tapette like to chill.

P.S.S.

No, I did not bring a huge stuffed bear with me across the Atlantic Ocean—it was already there.

Everything that happened before Rome Part 2

I'm already at the point where I have to look at the itinerary to refresh my memory. I've taken too long to write these.

So let's see what was on the itinerary for Wednesday, July 17.

That was a rough day. One of the few days where we had both three-hour classes in the API Center.

Lectures. Back to back.

The French Art and Contemporary class was from 9 to 12. Interesting stuff, but a three-hour lecture of anything is potentially fatal. I'm not going to give you all the whole architectural plan of our little classroom (you got a picture of it in Part 1). Just know that there's a window...

And I think this was the day I contemplated jumping out of it.

We all had about an hour to recover—the UF class started at 1.

We had a guest speaker for that class. A nice French woman, who is a feminist and very passionate about her studies.

She was such as nice person. And I absolutely love people who love what they do. It's interesting to see some adults who just go through life absolutely hating their jobs. C'est déprimant, en fait.

But l'll repeat for the 3rd time just to get my point across that she was a very kind lady, and you could tell she just absolutely loved the field she was in.

That being said...

We proceeded to learn about gender and the French language for the next three hours.

How can that even be discussed for so long?

I mean, merde.

I could not. I could not even.

I'm a pretty independent gal, and I like to see myself as a little black Rosie the Riveter.

But I mean, c'mon.

I couldn't handle that much feminism in English, let alone in French.

But before I give the illusion it was complete torture (though at times it felt that way) we did learn some very interesting stuff au sujet de gender in French.

Like it's more girly to emphasize the "e" at the ends of words like "Bonjoureee."

I thought that was vraiment intéressant.

And there are, of course, some occupations in the French language that pretty much only have a masculine form, which makes it pretty awk when a girl has that position (i.e. doctor).

Wonder what Mindy Lahiri would think about that.

Needless to say, there were some interesting points, but I mean, it was three hours.

Three hours.

*shudders*

But the day was not over.

I was actually looking forward to the rest of it, though. That night, we went to a theatre to see "L'école des Femmes," a work by Molière (like the French Shakespeare).

No I was not late. And after wandering for a grand total of like a minute, I found the rest of the group *cue applause*.

The inside was beautiful. I've never been to a real theatre like that to see a play with balcony seats and everything. Belle. Tellement belle.

Soon we were all situated in our seats and the play began. Earlier that day, Kelsey told me a little bit about the plot, and I was glad. I'd go into it having an idea what was going on.

So the play began and the acteurs started speaking.

I thought I understood what was going on and what was being said for the most part in the beginning. I don't know what happened later but soon the words where...

Basically incomprehensible.

Think about how Shakespeare is already difficult for an English-speaking person to understand. Now put Shakespeare in another language. Yeah. Old French.

Not forgetting we had a day of death today, my brain was already fried from the feminism lecture.

I hadn't really been sleeping at night (which is another story entirely) so just know that at some point my eyes were closed and my head went back.

I gave up.

Now, everyone next to me said I was sleeping ( thank God my professor was on the other side of the theatre) but I'm pretty sure my eyes were just closed. I think...

It was classic theatre architecture and dark and we were relatively high up, so only my friends sitting next to me could see me. Good thing because I would never be that intentionally rude.

I just know when the lights turned on and I heard clapping I felt relief.

Anddd then I found out it was just intermission.

The play started at 8:30.

If my memory serves me right, it was already after freaking 10.

At intermission.

ndsklnksnknjgnjdbfhvscfdccfcv WHAT?

I was not pleased. I was not pleased at all.

You might not think it sounds that bad, but I always have to factor in the metro too.

Even though morning class usually starts at 9 or 9:30, I had to start my alarms at about 6 every day if I wanted to get to wherever we were supposed to meet on time. Keep in mind, with the exception of the API Center, everywhere we meet in the program is a new place we've never been before. And I was traveling alone. So every morning I had to hop on the metro to find a new place.

But, the worst part really was that I was so sleep deprived I couldn't even appreciate the play. So unlike me.

I am never ever ever ever the type of person who would just zone out like that in a theatre. I love plays.

So I was determined to pay attention to the second act.

Which I did.

But I mean, ugh. Well, just know in the play a pretty basic girl is choosing between two men. And she chooses the young, dashing man instead of her freaking uncle (good ol' 17th century incest), who is old and weird.

Shocking.


OK, I really shouldn't diss a piece by Molière like that, but I mean, man that was a rough day.

Maybe it's a "you had to be there" type of thing because I don't think I'm effectively communicating how beat I was.

But eventually, the play was over and the day was over. If it was possible for that day to end.

God knew I needed to recover. Thursday wasn't too bad at all.

We were outside of the classroom for the art class, and the UF class, well,

it wasn't really a class that day.

Thank God.

We went to a café, where we turned in the journals we write each week about France and sort of chatted with each other and our professor.

This café visit was a part of the program, so our little café treats were already paid for:

Coffee, tiramisu, and some other great stuff.

If only I had the coffee the day before.

P.S.
There are so many awesome things that go unmentioned in this blog, and for that I apologize. I was just looking through my pictures and remembered we went to a pretty cool museum sometime that week for the art class.

P.S.S.

Other awesome stuff that happened this week during art class. Look familiar? They filmed scenes from "Inception" here! (Melanie I've been meaning to tell you about this for the longest time, but I forgot).

Everything that happened before Rome Part 1

Do I want to write about Rome?

I think I do.

I dunno.

Maybe I just wanna hurry up with this blog.

Really, it's been more than a week since I've gotten back from France, and I still have a lot to tell you all.

So I'm going to condense everything that happened from Monday through Thursday.

Because Friday I left for Roma.

All right. Monday.

Monday was class, and nothing particularly strikes me, so we're going to skip over that.

Tuesday.

Tuesday, ah yes, we have something here.

We went to a museum for art class, and then we had a cheese scavenger hunt and tasting for the UF class.

Uhhh yes.

Think of it like the pastry scavenger hunt I mentioned earlier, except with cheese.


We split up into groups again. This time I was with Lizette. We were all assigned different fromageries and different regions of France to find cheese from.

Ours?

Normandy.

That meant Camembert (dun, dun, dun).

As you all know, my relationship with Camembert has been on the rocks since Giverny.

Anyways, if my memory serves me correct we had about 50 euros to spend. Each group had to get cheese from its region but also pick up some fruit or something too.

So we hopped on the metro and headed to the fromagerie...

But it was closed.

In the middle of the day?

Yeah.

That happens in France.

I could make a whole other post about the different (possibly better. Depends) work culture over there.

Anyways, we still had to bring back cheese.

In the end, we decided to ask a man if there was a fromagerie nearby.

I was the one to ask, but before we approached him I turned to Lizette.

I told her I would ask, but I hoped she would understand what he was saying.

Like I mentioned earlier, she's a human map, and I wasn't sure whether this guy would be difficult to understand.

So my conversation with the man went a little like this:

Me: Il y a un autre fromagerie près d'ici?

Man: Oui.

*awkward second of silence*

Me: C'est où?

Man : dfnlkdfnadskmasldmsaldms (series of directions that I sorta understood but Lizette really got).

All you guys need to know is it was actually super close (like right down another street), and soon we were at the fromagerie.

There, Lizette did most of the talking with the fromager about what type of cheeses came from the Normandy region.

We didn't get Camembert, so that's a plus, and on our way back to class we picked up some fruit to go with it.

We got back to the API Center and had a little feast.

The table was filled with cheese, bread and fruit. We had enough cheese to make Jerry jelly.

But the cheese...

Ohh man that cheese.

Well...

Like I said earlier, I always held the assumption the French had some of the best-tasting cheese in the world.

Um, maybe that's true.

But the cheese everyone picked up was funky.

Oh so funky.

I mean, one block of cheese was legit covered in mold. That's actually how it's supposed to be for flavor or whatever.

I tried most of them and well, the goat cheese was OK.

I wasn't feeling most of the others.

In fact, we had more cheese and bread left over than anything else.

We all demolished the fruit.

BECAUSE IT'S SO MUCH BETTER OVER THERE.

It's ridiculous, really. I don't know what the hell they spray our fruit with in the U.S.

P.S.
See the heart-shaped cheese? I picked that one out. Adorbz I know.

P.S.S.

While we're talking about cheese, you should go listen to it! And that makes no sense, so I will now explain. Belgian artist Stromae has an album called "Cheese." And I like it and it's good and you should check it out.

Bastille Day

The day had finally come. The day I'd been waiting for:

Fête Nationale.

I woke up super early and hopped on the metro, despite being out last night for Le Bal des Pompiers.

I reached Champs Elyseés at 8 something in the morning.

There, I waited for Jasmin and Lizette.

See?

I told you guys.

I'm either too early or too late.

I got in a conversation with a French man while I was waiting.

Well, not really.

He started talking to me really fast, and I struggled to understand what he was saying.

I'm pretty sure he was recommending that I sit up on something to see the parade better.
Now, I would have said I don't speak French very well and asked him to slow down, but I mean, it's Fête Nationale. It's his day to celebrate his country. The least I could do is let him speak French.

And honestly, I wasn't sure how he would take it. Didn't wanna tick him off.

I realized soon his daughter was sitting nearby, so it's not like he would've went off on me. Anyways, I was still looking at the metro exit waiting to see Jasmin and Lizette when he asked me another question.

At this point I really had no idea what he was asking, so I just went with "Oui."

Then he said something to his daughter about what we were talking about and how I answered yes.

I mean, dang.

I was really lost, y'all.

Anyways, eventually Lizette and Jasmin showed up, and we went to find a place to stand.


That was, well, ineffective. To get to the gate closest to the parade we had to pass security. They just looked through my bag and said a few things in French, but it took Jasmin and Lizette longer.

They had water bottles, and just like a UF football game, you couldn't bring those things inside. 

But eventually we were all inside standing by the gate closest to the parade. 

Could we see anything? 

Hahahahahahahaha. 

No.

No, we could not.

Just ask my knees, who were not having fun after I spent the majority of the time doing a futile combination of jumping and tippy toeing. 

The parade hadn't started yet. A troop of soldiers in green hats waited in their ranks. It looked like they were all black. I wondered what that was about. 

I found out later they were Malian soldiers whose presence symbolized the French government's resolve to counter terrorism. 

Soon, the parade started.  

I quickly found out it was a military parade, but some interesting things happened nonetheless. 

I saw a bunch of uniformed folks. It looked like they were running and playing instruments at the same time. 

What?

After a second (and probably some jumping/tippy toeing), I realized they were on horses. 

It was epic. 

But the best part was the planes. They flew right over our heads in different formations, one blasting a stream of bleu, blanc et rouge smoke over the sky. 

Seeing that made waking up so early in the morning worth it. 

Officers from a bunch of different branches paraded in their various uniforms and colors. Soon we learned which groups the crowds liked and who they apparently had some type of beef with. 

When one group marched by the crowd chanted "Police Politique" over and over.

And uh, it didn't seem like a compliment.  

One guy was escorted out of the crowd. We still don't know why because the chants didn't stop when he left. 

When I say we couldn't see anything I mean it. The people in front of us must of ate their Wheaties or something. I had to extend my hand into the air and blindly push a button to take pictures. Even then, my camera got as much head as *insert rapper*. Despite having to jump every few seconds to see anything and leaving before it ended, it was still good to see a parade at Champs Élysées on Bastille Day. 

I mean, how can you not smile hearing a bunch of French men proudly belt out "La Marseillaise"?

So after that, we tried to find a church to go to. It was a Sunday.  

And by we tried to find a church, I mean Lizette tried and Jasmin and I blindly followed.

I have never met anyone with such a great sense of direction. She's like a human map.

On our way, we saw these huge tanks like the kind you'd see in some AC 360 special on CNN zoom past.

Too cool.

But the weirdest thing for me was knowing that if Lizette, Jasmin and I went to another site for the parade we might have gotten a glimpse of François Hollande.

Crazy.

Living in the United States (which is so big), it's hard to wrap your mind around being a metro ride way from catching a glimpse of Obama on the Fourth of July.

But hey, I was in Paris.

Like Lizette said, I guess it's like the equivalent of being in D.C.

Anyways, the church Lizette and Jasmin wanted to go to was closed, so we decided to go our separate ways and meet up later.

I got home and I honestly can't remember what I did.

I talked to my host mom a little and made plans to meet some of the group at the Eiffel Tower to see the fireworks later.

It's no joke, going there on Bastille Day. Preview staffer-esque API worker said she got attacked just sitting down over there.

Just sitting down.

Like, really?

Anyways, it's known to get a little crazy at the Eiffel Tower, but it was Bastille Day. I wanted some excitement.

But then, I got another text. Not everyone in the group was going to the Eiffel Tower. Some were going to have a picnic on the Seine and watch the fireworks from there.

I was torn.

So I decided to try to do both.

Always a good idea in such situations (insert sarcastises).

I decided I'd save the Eiffel Tower for last so I could see the fireworks from there, so I hopped on the metro to try to find where the group was at the Seine.

And it took a while.

I got lost.

Comme d'hab.

In fact, I could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance at one point, and I was "this close" to heading in that direction to meet the rest of the group over there.

But I knew about the optical allusion, if you guys remember my predicament on the way to Arc de Triomphe.

The Eiffel Tower could have been a lot further than I thought.

I don't know, I guess I just felt I should keep looking for the others' spot on the Seine.

Lizette, the master of all locations ever, helped me find my way to them over the phone.

I finally found them.

And it was great.

It wouldn't have been too wise to head over to the Eiffel Tower tout seul to meet the others later. In fact, Mikaela warned me it was so crowded I might not be able to find find where they were.

I decided to just end my Bastille Day at the Seine.

And I'm glad I did.


In the end, I didn't "turn up." Bastille Day wasn't the crazy, Paris scene I anticipated, but it's still a fond memory.

Just chilling on the Seine with friends, talking about random things and playing a random word game.

It felt good.

Soon the fireworks came, and we watched from the river. Just thinking about it really makes me miss France right now.

The fireworks were impressive, but some of us didn't stay for all of them.

Me, JD, Emily and Kelly headed for the metro.

I never end up on the same line as everyone else. I think it's because I was the only student assigned to the suburbs.

It was another one of my metro rides alone to Malakoff, Plateau de Vanves.

I should have slept when I got home, but I doubt I got much.

And lucky for me, I had to get up early for class the next day.

















P.S.
i
c
t
u
r
e
s

What's everyone trying to take a picture of?

This

Trying to capture the tanks. They were going fast OK.

Le feu d'artifice at the Seine!

Bastille D—no just kidding. This first. Which was actually more interesting

I was ready to "turn up."

You guys, I had been anticipating this day since I signed up for the program:

14/7. 

Fête Nationale.

Bastille Day.

I mean, really. If you translate it a certain way it's "National Party."

I was wondering what they would do in Paris.

Do police officers give out champagne on the streets?

Is all of Paris just some big parade?

Ohh wait. I'll stop here.

I swear. I keep almost forgetting some of the best things.

So before we get to Bastille Day, I should tell you all about this:

Le Bal des Pompiers. 

It's the thirteenth and fourteenth of July at various locations in Paris. It's basically a bunch of free concerts where you can give a donation for the firefighters (pompiers). 

I went with some of the group the night we got back from Giverny. It was the day before Bastille Day. Actually, it was Bastille Day by the time we left.

Me being me, I got there later than a lot of the group, but luckily I found JD in the line. 

When we got in, it was one big crowd of folks and a stage. Soon we found some of the group and we waited for some other girls still in line.

Soon we were all together.

JD decided to get some fries, and he came back with ketchup and a white sauce.

The white sauce?

Mayonnaise.

Yeah, they eat that on their fries there. 

It's a thing.

Anyways, the music playing was interesting. 

When I got there, I heard a lot of MJ (he is so popular here) and other old school stuff. Before the night was over I heard "Rollin' on the River."

But there was some new stuff too. 

I heard "The Harlem Shake," a horrible rendition of "American Boy" and of course, "Niggas in Paris."

Toward the start of the night, we got involved in a long, convoluted conga line, but the best part of the night was the performance by the firemen. 

They started doing some type of stepping, military-ish looking moves. You know, not super interesting.

But then...

Then they started playing MJ.

Now...

I want you to think of every Michael Jackson song you know.

OK. Next, I'd like you to picture a group of French firemen.

OK.

Now, single out one of those firemen. Let's say he's a bald, muscular serious-looking guy.

Good. Good.

OK, next.

Read this.

So, one of the fireman in the middle (bald serious guy) soon became a reincarnation of Michael Jackson.

I'm talking, shiny jacket, white gloves, dance moves.

Merde.

I wish I wrote this earlier. I'd remember more details about how awesome this guy was.

Anyways, he was the main act. The other firefighters were sorta his back up.

"Smooth Criminal," "Beat it," "Thriller."

"Moon walks, pelvic thrusts, more pelvic thrusts."

All that and more, folks. All that and more.

It was entertaining to say the least.

Anyways, after their act, the power went out. Soon, the not-so-great cover band was back and we figured we should head out.

It's a bit of a "Cinderella" thing with me and the other kids in the program.

The last metro runs sometime around 1, I think, so we all had to head back before it closed and we were stuck with a taxi.

As we were leaving, we saw a huge line of folks heading in.

The party was just starting. 

Anyways, it was after midnight now. I sat in a seat on metro ligne 13, waiting to reach Malakoff Plateau de Vanves.

Soon I was there, and sometime between sitting on the metro and walking back to my host mom's house I realized...

It's Bastille Day. 

P.S.

MJ is on the far left, in case the shimmering jacket and white gloves weren't enough of a hint.