La Père Lachaise

Well,

*clears throat*

This is awkward.

You see, let me tell you something about the Versailles post.

I started writing it on the plane, and I finished it when I got home.

Yes, home.

As you all probably realized, I'm back in Florida now.

But, uh, I'm not done writing about this.

So I'll continue if ya don't mind.

After the weekend in Versailles we had a free morning that Monday (thank God).

Oh wait.

I forgot Sunday.

So, Saturday was Versailles, and some of the group went to a church service on Sunday (but I could not wake up. Sorry, Jesus). After that, Lizette and Jasmin and I sort of walked around Paris looking for stuff.

One of those things was an Apple store. I was still chargerless. 

"On cherche l'apple store?"

Anyways, after asking a few NICE French people (No, not the region. I mean personality— to kill the stereotype once and for all) we eventually found a store, only to realize it's closed on Sundays.

So is a lot of things of over there. 

Eventually we just chilled outside of La Bibliothèque Nationale de France, which yes, with the exception of a few rooms was also fermée.

It was so peaceful. 

Oh, France.

Anyways, so that was Sunday.

We didn't have our French Art and Contemporary class Monday morning, so our first class was at 1 p.m.

Our guided visit to Père Lachaise Cemetery. 

We met outside the gates that afternoon, and I had no idea the history I was about to walk into.

But first things first, we had a great guide, Carlos.

He's French. From Montmartre, I believe. But one of his parents is from Spain and the other is French. 

Hence the name Carlos.

It's so interesting to think about European integration and the European Union and all that. The EU's not a confederation like the U.S., of course, but distance-wise it could be. 

I mean, London's just five hours away from Paris. And France shares a border with Spain, of course.

It's crazy. And amazing. And omg I love Europe.

But back to dead people. 

So, I had no idea who was buried at Père Lachaise.

I was in for a great surprise. 

We saw Oscar Wilde's grave ("The Importance of Being Earnest" ring any bells? Love that play. Oh, the movie adaptation with Colin Firth is also excellent), we saw Molière's (he's like the French Shakespeare), we didn't see Jim Morrison's (I'll get to that later) we saw Édith Piaf's...

Who's Édith Piaf?

Imma tell you. 

Ahem,

She's a famous French singer from the '40s and '50s whose most popular song "La Vie en Rose" was the title of a movie based on her life starring Marion Cotillard, who played Leo's crazy wife in "Inception."

If you all know the movie "Inception," then you might remember there's a song that they play to wake people up in the movie, and that song "Non, Je ne regrette rien" is also a song by Edith Piaf.

OK I'm done. 

Needless to say, it was cool to see her grave. She had one of those family ones.

Anyways, about Jim Morrison.

Apparently, all the tourists love to see his "grave" at the cemetery. 

But it's not really there.

His family took his remains back to the U.S., so now all that remains is a little memorial.

There used to be some bust of his head or something like that, but it was stolen.

Lots of grave robbing goes on at Père Lachaise, I hear. 

So The Doors fans all flocked to Morrison's memorial, but I saw my own rock star at the cemetery that day. 

CHOPIN.

CHO-freaking-PIN.

He's my fave, guys. 

Quick! Go listen to his second nocturne.

You're welcome.

That was the coolest grave by far to see (for me, anyways). 

But this one might be the most interesting.

There's this grave of some rando guy who has a headstone that's actually a whole body, and women apparently rub it for fertility. Looking at it, you can see a certain spot has been rubbed a lot because the material is wearing out (If ya know what I mean). 

We never got a straight reason why woman rub that tomb for fertility.

Who knows?

But I feel like I saw more pregnant women when I was in France.

Just sayin'.

P.S.

Man, I haven't even told you guys about my host mom. I'll get to her I swear. 

P.S.S

Pictuaaaaaasss

Edith Piaf & family

Oscar Wilde —for some strange reason, people kiss this stone, which is why the glass was put up. Now people kiss the glass. Lipstick doesn't show in the pick, but believe me, it's there.

CHOPIN MFERRSSSSS

MOLIÈRE

JIM MORRISON (Memorial. You wrong, Wikipedia)

 

RANDO FERTILITY GUY (see what I mean?)

P.S.S.S. (is that even a thing?) Now it is.

Man, considering all of the tv/movie references I make on this blog, you think I would have used one from "The Sixth Sense" in this post. 

Versailles

Every study abroad student has that go-to study abroad story. You know, the one you always tell when someone mentions your voyage to *insert country.*

This is that story. 

Well, I guess I'll begin at the beginning. 

  

But first, I should explain something about myself. 

I'm not very gray when it comes to some things.

I'm black or white, hot or cold, l'un ou l'autre. 

That being said, when some of the group planned a day trip to Versailles for one early Saturday morning, I knew I'd either be too early or too late. 

I was the former. 

We decided to meet in front of the rhinoceros statue at Musée D'Orsay. 

When I got there it was just me and rhino for a bit.

Soon, a mec walked by. He said "Bonjour."

"Bonjour," I replied. 

"Tu parles français?"

"Un peu." 

He walked over. 

I know, this is one of several instances in my blog where I get in conversations with random male strangers. 

C'est pas grave.  

I don't get creeped out too easily. 

Unlike most girls, I'm not afflicted with I'm-afraid-everyone's-gonna-rape-me-because-I'm-so-beautiful syndrome.

But I still have some sense. I can tell who the normals are. 

He looked about my age and was pretty nice. 

I can't remember the conversation too well, but I think somehow me being American came up. 

He asked something in French. 

Not sure what look I gave him, but if it was any reflection of my brain it was a confused one.

It took a second for my brain to unlock the words. 

I think he might have said something along the lines of tu fais quoi ici or what are you doing here.

Oh! 

I said something along the lines of je vais rencontrer mes amis. 

I think he gestured to the building behind us. He told me he worked at the museum. 

Nice.

Musée D'Orsay is kind of awesome. For further explanation, see my post entitled "L'Art. "

Anyways, I can't remember much else of our very short conversation (en français). Soon he headed toward the museum.

It was me and rhino again. 

Soon, Kelly and Emily arrived ( like I said earlier, most of the students live in pairs). 

We headed over to a café just a few steps from our spot.

It was also a tabac. 

Yesss. 

You see, I was already out of credit on my SIM card. If you remember "Portfeuille" then you know I lost my wallet. Well, I immediately called my mom afterward to tell her to cancel my credit card. 

The phone had been acting up since then (spoiler alert: It was operator error).

 I only mention all of this because le tabac sells cards (they're basically like little tobacco stores). 

Anyways, we proceeded to have an awkward/lost in translation affair with the café/tabac.

It was painful, but long story short, I bought my carte sim after finally realizing I had to go back outside to the front.

Emily bought a coffee and tried to sit down, but the lady was not having it.

Oops.

Unlike back home, "for here" and "to go" are all but interchangeable. If you say "à emporter" you're gonna have to head out. If you want la chaise to be graced with your derrière's presence you have to say "sur place."

And that, like many nice things in life, is not free.

Anyways, I think we pissed them off enough for the morning, so I decided not to get a coffee too and we headed back toward the statue.

Soon, the whole group showed up and we boarded the train to Versailles.

I was mellow. I looked out a train window as the city of Paris passed before my eyes.

Then, I heard the unmistakably loud ring of an accordion.

A sax joined in.

Train musicians.

This happens regularly on the metro too. Musicians just start randomly playing on the train and pass a cup around afterward.

I'm not gonna lie. It was poppin'. I wish I actually gave them something.

Some people weren't having it though. All the noise in the morning annoyed them, I suppose.

Anyways, we eventually got to Versailles and bought a ticket that gave us access to a lot of stuff: the palace, the gardens, the fountain show.

We entered the gate to Versailles.

So. Much. Gold.

When you actually see it in person and realize how long ago such an impressive palace existed, you really start to realize why the people of France freaked out. *cue Les Mis soundtrack*

I mean, I'm not justifying the beheadings, but to live in abject poverty while the royals lived like that, I mean wow.



Wow is pretty accurate.

I couldn't believe the history I was walking through.

I saw where Louis XIV slept.

Louis XIV.

Like, really?

Anyways, I could tell you all about the amazing French history I was walking through and how ridiculous it was to be in Marie Antoinette's bedroom in Versailles.

Believe me, it was.

But that's not what makes a go-to study abroad story. Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette have their own story at Versailles, and I have mine.

So without further ado, here it is.

Like I mentioned earlier, our tickets gave us access to the fountain show, so we weren't about to miss out on it.

It started at 3:30 p.m.

By the time we headed over there, there was already a crowd sitting by the side of the fountain. A lot of folks had their feet in the water to cool off.

We also took a seat.

As inviting as the water looked, I kept my shoes on because I don't think wet feet and Keds are a good combination.

Anyways, we waited.

And waited.
And waited.

And then the fountains turned on.

After a while, we realized that the fountains turned on at 3:30 p.m. and some music played but that was about it. We concluded the real show is in the evening.

It was time to leave.

 I hopped up to go.

Somehow, the left foot of my shoe fell into the fountain.

What?

I just watched it float away, thinking about how embarrassing this was.

And how much I looked like a stupid American tourist.

I was gonna reach for it, but I mean, I can't fall into the fountain too.

None of us knew what to do.

Then an older French man tried to help me reach for it.

I went on the ground and tried to extend, while he held my hand to keep me steady so I didn't fall into the fountain.

Still too far.

He recommended I move my hand to get the shoe to float in my direction.

"Comme ça! Comme ça!" he made a little paddling gesture

"Comme ça?" I responded. Trying to do the same thing.

Still, to no avail.

I stood back up, looking at my solitary shoe in Apollo's Chariot.      

Soon, the girls in the group tried to keep me steady. The man waited for a while to see if I got it, but soon he left.

Still too far.

Sort of across from us, a guy and a lady next to him started kicking their feet to make the shoe move in my direction.

We were attracting quite a bit of attention by now.

The girls held on to me to keep me steady.

I reached and reached and

a little closer...

almost there...

Got it.

I grasped my shoe.

Then I lifted it high into the air.

The crowd cheered.

The man smiled and said (in what sounded like a French accent) you owe me a pair of shoes!

So I put on the wet shoe and we continued our trip. But nothing could compete with Apollo's Chariot.

We never saw much of a fountain show.

Actually...



I guess I was the fountain show.



















P.S.

Please don't Daniel Tosh me for that comment I made at the beginning. I take woman abuse very seriously.








P.S.S.

All right. So right after I got my shoe I found out that Cassidy took a picture during the chaos. So this is documented forever. Below is me and the "comme ça" guy. If you look closely, I think the guy in the blue shirt and the girl in the white might have been the ones who kicked the shoe to me.


Enjoy.

Two trucs

I should really be doing my homework right now.

No, like really.

I only have a few days left abroad, and it's getting to be that time where everything's due, and what am I doing?

Writing this blog.

Well, it's obviously not serious enough to make me stop writing, so let's move on.

Where were we?

Ah yes, La Tour Eiffel.

So, after La Tour Eiffel two really cool things happened.

First:

Cool-under-bridge-gym-playground-thing.

You guys, I have never seen the likes of this in my life.

We were past the Eiffel Tower now, looking for the mini Statue of Liberty (you guys know the original was a gift from the French of course) when we stumbled upon this truc.

So, location: under a bridge. That was made pretty clear above, I think.

I'll explain the gym part.

At first glance, you might think you're looking at a playground.

False. *Dwight Schrute voice*

With the exception of some monkey bars, tiny stationary bikes and a mini rock climbing thing, everything else was some type of weird outdoors exercising equipment adults could use.

I mean good weird.

It was cool.

All the "cools."

For this post I'm just gonna be Abed.

Cool.

Cool, cool, cool.

Anyways, I don't really remember any kids being around (maybe like one?). In fact, I distinctly remember an older gentleman on one of the devices.

We, of course, obnoxiously tried them out.

It was fun.

Anyways, after taking a hella lot of pictures on those things (more than necessary), we headed over to the mini Statue of Liberty.

It was cool, but well.

Well...

It was vandalized! (dun, dun, dun)

Right underneath (mini) Lady Liberty herself was a sign that I read "Libérez Nicolas."

Wow, I just realized that was intentional. With the whole "liberty" thing.

I need more sleep.

Anyways, it was hard to see the second word, but we believe that's what it was: Nicolas.

What the sign meant, je sais pas.

I mean, it means "Free Nicolas," but who is Nicolas?

And why does he need to be freed?

Sarkozy reference?

Again, je sais pas...

WAIT.

STOP.

Before posting this, I thought of a little invention called Google, and now I have an answer!

And an interesting one at that.

According to LePoint.fr, "Nicolas Bernard-Busse, Parisian student, 23, charged with rebellion during an unauthorized rally Sunday at Champs-Elysees, was sentenced Wednesday to two months in prison, the first sentence against protestors hostile to gay marriage to be accompanied by a warrant."

Original was in French. Thank you, Google translate.

I'm sure some of you know France recently legalized gay marriage.

Some people sort of freaked out.

That article is from late May, but it looks like his followers still had something to say.

Anyways, we were standing by the statue, taking pictures, talking...




AND THEN THE PO-LICE CAME.

COOL.

COOL, COOL, COOL.

Anyways, the guys standing in front of it started shaking hands with the police and started talking to them. Maybe they reported it?

I don't know.

j'sais pas moi.

Anyways, I tried to slyly take a picture, but lacked the common sense to take it vertically so I could get the police and the statue in the same shot (I realized it right afterward but didn't get the chance to take a good shot. Zut.)

When we finally left and got back to the bridge, we spotted some police by a white van.

They might have been getting ready to take the sign down.

Man, that woulda been cool to see.

Cool.
Cool.
Cool.













P.S.

No way I could deprive you guys of pictures for this one.

Beginning of day trois

Day three in France (which in reality was like day six of the program) was a free Friday.

But before I was free, I had to get down to business (no, not to defeat the Huns). 

I had to get my Navigo. I called API and left a message, and a woman quickly called me back to tell me to go straight to the center to sort everything out. 

So I bought a metro ticket (no Navigo) and headed for the center.

And just so you guys know, a one way metro ticket is like 1,70€, so it's not that bad.

You know what is?

The eternal struggle between me and time.

It quickly became a race against the clock. One of the women from the center called me on the phone, her voice frantic.

She wanted me to know the center closed at 3 p.m., so I needed to get there soon.

It was only a little after 2. I'd make it.

When I got to the center a few minutes later, they were really cool about my wallet situation.

Preview staffer-esque API worker took me to get another Navigo. She spoke in amazing French to the woman at the counter, and turned back to speak English to me to make sure I understood.

Soon the woman at the counter inquired and found out we were from the U.S.

She said something in French about having been to Florida.

And then I chimed in "Je suis de Floride!"

Anyways, long story short, the lady behind the counter was super nice and apparently some rule had changed, making it only 8€ to replace.

You might remember earlier preview chick told me it would be in the 60-70 range, so I was more than happy to pay.

Things might be looking up for Jenna May Lyons

Well, not exactly.

I accidently left my Mac charger at home (I mean Apopka. Like, across the Atlantic Ocean) so my computer was dead (which partly explains why I'm leaving Paris Saturday but am still on day 3 of my blog posts). 

I asked Preview chick where I could buy a Mac charger.

She told me there was some underground mall by the Louvre and gave me pretty decent directions.

But hey, this is me we're talking about.

I was actually meeting friends at L'Arc de Triomphe too, which was conviently in the same direction.

I decided to go straight to them. I didn't want to make them wait too long.

But of course, I went to a smaller arc we already visited first, hoping that's what they meant.

It wasn't.

Time to find L'Arc de Triomphe.

I told them I was on my way, and they recommended the metro.

I thought it would be easier to walk. I could get lost on the metro. On foot, I knew it was just a straight shot (according to Preview chick).

So I walked.

And walked.
And walked.
And walked.
And walked.

And soon, I started getting the "where are you?" phone calls and "are you lost?" texts.

Uh oh.

CPT strikes again.

I kept on heading straight, and soon I turned into a store to ask for directions.

The man at the front told me tout droit, so I guess I wasn't lost.

I kept straight, heading toward the huge roundabout I finally remembered Preview chick mentioning.

How do you cross a roundabout of that size? Like, it was huge.

Well, my memory escapes me but somehow I crossed. I kept straight for another span of forever until I could see L'Arc de Triomphe in the background.

Yeah! I told them I was close.

More like yeah, right.

Optical illusion.

Something that big looks a lot closer to the eye.

So I continued walking

And walking
And walking
And walking
And, well, this is getting pretty repetitive.

So after finally reaching the place, wandering around to figure how to actually get to the arc ( I felt like it was on an island surrounded by a road with no crosswalks) I met up with Jasmine and Lizette.

They were super nice, but I could see the wear of having to wait for someone more than a bit too long in their faces ( a look I'm not unfamiliar with).

I felt bad, so I decided not to waste any time taking pictures (I could go back later) so we headed for our next destination:

La Tour Eiffel.

It was...

crowded?

I don't know how to describe it. Just a flurry of tourists, a few trying to do the whole "oh I'm holding the Eiffel Tower" pic with their hands.

But hey, can't judge.

Jasmin and I were helping Lizette do a Gator chomp illusion.

I was impressed, but I didn't take too many pictures of myself (I'm not much for the cliché Eiffel Tower profile pic most Paris study abroad students do).

In fact, the structure's amazing but I think it's a bit overrated to be honest.

What I want to do is go to the top before I leave.

Now that would be legit.

Anyways, I wonder how many rando's Eiffel Tower pics I'll appear in on Facebook.

It wasn't on purpose, but I mean, I'm pretty sure I photobombed a lot of them.















P.S.

Obligatory Eiffel Tower pics.
I still took some. ;)

Portefeuille

The worst part is you won't be surprised.

If you know me well, you won't be the slightest bit surprised.

Ugh, should as well get this over with.

I lost my wallet.

Or got it stolen.

I really don't know which one.

And really, it's probably my fault.

Like, I left my wallet on the RTS twice back home.

I thought I outgrew this.

Anyways, I hate telling you guys this because I feel like a total noob, but hey, I can't write a blog about me being in France and leave this part out.

So where were we?

Ah yes, spotting the Eiffel Tower. Still on day two.

So after Centres Georges Pompidou, I went with some of the group to find a park or somewhere to sit and chill.

We found one park and weren't feeling it, so we finally made our way to the Seine.

We just sat at the side of the river watching the boats go by (sometimes waving at the people in them).

The Seine is where it's at, folks.

Anyways, we left the Seine and were at a crosswalk when I spotted the coolest collection of posters for sale.

I was totally thinking about buying one.

That's when I realized I wasn't holding my wallet in my hand anymore.

We were already on the other side of the street when we turned around and headed back to our spot on the Seine.

I looked through my whole backpack.

Rien.

I asked the woman sitting nearby if "vous avez vu un portefeuille."

Non.

I don't remember having it at the Seine anyways.

The last time I remember having it was at the park.

For some strange reason, I kept it in my hand because I thought it would be easier to steal if it was in my backpack.

Oh, the irony.

So to this day, I really don't know what happened to it (but I'm pretty sure the keychain loop was wrapped around my finger, making it next to impossible for someone to snatch it out of my hand).

I had some euros and dollars in there (not too much thank God), my driver's license (time to take a new picture), my Gator 1 (ditto) my credit card (got that canceled), other replaceable things and worst of all

My Navigo.

That little gem is my ticket to taking the Metro (at least zones one and two of Paris).

I remember on my first day the preview staffer-esque API worker telling me it would be in the 60s or 70s (dollars or euros? I forget) if I ever had to replace it.

Great.

Luckily, I brought enough euros to last me a while (not all in my wallet) so I wasn't too worried about the credit card situation.

I was just worried about the Navigo.

Like seriously, if someone was trying to steal my wallet right in front of me, I would have been like "Oh, all right, cool. Just pass me the Navigo and I'll be on my way."

Not really, but you know what I mean.

And while we're delving into hypothetical scenarios, I'd like to add that this wouldn't have happened if I had a wallet like Samuel L. Jackson's in "Pulp Fiction."

Anyways, so how did I get home?

Well, Molissa (who is an amazing person) bought me a ticket for the Metro and helped me find my way home.

I wrote home.

And didn't even think twice about it until now.

Strange, eh?











P.S.

I didn't realize it until my prof mentioned it at Centres Georges Pompidou.
It was the Fourth of July.
Guess my wallet liberated itself.

L'Art

I woke up late. Or messed something up on the Metro.

Probably both.

Either way, it was my second day in Paris, and I was late for my first class.

Me? Late? Shocking, I know (hashtag CPT).

We had to meet at Museé D'Orsay for our French Art & Contemporary class at 9 a.m.

Those of you well versed in calculating CPT know that means I arrived about 9:45 a.m.

But hey, another student arrived at the same time I did, so I don't feel as bad about it.

And now I think I should probably explain how this whole school thing works.

For this program me and some fellow Gators are taking two courses: 

FRE 3324 French in the City: Interaction and Variation 

                                 and

FRE 4956: French Art and Contemporary Culture

For the city course we have a UF professor, but the art course is with an instructor from France. They are very hands-on courses, so we typically only have about one classroom meeting every week for each course. The rest is actually traveling places.

We all have an itinerary that lists each day with the date and some description like this:

French Art & Contemporary Class: visit of Orsay Museum at 9:15 a.m. Meet near the rhinoceros statue, outside the RER station Musée d'Orsay, line C. You gon' need yo map doe. 

OK, I added that last part, but the rest is word for word. 

Most of the students live in pairs with host families, so they live in groups of two (and one of four).
In other words, they have a traveling partner for these Metro trips. 

Me and two other girls do not. 

When we go these places, are only pal is map. 

And he doesn't sing like that one on "Dora the Explorer." 

So every day there's a new place to find and we usually have to meet there at 9 a.m.

It's not that difficult, but it was my first day of that class and second day in France so...

C'était pas évident. 

In fact, another student got so lost on her way there she gave up and took the metro back home.

But we didn't know this happened until later, so we still waited a few more minutes outside the museum and had to wait a little longer after registering.

 I got the chance to sit down. Breathe. Meet the rest of the group. Judge some lady with another tour donning an obnoxious American flag on her T-shirt.

Finally we were inside, and we had to leave our backpacks at the front.
There was a no pictures rule that essentially meant don't let employees see you taking them (if you're the kind of person who likes to ruin historical works of art with flash).

 Our professor gave us these little radio headset thingys to use while he spoke into the master microphone, so he could talk on our little tour of the museum and only the group could hear (which came in handy later when he jokingly threatened to kill these two Asian men who got in the middle of our tour group).

Now, I wasn't there during our previous classes with him, but apparently some students said he spoke super fast French fast and it was difficult to understand him. 

I guess for this reason he spoke in English during the tour.

And it was sort of entertaining.

He doesn't look much older than us and has a thick French acccent. Sometimes he asks us how to translate a word from French to English if he can't remember.

I was hoping he'd speak in French so I could practice, but I can't say I didn't enjoy seeing him make such an effort to speak in another language. I know the feeling. 

Solidarity, man. 

Anyways, that museum is legit. We saw Van Gogh's self portait, Starry Night (Not the most noted one–there are three versions), some great stuff from Monet and of course work from tons of other artists.

In fact, Google "The Magpie." At first I didn't realize how impressive it is until my professor stopped at the painting and started talking about it on our little tour. Those shadows on the snow—wow.

But what stuck with me most was a sculpture.

We stopped and took in the scene. As our professor slowly began telling the story, my eyes opened to what I was actually seeing. 

Count Ugolino dell Gheradesca started out as an Italian nobleman, but he ended up being punished for whatever form of treasonous activty he was involved in. 

Severely punished.

They took him and his four sons and locked them in a tower, leaving them to starve to death.
 (Oh. Do you plan on reading "The Divine Comedy"? Oops. Spoiler Alert).

I didn't realize such a look of anguish could manifest itself in a sculpture. Writhing bodies. Pained faces. It made me feel for them, but I couldn't look away. It was incredibly disturbing, captivating, raw. All at the same time.

It's called Ugolin. It's by Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux.

And it's terrible(ific). 

I do absolutely nothing with art back at UF, so learning about it here of all places—it's amazing.

After that class, it was time to head straight to the next one, but some other students and I stopped at the French sandwich chain Pomme de Pain on our way there.

I ordered a Lyonnais.

Naturally. ;)

Anyways, I got a bottle of Orangina with that. And folks, if you've never had a bottle before, go out and get one (Apparently they sell it in the U.S., but not like they do over here. It's sold like Coke over here).

Let me tell you. Orangina is like orange soda if orange soda actually used oranges.

Sorry Kel, but I love Orangina. It's true.

I do!
I do!
I do!
Oo!

I'm debating making a seperate blog post in the future soley dedicated to all the food I've been eating over here.

Anyways, Next stop after that, Centre Georges Pompidou with our UF professor (I love saying "Centre Georges Pompidou." It just sounds cool).

Those of us with backpacks had to drop them off again and soon a nice old man was guiding us around the place.

Yet again, a painting previously unknown to me just stood out from all of the other more famous ones.

Le Bal Bullier.

You can Google it, but I really think you have to see it in person to get the full effect. I don't know. It was just beautiful. It struck me.

It was a painting of a ball in Paris from 1913. One hundred years ago.

In the painting you see couples dancing arm in arm, warm and cool colors.

I just love a good painting that makes you think. Looking at it you see love—it makes your heart feel heavy.

But I don't know, that's just me. What do you see?

Oh God I shouldn't have referenced Dora earlier. Now I'm obnoxiously asking hypothetical questions to people.

During the tour, our guide took us far up Centre Georges Pompidou and we got a view of the city.

I could see Sacré-Cœur. I could see the beautiful buildings of Paris. I could see the not-as-beautiful construction (just keeping it 100).

Then I caught a glimpse of something as I was turning back around.

No.

Is is it?

Yes.

I did a double take.

La Tour Eiffel.

It was my first time seeing it.











P.S.

Below is a short definition of CPT for those of you unfamiliar with the term.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=CPT&defid=51261

Conclusion to the longest day ever

Notmuchroomforadjustmentwhenyouarrivelate.

I got the fast introduction to the program at the API center. Hours of safety and cultural orientation were condensed into a few minutes.

API was nice. I got the lowdown (in English) from an American who works at the center. She's fluent in French. Curly brown hair. Preview staffer-esque.

Luckily, we met for class at the center that afternoon, so after I got the whole intro I just waited for everyone else to show up.

Everyone was really nice, of course.

So in our tiny classroom in that sketchy little building I had my first class.

I learned a bit of interesting stuff like "Wesh," a way some French kids say "Yo."

But really, I was trying my hardest not to fall asleep in my chair.

My eyes were heavy. Blinking suddenly took time. Effort. Sometimes I had to force my eyelids back open with each blink.

Hours of French lecture + jet lag = I don't really do math, but I bet the answer's really horrible like pie divided by infinity or something.

So, the Metro ride home.

It was simple.

Again.

But wait, this is me we're talking about.

I got off at the correct stop: Malakoff Plateau de Vanves. That was easy.

No prob, Bob. (Benson?)

Sorry. Didn't mean to bring "Mad Men" into this (but I swear I saw a Lucky Strike box on the ground over here).

Anyways, I got off thinking it would be pretty simple to find the house.

I mean, I walked from the house to the metro station that morning.

Well, I kept on walking.

And walking.
And walking.
And walking.
And walking.

And nothing looked familiar.

I don't think I've ever been more lost in my entire life, and I was in a completely different country without a cellphone at the time (I still needed to buy a sim card).

But the strange thing is, I was perfectly calm.

Cool as a cucumber. Cool as a cat. Cool as the Kool-Aid Man (Oh yeahhh).

This was my logic: I can't possibly get any more lost. Like, I have no idea where I'm going, so why not keep walking.

I mean, I can't be lost forever.

So that's what I did.

Call me Forrest Gump, except instead of running I walked and this analogy isn't really panning out so I'll stop here.

You, see, I was so lost I just went all "Bohemian Rhapsody."

"Carry on, carry on, as if nothing really matters." (Better?)

And that I did. Keep Calm and Carry On and wrong country so I'll stop again.

I asked someone for directions and found out I wasn't in Malakoff.

Great.

So I kept walking, realizing I should probably be looking for the Metro.

Soon, I passed the cutest pair of old people in the world—they were super nice and gave me directions.

I still remember the old man's rich French voice. I thought of Lumiere from "Beauty and the Beast."

Au revoir, belle enfant!

But I was still confused. So I kept on walking, so hopelessly lost I figured I should start looking for a telephone booth now. Maybe try to figure out a way to call a taxi.

Finally, I spotted a taxi and saw it parked in front of some café or something.


So being me, I awkwardly stood on the sidewalk by the car until the taxi driver came out of the café.

Et Voilà.

My first day ended just as it began.

In a taxi.

I told the taxi driver the address, and said (in French) I didn't speak French very well. He was also super nice about it.

Anyways, it was a quick ride to Malakoff.

In fact, I was so close the ride ended up only being about 6€

Or one twentieth of what I paid Amady that morning.








But I was wrong.

My first day didn't end how it began.

That evening, I ended up having my first French dinner with Alice and her boyfriend, Kyrille (kee reel).

Crêpes jambon fromage, salade tomate-mozzarella, this really good vegetable whose name escapes me and le vin rouge.

Beaucoup du vin rouge.

We sat around the table and talked (mostly in English. Definitely some French though), and I kid you guys not...

It is my best memory of France so far.

We talked about music, our lives, French, English.

Alice played some Busta Rhymes on her Mac while we tried to decipher what he was saying.

Kyrille did spot-on impressions of an American accent.

It was great.

Because being here isn't about getting six more credits for my French minor or taking a thousand cliché Eiffel Tower pics.

It's about embracing new people. A new language.

A new culture.










   




P.S.

I just found out the voice of Lumiere was played by Jerry Orbach ("Law and Order" dude).

Life changed.

So after the taxi...

And that was just the first few hours. The taxi ride, that is. It was 9 something in the morning when Amady left my luggage outside the gate and drove off.

It was going to be one of the longest days of my life.

I looked at the house number—it was correct. Time to try the buzzer.

I tried it once—waited to here the sound of moving. Nothing.

I tried it again. This time I heard sounds and soon I was greeted with a big smile and "Bienvenue" from my host mom's daughter, Alice (Ahh leece). My host mom was on vacation until Friday, so it would just be me and Alice for the first two days.

Before you guys think this is strange, two things.
1) Vacations are a lot more common over here.
2) This was scheduled before she knew I was coming late.

So, let's see what I should tell you guys. Sorry, this was eight days ago.

There was the staircase.

Alice took my suitcase as we went up the stairs, warning me they could be tricky.

Now I know why.

She lugged the suitcase most of the way up while I tried not to trip but still managed to bump my head near the top.

I mean, it doesn't look too impeding, but believe me, even now I still have to concentrate while descending. I'm no staircase connoisseur or anything, but I've been up some pretty legit stairs in my day, and this one ranks near the top. Unintended pun haha. (P)unintended?

After a little introduction to the house and a shower, I had to go immediately to the API (Academic Programs International) Center because as you all know I arrived to the program late.

Alice (oh yeah, what language was this in? Pretty sure it was English. Most of it.) told me how to get from the house to the Metro stop, and from there to the First Arrondissement of Paris, where I would find the center. She even drew me a map to show me how to get to the Metro and wrote down what stops I should get off at. She's awesome, but I'll get to that later.

As part of the program, students get a monthlong Metro pass for zones one and two of Paris called a Navigo.

Of course, I still needed to get mine from API, so Alice gave me two tickets: one to get me there and another to get me back.

So how do you get from Malakoff to the API center?

Just walk a little way to the Metro (we're talking a few minutes. Not far at all), put your ticket in, take  ligne 13 just until Champs-Élysées – Clemenceau then get off.

After that, take ligne 1 and get off at Chatelet. Exit at sortie Place Sainte-Opportune. Maybe takes about 40 minutes.

It was pretty simple.

No folks, that's not sarcasm. For once in my life, I was given a set of directions and followed them without a problem.

But wait, it's me we're talking about.

I got off at the Metro station, found the right "sortie" and ended up circling the place for God knows how long looking for the building.

Imagine.

That was the hard part. Not taking the Metro. Finding the building.

Why was it so hard to find?

I mean, it's a center.

While I was walking around searching for the center, I noticed a guy I passed slowly following behind in my peripheral vision.

Soon, he caught up to me.

Can't remember what he said at first (or if I even slightly understood him). He looked my age, just trying to to chat, so I decided to ask him how to find the API center.

He'd never heard of it (this convo's in French, you guys).

He took the paper over to his friend just across the street and the friend wrinkled up his face in confusion and said something along the lines of c'est anglais? (The paper gave directions in English).

I said something like oui, anglais.

So mec No. 1 stayed behind while mec No. 2 walked me over to a building (actually more like an arch) with the number "8" on it.

The number for the center.

I gave a big smile and "Merci" And walked toward the building.

Which was not the API center. Can't blame them though. They tried.

There was a boutique nearby, so I asked one of the workers for directions, preparing for her to be snooty.

Anddd she wasn't.

You see, I asked in French, and when you ask people directions in French they always seem to be cool.
The only problem is, if they think you can speak French then they reply back in French, which of course makes it harder to get good directions.

OK, feel free to think of me as you wish 'cause you all might think this is pretty stupid. If I don't understand something, I ask them to repeat it, but I don't like asking them to speak in English unless it's a life or death situation because I want the practice.

I can't remember what she ended up saying, but it must not have been much because I stayed lost until I asked another person who recommended asking the workers at a café across the street.

The conversation at the café started out in French and ended in English after an old man looked at the English directions asked me what language I speak.

He gave me directions to a place I already passed. I didn't remember seeing anything resembling a center over there, and I told him that.

But he insisted that's where it would be, address-wise.

Then again, he's never been there. No one's heard of the place.

I went back to where the old man recommended and saw a place I had passed earlier: It was just a little door that also had an "8" next to it. Real sketchy.

Then I realized as sketchy as it was it was exactly where the directions said the center would be.

That old man was right.

In fact, if I had actually read all of the directions in the beginning instead of just the address, I might not have been as lost.

Oh, hindsight.

Anyways, I noticed a spot where you could enter a passcode. I entered the passcode on my directions.

Nothing.

I think I tried a few more times in vain, but at this point the directions made it seem like the right spot so I waited.

Soon, a man and a student came by, and the man opened the door.

I was inside.

At last.


Center is a pretty misleading term for what ended up being a questionable looking door next to some store called Kookai.


No really. It was sketch, guys.












P.S.

Here's dem stairs I was talking 'bout.

Taxi

The men stood in a group. Right underneath the sign for taxis. One of them asked me if I was looking for one.

This was all in French. I'm translating.

He guided me to an elevator, which confused me because I thought the taxis were just outside the door they were standing by. 

It was time. Time to make my first full sentence to a stranger in French. 

"C'est pas cette porte?" 

He told me we had to go down the elevator.

He was right.

On the ground he started trying to help me with my luggage.

"Ça va."

I didn't want some stranger carrying my luggage.

It took me a second to realize he was a taxi driver. He motioned me toward his car, parked alongside all of the other taxis. He placed my luggage in, and I noticed another taxi driver (I think) arguing with him and moving the car door back and forth. The door was too close—it could hit the other guy's car. 

Finally, my driver got in then swerved the car into a nearby parking spot next to another taxi driver (I assume). He began to get out of the car. 

Now what?

I asked something like "Il ya des problèmes?" 

He said it was with the other car. Just like that, the hood was open, and I think he gave the other car a jump start. 

When that was over, we finally got to the transportation part. I told him I was going to Malakoff. I started to read the address, but he motioned for me to just hand it to him.

And that early Wednesday morning in a pretty sketchy taxi (it was missing the taxi sign on top) I had my first conversation in France.

It started out simple.

"Vous aimez conduire les taxis?"

He smiled and said something along the lines of "well, it's work." 

I can't exactly remember the order of our conversation now. I'm trying to remember if he said anything in English. No more than a few words, I think. Early on he asked me something and I had no idea what he meant. Something about my flight and the U.S.  

I said "Comment?"

And now, I would like to stop and thank Janelle Lyons for teaching me that expression. I have used it every day, Janelle. Thank you.

"Comment" is like saying "Repetez s'il vous plait" without sounding stupid and "Quoi" without sounding rude. 

I mean, you don't sound stupid the first time. I said it so many times I couldn't have possibly stayed under the "I'm not stupid" quota. 

Anyways, after a bit of confusion I decided he was asking me when I arrived from the U.S. Maybe. Can't remember. I was wondering how he knew my flight was from the U.S. I realized later my luggage was marked by U.S. Airways. 

Early on I ended up telling him I didn't speak French very well. He was super nice about it. He said it was fine because he could understand me. 

I asked where he was from. He was born in France, but his parents came from Mali.

Andddd stop. Little history lesson. There are a good amount of black people in Paris. France had quite a few African colonies back in the day, so there are many Francophone Africans in France (and Africa). Although I think many blacks are born in France, it wouldn't be farfetched to say a great deal are second generation from African immigrants. 

So, back to our conversation. We talked about music, life, traffic.

In fact, I learned the word for traffic on the ride, (which I remember started with a "b" but honestly had to look up again right now), "bouchon."

As our conversation progressed, I finally thought to ask his name.

"Amady." 

"Aw mah dee?"

"Amady."

Then, he whipped out either his credit or debit card and showed me the spelling. Let's not talk about his last name. Yikes. I think it started with an "M."

I gave him my first name when he asked. No grand debit card display.

He gave me his number and said something along the lines of calling him if I needed a friend to talk with in France, which was great because I want to practice my speaking. 

I think He said something about letting people in the United States know about the friend I met of Malian heritage. 

I said "Je dirai mes amis."

He laughed. 

Around this time in the conversation, I skipped the formalities and began using "tu."

I can't remember who asked how old the other was. Amady was 24, I believe. Because I'm 20 I said something along the lines of "pas beaucoup de difference. 

He said something I did not understand at all. Then he explained. 

The expression stuck with me at the moment.

He said a girl of 20 years is like a guy of 30 years. He began a long explanation about how guys "faire des bêtisses."

Earlier in the ride, he made a comment about "Les Arabes" and how they "faire des bêtisses."

Even though I thought "whoa he just said that" I remembered my older sister telling me about someone saying something along those lines when she visited France. I wanted to laugh. Oh, Janelle how right you are. 

Amady likes American music. I think he mentioned Jay-Z and Beyoncé, but when he asked me if I listened to Justin Timberlake, we both gushed about how great his new album is. 

Ahh yes. This part. I was just reading over this post when I remembered this happened. So now I'm adding it.

So, we were talking about rap music, and Amady asked me if I knew Icon.

"Icon?"

Then he explained he was an artist of African ascent, did some songs with 50 cent...

"Icon?"

Finally it clicked. 

"Ohhhhhh. Akon!"

We talked about siblings, my studies, all that. It took him a while to find Malakoff. Unlike the other students in the program, I actually live in a suburb outside of Paris, even though my classes are in the city. I'm technically not in an arrondissement. 

 He told me it would take two hours because of all the traffic. 

Riding through the streets of France, I could hardly believe I was there (here). Tired, jet lagged, sometimes I would stop conversing and just stare out the window while trying not to feel sick.

When it got quiet like this, Amady would wait a spell.

"Jenna?"

"Oui?" 

"Ça va?"

"Oui, ça va."

It happened a few times.

"Mademoiselle Jenna. Princesse Jenna. Ça va?"

Later, he said "je fais pipi" and asked me if I knew what that meant.

"Les toilettes?"

He swerved to a space on the right and walked into some place. Maybe a brasserie.

It didn't take long, but I was wondering if he kept the meter on.

I had no idea and didn't know how to ask, so whatever. 

I had to get to Malakoff, and this was my way to get there. 

Throughout the ride, Amady had a habit of saying "tu as comprends?" after everything he said. It was thoughtful. He made sure I wasn't completely lost.

Amady, on the other hand, might have been. He put the address into his GPS but he got a little confused at one point. I think he was asking me to type the address again on the GPS, but I didn't understand until he emphasized the verb "taper," so he just did it himself while driving. 

Somehow, we reached my host mom's house. 

He said "cent vingt euros."

I didn't register the number at first. I was more concerned with getting my money out of my purse. I asked him again, and he gave the same reply. I'll put it in numbers for you guys.

 "120€."

I don't think I'm gonna call him. 

P.S.
Omg. I just realized the third to last line unintentionally rhymes. Righteous.

Flight

Atlantic Ocean...........................CROSSED.

So, the flight from Charlotte. I'll begin there.
Seven hours and 26 minutes of sitting later (No seriously, I didn't even get up for the bathroom. Bladder of steel, I know), I arrived at 6:45 a.m. CET at Charles de Gaulle airport. It was around 5 something p.m. EST when I left.

 The flight was not tortuous. Even with my middle seat.

I was next to a woman who seemed to be on some kind of "Eat Pray Love." journey with her band of middle-aged gal pals (she was reading a Sandra Brown book. Sorry, no mercy). But she also had a pretty nifty coloring book of common French sayings.

Respect.

I like when people actually try to learn the language of the country they're traveling to. She was on my left. To my right was an empty seat, but a man reading a book about French cuisine sat in the fourth seat. I wondered if he was studying in Paris too.

Sleep was not happening. Of course. Just tossing and turning while wearing a hood over my head to keep all the cold out. I skipped dinner because I was trying to sleep. Bad timing on my part because they gave complimentary wine with it.

Welcome to France (almost).

After my failed attempts at finding a comfortable sleeping position, I decided I should try to watch TV or a movie.

The last time I flew on a plane it was to Jamaica. And the seats didn't have a bunch of mini TV screens. I was impressed, but honestly, it's a bit superflous, and I'd rather pay less and not have them. Then again, it's a seven hour flight, so it definitely works for some people.

In fact, if it weren't for my "no English" rule, I probably would have enjoyed it.

I absolutely refused to do anything in English on the flight except for thinking (can't help that), so I avoided the English speaking movies on the screen attached to the seat in front of me. I turned the language selection to French only to find out that they provided the same movies, just dubbed in the French language.

I was this close to watching the French version of "Silver Linings Playbook" when I decided that made no sense because it's meant to be in English (and a great movie nonetheless). So I decided to break out the French jams on my itouch.

Stromae ftw.

On the little screen in front of me I could turn to a GPS section, where it showed a little picture of a plane crossing the Atlantic Ocean. I decided to spend my time watching the plane make its way to Charles de Gaulle.

I thought about how large and wide the Atlantic Ocean is. How I've never been across it before. I felt like a traveler. A pioneer.

Then I remembered I'm on an air-conditioned plane with a pillow and a blanket.

Throughout the flight, a voice came over on a speaker, first speaking in English, followed by French.

After breakfast (no wine this time), the voice said we would be descending soon.

As the plane descended, so did my heart. I realize the connotation. But it was a happy drop, not sad.
It was excitement. I couldn't help but smile, at least for a second.











P.S.

I did end up bringing that damn Kindle.
"Excuse my French, but I’m in France. I’m just sayin'."