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
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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. 

Giverny

We took the bus.

A private one. Sort of like a megabus (I saw one over there btdubbs. Weird). 

If you asked me how long it was from Paris to our destination, I couldn't tell you. I hardly keep track of the time it takes me to get somewhere. On the metro, the bus, l'avion, the train. 

I don't know. It's something I never do—make a mental record of how long it takes to get from point A to point B. I wonder what that says about me.

Our destination?

Giverny, where the famous French impressionist Claude Monet used to chill. 

We, however, did not chill that day. No chilling. Pas de tout.

It was hot. *cue Nelly song*

Mais, tu sais j'aimais la chaleur (it's strange I know).

Donc...

We visited Monet's house and his gardens and man oh man.

I have never seen such beautiful flowers in my life.

Tellement beau.

C'était ridicule.

I could not believe how beautiful the gardens were. Just amazing.

Our trip to Giverny lasted the whole day—it was planned by API. 

Some of us didn't take our lunch, but lucky for us JD had a whole picnic in his backpack:

Madeleines, Pain, Camembert.

Camembert.

OK real talk.

Camembert is that real popular cheese from the Normandy region. Anyways, I knew the French were supposed to have the cheese game 'pon lock, so I was more than willing to try any and all French cheese.

And I liked Camembert all right.

The thing is, JD didn't have a knife to cut the cheese with, so he used his credit card. 

But you know, I'm not complaining. I didn't bring any food. 

So I'm eating the pain with camembert and we were all basically done with the cheese when suddenly I behold JD licking the cheese from the credit card.

And I don't mean like the little kittens on the "Aristocats" lapping up milk. There was a whole lotta mouth on card action.

Ever since then, I could not eat Camembert the same way. 

So the group was split up at this point and those of us eating from JD's little picnic were all sitting on the same bench, when suddenly a worker said in French and then in English that we couldn't eat there.

We continued our journey to some church in Giverny, but stopped for some glace on the way. :)

Anyways, we finally got there, but soon we had to head back to meet with our professor.

We were up on some hill.

Now you see, the sensible thing to do at this point would be to walk back around and find a way to calmly return to the ground.

But we weren't all that sensible.

Some of us did that, but others (myself included) decided to sorta slide down.

Anndddd that went well.

Sorta.

Not exactly.

You see, we got a lot more stuff on our pants than expected. I kept trying to brush it off while walking, and suddenly Kelly lifted up her shirt to find red blotches on her lower back. 

Ooo. 

Next it was Jasmin. She started to find these super tiny insects crawling on her.

Ahh.

Luckily, the only thing I suffered from was paranoia.

I was just waiting to find some microscopic insect on me. 

Man, I sound "vraiment propre" in this post. 

Anyways, those were the highlights in my mind, but if you take anything out of this post just know Giverny is beau (c'est à la campagne). Monet's house is pretty legit, les fleurs will blow your mind and uh, I think we saw a pretty legit corn field in the distance before we left.

Eventually we hopped back on the bus, and I can say it was a good little trip.

Anddd that was Saturday.

I really was going to combine this with my next post, but I thought Sunday deserved it's own post.

Sunday was Bastille Day.

P.S.

I should probably add that Kelly was OK. With the red blotches and everything.

Mort de rire

I almost forgot this happened. I was going through the day we went to Marché d'Aligre in my head and I suddenly remembered.

In fact, it's one of my fondest memories from the trip.

The day we went to...

Well, after the the market we headed straight there. The line snaked along outside of the place.

A lot of people were interested in seeing it, I suppose. 

We weren't sure if it was the right spot. 

Two young girls were in front of us.

We gave each other the "who's gonna ask?" look.

I decided to Nike (lol) and just get it over with. My mind found a way to ask in French.

"Le ligne, c'est pour quoi?"

It worked. I got the response we were looking for.

"Les Catacombes."

Now insert "The Sixth Sense" reference.

It's a good thing we headed straight there. The line was pretty intense. 

In fact, some of the group went home to eat first, but we lucked out. 

Right across from us we saw a café. 

And I'll stop here.

Some of you might be wondering what my favorite food in France was.

You gon' learn today. *Kevin Hart as Kevin Hart's dad voice*

Elly stayed in line while Molissa, Lesleigh and I got food from the café for all of us.

I got a croque madame.

And it was heavenly.

I think I'll venture to say it was the best French food I had over there.

A croque madame is basically a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with an egg on top.

Oh man. 

Dat cheese.

Dat egg.

Dat jambon.

Anyways, we ate in peace as the line inched along, waiting to view the dead.

Soon, more of the group showed up. 

We found ways to pass the time.

And this is what made going to the Catacombs such a fond memory.

You know, you always hear that cheesy expression "it's not the destination. It's the journey."

But man is it right sometimes. 

Waiting in line, I laughed some of the hardest I did on the trip.

And for that, I thank Molissa.

Anddd stop.

Again.

For those of you who know me well, my tone in this blog is not surprising at all. It's pretty much day-to-day me.

Some of you might be a little surprised. I tend to cut back on my usual snarkiness in certain environments. 

I wish I were a nicer person sometimes.

And other times, well...

Being who I am just seems more fun.

So I'm going to recount to all of you guys what a horrible person I am and hope I still have friends at the end of this post. 

Somehow waiting in line we got on the topic of animal stories. 

And Molissa told me the story of her pet catfish.

She never found out the gender (she hoped it was a girl), but the name of the catfish was Fishie Wishie.

Anyways, being the red-blooded Ron Swanson American I am, I already thought it was funny you'd keep a catfish as a pet before frying it up for some dinner. 

But the point here is that Fishie Wishie got bacterial infections which led to secondary fatal infections and they had to "put her down."

Even now, I had to stop and chuckle before typing that.

"Put her down." (still chuckling)

Like really, wth!?

You put down a dog, not a catfish.

You guys, I lost it.

I could not stop laughing.

I blame the wording (still chuckling).

Soon others in the group had to know what I was losing it over, and poor Molissa had to tell the story again. She said it was traumatic when she was a kid, which just makes me an even worse person.

In my defense, I wasn't the only one who found this funny (though no one else laughed quite as obnoxiously).

Anyways, soon we got on the topic of cat fish surgery and my mind was "literally" blown.

What? 

How do they do that?

Is the surgery underwater?

Somehow, all of our rando conversations made waiting in line seem a lot shorter.

I didn't even realize it took at least more than an hour, maybe a little more than two.

Who knows?

But finally we made our descent into the Catacombs. The deeper we went, the cooler it got. Nice for a hot summer day in Paris.

On the walls we saw inscriptions about death written in French. 

And finally, we got to the skulls.

It didn't make my bones shiver. It didn't make my skin crawl. The hair on the back of my neck stayed in place.

But I just felt...

I don't know.

Sad? Reflective?

It's hard to put a word on it.

Distant. 

Maybe that's it. Distant.

I kept trying to wrap my mind around the fact that these skulls were once people. That now they're dead. But that once, they were living, breathing human beings.

And I couldn't.

Seeing them stacked like rocks, exploited for the amusement of tourists like myself...

I couldn't personalize it.

I didn't seem real.

So it wasn't scary. 

Before we got to the actual bones I tried taking pictures on my itouch, but it was too dark and I ran out of memory. By the time I actually got to the better lit areas with the skulls I had no room for pictures.

And I'm actually kind of glad.

Some things don't need to be captured, I think. 

Soon we began our descent up and suddenly it was a bright afternoon in Paris again.

It was like stepping out of a movie theater.

Right across from us was the usual overpriced gift shop (but this one was Catacombs-themed), so we looked inside.

As I looked around, I heard a song playing that I liked.

Nice.

After that I heard another song.

Is it? 

No.

Couldn't be.

Yes. Yes it is.

Kid Cudi's "Pursuit of Happiness."

Man, this really was a great day.

But wait, there's more! *Billy Mays voice*

Before we headed back to the metro, we went to a café for dessert.

Café d'Orleans.

I ordered a Pêche Melba.

I had no idea the beauty I was about to behold until it was placed in front of me. 

My profile picture on Facebook says more than these words can.

Man, that really was a great day. 

P.S.

Forgot about those market strawberries in my backpack? Yeah, so did I. They were bruised and stained a few papers in my bag, so I threw a lot of them away. But the ones I shamelessly sneak ate at Café d'Orleans were delicious. 

P.S.S.

RIP

Fishie Wishie 

2010?—2012

P.S.S.S.

Tu aimes le titre? Jeu de mots ftw. ;)

La semaine

The rest of the week is just a blur.

So much to do. So little time.

Sometimes, art class was just walking around neighborhoods to look at the architectural style of certain periods. It's amazing how France can be one big history book.

The day after the cemetery visit, we had a pastry scavenger hunt for the UF class.

Ummm awesome. *Barney Stinson voice*

We were all put into pairs, given the address of a pâtisserie (which was accessible by metro), and given euros to cover the cost.

Yes, you heard that right.

Free money (not really considering how God awful expensive this program was).

The assignment?

All of us bought a pastry, filled out a worksheet about our interaction with the workers (en français) and took our pastries back to the API center.

Our professor gave each group a specific amount of euros based on how expensive their pâtisserie is.

Lesleigh and I had one of the fanciest in Paris: Ladurée. (Some of the pastries from there come in cuter boxes than most Christmas presents. Not to mention Ladurée's bags put most gift bags to shame.)

Together, we got 25 euros to spend for each of us to buy a pastry.

I decided to get one of the most expensive items I could find.

Naturally.

It's called a fraisier.

And it was a hit.

We shared all of the pastries back at the center, and the strawberry-filled amazingness was a favorite.

But before everyone came back there was the waiting process. I was about to go straight for my pastry before I found out we were splitting all of them.

It was hard not to dive into that beautiful dessert.

The day after that, we visited different neighborhoods in Paris to contrast them for the UF class.
Some had many families, lots of traffic, lots of culture.

There was one called—actually, the name escapes me. And I can't remember if we ended up seeing it that day or the next week.

It had a lot of immigrants from Asia, Africa and the Maghreb.

The people weren't all that polite. It was a bit too foreign. A bit too sketchy.

Not everyone was feeling it.

It was my favorite quartier.

I love the whole heterogeneous, motley crew feel you get when surrounded by different cultures all unified under bleu, blanc et rouge.

And think about it.

Imagine all the different food.

Errr, if only I had time to get my foodie on.

Speaking of food, our last class for that week ended with a trip to the market.

Ummm awesome.

That was the UF class. As you've noticed, the course was all about making observations, which we got to do in the flesh.

We browsed through the items for sale at Marché d'Aligre.
All the fruit, the scarves, the books, the fruit.

THE FRUIT.

Ahh, I could make a whole post about how much better the fruit is over there. Like, really.

I'll save that for another time. Just know I bought two little boxes of strawberries and put them in my backpack for later.

The market took over a little section in the quartier. Jasmin and I walked around the market area and found the boulangerie I spotted earlier.

She got bread. And I got my hands on a pain chocolat.

Finally crossed that off the list!

You see, my oldest sister gave me a list of pastries to try in France and I was epically failing at trying any of them until then.

A pain chocolat is basically like a croissant with chocolate.

So you can't go wrong.

Anyways, after the market, I went with some of the group to...

Well, you'll find out in the next post.

It was very...

It was something else.



















P.S.

If you ever end up in France, here's Janelle's list!

Baba au rhum
Chausson aux pommes
Macaron
Tarte au citron
Paris Brest
Pain chocolat