The end is near part 1

I didn't mention the FNAC.

Fuh-nack.

That's how you say it. Don't pronounce every letter like YMCA. That's not a thing.

The FNAC visit happened Wednesday after the modern museum. Now, FNAC is this music/book chain. I'm trying to think of what American store I can compare it too. Ah, I dunno.

Anyways for the UF class, we had a little assignment where we went around listening to different French music at the FNAC.

Funny thing is, most young French people love American music (or at least anything other than French artists).

Now I see why.

With the exception of Stromae's Cheese, most of those CDs were not my cup of tea. I looked around in the book section afterward (my sister had requested I bring her back a specific title—she's pretty high maintenance), and I ended up there for quite a while.

Now, most gals in Paris or Italy would have brought back clothes, or jewelry, or some cute nic nac for themselves, but up until that point, I wasn't even thinking of bringing home something.

But there, at the FNAC, I ended up picking up the only thing I bought for myself:

An unabridged copy of Les Trois Mousquetaires.

En français, bien sûr.

                                                                      ----


I can't sleep. So alas, I'm back
I know it seems like no time period elapsed between the part above and what I'm typing now, but it's actually been weeks. This post has just been sitting around as a draft. Ironically enough, with all my free time during winter break I just didn't feel like writing my blog.

But anyways, it's about three in the morning on Saturday, and I can't go to bed so I figured why not write about France? It's funny, sometimes after I've been the most stressed out I find it nice to just sit down and type anew about my adventures from summer. I don't know who's still reading this (if anyone at all) but I have to admit to you guys I write these for me, too.

Sooooo where were we?

Fuh-nack. Well, I got that book and man, you know it's with me right now in Gainesville. If I ever have time again in my life ever, I just might start it. It's a classic, after all. I actually don't really know the story of the three musketeers other than the fact that it's French and was written by straight up baller Alexandre Dumas ( "The Count of Monte Cristo" is one of my favorites), so I'll actually be surprised by the plot. Whoo! No spoilers.

Anyways, I thought about how much I loved the Count of Monte Cristo even when the version I read in high school was the English translation. I knew I wanted to read at least one book from this guy in the original text.

 I just spent too much of this post raving about a book I have yet to read. I guess I'll end on a French note.

Sometime this week, I had my last dinner with my host mom. It was either Monday, Tuesday, or the day I'm writing about right now. Who knows at this point. Just to put things in perspective here, I'm writing about Wednesday and I left for the U.S. Saturday, so the title of this post is, well, fitting to say the least.

My host mom told me to prepare a menu of the things I wanted (she's the sweetest) because she wanted to cook me a really French dinner. Well, I was slacking 'cause I was busy with finals, but the one thing we had both already decided on was escargot.

Yes.

About time, right? I mean, who goes to France without trying this stuff?

Verdict?

Not bad! Not bad at all!

Over here in the states, cartoons give us the impression it's like the same type of snails chilling on the pavement outside.

False. *Dwight Schrute voice*—or for my Frenchies— Faux. *voix de Norman*

Anyways, point is it's more like seafood than anything else. It's sort of tradition for escargot to be flavored with this buttery garlic sauce, and my oh my c'était magnifique! J'aime bien cette sauce.

And escargot has got to be the coolest thing to eat.

Like, ever.

 I mean, just the whole process I found cool. You hold the shell firm with these silver tongs (almost like the one for boiled eggs I think) and then you take a toothpick and swivel the meat out of the shell.

It was awesome. I mean, how often do you actually find yourself having fun while using your utensils? Forks and spoons are boring, knives get in the way, and chopsticks either slow me down or make me look pretentious.

So, as you can see I was pretty excited about the snails, so I don't remember much else from the dinner. I just remember there was that, good ol', tough French bread that you could knock a person out with. Man, that bread though, just thinking about it makes my teeth yearn for some (yes I mean, teeth, not tongue. I just loved biting into it. Weird, the things you end up missing). Anyways, I've given up trying to recreate the experience with Publix baguettes.

It's not the same quoi.




























P.S.
Gary! That's what an escargot is like! A sea snail!



P.S.S.
Sorry, Spongebob.

Modern museum. No, like, really modern.

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

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

I was almost lost.
Until I wasn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andddd stop.

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

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

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

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

And it was beautiful.

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

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

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

A refrigerator.
On.
Skis.

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

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

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

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

It was relatively life-like.

So, that was our museum visit.

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

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

Paris: La Ville Lumière

Oui, ça, c'est la Tour Eiffel

Sûr le bateau

P.S.

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

BACK

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

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

We've been in Italy for too long.

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

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

I've missed it.

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

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

France.

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

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

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

I took pictures of some of the cooler things.

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

Yep. That's considered art.

It's pretty awesome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I recommend.

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

Crois-moi, brah. 

P.S.

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

P.S.S.

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

Roma: Vici

But did I?

Did I "conquer?"

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

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

And I really did profites en!

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

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

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

Actually, I'll just tell the story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old man, Natalie said.

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

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

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

We looked at the line to enter.

Yeah...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So after that, we waited.

And Voilà.

Circle theory.

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

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

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

And then it began to hail.

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

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

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

I was through. J'en avais marre.

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

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

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

Some passengers in line were speaking French.

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

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












P.S.

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






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










P.S.S.S.

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

Roma: Vidi

Friday, I came.

Saturday, I saw.

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

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

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

But let's talk about coffee.

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

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

and said "una cafe latte."

She turned to me.

You just ordered milk, she said.

Ohhh, so latte is milk in Ital—ohh.

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

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

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

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

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

She right tho.

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

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

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

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

Don't they have that in France?

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

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

So now to the sites.

We hopped on the tram and—wait.

I need to discuss the bus police.

This has to be done.

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

With Natalie, we went places by tram or bus.

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

But nobody does that.

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

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

Here's what happens if you don't.

Nothing. 

Well, if you're lucky.

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

Hence, the bus police.

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

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


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

She really hates Stalin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Jenna, you're studying abroad?

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

But, I digress.

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

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

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

Anyways, back to prices.

She said the lowest she could go is 35€.

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

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

I'm glad she did (hashtag hindsight).

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

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

Never a good idea.

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

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

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

I told him 35.

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

Dang.

Guess we got the nice one.

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

I loved it, of course.

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

I was so glad for the refresher.

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

let-me-tell-you

IT WAS FREAKING AWESOME.

I WAS AWED. STUNNED. AMAZED.

OVEREXAGGERATING?

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

BUT I WAS SO IMPRESSED.

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

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

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

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


Needless to say, it was an interesting tour.

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

WHAT!?? REALLY!??

I FREAKED OUT.

SO MF COOL.

SNFLANSLVKFNMDL;VMGDAJO

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

Cool, cool, cool.

I took pics of course.

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

What is that, you might ask?

A sanctuary.

For cats.

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

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

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

Well...

I think I had horse.

OK maybe not.

But really though.

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

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

I asked Natalie.

Yeah, it was beef.

"beef."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's my friend, folks.

Anyways, we headed back via tram.

And oh God.

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

Well, I lived it.

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

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



Not so fun fact:

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

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

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

Monumento Nazionale a Vittorio Emanuele II

Coliseum!

THIS PLACE IS...

WHERE PETER AND PAUL WERE IMPRISONED

St. Peter's!

Inside the forum, I think. 

Cats in the sanctuary

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

Parthenon at night! Hyper belle!

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

Roma: Veni

No customs no nothin'.

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

Uhhh...

Really?

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

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

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

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

Well both. But bus first.

Bus.

Again.

But wayyy less stressful this time.

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

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

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

But still cheerful.

It was such a Rome moment.

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

Rome.

It didn't seem real.

Anyways, the taxi eventually reached Natalie's apartment.

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

And then pizza.

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

The water over there is...

not free.

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

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

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

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

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

Two euros!

Say Whaaaatttttttt?

Anyways, we had some super cheap coffee for dessert.

That's what I'm talking about.

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

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

"Oh Rosa!!!" Natalie called.

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

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

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

Mimosa's, man.

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

It was made with blood oranges, I think.

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

Who knew?

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

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

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

And it was good.

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

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

Cool.

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

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

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

A Manhattan.

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

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

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

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

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

They actually bought it.

Say Whaat?

I guess I really was in Italy—

The French are the tourists now.


























P.S.

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

Transport

It was hectic.

It was last-minute.

But man, was it worth it. 

First things first. Was I sure about it?

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

So, what to do?

Well...

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

And honestly, London was never my first choice.

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

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

And voilà. It was like fate.

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

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

Looks like it was the plane for me.

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

Pshh. Paris Beauvais was hardly in Paris. 

I couldn't take the metro there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

metro—train—bus—airport

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Success.

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

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

But I was gonna go for it.

Suddenly my ride was a bit more simple. 

metro—bus—airport.

But I already bought the train ticket.

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

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

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

Time for Rome.

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

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

Merde.

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

The bus.

With a long-behind line for tickets.

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

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

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

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

Connard.

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

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

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

Relief.

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

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

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

I showed her my ticket.

"Ce n'est pas ici."

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

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

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

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

Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Needless to say, it was a pretty ghetto airline.

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

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

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


But I was finally there.

Italia.

Bonjourno.

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



























P.S.

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

My room! Where Suzanne and Tapette like to chill.

P.S.S.

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