Do you know what au revoir means?

The end.

This.

Is.

The end.

My last post, you guys. The saga finally comes to a close. But really, I only told you guys (most of) what happened, what I did, where I went...

How can I describe my feelings about the month I spent in France? Are there words?

"It was the best of times, i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶r̶s̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶,̶s,  it was the age of  wisdom, ̶i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶a̶g̶e̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶f̶o̶o̶l̶i̶s̶h̶n̶e̶s̶s̶, it was the epoch of belief, i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶e̶p̶o̶c̶h̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶i̶n̶c̶r̶e̶d̶u̶l̶i̶t̶y̶y, it was the season of Light, ̶i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶e̶a̶s̶o̶n̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶D̶a̶r̶k̶n̶e̶s̶s̶, it was the spring of hope, i̶t̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶i̶n̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶d̶e̶s̶p̶a̶i̶r̶, we had everything before us, w̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶b̶e̶f̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶u̶s̶, we were all going direct to heaven, w̶e̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶g̶o̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶d̶i̶r̶e̶c̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶w̶a̶y̶ - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only."

Well, that came the closest.

With a long sigh, (not the kind you do when you're annoyed at work, but the kind you do when you're just about ready to dot your last "i" on a long project) I give to you my last day in France.


It was early.

How early, I don't know. It was a year ago folks, gimme a break here.

I woke up for the last time at my host mom's cute, yellow maison in Malakoff, France. Really the whole getting ready thing is all a blur now. I said my goodbyes to Alice, and Kyril walked me out some of the way to show me the tram stop (up until this point I hadn't even realized there was one nearby. I had only been on them in Italy).

That walk to the tram stop was both long and incredibly short. Silent, but my head wouldn't shut up.

A quick bise, and it was just me.

I had said my last good bye, and it was time to reach the airport.

I realize now the tone may sound dramatic, but that's really how it felt. My heart was heavy for some reason. So was the suitcase.

Eventually the tram came, and I got on, awkwardly lugging my suitcase. As if it wasn't bad enough, I almost got off too early and some French man yelled, "Wait!' (or something like that). Yes, he yelled in English, I was so obviously a foreigner at this point.

From the tram, I think, I had to take the train, which is where I got confused. It was so long ago, I can't remember the exact details. Just know I was confused and wandering around for a bit before I eventually got on the right train.

À l'aeroport, I went through customs and all that jazz and eventually found my friend Molissa. We're both from the central Florida area, so we planned are flights together.

Paris--> Philadelphia--> Orlando

Quick break from the narrative: I just laughed reading the notes on my itouch. I wrote down things about this flight I don't even remember now. But when it happened, I knew it would be in my blog. I knew they would matter at some point. So I'll share:

On the plane were the usual suspects: an "obnoxious tween," with "braces and everything," disrespecting some older man (assuming her father).

Across from her, her (likely) sister wore a shirt that reads, "ponies forever."

A frustrated flight attendant told everyone to stay seated on the runway, but after the passengers ignored him,  I heard him sarcastically call out: "Okay, keep going."

Although Molissa and I had the same flight, our seat assignments weren't next to each other.
I was waiting to see who my seatmate would be. For some reason, I was really curious about this, you guys. This flight is the big one, Paris to Philly. I guess I was too excited on my flight going to Paris to think about it, but I was really hoping I'd get a good one for my flight back.

I mean, you're up in the air with this person for hours, you know?

I remember seeing a woman with a huge backpacking backpack (Department of Redundancies Dept?) and the overall unbearable American tourist thing going on. I can't recall whatever crazy stuff she was wearing, but, suffice it to say, whatever it was made me say in my head, please don't sit next to me, please don't sit next to me, please don't let this lady sit next to me.

So she sat next to me.

Naturally.

And then she started talking.

Great.

But she was actually pretty cool.

Oh?

Yes, the latest development proving the cliché "don't judge a book by its cover," however stupid the expression may be, is true.

I remember the first thing that happened when we she greeted me and sat down. She turned to me and asked if I was French, and I let her know I was American.

Then she said, "you never know," which I thought was a weird way of putting it. But she was telling the truth. A lot of people have this cliché of France as a place with a bunch of white people in striped shirts and berets walking around with baguettes, but's it's really a far cry from that.

She told me she was a French teacher in the states who was in France to take classes. And I should shut the hell up about the whole American tourist thing, because she clearly knew more French than I did.

Some lady in front of her ended up turning around to talk to her about something—I can't remember now, she was speaking in French. My seatmate was up on her stuff, responding back in French like she was fluent (I mean, I assume she is, being a French teacher).

Right after that, the lady in front of me turned around and started asking in French if her putting her seat back bothered me, and the most I could muster was a, "Ça va."

You know, now that I think about it, it's sort of funny that the two of us sat next to each other, a teacher and a student. Anyways, after our initial "what were you doing in Paris" schpeel, we didn't talk much.

There was also some drama going on with our flight. It felt like we were sitting for an hour waiting to take off, trying to avoid bad weather, I think. Passengers were acting up, angered at the possibility of missing their connecting flights.

For Molissa and I, we could have been a little nervous, but our connector was later than the one for all the angry people. Plus, I really wasn't in any rush to get back to Orlando. The journey was over, and the destination was home. I would be arriving at an aeroport, so no excuse for Cinnabon.

Of course, it was eventually time for lift off.

I know you should have your head straight back in the seat for lift off, but as the plane was rising in the air, I looked out the window and mouthed, "Paris, tu déjà me manquerai.

OK, that was really grammatically incorrect French, as some of you reading this blog may realize. I got confused where to put déjà with the whole subject object reversal thing. And it really should be in the present tense.

But, I digress. Point was, even if incorrect, the words mean "Paris, I miss you already."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

EPILOGUE

You know, it seems much shorter—the journey back. None of the hopes, anticipations, excitement, fear, that fuels you the first time around. Just a heaviness, a weight, a what now?

Molissa and I met back up in Philadelphia, where we looked a bit at the gift shop cuz we had time.

It's weird, huh? I've never been to Philadelphia before, but even now I can't say I've really been there.

Anyways, there was a delay, a gate change, a blah, blah, blah—I'll spare you the boring airplane talk.

We finally got on the plane to our final destination. Not like the movie, obviously or it could've been some weird "Snakes on a Plane" situation.

All right, time to tell you all about my seatmate.

This is the last flight as you know, the much shorter Philadelphia to Orlando deal, and I sat next to quite the individual.

This man was a ray of Latin American sunshine. I really wish I had written this earlier so I could tell you all about our conversation. He was quite the talker and was just all smiles, telling me about his faith, his family and his life as a musician who traveled all over the world.

He keeps a person's spirits up, you know? Just one of those exciting people who just make the world go 'round.

Anyways, eventually it was almost time to land. The plane began it's descent downward, and the second its wheels hit the ground something weird happened. I had this feeling, which I can't put my finger on now, but had I written about it earlier I would be able to explain it further. All I know is my feeling was nothing like my seatmate, who started clapping next to me.

We said our final good byes. He took my hand and kissed it and gave me his contact information— just because he's one of those friendly people you meet, people who never throw up borders, people who like meeting people. The world needs more folks like that.

Anyways, I had to rustle through my old leather carry-on, but to this day I still have a crumply bit of paper with the name Giovanni Hidalgo, an email address, and words "GOD Bless!!!"

During our conversation, he told me his music had gave him quite a bit of fame and said I could find him on YouTube. I half-thought he was talking himself up, but you know what?

I found him on YouTube, and he's quite the talent.

So, I got off the plane, met up with Molissa again, and we started waiting for our luggage.

And then I saw my Mom.

And that's when I knew it was over.

That's when it hit me for the last time, when I realized the chapter had closed, when I knew I was no longer living this trip—that it was now just a memory. And that's where I'll let the story end.

For all of you reading I just wanted to say thank you. But a more deeper thank you to all of you guys who have read every single post, who have been with me every step of the way, from the fall that got my flight delayed to fishing for my shoe in a fountain at Versailles, to now. For everyone who has put up with all my tireless movie and pop culture references I've somehow managed to incorporate into just about every post. Thanks for listening. I wrote the word listening because this blog, for me at least, feels like I'm talking to all of you guys. You know, those of you who have read this blog I'm sure know me better now than most people.

I really didn't know what to name this last post. I had been thinking about it, then suddenly when the right thing came to me, I gave one big smile, threw my head back and laughed.

So, without further ado, I'll repeat for the last time: It's over.

No P.S., no P.S.S. no P.S.S.S.

I just leave you with a question. The answer may seem obvious, but there's actually a little more to it. You know, I told myself the next time I'm in France, I won't be doing a blog, I'll likely be more busy and don't want to get distracted from my work. I do plan on living there at least for a short time at some point, folks.

But I decided against it. I realized how much I loved writing this blog, how important it is to me, and how much I'll treasure it even more some day. So, the next time I'm back in France, I will have a blog, and its first order of business will be to answer this question:

Do you know what au revoir means?

P.S.

OK, I take it back. I wonder how many of you guys still looked? 

Anyways, I really didn't mean to add this, but it was killing me to not tell the story behind the photo above. This was taken at Jardin des Tuileries, shortly after I realized I couldn't find my wallet. My friend Lizette thought it would be a funny idea if somebody posed, and I volunteered like, yeah, why not? This picture is my favorite from the trip, but looking back I realize how important it is. Even though I had just lost my wallet, I could still breathe, take in the moment, and remember I was in Paris, France. Now, when I look back and laugh at the photo, I remember the circumstances surrounding it and see a life lesson, too. Sometimes, even in the worst of situations, you have to smile and take a snapshot of life. It's worth it. Even a year later, it'll all seem so long ago.

"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

P.S.S.

Check back in the (hopefully near-ish) future for a P.S.S.S. 

P.S.S.S. (as of Sept. 2018)

If you are reading this you are one of my best friends or a super creeper! This blog is like 4 years old! Anyways, I promised a P.S.S.S. and the plan always was to make it the link to my new blog whenever I went back to France. So here it is!

https://le-le-land.blogspot.com

Last night

I originally wanted to name this "Last Day." But that's wrong.

I mean, it's my last full day, but I still spend one more day in France after this—the next morning when I leave for my flight.

So, to avoid a fact error (minus 50), we'll just stick with night. Though, to clarify, I'm talking about the whole day.

So, how did I spend my last full day in France?

Well, classes were over, the weight's been lifted off my shoulders...

I hopped on the metro.

Really, I was still on the search for presents. My older brother wanted me to bring back hot sauce, and well, when I asked my host mom where I should go she was like, huh?

France is not known for spicy food.

At all.

But hey, I had one day left to find Richie some hot sauce, so what are ya gonna do?

Anyways, I just decided to hop on the metro and just randomly get off at a stop, any stop.

I just love riding it. I think that might be the first thing I'd do if I went back right now. I'd just hop on the metro and go anywhere, everywhere. I'd just keep going, and get off at whatever stop called to me. I'd explore, find another metro, and keep going again...

Oh man, sort of like that dude in "Before Sunrise."

Anyways, I found this store and

Oh yeah!

Very important update!

Remember how I mentioned to you guys I hadn't heard a certain stereotypical French exclamation?

Well I finally did!

I was at this store, buying Richie's hot sauce (which was not hot at all—shocker) when all of sudden I saw these two adorable little kids in the line to my left.

I think it was a sister and a brother maybe, but I just remember the little girl going "Oh là là" (maybe at something her brother did) and it made my day.

But that's how I spent my morning. Last minute shopping around France. Man, I could take the metro forever...

Anyways, that night was our end-of-the-program dinner. It was at La Bastide Odeon, if this now-ancient itinerary is correct.

Real talk: They like, don't eat chicken over there. Not that I mind at all, cuz I get enough of that over here anyways.

My last dinner in France was the first time I had it during my whole trip. Oh man, that restaurant was good too. Crème brûlée was on point.

And there was this little chocalate-cake like thing.

Omg delicieux, you guys.

Anyways, we all ignored the "Casual dress code" designation on the itinerary and decided to dress nice, cuz I mean, it's our last night in France, why not? Many pictures were taken and such.

Me, balancing wine on my head!

Just kidding. See? #cameramagic #hashtag

My face is cut off, but here's some of the crew!

All of the crew :)

Soon, we were all back at our respective homes/apartments. Some of us had a long flight ahead of us. I reached back to that now-familiar house in Malakoff to find my host mom's daughter talking with a friend she had over. Soon, I joined them and a couple of more friends arrived and the flurry of French conversations began and I tried to understand everything that was going on, but that was not happening. Oh man, it makes me laugh now.

And alas, back to circle theory. I'm sort of in love with it, and it seems to be in love with me too.

Somehow, my last night in France was much like my first. It ended with me, Alice and Kyril talking around a table while sipping wine. It's weird—that the simplest of moments you end up missing the most. Good conversation while sipping wine around a table is one of my petite plaisirs (just like how Amélie had her whole sticking her hand in sacks of grain thing).

Anyways, Alice and Kyril are the best, and they even helped me lug my suitcase down the stairs so I could weigh it and make sure it wasn't over.

That is, after we did a quick metric conversion. I knew the limit was 50 lbs, but uh, that's meaningless in Europe.

Then, they showed me the best way to get to the airport the next day. It would be a journey, but this time one involving public transportation. I had to take a taxi to get to Malakoff the first time, remember?

But anyways, all good things must come to an end, and soon it was the end of the last night.

So eventually, I go back up to my room and close my eyes for the last time in France.











P.S.

In the words of my old high school principal, "It's not over til it's over." Stay here folks, I still have a post or two left in me to finish the story.

Metro Mecs

I was on my way home. I was alone. And it was on the metro...

It takes two trains for me to get home from Châtelet. Je prendrais déjà la ligne 1. Maintenant, I was taking the 13 back to Malakoff, Plateau de Vanves.

I was sitting on the metro, minding my own business quand soudainement (suddenly),

Quite possibly the hottest guy I have seen in France walked on.

That's the only way I can describe him.

I mean

;kfnea;knfaslfm'lasmfdasmf's

Anyways, let me explain a bit more about the architecture of the metro before I continue.

It's not like the RTS.

By that I mean my seat was facing down the line, not to the opposite window like on the city bus.

And my seat was facing directly down this guys seat, and his mine. So naturally, that was the direction one's head would be turned in.

But his hotness was too much. I couldn't take it all in. I would literally be staring him to death.

So, I turned my head to the map and started looking at all the stops.

I concentrated so hard on that map, I paid no attention to the words I was hearing.

But wait.

Words?

People rarely engage in full-on conversations on the metro.

He was on the metro with a friend, and I realized they were talking, and pretty loud at that.

Anyways, I eventually had to look back at this beautiful mec, you guys.

But be still my heart, when I turned to looked at him, I realized he was talking to (and about) me.

ME.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHdstm;efaosjdf[aksp[fda

And good God Almighty of heaven and earth knows how I figured out what they were saying.

This was all in loud, (likely alcohol-influenced) French.

Anyways, he told me he and his friend were trying to guess the first letter of my name. They called out random letters and finally decided to go through every letter of the alphabet in order.

It was hilarious. Together, they chanted :

ah, bay, say, day, euh, ef, zhay. ahsh, ee, zhee

I stopped them there. (zhee is how you'd say the letter j in French it. It sounds like ghee).

So they got the first letter. Now they were on to the names. They were pretty determined.

"Joanna!"
"Julie!"

But they were only calling out French names. I knew they wouldn't get it, so I gave them a hint:

"Le nom n'existe pas en français," I told them.

True story, bro. Though they called out those names I mentioned above, they said it with a French pronunciation. They just so happen to be names that exist and are spelled the same in English. Jenna, it just so happens, does not have a French equivalent.

They both let out a disappointed sigh. Almost the type you make when you can't remember the name of something, so you have to Google it.

They seemed pretty stumped, so I decided to just spell it out for them:

"zhee euh en en ah," I said.

They quickly repeated me: "zhee euh en en ah!"

Then it clicked.

"Jen-nah!" "Jen-nah!"

Puzzle solved. Just asking "Tu t'appelles comment?" works, but I gotta admit this way was way more fun.

Anyways, they introduced themselves, too.

The super hot fella was Gaëtan (I think that's how it's spelled. I honestly have never heard the name until then—it sounded like "Gie tahn." His friend was Jules.

Anyways, Jules turned to me and said:

"Tu viens d'où, Jenna?" (Where are you from, Jenna?)

I replied "Les états-unis" (The United States)

Pretty sure Gaëtan interjected here:

"Mais tu parles bien!" (But, you speak well!)

Anddddd stop.

This is what made this such a big deal for me. The fact that, finally, I spoke French well enough that someone was surprised I was an American. I feel like the results of all of those weeks had finally shown. With two days left in France, I had finally spoke well enough to "pass," you know?

One of the best feelings any language learner can have, really.

Anyways, the conversation continued in French. Jules invited me to go to some bar with them—they were on their way to Montparnasse – Bienvenüe.

It's really the only place anyone would go at that point on ligne 13. My host mom's house in Malakoff is technically outside of the arrondissements of Paris. It's like the suburbs, so you wouldn't expect young people to be headed there on a Friday night.

Anyways, back to the invite.

Don't get your panties in bunch. I declined, you guys.

I'm not that stupid.

I mean Gaëtan's ridiculously hot and Jules is really nice, but I don't know these guys, I'm alone, and, probably the biggest thing, I may have fooled them, but I am not fluent in French. I'm not about to get myself date raped with two days left to go.

Anyways, Gaëtan sensed my thoughts I think. My comprehension of French can be fuzzy at times, but I'm pretty sure he smiled when I declined and said jokingly to me something I'd translate to "upon further reflection, no," as if he could tell I thought it was a bad idea.

Anyways, they were curious where I was getting off. They started guessing different stops.

Eh.

Still not stupid enough to straight up tell them.

Anyways, they never got the chance to guess Malakoff.

The metro reached Montparnasse, so it was time for them to leave. For the first time, they spoke in English.

"Bye, nice meeting you."

The door closed and I continued on my way to Malakoff. The metro was considerably quiet now that those two were gone.

Well, that's my story. The story of how a funny encounter with two strangers helped me take pride in my speaking skills.

The story of drunk metro guyz.
















P.S.

Jesus Christ, this Gaëtan guy tho. Talk about missed connections. Imma need to hit up Montparnasse and find him.

The end is near part 2

It really is near.

The end of this, I mean.
This is getting crazy. It's at the point where I'm sitting in French class, and my teachers are passing out fliers for the upcoming UF in Paris trip this summer. I'm not even done documenting this one.

We're at Thursday. I leave Sunday. We can get through this, folks.

OK. So, a few of us decided to head to the Eiffel Tower Thursday to go up the top. Our farewell dinner was Friday, and the majority of us (myself included) were leaving Saturday morning, so it was now or never.

We get there, and we waited...oh whoops.

I forgot we had the last day of class that day. I'll talk about that first. So this was the day we had our final exam in the French art class. Pierre also told us to bring food to class, so we could all have a picnic afterward.

And me, well. I purposely got to class early, so I would have time to go to that bakery in Châtelet I told you all about—the one with the heavenly bread.

Of course, it wasn't open. Vive la France.

Anyways, I was desperate at that point, so I started searching for the nearest open bakery. I kept walking. And walking. And I walked some more. I eventually found some place and randomly bought this type of bread baguette thing that had chocolate chips.

Now to head back.

Only fitting on my last day of class, much like my first, I was once again lost.

 I don't think I was in Châtelet anymore (wayyyy cooler than not being in Kansas anymore).

I wasn't too worried. Thanks to the beautiful invention known as the metro, I wouldn't be lost forever. I just didn't want to be late. I mean, I was on my way to take my final exam.

The plan: find a metro. You're never lost if you find a metro—ever.

It took me a while, but I found one. I got back to Châtelet and headed over to the API building.



I'm pretty sure they were waiting on me.


Oops.


I can't remember if anyone else was later than me (I hope so), but eventually we took the exam. It was cool—French art and stuff.

So the food afterward tho.

My bread was the freaking truth. Almost worth that ridiculous trek, but some other girls had the same kind from another bakery and it tasted even better than mine (granted it already tasted amazing).

People brought other stuff, but I'll tell you all what our teacher, Pierre, brought. He thought it would be cool if we had a picnic with French food but we ended up not having time to hop on the metro to some parc (UF class was next) so we had the picnic in class.

Anyways, I thought it was funny he suggested it would be a French picnic but then went and brought Coca Cola. His defense? It had a French name written on the bottle. You know, the same marketing thing I told you guys about when I was in Italy.

He brought some other superrr French stuff on top of that, tho. Some type of duck liver spread (was it paté?)

He also brought saucisson. One of the girls in the group made the mistake of comparing it to salami, and he looked disgusted. Haha. It's way better than salami, according to Pierre.

Agreed. That's an insult to saucisson. Anyways, we ate, enjoyed our last moments as his students and even got a class picture.

Pierre's in the middle with that green belt I told you guys about—he does tend to blend in even though he's the tallest and our instructor.

We went to a museum for the UF class—Le Musée Carnavalet if this itinerary's correct. After that, a group of us headed to la Tour Eiffel. As we waited in line, an update came in—the very top would be closed. Suddenly we had a decision to make. Is it worth it? Still go for it?

We did. And then we hoped it would reopen by the time we made it up there. We waited in line—being in Paris always makes anything more fun to do, even waiting in line. Shockingly, we spotted a little boy in FSU garb. Yuck.

After going through the line, buying our tickets and waiting some more, we proceeded to go into the largest elevator I've ever been in in my life.

We got to the sort of half way point-ish.

And it was beautiful. You could look out and see all of Paris before you. Lizette, who has a killer sense of direction even pointed out the area her host family's place is in. We stayed at the lower level for a little while, taking pictures, taking in the view.

The very top finally opened up, and me, Lizette, and Emily decided to go for it.

We knew we had to.

Who knew if we'd ever get this chance again?

I don't know if you've ever been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. The view seems a lot like the view from the middle, but there's one thing that just completely floors you.

At the very top, there's a little inside spot that tells you how far away you are from all (or at least most I guess) the different countries of the world.

It's amazing. *Kanye voice* you, know, like off 808s and Heartbreak? OK I'm done.

In other news, they also sell overly-priced Champagne at the top.

People are all over the place trying to take pictures, naturally. When you find a spot at the edge, rejoice. And take in the view. Take in the moment. Take in Paris.

OK, I'm done with the anaphora—I'll wrap this up. So we eventually had to leave. And we were in a rush.

We spent the next hour or so on a hunt to find the karaoke bar one of the guys from the group planned for everyone to go to. Cool place. It was empty. Seriously, like five or six other people were there besides us.

 And then there were the performances—My personal favorite was Lizette as Shakira and Getro as Wyclef Jean in "Hips Don't Lie."

But what still makes me laugh the most was after karaoke. I was on my way home. I was alone. And it was on the metro...
















P.S. OK, I guess I wasn't done with the anaphora.





P.S.S.
Yes, the ellipsis implies there is more to come. It's a funny story. It's a study abroad story.






P.S.S.S.

Crazy pic midway up la Tour Eiffel. If you don't think Emily (red and beige skirt) is the most awesome thing about this picture, you're wrong. 

P.S.S.S.S.

TOP OF LA TOUR EIFFEL

Started from the bottom...

Some other things

I told myself toward the beginning I'd do one of these. I realized I should oh, you know, just write about some of the little things I've glossed over. Beaucoup de choses, mecs. I didn't want to go on too long of a tangent sometimes.

Most of these posts have been long enough already, so I left things out.

Well enough with the intro, I'll get to it already.

FOOD: (Cuz it had to be first)

1)
The best thing I ate in France was a croque madame. The way I would describe it is a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with a fried egg on top. It was the day I waited in line for the Catacombes. One of my best days in France.

2)
I had the best bread in my life from some bakery in Chatelet. I have no idea what the name of it was, but I know exactly where it is and plan on going back. I really can't describe it. Just know it's what dreams are made of.  *cue Lizzie McGuire soundtrack*

3)  I had the best fruit of my life at my host mom's maison. I'm pretty sure the peach I bit into could bring world peace.

SHRANKS : (drinks)

1. VIN ROUGE (We fell in love that summer)

2. We all know about my love affair with Orangina

3. alfknasflkas Lemon freaking Fanta. Some genius decided to come up with this.

4. Schwepps soda- my host mom bought these. I really like them and they're here in the U.S. too—just different flavors en France.


Oh yeah! Did I tell you guys I finally tried a Monaco?

Sooo it's a drink my older sis told me about. I tried to look for it when I was in Italy, if you guys remember.

Anyways, I honestly cannot remember when this happened—toward the end—but me and some of the girls all went out to some place for drinks and desert. The waiter—this French guy—was being a total French guy (Dept. of Redundancies Department).

Anyways, he knew we were all American, so he did all his speaking in English (while shamelessly hitting on one of the girls in the group).

I was so happy to finally be in a café at night. I could finally look for a Monaco.

But alas, I didn't see it on the menu. I was determined, so I asked the waiter.

"Hey, do you have..."

*He cuts me off*

"Your number? No..."

New pick up line, guys. You're welcome.

Doesn't work if you're sleezy like this guy was.  I appreciated the good play on words, though (hashtag journalism). Anyways, I eventually asked him if they had a Monaco. He said "of course," and soon I was finally trying it.

First of all, I was surprised by how not strong it was (my wino sister recommended it so I thought It'd be pretty forte). It's good stuff tho. Man, I wish I had one right now, actually.

Last of all, when the check came, I was overjoyed. I can't remember what the price was, but it was by far the cheapest thing. No wonder it wasn't on the menu.

For you curious folks, it's basically a combination of beer, 7UP and grenaldine syrup.

OTHER—or culture, maybe?

1. I love the metro—love. I don't think I've been able to get that across in these past posts. It's sort of the best thing ever. Just sitting here now, the familiar echo of the automated voice announcing "Malakoff, Plateau de Vanves" rings in my ear like a comforting song. I hear France's metro is better (less confusing) than New York's. Never been up there, so I can't confirm.

2.  That being said, people don't play in the mornings at the station. You betta depêche yo'self cuz people are in a rush. Stick to the right if you're standing on an escalator. Everyone on the left walks. You find that out the hard way after about the fifth "pardon."

3. Paris is a très cosmopolitan place tho. I saw so many interracial couples there it was sorta like the norm. Totes different from the places I've lived in Florida. Supa cool.


4. THESE GUYS I SWEAR...

OK, so basically everywhere you go in Paris you'll see a bunch of African dudes trying to sell these tiny Eiffel Towers to tourists. They'll just keep on keeping on with the whole "un euro, un euro," schpeel like a robot on repeat.












P.S.

There he goes, stalking out his tourist prey.

P.S.S.

We'll get to the end of this eventually, folks. I still haven't told you guys about my trip up la Tour Eiffel.

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.