Morocco, Part 1

Hello everyone!  Sorry it’s been so long, but I have good reason- I spent the last week in Morocco!  If you’re friends with me on Facebook, you might’ve already seen the pictures or video, so perhaps you already know how gorgeous it is.  I had a fantastic time.

            Now, I have a fairly busy week ahead of me.  Tomorrow my parents arrive in France, and on Saturday I leave for the Loire Valley, and then the whole following week it’s the Lambs Take Paris show.  But I wanted to get as much down about Morocco as I could, because I never want to forget it. 

            Our trip started bright and early- or rather dark and early, as the shuttle for the airport picked me up at 4 am outside our apartment.  We wound our way through the dark streets of Paris to Charles de Gaulle airport, through a quick security and chocolate croissant to board our Air France flight at 7:15 am.  I think at this point that the allure and excitement of flying has been worn out of me, because I promptly fell asleep, waking only for breakfast and landing.  And suddenly, we were in Africa. 

            It didn’t look like Africa at first.  Outside there were palm trees, and all airports look the same, so except for the Arabic writing on all the signs it could’ve easily been Florida.  Then, slowly, as we made our way through the airport and security, it started to sink in.  I think that when I go through security or customs, the fact that I am a perfectly legal American citizen with a valid visa goes straight out the window, and for the short time standing at the booth waiting for the stamp I am convinced that I have somehow become a drug mule with a fake passport and a highly visible criminal nature.  The guards, in what looked like mull military dress and stern faces weren’t helping.  But then I got the stamp and everything was fine, and we thirty Americans were ushered through the doors into the sunlight of Casablanca. 

            Our charter bus, fully equipped with driver and bodyguard, took us from the airport into the city proper and Morocco came upon us.  Casablanca is on the coast, so the landscape was flat, and dryer than I expected.  The whole trip felt less like the Africa in my head and more like a Middle Eastern country.  We rode into the city, stopping for kebabs at lunch and continuing to the beaches of Casablanca, and then to the Mosque. 

            It was gorgeous, and slightly surreal to look up at this huge tower against the blue of the sky and the sea, but inside was even more magnificent.  I had been to Versailles and Notre Dame, so I’m familiar with the French style of grandeur inside the church and out, but this was remarkable.  (I don’t know about you, but the Disney movie makes Notre Dame look huge.  It’s big, but not that big- the people of Paris could’ve definitgley seen Quasimodo swinging around up there, and you could probably shout up to him.  No way Esmerelda gets out of there without being seen, guards or no.  The Mosque is more what I imagined, with impossibly high ceilings and open floors.  Being in there alone would swallow you up, and truly feel like a glorious prison.)  It was all intricate carvings the marble floor gave me the urge to run, slide, and cartwheel, especially while in bare feet. 

            After, we had a quick tour of the medina in Casablanca, but it was really just a teaser, a tiny taste of what we would find in Fes.  Then the bus took us away to our hotel in Fes. 

            I took many pictures of beautiful things, but one thing I did not take pictures of was the garbage.  Casablanca was by no means the only place with litter, but being the first stop it surprised me the most.  Trash was everywhere.  Think of the worst highway litter you’ve ever seen, and multiply that by ten or twenty.  Every inch of the gutters, in every grassy median and piled around every tree.  Even out on the road, where there would be stretches of road with no other buildings for miles that would be absolutely covered by paper plastic, and glass, like someone had upended a dumpster every ten feet and spread it around.  There aren’t trash services there- people just throw it out the windows.  It’s a real shame, because my American sensitivity had a hard time seeing past it, especially at first.  But I didn’t have time to dwell on it for long,  because the next day I woke up in Fes!

            I was probably the most excited for Fes and its legendary medina, it’s been on my bucket list ever since Rory Gilmore said she wanted to go.  I knew medina meant market, and that it was supposed to be huge, but I never quite realized that the walled city of Fes was the medina.  Entering through the gate, our guide led us through what looked like a sketchy, nondescript alley way between two inconspicuous building, and after many twists and turns, we were in the medina.  The medina is set up within the alleys, stalls built into the sides of buildings and in the scarce open spaces, all under the windows of the residents.  If you ever have the chance to go, you’d better have a strong stomach and even stronger shoes, because hygiene wasn’t the priority.  Slabs of meat hung from hooks above shops, fish were laid out on sawdust, and countless animals sqwaked and called from their cages, if they were in cages at all.  The only mode for transporting goods was by horse, mule,  or donkey, so every so often someone would yell “Balak!” or “Attencion!” (“Watch out!”)  and we would flatten ourselves against the walls to allow a heavily laden animal and his owner through.  Cats would their way around stalls, eating anything that fell to the ground.  These were serious felines- they made my kitties look like fat lazy slobs.  These cats would eat my babies. 

            Now, I believe our tour through the medina was set up by the hotel, and it was quite clear what their intentions were.  Suck the Americans dry.  Every stop we made to see something educational or cultural was followed by a sales pitch and an expert team of barterers.  Our first stop was a carpet shop set up in a house within the medina.  (If anyone seen the House Hunter’s International episode for Fes, it was just like that.)  Many beautiful carpets were rolled out, mint tea was served, and they went to work.  That first stop was a learning experience in the art of saying no- half of our group walked out with an expensive rug, and spent the next few days staring at it, saying “Why?!?”  Twenty year olds don’t have much call for a 300 euro rug.  I escaped unscathed, luckily, but I couldn’t stay superior for very long.

            Our next stop was for scarves, my own brand of kryptonite.  We saw them being woven in front of us, and when all the pretty colors came out, I just couldn’t resist.  I bought four.

            After that, we were off to a Moroccon organic pharmacy, where we learned about the different herbs and spices that could cure every ill, including bad temperament and snoring.  There was also a range of make-up available, eyeliner made of kohl, lipstick that changed color depending on your natural tone, and miracle oil for every possible use.  I bought it all, because it was just so fun, as well as some sweet curry for my host mom, which is now what all my suitcase and clothes smell like. 

            Then was lunch, a glorious activity in any country.  Like France, bread is always served, and the first course was many small plates.  The conversation  revolved mostly around, “What is that?” “I don’t know, but it tastes good.”  “Ok, pass it over.”  Then came the traditional meal that we would become very familiar with- couscous under some meat, usually chicken, under large cooked vegetables. 

            The water was dangerous, much like Mexico- we were not even to brush our teeth with anything but bottled water.  This also meant no fresh fruits or vegetables unless they  could be peeled, which led for a massive craving by the end of the week, quite unusual for me. 

            After lunch we went to the largest tannery in Africa, which smelled like it.  They gave us sprigs of mint to breathe in, and then we were tempted by the most beautiful leather jackets.  I had to constantly remind myself that I didn’t need anything 100% camel. 

            Last was the ceramics factory, just outside the city limits, where the most amazing things were the views of the city, built into the rolling hills.  Exhausted, we were taken back to our hotel for dinner and sleep, for the next day we were off to the desert!

            That’s all for right now I think- hopefully the next three days will be up here soon.  It depends on how much studying I get done. I’d like to get it up before Saturday so there’s nothing in the way of me posting the Loire Valley trip this weekend, which will be hard with the welcome distraction of my family! 

            Feel free to leave questions, comments, or opinions in the comments here or on Facebook.  I like the feedback, and it’s nice to know that someone else is reading this.  It makes me more motivated!

            I hope you’re all enjoying this beautiful weather! A tout a l’heure!

Cailin in Paris

Hello all! A shorter one today, but more coming soon!

First, and most importantly, I need to tell you that my host mom pulled a sausage out tonight, as she sometimes does, and began slicing some for herself, and I asked what type it was, expecting the brand name or something. 

            But no.  She turned to me and somewhat sheepishly said, “I don’t dare tell you.”

I tried to continue my meal, but the bait was set. I had to know.  She didn’t know the word in English, so in French she said, “C’est l’âne.”

            Donkey.  She was eating donkey sausage.  This is the world I am living in.

            Anyway, moving on.  My cousin Cailin was here this week!  She studied abroad in Switzerland during college and has been to France many times, and speaks much better French than I do.  Because she has done most of the touristy things around Paris, we were able to explore the city away from the big ticket items.  Which, as it turned out, consisted mainly of us eating our way from one side of Paris to the other.  The first night we met up for dinner and I took her to St. Michel, a student/international area with lots of cheap food, both on the streets and in restaurants.  Being next to Notre Dame, they cater mostly to tourists, but you can get three courses for fifteen euro or less- and many have men outside offering free drinks to entice customers inside.  It’s perfect for a large group of poor American students on their way out for the night, or who want a crepe on their way home from school. 

            The next day, we met for lunch, got an appetizer crepe, and walked across the river to the 4^th (Marais) which I hadn’t explored yet.  We lingered outside restaurants by the Centre Pompidou, one of the bigger modern art museums, and had a delicious meal before I had to run to class.  Cailin and I have both recently read a book called Lunch in Paris about an American girl who married a Frenchman, and she gives a few restaurant recommendations, so we spent much of our time trekking around finding those, as well as the sites in my guidebook that I haven’t gotten too.

            We traipsed all over, looking for boulangeries and herbs and open markets- one day we bought bread, two different types of cheese, fruit, and half of a roasted chicken at a market and had a picnic in a park.  For as much as I have been living in Paris, I spend a lot of time with Americans in very international parts of the city, but this weekend we went to places where very little English was spoken, if at all. It was a perfect Parisian weekend.

            I very much enjoy living here.  I know, big surprise, but there is something incredibly relaxing about being one of the city’s million of inhabitants, of having a routine, and the pleasure of having quiet days where I can sleep in, go to class, maybe wander around a bit and then go home to my beautiful little family for a leisurely dinner.  Brianna and I are are making our way movies with French subtitles, or well known movies dubbed in French. 

            On the other hand, I am living in Paris.  I can’t let myself get too complacent.  Having Cailin here showed me how much of the city I have yet to explore.  People in my group often lament the same thing, and we have already made plans to start being proper residents and getting outside our comfort zones, for time is slipping away!  It’s already mid- March.  I’ve been here a whole month already, too fast, too fast!  This next month is already booked up.  This Saturday is St. Patrick’s day….so this weekend  is booked, and then on Tuesday I leave for Morocco! (Did I tell you guys I was going to Morocco? How cool is that?!?)  I come back the following Sunday, then the next weekend I’m off to the Loire Valley, and then my family is here for the whole first week of April!  The weekend after that is spring break, which is going to be wild, including Nice, Corsica, Prague, Amsterdam, and Bruges, and then back on May 1^st, and all of a sudden I have three weeks left in Europe!  There is so much more I want to see here, my list is long and always growing!  London, Dublin, Switzerland, Vienna, Copenhagen, Lisbon, Greece, Croatia, Italy, not to mention the rest of France!  Some will have to wait, either because I’ve been before or I know I’ll be back (Great Britain, I’m coming for you).  I think France will win, and my last long weekend will be spent in Provence, Bordeaux, Alsace, or Champagne.  I know, it’s a hard life.

            Part of how I know I’m entering the world of adults, silly as this sounds, is that I have to pay for things.  It’s been a long time since I collected any allowance, and then the only things I spent that on were nights out with friends and books.  At school, everything comes off my magic JAC card, and even shopping of campus was a simple swipe of my debit card. 

            France is a cash economy. People don’t have credit cards like we do in the States, there’s no such thing as a credit score. Many places don’t take cards, or at least require a minimum charge. Everything is done in cash here, and in coins no less.  There are no 1 dollar bills, just 1 and 2 euro coins, and I still find it very bizarre to pay for 2 euro crepe with a tenner and get back a handful of coins.  At first I didn’t like it at all- in the States, coins are just annoying, and I usually pick out the quarters and dump the rest in a tip jar.  Here, exact change is appreciated, and that same handful could pay for your meal.  IT took some getting used to, but now I check my coin purse first before the bills.  Using cash also makes me painfully aware of how much I am forking over every day.  There are ATM’s on every corner, and for the first time I am exceedingly conscious of how much is on my card.  I’ve grown quite attached to it.  I keep imagining these big machines grabbing my little card and sucking it dry until I can return the poor thing to the safety and comfort of my wallet.

            Looking at both my bank account and my calendar, I’m putting out an open call; if anyone knows any connections in pretty much any European country, please let me know!  If anyone feels like taking a May trip, I will meet you in the city of your choice.  Right now, my plane ticket back to the States is for May 26^th , the day after classes end.  Please, please, please give me a reason to postpone it.  I don’t know when I’ll be here again, and I want to see everything!  Barring that, I’ll settle for everything I can possibly manage. 

Maybe this is the one month panic, I don’t know.

The Metro

       The Metro is a beast of its own.  Like a snake, it winds its way through the city, emerging from tunnels deep underground to tracks above the streets, crossing its way through the high buildings and over the river.  The Metro divides the city into lines and stops.  If you want to go to a specific restaurant or museum, the Parisians will ask you for its Metro stop.  Unlike DC or NYC, if a hotel says its Metro stop is Les Gobelins, than you know you won’t have to walk more than a block or two to get there, especially in central Paris, where you can walk past four or five stops on the search for food.

            Paris is set up in a very unique way- it literally is a circle separated into 20 arrondissements, or neighborhoods.  They start in the middle and then spiral outwards, so the first five arrondissements make up the core of central Paris.  Each neighborhood has a name and its own personality.  I live in the the 16^th, which is a pretty well-to-do area; my stop is one past the Eiffel Tower. 

            Back to the Metro; There are 14 lines that crisscross in different directions across Paris (there is also the RER, which is the train for the suburbs).  If you want to get across the main part of Paris, it is going to take between 20-35 minutes, depending on how many connections there are, no matter where you want to go.  From my apartment, it’s twenty minutes to the ISA office, and 30 to my school. 

            The stations themselves are marked by large red “Metro” signs on the street, and suddenly a staircase materializes, descending into the depths of twisting corridors and endless levels.  I know that sounds ominous, but it’s really the easiest thing.  To get anywhere, you just what line your stop is on, and in which direction you need to travel (for example, I live on line 6, Etoile-Nation, so I take Nation to school and Etoile back home). 

Once you find your way to the platform, you line up to wait against the wall, dodging the performers and sleeping homeless, depending which station you’re on.  An electronic sign hangs from the ceiling advertising the arrival of the next two trains.  During the day, you usually won’t wait more than four minutes for a train.  In the last hour before the Metro closes, (1 a.m. on weekdays, 2 on the weekends) you might have to wait 10-15 minutes for some of the outskirt trains. 

…..Not that I would know anything about late night trains, of course.

Some of the newer stations have roomier, nicer carriages with automatic doors, but most of the older lines have the traditional versions with catches you have to lift to open the doors.  It is one of my small joys here to see a tourist struggle with them, and then just nonchalantly reach over and help them out, like, no big deal, I just live here.

But past the mechanics and logistics of finding your train and getting where you want to go, there’s an undeniable rhythm to the Metro that is just so French.  You will encounter all types of people down there- the homeless with all their bags, young students in their uniforms, hordes of tourists, and of course your Parisians on their way to work. Going to school every day, I put in my iPod and people watch. (I just have to remind myself not to dance along to my songs.  It’s not very French.) 

Everyone wears scarves here, everyone.  I tried to walk out the door one morning the first week without one, and was stopped by my scandalized mother- in winter, it’s like walking outside without a coat.  The bigger the better, too, a true Parisian can wrap her scarf four or five times around her head.  For clothes and coats, black and gray are the default colors, and boot reign  supreme.  You get the wackiest dressed people mixed with normal ones as well.  It’s kind of a free for all in the metro- people eat, roll their cigarettes, bring their dogs, everything.  Dogs in Paris are very well behaved- I’ve seen more dogs off leashes than on them, and they obediently follow their owners across busy intersections and through crowds (better watch your step though). 

It’s not all fun and games of course.  There are unspoken codes of conduct that are just different from the U.S.  Personal space, for one thing, does not exist on the Metro.  The smell is not always great.  And  sometimes you have to change trains three times to go an inch on the map.  But I don’t think much else makes me feel as much at home here than my ability to navigate the metro, and the almost banal routine of taking it all the time.  That being said, I just looked up from typing this on my iPod to seeing I have missed my stop.  So maybe I’m not quite a native yet.  

Food, glorious food

Ah, finally.  The food post. 

            I know you’ve heard about French food- in fact, pretty much the first comment after I told anyone where I was going was, “Oh my goodness, the food.”  It’s as good as reported.  Everything is so fresh and just beautiful.  I’ve even cracked the secret mystery of why the French can eat so well and still be one of the healthiest populations in the modern world!

            First, let’s clarify- I am a student.  A broke student, at that.  Paris is one of the most expensive cities in the world, and I’m not planning on returning with a dime.  However, I still have to be smart, and so if you want fancy recommendations, I’m not your girl.  I can tell you how to get the best, cheapest food, and it’s still pretty fantastic.

            So, let’s start with breakfast (petit dejeuner), shall we?  Unlike America, breakfast is the smallest meal of the day, and for me it usually consists of baguette toast or cereal with coffee.  (They don’t eat eggs for breakfast here, but I’ve had them for dinner twice.)  There are lots of little differences in things here, especially in taste- ketchup is rare and much sweeter than in the States, for example.  One of the strangest things to get used to is the milk, which come in large paper cartons or plastic bottles, and isn’t refrigerated until it’s opened.  We have had a case of milk cartons sitting on the counter for days, and when the one in the fridge starts to get low, you put another one in so it’s cold when you need it.  Very bizarre, and it tastes very rich, like whole milk.  We only drink it in cereal or coffee as well, which is pretty strange for me. 

            After breakfast is lunch, (dejeuner) which is typically a sandwich or a panini between classes.  A full baguette with ham, lettuce, tomato, egg, whatever, or a tomato mozzarella basil warm gooey thing, basically.  We mostly look for street food, things you can eat on a bench or while walking, because the French take at the minimum an hour for lunch, and that’s if you’re rushing.  So it’s much easier and cheaper to walk into any boulangerie and pick something out.  They also have the full array of baked goods, tartes and quiches and croissant things with chocolate in them.  The chocolate here is always super dark and thick. A good croissant will flake itself to nothing if there's a strong wind. There’s also gyros on every street corner in the, which is a pita with tomato and lettuce, with – there’s no other way to it, grated meat on  top, usually chicken or lamb, I think.  Then it’s topped off with fries, and all wrapped up.  It’s the most filling, salty, delicious thing you can buy on the street. 

            

           Have you noticed I've been saying “on the street”?  And I don’t mean the street outside my school, or apartment.  I mean all the streets- there are the places for crepes, places for gyros, pizza, and baguettes, you just have to know where to find them.  And thus we have stumbled on to the French secret.

            No one told me about the bloody stairs. 

            Yes, we walk a lot.  We walk to the metro and to school and from school to the ISA office and around museums and just generally do a lot of walking.  I was prepared for walking.  I bought good shoes and thick socks.  However, Paris is a city of stairs.  Firstly, the first floor is not the ground floor, it’s above the ground floor, so anytime you want to go up in any building it’s an extra flight of stairs.  I live on the fifth floor.  My classrooms are on the fourth.  There are stairs down to the metro, and then when you connect you go up stairs, walk a little, and then down them again.  In the same weekend, I climbed to the top of Notre Dame, the Arc d’Triomphe, and down to the Catacombs.  All tiny, spiraling staircases that go on forever.  Don’t feel bad about getting that crepe after class- you’ll walk it off on the way home. 

          Then there’s the snacking, or rather, not snacking.  The French don’t snack.  Ever.  It’s like, why didn't you eat enough at lunch that you’re hungry before dinner? Nevermind that dinner usually starts after eight, at home, and ten is the usual dinner time at a restaurant.  That's a whole seven or right hours since I possibly could have eaten last.  There’s a whole drawer at my house in Virginia dedicated to snacks, it’s one of my family's favorite pastimes.  But here, we have to improvise.  And that usually comes in the form of crepes.

           

            Crepes are gold.  Pretty much every year in French class we would make crepes, basically flat(ter) pancakes.  Believe me when I say, they don’t compare.  Think of any crepe you’ve ever had, and multiply that by ten, and then you’ll have the taste of your average crepe in Paris.  They’re on every street corner, folded up into a little triangle and slipped into a paper wrapping, piping hot and gooey. 

            There are two types of crepes- crepe sucre (sugar), and crepe salee (salty), called galettes.  Crepes are made with sugar, butter, chocolate, cinnamon, Nutella, or different types of jams and fruits.  Nutella is crazy popular, it’s the preferred choice, especially with bananas, strawberries or raspberries. I had my first chocolate crepe today- usually I go for butter, sugar and cinnamon, which basically melts in your mouth.  The chocolate was from dark chocolate chips, which promptly melted into delicious chocolate goo.  They’re the cheapest thing you can buy in Paris. Galettes are more for meals- they’re made with buckwheat flour, which is heartier, and are traditionally made with eggs, ham and cheese, and are much more filling. 

            For dinner, I eat with my host family five days a week, and then on the weekends my roommate and I will go out with our friends or cook something at home.  Dinner is, no lie, one of the highlights of my day.  It’s a long process, usually with at least three courses, and takes between an hour and a half to three hours.  Everyone talks about their days, and it’s the time when I use the most French outside of my classes. 

            So, the courses.  You have the entrée, which is appetizer, the main course (plat), the salad, the cheese, and then dessert.  Each course comes with a new plate and utensils, and bread is served throughout.  In France, you take your bread and set it next to your plate on the table, and it’s pretty much the only thing you eat with your hands, ever.

            Another table manner quirk- always keep your hands on the table.  It’s rude to keep your hand on your lap, which goes against twenty years of manners for me.  It feels as awkward as it sounds.  The French usually get around this by never putting down their utensils.  Knife in the right hand, fork in the left, and they don’t switch, but rather use their knife to scoop troublesome food onto their forks.

            Anyway, back to food.  The entrée and main course can vary greatly- we’ve had pumpkin soup, onion soup, pureed green beans (so much pureed food here, it’s like baby food) omelets, grilled fish over rice or pasta, leek tarts, which is like casserole, potatoes au gratin, all sorts of things.  Everything is cooked simply, with very fresh ingredients.  There isn’t a lot condiments or sauces, most things are flavored with butter or pepper- I get reprimanded for being a artery-clogging American every time I try and salt something.        

            The salad varies by family- my host mom usually grates carrots for our salad.  That’s it.  Grated carrots, sometimes with honey mustard dressing or cherry tomatoes on top.  Occasionally we get sliced cucumbers in dressing.  Very weird, but good, of course.  Her mother, who lives below us, will have actual lettuce with a vinaigrette dressing.  It’s more for a palate cleanser than anything, because next we have the cheese.

            Now, normally, I don’t like cheese.  I’ve never liked cheese.  I pick it off my pizza, I don’t eat fondue, and when I do eat cheese, it’s very sharp cheddar or parmesan. I don't want anything with an odor.

            Cheese here is the best part of the meal.  More bread is brought out, and a selection of fromage is offered.  These cheeses have never been shrink-wrapped, or kept in a drawer for a week in a resealable bag.  They are carefully wrapped and delivered daily or weekly from farms that have been making the same cheese for hundreds of years, and keep very strict rules for the making of cheese.  There are particular regions to get each cheese from- for example, camembert, the most popular cheese in France, is best from Normandy.  I don’t know the names for half the cheese we eat, but we usually have brie and camembert on the plate, which spread like butter onto the baguettes.  Some are harder, like pieces of cheddar, and some ooze out of their rinds the minute you cut into them. 

            And then dessert.  On the street, there are crepes, ice cream, waffles called gaufres, and macrons, which are little cookies with creamy filling, and your range of pastries, like éclairs, tartes, profiteroles, etc.  Always dark chocolate, or Nutella, or whipped cream fillings, or sweet berries,  and you know its good when the bite collapses in your mouth.  At home, we get baked apples, fruit salad, or whole fruits like kiwis, clementines, or grapefruit. 

            And thankfully, it’s time for dinner, because I’ve been getting hungrier and hungrier as I write this.  I just got back from Normandy and Mont St. Michel this weekend.  It was literally one of the top weekends of my life, and I took lots of gorgeous pictures, so I’ll write about that soon, before I forget it all! 

            Au revoir!

Things to Know

I had my first “hot mess in Paris” morning yesterday.  One of many to come, I’m sure, but I’ve been pretty good about punctuality here, but alas, it had to happen sometime.

I guess not having class til 2 p.m. most days just isn’t enough time, (I blame late night skype sessions and an inability to take quick showers) but I found myself chanting the “late, late, I am so late,” song to myself that morning as I ran around collecting my various belongings.  It takes me exactly 25 minutes from the time I walk out my apartment door to walk into my school building.  Usually I build in an extra ten minutes, because as anyone who has…. Well, met me, knows that it takes me an additional ten minutes to walk out the door after I say I’m ready to go.  And why is it, that those mornings that you absolutely must leave right now are the same mornings that all of your shoes magically disappear? I’m on my hands and knees looking under the bed for the other shoe, all the while the time ticks away. It’s like this twisted game I play with myself, just how late can I be without being too late.  I read somewhere that people who are perpetually late have control issues, and I believe it- there’s nothing quite like the rush of not-running-just-walking-quickly to make your next connection, and sliding into class just early enough to make attendance.

And then, of course, I get to class and there’s been an administrative error and the class starts ten minutes later than normal anyway.

I win again.

I keep writing down little notes everywhere, so I don’t forget anything, but I think it’s time to introduce the main characters of My Life In Paris, just so you know who I’m talking about. 

First, hi. I’m Becca.  I’m studying International Relations, but not here- here I study French.  I’m taking Written French, Oral French, Phonetics, Images of French Society Through Television, and Politics and Economy of France.  The first four classes are all taught in French (gulp) and are THREE HOURS LONG.  The fourth is in English, and is FOUR HOURS. 

Guys, that’s a long time to be in class.  In the US, classes are max, what? Like 1 hour 15 minutes tops on the semester system, and are usually like 55 minutes at JMU.  So three hours is a long time to sit in a classroom.  Plus, as former teachers can attest, I tend to… daydream occasionally in class.  Just for a second, but my mind inevitably wonders out the window, or about what I’m going to have for lunch, or anything.  You can’t do that here! Your mind is constantly hearing French, translating it, figuring out what kind of notes you need to be taking, and then trying to listen to the next sentence.  If you lose focus for even a second, you’re completely lost, and you have to spend the next minute trying to figure out what everyone just laughed at.  But I digress.  School is another matter.  (There’s just too much to write about!)

So, next. My roommate is Brianna, who is from California.  She is very nice, and we get along quite well.  Her French is much better than mine, which is a blessing and a curse, because I can rely on her to translate complicated concepts for me, but then I also tend to defer to her instead of trying to figure a way around it.  We also have some small cultural differences, being from opposite coasts, but those are fun to discover. 

My host family: I absolutely LUCKED OUT.  I live with a mother and her daughter, and they are two of my favorite things in Paris.  Laurence, my mother, works for a French Senator, and is the most chilled out person I’ve met in Paris.  She has made Brianna and I feel incredibly comfortable and welcomed here.  She has pretty basic English, enough to convey the important things, but speaks mostly French to us.  She’s kind, patient, and wicked funny.  She comes home and makes us dinner, and we spend an hour and a half eating deliciously simple French food and talking about anything, from what we did that day to the upcoming election.  (Presidential elections are being held here at the end of April and the beginning of May, so it’s a popular conversation topic.)

Hold on, lunch break; there’s a boulangerie (bakery) two doors down from my apartment, and I’m hungry.

That’s better.  I swear, even food to go is better here. 

Ok, where was I- oh yeah.  Next.  My host sister is fifteen year old Mathilde, very sweet and very French.  She’s studying English in school but doesn’t like it much, so our conversations are a bit more strained, but fun.  She’s always willing to come in and struggle through my questions and such.  Our host brother, Ludovic, doesn’t live with us, but does live nearby, so we see him sometimes.  He speaks excellent English from watching American television, so it’s very easy to talk and tease with him, he’s very funny.  He’s also a fashion student, and as it’s Fashion Week here in Paris, he’s been very busy.  We live in a fabulous small apartment in a swanky district of Paris, and it’s just perfection. 

Hmm, anyone else? Those are the main players I believe- we got lucky with the other students in our program as well, they’re an awesome bunch of people, and it’s very fun exploring the city with them. 

And, then, of course, there’s the city itself. Paris.  I had a very romanticized version of what Paris might be before I arrived, and that has been changed in subtle ways.  It is, after all, a city, and it has city features.  There is traffic, and cigarette butts on the ground (everyone smokes. Everyone.  I specifically asked for a family that doesn’t, but it’s a rare breed.)  But there is nothing quite like my first day, when, on my own for lunch, I decided to walk around, and I came across a bridge that boasted a view of both the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame.  You can’t beat that.  I’ve never felt a particularly strong loyalty to my hometown, but there’s something about being a part of a city that instantly seduces you into being part of it.  I loved where I grew up, but being a young person in a such a beautiful, fast city is kind if what I’ve been dreaming about. 

My days have a bit more routine to them now.  I’ve hit that sweet spot of feeling comfortable and safe, while still experiencing new things every day.  I can navigate the metro with ease, and I have class Monday through Thursday, which adds a stability to my days.  I get up, eat breakfast, check my email, and get ready for the day. I ride the Metro to class, just me and my iPod, and walk through the throng of Pariesienne students  on their smoke break to enter the courtyard of my school, Le Catho.  I have class, and then walk with friends to St. Michel, where we eat crepes or euros or paninis while exploring the narrow, pedestrian streets.  Then we go home to dinner with our families, which can last anywhere between an hour and a half to three hours, and then meet up to explore the city by night.  The weekends are spent exploring farther reaches of the city, museums and the fabulous night life.  It’s a good way to live.

The food itself deserves a separate post where I can fully put in the effort, (really, I’m just tempted to list what I’ve eaten and watch you all drool) and I really need to explain the Metro better, a beast of its own.  And I’m off to Normandy and Mont St. Michel, outside of Paris this weekend, so that will need exploring, and then also Versailles, the Catacombs, Notre Dame, and the Seine.  Hmm.  I guess I will post this and then just keep writing, otherwise I don’t know how I will keep up. J

Thanks for being here! I’ll talk to you soon!

French Word(s) of the Day:

l’ecole- school,

 l’universite- university,

boulangerie/patisserie- bakery for bread, sandwiches, and things with chocolate/fruit baked into the middle, great for quick lunches on the go between classes, and literally on every corner.