So, I have a fabulous Cousin in California who was able to figure out the DVr to Internet thing and, guess what... The video from my House Hunter's International experience is now online!!
Now all those in Europe without access to HGTV can see who I am exactly.
A warning, the video portrays me as a bit "catty"; in fact at times I seem like an outright Princess- they decided to cut it in that way and take out the parts where I seemed nice... at least that's what I tell myself.
Any ways, in watching myself and feedback... I've considered starting a video blog from the beginning of February (my move to Paris). Internet is such a fabulous thing, I feel like I can give advice better via a visual process.
Enjoy! (The video takes a few minutes to load)
http://www.dailymotion.com/video/kmGlwRnh7IR7NN2FaWu
About Me
- Sasha S.
- Forks, Portland, Lyon - France, Paris - France, Portland and ending up in Bellingham.... the adventures of my life!
Showing posts with label Story Time. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Story Time. Show all posts
Friday, January 6, 2012
Friday, December 30, 2011
2011: Récapulatif (Recap)
Tomorrow evening will mark the end to another year in France, but not just the end of 'another year', but the beginning of a new year. It feels so distant the day I grabbed my two suitcases and jetted across the Atlantic on a warm June day, the tears that sprung up as I kissed my parents, and my American life, goodbye.
Looking back at 2010 posts, I realized that 2011 was not only the year I learned to adjust to the culture... but the year that I really found my balance and my language ability. When I first came to France I could barely put a proper sentence together, now I am completing a French business Master's degree, in French, with an average of 13/20 (basically a B). There have been bad times, good times, in between times... but I have more of a sense of nostalgia as I wave goodbye to 2011 because it marks the end of my séjour in Lyon and the beginning of my life in Paris.
I never had plans to pack up house for Paris, as I complain and groan I imagine the millions of Americans who dream to live in Paris... and yes it is exciting- but I love my life in Lyon. All the discoveries that I have made, the maps I have put together to survive, the 'favorites' I have found.
It marks also the beginning of my 'adult hood', my student life is wrapping up nicely and the next steps are to find a big girl job (put lovely by my good Brit friend Katie) and grow up.
So what happened memorable in 2011?
I believe the best way to remember is to break it down...
January
Okay so 18/28 complete? Not too shabby.. tomorrow I'll bring out my 2012 list. It will be énorme.
Man 2012 is freakin' me out.. but I only see good things (minus the change from 700 sq ft to 350 sq ft for double the price...)
a+
Looking back at 2010 posts, I realized that 2011 was not only the year I learned to adjust to the culture... but the year that I really found my balance and my language ability. When I first came to France I could barely put a proper sentence together, now I am completing a French business Master's degree, in French, with an average of 13/20 (basically a B). There have been bad times, good times, in between times... but I have more of a sense of nostalgia as I wave goodbye to 2011 because it marks the end of my séjour in Lyon and the beginning of my life in Paris.
I never had plans to pack up house for Paris, as I complain and groan I imagine the millions of Americans who dream to live in Paris... and yes it is exciting- but I love my life in Lyon. All the discoveries that I have made, the maps I have put together to survive, the 'favorites' I have found.
It marks also the beginning of my 'adult hood', my student life is wrapping up nicely and the next steps are to find a big girl job (put lovely by my good Brit friend Katie) and grow up.
So what happened memorable in 2011?
I believe the best way to remember is to break it down...
January
- Learned the French emergency number by heart... as Bri passed out face first at 3AM in the morning from a fever, and I freaked out. Sad to say I grabbed the phone and put it to his face crying, "What's the number!! I can't explain what happened to you!!" Which is when I promised myself to become fluent. I can't rely on Bri for everything.
February
- Got hired for an Internship!
March
- So uneventful I ended up writing about Instant Coffee and how horrible it is.
April
- Learned the appropriate way to write a Letter of Motivation
May
- Worked, another completely uneventful month
June
- Discovered the true difference between our 'respect the elder' culture and the 'dog eat dog' culture of France
July
- Went to my first concert in Lyon, even better in an ancient Roman amphithéâtre!
- First visit to a gynecologist- yikes
- First hair cut in France
August
- Vacation to Barcelona with the French Fam... in-laws will always be in-laws in any culture
September
- Celebrated my 24th birthday with my Mom at my side, unlimited frog legs and a beautiful Birthday cake
October
- Started my French international business management Master, learned that the education system is completely different than in America
November
- Went to my first French-French party by myself, got totally tipsy but made it back home in time for the last métro.
December
- Bri accepted for position at the Senate, realization I'll be moving in TWO months to Paris.
- +2 kilos
Now the question is.... did I complete my 2011 to do list? Let's see... here's from my list in the beginning of the year, things with the cross out are complete.. of course I added some commentary.
Lose the 10 lbs I probably gained during French ChristmasDid this, but gained it back Christmas 2011Start walking fast.. x Sort of necessary when living in France- Start jogging.. Okay.. NO....
- Start running.. Definitely NO!
- Try to do some yoga videos a few times a week Haha, It's amazing what we aspire to do... NO
Learn a complicated French recipeTotally made Julia Child's Boeuf Bourguignon AND mastered pâte à choux!Invite a group of 5 to the apartment for dinnerTotally made an awesome pork roast, in my 'microwave'!Try to buy veggies at marché as much as possible.. Most every weekend we wandered out..Going with #8, try to get up at normal hoursExcept during vacations...Pay closer attention to my friendsMade some new onces, tended to the old ones.. SUCCESS!Do a good job for my new jobDid fabulously, then got hired in another position.Try to keep apartment in suitable condition for livingLaundry regularily, dinner every night..- Go on a Beaujolais tour Ooops... eh... NO!
- Try to go for brisk evening walk after dinner with Brian each night No, but it's Bri's fault not my own!
Get into a Master's program and get visa renewedCHECK!Take more picturesto share with family Take more pictures? Yes. Share with family? No.- Replace the toilet paper when it runs out- I never do. Still don't.
Try to pay the basics and then.. pay off my credit cardsDon't use credit cards any more.. thanks for helping out mom!Learn a new danceSure... the kitchen dance..!- Get into one of those fancy French clubs Still to be done...
Plan something epic for our 2 year anniv'We ate frogs, that is epic.Try some new French cheeseI regretted it.Totally shop at the marchés, veggie market, boucheries, boulangeries and fromageries... no more American shopping! Although sometimes I am a bit lazy...- Call my brother back in the States at least 4-5 times a week Eek.. eh....
Study my French more often and make an effort to speak 'en Français' with BriMoitié/Moitié!Make more unique mealsI'd say!- Write all the books that I've been keeping in my head Okay... so.. I am a procrastinator..
- Write more advice columns and
get back on board with thedailybloggin'! Hmmm Daily????
Okay so 18/28 complete? Not too shabby.. tomorrow I'll bring out my 2012 list. It will be énorme.
Man 2012 is freakin' me out.. but I only see good things (minus the change from 700 sq ft to 350 sq ft for double the price...)
a+
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Soirée Deguisement
I entered into the room and 15 sets of French eyes stared at me expectedly, I nodded, waved, and then noted that my friend was bustling around already giving the ‘bises’ and saying the appropriate ‘bonsoir’. It was the first true party that I was invited to by my promotion or the people that are in your school program, they decided to do a sort of soirée déguisement or costume party. Of course when I was packing my 3 luggages in 2010 I didn’t exactly think to pack up my costumes, none of my fairy dresses, wings or even cat costumes. So for this soirée I was at a loss for a costume. Lucky me, on one of my discoveries around Lyon that I came across a little magasin de déguisement owned by a typical round chubby Frenchman. Costumes ranged between 10-15€ and I was able to pick up some cheap cat ears and a tail for only 11€.
We had worked our butts off all day, hashing through an etudes de cas which is simply a case study- French style. Meaning: all in French, the whole head ache of French teams (shouting out ideas, hashing it out until you need to crawl to bed) and little to no direction. From 8am to 5pm we worked, with little breaks and just a quick sandwich to keep it going.
Needless to say, we wanted to drink in massive quantities. In order to try to get to the party and not feel totally left out since I am that silly étrangère, I got together with another girl in my class (a devil that night) and we métro’d it up to the host’s apartment.
Thus I found myself in a room of 15 French people, one from Israel, and myself. I served myself a nice warmed up glass of Rum punch and began the drinking. If I try to remember the conversations I had, well, I simply can’t. There was some discussions regarding ‘French Fillers’, which will have to be on its own in a blog… it was hilarious. Otherwise, typical questions such as comment est-ce que tu as appris de parler aussi bien Français que ça? or est-ce que c’est vrai que les filles sont « easy » aux USA ? Well.
The night got rolling, and seemed to pass by in a blur. A couple of the class-mates decided to do a pretty funny mock-up of two “typical Americans” that sort of went like this:
Girl: Yesssss, yesssss, I uhm amahricannn, I eet zes burgurs uhn hei luhk beer!
Guy: Yoo luhk beer? Me hei lahk yoo shoe!
Girl: yess yess, zhis moosic ehs very nuhce!
Guy: I am agree!
I almost blew my warm rum cocktail out of my nose.
Another dude came up, typically a French person and popped in the most ghetto rap I’d ever heard. I started, bouche bée and said, “What you’re like a gangster from the Bronx or what?”
5 coupettes of warm rum and tequila drinks later I was happily claquée and my French friend mentioned it was time to go. I looked at the clock and we had at least 20 minutes, I said as much and she said, “Yes, but we have to make the rounds,” The rounds?
I watched as she began to circle around and make the bise with everyone, saying, bonne soirée (different than bon soir) and simply making some goodbye small talk. Well, bother, so much for escaping with a quick wave and a bye-bye. I began making me rounds, and although doing the bises is something I’ve done a millions times since I’ve lived here, this felt odd.
Bise.
Oui je dois partir, tu sais, pour le metro.
Bonne soirée.
Repeat about 50,000 times.
The best part was that my copine was much more bourrée than me and she was telling me all kinds of conneries. We separated ways in the metro and I got on the last train with all the other alcoholic teenagers, etrangères, and clochards, and stared at a poster while I listened to the girl next to me, British, shouting out “SHOTS, SHOTS SHOTS SHOTS!!!!” over and over and over.
All in all, a good night!
Friday, September 23, 2011
Advice: Le Master in France
The day after mom left I had no time to be emotional, the sadness from the morning wore off as I returned to worked and drowned myself in telephone calls and student follow ups. Quick enough that too passed and I found myself zombieing towards the direction of school to go to one of my many many classes for my Master's program in France. That's right, after a year of intensive French via the CIEF program at Lyon II I enrolled into a specialty International Management Master under the Frenchity-French name of: Master 2 en Internationale Management des Petites et Moyens Entreprises et Entreprises Tailles Intermediares. Simply put in our 25 people class slang, M2PMETI.
Classes officially started last week, of course I was stressing before they even begun. I remembered the foreign students in my Business classes- how, in utmost honesty, I dreaded having them on my team because I knew we'd have to explain everything. During roleplays we'd give them the easy role, minimalist lines and try to support them... I was going to become that foreigner. A week before the classes were to start I already started to have nightmares, I would show up to class and suddenly all my French would disappear and I couldn't understand a word from the teacher ni the students.
Of course starting off wasn't super easy either, looking back at last week my notes are written in short-hand, scribbled nonsense sentences and sometimes a vocabulary word scratched on the top of the paper with a huge QUESTION MARK. It was nice having some recognition for what I am doing, I kept mentioning l'importance de changer le stéréotype Américain, that, ce n'est pas juste que dans le domaine des affaires tout le monde faut parler en Anglais. I pushed the fact that I was the only business student AMERICAN that I knew with such a fluent level and respect for the French culture.
See, most people who come over, come to sort of suck up the culture. Learn about the literature, the gastronomy, cooking skills, methodology to teach French back in the States- I decided to utilize my strength and experience in Business and learn that aspect.
Plus a Master in France only costs like 250€ payable in 3 installements of 83€! Calculating my Master costs in the US made my head spin- and I couldn't stand the fact I would have to rack up more debt to get an education.. so I bit the bullet and found a program that fit my goals and applied.
The interview was in July; with a lovely lady who seemed ravie that I had applied to the program. I was the first American in a long time, I would be a great part of the program.. etc. Plus I'd get to try and do an INTERNSHIP with a company in Lyon... which is another stress in my mind.....
Now the question, what is it like in a French Masters Program?
Well, hard of course. There is always the language barrier- which some professors are kind and give lots of synonyms during their lectures so we foreigners understand- but unfortunately it's not always that easy. I have one professor that talks so fast I only have a moment to digest what he said and get it until he suddenly jets off in a separate direction... I have the innate feeling he has a slight ADD... but it's dommage because he is one cute dude. (But married for those of you looking for the marriage way of staying in France).
I have a mix of classes, Business Plan classes, classes about the Industrial Economy... I think the hardest part about the information is the changing of the words. In business the French have tried to find equivalent words for everything we already have jargon for in the States- for example a Greenfield Venture has now become ex nihilo. WTF?
Now, probably wondering how to get all enrolled in a Master program in France? It's quite easy:
Classes officially started last week, of course I was stressing before they even begun. I remembered the foreign students in my Business classes- how, in utmost honesty, I dreaded having them on my team because I knew we'd have to explain everything. During roleplays we'd give them the easy role, minimalist lines and try to support them... I was going to become that foreigner. A week before the classes were to start I already started to have nightmares, I would show up to class and suddenly all my French would disappear and I couldn't understand a word from the teacher ni the students.
Of course starting off wasn't super easy either, looking back at last week my notes are written in short-hand, scribbled nonsense sentences and sometimes a vocabulary word scratched on the top of the paper with a huge QUESTION MARK. It was nice having some recognition for what I am doing, I kept mentioning l'importance de changer le stéréotype Américain, that, ce n'est pas juste que dans le domaine des affaires tout le monde faut parler en Anglais. I pushed the fact that I was the only business student AMERICAN that I knew with such a fluent level and respect for the French culture.
See, most people who come over, come to sort of suck up the culture. Learn about the literature, the gastronomy, cooking skills, methodology to teach French back in the States- I decided to utilize my strength and experience in Business and learn that aspect.
Plus a Master in France only costs like 250€ payable in 3 installements of 83€! Calculating my Master costs in the US made my head spin- and I couldn't stand the fact I would have to rack up more debt to get an education.. so I bit the bullet and found a program that fit my goals and applied.
The interview was in July; with a lovely lady who seemed ravie that I had applied to the program. I was the first American in a long time, I would be a great part of the program.. etc. Plus I'd get to try and do an INTERNSHIP with a company in Lyon... which is another stress in my mind.....
Now the question, what is it like in a French Masters Program?
Well, hard of course. There is always the language barrier- which some professors are kind and give lots of synonyms during their lectures so we foreigners understand- but unfortunately it's not always that easy. I have one professor that talks so fast I only have a moment to digest what he said and get it until he suddenly jets off in a separate direction... I have the innate feeling he has a slight ADD... but it's dommage because he is one cute dude. (But married for those of you looking for the marriage way of staying in France).
I have a mix of classes, Business Plan classes, classes about the Industrial Economy... I think the hardest part about the information is the changing of the words. In business the French have tried to find equivalent words for everything we already have jargon for in the States- for example a Greenfield Venture has now become ex nihilo. WTF?
Now, probably wondering how to get all enrolled in a Master program in France? It's quite easy:
- Go to the Lyon 2 or Lyon 3 website and search what they offer as formations or masters
- Pick out what you like and sign up online to deposer un candidature
- Remember all those pesky documents: releves des notes, lettre de motivation, CV
- Apply once all documents are ready
- Wait for a response
If you are nervous about your carte de séjour running out- fret not because when you reapply you don't need proof of school until September. They understand students are waiting for a response..
And word to the wise: Don't attempt a Master's Program in France until you watch French news and understand what is going on. Otherwise opt for an English based program (such as those offered at Lyon 3) or a language based program (such as the CIEF)
bonne chance!
a+
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
I'm Californian French! (Bus Adventures)
Est-ce que c'est bien le bus pour Bellecour? The little old lady asked me, curiousity on her face. I tried to explain back that yes, it would go to the center which was indeed Bellecour.
She stared at me behind her large black sunglasses and said, "Anglaise?" I smiled, used to this question and shook my head, "Non, Américaine!".
She paused, I thought perhaps I used too much gusto in the American statement and waited for her to respond. She threw her hands up smiling, "I'm American!... well French Californian!" as if California were it's own country. Her strong French accent led me to believe she was instead a crazy old French lady who was mocking me.
I nodded and said, "that's nice" and was ready to turn to stare at the seat in front of me... except she continued.
Not only did she continue, she talked all the way to Bellecour.
"I moved to California in 1959, can you imagine? I lived there 50 years and had this... how do you say... urge to move back and see Lyon. I am so disappointed with Lyon, it was nothing as I remember. The city has gotten dirty, the people are mean. I love Americans! I think younger French want to go to America... and I understand why."
I nodded and agreed, it was true, French culture was a shock to me... but I love Lyon equally as I do my own city in Oregon. I asked her where she lived in California;
"Well, I don't want to BRAG or anything, but I lived in Beverly Hills... I'm no millionaire but I do have money for an old woman. I had a great life there, Beverly Hills was so wonderful... you know I never took the bus in LA, I drove everywhere... I had this lovely big car. I married a man from IOWA, can you believe it, an Iowan. It was fabulous my life in California... my family. Now be honest, you hate France don't you? I can see it in your eyes! It's okay to admit it, I hate it here too. See? Now Americans are all afraid to say what they think until they realize I understand!"
I just nodded, in a way I didn't like Lyon but in a huge way I did. Our bus got to our stop and she stopped talking, looked over and said, "Well dear, that's our stop.. nice talking to you," and she blows an air kiss and steps off the bus. No exchange
She was probably around 70 years old, visiting her home town... disappointed and feeling betrayed as if she left a dream and came back to nothing.
Adventures in public transportation are so interesting.
She stared at me behind her large black sunglasses and said, "Anglaise?" I smiled, used to this question and shook my head, "Non, Américaine!".
She paused, I thought perhaps I used too much gusto in the American statement and waited for her to respond. She threw her hands up smiling, "I'm American!... well French Californian!" as if California were it's own country. Her strong French accent led me to believe she was instead a crazy old French lady who was mocking me.
I nodded and said, "that's nice" and was ready to turn to stare at the seat in front of me... except she continued.
Not only did she continue, she talked all the way to Bellecour.
"I moved to California in 1959, can you imagine? I lived there 50 years and had this... how do you say... urge to move back and see Lyon. I am so disappointed with Lyon, it was nothing as I remember. The city has gotten dirty, the people are mean. I love Americans! I think younger French want to go to America... and I understand why."
I nodded and agreed, it was true, French culture was a shock to me... but I love Lyon equally as I do my own city in Oregon. I asked her where she lived in California;
"Well, I don't want to BRAG or anything, but I lived in Beverly Hills... I'm no millionaire but I do have money for an old woman. I had a great life there, Beverly Hills was so wonderful... you know I never took the bus in LA, I drove everywhere... I had this lovely big car. I married a man from IOWA, can you believe it, an Iowan. It was fabulous my life in California... my family. Now be honest, you hate France don't you? I can see it in your eyes! It's okay to admit it, I hate it here too. See? Now Americans are all afraid to say what they think until they realize I understand!"
I just nodded, in a way I didn't like Lyon but in a huge way I did. Our bus got to our stop and she stopped talking, looked over and said, "Well dear, that's our stop.. nice talking to you," and she blows an air kiss and steps off the bus. No exchange
She was probably around 70 years old, visiting her home town... disappointed and feeling betrayed as if she left a dream and came back to nothing.
Adventures in public transportation are so interesting.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
World Different part 1: Barcelona (Can Paixano)
My trip to Spain was a selection of different experiences that would take too many words to detail; instead I will be writing a series of my favorite memories in order to high light the adventure in Spain, now, first of Can Paixano:
It was a warm day when Bri and I packed our bags to head to Barcelona. Not a typical vacation, we left to partake on a shared apartment with his parents and brother. The first stop, however, in order to avoid traffic and given there was no place in the car, was to go to Barcelona via EasyJet (for only 80 round trip!).
It was surprisingly simple, we packed our bags a week in advance, we boarded with no problems and we landed in sunny Barcelona at about 12pm the 6th. Strapped with just our overnight clothes we made our way to the center using their AeroBus system and popped off to purchase some metro passes.
We already knew what we wanted to see, it wasn't the hovering tower nor the fantastic church. A friend of mine once gave me the name and address to a secretive local tapas bar, supposedly known to have the cheapest cava and the best tapas. Of course, true gastronomes, we decided that to be our first destination.
The city is not easy to figure out, even lined with a GPS we got lost several times, we finally walked the 2 miles to get to the sea and hung a left straight to the tapas bar. Can Paixano is a hidden spot located off a dingy street near the port. The bar is stand up only, and elbows are needed in order to get something to eat. The air conditioning rambles away in the background as the local clientale (mostly construction workers) are screaming out, "HOLA! EY HOLA!" to get the attention of the bar guy. We got lucky and found ourselves a spot at the bar, and quickly ordered a bottle of the Cava Rosat for 5€, and an array of charcuteries and sandwiches. If you are faint of the heart or slightly OCD, this place is not for you. The trash can is the floor, once a sandwich is finished the thin paper gets tossed to the ground. The kitchen is open plan, so the workers are constantly trudging around in old leftovers, the sandwiches made with no gloves. Who said hygiene equals good food any way?
Halfway through our Rosat, we snapped a picture trying to eternalize the emotion or the sentiment surrounding the bar. Our little glass of Rosat, our cheap bottle, the action... unfortunately we were too involved in enjoying to even snap the photo.
Bri waves over the barman, another cava, on our second bottle we are feeling Spanish. The people surrounding us are only speaking in that beautiful lispy language, cheering each other, demanding more food. Bri turns to a group of local construction workers and begins a conversation in his Fringspanol. They cheer, pour more cava into our cups, order the local specialty in charcuterie and invite us to go dancing. They smile and introduce themselves, call me muy guapa and continue the festivities.
It's finally 4pm when we wander out of the Can Paixano. Where were we? Suddenly we are feeling the heat of Barcelona and the effects of 2 bottles of Cava wine. We decide best action is to go to the sea, in our underwear.
Which is exactly what Bri does, wandering off into the sea, smiling and overjoyed at the previous 2 hours we just spend gorging ourselves and welcoming ourselves to Spain. The sea was warm, that gentle mediterranean sea that floats around you. No one took notice that Bri was in underwear, nor that we were intoxicated and full.
It's decided, we will come back tonight and show his parents the magic. Except, hours later, when we return it's a different world. Suddenly all the locals are gone and are replaced with a myriad of tourists getting drunk and not eating. The air conditioner has started leaking and the parents are extremely disappointed. We realized that the Can Paixano, like a manic depressive relative, has decided to show a darker and unpleasant side. At day, a local eatery known for high quality and good company, at night, tourists taking advantage of pricing and getting drunk before 10pm.
We head off to our hotel, deflated but yet satiated from the whole day and prepare for our next departure.
It was a warm day when Bri and I packed our bags to head to Barcelona. Not a typical vacation, we left to partake on a shared apartment with his parents and brother. The first stop, however, in order to avoid traffic and given there was no place in the car, was to go to Barcelona via EasyJet (for only 80 round trip!).
It was surprisingly simple, we packed our bags a week in advance, we boarded with no problems and we landed in sunny Barcelona at about 12pm the 6th. Strapped with just our overnight clothes we made our way to the center using their AeroBus system and popped off to purchase some metro passes.
We already knew what we wanted to see, it wasn't the hovering tower nor the fantastic church. A friend of mine once gave me the name and address to a secretive local tapas bar, supposedly known to have the cheapest cava and the best tapas. Of course, true gastronomes, we decided that to be our first destination.
The city is not easy to figure out, even lined with a GPS we got lost several times, we finally walked the 2 miles to get to the sea and hung a left straight to the tapas bar. Can Paixano is a hidden spot located off a dingy street near the port. The bar is stand up only, and elbows are needed in order to get something to eat. The air conditioning rambles away in the background as the local clientale (mostly construction workers) are screaming out, "HOLA! EY HOLA!" to get the attention of the bar guy. We got lucky and found ourselves a spot at the bar, and quickly ordered a bottle of the Cava Rosat for 5€, and an array of charcuteries and sandwiches. If you are faint of the heart or slightly OCD, this place is not for you. The trash can is the floor, once a sandwich is finished the thin paper gets tossed to the ground. The kitchen is open plan, so the workers are constantly trudging around in old leftovers, the sandwiches made with no gloves. Who said hygiene equals good food any way?
Halfway through our Rosat, we snapped a picture trying to eternalize the emotion or the sentiment surrounding the bar. Our little glass of Rosat, our cheap bottle, the action... unfortunately we were too involved in enjoying to even snap the photo.
Bri waves over the barman, another cava, on our second bottle we are feeling Spanish. The people surrounding us are only speaking in that beautiful lispy language, cheering each other, demanding more food. Bri turns to a group of local construction workers and begins a conversation in his Fringspanol. They cheer, pour more cava into our cups, order the local specialty in charcuterie and invite us to go dancing. They smile and introduce themselves, call me muy guapa and continue the festivities.
It's finally 4pm when we wander out of the Can Paixano. Where were we? Suddenly we are feeling the heat of Barcelona and the effects of 2 bottles of Cava wine. We decide best action is to go to the sea, in our underwear.
Which is exactly what Bri does, wandering off into the sea, smiling and overjoyed at the previous 2 hours we just spend gorging ourselves and welcoming ourselves to Spain. The sea was warm, that gentle mediterranean sea that floats around you. No one took notice that Bri was in underwear, nor that we were intoxicated and full.
It's decided, we will come back tonight and show his parents the magic. Except, hours later, when we return it's a different world. Suddenly all the locals are gone and are replaced with a myriad of tourists getting drunk and not eating. The air conditioner has started leaking and the parents are extremely disappointed. We realized that the Can Paixano, like a manic depressive relative, has decided to show a darker and unpleasant side. At day, a local eatery known for high quality and good company, at night, tourists taking advantage of pricing and getting drunk before 10pm.
We head off to our hotel, deflated but yet satiated from the whole day and prepare for our next departure.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Story Time: Trip to the Salon
It took me one year and two months to build up the courage to go to a hair salon in France. I had envisioned total destruction to my hair, as I had read a multitude of angry bloggers discussing their Bad Hair Experiences. I was almost ready in May when I took a stroll with a good friend of mine from Sweden. Her hair was tied up, and she mentioned she had recently got it cut. When she took it down it was horrific. The layers were mismatched, areas in the back were chunky and short... I put off the cutting until I saw a recent photo of myself and my blah hair:
I had went to a barbeque of a good friend, and after the photos came out I was a bit shocked. My hair had become shaggy, worse the ends were torn up and abimés. It was officially time to get a hair cut.
The next logical step was to find a salon. I knew I couldn't rely on them speaking English so I reviewed a blog post I had written a few months prior. It discussed the typical words we use in the salon. Alongside this I printed up some color photos to show what I wanted and prepared over a week for the cut.
I ended up calling a salon in the 6ème called, Lounge Cut. Recommended by the Petit Paumé I was fully aware of the positive reviews of this place. I called to take a reservation, and got in less than a week.
I was even more excited when I got there, and saw it was a nice little salon, with only 3 chairs for cutting, no giant hair factory.
I showed my photos and hashed through my French. When I mentioned it had been over a year from my last cut; the coiffeuse was shocked. She took about 3 inches of hair and said, "On doit les couper, si tu voudrais, car ils sont tellement abimés" I understood that one. We should cut this much because I failed to respect my hair and I had split ends up the HIZZY.
I agreed.
The best part of Lounge Cut, is they cut it dry, like in many salons in the states. She washed after, massaged my head, and then spent another 40 minutes styling. I think next time I'll skip the 'brushing', but it did make my hair feel super soft. She used scissors, not razors, unlike many French stylists.
Lei Wei, my stylist, also told me that there are a lot of English clients, and that Mark, another stylist can speak English. So. Any one looking to get their hair cut by an English speaker, check out Lounge Cut and see Mark. Lei Wei can also speak English, but she is better at understanding.
I felt great. I promised to come back every 3 months, or 6 months maxi as she told me.
And the results, of my first cut in France?
I am happy. It's definitely much more comfy for summer, I was smothering in my hair.
I had went to a barbeque of a good friend, and after the photos came out I was a bit shocked. My hair had become shaggy, worse the ends were torn up and abimés. It was officially time to get a hair cut.
The next logical step was to find a salon. I knew I couldn't rely on them speaking English so I reviewed a blog post I had written a few months prior. It discussed the typical words we use in the salon. Alongside this I printed up some color photos to show what I wanted and prepared over a week for the cut.
I ended up calling a salon in the 6ème called, Lounge Cut. Recommended by the Petit Paumé I was fully aware of the positive reviews of this place. I called to take a reservation, and got in less than a week.
I was even more excited when I got there, and saw it was a nice little salon, with only 3 chairs for cutting, no giant hair factory.
I showed my photos and hashed through my French. When I mentioned it had been over a year from my last cut; the coiffeuse was shocked. She took about 3 inches of hair and said, "On doit les couper, si tu voudrais, car ils sont tellement abimés" I understood that one. We should cut this much because I failed to respect my hair and I had split ends up the HIZZY.
I agreed.
The best part of Lounge Cut, is they cut it dry, like in many salons in the states. She washed after, massaged my head, and then spent another 40 minutes styling. I think next time I'll skip the 'brushing', but it did make my hair feel super soft. She used scissors, not razors, unlike many French stylists.
Lei Wei, my stylist, also told me that there are a lot of English clients, and that Mark, another stylist can speak English. So. Any one looking to get their hair cut by an English speaker, check out Lounge Cut and see Mark. Lei Wei can also speak English, but she is better at understanding.
I felt great. I promised to come back every 3 months, or 6 months maxi as she told me.
And the results, of my first cut in France?
Monday, July 4, 2011
Not So Appropriate French Words
For me it is easy to pick up languages, I listen on the television, watch some French series. I watch the news every morning on BFM television to see what actualities are up. I often spend 2 weekends during the month at Brian's parent's house where I absorb and practice.
I've officially hit the level of French where no one teases me for huge errors nor accent mistakes- but little ways I pronounce my words they find cute. I find it absolutely ridicule that they like my American accent. I try my best to focus and really pronounce my words sans accent because I think the American accent sounds TERRIBLE.
I didn't, however, realize that the words we use around friends is probably not so appropriate around family or family friends. I learned this Saturday night while enjoying an invitation to an old family friend. I was surrounded by J and R, Bri's parents, and we wdere deep in discussion. I spilled a bit of wine on myself and exclaimed, "PUTAIN!" The conversation stopped short, and about 6 pairs of beady French eyes stared at me.
J softly touched my arms and said, "Tu sais, ce n'est pas un mot très gentille...". I felt aghast, wanted to run and hide in a closet. In the States I rarely cursed around people, and it was never like I was a Sailor mouth or anything. I looked down at my hands and looked back up to meet the beady eyes, "Qu'est-ce que c'est un meilleur moyen de le dire?" Then I got my next French lesson. Appropriate curse words.
I guess I was always under the assumption the French were more liberal with curse words, I'd heard 10 year olds cursing in the street, parents cursing alongside them. I would find out these people were in fact not being appropriate. Sex is freely portrayed around here, and the curse words that do pop on the screen are unblipped. Also, when speaking a second language, these words have less meaning and so if it becomes a habit, it's one that is difficult to break.
Now my struggle and my retraining:
Putain will now be MINCE!
Salop will now be salaud.
Je vais pisser will now be je vais pipi ou je vais aller au toilette
Merde will now be mince.
La bite will not be said any more.
It's not easy. I remember the day after I was talking about something and I almost slipped out a putain I covered it by saying instead; Pu----voirs... oui.. pouvoirs. The problem being putain is so much easier to say than mince, mince has a weird back of the throat I noise that I haven't quite mastered.
I guess lesson learned: just because you here the words every where does not mean they are appropriate everywhere.
a+
I've officially hit the level of French where no one teases me for huge errors nor accent mistakes- but little ways I pronounce my words they find cute. I find it absolutely ridicule that they like my American accent. I try my best to focus and really pronounce my words sans accent because I think the American accent sounds TERRIBLE.
I didn't, however, realize that the words we use around friends is probably not so appropriate around family or family friends. I learned this Saturday night while enjoying an invitation to an old family friend. I was surrounded by J and R, Bri's parents, and we wdere deep in discussion. I spilled a bit of wine on myself and exclaimed, "PUTAIN!" The conversation stopped short, and about 6 pairs of beady French eyes stared at me.
J softly touched my arms and said, "Tu sais, ce n'est pas un mot très gentille...". I felt aghast, wanted to run and hide in a closet. In the States I rarely cursed around people, and it was never like I was a Sailor mouth or anything. I looked down at my hands and looked back up to meet the beady eyes, "Qu'est-ce que c'est un meilleur moyen de le dire?" Then I got my next French lesson. Appropriate curse words.
I guess I was always under the assumption the French were more liberal with curse words, I'd heard 10 year olds cursing in the street, parents cursing alongside them. I would find out these people were in fact not being appropriate. Sex is freely portrayed around here, and the curse words that do pop on the screen are unblipped. Also, when speaking a second language, these words have less meaning and so if it becomes a habit, it's one that is difficult to break.
Now my struggle and my retraining:
Putain will now be MINCE!
Salop will now be salaud.
Je vais pisser will now be je vais pipi ou je vais aller au toilette
Merde will now be mince.
La bite will not be said any more.
It's not easy. I remember the day after I was talking about something and I almost slipped out a putain I covered it by saying instead; Pu----voirs... oui.. pouvoirs. The problem being putain is so much easier to say than mince, mince has a weird back of the throat I noise that I haven't quite mastered.
I guess lesson learned: just because you here the words every where does not mean they are appropriate everywhere.
a+
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Poor Little Old Lady..
I remember in the states, specifically in Oregon, any time a little old lady passed, there would be an inkling to help. Cross the street. Get than can off of the top shelf. Move off the seat of the bus so she doesn't go flying around.
France is a bit of a different world. We already know that the driver's are insane and you can barely step off of a street corner without fear of being craser but worse is the behavior towards the elderly.
My story starts in a grocery store. I was at the caisse popping my things onto the belt to get scanned, preparing my bags to pop the groceries in, because the dude moves so fast I never have enough time to shove it all away until he cries, the price.
The little old lady in front of me was trying desperately to keep up with the cashier, but was failing miserably. For each item she was able to shakily put away, the cashier would shove over another four. I finally realized that no one would help her, not even the cashier. I wandered over, "Voudriez-vous d'aide madame?" I smiled. The PLOL (poor little old lady) smiled a missing tooth smile and proclamed, "c'est TROP gentille madamoiselle", so off I went getting it all bagged and evenly weighed out. At the end of paying she looked over at me and said, "Il n'y a beaucoup des gens comme vous, madamoiselle." (There aren't a lot of people like you) I nodded and responded, "Je ne suis pas Française, je suis américaine." (I'm not French, I'm American). She smiled at me, and shuffled away.
The second story is on the bus. I got onto the bus one day and it started to move, I noticed a little old lady coming on that could barely walk and had an oxygen machine. As she shuffled down the aisles she was obviously having a difficult time not falling on her head, so I moved from my spot and held her still until she got into her seat. Everyone just sat and looked away, as if she didn't exist!!!
So I was confused. I finally asked around to friends what the deal WAS. They explained to me that in general, if an elderly person cannot care for them selves, it's a dog eat dog world. They need to learn how to survive in the world, because the helping hand is not always there. Plus they respect the elderly as they don't want to make them feel frail or unable.
I still will always give my seat up, and help the old lady get the can. I can adapt to cultures, but for this I will keep my personality.
-a+
France is a bit of a different world. We already know that the driver's are insane and you can barely step off of a street corner without fear of being craser but worse is the behavior towards the elderly.
My story starts in a grocery store. I was at the caisse popping my things onto the belt to get scanned, preparing my bags to pop the groceries in, because the dude moves so fast I never have enough time to shove it all away until he cries, the price.
The little old lady in front of me was trying desperately to keep up with the cashier, but was failing miserably. For each item she was able to shakily put away, the cashier would shove over another four. I finally realized that no one would help her, not even the cashier. I wandered over, "Voudriez-vous d'aide madame?" I smiled. The PLOL (poor little old lady) smiled a missing tooth smile and proclamed, "c'est TROP gentille madamoiselle", so off I went getting it all bagged and evenly weighed out. At the end of paying she looked over at me and said, "Il n'y a beaucoup des gens comme vous, madamoiselle." (There aren't a lot of people like you) I nodded and responded, "Je ne suis pas Française, je suis américaine." (I'm not French, I'm American). She smiled at me, and shuffled away.
The second story is on the bus. I got onto the bus one day and it started to move, I noticed a little old lady coming on that could barely walk and had an oxygen machine. As she shuffled down the aisles she was obviously having a difficult time not falling on her head, so I moved from my spot and held her still until she got into her seat. Everyone just sat and looked away, as if she didn't exist!!!
So I was confused. I finally asked around to friends what the deal WAS. They explained to me that in general, if an elderly person cannot care for them selves, it's a dog eat dog world. They need to learn how to survive in the world, because the helping hand is not always there. Plus they respect the elderly as they don't want to make them feel frail or unable.
I still will always give my seat up, and help the old lady get the can. I can adapt to cultures, but for this I will keep my personality.
-a+
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Jean Pierre: Runner of the Rhône
If you are a resident of Lyon, you've seen him... for me it was a warm summer evening in 2010, and we were sipping on chilled rosé and eating charcuterie atop baguettes smothered in butter. It was starting to turn dark over the horizon, the mouches were zipping around and our conversation had hit a silent lull. From the distance, I could hear a rampage of cheering and clapping. We lazily turned our heads towards the noise and saw it... fast as a flash the Old Man Runner. Probably in his late 50's, maybe even his early 60's... he was running in bright orange shorts and a tight white tanktop.
He clearly showed defined runner's muscles. As he ran by our picnic spot, the crowds went wild.. they cheered, shouted, one ado even jumped up, inspired, running beside him and trying to have a conversation. Failed. He slows down, unable to keep pace and cheers back to his friends, divulging the story.
I didn't understand what it was.. and I didn't until another year later. It was May, last month, we decided to profit in the hot weather and have another picnic amongst friends. Sure enough, the shouting started again. I turned around, and spotted him once again... same jogging shorts, same tank top. I smiled, because I finally knew I had reached the point Lyon was my second home. This time I cheered, I whistled, I shouted my joy... and off he dashed.
Jean-Pierre the Runner of the Rhône, papy joggeur. If you ever go to Lyon... go to les berges take in the sight and wave to Jean-Pierre...
http://ma-tvideo.france2.fr/channel/iLyROoafY2Qr.html
I didn't understand what it was.. and I didn't until another year later. It was May, last month, we decided to profit in the hot weather and have another picnic amongst friends. Sure enough, the shouting started again. I turned around, and spotted him once again... same jogging shorts, same tank top. I smiled, because I finally knew I had reached the point Lyon was my second home. This time I cheered, I whistled, I shouted my joy... and off he dashed.
Jean-Pierre the Runner of the Rhône, papy joggeur. If you ever go to Lyon... go to les berges take in the sight and wave to Jean-Pierre...
http://ma-tvideo.france2.fr/channel/iLyROoafY2Qr.html
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Story Time: Receptionist at Wallstreet
As my 'stage' or internship contract for Baby Speaking is finishing on the 18th of this month, I accepted a position at Wallstreet Institute as a 'language assistant' and 'receptionist'. I found little information on the web about this type of job, so I decided to detail a bit about what it is and what I do!
It's a completely different position than what I did with Baby Speaking- which BS my job was very much a rogue warrior type deal where I worked by my lonesome in Lyon and helped to development the market for the company. I had about 15 hours a week to plan and organize how to better the company and quickly realized it was a definite challenge. People in Lyon are incredibly different than most areas in France, they are cold and shut out, very 'french-french' type atmosphere. I can easily say that Lyon is not very international in regards to Anglophones, and it's sort of a city that no one things about that often. Of course, never tell a Lyonnais this- they will frown and state, 'Oui, mais nous sommes la 2ème grande ville de la France!', and you just nod and keep the silent comment about Marseille to yourself.
I loved the challenge, but I was aware that I couldn't stick with them forever- they hadn't mentioned elongating my contract and I was already getting offers at other companies. I had applied for Wallstreet roughly the same time, and hadn't heard any news until March when they started prodding me to work for them. After some negotiation, I was offered a CDI and a starting time- with a happy wage- and I happily accepted. *note: CDI in France is considered a good working contract*. It broke my heart to know that I would leave Baby Speaking, but all the same they hadn't contacted me!
THEN I found out Baby Speaking was already considering extending my internship- but even a CDD couldn't convince me. I was going to Wallstreet, and although I loved Baby Speaking, I was ready for the new change. Ironically, however, as I live right next door to Bellecour- I was sent over to Part-Dieu, tant pis.
Now, my position... the position will require me to answer phones, most the time in french and basically coordinate all the scheduled activities with the students. The biggest challenge will be speaking in French over the phone...imagine if someone calls and says, "M. Perrin", and I'm like, "WHAATTTTTT??"
Of course, nothing stopped me before... so I'll pick up my guts to get it together and answer. Stay tuned for stories from an American receptionist in France...
a+
It's a completely different position than what I did with Baby Speaking- which BS my job was very much a rogue warrior type deal where I worked by my lonesome in Lyon and helped to development the market for the company. I had about 15 hours a week to plan and organize how to better the company and quickly realized it was a definite challenge. People in Lyon are incredibly different than most areas in France, they are cold and shut out, very 'french-french' type atmosphere. I can easily say that Lyon is not very international in regards to Anglophones, and it's sort of a city that no one things about that often. Of course, never tell a Lyonnais this- they will frown and state, 'Oui, mais nous sommes la 2ème grande ville de la France!', and you just nod and keep the silent comment about Marseille to yourself.
I loved the challenge, but I was aware that I couldn't stick with them forever- they hadn't mentioned elongating my contract and I was already getting offers at other companies. I had applied for Wallstreet roughly the same time, and hadn't heard any news until March when they started prodding me to work for them. After some negotiation, I was offered a CDI and a starting time- with a happy wage- and I happily accepted. *note: CDI in France is considered a good working contract*. It broke my heart to know that I would leave Baby Speaking, but all the same they hadn't contacted me!
THEN I found out Baby Speaking was already considering extending my internship- but even a CDD couldn't convince me. I was going to Wallstreet, and although I loved Baby Speaking, I was ready for the new change. Ironically, however, as I live right next door to Bellecour- I was sent over to Part-Dieu, tant pis.
Now, my position... the position will require me to answer phones, most the time in french and basically coordinate all the scheduled activities with the students. The biggest challenge will be speaking in French over the phone...imagine if someone calls and says, "M. Perrin", and I'm like, "WHAATTTTTT??"
Of course, nothing stopped me before... so I'll pick up my guts to get it together and answer. Stay tuned for stories from an American receptionist in France...
a+
Thursday, March 10, 2011
When I Go to the Super Marché
I live in the center of Lyon; a lovely little apartment right along 'la rue des marronniers'. I live in the center of Lyon; in an apartment on the 5th story... with no elevator.
What does this mean exactly?
Well.
Grocery shopping is a nightmare. I should attribute this apartment to the 10 lbs I lost about 3 months after I moved in, but instead I can only think of how much of a nightmare going the grocery store can be. The sweating, the heaving, the loss of breath.. the numbing of my arms.
Much like going to war, I have to "gear up"... and here's how it goes:
Two large plastic cloth bags, check.
Tissues for nose, check.
iPod securely in front pocket, buds in ears, check.
Carte bleue and U express point card in right pocket, check.
.85 centimes for my baguette in my left pocket, check.
Grocery list in right pocket, check.
And then I am off; I descend moderately quickly- the first two floors fly by and I pick up a rhythm of descent. fwap. fwap. fwap. "bonjour!" (passing neighbor). fwap. fwap.
Out the two secure doors, into the street. I pop on my sunglasses to avoid eye contact with strangers and start making my way first to my little boulangerie; (I always order, "une banette normale, s'il vous plaît!") and then continue on to my U Express.
I swiftly pile my basket with rations, eggs, yogurt, laundry detergent, hand soap, toilet paper. I hesitate when it comes to Coca or Wine- but I've got my two big plastic bags with the cloth handles... I can handle it.
It's methodical, pick up an item, place in basket, check list. Usually I organize my list according to the lay out of the store, I don't want to spend too much time in there.
In about 15 minutes the store is ravaged and I am prepared to go home. The cashier is much faster than me, and he swipes the items with this terrible quickness. It stresses me out- I have to try to get everything into my two big bags without breaking the eggs or squishing the cookies.
He's done scanning before I've finished bagging and I deftly hand him the U-Express point card to win some time, he nods, scans and then waits.
"Par carte s'il vous plaît"
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"Allons-y" He responds.
Finally the bagging is finished, I test the weight in each arm and place them aside my feet; pop my card into the machine and tap out my code. Seconds feel like hours, finally apprové! apprové flashes and my receipt prints.
I toss the receipt into my bag, shove my cards back into my pocket, pop my ear buds back into my ears and begin the trek home (of course, not forgetting the merci! bonne journée!)
Walking home is just as stressful, I live next to a little bus area... and these buses go to some nasty areas. This means some nasty characters; I swipe my sunglasses on my eyes, walking fast and avoiding the spitting/smoking/name calling from these people. Stomach is in a knot for about 3 minutes, hoping that they don't try to bother me today.
I make it to my street; press in my codes. I struggle to carry the 10 lbs of groceries up the 5 flights of stairs, pausing every 2nd flight to breathe and continue.
At home I sit down and just respire. I'm going to have to do this again next Monday. souffle.
What does this mean exactly?
Well.
Grocery shopping is a nightmare. I should attribute this apartment to the 10 lbs I lost about 3 months after I moved in, but instead I can only think of how much of a nightmare going the grocery store can be. The sweating, the heaving, the loss of breath.. the numbing of my arms.
Much like going to war, I have to "gear up"... and here's how it goes:
Two large plastic cloth bags, check.
Tissues for nose, check.
iPod securely in front pocket, buds in ears, check.
Carte bleue and U express point card in right pocket, check.
.85 centimes for my baguette in my left pocket, check.
Grocery list in right pocket, check.
And then I am off; I descend moderately quickly- the first two floors fly by and I pick up a rhythm of descent. fwap. fwap. fwap. "bonjour!" (passing neighbor). fwap. fwap.
Out the two secure doors, into the street. I pop on my sunglasses to avoid eye contact with strangers and start making my way first to my little boulangerie; (I always order, "une banette normale, s'il vous plaît!") and then continue on to my U Express.
I swiftly pile my basket with rations, eggs, yogurt, laundry detergent, hand soap, toilet paper. I hesitate when it comes to Coca or Wine- but I've got my two big plastic bags with the cloth handles... I can handle it.
It's methodical, pick up an item, place in basket, check list. Usually I organize my list according to the lay out of the store, I don't want to spend too much time in there.
In about 15 minutes the store is ravaged and I am prepared to go home. The cashier is much faster than me, and he swipes the items with this terrible quickness. It stresses me out- I have to try to get everything into my two big bags without breaking the eggs or squishing the cookies.
He's done scanning before I've finished bagging and I deftly hand him the U-Express point card to win some time, he nods, scans and then waits.
"Par carte s'il vous plaît"
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"Allons-y" He responds.
Finally the bagging is finished, I test the weight in each arm and place them aside my feet; pop my card into the machine and tap out my code. Seconds feel like hours, finally apprové! apprové flashes and my receipt prints.
I toss the receipt into my bag, shove my cards back into my pocket, pop my ear buds back into my ears and begin the trek home (of course, not forgetting the merci! bonne journée!)
Walking home is just as stressful, I live next to a little bus area... and these buses go to some nasty areas. This means some nasty characters; I swipe my sunglasses on my eyes, walking fast and avoiding the spitting/smoking/name calling from these people. Stomach is in a knot for about 3 minutes, hoping that they don't try to bother me today.
I make it to my street; press in my codes. I struggle to carry the 10 lbs of groceries up the 5 flights of stairs, pausing every 2nd flight to breathe and continue.
At home I sit down and just respire. I'm going to have to do this again next Monday. souffle.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Story Time: The Metro
I hate the Metro; more than anything I hate the lack of space on the things.
I went on a journey today for work, one that required I simply take the Métro from Bellecour to Grange-Blanche, only about a 15 minute ride. From the beginning, it was ridiculously un-fun. The pushing to get through the ticket checking machine, the 2 minutes we all wait to get on the metro. The shoving to get onto the actual car.
The worst, in my opinion, is knowing what you are supposed to do for 15 minutes while you are chugging along. If you are unlucky, the car is packed to the hilt and you're forced to wave around for a pole to balance yourself. The luckiest you can get is to find a seat, but I am never so lucky.
I stared at my shoes for about 5 minutes, the slowest 5 minutes of my life. I glanced up, flicking my eyes around the crowd never make eye contact I repeat in my head. I focus on the sign above the old woman's head to my left. Suddenly I notice the smell emiting from her is not the cookies and ice cream type of Grandma, but the drunk in the middle of the day type. After I read the sign for about 3 minutes, or about 4 times, I return to my shoes. I now notice that there is a Romanian guy playing the accordian and sending his 3 year old to look pitiful and beg for money. I can't look at my shoes any more, because the kid is down there. I quickly change my glance to outside the window- this only works for about 30 seconds until I start getting motion sick from looking outside at things passing.
Saxe-Gambetta. I am counting in my head the stops, 3 more left. I sigh and suddenly a group of ados get on the car and start playing their music out loud. I sigh and turn my attentions to the old man sitting on a chair... a guy that just got on is noisily chewing on his white bread sandwich. The girl on the other side is smart, she has a phone to play with, ear phones tucked into her ears.
1 stop left, I start becoming aware of the time passing, not a good thing... because when we are aware it is like watching a pot of hot water trying to boil- it goes so slow. I stare at my shoes again, since the kid and father team got off and I try to focus on why there is mud on my shoe.
15 minutes later I shove off the metro and shove through the crowds, like sheeple, to exit.
Yes, I'm American. I need a 2 foot radius to feel comfortable.
a+
I went on a journey today for work, one that required I simply take the Métro from Bellecour to Grange-Blanche, only about a 15 minute ride. From the beginning, it was ridiculously un-fun. The pushing to get through the ticket checking machine, the 2 minutes we all wait to get on the metro. The shoving to get onto the actual car.
The worst, in my opinion, is knowing what you are supposed to do for 15 minutes while you are chugging along. If you are unlucky, the car is packed to the hilt and you're forced to wave around for a pole to balance yourself. The luckiest you can get is to find a seat, but I am never so lucky.
I stared at my shoes for about 5 minutes, the slowest 5 minutes of my life. I glanced up, flicking my eyes around the crowd never make eye contact I repeat in my head. I focus on the sign above the old woman's head to my left. Suddenly I notice the smell emiting from her is not the cookies and ice cream type of Grandma, but the drunk in the middle of the day type. After I read the sign for about 3 minutes, or about 4 times, I return to my shoes. I now notice that there is a Romanian guy playing the accordian and sending his 3 year old to look pitiful and beg for money. I can't look at my shoes any more, because the kid is down there. I quickly change my glance to outside the window- this only works for about 30 seconds until I start getting motion sick from looking outside at things passing.
Saxe-Gambetta. I am counting in my head the stops, 3 more left. I sigh and suddenly a group of ados get on the car and start playing their music out loud. I sigh and turn my attentions to the old man sitting on a chair... a guy that just got on is noisily chewing on his white bread sandwich. The girl on the other side is smart, she has a phone to play with, ear phones tucked into her ears.
1 stop left, I start becoming aware of the time passing, not a good thing... because when we are aware it is like watching a pot of hot water trying to boil- it goes so slow. I stare at my shoes again, since the kid and father team got off and I try to focus on why there is mud on my shoe.
15 minutes later I shove off the metro and shove through the crowds, like sheeple, to exit.
Yes, I'm American. I need a 2 foot radius to feel comfortable.
a+
Monday, February 14, 2011
Le Jour St. Valentin
I'm not the most romantic person, meaning I am not won over by flowers or chocolates, nor am I the type to cry over sappy movies. I am a girl of logic and plans, if there is no logic it doesn't fit into my life. The most romantic thing Bri ever did for me was to buy me a Le Creuset frying pan for Christmas. This personality trait is constantly questioned with my life in France, as France is supposed to be one of the most romantic places in the world. People always want me to recount the romantic outings with my French boyfriend; when closing our eyes and envisioning romance, we see a beautiful french couple canoodling on a park bench. We don't see the wasps zipping around their head, or the pile of dog crap just 4 feet away nor the group of angry hoodlums throwing themselves around like they are kings. We see only the kisses, the grand gestures, acclaimations of love and undying devotion.
While France is typically idealized and romanticized, le jour de St. Valentin falls right into my spectrum of thinking. In America, Valentine's day is marked with piles of red and pink corporatism; bundling and stuffed with cheap manufactured chocolate and silly little cards with stupid phrases. In France, St. Valentin is the day to remember the guy that was tortured to death... right along my stream of realism.
St. Valentine, or during his time just Valentine, was a priest who would marry Christian couples under the radar of Roman rule. When Claudius caught on he had him captured, tried to convert him, when he refused he was killed and thus became a martyr. Somehow this day became a day to celebrate love and amour that can triumph despite ordeals and, well, Roman rule.
A great tradition that used to exist in France, is something called a lotterie d'amour. It was a strange custom that basically OK'd some swinging around with your neighbors and a chance to burn pictures of people that emotionally damaged you, while shouting offensive things. Now outlawed, apparently because the concept of random-pairing and obscenity-shouting was not such a good idea, the custom resembles closer to the American customs.
Of course, as I may be a realist, I still love history- and as a young girl my mother loved to tell me all the stories of great love. My favorite story is actually from a French couple in late 12th century.. Abelard and Heloise. Brought together through education, they fell in love immediately and secretly had a child. The uncle of Heloise was very unhappy with this situation and through a series of events it led to Abelard being castrated. Even the inability to express physical love couldn't keep them apart, as they both took place in an Abbey and took vows to God; they remained great lovers. The ultimate long distance relationship, they wrote extensive amounts of letters, proving that love can be beyond the physical.
So, on this day of love and capitalism, think of Abelard and Heloise; or the martyr Valentine. It doesn't have to be one of those days we spend too much money on candy- it can simply be a day where we celebrate life.
While France is typically idealized and romanticized, le jour de St. Valentin falls right into my spectrum of thinking. In America, Valentine's day is marked with piles of red and pink corporatism; bundling and stuffed with cheap manufactured chocolate and silly little cards with stupid phrases. In France, St. Valentin is the day to remember the guy that was tortured to death... right along my stream of realism.
St. Valentine, or during his time just Valentine, was a priest who would marry Christian couples under the radar of Roman rule. When Claudius caught on he had him captured, tried to convert him, when he refused he was killed and thus became a martyr. Somehow this day became a day to celebrate love and amour that can triumph despite ordeals and, well, Roman rule.
A great tradition that used to exist in France, is something called a lotterie d'amour. It was a strange custom that basically OK'd some swinging around with your neighbors and a chance to burn pictures of people that emotionally damaged you, while shouting offensive things. Now outlawed, apparently because the concept of random-pairing and obscenity-shouting was not such a good idea, the custom resembles closer to the American customs.
Of course, as I may be a realist, I still love history- and as a young girl my mother loved to tell me all the stories of great love. My favorite story is actually from a French couple in late 12th century.. Abelard and Heloise. Brought together through education, they fell in love immediately and secretly had a child. The uncle of Heloise was very unhappy with this situation and through a series of events it led to Abelard being castrated. Even the inability to express physical love couldn't keep them apart, as they both took place in an Abbey and took vows to God; they remained great lovers. The ultimate long distance relationship, they wrote extensive amounts of letters, proving that love can be beyond the physical.
So, on this day of love and capitalism, think of Abelard and Heloise; or the martyr Valentine. It doesn't have to be one of those days we spend too much money on candy- it can simply be a day where we celebrate life.
"I will still love you with all the tenderness of my soul till the last moment of my life." - Heloise to Abelard, 12th century, after the separation to their abbeys.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
You Know You're Becoming French When...
I was hanging up a load of lights in the kitchen when I came to the realisation that there are certain indications of the American shell shedding and me becoming truly and culturally French. Don't get me wrong, I am by no means a Francophile (like most people) and it's not a process I am opening my arms and begging for, I just am slowly evolving into a culture and I realised there are ways to tell if you are truly becoming French:
- The crunchy towels don't bother you any more.
- Laundry is an automatic five step process that takes days, and you plan for this:
- Wash the laundry (3 hours)
- Hang the laundry (30 minutes)
- Wait to dry (1 day in spring/summer, 3 days in winter)
- Fold crunchy laundry
- Repeat
- If you see friends and you don't faire les bises you feel weird, like something is missing.
- You decide on a place to eat over a 2 hour conversation
- Once done eating you know it will take another hour of standing around to say good bye
- You begin to know a good baguette just by looking at it in a Boulangerie
- You eat bread with dinner with no butter spread on it
- The thought of stinky cheese excites you
- Prendre un café means sit in a café for 2 hours while sipping a miniscule espresso
- Suddenly, you are NOT out of breath after climbing to your 5th story apartment, sans ascenseur!
- A sunday family dinner to you is 6 hours, 4 courses and many many interuptions during conversations
- When visiting family, you never go to bed before 1am and you most likely are drunk at the end of dinner
- When you boire un coup with tes amis you are sipping a cocktail and not binging beer in cheap plastic cups
- If invited to someone's house you begin worrying about what you can bring... fleurs? Bouteille du vin?
- Aperitif does nto include cheese and crackers. (Hey in the States, we often serve cheese and crackers in the beginning of a meal!)
- The thought of sweet and salty disgusts you. *NOTE: I have yet to get here. I still love meatballs with berry sauce from Ikea*
- On Sunday you don't go grocery shopping. Don't go to the bank. Don't go shopping for clothes. Although; you frequent le marché.
- When invited to dinner, you often look like you're going to a 4 star restaurant... even if it's just a close friend.
- You have a giant stack of papers and prescriptions, receipts and proof, as well as many copies of signed original statements for even your BIKE PASS. Hellooo accordian file.
- You suddenly find yourself using words like: jsché pas (je ne sais pas), connard (asshole), n'importe quoi (ridiculous), connerie (bullshit) and you are thinking it en français.
- Frog legs, snails and foie gras are things you love, burgers and fast food are déguleusse!
It makes me so curious what it will be like to return home in July and have everything suddenly in English. A dryer. Fast service. Grocery people bagging my groceries. Smiling waiters/tips. AAAHHH!!!
Monday, January 31, 2011
Story Time: Luck of Les Soldes
I really have to get it out of me karmic system; I went shopping today briefly after seeing a friend I hadn't seen in a long time and it was exciting. Because it's the third week, all the brands are cheaper but yet everything has been ravaged and picked over- my size was missing from many things I liked and I was just having fun catching and releasing.
We decided to wander into Printemps, the glorified over priced store that I knew in my heart I couldn't afford. I glamoured over the make up, smiled at the Dolce & Golbana personnel. I fingered 400 € dresses and eyeballed 200 € sunglasses. Rich old ladies were shuffling around in tight pants and giant coats made of fur.
I came to the Manoukian section of the store, which always has an array of beautiful dresses. I decided to go ahead and try on 3 dresses... none of them I would buy. The second one was beautiful and I realized I was stuck- but I also realized it was a 50% off sale and I just needed to buy this new dress (I have 3 different events to wear it to in the next 3 weeks).
Here's where the karma part comes in; Do not hate me and the choices I make.
I brought it to the woman to pay and she smiled and asked; est-ce que c'est une robe d'marqué, parce que je n'ai pas trouvé le ticket.. I stared at the dress and she was right, there was no 50% off ticket. I nodded quickly and said, J'ai vu le ticket toute à l'heure, peut-être il est tombé par terre? She nodded and we went back to look and try to find the same dress. As we wandered back that's when I saw it; the little plastic sign above where I found my dress: NOUVELLE SAISON. My heart sank as she threw back racks trying to find the same to compare, somehow she didn't see the sign or the same dress so she asked a co-worker: Est-ce que tous les robes sont démarqués? Coworker nodded, of course they were all discounted.
I smiled politely as we wandered back to the cash register and she proceeded to knock of 50% and then another 20% off of my NEW SEASON dress. (Just fyi, New Season clothes are never on sale, they put them out to lure in the bargain hunters to spend more). The 150€ dress was knocked to a 50€ dress and I didn't even open my mouth to say otherwise. She held the bag in her fingers as another co-worker passed by, once again she demanded if it was the good sale price. At this point I was thinking just give me the damn bag lady!!! and again her co-worker agreed.
As I clutched my prize and streamlined for the door the beep went off. I thought CRAP, they tagged the item! They are gonna make me pay the real price! Wrong again. The woman who had rung me up was just very tired and forgot to remove a plastic device, the door guy removed it and made some jokes about touching les seins on my dress when he was looking for the plastic thing.
And there. I got a brand new season dress from Manoukian for only 50€ in lieu of the real price of 150€ because of a French person wanting to get off work. God. Love les soldes.
a+
We decided to wander into Printemps, the glorified over priced store that I knew in my heart I couldn't afford. I glamoured over the make up, smiled at the Dolce & Golbana personnel. I fingered 400 € dresses and eyeballed 200 € sunglasses. Rich old ladies were shuffling around in tight pants and giant coats made of fur.
I came to the Manoukian section of the store, which always has an array of beautiful dresses. I decided to go ahead and try on 3 dresses... none of them I would buy. The second one was beautiful and I realized I was stuck- but I also realized it was a 50% off sale and I just needed to buy this new dress (I have 3 different events to wear it to in the next 3 weeks).
Here's where the karma part comes in; Do not hate me and the choices I make.
I brought it to the woman to pay and she smiled and asked; est-ce que c'est une robe d'marqué, parce que je n'ai pas trouvé le ticket.. I stared at the dress and she was right, there was no 50% off ticket. I nodded quickly and said, J'ai vu le ticket toute à l'heure, peut-être il est tombé par terre? She nodded and we went back to look and try to find the same dress. As we wandered back that's when I saw it; the little plastic sign above where I found my dress: NOUVELLE SAISON. My heart sank as she threw back racks trying to find the same to compare, somehow she didn't see the sign or the same dress so she asked a co-worker: Est-ce que tous les robes sont démarqués? Coworker nodded, of course they were all discounted.
I smiled politely as we wandered back to the cash register and she proceeded to knock of 50% and then another 20% off of my NEW SEASON dress. (Just fyi, New Season clothes are never on sale, they put them out to lure in the bargain hunters to spend more). The 150€ dress was knocked to a 50€ dress and I didn't even open my mouth to say otherwise. She held the bag in her fingers as another co-worker passed by, once again she demanded if it was the good sale price. At this point I was thinking just give me the damn bag lady!!! and again her co-worker agreed.
As I clutched my prize and streamlined for the door the beep went off. I thought CRAP, they tagged the item! They are gonna make me pay the real price! Wrong again. The woman who had rung me up was just very tired and forgot to remove a plastic device, the door guy removed it and made some jokes about touching les seins on my dress when he was looking for the plastic thing.
And there. I got a brand new season dress from Manoukian for only 50€ in lieu of the real price of 150€ because of a French person wanting to get off work. God. Love les soldes.
a+
Friday, January 28, 2011
Advice: Emergency Medical Services
It's been about a week since I had a health emergency with Bri, and before I go into detail I will say he's all right now and I waited to write because it was a really difficult experience for me.
Friday night last week, Bri started to come down with a very intensive fever. When I say intensive, I mean about 104°F or 39°C. He was burning up, coming in and out of waves of fatigue and in extreme discomfort. I finally got him to bed around 11pm that night and at 4am that morning he was laying on his back, sleeping... the problem was his breathing and heart rate. Once again he was burning up, his breathing was raspy and his heart was beating about a mile a minute.. very hard in his chest.
I roused him and he grumpily stated, Mais alors, je vais bien, pourqoui tu m'est reveillé?? (Hey, I'm fine, why did you get me up??)
I explained his fever and my worries and he waved them away and got up to use the bathroom. I prepared some Doliprane to cut the fever and was prepared to take his temperature when I heard the following noise:
STOMP.
CREEK.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
At first I thought, okay what did he do? and then I realized.
I jumped out of bed and ran into the living room, there he was face down on the floor.
BRIAN! BRIAN!
I fell to my knees and lifted his head, slowly he roused and looked at me.. BLOOD WAS EVERYWHERE! I was in hysterics, but, unfortunately, had NO idea the emergency number was. I was able to get it out of Brian and immediately called the number.
SO YOU KNOW, the emergency number in Lyon is #15.
We explained to the dispatch what happened, gave our address, codes to the apartment. She saw it wasn't an emergency and transferred us to an on-call doctor. We re-explained what happened and it turned out it was simply an issue with a drop in blood pressure causing the spins and it made him pass out.
From this horrible experience I learned that emergency services are actually quite logical in France..
You call #15.
You explain to dispatch what's going on. If it's an emergency they send les urgences if it seems under control;
You explain to the doctor on-call, he explains what to do.
The hardest thing is being able to explain in French what has happened without making it sound as if it were some horrible emergency.. but I now know by heart the number and an idea of what could happen.
a+
Friday night last week, Bri started to come down with a very intensive fever. When I say intensive, I mean about 104°F or 39°C. He was burning up, coming in and out of waves of fatigue and in extreme discomfort. I finally got him to bed around 11pm that night and at 4am that morning he was laying on his back, sleeping... the problem was his breathing and heart rate. Once again he was burning up, his breathing was raspy and his heart was beating about a mile a minute.. very hard in his chest.
I roused him and he grumpily stated, Mais alors, je vais bien, pourqoui tu m'est reveillé?? (Hey, I'm fine, why did you get me up??)
I explained his fever and my worries and he waved them away and got up to use the bathroom. I prepared some Doliprane to cut the fever and was prepared to take his temperature when I heard the following noise:
STOMP.
CREEK.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
At first I thought, okay what did he do? and then I realized.
I jumped out of bed and ran into the living room, there he was face down on the floor.
BRIAN! BRIAN!
I fell to my knees and lifted his head, slowly he roused and looked at me.. BLOOD WAS EVERYWHERE! I was in hysterics, but, unfortunately, had NO idea the emergency number was. I was able to get it out of Brian and immediately called the number.
SO YOU KNOW, the emergency number in Lyon is #15.
We explained to the dispatch what happened, gave our address, codes to the apartment. She saw it wasn't an emergency and transferred us to an on-call doctor. We re-explained what happened and it turned out it was simply an issue with a drop in blood pressure causing the spins and it made him pass out.
From this horrible experience I learned that emergency services are actually quite logical in France..
You call #15.
You explain to dispatch what's going on. If it's an emergency they send les urgences if it seems under control;
You explain to the doctor on-call, he explains what to do.
The hardest thing is being able to explain in French what has happened without making it sound as if it were some horrible emergency.. but I now know by heart the number and an idea of what could happen.
a+
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Story Time: Why Lyon?
I was out surfing, desperately looking for compatriots who also update their blogs; I'd love to see some funny stories or real life examples of what I experience here in Lyon. In Lyon. Ironically most Americans don't even know where Lyon is; there's no eiffel tower and no fashion capital. Why did I even choose to live in Lyon? Why not Paris.. the dream of every American girl?
In the hearts of every Francophile lies the need to explore this country.. sadly when talking about France the first thing that pops into mind is Paris. La jolie ville de Paris (the beautiful city of Paris). I personally don't really like Paris.. I went in the summer of 2009 with Bri. It was a beautiful time, sunny and warm.. I loved the museums, I loved the gastronomy.. but I truly was not a fan of the hundreds of thousands of tourists swarming around. Every place I went there were groups of tourists.. along with those tourists were groups of people selling 'des souvenirs'. Mini glowing eiffel towers (tacky!), necklaces, fake purses, more mini glowing eiffel towers. Crêpes were costly, food was expensive.. It was just too much.
Then there was Lyon..
Bri is from Lyon, his family raised him in a little area just East of Lyon and he did his Masters in the city. Lyon , to me, is like what Paris was like in the 1950's.. non pretentious, no swarms of photo clicking foreigners and the gastronomy is to cry over. The best part for me is when I take a stroll down streets and not one menu is translated into English.. here the whole 'translating everything' fad has not caught on. Better yet, the laziness of the city. No rush to work or get through the day in a Westernized way.. in Lyon we have 'la vie tranquille' and we enjoy every minute of it.
I sort of am hesitant to glorify the city so much, the last thing I want is tourists catching the train and high tailing to me city.. but for living in France Lyon is so much better..
Sigh. I am going to stroll to a bouchon, hike to Fourvière and enjoy.
a+
In the hearts of every Francophile lies the need to explore this country.. sadly when talking about France the first thing that pops into mind is Paris. La jolie ville de Paris (the beautiful city of Paris). I personally don't really like Paris.. I went in the summer of 2009 with Bri. It was a beautiful time, sunny and warm.. I loved the museums, I loved the gastronomy.. but I truly was not a fan of the hundreds of thousands of tourists swarming around. Every place I went there were groups of tourists.. along with those tourists were groups of people selling 'des souvenirs'. Mini glowing eiffel towers (tacky!), necklaces, fake purses, more mini glowing eiffel towers. Crêpes were costly, food was expensive.. It was just too much.
Then there was Lyon..
Bri is from Lyon, his family raised him in a little area just East of Lyon and he did his Masters in the city. Lyon , to me, is like what Paris was like in the 1950's.. non pretentious, no swarms of photo clicking foreigners and the gastronomy is to cry over. The best part for me is when I take a stroll down streets and not one menu is translated into English.. here the whole 'translating everything' fad has not caught on. Better yet, the laziness of the city. No rush to work or get through the day in a Westernized way.. in Lyon we have 'la vie tranquille' and we enjoy every minute of it.
I sort of am hesitant to glorify the city so much, the last thing I want is tourists catching the train and high tailing to me city.. but for living in France Lyon is so much better..
Sigh. I am going to stroll to a bouchon, hike to Fourvière and enjoy.
a+
Saturday, January 1, 2011
First Post in 2011
Last night I was feeling sentimental about all the things that have happened to me in the last 6 months; how time goes quickly, how happy I am, obviously I'm over the culture shock. 2011 is going to be a good year because finally, my degree is completed, I'll be continuing into a Master's program, getting my Visa renewed (hope) and I have a huge list of things to accomplish.
Bro goes home in about 5 days; less than a week. His stay was mostly good, sometimes not so good- he got into an interesting habit of staying up all night and sleeping all day; presumably in preparation for the States... it'll reduce jetlag, I guess.
This year of posts I'd like to try and offer all of you the opportunity to learn more about being an expatriate in France. Review and post more marche information, test new foods and describe their tastes, share more on my own personal daily life.
For those of you who have a dream to come to France, it's possible. School in France is much cheaper than in America and it's just a matter of doing the hard work of getting the paperwork in. You don't have to spend 20,000 dollars a year getting here on an exchange... I finished my degree and came here on a student visa through the CIEF, but will stay through a Master's degree visa.
Today is a day like any other, except now every time I write the date I'll have to remember the '2011'. It's a year that I expect will be full of challenges, let downs, surprises and happy memories.
Happy 2011, and here's to lookin' at the rest of the year. *chine*
a+
Bro goes home in about 5 days; less than a week. His stay was mostly good, sometimes not so good- he got into an interesting habit of staying up all night and sleeping all day; presumably in preparation for the States... it'll reduce jetlag, I guess.
This year of posts I'd like to try and offer all of you the opportunity to learn more about being an expatriate in France. Review and post more marche information, test new foods and describe their tastes, share more on my own personal daily life.
For those of you who have a dream to come to France, it's possible. School in France is much cheaper than in America and it's just a matter of doing the hard work of getting the paperwork in. You don't have to spend 20,000 dollars a year getting here on an exchange... I finished my degree and came here on a student visa through the CIEF, but will stay through a Master's degree visa.
Today is a day like any other, except now every time I write the date I'll have to remember the '2011'. It's a year that I expect will be full of challenges, let downs, surprises and happy memories.
Happy 2011, and here's to lookin' at the rest of the year. *chine*
a+
Friday, December 31, 2010
Last Post in 2010
It's been a long year in 2010. Well, I would say that except things have passed by so fast I haven't even seen the year past. Just one year ago I was with Brian and his family enjoying the end of 2010.. glasses of champagne were raised, we ate an amazing meal and then.. in a sad way.. we separated in January to do a long distance relationship for 6 more months.
During the first half of 2010 I was constantly wrapped up in my studies, getting A's and putting in the back of the mind the fact I would be leaving in June to live in France.
Time flew, tears flew, another airport trip and the horrible 12 hour flight and I was in the arms of France herself. Summertime was a mess of apartment hunting and minor discoveries; a trip to Spain with the family left me about 10 pounds heavier and happy as ever.
School started and I realized French was a force to reckon with, I fell on the Velo'v and totally busted up my knee. The knee was destroyed during my birthday, I turned 23 years old, I had a dinner party, I had another party, Brian turned 23.
My French family invited me for a Thanksgiving celebration, I decided not to make pumpkin pie because when I described it in French the resulted look was disgust. I welcomed my baby brother to France; had a beautiful Christmas, had a crazy experience in Amsterdam; received my first Le Creuset.. and french parfum.
It was a beautiful year and I welcome 2011 in France, my new life, my new city. I love it here and I'll always consider both Portland and Lyon my homes.
I have great expectations for the new year.. and I am excited. Here are some of my favorite memories/posts in 2010:
4 Days in France
My First Marche Experiences
Suddenly Two Months Passed
Amazing Discovery of French Food Prices
23.. Messed up Knee
Got involved in a Riot
Baby Speaking Adventures
Christmas in France
My Resolutions
It was a beautiful year. I look forward to another wonderful year in France in 2011.
HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!
See you in 2011!
a+
During the first half of 2010 I was constantly wrapped up in my studies, getting A's and putting in the back of the mind the fact I would be leaving in June to live in France.
Time flew, tears flew, another airport trip and the horrible 12 hour flight and I was in the arms of France herself. Summertime was a mess of apartment hunting and minor discoveries; a trip to Spain with the family left me about 10 pounds heavier and happy as ever.
School started and I realized French was a force to reckon with, I fell on the Velo'v and totally busted up my knee. The knee was destroyed during my birthday, I turned 23 years old, I had a dinner party, I had another party, Brian turned 23.
My French family invited me for a Thanksgiving celebration, I decided not to make pumpkin pie because when I described it in French the resulted look was disgust. I welcomed my baby brother to France; had a beautiful Christmas, had a crazy experience in Amsterdam; received my first Le Creuset.. and french parfum.
It was a beautiful year and I welcome 2011 in France, my new life, my new city. I love it here and I'll always consider both Portland and Lyon my homes.
I have great expectations for the new year.. and I am excited. Here are some of my favorite memories/posts in 2010:
4 Days in France
My First Marche Experiences
Suddenly Two Months Passed
Amazing Discovery of French Food Prices
23.. Messed up Knee
Got involved in a Riot
Baby Speaking Adventures
Christmas in France
My Resolutions
It was a beautiful year. I look forward to another wonderful year in France in 2011.
HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!
See you in 2011!
a+
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