pictures at a later time

I’m back! From Spain! And I loved it. I love Spain. Why have I never eaten at Don Quioxote, the only Spanish restaurant in Indiana? I don’t know. Add that to my list of life mistakes that will now be taken back.

I don’t even know where to start! But I guess the beginning is a good place? Well before I even went to Spain, I took a quick trip to Grenoble to visit my friend Erica. I couldn’t stop looking at the Alps. I just kept thinking to myself, “These are the Alps! The most famous mountains in the world! The Von Trapp children crossed them!” I’m such a sucker for singing Austrian children. Yeah so most of my Grenoble trip involved me staring at the Alps and talking incessantly to Erica. It was worth it.

And then I went to Spain. I’ll try recount some highlights, even though the entire trip was like one big block of time highlighted by a highlighter. Aka it was all fabulous. I had planned to fly into Sevilla with my friend Marcus. So I get to the Angers train station early Wednesday morning... no Marcus. I assume... he’s on his way. I get on the train. I continue to assume he’s on his way. At the Paris train station, on the metro, outside the airport, standing in line for security... I keep hoping he’s just about to show up. Finally, at the airport, I receive a text message from him that says, “Just wolf up now!” At first I thought that was some kind of motivational message... like “Be tough, little wolf!” or something... but then I figured out he meant to write “Just woke up now!” So Marcus missed the flight, and Lisa descended into Spain, alone and terrified. For some reason, despite the fact I was flying out of France, everything was in Spanish, and my entire plane was full of Spanish (and non-French, non-English speaking) people. At one point, the woman next to me said something and walked away, handing me her Spanish baby. I don’t know how that happened.

But it’s not like Marcus was a help when he showed up either. For example, during one of our train rides, some Spanish lady came up to me and started waving her hands and yelling. I thought she was excited to sit by me, so I smiled and nodded. She kept yelling, the conductor got involved, and Marcus just sat and laughed. Apparently, my Spanish lady friend was yelling at me to get out of her seat and making derogatory remarks about how I couldn’t speak Spanish. And I was just being all friendly and happy. And Marcus was just laughing, that Spanish speaking bastard. In the end, her tirade was completely unfounded because it was my seat. Apparently she came back and told me “we were cool,” but once again, I never knew there had been a problem.

We started off our trip in Sevilla, during the Feria de Sevilla. So every woman in town was wearing her best flamenco dress... it was awesome, they were all so gorgeous. I really wanted to by my own, but they were 500 euro, so I just bought a flower and put it in my hair. At night, boys would ride around the town on horses, carrying their chosen senoritas to the fair. Bahhh it was so cool. One night we went to the Feria and ended up dancing with three random Spanish women. My friends Marcus and Greg left for a minute, leaving me with the women... they only spoke Spanish, save for one who knew a little English. We’re just dancing when all of a sudden they just start sprinting away, leaving me alone and confused. Then they ran back and dragged me away from the tent, yelling a little hysterically in Spanish. Eventually, the English-y one managed to explain that a knife fight had erupted close to where we were dancing, which apparently happens a lot, and sometimes people die, and if they don’t die, there is a lot of blood. So the Feria of Sevilla also has a dark side.

After Sevilla, we went to Malaga, the home of Picasso and a large, warm beach. We met a lot of French people in our hostel, and one night, they asked if we wanted to go to a bar someone had recommended to them. So we get to the bar – it is in a back alley, has no windows, and a bright, red door. That part is telling. We get inside, and its a completely Spanish bar... it seemed pretty exclusive, and we definitely stuck out, being a huge group of French-American peoples. But after awhile we talked to people, it was good. I met this Brazillian man who enjoys surfing in Thailand and teaching capeoira, and then some lady like parted the crowd to address me. She spoke a little English, but didn’t seem very confident in it, and she kind of shakily asked if I was American. I said yes and she started talking about the Spanish Republica, and how today was the anniversary of the Spanish republica, and Spain should return to communism, and then she gave me the flag of the Republica, which has purple on the bottom instead of red, and asked me to tell everyone in America that Spain should become a communist state. SO THAT WAS COOL!!! And now I have a free Spanish communist flag. The Brazillian man laughed and told me to keep the flag in my purse or I might run into trouble on the Spanish streets. So I did. So I guess we were in a communist bar.

After Malaga, I decided to embark on a short, solo trip to Barcelona. Everyone had told me to go there, and my friend Beth was passing through the next day for about 12 hours, so I thought, what the hell! I’ll go to Barcelona, I have a rail pass. So I did. And I LOVED it. The first night, I met some random cool people in my hostel and hung out with them... and since I’d never really met many people from Portugal, Argentina, or Scotland, they all single-handedly made me have high opinions of those countries. I also decided I’m going to South America. But the next day, I got up early and decided to walk to this big park in Barcelona, Mont Juic. So I did, it was really far away, but it was lovely. And I randomly visited this museum about ethnic cultures of the world. Ha, I forgot about that until just now. Then I tried to find the Castle, or “castillon” as I discovered when I tried asking for directions, and ended up freaking climbing a mountain without knowing where I was going. Luckily it was the right way. And at the top, I found the castle, and the coastline, and the ocean, and an amazing view of the city and the mountains and the water. I took a nap at the top. It was nice.

Beth came later that night, and we did the hang out with random kids at the hostel thing again, which I love. We had an adventure getting lost in the city, but we were with about 12 people so it wasn’t necessarily dangerous. We had a lot of adventures that night, and that morning, because Barcelona is the city that never sleeps. So I didn’t really sleep that night. Which is a mistake for me, but oh well.

So we finished off our trip in Madrid, even Barcelona had pretty much taken all of my energy. My friend Rachel and I visited Toledo, because I mean, it’s right there! And that’s where the Notre Dame kids study, so we had our own personal tour guide. I loved Toledo too. It’s a city built inside a wall, and it was gorgeous, and hilly, with little crooked streets. And plus, we took this little tour tram, with an automated recording to explain the sites in British-English. I love Spanish history. Like, “This is the bridge of the decapitated lovers! There once was an Arab princess who fell in love with a Spanish prince, but the king condemned their love. They were decapitated in this very spot!” or “This is the bridge of the baths! Everyone takes baths here. Another Arab princess took her last bath here, when she jumped off of the bridge in order to kill herself.” It’s ridiculous to hear translated Spanish folklore with a British accent. I loved it.

We managed to go to Kapital (with a K!) one night in Madrid, which is this giant, 7-story club... it has a movie theater, a lounge floor, a salsa floor (my favorite, obviously), an “American music” floor (ha), and various other floors. Namely a techno floor with a machine that BLASTS people with cold fog about every 7 minutes, but who can tell when it will hit when there’s a strobe light going and people are raving around you. I didn’t really like that floor. Fricking fog machine. Scared the crap out of me every time it went off. Blinded me for the 10 seconds it would blast. But on the whole, the club was very cool, and when it was all over, Danny and I made a friend who gave us free water.

My last night in Madrid, with the fatigue of 10 days and especially the previous night on my shoulders, I hung out with my friend Jon, who is studying in Madrid. Unfortunately, I was pretty lame and just wanted to sleep... but Jon still made me dinner and entertained me until I passed out. We visited a Picasso exhibit too, which was good – because I had skipped the Picasso museum in Malaga, and the one in Barcelona, and I never saw the one in Paris, and Picasso... he just seems so Spanish. So I’m glad I got to do that before the vacation was over. Picasso was crazy. I love him.

So, in conclusion, I loved Spain. There were orange trees and flowers, people wore bright colors and talked loudly in the streets, there was good music. I love the way of love I had a chance to embrace, namely staying out until about 3 or 4, getting up for to a hoard my daily free hostel breakfast at about 9, going back to sleep, getting up to do something at about noon, returning for the country-wide mandatory siesta from about 4-8, having a late dinner, then going out again and starting all over. It was a good and much needed vacation. Thank you Spain. Thank you.

March march march

Bahhh I return!

So it has been a crazy couple of weeks, marred mostly by the fact that I’ve been sick as a dog. Currently, I still don’t feel all that great, which is ridiculous given the amount of drugs the French doctor gave me. Going to the doctor was quite a cultural experience, by the way. Literally, all I did was call and make an appointment (this entailed spelling my first and last name), show up and tell them I had arrived, have the doctor look up my nose and in my ears, get a prescription and pay him on the spot. There were no papers to sign, nothing to fill out, no questions really. It was almost bad actually, because I completely forgot to tell the doctor that about my medical allergies. And he ended up prescribing a potentially deadly medication to me. Luckily, I know how to read the word cephalosporin on a box, so I remain alive.

But consequently, I haven’t done a whole lot lately because of this worst sinus infection in the history of mankind. But I still have managed to live my life, which is good. A few weekends ago, my friend Scott offered me a ticket to a Gypsy jazz cabaret. I was ecstatic because 1) gypsies!!!!!!! 2) jazz is cool, and 3) whenever I hear the word cabaret, I think of that musical with Liza Minelli, and I thought of tasteful burlesque. So I was excited about this jazzy, tasteful burlesque show with gypsies. But when Scott and I arrived at the “theater”... we found it was actually more like a Church auditorium. Full of families. And for some reason, the walls were decorated with paper cut-outs of porcupines... and horses... pulling mobile homes. I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND.



But it gets better. Because the concert actually turned out to be traditional Jewish music, which I guess does fit the bill of Gypsy Jazz Cabaret, it just wasn’t what I expected at all. In the end, we had a good time, and even got up to do some traditional Jewish dances with some crazy old woman. I felt like I was seeing the real France. You know, the one with families going to neighborhood Jewish concerts on a Friday night. HOLLA.




There was a lot of drama in Angers that week because it was the week of the mayoral election. Angers has had the same mayor for like a billion (or I don’t know, 10-15) years, but this year, there was a staunch challenger: Christopher Bechu. Who, in my opinion, somewhat ressembles Colin Firth. Also, my friend Kelly lives with his parents here in Angers... they’re her host family. So basically, Kelly is the fake French sister to this guy challenging the Angers mayor (Antonini). I had some good talks with my French family before the election, mostly about how politics is about secret voting and not letting other people know who you’re voting for. I suspected my host mom was a Bechu fan when she excitedly showed me her “Choisir l’avenir! *BECHU*” Livestrong bracelet one day, but she dismissed my assumptions with a non-chalant gesture of, “If it’s Antonini... then it’s Antonini.” She really got me thinking, because I’ve been pretty obsessed with the American election. Politics isn’t competition! It’s about doing what the majority of people wants! So if someone wins that I don’t necessarily support, maybe it’s just like she says: it is just is, and I have to respect that. Then again, I think France is different, because I trust the French to make informed political judgments. I don’t necessarily feel the same about American voters. Stupids.

ANYWAY. I was wrong about my family not being emotional, because Bechu lost (50.4 to 49.6%... RIDIC!) and they were visibly upset. I don’t know what happened to the theory of “If it’s Antonini, it’s Antonini,” but I didn’t see any evidence of it. We were all hoping that maybe if there was a new mayor in time, we could get better night buses running through this town before we left. Quel dommage!

I went to Rome too. For Easter. I have a lot of feelings about that trip. Not all of them are positive, but it’s okay. I got to see a lot of my friends there, which was cool, because Notre Dame sponsored a trip for students studying abroad in Europe. So there were kids from London, Ireland, Spain, and Italy too, all in one place. But it rained. The whole time. And I was sick. I was really freaking sick. It just kept raining. I didn’t have an umbrella. I was really excited to tour the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel... but when I woke up Saturday morning, all of my clothes were still wet from the night before, and, obvi, it was still effing RAINING, and I just thought to myself: “Lisa, you are already sick. Do you really think it’s a good idea to put on your wet clothes, and wear them for at least 18 hours, in the rain? Choose health, Lisa. Choose health.” In hindsight, this was the STUPIDEST decision of my life, because a) I didn’t see the SISTINE CHAPEL and b) I still got sick anyway, so it didn’t even matter. I have a lot of emotions about Rome. I’m trying to work through them. I saw the Pope though! And then a few nights later, I had a dream that I had a baby (a dream!) and the Pope wanted to use him as the symbolic baby Jesus for Christmas mass. I don’t know what that was about.



[the Colosseum]




[the Pope! during Easter Sunday mass]




[ it was so rainy.]


Yesterday I had the delightful opportunity to visit the most celebrated site in Angers. Have I not mentioned what this town is famous for yet? Oh my. I can’t believe I’ve neglected this!

ANGERS HAS THE LARGEST COLLECTION OF APOLYPTIC TAPESTRIES... IN THE WORLD!

Yes, it’s true. This town not only has a chateau, and not only are there tapestries in the chateau, but they are apocalyptic tapestries. Illustrating the Book of the Apocalypse. Before viewing the tapestries, I had the chance to watch an informative video about them, which was mostly film of the tapestries over some really scary organ music. When I entered the hall of the tapestries, it was freaky as shit, yo. There were no windows and it was all dark. And I was the only one in there. Tapestries, man.



[the view of the Angers castle from across the river]



[apocalyptic tapestry]



[view from inside the castle grounds]

In other news,
1. I’m very excited to be going to Spain for Spring Break!
2. I’m very excited to be going to visit the one and only Miss Erica Johnson very soon!
3. I got accredited for a pass to the Cannes Film Festival... so I’ll get to go backstage for a whole bunch of the events with film industry people, journalists, and some other students! This will fabulous.
4. I learned how to make creme brulee! Did you know they have special machines just for burning the sugar on creme brulee? They’re like blowtorches for French housewives. They’re crazy. You can get them at kitchen supply stores, and I totally would, except I think it’d get yoinked by customs.
5. I found a really cool French radio station, complete with cool programs like “Dread n Sky: rap francais”, “Fonkadelica: funk soul acid jazz”, “Resistencia!: punk et contre culture,” and “Boom Tchak: experiences electroniques.” So that’s been fun.
6. I’ve been to a few dance performances. The first was a feminist-themed show... it followed three girls through the process of going out for the night. It actually reminded me a lot of the talks we get about the Notre Dame hook-up culture. The dance followed the girls through getting ready, getting drunk, dancing, and then, of course, the disappointment and regret that followed. It was actually really cool. Then I saw this American troupe re-interpret pieces from the Alwin Niklaus company last night, and that was awesome. One cultural tidbit about the French: they love to applaud. Seriously, both shows, it was like a 10 minute cheer.
7. Oh yeah, I went to a futbol game too! That’s european for soccer. On my way out, I saw an unruly fan being clubbed by a police officer. Those crazy French fans! Could have been worse. Could have been a taser.


Usually on Sundays, my host mom makes a big lunch for all of this... but then again, she and my host dad didn’t come home until 6:30am this morning, so I don’t know if we’re eating. Those crazy kids. So yes, I’m sorry I haven’t written in a while, I just have been under the weather. Keep me updated on your lives, I’m going to go take a nap. A toute a l’heure!

PARIS

Paris... what is it even... the city of love? Lights? Some may say it’s tragic that I have absolutely no idea. But then again, I now know Paris by something more than stereotypes. I have now experienced Paris... as a real, living person.

Ahh!

So last weekend, Gloria, Danny, and I embarked on Paris. Riding the TGV on the way there was exciting in itself, since we sat by two sets of grandkids with their grandmothers. We talked with the kids about their families, their hopes, their dreams... one wanted to be a plumber, the other one liked to read science fiction, and the little girl was learning the alphabet. At the end, one of the little boys took down my phone number in his fake palm pilot. So I have that going for me. Their grandma also gave me a whole bunch of pastries, which was sweeeeeeet!

Danny, Gloria, and I had decided we wanted to be adventurous in Paris. Since it was a somewhat spontaneous trip, we decided not to book a hostel for Friday night. We decided that we’d depend on the spontaneous generosity of others (we all had a few far-fetched connections in Paris) or on our own spontaneous ingenuity and stamina. In the end, we had to settle for the lesser... and we simply stayed up all night, moving from bars to clubs to fast food restaurants to the Eiffel Tower until the morning, when we could check into our hostel for Saturday. It was cool to go the Eiffel Tower at like 6 in the morning, because absolutely no one else was there. But throughout the course of the night, we managed to meet up with some random French men who bought us wine and showed us around the city, and I know what that sounds like, but it wasn’t like that. They were just really nice people. And they spoke French to us. Which, in my opinion, is maybe a compliment, or more typically, just the mark of a nice person in a city where most people speak English and pretend like they can’t understand our anglo-phone accented French.

One of my favorite stops of the night was at Quick Burger on the Champs-
Elysees. We stopped by when they opened, at 4am, and it was a zoo. I like to think of it as the Reckers of the Champs-Elysees. It was just a whole bunch of exhausted, drunk 20-somethings shoving burgers in their faces when the clubs closed. BUT IT WAS IN PARIS ON THE MOST FAMOUS STREET IN THE WORLD! I just kept wondering to myself... who ARE these people?! Like... who is that guy, wearing cowboy chaps over his white pants? Who is he? Why is he here? Then I went to the bathroom and there was randomly a man in there, just like washing his hands? I was like whaaaaat is going on in this place? Another typical convo:

Moroccan man: American girl! You’re an American girl! Where you from?
Me: ... America.
Moroccan man: You study at school?
Me: I go to the University of Notre Dame. It’s kind of near Chicago.
Moroccan man: Ohhh yesss! I know your school! Great school! Wonderful school, well-known!
Me: Really?
Moroccan Man: NO! Hahahhahahaha! (throws up all over his tray)

So those of you familiar with late night college restaurants may see some similarities.

The next day we visited Montmartre and Sacre Coeur, and then went to this park in the middle of Paris’ version of Chinatown. It was called Belleville and it was fantastic... we had a view of all of Paris, but then there were lots of people just playing their guitars and playing soccer and lots of families with little children there, and Danny and I just ate our bread and cheese and felt French. That night we met up with some kids visiting from London and did our best to show them around (even though, who was I kidding, this was my first time in Paris too...). We ended up in Marais, the gay Jewish neighborhood, dancing until the wee hours, again.

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Throughout our time in France, Gloria and I have started a makeshift list of how French men will hit on you. Many of these theories were reinforced over the weekend.

1. A French man will compliment your shoes.
This first happened to me outside a movie theater. I had rode my bike, but when I arrived outside the theater, I wanted to change back into my cool silver pumps. As I was doing this, some man, while talking on his phone, starts pointing at my shoes, and saying, “Bon. Bon. Oui.” and smiling at me. He then continued his phone call.

2. A French man will compliment the man you’re walking next to.
Gloria discovered this gem as she was meandering through a flea market with Goodrich. Some man came up and started nudging Matt while stealthily motioning toward Gloria, saying, “Ouiii, bonne, bonne!” It didn’t take long for everyone to figure out he was complimenting Matt on snagging a hot chick like Gloria. Without ever saying anything to Gloria herself.

3. A French man will blatantly lie and say you have a great accent.
I am an atrocious speaker. I know this from the many blank stares I get when I talk to French people in normal situations. It’s okay. I have an occasional speech impediment in English, and I’m not ashamed to say I have a perpetual one in French. But sometimes, usually late at night, at a bar, men will suddenly call my accent perfect, and say they can’t even tell I’m from America! This makes me feel wonderful! Until I think about it for a second and realize they are lying. Blatantly.

In one amazing moment in the Paris club, all three of the theories collided in one smitten man. I was dancing with my friend Roakley, and some dude shows up and starts pointing at my shoes. He then smiles, and points at my shoes, and nods vigorously. He likes my shoes. CHECK. Then, in one fluid movement, he motions to Roakley, and starts raising his eyebrows, giving the thumbs up, and motioning toward me. What a great catch you have there Roakley! Oh, ma’am, you have great shoes! Yeah buddy. I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GETTING AT. And the kicker was when he tried to talk to me later and told me he couldn’t hear my accent at all. I protested, saying he couldn’t hear anything I was saying at all, because we were in a club, with loud thumping music. I had to admire that French man. He pulled out all of our documented stops.

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I ended my trip to Paris by visiting the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsee on Sunday... I started off in the Louvre, and wandered through the Roman emperors and Greek gods, let myself get all nostalgic and PLS-y by taking pictures of Emperor Claudius, things like that. Somewhere along the way, I came across an impressionist painting though, and right then and there, I decided I had to leave, and immediately go to the Musee d’Orsee. So I did. I didn’t even see the Mona Lisa, but I’m okay with that. All of the Renoirs and Degas in the Musee d’Orsee were worth it.

So now I’m back in Angers, having a lazy Sunday... I’ve been a little sick this week, and no matter how much I sleep, I just seem to keep coughing and hacking up my lungs. Hopefully it passes soon, maybe when it starts getting warmer again. I hope everyone had fabulous spring breaks or just normal weeks, if you weren’t on spring break.

In four parts, France

I will now discuss, in four parts, France.




French Meals:



[... about to eat a delicious French meal that we helped make ourselves.]

Are delicious. When I eat them whole. Actually, even when I don’t have a complete meal, I’m happy because I’m eating forms of bread, cheese, and sugar. I think many of you can vouch for times my cravings for “hot cheese,” “bread,” and cookies. So I love it here. The French don’t have calories. They measure everything in energy. Which is the same as a calorie, but with a complete different connotation, no? Since my classes are on the 5th floor of a building and I usually take the stairs, a French diet is completely justified.

A typical day....
Petit dejeuner (breakfast) – bread with apricot jam, yogurt, a clementine, or a croissant with chocolate. While there is some milk and cereal available, I’ve decided to forgo my addiction for the more traditional French breakfast experience.

Dejeuner – Sometimes I pack myself a sandwich au jambon (ham) or head over to the university restaurant, where you can get things like couscous, steaks (aka hamburgers), some fruit, and a dessert for 2,80 euro. It’s not exactly ND, but it’s also not bad at all. Sometimes I go somewhere and buy a monstrous sandwich and finish it off for dinner.

Diner – About three times a week I eat with my family, and that’s when I get spoiled by bread, multiple courses including soups, meats, cheeses, and always desserts. The best was a meal of pasta, smoked trout, and a cheese sauce the other night... amazing. Other times I scrounge for bread, cheese, and any combination of foods I can pick up at the Petit Casino market by our school.

Sometimes, when my host family feeds me, it just never ends. Which is good. But just so overwhelming. The night before they left for vacation, we had a nice dinner of sausage, rice, and vegetable soup. There was a ton of food – and then they brought out the lasagna. I declined, politely. Then they brought out the cheese. Then they brought out yogurt. Then they brought out the mousse. Then they brought out the applesauce. Then they offered me a pastry. I was like, dear God it never ends! I eventually figured they must be trying to clean out their refrigerator before vacation. I mentioned this. They laughed at me and said that wasn’t a concern. They just... wanted to feed me.

On a related note, the other night my host mom asked me if I preferred pasta or potatoes. I told her I didn’t know... and then somehow segued into how an Irish meal is meat and potatoes. She somewhat, but completely seriously, freaked out and claimed meat and potatoes is and always will be a French meal. My host dad nodded vigorously and kept eating. So the French have claimed meat and potatoes. I didn’t try to argue.

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French music, television, and movies:


[... this is how one dances to French music at a French discothequa]


My room came equipped with a radio, which I was pretty stoked about. But unfortunately, the grand majority of French radio stations play American songs... I don’t know how many more times I can hear “Apologize,” “No One,” or that song about boots wit da fur without throwing myself out my screenless window. I mean, I was getting sick of these songs in America. My host sister seems to share my confusion about Timbaland and how he gets credit for songs when he merely grunts in the background (see JT, Nelly Furtado, One Republic, etc.). It’s good to know that he can’t dupe the French either. I occasionally figure out how to turn on the TV... which has about 20 music video channels, and much more French. Those are good times.

One guilty pleasure I’ve indulged in is Star Academy, the French love child of American Idol and Big Brother. I hate both of those shows in America, but when I watch this French show, it’s a cultural experience. The finale is on right now as I type... and I don’t know if Mathieu or Quentin is going to win!!! French TV is cool because they just put all of the commercials at the end. HOLLA.

I haven’t watched many movies here yet, though I did go to see Juno the other day, in English with French subtitles. It was really sad because the movie is distinctly American – tons of pop culture references, slang, etc. I was reading the subtitles and it just didn’t translate at all. I don’t know if the French got to truly enjoy it.

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And, of course, a little story:


[... this is me searching for a new perspective on life after conversing with the Belgian man]


Here is a conversation I had the opportunity to partake/listen in the other night at the pizzeria. A jolly Belgian man found out we were American, and since he had visited America, he wanted to share his experience with us. And of course, practice his English.

Belgian Man: You know the state... the state of the potatoes?
Everyone: Idaho?
Belgian: Yes! Idaho! You know Idaho? I go to Idaho all the time!
(blank stares... sad shaking of heads because no one knows anything about Idaho)
B: Well it’s o-kay! I love your country very much. I love America. My wife and I, we experience true America! We took... uh, that large, American... the bus, the dog, the bus?
Someone: The Greyhound?
B: Yes! The greyhound! We take it from Los Angeles all the way to New York!
(everyone murmurs their amazement)
B: Wonderful. It was wonderful. Long trip. But real American people. We went to Jackson Mississippi! And let me tell you, the closer we come to Washington D.C. from Jackson Mississippi, the more of the black people get on the bus!
(we shift a little uncomfortably)
B: No, it’s true! By the end, my wife and I were the only whites on the bus! So many black people. (he stops and addresses Gloria) And I know you are one of them. One of the black people. And I – I do not care! That is fine, that is o-kay! I just tell my story with the facts like it happened to me!
Gloria: Hmm. Yes.
B: Anyway! There were many babies on the bus. Many – how do you say? Priestes? Preachers! And they point at all the babies and say, “This baby it comes from God!” And I just think to myself, “Oh, boff, oh...” (he rolls his eyes). One preacher, he sits by me, and I’m drinking my bottle of water, and he points at it and he says, “That water! That water is the water of God!” And I just say to him, “Oh shit” (he rolls his eyes again and starts laughing hysterically). You know?!?
(we nod or something)
B: But let me tell you. Washington D.C. We get off the bus. And there are all the black people, with their radios on their arms, and they’re dancing....

*At this point, I went to the bathroom. When I came back, he was handing Gloria his business card and saying we could stay with him whenever we’re in Belgium. Which we fully intend to do. Kidding, Mom. Ahh. I love a good race relations debate with a Belgian.

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List of French things I’ve done so far:


[... this is Mont St. Michel... a gorgeous fortress/Church built on a mountain island... some may call it Catholic Disneyland]

1. Joined my family on a picnic in the countryside... which turned out to also include a 12km hike. I don’t know if hike is a cultural connotation of picnic, but... it definitely happened. Mad props to my host family though. They have a grand kid. And they went on this hike. If this is what French people do on the weekends, no wonder they can live on bread and cheese.
2. Shopped at the outdoor Saturday morning market... I got a deliciousss crepe, some pears, and bread. And one guy gave me a free fig! Probably because he could tell French is not my native language and he felt sorry for me. But I’ll take it!
3. Made a French dinner. I actually only cut some pork and apples... but the end product was delicious. I felt French doing it at least.
4. Gone to a French basketball game... this was cool, because basketball isn’t as big here. But we didn’t let that lessen our enthusiasm for the game. We started a whole bunch of cheers, and the TV guy loved us. We still lost. Eh.
5. Danced until 4am at the discothequa. It’s a very European thing to do. I had just perfected the soulja boy dance before we left, so we all got to show that off at the club. Which was SWEET! I also did a freestyle dance to Apologize on the stage. That may be deja vu for some of you. Or a lot of you.
6. Really embarassing: I went into the phone store to argue that paying 25 euro had only given me 16 minutes of calls (which was the number I saw logged on my phone). After I went in and tried to communicate my point for like 20 minutes, I realized the 16 I saw was actually 16 hours, aka the phone I’m using has made 16 hours of calls during its lifetime (I’m renting it). Also, when they searched my records they found a 40 minute call to Grenoble on February 13. Erica. Oops.
7. I started French drama club the other day. Improv is a lot harder when you don’t speak the language. I find myself resorting to physical humor. A lot.
8. And this weekend, I’m going to Mont St. Michel and the tryoglycides (?)... which has a whole bunch of houses built in caves. It’s a lot for one weekend, but I really wanted to see both. So I’m excited to see a little more of France!

I hope this can suffice for a little while.

Love you all but hate the computer,
Lisa

fotografias

This is the castle in my town!



This is the view from the entry way in my house!



This is me with my family... the girl with us isn't my host sister, but another exchange student from Germany. We look tired because we had just walked 12 km... for a picnic.




This is my school!

The first update, posted 5 days after it was written

Bonjour tout le monde! I’ve only been in France for about three days at this point, but both me and my group have managed to have some crazy encounters. To begin with, our plane was delayed for an hour. My friend Scott and I heard the flight attendants talking in nervous voices about some sort of scary vibrating sound coming from the lavatory (which was, mind you, directly behind me). When one of them said, “I don’t feel comfortable taking off right now,” we got a little worried... after all, as Scott said, “If the flight attendant is scared, I’M SCARED.” After the problem was supposedly fixed, we took off, but then we had the worst turbulence of my life. Everyone else seemed terrified too – the plane was completely silent, each person obviously thinking that the scary vibrating lavatory had doomed us. But it passed, as those evil lavatories are apt to do. And then we came to France!

Not much was different from America in the French aeroport. Except that pop was cheaper than water, coffee cheaper than pop, and wine the cheapest of all. Also, there were security officers roaming around wearing “POLICE” camo and sporting hardcore machine guns. Yes. Large, machine gun-type things strapped to their bodies. Super-cool (say it with a french accent)! Anyway, while we were waiting on this terrace thing in the airport, one of my friends started smoking. All of a sudden, three of the gun-wielding officer guys came up behind her, saying, “Blahblah unintelligible french blah CIGARETTE?” So she turns around and says, “Pardonne?” Then the guy says, in French, smiling, “You like your cigarette?” So Kelly, oblivious to the no-smoking signs surrounding her, replies with, “Oui, c’est bien. Tu le veut?” This basically translates to “Yeah, it’s great... want one?” He didn’t. He made her put it out, while he watched her. But the kicker is that she addressed the policeman with the informal version of you... a casual form used between friends, people of the same age, not police officers. It denotes... a lack of respect. She didn’t realize what she did. We also think she was racially profiled as an American, since about 15 other people were smoking around her, but she was the only one with blonde hair, a lot of luggage, and near a big group of scared kids speaking English – and consequently the only one who had to stop smoking.

So we took a train from Paris to Angers, and when I stepped off, I was immediately attacked by a woman yelling, “Marissa! Marissa!” I laughed and tried to explain that no, my name was Lisa. Not Marissa. She just nodded her head and kept saying “Marissa!” and hugging me. I eventually figured out that her name must be Marissa – I had found my host mother! I was so happy! So she and her husband whisked me away. They were so excited. A few minutes later, Madame Meynard, the director of my program here, called my name, with another woman about the same age in tow. It was... (cue dramatic pause).....my real host mom, Madame Thenie!! And then Madame Thenie attacked the Marissa mom, each claiming that she had a right to the beautiful, amazing yours truly! No, not really. The Marissa people just got really confused, and then so sad. I felt bad. I just kept saying, “I’m sorry, I’m Lisa! I’m so sorry!” They had thought I was Marissa based on this picture they had... I looked at it, and I have to give them credit, because it did look like me. Later I saw them leave with some chick probably named Marissa who didn’t look like me at all, but is apparently as photogenic as me.

So my family is lovely, my real family (in France... I still love my biological family). I live with Madame and Monsieur Thenie and their daughter, Lucie. Lucie’s 18, and I really like her... she’s very animated when she talks, and she’s always singing. Actually, the whole family sings all the time. Maybe it’s a French thing, maybe it’s a Thenie thing, I don’t know. Lucie and I watched Degrassi today. In the house, I have my own room and bathroom. The house is small only by American standards – I’d say it’s perfectly economical and perfectly French. I live in a very nice neighborhood, though it’s pretty far from my school and where most of the other kids live, but I have a bus pass. The family has done such a good job of adjusting their French for me – slowing down and somehow understanding me – that I think it’s given me a false sense of confidence. They seem to understand me much more than everyone else! But that’s good. I talk to them pretty easily.

On my second day in France, I managed to get lost in Angers twice... for a total of about 4 hours. And this can definitely happen when you don’t have a cell phone yet and all of the phone booths only take calling cards. First, my friend Gloria and I had a mix-up with the buses, and ended up sitting in the rain for about an hour. Then when we finally figured it out, we walked in every wrong direction possible until finally finding our destination, completely drenched (we were two and a half hours late... oops). Later that night, we went to a bar (my first bar! my first bar!) where we sang karaoke to “Barbie Girl” by Aqua. That part was fun, but irrelevant to the getting lost part. Afterwards, Laura (my neighbor) and I discovered we’d missed the “late” bus (as a college student, I do not think a bus that leaves at 11:30pm is “late”... that’s when party starts, non?). Luckily, one of the boys volunteered to walk us back, along with some others on the way. After dropping off the first people, we continued on toward our neighborhood. And continued. And continued. And it was a hell of a long way. And then we got lost, and it was after 1am, so no one was even out to ask for directions. I eventually made it home, but man... my hands were so cold that I could barely unlock the door. Then I tried to leave a note for my family, but my hands were so cold that my handwriting was whack. I thought for sure they’d just think I had been drunk and trying to write a note, so I used really good grammar to prove it was cold hands. I’d like to say I learned my way around the city yesterday... but ehhh, I don’t know.

Which brings me to today. Apparently, Tuesday must have wiped me out more than I realized, because I about passed out straight to the floor during one of our meetings today. Now I find it embarassing, but at the time, I thought I was dying. I’ve just never blacked out before – I got all woozy, and then I couldn’t hear anything, and I got all hot, and then I kind of slumped over. My diagnosis? I don’t like thinking about negative health effects on the body. That’s the damn truth. The only time this was ever close to happening before was during a discussion of stress in my freshman health class. Today we were talking about blood alcohol content – and I don’t know. BOOM. Lisa’s down.
They took me into the hall, and all of the school’s French students were staring at me. I had to strip down to my little tank top because I felt really hot, and apparently, I also went completely white, my hair was everywhere. Yeah that’s right. Sexy American, dying in the hallway. My group was really nice about it though. They held me up and stuff.

So this was long, and I’ll bet they’ll always be like this. And to be sure, this is hardly all – I’ve tried to pick some stories you might find entertaining. In between all of this, there has been delicious food, fashion crises, my first Euros, and many, many new experiences. No smoking dogs. YET. Maintenant, I must rest and recover from my fainting spell. My classes start Monday, so hopefully tomorrow I can explore the town a little more! Annoying as it is to not have a computer at my beck and call, I’m kind of enjoying it. Life is very laid-back here. Bises et au revoir (ou au re-ecrire)!

P.S. I read all of the emails you guys sent... it was good to hear from all you, especially on my first day here! I didn’t respond because I usually only have a French keyboard... and the typing is slow, sporadic, and often spontaneously insane.