mon beau sapin // my beautiful christmas tree

Happy new year!

...oh hey, it's also a new decade. How about that.

Many apologies for my long absence. I had friends visiting, and then I was traveling, and then I was run over by a truck, and then...

Just kidding on that last part. But I really was traveling! A monstrous post or two about my adventures in Rome and Venice is forthcoming. I promise.

In any case, I hope that the holidays have been good to you all. And that you spent it happy and warm, surrounded by family and friends.

On that note, did you know that I spent Christmas at a chateau in France?

The crèche. The family is Catholic, so this is pretty traditional, from what I surmise.

Before you get too jealous, though, known that I am still trying to decide whether it would've been more awkward to be the lone American amongst 160 French aristocrats (as I expected), or as the lone stranger amongst my host family's immediate family (what actually happened). The lowest moment of my Christmas séjour might have been when we were discussing Christmas traditions and my host mother mentioned that Christmas is a time that the French typically only spend with their closest, most immediate family members. Cue the awkward music.

And so it was that I spent Noël with Madame, Monsieur, their four children, their children's spouses, and their four grandchildren.

French Christmas trees, even aristocratic ones, are not as big.

Some highlights and lowlights:

1. I wasn't expecting presents, as it was way more than enough that they'd invited me to their chateau and fed me delicious French food for four days. But they got me books! In French, bien sûr. Madame said that it was to help me with my French. On a somewhat related note, I am currently working on A Thousand Splendid Suns // Mille Soleils Splendides in French; I have never read the English version.
2. The entire du P. family is extremely photogenic. Despite the fact that I felt like an ugly duckling 20 out of the 24 hours of the day, I think I spent my days in a dazed stupor, wondering how I was allowed into their company. Holy shit.
3. I ate a lot of good food. A lot. Oysters and beef ragu and foie gras. I think that foie gras might be the first French dish that I do not like. I had such high expectations for it, too! When the time came to eat it, everyone cut these huge pieces and put them on their plate. I, of course, followed suit. Except that it was possibly the richest thing that I have ever put into my mouth, and I had such difficulty swallowing it (no jokes here, please). I know that it was just me, too, since it was an old family recipe and everyone else loved it. But to the Asian in me, it tasted just like pure, unadulterated fat.
4. On a side note, I had the worst tiramisu ever. Someone had made it and added crème de marrons and used langues de chat instead of ladyfingers. As a result, the chestnut flavor was overpowering and there was no discernable pastry anywhere. Oh well.
5. If the chateau didn't make it obvious, then I will say it here: the du. P is extremely rich and blue-blooded. In the running for the Second Most Awkward Moment: everyone, including me, was sitting in the salon, when Madame says the following to her three daughters and one daughter-in-law, "Come to the kitchen. I just took out some old gold pieces that I want to pass on to you." Um.
6. That said, I was very surprised by the level of restraint that I saw. I guess it's because they're old money that they're not very ostentatious? The majority of the gifts were books and things that showed a lot of thought and care and not necessarily costly. I mean, there were the random opera tickets and necklaces, but still. I did notice the consumerism that seems to drive most of America. I'm just generalizing, of course.
   
7. The grandchildren are very well-loved, smart, and well-behaved. In short, not me. The smart and well-behaved part, I mean. This made playing with them so much easier. Not to add that it's much less awkward for me to play with children than to interact with French Strangers That I Don't Really Know But Am Celebrating Noël With Anyway. J. is 6, and she has two little brothers: C. (3), and F. (8 months). There is another grandchild, C. (6 months). And they are all so cute. Soooo cute. I think I am now known as the emergency babysitter, hahahaha.

I didn't take many photos, mainly because it's So Weird to take photos of a place that someone actually lives in. And the fact that Noël, while awesome, was also incredibly awkward for me as a Random Stranger from the States. The chateau is located near Dreux, in Normandy. It has its own postcard. Ask me to show it to you sometime.

That said, this was the view from my window. At the chateau.

To come: posts about New Year's in Paris, adventures in Rome and Venice, and the requisite places to visit should you ever find yourself in Paris.

berce mon coeur // cradle my heart

Your worst disappointments always stem from your greatest expectations. I speak, of course, of Laduree.

Laduree is one of the most famous bakeries in Paris, known especially for their macarons. I haven't been able to confirm it, but I have heard that they provided said delicacies for the movie Marie Antoinette. I suppose that that should've been my first sight--Things That Look Good® tend to taste like shit compared to their more rustic, home-baked cousins.

I went to Laduree for the first time in mid-September, a Madwoman on Mission for Mouthwatering Macarons. You know how some women waffle over which pair of shoes they want to wear? Well, I do that when faced with a choice of pastries, except I'm worse. It took forever, but I eventually decided on the macaron with the caramel au beurre salé. (I am a woman of immense faith, you see, and I was convinced that salted butter caramel could make anything taste better.)

Imagine, then, the sheer despair that overcame me when I bit into that macaron, expecting heaven and being confronted instead with a stale and oversweet monstrosity. I experienced my first true heartbreak that day--even worse than the disappointment I felt upon discovering that Magnolia Bakery in NYC sold dry cupcakes.

But you see, I am a sucker, easily swayed by pretty packaging and whispered promises. And so, a month later, with M. from Princeton's friends visiting, I took the opportunity to go there again. Despite having been burned in the past, I stepped through its green doors with hope in my heart.

Knowing better than to pay 1.50 Euro for a measly pastry the size of a half dollar, I (very logically) gave up an arm and a leg to try out one of their bigger pastries. M. from my university did the same so that the two of us could each sample two different desserts.

I guess I should've known. My pastry came to me in a pretty green box, further protected from the weather by a plastic bag. Upon opening the shiny lid, I was confronted by the comforting sight of chocolate and coffee pastry cream. Eating said pastry (I forget its name)....that was a disappointment. There was a brief moment of clarity where I realized that at least 80% of the 7.60 Euro I paid for the confection went to the Department of Making Shit Look Good.

But I can only be fooled so many times, Laduree. I have some friends visiting soon, and so I will probably be suckered into visiting your establishment again. This time, however, I will be strong and resist your siren's call. I will fortify myself against your sugary charms with a ton of chocolate before venturing into your territory. Never again, Laduree. We are over.



On an unrelated note, a Frenchwoman who is on a perpetual diet asked me for my Chocolate Espresso Torte recipe. I guess that means I win at life?

Up next: Paris as a Tourist Destination, or How T. Will Take the Opportunity to Document and Photograph Touristy Places that She Should've Done the First Time Around

plus légère que l'air // lighter than air

Seeing as it's getting to be exam time for everyone and their mother (except, of course, me), I thought I'd provide you with a little insight to my academic process. Thus, I present you with:

How to Not Fail French University: A Plan

1. For the two classes that I have at la fac, it is necessary to milk my "Je suis une Américaine stupide" status for all that it's worth. In theory, this will get the professors to take pity on me and give me a decent grade. The majority of French kids don't get 15 out of 20, so I don't really understand how my university thinks that making a 15/20 an A constitutes as a proper scale.*
2. For my French class, suck up to Madame K. and do extra exercises to make up for my disastrous attempts at la grammaire française and the fact that I have never seen half of this grammar before.**
3. Give up my France & Europe class as a lost cause and rely on my Cultures, Institutions, & Mentalités Politiques grades to cancel it out. This might actually be possible thanks to Monsieur R.'s generosity. As for Madame G., I have no hope of her ever getting over her narrowminded viewpoint that understanding the big ideas are not as good as regurgitating shit verbatim.

*Writing my papers might also be a good idea.
**By sucking up, I really mean, "Maybe talk in class once in a while."

There is much less required work involved in the French university system. At the same time, it is just as hard, if not harder (and not just due to the whole language barrier). It's incredibly different from the expectations that we have as American students. For example, French kids aren't expected to create a thesis in their papers and defend it--they're actually not supposed to. More often than not, they end their papers having talked about three different possibilities, without knowing what the "right" answer is.

What I mean to say is that I still have no significant free time. Just lots of dead periods. And I've been incredibly bad about filling up said dead periods with French instead of English.

Basically, I'm just a failure. At French, I mean. Sob.

qu'on oublie pas // that one doesn't forget

In the past couple of weeks, I have learned the following:

• Paris is expensive, but London is even more so (I still love it anyway)
• Frenchmen have pissing contests by trying to one-up one another regarding the number of bedrooms that they have at their family chateau. Case in point: my host dad vs. his brother-in-law
• I am a tease (?)
• the French don't do Thanksgiving. In fact, your American-based university program will make sure that you have classes until 7:30 p.m. the day of
• the French suck at bowling. I mean, they really suck.
• I've developed this rather (un)fortunate addiction to mango sorbets and coffee ice-cream that actually tastes like coffee
• somewhat related to the point above, I eat like shit here because I don't drink nearly enough water
• French dolls are anatomically correct. My 3-year-old charge has a baby boy doll complete with all the relevant plumbing
• French kids have no prolem pooping and peeing in front of each other. This might explain why grown-up Frenchmen have no problem whipping out their willies in broad daylight to pee onto incoming traffic

The point is that all these random bits of knowledge, unsavory or no, would not be possible if I were not studying in Paris. This post is a day late (my bad.), but I am quite thankful for this rather eye-opening experience.

I am thankful for you, too. But you already knew that.

fais-moi revivre encore // make me alive again

Last Thursday, I had the (mis)fortune of:

• having to hand in a 10-page explication du texte on the Great Depression (in French!)
• taking a 2.5 hour midterm (passer un partiel, as they say) where I wrote a plan de dissertation on the powers of le Président de la République and a commentaire on the discourse of Robert Badinter
• knowing that I had an impending examen on the following Monday morning

Obviously, I needed a break before tackling said examen on the illustrious Charles de Gaulle and the not-as-well-known Georges Pompidou. Logically, the best course of action was to pick up and go to London for the weekend.

En fait, I'd bought my tickets on Tuesday night--two full days before the paper and the exam. In light of this disclosure, I admit that the trip was obviously not as spontaneous as I'd led you to believe. My apologies.

Anyhow, D. and I left Paris on Friday morning, departing from the Eurolines station in Bagnolet. We spent the bus ride--which lasted more hours than I care to count--sleeping, talking (in English!), and complaining by turn. A favorite subject of ours was the ridiculous process of going through customs. In all seriousness, it was like a video game: you stopped every couple of meters, drove around in circles, navigated various obstacles, performed like a monkey in heels...

We got through customs only to end up in a claustrophobe's nightmare: the ferry.

Our huge bus was boxed in by this...contraption.

All I can say is that I'm really glad I'm not claustrophobic. But seriously? D. & I were so happy to be going to London that we didn't much care.

One of our first views of London after a couple of hours on the highway.

We arrived at Victoria Coach Station around 6:15, only to be given the herculean task of somehow making it to our hostel. The process happened much like this:

1. Getting from Victoria to King's Cross via the London Underground: simple enough, albeit expensive at 4£ per single trip ticket
   
2. Getting from King's Cross to our hostel, located on King's Cross Road: more complicated than it should have been

You see...I was exhausted remiss in my duties and did not do as much research as I should have. All I had was the address. Fortunately, we ran into a very nice man who took us to the hostel and gave us some very good advice. Apparently, the road we were heading down (after making a wrong turn. Of course) led to a more unsavory part of London. Not where "two nice American girls" would like to go. Whoops. Thank you, Mr. Nice Englishman!

Public Service Announcement: Don't head down Gray's Inn Road after getting out from King's Cross. Apparently at night it fills up with a multitude of unsavory characters.

But I digress. D. & I stayed at Clink, a hostel housed in what used to be a courthouse. They kept a lot of the old structure and it looked very cool. IN general, it was nice, clean, and safe. The only bad things were the bathrooms, in which you left dirtier than you came, but I guess you can't have everything.

We made friends with some sweet Australian girls and some crazy Italian girls. I meant to go dancing with them both nights that we were there, but alas, my exhaustion (from work, traveling, and playing tourist) got the better of me on both nights. I guess I am just not a crazy party animal.

Clink's internet room was actually the old court room.

On Saturday, we did...well...everything.

We dropped by Buckingham Palace to see the Changing of the Guard.

Men in uniform always equates to an increase in my libido. But this is my future husband. Just saying.


I can't believe that they do this everyday. Or every other day.

It was an interesting ceremony, even if it got monotonous after a while. My favorite parts were a) when they had someone systematically check the little guard houses and b) the shuffling required during various parts of the whole act.

This is my other future husband. D. and I got him to smile, haha. Victory!

We then had lunch at an Italian restaurant in the Covent Gardens. This was after we walked through the artisanal crafts market, of course. An Italian man made me (and D.) a heart-shaped pizza. I'd marry him if he wasn't so old.

D. & I then met up with an old friend (one that I hadn't seen in 7 years). We were supposed to go on a walking tour, but the tour never showed up. T., kind soul that she was, played tour guide for us instead.

She took us to see Big Ben...

...and Westminster Abbey.

After taking a little break, we headed off to see the Tower of London.

Creepy? More like awesome!

And what trip would be complete without the Tower Bridge?

Sorry. This was the best one I had without my face in it.

And then, even though it was raining, we headed off to Saint Paul's Cathedral.

Pretty!


We also caught a glimpse of the Globe.

My flats were utterly destroyed by the rain, so D. & T. teamed up and convinced me to buy 3-inch-heeled boots. This involved some hardcore bargaining--I convinced a hapless young man to give me a 5£ discount. Win?

The next day, D. & I found time to hit up Platform 9 & 3/4 before leaving. I'm not too big of a Harry Potter fan, but it was fun.

"My trolley won't move!"

On the way back, D. & I couldn't stop talking about how much fun we'd had and how we didn't want to go back to Paris. In particular, we were immensely charmed by the advertisements and signage that we encountered in London:

I think that one of the best things about London was how friendly people are. Everyone smiles and makes small talk and is so helpful. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed all of this, living in Paris with the über-reserved French. But it was just so nice to interact with people and to not feel like they were looking down on me. (Seriously, my biggest sense of accomplishment in Paris comes on the days when some French(wo)man judges me to look safe, knowledgeable, and French enough to ask me for directions...) I think that this was a big reason why I didn't want to leave.

Anyway, that's neither here nor there. Just know that London was awesome. As always, pictures with my face in them are on facebook.

mourir loin de moi // to die far from me

Sometimes I get stuck in this mindset that because they are both "Western" developed countries, the United States and France are pretty much the same, escept that France just has more dog poop and cheese. Fortunately, something usually comes along before I get too comfortable and gives me a good whack on the head. Sometimes, France and the United States couldn't be more fundamentally different.

Last Thursday, it was a simple comment about how criminal justice lawyers are on the bottom of the totem pole as far as prestige and pay goes (more on this later) that gave me a sharp reminder of how different the French are.

We were sitting in my Cultures, Institutions, & Mentalités Politiques class. Contrary to popular opinion, I am capable of paying attention in a 2.5 hour lecture. We were discussing the evolution of the French judicial system. After the French Revolution, the much-maligned system where judges could be bought and nobles had separate rules was changed into an institution guided by the principles of égalité, gratuité, and centralisation. The French then had a system where judges were elected and where there was presumably less corruption. A big difference, however, if I understood correctly, is that French judges do not interpret the law in the manner that American judges do. This was revolutionary: a system where people were treated the same and money (or lack thereof) did not dictate the severity of your punishment.

As infamous as it is, the guillotine was also revolutionary because for the first time, those condemned to death was also executed the same way: quickly and elegantly. Before, nobles had the right to take poison or something quick and dignified. Poorer folks were not as lucky.

All this eventually led to talk about the death penalty. France abolished it in 1981, the last--along with Ireland--of the European Union countries to do so (although back then, it was the CEE and not the EU). During his exposé, R. put up a map showing how the world is divided roughly in half regarding the allowance of the death penalty.

Of course, this led to a talk about the state of the death penalty in the U.S. Monsieur R., poor Frenchman that he was, had a bit of a hard time wrapping his head around the Americans' decentralized way of going about it. He just didn't quite understand why we left the decision to the states. Actually, I'm pretty sure he didn't quite understand why individual states had so much power in general. I admit, though, that after someone brought up the fact that death by firing squad was still legal in Utah (I think it was Utah?), I didn't quite get it either.

The notion that we tried the recently-executed Washington D.C. sniper in Virginia (where the death penalty is legal) instead of D.C. or Maryland was also completely astounding to Monsieur R. Not because of the deliberate decision to do so, but because he couldn't believe that there was no national law governing this.

On a lighter note, back to the deal with lawyers. France is not a good place to make money if you want to be a lawyer. As stated before, the French just don't give a damn about criminal justice lawyers (so different from the U.S.!) The profession as a whole, actually, is just not that prestigious. Monsieur R. explained that magistrats were actually better received than lawyers. Something about them being closer to the law and therefore closer to reason. Since I'm not French, his reasoning went a bit over my head.

Just interesting food for thought.

elles passent en un instant // they pass by in an instant

My host family took me to see Gorki's Les Enfants du Soleil / Children of the Sun / whatever the title is in Russian the other the other night. It was kind of a last-minute thing where they were like, "Thao, tu veux aller au théâtre avec nous ce soir?" And I was like, "OF COURSE I want to go to the theatre with you!"

So I still didn't know what it was about when I got to the theater. I'm proud to say that I understood most of what was happening (sort of), even if I failed to understand the overall theme. I can't tell whether it's because Gorki is complicated or because I fail at French. Probably a mixture of both.

It was so interesting for me to look at the kind of people that were at the play, though. A friend of mine once made a comment about how "straight guys just don't get that excited about operas"/plays. I guess that they do in France? There was your standard group of older folks, but there were also A LOT of couples out for a date that night. And these kids were probably still in high school/college.

M. from Middlebury once asked (rather rhetorically, I guess) what the French people do for fun. Yes, there is the party scene, and yes, there is the trashy American TV shows. But for the most part, I've noticed that the French are very well-cultured. I think it's due to the fact that cultural stuff is so readily available in Paris.

France is very centralized; Paris is the center for everything: government, arts, culture, etc. And it is so incredibly cheap for students. My host mom told me that with things like operas and plays, students can go for a significantly cheaper price than can adults. With a student identity card, museums are free (or almost free).

It's a very good business and cultural model, I think. By making cultural stuff so readily accessible to students, you expose them to it at an early age. And by the time they grow up, get jobs, and earn money, they'll be more likely to be willing to pay. In the US, I feel like operas and ballets give off this impression of being more high class and expensive than it really should be. I know that I have never been tempted to go to an opera in the US, for example.

But yeah, just something to think about.