freddo come un lungo addio // cold like a long goodbye

A couple of days ago, I got an email from the US Embassy. For those who are curious, here is a selected quote:

"Last year, U.S. citizens reported that glass bottles were hurled, extensive public drinking and drunkenness occurred, and sporadic fighting broke out in Paris around the Champs-Elysées, the Champ de Mars, and Trocadero. Parked cars being set ablaze is also a fairly common feature of revelry in France, occurring even in upscale neighborhoods."

I did not see any burning cars, but celebrating New Year's in Paris was still a singular--and at times, traumatic--experience. But let me start at the beginning:

My friends and I all met up at P.'s apartment for appetizers and drinks. His place was ginormous and only a couple of blocks away from Etoile/l'Arc de Triomphe, so we opted to walk there afterward to greet the new year. This ended up being a really good idea, because all the metros looked like this:

Waiting for fireworks.

The stroke of midnight came as a bit of a surprise as there was no collective countdown. One moment, people were noisy and crazy, and the next...they were noisier and crazier. After exchanging bisous (the French don't hug, remember?!), we decided to walk down to the Champs-Elysées to see what the rest of the masses were up to and to celebrate. Unfortunately, the other 50,000 people there seemed to have the opposite idea; my friends and I were pretty much like fish trying to swim upstream.

Sea of fish people.

Speaking of fishing, you know how there's that scene in Mulan where all the soldiers are taught how to fish with their bare hands? Well, I was walking, trying to not get trampled by the mob, when someone definitely tried to fish me.

Yeah, um...what?

After the first grab at my ass, I was like, "Okay. Just have to keep moving, this is just like changing stations at Châtelet. Just keep moving." ("Just keep swimming," if you're going to stick to the Disney theme.)

So I moved away. He followed. From the nether reaches of creeperdom, there was another grab, with some finger action on the thighs. I pushed his hand away and tried to move forward. I made P. go walk behind me. The hand made a grab at my breasts.

Apparently in Paris, New Year's is akin to Opposite Day. Or rather, Do Whatever the Fuck I Want Because They Can't Stop Me Day.

Do you know what it's like to feel a strange hand tear your tights and try to finger fuck you? In a mass crowd where you cannot get away as easily? And know that the same creeper is doing similar things to your female friends standing right next to you? And to look back and see the person who was doing it, and find his face completely impassive?

No? I hope you never do. That was possibly the one time that I have felt terrified while in Paris. I still get angry thinking about it. Still freaked out.

Thankfully, the boys came to our rescue, and we eventually got to a less crowded space. I gave my camera to J., and he took pictures for the rest of the night.

J. knows I like eye candy. I'm not sure how I feel about these two, though.


This is the less-crowded part of the Champs-Elysées.

We ended up walking all over Paris, randomly taking pictures and just as randomly getting our pictures taken. My memories of that night include: bitter cold, very drunk P., J. almost getting into a fight, M. & I wondering why the hell we spent time with so many boys, J.'s friend playing gentleman and trying to protect us, P.'s sister E. and I bonding over our shared traumatic experience, and the bitter cold. (I have become quite the pussy--I'm sure that it was just in the 20's or something. It's just...I didn't have my winter clothes with me!)

Anyway, I did not make New Year's resolutions that night, and neither did my friends. I have made them since then--or rather, have had them made for me. We'll see how spectacularly I will fail.

For those following along on my love life: I did not kiss anyone for New Year's. I wanted a prince, not frogs. And these frogs (heh) all chain-smoked anyway. Man, I am so clever I kill myself.

Happy New Year!
-From some random quartet.

I know I'm writing about New Year's three days too late. But on 01/01/10, I was busy writing my Christmas post. Do take a look-see if you're interested.

quel est ce mystère // what is this mystery

I was feeling super-depressed when Thanksgiving rolled around. This was unexpected, seeing as I wasn't really into it while in the States. In addition, I'd thought that since the French didn't celebrate it, it'd be better since there would be no reminders.

Instead, I got out of class at 7:30 p.m. on Thursday night, feeling utterly bereft and maudlin.

This malaise, however, might have been due to the fact that M. had been whining about it too. And since misery loves company...

I'm not blaming anyone. Really.

In any case, we decided that a Thanksgiving dinner was, in fact, absolutely necessary. And that goddammit, the boys were going to have to dress up. (The girls, too. But girls don't need convincing.) And so we did.

We all showed up at M.'s place in Boulogne after having spent a fortune on American food ingredients. Despite the fact that pretty much everyone was milling around in the kitchen, each needing to use the oven and stove more than the last, we got dinner on the table in about four hours. Very impressive, if I do say so myself.

Our menu:

• butternut squash soup (I winged it again this year, adjusting things to my taste with much better results)
• smoked salmon & tomatoes quiche with confiture d'oignons
• garlic mashed potatoes
• green beans with lemon butter & garlic (I guess I was determined that we had some sort of vegetable on the table, even if it was slathered in butter...)
  
• roasted chicken (try finding a full turkey in France on a student budget...)
• pumpkin pie with whipped cream
• apple pie with vanilla ice cream
• M.'s whoopie pies from who-knows-when

and



I forgot my camera, so these pictures actually belong to M. from Princeton. I shamelessly purloined them from facebook.

There was, of course, red wine, white wine, and cider to round things out. Not bad for some poor college students three guys and two girls, huh?

d'une maison de bois // of a wooden house

Two weeks ago (see how behind I am?!), my university hosted a trip for us to go to Mont St. Michel in Normandy. It was a weekend trip with a packed agenda; over the course of two days, we visited Bayeux, Omaha Beach, Mont St. Michel, and some random chateau.

I woke up at 6 a.m. Saturday morning and managed to drag myself out of the house by 6:30. I don't know whether it's due to France's location or that winter is coming or both, but it was pitch dark when I stepped outside. For a city that is usually so vibrant and teeming with life, Paris gave a pretty good imitation of a ghost town. I walked past Gare St. Lazare and traversed a good chunk of Boulevard Malesherbes without seeing more than two or three people. I'm not going to lie--it was kind of creepy.

Because it was ungodly early, I really considered sleeping on the bus. M. from Princeton, however, was awake, and I would've felt like a bad seat mate. There were also random French people sitting near us, so I just stayed up to chat. Now sure how successful that was, though, seeing as I don't really do the whole "human being" thing in the morning unless I've had some coffee.

Did I mention that I am a coffee addict?

Thankfully, after an hour or so of me blinking stupidly while trying to process sounds that were not a part of the pounding in my head, we stopped at a rest station. It's strange how downing two shots of espresso in rapid succession (the coffee was shitty and not worth savoring) can improve your mood. It wasn't nearly enough caffeine, but at least I could string together enough words to make a somewhat-coherent sentence.

It was at this rest station that I made the acquaintance of M. from Marseilles (who caught my attention because K. seemed very interested in him). From him, I found out that the French people on the bus with us came because they were interested in finding language exchange partners. Interesting, no? I had filled out a form indicating my interest in early September, but had pretty much forgotten about it. And pretty much forgot about it again as we got on the bus and headed off to Bayeux.

The village of Bayeux houses a very famous and very detailed tapestry that recounts the exploits of William the Conqueror. Various scenes depict Guillame going to war, feasting, being crowned king, going to war again, etc. The cathedral in which the tapestry used to be displayed had burned down twice (both times with the tapestry inside), so it's a huge miracle that this thing still exists at all. Due to its fragility, however, I was unable to take any photos to share with you guys.

However, here's a photo taken inside the museum.


And the cathedral. Sorry for the quality; my ISO was set really high for some reason, and I didn't figure it out until later.

Unfortunately, it was at Bayeux that I had my first encounter with Bad French Food. Normandy's specialty is the crêpe. So, apparently illogically, I thought that I wouldn't be able to go wrong if I ordered a croque-monsieur (France's version of a grilled ham and cheese sandwich) and a crêpe (citron-sucre, of course). Normandy's other specialty is cidre, but that's beside the point.

Obviously, college students' desire to save money leads them into making Bad Food Decisions.

My croque-monsieur had been frozen. The lady microwaved it. Twice. The crêpe was soggy and was obviously reheated in the microwave too. I didn't realize that it was possible to make such bad food for things that are French staples.

Luckily for me, M. from my university is a boy and will eat anything, so I ended up foisting all the stuff on him, having lost all of my appetite. Objective sources say that I was unable to do anything but repeat, "What the FUCK?!" and "Pute!" and "Espèce de merde!" over and over for the next two hours or three.

I guess it's obvious that I tend to be laid back except in matters of food?

To my friends' relief, our next destination distracted me enough from my misfortunes to shut me up. In the States, I am right next door to D.C., and I can say that I've never managed to find in any of the monuments what I found here at Omaha Beach. There, the air was laden down with the weight of history. Flowery words, yes, but totally true. The sacrifices that countless men made, the lives they left behind, the gratefulness that one feels for their accomplishments...it's all there. I don't know about other people, but for me, it was a very moving experience.

The cemetery where all the soldiers are buried.


A monument set up by the French.


The beaches where the invasion took place. Notice how small it actually is.

After Omaha Beach, we got on the bus and headed off to our hotel. There, I encountered another lackluster dinner (chicken was dry and there was a piece of plastic in my apple tart), but I wasn't as bitter because I wasn't directly paying for it. It was obviously, however, not my day for good food.

Later that night, we all went off to the one bar in town, where M. from Princeton took her first ever shot. Good times were had by all. Tequila sunrises, anyone? We went out for kebabs afterward, and I was happy to be able to have one good meal that day.


Sunday morning, we all loaded our things on the bus again and headed off to Mont St. Michel.

Now, Mont St. Michel has a lot of history behind it. It took a couple of centuries to build (they'd add something new every couple of decades). Is very impressive looking--pretty much an impenetrable fortress. So, with that in mind, and with the best intentions, Mont St. Michel is pretty much a combination of Hogwarts and Diagon Alley. It's a little town in the mountains that is entirely contained within the walls of the castle/fortress. There are little narrow winding walkways that lead nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

If you take out the tourists, it would look very intimidating.


The little town inside the castle walls.

Over time, the plague known as tourism has taken over Mont St. Michel. Not only has that driven the prices up (les galettes, or savory crêpes, started at 9 Euro apiece), but it also means that you find non-French things like churros and kebabs being sold next to the I Love Normandy t-shirts and shotglasses. (D. told me that the churros were horrible, but R. said that the kebabs were not that bad. Just some friendly advice should you ever head there yourself.)

After Mont St. Michel, we were all quite exhausted. Nevertheless, we trudged back to the bus and headed off to some chateau. I honestly don't remember its name because nothing important ever happened there. Still, it was a nice contrast to the gaudy luxury that was Versailles.

Pretty. Tour guide was also very good. Best I've had.

Before heading back to Paris, we stopped by a little bed and breakfast, le Genty Home (get it? Genty Home? Gentilhomme? ...never mind). There, we feasted on a variety of mini-sandwiches. I don't think the proprietress had ever encountered this many Americans before--especially ravenous college students--as she had a perpetual look of stupefaction on her face. I guess we did go through an amazingly large amount of food at an alarmingly fast rate. She was probably muttering to herself that this was why French women are so thin and Americans are obese. Kidding--she was very nice and hospitable.

Aaaaand we got back to Paris pretty late and I had class the next day.

Remember what I said earlier about language exchange partners? It's okay if you don't, because it's been a long-ass post. Anyway, a couple days later, I get an email saying that M. from Marseilles had been assigned as my language partner.

To me, he seemed nice enough, but when I told M. from my university about it, the first thing out of his mouth was, "C'est louche. I'm pretty sure he wants more from you than just a language exchange. All Frenchmen think that American girls are easy." M. from my university continued on to say that he was just looking out for me--that he's a guy and knows how guys think. J. from Amherst agreed.

Maybe they are right? M. from Marseilles is:

• old (late 20s, early 30s)
• is a real estate agent

Obviously louche, no? Especially that second part.

But I'm not easy (unless you feed me chocolate). I also have no attraction to M. from Marseilles. So there is no reason to worry.

And such is my life.

Bisous!

ma gorge est sèche // my mouth is dry

Did you know that after a long period of searching, I have finally found my sugar daddy?

I mean it!

...you want proof?

Never let it be said that the French do not have a sense of humor. That said, though, this brand has supposedly been around for 25 years, so maybe the French version of sugar daddy came first?

Apologies re: the lighting. It was dark outside, and there was no natural light.

I figure it's been a while since I've posted about food, and if you know anything about me, you'll realize that it comes close to sacrilege. Ergo (there's that word again!), I will have to rectify the situation.

Last Friday, M. from Princeton, M. from my university, J. from Amherst, and I got together at my place for a potluck dinner. We all enjoyed it so much that we've decided that we're going to do this every week from now now. It was held at my place this because ma famille d'accueil was in Berlin for the weekend. They're still not back as of today, though, so I'm not sure how long they'll be gone. I hope they come back soon. I don't know how the heating system works chez moi and it's cold.

But I digress.

The meal was really a mélange of cultures. J., who was tasked with making the main dish this time, made a Nigerian chicken stew. For the record, his family does not come from Nigeria, but again, I digress. I made Vietnamese summer rolls (they are called roulettes de printemps here, though--"spring rolls"). M. from Princeton brought a salad with nuts and oranges in addition to a baguette and Jewish challah bread. And finally, M. from my university made an apple crumble and served it with caramel ice cream.

I wish that I had a good picture to show you, but unfortunately, the wine and vodka were flowing freely and I forgot to take pictures. This is a picture of some of the food:

Pictured: Nigerian stew, spring rolls, bread, J.'s plate.
Not pictured: salad, apple crumble, ice cream, wine, vodka, orange juice, people having fun

In retrospect, the whole affair seemed to me a perfect balance between classy dinner and crazy college party. It was probably one of the best nights that I've had in Paris.

Preparation for the dinner started as soon as I finished babysitting. From the 19th arrondissement, I took the Metro over to France's Chinatown. There, I dropped by the huge-supermarket-that-has-relatively-cheap-produce-and-shit-solely-because-it's-Asian, Tang Frères. I picked up some lettuce, Thai basil, mint, bean sprouts, shrimp, and some pork belly.

Fun fact: when you do not know how to say pork belly in French, revert to Vietnamese. Only after I had told the butcher that I wanted some thit ba roi (no accents because I can't figure out how to do them for Vietnamese), and only after he'd given some to me, did I notice the sign saying "poitrine." But it's good to know that I can make myself understood, no matter how many languages I have to use.

It took about 45 minutes to get back to my apartment from the 13th, and by then, it was almost five. And so I did what I do best: I multitasked. A pot filled with boiling water went on the stove to cook the vermicelli. In the meantime, I cleaned and prepared the herbs and lettuce and set the shrimp in a bowl of water to defrost. The vermicelli cooked quickly, and after it was finished, I dealt with the pork and the shrimp. After all that, it was only a matter of rolling the rolls (hahaha).

I got everything done by 21h (that's 7 p.m. in American). M. from my university came just as I finished cleaning up. I left the kitchen to him so that he could make his apple crumble as I went downstairs to open the door for M. from Princeton. As we were waiting around, wondering where J. was, we get a call saying, "Can one of you buy me some chicken? I'll pay you back as soon as I get there."

I guess it's a good thing that I was planning to head out to buy the wine anyway.

Off to Franprix I went. There's something to be said about having a supermarket right next door. There, one of the cashiers hit on me, mainly because:

1. I am Asian.
   
2. I was clearly not French. Note to self: remember next time that it's une bouteille of vodka and not un bouteille. Apparently people who speak French with a little accent are exotic and desirable. Hahahahahaha.
   
3. I was buying alcohol. Not just wine. But vodka. And orange juice. Sketch!

Anyway, I get back, to find out that J. has gotten himself lost. He's at a metro station that is close by, but not one of the two I had indicated when I sent out the directions. So off I go to get him.

Let me just state for the record that I love J. He's so...crazy. And exuberant. As in: totally American and not French. He shouted my name when he saw me, and totally attempted to do the suave French bisous thing. Except it ended up being a half-American-hug-half-French-greeting. And the first words out of his mouth (after I'd asked him why the hell he ended up at Villiers instead of going directly to Rome or Europe like I'd told him to): "I went to Villiers because I was smoking hash with this guy."

Hahahahaha, made no sense whatsoever. I got the story later on, though, so it was all good.

The dinner went swimmingly, although we all ended up with a lot of extra food. Even though I was horribly sick and couldn't really taste anything, I fell in love with this one cheese that M. from Princeton brought. She said it was called tomie? I think? I need more.

The three of us ended up staying up and talking until around 4 a.m. We played 10 fingers and taught J. to play hearts. We all talked really openly and I felt really comfortable with all of them and I'm glad that I have had the opportunity for that here in Paris. Subjects included: sex, education, France, why boys masturbate more than girls do, pornography, etc. I love having guy friends, hahahaha.

J. & M. from my university think that I and M. from Princeton are vixens waiting to be released (well...mostly J.). Which means that he spent the entire night trying to spike M. from Princeton's drink with more vodka. (I was off the hook because a. I was sick, and b. I didn't need vodka to talk outrageously.)

Then we all found a place to sleep. And I did so, content with this patchwork family of sorts that I'd found for myself in Paris.

Upcoming: more food, or why I don't feel guilty not cooking; my trip to Normandy/Mont St-Michel; and why I am only staying for the semester in Paris instead of the year.

dix ans plus tard // ten years later

I know that I have been neglecting this blog a little bit as of late, but I have been sick and busy...and sick...and busy. Please expect a deluge of posts to come (and check to see the ones that have been posted!)--I am probably typing up even more entries as you are reading this one.

There are few things that are more simple and more perfect that a Parisian bread and cheese picnic. I don't know why, but I am pretty sure that it is one of those unbreakable laws of the universe.

Anyhow, one Friday night, a week or two ago, a group of friends and I decided that it would be a good idea to buy a bunch of cheese and have a picnic by the Seine (it was. A good idea, I mean). After some mishaps--who knew that bakeries are everywhere in Paris only when you aren't looking for them?--we were well on our way.

This is a photo of me smelling bread. I got teased for it all night...because I couldn't stop smelling it. But bread--good bread--is pretty much my version of crack. And I'm sure that there must be worse things to be teased about...

We had nine (9! NEUF. NUEVE.) different types of cheeses, along with some ham, pâté, and Smirnoff ice (nobody felt like wine). I can't remember what all of the cheeses were, but here is what I can dredge up:

• Brie
• Camembert
• Cantal
• Brin (??)
• Gorgonzola
• a type of blue cheese
• La Vache Qui Rit
• some sort of dessert cheese

Opinions on the various cheeses ranged from "Hey! This is awesome!" (M. finished an entire round of camembert by himself...) to "Ugh. This tastes like piss!" (No one liked the gorgonzola) Such is the power of cheese, I guess.

This is a picture of the carnage after we were done. There was still quite a lot of cheese remaining. To the left is C.'s bottle of beer.

Afterward, we all hopped on the Metro and went off in search of ice cream. Even though it was cold. Long story short, we found it, ate a lot, and all went home with a food baby.

When I leave Paris, it won't be the museums or galleries or theaters that I will miss most. It will be nights like this.

sans savoir où ça le mène // without knowing where it leads

I find it soothing and immensely helpful to write out all my blog entries and/or essays before I type them up. Maybe it's just me, but I think the entries end up flowing better. Words come more easily to me this way, and I like being able to revise as I am typing things up.

...but I digress.

Two days ago (as in samedi, 26.09.09), I went to Versailles. It was truly the home of the Sun King...and I was clearly in the wrong about the National Assembly being too opulent. You do not know opulent until you've been to Versailles.

I took the train to Versailles on a crisp, sunny morning. My Carte Imagine R had arrived the day before, so I was in an extremely good mood despite having had to get up early. (My Asian brain releases endorphins like no other every time I manage to avoid paying for something, you see, and thus the fact that I no longer had to pay an arm and a leg for transportation effectively put me on Cloud Nine.) Upon arrival, my life was made even better as we found out that the people who had set the whole thing up for us had made reservations for us as a group. This meant that we got to skip the long line that stretched all the way to Denmark and go directly into the chateau. And thus, I began my tour of Le Roi Soleil's domain.

I was told that there is always some part of Versailles that is under construction. In addition, the wings of the chateau are not accessible to the public as that is where Le Sénat and l'Assemblée Nationale convene whenver they deign it necessary to talk to each other. But the rest of the property was pretty much up for grabs.

We started with a tour of the chateau itself.

At first, I was staring wide-eyed at everything I saw and snapping pictures feverishly. After all, it was Versailles.

This is my knight in shining armor.

Don't worry, R.B. I will never again make the mistake of saying, "some random ceiling" in your presence. Thus, this is a very impressive ceiling done by a very-impressive-and-probably-famous artist.


The famous Hall of Glass.


People were really agog over the bed of Louis XIV. My audioguide described the various entrances to his bedroom; apparently there was a small one reserved solely for courtesans.


Where do you think they got the idea to turn Han Solo into metal in Star Wars?


Trompe-l'oeil: "to fool the eye." This is a painting, not a carving.


The mirrors were kind of dirty.

After a while, though, the rooms all started to look the same to me: each and every one of them lavishly decorated, elegant, and maybe a bit over the top. Maybe I just prefer the simpler things in life?

Anyway, I stopped taking pictures until we got outside. The gardens and landscaping at Versailles were by far my favorite part of it.

One of the many "bodies of water" at Versailles. This picture was taken on the steps of the chateau.


This guy didn't know how to row. He's about to maroon himself and his girlfriend.


This is another body of water. I was just taking a picture of the landscape, but this random old woman walked in and turned around at the last moment, so this is a good touristy picture of her.


...I want to get married at Versailles...


Pretty flowers from one of the gardens.


Marie Antoinette had a little hamlet built for herself so that she could come here and pretend to be a peasant/shepherdess every time she got tired of court intrigue.

By the time we got to the hamlet, my friends and I had long been separated from the main group (we'd taken a wrong turn somewhere? Or maybe we took too long for lunch...) After a bit more sightseeing, we decided to hightail it back to the city. Back in Paris, we went to a crêperie in Montparnasse for dinner.

Après avoir dîné, because I was obviously filled with limitless energy, M. & I met up with some friends for a night out on the town. We managed to catch Happy Hour this time, so I didn't have to sell my body to afford a drink. The waiter at the bar/café/restaurant that we were at was very cute and illegally surreptitiously gave us a copy of their menu as we left. I'd like to think that it was because he noticed how much we enjoyed it, but it was probably due to the fact that K. & I were inundating him with questions about whether or not there was a paper copy/a version of it online somewhere.

Why such a big deal for a menu?

Because everyone loves franglais, of course! Also, it was nice to know that while we were incompetent in French, the French were also not as good en anglais.

In this picture, note the "salad of goat (tackle in sheet of brick)" and the "white cake in the coke, the coulis of red fruit."


In this one, note the "crunch lady" and the "tartar of Salmon has the dill."

This is how I spend most of my weekends in Paris: mostly being classy with a little bit of fun thrown in. Other times I am a homebody and don't do anything interesting.

As always, there are more pictures, including those where you can see my face clearly, on facebook.

au bord du chemin // on the side of the road

Apologies in advance for this verbal vomit.

L. left for Chile today. This means that I am the last one out of the five of us to leave. This feeling of desolation that L. alluded to is striking me hard. As excited as I am about Paris, I can't imagine my life without Sunday gossip dinners, without late night Grille runs, without life chats, without the merciless teasing, without them. They've been such a big part of my life; they stood witness as I grew and bloomed (or at least as I got more social). Did I mature because of them, because of their presence in my life? If so, will I be able to continue doing so?

L. and I are very similar in the way we were to the way we changed, but she is larger than life. Where I was simply outrageous, L. was crazy. But where I was slightly conservative, L. was moreso to the point of prudeness. We've both settled on a happy medium, I think. So L., don't worry about Taken. Enjoy Chile. Make things happen! You can't be anymore awkward than I already am. ;)

But just as L. and C. and S. have left me, so too will I leave people behind. I wouldn't want to be in A.'s shoes, having to deal with all of us leaving. And my other good friends who aren't going abroad...how much will their life differ from mine? My life has already diverged so much from the life that my friends from high school lead...will this year in Paris drive me even farther away?

A. from high school bought me a study abroad book for my birthday (along with a striptease kit, but that's neither here or there). It's helpful, but it's also possibly the most terrifying thing that I have ever read. I'm not ready to deal with la vie quotidienne en français. Bank accounts and academics and grocery shopping are already hard enough...how am I to do it in another language? Sure, I don't sound like an American en parlant français, but I'm not even that good at French!

Lest you all think that I'm just a whiny bitch (which, admittedly, I am...sometimes), I definitely do see and appreciate the opportunities that I have been given. I speak of going to Paris on an exchange program like it's a normal, everyday thing...and it is, within my major and my college. But Dad told me that when he was young, someone going to the Sorbonne to study was a big, big deal; it signified intelligence and wealth and opportunity and luck. I never would've been able to do it had I grown up back then, not in the United States. So while I think it's hilarious (and ridiculous) that my grandmother suddenly loves me for this and constantly, I recognize that I am very fortunate.

I'm leaving the United States for great cheese and exceptional bread, amongst other things like culture and learning (not to say that the United States does not have these things). Not to mention the lower drinking age. Who is really leaving who on the side of the road?

un geste de vous // a gesture of yours

Three things in three days that are of import in my life:

1. I went to the French Embassy and applied for my visa yesterday.
2. S. left today for Ecuador.
3. C. leaves tomorrow for Brazil.

Just recently, as you may have noticed, I discovered a fondness for lists. I think it helps me feel as though I am more in control than I really am. Anyhow, without further ado...

~1~

I left home on Tuesday morning at 7:30 for a 9:00 appointment at the French Embassy, a mere 20 miles (and supposedly 30 minutes) away. Thanks to the modern wonder that is traffic, I arrived at my destination at 8:45. Of course, there is no visitor parking inside the French Embassy--that would be too convenient. Fortunately, my father chauffeur was driving and so simply dropped me off on my merry way.

It did not get any easier once I made it inside the embassy. After reading on their website that a driver's license was an acceptable proof of residence, I crazily assumed that it was...y'know...an acceptable proof of residence. Alas, it was not so. The French lady at the Visa Office told me and about four other people there that "ve no longher accept zee driverr's licenses," but that since the website had been wrong, she would "check vith zee bosss to see vat he vould say." (Side note to the French Embassy: I am a student. How the hell would I have a utility bill?)

...I'm only making fun of her accent because I'm bitter at the snooty way she looked at me and the trouble she gave me.

In the end, zee boss decided that it was acceptable (since otherwise they would've lost the revenue from like...10 bewildered people). So they took my paperwork. And half of my life savings.

I'd read up on things in my preparation to go abroad, but it didn't really sink in how expensive it'd be to get a visa. To even file paperwork for a visa, I needed to have a confirmation letter from CampusFrance ($60). Then, I paid for the visa application itself ($70). Afterwards, I had to provide a prepaid Express Mail envelope for them to mail my passport back to me, with or without the visa ($17.50).

In total, I paid $147.50 for a visa application that could potentially be rejected. I mean, I don't see any reason why they'd reject my visa application, but still...

~2~

S. is a good friend of mine that I've only gotten to really know just this past year. The thing that I admire the most about her is her strength and confidence. Nothing gets this girl down, and it just amazes me to see how she just picks herself up and just keep going.

S. has traveled extensively, and is pretty good with Spanish, so she certainly seems much more prepared for travel abroad than I am. She was not, however, as lucky as I was to be assigned a homestay family months in advance. Her program waits until she gets there to pick a family. That just sounds terrifying.

Her journey seems to be off to a good start, though. I got a text from her while she was at the airport. It was about the numerous cute international boys that were there. I figure she can't be too stressed out.

Good luck and enjoy Ecuador, my dear! I am so excited for you!

~3~

C. is another good friend, someone I've known for a bit longer than S. She has this certain joie de vivre that never fails to bring a smile to my face. Her happy dances are a sight to be hold. C. is also one of the most caring and empathetic people that I've ever had the fortune to meet.

C. is leaving for Brazil tomorrow. I've made her promise that she will come back with a Brazilian male model on each arm. Or at least buy a dildo. (I want all my friends to be sexually liberated so that I can live vicariously through them.) I know you want to improve your Portuguese, and your host-family will surely help you, but just remember that the language of looooove is universal. ;)

Enjoy yourself! Literally/physically. Teehee. Hee.