Language Shock

I’ve been in France for over two months, and from the moment I landed I essentially hit the ground running. It’s been pretty hectic. Or at least I’ve been making it hectic on myself. I’ve been gallivanting around, hoping to do and see everything that this enormous city has to offer before I ship myself back to the States. So I want to thank my friend Steph, studying in Tanzania this semester, who, despite our all-too-infrequent and brief conversations, took the time to ask me a simple question about myself that made me stop and reflect. “How did you experience your culture shock,” she asked me? Up until then, if I thought about culture shock, I’d adamantly say “What culture shock? Nope, hasn’t hit me!” But maybe it was something about how she phrased the question. The directness of it. The inevitability of it. She was not asking if I had experienced culture shock, but simply inquiring as to the quality of it. And this made me think. Maybe I had been approaching this concept the wrong way. Before I had been thinking, “I’m a worldly girl who easily adapts to new situations. Whatever comes my way, I’ll be fine.” And admitting to yourself that you have culture shock is like admitting to yourself that you have a problem. So maybe I really did experience culture shock, but maybe it’s just not like anything the articles and books I read before coming to France had described. My culture shock was different. There hasn’t been a time when I got mad at the French as a whole or thought that their customs were stupid. No, it’s much more subtle than that, and much more personal. So I guess culture shock really did hit me, but in such a way that I’d like to refer to it as Language Shock.

I’m not a particularly talkative person, that is, until you get to know me. In fact, I often come off as shy in many typical social situations. So you wouldn’t think that not being able to talk would be such a big deal. But in fact, you can’t begin to imagine how truly necessary communication is until you find yourself confronted with a situation in which you just can’t communicate.

I guess it first hit me in Tours when I first arrived, and I haven’t quite gotten over it since. In Tours, I lived with a host mom and 1 other girl from my program. My roommate, to simplify terms, had learned French as a child and therefore was as fluent as any native French speaker. On the other hand, I’ve been taking French classes at school since I was 12, but my recent classes have been solely oriented around reading, and never conversation. I didn’t realize how mentally unprepared I was until first confronted with my host mom in Tours. While walking from the Institute to my new home, all I could do to communicate was smile, both not knowing what my host mom was saying and obviously not knowing how to respond. Fortunately, or unfortunately as I later came to find, my roommate was there to fill in the conversation gaps. And this came to be the trend at all meals with my host mom. By the end of my two weeks in Tours, I was beginning to understand my host mom a little bit better, and I would take a stab at asking a question every so often, but only after sounding out the entire question in my head several times to make sure it sounded okay.

When I got to Paris, I was terrified to be in a family by myself, with no fluent roommate to fall back on as my safety net. To be honest, without my roommate in Tours, I might not have figured out that laundry was done on Wednesdays, that we had to lock the door after coming home at night, and that my host mom used to be a teacher but now works in a library. So how would I get by in Paris? What if I couldn’t figure out what my hosts were telling me?

But truth be told, my arrival in Paris was one of complete relief. First off, I was eased in to living without a roommate, as I was picked up from the office with another girl from my program by her host family, and we had an enjoyable car ride to my apartment in which I even opened my mouth to talk!. When I finally got to my new apartment, I was welcomed with smiles and rapidfire French, but miraculously, I understood! I don’t know what happened on that busride between Tours and Paris, but I felt as if I could understand my host parents! One of my favorite moments must have been during that same arrival night when my host mom asked me if I understood what she was saying. My response was in the affirmative, but I actually meant what I was saying! Then my host mom replied by saying (in French, obviously) that she was very impressed because she was speaking at a normal speed. Hooray! I would survive Paris after all! (But don’t get me wrong, there are still plenty of times when my hosts speak to me and I don’t catch a single word they’ve said.)

But the honeymoon-phase faded quickly and my classes at the Paris University started a week before my program had expected (and several weeks before my friends at other Paris Universities would start). While all of the students surrounding me in the classrooms are efficiently taking short-handed notes and trying to make sense of the material at hand, I’m still trying to figure out what a word actually means. It doesn’t help that one of my professors is Italian and has an extremely thick accent, making it very difficult for me to understand. And then there’s my literature professor who finds it thrilling to speak quickly without taking a single breath for the duration of the three-hour class, lecturing all the while about psychology and philosophy and politics and god-knows-what tangent he’ll go on next. Nevertheless, after several months of suffering through my courses, I am noticing that I understand better, though it takes 110% concentration and a bit of luck (that I’ve heard the words before).

As for day-to-day life, I’m still kind of terrified to speak. I’m scared to go up to a stranger to ask a question, especially someone my age, and I’m equally scared of someone approaching me to ask something. (Though it is getting a little better.) Outwardly, I know that people will be understanding and try to help me, but inwardly I can’t get past the fact that I can’t communicate perfectly. And I’m also scared that I’ll unintentionally say something offensive or inappropriate because I, 1) can’t get my point across in the most direct fashion and therefore need to improvise and talk around my point and 2) because I don’t know the nuances of the language and culture. Yes, I’m aware that the only way to learn is by doing, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to say it than to do it. Do I think that this Language Shock is holding me back at all? Yeah, probably. I was too afraid to do something as simple as going shopping for a pair of boots because I didn’t know how people in France go about buying boots, and I didn’t want to sound like an idiot to the salesperson. Everyone has his or her vice. This is mine.

Though on a positive note, I think this experience has taught me the value of communication and the fact that I should be able to take advantage of my ability to communicate when I go home. In the States, I’m the type to hesitate to email a professor about something, and adamantly refuse to go see a professor when I need help. But being without communication, and having to think through everything I say, has made me surprisingly more confident in my ability to communicate in English.

Also, from this experience, I’ve recently become extremely interested in the psychology of language. Yes, I know I’m a dork. But it’s so interesting that a child so effortlessly can pick up a language while an adult can study it for years and still never perfect it! So I may be coming away from Paris with different things than I expected, but at least there’s something, right? It’s frustrating at times, not being able to say something in French that seems so simple in my native tongue for the simple reason that I don’t know a particular vocabulary word or grammatical structure. But it takes a lot not to give up entirely and I feel like a stronger person having gone through this. I think everyone should be put in an uncomfortable situation and see what they learn about themselves. You might hate it, but it’ll all be worth it in the end.

Mom and Dad do Paris

I know, I know I fail. I should have written about my trips a long time ago, but I’ll use my picture to remind myself what I did. I haven’t had much time between trips, you know. Three weeks of travel in a row will do something to a girl, let me tell you. Anyways, my internet currently isn’t working so I can’t waste time on Facebook, and I’m procrastinating writing my paper, so I might as well be slightly productive and attempt to fill you all in on my exciting travels across Europe. I’ll go in order, starting with the weekend my parents visited me in Paris.

My parents didn’t arrive until Sunday, and I had a rather eventful weekend before they got to Paris. Thursday night I had gone out to a club with an American girl that I had met in one of my Paris University classes and a bunch of her friends. I had an amazing time and we met some French guys, too! (There’s another story that goes with this, ask if you’re interested). I didn’t get home to the club until around 5am so I spent most of Friday recovering my lost sleep. On Saturday I saw Edward aux Mains d’Argents (Edward Scissorhands) the Ballet, with some friends. And no, I’m not kidding. It was enjoyable, and being my first ballet ever, I had no idea what to expect.

As I said previously, the parents arrived Sunday morning, and it was great to see them! (And no, I’m not just saying that because they read my blog.) I picked them up from their hotel and we went to the Marais. We grabbed a quick breakfast/snack at Café Hugo in La Place des Vosges (Victor Hugo once lived here), took a peak into Hugo’s old house, and made our way to the Jewish History museum.

Afterwards, we walked around the Marais, and sadly had to pass up waiting in the kilometer-long line for L’As du Falafel (best falafel ever! sorry you couldn’t try it, dad!). We hit Rue du Rivoli and decided to try to find Café Angelina, since I remembered it was on that street. However, I didn’t know that it was very, very far down. But we ended up walking all the way there and got a hot chocolate and macaroon to go and ate/drank it in the Tuileries. Hot chocolate from Café Angelina is possibly the best thing in this entire world. The 3 of us split one cup and one macaroon and that was plenty! The stuff is so rich and thick and delicious! Yum!! (Also very expensive but entirely worth it! Even though it will get you hooked and possibly become a dreadful addiction…) Having been awake for far too long, my parents went back to their hotel to nap while I did some work at home. We met up that night for dinner and had a great meal at a restaurant I pass every day on my way to the metro that I had been wanting to try.

The rest of the time my parents were in Paris, I had class, so I was only able to see them during breaks (which, to be honest, was a little stressful). I mostly met up with them for meals, while they did their touristy stuff without me. However, we did go to see a ballet together at Opera Garnier, and it put Edward aux Mains d’Argents to shame! Granted, I couldn’t quite follow the plot of this, Les Enfants du Paradis, but the choreography was beautiful! Not to mention the opera house is gorgeous, even if the seats aren’t very comfortable.

I wish I had had more time to wander Paris with my parents and show them around, but I’m here as a student and class comes first. Wednesday I said goodbye to my parents after hanging out with them at a café near my apartment, knowing I would see them on Thursday in Spain!

Other blogs soon to come, I promise!

Belgium: The magical land of chocolate, waffles, and beer!

Sorry, sorry, sorry to all my avid blog readers (ha yea right…) Sorry it’s taken me like a decade to post about my Belgium trip! So here it is! Enjoy!

The first weekend in October I decided to go to Belgium with 2 of my friends. We took a train from Paris to Brussels, then Brussels to Bruges, getting in around 8:00 pm. We did not account for the fact that unlike in Brussels, the majority of people in Bruges do NOT speak French. Nope. It’s all Dutch. And sadly, none of us spoke a word of Dutch. Oops. Anyways, my friends were intelligent and had remembered to look up directions from the train station to the hostel. Unfortunately, their directions made use of the bus system, and despite my best efforts to flag down the bus driver, he left without us, leaving us stranded at the nearly deserted station. We decided to try to walk to the hostel despite the frigid temperature and the fact that we didn’t know where we were going. Luckily the large church-like buildings we headed toward were a dead giveaway that we were going in the right direction. We got directed to the Markt (central area in Bruges) by some random nice guy who spoke English and saw us struggling with our maps. From there, we were able to find our hostel, Snuffel (or Snuggle as my friend kept calling it). We checked in, got the rundown by the guy at the desk, and dropped our stuff in our room. We decided to head back to the Markt for food, but it was already so late that most things were closed. They eat early in Bruges, fyi. Our dinner consisted of fries from a Frietkot (fry stand). They were delicious. Or at least mine were because I got them with ketchup. One of my friends decided to be brave and get the specialty of the region: fries with mayonnaise, ketchup, and onions…bad call. The Markt is amazing; it has astounding architecture! The buildings are so cute!! While eating, we heard what sounded like a large brass band playing marching songs. Naturally, we followed our ears and found a group of people playing instruments in front of a bar. We watched for a little, and then decided to make our way into that bar.

Turns out it was a jungle party, which meant that there were jungle-themed decorations, but that was the extent of them following the theme. Nothing like the themed parties we throw back home. We got incredibly cheap drinks, and stood around swaying to the music for a while. The place got packed! By the time we left, it was the only place that still had stuff going on. Somehow we had managed to find the only “happening” place in Bruges. Cool! We headed back to our hostel for a good night’s sleep. In the morning, our hostel served us a great breakfast of cereals, bread, and hot drinks. Not bad for being included in our 14E/night fee. Our first full day in Bruges involved a lot of walking around and eating. We tried our first true Belgian waffles, which was possibly the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.

If you are ever in Belgium, get the Liege waffles, not the Brussels waffles. Seriously. Bruges is awesome because it’s entirely walkable. It’s small and quaint and the entire town is superbly picturesque.

Sadly the weather was spotty and we got caught in a downpour right before dinner. Under torrents of freezing rain, we managed to find the restaurant I had read about in a guidebook and they let us sit and have a drink while waiting for the kitchen to open. A note on Belgian food and drink: fabulous! I had a delicious stew cooked in beer which is a specialty of the region. With it, I had a Kriek (cherry beer) which tasted like soda. Belgium is known for their beers, especially their very strong Abbey-brewed beers. I tried a few while I was there. The strongest one I found was 12% alcohol by volume, though I’d much rather stick with their weaker, sweetly-flavored beers like the Kriek that I enjoyed with dinner. It continued to rain through the night, so my friends and I hung out in the hostel, munching on Belgian chocolate and beer that we had picked up from the grocery store. The next day we took a boat ride in the canals since the weather was nicer before catching a train to Brussels.

Once in Brussels, we wandered around for a bit before making our way to the hostel (which reminded us all of a mediocre MTV Real World house. Brussels was a little disappointing after seeing Bruges, but I disagree with anyone who would say it’s not pretty. It definitely has it’s moments of beauty, but the city isn’t as clean as Bruges. The main plaza though, is phenomenal. I could stay there for hours just staring at the extremely decorative buildings.

We did some sightseeing before dinner, trying to hit most of the high-points in our guidebooks. We had the good fortune of being in Brussels during what they call Nuit Blanche (White Night).

Coincidentally, it was also Nuit Blanche in Paris the same night. It’s called White Night because the town stays up really late with art exhibits and events open to the public. After dinner, we explored several of the exhibits, even stumbling upon some by accident. In fact, we saw people lined up to get into the Stock Exchange building so we got in line, not knowing why or what to expect. Once we got inside, we were confronted with a woman dressed as Snow White holding a rifle. Further inside, there were no less than 10 women also dressed as Snow White acting strangely: collapsing, breaking out into dance, drinking beer, tearing up papers, walking then suddenly freezing (just to give a few examples).

We later found out that it was some art exhibit commenting on culture and economy or something. I’m still rather perplexed by it. Trying to fit in with the Belgian youth, we bought a few beers at the grocery store. Later on in the evening, we had finished them and went in search of something more to drink. We ended up going into a small grocery store where there were a bunch of Belgian teens lined up to buy alcohol. The owner was unhappy because he wanted to close the store for the evening, so he ended up locking the door just after my friend and I got inside. The kids in line, rowdy and probably intoxicated, began chanting in French, “He locked us in! He locked us in!” I thought it was hilarious. The owner soon reopened the door so as to dissuade the impending riot, but I felt a sort of brotherhood with the Belgian youth after having been locked in a store with them. Shortly after, we headed back to the hostel and met the 3 Spaniards who we were sharing a room with, though I felt bad since they were already in bed. I didn’t get a chance to talk to them until the following morning, but even then it was kind of strained since the guy I was talking to didn’t know much English and I clearly know no Spanish. The weather our last day was disgusting, so we profited by spending the day in the Royal Museum of Fine Arts. After the museum we wanted one final waffle, but it ended up almost making us miss our train. We had to speed walk/run through the rain in order to make it in time, but all ended well and I was thrilled to have had a very successful first trip that I planned (almost) by myself.

Happy New Year!

This week was Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, and one of the most important holidays in the Jewish calendar. I don’t remember a year that I haven’t gone to synagogue during Rosh Hashana, so naturally I wanted to find somewhere in Paris to celebrate.

Fortunately, before I left the U.S., I got in touch with the Rabbi from my synagogue back home, who happens to love Paris, and to top it all off, he had met the Rabbi at the only Conservative synagogue in Paris last December. My Rabbi gave me the contact information of this synagogue and I sent an email, asking if I could attend services with them and if they knew of any families willing to take me in for dinner (I wanted a good, Jewish meal!). My Rabbi helped me out by being extremely persistent and forwarding my email to all the right people. I got two phonecalls from French families inviting me over for dinner the first night of Rosh Hashana. (Well one French-British family and one Canadian family). I accepted the first invitation I got. I also went to the synagogue to purchase my high-holiday tickets.

Anyways, Monday night was the first night of Rosh Hashana. I had an extremely busy Monday! My first class was at 10:00am; I do NOT understand the professor because he has an extremely thick Italian accent (and bad grammar! gosh!). Anyways, in that class, I overheard the 2 guys in front of me talking, and I could tell that one of them was American (by his accent and the fact that his spiral notebook was lined instead of the typical French grid). I worked up some nerve and when class ended, leaned over my desk and in French asked him if he was American. He responded yes, and I explained that I’m American too. Coincidence of all coincidences, the girl who was sitting in front of him turned around and said that she was American too! The American guy in front of me was sitting with a Spanish guy (I still don’t know how they knew each other), but the 4 of us started talking and walked out of class together. Unfortunately, I had to get to another class, because the 3 of them went to a Café to grab a coffee and talk. Anyways, I’m really excited that I met people in my class, even though they aren’t French. But I’m getting there!!

Sorry for that sidenote, back to Rosh Hashana. Alright so I essentially had class from 10-5:30 with some awkward breaks in between. After my last class ended, I had to dash to the library to print an article, then I changed into a dress that I had brought with me, and hopped on the metro to get to services. I got there a little bit after services started. When I got to the door, the doorman started asking me questions in French and I got flustered so I didn’t know what he was asking. Turns out he wanted to know what was in my bag, since I had brought all of my school books with me. At the next door, there was a list of names. I told the woman my name and she said that she had heard of me since I was the “American student who had gotten in touch with them.” She told me to go in and sit wherever I wanted. I explained that I was supposed to sit with the family that was having me over for dinner, but that I had no idea who they were. She showed me in and walked me to the family. I smiled, wished them a happy new year, and sat down with them.

It was a little odd having the prayer books in Hebrew and French, I only understood half of the sermon, and I totally missed the punch line of a joke the Rabbi told. Other than that, I enjoyed being there! After services ended, I was finally able to introduce myself to M. Ellison and his son, David. I learned that M. Ellison is English, so the whole family is fluent in both English and French. They told me to follow them through the crowd. Being a small synagogue, everyone seemed to know everyone and naturally had to greet everyone! I tried to remain as invisible as possible and not get lost in the sea of Jews kissing each other’s cheeks. We made it outside, and squished in a car with another family to head to the Ellison’s apartment. I met the 2 other girls who were in the car with me, one of whom is 19 years old, so we talked a little. When we got to the apartment, I met Mme Ellison and the masses of other people who would be dining with us. We were 17 in all, and I still don’t know how everyone there knew the family.

Dinner started off pretty traditionally. We passed around apples and honey (and sesame seeds, though I don’t know why) for the New Year. Then we made the blessing over the wine and Chalah (which they ate with honey). Then things started getting a little different. They brought out a bunch of different types of foods: egg salad, Israeli salad, foie gras, roasted red peppers, some pickled onion thing. I tried a little bit of everything. I wasn’t sure if this was going to be the only course until someone mentioned something about bringing out the meat. After what I would consider the first course, the family brought out song lyrics and proceeded to sing a song in Hebrew. Then they passed out plates with greenbeans, potatoes, and what I believe was duck. In no way was this the traditional turkey and roast beef that I’m used to during Jewish holidays. Anyways, it was pretty good, even though I’m still not entirely sure of what I ate…Maybe it’s better that way. For dessert, we passed around a huge fruit salad, little cookies, and candied fruit/gummies. During all of dinner, I didn’t say much since I couldn’t follow the many little conversations that were all going on at once. From time to time I would try to pay attention, but I have trouble comprehending unless someone is speaking clearly and directly at me. Occasionally during dinner, though, the son would talk to me in English, which actually made me feel more awkward that it would’ve been if he had asked me the same question in French. I did try to talk to the 19 year old a little bit though. And once things calmed down a bit, I did get into a debate about American versus French psychology, and talked to the grandma about Obama (she said he seems intelligent). We sat around talking for a while.

When it was time to leave, I asked where the nearest metro stop was. They tried to get me to take a cab with a younger guy who was at the dinner (I think he works with Mr. Ellison). They said that he’d have the cab drop me off first on his way home. I thought that that was too much of an inconvenience, and would cost him extra money, so I insisted on taking the metro home. So, he insisted on walking me to the metro and taking the metro with me. We talked the whole way there and while waiting for the metro. Sadly, I still don’t know his name… He said I speak well!! Yay! Probably just being polite though. I had to switch metro lines before him, so we said goodbye and headed our separate ways. I ended up getting home at midnight. It was definitely an experience! I feel honored to have taken part in their family’s traditions. They really made me feel welcome. And why? Because I’m Jewish and so are they. We have something in common, and that surpasses all other boundaries. Think about it: going to a random stranger’s house and eating dinner with them and their friends is an extremely odd concept, and yet I was fairly comfortable there. As my mom said, A Jew is a Jew is a Jew.

Tuesday and Wednesday(today) mornings, I went to services early before my class. I like the atmosphere of this synagogue. I actually beat the Ellisons to services both days, but they acknowledged me each day, which was nice. By the end of services today, I started to feel as if I belonged there and that I wasn’t just a guest in their synagogue. It’s nice to have found a place where I’m comfortable, though nothing can replace spending the holidays at home. Nothing!

A Weekend in Normandy

Ahoy there! (I think pirate-mode on Facebook is starting to get to me…don’t worry if you don’t understand what that means). So I just got back from a fantastic weekend in Normandy, France. Our train left early Saturday morning, so everyone was pretty exhausted during the train ride. Nevertheless, the train was really nice! I sat in a compartment of 8: 4 seats facing 4 seats, with a glass sliding door that we could close for privacy. It reminded me of that scene in Eurotrip, minus the sketchy European man climbing on top of us. We arrived in a town called Bayeux and went to go see a tapestry of the Queen Mathilde that essentially tells the story of the Normand defeat of the Anglos (William the Conqueror, etc.). It was pretty cool, we got an audio guide to explain the story. Unfortunately it was in French, so I caught the gist of what it was talking about. The tapestry is enormous! It’s over 63 meters long (sorry, I don’t know the conversion). After, we had time to walk around the other displays about the tapestry and see a movie about it.

We grabbed lunch in the little town, got on our bus, and headed toward the English Channel. Stop 2 consisted of Omaha Beach and the American Cemetery from World War II. It was extremely poignant and I wish I had more time to look around the memorial/museum.

Walking along the golden sand on the beach, soaking in the warm rays of the sun, it’s hard to believe what happened on the same sand merely 60 years ago. I couldn’t get the opening image from Saving Private Ryan out of my head. In my AP US History class Junior year of high school, my teacher made us watch that scene at 8:00am. It’s possibly one of the most disturbing, touching scenes from a movie that I’ve ever seen. For those of you who don’t know, Omaha Beach was one of the key beaches of debarkation for the Americans on D-Day, and it was there that the Americans faced innumerable tragedies. Next we drove to Pointe du Hoc, another key area during WWII. Here, the Americans and Allies, against all odds due to the steep slope of the cliffs, defeated German ranks and captured this strategic location. After an extremely emotional day, we had a long bus ride toward our hotel and had an interesting dinner at the hotel. We started with a fish soup and wine, and then had chicken with greenbeans, and some egg-y apple cake for dessert (supposedly a Normandy specialty). After dinner, a few of us walked around to explore the tiny town. Practically nothing was open, though we did find a British telephone booth, and a store that opened freakishly early on Sunday (we made a mental note to go there before we left to get cider).

In the morning, breakfast was fantastic! We had a buffet of different kinds of breads, yogurts, cereal, fruit cocktail, coffee/tea/hot chocolate/juice. Yum! After indulging, we went to the store that we had found and bought some cider (specialty of the region). My friend and I also bought a bag of meringues that we binged on during the long busrides and trainrides. Tummy-ache!! The ride to Mont St. Michel wasn’t bad, even though it was very early! I’m actually glad we got there so early because we beat the huge crowds of tourists!

Mont St. Michel is amazing! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it. It just seems to spring up out of nowhere! I did an audio tour of the abbey and then walked around the ramparts for a little while. Unbelievable! Then we hopped on the bus and drove to St. Malo, a small, walled-in port-town, which happens to be adorable! We had free-time here so we got lunch, walked around the ramparts, drank our cider while looking out toward the Atlantic/English Channel, and got caramel crepes (specialty of the region).

The weather was incredible! Go figure! According to my host mom, Sweet Briar usually does this trip in November when it gets cold in northern France. So good job, Sweet Briar! You chose a good weekend! Anyways, from St. Malo, we went to the train station and headed back toward sweet home, Paris (yea, Chicago or Alabama sound much better than Paris…).

School's in Session! Ughhh

Living in a city, I’m usually unperturbed by the typical din of traffic, commuters, and emergency vehicles that I’ve become so accustomed to. But today on my way home from the metro, something caught my ear. It seemed familiar, though I was too far away to tell. I quickly determined that it was the music from the Michael Buble song “Sway,” which happens to be a fantastic song. I smiled, wondering where this music was coming from, considering I was walking down a busy street near my neighborhood in the middle of rush hour traffic. As I approached the street corner and glanced across the street, I saw three men playing instruments on the corner diagonal from me. And they were indeed playing “Sway.” Knowing only two songs in Michael Buble’s repertoire, I naturally was inclined to think of the other one, “Home,” which of course made me think of home. Essentially, this is a long-winded way of explaining why I was inspired to write in my blog to fill you all in with the details of the past few days.

Well, I guess I left off with last Friday night, so I can pick up with Saturday afternoon. I’ll try to be brief, don’t worry! Let’s see, last Saturday, there was an enormous Techtonik (essentially techno) Parade in Paris, so naturally, Sweet Briar arranged for us to take a Techtonik dance class before the parade if we were interested. Not wanting to miss out on a cultural activity, I signed up. The class was roughly 2 hours long, and boy was it long! It was brutal! I was in the first Sweet Briar group of the day, and the teacher didn’t quite comprehend that we couldn’t dance! (Well, I speak for myself). And it was super painful! We were rolling around on the ground, etc. Bruised and sweaty after the class, a few friends and I decided to buy some food for lunch and picnic in Place des Voges. Quite pleasant. Then we wandered over to see the parade. I love public displays of inebriation! The parade was bizarre, but it was a great place to people watch. I was still exhausted from earlier, though, so I didn’t stay very long. Check out the video for some of my mad dancing skills (not) or amusing moments from the parade. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=chBD5i6qi40

That evening, I got Chinese food with some friends. Just a heads up, Americans do Chinese food better than the French (at least from my experience with this restaurant). Nevertheless, it was nice to not eat bread during a meal…After dinner we walked around the Seine and went home.

Sunday I woke up sick. L I had plans to meet with friends near the Eiffel Tower to plan weekend trips, so I figured I should probably go. It was absolutely gorgeous out, and we talked a little bit about where we wanted to travel. Sunday was one of the Patrimony days, which meant that all museums and government buildings were open and free to the public, but I felt awful so I just went home instead of taking advantage of the opportunity.

As for the week, still sick. Bummer. I had a full week of class and I didn’t do much else. I like my two Sweet Briar classes: writing workshop and history of Paris through its monuments. My writing teacher is hilarious! My monuments class is cool because half of the class consists of visiting monuments. This week we went to L’Ile de la Cite and saw Notre Dame, St. Chapelle, Palais de Justice, and the Concierge. We don’t always go in the buildings, but I went to the top of Notre Dame with some friends after class. It’s nice because the class forces me to get to these places, and since I don’t have class after, I can spend more time in that area once class is over.

I did have a bad experience at St. Chapelle. My first run-in with a legitimately rude French person. Sweet Briar has arranged that everyone in the program has an ID that says we study Art History so we can get into most museums for free. For instance, I had to use the ID and a special letter to get a free-entrance pass to the Louvre. At St. Chapelle, I had my Art History ID, my Paris VII ID, and my Louvre card, but I hadn’t brought my letter since I had already obtained my Louvre pass. The damn woman wouldn’t let me get into St. Chapelle, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to pay 7E for something I had seen 3 years ago (even though my teacher told me to go for class). The woman let my 2 friends go in because they had their letters, but she denied me! Bitch! Just guarding the illusion of authority that her job pretends to give her. Anyways, I went home and my two friends went in the church.

As for my Paris VII classes, I’m scared! Social psychology will be okay. For that class I have a social psychology lecture, a clinical psychology lecture, and a clinical psychology subsection. My clinical psych lecture professor is difficult to understand, but I like the subsection teacher a lot! Curriculums are so different here, and we aren’t given a syllabus! I went up to my subsection teacher and had her write down the name of the article we’re supposed to read for next class to make sure I got the name correct.

My literature and psychoanalysis class is going to suck! It’s a 3 hour lecture on Thursday afternoons. My teacher speaks quickly and softly (the French don’t really speak loudly) and when I approached him during the break to tell him I am American and explain my situation, he told me that the class would be hard for me since I’m not a literature major. Great. Then he proceeded to explain how and why Faulkner is difficult for Americans, even in English (not entirely sure why he got on that tangent), and then he explained the plot of some book that involved a bear (yea, I totally lost him…). At least it’s only once a week. Hopefully I’ll survive it. For that class I get to read Freud and Proust (I already read part of the Proust book in my French class last semester!!). I’m actually reading some Freud for my psych class too. I guess the French really like Freud…Strange. That may actually explain some things…Hehe.

I guess that’s all for now. This weekend I’m going to Normandy with my program. I’ll let you all know how that goes when I get back. Also, I just booked my trip to Belgium! I’m pumped! I leave Oct. 2nd for Bruges, then go to Brussels after. Sweet!

Dutty Wine or How I met Mister Fish and Le chapeau de Christophe or It takes 4 miracles to be a saint

I know the title is bizarre. The following entry details 2 extremely fun evenings I had in the past few days.

Thursday night I was feeling a bit of cabin fever. I hadn’t been out in a while at night since my first two experiences out were somewhat of a flop. But this time I was ready. I had asked my host mom if she was okay with me sleeping over at other people’s apartments and she said yes, so that knowledge gave me some extra comfort in case I didn’t want to come home alone all by myself at night. Fortunately, some of my friends were planning on finding a club to go dancing, so I met up with them at their apartment to hang out before finding the club. I didn’t know these girls all that well yet, so it was a surprise when one of the girls showed us how to dance Dutty Wine (in an Anne Taylor dress, no less)! If you don’t know what Dutty Wine is, I recommend looking it up online.

We had a good time at the apartment, but we decided to venture out to find this club. Yes, we were “those damn Americans” that night, singing in the metro station, but it was hilarious! We found the club and unfortunately it was a little empty, but the atmosphere was great! The walls were red and gold; the whole place seemed very classy and gave off a cool vibe. We walked passed a table of guys, and one of the guys heard us speaking English and tried talking to us but we sort of ignored him. We decided to sit down and have a drink while waiting for the place to get more crowded. We sat at the first table we saw, dead center in the bar. The waitress came by and said that we should’ve asked if we wanted to sit, but let us stay there anyways. Oh yea, we think we were at the VIP table or something! Some other guy came over and sat down with us and tried talking to us. But the first guy got jealous and came over too. It was kind of entertaining. He kept trying to speak to us in English, and we kept telling him that we only wanted to speak to him in French! I kept yelling at him, “En Français!!” He kept bugging to go dance with him, so we drained out drinks and hit the dance floor. There were 5 of us girls, and we were perfectly content dancing with each other. But the guy and his table of friends were dancing around us. And damn was he persistent! He tried to dance with all 5 of us! He would NOT give up! It was like a game to him. He’d start dancing with one of us, and we’d try pulling her away, and he’d either follow her or move on to another one of us. In a way it was kind of annoying, but also rather hilarious. And endearing. Poor guy.

In the meantime, my Dutty Wine-ing friend started dancing with some guys who seemed to be really good dancers. It essentially got to the point of a dance off! I don’t think this bar had ever seen anything like it! My friend got these guys’ numbers so they could show us to some fun clubs in the future. We decided to leave the bar to hopefully find another club to go to, but it turned out that everything else around us was closed, so we went back to this bar. We sat down and got drinks since we had been dancing for a few hours and were exhausted.

Our new friends found us and sat with us for a while. We decided to dance with them some more, and then we went home. The two guys walked us to the bus stop, and the walk was fun because I got to talk to them (in French, obviously). One of the guys told me to look him up on Facebook since his name was easy to remember. (His last name means fish in French). Thus, Mister Fish! I took the night bus home with a friend. On the bus, some well-dressed drunk guy heard us speaking English and talked to us the whole ride home. He was harmless (aka he didn’t follow us home). My friend and I both made it home safely. That was my first fun night out in Paris!

Flash forward to the next night (Friday). After dinner I met up with some friends at one of their apartments. They had eaten dinner with the grandson of the host family (he’s 21) and his friend. We sat around for a while listening to music and talking (and drinking really delicious mint tea that they guys made!). At one point I told the 2 guys to speak in English and the 3 girls would speak in French. Very entertaining since no one was speaking their native language. The goal of the night was to go to a jazz club and listen to some live music. While still at the apartment, I stole the grandson’s hat since I though it looked appropriate for a jazz club. I also changed clothes and wore my friend’s dress. I was ready for this jazz club! Before we left, the grandson asked me what I thought of his friend’s clothes since the friend was borrowing his clothes. I said they were nice and asked what he thought of my outfit. He said my jacket was ugly but my shoes were nice. Ouch.

The walk to the club was very, very long. Or at least I thought it took forever! And it was very cold out! We finally found the club and started to walk into the basement for the music, but the bartender told us there was no more music! Sad!! We got there too late! Since we had already walked there, we decided to stay for a little while, and my friends had a very over-priced drink. Also, the grandson had brought his bottle of vodka with him and had been drinking it on the walk to the bar. He even let a homeless guy take a swig of it (ew!). The bartender wasn’t happy about him bringing the bottle into the bar, but offered to stick it in the refrigerator so I would stay fresh. Ha! Another joke of the evening was that the grandson’s friend didn’t smoke at all, and didn’t drink much. Without vices! My friend called him a saint and he said it takes 4 miracles to be a saint, and he only had 2. And then he’d have to die. So he was okay not being a saint…

It was already pretty late by then, so we started to walk one of my friends back to her place. This was also an extremely long walk. A large portion of the walk consisted of me and the grandson’s friend hiding cigarettes from one of my friends so she wouldn’t smoke. (I will make you quit! You know who you are…). On the walk, we ran into another friend of the grandson (very sexy Frenchman). This new guy kept trying to steal my hat! Not cool! The grandson wasn’t pleased when I kept referring to the hat as “my hat.” The 6 of us decided to hang out at my friend’s apartment for a while before heading back. In retrospect, there was nothing special about this night aside from the fact that I got to hang out with French guys and speak to them in French. However, I happened to have a really good time! I slept over at my friend’s apartment so I wouldn’t have to wander home alone.

I guess I have good nights when I get to hang out with French guys. Good to know…