How to pretend you are French and get discounts

It has been one full week since I have been back in Connecticut and

IT FEELS LIKE A FUCKING ETERNITY.

I've been wasting lots of time refusing to reintegrate, doing crosswords (and failing miserably), being the only person who smokes on campus, dropping classes, etc. etc.

For me, the most salient reason for my lack of integration is the fact that I have a couple of new personality traits, or rather, slightly altered antics. I noticed this not only when spending time with my friends and family, but even more intensely while at school. I think that a mixture of 9th semester senioritis and a silly desire to be French has turned me into a monster. My courses this semester are a bit of a joke, especially after I found out that my trip back to America was entirely unnecessary.

SPAN 101

This is my best class. After spending a small fortune on the textbook and bearing through a few awkward first meetings I've deemed this bunch of clowns as amusing. The second day of class I made a friends, and what more, my roommate jumped on me while exclaiming, "WE HAVE A CLASS TOGETHER ROOMIE!" The teacher is extremely enthusiastic and speaks to us as if we were 4th graders, which I don't mind one bit. 

Creative Writing

Has taught me, once more again, the benefits of eliminating the word "like" from your vocabulary. The girl next to me said "like" more than Samuel L. Jackson says "fuck". I could not understand what she was saying. 

We have to write poetry for this class. The teacher is a sad, balding 50-something year old who tells us that his wife hates him and leads a "discussion" for 1h15 minutes. I have not yet dropped this course because of the gorgeous Spanish exchange student who occasionally gives me googly-eyes from across the room. Hola, Diego.

2 courses in French

These courses are cool, the professor is intelligent and the kids are not so bad. Except for yesterday when toes were stepped on after a brief discussion on the aphorism "the French work to live and Americans live to work." Okay, so the aphorism is a bit strong, it is a generalization, a stereotype, these are all decent arguments. But instead, my offended classmates said,

"Americans didn't choose to have a 40 hour work week!"

"Americans work harder to have nicer things!"

"There is more of a competitive spirit in America!"

Granted that these are all true statements, they are in no way arguments against the aphorism. It is you being stubborn and not wanting to admit that we are materialistic, stressed out, and over-worked.

Classes I've dropped

I was also enrolled in a course called, "The Short Story". I signed up for this class by mistake. I meant to sign up for American Lit from 1880. I realized this as the professor had us line up at the front of the class for the syllabus, calling us his "little ducklings", then telling us that we were "like the troops", and finally, finding the poor girl with the biggest tits and blatantly hitting on her.

This is where I decided that I could not stay. I almost made a valiant dash out of the door when he said, "If ya gotta go to the toliet, just DO IT."

I have never had a professor so sexist, crude, sarcastic, offensive, and ANNOYING.

About 15 minutes into the class, after he directed one of his rude comments my way and laid down on his desk, I left. I have never walked out of a class before. I made a beeline for the library and swapped The Short Story for American Lit, which I dropped shortly thereafter upon learning that the first novel to be read was Huck Finn.

Now here is when my world is turned upside down: I learn from UCONN that I have already finished my degree and I have no need to take any more courses. All of my credits transferred over from Paris. The secretary at the Registrar actually asked me if I was graduating RIGHT NOW. I didn't know what to say, I mean yes of course, wait no I am here anyways, my lease, my time, my nerves...

So far I've been franker than ever and anti-social. Was it living in a city? Or the famous French hospitality? Did I grow up? Or did I grow a sort of shell? It's only been a week since I've been back and I've already decided that there are several people who are just not worth my time. And for the first time in my life, I go with my gut instinct and I choose spending time alone over chugging beer in order to feel more comfortable. 

Not to mention the breaking of my heart when I left Monsieur Ponpon at the Charles de Gaulle, one week ago to this very hour.

Next entry will be more cheerful, I promise. I have third Thursday to look forward too =) and a SOBER weekend in New Hampshire with two blondes.

xo

julie

un petit week end

So, in reference to my all things petits, I would like to address a certain social phenomenon that happens each Friday in Paris (aside from in August when they migrate South).

"Petit Week End"

I was first introduced to this concept when I started work as a fille au pair for a Parsian family in September 2010. Whether rain or snow or sick children, the family would stuff their Peugot full of bedsheets every Friday and drive 2 hours (depending on the amount of other Parisians frantically leaving the city for the week-end) to their country cottage to spend 2 days à la campagne. A part of my indentured servitude was to accompany them every other week-end and amuse the children while the parents slept and/or read magazines.

Safe to say I did not fully profit from these particular petits week ends as I spent my time chasing after small children, cooking, cleaning and, on my time off, trying to convince myself that their friend's were not complete assholes.

Contrarily, as my relationship with my host family took a downwards spiral, I began to grow exponentially closer to Julien and his family. Although I could not understand much of the conversation going on around me at first, I had a much warmer and positive feeling when I was with them.

I was invited me to the family's countryside home for Halloween, Christmas, and two weekends this summer. This is where I experienced a real weekend  à la campagne.

This place is my eutopia. I have been horseback riding and biking through the windy roads. I've been swimming in a river and I even braved a rope swing for the first time in my life (took A LOT of coaxing). I've watched shooting stars, celebrated Christmas, drank too much rose, and stayed in bed until 2pm. I saw fireworks in the charming Chablis. I toured castles and strolled through royal gardens. The comparison between the country's capital and the countryside is enormous, the dialect, the dress, the decor... and the air quality.

A normal day in the countryside looks a bit like this:

2PM get dressed and eat lunch

3PM nap

4PM fun activity (i.e. horseback riding, various light sports, swimming, making cakes)

7PM apero

9PM dinner

11PM drunken board games

Safe to say, I think that I have finally understood the point of these seemingly rushed countryside weekends. Even Parisian's know deep down inside that Paris tends to be a bit suffocating at times. 

Check out my reviews on the most Hipster bars in the world coming up soon :)

xo July

how to say Tweezers in German

August 1 - August 4

some local shopping

Last Wednesday I squeezed into a van with six other passengers and traveled 5 or so hours from Paris to Cologne. This was my first time using co-voiturage, a French website in which you can book a seat in someones car who happens to be going the same place as you. I was the last person to show up at the Treffpunkt (translation: meeting place), so I found myself in the middle, knee to knee with a very pretty blonde girl and a boy with impossibly tight pants. I had trouble breathing and my the seat belt strapped across my hips was not very reassuring. In America, we would say that I was "riding bitch". A husband and wife who spent the majority of the ride bickering about money in a mixture of French and German sat in the front seats. In the back seats were a young boy and a teenage girl, presumably their children.

We arrived in Belgium when my phone told me "emergency use only". Although so far the trip had been a bit awkward, I mustered up the courage to ask the pretty blonde if she could or was willing to help me in some way. Luckily, she could not only speak impeccable French but also had a German phone. After I broke the ice, we chatted a bit. I was enthralled to find out that she also practices the art of vegetarianism. She was happy to teach me a few useful phrases in German like, ist das vegetarische and fleisch (translation: is that vegetarian? and meat). She even went as far to help me buy the right train tickets and show me how to take the S-bahn to the suburbs upon our arrival.

So, I took the S-Bahn into the Northeastern suburbs and met my host outside of the train station. First impression... ...very tall and very handsome. Piercings, accent, shy...and also a vegetarian. Could this be true? Had I somehow stumbled upon a land of Grass Eaters? He brought me to his apartment and introduced me to his roommate, whom I thought was named Josh but really was named something completely different. The two were extremely welcoming. They gave me local beer and played music and we exchanged stories about our travels and cultures.

One of the first questions I asked was whether they preferred Dusseldorf or Cologne. The response was a sardonic laugh and also a informing anecdote, recalling a stubborn rivalry between the two. Apparently the people of the neighboring towns do not take kindly to one another. It is a given fact that you do not drink the beer from Dusseldorf while in Cologne and vice versa. In Dusseldorf you drink Altbier, which means old beer, while in Cologne you drink Kölsch, which as legend has it can only be called so if brewed in a building from which you can see the cathedral:

Which is, by the way, breath-taking.

After sleeping in a large pile of pillows, I was awakened by my new vegetarian friend and offered peanut butter for breakfast. This compulsive trip to Germany was getting better by the hour. Vegetarians, guitars, good beer, peanut butter...remind me why I live in Paris? Anways, after a relaxing morning, I left for Cologne and barely made the train, thanks to a really nice local who held the door open as I ran like a imbecile from one platform to another. At this point I was already captivated by the people, the ambiance and the beer, and I hadn't even seen the Royal Jewels yet.

So I spent my afternoon marveling over German lapidary arts and German doors. The latter are notably air-tight and fabricated with an intent to close off completely one room from another. For example, each bathroom has one heavy door to open in order to get into the "washroom" and following the first door, an equally thick doors to get to the toilet. These large doors were ubiquitous; it was even necessary in the museums to open up a door in order to go from one room to the next. The intimidating doors marked in German added a shot of suspense to my afternoon. I was hesitant to open them and felt uncomfortable when they clicked shut behind me.

I figured out how to use the metro system to get back to the suburbs. Doing so was very gratifying as I speak no German and am not exactly what you would call orientated.... Upon leaving the subway, I was helped by two or three locals in finding my hosts apartment. I had a crudely drawn map and a confused look on my face, which may have evoked pity or perhaps the locals are just really friendly. I had two people approach me and ask me if I needed help (one of which did not speak English so was not very successful). I said goodbye to my lovely hosts and, I'm not entirely sure how we managed, but I met a friend on a random train platform (number 10) back in Cologne.

The locals applauded us as we drank a scorpion bowl in celebration of the fact that we found each other in a random city in Europe. We were next to the Rhine river, which was lovely. We made the first train to Dusseldorf. I blame the scorpion bowl or perhaps our inefficiency for missing the last train back to his hotel. Some complaining, beers, and an expensive taxi ride later we finally arrived at the hotel and asked for the key, which was attached to a 5lb weight. After going through some more very firmly closed doors, we made it to the room where he told me that I shouldn't be playing my uke at this hour (I'm pretty sure it was around 3am at this point) and we fell asleep in his teeny tiny twin sized bed. 

Since he had to work the next morning, I profited from the free tea downstairs, took a long nap, and made my way into the adjacent village, Hilden.

Which was adorable.

Although I had planned to go see Dusseldorf, I couldn't bring myself to leave this little village. Instead, I saw a German wedding. I also watched a one-manned band play 90s music in the town square, spoke with a lovely woman about skin care, flirted with a blonde waitress and ate what was incontestably the best slice of cake ever made.

I eventually found a small cafe, which doubled as an ice cream shop. At the cafe I browsed an extensive menu of ice cream sundaes. There was a large section devoted to "spaghetti ice cream" which was ice cream sundaes that looked like spaghetti dishes. There was ice cream pizza, ice cream lasagna, ice cream risotto, etc. etc. Afterwards I learned the word Pinzette (which sounds like "pinch it" and means tweezers!) and I saw a very large pair of jeans.

Which I decided are a direct result of the ice cream consumption.

After meeting up with my friend, we decided to have dinner in Cologne. Afterwards we messed up some more train schedules and in a desperate attempt to buy beer, ran to a grocery store with our host, who was kind enough to once again let me sleep on his couch. In fact my host had already left for Spain and it was his roommate, who I now know is not named Josh, who let us stay. Although my weary traveler friend and I were exhausted, we stayed up discussing politics and education with two very interesting characters. We also played one of my favorite games, set. Around 1 or 2 in the morning another drunken roommate came home. My friend and I ended up sleeping about 45 minutes (I threw in the towel a bit before him) and ran to the train station somewhere in between 5:58 and 6:04 in the morning. To my amazement...

WE DIDN'T MISS THE TRAIN.

Although I was rather looking forward to sleeping in the car ride to Paris, the driver was set on chatting about politics and education and world hunger. In French. My comrade, on the other hand, slept like a baby in the backseat, ignorant to the depth and complexity of the 5 hour long conversation that I was keeping up, like a real champion. 

And so, my friend and I arrived in Paris around noon on Saturday, August 4th. We were beaten, had stomach aches from no sleep and too much Ouzo, and still had about 45 minutes of metro to take in order to get back to my apartment. Although my little adventure does not stop here, this post does.

to be continued....

Biergarten