Au revoir, Paris :(

Translation: You can guess that one on your own.

Well, I'm still behind on posting I know - I have yet to write about the adventures had by Carly and I in Ireland as well as England, but those posts will have to come later because the first four months of my adventures and my time living in Paris has come to a close. It's more of a mark than I ever expected it to be, and it's probably because of the exodus of the amazing people I met in my time here that made Paris such a special place for me.

I've been struggling with myself for a long time now trying to write this. Maybe it's because I've been busy on new adventures outside of Paris, but I think it also could be that once I post this, it marks that my time in Paris really is over, and it now only remains in my past - something that I'm not too sure I'm ready to accept fully. Time went by too fast.

I remember having dinner my second night in Paris by myself at a little sushi place down the street from my hotel. It was Sunday, and I was lucky it was open, but I was starving. I hadn't been eating very much since I arrived because I was so terrified of going outside by myself and the room service menu mainly contained gluten and was very expensive. But the saki sushi I had and miso soup that night was worth the walk down Rue de Lyon, because I not only was able to satisfy my extreme hunger, but I also had forced myself to break the first barrier of shyness and fear I had with the city.

I remember the first time I met Carly and how I could tell instantly that she was from Santa Barbara. I remember Astrid sitting by herself awkwardly on the couch, and thinking, "wow, this girl's a wierdo". I remember running through the rain dragging my suitcases to the Citadine Hotel we all lived in near Bastille, and Ryan and Josh's faces when us six girls walked in, soaking wet and laughing because, of course, the rain would stop as soon as we were inside. I remember meeting Alex and Austin later that night after a group of girls went out to dinner at Chez Clement, and came back to the boys pent house room after for wine and pastis.

I remember meeting Madame Aubert the first time and being so excited because we were going to have the best time ever. I shoved an orchid in her arms and we drove away to my new home on Rue Felix Faure. I remember how Monsieur et Madame had their daughter Penelope over and they all greeted me with smiles, English for the first day, and kept filling my glass with an appératif Martini and then began to pour the wine... The next morning when I left for school I couldn't figure out how to open the front door to the street. I was locked inside for at least 5 minutes, frantic because I was going to be late, and also because I was sure and second someone would open the door for me and make me feel like a complete idiot. But then I found the button, which looked the same as the light switch, but did not turn on any lights, but made a buzzing noise which freed the heavy wooden door.

I remember our first night going to the Highlander in Saint Michel, and our nights drinking bottles of wine on the seine, waving to all the asian tourists who would float by on the big tour boats with their blinding spot lights. There was one night when I lifted my leg up from over the side of the river bank to find a giant white spider connected to it by a webby thread. With my extreme fear of spiders, and its incredible size and disgusting color and shape, I immediately began screaming, though in that state I have no idea how loud or high pitched or what I might have been saying. My friends just sort of sat their, staring at me, unable to decipher what the heck was going on, until I dropped the spider on Austin's leg, when he gave a little scream, then flicked it off into the seine. I had by then curled up in a ball on the ground and was slightly crying, almost laughing with my friends at myself - my spider fear was now known.

The next spider I found one night when I came home late from being out. I peeled back my blankets to climb into bed, only to watch a stocky black spider try to escape down further into the sheets. I covered my mouth with my hand to prevent and of my screaming noises from waking up my host parents - the french don't seem to understand arachnophobia, so waking them up with my screams over a spider at 3 am probably wouldn't have gone over very well. I found a shoe, and decided to try to scoop it out of my bed on to the floor so I could then squish it, but after the scooping motion, the spider was no where to be found on the floor. I thought It had only gone further into my sheets and blankets - there was no way I was going to bed with a LIVE spider in my room. IN desperation I texted ryan "THERE'S A SPIDER IN MY BED!!! WHAT DO I DO?!?!?", or at least that's what I thought it said. What it actually said was "THERE'S A PRIZE IN MY BED!!!", which only confused him and lead to no helpful advice. Eventually I did find the spider on the floor, and smooshed the crap out of it with my boot, before searching my bed in paranoia one last time before crawling inside it and falling asleep.

I remember how in the first few weeks, every day after class we would go to an épicerie to by saucisson, cheese, baguette and wine and would head to a different park to lay on the grass in the sunshine.

I remember walking in the Latin Quarter to Rue Mouffetard and experiencing my first Parisian snow - though I was with Carly and she wasn't too excited. Since she's from Nevada, it wasn't real snow, it was half hail. But it didn't hurt when it fell, so I considered it snow still. I remember the courtyard snowball fights, and the day we got 4.5 inches in just a few hours. I remember chasing Carly from school all the way to Starbucks with a giant snowball. I somehow managed to hide it half behind me and she slowed down for me to catch up to her thinking I had dropped it - but as soon as I pulled it out, she began running again - A french man saw the whole thing and laughed as he walked past me.

I remember climbing the 1789 steps of the Eiffel Tower to the second (in french terms) level to wait in line for the elevator to the very top and not being able to see a single thing because the tower was consumed by a snow cloud.

I remember going to the 'green awning' every day for lunch, then moving on to the Pheonix D'Or, and even giving in to restaurant universitaire's 3 euro plates.

I remember my first symphony, my two nights at fondue, the ballet that I went to but didn't see, and the horrible movie I saw with Carly on our last night together in Paris - or so we thought.

I remember having to say goodbye to all my new friends, and hoping that we all really would stay in touch.



Every single moment I spent in Paris taught me something. It may be impossible to remember each moment, but I feel I haven't forgotten a single one, nor will I ever.

I will never forget walking to the metro from dinner at my Aunt's apartment. I came to the Champs Élysées to find it deserted and dark, but incredibly beautiful because of the white-blue christmas lights wrapped around each tree, framing the Arc de Triomphe with it's steady golden blaze upon the grave of the unknown soldier.

And I certainly will never forget my last day in Paris, all by myself. I took myself to Café Restaurant La Source by Invalides for my favorite Cassoulet de Confit de Canard avec un carafe d'eau et pour dessert, un chocolat viennois. Then I let myself walk past Invalides in the snow, across Pont d'Alexander, between the Grande et Petit Palais to the Christmas market on the Champs Élysées. I then took the 6 line home, so I could stay above ground a little longer and watch as I went past the Eiffel Tower one last time.

Est-ce que nous avons l'essence Français?

Translation: Do we smell French?

I know, I know, I'm still so far behind. It's been weeks and my never ending adventures paired with preparing for finals has been keeping me completely occupied.

Right now, I'm sitting at school, watching as the snow floats to the ground from the gray sky, in the largest flakes I've ever seen. It's all piled up to about 2 inches in the past two hours. I'm plugged into my iPod that's playing Christmas music, and eagerly awaiting Carly to get out of class so we can go to Starbucks down the street and sit in their big comfy chairs, enjoy the snow and study with our grande latté du caramel et noisette.

I'm beginning to get very sad about leaving Paris. I only have a little over a week left before heading to Norway to stay with Ingrid for Christmas and New Years, and then I'm off to Bordeaux. I find myself getting anxious, and trying to pack in everything I've wanted to do since I've been here and just haven't gotten around to. I feel as though I've only scratched the surface of this incredible city, and there's part of me that never wants to leave. But, at least I have these last few days to start saying au revoir à Paris, perhaps just à tout à l'heure - I know I'll be back, no doubt.

So for now, I'll try to update you all on all the traveling I've been doing since Prague...since that was around midterms and now the semester is about to end.

Fall break after midterms consisted of 10 days of freedom with no worries of school, and only an opportunity to see some parts of the world I'd always wanted to see. We started in Barcelona, a day behind schedule thanks to more grèves en Paris. Carly and I with one other girl managed to change our flights on easyjet quite easily, while our friends Austin and Alex had a little more trouble getting out of France. Alex wasn't able to get a flight until Sunday night, when Carly, myself and the third girl would have already left Barcelona. Poor Austin was trying to use his train credit and since his original direct train had been cancelled, he had to make 3 transfers and take 4 separate trains. Unfortunately, his fourth train left without him on it, just inside the French border without any more Trains leaving to Barcelona for another 24 hours. We found him a bus and so he arrived the next morning at nearly 5, completely exhausted, but happy to have a day with nearly everyone before we left for Italy.
We stayed in the wonderful Hostel Central, wandered around the city, down Las Ramblas all the way down to the harbor, drinking steins of Sangria, stuffing our faces with paella, through the tapas markets and any interesting alley ways we could find. Our full day with Austin, we hiked up to Park Guëll where we got an incredible view of the entire city. We walked back down through various other parks, to the hostel, grabbed more paella and sangria for dinner, then found our way to a bar in a random alleyway advertising 1 euro beers that provided us with a fun night with a lot of other friendly foreigners.
The next morning we walked down Las Ramblas to the market to get breakfast, to find that it was closed, being Sunday. Instead we walked across the street to a place called Chiquitos, where I had the most phenomenal breakfast in my life: Hot Chocolate (sans churros :( ), fried eggs and the most delicious chorizo in the world - not kidding. I was quite pleased when we left an hour or so later, but Barcelona was such a wonderful city, warm and buzzing with a happy lively energy, I can't wait until I have another opportunity to go back.

That night, after our 14 euro easyjet flight, Carly, myself and the third girl arrived in Milan, Italy. It was Halloween, and Carly and I both being from Santa Barbara, we were a bit anxious to see what kind of festivities we would find. Unfortunately, we found none. We checked into EuroHotel, slightly disappointed with our room (only because we had had such a wonderful one in Barcelona), ate a mediocre dinner at the restaurant the hotel recommended,and head back to the hotel with the intention of going back out to seek some Halloween fun, but discouraged by the lack of social traffic in the city, as well as coaxed by our warm and dry room in contrast to the rain outside, we instead turned on the TV and watched a Czech movie until we fell asleep.
Milan as a whole was somewhat disappointing. I was excited to come back to Italy after the first experience I had there two years ago with my cousin, Lindsay, and my grandparents, but it wasn’t living up to my memories. The next day we wandered around in the pouring rain, starting at the duomo, to the basilica and to our first enjoyable meal in Milan at – artichoke risotto and sparkling white table wine.We finished the day off with roaming around the Milano Castle gardens before heading home, stopping at a store on the way to grab some wine to help us warm up once we got back to our room. After ringing out our sopping wet socks and showering, we head back out on the town for dinner and hoping to find some more nightlife – apparently it hardly exists in the city. Dinner, however, was delicious. We found a little place that didn’t have a sign outside, and the menus only said “menu” on them, so we never learned its name. We shared a bottle of the house chianti and Carly and I shared the moment of trying octopus for the first time. The waiter didn’t speak English at all, so with the tiny bit of Italian I could muster and mix with some French, we were able to order and get by in small conversation. He ended up thinking that we were French, which was quite entertaining for all of us – maybe we don’t seem so American anymore, France must have been rubbing off on us more than we thought.

Despite a couple good meals and the beautiful Palace grounds, Milan was overall quite disappointing and we couldn’t have been happier to get on the train to Bologna. We arrived in the small town in the middle of the afternoon. We walked into our hotel, the Caravaggio, and were welcomed by a smiling older man who didn’t speak a single word of English. Through hand gestures and easy vocabulary, he was able to help us understand him as he explained the rules and the amenities of the hotel as well as oriented us in relation to the rest of the town.
We weren’t very far from the old town center, so we began walking around until we got hungry for dinner, which wasn’t very long. By seven in the evening we began desperately searching for a restaurant, any restaurant – so long as it was cheap…ish. Apparently no restaurants open for dinner in Bologna until 8 pm or later. Everyone seemed to go out for drinks and appetizers, but no real food, I wanted a huge plate of gluten free pasta, or more risotto, or maybe a steak, as well as the rest of the cow. We finally spotted some red and white-checkered tables on a porch down a small alley – it was open, it was cheap…ish and we were starving. Our waiter was tall and thin, looked kind of like that guy from The Pianist. We ordered our pastas, and my beef and red wine risotto, and the least expensive bottle of wine but no water – our waiters seemed to like us for that. Being on the budget we were on, we always had to choose wine or water, never both as they generally cost the same amount. Our meals were delicious, but probably about a quarter of the size we were expecting. When we had finally paid and left the restaurant, we started looking for a kebap shop to get some cheap french fries or something to fill us up. In the search, we stumbled upon a small bar called The Sherlock Holmes, where three guys and a girl were standing outside, trying to convince us to come inside. Only one of them spoke English and translated for everyone else, they all seemed nice enough, and the sign said they had karaoke, so we figured we’d give it a try. The girl ended up being the bartender, and she was absolutely adorable. She made us a round of drinks, 5 euro each, and for just one euro more, we could help ourselves to the appetizer bar… PERFECT. We ended up staying there for a couple hours before we head back to our room to sleep.
The next day we didn’t waste any time before exploring the city. We head to the free medieval museum, where we ran into more Italians who were curious about our origins – one man stopped me and asked me if I was something that sounded like Scandinavian. When I gave him a confused look, he said “Icelandic”, I laughed and shook my head no. Guess number 3 – “AMERICANO!” Si, si, I am Americano. Guess we blend in better than most Americans, ha!
After the museum, and a church across the street (inside of which we got hassled by a beggar), we began again our search was food. You’d think in Italy it wouldn’t be so hard to find a restaurant, but again, we wandered for quite a while before we found one and no longer cared what was on the menu or really how much it cost. After lunch we climbed the tower, which probably wasn’t a smart thing to do on a full stomach on account of the millions of stairs, but the view was absolutely incredible and worth the work out.
That night we went to dinner at a place that we thought we knew the name of since we stole a sugar packet, but being that there are four names on the sugar packet, I’m not quite sure which one it really is. But it was good, delicious actually. Our waiter was about our age and spoke English, which helped us out a lot. He made sure we had a good meal, helped us to order a yummy, inexpensive wine, an appetizer of mozzarella and proscuitto since the melon we wanted was out of season, and he took my gluten free pasta and turned it into “the best pasta the chefs could make” – more seafood, but it was quite delicious.For dessert I ordered a crème caramel, which he brought out with a little message written on it; “u’r sweeter than this”. He was very sweet, but it was quite awkward when he picked my my licked-clean plate, then asked if it was legible.
We left the restaurant and head back to the Sherlock Holmes Bar to meet some of the people we had met the night before. We ordered a round of drinks and planned on going to a club down the street, but we never made it there. Instead we stayed at the bar until it closed waiting for more people to show up. Christiano didn’t speak a word of English, or any other language besides Italian for that matter. After being around him for a little while though, we were able to work out various hand gestures and putting “o” at the end of some French and Spanish words we were able to communicate with him – most of the time. One of the bar tenders told us that he sung very well, so we began pleading him to sing for us, which of course he refused. Carly made a deal with him, that if she sang, he would sing. Since the bar was empty by then, they turned off the music, and Carly pulled up “What’s Up” by Four Non Blondes on youtube and let it rip. The video is quite hilarious since Carly is quite the singer. However, Christiano never did sing.

The next morning we continued our journey on to Venice, the last leg of our fall break trip. We had only been in our room at the Ca’ Contarini a few minutes before a random boy came barging in, saying that he had been in our room the night before and he was missing some clothes. He just waltzed right on in, no excusing himself, no apologies, and helped himself to looking under then beds, in the drawers – we just kind of stood there flabbergasted, but it was hilarious. He abruptly left the room as soon as he had welcomed himself in, and we watched as his tall gangly figure sped back down the stairs. We called after him, laughing, and asked what his name was – Daniel. A few minutes later down in the kitchen, I ran into him again. He was sitting at the dinner table with another guy, an American, also named Daniel. For the rest of our stay there we referred to them in the order that we met them. Ginger Aussie Daniel that barged into our room was deemed Daniel #1, while the American Daniel from Brown, studying in Prague was Daniel #2.
With the Daniels, and a few other people we ran into from ACCENT we explored nearly every inch of Venice’s winding alleyways and waterways. 6 of us split a gondola ride with one of the most awesome gondoliers ever, though he didn’t sing like I was hoping. We spent a lot of money on food, not knowing about the cover charge that most restaurants charge on top of a service fee. After that lesson we all went crazy in a grocery store and cooked a feast together in the tiny hostel kitchen, after which followed one of the most epic nights of my life.
The Daniels and our group were sitting on the beds in our room. I had had to wrestle my pillow away from Daniel #2, which got me thinking – I want to go outside and hit random Italians with my pillow, just to see what would happen. When I verbalized the idea, Daniel #1 pointed out that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to hit random Italians…but we could hit each other.
The group of us began walking towards San Marco’s square, each armed with out hostel pillows.At each smaller square we would break out into a full on pillow fight, laughing hysterically, unable to believe how immature we were being, but how fun and ridiculous it was at the same time. We drew in crowds of people, who would cheer us on and take videos. In one of the bigger fights, two older men in suits and smoking cigars joined in, trying to grab one of our pillows so they could go after someone. There was also a girl about our age coming home from the bars dressed in nice clothes and stiletto heels who managed to wrestle a pillow from someone and come after me. We had a good go at each other, laughing but still throwing all we had behind each swing – eventually we both got tired and shook hands to make a truce and exchange names and a laugh. A minute later I lent her my pillow while I caught my breath, and watched as she went after 6 foot something Kyle, who was running away from her and her stiletto ferocity, squealing.

Our 10 days were packed with adventure and story after story, but I was so incredibly happy to come home to Paris. I guess it had started to grow on me a little bit.

Miluju Praha!

Translation: I love Prague! (ok, it's Czech, not French so I'll let you off easy this time)

Alright, I know I have quite a bit of catching up to do since it's been a few weeks since I've written. Traveling without a computer and studying for midterms preventing from sitting down and writing about my adventures, but it's ok! I'll fill ya'll in.

Praha. (Sigh). Oh how I miss it; it really was like a fairy tale with autumn forests and gorgeous castle reflecting in the river that winds through the city. My friend Astrid and I did absolutely no research on Prague before we arrived. It took us quite a bit longer to get there than we expected on account of more grèves in France, but eventually we made it. We got off the plane and realized how little we actually knew about the city; we didn't have any crown, only euro, and we knew that we needed to get to metro A, but it didn't connect to the airport. We were standing outside, trying to read a large czech map behind glass covered in smudged finger prints when a couple offered to help us. They were from Prague, and not only showed us on the map where to go, but told us what bus to take and gave us coins to buy our tickets since our exchanged 20 euros had given us two 200 crown notes.

We walked down the same street a few times before finding our hostel, Hostel Rosemary, a very clean and friendly establishment that went over with Astrid and I quite well for our first hostel experience. The man at the front desk was was friendly and gave us maps and oriented us as well as circled the places in the city we would want to visit, and showed us to our room. We learned that a lot of what happens in a hostel though depends on the people that are staying there as well, more so than on the conditions of the building itself. Astrid and I were staying in the 14 bed unisex dorm complete with a main room with 3 bunk beds, a smaller connecting room with another 3 bunk beds, and two single beds in a loft. We took the loft since it was available and provided a little more privacy. In the dorm there was an older man probably in his 40's who seemed to never leave his top bunk in the corner. There was also a russian couple and 3 Italian young men who seemed to be a little over-excited by my blonde hair all staying in the smaller room. My locker happened to be in the smaller room, so when I first went inside to lock up my pack, one of the Italians offered his hand, "Ciao! My name iz Daveeed. What iz yourz?" I introduced myself and talked very little about where each of us were from before Astrid and I left to grab some dinner and then drinks with a friend of a friend.

The two of us wandered through tiny cobblestone streets, slightly disturbed by the somewhat frightening-looking marionettes that hung in almost every window, lusting after funny furry hats, and trying to decide which door man we should believe had the best cheap food. We ended up at a pub, the waiter greeted us "Ahoj!" (pronounced A-hoy!, like a pirate, A-hoy matey!), and seated us at a bar table. Minutes later we were being served massive plates of food costing only 150 crown, mine consisting of a mountain of french fries and a large grilled chicken breast smothered in creamed spinach - delicious - salty, but delicious.

After dinner we wandered more about the city before getting a call from Joe, the son of my mom's boss who is studying abroad in Prague this semester from Cal Poly SLO. "Where are you?" he asked, "Uhhhh, I'm on a bridge...?" Apparently, there are a lot of bridges in Prague, I had to find one named Charles.

Astrid and I were browsing through a souvenir shop when I heard a group of rambunctious boys joking about themselves, "how are we gonna find her dude?", "just yell out her name, ha!", "Kellynnnn! KELLYNNNNN!"

-"Uhh, Joe?"

Slightly embarrassed, Joe and his 3 friends turned around and we all began to laugh and shook hands. I assumed we weren't going to far since none of them were wearing jackets in the 30, maybe 20-something degree weather, but I guess coats just aren't fashionable in Prague at night. After walking for about 10 minutes and getting acquainted with one another, we arrived at a bar. I walked inside to find older and angry-looking eastern-european men glaring at me behind their individual clouds of cigarette smoke - where the heck were they taking us? Down a flight of stairs, across a billiards room and through a narrow brick hallway underground and we found ourselves at the bar. Apparently the bar was an old underground communist hideout - guess it would make sense. Parting the now prevalent blanket of smoke we walked through the bar and sat down at a table together then ordered bahama mama's from the hilarious blonde waitress. We talked about our various study abroad programs and home since Joe was from Lafayette, and about all the traveling we had done and were planning to do, but since we were all tired, and the boys were leaving for a trip the next morning, we all said goodbye and Astrid and I head back to the hostel.

The next morning we woke up to the alarm on my phone, but allowed ourselves to lazily lay in bed while slowly regaining consciousness. I rolled over a few minutes later to see what time it was and noticed a small sheet of graph paper lying on top of my things next to my bed.Hmm, what is this? I turned it over, to find "I >that woke me up. "ASTRID! ASTRIDDDDD! .......ASTRID!" I hissed across our loft, hoping to gain her attention but no one else's. It took a second for her sleepy vision to focus, but then her eyes grew wide and she had to stifle a laugh.

We waited for the room to get quiet again in order to avoid Daveeed from Naples who we assumed was guilty of writing the love note. Heading towards the old town center, Astrid was craving coffee, Starbucks more specifically, and we had seen one the previous nights in one of the winding alley-ways. Before we could find the Starbucks however, we stumbled upon our new morning tradition, Coffee Heaven.Get the elephant latte or the coconut white chocolate mocha - it literally is heaven. We took our delicious drinks with us as we began our adventure through the charming fairy tale city for the first time in day light.

Through the old town center to the jewish district, across the river to the John Lennon "Imagine" wall and a pleasant place near by for a proper czech lunch of delicious sausage, a vinegar mustard and country potatoes; absolutely scrumptious. After lunch, up the mountain to the castle, through the amazing cathedral and running on the grass to play in the gold leaves despite the posted pictures of shoes on grass in a red circle with a line through it and the guard whom we waited for to walk behind some other trees further away.

We walked back down the mountain, back across the Charles bridge (now that we knew where it was and what it was), and head back to Rosemary for some down time before going to dinner and out and about on the town again.

We seemed to be the only two people in our dorm, and I'm sure it looked empty once we were up in our loft area because of what happened next. Astrid was napping and I was reading when I heard someone come in the room, but I didn't really pay any attention to it. They had gone into the smaller room where my locker was and thank goodness I didn't need anything out of it because soon we heard one of the bunk beds start squeaking. Astrid and I looked at each other quizzically - why was a bed squeaking? Then we started hearing some other noises... they could have at least closed the door! Astrid starting coughing loudly, hoping they'd get the hint, we'd move around trying to make it apparent that they weren't the only people in the dorm, we'd laugh or talk - get the hint! It was a bit late, but eventually I remembered that I had a farting application on my iPhone. Hitting number 7 once was all it took - the bed squeaking stopped and Astrid and I fell into a fit of ridiculous laughter. The situation became even more hilarious because Astrid thought that I had actually farted because she hadn't noticed I had pulled out my phone. Why I didn't think of it sooner is beyond me, but now I know the secret to solve nearly any problem I come across in a hostel.

That night we went to dinner at an Indian restaurant down the street from Rosemary. I haven't eaten a whole lot of Indian food on account of my weak tongue when it comes to spicy-ness, however most of my friends are all about it, so I gave it a try. I ordered something familiar, a chicken dish that I had has before, however the curry rice was more like fire rice. I noticed that if I ate it really fast it wouldn't burn so badly, so I shoveled it all in as fast as I could. Astrid was kind enough to let me sip her unpleasantly-salty-yogurt-drink-thing and eat some of her plain basmati rice she hadn't finished.

After dinner we wandered around town more, back through old town square where we found some funny furry hats that we couldn't pass up, especially with how freaking cold out it was. With our new matching hats, we were back in the alleyways, looking more like locals and happy about it. The people in Prague were the nicest and most friendly I've come upon so far in all my travels through Europe, I really wouldn't mind moving there to teach English, even if it just is an excuse to wear my funny furry hat everyday.

The next morning we woke up at a reasonable hour and prepared ourselves to walk everywhere. We were in love with our fairy tale city, and we wanted to see every inch of it. Passing the Charles bridge, we stayed on our side of the river and walked upstream to find our way to the dancing house. I don't really know anything about it, other than it's amazing. If you google Prague images, it's one of the first things that comes up, and is such a popular tourist attraction plainly because of it's incredible architecture. All of the architecture in the town however is amazing; it ended up taking Astrid and I a lot longer to get to the dancing house because we would stop in front of every apartment building we passed to stare at the various statues and decorations. Each one was so different and expressive, yet somehow they all worked together harmoniously for the individual building, as well as the rest on the street. It was incredible.

Then we crossed the river - we wanted to find some place really authentic for lunch, so we kept walking away from the river and upstream, only to find ourselves at scary looking McDonalds - we weren't in fairy tale land anymore. We decided to head back but were starving and were able to find a restaurant cafe that was quite delicious and was very helpful when it came to catering my celiac needs. I enjoyed a ham and cheese omelet with a side of fruit, a novel concept in Prague apparently as there was just a banana, a sliced apple and peeled orange awkwardly piled on a small plate.

Very full from lunch, we strolled back to the right side of the river. In the distance we could see some ruins perched on a hill, a church or maybe a castle? We didn't know but it looked cool enough to keep heading further away from the center of town. On the way we came across a farmers market on the riverbank. All the food looked amazing - why had I eaten an omelet? Why couldn't I be hungry again? But then I spotted something that I could maybe manage. There was a small cart next to the water with two men cutting whole raw potatoes into spirals then frying them. They looked and smelled delicious, the perfect amount of crunch but were still warm and chewy in the middle, like potato chips but all still connected - potato spiralies.Since it was only 40 crown for a paper cone full, Astrid and I handed over the coins and walked away with our salted coin of scrumptious spiralies. Though delicious, it probably wasn't such a good idea to force more food into my full stomach on account of the hike we had ahead of us to the ruins on the hill.

We arrived at the top, breathing heavily, but soon amazed by the view. You could see all of Prague in its perfection. The sunshine was reflecting off the river, making the sailboats look as if they were dancing, the trees of the forest all the vibrant reds browns deep greens and gold of fall, surrounding the ancient but charming brick buildings of the city. It was absolutely beautiful.

We were tired from walking, but regardless we hiked back down, followed the river downstream and crossed it, then hiked back up to the castle to watch the sunset and the lights come on in the city. beautiful variations of pink streaked the sky, bleeding from the mountains and slowly bringing darkness over the river and town. Once the darkness came, the cold came along with it - not that it wasn't already cold. We head back down to eat dinner and rest a little at the hostel before going out.

That night we found ourselves at the "largest club in eastern europe", consisting of 5 different floors, all of which were a different theme. There was "radio hits" and "dance music", "oldies music", "chill out music", and the best and most politically incorrect floor, "black music", referring to rap, hip hop and R&B. This floor seemed to be the most popular, decked with light-show walls, a fog machine, strobe lights and a sunken dance floor. My favorite floor though had to be "Oldies", simply because they played 70's and 80's music and they had a floor that lit up in colored cubes so that you felt like you were in Saturday Night Fever. The best part had to be the 60 year old women dancing their hearts out, singing along in horrible accents, while the teen and 20 something boys looked on in fear of being chosen as a dance partner. The videos are hilarious.

The next morning was our last in Prague. For the last time we went to Coffee Heaven. For the last time we walked through the old town center and watched our favorite old man sing and dance and play either the saxophone or trumpet. It was sad. We went back to the John Lennon wall since the first time the lighting for pictures was impossible, then spent 200 crown on a fixed lunch near by with delicious vegetable soup and a piece of turkey barely bigger than my thumb served on lettuce - needless to say not enough. Then we wandered through the rest of the city we hadn't seen, including a beer garden with another incredible view of the city (but no beer), and the National Museum which had been next to our hostel the entire time and we didn't even know it (we learned on this trip that it's important to turn around and look behind you).

Even though we said goodbye to Prague, our adventure was far from over. Our flight was delayed about an hour, landing us in Paris at about 12:30 am, just in time for all the buses and the RER to stop running. Perfect. We had met a group of french guys while waiting for our delayed plane in Prague, they had told us that the RER ran until 2 am, and though we should have known better having lived in Paris for 2 and a half months now, we believed them. We ran off the plane, through the terminals, following the signs to the RER. One terminal was closed so we were forced to go outside, but it's ok, we'll just go back inside at the next one - wrong. The next terminal didn't exist. We somehow had to find a way across the winding overpasses - usually you would go underground or take a shuttle - the French guys we were with just started running. Astrid and I looked at each other, shrugged; we might as well run too. Across a curving overpass, over a gate, across a street to another locked terminal - shoot. Turn around, run back across the street, back over the gate, down the exit driveway into the parking garage, around a corner, up a service staircase, down two escalators to the level of train platforms: RER closed. We knew that guy was lying when he said it was open until 2:30; they must not be from Paris.

Since cabs cost about 50 euro into Paris, and Astrid and I were heading in different directions and no one was going to my district to share a cab with, we decided to camp out in CDG. Now inside the airport again, we wandered through the unlit terminals, waving to the workers as they passed us on their floor polishing cars, until we made our way back to terminal 2B. We set an alarm for 4:30 am and tried to get comfortable on the chairs; back pack on against one arm rest, butt in the seat, knees bent over the next arm rest, hat covering my face in attempt to block out the annoying florescent lights. After about an hour, I pushed my hat up to see Astrid looking at me, exhausted and delirious, she had an idea. There was a restaurant across from us which was closed, but outside of it's main gate they had a small patio area that blocked off by wooden partitions and tall plastic plants. There was a man in there who had pushed chairs together to make a bed and seemed to be sleeping quite comfortably - it was brilliant idea. After fighting my way through the plastic forest, I helped Astrid as we flipped chairs from their upside down position on the tables and pushed them against a wall- voila, our chair fort! We put on a few more layers, cuddled our bags and slept with our funny furry hats over our faces until my alarm went off at 4:30 am and we made our way home on the first RER.

Yay for chair forts in Charles! - not. At least it was an adventure all the same.

Les adventures à Paris

Translation: Adventures in Paris. (You should have been able to translate that one yourself!)

The past 2 weeks have been full of adventures all within Paris. Even despite the rolling strikes (which really haven't been so bad), and the "terrorist threats" (also not causing any distress as opposed to the US's media coverage), the past 14 days have been the most fun I've had in Paris, and the most, well, Parisian.

Fondue Dinner

Last Thursday night I met my friends and some other students for dinner at L'Assiette aux Fromages, a fondue restaurant on Rue Mouffetard in the 5th. The night was put together by ACCENT, the company that works with UC to create and manage the school I attend here in Paris.

The dinner only cost 10 euro, and It was by far the best 10 euro I have yet to spend during my time in Paris so far. We were treated to a 3 course fondue dinner, with sides of salad, ham, potatoes and green-beans. The first courses were served at the same time, a cheese fondue eaten with bread (big skewer), and an oil fondue which cooks pieces of raw beef for you to dip in a choice of sauces (little skewer). Usually the fondue's are strictly eaten as bread with cheese, meat in oil then sauce, however because of my dietary issues, I was allowed to break the rules a little bit and dip my cooked pieces of meat in the cheese - like a gourmet philly cheese steak bite. Ryan however, was the first to try the meat and cheese combination. Adrien and Mattieu, the ACCENT employees who came to the dinner, told Ryan that it was totally fine to dip the meat in the cheese. Ryan being the smarty pants that he is, stabbed a piece of raw meat and set it in the pot of cheese fondue - perhaps he thought the cheese was hot enough to cook the meat? When the rest of the table realized what had happened, our chuckling could not be contained, especially that of our French hosts, Adrien and Mattieu. What happened to make it more hilarious was that the burners under our fondue pots weren't working correctly and a waiter came to switch out our fondue pots. The raw meat was still sitting in the cheese pot, not cooking, and the waiter politely removed the skewer and placed it on Ryan's plate before taking the pot away from the table. The waiter's surprised expression was priceless when he realized that the cheese-covered morsel on the end of the skewer was meat, uncooked meat, instead of the bread he was expecting. This faux pas only caused an uproar of laughter, embarrassing Ryan as he tried to blame Mattieu "you told me to do it!", and Mattieu could only continue to laugh. Oh silly Americans, we're so easy to target and make fun of. I had glanced at Ryan's plate a few minutes later to find no evidence of the cheese drenched raw meat; he had eaten it when no one was looking. Mattieu at first looked concerned - why would he eat that?! But there's no harm in it, to your stomach at least. Lesson of the evening - don't stick your beef tartar in your cheese fondue.

Being the little girl famous for her enormous appetite, I very much enjoyed my dinner, especially when a member of my table was a vegetarian and traded me his portion of beef for my basket of bread - it worked out quite nicely. It was a bit embarrassing towards the end of the course though, as the waiter came to take the fondue from our table about 4 times, and each time I was still eating. The waiter and Adrien and Mattieu made fun of me, in shock of how much food I really can put away (it was their first meal with me, ha!), but it was all good fun, saying that it was a good thing.

Dessert was a chocolate fondue, served with a plate of fruit and marshmallows, (this time there's only one skewer so don't stress). The entire meal was delicious, filling, and so much fun. The little restaurant was charming, and I hope to go back although I will have to pay more than 10 euro next time.

Fête des Vendanges

October 6th through October 10th was this year's Fête des Vandanges, a celebration of the grape harvest in Montmartre.

Also known as the fête l'humor, it is a celebration of all the enjoyment and nutty things that can happen after a few too many glasses of wine. The festival itself took place at the top of Montmartre, around the Sacre Cœur, the narrow cobblestone streets lined with booth after booth of wine; red wine, white wine, champagne from Champagne, dessert and flavored wines.

Nestled in between them are booths of different nature to please your grumbling stomach and play off the notes your various wine samples left tingling on your tongue, displays covered with every kind of sausage you could imagine, and some you've never heard of.

You'll occasionally get a whiff of something really stinky causing you to look around you to find the stinky frenchman to blame, then realize you just passed a wheel of cheese, so big that it's probably taller than Grandma. There's booths of macaroons, and bon bons, gelato, nougat, and seasoned baguettes, roasted chestnuts, sausages smothered in sauerkraut, giant vats full of chili con carne and potatoes au gratin (my favorite booth), and even beer if you're sick of wine. You walk through the masses of people, protecting your small plastic glass of wine bought for anywhere from 2-8 euro, listening to an accordion, trying to avoid getting run over by the three-man band, and concentrate on how many oysters or éscargot you would like to buy.

Yes, I bought, and ate, both oysters and éscargot - and they weren't as bad as I thought they might be.

The whole mentality of the festival was loose in comparison to everyday life in Paris. It was literally four days designated for Parisians to let go, and have some fun. There's music everywhere, parades taking over the hilly streets, fireworks (the only other occasion besides July 14th), and probably the nutty-est thing I heard of was being able to un-marry your spouse. During fête des vendanges, one and one's spouse can simply say "I un-marry you" in French three times in a row and legitimately be "un-married", at least for the duration of the festival.

I didn't see any of that actually happen, but my French Teacher told my class that it's part of the tradition of the "humor" part of the festival.

My friends and I spent 2 days at the festival. On top of my oysters and éscargot, I enjoyed some real champagne from Champagne, Melon (cantaloupe) wine, chili con carne, potatoes au gratin and lots of wine. Lots of wine. We sat on the grassy hillside in the warm golden sunshine, in front of Sacre Cœur listening to the music surrounding us, enjoying the most beautiful view of the city in all of Paris. It was a couple days in Paris that will be hard to beat.

A dinner party

Monday evening I was in my room, working away on my homework, wondering if I had misunderstood Madame when she was explaining dinner for that night. It was 8:30 and we usually ate at 7:30 - were they not feeding me tonight? Is that what she had said? But then I heard the doorbell ring, and Madam came and knocked on my own door to invite me to an aperitif before dinner - score!

I walked into the living room and greeted Madame and Monsieur's middle daughter Penelopé and was introduced to her godmother Édith, a warm older woman, very much like Madame. I sat between Édith and Penelopé, Madame handed me a glass of champagne, and I commenced snapping my head to a fro, trying to understand the french words that were flying past my eardrums at rapid rates. I think Édith saw me trying to hide my wide eyes behind my tipped champagne glass because she reached out to my shoulder looking at Madame and asked if I, the poor thing, understood anything that they were saying. One glass of champagne on my grumbling empty stomach gave me a little more confidence than usual, and I was able to pipe up and defend myself, explaining that I understood some of it, that they just spoke so fast, and I was very shy with my French. Édith looked at me in surprise "Mais tu parle français très bien!", and they proceeded to include me in their conversation, telling stories about traveling to Quebec and not being able to understand a word of their French, asking if Canadians had an accent when they spoke English as well, asking me how to pronounce English words that sounded so strange to their romantic ears like "sewing".

The five of us moved to the dinner table for salmon and cabbage. Monsieur filled all of our glasses with wine, re-filling his discretely after finishing it in one gulp, making a point to refill mine when Penelopé caught him. Édith was queen of conversation, she was invited to dinner because she had just returned from a mission trip in Afghanistan where she helped women and girls who were victims of war violence, poverty and disease. She told stories of all the different women she helped, the various households she visited, the many struggles each woman went through everyday. She was animated and passionate - there was something about her that was so interesting and genuine. I loved to see how she and Madame seemed to be such good friends, they reminded me of my Grandma and her friend Helen. There was so much banter, so much life and happiness in their conversations, so much love going round the table - I felt so happy and honored to be included. The more time I spend with my host family, the more I want to spend even more time with them and get to know them.

The story telling and lecturing of poor Monsieur over his bad, sugary eating habits and lack of exercise lasted until about 11:30 when we all realized what time it was, and said our goodbyes. I went back to my room after helping monsieur clean up, feeling more like part of the family.

Théâtre des Champs- Élysées

On Tuesday evening, I attended a concert put on by the Ensemble orchestral de Paris. My first night at the symphony in Paris, and I am in love. How do people in the states not take advantage of the theater? Perhaps it's again because of the youth discounts and last minute tickets that Paris ensures to make available to the public. This evening was again organized by ACCENT, and I only had to pay 12 euro. Usually, for any opera, ballet or symphony, you can wait in line for last minute tickets that cost anywhere from 5-20 euro, and often when buying tickets in advance, student or youth discounts can lower your initial pice to around 10 euro - it's fantastic.

The orchestra itself was extremely interesting. They played various pieces from classic to modern styles, but it all was beautiful and impressive. The orchestra performed solely, then with guest piano accompanist Jonathan Biss from the states, as well as a colorful and extremely talented string octet. I was mesmerized by the entire performance. I love watching other people perform; examining how they move with their instruments, how their bodies entwined with their instruments like extensions of their limbs, evoke the very emotion of the song. But I was surprised to be observing the crowd more often than the performers.

My first distraction was a famous composer who was sitting in the row in front of me, Nicolas Bacri. One of his pieces was performed to open the concert. It was different from anything I had ever heard, so demanding of the ear. At the end, Monsieur Bacri walked to the stage and shook hands with the conductor and first chair violinist as he was clearly enthralled by their performance of his piece.

The audience fed more of my observation throughout the night. For the most part, people were completely still. Hardly anyone moved in their seats, hardly anyone made any sound unless they had a cold and were discretely going through their bag searching for couch drops. Even between songs, no one moved. I've never attended the symphony in the states before so I don't know if it's the same as here, but in the symphonies in France, you do not applaud after every song. Collections are played from various conductors, so instead of applauding after each song, you applaud after each composer. I thought it was extremely strange; it was only something I noticed as I had to refrain from clapping, even if it was something I really enjoying. There isn't any cheering, or vocal sound in addition to the applause, however, at the end one is allowed to call out "bravo!". If the audience would like an encore, it is not vocalized, but the applause falls into a rhythmic pattern, serving as a non-vocal and elegant chant to urge the performers to play another song.

I also found the audience's style of dress to be of interest. Being in Paris, I assumed I would be underdressed in skirt and heels, my hair up, and wearing lipstick, but instead I was nearly overdressed. Most of the people were wearing jeans and nice shirts, it was hardly any different than going to the movies.

I'm about halfway through my time in Paris now, and time is only passing more rapidly. This coming weekend I will be spending in Prague, the following is fall break during which I will travel to Barcelona, then Northern Italy, and the holiday weekend following my return to Paris, I will be spending in Ireland. After that I only have about 4 weeks left in Paris - I'm scrambling to make more plans! But for now, I'm enjoying these past couple of weekends, really getting to know Paris, and enjoying her more and more.

ALLEZ KELLY!!!

Translation: GO KELLY!!!

Exhausted. First day of a new weekend and I come home almost straight after class to relax instead of my typical commencing of epic adventures. But the past week had every right to cause me to feel so tired - it is a wonderful tired I must clarify.

Last Thursday, I found myself riding on an overnight train to Bayonne on the Atlantic Coast of Southern France. Carly, Ryan and I boarded the train, armed with their beer, my wine, brought in place of the forgotten benadryl in a vain attempt to help our sleeping in the half-reclining seats. We got off the train in Bayonne at 6:40 am with the sky still reluctant to show the first signs of daylight. The three of us wandered around the train station, sharing a small neon orange blanket and nibbling on dark chocolate and almonds, looking for a nonexistent bus stop in the dark. We had about 20 minutes to find it, but after walking to each stop visible at the roundabout and asking 4 different people, we found our bus - just as it was pulling away. The three of us instantly sprinted, packs bouncing on our backs, dodging cars in the roundabout, however we split in three different directions. Carly being my directionally-challenged friend mentioned in a previous post, went in the completely opposite direction (love you).

Ryan luckily jumped in front of the bus and paid the driver who graciously waited for Carly to cross two streets, and we sighed as we plopped down in our seats, finally on our way to Hossegor.

The early gray sky was streaked with warm pinks when the bus dropped us off. We walked through the town of Hossegor, admiring the surf shops and cafés that were still closed, excited by the smell of salt water. Carly goes to Santa Barbara as well, although we didn't know each other before, and Ryan grew up in Hawaii and now attends UCSD, so it's understandable how the smell of the sea can get us a bit excited after living in a bustling city, away from our natural habitat of beaches for over a month.

The beach welcomed us with a giant black stage, covered in Quiksilver logos. We had arrived. On the stage there was a large screen showing videos and interviews of professional surfers. The golden glow on the horizon, backlighting this stage made the excitement too much to handle. It was almost 9 am, and the Quiksilver Pro France 2010 would soon be starting it's first heat of the day.

We ran down to the sand, sinking or toes in, relishing in its familiarity. For a moment we paused with smiles, unable to register the sensations of feeling sand on the feet and ocean spray, the sound of the crashing waves, a subtle taste of salt and the view of the most beautiful beach. There was so much to enjoy, it was overwhelming in our delirious states. The white tents further down the beach caught our attention, and again we began our excited pursuit, feet sinking deep into the sand with every step on account of our heavy packs. By the time we made it to the tents we were exhausted, panting, but we were there. Brett Simpson was right in front of us in his white rash guard, slicing through a wave. It was incredible.

We spent the entire day on this magnificent beach, listening to the hum of a thousand cameras' shutters, watching crowds chase Kelly Slater into and out of the water, crossing fingers when we weren't sure if someone would make it out of a crushing tube. We ate hamburgers and chili dogs with fake hot dogs and cheese whiz sans bun - the hot dog vendor gave me the strangest look "Sans pain?!" explaining that he'd never done that before, but ok. And at the end of the day, happy and relaxed by the surf and sun, we took the bus back to Capbreton, after which we realized we could have saved the 2 euro and walked.

We had reserved a room in a little hotel, choosing the 2 person room to save money. Since there were 3 of us, Carly waited outside while Ryan and I went to check in. The kind old lady with an auburn beehive welcomed us to the empty building, and handed us a key to room number 7. We made it inside the room after 5 minutes of Ryan trying to work the old fashion key in the loose lock, and we discovered that room number 7 was a charming corner room with two windows, a tiny bathroom with a door that didn't shut, and one bed. One big bed. And wood floors.

We had to stop analyzing the room for a minute so we could figure out how to get Carly past the lady at the front desk in this empty hotel. Ryan went down to scope out the situation and talk to Carly, while I was left in the room, laughing at it and our big bed and bathroom door that wouldn't close. Luckily, the lady with the auburn beehive was just coming off her shift and leaving for the day, and Ryan and Carly were able to slip in behind her unnoticed by the new lady with her simple silver hair and cable knit sweater.

After laughing at whoever was in the shower behind the bathroom door that wouldn't close, and napping while The Simpson's in French played on the TV in the background, we head out to find some food, and some fun. Food unfortunately was skipped, since we had eaten burgers and fries only a few hours earlier, but fun was definitely found. There was a concert that Quiksilver put on in Capbreton that night, as they had had events every other night in near-by towns. We could hear the music from our hotel, but had no idea where it was taking place. Following the sound ended up being a mistake, in the small town, noises bounced off all the buildings, through every street, making it sound as if the music was coming from all directions. We walked in a big circle, back and forth down the same street, were searching for at least a half hour, before we made any progress. But then it appeared. Road blocks, preventing cars from driving through the town center, the back of a stage, and Quiksilver banners covering outdoor bars serving drinks with straws and glow-sticks. We made out way through the crowd, deciding to allow Ryan to weave through to the bar to get a round of drinks.

We had only been sipping on our drinks for a few minutes before a guy in the crowd in front of us turned around and greeted us in French. His name was Sylvan, and he lived in one of these small towns and loved to surf - like everybody else. He introduced us to his friend Tony, and a few others, and the group of us stayed together for the rest of the night. It was the most French Carly, Ryan and I had spoken in a given night since we usually all stick together. Between our French, and Sylvan and Tony's English, we all got along and had some fun dancing to the bands on stage, and talking about anything from surfing to music, how we felt in Paris, what California was like.

The three of us split from our new French friends at around midnight due to the long day we had had beginning at 6:40 that same morning. We made it back to the hotel and into our funny room number 7 and all slept in the one big bed like pigs in a blanket; Carly and I didn't have the hearts to tell ryan to sleep on the wood floor without any pillows or blankets. We giggled at our little room number 7, tried to find more Simpsons in French and became disappointed with our 10 channel selection of late night TV before setting the alarm for 7 am and turning off the light.

I rolled over in the morning light to check my watch, 8:15. We scrambled a bit to get our things together - Saturday was the finals of the pro tour and we didn't want to miss it. Carly left a few minutes before us to get past the front desk, Ryan and I checked out with the simple silver haired lady, and we were off - walking to Hossegor again with all of our belongings. We stopped at a grocery store in the little town to buy some breakfast and at a pharmacy for a tiny 15 euro bottle of sunscreen and soon we were again walking down the beach to the white tents. My feet had become raw, walking on the more grainy parts of sand with sharp pebbles and small bits of broken shells. Each step in the sand became extremely painful, and I tried to walk tenderly on the wet sand as I wouldn't sink so far into it as the dry sand with my pack. I was nick-named "baby-feet" by my two wonderful friends, and slowed us down a little bit from a run to a brisk walk, but we made it there all the same, and we hadn't missed the final. Semi-finals were just finishing up by the time we claimed our territory beneath the dunes, ready to devour our incredible breakfast.

At the store we had bought smoked salmon, yogurt, apples, bananas, potato chips and champagne to go with a bottle of orange juice we had brought home from the concert the night before. We sat on the sand, feasting on the best breakfast I've ever had, warming up in the sun and getting ready to watch incredible surfing on some of the most intimidating waves I've ever seen.

Kelly Slater was in the semi-finals, I think against Owen Wright, now I don't really remember. Towards the end of the heat, Slater took a wave, slid down into the tube, and no one was really sure he was going to come out...but he did. The announcers that had been keeping us so entertained the past two days counted down together in English " 3...2...1...10! Kelly Slater you have received a perfect 10!". I don't know very much about surfing, but after watching a lot of it those past couple days paired with Ryan's tutoring, I didn't really think a 10 was possible. It was absolutely insane!

Unfortunately, Kelly didn't win, in the finals he got some crappy waves and so the crown went to Mick Fanning from Australia, the current world champion of men's surfing. Second place isn't too shabby though, and Kelly still had to run from all the crowds that would chase him all over the beach.

When the competition was over, the crowds clear off the beach. Ryan and I went and jumped in the water as it wasn't so cold. It was the first time I've been in the Atlantic ocean! The salt water felt so good on my skin, it was so refreshing that I didn't even mind when we got yelled at by beach patrol. Nothing could have spoiled my mood that day. After a couple hours of lounging in the sun, we had to find our way back to the bus stop to get to Bayonne for our next over-night train back to Paris.

Bayonne was a totally different world. We crossed the bridge from the bus stop into the old center and found ourselves traversing through allies and narrow cobble-stone streets. Each pub was overflowing with people wearing blue and white, blocking the streets making it almost impossible to walk through. There was a rugby match, Bayonne verse Biarritz, their biggest rival. Each of the tiny stone streets lead to the stadium where the sea of blue and white eventually drained into.

We found our way to a small restaurant away from the crowds called El Asador. We were first drawn to it because we could hear someone inside singing - the place was empty though. We went inside and sat down at a table - the restaurant was basque food, something we had been wanting to try during our whole trip, and the menu offered a "formule", a 3 course meal which you could chose from a select menu. The server was incredibly nice and helped me to order food that would be gluten-free, and helped us with various other things throughout the evening. Before the entrées (appetizers) came out, the server brought out a carafe (pitcher) of sangria for us to share, some bread, and gazpacho. The three of us argued over which glass the sangria went in - the smaller one, or the wine glass - we asked the server, just to ensure our etiquette, and I was right! Alcoholic beverages always go in the smaller glass in France, the larger, even if it is a wine glass is reserved for water. If you put wine in your water glass, you'll be getting some chuckles and possibly accused of alcoholism. We also tried to figure out what the appropriate way to eat our gazpacho and pepper, and whatever that thing in the spoon was the server told me I couldn't eat. IN our hunger we just went for it, but after, we observed a neighboring table, and I tried to coach Ryan through the process - he failed miserably, leaving us all in fits of giggles.

The entrées (appetizers) came out, mine being different from that which was on the fixed menu, because both of the choices contained gluten. Instead I received a plat du jambon (plate of ham, prosciutto -like For the main dish I had mullet, baked cod-like fish in a cream sauce with potatoes, mine without breadcrumbs. And for dessert, I had crème au something - but basically crème brulée only the custard was heavier like that of flan. Everything was absolutely phenomenal! I dare to say that it was by far the best meal I've had since I've been away from home, for going out for meals anyway - Madam does cook some mean gluten-free crêpes.

Full and happy, we left the amazing little restaurant to make our way back to the train station. We hardly took any pictures while we were there, thinking that it was something that was too good to be captured in a photo, or to be described. It was something that we would remember forever, and people would have to go there to understand.

I already miss it there, but I'm hoping with how close Bordeaux is to it that next semester it will be an easy day trip. It's made me become even more excited for what's to come.

«Retardé», «Annulé», et «Grève»: Trois mots qui causer on inquite en France

Translation: "Delayed", "Canceled", and "Strike": Three words that cause one to worry in France.

There I was, sitting in Charles de Gaulle airport, going on hour 4 of waiting to board my plane to London. I made the flight reservation prior to the official announcement of the second general strike that stalled Paris last Thursday. I for one, am not a fan of «le grève». My first survival of a French strike was only two weeks ago. It left me in an excited daze, as I was mesmerized by the massive, peaceful demonstration that took over Place de Bastille. These kind of political movements simply aren't possible in the states - they're much larger, so large that it's impossible to comprehend until you're forced to walk along with the current of people seeping through the streets into the place, like a river running between the large the rocks that protrude its surface. Only once you've gained some considerable distance, and additionally altitude, can you estimate the true enormity of this sea of people. It reminded me of a school of fish, the masses of individuals, moving together in an almost choreographed manner. And it was peaceful - of course, there was shouting, music blasting, chanting, etc., but there was no violence. I figured if this had taken place in San Francisco, or L.A. it would have only taken moments to have turned into a riot, but it never did. It was beautiful in a sense. Not even when my train pulled up to take me home was my dream-state fully disrupted - people's faces were pressed up against the glass of the windows and doors, random arms stretched out of the blob of meshed individuals in all directions to attempt to provide balance, and a wave of heat reeking of sweat rushed over me with the opening of the doors, daring me to squeeze myself inside. I did, and it was not pleasant, I struggled to keep one foot on the ground as the bodies pressing in around me so tight that it pushed me up just enough to make the toes of my left foot to hover the floor. The train gradually emptied, leaving me more space and air at every stop. I'm sure I stunk of a cocktail of body odors including my own when I made it up the five flights of stairs to my apartment, but generally I was still feeling the drugged sensations of the demonstration I had witnessed earlier.

My opinion however, has now been changed. Changed drastically. Thursday was only my second strike - not so magical. I returned home Wednesday evening after quite the adventure of getting home on three separate metro lines instead of the usual one that I take, an effect of the strike beginning early. I sat down at my computer exhausted from the whole ordeal, and opened my e-mail. I received an e-mail from Air France in French regarding my flight to London the following afternoon. It was only a sentence, roughly translated "Dear Sir, Dear Madam, This e-mail is to inform you that your flight from Paris to London on September 23rd has been _____." The word that filled that blank was «annulé», a word that wasn't part of my french vocabulary yet. It wasn't so strange to get an e-mail from your airline the day before your flight, it must have meant "confirmed", "on schedule", something like that. I typed in «annulé» into my handy-dandy translator and called my dad to wish him a birthday while my sluggish internet connection struggled to make sense of the unknown word. I was in the middle of a sentence explaining something or other to my dad when it the page finally loaded simply saying "cancelled". CANCELLED?! CANCELLED?! Merdre. (Shit.) And the frantic search for cancellation information through all of my french e-mails and all over airfrance.com commenced. After an hour or so I finally found a 1-800 number to call about applying for reimbursement, which I called from my iPhone - sorry Dad, that next bill might not be so pretty.

Yvonna answered with her east coast accent, asking how could she help me. Air France had cancelled half of all their scheduled flights due to le freaking grève, and I could either cancel my return flight and apply for reimbursement, or be put on a later flight Thursday evening. After 25 minutes of being on hold with horrible zen music, Yvonna returned to tell me that I was all set. We were about to hang up when she caught a mistake. Stammering in her flustered state, she profusely apologized, explaining that she had put me on a flight at 8:45 pm on Friday - not Thursday. She needed to fix it, she needed to call someone back, could I please hold again. I asked if she could call me back when she was finished since I was on an international call and her response was "oh, well is it alright to have the flight on Friday?". No. No Lady. I'll hold. Back to listening to the same horrid 12 measures of music with an annoying girl's breath-y voice telling me to "say what's on my mind", to "give her a try", playing over and over and over again. I knew they must have chosen this exact type of music to prevent the customer from doing exactly what I wanted to do to Yvonna, rip her freaking head off. I was too stressed to do homework, and distracted by the breathy zen singer being emitted by my speaker phone, so I used the next 30 minutes of holding to stretch and do some crunches. Finally, she fixed it - more apologies, was there anything else she could help me with. No, what was her name again? Yvonna. Thank you Yvonna - I made sure to write it down, just in case I could maybe get Air France to pay for some of the 58 minutes I spent fixing problems that had all been caused by them; and Yvonna.

I took special care to get to the air port the next day. I planned my metro route, using only lines that were running normally, gave myself extra time for transfers, so I would be sure to make one of the buses from Montparnasse train station Charles de Gaulle at their 30 minute intervals. I was flawless. I made it to the airport exactly 2 hours before my flight. Flew through passport check, and security and found myself and my back-pack good seats near a window at my gate. I took out my book and began to read, I would be boarding in an hour or so. After a bit I looked up at the screen, to find all the information changed. 21:20? But... my flight is at 20:10... And then I saw it. The next dreadful word: «retardé». What?! And just to confirm my fears, the screen switched to English, "delayed". UGH! Well, it was only an hour, not so bad. I had all my things ready to go, my back pack seated next to me at our window seats, waiting for our plane to pull in to our gate, but 5 minutes after the delayed boarding time it still hadn't arrived. I looked over at the screen after I heard a collective sigh of disappointment from the rest of my gate buddies, it blinked a new time for take off 22:30... another hour. I got tired of reading. I resorted to complaining via text message to my friends since my back pack couldn't respond to comfort me, and people probably would have thought I was crazy for talking to a back pack, or for whatever I put inside it and got through security that I was now talking to. But could you really have blamed me after I sat in the airport alone for 4 hours?

I eventually did make it to London. My friends picked me up and drove us an hour into Tunbridge Wells in the dark on the wrong side of the road (to me at least), and the remainder of the weekend and traveling experiences were wonderful. However, I don't think I'll ever book a flight on Air France into or out of Paris ever again, just in case there is a potential strike that will delay, or cancel my plans and force me to feel crazy enough to talk to my back pack.

Les conséquences de faire la lassive dans an autre pays

Translation: The consequences of doing laundry in another country

Bam. Go ahead Grandma and Mom; laugh it up. I bet you're thinking, "she's 21 years old, she should know how to do laundry" and I do. Or, at least I thought I did until I pulled this sweater out of the washing machine 5 minutes ago.

I am lucky to be one of the few people to have a washing machine in my home, but I'm not sure I love it all so much anymore. The machines here are tiny, forcing me to do laundry more than once a month - a novel idea for the typical college student.

At least I'm saving quarters and sparing my back from carrying the enormous canvas laundry bag I shove into the trunk of my little car for the weekends I go home to "visit" (do laundry for free and hopefully get fed a few free meals). Not only are these machines tiny, but with all their knobs and buttons, they resemble something like the complicated cock pit of a 747 or a spaceship. At first it was quite intimidating - Madame gave me a crash tutorial, explaining all the different options for materials, temperatures (in Celsius, mind you), filth level of clothing and how to figure out which button was the start button. After my first laundry day I thought I had it down - I learned that I had to latch the interior basket before the top would close, and carefully measured soap levels, contemplated the filth levels and voilà, I had some clean clothes, but I guess this time around I got a little cocky. I don't know what I did wrong, but I'm going to have to go buy a new sweater...or 5.

Fall is coming quick here. It's starting to have that brisk feeling in the air in the mornings and late afternoons and every morning I'm finding more and more yellow leaves on my walk to the metro. I can't wait, but with each passing day, it seems to be a bit colder and I'm starting to realize how spoiled I've been in Santa Barbara, and how unprepared for colder weather I may be. Boots, scarfs and jackets are already part of my daily apparel, and the first day of fall isn't for another week or so. I have about 5 long sleeve shirts, one full of holes, all sunny Santa Barbara friendly, so I think it might be about time to find some better, heavier sweaters and figure out how to work the cockpit laundry machine so as not to shrink them. I'm going to have to ask Madame for another tutorial because I feel trial and error might lead to so many errors that my little sister will be getting a box full of my shrunken sweaters as a gift for her 5th birthday.

Adventures have yet to cease in my time here. Everyday I discover something new, whether it's discovered by my looking for it, or if it comes to me as a surprise. For example, this past weekend was the Journées Europeennes Du Patrimoines, a weekend once a year where all of Europe opens up the doors of buildings that are usually closed to the public. Yesterday I found myself wandering around inside the intensely gold-leafed rooms of the Luxembourg Palace, which now houses the French Senate. It was incredibly impressive, but the roped walkways provided you with a trying, seemingly-eternal shuffle through the entirety of the buildings, ultimately resulting in the misbehaving of young women with cameras and a sense of humor.

Some of the immaculately dressed guards laughed and complimented on our smiles and laughter, others looked at us scornfully as if to say "respect that (hideous) couch! This is a palace!"

The discoveries I make by surprise don't leave me any less entertained, either. For instance, last night after meeting a group of friends for a birthday dinner, I discovered what would happen if I followed a directionally-challenged friend - we'd get on the metro going the wrong way. Making this realization one stop from the end, we managed to successfully get everyone off the train and to the opposite platform to take us back in the correct direction. The secondary lesson of the evening followed just before that train's departure - the metro conductor will not wait for your whole group of friends to get on the metro before closing the doors. The buzz came on signaling that the doors were going to close any second, and Chelsey and Astrid were just stepping on when bam - the doors close. Astrid's eyes widened like a cartoon's with shock from her slender face as the doors squeezed her narrow shoulders out of the doors back onto the platform. Little Chelsey helplessly flailed with one arm as her other was stuck in-between the doors, and Ryan came to the manly-man rescue, pulling the doors apart until they re-opened, allowing Astrid and Chelsey to make a second attempt to get on the train without getting caught by the doors. I think we laughed the entire line back to the direction we were supposed to be going in the first place.

This city is beautiful, and I'm getting more comfortable in it day by day, but every now and the I'm knocked back on my butt and reminded that I am in a ruthless, though beautiful, BIG city. The lessons of the metro are only one example of that; others would be the daily coldness experienced from the true Parisians, nearly getting run over by a mini cooper or vespa almost every time you cross the street and the feeling of claustrophobia that sometimes creeps in while walking through crowds of people, standing on the metro at rush hour, or tripping over chairs to get to a table in the back of a café. Paris has so many parks to provide some air to all the people stuck in these crowded places, but sometimes you need to venture out of the city to feel noticeable space around you.

Friday morning I took the train out to Chantilly with some friends, a smaller town almost directly north of Paris, famous for their horses, home of whipped cream, and to some beautiful wide open spaces. Just walking through the forrêt felt good. We wandered down the dirt trails, through the trees, listening to the peaceful quiet that echoed back only the noises we emitted ourselves.

The pastures near the Château Chantilly were perfectly green and spacious, even the sky felt bigger with its fluffy, whipped clouds leisurely moving above us in the breeze. Laying down in this grass with hardly anything around besides tress and a few buildings in the distance closer to the Château felt so much more relaxing and satisfactory than any park I've visited so far in Paris. It makes me want to spend every weekend on the train to Versailles or Chartres or Chantilly, at least every weekend I don't spend in another country. Fresh air is definitely missed the the streets of this city of lights.

Combien de bouchées faut-il pour manger une pêche?

Translation: How many bites does it take to eat a peach?

Every night Monday through Thursday, I find myself sitting at the dinner table with my host family, anxious to eat what ever is put before me - I really don't care what it is, it's all part of the adventure. I am careful of every movement I make; I make sure that Madame is sitting down in her place before I take my seat to her right, I don't begin serving myself until she prompts me to, and then I pass the bowl to my left and wait, glaring at my pile of food as if it's going to run away from me. Usually, I would not hesitate to trap the noodles or steak of salmon between my fork and knife, disabling it from escaping from my plate, but I dare not pick up my cutlery until Madame does so herself. She picks up her fork (in her left hand) and her knife (in the right), conducting the commencement of our meal as if it were a song under her direction. The ritual has begun.

The first few nights, I was quite astonished at what took place all in the span of 30 minutes. I was always under the impression that the French, well all Europeans, took their time with their meals - not at all in my experience. Yes, there are always multiple courses, something like the most delicious cantaloupe I've ever had, followed by the main course, fish or pasta, potatoes or ratatouille, then a salad followed by yogurt or cheese and bread, and just to polish things off, some fruit. With each of these courses, one must eat as quickly as possible, and manage to talk about one's day, all without making a mess, or talking with your mouth full, and holding your fork in your left hand upside down. It's a little more challenging than you would think. I always thought of myself as a fast eater, but my family beats me at polishing their plates every single night! There are rules that the table cannot move on to second helpings of a course or to the next course until everyone is finished; every night I find myself trying to politely and inconspicuously shovel food into my mouth as quickly as I can so as not to hold everyone else up. After almost precisely 30 minutes and at least 3 courses, Monsieur is patting the corners of his mouth with his navy and white plaid cloth napkin, asking "Quel heure est-il?", looking at the clock on the oven; "Ah! Les informations!", and runs into the other room to catch the 8 o'clock news. I don't know how they do it - Monsieur really is the one that completely fascinates me.

After the first week, noticing how much time I was taking to finish my plate in comparison, I began to silently observe how exactly they were eating. I counted how many bites it took Monsieur to eat an enormous peach - 2. Two bites. He slides a knife around the peach's circumference, twists the halves in opposite directions then pops one half into it mouth; chew chew, gulp. Ejects the pit, then pops in the other half; chew, chew, gulp, "Bon." Watching him inhale his yogurt was something else in itself - I swear the whole thing was gone in 3 bites even with using that tiny little dessert spoon. However he does it, I still do not know, but he does it flawlessly - I must give him that. If I tried to eat a peach in two bites, I'd have peach juice dripping down my chin, and would be very unattractively struggling to breath; I'm not as graceful as he is. The yogurt and fruit course always seems to be some kind of competition between us though, one that I don't mean to make a competition. The yogurt or the bowl or fruit always sits in the middle of the table, on the axis of the diagonal line that can be drawn from my seat to his. He stares at the selection of fruit or yogurt, which ever one he wants I suppose. I am always asked to help myself first, to choose which peach or what flavor yogurt I would like. Every night I hesitate, I try to guess which one he's looking at, so I make sure to not take it, but I'm pretty sure I've made that mistake at least twice. I pick up my peach, or my strawberry yogurt, and he emits a large sigh, or decides he doesn't want any yogurt or fruit after all.

The man is a bit intimidating, but I think I'm growing on him. At first we had some issues communicating because I didn't understand his accent very well, as he comes from Tunisia. He got a bit frustrated with me a couple times in the first days after he would repeat something three times in French with my only answer being "Je ne comprend pas", only to give up and say it in English. But now, I've tried to talk to him a bit more, I tried with sports but that didn't seem to interest him very much, although he did get a little excited once. I told him how my Dad had world records in swimming, and he told me that he swims too, but Madame cut in to inform me that he only goes to the pool twice a year. He explained that didn't matter "Does your dad swim once a week? Twice a week?", "Oh, he swims almost everyday, at least during the week.", my answer followed by his roaring laughter - maybe he wasn't such a swimmer after all, he admitted. He's on the couch everyday when I come home from school, always eager to ask about my classes, my Histories of Paris class in particular, which doesn't start until Monday. "What classes did you have today? Histories?", every time I reply, "no, just french still", and then he begins to tell me about all the various Paris History classes he's taken all over Europe it seems. Today, he told me about a school in Paris, the other day he was telling me about his studies in Germany. I'm anxious to learn more about him as most things right now I can only guess. For instance, I think he speaks about four or five languages, and from his asking me about my History class, I'm assuming he's very passionate about History, especially that of Paris. He seems to be the brain of the family, everyone, even Madam goes to him when they can't figure something out. Even if it's seemingly the most random question in the world, he usually has an answer for it.

I'm starting to get the hang of it all though, this ritual of sharing a meal with ma famille d'accueil (Host Family). I did give up on trying to use my fork with my left hand, Madame uses her right hand and I can't tell if it's to make me feel more comfortable since I looked absolutely ridiculous when I gave it a go left handed, or if she truly prefers to use her right hand. I'm starting to get comfortable with being the last one to finish my plate, starting to talk more with them, even if it means taking more time to eat, starting to relax a bit. I pass the bowl flawlessly now, in the correct direction and simultaneously hold up my glass while Madame fills it with water from the pale yellow ceramic pitcher, and answer questions about what my plans are for the weekend. It's all becoming more comfortable, familiar, and I'm liking it - I really am.