«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.

À quel parc est-ce que nous allons aujourd'hui?

Translation: Which park should we go to today?

I've been here for nearly a week, and I'm starting to get used to it. I've definitely been spoiled in the states, I realize I had every reason to LOVE my bed as much as I did, and honestly now I'm wishing I spent a little more time in it before I left. Every night I sit upon my european twin camping pad (in comparison to my former queen size double pillow-top mattress), manouvering my way between the sheet and blanket, the frame squeaking relentlessly until I am settled and plan on not moving any more at all while I sleep. But as I said, I am getting used to it, despite the fortissimo squeak that awoke me around 5 am this morning. I've found a configuration of my two pillows which I find to be the most comfortable, and even if my feet hang off the end of the mattress, wearing socks prevents my toes from getting too cold - it is still summer after all. My room is pleasantly dark thanks to my curtains, but also thanks to my having to wake up just as the sun is rising in order to make my metro commute.

My alarm on my new french cell phone rings it's ever annoying techno tones to urge me out of my bed. Straight into the shower, which is limited to 15 minutes (Dad would be proud after all the years he spent pounding on the bathroom door when I was taking twice that time). Get dressed, eat breakfast and out the door by ten after 8 am to walk to my metro stop not even half a block away. I scan my super spiffy navigo pass (only losers use individual tickets) and before I know it I'm on my ligne 8 à Créteil for my 30 minute moment to observe all the people on my metro - but very conspicuously. The metro at all times - well at least when it's full of French people and not tourists or elementary school students - is completely silent. On all forms of public transportation, people do not talk. There is the occasional woman on her cell phone in the corner, or the couple who chat but so quietly you'd swear there's nothing coming out from their mouths. It's pleasant, everyone is in their own private space for a few minutes; sleeping, listening to music, or reading books, the paper, or doing the magazine crossword that every parisian seems to be obsessed with. After the first couple days of observing everyone around me in this peaceful setting, I started bringing my own book to enjoy for my own few moments in my world. After 19 stops, my train pulls into Ledru-Rollin and I'm even so pro now that I can open the door and jump to the platform before the train fully stops. Pass a jaunty russian folk band or a romantic solo cellist, up the stairs, cross the street and voilà, I'm at school.

I've become a big fan of the metro, it's taken me everywhere I've gone in this city, and with its various musicians, performing beggars, and everyday people, there's something beautiful about it. I guess that's the one word that I've been limited to when describing Paris - beautiful. I'm still too stunned to really try and grapple for more adjectives, that could be more descriptive and inclusive, I'm just in awe. From the metro, to the parks, to the markets on Thursdays and Sundays, to the architecture, to the food in windows on the street - it's a different, beautiful world.

I've spent more days in parks, luckily sans bird poo. The other day I ventured to the 5è arrondissement, the Latin Quater and the Pantheon of Paris. It was probably the most interesting area I've been to yet in Paris. I wandered around in the crypt of the Panthéon, looking at the tombs of Voltaire and Jean-Jaques Rousseau and Madame Curie, but just down the street, Rue Mouffetard in the latin quarter would soon be bustling with students - real French students, not posers like me. The 5è arr. is also home to La Sorbonne, one of the most prestigious, and definitely the most widely known university in Paris - there are 14 total. The university itself was gorgeous, we only got to walk around the outside of it, but already I'm jealous of the people who actually get to go inside - it made my school made up of about 10 classrooms look quite pathetic and boring...maybe grad school? This area of Paris is therefore the go to when looking for cheaper food, cheaper drinks, and some fun; it's the complete student atmosphere, day and night. Plus the name of the street is just fun to say - Mouffetard!

Luxembourg gardens is just next door in the 6è arr., the phenomenal grounds of the Luxembourg Palace. I went with a few friends, and there's only one patch of grass, open for the public to relax upon, or at least it seemed that way since we walked in and only one was covered in young french people - students as it was the last day of summer. Our group shared a bottle of wine, and surveyed the garden and the back of the palace; I swear the enormous fountain is the same one in which Madeline used to float her toy boat.

I watched as the children would cheer after their boats, shrieking for help from the man wading through the water when theirs got stuck or flipped over in a gusty breeze. The day was completely different than any I have experienced yet in Paris, and I think it was all because I was doing the things French people my age would do in the same place that they would do them. The city is slowly becoming more and more crowded as la rentré has begun - you see, during August everyone in France goes on vacation. Hardly anyone stays around in the city, as evident by all the shops with darkened windows and signs saying "nous allons rentre le 7 septembre". It's wild, generally no one in the states takes a full month off for vacation - we're lucky if we go somewhere for a week, let alone a weekend. School started today, and everyday this next week I will be squeezed closer and closer to people on the metro, will be more likely to be run over by a car, but will be able to go to all the stores that caught my eye, but had been closed.

I also managed to have a picnic with friends in the park beneath La Tour Eiffel. Collectively we bought some cheese, tomatoes, mirabelle plums, saucisson and a baguette (I brought my gluten free bread) and enjoyed our little picnic in the afternoon, again with some wine - we must do as the french do! The day was beyond perfect, with is partly cloudy blue sky and a light breeze, it was so relaxing we could have stayed there for the rest of the day. We did decide to be a little touristy at one point though and take a funny picture with the tower in the background - it's simply something that everyone has to do!

After, we wandered around the 16è arr. a bit, trying to find a place to buy our navigo cards for the metro, always getting distracted by something. The first being a group of rollerbladers in front of the Palais de Chaillot. Apparently the U.S. has missed the memo - rollerblading is back in. I'm just starting to wonder when fanny packs will start to become acceptable again (yes Grandma, even your small paisley navy and white one is not acceptable). But nevertheless, these guys were intense; playing hip hop as loud as their boom box would allow, and ramps and jumps rigged out of cement blocks, sheets of wood and metal bars. They would start at the end of the drive and work up enough speed to send them up the ramp and over a strip of plastic raised at least 6 feet off the ground in contorted positions- some of it was quite impressive. There was some skateboards, mainly longboards that would cruise down the long drive that had a slight grade to it - each 15 year old wearing glasses, no helmet and holding a cigarette just to help you be sure they were cool in case you were having any doubts. The youth in France is quite interesting to observe - how young girls dress, how they interacted with these obviously irresistible rollerbladers, how the boys got along with one another. We almost saw one fight break out, and as we walked up the stairs of the palace we saw a group of boys sprinting through a crowd with police chasing after them - after we passed the crowd, we saw the other two boys with the police that had apparently been the victims of the former posse.

We've found the best thing for foreign students - cheap food! Paris, although an extremely expensive city, is student-friendly. There are dozens of cafeteria-like University Restaurants all over Paris. All you have to do is bring proof of school attendance in the city, purchase a meal card for 2€ and charge it with whatever amount you'd like, and purchase meals for 2.70€ each time you attend. It's brilliant, and a nice break on the wallet. Students get discounts for nearly everything in Paris; even if you're not a student, if you're younger than 26, you can get a discount on almost anything - museum tickets, train tickets, tickets to the opera or ballet, it's insane! I'm used to the youth discount being 12 and younger, or even younger. It's wonderful, but my ACCENT card doesn't hurt either. This little card with my picture states that I am an art history student studying in Paris until December, and just by showing it to people behind windows, I get in most places for free. Today, after lunch (and grabbing the most amazing chocolate meringue I've had in my life), I entered the Louvre gratuité (FO' FREE), I roamed around in the Spanish and Italian renaissance paintings until my little feet were tired and blistering then finally left, BUT I can go back whenever I want...for free. I'm liking this deal.