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.

La maison de Monsieur et Madame Aubert

Translation: The home of Mr. and Mrs. Aubert

It's been a few more days in Paris, and nothing has been disappointing. I finally have my new french cell phone, with the help of a very posh and helpful man at Orange named Michelle (you must say it with a french accent: Mee-shell). It's been strange going back to a normal phone after using a smart phone for the past few years, all of us students going through this transition have to sit down and really concentrate in order to send a text message in under 3 minutes.

Today, I moved in with my host family. I did't really know anything about them before, other than their names are Monseiur et Madame Aubert, and that they live in the 15è arrondissement, (15th district). They were supposed to be about the same age as my grandparents, and the woman wasn't really sure if they had children, but if they did, they would all be grown and moved-out of the house. At first, I was a little disappointed because half of the other students were coming out with full descriptions of their room,

including private bathrooms, private gardened terraces and views of the Eiffel Tower from their window. The blonde woman who I and the other half of the students met with on Thursday, apparently didn't know anything and was just there to hand out our information packets, and our smoke detectors. Yes, smoke detectors. Apparently, none of the buildings in France have smoke detectors, and because of liability issues, the UC provides each student with one to put in our rooms, but we must return it undamaged at the end of our stay here in Paris. I'm sure I looked quite bizarre walking back to my hotel after the meeting, carrying a smoke detector as it wouldn't fit in my purse.

The home of Monsieur et Madame was quite a lovely surprise. There's something about it here that feels very home-y. It definitely reminds me of my grandparents old house in Piedmont, but then there are the things that are just so perfectly Parisian that it truly feels like a home away from home already. I'm in love with my window. I don't have a view of the Tour Eiffel, or L'Arc de triumph or anything, just some other windows of neighboring apartments with small planters on their iron-wrought windowsills. Just looking out the window I know I'm no longer in the states, but somewhere far more ancient and romantic, it's a kind of beauty that is incomparable to any of our new and harshly lined buildings.

Monsieur et Madame are both retired, living quietly in this charming old apartment on the 5è étage (6th floor). They have 3 children who are all out of the house, and married but have yet to have any children themselves. Madame Aubert seems to be silently hoping that she will have some grandchildren soon. She is a very hospitable woman, and has been nothing but extremely sweet and understanding. She and her husband have been hosting students for 5 years or so, so they surely understand my nervousness and my tendency to be shy. She picked me up from the hotel in her little car and drove me to her home, where I will be staying until mid-December. She was much taller than I imagined, but there is something about her when she walked in that made her seem a bit different than the rest of the host-Madams; I'm excited to see what kind of relationship I will develop with her. Monsieur Aubert I am a little more intimidated by, and I'm really not sure why. He's been nothing but sweet to me as well, perhaps it is just because he pushes me a little bit more to speak French than Madame does, or maybe it's just because he's a little more quiet. He's a bit silly looking, a bigger man a bit disheveled with black wiry hair sticking out of his ears and a cowlick on the back of his head that makes some of his hair stand up, but still nevertheless, very welcoming of me into his home.

We shared a 5 course meal together for lunch today along with their middle daughter Penelope (en français Pénope). For today, they're allowing me to speak English, as they can tell I am a bit unsettled and there were a few important things needed to be discussed and fully understood, mais demain, il faut que je parle en française seulement (but tomorrow I must only speak french)! Lunch was delicious chicken curry and rice with cantalope, salad, yogurt and chocolate mousse; I can hear madame in the kitchen now getting ready for dinner, I'm already salivating

I'm starting to make a dent in touring this city. A couple days ago a group of us took the metro to Les Catacombs where over 6 million bodies rest in less than 1 square kilometer. The spiral staircase seemed to sink down forever, pulling us into what felt like an eternal damp darkness. There were black streaks on the ceiling, remnants of soot from the torches and candles that were formerly used to light the way through the endless tunnels.

Then we got to the bones.

There were piles and piles of them, yellowing femurs stacked perfectly to make menacing walls, accented by the skulls lined up on top of them, or pressed into the wall of bones themselves, with their hollow eyes and gritting teeth. There was something so frightening about it, I didn't even dare touch the bones themselves as it felt like it would be something unholy. Understanding that all these bones were at one time covered in human flesh and enlivened by pulsing blood and passionate souls like myself was just too much to fully grasp. All in all, it was creepy.

After the catacombs, we wandered around and stumbled upon a beautiful park somewhere in the 14th arrondissement I think. The smaller group that was left of us decided to find some wine and drink it while sitting in the park. It was quite a journey to find a store that actually sold wine, but it was one worth while because this day I'm sure will be one I never forget. We found a private patch of grass in a garden and all sat in a circle talking and sipping wine, getting to know each other a little better. Suddenly, we hear a splat, and I thought I felt something land in my hair. Surely enough, there among my golden curls was a nice pile of pigeon poo, my friend Josh had been hit in the head too. I got most of it out, and wiped it on the grass with a disgusted expression plastered on my face, but it wasn't long before the fat pigeon practiced his aim again. Mid-conversation we all heard another splat, followed by Carly's "EW EW EW EW EWWW!!!", hers had luckily been on her leg, but a small portion had also landed in Alex's pretty long blonde pony-tail. Carly had recovered just moments before the next, and biggest bomb was dropped on poor Josh. This bird was not messing around - Josh's curls were smeared with white, dripping onto his shoulder and back, and in the same shot the damn bird had got a good portion of his camera bag. All we could do was laugh hysterically and try to believe that it meant that we had good luck - I guess in order to be here I have to have some.

We returned to the hotel with dinner waiting for us. We all decided that since we had kitchens in our hotel rooms, we might as well make use of them and save some euros. Chelsey had cooked chicken, broccoli, potatoes and pasta, and it was all so delicious and it only cost each of us 3 euros as opposed to the 18 it had cost when we went out to dinner. We ended up using that same plan the rest of the nights we spent in the hotel, and I must say I'm a little sad that it's not happening tonight. Whatever madame is cooking smells wonderful, but I miss having all my new friends in incredibly close proximity to me - they're all still close, and I will see them every day at school at least, but already I miss our dinners and our dance parties. But who knows, maybe Monsieur Aubert will start dancing in the living room after dinner!

Bonjour de Paris!

Translation: Hello from Paris!

Day 1

The flight over wasn’t too shabby. United Business tends to keep things classy, so on my Boeing 747, I had a seat that was quite roomy, even with the large man seated next to me. On my first flight I was turned around backwards, facing the tail of the plane which was completely different flying experience than I had ever had before, especially proven by take off and landing – I think I was happier on the second flight when I was facing forwards on the second flight after my connection in Chicago. On both flights, the seats came equipped with a personal TV screen with on demand movies, TV shows, music etc., cushy headphones, a pillow, and white comforters that are now replacing the thin and scratchy blue blankets. The seats themselves reclined as far back as one would like, and even into a completely flat bed. Like I said, not too shabby! Even the food was good, but that’s probably because I requested a gluten free meal with my flight reservation.

I landed at Charles De Gaulle 15 minutes early and found my way to baggage claim quite easily in terminal one. To my happiness, BOTH of my bags made it all the way to Paris. I’m almost positive I was standing at the same exact carousel two years ago waiting with my family for my bags to come out, when to our surprise they had been left in Frankfurt, Germany.

Aziz, a 23 year-old Parisian, was there to pick me up on behalf of the transportation service my Grandma had hired to get me from the airport to my hotel. He was an engineering student who had just finished his Thesis last week, but was still working two jobs to save up money to go to a more advanced university next year and maybe take a trip to the states. Along the drive, we talked about stereotypes of the French and the Americans, and somewhere among the laughs we decided that I would be his first American friend, and he would be mon première ami français.

We arrived at my hotel, to find that my room would not be ready until 1pm; another two and a half hours, and coincidentally the same amount of time Zizou had for his break. We got back in the car, and he drove us to the end of the Champs Elysées, where it meets the Arc de Triumph. We walked down, with a grande latte glacé (iced) from the ever-authentic Starbucks, and he explained to me everything about Paris he could think of. What type of dress was appropriate in what arrondissement, what was the significance of that building, why all the architecture surrounding the obelisk is perfectly symmetrical, where I could find the American Embassy. He graded my French and I helped him with his English. We talked about TV shows and movies, and what type of bars we prefer to go to. When it got closer to 1, we headed back to the hotel. He refused the tip I tried to give him when I was about to get out of the car, but left his phone number with me in case I needed anything or just wanted to go out with him and his friends.

After a glorious shower in my air-conditioned room, I found myself sapped of nearly all the energy. It was only 2 o’clock in the after-noon, but I knew that getting dressed and doing my hair was out of the question, so I just laid on my bed watching BBC, as the rest of the channels were English movies dubbed in French and their mouths moving at different times and in different motions caused too much strain on my exhausted brain. Despite the peanut butter m&m’s I was eating to stay awake, I could feel my eyelids getting heavier and heavier; slowly I was losing sight of the top of the TV screen. At one point I just let them close, just for a few seconds – it would make me feel better. The eyes closing lead to sliding further beneath the covers and soon I was in perfect position for what surely would have been the best nap ever; I even went as far as to set an alarm to wake me up 15 minutes later. I nuzzled into my pillow with a deep breath followed by a happy sigh sure that soon I’d be dreaming – instead I jolted myself awake, “NO! No naps!”, I lectured internally. I got out of bed, giving it the stink eye for being so comfortable. What could I do to stay awake? I needed to get my blood flowing a little bit. I spotted thesmall hallway between the door to my room and where the bedroom began. It was nearly long enough for me to lay down flat on my back in, perfect for crunches. I did about 15, decided that I was already bored and flipped over for some girl push-ups. I decided I was going to do 15 of those too, but I remembered that I never got my breathing right when I do strength training – aren’t you supposed to exhale when you’re doing the hard part? That always seemed backwards to me, but while I was trying to figure outhow to do that, I ended up losing count of my more-than-15 girl push-ups. Being the weakling that I am, I figured it might be a good idea for me to stop so I wouldn’t get more tired or cause myself to be sore the next day. What else could I do? I wandered around my room brainstorming and found myself fiddling through my make up back – Voila, tweezers. My eyebrows were in bad shape; tweezing would definitely wake me up!

An hour later, with well tweezed eyebrows and slightly increased definition of my abdominals, I found myself laying on the bed again, watching BBC and stuffing my face with peanut butter m&m’s, counting down the hours until I could go to sleep. I was much too tired to go find myself food, so I ordered room service instead. My delicious poached halibut with rice came at about 7:45, and by 8:03, I’m sure I was out cold.

Day 2

Since I let myself go to bed at 8 pm like a 4 year-old (actually my 4 year-old sister might stay up even later than that), I woke up quite early as well. 5:36… AM. I laid in bed, tried to convince myself that I was still sleeping, and finally around 6:30, I gave up. I opened the curtains to my balcony, just to see what was going on, and to my delight I found one of the most beautiful sunrises I’ve ever seen.

It made my whole experience more surreal, but also more concrete at the same time. There was something about it that really calmed me, but also reminded me of the adventure I just begun and gave me faith that this really will be one of the best experiences of my life.

By 8 I was downstairs eating breakfast alone, watching the various people that were sparsely spread among the tables that early on a Sunday morning. I drank my coffee – lots of coffee – and ate everything that I could, canned fruit, bacon and juice. I let myself sit there for a good hour, catching up on e-mails, checking facebook and all other websites, anything I could do to keep a little busy because I had no idea what I even had the option of doing so early, the city was still asleep, but to add to it, it was Sunday – almost everything is closed!

I knew housekeeping would want to get into my room soon, so I decided that I’d go walk around. I walked to where I knew I would check-in to school the next day, to see if I could do it with all my luggage. Once I arrived there, I was so close to the Bastille that I figured I could check that out too, but when I got closer I found something that interested me even more than the French symbol of revolution – the Sunday market.

Just on the walkway of Boulevard Richard Lenoir, a long line of awnings were shading tables, which collectively displayed almost anything imaginable. Variety of cheeses, rotisserie chicken, the most perfect bundles of roses I’ve ever seen, olives, shimmering and colorful pashminas, saffron colored authentic Spanish payaya, hand painted dishes, delicious fruit, African beaded jewelry and fresh Italian pastas. It was like walking though a dream with its display of colors and its array of aromas.

Watching the old women with their rolling baskets full of baguettes and fromage, overhearing the explanation of the perfect spices for chicken, and the buzz of “Bonjour mademoiselle! Allez-y” from all the vendors I passed; I didn’t think France could get any more perfect until I heard a man playing an accordion just on the other side of the fountain from where I was walking. Between the haggling and the scents of crepes and the starfish cut cantaloupes, I couldn’t keep myself from plastering a happy smile on my face.

Day 3

Move-in day. I woke up to find that, il pleut, the forecast predicted rain. I again went downstairs to enjoy my breakfast, returned to my room to pack my things, and just as I was about to leave my room to check-out, I noticed that it was in fact raining outside. I waited for a few minutes, then saw that it had stopped, and figured that I should probably try to make it to school before it started up again. This leg of the journey was successful – I made it to school with all my things, and without a drop of rain on me, but thanks to Parisian humidity, I was red in the face and sweating from lugging my two very large, very heavy suitcases, accompanied by my large back pack, and electronics bag for the past 4 or 5 blocks. In reality, that isn’t so far, but when you’re carrying about your own weight, and are trying to walk quickly/run to avoid being rained on, it ended up being quite the work out.

Later however, I wasn’t so successful. I had had to wait a few hours for the room at my new hotel to be ready, and so when the time finally came for us host-family option students to check-in to our hotel rooms, it had begun to pour rain again. We waited it out a little, and after about an hour, the rain had stopped. Myself and six other girls grabbed all our luggage and decided to go for it, knowing that the new hotel wasn’t too far and that we would probably make it alright. We were just over half way there when it started pouring again. All we could do was laugh and avoid the splashes from cars speeding past us at the crosswalks. We would take cover for a few minutes, map out our next move, then all run in a line down the sidewalk to the next stop we could all fit under – there weren’t very many. At one point my bag slipped from my hands, falling to the ground, and sending my electronics bag that had been resting on top of it flipping into a giant puddle. I groaned as I bent over to pick it up, at which time my water bottle slid out of my backpack and when it hit the ground it exploded open under a small cafè table where two French men had been enjoying an afternoon cappuccino. “Iz it your first tyme in Pari?”, one asked as he laughed at me. “No, it’s my second!” I replied, sharing a laugh with the two men before I head back out into the downpour.

By the time we got into the hotel lobby, we were quite wet. We saw two boys our age sitting there, and they seemed a bit flabbergasted at our memorable entrance. “You look like you’ve just stepped out of the shower”, one of them said to me. I could only laugh because I’m sure I did look exactly that way as I desperately searched the breakfast area for a paper napkin to dry off with, leaving puddles of water on the linoleum floor wherever I went.

It was an eventful beginning to my time here in Paris nonetheless, one that I will surely never forget. The rain did raise some concern, especially for my electronics bag that had decided to take a swim, however all ended well. We and our clothes dried nicely, and we were out and about again in an hour's time, walking the then sunny streets of Paris, soaking up the surroundings that would become our home for the next 4 months.

Utilisez votre imagination!

Translation: Use your imagination!

So, it's been extremely typical of almost every conversation I have regarding my upcoming adventure for people to ask me standard questions; Where will I be living? What do I plan on doing while there? What am I most excited for? What kind of French man I will fall in love with and bring home upon my return?--

HOLD IT!!! French Man? Love? Bring Home?! Is that really such a typical question? I never would have thought so.

As soon as I declare that I will not be bringing any "French Man" home with me, the imagination of the person who asked me this question begins to become fascinated with its own brilliance and creativity. Examples:

"Oh, his name will be Jean-Paul, Jean-Paul Gerard, and he will smell bad because he won't shower and will chain-smoke cigarettes" - Marcotte

"He'll be some fat black guy named Beauvière, who loves fried chicken. I expect you to bring him straight home to meet me first." - Bill Hines

I prefer to believe that if I am indeed reduced to this fate, I'll somehow find myself a dreamy artist like Luc Laurent from Brothers & Sisters. But like I said, I DECLARE that no Jean-Paul, Beauvière or even Luc will be brought back home to the states - unless of course he's stalking me. However, I understand how fun this use of imagination can be, so here on my beginnings of my blog, I will make a place for all of you to participate.

What kind of man do YOU think I will bring home? All you have to do, is click here and follow me through your Yahoo, Google, Twitter, etc., and you will be able to comment below to describe the most horrific and disgusting, or wonderfully handsome man your creative mind can come up with for me. I give you all full permission to really go for it; reach for the very limits of your imagination, and have some fun!

Un Sac À Dos de Rêves

Translation: A backpack of dreams

I now have 9 days until my departure... 9! But it hasn't even hit me yet!

What's causing me to be anxious more than anything else right now is that I have less than 4 days until I hear from Glimpse to see whether or not I've been accepted to their Correspondents Program. If I have, I will be granted a $600 stipend for my writing and will have a feature article as well as a dilemma essay published on Glimpse as well as The Matador, the most popular traveling website in the world.

The past few days especially, I've been on a travel writing binge. Twitter has me hooked up to Glimpse and The Matador as well as all the various blogs and other smaller sites that are connected to them such as bravenewtraveler.com which is more interested in the inner spirituality of people that is explored while they are traveling. I've been reading, then "like"ing and "retweet"ing in madwoman form. I'm trying to soak up everything I can not only to learn about some of the experiences I may have while traveling, but also how to write about these incredible experiences that may daunt me past the ability to use words.

But at points I have had to pull myself away from the computer to stop doing all my research and daydreaming about the adventures and writing pieces to come. Today was quite busy in my preparations, both emotionally and materialistically.

Yesterday was my little sister, Lucy's 3rd birthday. She is only the second youngest of my sibling clan made up of 5, but she is arguably the most adorable of us all. I was able to go to lunch with her, our brother, Taylor and our sister Emma as well a our Dad for little Lucy's birthday celebration. She was quite excited to see me when I got out of the car, but her excitement jolted to a whole new level of euphoria when she saw me take the things wrapped in shiny pink paper and bows out of the passenger seat. "PREZENNNNNNNTZ!!!!", as she said multiple times, even just before she was able to tear the pretty pink paper to shreds and reveal the ladybug board game and a book, The Grouchy Ladybug.

After lunch we all walked back to the cars and I said goodbye to Lucy first, giving her "big lovies" as I wouldn't be seeing her for a long, long time. She grasped her little arms around my neck gave me kisses and giggled as I swung her around and plopped her in her car seat telling me "love you too". But Lucy was the easy one. Emma doesn't like to say goodbye. I had already explained to her a little that I would be gone for a long time and would miss her very much, just so that she would cooperate and smile when we took pictures, but as I hugged her outside the car explaining how much I loved her and that I would maybe see her at Christmas, she could only play with my necklace and part the waves of my hair to reveal the mole on my neck she's always searched for. I told her that I would send her a very special present from the very far-away city of Paris for her 5th birthday, and that Daddy had something cool on his computer so that even though I was far away she would still be able to see me on the screen and tell me all about school and the fun trips she'll go on. She finally told me she loved me too and received my big kisses, then promptly stated that I needed to brush my hair, and that she would see me tomorrow.

Goodbyes don't usually get me worked up, but there was something different about this one. I can't stand when my mother or anyone else gets emotional about my leaving, I'm not emotional about leaving any of them, because I know they will all be here when I get back, and for the most part no one will have changed very much. But my sisters, my baby siblings, they have incredible growing and changing to do, and I will be absent for a lot of it. I've already been absent for a lot as I've been away at school since Lucy was born, but now I don't even have the option to come home and see them on weekends. All of this came down heavy upon me as I finished tightening Emma's car seat. There's a fear in me that I will be forgotten, or that they won't remember or really know how much I love them as their big sister. This specific fear has been the only force strong enough to pull me out of my daydreams back into the present moment and contentment with the life I have in this present moment. I can only hope that the rest of my family, and skype, allow me to not be so absent in my baby siblings' lives while I'm on this amazing adventure I will be leaving for in just over one week.

I drove home in a saddened daze, but as soon as I walked in the door, Grandma was ready to go shopping for luggage. We purchased a suitcase that I could easily fit myself inside being the contortionist that I am, some adaptors, cocoon travel sheets and other gadgets, but my favorite purchase is my new REI Pack. It's love. REI brand women's Venturi 40 Pack in granite gray highlighted in a very becoming, perfect ocean blue. I want to sleep in it as I'm already back to dreaming about all the different planes, trains, boats, trams and whatever other modes of transportation it will be following me on, to only God knows where. Vienna, Istanbul, Munich, Oslo - but that's just this trip, just this blog. When I return, maybe it will make it to Swaziland, or Bolivia, definitely Canada. Just this backpack alone already carries so many of my dreams.