Learning Français
Sunday, March 13, 2011
"Acceuil"
I have now been in France for nearly 7 months. In that space of time, I feel as though my whole world and self have shifted, changed and grown, yet somehow it all seems to remain the same. I've been having incredible experience, after amazing adventure, after unbelievable and dream like travels, and all the while befriending some of the most talented, smart, funny, and genuine people I will ever have the pleasure of knowing. I have been attempting (and somewhat failing) to document the majority of these experiences so that in their publication, in my writing them, they can live eternally, for my own pleasure and memory, but also so my friends and family will have some idea of what I've been up to - not just to see how much fun I've been having, but also to keep track of how much I have changed and grown so that it will not be so much of a shock when I come home - but then again, most of the time I feel as though I have not changed at all, in any minute detail.
Living abroad has been a challenge, one very different from what I had expected. Whenever I discuss this with friends here, or back home, I become tongue tied and always fail to find the words I am searching for. It is the most difficult thing I've ever had to try to describe, and it's not due to my loss of English vocabulary while being immersed in learning another, foreign language. I think it primarily has to do with the relation of oneself, to one's home, or lack of knowledge of exactly where that is anymore.
When I think the word "home", I picture my old apartment in Santa Barbara. The pleasant breezes walking in the sun down state street, the feeling of salt water drying on my skin and the gradual growing warmth of sitting in the sun after playing in the waves, the grains of sand that always gets stuck between the pages of the book I was reading on the beach, the dancing reflections of moonlight upon the ocean surface on a clear night, the fog horn that would always make me smile before I drifted off to sleep. I would do anything to make it back there. Though I don't doubt that it has changed, seeing as all the people who made it an important place for me will no longer be there by the time I would.
But then there's Danville - the town where I grew up, which had always been "home" because it was the town where I had grown up, and it's where my family remains; but that is all it seems to me now. Going back to that, is not at all appealing. The questions and stresses as to where I would live, only soothed by the solution of getting my own apartment, be near to my family to sooth other stresses, do my duty as a sister, a daughter, a grand-daughter and come "home" to make everything better again, to take care of everybody again. But going back there seems as if i'd be moving backwards, something I wouldn't be doing for myself, but rather for my family, and the thought of it does cause me some anxiety.
And then Bordeaux welcomed me with open arms. There was something about the slowness and quaintness of this city that instantly made me feel "at home" within minutes of my arrival. It was beautiful, the gorgeous architecture, the golden lights at night, the river, though brown, would suffice for my ocean withdrawals, at least until I had time to make the hour long trip to the Atlantic. Having my own apartment with a roommate made things feel more normal than they had in Paris, since again I would have to pay bills, and run errands, and clean up after myself - it felt more mine, more space that could belong to me.
Yet somehow, every time I pass through Paris since my moving to Bordeaux, I get uncontrollably giddy. Riding line 6 of the metro, sitting on a bus through the city, walking the Champs Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe one last time, had a feeling of comfort and nostalgia that I never expected after becoming so settled in Bordeaux.
And so my compass that is supposed to point due home seems to be a little confused, always turning in circles then changing direction without any warning. I now have 79 days until my flight back to the states, and I don't know what is going to happen after. The thought of reverse culture shock is not so exciting, and though I will be excited to see my friends and family, and eat all the mexican food and gluten free pizza I will be able to get my hands on, I know it will only be a matter of time before I'm aching to get on the road again; to be doing something more than waiting tables to scrape by paying my rent, utilities and car/gas expenses. I already have so many plans for traveling in the coming years beginning with a road trip to Canada, then back packing through South America, and I need to make it to Thailand and Indonesia and Cambodia and Australia and South Africa to dive with the great white sharks (in a cage, mind you). I want to hike to base camp of Everest, touch an untouchable, ride a camel past a pyramid - I'm addicted. And though sometimes it sounds nice to be able to stay put for a year or two while saving money for grad school, or even just settling and creating a more permanent attachment to the next "home" I make for myself, I find myself already stressing out about how I'm going to be able to make enough money waiting tables to support my "home" as well as my addiction to seeing the world simultaneously, which makes me realize, I won't be settling any time soon - if ever.
So then, what to do about this anxiety of where my home is, or where it will be. I could say I could carry it with me wherever I go - though that would be ridiculously cheesy, and false. I guess I'll just have to deal with feeling as though I don't have one, in exchange for continuing my travels, until I feel it is the right time for me to build my own home, by my own accord, which can house all the memories of my journeys across the globe in quest of finding it and the people who will make it with me.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Bienvenue à Bordeaux!
Alright, so the last month and a half or so has been certifiably nuts. I'm STILL behind on writing, not only on here, but in my other projects as well, and so I'm desperately trying to catch up as things are now beginning to calm down.
I've been in Bordeaux for about a month now. I have an incredible apartment painted at least 5 different colors with vaulted ceilings, a porch/small terrace and an electric stove on Rue Notre Dame - a small, charming street in Chartrons famous for its antique shops.The Notre Dame is probably only a block and a half away, yet I have never heard any bells ring from it. But don't jump to thinking that the "noise pollution" hasn't followed me here from Paris - my walls (and ceiling) are paper thin, allowing me to be very conscious of the couple who live above us and their attempts to have another baby at either 12 midnight or 7 a.m.
I'm spoiled rotten - Ryan and I got placed together to be roommates, and since he wants to be a chef, I am eating very well. Even when I go out though, I have yet to have a bad meal. The food here is about the same price as Paris - but so much better. There is more small town pride and charm that goes into preparing the simplest dishes... it's all just so delicious.
My second week here, us Californians were taken to St. Emilion for a tour of the town, as well as the wine union of production and some tasting. I swear I behaved. We were all piled onto a bus and taken to tour the medieval town which was desolate on account of it being tourism offseason. We were taken into the catacombs and told about the religious history of the town which is ow inhibited by no more than 300 people. After the tour, we were put back on the bus, and taken to the wine production center, where we were given a tour of the facilities and were able to "taste" one of their successful wines. I ran around taking pictures with Sarah and Ryan inside the building, outside I watched the perfect winter sunset rouge the vineyards, and spent my time on the bus getting to know new friends like Suzi and Hala.
When we arrived back in Bordeaux centre, a group of us went to dinner at a small place on the quai near our apartment which Ryan and I had been eyeing everyday as we waited for the tram. Quai 65 was quiet that night, and the owner who waited on us was very kind and funny - something new and refreshing from French servers who I had begun to stereotype during my time in Paris. He sat at the table with us, helped us to order our dinners and wine (even helped me to order with my celiacs), and brought out Suzi's raw entire fish before cooking it for a little entertainment value. The food was absolutely incredible, I've been holding myself off from going back because I know there are so many other phenomenal restaurants in this town, but I think next weekend I might have to go back and try another dish.
I feel I've already explored the entire town. It's so small compared to Paris that I could have done everything in one week(end) if I had wanted to, but I'm trying to take my time and spread things out. I still have one or two museums left to go to.
On Sundays there's an incredible market just a block away from my apartment on the quai, the walkway that follows alongside the gironde river which flows through Bordeaux. I've taken up the new tradition of buying a half-kilo of traditional seafood paella from one of the stands as my Sunday lunch, though I may have to be tempted to try something new soon. There's fresh produce and flowers, but also handcrafted atrisan cheeses, fresh oysters, wine, home-made jam and my favorite - olives. The market itself is infused with color and sound - there's always at least one man playing an accordion, maybe a drummer - last Sunday there was a full brass band dressed in goofy outfits and dancing about in the cold with their horns. It's my favorite day of the week, and not only because it's such a great market, but also because it is not a typical French market, and opens later in the day so I can still enjoy a couple extra hours of snoozing.
city is beautiful, especially near where I live. I love being near the quai and going to walk on it whenever I please (I hope it will happen more often once it gets warmer).
Though it is smaller, and not as bustling as Paris, the spirit of Bordeaux makes me feel like I'm going to have even more trouble leaving here than I did with Paris.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Au revoir, Paris :(
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.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Est-ce que nous avons l'essence Français?
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.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Miluju Praha!
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.