American vs British Accent Challenge

Fun With Strangers on a Bus

I have no idea who this man is.

Naturally, on the last half of a train trip from Paris (which, incidentally was on a bus) a stranger was sitting next to me. He was polite and funny but obviously tired. As we started driving, he started nodding off and suddenly he fell asleep on my shoulder. He woke up once and begged my pardon, but then shortly thereafter he was asleep again.


He wasn't weird or creepy so I didn't say anything about it. But when I realized that he was out cold, I came up with a wicked plan. This poor fellow had no clue who he was sitting next to...

I began posing for photos with him. Here's the story of me and my new friend and ALL the good times we had!! Seriously. ALL of them because we only met, like, 6 hours ago.


Here is my new friend and me, straight thuggin' like we do in the 502 (or in the +33)

And here is me joking around saying "Come with me if you want to live."

Oh and here's the time I got hungry and ate my friends head!

My friend and me, with my awesome new mustache and goatee. (Drawn on with an eyeliner I had in my purse. THAT'S HOW OUT COLD THIS GUY WAS. I got into my purse, drew a MUSTACHE and a GOATEE, took a photo and wiped the mustache off and he *still* didn't wake up).

And then we went our separate ways. But man, we had some good times...what's-his-face and I.

La Jeunesse

The French really need to learn to salt their sidewalks. But if they had, I wouldn't have gotten this message.


Today it snowed and in the morning and evening hours the sidewalk froze in several spots. I trudged out in the downpour in my UGGs which provided neither the warmth or traction I had anticipated. I slipped all the way to my first school, even landing once on a bed of snow, scoffing at myself for being so clumsy.


But all the way I kept thinking, it's lucky I still can pull myself up, imagine what would happen if I were older and couldn't pull myself up. The thought followed me around all day. I have always had a very active imagination and sometimes lose myself in scenarios that sometimes have nothing to do with me. I kept picturing people falling ALL day. It was quite weird.


It's a well known fact that I can't cook. I am quite good at eating, but cooking is a skill I've never HAD to acquire. I decided I wanted Indian food tonight and given that I have neither the ability NOR the coconut milk to make curry, I decided to head out. But as I walked to the restaurant, I found it was closed and had to settle for something different (and cheaper).


I slowly made the frigid walk home when I spotted a woman sitting on the ground cradling her knee, while her cane, purse and small dog lay beside her. I had seen enough from taking care of my arthritic mother to know she wasn't going to be able to get up on her own.


I walked to her and in broken french asked if she was okay. She couldn't have been much older than 65 and was about my size. I saw her face streaming with tears. I didn't know how long she had been sitting there waiting. I offered her a gloved hand, but she slid a little more on the ice. This was going to be a difficult save. I looked around and noticed a bench about 15 feet away and I grabbed her cane and asked her to "take it." She understood and I dragged her to the bench where we would have a sturdier support. I wrapped my arm around her and she pulled herself up onto the bench while I grabbed her purse and cane. The dog scooted closer to her. Luckily a policeman saw us and he turned his lights on. She was fine, but the officer offered to drive her home so she wouldn't have to risk falling on the slick roads.


I sat next to her, while she dried her eyes. And before I walked away she grabbed my arm, thanked me and said "Your youth. Have fun with it." I myself choked up and told her "You're still young." She shook her head.


Before you think, Melissa is just telling us this story because she wants a pat on the head and to be told "Good girl", that's not it. Not even a little bit. I had been so worried about other things, stupid and inconsequential, that I had been squandering a lot of opportunities to really enjoy this carefree and independent time in my life. You may say I'm silly, stupid or superstitious, but I don't believe in accidents. All day I had been imagining a similar scenario and it had happened, delivering a message I needed to hear. As I watched the woman drive away in her car, I felt all my worries melt away and took a deep breath. Everything in my life that was stressing me out was temporary. I should enjoy this moment because there may be a time when I will no longer be able to be independent and have these opportunities. I stopped sniffling and began the long trek home....slipping and sliding all the way.

The Question I Get the Most Often...

The question posed to me most often by friends and family members back home is "But don't the French hate Americans?" This is of course usually followed by some of anecdote of how they went to Paris one time and xyz happened and no one would help them/no one spoke English/they were so rude. I would immediately like to point out that Paris is not France. Paris is to France what New York is to the US. It's a LARGE city, with a faster pace. And I guarantee that if you stopped someone in NYC to ask for directions during rush hour or while they are trying to get to work, they're going to tell you to "PISS OFF!" If you can't move with the flow of a large city, you better get out of the way. Oh, there is no doubt New Yorkers, Parisians, Berliners, Milanese want you to fall in love with their cities, they just want you to quickly acclimate to their culture. That's normal. And four or five times out of ten, the people who ask me this question are the same people who get infuriated if someone speaks Spanish in the US.

The first thing you have to accept about another culture is that it's not going to be like America, nor should it be because that's what makes it so special. If you can't handle this, or you have a persecution complex that thinks the rest of the world is out to get America...you better stay IN America. But if you are curious about the world and have an open mind to understand people better, then I would recommend taking the following steps.


Learn the language. Or at least to very politely say, "I'm sorry I don't speak the language. Can you speak English?" I don't recommend learning phrases asking for directions or for certain types of help, because what good is it if you can ask the question but not understand the answers. Do as MUCH research as you can prior to going.


Don't be defensive about being American. Don't advertise it or flaunt it, but it is a small minority who are ready to kill you for it. Just don't be defensive. I assure you, most people don't give two hoots where you are from. American culture is EVERYWHERE. There are plenty of McDonalds and Starbucks in France. You can't turn on a radio station without hearing Blurred Lines or the new Miley Cyrus song. Even an overwhelming majority of French artists sing in English (Pheonix, anyone?) It's okay to be American. Just be cool, gang. It's okay to use that to poke fun at yourself. Just don't use it as an excuse to try to bend the culture to your way of thinking. That's not why you are here.


I have such a great affection for the French. I have had an occasional run in with a rude person, but I have dealt with rude people in Kentucky. There are rude people everywhere you go. That's life. But what you must realize is a person's rudeness has absolutely NOTHING to do with you. I learned that very quickly working retail and the best way to deal with that in any language is smile and to brush it off and tell them to have a blessed day. But never have I ever been so welcomed. When I struggle with saying something they help me find the words. The teachers at my school have taken me to dinner and offered to help me with complex things such as setting up a bank account. My land lady went out of her way to help me with a red tape problem at immigration. Even today, at a small family run restaurant in Gap, I conversed with a family who was curious about my life in the states. We talked for a while, but just getting over a cold, I had to excuse myself to go blow my nose several times. The mother asked if I had been sick and I responded that I had. Before I knew it, she came out of the kitchen with hot water and a peppermint liquor to help ease the symptoms. I sat and chatted with them for an hour over the economy, politics, sports in the area, and about food. When I received my bill, not only had they given me a discount on the food, they had not charged me for the coffee or the aperetif I had. This couldn't have been easy for them, seeing as times are hard and I was the only customer in the store, but it had been a way to say "Thank you for the camaraderie." When I have been lost or had trouble, people have always rushed to help me. There are good people here. I hope you can find that out for yourself someday.

Food Porn

As I ordered a second coffee and croissant before work the other day, the man behind the bar chuckled and said "You are a gourmand." I nodded and then added. "Yes. I'm an American."

Gluttony is still a sin in France, which still has enough traces of its Catholic background to feel SLIGHTLY bad for excess. But while excess is sinful, pleasure is not. The idea of food as pleasurable is the predominant façon de penser even today. Back home, I've discovered that we have a love/hate relationship with food. As Americans, we don't take time to eat one good meal, but frequently gorge and snack all day. The quality of food is questionable and it's just easier to stop at McDonald's (Don't get me wrong, they have "McDo" in France, but it's a rare treat.) We think we need to eat less (which we do) but at the same time we don't always change the things we eat. We're just eating less of the same bad stuff. This is not me being preachy. Trust me. I stopped for French Fries yesterday and am currently drinking a regular coke with a lemon wedge. I will probably eat more bread, veggies and cheese than any normal person should. But if it's one thing I appreciate, it's GOOD food and the French seem to say "That's perfectly fine. Just do it within certain parameters."

We usually get an hour and a half for lunch here. Time enough to enjoy your meal and to let it settle. There are various coffee breaks through the day. And dinners can go for hours. You eat, you rest, you get up and walk back to your apartment. It's all very ritualistic. Enjoy your three meals. But enjoy them at a certain time and a certain pace. It does seem to curb hunger and combined with all the walking and hiking I have lost about 9 pounds since I got here.

Food is one of the few pleasures you can partake of as a mere mortal. I wake in the morning and usually my first excited thought is "What am I going to eat today?" Genetically, I have been fortunate that I have remained under 120 pounds most of my life, so food, to me, wasn't a cause for concern or worry. Before I got to college, I remained very bland in my food choices and while some people experiment sexually or with illegal psychotropic substances, I started dabbling in food. Food from different ethnicities, food with different ingredients, foods I have never thought about trying. Coming to France was the culmination of years of dabbling with gastronomy. And oh God, am I addicted..


What I love most about dinner time in France is that eating alone is NOT the societal taboo it is in the US. I suppose that is because in France eating is like having an orgasm, equally pleasurable in a group, in a pair, or by yourself. Everyone has to eat and just because you aren't with someone doesn't mean you should be deprived of the pleasure. I frequently find that most restaurants here are affordable and accommodating. Dinner is late, usually most restaurants don't open until at least 7 and that's because they are preparing the dishes for the evening. Everything is fresh and cooked that day. Creams and merangues are whipped, usually in the morning. Meat is marinated on site.

If you aren't feeling the resident snails and beef dishes (But you should try them, at LEAST once), you can rest assured that France is close enough to other countries to have a RICH immigrant resource. You can get Korean, Asian, Spanish, Indian, German, North African, Greek, Italian, and other types of food at reasonable prices. I'm a big fan of traiteus Asiatiques, little restaurants run by Asian families that sort of serve as a carry out. You can get small dishes of the Chinese/Japanese/Korean variety for take-out OR for dine in. It's perfect if you want to take your chinese home for leftovers, as most are served cold and then are either reheated at home or on site. And if you can't afford the train fare to Spain for Paella, nine times out of ten you can find FRESHLY made Paella at a small specialty store that will scratch the itch.

So if you find yourself wondering aimlessly around France, try your best to avoid McDonalds. I know. I know. It's familiar. And YES. I am very guilty about this. (Especially in Marseille, because I was SO broke). But Enjoy your one (or three) glasses of wine and savor every sweet bite, because, let's face it...you're not going to be eating like this at home.

Santé!

Explaining Kentucky to the French.

I heard the absolute worst/best song last night. It was more appropriate thematically than it was appropriate musically. The song was called The Fox (What Does The Fox Say?) by a group called Ylvis. The song is the basic onomatopoeic sounds that we associate with animals, and given the fox's naturally secret nature, there is some room for interpretation as to what the fox says. (Although, Ylvis, I don't think *Ring-a-ding-ding-a-ding* has ever been uttered by a fox in the history of fox linguistics)


Here. Watch it for yourself.


As Ylvis sang about speaking to horses in morse code, I sat thinking of how to explain my beautiful home state of Kentucky to a group of children, most of whom have probably never ventured out of Europe. I knew that given my age range of 6-10, my topic of conversation would be extremely limited. I could probably use the following lesson plan:


Good Morning Children. I am from Kentucky! Kentucky is a state.



George Clooney is from Kentucky. (Yeah! You're welcome world!)

So is Jennifer Lawrence!

We make DISCO BALLS! (Hell YES!)

You like horses, kids! We have horses!!!

Oh, and you like Cheeseburgers? Well, you better say "Thank you, Kentucky." Because even though somewhere in the world someone more than likely had already put cheese on a hamburger, we decided to lay claim to it. And that children, is all about American ingenuity. Take credit for someone else's idea and pass it off as your own. Edison did it. So did Bell. And they got buildings and corporations named after them!!!

And you should wash that down with some delicious Kentucky Bourbon. Oh wait, you guys are in elementary school. May I humbly suggest an Ale-8 (Kentucky's other delicious beverage)

Children. Besides being known for booze, horses and handsome actors that are old enough to be your grandfather...we also have a sport called "Basketball." There are two certain teams in Kentucky and they like to pretend that the other one doesn't exist. That is....until they play each other. And then everyone hates each other and the team that loses pouts about waiting until "next season" and the team that wins get license to be a douchecock about the game for a whole year.

We also are home to a certain fast food chain, whose creator is the only other man besides Mark Twain to rock a white suit after Labor Day. If Kentuckians controlled the vatican, a good majority would probably vote this guy into Sainthood. You think I'm joking....

But most importantly, Kentucky is home to people that I love and care about and people with whom I wish I could share my adventures. But sometimes to appreciate home, you have to leave for a little while.


Miss and love you, Kentucky. See you in May (I hope).

Today's lesson: Je vais au supermarché

In French 101, or any introductory second language course, one of the first few lessons you learn is food vocabulary. This usually goes in with the verb "to like" or "to dislike/hate", I assume this is because Americans, like the French, are passionate about their food. It just makes sense to be able to express this in foreign language because eating is a requirement and it suits one well to know EXACTLY what to say when ordering food. Food happens to be a PASSION of mine, as you can see in the photo below, so I will walk you through how you shop in France and also give myself a grade for my shopping trip today.

Throughout France, you can find open-air markets (the equivalent of sea-food or farmers' markets across the US). You can also find small groceries that are independently owned, along with butchers, bakers and candle stick makers. But you can still find the often detested supermarché. It's really a love hate/relationship. If you're a food purist, you would want to get your meats and breads from their respective creators: the boulangerie and the boucherie. Cheesemakers, also, are called les crèmeries. It's sort of that same idea of supporting local business. And if you are an enthusiast of gastronomy, like Anthony Bourdain, you're going to shop there for your better ingredients.


The rest of us mere mortals will shop at the supermarket. But there are VAST differences between US Supermarkets and French Supermarkets. Namely the food suppliers are held to higher standards and the ARRAY of cheeses and breads available is ridiculous. Much like the US market you can get your meats from either the deli or the refrigerator section, but the meats available pre-packaged are quite good.


The first few times I was over here, back in 2006, I experienced severe culture shock at the grocery. Everything looked familiar but nothing FELT right. I wasn't aware, for example, that when you purchase produce you must weigh the items on a small scale and print and affix the barcode yourself. That was a shock when the grocery lady yelled at me for ten minutes, and I, fresh of the boat, had no clue what the problem was. Lesson learned: go with a native the first time you go shopping. Cost: 12 Euros Grade A+


It's ALSO very important to purchase a recyclable bag. And I don't mean like you do in America. In the US...you buy them and forget them at your house or in your trunk. Here, if you forget your sack, you're screwed. Some grocery stores charge for plastic bags. I actually don't think this is a bad thing. It's a way of cutting down on environmental waste. You can often, however, buy those recyclable bags at the store. But you will be out a few euros. Lesson learned: Unless you enjoy precariously balancing multiple items as you WALK back to your apartment (Oh yeah. No cars here) buy the stinking bag. Cost 1 euro. Grade: A+


You will see things that are familiar variations of things you've known back home: sandwich breads, canned pasta, microwave rice, even SLICED AMERICAN CHEESE (although I think they refer to it as hamburger or croque cheese). Although it may be tempting to buy those, try to get out of your comfort zone a bit. I know. I failed today because I definitely got some hamburger cheese and sandwich bread with the INTENT of making grilled cheese. But the Camebert, Roquefort, and Chevre makes up for that a little. Lesson Learned: Think outside the cheese box. Cost: 15-20 Euros. Grade: C.
Today I give myself a solid A minus. I'm sorry, I'm not TOO sorry about the grilled cheese I'm making. So excited.

Immigration Celebration

So after spending the day in the OFII with my shirt off getting poked and x-rayed...I finally have my Visa de Sejour, a little blue card that allows me to enter and re-enter France just like a French person. There was, of course multiple issues with paperwork and a scary French Frau who did not want to make any exceptions or help. But it is over. It is done, and I don't have to worry about this again.

And despite being topless in a French Doctor's office, I still am sans French husband. I'm kidding. But marrying an EU citizen would make this whole thing a hundred times easier, I think. I got mostly annoyed that they would take my word that I had had all my vaccines, but were concerned over a mistake in my address and wouldn't believe me when I told them where I lived? Which would you rather have documentation of?

After finally washing that day off me, I started day two in Marseille. We had a training at the University at which point they walked us through filing for social security and our medical visits. The things which we had done in the days before. I sat, baffled as to why, knowing that the information (social security) had to be done at least a few days in advance in order to get paid, why they would have an informational session on it days afterwards. But that thought was pushed out of my head as the lot of us sat trying not to doze off, including Gianni, a very funny Italian guy who wears his sunglasses indoors.

Afterwards, my friend Sarah (from Texas. You can read her blog here) and I made our way to the Appart'city. Originally we were going to stay in Sausset-Les-Pins, but discovered quickly that the cab itself would be about 25 euros a piece. So we scrapped the hopes of our own private beach bar in order to stay at a studio apartment in Marseille.


Marseille is not my favorite city in France. It does have very beautiful parts, but it's beachy atmosphere gives it a tendency to be loud and crazy. The main route near the port is called Canabiére, so called after the plentiful cannabis crops that grew here when mariner ropes were made from hemp. But overall...I feel like the explains a lot about Marseille.


However, Sarah and I decided to pursue some beach time after hob-knobbing and doing some consular activities. (ZZZZZzzzzzzzz) We were close to the old port, which is truly magnificent with its old buildings and rocky cliffs that stop the peaceful waters of the Mediterranean from crashing on the shore. Walking in the shadow of enormous cruise ships, we joked about how far our combined 70 euros could get us. After finally stumbling past the Fort St Jean, we made it to a rocky pier and we just sat and looked out at the blue water. We were too high up to dip our toes in the water, but we just stared and reveled at knowing we were at the Edge of France. We also enjoyed watching the Japanese tourist who nearly fell in because he thought it would be a good idea to jump on the rocks below.

So do you think that any point in its history, that the Old Port was called the New Port? Or just port? At what point did it get old?


I have a few hours to kill, I'm planning to meet back up with Bettina, who happily found an Austrian friend in town. I'm taking a bus back to Gap, a city that is surely MUCH quieter than Marseille and definitely more suited to me. This will by my first time making it back home without Bettina. Bettina has an incredible sense of direction, unlike myself, so this should be eventful. I've had a lovely time this week and am looking forward to getting settle into my job as a teacher this week.

Performance Anxiety

When you have different nationalities coexisting in one small space, you're going to have a multitude of languages and a lot of moments that end with awkward pauses or things being lost in translation. We have people from Spain, Italy, Portugal, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Canada, the UK and a few Americans who have journeyed over to France.

Good looking bunch right?

Unfortunately there does seem to be one universal language.

And that is English.

When I was crawling through by myself, doing banking or other transactions, or just communicating I was doing really well in French. But today, after four or five days of speaking in English (and it is the language Bettina and I use to communicate) suddenly I could see my language skills begin to drop off.

That or it's nerves. Either way, I met two of the principals today. The first, I did fine. The second, I was tripping over my tongue, talking way too quickly and incoherently...in both languages. Either way, it was not the best first impression.

Perhaps I need to take a small dose of what my landlord told me the other day when I was freaking out over my bank account. He makes jam as a side venture and as I was clearly growing more and more angry with the situation, he suddenly handed me a fig, patted my head and said "Reste calme."


So I suppose what I really need to make myself do is speak in French. But it's hard when the only social connection we all have is that we all speak English with varying levels of French. I supposed there are varying factors but I just need to take those words into account before I start. The lessons are in there. If the French should have taught the world anything it's just to relax. Stuff will happen, regardless of pushing. I just need to breathe through it. And if I take NOTHING else from this experience, it will be that I need to reste calme and just do what I need to do.

Also eating Figs. That helps.

Ne pas de Laisser Faire

I suppose part of the adrenaline rush of living abroad is that there is always this slightly dangerous chance that things you don't know or understand about other cultures can back fired. Today I learned that in most European countries, if you travel in a car you must carry an appropriate amount of reflective yellow vests in case there is an accident, as opposed to wearing clean underwear, I suppose. (An old American adage)


And then there is the challenge of living, thinking and existing in a language that is not the language your were born with. A lot of people describe that fear they have when called on in Spanish 101 and they just sit there in a cold, silent stare down, for what seems like AGES, until their professor decides to move on to the next person. I think that's the reason most people stop taking foreign language in college. Fear. Discomfort. I, on the other hand, got off on it. This should not give you any foresight into my sexual proclivities, mind you, its just that I knew that in order to learn the language, in order to survive, you had to take that discomfort and dominate it. And slowly, little by little, you can begin to recognize sounds, then words, then tenses, and suddenly you can function at a low level. Then you move to slightly more philosophical topics.

Yesterday, our group went and watched the film Les Invincibles, a film about the game petanque (bocce ball if you're in the states) and also about the racial tensions faced by the pied-noir/Maghrebis in France. It was a GREAT film, but objectively speaking, I could see where my education had paid off. I had taken classes on the struggles of racism of the North African people in France (It's VERY comparable to racism faced by Mexican and Latino immigrants in the US) However, had I not taken that class, I would have probably stared blankly at the screen unsure of what was happening and why these people did not want the Algerian as captain of the French National team.

The moral of the story is my intelligence is of a situational, but not always practical, variety. So when it comes to handling of immigration paperwork, explaining exactly what is wrong and making people understand, I am not always capable.

I also fear that as an American I have incessant need to be constantly on the move, have things done, be working on them, or making sure that someone else is working on it. Re: The problem with my OFII forms. It was not my mistake. The emission that I sent them proves that, however the overall response seems to be "we'll see what happens. They won't check that and fixing it will just make too much work for everyone."


And I'm trying not to let the fear overwhelm me and let me sit silently until they move on to the next person. I have to try. I had a choir teacher once say "If you're gonna screw up...screw up big so I know how to help you." It's sage life advice. I am stressed that I can't seem to have anyone explain a good way to fix the error made by the OFII (Not even the OFII) but I know that I have to keep trying. It's frustrating but it's making me better. It's making me better at expressing myself in a practical way. I've even learned some new vocabulary...although most I can't repeat here.

Where do I live? But seriously? WHERE?

This should be the post where I talk about how I met all my fellow assistants in Gap (Everyone is nice), how beautiful Gap is (It's gorgeous), and how nice Bettina, my roommate is(Very nice.) Instead I'm going to talk about how I don't handle small bureaucratic annoyances well.


I just realized that the address printed on my OFII (Office of Immigration form is wrong). This is bad, probably not fatal since most don't have housing, but it came in the mail the other day and I didn't think to check it. Of course I didn't. It came to the right address. But as I double checked this evening, I noticed it was wrong. SON. Of. A.


Wrong House number. Misspelled Street name.

I checked the email I had sent them with the form completely filled out and my handwriting was legible and everything was correct. This presents two problems. I have to bring this form the medical visit I have Wednesday and I also need this letter to open my bank account.


You know. To get Paid.


And being type A, I emailed both the academy and the OFII office. It's Sunday night so NATURALLY nothing is going to happen tonight. But I will sit her and stress because it's just me. And really only two things will happen. I will have to put off everything a while longer (and really, it's okay because it's my understanding that some people don't even have housing) or they will just say "It doesn't matter. Leave it as it."


And yet I am sitting here, stress eating. (slices of ham on toast if you were wondering what)

I did have a lovely evening and will probably describe it in fuller detail later. When I'm not sitting here sweating something that will probably not be remembered in 10 years. But I will include some photos of tonight's festivities. It feels wonderful to have a group of such LOVELY and diverse people to communicate with. We have people from Spain, Italy, Scotland, England, Canada, Austria, and the US. It's made the town feel a little more like a home and helped solve some of that disconnect I feel from my friends back home.

No Ticket.

You haven’t learned the true meaning of terror until you have had a Parisian taxi driver, already running behind, attempt to get you to your soon departing train in rush hour traffic.


The day started early enough after a sleepless night. The Russians next door argued. all. night. long. I awoke at 6:45. Hit snooze until 7:15. Popped out of bed where the lovely wife of the hotel proprietor offered to call me a taxi. 9 minutes. She said. Certainly enough time for a cafe au lait and a croissant. And I am unable to turn down free food, especially free caffeine and carbohydrates. I sat and ended up assisting a lovely Danish girl who spoke no French. She was trying to negotiate a way to leave her luggage for someone else to pick up. Despite sounding like a thinly veiled drug drop, I translated as best I could. The Australian gentleman, there on holiday biking through France, complimented my French. “I’ve never heard an American with such beautiful French ‘r’s.” he said. This is the ultimate compliment to an American french intermediate. Merci. Emphasis on the Merrrrrci. He noticed my concern as the 9 minutes, turned to 20, turned to 30....


By 8:15, I was panicked. My train left at 9:15 from Gare de Lyon, a good 25 minute taxi drive. The lady of the hotel called the company who assured her that the taxi was indeed coming. I begin to feel nauseous. I could try the metro but I knew I could not brave the famed 200 steps in Abbesses with a 52 pound suitcase, and the elevator was notoriously slow. The Australian gentleman who began panicking for me, grabbed my suitcase. If the taxi driver was not there in 10 more minutes, he would carry my 50 pound suitcase through a two train changeover to Gare de Lyon. It’s the most chivalrous thing a gentleman has ever done for me...and he was not creepy or menancing or even flirting. So score one for Australia.


But the taxi, in all its Parisian ease, showed up at 8:35, at which point the lady of the hotel ran out yelling in Arabic at the man. How she knew the Taxi Driver also spoke Arabic, I have no idea. But she was sweating bullets for me. I thanked her for everything, promised her daughter help with her English homework via skype, and finally got the chance to say the phrase every Doctor Who fan hopes to say in context.


ALLONS-Y, ALONSO!

Turns out his name was Mubarak. But eh.

I suppose if you don’t enjoy the prospect of facing your mortality, the worst possible thing you can do is tell a Taxi Driver, “My train leaves in 35 minutes. You were an hour late, but If you get me there I will give you a 10 Euro trip. 15, if you help me carry my luggage.” 15 euros is a decent tip...almost too much. really...I suppose, because the next thing I knew, I was cutting through morning rush hour on Paris’s busiest streets, fearing for the safety of all pedestrians and pets. Every time I saw one step out in the bus lane to look for the bus, I silently prayed that I would not be the witness/cause of a terrible car vs. pedestrian accident. Primarily because I was going to miss my train, but you know....because I care about other people sometimes.


Amazingly, my French becomes perfect when my adrenaline is rushing or I am pissed off. Every rule runs studied comes out, as I spat the address, train number, and subsequently the “Where the HELL were you?” that I asked repeatedly the first 15 minutes. I know that the public transit system, while efficient is absolutely brutal. I also knew that the odds WERE not in my favor and volunteering as tribute in this Hunger Game of car vs pedestrian was probably stupid. After all there is a night train to Gap. A 9 hour...night train. Sleeping with strangers. Oh Sweet JESUS HURRY! HURRY! HURRY!


I checked my ipod repeatedly as the time and the minutes melted away. 8:53. My train left at 9:07. Suddenly I found myself in a spin in the Bastille roundabout (Paris’s second most terrifying roundabout. Arc De Triomphe wins this round.) I held on, said a few ‘Hail Mary, Pray for this sinner now and in the hour of my inevitable death.‘ prayers and then when I opened my eyes. I was in front of Gare De Lyon. 5 minutes until 9 o clock.


He messed around with the 50 euro bill “Vous avez la monnaie? Un dix?” NOW? VRAIMENT? I HAVE TO LEAVE NOW AND YOU WANT ME TO SEE IF I HAVE 10 EUROS CHANGE.


“Non!!!!”
He grumbled as I hopped out of the car and yelled for him to keep the change. If it was a ploy, it worked, but I needed to haul ass. He handed my little pink suitcase and my giant 52 pound bag still fresh from CDG.


My father played (American) football in high school, albeit not a very well. He talks about the drills of running with heavy equipment. If it were anytime for this DNA to kick in, it was perfect. Dragging 52 pounds behind me, wearing a heavy coat with 10 pounds on my back and a little pink 360 Brookstone hardshell carryon (I still say that it is quite possibly the BEST investment I ever made) I ran like hell to Voie 17....starting from Voie number 1, RUNNING pas the French and other slowpokes enjoying their morning stroll and becoming my father running with a football.


“She’s past the 13, the 14, the 15....oh she’s losing steam. Oh. SECOND WIND! GO GO GO GO! VOIE 17.”

I knew I was in first class, unfortunately that did not mean the first car. I was in car 12. Running with sweat drenching through everything I had on, I met eyes with an attendant who barked “ALLEZ! ALLEZ! VITE”


I made it to car twelve...hearing the sound of the buzzer signaling that the doors were closing. I swung my 50 pound suitcase in front of me and handed the controller my ticket. I had made Gare De Lyon, my bitch. (If you’re reading this Aunt Sue, I apologize for my language) If I had had a microphone I would have dropped it.


That thrill was short lived once the controller realized that I had a duplicate ticket of someone else. I had stored my luggage and gone upstairs to find someone in my seat. He came up and I prayed that this was somehow NOT my fault. Because I have seen Indiana Jones....and I saw what happened when that guy that had No Ticket, and I was not about to be thrown out of a high speed train. Okay...he was a Nazi. But, still.


But as it turns out, the gentleman’s assignment had changed and he had to relinquish his seat. He was quite nice about it. I settled in....drenched in sweat, so happy I had filled my water bottle before I had left the hotel, because bodily fluids needed to be replinshed. So with my luggage safely stored on two racks downstairs, and my seat at last found, I found myself with enough time to lavish the luxury of my surroundings on my TGV heading directly to 80 degree weather on the Mediterranean.


The Train Grande Vitesse (literally big, fast train) can make the normally 9-10 hour commute from Paris to Marseille in under 3 hours. I find it best not to look out the window because everything looks like a blur and adrenaline, caffeine, and blurred lines (the actual kind/not the Robin Thicke date rape kind) can be an equation that equals lost stomach contents. The worst moments are the inevitable descent into tunnels at which point high velocity + closed space = potentially busted ear drums, but thankfully the vast majority of the TGV’s trek is outdoors through French country side. It almost feels like Kentucky. I miss those beautiful horse pastures.


Across the aisle from me was an older couple with a very curious, tiny dog that seemed to also feel ill from the TGV. The dog and I exchanged looks a few time and the gentleman noticed. I complimented the cutie (the dog, not the man) and he asked if I had a dog. I tried to explain that I was incredibly dogsick (vs. Homesick) as my lovely Bichon/Muppet Mix was back home in the states. I have cried more about missing my dog than most people I know (Sorry...people I know). The French love their dogs. They are allowed everywhere: restaurants, stores, trains, public toilets. France is just one big fire hydrant for the beloved chien and frankly if you’re a dog lover, most French people will love you. The gentleman handed me the shaking terrier/doberman looking thing and offered to let me hold him. He is currently sleeping in my lap as I type this and it’s filling that canine companionship void that I have so been craving. I don’t even care that I began sniffling in front of the guy because he wife started tearing up too. Dog Lovers Unite!


The only horrible part of the TGV is that terrifying unexpected moment when another TGV passes beside you. It’s so brief but terrifying. Other than that, much like Sheldon Cooper, I enjoy trains. Even the slow ones. I’m a little miffed that this one does not have Wi-fi. The Thalys to Amsterdam does, but until then I can enjoy the beautiful fog and drizzle (and occasional Hansel and Gretel style farmhouse) of the French Countryside, unspoiled by Urban development.

But I am definitely going to enjoy my Wi-fi, air conditioned hotel room in Marseille. Cows are great and all, but...you know...facebook.

«Tout obtenir très vite et très tôt, n’est pas nécessairement la meilleure des choses qui puisse vous arriver»....That's what she said

«Tout obtenir très vite et très tôt, n’est pas nécessairement la meilleure des choses qui puisse vous arriver»

"Those things which you obtain quickly and early are not necessarily the best things that can happen to you"


I read that statement in a discarded programme of a Comedie Française play. It was in the bio of an actress. It hit me because, at 29, I am probably one of the oldest participants in my program. But I was sort of living life, improving my French, working theatre jobs where I could get them. Dating men. Breaking up with the same men. But I've sort of always known that I was too scatter brained and too daydreamy for 9 to 5 work. I crave that sort of rush I have always gotten working with younger children (and not like that creepy old guy from Family Guy. Although now I'm reading EVERYTHING I write in his voice. And now it's creepy)

And though that capacity for wondrous excitement (and...okay, honestly, slight attention deficitness) usually got me scolded in school, college, and most every job I've had except for the ones where I was directly interacting with youth, I now find it most helpful. I hope when I EVENTUALLY settle down, I'd like to teach theatre and French. Don't get me wrong, I WILL SCREW UP EVERY SINGLE DOCUMENT THE BOARD OF EDUCATION ASKS FOR. But I think I've always been a teacher, in some way or another.

There's an awesome word in French for a person who drifts around aimlessly, but enjoys themselves tremendously. Le flâneur. I can't think of a word in English without a negative connotation. But I'm excited to wander around and see what happens in this new gig.

And that's EXACTLY what I did today. Wandered aimlessly around the city.


That's what writers call a "Segue." Should I mention that until a week ago I always spelled that word incorrectly? I spelled it Segway...like the scooter. And I'm supposed to be teaching English. Joke's on you, French government.

I started my morning early, because otherwise the cleaning lady was up and stirring and that scary Russian girl from last night was still sleeping. And I JUST STARTED WALKING. I didn't have a particular place to be, save for a lunch date with Robert. And I walked up the hill to Sacre Cour. That's right. My thighs will be tremendous if I keep this up. And inside there was a bunch of tourists and a WHOLE GROUP OF NUNS. HUNDREDS. (It was like a horror movie) And then I climbed down. I was hassled by men selling necklaces (I always forget, touching strangers isn't the cultural faux pas it is back home) and girls trying to sign contracts. (Just a note. If someone in Paris approaches you asking you to sign something, they are usually pick pockets or asking for donations to a fake charity). So I continued my way down to the first metro station and I just let me self pick a line, picked a stop I was familiar with near the Louvre. I had promised someone that I would get a picture of Napoloen's tomb....so I walked along the Seine River for longer than I would have liked to get to Invalides. Yes. There is a metro stop, but then I couldn't have seen Paris and Paris is meant to be seen. Don't get me wrong, public transit is an amazing thing and everyone should have access to it!! (I'm looking at you United States.) But it's Paris.

And the leaves are falling.
And people are kissing and laughing

I almost stopped and asked a couple who were exchanging saliva for directions even though I knew where I was going. But I decided that would be just a little too mean.

I took a picture of Napoleon's tomb.

Big Tomb for a Little Guy. (Okay history buffs. I know he wasn't that short)
And I had lunch in a park with my friend Robert.

And then I wandered some more until I was so sweaty and my pretty white sparkly Sperrys were suddenly dingy and more grey than normal.

But that's okay. I can buy another pair of Sperrys. Honestly, I will probably buy hundreds more pairs of shoes, but I can't buy another today. It was pretty nice to wander.

I'd probably post that quote about "All who wander are not lost", but I'm told that quote is actually taken out of context? I could be wrong! Anyways, you get it.

Down and Out in Paris....or the Whore's Bath

I am not uncomfortable with the bare bones comforts that some European hotels offer. I find it completely livable and in most cases it makes more sense than some American decisions. Having a key that fits into a light switch to ensure that the squandering American idiot doesn't leave the lights and tv running is brilliant. I don't even mind the "one W.C." per floor rule.

But that was the farthest things from my mind after a glorious Air France flight. (Seriously, one bad bout of Turbulence about halfway through.) I spent the majority of the flight watching the individual tv set that each seat has. I watched the First Season of New Girl and Les Miserables again. Though I am terrified of plane crashes, I will say that living through Russell Crowe butchering Javert again made me temporarily contemplate the pain to gain ratio of death. But thankfully Hugh Jackman saved the day.

After waiting for nearly two hours at the Customs patrol, where an attractive Frenchman barely looked at my Visa and look annoyed when I asked for the accompanying stamp, I made my way out of the hotel. I had quickly deduced that my 52 pound (2 pounds over weight but Air France let it slide) suitcase and my pink carry on, backpack and coat made it impractical to take the train. I am very familiar with the metro system here in town and taking the train is the absolute best thing you can do, unless you're a 120 pound weakling with three pieces of luggage. So I had worked the taxi from CDG into the budget.

CDG is roughly 32 km outside of downtown Paris. And the drive is often terrifying as European drivers and motorcyclists tend to have very little regard for their own lives. But I arrived safely in Montmartre. I always breathe a little sigh of relief when Paris stops looking like the empty farmlands and industrial buildings of the Roissy-CDG suburb and starts looking like the Paris you know, with tight streets and cafes.

I picked the Hotel Bonsejour, because it was cheap and had decent reviews. I knew to expect bare bones. What I didn't expect was that I couldn't get into my room until 230. The wife of the owner kindly offered to take my luggage into the breakfast kitchen and lock it in there.
However the rules of the hotel harken back to one of George Orwell's lesser known works "Down and Out in Paris and London", recounting the story of a young man who struggles to make a living in the aforementioned cities and lives in sometimes DEPLORABLE conditions. Upon leaving each day, I would have to turn my key into the office. I may not leave things in my room. And most importantly ....I had to to return at 2:30 to get into my room. Although they showed it to me and....it was a room.
So for a few hours I stumbled aimlessly through the stress of Montmartre, searching hopelessly for wifi. I know it's ridiculous to be in Paris and not want to wander through the sights of one of Europe's most beautiful cities, but my initial urge was to contact everyone. My phone no longer works and I felt panic at not being able to speak to anyone. I ate lunch at one place and when my room wasn't quite ready at 230, I went back and ate at ANOTHER place, purhcasing wifi to lament my loneliness. I wasn't even hungry. I missed my family. I missed my friends. And honestly, more than anyone else I missed my dog. I saw a bichon at a nearby table and that sent me into tears. But the carbohydrates of thai beef and rice with basil were comforting.

I trodded back to my hotel, hopelessly lonely and feeling sort of overwhelmed and exhausted, carrying a bag of Thai food that I hadn't even really wanted to buy. The hotel manager saw me and turned over my key. He instructed me in a variety of languages. We started in French. He switched to English and then by the end was answering my questions in Arabic. I asked for his help in carrying my 50 pound suitcase up the stairs and he paused and looked thoughtfully at the rickety old stairs. (OH. Yeah. No elevator. Also very common in older European hotels) He switched to English/French. "Here. You're a good girl. I will let you store it at the porte à côté, in the kitchen next door. We lock it." This is where my bags had been all day and I had to carefully weigh (pun intended) the options I had. I knew that all the important items were in my carry ons. I had a few days clothes, my papers, and my electronics all with me. All that was in the bag are literally 52 pounds of clothes and shoes. The old gentleman was clearly of no use and even with all my hours logged at Planet Fitness, a 52 pound suitcase up 4 flights of stairs just overwhelmed my already exhausted body. So I agreed with the promise that I could get access to it anytime the hotel was open. I only hope if anyone steals it they are a size four and wear a 6.5 shoe

I made it to my room. Realized too late that the hotel's only shower was opened by key only and that the management had long since gone home. So I vowed to wash the 24 hours off me in the morning. I wandered back outside for a while and combed these streets I love so well. And finally I came upstairs ONLY to find that I could not get the wifi to work. I heard the voices of a couple in the hall and they appeared to be speaking some sort of Slavic language which I assumed was Russian. I opened the door and addressed the gentleman. "Vous conaissez le mot de passe pour le wi-fi?" In french Wi-fi is pronounced wee-fee. The boy looked confused, so I did what all Americans do when French doesn't work. I tried English. It actually is very widely spoken and if that doesn't work, you're usually just reduced to awkward sign language. But as soon as I pronounced "WI-FI" instead of "WEE-FEE" he lit up instantly. He grabbed a piece of paper and in broken English tried to read it to me. But I just deciphered it on my own. After a few "Thanks!", I closed my door. but then the fun started. The couple began arguing loudly and the girl came to my door and yelled, what I assumed were the only English words she knew. "WHORE!" "Bitch!" "PIECE OF SHIT!"

I stood in silence deciding not to argue, because to communicate I would have had to launch facetime or skype and find an available Russian speaking friend to translate and more importantly, because history teaches us to never engage in a land war with Russia. She slammed the door but within minutes I could hear them making up. (Oh yeah. Thin walls)


But after the day I had had all I wanted was a hot bath. But that was not going to happen. I couldn't even get a shower until the morning. Finally, in an act of desperation I began running the hot water in my sink and threw a towel on the floor. Using my water bottle and a bottle of shampoo I spent 12 euros on because it was the only thing I could find in my neighborhood this late (and it smells nice) I washed my hair. Then, using the precarious balance one achieves from months of physical fitness (Thank you Planet Fitness and Pikeville YMCA), I shaved each leg while balancing on the other. A few more areas were cleaned and as I scrubbed what I could, I then realized that I was taking what is commonly known as a "whore's bath." Not flattering, but certainly appropriate given the Russian lady had yelled at my door just moments earlier.
My only prayer tonight is that tomorrow is slightly better and that I get to see my fellow ESL friends, Robert and Sarah who are currently in town. That, and that no one steals my 52 pounds of clothes.

The Night Before...

I always hate the night before I travel.

I'm a worrier by nature, which explains why most of 6th grade I had an ulcer and wrote poetry about unrequited middle school love. I thankfully grew out of that and into writing lists.

My 6th grade bucket list included a lot of trivial activities: eating every type of Baskin Robbins flavor, making out with a certain crush (that did happen years later and it did NOT live up to expectations) and hanging out with somebody from a boy band (HEY. I did hang out with Joey Fatone at Derby. So win/win).

But my list wasn't all boy bands and ice cream. I had some more meaningful goals. I wanted to go to Space Camp (I puked on myself on the space shot ride). I wanted to learn a foreign language (I speak French. I won't go so far as to say I speak it well). I wanted to live abroad (And *that* happens to be the subject of this blog).

Strangely, all the things I have wanted, I have an inexplicably been given. I am guilty of being spoiled by the universe on occasion and am completely undeserving. As a type A minus personality, I constantly worry about the rug being yanked from under me. I'm always convinced every adventure is the last and therein lies the reason I get depressed before I travel. I am afraid that the beginning is the end of all good things.

*Cue Debbie Downer sound. Or that losing sound from the price is right.*
I am going to Gap, France to teach English to young children in primary school. This is a 10 month stay and I am going to be documenting my "thoughts from places" and maybe a few hilarious anecdotes.
If you want to follow my adventures, you can subscribe to this blog or follow me on twitter @TheBroadwayBaby (I'm a huge theatre dork. In case you didn't know this already. I assume you do)

They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. For me? The journey of a little over 2000 miles starts with a good night's sleep, two VERY long plane rides...and valium. Definitely valium.