Monday, September 30, 2013
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.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, September 27, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
«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.
"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.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, September 23, 2013
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.
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.
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