Adventures in Cheese Snob Land

Gnomes

2009-09-03T16:23:00.001-07:00

[This is a short story I started writing in France.]

"Gnomes"

By Christine Stoddard

She swayed like a cat in heat, waist and hips fluid as an arboreal stream. From behind, a trance seemed to grip her with the Sandman's grainy hands; from the front, she suffered the obvious consequences of international airplane travel. Though slightly bloated and discolored, she was as beautiful as the tittering princesses she had worshipped as a child. Perhaps five-hundred years ago, a sweet-minded squire encountered her in a dream. To begin with, her dark lashes extended at least one inch beyond her heavily powdered eyelids. Her eyes shone an irresistible shade of gray that verged on gloominess but still emanated enough liveliness to hypnotize weaker souls. Those souls might wake up if someone whispered the fact that she wore contacts, but that event remains hypothetical. (Who would be cruel enough to destroy the spell?) Despite the smudges of concealer under her eyes, the gray-purple bags of jet-lag were still visible above her cheeks. If any of the men who wanted to touch her had the chance to do so, they would have felt the stickiness of serum in her crimped, blonde hair. It had not dried properly because, shortly after applying it, she had fallen asleep on the shoulder of somebody's grandmother during the plane ride. When she woke up to the pilot's voice that morning, Kimberly was not sure if the puddle of goo on the old woman's sweater was saliva or stray hair product. She had touched her full lips to find out; not a drop of spittle jiggled on top of them. Conveniently, she deemed herself innocent.

Now as she glided across the plane's carpeted floors to the front door, velour sweatpants cupped her round buns and neon green stars graced her shiny nails. It was just another stylish day. The moment that her ballet slipper-clad foot stepped out of the plane, Kimberly popped in her earbuds to drown out the noises of an airport that mocked her native language. She glanced up from forcing the unicorn charm on her necklace to face the right way. She barely made out the letters reading "Charles de Gaulle." The words wavered back and forth like her stomach at take-off. She slipped through Customs with an enchantress' smile and then rolled toward the baggage claim in a trance. Somehow she avoided falling asleep standing up as she waited for an epiphany of some kind.

"Where am I going?" she mumbled to herself, now that her full entourage of bags encircled her. "These Frogs better--"

"Kimberly!" A fifteen-year old boy, gangly and red-faced, jumped up and down, waving a poster at the specimen of American processed beauty. It read, "Welcom to my countrie, American princesse." Running toward her on stork legs, he was teenage over-enthusiasm for the opposite sex incarnate. Just imagine the French version.

"Hey, Pierre," Kimberly muttered as she laid her carry-on luggage on the marbled linoleum by its larger comrades. It was pathetically small in comparison, rattling with a spare charm bracelet, a book on dieting techniques from across the world, three bottles of iridescent nail polish, a still-in-the-shrinkwrap pocket French/English dictionary, an owl keychain that no longer hooted when you squeezed it, a monogrammed pen with a Tudor rose design, a My Little Pony notepad, several packs of gum, old mascara, and sparkly lipgloss.

The boy put his poster down and frowned a little. "My name is Luc, not Pierre."

"Oh." Kimberly snapped her blueberry gum. "You sure?" She pulled out her My Little Pony notepad and scanned through all her scrawling. Everything from a list of planned make-over steps to the breeds of her host family's tropical fish was there.

"Oui! I mean, yes. Of course, it is...my name."

"I'm joking," Kimberly bursted, as she shut close the notepad, "I mean, I'm tired, but I wouldn't forget the name of someone who's emailed me twice a day for the past four months. Humor. Duh."

"Ah." Luc crumpled the poster a little as it swung by his knees. "I do not understand." The poster now sagged pitifully inward, mimicking Luc's fallen posture.

"Don't take yourself so seriously. You'll hate yourself in twenty years."

"No, no, I...I'm sorry."

Kimberly re-opened her notepad, pretending to read over one of the lists there. Eventually she became aware that the conversation was moving nowhere. She closed the notepad and waved it at her face like she was hot, even though she was still recovering from a slight chill she'd caught on the plane. She began to talk very fast. "So, where's the toilet? And where can I get a greasy hamburger? They tried to feed me this fried oval thing stuffed with blue cheese. It was gross." Only after describing to the oval thing did she breathe.

"Gross? I do not know this word."

"Listen, Pierre--"

"Luc, please."

"Right. Luc. Gross means disgusting. Like, really, really bad. So bad you want to vomit. What is it--vomiter?"

They paused, staring at each other. Luc continued warping the poster until he tore about an inch into it. He blushed and hid the poster behind him immediately.

"I will flag a taxi," Luc announced, grinning too widely. "Then we shall--"

"Wait, taxis are expensive. I didn't save up for a trip to Paris to blow it all on taxi rides. Why can't your parents pick us up?"

"They are preparing for a party."

"Oh, that's cool," Kimberly chirped, "A French party my first night in France. Maybe tomorrow night I'll kiss Prince Charming at the top of the Eiffel Tower and go waltzing in the middle of the Champs-Elysée."

Luc nodded. "Er, they are celebrating the wedding anniversary of their dear friends."

"People our age don't say 'dear friends' in English, Pierre. It sounds like old people talk." Kimberly corrected her stubborn unicorn charm's improper direction without pausing. "I dunno about France, but in America, it sucks to be old. You have to eat prunes and nobody calls you anymore." She patted her hip, realized that she didn't have a pocket and therefore could not be carrying her phone there. Her eyes landed on a clock and then back on Luc's face. Like a toadstool, his face featured a red background and scores of white dots thanks to an onset of whiteheads. "Anyway," Kimberly began again, "so what's going to be at this party? Any champagne?"

"Undoubtedly.

"Wicked." She bent her fingers into quotation marks.

Luc scrunched up his forehead and pointed toward the entrance. "Let us go."

Kimberly swayed toward the glass doors, abandoning her luggage to Luc. He sighed and fetched a cart. Then heaving and scuttling ensued.

Kimberly was outside, already enjoying a fresh stick of blueberry gum when Luc appeared, panting, with the piled-to-the-sky cart.

"Oh, thanks for doing that," Kimberly said, and then issued a fat bubble from her mouth. Luc stared at the way her tongue danced to conjure the bubble back inside her realm of teeth and gums. His admiring gaze only faltered when Kimberly spoke again. "Hey, flag that one down." Kimberly pointed at an oncoming mini-van taxi with strange red racer stripes painted on the side. It looked fit for eight passengers, not two.

Luc turned toward the taxi and waved both arms with the widest span possible. The taxi skidded to a stop before them. Luc turned to Kimberly for approval, but she was too busy twisting a tiny braid in her hair. Her fingers spun her hair as tightly as a spindle's restless wheel. The golden thread danced over and over, having no choice but to immediately accept its new form.

The taxi driver, dark-eyed, big-eared, and brown-skinned, rolled down his window. A cloud of smoke billowed out into the air. The driver snorted and then said, "Bonjour," with the malaise of an out-of-tune piano.

Kimberly was still concentrating on her braid when she barked, "Yo, Jean-Claude. Could you put this luggage in the back?"

The man looked at Kimberly blankly and said, very haltingly, "I...do...not...speak...English." His bottom lip quivered a little for a second after his confession.

Luc jumped into French to translate Kimberly's words. Then he turned to Kimberly and said, "The word for luggage in French is baggage."

"That's nice." The footman had only just begun to load her carriage, when she snarled, "Careful! That's Vera Bradley, you know!"

The taxi driver, so startled, nearly dropped the bag.

"Let us get into the taxi," Luc muttered. He opened the door for Kimberly and she stepped inside. She thanked him rather offhandedly for it.

"Phew! This place smells like wet dog and cigarettes," she exclaimed. Despite the ignoble expression on her face, Kimberly sat down rather gracefully, crossing one swan leg over the other. Then she reached for the handle on her door to hurry into rolling down the window. Swirls of smoke fled out.

Luc snuggled right next to Kimberly, disregarding all of the empty seats in the van. "Is it not true that you smoke?"

Kimberly tsked, "Why would you think that?"

"Because your fingernails are yellow."

"That's nailpolish, doofus." Luc instantly rouged. "This is more yellow-green, but, anyway, yellow's 'in' right now. I mean, in America. Maybe not here. Seems like everyone wears black here."

"I am wearing green--"

"Hey, are we going sometime today?" Kimberly poked the taxi driver on the shoulder. "We have a cool French party to get to." The driver flinched.

Luc translated again and the taxi driver responded with, "Oui, bien sûr."

"Oh, I understood that!" Kimberly squealed and clapped her hands together. The nailpolish bottles in her bag clinked together at her abrupt movement.

"That is good," Luc replied. "But you are supposed to be speaking French all the time to practice, no? That is part of the exchange program policy, according to what I read. So we should stop speaking English...maintenant. D'accord? Alors, qu'est-ce que tu voudrais--"

"Whoah. Hold it, Pierre. I don't think you get it. Regardless of what that glossy study abroad brochure said, I'm not here to apprendre français. I'm here to have fun. And lots of it. Like I said, I saved up a long time to do this. I'm graduating from high school next year and, after that, I'm going to college, where I'll actually have to take a trip like this seriously."

"Mais--"

"Hey, excusez-moi and all, but we're going to speak my language, okay?" Kimberly squinted her eyes when she said 'okay.'

"Et pourquoi?" Luc sat up straighter, tilting his nose in the air. He stopped wringing his hands, moved his eyes off of Kimberly's unicorn charm and right into her gray eyes, "Je pense que--"

"Because it's better. It's easier to understand, it doesn't have weird accent marks, and people all over the world speak it. You have a much bigger need to learn English than I do to learn French. It's that's simple."

"Vraiment?"

"Stop speaking French! It's an annoying language." She crossed her arms and pouted. "You sound like you're choking on snail shells or frog legs or whatever else you all eat around here." Suddenly Kimberly fished an emory board out of her pocket and began filing her nails. "They can say whatever they want about French being the language of love, but I don't see what's so attractive about this nasally stuff." Kimberly blew off the bitty piles of grated nails into Luc's face and grinned.

He spat out the keratin dust, not commenting upon how it tasted like old lemon candy. Then Luc pursed his lips. "You are sounding very ignorant right now, Kimberly. I do not wish for you to disrespect my culture, especially when you are staying in my family's house. It's is impolite and you are representing your country in a very unfavorable way."

"Representing my country? What? Am I a diplomat now?" Kimberly scoffed. "I mean, seriously. The only reason to become one of those is so you can do exactly what you want without going to jail," Kimberly snorted and then pulled another stick of gum out of her purse. She unwrapped the blueberry-flavored oral distraction, crumpling the foil and tossing it on the floor of the taxi. She folded the stick under her tongue, slid her tongue back and forth, and then flipped the gum on top of her tongue to commence her trademark snapping.

"Must you do that?" Luc asked.

"Oh, sorry," Kimberly yawned, "Did you want some?"

"Er, oui."

"You're not really going to go on like that all night, are you?"

"Comme quoi?" When Kimberly noticed that Luc didn't grab the stick of gum she had extended only half a second before, she dropped it back into her roomy purse.

"You know, speaking, what do they call it in old movies? Frog."

"It is my native language. I think best in it." Luc crossed his arms and sunk down into his seat. Unconsciously, he began kicking his feet at the back of the front passenger's seat. Dust exploded from the cushion and hovered around Luc and Kimberly's knees.

Kimberly gaped a second, her wad of gum fully visible. "Wait, can you do a French laugh?" She paused. "I mean, duh, you can. You're French. Okay, laugh."

Luc scratched the left corner of his bottom lip. "I am not an actor."

"Please! Just laugh. I'll tickle you if it helps." She lunged forward, fingers poised to draw out belly-deep guffaws.

"Non!"

"Yes!"

"Non!"

"Yes!"

"Non!"

"Yes!"

"Ha-ha," Luc said very flatly, "Is that how you Americans laugh?" He cocked his head a tad and stared at her.

"In comic books, I guess. But nobody actually laughs that way."

Luc ignored Kimberly for a moment. "Monsieur, pouvez-vous turner ici?"

"Bah, oui."

The van suddenly swerved to the left of a stone monument. A hundred pigeons burst into flight and soared to the top of an apartment building a few yards away from the monument. The chaotic honking of the other cars masked the birds' gentle coos. The pigeons seemed relieved to return to their nests upon the slate roof, just as the drivers were anxious to return to nests of their own.

Luc faced Kimberly, who was now diligently applying her favorite globby mascara. "Pardon? Qu'est-ce que tu as dit?" He left his lips slightly parted after the words flowed off his tongue. Kimberly seemed less caustic when primping herself. A strand of hair innocently landed by the side of her nose. Luc felt tempted to brush it away.

"Ugh! You're doing it again," she whined. She dunked her mascara wand into the tube, twisted it around, and withdrew it again. Now dark gunk completely covered the bristles, much like black tinsel on a scorched Christmas tree.

The taxi lurched forward. Kimberly flew toward the seat in front of her and then quickly snapped back. The wand of her mascara tube just barely missed poking out her eye. A dark streak of make-up was smeared across her bony cheek.

"Whoah!" The sound whooshed out of her mouth right after the event, when she finally realized what had happened.

"Whoah?"

"It means, WTF!?"

"Comment?"

"Luc, tell the taxi driver he's crazy, okay? Tell him to slow down."

Luc mumbled something at the driver just as Kimberly screwed the top back onto her mascara. Then she dropped it into her purse. It was a round leather pouch, fit for all the trucs of a magician but filled with the things of an ordinary American girl. A moment of silence passed. Luc poked a bulge in the purse.

"Seriously. I hope French drivers aren't like New Jersey drivers," Kimberly groused, "Are we almost there yet?"

"No, we are still in the far suburbs. It should take us another hour. I think."

"What do you mean--you don't know?"

"I do not know."

"You grew up here, right? You're French, you're Parisian." Kimberly waved her hands around with the fervency of mating butterflies, indicating all the 'Frenchess' around her.

"Yes, but that does not mean I know--"

"Okay, well, what do you know? Now's as good a time as any to find out. Give me the skinny on your country. I mean, I didn't bother reading the packets my teacher printed out for me," she shouted, as she folded her hands on her lap, "They were all about Napoleon or somebody."

"Well, the capital of France is Paris and--"

"Duh. Hey, non-sequitor. Don't you guys eat a lot of cheese?"

Luc shifted back and forth. "We have cheese every dinner, yes."

"Don't you have like 5,000 different kinds?"

"I see you know your cheeses," Luc grinned, "The expression is, translated, 'A cheese for everyday,' I believe, though there are many more--"

"Gawd. You guys must have gas!" She twirled her hair with her tan pointer finger.

"Er..."

"Please! I'm just kidding."

Luc grimaced.

"Alright. It's been nice chatting," Kimberly said before Luc replied, "but I have to take a nap. I'm so tired after those two flights." She stretched and yawned without a sound.

"I will wake you up when we get there."

"You better. I'm psyched about this party." Kimberly rested her head against the window and closed her eyes to grant Luc the first peace he had experienced in forty-five minutes. Sleeping Beauty would finally sleep, happily retired to her invisible chamber.

The taxi puttered along, progressing a few inches at a time in the dusk of rush-hour. Luc focused on the outside world. They passed car after car, European, American, and Asian, in every color known to the auto industry. Once they even passed a pair of ceramic holstein cows chewing their ceramic cud. When Luc opened his window to take a snapshot of the cows with his cell phone, smog poured in and he choked. Coughing, he closed it again to escape the stench of pollution only to be re-greeted by the stench of cigarettes. He sighed and asked the driver to crank up the song that was playing on the radio.

Finally, ten red Renaults and four Spanish license plates later, Luc rustled Kimberly. "We are here."

Kimberly's eyelids wavered for a second. "I hate the dentist."

"Kimberly?"

She smacked her lips and attempted to open her eyes again.

Luc prodded her. "Reveille-toi."

She opened her eyes. "I'm awake," she murmured rather unconvincingly.

"Good. We are here."

Kimberly scooted up out of her slouch and shrieked, "Escargot! There's a snail in my hair!"

"That is gum," Luc muttered and withdrew a pocket knife. "Here, let me cut it out." Mischief pulsated in his eyes and his voice grew louder. "It looks like a gross spider about to eat you."

"Cut it? No! That's my hair. You'll ruin the perfect layers." Kimberly swatted furiously at Luc, so furiously that he dropped the pocket knife. It hit his sandaled foot with a clunk.

"Ai!" Luc's hands jumped to his foot. "You are so--"

"Feisty! The word is 'feisty,' Luc. Get off of my hair before I claw your eyes out." Kimberly nearly slashed Luc's face with her acrylic talons. "You have no idea how expensive my salon back home is."

"But you cannot go to the party with gum in your hair."

Kimberly started stroking the afflicted clump of hair. "Don't you have any peanut butter at home?" She tried to massage the bits of hair around the glob of gum to release the wretched 'spider.'

"What is that?" Luc ran his fingers through his hair in befuddlement, his gaze focused on Kimberly's hideous knot.

"You know, peanut butter?" Her eyes widened for emphasis.

Everything in Luc's face expressed bewilderment. "No, I do not know."

"Buttery, creamy stuff made out of peanuts? You spread it on bread, maybe eat it with jelly? Weirdos sometimes try it with honey or banana slices."

Luc stared back, still puzzled.

"Wait. Don't tell me you don't have peanut butter in France."

Luc paused before saying, "I won't tell you then." He fumbled with his pocket knife before returning it to his pants.

"It's an expression, Luc. Gawd, I can't believe you people don't have peanut butter. What do French kids eat?"

"You want me to list? Goat cheese, apricot pudding, crayfish--"

"Eww. I would hate to grow up in France. Well, if you don't have peanut butter, how am I supposed to get this gum out of my hair?"

Luc pointed to his pocket.

"No. There is no way I'm going to cut this out. I'll figure something out when I get to your bathroom, or Water Closet. Isn't that what you people call it here?"

"Yes. W.C."

The car stopped all of a sudden. Luc and Kimberly both fell forward and shrieked. After glancing strangely at Luc's girlish scream, Kimberly put her hand to her chest in an effort to calm down her racing heart. "Really, the driving in this country," she grumbled. She twisted her unicorn charm back into place. Her fingers returned to nursing the knot.

"We are here," Luc announced. "That is why we stopped."

"Thanks for making that clear. I thought we had a flat tire."

Kimberly stepped out of the taxi and froze before the man and woman waiting there. Luc's parents stood just outside of their walled garden by a small pile of cinderblocks. The mother was somewhat tall for a woman with inquisitive brown eyes. Her hair hung down around her long, tan face, framing an aquiline nose. Her lips, painted red, were very full. When she smiled, the lips stretched much wider than one would have guessed. She wore a plain black dress and red pumps. Luc's father was somewhat short for a man with sullen, black eyes. He had no hair to frame his square jaw and shrunken lips that barely stretched when he smiled, an action he rarely took. Stubble covered the lower third of his face. He had on a blue button-down shirt with no tie and slightly crumpled khakis.

"Kimberly!" The mother screamed and pulled the American student into a hearty embrace. The father stood back, monitoring his watch. "I am Francine. This is my husband, Frederic."

There was an awkward silence as Kimberly tried to salvage what little knowledge she had of French. She stammered something but nothing coherent managed to escape her mouth. She fiddled with her unicorn.

"What is that knot in your hair?" the father asked.

Luc moved in after tipping the taxi driver, who had dumped all of Kimberly's luggage on the narrow sidewalk. "She fell asleep while chewing gum," he explained in English.

"En français maintenant!" Francine chirped. The rest of the conversation continued in French with everyone but Kimberly settling on the language shift. They began entering the garden, with Luc lugging Kimberly's belongings.

"Do you have any peanut butter I could use to get the chewing gum out of my hair, Francine?" Kimberly asked. Her fingers still clutched her unicorn charm as she walked through paths framed by rose bushes.

Francine furrowed her brow and said very slowly in her thick accent, "Peenoot booter?"

"Yeah, peanut butter. Jiffy. Skip. Peter Pan. You eat it with jelly in a sandwich."

"No, no, I do not understand. Do you understand what she is saying, Luc?" Luc shrugged his shoulders. "Here, let me give you a tour of the house. We can discuss your 'peenoot booter' later."

Luc and the father fell behind to grab more luggage as Kimberly thrust herself into the house.

She nearly gasped and covered her mouth. The row house was more charming than any cottage she could have ever imagine. Despite the house's petite size, its space was bright and airy. All the windows brandished shutters and the floors, completely devoid of rugs or carpets, were dark hardwood. The furniture was wrickety with peeling paint or somewhat tattered cushions. Everything appeared worn in an elegant, antique sort of way, rather than utterly dilapidated. At first Kimberly was delighted that Francine was willing to whisk her from room to room, but when the French woman began shuffling through her vintage spoon collection, the young American cracked.

"Could you just take me to the bathroom?" Kimberly whined. "I have to take care of my hair."

Francine smiled a tight smile and set down a spoon dating back to World War One. "Of course." Her yellow teeth seemed about ready to burst out of her mouth. Francine described the bathroom's location in her most refined French and set the spoons back into their miniature cupboard.

Kimberly darted into the bathroom and began raiding the cabinets. Her hands skimmed over various bottles, cotton balls rained on the tiled floor, and a tub of Q-tips ended up in the garbage. She brought a couple jars and bottles, ones with less obvious labels, closer to her eyes. By the time she discovered the hydrogen peroxide and pink eye drops, she was panting. "There is nothing--you have nothing--my hair--Christ, my hair." Kimberly tugged at the knot, hyperventilating. "I can't believe--my hair."

Francine darkened the bathroom door. "Perhaps you could cut it off?"

"No!" Kimberly yelled. "Never. I refuse to cut my hair. It will ruin the layers."

"But even if you rub the gum out of your hair, some of your hair will come out. In fact, a lot of your hair will come out since your hair is so fine. You might as well cut it so it is a clean cut." She wiggled her ankle to better position her foot within her high-heels.

"I guess you're right," Kimberly gulped, "Where are your scissors?"

Francine reached into the medicine cabinet and, a second later, wielded scissors large enough to qualify as garden sheers. They shined beneath the flicking lightbulb that just barely illuminated the mildewy room.

Kimberly screamed.

"Calmes-toi!"

"Get away from me!"

"Je ne vais pas te hérir."

"Don't touch me!"

Francine whipped around and called for her husband, urgency seeping in each part of his two-syllable name. David sighed and stopped in the bathroom doorway.

"You want me to hold her down?"

"Yes, now."

David pinned Francine to the wall, despite her tears. Francine jumped forward, snipped the wad of gum out of the hysterical girl's hair, and threw the knot into the garbage bin with such force that it spun and toppled over. Kimberly fell into a ball and wept for her lost locks.

Nobody spoke as the bin whirled across the floor, scratching the tile. Finally Francine washed her hands and cleared her throat. "Alright, Kimberly. You should get dressed for the party now."

Kimberly nodded again, still the picture of a wilted flower. She was now sniffing and twiddling with her unicorn charm.

"What should I wear to the party?" she coughed and wiped her face with her sleeve.

"Whatever you wish."

"I'll have to cut the rest of my hair first."

"Oh, you won't have time for that."

"I have to. I can't go out in public looking like a dumb punk princess."

"Just put on something nice."

Kimberly dashed up to her new bedroom. It was sparse but attractive, with gray wood for her bed frame and armoire. In mad haste, Kimberly unzipped her luggage and and tore through all of her clothes. Panties, socks, and T-shirts flew in the air before she pounced upon her winner. Kimberly slipped into a brown silk dress with a bulging bubble skirt that ended several inches above the knee. Then she nestled a bright red headband into her hair, pinning back the uneven chunk. Next came her elaborate make-up routine. She sorted through a three-tiered case big enough to hide an infant, getting her hands mucky with powder and mysterious goo.

"Kimberly!" Francine called.

Kimberly nearly tripped as she raced down the stairs. She ripped off the pair of false eyelashes she had just finished applying because she knew she wouldn't have time to put on the second set.

"So, what do you think?" Kimberly asked as she twirled before Francine and Co. Her unicorn dizzily twirled with her.

Luc grinned and exclaimed in English, "You look like a gift!"

Kimberly scrunched up her nose. "You wouldn't say that in English, Luc."

His eyes fell to the floor.

Francine butted in, "Like a fairy then. Now let's go to the party."

"Wait, what? I thought the party was here."

"No, it's at a friend's house. We have to drive over. It is a surprise party."

"Oh. I guess that's cool. I mean, as long as there's champagne."

"There will be, undoubtedly," Luc said, clapping his hands.

"Nobody our age uses the word 'undoubtedly' in English, Luc. If I actually cared enough, I'd tutor you."

"That is a splendid idea! I could tutor you in French and you--"

"I don't want to learn French. This is a cultural experience, not a language experience."

"Is language not a part of culture?"

Francine glanced at her watch. "We must leave now. We have to help with the hors d'oeuves."

"Ugh. I'm not touching that stuff."

David shot Kimberly a nasty glance. "I suppose in your country you eat"--he switched over to his heavily accented English--"jalepeño poppers and Buffalo wings. I know of Hooters." He nearly gagged on the name of the restaurant.

"Don't forget mozzerella sticks," Luc said, bobbing his head enthusiastically. "They are sticks of fried Italian cheese I have heard are quite delicious."

Kimberly breathed in for a moment and said, "Okay, guys, so I'm ready for my first French party. Let's go!"

They rammed into the car, Kimberly complained about the music on the radio station for the next ten minutes, and then they arrived to their destination.

A bunch of small, compact cars crowded the condominium's underground garage. After several rotations, David discovered an empty parking space and pulled in nose first. Not a second passed before Kimberly did what Kimberly did best.

"I am so dizzy!"

Luc patted her arm, while Francine tensed up her shoulders.

"Get out, Kimberly," David griped, "Get out and enjoy yourself."

The four of them took the garage elevator up to the condo's pool, where the party had apparently already started. Tables, topped with French flags for table cloths, framed the patio. They brimmed with food and drink, from bowls of grapes to fresh apricots to hunks of Camenbert to sliced ham to juicy chicken legs and more. It was an entire buffet arranged American-style but decidedly French in its options. Not a hunk of Chicago-style pizza or onion rings laid in view. The sight of deli meats, fruits, and cheeses didn't particularly excite Kimberly ("Just give me a strawberry banana smoothie, a baby spinach salad, and a plain hamburger any day, and I'll be happy for the rest of my life.") Neither did the prospect of kissing every single party guest.

Kimberly extended her hand when Francine first introduced her to the guests of honor. "Here are my dear friends, Claire and Claude. Tonight they are celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary."

Claire was a willowy woman with cropped gray hair and morosely gray eyes. A single, very pale mole hovered on her otherwise unblemished face, near her left nostril. She sported a draping blue tunic, black leggings, and gladiator sandals. Her nails were long and shined with the glossiness of black nail polish. She reminded Kimberly of the kind of woman who would appear in a cold cream advertisement. Claude reminded her of the kind of man who would appear in a dog food commercial, throwing a new-smelling frisbee to his smiling labrador retriever. He seemed about ten years younger than Claire, maybe at 45 or 50, and looked at her with placid green eyes. His high cheekbones were his most noticeable feature, despite his mossy stubble and dark sideburns.

When nobody reached for her hand, Kimberly hid it behind her back. Claire leant toward her, her lips rounded for a kiss. Kimberly quickly bent forward to peck her once and then leant back into place.

"No, no, no," Francine chided, "Like this." Francine stepped forward and gracefully puckered up. Then, in an aristocratically sweeping motion, planted a kiss on Claire's cheek before patiently moving to the other. She proceeded to give Claude the same poetic treatment.

"Did you guys practice that before I came here? 'Cause that just looked like a dance."

Luc snorted and turned to Kimberly, "That is simply how we greet people here."

"At this party?"

"No, in France. You greet someone with one kiss on each cheek."

"I thought that was only in Pepe Le Pew cartoons."

Luc raised an eyebrow. "I know not what you are referring to, Kimberly, but you must learn how to greet people in this country if you plan to stay here for three months."

"So I'm supposed to kiss everyone I meet?"

"Yes."

"Even strangers?"

"Yes."

[Read the rest of the story here.]

Cloud Passenger

2009-08-25T09:08:00.000-07:00

Here is another video that I shot in France (and on the plane in Switzerland.) I wrote and edited it once I came back home to Virginia.

Whispers from the Beach

2009-08-16T21:25:00.001-07:00

I shot this while in France with one of my study abroad classmates. I hope you enjoy this low-res version of the original "Whispers from the Beach':

"Adventures in Cheese Snob Land": Re-cap:VCU Education Abroad Interview

2009-08-12T17:14:00.001-07:00

Sara Daves, public relations coordinator for Virginia Commonwealth University's University Advancement department, recently interviewed me about my French study abroad experience--the experience that has prompted me to not merely open a new chapter in my life, but slam the book down, and open a new one. I've only begun to fill the new pages with the paint, ink, and glitter that makes for a full-fledged and passionate existence. Of course, it has only been two weeks since I returned from the country that inspired me to do a metaphorical hand-stand. Naturally, I am still ranting and raving about it. I traveled to Paris, La Rochelle, and a list of other lovely French places with my former VCU French film professor, Dr. Kathryn Murphy-Judy, and seven other students, from June 30 to July 31, 2009. The group's majors ranged from International Studies to French to English to Cinema to Criminal Justice to Gender/Women's Studies to Religious Studies. One graduate student, who was joining us from Virginia Tech, even studied the pedagogy of teaching a foreign language. I can't speak for the other eight, but I would be aghast if they did not agree that those four weeks changed them. If I don't stop rambling now, though, I'll never stop. Let's lend some focus to this spiel, shall we? Here are the questions that Sara asked me about the trip via email, along with my less-than-terse answers:

SARA: Can you clarify the intinerary? Did it begin with two days in Paris and then an excursion through Normandy and Monet’s gardens? Then what? How did Leonardo Da Vinci factor in?

CHRISTINE: We met at a youth hostel in Paris early in the evening. After overnighting there, we spent the whole next day in the city and left the following morning. By then it was Thursday and we were on the move with students from the University of Richmond and the University of Minnesota-Mankato. We visited a smattering of rural medieval towns, including Mantes, Vernon, Lisieux, and Mont St. Michel. We also made three stops in Normandy and a visit to Monet's house and gardens. By Saturday evening, we arrived in La Rochelle, where we met our host families. Over the next three and a half weeks, the language institute where we studied organized four excursions, including one to the Cognac region, one to three chateaux (including the estate where Leonardo Da Vinci spent the last few years of his life), Ile de Ré, and a World War II bunker.

SARA: Did you go to the international film festival? What about the French annual music festival that took over the entire city for about 10 days? What was that like?

CHRISTINE: I did not go to the International Film Festival, as interested as I initially was in it. The only films I would have been able to catch would have been during the evening of our first Sunday in La Rochelle. Thinking I should spend that time getting to know my host family, I opted to stay home and chat with them instead. The festival continued during our class hours on Monday and was over by Tuesday. The Francofolies, however, was very much a part of my time in La Rochelle. The festival is the biggest celebration of French music in the world. It lasted from July 10 to July 14 and featured several famous artists, including Jane Birkin, Charlie Winston, and Renan Luce. All of the paid acts were expensive, but if you knew where to stand in the city, you could listen to the music for free (obviously, of course, you couldn't SEE the act from the obscure spots I found.) I enjoyed a couple of free acts, too. The city as a whole was much livelier than usual. The marketplace along the Vieux Port expanded; street performers become an even more common appearance; stores and restaurants stayed open longer and featured specials to attract tourists. Streets were much more crowded, especially at night, but it was more exciting than inconveniencing, at least for someone witnessing it all for the first time. My favorite period in La Rochelle was that of the Francofolies, where I recorded a fair amount of video.

SARA: I know that you visited the Cognac region, the Henessey factory and then a small private farm to see how cognac is made.

CHRISTINE: Indeed we did. I've never been a fan of alcohol, so the highlight for the trip was hardly the tasting. (Even some of the drinkers told me they thought cognac tasted like rubbing alcohol!) I was much more intrigued by the history and the production process, especially as explained and demonstrated at the small private farm. The tour guide was a sweet and humorous grandmother type who had worked on the 400-year old farm since the World War II era. I loved visiting the estate, seeing the old stone structures and the rippled, orange roofs, and admiring the acres (hectares!) of vineyards spread out as far as I could see in one direction. Some of their bottles were beautiful, too. We saw delightful ones that had glass grape bunches and ships inside.

SARA: How did the family you stayed with impact you?

CHRISTINE: My family was very helpful and patient, especially the mother, who's a social worker. They enjoyed asking me questions about the United States and how I liked France, but they also delved into my mind on a more personal level. They asked me about my political beliefs and whether I considered myself a feminist, for instance. While it was difficult to express my ideas as precisely as I would have liked from time to time, I welcomed the challenge. I'm at the level now where I'm confident enough to outline my ideas, even if explaining the subtler points is still often beyond my linguistic ability. Not only did I have many opportunities to converse with my family, but I also had numerous chances to sit back and observe. Everyday was a new sociological study of the "typical Rochellaise family." I was especially excited about exploring the life of my younger host sister, who is eleven-years old. So often in French classes, we study what life is like for full-grown adults, but we hardly ever explore the lives of children.

SARA: You ran two blogs during your stay – can you tell me a little about those? One was about fashion, right?

CHRISTINE: I actually ran three blogging projects during my time in France. I ran one blog called Adventures in Cheese Snob Land (http://cheesesnobland.blogspot.com), which technically isn't finished. I am still adding edited photos and video, and will complete a reflection essay about the trip soon. I also published the entries on Associated Content, where I am a high-ranking contributor and category editor, as well as The Student Operated Press. Thanks to publishing them on the latter, the entries got picked up by Google News. Those same entries went on the VCU blog system and appear on the VCU Education Abroad page. Secondly, I have a fashion blog that I run year-round on alternative styles and thrifty shopping tips, called Give Me Paisley and Parasols (www.paisleyandparasols.com). I routinely run projects where I focus on different aspects of fashion, so I decided to create one about fashion in La Rochelle. The entries are also on Associated Content and will be published on Examiner.com soon. The third blog is called I Spy Lenore (http://ispylenore.blogspot.com), where I post fantastical photographs of places I've taken my favorite 6'' plastic dragon, Lenore. As a dual Cinema and English major, art and media always intrigue me and I'm constantly interested in how I convey my life experiences and observations in a meaningful way for other people. I'm regularly writing, taking photos, recording videos, drawing, and sometimes combining these methods to communicate real and fictional accounts of how I view the world. These three blogs, though, are totally non-fiction, even if they have humorous and often satirical slants to them.

SARA: Kathryn tells me that you discovered an interactive tour where each group competes to find clues to answer historical questions to complete the tour. Can you tell me about that?

CHRISTINE: I went to the tourism office and found a brochure about a game called Les Evadés de Fort Boyard that takes place in the city's medieval towers. The game features actors who portray historical figures and tell various stories and riddles or lead activities where each group of players competes to solve an overall code. The game is at times suspenseful while at other times downright hilarious. The actors are top-notch and many of the riddles and games are challenging--especially since the game is conducted entirely in French! At the end, groups must test whether or not their codes are correct by dialing them on the lock of a treasure chest. Our group ending up winning a butter cake ("gallette""), a book about La Rochelle's port history, biscuits, and candies. It was a random prize but we did it for the fun of the game itself, rather than the end goal. I really appreciated all of the effort that the tower employees and actors put into organizing the game.

SARA: What other activities did you do by yourself or as a part of the group?

CHRISTINE: Many, many, many things! The beaches and bars were popular with virtually everyone. Even if you don't drink, the bars are wonderful places to start up conversations and practice your French. I would be careful to always go with a group, though, especially if you're female and your French is lacking. Shopping is another obvious distraction; there are plenty of family-owned businesses in addition to chains. If you want a real, American-style mall, you have to take a bus out to the edge of town. (Visit Carrefour while you're at it.) The Musée des Automates is great, too; it's full of automatons, which are quirky, old-fashioned mechanical dolls. The aquarium is beautiful and full of sea creatures from various parts of the world. You have to see the Napoleon fish, a giant, bulbous critter with bulging blue eyes. He looks very cartoonish. I also suggest the Mediatheque, which is a library full of books, music, and movies in various forms of media. They also have an art gallery. I went to the Musée des Modeles Reduits and the Maritime Museum, as well, but I don't especially recommend either one. Of course, just because they didn't thrill me doesn't mean they wouldn't thrill others. The Musée des Modeles Reduits exhibits a bunch of model cars and ships while the Maritime Museum allows you to walk inside of empty and restored cruise ships and fishing boats. I advise you see the Towers of La Rochelle, instead; these impressive stone structures date back to the Middle Ages. The VCU group planned a Saturday boat ride to Ile d'Aix, a picturesque island with holiday cottages, rocky beaches and tidal pools, as well.

SARA: Do you know Ben Hawkins? Apparently, he decided that he would return to study a full year in France. Do you plan on returning to France soon?

CHRISTINE: Yes, I know Ben and I'm inspired that he wants to study for a full year in France. I think it will be a wonderful experience for him to improve upon his French and immerse himself in a culture that we only briefly examined during the one month trip. I plan to return to France before I graduate because the Cinema department has an internship program with the Cannes Festival. I will have to postpone full-year study until after I graduate, though. I might choose to work in the French film industry for a short while and supplement the work with freelance magazine writing, anyway.

SARA: Can you tell me how you and fellow students were impacted by the cultural differences, (family structure, etc.)

CHRISTINE: None of the cultural differences were too stark. After all, they're a Western civilization like us. The French shower. Most French women shave their legs and underarms. Encountering topless women at French beaches is not nearly as common as some Americans make it out to be. Of course, differences still exist and there is a sliver of truth to many of the predominant myths. Most French families shop for their groceries everyday instead of once every week or two in order to buy the freshest fruits, vegetables, cheeses, meats, juices, and breads. Fast-food is almost entirely absent there, though you will spot the occasional McDonald's. Families tend to eat together at home every night instead of eating separately or going out to dinner (unless it's a special occasion.) Dinners there tend to be very large, by the way, and always involve fruit and cheese. Dinner also lasts a looong time, sometimes three or four hours if you have company over. In La Rochelle, seafood is popular because the city's located right along the sea. I noticed this surprised many of the Midwestern students we were traveling with because they are not accustomed to eating fresh seafood on a regular basis. The toilets there are slightly different, as well, and they have many more styles than we do in America. I definitely got confused about how to flush certain toilets and had to experiment before I understood what to do. Public restrooms are nearly impossible to find and the few you run into almost always charge. In fact, things there are generally more expensive and "free" seems like a foreign concept. You may be shocked by what you spend on gifts for your friends and family or even just on lunch. You may also be shocked by how much more flirtatious strangers are with you there than they typically are in America. I could continue, but, in all honestly, I never once gaped in utter astonishment.

SARA: Can you provide a link to the pics on Flikr and the Facebook page?

CHRISTINE: Our main page was a Ning (http://vcuenfrance.ning.com/). We didn't have anything on Facebook, to my knowledge. The Flickr page was Kathryn's personal Flickr page, but she put all the same photos on the Ning. A few of my photos are up on my Flickr page at http://www.flickr.com/photos/christinestoddard. I also completed a photo project while there, called "Lenore in France," which you can view at http://ispylenore.blogspot.com

The Final Week Means I Go Home

2009-08-06T21:03:00.001-07:00

Sometimes days pass by in minutes. I woke up one morning to the sounds of American music on a French radio station when I realized that, in a week, I would sitting at home, too wilted to unpack my bags, but full of rib-breaking stories for my family. Over a week since that point, I am home, satisfied with all the warmth of familiarity but hankering for the many elements of French culture I admired and even envied while studying abroad. And I'm not just talking about Nutella and cheap movie theaters, either. I'm talking about France's heightened sense of ecology and environmentalism, their emphasis on interpersonal relationships, their great taste in food, their rich tradition in art and architecture, their percipacity for fashion, and--God, if I continue, I'll end up penning a whole other essay instead of focusing upon my final week in the country. Let me wrap up in saying that sometimes you have to experience something firsthand to become fully infatuated with it. Otherwise, I have no other way of understanding stamp collecting.

The last week of class was both a relief and a heartbreak. My Sup de Co teacher obviously did not want to see us leave, which surprised none of us. She lived for us. Everyday she would come in early (I generally arrived about fifteen minutes before class, but it was clear that she had started working far before then) and never failed to have a full day planned for us. I've had my share of teachers who simply taught during a transition period in their lives until they began graduate school or a more prestigious job. I've had teachers who popped in videos at every opportunity, could hardly ever answer student questions with a satisfying response, and did everything in their power to look disengaged. On the opposite side of the spectrum have been teachers like the one I had at Sup de Co: totally dedicated, passionate about their subject, eager to awaken their students' curiosity about said subject, etc. They don't just, as my Sup de Co teacher jested, "Show a film and give the class bon-bons." I was and remain grateful that my Sup de Co teacher was enthusiastic and knowledgeable. The pedagogy graduate student in our class had minimal critiques, and, while I understand what she meant about improving upon certain teaching practices, I still feel like I learned as much as I possibly could have in a month without locking myself up in a room full of books. She printed out all kinds of papers, copied magazines and newspapers, filled the whiteboard with vocabulary, and constantly prodded for our opinions to force us to open our mouthes. Occasionally the class conversations got uncomfortable, such as when she asked about our views on love and marriage, and taunted one girl for not ever wanting to marry and have children. Apparently this automatically meant she was promiscuous. But, maybe that IS what not wanting a husband and children means in France.

Even if it was the last week of classes, it hardly felt like it. Our teacher continued her "sweat and tears" approach and spiced up every lesson with her unique blend of French liberal sarcasm. The moment I walked into the classroom, fifteen minutes early, the teacher looked up and commented upon my hair. (There is no higher fashion flattery than to have a stylish French woman compliment you.) She called the color "eggplant" and, while I agreed with her, I said that the dye box described it as "red chocolate." Then she joked about how hair dye boxes are always labeled one way but always turn out otherworldly. We chatted a bit, but I mostly left her to her work and drew as other students trickled into the classroom. Once everyone had arrived, the teacher perked up from her desk and launched into "tour de table," where everyone shares one notable experience/observation they've had/made within the last twenty-four hours. We always feared what one girl in particular had to say for this part of class; the first time, she had learned that her husband's grandfather cut his hand off in a farm accident the night before; the second time, she had cut her own finger; and the third time she told a horror story of going on a rowing trip with her host mother and the host mother's boyfriend, only to hear them argue the entire trip. She also ended up doing all of the rowing.

That same girl and I were partners for the class marketplace field trip. She and I were stuck with the stench of fish--which our teacher swore didn't smell. Either French people are oblivious to the stink of most fish or lack olfactory senses altogether. My classmate and I had the embarrassing task of interviewing fish/seafood vendors and clients and recording the exchanges. We also had to observe what specifically the vendors sold and what the clients bought. In an ideal world, such an activity would be fun and educational, but the world is not a bowl of "cherises" even in France. We had a particularly hard time with one customer who refused to give us straight answers. All we wanted to know was what she planned to buy ("pas de thon") and how she planned to prepare it, but she made it seem like we'd have to torture her first before she revealed that information. She could have declined to participate in the first place and gone on her merry fish-buying way, but she didn't. Even our Sup de Co teacher admitted that the French are very individually minded; I hope this woman was an exception rather than a rule. I know for sure that at least a handful of nice French people exist.

The most notable academic happening of the week came when I had to knock my knees together for twenty to twenty-five minutes talking to the class about French cinema. I babbled on and on and on because I knew the whole point of the project was to practice oral communication. I could've talked about anything (the list of options ranged from rather conversational to more academic). I mentioned notable French actors (Josiane Balasko, Daniel Auteuil, Gerard Depardieu, etc.) and films ("Les Enfants de Paradis," "A Bout de Souffle," "Jean de Florette," etc.) in addition to spewing out relevant vocabulary and facts about French film history, directors, and French movie-going habits. Though my presentation was not as entertaining as it could have been, I definitely maximized my time and crammed in as much information as possible. I chugged along, even as my classmates drooled and nearly fell asleep.

We also took a rapid-fire final exam based upon the special topic presentations we the students had given over the past three weeks. Questions ranged from the French education system to the French word for "credits" and "casting" to French writers. Put otherwise, information we could have easily looked up (evidently I'm not a big advocate of tests and quizzes that only require you to memorize data rather than analyze them). I couldn't remember the name of the region where Paris is located. So, thinking that the Paris Region was too obvious, I wrote Lutecia to be a smart-ass. That was the city's name back during the era of the Roman Empire, when France was still Gaul. I drew a smiley-face to prove that I was kidding. Certainly such a move would have annoyed the uptight French teacher I had my last two years of high school, but I think it made my Sup de Co teacher smirk as she sat at home grading papers. If it didn't, at least I smirked.

We ended our official curriculum at Sup de Co by watching "Astérix et Obélix: Mission Cleopatra," a comedy based upon a popular comic book series. If you need a film that pokes fun at Gaul, ancient Rome, and ancient Egypt all at once, this is possibly your only viewing option. A couple of the French jokes don't translate into English, but I was surprised by how many of the French jokes required an understanding of English language and American pop culture. Apparently the average French person gets a kick out of hippies and the concept of "love and peace." It could be that they get a kick out of anything American/British/Anglophone, though.

Before we left Sup de Co for good, the teacher handed out our certificates of achievement. The certificates confirmed that we had passed a course at the school and that we had reached a certain level of control with the French language according to European standards. Our class had achieved B1, which means high intermediate or advanced low. At least that's proof that I can say more than, "Where's the Holiday Inn, garçon?" After presenting our certificates, the teacher insisted on taking several class photos with all of our cameras. Thanks to one of my classmate's suggestions, my dear Lenore made it into the shot. I nestled her in the teacher's cupped hands, to which she said, "Is this some kind of symbolism?" I looked at her, befuddled. "Calling the teacher a dragon!" I smiled and said no. If anyone's a dragon, it's Sarkozy.

My last week was not without its shopping escapades, though I was mostly finished throwing my cash to the French wind. My escapades included seizing a pair of nude Texto sandals with a flesh-colored ring around the big toe and punky studs. The splurge I had intended for a coat or dress went toward a big book purchase instead. The name of the bookstore was, literally translated, Arts and Distractions. That in and of itself was enough to lure me in, despite the fact that one classmate told me it was nothing special. On the contrary, it was very special and very French. I'm not sure where else I could purchase an encyclopedia full of detailed pen illustrations of pocket watches' workings. Later on in the week, I also checked out a mystical bookstore. I was tempted to buy one of the many fairy paintings on display, but, alas, they were too expensive and would have been difficult to transport home, besides. So I settled for a used book on mysterious civilizations.

Determined to see the majority of the Rochellais museums, I wandered through the Maritime Museum with a classmate the same afternoon of my book shopping spree. Really, the museum was just one fishing boat and a cruise ship docked and open to the public for eight Euros a head. It was disappointing because there were no labels or placards anywhere. All we had was a measly brochure with three paragraphs about each boat. At least I took good pictures of Lenore. I shoved her into sailors' barracks, wedged her into the nooks and crannies separating machinery, and balanced her from heights perilous to a 6'' plastic dragon.

I also treated myself to the last films of the trip: "Le Herisson" and "Bancs publiques," the latter I saw straight after walking out of the Maritime Museum and persuading my classmate to buy a pocket watch. I much preferred "Le Herisson," though I'm certain that's because I did not get all of the jokes in "Bancs publiques." If I'm watching a French film without subtitles, I generally gravitate toward dramas because comedies involve too many subtle references for me to go all "Hon-hon" at the humor. Though, even if I did get all the humor, I doubt I'd laugh the deep belly laugh of a French uncle.

On Monday, still antsy about how I would spend the last week, I parked my bike outside of the tourism office and rummaged through all the racks and shelves for suggestions. Most of the flyers blabbered on about activities we had already done or ones that were simply too costly. A few of the activities were located farther out in the Poitou-Charentes region, an hour or two away by car and thus unreachable by city bus and painfully far by bike. I started to get discouraged, that is until I read about a mystery ghost game at the three medieval towers that have made La Rochelle such a popular tourist destination. Three of my classmates and I had already visited the towers during the day, but this game promised theatrical performances, danger, suspense, and--giggle--treasure! I showed the flyer to my VCU professor the next day and rallied other members of our university group to play. My professor then placed an order for the tickets and I picked them up at the tourism office after our group ate at a café (only in France can you eat fresh lamb over rice and lettuce in the middle of the day as if it's nothing special.)

Les Evadés Tower game was worth every one of those eighteen Euros. The actors were some of the most animated I had ever seen and loved interacting with the audience, even if it meant physically touching them and yelling in their faces. All of the actors portrayed some historical character related to La Rochelle. The man who played a prisoner stank...literally. They told us tales and occasionally played games with us so we could solve for secret codes. In the end, we won a history book about La Rochelle, a coupon for a butter cake, biscuits, and candy--not exactly the treasure I imagined, but maybe that's because the little girl in me was crossing my fingers for a gilded pony. The only unpleasant part of the game came when we exited one of the towers and stopped because we saw a woman dressed up in a Scottish highlands costume. Because she had on such a full skirt, we kind of assumed that she was part of the show. After about ten minutes, I felt like we were in the wrong place, since most of the other acts had been brief and were of a much higher caliber. Maybe twenty minutes passed as we listened to her mediocre flute-playing in the freezing winds before someone from the game came out and rushed us along to claim the treasure. Needless to say, we were all annoyed at ourselves.

The next day, we redeemed the coupon we had won during Les Evadés Tower game so we could feast upon our butter cake. Two of the classmates in our group suddenly became tired and headed back home instead of joining in. So the remaining classmate and I meandered to the marina and plunked ourselves down on a filthy curb. I was disappointed with the cake but shoveled a good third of it into my mouth, anyway. We had worked hard to earn it, so I might as well have eaten some. We did not eat the butter cake until two or three hours before stopping by a French hair salon first.

Two of my classmates were positively set on getting their hair done in France. I was more hesitant for several reasons: I had just dyed my hair and didn't want it to endure so much processing so soon; I wasn't too intent on getting it cut because I prize my long hair and trust few people with it; it was expensive; I feared having a French woman relax my hair since not many folks understand curly hair, anyway; I have never gotten anything done at a salon before because I'm staunchly D.I.Y. about almost everything, especially my appearance, and wasn't convinced I wanted to change that philosophy. Why, then, did I even consider getting my hair done in the first place? Because I was in France and part of me wanted the princess treatment. Even more, the whole study abroad experience had such a big impact on my being that I felt like I was beginning a new chapter in my life. In this chapter, I would be more adventurous, more open-minded, and therefore willing to try completely new things, including getting my hair done at a salon instead of taking a pair of craft scissors to my mane. The more practical side of me won, however. I figured dying my hair multiple shades darker and trimming my split ends was big enough of a make-over during my one-month stay in the land of cheese snobs. I was shocked by that kind of audacity alone and was confident my boyfriend, friends, and family would be, as well. (Requisite anecdote: when I saw my boyfriend when I returned, I waited about an hour until I drew attention to my hair. He had recognized that it was darker but thought it was "the French sun." Utterly nonplussed, I asked what that meant and said that, if anything, "The French sun would've bleached it." He shrugged his shoulders in his very innocent way and said, "I don't know about these things." Then I said, "I dyed it." "Artificially?" Obviously my boyfriend knows nothing about hair and make-up. Though, to be fair, he's not accustomed to me making artificial enhancements.)

Even if I left France without getting my French haircut, I knew I couldn't leave France without trying their version of McDonald's. Wait, let me correct that statement. I had scarfed down one simple cheeseburger there as a late afternoon snack once (really, only the cheese differed in that it tasted sharper), but I had yet to buy a full-fledged French McDonald's meal. I scanned the menu, saw that it was mostly the same, but noted a few new names. I went for a "So Grilled." A So Grilled is a grilled chicken sandwich laid out on dusty bread. It contains lettuce, tomato, and one of France's numerous white mystery sauces. I began my order when the cashier cut me off and asked me if I spoke English. Not many Francophones had asked me that question yet, though virtually all of them spat out some English once they discovered I was American. Because of my light olive complexion, I think I confused most of them. This cashier, however, was overly-eager to practice his English, even it meant being slightly rude in interrupting me. Once I answered yes, he said, "Okay, so let's do this in English." He puffed up a bit, visibly prepared for it. I caught on pretty quickly that I had to talk slowly but overall we understood each other. Until he asked, "Big menu or little menu?" A couple seconds later, I said, "Do you mean size? Big size or little size?" He looked at me with a sliver of doubt for a moment, but speedily regained his confidence: "Yes."

On the topic of food, my "last supper" with my host family consisted of chicken, pork, and stewed tomatoes with rice. There were also the requisite cantaloupes (one of the region's specialities, I learned), and way too many cheeses to name. As usual, my host father offered me more and more food and looked mildly offended when I eventually declined. I was afraid my stomach would explode and then fly around the room like a loose balloon. My host mother defended me and gave her husband a stern look like, "Seriously, she's American. You know they can't handle this much food unless it comes from a drive-thru." Dinner wound down and I cajoled my host family into the courtyard for photographs. The sisters, to my regret, were not there, but I needed pictures regardless. I took a couple of photos of the mother, father, and brother standing together and then the father took photos of me standing with the mother and brother.

The eating was not over, though. My family then took me out for ice cream, where I ordered a sundae called "Thriller." I knew that if I pronounced Thriller in my American English accent, the server probably wouldn't understand me because I had had that experience before pronouncing the names of American actors and cities. So I asked my host mother how to say Thriller with a French accent. Then my host father asked how to say it in American English. He looked utterly lost. My host mother asked me to say it in British English, so I gave a shot at the BBC pronunciation. Their eyes immediately lit up in recognition. For the record, the sundae was fabulous. After eating the sundae, my host family and I parted ways. I met a few classmates beneath the city's big clock and we went bar-hopping. We spent two hours at one bar chatting with insanely drunk French people who complimented our "cute" accents.

During the ride to the car ride the next morning, my host mother and I discussed a few mundane things, as if we weren't really parting for what would probably be the first and last times in our lives. Somehow the conversation drifted to the subject of homelessness in La Rochelle, which was totally removed from what we would experience in a matter of minutes. When the time came for us to really leave each other, we threw each other a long and tight hug. Then my host mother excused herself, saying she was afraid of crying. She ran off in her billowing sweat pants and baggy sweater, the same garments she had made fun of earlier in the morning. I turned around and chatted with the two classmates sitting on the curb. They commented on how close I seemed to have grown with my host mother, which prompted my monologue. I went on about how wonderful my host family was. It was a bittersweet morning because I was starting to feel the itching of homesickness but still in enamoured of France and the French.

I was lucky enough to hear Mrs. Andrew's voice once more before bidding farewell to La Rochelle. The Sup de Co field trip coordinator, who we called Princess Di, stepped onto the bus and called, "Where's Christine?" I waved. "I just wanted to give you one more taste of my English accent before you left." It was a very British, tongue-in-cheek way of saying good-bye.

The long bus ride to Chartres consisted of me napping, waking up to find dribble on my cheek, reading, napping some more, waking up and feeling like a million elves pounded on my neck, drawing, napping again, waking up and giggling at how all the other students looked as they slept, napping yet again, and then waking up and feeling cranky for the rest of the ride.

Sadly, I, like every other student as far as I was aware, was too exhausted and excited about going home to fully appreciate Chartres. In other words, it was poor planning on the responsible professor's part. I was annoyed that we were visited it in our grumpy state, especially since I had wanted to see Chartres ever since I took Advanced Placement Art History. Of course, it's very spoiled to say that. I still got to see Chartres, after all. Not everybody can honestly claim to have done that. Inside Chartres, my classmates and I immediately noticed a labyrinth carved on the floor. When I asked my professor what it symbolized, she explained that it represented the spiritual path that we all embark upon during our lives. That sounded a tad too New Age, hippy-dippy for the Middle Ages, however. For lunch, three of my classmates and I checked out a place with a rooster for its logo and bright red wallpaper. I ordered a delicious galette "verte" with spinach, ham, egg, olives, and swiss cheese all melted to amazing yumminess. It's never easy to find a real lunch for under nine Euros that isn't a ham sandwich in France, but my group managed to find just that. It was hot, made to order, high-quality, and far more appetizing than the two dozen ham sandwiches we were all tired of.

I didn't get to spend time doing anything tourist-y in Paris; I had to finish packing, decide how to transport the red wine my host family gave me, and chat with the rest of the group before four of us boarded the shuttle with a funny Indian man who spoke French. It took us close to an hour to arrive to the airport, where I stayed with K.C., my flight buddy from before.

K.C. and I sat outside of the airport and watched the sky waver in and out of romantic colors as the sun set. Then I got impatient and whined about when we'd eat next, so she gave in. We pushed our carts toppled with luggage over to one of the few restaurants that wasn't situated in the terminals. For my very last meal in France, at least until my next trip, I tried to eat a "Saveurs de Sud" (Flavors of the South) as daintily as possible. I held the chicken on my tongue for as long as I could get away with. It orange spicy sauce was tantalizing. Shortly after, K.C. I went to a bar, where I ordered expresso. I am not a coffee drinker and probably don't gulp it down more than four or five times a year, but I wanted to stay awake. I was afraid of sleeping in the airport. Afraid that someone would bother K.C. and me, afraid that someone would steal our luggage. Mostly, I was afraid they would steal my camera and computer; the books I could eventually find at a library and I own far more clothes than anyone should, but my art and writing are irreplaceable.

I read and napped on the flight from Paris to Geneva. The flight only lasted an hour, so I couldn't possibly stay bored for long. Sipping hot chocolate and tearing into a buttery croissant was enough to keep me content until the next flight. Or so I thought. [Insert melodramatic music here.]

When my father and I searched for my plane tickets a couple of months before my trip, we figured a one hour stop-over would be too short. I've had one hour stop-overs before, but because my planes never run on time, I always end up sprinting to catch my second flight. I often drop a bag in the process, something embarrassing flings into the air, and I blush as I gather my panties/my dirty socks/my package of sanitary napkins. So when my father and I saw a three hour stop-over opportunity, we clicked 'reserve' faster than--well, I'm sure nothing else goes that fast. I would have enough time to comfortably get off of the plane, use the restroom, buy a snack if I so desired, verify that my checked bags had made it onto the next plane, pick up my boarding pass, and then sit down at my terminal without waiting very long. That, dear reader, was only hypothetical. The reality featured much less agreeable pacing and a heck of a lot more stress.

The Geneva airport was a nightmarish maze where nothing was labeled. The only signs read A, B, C, D, and E, but never explained what each letter meant--in English, German, French, Italian, Chinese, Finnish, Tagalog, or any language for that matter. I had to ask four people where to go, but they couldn't tell me. We dragged around our luggage; I literally could not pay for the two Euro cart unless I went to an ATM, which would have only spat out twenties. The optimist in me will pipe up, "At least you girls got your exercise!" Yeah, a fortnight's worth. When K.C. and I actually determined where we had to go, a long line greeted us. I doubt I thought of anything but strangling the airline employee if they told us we were in the wrong line (I was prepared for anything at that point) for the next twenty minutes. At last, it was our turn. The airline employee confirmed that our bags had been transferred and proceeded to interrogating us: Who packed your bags? Did anyone give you anything to hold after you checked in your bags? Are there Afghani terrorists hiding in your bags? To top it all off, the airline didn't even have a seat for me until the very last minute.

Boarding the plane at last meant I could relax. I immediately unwrapped a blanket and pillow to snuggle up. Then I watched "Duplicity" and "The Ghosts of Girlfriends Past." I read, attempted to speak to the man next to me who apparently only spoke German, and stared out the window. Nine hours later, I was home.

Relying on French Taxi Drivers for Advice

2009-08-06T06:30:00.000-07:00

(This post appeared on the Virginia Commonwealth University education blog on June 30, but I failed to post it here the same day. It is supposed to come after the post titled "How to Screw Up in a French Airport 101.")

After winding around and around the Parisian airport, finally tracking down my classmate's luggage, and unsuccessfully seeking out another classmate (surprise! She arrived at the Kellermann before we did because she left during the time we desperately tried to find her jet-lagged self. It's obvious who the smartest one in THAT situation was), my airport buddy and I called it quits. My original plan to take the Metro from the airport to the youth hostel dissolved and we opted for a taxi instead. We were simply too tired to lug all of our junk. Thankfully we didn't have to wait long for a taxi, but the drive from point A to B could've been shorter for my taste. I was thrilled to get out of the airport and see the real Paris, not suburban sprawl. It's like I always tell tourists: Dulles International Airport is not Washington, D.C.; it's located in a very boring part of Northern Virginia about forty-five minutes from the action.

The taxi driver was gallant, but, as an airport employee explained, they are trained to be helpful. The taxi driver loaded K.C.'s and my luggage into the mini-van and politely asked for the address and stated the approximate cost. To his shock, I spoke to him in French. He said that most of the tourists he drives have little to no knowledge of the language, so that definitely put me at an advantage. I know how easy it is to trick tourists; they're über-excited, naive, often loaded with cash somewhere on their bodies, and far from home. If a tourist can speak the language of the place he's visiting, however, it's harder for natives to dupe him out of extra money.

At first K.C. and I kept to ourselves and just vented about our frustrating experience in the airport. Our passports still weren't stamped, but we figured it was too late. Eventually, though, I realized what a great opportunity it was to have a native Parisian in the car, all to ourselves, for close to an hour. We could ask him anything and everything about the surroundings, where to go, where to eat, what to see and do. Thus, I launched into a 1,0001 questions, talking like a dinosaur-obsessed child on his first visit to a dig site. The taxi driver didn't seem annoyed about my interrogation mode, though. Like many city people (yes, I will include myself in this), he liked bragging about where he was from. I heard about Paris Disneyland, the Latin Quarter, the Louvre, le Marais, and more all from a Parisian's perspective, including which places are expensive and which ones, not so much. After all of the chatter, including my frequent stumblings in grammar and vocabulary I'm sure, I personally vowed to visit Le Quartier Latin during my first night in France.

And I did.

My Last Weekend in La Rochelle

2009-07-26T14:37:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to avoid thinking about the fact that I will be sitting at home in one week--my very real and American home, not my dreamy, host home. Shock, not sadness, would more accurately describe my emotions right now. I can't believe that nearly a month has passed already, despite my occasional bouts of homesickness. Yet this has also been one of the fullest months of my life, so it seems like a week and a quarter of a year at the same time. I wish I could stay longer but I acknowledge that it's probably healthier for me not to stay stuck in French fairyland forever. Thankfully I have an interesting and rewarding lifestyle awaiting me, otherwise I'd kick and scream at the airport. Well, I'll probably kick and scream at Charles de Gaulle, anyway, but not because I'm upset about leaving the world of cheese snobs. I'll kick and scream because the employees there are remarkably clueless.

Anyway, I should recount how I spent my final weekend in La Rochelle. I tried to profit--a word the French employ at every opportunity, so they can stop criticizing American capitalism as if they're not guilty of some of the same crimes--from the sunshine and blue skies without becoming a total beach bum. The weekend began five minutes before class generally lets out at 12:30 p.m. We wrapped up a French version of the board game Taboo (one classmate had to get his team to guess the word toilet water during the Pictionary portion) and then wandered off to the main lobby to scarf down lunch. I had packed whatever was lying around my host family's kitchen, from apricots to chocolate mousse, and then bought a sandwich in one of the school vending machines. The option of buying a pre-wrapped sandwich from a machine known for selling candy and soda surprised me, but I figured I might as well try it. The bread, a rich wheat, was delicious. Unfortunately, the rest of the sandwich, was not. It contained chicken, way too much mayo (again, the French can stop criticize America for O.D.ing on condiments), and crudités. Crudités are raw vegetables, but you have to be careful anytime you see the word "raw" in this country. You'd be surprised by what this country doesn't cook. They did, after all, serve as raw hamburger meat in the university cafeteria one day like it was sanitary and even appetizing. I politely insisted that they cook it. Mad Cow Disease doesn't sound like a fun malady.

Once we finished our lunches, we boarded the charter bus headed for Cognac. The ride was over an hour, so I grabbed my own row, as most of the students did, and curled up with a book. When I decided to rest my eyes, I videotaped scenes from the countryside. Let it be known that France grows many, many sunflowers. Van Gogh wasn't hallucinating. Or if he was, at least he imagined very realistic scenery.

Finally we arrived in the City of Cognac, right outside of the Hennessy headquarters. A few of my classmates and I explored the figmental town for about thirty minutes before our scheduled tour of the distillery. For a non-drinker, visiting land famous for producing liqueur definitely has the potential to be boring. I, on the other hand, considered my visit to Hennessy nothing short of a success. I got to go on a boat, literally just to cross a canal barely wider than the C&O. My whole class laughed because when the tour guide instructed us to get on the boat, we assumed we'd go down the canal, not across it. Non. Our ride lasted five minutes, including the time it took to dock the boat.

We got out and followed our tour guide. She was about 5'6'', brunette, and young, probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore a chocolate-colored suit from head to toe and spoke English with a very heavy accent that was not entirely French. I'm convinced that French was her early second language and English was her very late third, but I couldn't determine what her native one was. Normally our school requests all-French tours for us, but somehow we got mixed up with a bunch of British tourists, so the tour couldn't be conducted in Frog. The British can make fun of Americans for not knowing foreign languages, but it doesn't seem like many of them can utter words outside of the realm of "bullocks" and "sprocket," either. Only two English people I have met on this trip have been able to adequately express themselves in another language. Otherwise, they know French the way many Americans know Spanish: "Yo quiero Taco Bell" and "Living the Vida Loca."

The Hennessy distillery was full of bulbous machines and big barrels and baskets containing alcohol from the 1800s. Black fungus, which the tour guide called angels, also covered the interior and exterior walls of most of the buildings. The fungus eats most of the alcohol that evaporates during the fermentation process. Once the tour guide finished explaining how they manufactured their cognac--using the finest ingredients, of course!--we headed over to the bar and shop. I tried cognac for the first time and nearly choked. A classmate captured its essence when she said it tasted the way rubbing alcohol smells. I gave the rest of my sample to someone who actually liked it.

I saw not one but two cognac producing companies, including an independently-owned family business. Hennesey's plant was grander and their store featured crystal bottles, but the family business won my approval because it radiated to much more charm. The estate was only six hectares big and featured a four-hundred year old family home made of stone. The tour guide was a tiny French grandma who bought the vineyard with her husband back around World War II, but apparently the land has been used for cognac and pinot production for the past couple hundred years. I tried pinot for the first time and, while it was not as strong as the cognac, I did not love it. I could only tolerate it. It smelled lovely, though. The highlight of that tasting portion came when a classmate bought nearly three-hundred Euros worth of cognac. Her father's a huge fan. The school representative who has organized the excursion--a British lady who looks like Princess Di--kept laughing at the purchase. She asked over and over again how the girl intended to bring that all back to America, to which the girl responded she had brought an entire extra suitcase just to bring back gifts from the trip. Apparently when the girl went to her host mother's later that evening, the city bus driver honked at her and made a drinking motion when she got off. It's ironic because she's such a responsible drinker, but she looked like an alcoholic carrying all of those bottles.

The rest of the evening was supposed to involve me eating one of the pre-packed dinners my host mother had made with the aforementioned cognac-stocker-upper girl, watching a movie at Vieux Port, and walking around town/clubbing. Yet some plans remain nothing more than plans.

My host family was out for the weekend because the mother's sister was going married, which meant I was all alone. I invited my classmate over for dinner because my host mother had left me with far more food than I could possibly eat alone and, besides, I wanted company in the big, old house. I sort of live in the boonies, so the bus to my neighborhood does not run especially often. By that hour Friday night (8 o'clock or so), it had stopped running altogether, so my classmate and I walked all the way from the bus station to my host family's house. We chatted about the Cognac excursion, how the study abroad trip was going altogether, and how eager we were about our plans for that evening. When we finally reached my host family's house, I unlocked the gate, wove through all the clutter in the courtyard, and straight to the house door. It was locked. I wiggled the handle again, just in case it was stuck. Ha, no, it was completely locked, when my host family always leaves the door unlocked. The previous night, they had said they would either leave the door unlocked (like usual) or put a key out for me. They didn't leave a key out for me the next morning, so I assumed that the door would be unlocked like always. I wake up earlier than anyone, so there was nobody to ask before I left for school on Friday morning. I wasn't worried about it, however. I hadn't had a key up until that point during my stay, anyway.

I cracked. Everything I needed was in the house. I had packed an especially light purse that day because I didn't want to drag around my life on the Cognac field trip. My classmate stood there helplessly as I desperately tried the other doors and searched around the courtyard for a key. Pas de chance. She did her best to calm me down, but I was so nervous about not being able to get to my belongings until Monday. I rushed over to my host family's tenant who rents a room separate from the rest of the house. I was thrilled to discover that he spoke Spanish because I was so upset that my French had nearly escaped me by that point. I explained the situation to him, but he didn't have the family's cell phone number or an extra key. He guided me to a neighbor across the street, so I had to switch back to French. Those neighbors barely knew my family, but pointed to the house next door. I knocked on the neighbor's gate because they had no doorbell. Nobody answered. I raced over to the photographer who lived in front of my family because the host mother had referred to him as a close friend. He answered the door but was of no help, either. By this point, I was practically hyperventilating. That's when I rushed back to the courtyard, where my classmate and the tenant stood. The tenant pointed to a window. It was my bedroom window, but I hadn't even thought of trying it because I knew I had locked the shutters that morning. The optimist in me won over, though.

I seized a chair and stepped on it. Then I began fiddling with the shutter lock. This involved me bending my arm and folding my hand in very uncomfortable positions. Somehow I wiggled my little hand in there and, though I nearly cut myself in the process, unlatched the shutters. Thank Buddha I had not locked the window. I crawled in and immediately sprinted to unlock the front door. I thanked the tenant and my classmate came inside. I still did not have a key, but at least I was safe, inside, and close to my valuables. My classmate tried to get me to breathe. I searched for our VCU professor's phone number and she called her while I searched for keys. I crossed my fingers that there were spare ones somewhere in the house because I was afraid of leaving the house unlocked the whole weekend. It's the Washingtonian in me to think someone is going to creep into my house in the middle of the night. Besides, I was responsible for the house while my host family was away. Call me paranoid, but if anybody unwelcome came in, I would be in huge trouble. My classmate pointed out some keys hanging near the family computer, keys nobody in the family had told me were there. Most of them appeared to be car keys but I grabbed the ones that weren't. I asked her to lock the front door so I could test out the keys while she continued talking to our professor. Eventually I found the right one. The professor was very understanding and apologized. She said if I had been truly locked out for the weekend, I would have of course been allowed to stay with her. She also coached me in what to say when my family returned. She told me a story of a French woman staying in a British or American's home. The woman knocked a vase off a table and then blamed it on the hostess, saying that the vase was in the way and that it was probably broken to begin with. Denial is very French. My professor then ordered me to have a nice evening. She told me to take a taxi with my classmate and go have a nice dinner; she would re-imburse me for the cost.

God, I should get locked out more often.

I called a taxi. The receptionist said the car would arrive in five to ten minutes, but this is France. Half an hour later, my classmate and I got into the taxi and asked to go to Vieux Port. When we interrogated the driver about good restaurants in the area, he mentioned one called L'Annexe and offered to drop us off there. The answer was, 'Yes, please, because we are starving.'

My classmate and I sat ourselves down, to the chagrin of one of the waitresses. She was wearing that mildly perturbed face I've seen many French servers wear. She gave us menus and my classmate and I spent the next several minutes choosing the components of our formule, which included an appetizer, an entry, and a dessert. I went for something with chorizo, honey duck, and brioche with chocolate ice cream. My classmate chose cream of asparagus soup, veal head, and chocolate lava cake. I am, of course, giving you the short English names for everything. The actual French names were long and very descriptive. The French don't have brevity in mind when they write menus...or anything.

Whatever my appetizer was, it wasn't Spanish sausage like I requested. It was some kind of mollusk with diced tomatoes. I didn't care because I was so hungry and ate it anyway. My classmate won in that arena, however. Her appetizer was great. I kept dunking bread into it (Note: I've noticed the French like eating hard, almost stale bread.) I won for the entree, though. My duck included mashed potatoes and baked apples with a thick honey sauce. Dark green salad with vinegrette came on the side. My classmate's veal head was, as she said, "mooshy." Dessert was fantastic, too, but I think my classmate won in that department. Hers was ultra-chocolatey. Mine was more buttery. The only unpleasant part of the evening came when I pulled the tiny table next to us up to ours. Our table was so small that we couldn't fit all of our plates on it. I figured it was late, nobody was going to sit there, and that the staff wouldn't mind. Wrong. They did mind. A waiter said, "Non, non, non" very quickly and pulled the table back to his place. Uh-oh. Faux pas on my part. I probably annoyed him further that evening when I made prolonged eye contact with him when I wanted the check. You can't wave or smile at French waiters when you need something. I'm pretty sure it's a law. So the man probably thought I staring at him.

By the time my classmate and I were done with dinner, it was far too late to watch a movie, but we walked over to the Grosse Horlage, a giant clock, where we had agreed to meet other classmates to go strolling/bar-hopping/clubbing. Only one was there, despite the fact that we were ten minutes late. The classmate who I ate dinner with went home almost right after because she was so exhausted. That left me alone with the other classmate, who wondered why we hadn't come to the movie.

He and I spent the next three and a half hours trolling La Rochelle. He bought very bad beer at a convenience store and then we laughed at all of the empty discotheques (apparently the clubs don't get started until 4 or 5 a.m.!). Everywhere we went, the dance floors were either empty or full of weird lounge lizard types. The only place that was happening took us forever to find, charged a cover, and was so packed that there was a huge line to get in. I wasn't in the mood for paying to unintentionally grind against sweaty Spanish tourists. The highlight of the evening came when he and I raided a garbage pile and I found a bunch of old homework and gay porn. It was hilarious to read through some French high school kid's English homework ("I like dolphins.") and go through naughty French photos of over-eager men starring in pun-filled DVDs. When I went home, I watched a French cartoon called "Naftaline la fete."

Saturday was the highlight of the weekend. My VCU professor took my group on a boat ride to Ile d'Aix. We saw Fort Boyard, the location of a very popular French reality TV show, on the way. All throughout the ride, we saw puffy clouds, sailboats, and long stretches of blue-green sea. The island was postcard perfect, with quaint houses, a combination of sandy and rocky beaches brimming with tidal pools, woodsy paths, and cute shops and cafes. My group enjoyed a long, French picnic of cherries, peaches, cheese, cookies, baguette, cheese, turkey, salad, and who knows what else. I ate far more than my body's designed to eat, but it was lovely to discuss race in American and French contexts, and comparing American and French school systems. Then we went for a walk that ended in a rocky beach before we split up. I wandered a little before running into my professor and another classmate. The three of us went to a cafe and discussed everything from bargaining in French stores to French mothers' sexualization of their sons. We were there maybe an hour, with me sipping my apricot juice, my classmate drinking lemonade (citronade!), and my professor stirring her ice coffee. Then we hit gift shops. My professor and I bought similar wooden watches. Mine was brown with African motifs.

When we returned to La Rochelle, one of my classmates and I checked out a precious boutique full of fantasy sundresses and tunics that were all far out of our price league. The style was definitely mine, though. Then we went to a much more affordable shop a couple of storefronts down. While their summer clothes were on sale, I was eyeing their fall collection. It was full of purple, black, and gray, which I all wear very often. As tantalizing as the Victorian and 1980s details were, I resisted. Maybe I'll go back my last day and splurge. After lusting after beautiful clothes, I left my classmate for Monoprix. I took a while comparing all the different French hair dyes before I found one I thought was safe. I had never died my hair before (only used sun-reactive highlighting spray), so I was a bit nervous, but I wanted to come home with a new look. I was lucky to find a color I liked with easy-to-understand instructions. Afterwards, I went home and relaxed.

Two classmates and I met up later that evening to go clubbing, but we just couldn't stay out that late. I was so tired from my long and fabulous weekend that I was in even less of a mood to dance with Spanish tourists. I went home and watched "Les Choristes" for the first time. It was around 3 a.m. or so by the time I collapsed in bed.

Sunday was much mellower. I stayed home, dyed my hair with the coloring I bought at Monoprix after the boat ride, and met up with classmates for lunch and a movie. We saw "Une Semaine Sur Deux," which is about two kids whose parents get divorced and try to find new love at the same time the daughter begins to date. Then I worked on my presentation on the nation's cinema while noshing on a French TV dinner. It's strange how quickly La Rochelle is beginning to feel like a second home.

Finding Other Diversions

2009-07-23T12:49:00.001-07:00

The little girl in me needed no other persuasion when I heard that my university group was scheduled to visit palaces and medieval castles relatively close to La Rochelle. Considering that I have wanted to be a princess since I knew what a princess was (minus the beheading peasants part), I was very excited to see Amboise, Chenonceau, and Clos Lucé (the last place Leonardo da Vinci lived) with students from VCU, U. Minnesota-Mankato, and the University of Richmond. The fact that I had to board a bus at 7 a.m. was completely worth it, though under any other circumstances I definitely would have grumbled. Okay, that makes it sound like I didn't whine at all. I did complain about how painfully early the charter bus left that gray Saturday morning (especially since I had spent the previous day at La Braderie, La Rochelle's annual summer sale, and bar-hopping until an hour I won't mention), but I didn't whine as much as I would have had we been scheduled to, say, visit a candle factory. Somehow candles don't compare to the mind-boggling decadence of iron-work windows large enough for elephants to walk through without scraping themselves. The sheer wealth of all the royalty and aristocrats who passed through those manors is at once wondrous and disgusting. Instead of helping to feed the surrounding peasants, they shelled out their gold coins for things like pheasant roasts and mirkins.

Needless to say, I took photos of my favorite 6'' plastic dragon in these beautiful historical locations. She would have resented me if I had not. Besides, I couldn't have created more realistic scenery for Lenore myself if I had raided A.C. Moore and the Museum of London. The stone, the velvet, the oil paintings, the views from towers and terraces--everything was incredible with that perfect old-timey aesthetic. My favorite site was Amboise, though, because it was the oldest and most Gothic. Everything looked dangerously pointy, thanks to exquisite curly-cues and, well, points. I was not surprised to hear the tour guide say that Charles II supposedly died by knocking his head against one of the stone doorways and suffering from internal bleeding. Amboise's rooms were spacious and the period furniture allowed me to visualize myself in a time before forks had been invented. As I walked through the castle, I felt the spirits of a hundred dead men call to me, breathe on me, and feel as real as if they had been standing right next to me, digging their impatient elbows into my ribs like modern Frenchmen in line at La Rochelle's Dragon Cinema. Furthermore, I couldn't resist all of the stonework animals in the estate's St. Hubert chapel, ranging from monkeys to goats to frogs to serpents. It was a Middle Ages version of "Littlest Pet Shop."

My time since celebrating Bastille Day has consisted of more than castle visits, however. I know I could easily spend a whole month in France during nothing but touring castles, but that would not be the most well-rounded view of the country. I have to escape fairyland sometimes.

As usual, I have class everyday from 8:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m., where I learn about everything from French scatology ("crottin" is just one of many words reserved specifically for animal dung) to translating American satire about French culture. I have also discovered that dental floss is always placed by condoms in the few French stores that actually carry dental floss and that the French sometimes hold pancake or flu parties. At pancake, or crêpe, parties, the host puts a hot plate on the table and allows each guest to pour his portion of batter onto the plate. Everybody then watches their pancake cook. Apparently it's very riveting, assuming you're five-years old or you've already had a lot of wine. Flu parties are organized to help the French build immunity against the disease. Someone with the flu invites his friends, family, neighbors, co-workers, and perhaps random hobos on the street (in the spirit of "convivalité") to get everyone they know sick. It sounds like a wonderful, cheese-and-fruit filled way to start an epidemic, rather than a science-based solution for minimizing people's reaction to the flu bug in the fall. Of course, maybe I don't understand because I'm American.

With my university group, I have also seen a WWII Nazi bunker, built when the Germans occupied France. The bunker is located in a La Rochellais hotel but it not the least bit advertised. The owner is rather secretive about it, I suppose because he wants to preserve the space and artifacts as well as possible. Thankfully my school has a good relationship with him and he was happy to open up his Nazi cave for us. Plenty of WWII paraphernalia from all over La Rochelle layered the walls and tables. Imagine scores of maps, jackets, helmets, guns, letters, submarine parts, and photographs everywhere. My favorite artifact was a garishly false Nazi propaganda poster that showed a map of France with cities full of flames to indicate where Anglo-American forces had supposedly attacked. Uh-huh. Nice try. Funny that all of those cities should appear in the Western part of the country, the part the Germans occupied. (Correlation? Um...)

Anyway, following the bunker came a trip to La Rochelle's Natural History Museum. To put it bluntly, it was a building full of dead things. Considering how morbid I can be, that fact delighted me. I basically wanted to take home every glass globe of stuffed songbirds, even if they were far beyond the point of being able to sing. I wasn't bothered by the dead animals themselves; many of them were gorgeous. I was bothered by how the tortoises and gazelles and owls had to sacrifice their lives for human's vain obsession with science. The museum wasn't in any way remarkable; it was like any other natural history museum I'd ever seen, except much, much, much smaller and with virtually no multi-media. (Then again, I grew up fewer than nine miles from the Smithsonian Institution's Natural History Museum, so it's hard to impress me.) At least now I can say I have seen a French science museum, where the specimens were beautiful but the collection was not as grand as I wished.

Besides the palaces, the bunker, and the history museum, I've made time for other tourist traps, ahem, sites, as well. I've been to the Musée des Automates, which is full of mechanical dolls from the 1700 through early 1900s. The dolls come in a variety of sizes and forms, but all have one thing in common: they move. They not only move but they move with an eerie stiffness. Nothing about them is realistic because they're way too freaky. Their eyes are glass, their clothes are perfectly tailored (though in some cases moth-eaten), and their skin lacks the softness of true humans. I love them nonetheless. That could just mean that I like scary things but I think the fact that the museum even exists and that it was completely crowded when I went shows that others find them enchanting. It's astounding to realize that these motorized dolls have existed in some shape or form since Ancient Egypt. Apparently Egyptians still had energy left over after erecting pyramids and mummifying pharaohs (ha, wait, slaves did that) to tinker with creepy dolls. I was especially drawn to the Baroque and Victorian dolls, but I generally am. The dolls nearly drowned in their velvet, pearls, silk, lace, and feathers. One scene of motorized dolls depicted two women in a parasol shop, right down to the wallpaper. The shopkeeper bent slightly to hand the customer a parasol. Another one showed a bunch of Baroque boys and girls dressed up for a ball. Right after visiting the Musée des Automates, I went to the Musée des Modèles Réduits, which was full of tiny cars and boats. Needless to say, it did not excite me the same way the motorized the dolls did. My favorite boat was named, "Le Pourquoi Pas," the Why Not?, which I found funny. Names like those just prove that a kingdom CAN have too much money. There were a couple of pretty Chinese junk boats, as well. A classmate and I also walked to "Jardin des Plantes" [Garden of Plants]; apparently the French see a need to specify what a garden entails. It was enjoyable but nothing spectacular. The only point worth mentioning is that whoever designed the garden chose to include both a Greco-Roman style statue and a massive Oceania head. I'm not sure why.

I've watched a few movies since Bastille Day, too. I took my host sister to see the sixth Harry Potter in French. Yes, they do change the names and, yes, it is hilarious to hear the French voices in place of the original British ones. I also saw "Les Beaux Gosses" [The Good-Looking Kids] with a classmate. It's a French comedy about two nerdy fourteen-year olds trying to navigate through all the pains of adolescence as they transition from middle to high school. There's a huge emphasis on, as you would imagine, first kisses and the early stages of dating. It was funny, vulgar, and a smart introduction to current French slang. I've also gone out of my way to watch movies at the Mediatheque. Luckily, I got to see "Sweetie" (1989), an Australian Cannes winner, and "You Only Live Once" (1937).

Obviously I've snuck shopping into the past week. My most notable retail adventure was to Carrefour, the equivalent of a French Wal-Mart or Target. They sell everything a discount department store normally carries in the United States (except sporting goods) with a very expanded food section. I saw everything from octopus packaged like deli meat to chocolate-covered truffles to fresh fish to mussels.They also had several fruit samples; my classmate and I spat out our bites of passion fruit in unison. I ended up buying a dress, two pairs of shoes, and a gift for my host sister because the prices were astonishingly low by European standards. I didn't even visit during La Braderie, when prices are supposed to be jaw-droppingly cheap and it was still inexpensive.

Afterward Carrefour, the classmate who I'd come with was hungry, so we wandered around the nearby mall a bit. Nothing in the food court seemed nearly as good as what we were accustomed to seeing downtown, where most of the food is prepared fresh daily. At least he spotted a pocket watch brandishing a mini motorcycle. Eventually he and I settled for a bar just outside of the mall. I ordered strawberry juice (it doesn't taste quite as sweet as plain strawberries) and he ordered a beer. I'm not sure if it's because La Rochelle is a tourist city or not, but it seems that so long as a restaurant is open, you can buy alcohol regardless of the time of day. I had praline ice cream, too. Sadly, it was not like the ambrosia I order at Ernest's, the parlor with the most flavors in all of La Rochelle. There I have tried two types of chocolate, including a kind of African dark chocolate and Oriental Chocolate. Oriental Chocolate contains sesame seeds, honey, and maybe a touch of ginger. I'm not sure it exists anywhere else.

I'm also happy to announce that my host mother's birthday took place this week. It was fun to serenade her from my host sister's bedroom window. She was doing laundry in the courtyard when my host sister nudged me to croon. We burst out in a round of "Joyeux anniversaire." Then I attempted to help my host sister choose her outfit for that evening's dinner, but it is never easy to placate an eleven-year old, French or otherwise. I tried crayfish and sea snails for the first time at a quaint restaurant located in the countryside, where the host family too me to celebrate the mother's 46th. (Yes, the crayfish looked like big bugs and, no, they did not taste gross, but it is hard to remove all of their legs). Apparently, it's my host mother's favorite restaurant, even though she repeatedly described it as simple. It wasn't by any means fancy, but the food was top-notch. For dessert, I even tried black currant ice cream, which was quite possibly the best fruit ice cream I have ever tasted in my life. The rustic touches added to the restaurant's charm. Instead of setting a water pitcher on the table, they gave us a glass wine bottle (full of water, not wine). They also put rocks marked "Reserved" on our table to prevent anyone else from sitting there. I couldn't exactly complain about having a clear view of the Atlantic Ocean, either.

I should also mention that during this past week, I've had the opportunity to meet a few other people my age, all European. To get an idea of how the rest of the world views America, let me briefly list a small number of the questions and statements European teenagers and young adults have muttered to me recently: "Is it true that over 80% of all maps in America are of the United States and no other country?"; "Is it true that it's illegal to be gay in America?"; "Is it true that they don't eat fruits and vegetables in America?"; "Do most kids wait until they're 21 to start drinking in America?"; "Is it true that in America you don't have [row] houses?"; "Young Americans are so much politer than British kids."; "America is so religious."; "Americans eat McDonald's all the time"; "Americans don't know much about other countries and only like to study their history and culture"; "Americans are big." I'm only going to comment upon those words in saying that they are offensive, but I realize that Americans harbor plenty of stereotypes about the French. According to most Americans, the French only shower about once a week (Fact: They shower once a day, but take shorter, more economical showers than most Americans because hot water is expensive.); they don't wear deodorant (Fact: Many Frenchies do wear deodorant, but they aren't as obsessive as Americans are about re-applying it throughout the day. Some of them simply use perfume instead of deodorant but I haven't died from smelling anyone's stench yet.); they drink all the time (Fact: the French do drink more frequently than Americans traditionally do because they have so many wines for so many gastronomical purposes, but most do not drink very much per sitting because getting drunk is perceived as rather pitiful.); and Frenchies are skinny (Fact: Fat French people do exist, but, overall, there are fewer big people in this country than the United States because they eat plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables and walk/ride bikes more often).

It's satisfying to review everything I've done simply since Bastille Day--and this is merely an overview. I can't possibly list all of the details (ranging from bike rides with a crazy French eleven-year old to conversations with my host mother about love and marriage to flipping through a picture-free, French version of the Karma Sutra to asking four different Frenchies how to get to the city's bird park only to hear four different responses), while still making time to revel in all the Frenchness that surrounds me. But I've given you the snapshot of my past seven days in La Rochelle. Fortunately, I still have seven more. The negative side is that I still have so much more I want to do, see, and experience.

Bastille Day

2009-07-16T14:51:00.001-07:00

July 14 is sort of the French version of July 4. It's therefore ironic that I missed celebrating Independence Day back home because I was in France for the holiday but had the opportunity to experience the French model. Needless to say, it lacked BBQ. Instead, my host mother prepared salmon and spinach, which I can't imagine most Americans eating on July 4th. While it was a good meal, it was more hoity-toity than the hot dog or hamburger and baked beans I probably would've eaten for July 4. To their credit, though, the French don't skimp on fireworks. My host father, younger host sister, and I went to see the city's display and I almost had seizures afterwards because the lights were as bright as Japanese video game's. The most surprising were fireworks in the form of mini parachutes; I thought midgets were invading us. I taped most of the spectacle to show my sick host mother and eventually my real family. The mother had to lounge around pathetically back home thanks to a nasty ear infection. The situation was even worse, however, because a famous French singer--one of her favorite--had personally invited her to his after-party that night. It was the final day of the Francofolie and she couldn't go thanks to oh-so-cruel Mother Nature. Or karma. But I'd rather not villainize a lady who bakes me the best apricot tarts I've ever eaten, even if we're all guilty of minor sins from time to time.

I did not spend the whole day anticipating the fireworks, as excited as I was about seeing colorful lights reflecting upon the ocean. I was too busy enjoying Ile de Ré for most of Bastille Day. Quick geography lesson: Ile de Ré is a 30 km long island near La Rochelle. Its capital is St. Martin, which I was lucky enough to visit. They produce a bunch of salt and several movie stars and politicians own houses there.

I began the day by boarding the bus at 7:45 a.m. Well, it was supposed to be 7:45 a.m., but the driver was on French time, so it was probably ten or fifteen minutes later. If that hour sounds painfully early for a college student's summertime, consider that I normally catch my class bus at 7:19 a.m. It was actually a relief then that I didn't have to be at the bus station 'til twenty minutes later. It meant I could stare at the ceiling for a couple of minutes before rolling out of bed, a much missed pleasure from back home. I am definitely a ceiling examiner.

Anyway, I raced over to the bus station on my bike, carrying my bag o' tricks (a plastic dragon, a video camera, a still camera, a French dictionary, my makeshift lunch of apricots and Mont Blanc desserts, and an English novel.) I finished eating the rest of my breakfast once I arrived at the bus station. That meant I stuffed my face with chocolate-filled croissants and the like. When the bus pulled up--it's called Mouettes, which means sea gull but sounds like it means something much funnier--I hopped up, paid for my ticket, and sat down. I chatted about this and that with three other girls from my class during the ride. We discussed French and France in general, including our host families and shopping. Apparently one of the girls had the unpleasant experience of a boutique associate telling her not to try on a dress because she was too big for it. In case you need further translation, the woman essentially called her own customer fat. Sadly, this corresponds with the snobby image many Americans hold of the French. Such associates deserve to have baguettes shoved up their--ahem, anyway, my group and I got out of the bus when we spotted our teachers waving at us. My Sup de Co teacher often wears tropical colors and therefore sticks out like a fly floating around in...oh, I don't know, the mint cucumber soup-in-a-carton I saw advertised at one of the bus stops. The French are interesting people indeed.

Fast forward about an hour. Our teachers have just blabbed at us about Huguenots (La Rochelle) and Catholics (Ile de Ré), we've walked around a stone fortification commissioned by the infamous Sun King, and we've all taken a million photos to pass the time. After the tour, our teachers sent us out on a scavenger hunt. A scavenger hunt in a foreign language probably sounds very intimidating: you can get lost, lured into exotic candy stores, and kidnapped. The hunt, however, was not so treacherous. The questions were pretty straight-forward and the town is not big. The funny, confusing part came when we were instructed to ask random passersby historical questions. My group encountered a storekeeper who began by saying that she knew nothing about the island's history yet she proceeded with, "Oh, actually..." and then answered everything on our sheet. That would have been fine and dandy if the answers had been correct, but apparently most of them were wrong. Either she was desperately trying to be helpful or wanted to have a laugh at our expense. Or she's crazy. There are a bunch of crazy people in France. Why else would culottes be all the rage there right now?

My group finished the scavenger hunt fairly fast, but not without discovering a few oddities first. Let me begin by announcing that Smurf and Oyster flavored ice creams exist in St. Martin. Now I know that Smurfs taste like almond extract. I did not have the courage to try Oyster, but I believed my classmate when he called it "gross." I also found out that Ile de Ré is full of asses. Smart asses, maybe, but I'm referring to burros for sure. These burros wear checkered pants (blue for boys, pink for girls) to protect themselves from the mosquitos that swarm around the salt fields. Thus, almost every boutique in St. Martin sells plush burros (which my Sup de Co teacher mistakenly called 'teddy donkeys' in English), ceramic burro saltshakers, burro T-shirts, burro postcards, etc. If you like asses, it's the place to be...oh, dear, that did not come out right at all.

Don't think I lived through Bastille Day ceremony-free, though. After the scavenger hunt and the necessary shopping (I scored a dress and a gift for my lovely mother), my group was required to attend what you would expect: French people waving a French drapeau around and singing "La Marseillaise." The mayor, who wore surprisingly casual clothes, was there, along with war veterans, firefighters, policemen, and local politicians. Strangely, very few townspeople not involved in the ceremony were there. We American students outnumbered the French spectators by far. Needless to say that when the filmmaker there realized the crowd was made up mostly of Americans, he was a little disappointed. His documentary is supposed to be about the history and culture of St. Martin; my Sup de Co teacher really, really, really tried to persuade him to keep the footage, though, and said he could use it to demonstrate what a popular tourist destination St. Martin is.

After the requisite ceremony, we went to the town hall to drink wine (ugh, orange juice for me, please) and eat peanuts. The mayor lumbered over to my corner where I sat with two or three other students and my teacher. My teacher asked why he had not given a speech; he basically found a diplomatic way to say he didn't feel like it. I did learn, however, that all of the French mayors' speeches are the same. The federal government writes them and distributes them to mayors across the country so all towns receive the same official notice. Maybe it's just the writer in me, but I call that cheating.

The day continued and included a stop at a local boulangerie, where I saw desserts precious enough to grace the covers of Hallmark cards. I, being boring and practical, ordered a mini pizza since I had already packed most of my lunch. I lived vicariously through a classmate who ordered an eclair. After having eaten an eclair at my French family's house, I promise you that they taste nothing like ones in America. That is a good, no, a great thing, considering how much I dislike eclairs back home. French eclairs aren't made up of bad donut bread and fake chocolate that contains -0.0000008% cocoa.

Once we finished eating, my classmates and I shopped some more and then checked out the beach. I hadn't brought my bathing suit because the water is too cold and I don't like frying my skin, so I explored tidal pools with a classmate instead. We saw teeny crabs and even teenier fish. There were also periwinkles and piles of kelp everywhere. More intriguingly, however, were the random gelatinous balls everywhere. At first we thought they were jellyfish, but they...weren't. I think they may have been egg sacs, but I'm not sure what kind. I can always say they were Teletubby brains. In addition to poking around the beach, my classmate and I made an itty-bitty film. Until I am finished editing it, all I will say is that a dragon, a sandstorm, and the hands of God are involved. I hope that is vague enough.

Shortly after, my group boarded the bus back to La Rochelle. I went home and found approximately a million ways to kill time before the fireworks. It was a tad annoying to discover that for all that waiting, the show only last about fifteen minutes, but I did record the spectacle for posterity. My younger host sister caught onto this very quickly and immediately wanted to watch the video when we got home. The fact that she had just seen the real thing twenty minutes ago did not seem to phase her. Days later, she still asks to watch it. Oh, French children...

Filling Out the Days

2009-07-13T05:44:00.001-07:00

La Rochelle is not Paris, but that doesn't necessarily make it the boonies. Tourists, like me, simply have to be more creative about planning their day, since there isn't something arresting on every street corner. That is, except during Les Francofolies.

What is Francofolies? Or, more grammatically correct, what are they? Short answer: An annual French language concert in La Rochelle, France. Long answer: An annual French language concert, featuring famous artists from Africa, Canada, and Europe as well as numerous vendors and street performers, located in La Rochelle, France. The name literally means "Francophone craziness." Imagine every kind of European--nationality, race, sex, age, socio-economic level, etc.--crammed into a medium-sized port city, competing to see both free and ticketed concerts, rummaging through marketplace wares, and edging into the circles around street performers. Many of them are drunk, many of them are smoking, many of them are oversexed, and all of them are loud. Over 100,000 people alone buy tickets, but that does not count the scores more who come to check out the free festivities. It's both thrilling and overwhelming at the same time, perhaps even more so because everyone is speaking a language other than my own. Whenever I stop by the Francofolie, I find a million reasons to cement my belief that French people are some of the most adorable people who have ever lived (it is very amusing, for example, to hear a French person pronounce the word "hardcore.")

Apart from making every effort to get near the Francofolies during its July 10 through 14th stay, however, you probably wonder what I do with my time. The answer is not, "Sulk in my room for a lack of English-speakers and fellow Americans," as much as it might please some people to hear me complain about the language barrier. Nor is the answer, "Get plastered." I don't view much of a point in getting drunk period and see even less of a reason to get drunk here in France when I have paid several thousand dollars to visit a country I have never seen before. The real answer to the question is many things. Call me vague.

I ride my bike--ahem, a bike borrowed from my host brother--everywhere. Sometimes I just go for joy rides around the neighborhood or to one of the numerous beaches in La Rochelle. At the very least, I get to people-watch and house-hunt. My Sup de Co teacher constantly asks questions about Americans, but she should spend more time observing her fellow Frenchman. Not many people call their lovers cabbages and inhabit buildings with more doors than the labyrinth in Alice in Wonderland. (Note: Every room in every French house has a door. These doors must remain closed at all times, even the bathroom door. At first I wondered if the French worried about circulation and mildew. Now I realize that they are all trying to grow cheese in their houses.)

When I am not biking, I pop into a bunch of boutiques. That does not mean I approve of the prices (the cost of one of their blouses could send a Haitian child to school for a year), but I do enjoy inspecting dolls dressed as carrots or flipping through satirical books from 1882. It is also interesting to note that; judging by the store selections, French women apparently do not wear bigger than a size 9 in shoes or 10 in clothes. How such clotheslines would fail in the United States, where "Mammoth" is the size that best describes most of us American women--relatively speaking. While shopping, I also observe the other shoppers: no matter how old French women get, they make every effort to look sexy. That means no sneakers and encouraging 80-year olds to put on high-heels.
My host family is my most common source of entertainment, though. Their foster daughter especially makes an effort to talk to me, sweetly mock my pronunciation, include me in her strange French childhood, and get me to eat whenever possible. I am not sure how many times I have lied to my host mother and told her I was hungry for dinner when I wasn't, simply because the foster child felt like munching on cheese. The girl insists on telling me that the Mario Bros. are French, and she does not believe me when I say that Bros. is an abbreviation for brothers in English. When the occasion arrises, the girl puts on spectacles for me, too. These spectacles involve song and dance routines, sequined cowgirl hats, and sunglasses. As difficult as it may be to believe, there is nothing kinky about them. I converse with my host parents; as well, and do my best to answer questions about American culture, including whether or not Prince is homosexual.

In addition to all of this, I obviously attend class (as annoying as it is to travel 40 minutes by public transit, my perky professor compensates for the commute) and sightsee (before you die, be sure to see a Napoleon fish, as I did at the La Rochelle aquarium). Occasionally I have time to read, write, and draw, too, but I try to avoid such activities because I can so easily do them at home. I would rather lounge in my family's courtyard eating apricot pie and listening to Charlie Winston's "Like a Hobo."

Getting into a Rochellaise Routine

2009-07-10T09:01:00.000-07:00

After graduating from high school, transferring colleges, and having no intention to attend grad school, I never expected to be new to a school again. The days of being the shy, clueless kid who didn't have the inside scoop on anything relevant were over. Or so I thought. I am now a summer student at--get this--"Sup de Co." The full name translates to, more or less, The La Rochelle Business School. During the regular school year, French students go there to earn Bachelor's and Master's degrees in programs like Economy and Tourism. During the summer, entitled upper-middle class college students like me come from all over the world to "apprendre Français."

My host father was kind enough to drive me to school on the first day so I wouldn't have to endure the forty-minute bus ride for another twenty-four hours. I came just on time, perhaps two or three minutes late, but it didn't matter because the other American students were still jamming up the atrium. Besides, everything was running on French time. I went up to the other VCU students and told them about the party I attended Saturday, including my new knowledge of French drinking games.

We finally started ten or fifteen minutes late. I wasn't complaining, though. That meant ten more minutes for me to try and digest the fact that I was attending an all-French school for the next three weeks of my life. Like equestrian lessons on Grandfather Sebastian's estate followed by dinner at the country club, it sounded too much like a chapter out of someone else's uppity existence. Before I signed up for the trip, I was fairly certain I wouldn't have a chance to see France until my Honeymoon, let alone study with a whole cast of very animated native speakers. And yet there I stood in my $10 jeans, carrying my French-English dictionary from a free book pile at a library back home, about to embark upon one of the most bourgeois things a 20-year old white American can do. Granted, I'm not staying in a flat overlooking the Eiffel Tower and studying the history of wine tasting for a semester. Thankfully, I like staying in a popular port city better. There's more grit.

We began with, no surprise, a Powerpoint. A British lady who had us all deceived until she revealed her Anglican name talked us through all of the school rules and procedures. It was a snooze fest but it had to be done. I worked on a drawing as she talked about how we should conduct ourselves in the city. Apparently, "French men are like [rabbits in heat]," so we are not to interpret "Bonjour" as anything less than a come-on. Well, well, well, time to pull out the burka. Oh, wait, Sarkozy is about to forbid those.

After the Powerpoint, the school staff and administrators introduced themselves, but it was rather uneventful. French people got up, welcomed us to their city, told us about their jobs, and then sat down in their French ways (by that I mean they didn't look like they were about to break the chair because they had eaten too many Twinkies.) The aforementioned British lady gave us a tour of the school, still speaking her remarkably flawless French. The building is very white and sterile looking, which makes it somewhat hard to navigate. Everything looks the same, even the occasional young French person who loiters in the hallway. I swear French boys don't know how to comb their hair, but I'm still deciding whether that is a good or bad thing.

The school is clean and well-equipped, but it has its inconveniences. First off, it's far from my host family's home. I have to walk to the bus stop, board the bus as its only passenger for about fifteen minutes (someone always hops on for the last five minutes), transfer buses, make half-way coherent conversation with my classmates on the second bus, and, eventually, arrive half an hour early. There is no other way to do it...and still be on time.

For my third day of school, my second day of real class, I figured I could leave about fifteen minutes later and still make class in time. That would have been a swell idea save for one major error on my part:

Two of my classmates and I were heading over to the school cafeteria the second day of school, which to add to the school's however mild inconvienences, is about a fifteen minute walk from the building where we take classes, when we realized that we had no idea where we were. I swear the only distinguishable building in the area was McDonald's. We were nervous because class lets out at 12:30 p.m., only half an hour before the cafeteria supposedly closes, so we were afraid we wouldn't have the chance to eat.

I mustered up the courage to ask a couple people where the cafeteria was but none of them had a clear idea. We knew we were in the general area but that doesn't help much in a sea of gray and beige buildings and poorly marked streets. One of my classmates asked a college-age guy where the caf was and he said it was just straight down the street. Okay, that was easy, even easier since he said he was going there himself. We followed him, discovered that the cafeteria was still open, and found out that the guy was rather funny. He even got us to chat with one of his friends. Forty-five minutes and several attempts on their part to speak English later, three of my classmates and I had set a rendez-vous with the Frenchies: 10:00 p.m. at General Humbert's, a former sailors' pub. Let's just say that it's not everyday a French guy invites me to a bar. God, that sounds sketchy. Even worse because I have a boyfriend. But I swear that my intentions, as well as those of my classmates, were completely innocent. I really did want to spend time with young French people who didn't talk like they had just leapt out of my high school textbook/video/CD series.

I spent the afternoon in suspense. I completed a homework assignment, which involved visiting a French magazine stand, buying one of the assigned newspapers, and interviewing the owner about French reading habits. Afterwards, I shopped in adorable boutiques. Then I went home and played with my host family's foster child, the most precious eleven-year old I know. With our mutual love of fairy princesses and hatred of alcoholism (her mother, who recently died, was an abusive alcoholic), she and I have enough in common to entertain each other during card games and puzzles. I like greeting her with "Coo-coo," the way small French children say 'Hi,' and sitting down and discussing the facts of life while eating Nutella sandwiches.

I also took a nap and when I woke up, my host mother's mother, brother, sister-in-law, and friend congregated around the living room coffee table. Everyone was celebrating my host brother's high score on the Bac, sort of the equivalent of the French SAT sans multiple choice. I tried a third of a glass of champagne for the first time in adult life and detested it, but the dinner as a whole was worth my time. I ate a tomato stuffed with pork on a bed of white rice. The grandmother thought I was pretty wonderful and asked me all sorts of questions about the United States; she even invited me to the Mediatheque [a public French library with all kinds of media beyond books] the next day, where I had the chance to watch <> The rest of the family grilled me about Bush and Obama. They approved of my stance on each man (Bush-boo, Obama-yay). Anyway, that was I how diverted myself before I biked over to the city's big clock to meet another classmate at around 9:30 p.m. Shockingly, the sun is still bright at that hour.

My classmate and I decided to meet a few minutes before our rendez-vous with the Frenchies because A) we had no idea where the bar was, even though the kid we had met gave us directions, and B) if you're not familiar with a bar, your first time there can be very scary, especially if you're alone in a foreign country that speaks a different language than your own. Some nice French teenagers pointed us the right way and off we went. Of course, we were unfashionably early, so we didn't dare go inside. We meandered around first. Let it be known that French allies, even ones containing marketplaces, smell like the beautiful union of cat and human piss.

Ten minutes or so later, my classmate and I wandered in front of the bar and, almost immediately, our new friend popped out and beckoned us inside. The fellow American and I became popular rather quickly. We practiced our French, answered basic questions about our country (yes, I did draw a map of the United States and label the major cities. No, I did not include Cincinnati), and occasionally corrected the Frenchies' English grammar and slang when they asked. Even though I had clearly stated that I didn't drink--a lifestyle that basically doesn't exist in France--the Frenchies bought me beer, anyway. I gave it to my classmate; he drank it so fast that he surprised our new acquaintances. I told them it was the American way and they laughed. Europeans love it when Americans make fun of their own country. Thankfully degrading humor is my specialty.

So, time passed, vulgarities were exchanged, pronunciations were mocked, and fun was had by all. I only experienced mild discomfort when the same guy asked me twice to kiss his friend who was leaving for Australia the next morning (No, I did not kiss him and no, I do not regret turning down a kiss from a French man.) If nothing else, I gained a new interpretation that evening: perhaps one of the reasons Anglos call Frenchies frogs is because in their early learning of English, they sound like they are croaking. I am not sure what animal sound to compare early English speakers’ pronunciation of French; all I know is that we never seem as enthusiastic or congested as native Francophones.

About an hour and a half later, my classmate and I announced that we had to leave. We had class the next morning, after all, and couldn't party all night long. This didn’t please the Frenchies very much, but they bid us farewell. I figured that I would be home at 11 :45, which meant I could be asleep by midnight. But such planning came from the heart of a young idealist. Nothing ever works out so simply.

Nope, as soon as my classmate and I exited the bar, we ran into two guys from our class. We probably could have said hi and bye fairly quickly if it had not been for a malcontent and a hot pink bunny rabbit.

I promise that I was not high. Somewhat sleep deprived perhaps but not dillusional. There really was an old man in a faded plaid shirt who stumbled toward us and started rambling in French. He hated what La Rochelle had become, how the tourists had destroyed it, how it was not his city anymore. Consider his somber lament a huge juxtaposition to the middle-age woman dressed up in furry ears and a snug costume just across the narrow street. The drunk’s random complaints began to irk me so I went over to talk to the bunny. My main question was why she was dressed that way. I almost hoped that she would admit to being a prostitute since I have never met one before, but she had a much more chaste response. She and her girlfriends were celebrating the equivalent of a French bachlorette party.

Fast forward fifteen or twenty minutes. The classmate I originally came with and I are riding around on our bikes, a tad confused because the stone buildings look even more similar at night than they do during the day. When we get to the cathedral, though, I found my way. My classmate and I parted. Then I arrived home, felt a sudden urge to check my email, and a while later readjusted my alarm clock. That last item on that list is where my mistake occurred. In my exhaustion, I accidentally set my clock and alarm too late ...by an entire hour.

The next morning, I woke up and yawned very peacefully. Since I had been thirty minutes early the previous day, I figured that I could leave fifteen minutes later and still have enough time to chat with classmates. I sludged over to the shower and shortly afterwards, was bent before the refrigerator, playing Eeny-meeny-miny-moe with confitures when I heard the foster daughter shuffle into the kitchen. She was still mostly asleep, fluttering her blue-green eyes.

When I asked why she was up so early (I knew she was not supposed to even wake up until my class already began), she said, « Oh, just because. » I thought nothing more of it and concentrated on the tartine and abricots before me. A bit after, the father came in and told me I was going to be late for school. I explained that I had arrived too early the previous day so that I could afford to come in later today. « Thirty minutes too early yesterday, thirty minutes too late today, » he mumbled. I laughed. Ten minutes later, I was eating at a relaxed pace when he said, « No, really. You are going to be late. » I looked up at the kitchen clock for the first time all morning and shouted, « Shit ! I set my clock wrong. » It was 8 :10, which meant that class began in twenty minutes. I dashed into the courtyard, hopped onto my host brother’s bike, and pedled with a foggy vision of the route in my mind. Now I was awake.

Before that day, I had never chased a bus. When I first left the house, it was too late for me to catch my first bus. I crossed my fingers that I could catch the second one, but it was not at the bus station when I arrived. Lacking the generosity of time, I kept going. But La Rochelle is a bigger city than you may imagine. I was lost until I turned a corner and saw my second bus a couple hundred yards in front of me. I raced to catch up, knowing that there was no other way to get to class at a decent hour. My hair blew in all directions, my muscles burned, I could feel the sweat forming on my skin.

When the bus reached my school, I stopped so quickly that I jolted forward and nearly fell off. My host father had given me long enough of a lecture about bike thefts in La Rochelle that I did not even consider leaving the bicycle unlocked. But I swear that it had never taken me longer to lock up a bike. I kept fiddling with the curled antivol until it latched and then sprinted to my classroom.

I tried to enter the classroom quietly, but, even still, it was hard for the others not to notice my bright red face and, I am certain, my stench. A classmate offered me a waterbottle on sight. The teacher, startled by my appearance, asked if I had gotten lost and I politely asked if I could explain later. She said yes, I sat down, and was soon asked to express my opinion on Michael Jackson. When I gazed up at the clock, I realized I was no more than fifteen minutes late, which is not an utter disaster for a four-hour class. I was still disappointed with myself, though. I had been carrying on fairly well in France.

Only a few days after my arrival, I was already beginning to establish myself in La Rochelle and, apart from nearly losing my lungs as I followed my bus with the fury of a dog taunting a mail carrier, I am off to a productive start. Maybe I will finally learn real French. At least now I can execute a truly offensive insult.

French Drinking Games

2009-07-06T23:17:00.001-07:00

St. Michel was every bit as beautifully mysterious as all the dramatic photographs and illustrations depict, so there's no false advertising there. It is my favorite building I have ever visited in my whole life and, yet, to call it a mere building is to demean such a work of art. That's like The Charterhouse of Parma's just a book. St. Michel and the grandiose architecture that it represents makes me nostalgic for the Middle Ages. For as long as I can remember, I have adored medieval aesthetics, poetry, and social history ("Dragon Girl" was one of my high school nicknames for a reason), but this visit had made me a bona fide medievalist.

After eating the whole monastery with my very hungry and appreciative eyes, I strolled through the gift shops, of which there are plenty if you need a classy place to lose money. Better yet, they are exactly the kind of gift shops that appeal to me. They all carry their versions of fairies, castles, swords, and, yes, tacky tourist T-shirts. I made an effort not to purchase a tacky T-shirt, however. I avoided the gaudy ones (with rhinestones, glitter, too many cartoon animals all competing for limited chest space) and went for a fitted rib-tee instead. Though I am generally a bargain shopper, I have become slightly more lenient with my money here in France. I realize that I may never visit the country again, or at least not for several more years, so I want to take home whatever souvenirs I can, including T-shirts that violate my $10 rule. The T-shirt I bought at St. Michel is burgundy, my absolute favorite shade of red, with white print on it. The print reads "Mont St. Michel" and also features a simple contour drawing of the monastery and its accompanying island. A few gulls, shaped the way first-graders draw flying birds, hover in the sky.

I sat down for a while after buying my tourist gear and just people-watched. It's one of my top activities, so I figured that I ought to do it in one of my favorite places. People are more interesting than they may believe or maybe I only think that because of my penchant for psycho and socio-analysis. It seemed like scores of English and Spanish were amongst the tourists, though I heard the occasional American accent so I didn't feel completely alone. Most of the people spoke Frog.

I was sad to leave St. Michel but it had to happen eventually. My university group and I had to meet our host families in La Rochelle, the third most popular tourist destination in France. It's a beach city with a long port history located on the Atlantic Coast. At the point that I boarded the charter bus from St. Michel to La Rochelle, that was about all I knew. I would have to wait about six hours before I discovered much more.

I spent the bus ride doing a lot of what I would normally do at home, so it was almost as if I were not in France at all. I edited a short story I had written, uploaded photos, drew, and read. Every now and then I looked out and, even more rarely, I shot video of the countryside. Whatever I did, I tried to avoid thinking about meeting my host family in a matter of hours. Like everyone else on the bus, I was a tad nervous about not being able to speak my native language for the next three weeks. I didn't suffer as bad a case of the butterflies as a few of the students on board who freaked out to the point of not being able to remember basic phrases that they definitely knew. I realized that nerves would cramp my ability to speak properly for the first couple of days, but I'd eventually loosen up enough to avoid total idiocy. I hoped.

It was nice when the bus stopped. I needed, quite frankly, to "faire no. 2," which wasn't allowed on the bus. Apparently, there's a French law that requires bus drivers to stop after a certain number of hours, so our driver pulled over at a local gas station. Apart from the obvious language difference and the items listed on the fast food menu, the gas station was pretty similar to what I'm used to back in the ol' U.S. of A. Oh, wait, no, c'est ne pas vrai. One thing shocked me. I had not believed it when I heard one of my classmates describe her experience in Russia, so let me begin by saying this: French toilets are much more varied than America's. This particular restroom housed two kinds, one rather similar to the ones Americans use (except they use press-pads instead of handles for flushers) and another that involved impressive thigh muscles. The latter demands that the, er, patron squats and places her feet on two ceramic hollows so she doesn't lose her balance. She must then urinate in a hole. That's right--just "aim and fire." I'm not ashamed to admit that I would probably fall over.

My group arrived in La Rochelle perhaps two and half hours after I scrunched up my nose at the gas station. The bus driver kindly lugged all of our duffle bags and suitcases out of the bus and we waited for our host families to scoop us off to wild European adventures. Well, that's what my evening became, anyway.

My host mother almost snuck up behind me, then she very eagerly hugged me, kissed me, and welcomed me into her life. A new cluster of butterflies sprung up in my stomach, but I kissed and hugged her back. I immediately got into her car and we chatted as she drove me to her house. She thought it was hilarious that I don't like raw tomatoes but that I eat them cooked.

The moment I walked into the house--which is full of gorgeous hardwood and boasts plenty of open space; it's very "shabby chic" and warrants a full description in another essay--she gave me a tour. She moved fast enough to rival any startled cat I've ever seen. Obviously she was happy to have me and that helped me calm down. Soon after, she invited me to a friends' wedding anniversary party. She showered while I unpacked my things. Her husband came home and we left soon after. I didn't even have time to check out the refrigerator.

This is what I learned at the party: French people love American dance music, especially really passé songs; they think gnomes are real belly-busters; they like to speak English with Americans to try and prove that they're bilingual (even if they're not) and therefore superior to Americans (who they assume are monolingual); and even if their country allows a lower legal drinking age than the United States, their teenagers still sneak around with alcohol. It was a very amusing, yet long evening, especially considering that I'd been cooped up in a bus for most of the day.

I watched all of the adults dance to the likes of Michael Jackson and other distinctly American artists; they waved their arms around, jumped up and down, and made a bunch of noise. It was only when I realized that all of the party guests were neighbors that I stopped asking why someone hadn't already called the cops to complain. I had fun just watching them move around with so much enthusiasm. One man probably had too much fun with my host mother, though, and tossed her into the outdoor pool. Keep in mind that she had on a stylish Parisian dress and even trendier shoes. Though she laughed, I doubt she was thrilled about what had happened. My host mother was the only one who "swam" the whole night. Apparently the pool was reserved for something more...unsual. Virtually all of the party guests gave the married couple gnomes in all sorts of forms as kitsch gifts. As the couple opened the gifts before the cheering crowd, they were to toss all "non-gnomes" into the pool. This included a ceramic duck. With the pool for a disposal pit, I couldn't swim there. I took the time to rescue two fallen moths, but I didn't even dip a toe in the water.

Ironically for a non-drinker, I spent a good portion of the night learning a couple of French drinking games because I inevitably got stuck with restless high school kids. I also learned the various names for pot and got to hear the kids make fun of the Spanish. We ate some tabouli, huddled around bags of McDonald's hamburgers, and talked about who-knows-what, as well. I definitely asked them way too many questions but they seemed proud that I took so much interest in their country. None of them spoke English so it was a real exercise in my language skills. At least now I know what a Royale avec Cheese is.

Tapestry and St. Michel

2009-07-05T06:17:00.002-07:00

Allow me to explain the difference between an embroidery and a tapestry: an embroidery is--surprise!--embroidered. That means that somebody with a creative spirit, no social life, and way too much time takes a needle and basically "paints" with thread. A tapestry is woven and therefore involves a loom, which is a big contraction that helps overlaps the fibers to make something that hopefully doesn't look too hokey. Now that you are aware of this difference, you will believe me when I say that the Tapestry of Bayeux is wrongly named. It's not a tapestry, it's an embroidery and you can tell that immediately by looking at it. Perhaps the French art historians who named the piece were like Mr. Magoo and couldn't make out anything within two feet of them. Either that or they never took Home Economics.

Despite the fact that the Tapestry of Bayeux was misnamed, it is astounding. The tapestry depicts William the Conqueror's 1066 invasion of Normandy, with details like smiling horses and nude, headless corpses. The colors are fairly muted, but I'm not sure if that's merely because of their age. Who knows? Maybe years ago they were as vibrant as Technicolor. Last time I checked, cameras didn't exist back then and nobody from that time period's alive to remember. After we walked through the tapestry exhibit, audio guide in hand, we dropped them off and perused the gift shop. They had all kinds of dragon figurines to accompany my beloved Lenore (my 6'' plastic dragon who appears in a few of my art projects and even boasts her own Facebook page), but I wasn't about to shell out what they were asking. Sadly, beautiful medieval themed gifts surrounded me, but I didn't have a chance to look at them all. I had to race over to yet another cathedral. On our way from the tapestry to the cathedral, the French teacher from the University of Minnesota-Mancato who's traveling with us told us an amusing story:

In that same town, an American woman stood with two of her friends, overlooking a body of water. Very snottily, she mocked some of the other tourists and said, "I can't believe they were calling this the Pacific Ocean. Obviously it's the Atlantic."

Upon hearing this, the French teacher budged in and said, "Actually, ma'am, this is the English Channel."

Needless to say, "Ms. Arrogant-ina," as I like to refer to her, blushed.

The other students and I had been admiring an old mill while the French teacher told this story, but now that he was done, we had to get on the move again. The cathedral was a short walk away, so I knew I could quickly pop my head into a shop and catch up with the group again. I asked the shopkeeper, "Avez-vous des T-shirts avec des dragons, Monsieur?" [Do you have dragon T-shirts, sir?] He said no and pointed to a pirate T-shirt instead. Pirates have their cool points but they can't compare to dragons. I thanked him and met up with the group again. I took photos of Lenore the Dragon outside of the cathedral and went inside. What mainly distinguished this one was its crypt--I'm sorry if that sounds jaded. The best part was when a boy in our group lied down in one of the stone coffins and took a picture.

After seeing the Tapestry of Bayeux and the cathedral, we saw three sights in Normandy. We ate lunch in Port Arramanche (I nourished myself with left-overs from the previous day, including a whole avocado), stopped by some of the shops (I bought a black, bejeweled T-shirt that reads, "I Love France."), and visited their museum. Before we left, I took one more look at the water. The English Channel gleamed in the high sun and, though I saw a stretch of blue-green before me, I wondered what the water would look like in red.

Following Port Arramanche, the group hit a cluster of World War II cannons. Apparently last year a girl on the same trip climbed atop the earth sheltering the cannon and broke her ankle in three places. She had to go to the hospital and her mother even came from the United States to look after her (of course, I think any mother in her position would have loved to have an excuse to come to France.) What bothered me was how much garbage surrounded the cannons, from straws to soda cans. Besides the pollution factor, there was the respect factor. Speaking of respect, we also ventured to an Americans' cemetery in Normandy. It was nearly silent, despite the hundreds of people congregating around the memorial and gravestones. My stomach turned at the sight of all the pure white crosses and the occasional Star of David. The reason why I've never enjoyed studying military history was because I don't believe wars should start in the first place.

The rest of the day was far more cheerful to compensate for Normandy's morbidity. We stopped for the night in St. Michel in Bretagne, the site of the famous St. Michel monastery where St. Michel supposedly slayed a dragon. My roommate and I checked into our bungalow--yes, you read correctly--where our group stayed in a campground. Almost instinctively, we inspected the bathroom, but it still topped the Kellermann's. Then we persuaded another classmate to go on a walk before dinner. Ultimately, that "walk" translated into browsing the supermarché. I asked a clerk to point out dragon T-shirts but was disappointed by the selection. I was determined, though, and eventually found a lovely fairy necklace. Strangely she was marked as an elf, despite her elegant form and very prominent wings. I didn't even have to think about it; she represented exactly the kind of fairy necklace I have always wanted. For 8 Euros, she was mine. It sounds peculiar to frame the action in terms of commodification and ownership because fairies are matriarchal, but I'm simply explaining what happened. I don't advocate the enslavement of mystical creatures.)

After shopping, my roommate and I put away our purchases, ate some French cookies, and skipped to the restaurant where the group was scheduled to have dinner. Perhaps "skip" does not appropriately describe our action on the outside, but it describes everything that went on inside. I was chipper and, again, happy to be in France. I could have run into a telephone pole without a tear so long as it was a French telephone pole.

Dinner was point-blank delicious. Imagine vegetable porridge, quartered chicken, and green beans all steamy and seasoned to French perfection. Obviously they brought out bread, too (cool fact: the French don't butter their dinner bread, nor do they use olive oil.) I don't care if it sounds pretentious the meal as a whole 'était magnifique. I was so stuffed that I couldn't manage dessert. Even if I had been hungry, however, I wouldn't have finished that creme brulée. It was the one "eh" moment of the dining experience. For probably thirty to forty-five minutes following dinner, three classmates, our professor and I engaged in a heated feminist discussion about oppression and victimization. You know, the standard. It was a good exercise in digestion.

By the time our conversation on women and pornography ended, it was already ten o'clock. I refused to go to bed without getting a closer look of St. Michel, so I convinced a classmate to walk there with me. For two kilometers, we marched onward, totally agape. I've never seen a more impressive architectural feat in my whole entire life and I haven't exactly stayed cooped up in the boonies all my years, either. The monastery, in all its stone glory, rests atop an island that overlooks acres upon acres of farmland. A miniature village, where monastery caretakers once lived, forms a ring around the structure. I kept taking photographs but none of them could do a justice to the better-than-Disney castle before me. I almost couldn't breathe as I witnessed the sun set behind it. I half-expected a flock of fairies to flutter out of the numerous castle windows during those magical minutes. I really wish I could have shared that brief period with my beloved ones. The thought made the walk very poignant. It felt like six months since I had last seen home.

The walk back to our bungalos was darker and rockier. I tripped more than once but never actually fell. I was glad to finally retire to my Honeymoonesque lodging, where I took a thorough shower, put on my nightgown, and snuggled into bed before chatting with my roommate. We were both incredibly nervous about meeting our host families the next day.

A Smattering of Medieval and Monet

2009-07-05T06:17:00.001-07:00

To say that France is full of churches is an understatement. During the drive from Paris to Lisieux, my group visited two cathedrals and went inside yet another in Lisieux. Just in the vicinity of Hotel Esperance, where we stayed in Lisieux, stood three separate cathedrals. You could spend an entire vacation church-hopping in this country, though your sanity might suffer. After seeing ten of them, you would start spotting Jesus in your Nutella.

The first church, called Collégiale Notre-Dame in the historical town of Mantes, was my favorite of the day. I took photo after photo after photo until my finger started to hurt from pressing the camera button. I also liked how "Un guide détaillé en couleurs est en vente au bureau d'accueil" [A detailed guide in color is for sale in the reception office] was printed at the top of the flyer. Even churches try to sell you things these days and not just in separate boutiques, either.

In addition to touring cathedrals, we went to Monet's house and gardens, as well as a museum that features impressionistic paintings. In case you're not familiar with impressionism, it's a style of painting where the artist depicts the effect of lights on things instead of all the fine details, kind of like he's a bat with a paintbrush. Take off your contacts and squint your eyes at a flower and then you'll see like an impressionist sees. The most amusing part of Monet's house was the random box that read "Fresh Eggs" in a room that looked nothing like a kitchen or dining area. I like to imagine Monet storing eggs in that box so he could paint them full of lilly pads every morning.

The best part of the day undoubtedly involved eating. Food almost always makes me happy, especially when it's delicious (and yet I'm not morbidly obese!). We had a picnic lunch that showcased ham, chicken, turkey, two types of chicken, ice cream, avocados, apples, bananas, tomatoes, tabouli, and, of course, baguette. It's not a French meal unless bread and cheese are included; I didn't need to come to France to learn that. We sat down on a patch of lawn beside a river, a stone castle, and yet another Tudor style house full of pigeons on its roof. Somehow our conversation turned to ferrets' kleptomaniac nature, and a spider bit one of the boys in our group. I just appreciated being able to sit down and bite into gouda without being in a hurry.

We spent the evening in Lisieux, a medieval town. Though we were scheduled to eat dinner at seven o'clock, the hotel staff was definitely on Frog Time; they didn't seat us until about 7:20 p.m. or so. After devouring the ham and cheese quiche they brought us as an appetizer, however, I let go of my grudge. That quiche was a Godsend. I also had pineapple juice, which I could've done without, considering that it cost three Euros. I enjoyed the beef and green beans they brought out but the potatoes were far too bland. They tasted like boiled paper. I skipped them after one bite and concentrated on dunking my green beans into the beef broth. The conversation with the three other students at my table revolved around everything from "Michael Jackson the Artist vs. Michael Jackson the Weirdo" to the irritating qualities of tourists, specifically at the HIlton in Virginia Beach. Needless to say, it was an entertaining conversation, so chocolate mousse could only improve the experience. Maybe I should have demanded an extra cup of mousse to compensate for the potatoes.

A couple of the other students and I went walking around Lisieux after dinner, but were shocked by how empty it was. We saw several tour buses but none of the tourists. Only the bars were open, which doesn't translate into much entertainment for a non-drinker like me. It's not like they were playing music, either. So my classmates and I wandered and wandered until we had enough of admiring the same style of historical homes over and over again. Everything began to look the same, even if it was a pretty sameness. Only two things seemed amiss in the haunted setting: a giant bagpipe and a giant watering can. They were probably made out of fiberglass and inhabited a median each at the opposite sides of town.

I slept in the same room as my professor, just the two of us, which wasn't as awkward as I had anticipated. Correction: it wasn't awkward at all. Neither one of us sleepwalked or revealed humiliating habits or blackmail worthy secrets. Instead we talked about harmless things (computers, French, the town) and read. I fell asleep with my book, still exhausted thanks to the time change but excited to sleep in a real bed. At the Kellermann, I had stayed on a rickety bunkbed positioned much too closely to an armoire. Every time I climbed down the ladder, the hangers in the armoire shook around violently. It made me feel like the stereotypical fat American instead of some lithe French girl in a striped shirt and beret small enough to fit a toy dog. Also unlike the Kellermann, Hotel Esperance featured true bathrooms with bathtubs not in any way controlled by the sink. I even had counterspace for my contact lenses. I don't ask for much space in this world, but the Kellerman was too minimalist. Hotel Esperance was much more understanding about letting me put my whole body into the shower. Thanks for the accommodations, ghost town.

My First Full Day in France

2009-07-02T10:05:00.001-07:00

I can summarize my first full day in France with the following phrases: rental bicycles, the National Mosque, free garden, Champs-Elysées, Orangina, and the Eiffel Tower. Granted, these are not the most descriptive terms and even after scribbling several paragraphs, I will still only be able to provide the gist of what I did that magical day, but, hey, I'm traveling. I'm here to enjoy the distinctively European sights and smells, not stare at a computer for hours for hours on end. I can do that in Arlington or Richmond (and, believe me, I will because I'm certain several essays, poems, short stories, and scripts will come out of this trip. For all the time and money I'm spending, I better soak up some decent creative inspiration.)

I got up and ate breakfast, which is standard all over the world I'm fairly sure. My group went down to the hostel cafeteria, where a modest buffet awaited us. I stabbed two thin slices of ham, a square of cheese, a hard-boiled egg, and a buttery croissant for my petite plate. Let's just say that even in a hostel, the humblest of tourist lodgings, the croissants were still yummier than any I've eaten in the United States. Take that, Costco.

During breakfast, we all whined about our beds, the lack of air conditioning (which they apparently don't believe in here), and attempted to agree upon a place to go. Our professor is remarkably permissive and tries to let us decide where to go and what to do rather than imposing too many rules and schedules upon us. Bon choix, Madam. We eventually went with our teacher's suggestion of renting bikes in Boulogne, this gorgeous version of Rock Creek Park or Central Park. We walked over to the Metro, which was fairly boring until we reached the above-ground tracks. Suddenly blah became bam-bam. I've never seen so many beautiful apartment buildings all in one place before. Not even all of Northwest Washington is pretty; but what I witnessed looked just like scenes out of "Love in the Afternoon." All of the apartments had iron-wrought balconies, which residents often decorated with red and pink flowers. Paris is definitely going on my possible post-graduation living locations now that I've seen what the average apartment looks like. The architecture especially impresses me at this point in my life because it was only a few months ago that my boyfriend, sister, and I searched for renting space in Richmond, since we lucked out in the campus room draw. It should go without saying but most Richmond apartments cannot compare. What I also appreciated about the above ground Metro was glimpsing the Eiffel Tower, just like that. Nothing special if you're Parisian, but then again that's the same way the White House and the Capitol strike most Washingtonians.

I want to say that we got to Boulogne with no problem, but while that may have been true for the rest of the group, it was not true for me. I broke a sandal just walking there, not running or skipping. Fortunately my professor had an extra pair of shoes and even more fortunately, they fit me perfectly. Even if they didn't quite match my outfit, I was very grateful! If she hadn't had them, I would've walked barefoot to one of the expensive gift shops nearby in search of shoes.

Once we arrived at Boulogne, we rented bikes and took off for two nearby lakes. The designated bike paths were scary, though. They contained steps and plenty of bumps, which made me question whether they were bike paths at all. Several times, I thought we had somehow come across a walking path, but our map showed otherwise. It wasn't too much of a hassle, however; my enthusiasm for being in a country I've wished to visit for years trumped all else. The foliage was much lusher than I would have expected for the middle of the city and water always seemed nearby.

Of course, we had to eventually stop. We were tired and hungry, so we went to a roadside stand for lunch. The majority of us ordered a sandwich called Three Cheeses/Trois Fromages. I should have asked what type of cheese the sandwich contained, but it's too late now. To all of our chagrin, goat cheese was melted in there. And if you've never had goat cheese, well, it tastes like a petting zoo smells. As much as I paid, though, I had to stomach it. The bread almost compensated for all else. It was wonderfully toasted--slightly crunchy on the outside but warm and soft on the inside. Upon finishing our sandwiches, we biked back to the rental stand and prayed for a nearby restroom...not that we had much success in that arena.

France doesn't seem to have as many public restrooms as we do in the United States. My family and I have driven to California from Virginia for two separate vacations already, so I know that the U.S. is the land of toilets. Not only are they available, but they are free. France is not quite so generous. Basically, if you need to pee, you have to pay in one form or another. Go back to your hotel or buy a cup of coffee at a café, but don't expect businesses to just wave you into their restrooms if you're doing the "I gotta go" dance. Because they won't.

We ended up using the toilet at our hostel instead. After biking for nearly two hours, we were ready to "go home," take showers, and peacefully nap. I was never happier to see the Kellermann bathroom, which certainly says a lot about my exhaustion level. To put it mildly, the bathroom is...cramped. You may be familiar with the British expression "water closet," which aptly applies to the tiny space I had to squeeze into in order to wash the few parts of my body that I could. It was hard because there was not even a foot's distance between the toilet and the shower, and the sink controls the shower head. In other words, it's impossible to bring in your towel and fresh set of clothes without getting them wet. If you put the clothes on the toilet seat, they get soaked. If you put them in the sink, they get soaked. There is no counterspace, only a little ledge directly attached to the mirror. Even your toothpaste tube feels claustrophobic there. You either have to leave your clothes on your bed and ask your roommates to pass them to you when you're done showering or simply shower when your roommates are not present so you can get dressed at your bed.

Anyway, I took my shower and got dressed up because my professor placed a reservation at a local restaurant called Le Liberté (not "La Liberté.) My strapless dress had a gold, silver, and copper sequined top and a black skirt that came down to about my knees. My classmates were surprised that I only paid $4 for it at a thrift shop (magasin d'occasions) in Arlington. Such prices seem impossible to find in Paris, though I may run into a bargain or two at the open-air market in La Rochelle.

Sometime between showertime and dinnertime, I had a spare hour and a half. I persuaded another student who currently wasn't doing anything to visit the National Mosque with me. My taxi driver from the day before had mentioned it, so I thought, hey, why not? On our way from the stop to the mosque, we passed by a place called "Jardin des Plantes," which means "The Garden of Plants." Last time I checked, gardens traditionally contained plants, but I guess the French don't mind stating the obvious or being redundant. (To its credit, the garden was an oasis.) What was even more bizarre, however, was the mosque. Part of the building was a restaurant and the other part belonged to an Islamic institute. My favorite part about it was the giant sign on the side that read "Snacks." Tacky.

Dinner at Le Liberté was pleasant but slow. Coming from an urban environment in what I sometimes think is the most uptight country in the world, I'm used to fast service. Seems like speed's a concept they're not too familiar with in France, which can either be frustrating or relaxing depending upon the situation. The roadside stand where we had lunch was slow, as well, but I wasn't too hungry then so it didn't bother me. But Le Liberté was so slow that they didn't even bring out the menus until after we asked for drinks and I was starving. I ordered a steak Ongulet with potatoes and lettuce, as well as chocolate cake and Orangina (basically carbonated orange juice). Originally, I was going to order Tartare--then I discovered that it's RAW steak. That's right, like sushi, only beef instead of fish. For the sake of my health, I went with the COOKED steak instead. With salmonella and Mad Cow disease as possible threats, I'd rather be prudent about what I stick in my mouth. Call me paranoid but I made a good choice. The steak was great and the cake was even better. My classmates and I had fun talking, too--one girl in my group mentioned the time she came to France and her water described veal as "le petit moo" [the little moo].

After dinner, two other students and I immiedately caught the Metro and did the standard tourist thing: the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and the Champes-Elysées. It was at that last item that I saw the fanciest McDonald's of my life, including two elaborate staircases. I took far too many photos throughout the night, mainly because I was too cheap to buy anything in the gift shops. Who needs a mini Tour Eiffel that glows in the dark, anyway?

My First Night in France

2009-07-01T21:54:00.000-07:00

K.C. and I arrived at the Kellermann early enough. We checked in, dumped everything in our rooms, and finally found our long-lost third member. I ran down to see our professor fairly soon after, logged onto the Internet (it's adorable how the French pronounce WiFi like "weefee."), and met a couple of the other students in our group. After asking questions and waiting for the other students to join us, the group went on a walk sans the professor. Our neighborhood is called Port d'Italie, so you would think that it's full of Italian restaurants and shops. Nope. Part of it's Chinatown and the other part is mostly residential. The group eventually split up, half going to central Paris, the other half staying in Port d'Italie. I stayed and had the chance to peruse Chinese businesses with French signs and chat up a bunch of fourteen-year olds.

I have a habit of interacting with the locals because, obviously, they have the best knowledge of the area. I approached a gaggle of young teenagers and asked them where the most interesting places in the neighborhood were. They were thrilled to talk to an American--one of the first sentences out of the friendliest girl's mouth was "I love Obama!"--and practiced some of their English with me. I'm sure I sound just as ridiculous when I speak French; they had to constantly have me explain how to say certain words and phrases, but didn't manage too well with pronunciation. I insisted on speaking as French as possible with them and, luckily, they understood me. The only real embarrassment came when I told the friendliest girl that she was "mignonne," which translates to cute. I meant it as a harmless compliment, not because I wanted to hit on her. But she shot me a little look of surprise, so I had to clarify! I didn't want her thinking that Americans are perverts.

Around 5:00 p.m. our university group reconvened at the Kellermann so we could head out to dinner. Instead of going to a restaurant, however, we ran around Mono-prix, a French supermarket that also contains a fair amount of books, clothes, and dishes. The professor told us to grab whatever we planned that night, so I reached for several French specialities, like Buffalo mozzarella (?!?!) and apricot-apple pudding. Delicious! We ended up eating at a very scenic park close to our hostel, where I stayed long afterwards to take photos and videos.

That wasn't the end of my evening, however. Remember my promise to check out the Latin Quarter? I kept it. In case you've never heard of it, the Latin Quarter is a trendy neighborhood where many teenagers and young adults congregate at cafes, bars, and night clubs all set amongst historical buildings. It's sort of like the Parisian version of Georgetown or Old Town Alexandria. I convinced three other students to ride the Metro there. Considering that it was Tuesday night, it was not too busy, but certainly more bustling than Port d'Italie. I enjoyed the buzz, including street buskers who played music or performed tricks. It reminded me of Montreal in that sense, where buskers seem to abound. My four-some poked our heads through various businesses, but settled for an Asian buffet full of cheap egg rolls and dumplings. Apparently they call Chinese dumplings "ravioli" in French, which surprised me.

Unfortunately we had a 1:30 a.m. curfew so we couldn't stay at the Latin Quarter too long. We hopped on the Metro and returned to the hostel, where we all took much-needed showers and sleeps.

How to Screw up in a French Airport 101

2009-07-01T01:01:00.001-07:00

My parents dropped me off at Dulles International Airport, issuing precaution after precaution, over three hours before take-off. I nodded and pretended that my knees were not knocking together, but the horror stories quickly morphed into reality when I began my journey from suburban Washington, D.C. to Geneva, Switzerland to Paris, France. Granted, none of my digits are missing, nobody blinded me, and I still have everything I packed, save for the confidence that airport officers will always hunt you down if you pass by the customs desk without even waving your passport at them from afar.

My journey began with a moderate amount of stress that gradually and inevitably escalated up until the point where I crashed and sank my yellow American teeth into a loaf of chocolate pound cake that cost 0.94 Euros. (No better stress reliever exists.) At first, my father told me that my duffel bag was too large for carry-on, so I freaked out about how to reduce my belongings. I didn't want to go through the hassle of checking in any of my luggage because I knew that the airline would temporarily lose it. That's a given, no matter how many times you write your name all over your suitcases in big, obnoxious letters with a big, obnoxious Sharpie. Thankfully the lady at the ticket claim said I should be fine. I crossed that concern off my list and heaved my two bags over to the security checkpoint.

Sometime during that and the time I rummaged through my purse for my passport, a plastic headband of mine broke. Magically. I gritted my teeth, stood in a long line only to have someone bark at me about not removing my belt or jacket. We'll ignore the fact that I had to remove my hiking boots, which revealed a humiliating hole on big toe of my right sock. Oh, wait, I just mentioned it.

Of course, I can only complain about airport security so much. Everybody hates it, even the most optimistic, happy-go-lucky folks who find the sunny side to chemotherapy ("No shaving!").

In complete contrast to the whole security process, my first flight, from Dulles to Geneva, was remarkably relaxed. Thumbs up to United. I had a comfy chair, a warm blanket, a soft pillow, and...chicken curry? Airline food has certainly improved. My brownie was delicious, not by airline standards but by standards period. It was gooey, just the way brownies should be. The airplane attendants even did their job. They regularly came by to offer water and orange juice to keep us hydrated. I'm so accustomed to being deprived that to be served is a refreshing change. The only negative about the trip was that the audio on my mini-TV did not work. It's fine, though; I had my laptop so I could write and a good novel to read whenever I needed a break from writing.

My flight from Geneva to Paris was not quite so delightful. The airline clerk snapped at me about my carry-on--"C'est trop grand!" The plane was also too small for my taste; the same size of the plane I would take when visiting my family as a Grinnell girl. I didn't appreciate how it kept wavering. To its credit, the flight was short (under an hour) and they gave me hot chocolate.

The nightmare didn't begin until my airplane buddy and I arrived in France. She and I didn't even realize that we were on the same flights until we ran into each other at Dulles. It was a relief to know I wouldn't have to navigate from Charles De Gaulle to the Kellermann alone. Of course, we got into more trouble than I ever imagined.

[Insert dramatic music here.]

As soon as we got off the plane, we asked an airport worker where the British Airways terminal was so we could meet up with another girl in our study abroad group. Strangely, the woman never even thought to ask whether we had claimed our luggage and gone through customs. Neither one of those places was in plain sight, so we figured we'd see them later on. It turned out that the woman directed us through a door that led us away from luggage claim and customs. We spent the next hour trying to get to the opposite side of a huge glass wall. Picture standing in line, speaking to several different people who all suggested different things. ("Go through THAT door!" "What are you doing here?" "Stand over there!") Oh, and I've learned to speak French to French people. Speak English and you insult them so they pretend not to understand. Eventually, my airport buddy was able to get her luggage, but we went on another adventure just searching for the third girl.

Eventually, we gave up and took a taxi. Now that is an essay all its own.

Leaving at Last

2009-06-29T08:15:00.000-07:00

It's 10:30 a.m. EST on Monday, June 29 and I am finally printing out my boarding pass for Swiss Air. It's probably not very classy to admit that I've been internally squealing like Piglet all morning, but I'm not too concerned about that right now. I'm just concerned about getting through customs without them mistaking me for a terrorist, boarding my plane without leaving anything behind (plastic dragons are essential in Paris), arriving in Geneva without crashing, arriving to Paris without crashing, navigating the Parisian Metro without teenage vagabonds slashing me, and finally finding the rest of my fellow VCU students at our youth hostel. See? No proverbial sweat. Ha, I can't actually say that until I'm playing the hokey-pokey with a bidet in a five-foot square bathroom at the Kellerman.

Breathe now, Christine. Air's too expensive in France.