The List

So during my visit here, I have, obviously, noticed a few differences between the U.S. and France (or Europe in general). My friends and I sit around at lunch time and over the weekends discussing all the “weird” things the French people do or have or say or eat or whatever. And I have confirmed most of these observations with my friends so that I am sure these things are not particular to the family I live with. So I have tried to compile a list for you of all the things that I’ve noticed. It has been difficult to get all this from my eyes to my head to thoughts to words to paper to internet. I hope you find this enlightening.

1.First, and probably foremost, everything here is smaller, except maybe the household fruit platter and the refrigerator’s stock of yogurt (though the refrigerator is smaller). The cars, the buildings, the meals, everything. The glasses that we use for meals are about the size of the juice glasses that everyone in the states uses. I don’t know how French people don’t die of dehydration. The other day, my family’s fridge broke, so they had to get a new one. Their new one is bigger than the old one. Their daughter pointed it out and said, “Look, we have an American fridge.” I told her it was still smaller than fridges in America. She found it astounding that a normal fridge in the U.S. could possibly be bigger than their new monstrous fridge.

2.Cars. Hardly anybody drives an SUV. And if they do, it’s a relatively small one. And 90% of the cars in France are hatchbacks. Many people drive diesel fuel cars. Most families also have scooters (mopeds, but they don’t call them that). Scooters come in quite a variety. The family I live with has one car, which is driven to work by Mme. Gendre. M. Gendre goes to work on a scooter that’s not much less than motorcycle. (I still find it amusing to see men in business suits or women in heels riding mopeds or bikes to work.) Their daughter has a mobylette, which is not much more than a bicycle with a motor. Lots of people walk and take bikes to places. Traffic comes in all forms.


3.Milk. I could probably dedicate an entire post to the milk situation here. Where to begin. Okay, I’ll create a beginning. The sterilization of milk here is different (something about really high temperatures, but I don’t know anything about the sterilization of milk in the U.S., so I can’t give a better explanation). It is sterilized in way that allows it to stay good for a much longer time. And as far as I have seen, they don’t have different fat percentages (no skim, 2%, whole, etc.). It’s all the same. And it all tastes like half-and-half. Anyways, milk comes in liters (not gallons, but I knew it’d be like that since they don’t even have gallons in the metric system), either bottles or boxes. At the store, you buy a six-pack (non-refrigerated) of these one liter containers of milk. My family puts one or two in the fridge to have over the next few days and stores the rest of the in a basket sitting next to the fridge. My friends have told me that their families don’t store any of it in the fridge (which isn’t all that cold to begin with). Whether or not they are in the process of drinking it, it goes in the cabinet (supposedly it can stay good for up to 3 months or something like that). So milk is always lukewarm. Our professor told us that French people don’t like to drink their milk très cold because it hurts their stomachs (please go ahead and imagine me rolling my eyes, because that’s what I did when she told us this in class). Anyways, on to the use of said lukewarm milk. French people, as far as I have observed, don’t drink milk. They put it on their cereal and in their tea and coffee. They don’t just have a glass of milk. I don’t know how many of you know me and my affinity for milk, but I can go through a gallon of milk in 3 or 4 days by myself, and it only takes me that long because I ration myself. If I drank milk the way I would like to, I would go through an entire bottle or box in one day. I think I may come home with osteoporosis. So after a few weeks of being cruelly deprived of milk, my professor bought me a six pack of my very own that I can keep in the teacher’s lounge at school and drink during the day with my snacks. Chouette! I was very grateful, though my stomach is still trying to readjust to the dairy that it got used to not having regularly. Yeah, that should’ve been its own post.

4.I would like everyone to imagine the typical hobo/beggar in Atlanta or some other American city. Mostly kinda crazy. Doesn’t usually bug you too much. You feel bad for some of them. Maybe you give them something to eat or some change. Those of you who went to Paris with me, please recall those beggars. Most of them were old. Many were missing limbs or eyeballs or something. They did it right, man. They knew how to make you feel sorry for them. How could you not give a little change to an 80-year-old woman with nubs for legs? Let me describe for you the beggars in Toulouse. They range from about 20 to 50 (a perfectly reasonable working age range in my opinion). They are almost always in one piece (also perfectly reasonable working condition). They don’t seem particularly mentally unstable or emaciated or dirty or anything. So I’m not sure what the problem is. It’s hard to feel sorry for someone who appears perfectly capable of working and who seems to have no problem getting fed. Many of them have dogs too. Maybe it’s part of their tactic to get you to feel sorry for them, but it doesn’t work very well. And a lot of them are friends with each other. There are a few women who hang around the same area everyday trying to look pitiful. One day I saw all three of them walking down the street together, all with identical bags from the same store down the street. Seems to me that they are doing fine on their own and don’t need any of my spare change.

5.French people consume bread like it’s air (more evidence in favor of my theory that carbs are not what makes you fat). And not any kind of bread. Baguettes. They are everywhere. And they are all the same. You get it in restaurants, at home, for breakfast, for lunch and dinner, for snacks. Women walk around with them sticking out of their purses. One of the guys in my group got drunk one night, stumbled home, and woke up the next morning to find a huge chunk of baguette stuck to his shoe like toilet paper. And it is very difficult to find any other kind of bread. Wheat bread is nearly nonexistent. I sometimes wonder if the French people have any idea what they are missing out on by limiting the range of bread that they eat. I am hard-pressed to think that they would continue this silly baguette nonsense if they had one roll from O’Charley’s. And baguettes are hard. They’re difficult to eat. The first week here, I had a toothache that was severely bothered by the ridiculously hard bread. The only thing that I really do like baguettes for is breakfast. Saw off a chunk, saw it in half, toast it, put butter and a little bit of jelly on it (and I don’t even normally like jelly!), and you’ve got quite an enjoyable little breakfast meal (that and a bowl of cereal in order to get at least a little bit of milk in my diet). They even have a baguette setting on their toaster. It makes the toaster a little wider so that the baguette doesn’t get stuck (I, of course, was not told this until I did get my baguette stuck in the toaster). I think that the day I return I will go to the store and buy an entire package of King’s Hawaiian rolls.

6.Utensils are a little different. Spoons are ridiculously small. It takes about twice as long to eat a bowl of cereal with those tiny little spoons. And knives aren’t much in the way of knives. They are more like slabs of metal without a distinct blade, making cutting meat and fruit quite difficult. I think I make a fool out of myself anytime we have fruit. Because, of course, they don’t just pick up a piece of fruit and eat it with their hands. They always cut it into pieces to be eaten. I don’t get it. The peaches we have at dinner would be a million times easier to eat if I could just bite into it.

7.Mexican food does not exist in France. If I were to have had one meal in the U.S. before I left, I would have had Mexican food for the mere reason that I can’t here. One day at a boulangerie, I saw a sign for a quesadilla with guacamole. There’s not much in this world that is better than a quesadilla with guacamole. Cheese is only the most amazing food in the world and guacamole is not too far behind it in line. So, naturally, I ordered this quesadilla. Imagine my disappointment when it was, by no means, a quesadilla. First of all, there was no cheese in it. Last time I checked “queso” means cheese in Spanish, and a quesadilla, by the laws of physics, must have cheese. But it didn’t. It had an egg (as if that made up for it). The guacamole was a small lump of green mush absolutely unidentifiable as guacamole. It didn’t taste anything like it. And there was barely any of it. And then this quesadilla was not flat. It was wrapped up into a tube. And it had turkey or chicken (deli meat style) in it. So basically I had a wrap for lunch. It, in no way, resembled a quesadilla. Highly disappointing.

8.Toilets are an interesting concept here, especially public ones. You often have to pay for them unless they are in a restaurant or museum in which you have already paid to be there. They are also often co-ed, but that doesn’t bother me a whole lot, it just startles me a little to see a man in what I have thought to be the women’s restroom. And many public toilets do not have toilet seats or toilet paper. I inquired aloud as to why there are no toilet seats. One of my friends said it was probably to discourage people from pooping in public toilets. Soap and/or paper towels are also a precious commodity. I feel that if I pay to use the bathroom I have the right to sit my butt down on a toilet seat, poop if I feel so inclined, pipe myself with toilet paper, and clean and dry my hands with soap and paper towels or an electric hand dryer (that actually works). I feel that I have paid for that right. The French feel differently. They feel you have paid for the right to hover over a bowl, drip dry, rinse your hands with cold water and shake them dry. My favorite public bathrooms are the shower stall things. There is a hole in the ground about 8 inches or so in diameter, places for you to put your feet so they won’t slip, and handles on the wall. You are supposed to place your feet in the special spots, hang on to the handles, lean back and hover over the hole and somehow aim your pee to land in this hole. It’s ridiculous. I won’t do it. My friends and I plan our day so that we end up places with bathrooms that we can use for free. Often times we also go even if we don’t have to for fear of having to find a public restroom and hour later. (“Okay, we’ll eat lunch first and we can use that bathroom. Then we’ll go to the museum where there will probably be a bathroom for us. Then we can go back by the hotel before dinner, and we can go to the bathroom there before we leave.”) And, in all toilets, there is not much water. So whatever falls out of you has a lot of time to fall and gather speed. This makes for slightly embarrassing situations occasionally. And there is no uniform flush handle. It is different everywhere you go. Sometimes it’s a big button on the wall; sometimes a chain to pull; sometimes this weird double button thing in the top of the toilet (which apparently allows you to have two different levels of water flow); sometimes a button that you have to pull up on. Quite varied. In general, it is a miracle to have a lock on the door, a toilet seat, toilet paper, warm water, soap, AND paper towels all in one bathroom. As you can imagine, using the bathroom is always an adventure, though not one I particularly enjoy going through on a regular basis.

9.During mass, they say the short creed instead of the long one, at least at the church in Toulouse that I’ve gone to. Maybe it’s not like that everywhere.

10.Whether I’m in Toulouse or some other city, at the end of the day, my feet are filthy. I wear flip-flops everyday, but I don’t ever walk around barefoot. Still my feet are perpetually dirty. When I get back, it’ll take a week to scrub off all the grime and get my feet back into the immaculate condition they were in before coming to Europe.

11.Upon mentioning that I am from the U.S., many people immediately ask about California. I have to inform them that I am from Georgia, which is quite far away from California. Sometimes they ask about Canada. Again I tell them that Georgia is very far away from Canada. Once, at that party I went to, I told a guy I was from the state, and he immediately started talking about Arnold Schwarzenegger and some movie I had never seen before. Of course, it took me a long time to figure out who he was talking about because he was saying Schwarzenegger very strangely. My friend Mandy lives with a family who seems to think Americans are a big joke. Anytime she mentions anything about the U.S., their general response is, “Maybe that’s why all Americans are fat.” And it’s often a silly notion. Either way, it seems that we are making a great impression of the rest of the world.

12.There are not a lot of outlets in a single room. Maybe only one or two. At home it’s not a problem because I only have one adaptor. But during class, when everybody wants to plug in their computer, it becomes a little bit of a problem. And sometimes there is something in the outlet that covers the holes and won’t allow you to plug anything in. I have no idea what’s up with that. But it proved to be a pain in the butt the other day when I need to plug in my computer.

13.There are a lot of dogs in France. They seem to be generally better natured than their American counterparts. And most places are pretty tolerant of dogs. I’ve seen them in restaurants, stores, on the trains, etc. The problem with so many dogs is that there is dog crap everywhere. It’s all over the sidewalks, and I spend most of my voyages dodging dog crap. If they even have a “Do your doodie” law, it’s certainly badly enforced.

14.Everyone asks or mentions the topless beaches upon hearing that I am in or would be traveling to Europe. Most of the time people said, “Oh, nudity is different in Europe. There’s nothing sexual about the topless beaches. Everyone is much more tolerant of nudity.” Let’s start with “topless beaches”. There are no “topless beaches”. There are beaches. And there are Europeans. Which means that there are beaches with topless Europeans everywhere. Beaches are not designated one or the other. And the earlier comment about nudity less sexual. That statement is completely limited to the beach (where it is truly not a sexual thing). But Europe is more open about nudity, and it is very sexual. Ladies, I would like you all to think about all those times you stand in line at the store, looking at the magazines covered in pictures of beautiful women and celebrities. Please recall how this usually makes you feel pretty bad about yourself. Well now remove their clothes. Congratulations. You’re in Europe. Not a day goes by that I don’t see pictures of nude people. Excuse me, let me clarify, nude women. The only nude men I’ve seen were the Greco-Roman statues in the museum we went to. All the nude pictures are of women (coincidentally, all with big boobs). If I ever walk up to a magazine stand or go into a magazine and book store in a train station or something, I sometimes wonder if I accidentally stumbled into a porn shop. It’s everywhere. And it’s very sexual. If anyone tells you otherwise, they are lying out of their butt hole.

15.So America makes better movies than everybody else (for the most part at least). And people in other countries love to watch our movies, but in their own language of course. But instead of using subtitles, they dub over the voices with different voices in the country’s respective language. Well, France is no exception. They do it with all the movies and TV shows (like Friends). I don’t know about you guys, but that would drive me nuts. I would rather have subtitles that I have to read than have to listen to dubbed voices. The voices never match up quite right to the characters and, obviously, the words don’t match the lips. It makes me wonder if the French people ever get tired of this discombobulation of entertainment. I would hate it. I guess I should be thankful to the U.S. for something.

16.PDA runs rampant here in France. Couples feel the need to hang around the bus stops, buses, metros, and many other public arenas professing their love very physically. I’m a little tired of watching couples making out everywhere. And it’s not just teenagers. It’s everybody of all ages. I guess I have to hand it to the French for living up to their romantic and passionate stereotype.

17.Before leaving for France, I was told that I should use my credit card as much as possible because it would get the best exchange rate. I was told that, in general, I wouldn’t need much cash and that most places accept credit cards. So that was m general plan. Unfortunately, nobody bothered to let us know that most of the places you go on a daily basis do not accept credit cards. The vast majority of boulangeries, patisseries, sandwicheries, restaurants, etc. only take cash. Meaning that I often had to make trips to the ATM for cash. And they also don’t like to accept big bills. And by big bills, I mean anything bigger than a ten. I think if it was up to France, all money amounts would be in the form of a coin. They would love to be able to pay for everything in one and two euro pieces. Americans generally don’t like to carry change. They would rather bills. France (and most of Europe I believe) would rather coins and no bills. Additionally, all French people have a “carte bleue”, which is a kind of credit card thing that comes with a PIN. I think it makes everything easier for them, but a pain in the butt for me. There are a lot of places that accept this “carte bleue” but not regular credit cards. A lot of money borrowing and “covering” went on when we found ourselves in sticky situations of needing cash and not having it. Generally, it was not as easy as the study abroad information people made it sound.

18.Adding –erie to the end of any word makes it a shop/restaurant for that thing. Examples: boulangerie, pâtisserie, sandwicherie, chocolaterie, saladerie, crêperie, papeterie, viennoiserie, librairie, brasserie. I’m sure there are many more that I just can’t think of right now. And you can always make up new ones. I’m sure a shop for suitcases could be called a “valiserie” if the owner so chose so. And here are the translations for you (in case you couldn’t figure them out), respectively. A store for: bread, pastries, sandwiches, chocolate, salads, crêpes, paper supplies, drinks (cocktails), books, bar/restaurant (I’m not sure of a good translation for this one; it was usually a bar and restaurant combination thing).

19.The atmosphere in restaurants is generally more relaxed and laid back. In most cities, there are restaurants and cafés everywhere. You walk up, tell them how many people you have in your group, and they either tell you to sit anywhere you feel like (if the place isn’t too crowded) or set up a table for you. There is no hostess with a seating chart or anything silly like that. There is no line outside the door while people wait for a table to be empty. If a restaurant appears to be full, people just move along to the next one. After eating, there’s no rush for the check. They only bring it once you have asked for it. You can sit around and socialize for as long as you feel. And they don’t split the check for you. Most of the time people just pay their part of the check or their fraction of the check (1/4 if there are 4 people, for example). And tipping is not customary in France (or in Spain), and unfortunately customer service is not particularly customary in return. But overall it’s more relaxed. There’s no rush to get out for the next people who are standing in line or anything. It’s kinda nice.

Vive la France!

This past weekend was my last full weekend. Everyone in the group kinda split up to do their own thing. I planned to meet up somewhere near Nice with Lexi. She and her family take a big vacation every year, usually to Europe. Her parents used to live in Europe, so they love it here and return whenever they can. Plus, Lexi’s mom speaks French fluently. So, via email, she informed me that she would be in Cannes (as in the Cannes Film Festival) on Saturday sometime after leaving Italy. I went ahead and bought a train ticket to go on Friday evening and come back late Sunday night. Thursday before I left, I decided to go see Harry Potter. Ludivine had told me that the movie was in English with French subtitles. But, of course, I forgot to ask her which theater had it in English. So I just bought tickets at the theater near my bus stop. So upon arriving to the movie and sitting through the previews (in French), I began to worry that I had screwed up and that the movie was actually going to be in French. Alas, ‘twas so. So I watched the new Harry Potter movie that I was so excited to see in French. Which means I missed all the jokes and much of the sentiment. I understood the movie overall since I’ve read the book (twice I think). But I missed a dialogue. Generally, since I can’t actually think in French yet, I would try to translate a sentence, then I’d miss a sentence, and back and forth it went. And I wasn’t able to translate all of the sentences that I attempted to translate. Hence, my Harry Potter movie experience was not nearly as fulfilling as it should have been. So I plan on seeing it again when I get home.

So I left Friday morning not too long after my French family left for a two week vacation. That’s right. I’m living by myself in France for the last week. I was sad that they were leaving, though, because I was finally getting better at being able to carry on a conversation. Anyways, they left for Spain Friday morning a little bit before I left for Cannes. I took my 6 hour train to Cannes, keeping my backpack at my feet. Since I’m generally paranoid about getting my stuff stolen, I never put it on the luggage racks. On this particular trip, my paranoia earned me some dirty looks from the lady sitting across from me, since my bag was at her feet as well as mine. But I chose not having my stuff stolen over being polite to the random French lady. I eventually got to Cannes, where I promptly found my hotel and checked in (and pleased to find that I had internet in my room). Being that it was about 8:00, I set out in search for a restaurant for dinner.

I eventually found a little open porch type place next to the beach and decided that would be a nice place to eat. I walked up to a waitress and told her one person (as that is what you usually do in French restaurants, and they usually just point to the tables and tell you to pick something). Well, in response, the waitress asked me a question in French. I thought she asked me if I wanted to sit down inside, so I said yes. She indicated the tables as they often do in French restaurants. I picked a table, and the waitress promptly brought me a beer and no menu. I was pretty confused at this point considering I had never ordered a beer, don’t remember hearing the waitress ask if I wanted one, and I was hungry and wanted to eat. I decided to politely drink my beer (even though I don’t really like beer), and wait for her to bring me the menu. Instead, she brought me the check for the beer I never ordered. I began thinking that I may have accidentally walked into a beach bar that didn’t even serve food until I saw the couple at the next table receive their food order. Finally, I asked the waitress for a menu. She gave me a funny look, as if this was a weird request, but brought me a menu anyways. From this point on, some other guy became my waiter (which is common in France; since there is no tipping, somebody just serves you, nobody specific). He kept speaking to me in English even though I kept trying to speak to him in French. I guess we both just wanted to practice, but the other was not cooperating. Anyways, I ordered something that sounded good (and it was in English, so I did recognize what I was ordering). But what I was served was not what I had been expecting. There were very thin pieces of steak that looked as though they had not been cooked at all. On the steak were mushrooms, olive oil, and parmesan cheese. Raw meat, mushrooms, and olive oil don’t have much flavor on their own, so all the flavor was in the cheese. It was strange. Plus, I was still trying to finish this beer that I didn’t want and only drank because I was getting charged for it and I knew they would bring me water when I finished. Overall, not a successful dining experience. But oh well.

Anyways, I got up the next day, Bastille Day, and took my time getting ready. Eventually I got myself out the door. I got some food and went shopping but didn’t buy anything as I often was drawn to the kind of stores that I definitely could not afford. Later, I made use of the internet in my room and read my book for a little while. Mostly passing time until Lexi got into town. Eventually, early in the evening, she called to let me know that she had reached Cannes. We made plans to meet on a corner near my hotel so that we could go to dinner together. Unfortunately, nobody anticipated the traffic horror that was Bastille Day (it was probably only as bad as normal Connector traffic in Atlanta, but this is Europe, so that’s a little unusual). So I was waiting on the corner for almost an hour (finding myself silently thanking cell phone companies for the ingenious idea of putting games on your cell phone) when Lexi’s mom finally called me from a phone booth a few blocks away. So after a little confusion that eventually involved me running after their car, I caught up with them so that we could finally eat. Since Lexi and her family go to this part of Europe often, they have favorite dives where they like to eat and hang out. So Mrs. Nichols had a place in mind where she wanted to go to eat moules-frites, mussels with fries. But apparently the place had disappeared (which is fairly uncommon for Europe). So we picked some other place that said they had moules-frites, and we sat and ate and watched fireworks going off over the sea. It was nice, but afterwards, we had to battle the traffic again, putting us at home pretty late.

The next day I met up with Lexi and her family again. We drove to Èze, a little city close to both Cannes and Nice. Like many little cities, Èze had a little medieval castle and village on a hill overlooking the sea. We ate lunch there and walked around the village looking in the little shops and stuff. Afterwards, we drove down toward the water. Everybody (except Lexi’s dad) went for a run (along the coast of the sea; it was pretty amazing), and we met up again afterwards so that we could go swimming in the beautiful Mediterranean Sea. We went to a little area that Lexi and I had seen during our run that looked to have nice water and not a lot of people. The Nichols had brought their snorkeling gear with them (and apparently go snorkeling everyday while they are here; I’m so jealous). So we went in the water with the masks and flippers to explore stuff. Unfortunately, we had picked a bad spot to explore. There were hardly any fish, a lot of sea grass, and not much to look at in general. But it was still really cool and I would love to go snorkeling sometime in really clear waters again. Anyways, we went back in with the intention of going to a special place in Nice that they like to go to where we could see lots of fish and cool stuff. But at this point, it was starting to get late and I had a train to catch. So all we had time to do was go back to Cannes and eat dinner. Afterwards, I caught my train back to Toulouse, arriving just after five in the morning. Thankfully, the buses get started early, and I was able to get a bus back home. At home, I slept for about an hour and a half before having to get up to get ready for class. Needless to say, I was exhausted all day on Monday.

A Classic...

I know you have all seen this, but it's relevant, hilarious, and truly a classic. Enjoy!

Barcelona

I’m not a big believer in luck. I usually like to look at it as God dealing you certain cards for some unknown reason (or sheer coincidence). And I think He dealt me a Royal Flush this weekend in order to save my butt.

We left for Barcelona Thursday afternoon after class. We were supposed to take a train from Toulouse to Narbonne, change trains in Narbonne (about a 35 min layover), and take different train to Barcelona (the last one of that evening). We were traveling in a group of about nine, but we were kind of spread out on the train. A few of us, including myself, were all in one car, though a couple of them were not supposed to be. Well I was reading on the train and got a little sleepy, so I put my head down on the tray table, figuring that, in the off-chance that I fell asleep, my friends would let me know when we were getting close to our stop.

I’ll give you the moral of the story now: don’t rely on the group. I’m sure you can see where this is going. I fell asleep and never noticed the train stop and my friends didn’t notice that I wasn’t there until the train had already left the station. A few minutes after the Narbonne stop, my friend Roudabeh called me and asked me where I was. I then realized that she was at the station in Narbonne and I was still on the train going to Lord-knows-where, Europe. After I spent a few minutes freaking out in my head, I calmed down and realized that the worst thing that could happen would be that I would have to spend more money on another ticket and/or a hotel in some random French village and get to Barcelona late. So, about 20 min after the Narbonne station, the train stopped at Beziers. I got off the train, contemplated taking a bathroom break, but decided I couldn’t spare the time and that I should take care of more important matters first. I went to the ticket window and explained to the lady (in French; please be proud) what my problem was. She pointed to the schedule on the wall behind to indicate that there was a train for Barcelona scheduled to leave the station at 17:42. I looked at my watch, which read 17:44. The lady started running around behind the counter calling people and asking questions. A minute later she informed me that the train was there at platform B and that I just needed to show my ticket to the man at the platform. I said thanks and ran to the platform. The train pulled up as I was climbing the stairs to the platform. I showed the man at the platform my tickets and he told me to get on the train at the car right in front of us. He closed the door behind me as I climbed on, and the train pulled out of the station. This train went right back to Narbonne, where it picked up my friends so we could all go to Barcelona.

The train was crowded, so I found a seat next to a 60ish-year-old man. After hearing me talking to my friends on the phone (in English) to let them know that I was fine, the man asked me, with a British accent, what part of the states I was from. This jump-started a long conversation that took up a fair portion of the rest of his trip (he was getting off the train a few stops before mine). This is what I found out about him: he was on his way back from Malaysia; he worked in construction all over the world and only got to go home every 8 weeks for about 2 weeks at a time; he had a wife, a daughter, and a girlfriend; his wife was Italian; his girlfriend was Peruvian; he met his girlfriend on a tour in Peru when her husband had ditched her to go be with his girlfriend (did you follow that?); his girlfriend had moved to Spain, which is where he was going currently to visit her, then it was back to the U.K. to see his wife and daughter; he had a sailboat; he had a house in the country in Spain (which was solar-powered, so I thought that was pretty chouette); and he seemed to think very highly of himself. I didn’t. He merely seemed pompous (which was increased greatly by the British accent) and shallow. He could have been making it all up to look impressive for all I know. So you can imagine what kind of company he was for two or three hours.

There is a large group of students from Georgia Tech that goes to Barcelona every year, and one of my friends told me that she was going. So when I thought about going to Barcelona, I figured that my friend would probably let me stay with her (saving me the trouble of finding a hotel or hostel and saving me money). I found out a couple of days before going that she wasn’t in Barcelona or abroad at all for that matter (which is strange because I distinctly remember talking to her about it at the study abroad informational meeting in April). So I didn’t have any reservations for a place to stay. I began researching online only to find out that Barcelona is a ridiculously popular place to travel to. Everything was booked. The cheapest thing I could find with availability was about €500 (I don’t know if that was per night or for the whole weekend, but either way, I don’t have that kind of money). So I went to Barcelona without a place to stay (but knowing that my friends wouldn’t leave me to sleep in the streets of some foreign city). We got into Barcelona pretty late Thursday night, and immediately got some maps from the train station (the usual procedure upon landing in a foreign city). After a few of my friends had checked in the apartment they had rented (and let me in to put my stuff there; they were going to let me sleep on the floor the first night, and I promised that I would go hunting for a hostel the next day), we wandered around for a little bit looking for food. At this point it was after midnight, so even though a bunch of places were open, they weren’t serving food. I found that interesting. In Spain they don’t eat dinner until about 9 or 10 at night, but apparently you have to be done by midnight, leaving you a small window of time to eat dinner. No wonder everyone is skinny; they don’t have much time to eat, so they can’t eat as much. Anyways, we finally found one of those kebab type places (I don’t think those places ever close). Afterwards we returned to the apartment so that we didn’t waste all of the next day sleeping (only to be serenaded in the middle of the night by some very drunk girl in the street outside our window).

So the next day, Firday, we got up and went to the Sagrada Família, the cathedral designed by Gaudi, a famous architect from Spain who is known for his unique style. They have spent about 120 years building this church, and it’s still not done. It was so interesting though. It was clearly a cathedral, but everyone pictures cathedrals as being old and gothic. This one looked new (since it is, relatively) and had very unique, modern architecture. I liked it. We were allowed to take the elevator up to the top of the towers on the cathedral, which we did and took lots of pictures at the top. We were allowed to take the spiral stairs back down to the main floor. I got pretty dizzy just walking in corkscrew for several minutes. After we left the cathedral, we went to lunch and did a little bit of shopping. We wanted to visit this famous house in Barcelona that Gaudi had also designed for some family, but it was €13 to get in, so we decided not to go. My friends went back to fit in with the Spanish culture and take a “siesta”. I decided then to go out and look for a hostel. Most that I passed had signs indicating that they were full. Finally I found one that had two beds left (more cards in my winning hand). I went ahead and reserved the bed and returned a few minutes later with my stuff.

This was my first experience in a hostel, and I don’t know if any of you have ever stayed in one, so I’ll tell you about mine. This one was a shared hostel, so there were lots of people, who probably didn’t know each other, all in one room. You get a locker and the key to your locker. The locker wasn’t very big. Certainly not big enough to fit my entire backpack in. So I took out my more important (and expensive) things and locked them in my locker, leaving only my clothes in my backpack sitting out. There was a fitted sheet and a pillow on the bed, but no blanket. Upon request, you could get a towel. The showers were communal, but thankfully my hostel had separate ones for guys and girls(not the case in all hostels). My hostel had a couple of computers with internet, so I was actually able to check my email and facebook and such (essentials for living, of course). My first night there, I was in a room with 4 bunk beds (so 8 people). There were a couple of German girls, an Irish guy, another American girl (who just moved to Atlanta actually), and me. The other few people showed up in the middle of the night and I know nothing about them. An interesting mix, I thought. The next night I was moved to a bigger room where about 20 people could stay. Most of those people were American. It was kind of a weird experience. It almost felt like being in jail, except you were allowed to leave. So not like jail I guess. Barracks might have been a better description.

After a shower and a “siesta” of my own, our whole group (made up of the nine of us from Toulouse plus a few other people from the Spain programs that were friends with others from my group, making 12 people) went out for dinner and to hopefully go dancing. Unfortunately, as is often the case, big groups are bad at making decisions. Finally a few of us decided to take charge and go sit down in a restaurant that looked good. A lot of good that did. Most of the group thought the place was too expensive and left to go eat a few doors down. But five of us stayed. It was a little bit expensive, more than I would spend on a normal meal, but it was definitely worth it. We ordered a couple of tapas to share: mozzarella cheese with some kind of pesto sauce and salmon with something. They were both really good. But for the rest of my meal, I ordered a salad that came with pine nuts, honey dressing, and some of the best goat cheese I’ve ever had in my life. It was amazing and totally worth the few extra euros. After dinner, we met back up with our friends (who had had a much more lame meal and some blah restaurant). We started walking towards the area where someone had said there would be clubs and such. We pretty quickly realized that we had no idea where anything was and that we weren’t getting anywhere. So most of us went back to our respective places.

The next day, Saturday, I woke up in time to make sure that I still had a bed in the hostel for the next night. Once that was confirmed, I set out to spend a little time shopping and exploring by myself. Barcelona’s a pretty cool city. There’s a lot of people (most of whom are not Spanish; almost everyone in my hostel was American), and it’s busy all the time. After awhile, I headed to the beach to meet some of my friends. I didn’t find the friends I was looking for as their directions sucked (“See the plane with the yellow banner. It’s passing me…now. Okay come find me.”). But I found some other people from my group of friends, who also hadn’t been able to find the group via their crappy directions (“We’re at the beach in Barcelona. I see water and there’s people. Come find us.”) I think I got a false sense of security from the beaches in Nice that there were not as many topless Europeans as I had feared. Barcelona was very different. About half of the women were topless, of all shapes and sizes (just like you said Mom). And the half that wasn’t was probably entirely made up of Americans. And there were a lot of people at the beach. I hate to admit that I am so influenced by the environment in which I have spent my whole life (I feel as if I should be flexible enough to get past it), but it made me uncomfortable. I would probably gawk at such behavior in the states. Maybe it’s just because I can’t possibly imagine being topless in front of that many people (there were a lot of them, trust me) that it bothered me. But whatever. It’s Europe.

Anyways, after the beach we ate and again returned to our hostels and such. After a shower and a “siesta”, we went out again for dinner and hopefully something afterwards. Following dinner, we met up with the rest of our group. We went to McDonald’s because apparently in Europe you can buy beer at both McDonald’s and Burger King. I didn’t have any, so I couldn’t tell you if it was any good (though I don’t suspect that it was, not that I’d know either way with my very limited knowledge of beers). Afterwards we finally found a club to dance at. Unfortunately, the music was not very good dancing music, so we only stayed a little while before leaving in search of another club. When that attempt proved futile, I decided to head back to my hostel as it was 4 a.m. by that time and I had to check out of my hostel by noon.

The next day we had planned to go to the Picasso museum and to Gaudi’s park. But after I left my hostel, I couldn’t get hold of any of my friends (or any of you back home either; I needed a favor, but nobody answered the phone). So I sat in a park and read for a little while and read a book. After awhile, I got hold of them and found out that they were already headed for Parc Güell (Guadi’s park). I took the metro to some stop way up on the map and started following the map to the park. I quickly found myself hiking up a ridiculous hill (with my pack on my back since I had to leave my hostel). I finally made it to the top, sweating like a pig and thanking myself for being a runner. The park was very interesting and Guadi’s house was in the middle of it. There were lots of instrumentalists there playing a variety of things. (Dad, there was a guy playing “Summertime” on the trumpet, so I called you, but, again, you didn’t answer.) It overlooked the entire city and had interesting stuff to look at. I never found my friends there, so I just wandered around by myself. Eventually, I had to head back down the ridiculous hill to take the metro to the train station. The trip home was, thankfully, less eventful. I got home kinda late Sunday night and went to bed pretty soon after getting home. Overall, a good weekend.

Tres Drole!

This is a comedian named Eddie Izzard (most of you know him, I'm sure). He's got a great clip about learning French (which some of you may have seen as well). But watch this video, as it is tres drole (very funny).

Stay Tuned!

I´m in Barcelona and it´s already been interesting. I´m in a hostel right now, which is an interesting experience. Stay tuned for updates on Monday!

No hablo español

I would like to begin by saying that Jill would’ve been a very helpful commodity this weekend. But she’s inconsiderate and in Argentina, making herself useless to me. Thanks Yill.

This weekend, Mandy and I went to Madrid. Everyone else in the group had decided to go to Milan, Italy. But it was a 14 hour train ride to get there, so we decided to go to Madrid (as Spain is a lot closer to Toulouse than Italy). Well so much for that plan because, when we went to the train station to buy tickets, we found out that it was going to take about 14 hours to get to Madrid also. Oh well. We went anyways. We bought tickets to leave Thursday afternoon, arrive Friday morning, then leave Madrid Saturday night, returning to Toulouse Sunday midday. I stayed up late Wednesday night trying to book a hostel or cheap hotel. Everything was booked, and I was pretty sure there must have been something going on over the weekend (which I found out later was the Gay Pride Parade for Madrid).

So, after taking an all-day long French exam on Thursday, we went to the train station and caught our train. We had to change trains at the border between France and Spain in a town called Irún. During the next train ride (the overnight one), we realized why it was going to take 14 hours to get to Madrid. We stopped almost every hour and sat at each train station for about 20 min. And when we were moving, we moved really slow. So, as you can imagine, we didn’t get much sleep. Sometime during this trip, I called Maria to ask her if she had any family in Madrid (hoping for a possible place to stay, since we were without a hotel). But she informed me that the entire family was going to be leaving the next day to go on vacations, so no free boarding.

Almost immediately upon stepping off the train in Madrid (at 7:30 in the morning, mind you), I found myself incredibly thankful for what French I know. My single year of Spanish in high school just wasn’t cutting it, especially since I have forgotten most of it. Because now we’re in Madrid very early in the morning, we’re very hungry, and we don’t have a hotel. Luckily there was a hotel reservation lady at the train station. We managed to get a hotel booked, though it cost about twice as much as we normally would have paid, but we only had to stay there one night (since the other two would be spent on the train). We then took the metro to our hotel (since the train station is across town from everything in Madrid), and checked in. The extra money spent on the hotel ended up being worth it as it was a pretty chouette hotel.

I would like to precede the following story with a disclaimer: I don’t really know the purpose of an embassy in another country. So here’s my story. A kid in our class told us before we left for Madrid that, if we had any problems or needed any help with anything, we could go to the embassy (since Madrid is the capital). He said it was kind of like guest relations for that country. So Mandy and I decided that, since we didn’t speak Spanish or know anything about Madrid, we would go to the embassy and get some information in English. So we set out in search of the U.S. embassy (with a map in hand; we’re not that stupid). We first found the British embassy and figured it may be good enough since they also speak English. But the gates were closed (I guess we should have expected as much). There was a sign that said, “This is not the British consulate. For problems with visas, immigration, etc, go to the consulate, blah blah blah.” So we decided not to try to get help there, as we no longer knew what you were allowed to do at that embassy. We continued our pilgrimage to the American embassy. Finally, we found ourselves outside its walls, and eventually found a gate with a guard. He told us to go around the corner to the entrance. But outside the entrance is a long line of people. The line is labeled “Immigration and blah blah for non-citizens” and everybody in this line has a bunch of paperwork. There’s a much shorter line for U.S. citizens indicating that you need an appointment before you can go in. We both realize that we have no idea what an embassy is really for and decide to abandon the cause and eat lunch.

But we’re in Spain, so noon isn’t a normal time to be eating lunch. After being kicked out of a café since it was closed, we wandered around looking for a place to eat. Nothing opens until about 1:30 because this is Spain and they don’t eat any meal at any normal hour. Luckily we stumble upon the Hard Rock Café and decide to go American for lunch. It was open, and they spoke English. Afterwards, we found a tourism center that had a bunch of maps and brochures, so we stole a bunch. We decided to go to a museum that had a Van Gogh exhibit, but we have to buy tickets for a certain time frame. So, while waiting for our time frame, we took a walk to the park in Madrid. I would like to let you know that Madrid has a very chouette park with all kinds of cool crap in it. While in the park, we see a group of people watching something on the ground. We go over and see this guy painting picture. Except he’s not using any brushes. And he’s using spray paint. Just spray paint and pieces of newspaper to help create weird effects with the paint. Within minutes he turns a plain piece if poster into a mess of color and soon after an actual picture. It was super-chouette. We hung around and watched him paint a couple and, of course, bought a couple (so you’ll get to see them when I bring them home).

By that time, we had to head back to the museum. Afterward, we went to the hotel to chill for a little while before dinner. But we then encountered the same problem in a search for dinner. It was about 7:30 or 8:00 (reasonable for France), but nobody was eating in the restaurants. They were all full, but everyone was just having drinks. But we found a restaurant and ate (with very bad service; the waiter was very uninterested in helping us, as was the case in many restaurants in Madrid). Afterwards, we went to the hotel to crash as we still hadn’t actually gotten to sleep the night before on the train.

The next day was mostly spent wandering around Madrid, shopping, and looking at stuff. We went to see the Spanish castle and the large church that’s next to it. The church was really cool. It was fairly white and the ceiling was really colorful, as were the stained glass windows. I was trying to decide if it was the Spanish style or if it had been recently restored. Either way it was pretty chouette. We then took the metro across town to see the bull-fighting stadium. By the time we got there, it was closed, and there are only bull fights on Sundays. But the building itself was really awesome. After that we just headed back to the train station (after another dinner fiasco of course). We spent another mostly sleepless night on a train, arriving back in Toulouse just after noon.

I spent the rest of the day feeling exhausted and therefore very much out of my element. I rode a bike to and from church, which didn’t pair up very well with being tired and lacking balance. At some point on the way home, my foot slipped off the pedal, and my sandal fell of in the middle of the street. Luckily a bus was coming. So I pulled the bike onto the sidewalk and waited for the bus to drive over my shoe. Finally I got my shoe back and made it home (sweating of course, since it’s mostly uphill on the way home from the city). As you can imagine, I crashed pretty hard that night when I finally made it to bed.

A Night on the Town!

So the family that I live with has a daughter who is 19, Ludivine. She’s pretty nice, and I like her. I had hoped we would be able to hang out more so that I’d get to know a young French person. But because she just finished her school exams and therefore the school year (as did most European students), we don’t see much of each other. I’m gone all day at class, and she’s gone all evening with her friends. My evenings are spent reading, doing homework, eating dinner, and going to bed early since I wake up at the butt crack of dawn to run (well, actually, here dawn is at about 5 in the morning, but you get the idea). I don’t really go out and do stuff on weeknights (partially because of the aforementioned reason and partially due to the fact that my family doesn’t live right in the city where all my classmates live; I also reserve going out for the weekends when we travel). But, still, I secretly hoped that Ludivine would invite me to go out with her and her friends sometime.

Well, one night at dinner last week when Ludivine was absent again, M. and Mme. Gendre (the parents of the family that I live with) mentioned that I hadn’t gone out at night with my friends and asked why. I didn’t have a good answer. I tried to tell them that some of the kids in my group from Tech are friends with each other but not with the whole group, so everyone doesn’t hang out together (the best way I could think to explain in French the weird “clique” thing going on in our group of only 13 to begin with). They seemed to understand this, but I think it may have been interpreted as, “Veronica is kind of a loser with no friends, and surely that’s the reason she never goes out and not because she wakes up way too early in the morning.” Because the next night after dinner Ludivine invited me to go out to a bar with her and her friends. Her mother stood by saying things like, “Oh I think it’s such a good idea. She is 19 and you are 20. You will be able to know some French kids. It’s a great idea.” After repeating this about 5 times, I had to chuckle a little in my head, because I couldn’t help thinking, “You put her up to this. You asked her to invite me out because I never go out.” It was handled with the kind of social grace only a mother possesses. Nonetheless, I was excited to be invited out, mother’s orders or otherwise.

So the next night, I borrowed one of their bikes and rode into town to a bar called Chez Ton Ton. (By the way, it’s kinda fun to ride a bike into town like that to meet people or do something; I took one to church this weekend as well. I’d ask to take one to school if I didn’t think—excuse me—know that I would die in the traffic of people and cars.) Anyways, Ludivine waved me down, I locked up the bike, and then I was introduced to her friends. The first thing she asked me was what I wanted to drink. She offered beer (about half the size of an American beer, by the way, so not very impressive when someone says they’ve had several beers), wine, and some weird stuff in a cup. She said cocktails were really expensive and wine and beer is pretty cheap (which I discovered in Nice is very true). So, being kind of ignorant about alcoholic beverages in general (my usual request would be “something that tastes good”, and I offer my deepest apologies to my Irish roots), I inquired about the weird stuff in a cup. She told me the name, but I didn’t recognize it. She let me try it. It had a very strong, familiar, disgusting taste that I couldn’t quite place (and still can’t). A very large portion of my brain said, “You know this tastes disgusting. Don’t request this as your drink.” A very small portion of my brain said, “Hmm. Weird. Maybe it gets better. Let’s try it.” I would like to go on record by saying that in almost every life situation, that very large (logical) portion of my brain wins. But for some reason, that night, it forfeited completely to that small portion. So I ordered this disgusting drink. It never got better. In fact, on my empty stomach, it was all that I was burping up, making it impossible to ignore. So I hurried next door and bought a sandwich, telling them that I hadn’t eaten dinner yet (the truth).

Soon after, we moved from an outside table to an inside table. There’s a rumor going around that everybody in France smokes. I am here to confirm said rumor. Especially in bars while people are drinking. When we were outside, I was fine. But moving inside where the smoke wasn’t circulating very well bothered me. I had the following conversations with one of Ludivine’s friends (all of whom were smoking and apparently only do so when they go out):
Friend: You don’t smoke?
Me: No.
Friend: Have you ever smoked?
Me: No.
Friend: Never even tried it?
Me: No.
Friend: What?!
I think this is the only time in my life (and will continue to be the only time) that I actually felt kind of embarrassed by telling someone this. I was clearly out of place by not smoking. I sort of tried to explain that I don’t even like the smell, that I’m an athlete, etc, but I gave up on that pretty quickly and just dropped it.

Eventually, we left the bar to go to a party at one of their classmate’s apartment. I’m not much of a party person myself. I’ve never been able to fit comfortably into such a scene. So I was kind of relieved when we got to the party, and I saw that it was a pretty small get-together. Not too loud. Everyone seemed to know each other. But upon arrival, the girls that I came with quickly dispersed to talk to other people, leaving me to realize that I didn’t know anybody, and, to make matters worse, didn’t speak French very well. So what do I do? Stand around awkwardly wishing I could find a seat where I could sit awkwardly (since sitting a more comfortable and less obvious way to hang around awkwardly). Eventually a space opened up on the couch, so I took it.

Finally, people had had enough to drink that it seemed okay to go talk to the random girl sitting on the couch. So I actually did get to have a few conversations with people. One guy found out that I was from Atlanta and got really excited. He kept telling me (very loudly) that he wants to go to Atlanta because it’s the “Dirty South” and all kinds of rappers are from Atlanta. He also told me that he loves black people, except he didn’t call them black people (please make an inference here). I told him that if he goes to Atlanta, he can’t call them that. He said, “But I love them.” I told him it didn’t matter, he can’t say that when he’s in the US. But he was too drunk to care all that much.

Eventually a neighbor showed up with bat (though I didn’t actually see this happen) and told us we were being too loud, so everyone started to leave. I chose this as my time to go ahead and head home, as I still had to get up at the butt crack of dawn the next day. I’m still not sure if I enjoyed myself that evening. It was interesting, and I’m glad I got to do it. If she invites me out again, I’ll probably go. Of course, I don’t think I was real fun company, so I don’t know that she’ll invite me to go out again….

Chouette!

So I haven't posted a few things that I have really been wanting to let you guys in on, so hopefully I'll get those up this week and you'll be updated on my adventures. So stay tuned!

But that's not what this post is about. This post is about the word "chouette" (pronounced shwet). It's an old school French word meaning something along the lines of "gnarley", "neato", or "rad". The French will laugh at you if you say it. So, obviously, we say it all the time. It can be paired with super or très (like super-chouette or très chouette) for some extra emphasis. So, henceforth, the word "chouette" will be used freely and without regard for your inferior french-ness, though I do expect all readers to understand said colloquialism. Merci beaucoup.

Oooo, it's a castle!

So this weekend, a few of us went to Carcassonne, France. It's a small city not far from Toulouse, and it's got a medieval castle in it. Pretty cool. Since it's not far, we decided not to make a long weekend out of it. Instead of leaving Thursday night (as we normally would), we stayed in Toulouse and went to La Fete de la Musique (a music festival held in Toulouse every year). We left Friday morning instead.

Upon arrival, we realized that a)we had no idea how to get to the hotel Sara had booked for us, b)we were hungry, and c)we had to go to the bathroom. In an eventually unsuccessful attempt to kill three birds with one stone, we tried to find our hotel, eat somewhere near it, and use the bathrooms at the restaurant of our choice (we were avoiding using the public restrooms at the train station since you probably had to pay for them; more on that in another post). Anyways, after dragging our stuff around a foreign city for about half an hour (which I commend the makers of Mandy's rolling suitcase, as it was dragged across all terrains throughout the entire visit without giving out on her), we realized that we still had no idea where our hotel was, we were still hungry, and we had to go to the bathroom even more badly. We gave up on the search for the hotel and found a restaurant (and a bathroom to match). After our meal, we asked our waitress if she knew how to get to our hotel. She asked whether we were going by car or bicycle. After informing her that we were traveling au pied (by foot), she laughed at us and told us that we would need to take the bus to the stop Sylvaza (strange, since the internet had told us that the hotel was only 2 km from the train station). Little did we know what would ensue from this.

We began by finding a bus stop. At this stop, we waited for a bus. Upon its arrival, we asked the driver if his bus would take us to our desired stop. Of course not. That would have been too easy, and the adventure would have ended there. Instead he directed us down the hill to a different bus stop, but didn't give us any more helpful information (or if he did, it was in French and I missed it entirely). On the way to the next stop (still on foot, and still dragging our stuff), we saw signs for the Office of Tourism. We followed those signs to the office where, in English, a man explained which stop we were to get on at, which route we were to take (route 1 by the way, please keep that in mind), and which stop we were to get off at. These instructions came with a marked map of Carcassonne. We found the stop, and a bus marked 1 drives up. And we're golden, right? Wrong.

Unbeknownst to us, this driver changed his route number after we climbed onto the bus. (Side note: I had to look up how to spell the word unbeknownst, because math at GT has done nothing for my spelling skills.) We were now on route 2, and wondering why this bus was not following the route that our map said route 1 should be taking. Eventually Sara asked the driver if the bus was going to Sylvaza. He said no, that we were on the wrong bus, that he was driving bus 2 and we wanted bus 1. Awesome. Eventually the bus returned to the stop that we got on at, and we proceeded to get off the bus. We now wait for another bus marked 1. When this bus arrives, we get on the bus and immediately ask the driver if his bus is the correct one to take us to our stop. He said blah blah blah in French, of which I understood that no, he was not going there, but that we need to stay on his bus right now, and do something else later (though I didn't know what that something else was). So we sat down on the bus and promptly made friends with an old lady who told us that she was going to the same place and that we could follow her. She talked to us for the rest of the ride, informing us that we had bad French accents (yeah, some friend she turned out to be). Anyways, eventually the bus driver kicks everyone off his bus (which cleared the blah blah up; I guess his shift was over and he couldn't finish the route). We were told to get on whichever bus showed up next.

So bus 3 pulls up. Our old lady friend gets on the bus and tells the bus driver that we're American and basically don't know anything. We got on the bus (our third one now, mind you) only to find that the driver of this bus is the same driver from our first bus. So apparently this driver had been driving route 1, switched to route 2 while we were on his bus, made us get onto a different bus (knowing our desired destination the entire time), and was now driving bus 3, which took us to our hotel. If he had been kind enough to tell us that he would eventually be driving route 3 to Sylvaza, we could have arrived at the same time that we did.

Now it is about 4:30 in the afternoon, and we noticed on the bus schedule that the last bus runs at about 7:30. Not a problem right? I mean, surely we can eat somewhere around our hotel, and walk back afterwards. That would have been a fantastic idea if the hotel had actually been 2 km from the train station and therefore close the main part of the city. This had to be a few miles from any kind of helpful civilization. So we check in to our hotel and promptly take the bus back into the city (making sure to get to get the number for a taxi, since the bus stops running before most people in this country even eat dinner). We ate at a pizza place (I had an egg in the middle of my pizza, tres weird, I know). Afterwards we asked our waitress to call the taxi for us so that we didn't cause confusion with our bad French and not knowing where we were-ness. Upon returning to the hotel, we watched American movies with French dubbed over the voices and went to bed.

The next day we got up early so that we could go spend the day at the castle, and catch our evening train back to Toulouse. We took the bus into town, again, and headed for the train station. We were told that there were lockers that we could rent at the train station so we didn't have to lug our stuff around all day. Not so. The lockers weren't open for some security reasons blah blah (more French). So we dragged our crap up to the castle (which conveniently enough for us is built on a hill). Surely there would be a place we could check our stuff while we toured the castle.

Again, not so. The lady at the ticket office told us that the Office of Tourism (a different one than before; this one was within the fortress walls) might have a place. So we went there. They also didn't have a place for us, but try the hostel up the street, maybe they have a place. Nope. Not unless you're staying at the hostel. So in the end, we had to drag all of our crap throughout the castle and the village that's inside the fortress walls. But it was really cool. There were a bunch of cool little shops and boutiques, so I bought a couple of gifts for people. We ate lunch at La Table Ronde (The Round Table), corny I know, but it was a really cool restaurant. Eventually we headed back down the hill toward the train station and went back to Toulouse.

Saturday night and Sunday in Toulouse were pretty relaxed. I ran both days and tried to get some sleep. Sunday, I went to mass at St. Sernin, the huge old church that we took a field trip to. I didn't know most of the stuff obviously. So now I really want to learn the Our Father, the Creed (thankfully they say the short one, don't know why though), the sign of the Cross, and peace be with you all in French. It was weird though, because at the end of mass they started letting people back in to tour the church, so there were people standing around watching us hold mass. Anyways, afterward I wandered around the market that encircled the church, and eventually made my way to the park where I read for about 4 hours in the beautiful weather. Overall an enjoyable weekend. But, following suit with many other scenarios I have encountered, nothing is ever easy.

Est-ce que tu veux diner?

So I knew that meals here would be a little different. Aside from eating somewhere around bedtime (often close to 9:00, or excuse me 21:00), I knew portions would be smaller and food would be different. So I spent the first couple of days just trying to watch and learn so as not to make a fool out of myself. I always wait to see how they eat things first so that I don't go digging unattractively into something when, clearly, I should be eating it daintily. First of all, meals are oftentimes served in courses, especially those that are large and celebratory (which we've had a coupe of). If there's an appetizer or aperitif (like cheese or champagne), that comes out first. Then the plates are cleared for the main course (that's right, different courses, different plates). I told myself before meeting my family that, even if they served me a living breathing thing, I was going to eat whatever was put on my plate. Well nothing has had a pulse (yet), but I often don't know what I'm eating. The first night we had what looked like fried terds. I haven't a clue as to what they were, but I ate them and they were good. Last night we had a big log of some sort. I asked what it was, and she tried to explain it to me, but I was still puzzled (because I didn't exactly know what she was talking about, but I think it had zucchini in it). On a side note, I don't ever want to hear anyone complain that healthy isn't able to taste good, because the only thing I eat here is healthy food, and it's all good. And I never fully knew the meaning of "clearing your plate" until I came here. Nobody leaves anything on a plate. Anyways, after the main course, the plates are cleared (again) and the salad is brought out. And the salad is different every night. Sometimes it's fruit or tomatoes with some kind of cheese or sometimes regular salad greens (another side note: to those of you who cook, sliced oranges with cinnamon is an excellent salad). After that, plates are cleared again for dessert. And do you know what dessert usually is? Yogurt and fruit. Don't ever again wonder why French people are skinny (and they are). Meals are simple yet complete. Mom, you'd do just fine here.

Last night, though, I was a little embarrassed during dinner. I have told my family that I am fine with them correcting me (I am here to learn, right?). So even after all my observations during mealtime, I clearly missed a couple of things. First of all, apparently you don't put your bread on your plate; you put it on the placemat beside your plate. Didn't even notice. But they did. Also, for lack of something better to do with it, I ususally leave my left hand in my lap whenI eat unless I need it (also, we eat outised and I'm often trying to keep my napkin from blowing away). Apparently this is very "American" of me (and apparently makes me lean sideways), which stunk to hear since I'm here trying to be as French as possible. So now I have to be more aware of where my hands and bread are. Also, out of habit from talking to my friends and our professor (who i svery laid back and has been my professor before this trip at GT), I almost always say "ouay" (pronounced "way") instead of "oui" (pronounced "we", and meaning "yes" for those of you who are inferior frenchies). It basically means the same thing as "yeah". A bad habit, I know. But I've gotten to the point that I don't really notice anymore that I say it, and nobody corrects me. Until dinner last night. I was told that it's "oui", not "ouay" (reminding me eerily of Mom yelling, "Not 'yeah'! 'Yes'!"). "Ouay" is slang, so I guess that means I shouldn't use it (even though I'd love to be at the level of Frenchness to be able to use slang). I felt like had been rude, which was never my intention. So I felt bad. In general I guess I need to pay more attention. Oh, and for a fantastic end to a lovely dinner, a bird crapped right on my hand. Bon appetit!

Getting Started...

So last week was my first week being a student in Toulouse. I pretty quickly fell into a routine. I run every morning that I'm in town, then I go to class. I have to walk to the bus stop, take the bus into town, then walk from there to the school (about 45 min total). In general, class is pretty laid back, though 6 hours a day of French can get a little tedious. I also get headaches fairly frequently from thinking in another language. We go to little boulangeries and sandwicheries (adding -erie to the end of anything makes it a shop for that thing) for lunch, which there are certainly no shortage of in France. Then the problem arises that dinner isn't until about 8:30, leaving about 8 hours between lunch and dinner. But have no fear, patisseries are also in abundance (and tarts are a little piece of heaven). Still, with the small portions served here in France, I tend to spend a lot of time being hungry. Then after class, I'm hoping to make it part of my routine to have some internet time to talk to people and post on my très awesome blog. But that has been difficult with the primitive internet that my school possesses. Then I go home eventually to have dinner with my family and practice my French with them. Then I go to bed and do it all again the next day.

Most of my adventures will happen over the weekends. This past weekend we went to Nice. We went in a fairly large group of about 9 people, so as you can imagine not much got done (as groups are not good at making decisions), and a lot of beach going occurred (at all times of the day and night, mind you). The highlight of the weekend really was the trip to Monte Carlo in Monaco. We went there on a train, and as we rounded a corner and Monte Carlo came into view, we all scrambled for the window. It was so beautiful. I think all the money in the world rests in Monte Carlo. There were so many huge yachts and boats. There were some of the fanciest cars I have ever seen. I can only imagine the living expenses in a place like that. Aside from that, the beaches were beautiful, and the water was perfectly crystal clear. And mountains rose up behind the sea, and the town was built into the mountains. After we got there, we bought gelato and walked around eating it while drooling over the city. Then we went to the beach, which was beautiful of course. Unfortunately, we had to go back to Nice. That night we went searching for a discothèque, but couldn't find one. So we all went dancing at some club/bar instead. The next day, we did the beach thing again and went shopping. I got myself a couple of cute dresses that I can brag about having gotten in France. The next morning we returned to Toulouse. But the 7 hour train ride made it take up a fair portion of the day, and of course left us all tired. So what did I do upon returning to my house? That's right. I went running. *Le sigh*

A quick recap

The internet was down at school today (something about the interent and air conditioning interfering with each other--funny because the 85° in our room convinced me that the air conditioning wasn't even on), so I can only make a quick post with no pictures. I arrived here last Sunday after almost a full day of travelling and waiting and sitting. Somehow all those things make you really tired. I met my family the first night, the Gendres. They are very nice and speak a fair amount of English (more than I speak French), which is helpful for learning things in French that I don't know. After about a week, I think that they are beginning to realize that I'm not quite as dumb as I look when I don't understand something, they just have to speak slowly for me. I've spent most of the first week adjusting and figuring out how things work (buses, trains, stores, food, etc).

Over the first weekend, most of us went to Nice (which is nice by the way). Right now it looks as though a tornado came straight through the main strip of the city. Major construction was being done on the roads, so it might not have been as attractive as it normally is. The beaches were nice. They are made of stone and not sand. One afternoon we took a short trip to Monte Carlo, which was incredible (more pictures to come, but the two on my profile right now were taken in Monte Carlo). After a couple days in Nice, we returned to Toulouse. Overall things have been going well, and I promise to deliver more details later!
P.S. Shelly, I need your address.

Yay Internet!

So I finally have internet in France so that I can start my blog. Right now, it's getting a little late and I need to get home for dinner. But over the next couple of days I will update everyone on how things have been going. Feel free to leave comments along the way!