I know you have all seen this, but it's relevant, hilarious, and truly a classic. Enjoy!
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, July 9, 2007
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).
Friday, July 6, 2007
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!
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, July 2, 2007
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….
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.
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.
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