Les Vacances

Do you think I'll go to Hell for touring a Church just to see if there were any cute boys? Does it count in my favor if there weren't, in fact, any cute boys? And what about this: if I mercy-chatted with a total creep for far too long, do I get a few "Get out of Hell free" cards? The way I see it is, if it's open to the public, it's fair game. Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking for a romantic comedy-esque run-in with my Romeo, I'm just keeping my eyes open...

I feel obligated to clarify for those of you who don't know me that I don't regularly tour churches in my free time. In fact, I fear being struck down by the almighty hand of God/a karmic bolt of lightning upon entering such a holy establishment. Who/whatever is out there will surely catch up with me some day, and whichever way he/she/it decides to smite me, I'm sure it will be well-deserved on my part, and not just for trying to pick up men in Church.

So yes, I was in a Church. I was actually in Lyon this week. In France it's Les Vacances de la Toussaint which means I have two weeks off of work. With our month of 100 free cable channels expired, I realized that my entertainment options in Chaumes-en-Brie were very limited. That fact being established, I weighed my options: a week at home alone and nothing to do or travel. Also alone. Travel it was. I opened my France travel guide (Thanks Shelby!) and started checking out destinations. I found Lyon through process of elimination; every other city/region was either a.) too expensive to get to, b.) too depressing to visit alone (Bordeaux wine country...alone? Pathetic.) or c.) was touted for having some really cool thing to see in another month of the year. So I decided on Lyon.

Tickets bought, hotel reserved and itinerary arranged, I arrived at the gare a little bundle of happiness. I have to plug France's train system here. It is amazing. You can get anywhere in France and even other parts of Europe quickly, conveniently, and relatively cheaply. The trains are clean, comfortable and actually pretty enjoyable. So back to the story. Everyone was buzzing with the excitement of vacation and even if I couldn't understand the bulk of conversations around me, I couldn't help but get caught up in the spirit. Vive les vacances! I boarded the train (window seat, cha ching!) and got out my book, ready to really kick back and relax during the scenic two hour ride. But (isn't their always a "but" in my stories..?) naturally, that wasn't going to be allowed. The person I was sharing my row with--a guy about my age--arrived shortly after me with his music blaring. As he sat down, I rapidly discerned that he was listening to french-canadian punk-pop wonder, Avril Lavigne. He must have had every CD ever put out because that crap lasted THE ENTIRE TRAIN RIDE. I was seething in my seat, trying to work up clever things I could say to him in French. Unfortunately, "do you have no dignity?" sounds better in English. So much for concentrating on my new book....

Despite the cruel and unusual punishment unknowingly inflicted upon me by my neighbor, I managed to arrive in Lyon safe and sound. I couldn't have been luckier really; the weather was incredible, my hotel was in a super location, and I was really looking forward to exploring Lyon. I devoted my first day to seeing the extremely impressive Notre Dame de Fourvière, an impressive 19th century church set on the hillside, as well as the part of the city known as Vieux Lyon. Here are a few photos (the big extravagant church on the left is the Notre Dame; the older one is St. Jean's Cathedral; and finally there is the view from the top of Notre Dame):

Day two I headed to Croix-Rousse, a nice area of Lyon--to quote Rick Steves "Soho"-esque area not at all touristy--also high up on a hill (I took the Metro up and walked down...). The view from the top was stunning; I could see all of Lyon's churches, the Saone River (the Rhone is the other river running through Lyon), and the rest of the city's buildings. Photos can't really do it justice so I won't torture you with my amateur snapshots. I headed down the hill for lunch in a bouchon, a typical lyonnais style eatery known for serving hearty, traditional food. After walking miles (literally; I am often too stubborn to use public transportation and my feet have suffered the consequences) I had worked up a good appetite. I ordered the menu du jour which included some delicious sort of egg concoction cooked in a mouth-watering wine sauce, grilled lamb with roasted vegetables, and chocolate mousse. My heartburn was outrageous. Tant pis. Did I forget to mention wine? I polished of a hefty amount of wine. All of this, keep in mind, while being 100% alone. I'm shameless.

Somewhere along the course of lunch...I'd say about two glasses of wine in...I volunteered myself as a translator for the old English guys in the corner who couldn't read the menu. Turns out they were really friendly and we chatted for almost an hour. Relishing in the buzz of good wine and new (english speaking) friendship, I couldn't have felt happier. To top it all off, the cute french guys in the corner sent a free coffee to my table. Charmant.

Day three I took advantage of my french student ID and went to the art museum for free. They had an excellent 20th century art exhibit featuring over 200 paintings/sculptures by Picasso, Matisse, Bacon, Dubuffet. I am in no way an art history buff and will not pretend to have anything thoughtful to say except that I don't like cubism very much. I will say I thoroughly enjoyed the exhibit. I then moved onto the ancient roman theaters. By that point, my feet hurt so bad I think I was limping. And I was wearing tennis shoes! Not wanting to walk through the ruins (just seeing them suffices...) I walked down a massive hill. Limping and cursing around the corner, I came upon the most extraordinary view of the city. Everything sprawled out before me. Well worth the limping! Tired and hungry, I headed back to the train station.

And here I am, back in cozy little Chaumes. Today I did nothing, followed by watching a movie, followed by online shopping, and finished with a little more nothing. Ew, wait, I have to tell you this before I go. We had rabbit for dinner. That's not the gross part. I actually like rabbit despite having to suffer through dinners with my friend David where he whined about his poor pet Snoopy (kidding David). The rabbit we had was...burly. Rough and tough. He had done many years of hopping. I got served some kidney AND some liver. Now, I can eat a lot of things. But I don't love organs. There was a traumatic incident in Amsterdam once where my family didn't tell me I was eating liver and since then it's been downhill. I forked the little grape-sized kidney, gave it a few quick chews and washed it down with a generous gulp of wine. Not terrible. Not good.

And a final housekeeping note. I changed a few things with the blog. I'm finally mastering this damn thing. Now, anyone can make comments on the blog....it's more convenient than reading it and then switching to facebook to say stuff I guess. I also figured out how the "follow" thing works. You click "follow" at the top right and if you have a gmail/hotmail/aim you don't have to create a name or anything you just click whatever account you use and follow the steps. I also made a profile. The picture you see on the right hand side of the page was taking by the total creepster I mentioned in the opening...hence my awkward half-smile/half-grimace.

Gros Bisous.

I Got a Feeling

Some fairly old pictures I've been meaning to post. The first two are from a town called Provins not far from where I live. It's a pretty cool place and it has been named a World Heritage Site by UNESCO because it's a medieval village that dates back to the 11th century. The third and fourth photos are from a night out. There is Sacré Coeur at night and..duh..the notorious Moulin Rouge.

I actually started writing this blog yesterday on the train and had “Untitled” as my title. I was feeling so ho-hum about the fact that nothing title-worthy had happened all week. Then I looked up and saw the three train “police”men…I guess they are security?...looking at me and whispering. Can they smell my American-ness?! It didn’t help that I was also doing my homework from a workbook no French college student would ever possess. Why is it that they make books for learning foreign languages so juvenile? Comics in French?? At 21? Really?

I digress. Back to the point of my story. Today I received the inspiration for my title. Little background; Eliott (the little boy) and I don’t really connect. I don’t have brothers; he hates Americans (kidding). I try to play games, watch tv, hang out, the whole nine yards, yet nothing works. He wants nothing to do with me. Today, however, was a small step forward. I was driving to pick up Zoe and Eliott was with me in the back seat. Normally I listen to the news on the radio but for some reason I had it on FUN! Radio, the worst station. EVER. The only two songs they play are “I Got a Feeling” and “No Stress” by Laurent Wolf. Naturally, “I Got a Feeling” came on. Resisting the urge to change it, I let myself bop along and even found myself singing; I mean come on, the lyrics aren’t too hard to catch on to. From the backseat I hear Eliott murmur “Yea! J’aime bien cette chanson”. So he’s a Black Eyed Peas fan. He starts busting out the lyrics with me, in his super cute French-american accent, and for a moment I felt a little connection forge between us. There in my little Panda, with the rain beating down on my windshield, I actually felt happier than I’ve felt all week. We bonded a little. Even if it was to a shitty American pop song.

Anyways...enough sap. Tuesday I gave a twenty-minute presentation in my French class. I was actually a little nervous going into it despite the fact that I knew that 99.9% of my classmates would spend that twenty minutes picking at cuticles, texting, contemplating last night’s hook-up, etc. I have to tell you, I did alright! I don’t love public speaking, but I’m not one of those people that gets that terrible nervous rash all over their chest that subsequently becomes the center of attention for the rest of the talk…basically, I can suck it up when I have to. And you know what, I didn’t even look at my notes once. I’m sure I bored my classmates (the ones listening) to tears talking about the French colonization of Africa but I was proud! My teacher said it was très bien, a decently flattering compliment from the pretty serious Greg (said of course with a throaty, spit-filled “r”). After the class I was chatting with a few girls about their presentations and they were telling me how nervous they were and how they couldn’t imagine not using their notes. I told them I had a lot of practice from college and they all looked at me with blank faces. Turns out they’re all 18. I couldn’t help but say “Good God, you’re younger than my sister”…nothing like that little reality check to make you feel (relatively) old.

On the family front: just when I thought I had had enough of my host family’s (okay, I’ll be honest, host dad’s) criticism..ahem, constructive critiquing…I received a nice little surprise. Well I think. Let me explain. A few days ago Alain came home with a brand new book that he had bought specifically for me. I was flattered and really appreciative. I am after all just the nanny/laundry and dishes bitch. He gets the book out of the bag and I see it is what the French call a pavé. In other words, it’s a brick. I leafed through it and saw that the book was 1100 pages. I mean I’ve never read a book that size in English, never mind French. I kindly thanked him (after all, it was thoughtful) and retreated to my room. Sitting on my bed I began to think, is this some sort of demonic trick? Is this like buying someone a vacuum…it’s a gift because you wrapped it up and gave it to them but then again it’s not because it’s a chore and well…it’s a vacuum? Did he buy this because he knew I would be stuck reading it for the rest of the year? I mean I can read a 350 page French book—if I really put forth the time and effort—in about 2.5 weeks. 1100 pages….I’ll still be working on it come Easter. I smell a little schadenfreude.

Et finalement. Went to McDonalds today. I was with the kids if that makes it any better. As if it’s not bad enough that I’ve already hit up Starbucks three times, now I’m moving on to fast food…I smell trouble in the form of American chain restaurants. I’ll admit, usually I’m so finicky, resisting fries and grease for a salad…To tell you the truth, I don’t think I have ever (that I remember…) eaten a real McDonald’s hamburger. At least not a Big Mac. Serious. Anyways, today I threw those qualms out the window. There is nothing (sadly) as deliciously American..well nothing in France anyways, as Mcdonalds. Fries, greasy McChicken, even an ice cream. Although the fries were not nearly as grease-laden and salty as I like them, they were delicious. I savored every last morsel. Sometimes I miss my home where everything can come super-sized.

So that wraps it up. Ventured into Galeries Lafayette again today for some new gloves, making sure to avoid at all costs the very rich people’s floor. Whew.

Paradise

I don’t consider myself a “girly-girl” in the sense that I am not obsessed with shopping, shoes, sales, purses, dresses, pink, jewelry, etc. Do I like looking nice? Yes. Do I want to waste precious time and energy in hellish mall crowds full of people “just looking”? No. Today however, I indulged my girly side and went to the Galeries Lafayette in Paris. I REALLY wanted to take photos but believe me when I tell you the crowd in that place would not have been appreciative. The Galeries Lafayette is a huge department store full of the nicest and most luxurious (thus expensive) brands—clothes, shoes, makeup, accessories, home décor, even food….It’s paradise.

So I went. Stepping in to the store I literally felt like I had been transported into another world. The world of rich people to be precise. After getting myself lost in a crowd of older women smelling of Chanel N°5 and wearing at least $1,000 worth of clothing (each) I finally found the escalator. I went up to the first floor (the second floor in the U.S….but for some reason the French make it hard and call the first floor the rez-de-chaussée) and got off. Big mistake. Floor 1 is the super-super designer stuff(Louis Vuitton, Dior, etc.)…or at least the super-super pricey stuff. It was like I had walked into the men’s bathroom; everyone was staring at me in my Gap turtleneck and Express jeans. I bolted back to the safety of the escalator. At least there you’re welcome no matter what color your credit card is.

Floor 2, heureusement, was more reasonably—if only by a little bit—priced. Everything was so….chic. French chic. And just…way out of my cool level in terms of style. I looked around, practically drooling, and finally settled on a leather jacket. I felt so powerful handing him my card to pay. I felt like jumping over the counter, grabbing the salesman by his suit that cost at least a month’s salary, and screaming, “How do you like them apples?!” I refrained, and actually got to walk out of Galeries Lafayette with a bag!! I was more than just a window shopper…for the first and last time ever at that store.

Anyways, a few days ago, Alain asked me if I had a blog. Now as much as I love having readers, I don’t really want the family tuning in to my weekly posts. It’s my only outlet! So, hesitating, I said no. I hated lying—really, I did—but then if I said yes he would want to read it, then I’d have to edit certain posts…you get the drift. So he looked at me and was like, “hm, yea, I guess a blog probably isn’t your thing, huh?” Now what in the hell is that supposed to mean? Because I’m an au pair I can’t write? I was seething but what could I do? It’s not like I could say, “Oh, actually, I do have a blog. And people read it!!! (I hope)”. I just sighed and went on unloading the dishwasher.

While I’m venting I also have to tell you this story. A few days ago, at dinner, we were discussing the upcoming scout sleepover that will be taking place at the house this weekend. Alain and Caroline were telling Zoe that she wouldn’t hear the Scouts outside when she was trying to go to sleep because her room was upstairs. Everyone sleeps upstairs in fact….except me. So sweet Zoe mentioned that I might hear the Scouts and Alain said, “oh that won’t be a problem, she sleeps through everything”. Now, for your information, and my college roommates can attest to this, I am a VERY light sleeper. Pin drops, I’m awake…that sort of thing. So I asked why he said that, and he told me that I never get out of bed when the kids are screaming/crying/yelling at ungodly hours. Oh and when I say kids, I count him as well. What the heck does he want me to do??? Get out of bed and tell him and his kids sorry, it’s 8 a.m., could you kindly shut the hell up…in their own house? I don’t think so. So I grew a pair and told him how I felt. Dani: 1, French hatefulness: 2348239042. I’m catching up.

Other updates in life before I write a novel of a post….

I have pictures that I promise I'll add soon. If anyone even cares. It's something to look at besides words at least.

The kids have been really..well relatively..good this week. Minimal fighting, minimal tantrum-throwing, minimal cursing. I don't know what drugs they're on, but I haven't wanted to shoot myself all week. And I only washed kiddie pee sheets once. That's a real improvement.

And finally, I took the late night bus again last week ; I’m like the kid who never learns that she will get burnt if she touches the fire. The bus is TERRIBLE. But I subject myself time and time again. So it’s supposed to come at 3:30am and arrive at 5 am. On Saturday, unfortunately, it was an hour late. So I’m at the bus stop with the other bus takers…freezing…tired…and waiting. All of a sudden this rather large, older African lady approaches me. I look away, hoping she won’t speak to me. Too late. She is asking for my phone number. Now hold on a minute…is this woman hitting on me? As if it’s not enough that I have to ward off the weird old guy in the corner, now a woman is coming on to me. Luckily I lied my way out of it. Unfortunately, I had an hour to spend with her on a small bench. When she took her shoes off and I smelled her feet I actually shed tears.

That’s it for French adventures this week. Off to watch 24 with Caroline. Bisoux.

What is it with train stations?

The things I see on the metro will never cease to amaze me. The most remarkable thing (this week) I've seen has to be the dread mullet. Let me elaborate. In the front, it was business. Albeit a very 80's-esque business, it was definitely cut in a fairly normal, if not David Hasselhoff inspired way. In the back it got a little wild. I would call it "rastafarian reggae party". Of course I had about ten stops to sit and analyze this unique 'do and I couldn't help but wonder what kind of person actually tries to only have dreads on the back half of his head. And even if you only want a few dreads, do you have to make them even more terrible by adding the mullet to the equation? Some people....

The metro isn't the only place total weirdos call home. There is also the train station. A different kind of weird is found at Paris Est (est being east in french), the station where I catch my train. Generally speaking, there are fewer bums around because train tickets cost more than metro tickets. However, bum (obviously) does not equal weirdo, and just because there isn't anyone clearly looking a little down on their luck doesn't mean you're safe from the bizarre world of public transportation. Case in point: today I got to the station a little early and bought myself a magazine. All the benches were taken so I just found a little place to stand that was near my train voie (don't even know the translation for that one). I'm devouring my mag when I suddenly notice that the man standing very close to me has actually been making circles around me for about ten minutes, furtively sneaking glances at my face, my clothes, my bag. What I would consider an intense violation of personal space. And don't worry, he wasn't a thief. Just a creep. I look up, role my eyes very obviously at him, and continue reading. A moment later I look up and he has posted himself about four feet from me and is staring directly at my face. I snarl and peace out, only to be accosted by an overweight man in a much too small baseball jersey telling me how "belle et ravissante" I am....seriously, sir?

That, sadly, is only one of many weird train station stories. All the normal people using the wonderful system of public transport in France apparently don't take my train...

In serious news, school is going very well! Sometimes I have to take a breather and remember that it is in fact France-Langue school for foreigners and not Vanderbilt. On the first day my teacher was explaining that we would each have a twenty minute presentation to give later in the semester on a subject pertinent to France or a francophone country. Immediately I got excited and decided I would research HIV/AIDS in Senegal (I'm going to school for public health next year....). Then I looked around and remembered where I was. I don't mean that in a snob way, either. I just don't want to bore everyone to tears. If I came to class presenting that topic...while everyone else talked about a french monument or some french vacation destination...they would think I was more bizarre than the weird german twins who dislike "TV, the city, movies, each other" and basically everything but la nature. Nature.

So yea, it's really useful to go and get a refresher, but I'm not going to waste my time worrying about some presentation. I have made several friends who feel the same way. They're actually really great! There is a german girl named Sarah-Jane, a girl from Turkey named Ayse, and an american (duh! I had to find one) named Kate. I think I may have mentioned it last week but I just wanted to update you. I have friends...FINALLY! Everyone in the group speaks english at some level (probably better than me) but we stick to french. This always proves amusing when we're at a cafe together. French people from all sides stick their necks out to listen to our conversation, trying to make out where the hell our accents are from and why we're butchering their language.

And finally, an embarassing story to make you feel better about your life (if you're feeling down). I don't think I have shared this with you, but Eliott has a really, REALLY beautiful guitar teacher. Wavy black hair, blue eyes, PLAYS GUITAR. I mean this guy is a 10 ( God, I hope he never finds this). Anyways, on Wednesday, I took advantage of the weather and having no kids around (Zoe had a bday party to attend and Eliott was at music class) and went for a nice run. Unfortunately for me, it was relatively hot on Wednesday. I finished my run and walked over to the conservatory to get Eliott from music class (not guitar lesson). I am not too worried about the fact that my white t-shirt is saturated with sweat, I smell like that weird metro stench I was subjected to a few weeks ago, and that my hair has formed itself into an afro of sorts, because Eliott's music theory teacher is...not cute. I'll leave it at that. I'm sitting outside the classroom mopping my face with paper towels and fanning myself like a crazy woman when I hear footsteps. Who do you think comes around the corner? Beautiful guitar boy. GREAT. F&*^ing great. I stutter, chuckle, and say "err, ha, bonjour". Without looking at me, he says "...bonjour" and did what I would call a run-walk out of the hallway. My already non-existent chance with him just ran right out of the hallway with him and his cute little Sperry's.

American Frenchisms.

Along with Taco Bell, White Castle is one late night food joint France REALLY needs.

(And yes, this is the White Castle in downtown New Albany).

I went to Starbucks today.

Even though the overpriced gourmet espresso I drink at the Pares' house has me spoiled, there is something so comforting and...american...about an equally overpriced cup of Starbucks. I just couldn't resist. Nothing says young America like a venti coffee full of Splenda! I didn't even have to worry about butchering the italian coffee sizes; I got to butcher it all in french. Next thing you know I'll be stooping to McDonalds. McDo (pronounced like dough) as the french call it; as if giving it another name makes it less american-y and less fast-food-y. Yea right. A quarter pounder is a quarter pounder, even if they make you call it a McRoyal.

Searching for bits of my beloved homeland in France, I decided to trek to Carrefour last week. For those of you not up on the names of french discount stores, Carrefour is France's Wal-Mart. I dare say it might be a little better. What makes it so cool is that there is a butcher, gourmet cheese shop, french cafe, and fish market, ALL INSIDE THE STORE! Ah, France, succumbing to the american way of needing things cheaply and quickly.

Armed with my reusable shopping bags (plastic ones cost!) I entered the store with my shopping list as well as a list Caroline gave me. I tackled mine--after pausing to figure out whether crème something or other really meant conditioner--and moved onto the french list which was all stuff for Zoe's art class.

The first thing on the list was ruban adhesif de bricolage. So bricolage means DIY housework and adhesif means tape. So I'm thinking duct tape. I find the tape aisle and out of the 100 rolls, not a single one looks like duct tape or contains the word bricolage or adhesif. Off to a good start Dani. I grab one that looks sturdy and roll my cart on down the aisle. The next item was tubes de gouache. Somehow I managed to figure out before leaving the house that this very nondescript group of words means paint. I find the arts and crafts aisle and see there are many, many paint options; acrylic, water-based, oil-based, just no gouache. I mean I am really striking out.

Suddenly, a BRILLIANT idea comes to me. I remember that there is a book aisle in Carrefour. A book aisle BOUND to have a french-english dictionary. I'll just look up gouache and solve this problem. I leave the paint aisle and find myself a beautiful Roberts dictionary. Flipping to the "g" words, I finally find gouache. Translation: gouache. WHAT?! Gouache is not an english word. No way, no how, that word has never been uttered by an american. Do the dictionary people decide to screw with us every 1,000 words or so? I'm sure they were thinking, "Hm, gouache...no one's ever gonna look this one up, let's just forget about the translation." I search three other dictionaries. All the same. Gouache means gouache.

Feeling very flustered, I go BACK to the paint aisle (I skipped a few parts; I may or may not have fretted about what type of paint to get three or four other times before the dictionary incident) and throw a pack of acrylic paint in my cart. I was so pissed at this list I abandoned the rest of the shopping, checked out, and got some chinese food at the food court. Take that Carrefour.

In more serious tourist news, I had my first ever weekend out in Paris! Yea. I went out with my friend Neil Saturday and Sunday to get a taste of what life is like outside the Chaumes bubble. If you want to read a detailed account of the weekend, you can visit Neil's blog! I met up with him on Saturday and we did a little flea market shopping near his apartment which is in a cool part of town known as Les Batignolles. We moved on to another market where he managed to find an African drum and I splurged (NOT) on a scarf. That night we went out for drinks (two and I'm cooked!) in a really charming part of Paris. We took the scenic route along the Seine on the way back where we saw drunk french teens jamming to an orchestral version of a Nirvana song. The next day we ate delicious american breakfast in a diner and looked around the Centre Pompidou. My feet, unfortunately, paid a high price for this fun weekend. The blisters got so bad that I had to buy a pair of flip-flops from the flea market in order to not look like a cripple while walking. Next time I'm wearing tennis shoes no matter how cute the flats look.

And finally, today's news. I started class. Well, kinda. I showed up for class, along with the fifty other girls, while the professor decided to cancel without telling us. In case you're wondering, I'm taking french classes 3 days per week as part of my Visa requirement. Despite being stood up by the prof on the first day (SO FRENCH) I made two new friends! Yippee. Life is starting to come together.

Gros Bisous mes amis, ma famille, et toutes les pauvres ames qui lisent mon Blog!

(xoxo friends, family, and all the other poor souls who read my blog!)

P.S. If you're interested, there should be a link at the top of the page that says "Follow Blog" . Not sure exactly how it works, but I think you add your email and you get a message when I post. Cheers!