Back to Tumbling Down

Let me just say, my head hurts. The hurt that pulses behind your eyes and makes your lids heavy. My ears and brain are packed full of my new language and the words are floating around in a nonsensical way. Various phrases and sentences are stuck between the folds of my cerebrum and I can't seem to shake them out. Today was my first day of actual class.

I definitely had reason to be intimidated. First of all, I woke up late and it took me forever to climb out of bed. I got dressed and joined my host dad and a family friend for my breakfast, their lunch. I lost track of time talking to them and had to run out the door into the bitter wind to catch the tram. The tram is maybe a 15ish minute walk from my new house. This was my first tram adventure alone, and I could NOT get lost. I ascended the tram a few moments after I had arrived and found a seat. I watched the city pass by under the gloomy clouds and terribly cold temps. I watched the people on the tram, there are so many types. 

College and high school students standing and sitting alone with their earphones plugged in their ears or looking around like me, elderly women sitting together chattering loudly away much like in the US, and middle aged people who were reading or had their heads in their phones, looking nervous as though they had forgotten something or were late to work. There was one woman, who I had seen my first day here walking around downtown, who wore very bright clothing, whites, pinks, blues, yellows, and her dyed-white dreads were also partially dyed to match her attire in said color scheme.

Rue Froide Caen, France

The tram passed by the castle, which is my signal that my stop is two stops away. I payed attention, but almost missed it. I glanced through the other tram's window to see Crous. I flew off my seat and squeezed through the doors, just as they were closing. I made my way to the building where my class was supposed to be held, after asking another English speaker (we are all in the same boat, they are less likely to tell me the wrong way) I found where I needed to go. Running up to the door, a bit out of breath, I began talking to the only other English speaker standing there.

Everyone else was speaking Chinese, Spanish, or Japanese. I was only two minutes late :)
Our teacher rounded the corner after about ten minutes, and we went to sit down. This is how the first two hours passed. "Bonjour," she welcomed us in French and began passing out a questionnaire. (Assume that my teachers are always speaking French, I am just translating on here.) Nothing horrible, basic things like nationality, if we plan on applying to a French university later, and our major.

Then she began passing out another paper, before we were finished with the first one. It said oral test on the top. Crap. We had three tries to listen to a news report and had to answer questions and think of alternative ways to say things on this paper. While that was playing for the last time, she passed out another test. Grammar this time. I killed the grammar, but then again, I must contribute that success to a wonderful grammar teacher I had in the States last semester :)

Centre Ville Tram Stop

Last was a free writing sample. We had to fill a page with a traditional letter, addressing a company that uses fur in making clothes as if we were writing from an activist group against it. There are only so many ways you can say don't kill animals for clothes. There are only so many ways to say that there are alternatives to fur. Filling the page was interesting, I probably came across as a beggar. 

I really wanted to use threats and horrible language, just to keep it interesting, but I resisted the temptation. Then, I got to the "sincerely" part. I don't know what is the standard closing in a French letter except for a bientot, which is see you soon. So I wrote cordialment. Yes, an angry activist is going to sign "cordially" to a hate letter. Needless to say, I felt defeated after that.

We had a little break and I ran into another woman from UNT. She tested into one of the easier classes along with the rest of the group from UNT, minus me and our lone man who tested into the same level as me, but we don't share a class. She said they went over things like "Who is your best friend? What are they like? Describe where you live?" Give me a break. No assessment test for them, no super-stress, nada. I have to keep reminding myself that, to improve, I have to feel a little lost. It has to be a challenge

After the break, we paired up asking questions in French and then presenting each other to the class. We also did a reading exercise that is pretty much synonymous to a TAKS reading test. Ha.
That was fun. We understood it, but she asked us to summarize things and answer questions. Everyone fell silent half the time, because we were too afraid to speak or didn't catch what she said. This semester will be interesting.

Oh, and to stay in France, I have to get my lungs X-rayed Friday and have a doctor's check up next week. Fun, fun. Anyway, time for dinner!  

Time to Breathe

So I got to relax a bit today. Hooray! If you haven't noticed, I made new digs for my thoughts and words, bienvenue! The new background is the wallpaper in my room and the rock title background is also part of my room. I thought some personal touches would allow me to have some pink on this site, hence PINK WORDS! If you know me very well, this should not be unusual.

Today was a rather sedentary day, although I have had time to gather my thoughts and catch up on some reading. My deranged self has opted to take a 4000 level class by correspondence at my American university. It is crazy, but it is absolutely necessary. This particular class is only offered in the spring semester, and considering student teaching will be next semester, it was imperative that I go ahead and just bite the bullet now. I caught up reading in that textbook over breakfast.

Ah breakfast, a wonderful meal in France. This family drinks a lot of tea, by the way, which I adore. I LOVE tea. My obsession with constantly buying and trying new flavors drives my man insane. We don't have room, and you have like a million teas at home! These are common comments about my habit when he sees me peering at the tea section in the groceries store, longing for new flavors. I must admit, I know that he is right, but I give him puppy eyes and a puffy bottom lip regardless. I become a child who would walk over a frozen lake for a chocolate truffle.

Yesterday, my host dad noticed that green tea is my favorite, so this morning he brewed a type that is called Gunpowder. A bit ironic, I know. He said to be careful, it will go straight to my head, but it is full of flavor. Oh and it was. The green tea leaves are rolled into little balls and then cooked or something, blacked. It actually looks like large grains of gunpowder and the flavor is delicious, but I felt like I had just shot an espresso.

I didn't mind though, considering I slept until NOON today. I woke up to the sound of my host brother singing and playing in the kitchen. I can't believe I was finally able to sleep in! I took a calcium and L-theanine supplement last night and it completely overtook my anxieties. Speaking of anxieties, I have my first day of class tomorrow. I'm quite nervous about it, but I must resist the temptation to be intimidated. No one ever did anything great without feeling nervous about their escapade.

After breakfast and finishing my textbook chapters, I began reading a small French book that my host mom suggested I buy at Fnac the other day. It is Ecrire by Margerite Duras. The storyline is very vague and the vocabulary is around my level. Of course, I keep my phone handy in the case of an average of two words appear which I have to reference. It is the story of the author and her life as it has been centered around writing. She was a famous author who was born in the early 1900s.

She describes loneliness through her life, writing was one of the only things that quelled her tortuous isolation, writing and lovers. It is beautifully written, and because of the vague structure, one can read a page or section, or even a paragraph and it is easy to follow. A connecting storyline is not entirely necessary.

I've noticed studying this language, that it's not just that French sounds beautiful, but the interpretation and expressions are also beautiful. I have found that reading original works in French, like Charles Perrault, is so much more satisfying than an English translation. For example, my host mom and I were talking about the expression Tu me manque, I miss you is the standard translation. I learned from a good friend, that this expression in an unconjugated form uses a preposition that can be translated into different things, depending on the context. 

I have always understood the expression to mean, you are missed by me. My host mother says that it is meant to be deeper and more meaningful than that, you are missing in me. It is meant to be about that person or thing being a part of you and you feeling incomplete without him or it, that he brings a sense of purpose to your being. The English version seems to be more about treating the person or thing as an accessory, rather than a necessity. May I just say, I love French!

When I began reading the book, my host dad walked out the door, commenting that he was going to get some bread. People buy fresh baguettes everyday here, it's amazing. My host brother began showing me card tricks. He is a card-trick catalogue. I have been here for four days and he has not repeated one yet. I giggle as he unconsciously switches between English and French, and applaud "Bravo" as he finishes the tricks flawlessly. 

Host dad came back and handed host brother and I each, a croissant. They were huge! One filled me up. He asked if I wanted to take some tea, it was green tea with a jasmine infusion. MMM. One cup of that was so relaxing! I love jasmine but had never had the pleasure of ingesting it before today. It doesn't make you tired, just serene. I recommend it, if you hadn't gathered that conclusion yet.

After Skyping with the hubby, I ran upstairs to watch a movie with my host brother. He was half-way through it, but I promised I would watch some with him. The houses here are narrow and tall. Their house is three stories with my room, the bathroom, kitchen, dining, and living rooms on the first floor, their bedrooms on the second floor, and a work space/library on the third floor. The wall of the library that is closest to the roof is slanted with the roof, except the window, which has its own alcove.

As I walked into the library, I grimaced at the roof slant, remembering the two bumps it delivered to me last night. I was sitting be the radiator, and stood up, ignorant of the fact that the silly roof was slanted and nearly knocked myself out. I did this twice. Brilliant aren't I?

Later we had stir-fry with rice, yummy, and I rambled on about friends and family back home. They asked about my great-grandfather who landed at the Caen beaches 6 weeks after the storming of Normandie. Fascinated, they wanted to hear more details. I told them about his stories and gore he witnessed as a medic, and other brave things that he did. His time being a medic in a prison camp outside of Paris, and in order to feed the prisoners and themselves, they had to hunt the game in what used to be the king's forest and fish on what used to be the king's banks.

I also asked about a word that I didn't understand while we were listening to the stories at Saint-Etienne. In my last blog, if you look closely at the photo of inside the church, facing the alter, at the top of the arch, there are 3 small alcoves, in the middle one, there is a random wooden door. It was the first thing I noticed when we walked inside, and my host brother inquired about it. I understood that it was for cleaning and maintenance, but I was still confused. The word for roof, is what I had missed. That one word made all the difference.

Wedding update: I FINALLY decided on some bridesmaids' dresses today. Victoria's Secret Multi-Way Collection solves all of my apprehensions. If you haven't heard the previous drama, the short version is that I found four amazing dresses, sent them to my ladies for approval and/or comment, received said feedback, and then when I called for a price quote, all four had been discontinued. Sad day. Problem is solved now though! I have re-sent them these new dresses and hopefully everything is now settled with that hullabaloo.

Since then, I have just worked on this new layout and munched on what I have left of my grignette from yesterday. Tomorrow should be filled with frustrated conversations and feelings of overwhelming failure, but I look forward to it. Now for a shower.

Let's See How Deep the Rabbit Hole Goes

I know this is probably a bit obsessive, writing twice in one day, but I don't want to forget anything.

First of all, I would like to comment that it has gotten even colder. Seriously, I have to get up and hug one of the two radiators in my room every once in a while, because my body is not accustomed to this weather.

So this morning I awoke and my host mom had already left to go on an 11 day tour with her theatre company, so it's just me and the boys :) I made myself breakfast, and was soon joined by my host brother. He began asking me questions about when I wanted to watch Indiana Jones with him and if I knew how to work the electric tea kettle. He is very bright and entertaining.

Later, after everyone got ready, we hopped on the tramway to downtown. Travel is SO easy in Europe. Most people don't need cars, unless they live far into the countryside. I love it. We went to buy my carte Twisto for Monday and headed toward what I thought was going to be a theatre building for the concert. As usual, I was wrong in my assumption, but happily so. We walked down one of the narrow streets in the oldest part of the city. 

Side note: 80% of Caen was destroyed in WWII from the bombings during the storming of the beaches and the following battles, so only a small part of downtown is still intact with the 300-900 year old buildings. It's quite sad, because they are so beautiful. End side note. So we are walking down these old, narrow streets and my host dad is pointing out different cafés and streets and shops that he likes. We finally turned the right corner, and found ourselves in front of a 17th century church named Notre-Dame-de-la-Gloriette.

This magnificent building is where the concert was held. The doors suddenly opened and my host dad disappeared to the front, leaving his son and me to follow. He went around the side and got us good seats close to the front. He leaned over and simply said that it was a mens' and boys' choir and that his good friend is the director. I barely noticed his comment, considering when I walked into the church, I almost fell over. 

The soaring ceilings, the chandeliers, the altar at the front and the wonderful frescoes on the ceilings. Wow. I was dumb-struck by the beauty and grandeur. While walking over to the church, my host dad explained that all of the buildings in Caen are built with a special stone that is native to Caen. It is highly coveted, because the sandstone-type structure and light, ivory color reflect light very well, giving the buildings a wonderful, artistic light inside and out.

This church is made completely out of this stone, and what is more, is that the sun was out this morning, and it truly was breath-taking. The light reverberates almost as well as the sound. The director had no need for any amplification technology, because the structure itself was built to amplify the priest's voice, therefore, when the choir began singing, my skin rose into goosebumps. They didn't go away until the applause were finished.

The sopranos began at the back of the church following the lead of a bell ringer. (I will try to explain these instruments as well as possible, because the music was from the Middle Ages, so the instruments matched. They were all made of wood, it was amazing.) The altos were with a small flute, and the tenors/basses were with an instrument that sounded and looked like the fetal product between a trumpet and an oboe. 

The last two were at the front, on either side of the altar. The sounds played off of each other and blended to create something that is not possible with electronics. It was unlike anything I had ever heard. They slowly came together in front of the altar and continued with solos and small ensembles and a flute solo that grew into an ensemble. 

The flute display reminded me of a wolf who was content being alone, and then grew more and more melancholy about his predicament and began sounding off in lonely cries, but when it sounded as though he couldn't go on alone, he was quietly answered by a friend, and then another and another. It was quite moving.

Needless to say, I completely enjoyed the concert. After we left, we went to have a snack at a boulangerie. (I had my very first genuine chocolate French macaron today. LOVED IT! )This one has been in business since 1889. I could feel the age of the building, and the stone, and the beams. The history is part of the culture shock that I didn't expect. 

The US is so young and wild still. Most buildings are not built to last, and if an old building is in the way of free enterprise, it gets demolished without thought. Feeling the buildings, you get a sense of the city, almost like breathing and seeing a soul. This sounds cliche, but there are bullet holes in some of these buildings from the battles after the storming of the beaches in Caen. That is how real everything feels. There are buildings that have survived for 900 years in this city.

Speaking of said building, after the snack, we went to see Labbitiale Saint-Etienne. That was another wow. It was commissioned by William the Conquerer, and said abbey is his final resting place. (I wanted to take a picture, but it seemed disrespectful and naive to take a souvenir photo of a tomb.) A man who volunteers at the abbey to give tours, told us so many stories about the abbey and William and WWII. 

When the city was being bombed, the entire population took refuge in this building because it was built so strongly and for spiritual uplift. They slept in it for several days, praying that it would survive. That they would survive. He also told us the love story of William and Mathilde. The story of how and why certain features were used to build it. He spoke slowly for me, so that I could keep up, and I actually understood most of it.

On the way home, we stopped at a second-hand bookshop on Rue Froide, Cold Street, named so because it is a very old and narrow path that is oriented for the wind to always blow through it. It is almost like a wind tunnel. We went to the second story and had tea. We each got a small teapot and cup with our choice of tea inside and some organic cane sugar cubes. So cute.

OH, and les grignettes are amazing. It's bread that has cheese, or bacon, or escargot, or fruits, or veggies baked into it. I had the bacon one. Yum! I also just learned that my class level placement is the second highest level for the program. I have to choose between communication and media or the corporate world and society for my concentration. I'm happy that I did so well, but terrified at the same time, because I don't want to do poorly due to the high level. We'll see how it goes :)

Un Cafe s'il vous plait? Oh, it's an Espresso

May I just say this for the record, I hate jet-lag. I had a preconceived notion that, because I am younger, I would have minimal, if no jet-lag. That has not been the case. I went to sleep at around 2AM yesterday morning and woke up, without an alarm, at 7AM. I am the person who ALWAYS sleeps in. Always. With this in mind, I hauled myself out of bed when I heard the front door open, meaning that my host mom had just returned from dropping her son off at school. I pulled on many layers, and made my way out into the kitchen and dining room.

"You're up early," she said, a little startled.
I explained my strange sleeping pattern of the night while she made me tea and toast. I will never feel comfortable with someone waiting on me all of the time, so we had an interesting conversation about this custom. I explained that in the US, people are particularly independent and they like it that way. A good hostess shows her guests every part of her house, maybe fetches them a glass of something, but then shows the guest which cabinets hold useful things, and remarks "help yourself." As a guest, we do not like to bother the hostess and we feel obligated to help her with cooking or cleaning that is centered around a meal.

My host mom explained to me that she felt awkward also, because at least the helping aspect is common in Australia, so she also found it strange. While meeting her husband's mother for the first time, she had an epiphany. She realized that she was in the way while trying to help her with the cooking, and that she was almost insulting her. Apparently, the hostess (or host) here feels as though taking care of their guests is an important duty, and if one tries to help oneself, the hostess understands that she is not doing her job effectively. 

This is a completely new concept for me, because I had never thought of it that way. People in the US, generally, see entertaining as, I'll help you, but I'm not your waitress nor your mother. I feel a little more comfortable now, but since I'm settling in, my host mom jokingly told me that the waiting won't last :) I am relieved.

Over tea and cheese, we spoke about several cultural differences, philosophical life and death subjects, and some of our backgrounds. She said that she wants to take me to the beach soon, because it is just beautiful. I laughed and told her that I couldn't imagine standing on a beach when it is below freezing. She smiled and says that she often SWIMS during the winter. 

She said when she was filming a movie, they needed a very serene shot of her in the water with her hair floating in the waves, and ever since then, she likes to take a short plunge in order to have that shock of experience. The feeling she was describing, I could only really relate to sitting in a deer stand in the early morning, when it is well below freezing, the wind is blowing, being up in the air, and not moving. The cold is almost unbearable, but the empowerment and patience is an exhilarating feeling, especially when one is rewarded with seeing an animal.

She was fascinated by the concept of hunting, and the respect that we carry for the animals and rifles. Many people have misconceptions about hunters and that we just like to shoot shit and have trophies and blah, blah, blah, but it is so much more than that. Waiting, watching, gaging, understanding, respecting all that is centered around what it takes. 

I explained that once a shot is fired, one must wait a few minutes to make sure the animal does not get up and to make sure that nothing else comes out. I explained a four-wheeler and how we get the animal back to the camp, the hanging, the skinning, the gutting, and the cleaning. She appreciated the realness of it, and commented that she likes when people understand from where there meat comes, and how it ends up on our plates. We also talked about bull fighting and rodeo events, it was nice.

Later, we got dressed and drove to the open market. It was SO cold, many of the shopkeepers were already closing up, but she bought some very "stinky" cheese made from sheep's milk. She said she almost vomited the first time she ate it, but it grew on her and now she loves it. We also bought some sweet, hard type of biscuits and met up with her husband in a café. We sat and ordered. I ordered a coffee, but didn't realize that a coffee in colloquial terms means an espresso. One must specifically order an American coffee. Oops.

He brought them over, and she asked if I wanted milk, and I nodded with very large eyes. (I've never had an espresso.) Apparently, if you are ever in a French café and want an espresso with milk, order un noisette. Which literally means a hazelnut. Little tip for any one going to France in the future. We sat and drank, a friend of theirs came and sat with us, I tried to keep up, but language parts of the brain don't like to work with jet-lag. After a while, their friend asked if her Aussie accent was difficult for me to understand, and I said no. 

That opened a huge can of worms. My host mom is very gifted in accents and she began chattering away in a Scottish accent, then British, then South African, and Southern United States. She asked if she was doing that one correctly, and I laughed and imitated her back with an even thinker one, using y'all. Everyone burst into laughter and asked about the different American accents, so I began speaking and switching between New England, Chicago, L.A., and Deep South. It was fun to interact with and entertain them. She then asked me if I wanted crepes. OUI!

We walked back outside to a cart and looked at the menu. They were out of crepes, but they still had galettes. Galettes are made in the same way as crepes, but with buckwheat flour. Crepes are for sweet fillings and galettes are for cheese, eggs, ham, non-sweets, basically. I ordered one with egg and cheese. It was delicious, but trying to eat it was a nightmare! We took them back to the cafe and unfolded the foil. 

Problem? No forks, and they were folded in a very difficult, flimsy way. I stared at it for about five minutes trying to figure out how to eat this amazing thing. I tore a piece to start, but part of the egg was still runny and dripping, so I folded it up in a napkin and ate about half, before it completely fell to pieces. Galette-eating fail. Regardless of the pain it was to eat, it was delicious, a bit like crawfish.

After we finished eating, my host mom and I went to a store called Fnac. It is a books, movies, and electronics store to find a cable for my camera. After looking around, we found a good substitute and a cheap book that she said helped her learn French a bit better when she moved here.

When I checked out, the cashier prattled off a normal greeting and question, that I am sure is similar to "Did you find everything ok?" We take those compulsory phrases for granted, but when you are not familiar with the language, you just have to smile and nod, praying that you didn't just insult someone.

We returned to the house after that, and I read and skyped with my man. At about 17:30, I was slapped with sleepiness and crawled into bed fully clothed and with blush and mascara still on my face. A bit later, my host dad knocked on my door, informing me that we needed to leave soon. Merde! I had forgotten about the meet and greet dinner that was last night, so I climbed out of bed, feeling very sick all of a sudden, and got dressed. 

Upon arrival, everyone was dressed nicely, and I was in tennis shoes and minimal make-up. I forgot, this is France. Oops again. I talked with some of the other students and ate a tiny piece of quiche. Feeling feverish and being very cold, I didn't say too much until later, when I began to warm up. 

Toward the end, they had King's Cake. (It is very common among Catholics, as it is a tradition surrounding Mardi Gras and the epiphany). A tiny figure or token is baked into an almond-based cake and whoever finds the token, is the king! Guess who found one of them? My host brother. He is hilarious and talkative, and the crown just added to it.

We returned at about 22:00 and I skyped with the man and the roomie for a while. I was asked to go out to like 3 or 4 bars last night and felt old when I turned them down. I admit, I would like to go out later when I am not jet-lagged and feel like scum, but majority of the American students are either younger than me or they are in a different place in their lives. I got the impression that most of them came here to party. I didn't :)

Anyway, I slept much better and actually slept a full eight hours. YAY! Today my host dad is taking me and his son to a local concert and to get my Twisto card (for the tramway).

A tout a l'heure!

First Day in Wonderland

This morning around 4 am, I awoke to a feeling strangely reminiscent of the feeling I had at the train station. Parched pie hole. So I stumbled through the dark, found my water bottle, and finished it off. I passed back out and woke up literally two minutes before my alarm sounded. So I turned on the lamp next to my bed and basked in the wonderful dreamland warmth in which I was enveloped, and then slid out of bed and dressed as quickly as humanly possible.

Then, I applied my prettier face and joined the family for breakfast. Toast with an array of jam choices, butter, and cheeses. (Also, anytime that I mention a meal in these blogs, assume that there is a baguette handy. Fresh baguette is a staple here.) I had fig jam on my toast-AMAZING, loose leaf green tea infusion-ALSO AMAZING, and baguette with fresh goat cheese-RIDICULOUSLY AMAZING. Food here, seriously, is reason alone to move to France.

We hustled out the door after brushing our teeth, dropped off their son at school, and the parents drove me to the university. Side note, while driving, I realized that nothing (stores/restaurants) was open. I inquired as to why, and my host parents explained that everything opens and closes at the same time so to allow small business to compete with big business. 

The government sets the hours and they open at either 9 or 10. I found it interesting and advantageous, considering nothing can monopolize that way. End side note. I found my friends from UNT and received my packet of information and student ID card and then checked-in. While doing said action, I realized that my last name had been misspelled. Instead of my actual last name, they spelled out MONTAGNE, mountain in French. She said it would be changed and I just laughed.

We received a warm welcome from the head of the department and went on a campus tour. The campus in Caen is across the street from the castle that used to belong to William the Conquerer. We climbed the steps in the frigid wind and listened to the story of the castle and why the university's mascot is a phoenix. During WWII, the university had been completely destroyed and so, naturally the rebuilding was embodied by the phoenix who rises from her ashes.

After the tour, we were free to go, so a group of us hopped on a tram to downtown. We walked and window-shopped while looking for a place to eat. We came upon a pizza place and ordered. Pizza in France is NOT like American pizza. Bruschetta bread + real tomato sauce + four French cheeses = happy, happy tongue.

While exploring some more, someone brought up taking a shower with a hand-held shower head and all of us agreed, and then were surprised at the same time. I thought it was only my new house because, my host mom gave me a funny, rolled-her-eyes look while she was explaining it to me. It seemed uncommon to her, but perhaps that is normal in Caen? 

Another commonality between all of us is that we are all sore. Entire body kind of sore, from the plane, carrying the bags, many factors I'm guessing. I feel like I had a wrestling match with The Hulk and he folded me up like a pretzel.

Other random things that are provoking my culture shock:
1.) There are only white lines on the road, no yellow, and there are MANY more yield signs than stop signs, which yields excessively aggressive drivers and lead feet.
2.) Plugs, light switches, and heaters are totally different. No central heat, just radiators per room, even at the school.
3.) Hosts wait on their guests ALL of the time.

Anyway, day 1 was a complete success, and my host parents are supposed to take me to the open market in town tomorrow where, ironically, a guillotine used to call home and beheaded people. SO, so jet-lagged, time for dreams.

OH, we had ratatouille and rice with natural, unbleached sea salt from Bretagne tonight. C'est très bon!

Bonne nuit

Tumultuous Twenty-eight Hours

Bonjour de la France! What a day I had yesterday (and when I say day, I mean a 32 hour day). Shad, Taelor, and I watched Judge Judy and tried not to watch the time tick down to the hour we had to leave yesterday, but the time did come for them to take me to the airport. We talked and laughed, while I tried to swallow the peanut butter ball that was stuck in my throat, the whole way there.

Upon arrival, they helped pull my bags out of the car and I gave Taelor a hug. "Fiancé last," was all she could muster, while I watched the tears well in her eyes, so I grabbed Shad and my damn eyes began leaking, despite my best efforts. All of us were smiling trying to keep from making a scene and Taelor rambled on about airport people, and that they are better than watching the people of Wal-Mart or the mall, which definitely helped my morale.

So with one last glance at them through the airport glass, I turned to begin my grand adventure. I finally found my check-baggage area and tried to wipe away the silly tears that had crept out of my lids. I went through security (remember I've never been on an airplane, everything is new to me) and opted for a scan. Sorry Taelor :) 

After finding my gate, I waited for two hours to board. While watching the crates being loaded onto the plane, watching the security people walk around and jump in and out of the little airport carts, and trying to read The Hobbit, I realized that I was too excited and nervous to do anything but sit and think.

The fears, from my last blog, grew scarier and more complicated, and my whole body felt as if I could run a marathon or climb Everest. In actuality, of course it was just the adrenaline and other drugs that one's body makes when under stress. Regardless, I was enjoying the feeling. The flight was a flight, normal. Take-off was fun, kind of a roller coaster with a view, and I really enjoyed watching the sun rise over Ireland and the UK.

The food was not bad and there were many movies from which to choose, and my only complaint was entirely my doing. I could not sleep. At all. During an almost 10 hour flight. Needless to say, upon arrival at Heathrow in London, I was exhausted and not thrilled about hopping on another plane. 

I was walking briskly through to the other side of my terminal and was abruptly stopped by a security search. Once through I kept walking briskly to the gate, and the flight attendants had to pick up the phone to tell the pilot that the last passenger was there and to not close the gate. Wonderful, first step onto foreign soil, and I am already late to something.

The flight to Paris was very quick, 50 minutes, and then we had to run to the rain to get on a bus to take us to the terminal. Apparently, all of the rain had delayed a few flights and they had to park our plane in the Great Concrete Plains. Going through customs, guess whose last name was called over the intercom? Oui, c'était moi, I thought.

I went to the baggage directory. Heathrow had transferred my checked bag to the wrong plane, and I would have to wait around two hours to retrieve it. Sitting on a bench by the conveyor belts, I heard familiar voices. I turned to see three women who are also attending UCBN in lieu of UNT this semester. There flight had been delayed 3 hours and they were going to take a taxi from the airport to the proper train station.

"You're really going to stay here by yourself and try to get there by the Metro?" was their response to question of my plans about transportation. All I could do was shrug and nod in understanding of the escapade on which I would soon be embarking. After an exchange of numbers, they were off and yet again, I was alone.

Finally, after watching the flaps that cover the entrance to the conveyor belt, I saw my bag. The thought of my bag being shoved onto a shelf in a check-bag graveyard had been weighing heavily on my mind during those two hours, but I had also consoled myself in the fact that if my bag had been lost, I would have had to buy a new wardrobe. Who would complain about that when said person now lives in France?

I arranged my luggage on a cart and drove toward the RER sign. The RER is the Parisian metro that services all the way out to les banlieurs, which are really large neighborhoods outside of Paris. I had to buy an RER ticket, print my train ticket, and find the right metro. After accomplishing all of this with a bit of confusion, I sat next to a couple who were speaking Romanian and looking at me like I was an alien. I am an alien here, but it was painfully obvious with the ridiculous luggage I was carrying and rolling with me.

Getting off the first line, I searched for line E. There are 4 line Es. Great. I hadn't realized this until I ALMOST got onto the wrong one. When I realized that I almost screwed myself, I heaved my luggage back up the staircases and and re-descended several other flights to the right platform. Once arriving at what I thought was the train station, I hopped off contentedly, thinking that the rest of my journey would be simple. Ha.

I went up several flights, hauling the gorilla of bags behind me and looking for train signs, I found an exit area with an information desk attached. Walking up to the man, I tried to muster a decent French sentence, but alas, no sleep for nearly 24 hours, my French brain was not functioning. He smiled and asked which language is my native tongue. "Je parle l'anglais." He smiled again and asked me, in English, where I needed to go. La Gare Saint-Lazare is a huge train station and the one that I assumed was somewhere nearby. He pointed to a door and said, "Right then left." Simple enough.

I pulled my luggage through the check-out area and out the door I went. This door-was an Alice door. Wonderland had engulfed me in two steps and a swift wave of panic began quickening my breath. I had already been breathing heavily from running up and down stairs pulling my crap behind me, but now my breath had begun to create smoky columns around my face. 

I had been thrown into a random busy street of Paris, with a very vague idea of where I was located. Streets had no walk/don't walk signs, people were running to and fro, street vendors were trying to barter for demonstrations and products. Chaos. Suddenly becoming aware of my out-of-place-ness, I pulled my hood over my head and remembered the info man's words, right and left.

I walked down the street to my right, desperately searching for anything with SNCF or La Gare written on it. I saw a small sign with SNCF and ran across the street to the only familiar thing I recognized. It was an office, which had closed. (SNCF runs all of the trains in France.) Pulling at the door and dramatically flopping my forehead against it, my stomach began to curdle. I took a deep breath and hauled my things back up the stairs. (The office part was in an underground, strip-mall kind of thing.

Back on the street, I looked around and took the next left I could. Feeling desperate again, I walked up to a boulangerie vendor and asked for the train station in French. He pointed and said to keep going. Finally, I came to another intersection and, hooray, Gare Saint-Lazare. I walked in, utterly defeated, and stood out of the way of the hustle and bustle. 

I needed a minute to pull my hair back and not be shoved by anyone. My train was running late. Realizing that I hadn't missed it and that the train ride would be a chance for me to relax a bit, I was suddenly swallowed by the worst thirst I have ever felt. I walked to another vendor in the station and, in French, pathetically asked for a bottle of water please. I chugged half, and saved the rest for the train.

Leaning against a cold wall, I abruptly noticed that I had been sweating profusely under my clothing and was now getting extremely, frigidly cold, so I leaned and shivered for about 45 minutes until my train arrived. I punched my ticket and hopped on a car, but couldn't find my seat number, so an older gentleman told me that they don't really check seat numbers and offered the seat across from him to me. 

I stuck my luggage in a  convenient area and collapsed in the chair. We began talking and he wanted to improve his English,and I my French, so we helped each other. He began reading his newspaper after a while and handed me the satirical section on politics. Some things were funny, but I didn't understand most of the funny parts, so he explained the significances to me and let me keep it, telling me to keep working on my French.

About an hour into the ride, I began nodding off a bit, but he kept talking to me every time I'd close my eyes, so no sleep on the train for me. We arrived in Caen just before 8:00 PM, and thankfully, my host family was waiting :)

28 hours of being awake and traveling.

We arrived at their house after a short car ride, they gave me a tour of the house, and began making dinner. I unpacked and gave them their gifts that I brought from the US. For all of them, I brought soft peppermints and truffles from a chocolate shop down the rode from our apartment, and for their son (he loves all things cowboy and Indiana Jones) a pair of child-sized spurs and badge. 

His jaw dropped and the next thing I knew, he was hanging from my neck and shouting, "Thank you! Merci! Thank you!" After dinner, I showered and passed out. It was a total of 32 hours of being awake, a 9 and a half hour plane ride, changing metros and trains 3 times, all while pulling the gorilla. Like I said, what a day.

T-minus 20 Hours

This past week has been a roller coaster of emotions, sounds dramatic and cliché, mais c'est vrai. To aid in my ebbs and flows between dismay and ecstasy, my wonderful roommate organized a surprise farewell lunch at a local crepe cafe.

She insisted that we go on Saturday morning, wanting one last girls' day before I leave. Upon arrival, before getting food (very odd for us, we love food), she pulled me into the back room, insisting that we find a table. To my pleasant surprise, two of our good friends were sitting in the corner and we all rushed into discombobulated hugs. The kinds of hugs where everyone bobbles their heads to avoid collision, arms get stuck in hugs that shouldn't be part of that particular hug, and incoherent squeals of mushy-gooey girl talk spring forth from all of the newly applied lip glosses. After ordering we caught up and they gave me some presents :)

~A bottle of actual champagne, from Champagne. We will drink it when I get back, considering I do NOT want to be hungover when facing a 26 hour travel period.
~A beautiful single set of towels, a tea glass, and a pretty, smelly-good-thing.

Four girls + crepes + coffee + knowing I won't see them for months = 5 hours of gabbing at the cafe.

Now on the eve of my great voyage I am a complete mess! I woke up later than usual and had tea, watched a few episodes of season 2 True Blood, and paced. While trying to tie up loose ends, I discovered that the student web site that I used to buy my one-way ticket to Paris months ago, only books flights from US airports. Grr.

So after a few minutes of panic, I remembered reading that STA Travel was owned by a British company first, so I typed a jumbled phrase of these words into Google, and voilà, I was saved. I found a flight from London back to Texas for cheaper than my ticket to France. My debit card company is probably freaking out that UK GBPs were charged to my card, but in my defense, I warned them that I am leaving this week.

With this disaster averted, I then had nothing to do but pace. Pack. Unpack. Repack. Basically go crazy.

Solution? Go to Starbucks and get a bacon artisan sandwich and peppermint mocha. Meet the fiancé at the gym. Run 2 miles. Come home and repack all over again.

My emotions feel like a storm cloud that emerges suddenly and harshly. Without warning, mind you. I had a few weepy days last week, but now the excitement is mixing with the sadness of leaving my family, which consists of my fiancé and our roommates. Beloved professors, friends I've had for years, and my biological family are all going to be well missed.

I am also fearful of a few things:
1.) I will get lost, regardless of my decent sense of direction, self-doubt will ensue and I will inevitably hop onto the wrong train.
2.) Normal airport fears, and considering I've never been in an airport, we'll chalk that fear list up to a giant cocoon of explosive, scary madness. (Moscow airport bombing today does not help these fears)
3.) French people speak French. Regardless of my 5 years of studying the language, I know that I will sound like a bumbling idiot for a few weeks.
4.) My bed will be a rock. Sleep does not happen on rocks. Ever.
5.) Inevitably, the apartment will eat something that I desperately need in the morning.

So with my mind a beehive set abuzzing, I excitedly contemplate that the next time this blog will be updated, I will be doing it from my new home!

Bonne nuit à tous

Daring to Design and Pretty Page

So unless a Texan lives in the panhandle, the rest of us rarely see snow, let alone snow that sticks around for longer than a few hours. Yesterday, our neck of the woods received about 4-5 inches of snow and then a hard freeze. With absolutely nothing else to do, I thought creating my France account blog would be ideal, considering I HATE driving in snow or ice with Texas drivers.

To my absolute delight, our roomies needed someone to pick them up from their honeymoon flight, no objections here considering my soon-to-be hubby and I have not seen the other half of our family (i.e. the roomies) in almost a month. We went out to eat and caught up on family drama, holiday drama, and honeymoon stories, after almost dying several times trying to navigate through the airport terminals. Needless to say, no chance to set up the blog yesterday.

Today, there was still snow, and my man softly shook me awake, reminding me that I agreed to drive him to the gym and join him in a workout. Seriously wanted to faint at that point, so that he couldn't physically wake me.

I am NOT a morning person.

Just wanted to make this fact clear, but considering I did agree, I hauled my zombie-fied rear out of bed and pulled on thirty layers of clothing. Old apartment + three bedroom windows + sixteen degree temperatures outside = one chilly awakening. Walking into the living room, I realized that my car was probably encased in ice and the road as well. I then convinced him to flake out on our gym date (shame on me), but it gave me the time to play on my laptop for several hours.

Somehow, I was able to teach myself some HTML coding and graphic making skills today (thanks to kevinandamanda.com, Shabby Blogs, and The Background Fairy), all while Where the Wild Things Are played in the background.
-Wonderful movie by the way, I heard about some controversy surrounding it, and my two cents says that it was a wonderful literal and metaphorical account of life happenings that children experience today.

Aside from our skype consultation with our wedding photographer, which went fabulously, the rest of this day has been devoted to creating a visually pleasing and warm-fuzzy inducing site for friends, family, and anyone else who is curious about the happenings in the life of a study abroad student.