Thumb-twiddling and Door Fighting

So remember how I told you that Almost Husband is coming to France to celebrate our honeymoon-before-wedding honeymoon with me? The excited-ness is not dissipating, so as part of my energetic thumb-twiddling, I will inform you of the everyday monotonies of which I have not been reporting regularly, all in an attempt to keep myself busy and not completely decimate my adrenal glands.

Thursdays are long. Four classes that have an annoying 30 minutes or hour between them, fill the day. Said small pauses, which should be utilized productively have, in reality, been reduced to us frantically scribbling phrases that resemble the French language down on weird, French graph/loose-leaf paper (this is commonly referred to as "homework") before each class. We also had a test in our Ecrite class. Note: one cannot cram, nor really study for French classes. Tests and test days are marked by us deranged Americans hunched in corners of hallways and buildings, rocking back and forth, muttering nonsensically to ourselves and laughing too hard at things that aren't funny. Basically, we have mental-breakdowns every test day. For this particular test, we were given two articles and had to write about one of the two, as pertaining to parallel situations in our respective countries. Following that, we were asked to write a formal letter (formal letter writing has a much different format in France and is ended by a ridiculously long, formal phrases that I had to try to scribble down as soon as I received my test paper, because I new I'd forget it when I got to the end).

I wrote about the disappearance of fresh fruits and vegetables in the diets of families. Carefully, I plotted my plan of attack to make this test my bitch. Following the format that has been drilled into us this semester, I ended up with an uncomfortably long introduction (regardless of discomfort, it's what has been asked of us). I proceeded on, feeling ever more confident, and finished filling the second page we were given for said essay. Flipping to the back, I punched out a wonderfully formal letter, flipped the test to the front, feeling quite proud and full of myself, when, while writing my name, I saw that the essay was supposed to be around 200 words. Oh crap. I'd written a little over 500. My throat began closing at foreseeing my impending doom, as I'm sure that my American GPA will be decimated by this semester abroad (I really should have requested to be placed in the level lower than my current one, but I was over-confident. Ugh, damn you pride and your voluminous ways). Not that this test would have saved me, but it would have at least made me feel better before our brake.

With impending doom in mind, I tried to restrain my panic and began erasing. Everything. I erased half of my intro of which I was so proud. Almost tearful at the sight of my wonderful words turning into annoyingly abundant eraser dust, our teacher said that we had 5 minutes left. Ha. I kept erasing and didn't even have time to see how many words I'd left myself. I turned it in with a head hung low, turned on my heel, and went home. Upon thinking of my reunion with Almost Husband, I felt a little better and turned in early, around 11:30, as my last, rudely-early Friday morning was still looming. I figured I would wake up and get ready properly, as I had shopping plans with some friends after class and then dinner that night, as we are all going out of town during break.. After some tossing and turning, my brain finally relented to unconsciousness for a few hours before being alarmingly awoken by crying. No, not crying. WAILING.

My bedroom shares a wall with the bathroom, the wall that is next to my bed. Host brother wailed for thirty minutes, like a two-year old who wants chocolate at the store and belts out incomprehensible squeals, garbled words, and crocodile tears, almost always interrupted by gasping for air. I pushed my earplugs further in my ears, but it took an hour after he stopped for me to go back to sleep. I was startled awake at 5h24. My alarm clock was set for 7h00. I had been asleep for maybe thirty minutes and the sound of Big Ben rang in my ears, commanding that I get up and attend my last regular class before finals. I turned on my light and turned off my alarm. Bad life choice.

The human brain goes through sleep stages. They are very intricately performed and during certain stages, being awoken is a really, REALLY bad thing (at least according to my psychological research). One of these said stages, I'm assuming, is what my brain was experiencing. If you know me, you know that I can't fall asleep with a light on. I had swine flu with a 103.4 degree temperature lying on my death bed, and I was unable to fall asleep with my side-table lamp illuminating. This should illustrate my mental state. I fell back to sleep until 9h30, when I started awake and refused to believe it was 9h30, but when my senses returned, I decided it was futile to rise and try to get there. I got up about 30 minutes later and got ready to go shopping regardless. I actually put make-up on my face. It had been quite a while.

The whole point of "Shopping" was to find some sunglasses and maybe a dress for dinner that night, as the other two ladies with whom I was going, were planning on wearing dresses.

Side note on sunglasses: I had this pair of cheap, wanna-be designer sunglasses that I bought on a whim at a cheap accessories store because I'd forgotten my pretty pair while out with a friend one time. This was like 5 years ago. I didn't like to wear them because they were annoyingly too big for my face, had a tendency to slide down my nose, and in general were just ugly. However, through all of my travels, trials, and tribulations, these loyal sunglasses have never given up and have always served me well. Aside from the peeling, fake shine on them, the ridiculous scratches, being a temporary chew toy for Missy, and being sat on by Almost Husband and myself, they'd never actually been unwearable-until my trip to Nantes. These sunglasses were a detested object, but watched at least 5 of my other pairs perish in traumatic-sunglass ways (i.e. me diving into the Blanco River with a pair on my head, leaving a pair in a dressing room, running over a pair with a four-wheeler, being a not-so-temporary chew toy for Missy-you get the picture). Needless to say, they grew on me, even though I had tried to "lose" them or "brake" them (never on purpose, simply trying to open the door and let Fate do as she wished with them), but no matter my generosity to door-holding for Fate, she let them alone. This brings me to Nantes.

They'd been lodged in the bottom of my backpack on the trip back to Caen and I think that is wear the skeletal brake happened. I had still continued to wear them for the past two weeks, despite the  big trip-frame rupture and all, but I finally gathered that I should accept them as being dead and retire them to sunglass-heaven.

In short, I found a new pair, still cheap, still awesome, a dress and a number of other summery items, because quite frankly, it is getting uncomfortably warm in jeans and cardis every day (Almost Husband is bringing me t-shirts! I love t-shirts. They've been taken for granted by me).

Dear t-shirts who reside in my closet,


I am dreadfully sorry for mistreating you and neglecting you in the past. I will appreciate you and wear you all the time when I come home.


Affectionately,
Resident of the room in which your closet resides.


When I finally returned to Host House, my worst nightmares of that morning were realized. My host dad said that host brother had had a stomach ache all night and was vomiting this morning, so he and Host Mom wouldn't be taking their planned trip to Spain this week.

My back went ridged and my jaw locked up, as the hairs on the back of my neck rose to attention. I will say this once, I. Hate. Vomit. Not just in an ew-that's-gross way, it's more like an oh-my-God-I'm-going-to-get-your-illness-and-die-while-drowning-in-my-own-retch-get-me-the-f*ck-out-of-here way. If someone is doing this activity from drinking themselves into a stupor, that's totally cool, I'll even take care of them. If it's a baby who is under the age of one and still eating baby food and/or drinking a bottle, also totally fine, spit-up is not the same and normal for a developing digestive tract, but other than these occurrences, look-out, I'm making a b-line for the nearest exit. It is a genuine phobia, as it is an extreme, inconsolable fear that strangles my senses and triggers panic attacks. SO you see my dilemma.

Host brother was outside jumping off the fence, playing pirates, and running around like he'd never been sick in his life, but guess what, I have still spent the last two days washing my hands like a surgeon and acting as though he has the Plague. I feel badly, because I know it's not his fault and he's done nothing intentionally to warrant such behavior from his temporarily-adopted big sis, but after my explanation, can you blame me?

I pretty much locked myself in my room until it was time for me to meet my friends at the tram stop to go out for our last outing, before we darted off in our respective directions (not so much for me until next week, but I can pretend). I contemplated what to wear, but having not shaved my legs sine early January, and not really feeling like doing so last night (I would post pictures, as I really don't care what they look like, and with the shape of our shower, it's a rather impossible feat, but I might scare other people. I'd have to brand it with the disclaimer "inappropriate and graphic content"), I decided to wear jeans and a very innocent-looking white, flow-y, cotton shirt, pearls, and mock-cowboy boots. To make my Texan-country appearance even MORE authentic, I ordered a Corona and drank it out of the bottle at the bar at which we took our aperitif. Care factor? Zero.

We made our way to the restaurant, and ordered. One of my friends ordered carbonara, which, in Europe, comes with a raw egg served over the top. She stared and cocked her head at the oozyness and unbroken yoke sitting in the middle of her pasta. Our other friend was like "just mix it, don't even think, just mix." She did, ate it, said it was amazing, but of course I might be a little more adventurous with raw things if I hadn't almost died from Salmonella in 2008.

We said our goodbyes and I talked to Almost Husband and dinner friends host family had over before crashing. I felt like a loser coming back at 21h30 and not even being tipsy. "You're back already?" was the first thing they said to me, so I just smiled and explained that one of them was leaving on a train at 6h00 the next morning, so we weren't planning on staying out late. How boring of a host child I am?

No puking or wailing this morning. PRAISE JESUS! Emerging at 11h30, host dad had departed for his trip until Wednesday already. I made some breakfast and tea, sat, and felt like a zombie. Honestly, I've felt like a zombie all day. My head has been floating in a cloud of destressfulness. This tends to happen to me after every semester is over and when I go to the ranch. I sleep, lay around, and then have renewed energy that could be harnessed to save the world a few times over, but is usually poured into creative projects, consumption of novels, long walks, and time with Almost Husband. Today I chose creativity and reading.

I read a newly discovered blog, which was introduced to me by my lovely roommate last week, hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com majority of the morning. It's amazing and always makes me laugh. Then host mom called me for lunch, so I went to hacking away at the bread on the table. I like baguette. I don't have to cut it. For some reason, I alway tend to cut myself when cutting bread. I can fillet huge, wild game, rip out their bones and tendons, and pull their gonads from their carcasses without inflicting pain on myself, but bread is apparently my knife-nemesis. I think because it bends so easily, especially French bread, because the crust is really hard and the outside is really soft.

Needless to say, I sliced my thumb open with a knife that's longer than my forearm. Another problem with me? My skin has an unnaturally high pain tolerance. Maybe because I was a rough kid, maybe because gymnastics coaches would rip spoon-sized blisters and rips off my hands and tell me to re-chalk, they didn't want blood on the bars, or maybe just because my nerves are freaky, any way you look at it, when I cut myself, I rarely notice until blood is streaming out of it. Such was the case today. I felt the blade run across my skin, but didn't realize it had broken it. When I pulled my piece of bread off the loaf, I saw that there was a slit. And then there was blood. It wouldn't stop. I had to wash my hands and hold alcohol pads that I'd brought from the States on it to have enough time between the streaming to get the band-aid on there.

All this drama and all I could think about was having exposed flesh for the stomach bug that Host Brother had to invade my unknowing body. Seriously, phobia. After said drama, I returned to my room and Host Mom and Bother left to go to Host Grandparents' house. I continued reading and on the blog, she mentioned "Midnight Train" by Journey, so while I hung up my clothes to dry on my wire-rack thing, I had to belt it out with incorrect lyrics, until I found it on Youtube. Now it's still stuck in my head, but it's better then the "Elephant Love Medley" from Moulin Rouge! that's been on repeat in my brain for the past three days.

I sat back at my computer and realized that I needed to open my door. The room smelled funny and was getting humid with all of the wet clothes, so I tried to unlock it. It didn't work. Ever since this door has become a part of my room, it has given me trouble, well, the lock has given me trouble. I think the door itself likes me though. Inserting the key, it will only turn halfway and then stops, refusing to be unlocked. The poor key is just Switzerland in the whole mess, trying not to break for me, but keeping the lock happily locked. Finally after some grunting and pushing at the door, it relented and I've had it open most of the day.

It was closed once, because while writing this post, I had an intense need for chocolate and pears all of a sudden, so I tried locking it again. Another battle ensued, but I emerged victoriously, and was able to buy my chocolate, apples, chips, and pears.

These kinds of things are what has happened to me between the plane stories, beautiful places pictures, and stressfulness that is French Universities. I haven't written about them, due to said stress and exhaustion, but now that I only have a few more projects due at UNT and the fact that I will be seeing Almost Husband on our early-bird honeymoon, I hope to be able to write more often.

My thumb is throbbing, because I keep using it, so I'll leave you with that. 7 days until my Better Half arrives!

We Tend to Do Everything Weirdly

So I realize that I left the beautiful city of Nantes over a week ago, oops, been busy as usual. Sunny and warm it was last Saturday, and after awakening from a restful sleep, I left my hotel room to traverse the streets in search of Le Salon Blanc, a little tea room which I had seen in a French magazine a few weeks back. Upon entering, I was greeted by a tall, pretty woman, light pink walls, and stylish, white furniture. I ordered some green tea and lemon cake and sat down to eavesdrop on her's and the man's conversation, which they had begun before my arrival.


After leaving, I made my way to le château des ducs de Bretagne, but was a little detoured by Le Passage  Pommeraye, which is basically, a half-underground shopping area that connects two streets, built in the 1840s. Walking through it, I just took pictures and window shopped. There was a hustle and bustle of Saturday shopping in the air with a mixture of languages, smells of baking bread, and music from an accordion throughout the passage. Surprisingly, I didn't buy a thing other than food in Nantes, I was completely content with the photos and memories :)







Notice the bug on the wall. I didn't do that.


I exited my detour and took my original course to the castle, which is not in ruin, and has been turned into a museum. When I rounded a corner to find it, my heart fluttered a bit when I saw the moat. A castle with a moat, how quintessentially French is that? I took a few gazillion pictures and made my way inside. There was an entrance into a courtyard with Cinderella-esque stonework all over the buildings and a wishing well of which Snow White would be proud.  

After marching the walls of the castle, I entered the museum and skipped half of it on accident. I think I missed a staircase somewhere, but I was getting hungry anyway, so I plopped down on the grass and watched some ducks and turtles in the moat while eating a granola bar.



People watching is a blast in a foreign country, a cause de tous les nouveaux mannerisms and behaviors that seem just slightly off to a foreigner. One thing that the French do that I find adorable is that, when the sun finally emerges from its hibernation, everyone just finds grass and lays do in it. Everyone. Around the moat, couples, groups, families, single people, comme moi, just sit and chill in the grass, hence the awesome people-watching. Love it!

After sunbathing a bit myself, I continued my walk to Le jardin des plantes that is on the same street as the castle, at least one of the entrances are there. It was paradise. There were plants from all over th world, including American natives like magnolia trees (one of my favorites), and EVERYTHING was in bloom. I walked and completely demolished my camera's battery while soaking up all of the prettiness and floral aromas.



I continued to walk and wander in amazement until my stomach began chewing on itself, so I departed and made my way back to the hotel, considering that I needed to recharge my camera battery anyway.


Again, side-traction happened (I am aware this is not proper English, I don't care) and I ended up standing in front of a massive cathedrale. It was beautiful, like all of them have been, and the stained glass windows were arrays of pastels, as opposed to the harsh reds and jewel tones in the other churches and cathedrals which I've seen. It makes sense, a port town should have more softly colored things.



I stopped at a boulangerie close to my hotel and bought a quiche, coffee, and giant, chocolate macaron. Feeling awkward carrying everything, I sat at one of the tables outside and inhaled said quiche. Sitting in the sun and being further south than Caen, it was much warmer than I had anticipated, and just as the thought to take off my jacket crossed my mind, I felt a bead of sweat cross the side of my face. I got up and tugged at the leather to pull it off and then mounted the hill and stairs to my hotel.

Upon arriving, the floor to ceilings windows were thrown open, my shirt was rolled up and my shoes were off, while I laid on the bed and fanned myself with my tourism map. It was rather warm. Once the sweating had stopped, I regarded the map to find my next destination.


I promptly decided to find the isle of Nantes next and made my way down the warm street. At this point, the sun was blinding and all of my pictures, indeed my vision, became washed-out. No matter, as I was fascinated to find that while walking across the bridge, the buildings back on the other bank are tilted. They're actually sinking and tilting.



The river and harbor are gorgeous too :)





There was even a giant, mechanical elephant...





and giant cranes too.



Pretty much, it was an awesome day. After walking the packed streets, where one would think one was in New York during New Year's, as opposed to Nantes, France, I returned to my room with the intent of eating at a cute creperie later, but was so utterly exhausted, I just talked to my man and crashed.

The next day, I ordered room service for breakfast, in French (I was pretty excited about that, it was over the phone) and chilled in the plant garden until it was time for my train to leave. I had to make 3 train changes, but didn't mind, as long as there was no bus involved :)

On continue. The reason for the title of this week's blog has nothing to do with Nantes, but everything to do with a certain someone who induces in me those gross, gooey feelings that make other people want to puke. See, when I came back to Caen, a friend of my host dad came in from the States, stayed with us, and then was heading to his apartment in Paris. He's pretty freakin' awesome, has a strangely accurate Californian accent (with just a hint of French), and a lovely French Bulldog named Mister Fizz. He is the one who offered to let me stay in his apartment for a week, while he is babysitting his nieces and nephews in another region of France. He explained that if I wanted my fiancé to stay, that would be cool and he has a fold-out couch if I wanted to bring a friend for the week also. I explained that my man has finals that next week and he doesn't have a passport and blah, blah, excuse, excuse.

That night, I told my guy about our conversation and we goofily joked about him coming to see me, and then signed off. The next day, my host mom returned from her two week tour in Champagne and Bretagne. She handed out little presents she had brought back for us, and then I told her about everything that was going on, and she looked at me with enormously wide eyes and said "Oh he has to come see you. He has to come see you and the two of  you have to discover Paris together, because that would just be way too romantic!"

Oh dear. All of the daydreams that had been floating dizzily around my head suddenly seemed like they could manifest into reality. I just smiled and responded that yes, it would be sickeningly romantic, then left for class. After class, which had been frustrating, because I was too busy thinking of ways to make it work and convince him to come see me to pay attention, like the faithful student I am used to being. Upon my re-enty to the house, I proceeded straight to my room and typed out a Facebook message explaining all of the reasons he should come see me. Basically, this is something that will never, EVER happen again. The whole meeting someone who HAPPENS to have a Parisian apartment in the chic 16th district, who HAPPENS to want to let us stay for free, and who HAPPENS to be gone for a week straight. That shit doesn't happen twice. I would have never believed that it would have happened once, for that matter. Parisian early honeymoon for the price of his plane ticket and passport. Genius.

With that, when he called me on Skype, I pretty much told him that he was coming to see me and that we are just going to do things backwards and non-traditionally in concurrence with how the entirety of our relationship has transpired thus far. Translation? HONEYMOON BEFORE WEDDING! YAY! Yeah, so I began prattling away, regurgitation the message I had sent him, that he had yet to read, when a smile just crept over his face. "Baby, I'd already decided to come see you, you don't have to tell me."
Awe (only in that voice).

Silly timing, oui, the only thing that will happen the way it is "supposed to" in the course of our relationship will be the order of marriage followed by babies, mais c'est tout. Obviously, I am inconsolably excited-I am aware that the adverb is awkwardly placed, but my English adverbs have been misplaced in the rifts of my grey matter on account of all the French words being forced to my attention-and am counting down the days. He went to get an expedited passport the day after our talk and bought his plane tickets that night.

I have two more days of classes, as of tonight, until spring break, and then I have to find SOMETHING to do for the first week, so that I am not twiddling my thumbs and watching the clock tick away. I had a thought to go to London for the royal wedding, but the timing doesn't work, so I'm trying to decided between laying on the beach-alone-in Deauville, exploring somewhere else, like Giverny, or hopping La Manche to see some of London before all of the hub-ub gets too crazy.

So incredibly excited! Going to pop excited! Eyes watering, cheeks hurting, wrinkle-inducing, jumping-up-and-down-wringing-my-hands-like-a-two-year-old-EXCITED!

It's Always an Adventure

In my family, when these words are uttered, it usually means that something didn't exactly go as planned, or something just flat went wrong.We laugh and say these words to remind each other that the sky is not yet falling and we end up usually having more fun anyway. Stressful fun, but fun regardless. That being said my Friday has been an adventure.

First, I must confess that yesterday I was prepared to vent some angry, self-pitying words on here, but restrained. I cried over Skype to my man instead (it took a year of us being friends, plus two years of dating for me to let him see me cry in person). It's still a rare occurrence, but the fact that it happened over the internet should express to you the disarrayed state of my emotions yesterday. School is so stressful. Period.

We began to get some of our grades back this week and then had three more tests. Yesterday was grammar. I feel like I failed. Majority of the grades I have received back are 11, 12, or 13 out of 20. The fluffier classes, like civilization, I have an 18, but I think that is the only good one. All of us GPA-centered Americans are freaking out, obviously, because 11, 12, or 13 out of 20 is miserably failing in the US. I'm not sure what it is here. Our teachers will say they are pretty good, but through our program, we have translated grades, instead of just blank transfer credit. I don't know the scale and...(I could go on forever). Like I said, freaking out. Emailing the professor in charge of the program in Texas didn't really give me anything to go on either. He just said that there is a chart, as determined by my university. We'll see.

In short, that was my rant, so I was ecstatic about getting out of Caen and seeing something new this weekend. I had booked train tickets/hotel reservations in Nantes two weeks ago. The train was supposed to leave two hours after my grammar class ended at 10:30. Ha. Well, my alarm clock sounded this morning and about ripped my sanity in two, so I turned the thing off and went back to sleep. After the week and the test yesterday, I just did NOT  have it in me to go to grammar at 8:20 and get gripped at for not doing well on the test or just because I'm a stupid American. We can't conjugate apparently, we're horrible with word order, and we suck at demonstrative and relative pronouns. (This was a generalization made by one of our teachers this week after she handed our papers back to us and mounted her soap box.) In other words, I slept in.

Getting up at 10:30, I figured that I'd have enough time to pack and eat breakfast and put on my face (I also haven't worn make-up for about a week and a half until today, that should also tell you something about my mental state. Breaking. Point.). It was not enough time. It actually was, I was just dilly-dallying, lost track of time, and then remembered that I still had to print my tickets at the train station ticket machine, so after just missing the tram, I uttered a swear and sat with my bags and mapped out my trajectory upon stepping off the tram at the train station.

When I did finally arrive, I had ten minutes to get my tickets and board the train. The ticket machines don't work with foreign cards. I don't know why, because when I printed mine at the Paris airport, I had no problems, but then again, maybe it was because it was the Paris airport. I walked up to the welcome desk, and while waiting in line, I overheard some girls talking to a conductor asking for the voie (the platform) of the Nantes train. He said something about a bus, but I wasn't really paying attention at that point, because it was my turn.

The man directed me to the ticket counter in the next room, so I hustled up to a counter, seeing that the woman could speak English, I was secretly praying that she wouldn't switch over. It's so frustrating when people do that to me. She didn't, she printed my tickets for me and I hustled back to the main room and saw that the train leaving for Le Mans (the Nantes train was by correspondence from there) was an hour late. I was good! God loves me, I didn't miss it, so I bought a magazine and a bottle of water and plopped next to an old lady on a bench out of the way. I nervously looked over my tickets, tried to read some of my book, but just wanted on the train, then I could relax.

Around the time when the train was supposed to arrive, I made my way to the main doors, and the conductor, who had been talking to those girls earlier, asked us to follow him. We left the Gare and headed toward the BusVerts next door. Oh geez. I thought. I'm going to miss my other train. We mounted the bus, everyone commenced pushing and shoving out of frustration through the doors and up the steps. Being one of the first aboard, contrary to who my people in the US perceive me to be (I can be mean and pushy), I chose a window seat. Shoving my back-pack above me and my computer bag below me, I eagerly sat and waited for some type of explanation. The driver asked who had to stop at one of the cities in between Le Mans and Caen, practically everyone but me and a few others raised their hands. It looked like we'd be aboard for a while.

I could feel the stress building and beginning to manifest into a monster in my chest, but after we had exited the congested part of Caen and more green began to pass by, I took a few deep breaths and reminded myself that it's always a freakin' adventure (and a blessing in disguise, because I probably would have missed the train with all of my ticket issues). Breathing began to come a little more easily and the tightness in my chest began to loosen, so I just watched the lovely scenic route, but after an hour, I resorted to listening to music. It took a little over three hours and the last hour, I began listening to French talk radio, trying to ready myself for explaining my delay and subsequent missed train caused by the bus-en-lieu-of-train-situation.

Finally arriving in Le Mans, the bus driver dropped us off down the street from the Gare and a sea of red-faced people with heavy backpacks and rolly-bags made its way to the train station. Said train station? Huge! Not as big as Gare du Nord or Gare St. Lazare, but still considerably confusing. I followed the flow of people and saw the word Nantes on a screen, checked th voie and ran for it. When I arrived at said voie, the screen read Strasbourg. Odd. I walked back upstairs and checked the same screen, psh, it was an "arriving" screen. I'm such a genius.

Feeling a little hopeless, I made my way to the welcome desk and told them my situation, so they took my ticket and began stamping and signing away on it. The next train to Nantes would be at 17h06, I should take that one. Sweet. I'm going to make it there before sundown. (That was a growing fear, considering Nantes is much bigger than Caen and I didn't want to be wandering around for my hotel at night.) After having some concrete information, I began to relax a bit and realized I needed a ladies room. A little TMI for you, I know, but just because I have to say that I had to pay to pee. I had to pay 40 centime to use the restroom. Yeah.

Afterwards, I found a spot of concrete that was relatively clean on the outer-most part of the Gare, still in sight of a departure screen and realized that I hadn't eaten anything since a few petits pains grillés this morning, so I dug around in my backpack to find an apple that I'd stashed on my way out the door and greedily consumed it. The train had arrived by the time I was finished, so I made my way there, asking the conductor if it was the right train. His confirmation sent a wave of relief crashing over me and I stowed my bags away again, sat, and listened to music.

The countryside was still gorgeous and as we grew nearer to Nantes, castles, ruins, and Victorian mansions began to fly by. A very different sight from the Normand countryside, but then again the Loire Valley has a HUGE concentration of said buildings. In the words of my host mom, "All of the royals had to have their summer and spring homes there."

Upon arriving in Nantes, I had a similar heaviness in my stomach when I stepped out of the Gare as when I stepped into that street in Paris on my first day in France. Completely confused, I figured my orientation and made my way to to where I thought the tourism office was located. I finally found it after some wandering, but was thoroughly disappointed when I found that it had closed 30 minutes before. The train was supposed to arrive before it closed and I was going to get a map of centre-ville from there and use that to find my hotel, I needed to think and rest my shoulder. Walking, with no real idea as to where my hotel was from there, I took refuge in the sun, sitting on the edge of a sidewalk. My laptop bag was heavy, and I was silently telling myself that unless Muscles is with you or you buy a netbook, you're not allowed to bring a computer again. Probably a lie, but it made me feel better at that moment.

With my legs dangling off the edge of the concrete and resting in the grass below, I pulled out my iPhone and began diddling, trying to figure out how to work it to my advantage. I don't have international data on there, so I was looking at my maps app, trying to see if my hotel street was close, by bumming a few milliseconds of internet from local sources. It was relatively close, but I already knew it was in the vicinity, I just needed a direction. Standing and heaving my bags back over my shoulders, I went back the way I came and circled round to a main street. I wanted to avoid, what I thought was a turn-about, but couldn't. The streets were too curvy and I didn't want to become more lost than I already was.

To my delight, however, the street that I was following opened into a large area surrounded by shops encircling a huge fountain. I'm pretty sure a smile cracked over my face as I marched through the middle and to the rue for which I had been searching. Up, down, up, down. I was looking at the cobblestone ground and changing elevation and then darting my eyes upwards to look for street names. I found my hotel! I know I let out a big smile of relief at that point. Entering, I gave the desk associate my name and he game me a key for the second floor (the third floor in American). That didn't bother me, that meant that the street noise wouldn't be as bad. Entering the room, I tried to flip on the light, but it didn't work. Making a mental note to tell the guy, I let my bags down and flung open the floor to ceiling windows, as it was a bit warm today and all of the running and stressing had produced a lot of sweating.

I stuck my computer bag in the closet, ran downstairs, and back to the Place Royale, as I needed something to eat. I had seen a Paul boulangerie, but when I got close to it, I realized that it was closed already. Wandering a bit more, I just wanted some bread or a sandwich, after a day like that, not to mention eating alone, I was on the hunt for something light. Mounting some steps, I found a Monoprix (French grocery store) and bought a Croque Monsieur. Getting back to the hotel, I began eating it, but realized I should have just gone with a croissant. The bottom half was completely mushy and the thought of the sandwich sitting out since lunch put me off my appetite, so I ran back down the stairs again and back out to the Monoprix and bought some apples, Madeleines, and granola bars to accompany the half-bag of peanuts and rice cakes I had brought with me. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but it's what I wanted.

When I returned, I tried, again, to turn on my light, no luck. I then tried other lights, and soon came to the conclusion that the power was out in my room, so I grabbed my key and walked back out my door. After locking it, I looked down and saw that there was a picture on the card-looking-thing attached to the key. A little box was illustrated that resembled the little lit box that was above the first light switch. I stuck the card in the slot and THEN THERE WAS LIGHT! The card has to stay in the slot though, or the power is cut again. I know they use this tactic to keep people form using electricity while they are out of the room, (the French are very green) but it should also be used in the US just to keep people from losing their room keys!

One final note on this random weekend traveling I've done for the last few weeks, this whole trip really, has made me feel a certain way, but it's hard to describe. Taking trains and trams, walking and lugging bags around, all while being surrounded by foreign culture and a foreign language gives me a sense of independence and confidence that I've never felt before, like all these experiences are making me tough in some way, like I can figure out any problem. Seriously, while waiting for the bus last weekend at the American Cemetery, the thought crossed my mind that the bus might not come back (as it was only scheduled to come back once that day), so I sat and thought about what I would do. It was in a beautiful area, close to orchards and the softly sloping hills down to the beaches, but out in the middle of the country, so I thought about where I would sleep if that happened. Strange thing is, I was completely ok with the bus leaving my rear there and sleeping under a tree or against a rock. Granted I wouldn't have wanted to sleep outside if it had been cold, I would have thought of something else, but the fact that I feel like I can just make it work is new to me.

The incessant worry-wart that has to have things a particular way is disappearing, to my great relief, and a more calloused version of myself that thinks about building a house that looks like a Hobbit Hole or backpacking across the terrain of New Zealand is being left behind. I probably sound like a complete hippie right now, but maybe I'm morphing into one (sans drugs). All I know is that readjusting to the American way of rat-racing, driving, and consumerism is going to be hard to re-conform to after all this mess.

After fixing a computer problem, I now sit here recounting this crazy day and am so excited about exploring tomorrow! (Not gonna lie, I'm also excited about a double bed and a shower head that is attached to the wall) It's going to be sunny and warm again tomorrow! 

Walking on Omaha Beach

Ever notice how life seems to be just ok, and then your body contracts a cold and the first day that you feel better feels like one of the best days of your life? Maybe that's just me, I tend to think about such things too much, but one of these said days is today for me. Thursday was carnival (French definition: university students dress up like Halloween and run around downtown getting really, ridiculously drunk and then retreat to the bars. This is a school sponsored event too, the drinking age is 18, so no one cares.) and I didn't have a costume, not to mention it was cold and rainy, therefore, a friend and I went and bought sweet treats and wine and hung out, warmly and dryly, inside.

First of all, it took two American girls 10 minutes to uncork a French bottle of wine. In our defense, the corkscrews here are weird. Anyway, so after only drinking maybe a third of the half-bottle I bought. It was time for me to leave, so I tried to put the cork back in half-way, like one can do with Llano wine. It didn't work, so she handed me her coke, twist-off lid and I held it over the bottle opening.

She walked me to the bus stop and it was severely delayed on account of the drunken students wandering the streets. Considering that, and the fact that I didn't know if I could bring an open drink on the bus/the bottle was only like 2 euros, I left the bottle in a trashcan by the bus stop. Terrible, I know. Finally, I parted and got off at one of the tram stations, because I had to take that the rest of the way to get home. The tram too, was very behind, and the first one that came by was packed like the UNT buses when the temperature gets close to freezing. The doors slid open and an enormous cloud of beer-scented air about knocked me over. Regardless of the packed-ness, a few frustrated people who'd been waiting longer than I, squeezed on the tram. I decided to wait, good thing too, because the next one had like two other people on it. On our way to the next tram stop, we came to a halt half-way to it. There had been a wreck up the track a way, so we sat and waited, needless to say it took me almost an hour longer than usual to get home from my friend's house.

Friday morning, the sidewalks and tram tracks were littered with broken bottles and cigarette butts, as I made my way to campus for my rudely early grammar class. There were like 5 people there. (I should mention that Thursday we had only our morning classes, and then were released for carnival. Well, since I was one of the only people in class, one of the other girls, who apparently had a cold, sat by me through the entirety of our classes, she also tends to get in your bubble when she talks to you, so I think I got sick from her. I haven't had even a cold since last June, so being sick here makes me a little bitter.)

During class, in  which I am usually very participatory, I just tried to hide behind the people in front of me. I did not want to wake up and only decided to drag myself out of bed 5 minutes before I had to leave for the tram. After class, I went to the SNCF boutique to buy train tickets, as I had decided to go see the American cemetery this weekend, because the weather was supposed to be relatively nice. Afterward, I went home and decided that I needed a break from French. Seriously, I love French, it's what I want to do with my life, but I am so incredibly burnt out. Taking 19 hours and not getting a spring break until literally the week before finals is a really stupid way to run this program.

In honor of my break from French, I caught up on some of my American TV shows and made a dent in one of the novels I brought, but as the day went on, I began feeling worse. I'd woken up with a sore throat and drainage, but assumed it was an allergic reaction to France. Spring is here. Nope. I woke up to go to Bayeux and then to the beaches feeling like crap, but I'd already bought the tickets, and I couldn't leave this country without seeing them, so I drug myself out of bed and surprisingly had enough in me to put on make-up.

Getting to the train, just before it pulled out, I chose a seat and listened to music as the countryside began to rush past outside the window. It was only about a 15 minute ride and then I waited for 45 minutes at the bus
station for the right one. While looking over the time charts a woman walked up to me and asked if I was going to stay there, I replied that I didn't know, I was just looking for my bus and time. She switched to English, interrupted my answer, and asked me again. Dang it, I understood her, she was just in a hurry and asked me to watch her bags. I said, in English, I didn't know, I was just looking for my bus and time, and that I might go into town. She stomped off and proceeded to ask a young man who was doing the same thing as I was. He said sure, and took a seat. I wandered around and went into the train station, completely irked, as I was not feeling well and was slow to respond.

Our correct bus finally came and when I went to pay for my ticket the bus driver said "quatre" ("four"), so I repeated it and found 4 euros in my purse. She then said 7euros40. What? She had charged me for four freakin' people. I just didn't even care at that point and handed her a 10. I told her that I was traveling alone and asked why she charged me for four. She just had the girl behind me pay me for her two tickets and then she'd let me ride back for free, no explanation. Ugh.

So I took my seat, utterly frustrated, but feeling too sickly to put up a fight. The small towns and narrow roads began going by and as we grew closer, I could see the ocean on the horizon, and the sight helped to lift my mood. Upon arrival, the guy that had waited with me got off too and we both made our way, in silence, to the memorial. Honestly, I would have tried talking to him, especially since we waited for the bus to come back for us in silence for like 20 minutes, but my French brain doesn't like to work when it's sick, and the French boys that I've met so far understand just eye contact as "I want in your pants." I was not in the mood for dealing with that kind of mess either, so silence was just better. I found the welcome center, which is in American English, oh my goodness, I chose the right weekend to take a break from French, and the guards spoke English, or tried, as well. It was a bit strange hearing and seeing it in a public place like that. It makes sense of course, it was just unexpected. Being a minority speaker of a given language, I've gotten used to only speaking English and reading it in certain limited areas, but with something important like that, it just caught me off guard.

I had to speed through the center, because the way the bus times work during this part of the year, I barely had an hour and a half to see everything. Once back outside, I walked along a path, leading to the cemetery, but there was also a path down to the beach, so I took that one first, as it was still sunny, but I could see rain clouds on their way.

 It was a winding, softly sloping path with arched trees and wild flowers growing everywhere. There were a few little drainage streams as well and then I came to the bridge of the beach, snapping pictures the whole time. Emerging onto the beach was incredible. It is beautiful first of all, the sand is clean and lightly littered with smoothed stones and shells, the dunes have the picturesque driftwood fences strung along them, and the water! The water is so many shades of blue! The ocean constantly changes color like the light here. Then to walk down to the frigid water and think about the storming was indescribable. Thinking about a band of 17-20ish year old boys running into open fire in the very place where I stood was quite moving. Thinking about my grandpa landing there so many years ago to help heal people and thinking of all of his war stories, it was a lot to take in. For once, I have no words to describe it. Every way I try doesn't feel like enough or it feels like something one is supposed to say, so I'll leave you to your imagination on this one. Much of the trip though, I felt so humbled and as if my chest were too heavy to even breathe, it is hard to describe.

After standing at the water's edge, I walked down the beach a bit and picked up two beautiful stones that had been rounded and smoothed to perfection by the tides and sand, and stuck them in my pocket. Snapping pictures up and down the beach, I checked the time and was angry that I had to move on so soon. I was so enthralled by getting down to the water, I'd forgotten about mounting the hill and the stairs-with a head cold. Regardless, I knew I couldn't slow down and told myself that it would be better to raise my body temperature and move around to get my blood pumping. It was so difficult. I had felt shaky all day before that, and then the feeling grew worse. I was panting like a greyhound and half-stumbling up the last few steps, and then I rounded the corner and saw a field of white crosses, perfectly lined in rows with a few Stars of David dotting the land scape. I just stopped and stood there, completely forgetting about my lack of oxygen.

The wind had picked up and as I looked around, I saw the US flag flying high above the field of white and had to capture that moment. I wish I could have been able to record the heaviness in my chest and the few tears that were stirred up either by the intense wind or the sight before me. I walked around to the front to see the pool and statue before the cemetery and then glancing at my watch, dramatically through my head back, as it was time for me to march back to the bus stop.

After riding back to Bayeux, I walked to downtown and looked for somewhere to eat. Vegetable soup was on my mind, vegetable soup and tea, but of course everything was closed until 19h and my train was leaving at 17h. I just kept walking, burning time, and then remembered that there was a little bar/restaurant by the train station, so I walked back. They had veggie soup! Being the only customer, I scarfed the bowl, especially considering that I hadn't eaten since ten and I had only had tea and a little piece of bread, while running out the door.

The train ride back was uneventful, except that I listened to these four guys talking, who were Canadians backpacking through France. Upon returning home, it was raining, so I retreated to my cave until dinner. There were two of my host parents' friends over and one of their sons also. All in all, it was 5 boys and me. The dinner was potatoes, lamb chops, and a type of Arabic sausage. I laughed at the situation and hung out to listen to the conversation, regardless of still feeling like crap. When there are guests over for dinner, I am very reserved and mostly listen. Honestly, by the time I come up with something to say, the topic is changed and so I give up, but most of the time, someone will ask me a question and everyone gets quiet to listen to me, which is nice, yet intimidating.

They had begun talking about drinking and what not and commented that I'm quite the alcoholic (considering I rarely drink more than a glass or two of wine, and had refused any that night on account of being sick), so we all laughed and then they picked on me, saying that I'm also quite the chatterbox. I just smiled and agreed, oui, tellement. I went to bed after that, and slept for 12 hours, but woke up feeling much better this morning, which rounds me back to feeling like today is one of the best days ever, because I don't feel completely overridden by a virus.

Other happenings in the life of miss priss here would be earlier this week, I had walked to a bookstore during my break to look for a book. (I didn't find it, but I did find the novel version of a movie we had just watched in one of my classes called Je vais bien, Ne t'en fais pas. Fabulous movie, rent it.) On my way back to class, this tall guy reaches out to me on the street saying, Ah mademoiselle... and kept talking, but I through my hand up saying, Yea, I don't speak French. He trailed after me a bit and said in his very think French accent, Ah zat iz a pitee, because I can say beautiful szings to you. Ok, good day! My thoughts ran, Damnit, that usually works! and it does. Random French homeless people or flirty boys usually give up after they think I can't speak French. Oh well, it was bound to happen sometime.

Wedding research is going well. My man is still looking for a DJ, I'm finding some adorable decorations I want to make when I return, and I'm still battling what kind of favors I want to do. The almost husband and I are also looking for a new apartment, exciting! As long as we've lived together, we've always had roommates, who have been amazing, of course, but it will be nice to have a place of our own when we become hubby and wifey. There have also been administrative things which he has had to handle for me en lieu of my absence. I forget that I'm an adult in my country, considering I live with a family, I kind of feel like an awkward big sister and the way our program is set up, it feels more like high school than college. I also scheduled my trip to Nantes next weekend, so I'm super excited about that. The tickets to Versailles sold out before I could get one the following weekend, but I figure it will be cheaper and better anyway to just go whenever I stay in Paris over the break.

The classes are still stressful and intense. I miss my man, dog, and all of those whom I care about in the States. The excitement about the wedding keeps bubbling up into my cheeks and the weather remaining relatively nice is keeping me sane. Time for sleep now :)