Then there was this other time that I wanted to bake banana chocolate chip muffins for my class but when I asked Michèle if I could borrow the kitchen on Wednesday night she said it wasn’t available because she goes home on Wednesdays. I had already thought this was the case, but I just wanted to be sure that I was being foiled. So I went down to the Carrefour to see how much a small oven would cost. It was like 180€ so I just went over to the Macdo to use the internet for a bit. Then the next Monday I went back hoping that something magical had happened, and something had! Basically the magic was that I hadn’t seen an even smaller oven that cost 69€! Well, as you know, I have a special love for this number (the joke that just does not quit), and I took it as a sign from Julia Child or something that I should get it. So get it I did. And I carried it back up the hill in my weakling arms. That’s about a mile walk, y’all. I’m no slouch.
And I’ve baked something every week since I’ve bought it. So it’s been great. And today, after I offered some strawberry muffins to the salle des profs, I heard Chantal from the office say that the assistants who come next time will have some serious competition. And it doesn’t matter if they speak English—it’s all about their baking abilities. Suckers. On a related note, it really bothers me that in French, there’s no word (as far as I’ve been told) that means baking as opposed to cooking. As I’ve heard it, everyone just says cuisiner. In the past, I’ve tried to make up the verb boulanger to take from boulangerie. No dice, though.
I’ve actually tried to make up other words. One that I keep trying to use is obvieusement to mean “obviously,” obviously. But Sabine always chuckles and reminds me that it’s évidement. Which is weird to me because “evidently” means something different from “obviously.” Maybe I think about language too much.
On the second weekend in February, I was stranded at the drive-in. (“Drive-in” means “internat.”) So the day before, I had asked Sylvie if she wanted me to come to her class. Because erryone’s like obsessed with me, she said yes. But then Thursday night I was looking into doing a day trip to Annecy or Évian-les-Bains and realized that it would be basically impossible to take public transportation and have a reasonable amount of time in either of those destinations if I went to Sylvie’s class at 8am. So I had to bail on it. Triste!
On Friday morning, I got up and got on the bus to Virieu to get the train to Évian-les-Bains. I was excited for it as Livia had told me that the water was fo frizzle therre. And if you know anything about me, you’ll know that that’s my drink of choice. Not to be confused with my drank of choice: rum. I slept the whole way to Évian and then got off to make the rounds.
First thing I saw:
Bienvenue dans notre usine. (Welcome to our factory.)
As soon as I got off, I was hungry (maybe that’s why the doctor said I was obese. That’s another joke—definitely NOT a joke—that just does not quit). So I stopped for a pain aux raisins.
Delicious! Raisins are good for you. Nutritious!
Since I had no clue where I was going, I was overjoyed when I stumbled upon signs pointing towards the tourist information office. So I went. There was a woman walking her toy dogs with poop stains. Sorry about the image. But this blog is not just for your entertainment; it’s also for me to, years from now, remember (fondly?) some of the images from Fronce. So I went in and got a map, which awesomely had a walking tour on it. So I set out on it.
Lucky for me, the first stop was the Church of Notre-Dame de l’Assomption, built from the 13th-15th centuries. There was a market happening in front just like a Disney movie or something. Here’s the front.
Shake it to the front
The rump/clock tower.
Back back back it up.
Inside with the stations of the cross.
Stationary stations.
Then I tried to go to the Rue de l’Eglise, but I couldn’t find it based on the map or the description, which was about some windows. But I found this old archway, which must be historic in some way. Maybe it’s where little Maid Marion first met Jester John.
I'll bet it looks just the same as it did in the olden daze.
I went past the Place du Marché/Place Charles de Gaulle, which didn’t seem to be anything super special now, but was major in the Middle Ages.
Place du marché (Marketplace)
And there was a nice placard from CdG himself! (If he sent them a fancy metal plaque.)
Love letter from de Gaulle to "tous les Français."
Then I tried to go to the Château des comtes de Savoie, but I couldn’t find it. I’m not kidding. There’s like 5 streets on that Evian historical walking tour map and I managed to boff the whole shebang up.
So I spent some more time studying the map and trying to figure out where exactly I was supposed to be walking to get to stop 5: Hopital médiéval. Points if you sorted out that meaning without my help. (Medieval Hospital if you didn’t…) Thinking I got it right-ish, when I found this inviting street I decided to walk down it.
Reason #349804598409583094 I'm going to be abducted.
Walk-a walk-a walk-a. Surprise! I was right. No. I wasn’t. I think that questionable street is like Évian’s dirty little secret. And I actually never managed to find that hospital. Failure numero dos. So I went back up (after I got fearful that someone would catch me and say, “Hey, kid! What are you doing down here?” and then I’d have to run away in an exciting chase scene.) and kept going until I found yet another questionable small road down some stairs, but this one was the right one. (The right one to get to stop 6: Buvette Cachat) How’d I know?
Gotta love accurate street names à la Disneyland Way. (Guess where that is.)
Not dodgy. Not at all.
I made it to the Buvette Cachat, which is at the bottom of a hill.
Natural. (Wood and glass.)
This “hidden drinking area” was built on the source of Saint Catherine’s fountain starting in 1826 and was finished in 1903. It’s built entirely of wood and glass, and is really quite lovely. It’s meant to be viewed as a “temple of water.” Of course, though, it was closed, so I just “got to” look at it from outside. Harrrr she be from her starboard side.
These trees are all over France.
Naturally, after the tour has you go to the bottom of the hill, it then has you go back up to the very top. That’s the real reason French women don’t get fat. So up I went to Griffon de la source Cachat.
Tourist ruining my photo. Or making it real?
“A long time ago, the baron of Rochette had a rich and beautiful daughter, Beatrix. Asked for in marriage by the lords of Allinges and of Coudrée, she preferred Arnold, her father’s riding instructor, a poor, young, courageous man. The baron, who suffered from a mysterious illness, announced that he would give his daughter to whoever could cure him. Arnold went to consult the hermit in the big chestnut of Neuvecelle. He counseled Arnold to have the baron drink the water from the fountain of Saint Catherine every day. The baron was healed very quickly and gave his daughter’s hand to the young riding instructor. We celebrate the anniversary of Beatrix and Arnold at the château de Ripaille.” BOOM. Translation from tourist information. Love me love me love me.
The statue in front. Is it Beatrix!? (Probably not.)
When Livia told me that the water was free, she meant that I should have brought a massive jug to fetch the water ‘til the day that I am grown. Because as I was standing there, two people came up to fill up their own bottles.
Chug a lug. (At first, I thought he was stealing. No joke.)
Skip-a-dee-doo-dah. (He was not skipping. He is French.)
Green people bike to fetch their water.
Then I watched some Eastern European tourists take swigs. (Judgment based on language overheard.) So when I was left alone, I scuttle over to help myself to take off my glove and bring some o’ dat to my mouf. It was good water. COLD, though. I wish I had brought along a sippy cup, because then I was just wiping my wet hand against my coat and trying to get my hand dry enough to go back inside my child’s glove because my hands are too small for adult gloves made out of not cotton. PITY ME. Eventually I managed and continued with my handy dandy map.
Stop 8 on the self-guided historical tour is Le funiculaire, which started running in 1907. Don’t worry, though. It only runs from mid-May to mid-September, so I got to look at the empty tracks. And you do too!
Movin' on up!
I continued up the street along the tracks looking for the turnoff to go through Number 9: Parc de l’ex-hôtel Splendide. Welp, missed it! Even though I checked the map a few dozen times before starting up to the top. And even though I looked at the sign for my turnoff a few times only to assure myself that that wasn’t the right one. But I didn’t pull out the map again. So it’s my fault.
Anywho, the park was opened in July 10, 1898. At the time, the Splendide was the biggest palace on the French side of Lac Léman (often called Lake Geneva. WRONG.) I spent a significant portion of the day wandering around this park. Voilà! Mes photos.
Spooky scary skeletons. Or enchanting.
Hotel. Reminds me of Clue.
Let's graffiti everything!
Little town. It's a quiet village!
I don't know what happened, but someone had the stuffing knocked out of 'em!
Doesn't it remind of the Materhorn?
I wandered around looking at the hotel that they said didn’t exist anymore. But it was definitely there. So I was pretty confused. It sounded like some Frenchies (or foolish tourists?) were up there goofing around. Loud music. Crazies. So I just wandered around the park enjoying the graffiti on this century old park. Because nothing is safe from being marked, y’all. Fact. It’s all about getting there first. Even if that maybe means that you only got there first after the newest coat of paint.
And then on I walked because there were a few more stops on the walking tour. But I first stopped and clandestinely took some more free water from a fountain. Anyone who’s traveled with me knows that I hate to seem like a tourist. But I also hate to be yelled at for doing something I’m not meant to do. So I made sure to wait until no one else was around to take a handful of water. I also waited until I saw two kids do it. If they can, I can. We’re equally adorable and, thus, equally able to get away with things. Right?
Some fountain all about the Count of Savoie
As I made my way down, I passed this plaque.
I think that just about every French city/place larger than a village has a monument or something dedicated to those killed during WWII. And sometimes the monument does double duty and also represents WWI.
World War I
Down the hill I continued to Le Château de Fontbonne. Fontbonne! Anyone who has gone to Wash U knows the significance of this name. Fontbonne is located just across Wydown Blvd from Wash U, and for some reason it’s a huge joke to Wash U-ers. Probably because every time you go by the campus, there aren’t any students there. It’s such a mysterious school to us that I’ve seen people go to parties dressed up as Fontbonne students. So I was very excited to see Fontbonne in a place near a font. And also in France!
The original Fontbonne!
Why was Fontbonne on the Historic walk, though? Good question. Sadly, though, there's not really a good answer. Apparently it's because it still looks like a Renaissance hotel from the outside. Then for a brief walk along the French banks of Lac Léman/Lake Geneva.
Looks different here than in Geneva, eeehhhh?
It looks so clean!
And then for a viewing of these Viking-like pieces of art? I’ve mentioned the random pieces of art in France’s public spaces before, but this was just strange.
The original AVATAR?
Naturally, though, the wooden dragon has a wooden child on a swing.
These wooden structures that were on the other side of the road. I have no idea what was going on. I’ve just looked and they were put there for La Légende des Flottins, which is an alternative to normal Christmas markets. How? At this one, nothing is for sale, and everything is imagined. Speak French? There’s more information here.
Then I turned around and saw this. Beautiful! Look at how the light comes through the Buvette Cachat.
Then it was on to Le Palais Lumière.
According to the tourist website, which I checked for 3 minutes the night before deciding to go said it was open year round. So, of course, it was closed when I got there. So I looked at the time and thought it was because it was just after 12. So they might be on the 2-hour lunch break. Off I went to find some grub.
Whenever I’d talk to my students about food, their favorite would come up. It was generally potatoes or tartiflette, which is cheese and potatoes. Tartiflette is a specialty of Savoie, which is where I was living. And, luckily, Évian is also in Savoie. (Or, I think, it’s in Haute Savoie, which is the same thing only higher..) Anyway, I was pleased to see that the random restaurant at which I had chosen to it had it! It was so good. And perfect winter food. Runny reblouchon cheese, sautéed onions, crisp bits of bacon, and perfectly cooked potatoes that would have melted in my mouth if I had a higher heat tolerance in there!
After my delightful meal, with which I had some water that I thought would be free because I was in Evian (it wasn’t), I decided to wander back to Le Palais.
Hooray! When I arrived back at the Palais, the doors were open! So in I went. I was immediately stopped and asked where I was going. I said I was there to see the building. Guy said that the exhibit didn’t start until the next day. But couldn’t I just see the building? Nope. Good thing the tourist information said that the Palais was open every day of the year, right? So that was a bust, and out I walked. With my head held high? Unlikely.
Model home. Just like The O.C!
Onto the next stop on the tour, which was La villa Lumière. It’s been the Hôtel de Ville in Evian since 1927, but before that, it was the summer residence of the Lumière Bros. Only the inventors of film! (At least on the French end of things.) So, I was elated to have been a Film & Media studies major and to have that name mean something to me! Because, you know, sometimes things you study at uni never have real life application. You can enjoy some of their delightful cinematic feats thanks to the magic of YouTube, which is maybe like the Lumière brothers of our time?
It was crazy difficult to figure out how to get inside that place! I went in several different doors, went up to some locked ones, and asked a handful of people. Eventually I found what I thought was the right one, and I asked, in French, where the entrance was. He responded in French, and then, I guess, recognized my accent from before and ended in English. No respect. Whatever, though. I eventually managed to find the place.
So if this is their summer home, it's frightening to know exactly what their "rest-of-the-year" home must have looked like. Basically, I'm just a pauper.
It looks like Aunt Alicia's!
Close up for that handmade craftsmanship.
Rawr! Go up the stairs....if you dare!
And that was just the downstairs. When I was in the fancy room, I thought that we weren't allowed to take photos. And by "we," I mean just me since I was the only person in there. So I thought it was better to just not ask and get away with photo murder than to ask and be told "no." I guess the French way of life has rubbed off on me after all...
I did, however, have to ask if I could go up the stairs since the information desk was right at the stairs. She said that it was okay, so I trotted up and stopped to take a photo of what the rest of the house was (or might have been, since you could only go up to the landing without an appointment).
As you can see, there's just so much work that has gone into this house. The paintings on the wall, the inlaid sculptures cut off at the bottom, the wall engravings, the light fixture... It's just so much. I yearn for the days before dem factoriez. (In french the word for "factory" is usine.)
Sadly, though, once I got upstairs, I could see that they hadn't preserved much of the old house for the offices. France does this thing where they just gut a building so that they can have it be gorgeous from the outside and kind of hideous on the inside. The library in Belley is a perfect example. The beautiful 17th century home is really just an eyesore once you're through the doors--everything is plastic and metal and not even nice quality. Such a waste.
Outside, though, they had the beautiful motto of France above the door. So that was quaint. And I overheard a tourguide saying something about the two statues on the side, but that was eons ago. I think they're replicas of a statue by Puget. (AKA that's all I could come up with when I just Googled..)
Liberté. Egalité. Fraternité.
Then I peaced out and continued my walkabout. I went to the Casino and tried to get in to take some photos.
Don't worry, though. Since I didn't have my passport with me (and since my wallet was pilfered in Paris), I wasn't allowed in. So, that was cool. I even tried to show my SNCF 12-25 card, but no dice. Jerk.
So I went back up the hill towards the park to just kill time until I went back to Belley on the last train out of dodge. I stumbled upon this frightening painting in the window of a Middle Eastern restuarant:
They look like they're scared of falling off that magic carpet and into "A Whole New World."
Would you want to eat here? Me neither. So I continued my last tour of the city.
I basically just went up to sit on a park bench for a while. Enjoying the view.
Graffiti of course.
Notice the E in the gate. Swag.
Then, way too far in advance, I decided to peace out and make my way to the train station. How excited was I, though, to see this!:
Ahhhh!!!
It's a golden retreiver! They're ubiquitous in the US, but nearly nonexistent in France. They're such an American dog in terms of size and nonstop loving. I was so happy to see one on this typically grey French day.
As I passed by a place I had visited earlier in the day (the rear of the Buvette Cachat), I noticed a statue inside. The different time of day made the building look quite different. So I stopped for a photo:
Can you see the statue?
As I walked up to the train station, I stopped by the same boulangerie from the morning to get a baguette for my weekend since the Belley market bread never looked as appetizing as it should have, in my opinion. On the road to the train station, someone left his car running to go inside a house for a quick drop off, and I couldn't help thinking to myself how nice it must be to live somewhere where behavior like this is just no big deal. Then I couldn't help thinking how easy it would have been to just hop in and take the car since I had been thinking how much easier my life would have been with one. Except I can't drive shift. Alas. So back I went to Belley in a train, and not a car.
The next day, I went to the market to get some lettuce, blue cheese, cucumbers, and tomatoes for a delightful salad. I also got some delicious Corsican clementines because it was 1 kilo for a euro! I also enjoyed Into the Wild from the library, since I realized I couldn't be checking out books from there anymore--I'd just have to deal with DVDs and use the school library for my reading needs.
Refreshed because I finally got this post up and because that's what water makes you,
I should prolly mention the reason it was so important for me to go visit Flo that weekend two posts ago. Naturally, it was because I needed to exploit her. Or, more precisely, her kitchen cupboards. Hao?
So during my tutoring session with Charlène two weeks before, we were practicing pronunciation with some reading I had brought along. Because I like to keep the reading material interesting, I gave her some of a Ms. Paula “DJ P Tain” Davis’s (now defunct) blog to read. In it, Paula recounts what she does while on hours-long runs with the dogs. At one point, she mentions that she tries to sing songs. In her attempts, she realizes that she only knows one song all the way through: “Build Me Up Buttercup” by The Foundations. Charlène stopped reading to look at me. “Do you know this song?” she asked.
“Of course. Everyone knows it.”
“I don’t know it,” she responded.
I was certain she was putting me on, though. So I sang a few lines.
She looked at me blankly and kind of frowned a bit as she shrugged her shoulders. And I don’t think it was because of my singing. She genuinely did not recognize the song. STRIKE ONE for American culture’s Imperialism!
The following week, I had put together a worksheet for her. Because I’m the awesomest tutor ever. We were going over expressions of regret. As I was feeling particularly homesick, I put in a sentence about cupcakes. In fact, the sentence was “I wish I had known that my brother was coming to pick me up from school. Then I would not have gone out for cupcakes.” (Okay, so it was a ridiculous fill in the blank sentence, but you try making up your own worksheets!) As we reviewed the sentences and read them aloud, Charlène paused.
“What is this?” she said as she pointed to the word “cupcakes.”
I explained that they are magnificent person sized cakes that are almost better than cakes because they’re all yours. Again I got the blank look. STRIKE TWO for American culture’s imperialism. I was scared to wait for strike three. At the end of the lesson she told me that it was her birthday the following week. I asked her if she was sure she wanted to have an English lesson on her birthday and she was all, “Hellz yeah.” (More like a “yes” coming from her.)
So I set to plotting. I put together a mix CD of American music to commence the education and decided to sort out a way to get some cupcakes in her belly. Naturally they don’t sell box mix for cakes in this area, so I had to find a reliable recipe online. (Please don’t knock my use of box mix. I mean, there’s a reason their recipes were so good that they started to sell them.) Anyway, it was scary and overwhelming so I turned to a friend from high school who is a cake snob (I am too, but her snobbism comes in terms of “from scratch.” In this way, I am a cookie snob.) I asked for her recipe. She sent it to me. The numbering in what she had sent me was a bit confusing because what I discovered in trying to sort it out was that she had copied and pasted the Hershey’s Recipe into a Facebook message but had forgotten to erase some of the sequential numbers.
So that Friday, I set off to the Carrefour to get them ingredients. While at Flo’s, I picked up her former Canadian au pair’s cupcake tray. And she offered me a measuring cup. But not just ANY measuring cup, y’all. An imperial measuring cup! How great is it to make a recipe without having to do conversions? I can’t even begin to tell you.
So on Monday I asked Michele if I could use the kitchen in the internat so’s I could get to baking. She said sure and that she’s open it around 5. Well, when I went down a bit late (because I had been chatting with my folks as it was MLK Day), I was horrified to see that it wasn’t open. Luckily, it was dinner time so I was able to find Michele in the cantine getting her dinner grub on. She gave me the key, and I ran back to get to work.
Quite a massive kitchen. I’m fairly certain that it’s where the students at the lycée pro (professional/vocational high school) have cooking class. They also prepare meals to be sold to teachers sometimes. Because in France, if you haven’t reached your full potential (or don’t seem like you have the potential that they think you need to go to university), you go to a lycée professionnel instead of lycée général et technologique (where I teach). I had to make a few trips back and forth from the kitchen on the ground floor and through a locked door that doesn’t stay open to my room on the fourth floor where I had forgotten a few key ingredients (aka butter and eggs). Eventually, I had everything together and was baking like old times.
Oops. Burned the first batch. Don’t know how that happened. But I just started scraping out everything into a plastic bag. But then I tasted one and realized that maybe they weren’t burnt after all but that they just looked that way. Welp, it was too late at that point, so I just hoped that the second set would come out better. Hedging my bets, I decided to cook them for less time. This meant that they were maybe less than fully done in the middle. But only on some of them. It was basically a hot mess, but I couldn’t get too crazy over it since no one would know any better.
I then went back upstairs with the spare ingredients in my backpack. As I was going up the stairs, I felt like I was sweating a lot on my lower back. Nope! It was the rest of the milk spilling out of its container and into the bottom of my backpack. Good thing my computer was in there too. Maybe some of you don’t know my HORRIBLE history with computers. Let’s just say there was this one time where I spilled an entire 10oz. glass of water on my laptop. It never was the same after that. So I was terrified. I said a little prayer and tenderly wiped it dry as I repeated, “Pleasepleaseplease.” IT WORKED! Thank goodness. Imagining my life in Belley without a computer is actually kind of terrifying. And you can bet your bottom dollar that there wouldn’t have been anywhere for me to get it repaired.
So that was done and the next day, I gave the CD, some microwave popcorn, and a Reese’s peanut butter cup to Charlène with 4 cupcakes. She said they were, “Super bon!” Success!
That weekend, I was off to Paris to visit Maryse. So I got over to the cheese shop to get some Brillat Savarin cheese since Maryse had informed me that she wouldn’t allow me into her apartment without some in hand. Well, of course that meant that when I went to the cheese place, the woman informed me that she didn’t have any ready. This was the second time she’d let me down. That’s when she let me know that she didn’t make it every week. So I got some regular Brillat Savarin without the citrus middle and hoped Maryse would take pity on the poor country mouse.
I was on my way to Paris because when I had been there for New Years, I had seen ads for a photo exhibit at the Jeu de Paume Museum, which is in the Tuileries. So I made a special effort to get back in order to see it since I had FAILED the Larry Clark exhibit. (Something for which I will probably never forgive myself. Or Jennifer.) So on Thursday I took the train to Bellegarde and switched to the TGV to arrive in Paris in the early evening.
Maryse had texted me to say she was in the early stages of laryngitis, or so she thought, and could I please make my way over to her apartment solo? Naturally, I was inclined to acquiesce. On my way over, I picked up a baguette from the boulangerie on her street that makes awesome ones. When I arrived at hers, she wasn’t at her best (as expected) but we just chatted as she prepared dinner. Then she asked me if I could do her a favor and go get some honey and a galette des rois (remember the cake that has a bean in it for Three Kings Day?) and I said that I could for shiz. She sent me to the store where all the food is frozen because she wanted a galette with a strawberry filling instead of the almond one that is customary. I went up and down the aisles twice looking for one, but no dice. So I asked if they had any and they said nah. So I ended up getting both items at the regular grocery store.
Then back up to Maryse’s. She was making a chicken noodle soup, but we did not have a soda on the side. Michael arrived with a salad, and we all sat down for some bread and cheese (including my non-rejected one! and some cheeses that Cécile’s parents had sent her from Strasbourg). Then salad followed by soup. When it came time for the galette, I warned that both times I had had galette, I had won the bean. Then Maryse said that she was the Queen.
As we pulled the cake from the oven, I was told to get under the table. What? The youngest person has to sit under the table to say who gets each piece. That way the kid can’t cheat to get the bean. I had heard something similar when I had been eating with the dessert club the week before (where I had won the bean), so I just asked if they srsly wanted me to get under the table. They said yes. And then Maryse said that I’d have to run around the block naked. And that’s where I lost it. I asked if that was seriously a tradition. Cécile backed her up. Considering that these galettes are usually eaten with families where the youngest kid is probably 4-5, I figured it didn’t really matter if they ran around naked. So I was just super confused and didn’t know what to think. We went back and forth with me being incredulous and them insisting that I was just silly for not knowing the French tradition until Maryse took pity on the gullible country girl and told me that running around the block naked would be a ridiculous tradition but that I seriously did have to get under the table. So I did. But Michael won the fèvre. Sad.
Eventually Maryse and Cécile went to bed. Michael and I stayed up chatting for a while until he headed out.
The next morning, I was hoping to meet Maryse at school so that I could meet her favorite mixed students, including a little girl named Canelle (which means Cinnamon). (Which prompted me to respond with a story of a teacher with a friend who had named her children Vanille/Vanilla and Myrtille/Blueberry.) But, sadly, Maryse wasn’t feeling well enough to go to school so I just sat around drinking tea until about noon and then got on the metro to meet Michael at the Jeu de Paume for the photo exhibit.
He was a bit late so I took some photos of my own. I think I’ll be ready for my own showing pretty soon.
How Parisian.
It's all about severed arms and teamwork, mah dawg.
Michael arrived and we went through. It was an interesting exhibit with a lot of the photos at the beginning being, legitimately, no larger than the size of the palm of my hand. Which is saying something. Which also made it difficult to go through the exhibit since there were lots of students going through making drawings of the photos. In the way. Eventually, though, Andre Kertesz’s photos got larger, and I was able to enjoy them without the riffraff getting in my way.
Here’s the photo that was used to advertise the exposition (exhibit. Be careful to not say exhibition because that has to do with being naked. Learned that the embarrassing way.)
Just keep swimming..
But dis one wuz mai (and Michael's) favorite:
Well, not actually, but it's close. And they were next to each other.
Then his photos got really weird. He used funhouse mirrors to take nude photos of women in strange ways. Like, there was a photo of a single leg with two feet. Obviously an illusion, but I just wasn’t sure why you would do that. And I couldn’t imaging someone buying the magazine in which they were published being happy with those photos. But anyway, we finished with that and then went to meet Maryse at a vintage store.
We spent some time perusing ridiculous clothes as well as some time with Michael and Maryse trying to convince me to get a fur bomber jacket before deciding to go in search of a book that Maryse wanted to get her girlfriend for Jesselyn’s birthday. It was some lesbian historian book for which we’d have to go to a bunch of American bookstores. The first store we went to had typically French service upstairs and the British guy who worked there was like suuuuuuper annoyed to be helping us. So we went to the next store, which had this American with the most horrifying French accent working there. (He was also not that interested in helping us but was much more concerned with the French customer who was looking for some science fiction books.) It was an overwhelming store with what seemed to be no organization but heaps and heaps of books. All of the books were double shelved with general signs that would say behind this row was this category of books. Really frightening. But I got an Anais Nin book there since I know she’s important but I’ve never read anything by her. It was 6€ so I felt pretty good about that.
As we were going down the metro steps, Michael turned to me and asked, “Wanna take a chance?” I was confused and then he and Maryse were like, “You should just push through instead of using your ticket.” I was like eehhhhhh but I did it. MISTAKE. As soon as we got through, a police officer stopped us because that is my life.
She asked, “Where is your ticket?” I pulled out one of my ten and showed it to her even though I knew I had been caught because she had just watched us go through the turnstile. She looked at me full of skepticism and said, “Why did you just push through with him?” And I responded that I didn’t know. Because I legitimate DIDN’T know. I mean, I had already bought a book of ten tickets so I had already paid. What was I doing with my life? Flushing it down the toilet. That’s what.
She took us over to another officer so we could pay the ticket. She started talking to us. At first I was responding, but then I noticed that Michael was playing the dumbest American ever and was just cocking his head back and forth and saying “What?” over and over again. So I switched to do the same. Then she asked if I spoke French and I said no. So she started speaking English but I just kept acting like I didn’t know what was going on. So then she asked Maryse if she spoke French and she explained the deal to Maryse and how I needed to pay the 50€ fine with cash or carte bleu.
But then she turned back to me and said it again (in French). And I pulled out my wallet and said I didn’t have carte bleu and I only had 30€. Which is true and false. I had more money, but I don’t have carte bleu. So then she said that since I was traveling and since I had actually bought tickets already I could just pay the 25€ fine. So what would have happened if I had just not pulled out my wallet and been like, “I ain’t got no money, woman!”? And what would have happened if I had just trusted my instincts and not “taken a chance” on the Paris metro? I wouldn’t have come out looking idiot. Needless to say my mantra as we walked to the train itself was “Never again. Never again.”
Then we headed to BHV (a department store) to get some tea and cookies for Maryse’s birthday gift to her lady. Michael and I perused the kitchen section. After we left, Michael actually went back in to look for some grey suede oxfords that he had been wanting while Maryse and I went back to her place to eat some dinner before heading to this American’s surprise birthday party.
We made it to the party well after the surprise. OH. So Cécile works for the Wellesley Paris study abroad program. She made the mistake of introducing some of her French friends to some of her students and one of them (Cédric) took a shining to of the filles américaine and now they’re dating. Cédric was throwing the party for the girl. We walked in and were offered some beers. Since Maryse had told me she wasn’t drinking, I was like nah. But then she said yes. So I was looking like a dumb and I went to the kitchen to get myself a beer. A beer I had brought in offering to the party hosts. And it tasted disgusting.
Good thing it was time for the champagne toast! Which was about as good as a toast that I would give at my birthday party with a bunch of strangers. Afterwards, I found myself, as usual, near the music, chatting with this kid Matthew. He asked me what I (an American) was doing in France. I told him I was being an assistant. Then I asked him what he was doing in France. And then he told me he was French. And I didn’t believe him. This kid spoke perfect English and used regular slang, American intonation, the whole bit. No way. This was another prank to make me run around the block naked.
I insisted he was American. He insisted he was French. That he’d been born in France. NO way. Maryse was like he’s American. No. He’s French. No. He’s American. MAKE UP YOUR MIND. Matthew could probably be the best prankster ever with Maryse at his side and if all of his pranks were about his nationality. Anyway, it came out that he actually IS French. But his family had spent some time in the Netherlands where he had gone to an American school (and Dutch people’s English is always top notch anyway) and then he had lived in Miami for a bit. So you can see why I was supes confused.
Anywaaaaay we danced and ate cake and sang and I was a fool. Dancing like it was my birthday. And then they broke it down the way Americans do to “Sweet Caroline” or “More Than a Feeling.” Except apparently French people do it to “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” which is waaay more annoying and depressing.
Maryse, Cécile, and I left to get the last metro back to their ‘hood. As last time I was in Paris, my carnet of 10 tickets stopped working. So some drunk blonde French girl came up and had me push through with her. WHEN WILL I EVER LEARN? But this time I got away with it. But srsly, though. This shit’s ridiculous.
The next day, I had plans to meet up with Lili Mancini from NDA who is currently studying international politics at the American University in Paris. So I went online to agonize over finding a restaurant. In the end, I just asked Cécile for a recommendation and took it. Lili and I met for some good eats and then decided to head over to Galeries Lafayette for some shopping. I had never been before so I had no idea what kind of madness I was walking into. It was basically a madhouse as the Soldes were still going on. Best story ever is that Lili didn’t understand what Soldes meant when she first arrived and thought that it meant that all of the stuff in the window had already been sold. So she didn’t go in a bunch of stores thinking that “30% Soldes!” meant that 30% of the merchandise had already been sold. Love her.
But I did not love the Galeries Lafayette. We went in and went through the first level together before deciding to split up. About an hour later, we were both on sensory overload and met downstairs at the Chanel counter. Except, of course, there are two Chanel counters and we were at different ones. We sorted it out and peaced. It is, however, a lovely building.
After I got back to Maryse’s, Maryse and I went for a bit of a stroll. It wasn’t aimless, though. We were going to Thanksgiving! The wildly overpriced American foodstore. It’s super charming inside, though. Maryse said that she heard that it used to be normally priced but then something changed. There is flippin’ folklore about this store! I came away with a box of Lucky Charms (for 13€, but it was to give as a gift to my host for the following weekend) and a box of Domino (East coast brand…) light brown sugar so’s I could fatten up all the Frenchies with chocolate chip cookies. What’s funny about that store is that they don’t even try to hide the real prices. Like, they were selling Rice Krispies cereal. On the box, which was British, it said like “So much food! Only £2.64!” but then they were selling it for 13€. Hmmmm….. Pretty sure that’s not the exchange rate. Anyway, the store made me happy for a while.
When we left, we stopped by a vintage store and an American bookstore all on the walk back to Maryse’s. Ridiculous=the difference between our living situations. After we got back to her apartment, she set to making cookies with my secret recipe. (This recipe is not at all secret and I’ve given it away many times.) She made them even though when I told her the ingredients she was tremendously dubious.
Then she took her cookies and left for her dinner party. A bit later, I peaced out to meet Michael at this concert that Maryse had invited me to but then disinvited herself from. So Michael and I didn’t have tickets to the show, but we figured we could sweet talk our way in. We went up to the ticket window and asked for some tickets. But the show was sold out. Guy (who looked like James Franco) took our names and told us to come back a bit later. So we walked aimlessly around, stopping into an international market and just going up and down streets. When we went back to the theater, what had been an empty street was now full of hopefuls just like us. We just got in line and when we got to the front, I told him we’d been there before and he gave us tickets. At the student rate! Which was great because he had asked us before if we were students and since my student ID was in my wallet, which was stolen (and which thus also stole my possibility of getting student discounts into eternity), I had to admit to not being one. But I guess he forgot because I’m so pretty.
We went in and sat for a bit just waiting for the fun to begin. This is a group whom Maryse had previously seen in concert. They’re called Les Franglaises (which is like calling them The Frenglish), and they take songs sung in English and translate them, literally, into French. It’s awesome if you know the English well enough to catch the translation. So it was the perfect concert for an English Teaching Assistant in France.
The concert started with an energy amper: Black Eyed Peas “Let’s Get It Started”—or, as they sang it “Il Faut Commencer.”
They sing everything from The Beach Boys to Queen to Madonna to Black Eyed Peas (as mentioned) to some songs that I’ve never heard of! At the beginning of each song, they speak the lyrics in French so that the audience can guess which song will be sung next. Because I’m an old soul, I managed to get two of the oldies but goodies first: “Locomotion” by Little Eva (written by Carole King when she noticed her baby sitter dancing around the living room) and “So Happy Together” by The Turtles. Michael guessed one of them correctly, but they heard someone else over him. Even though Michael was 100% first to say it. I think he guessed “California Dreamin’” by The Mamas and the Papas? But I could easily be wrong. I wouldn’t put it past me. They had some really good presentations and some that were forgettable. My favorite was when they insterted part of “Smooth Criminal” into this medley with “Hotel California.” The repeated line (“Annie, are you okay?”) translates to “Annie, est-ce que ça va?” which I find really funny for some reason.
At the end, we clapped and encored and they encored for us. But then the French did what they do best, which is cheer to the tune of a normal pop song. I’ve seen this done at the lycée’s sporting events. They basically just sing the base line of “Seven Nation Army” by The White Stripes. DaaaadaDAdadadaaaaadaaaaa. Or they do “OMG” by Usher (a song for which Usher is being sued), and they sing the “OhOoOhOh” part. It’s strange that they don’t have their own cheers, but whatevs. So that kind of worked. They came out and sang, Black Eyed Peas again, but this time, they sang, “Il Faut Se Terminer!” Stuck it to us!
Then Michael and I walked back to the metro and went in opposite directions. When I got back to Maryse’s I hopped straight into bed because I had a train to catch at 6:34 the next morning. And that’s exactly what I did.
When I got to Lyon to make the transfer to my train to Virieu, I called a cab, but the woman was all, “Oops! Can’t pick you up today! I’m busy.” Because cab companies here are usually like one person per day or something and it still doesn’t make any sense to me. So I called my good cab driver friend from before and she gave me that hook up. And it was back to Belley with me!
