2 Things Aboot Paris

1. When I was in Paris that weekend with Maryse, I was on the metro making a connection and was going up the stairs except, OH WAIT!  Someone had decided that that was the perfect time and place to stop and play his PSP.  So everyone just walked around him as he did his thang on them thar steps.  Because I know that when I want to play my video games, I decide to sit on the stairs of a Paris metro station.  That's just logic.
2. When I was in Paris that weekend with Maryse, we were walking and she said, "Don't you hate it when you're walking on the sidewalk and you feel like a car is behind you?"  Because, of course, there was a car behind us at that very moment.  And at first, I wanted to say, "Nah."  Because it's really only in Paris/France that cars park on the sidewalk and their hum seems to get all huffy even thought you're just a regular pedestrian leading your earth-loving life.  But then I realized that it is actually really annoying.

Deuces,
Jessica

Annie, Est-ce Que Ça Va?

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!

Bibbidy bobbidy boo,

Jessica

L'Hiver becomes L'Enfer: That Time Europe Turned Against Me (Part 5)

         On Christmas day, one of Jen’s fellow Strasbourg assistants came to celebrate the holiday with her, Katelin, and me. We basically spent all day drinking wine and eating. It was an orphans’ Christmas. So don’t judge. I also made sugar cookies. That evening, we watched The Santa Clause on YouTube because that’s what you do on Christmas, right? We also made efforts to play in the massive amounts of snow, but the snow wasn’t packed enough to even make a snowball. Triste.

Daggers or flavorless popsicles?

     The next morning, Laura left. Katelin, Jen, and I decided to get out of the house and to go a marché-de-Noël-ing. So we set out. Naturally, it was super cold, but the walk to the market was pretty.

Seems like a perfect sleigh path.

       Jen wasn’t entirely sure of the way to get to the market for which we were searching, but the walk was nice. Particularly since Strasbourg is a legitimate city with a skyline.

Perspective can do funny things.

Christmastiiiime is heeeere.

         We eventually made it to the market by the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Strasbourg that Maryse’s roommate had recommended to me. (Maryse’s roommate, Cécile, is from Strasbourg.) The market was actually a bit of a letdown, especially relative to the other market that Jen had taken me to. But the cathedral is lovely.

World's tallest building from 1647-1874

 I got a bretzel (basically a big pretzel. But not soft like Auntie Anne’s.), Jen got red vin chaud, and Katelin got some vin chaud that was white wine. We watched the kiddles ice skating like pros for a bit before deciding to head towards the bigger market so that Katelin could have a look.
We stopped for river crossing photos first, though.

The sun'll come out tomorrow!  (But it didn't.)

Not much to say about the marché, except to mention the awesome old woman wearing a blue fur coat.

Abominable Strasbourgian.

Also, I got some hot orange juice with honey that was super delicious. And the presentation was impeccable.

Presentation is 90% of food.

           That night, this French guy who keeps inviting Jen to do stuff but with whom she wants nothing to do invited us chez son ami for a soirée. Since I’m all for meeting French people, we went. Naturally, only after we had some Christmas beer, some whiskey, and listened to some sweet jams.
        We took the tram over to the stop and waited for Raphael to come fetch us. When we got to the top of the stairs, we were told to take our shoes off, and that’s when I confirmed my fears that my boots actually let water in through the seams. So, just think about how cold I’ve been with all this traipsing through the snow since the beginning of the vacation. Yep. Ice water’s all up in my bottes (boots). Shmanyshway, when we got upstairs, we were instructed to help ourselves to some rum and coke. Never one to be a party pooper, we helped ourselves.
         Present were Raphael, his friend Pierre who is living in Brazil, Pierre’s parents who were smoking with the youth, Yoanny from Haiti (?) who has a pa in Atlanta, Michael (?), Michael’s girlfriend (?), the girlfriend’s kid (WHAT? I was all, “What is this child doing welcoming me to this party with blatant drinking and smoking?” when I walked in.), and Raphael’s friend Aurélie. Never have I ever been at a party with so many people who professed to hate French people. I mean, they were French themselves! But they all said how they didn’t like how cold the French are and stuff like that. Strange. But they were a fairly international bunch.
          We basically sat around soaking up each other’s awesomeness and listening to music. (Well, except Aurélie, who fell asleep in the room where Michael was playing the guitar). Katelin, Jen, and I stayed until the wee hours and then shared a cab back to Jen’s with Yoanny because she, coincidentally, lives down the street from Jen.
         The next morning, I saw Katelin off while Jen slept in. We didn’t do anything again until the 29th because I was tired of having freezing toes and so I made us stay inside a lot. Actually, on the 28th, Jen and I met up with Laura for some drinks after Jen and I went out to dinner. It was romantic and charming.
         On the 29th, Jen and I made our way to Colmar, which is a town outside of Strasbourg that basically everyone in Belley had mentioned to me. So we took a train around 11 and planned to stay for just a few hours.
         When we got in, we followed the signs to the marché de Noël, but we didn’t follow all of the signs.

Weird... I thought I was in Europe already.

As you can see, we had GLORIOUS weather.

No.  We didn't.

We went into the cathedral at Colmar, which is lovely and old. But certainly not any better than Belley’s. Represent.

About as cathedral-y as it gets.  (Foundations from AD 1000)

Look, ma!  Chairs held together by wood! 

Other side of the square.  Quaint.

We went further into the city center to find the Christmas market, which was the most wildly overpriced I’ve experienced. But it was charming. Also, Colmar has a canal!

Venice of the France?

Everyone loves the architecture in Colmar.

            We had worked up an appetite from all that aimless walking through icy, sludgy paths, so we went to an indoor market and got some grub. Jen got some quiche, and I helped myself to a cheese sandwich that was described as tartiflette. Lies. Before we left, Jen got some vin chaud for the road, which she spilled on herself basically as soon as we went outside. I got some hot apple cider, which was horrible. So, that was nice.
           We asked directions back to the gare after we realized we had clearly walked in the wrong direction. We knew we were cutting it close to making it back on time, but Jen said the train would probably be late. As much as I wanted to have faith in the French transportation system, I knew she was right. So we were very pleased when we arrived and saw that our train was 30 minutes en retard, which made us very much on time. We were not, however, pleased, when the train ended up being 2 hours late. So we got in line to pick up our train tickets to get to Paris the next morning. That’s when I showed Jen the train station times for Virieu le Grand, over which she laughed for probs 5 minutes. Legit.
         When we got back to Strasbourg, we went to the Strasbourg Christmas market again because, well, why not?

Daytime in the Capitale de Noël!

AKA I was hoping to see the woman in the blue coat again.  Alas.  I only saw Jennifer covering her coat in powdered sugar.

Hot mess.  As usje.

        Then we stopped at the mall so that I could pick up some wool socks because I figured they’d be a bit warmer than my crazy stylish but less than wool socks from Target. Got myself three pairs. We then went farther into the mall to the grocery store and picked up ingredients for grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. And also a bottle of wine.
            We went back to Jen’s and lazed for a bit before having dinner. I made the soup and it was super bon. She made the sandwiches, and they were eh. Jokes. They were good too. Anywho, we decided to go back to Raphael’s for yet another soirée. We had some whiskey, got on the tram, and made the trek.
When we arrived, we helped ourselves to some vodka cokes and sat around for good times. When the vodka was gone, they pulled out some wine. After the wine was finished, Pierre went to his room to get some cachaça he had brought with him from Brazil. That alcohol has one of the strongest tastes evaaar. I don’t think I like it. So, let’s review where I am at this point: wine, whiskey, vodka, wine, cachaça. Okay. Great. This time, in attendance were Raphael, Pierre, Arno (some French bartender who currently lives in LA), Aurélie, and one of Aurélie’s friends. Blah blah blah. Drink drink drink. We go to some bar. Mistakenly, we got into the car that Raphael was driving. I don’t want to talk about the danger. So we’ll pretend there was none even though we were all piled into the same little car and he had definitely not been abstaining from booze.
        When we got to the club, Raphael had us each give him 10€ so that he could get us a bottle of drank and some mixer. HUGE mistake, because whatever he got was narsty. But it was too late to turn back. So we danced and joked and chatted and did whatever is done at these places until the bar was shut down.
        And then comes the reason that I’m going to get abducted.
        So some dudes had been talking to Jen for a while. When we left the bar, Raphael was idiot because he couldn’t find his passport because it was in his jacket pocket ,and he had misplaced his jacket inside. So we were standing outside waiting for him to pull himself together. (I actually thought we were waiting for him to get his car keys so he could take us home, but I later found out that that was not part of the plan at all.) So then Jen and I were like, oh WAIT. We have a 6am train to Paris and it’s basically 3am, so we gots tuh go. So we started walking to all of the cabs there to ask if they could take us back but each one told us we needed to call the company to reserve one. I don’t know why cabs work this way, but it’s not working for me. So we kept trying the numbers the cabs gave us only none of them worked. So then the guys that Jen were talking to were like, oh hey, we’ll give you a ride. And I was like, “Welp. That just sounds like a great idea. Let’s do it.” So we did. Guy should so obviously not have been driving. Almost as soon as we got in, he nearly ran into a parked car. But one of the other guys in the car sitting next to me was from Chambéry, so with some Bugey (region that Belley is in) love in my heart, I let go and let flow.
        (If you care, Raphael’s passport was found in his jacket in the bar. It was the last jacket left inside, so I really don’t think he looked that hard for it.)
         We got back to Jen’s and I went to bed for 45 minutes before getting up to get on the 3 hour train ride to Paris. We were running a bit late because we missed the tram, so we were again hoping for a train being late. Success! But this time, it was only late by like 5 minutes, but it was just enough.
When we got on the train, we couldn’t find our seats, so Jen and I walked up and down the aisles before finding a girl who was in the same boat. She was French or but was studying in Poland or something. Anyway, she addressed us in English. We talked about being in the same boat, and she said we could go see the conductor. Which is obvio what we were already doing. “I speak French,” she told me.
         “Me too,” I said. According to Jen, it came out bitchily, but I can’t help my tone on 45 minutes of sleep. Anyway, after he showed us our seats, the train set off. Before we all disembarked from the train in Paris, she smiled at me, so I guess she didn’t hate me too much for my snark.
          After we got into Paris, Jen and I went to Maryse’s. We both took naps while Maryse ran some errands. When I woke up, Maryse and I had some chocolate and then went back out to get her some nail polish remover, soap, and some other junk. We made a pit stop at Ladurée so that I could get some macarons for pastry club on Wednesday since I had volunteered to bring them goods. We also stopped at the market to get quiche supplies before heading back.
         Michael came over for dinner, and it was a lovely evening. The four of us went out for drinks at a SUPER hipster bar. Naturally, I loved it. It actually reminded me of the KWUR studio since there was writing all over the white walls. Ah, la nostalgie.
        The next day, New Year’s Eve, Jen and I went to the Jean Michel Basquiat exhibit at the modern art museum. Hey, remember that time I was in Paris and couldn’t figure out what the massive building covered in graffiti was? It was the modern art museum. Makes sense, don’t it?
          It was a really fantastic exhibit that had been recommended to me by Marc about one moon before. I actually wanted to go to the Larry Clark photo exhibit (which had been censored), but when I asked Jen (which I don’t know why I did because she doesn’t really care about museums), she said we should Basquiat it up. And then for the 12 room exhibit, she finished in 30 minutes even though we only have 1 hour to see the thing. I was being pushed out by security while she patiently waited for me. As we went back to Maryse’s, we stopped to pick up supplies. (At first I typoed that as “sipplies.” Freudian.)
          Maryse headed out for dinner with her lady. Cécile and her cousin left for a party in the ‘burbs. Jen and I had a bottle each. Just before starting, though, my mom called to see how things were going. I told her I was really getting tired of Europe and that I was super glad that the vacation was almost over because I was really looking forward to getting back to Belley. (Yes. That was said.) Anyway, back to drinking. After we left, Jen and I stopped at a pizzeria on the way to the metro, where we shared a bottle of wine. Then I insisted that we leave because it was after 11 and we were supposed to be meeting Michael and another Paris assistant at the Eiffel Tower.
          As Jen and I made a transfer at Franklin D. Roosevelt to get the next metro to Place de la Concorde, I went to check that we were getting on the right train. I really didn’t need to, though, since we had done the trajet earlier in the day, but can never be too careful. But apparently you can because, as I was weaving through the throng, my wallet was stolen. What did I lose?
          Birthday gift wallet
          Driver’s license
          Belley library card (only a big deal because I’m sure it costs money to replace. Not that I ever will.)
            160€ (including the emergency money from my Aunt Mimi)
             Credit Cards
        Because just when Europe gets you down, it spits in your face.
        Then we missed midnight while I was crying in the metro and we were waiting for the next train. I yelled to the crowd that they could keep whatever money was in there, I just wanted the wallet back. No one cared. Surpreez.
         When we met up with Michael, he informed us that even if we had been at the Eiffel Tower at midnight, we wouldn’t have seen anything because the Eiffel Tower just twinkled like it does at every hour. Classic.
          Since we were speaking English, some Sofitel hospitality students from all over the world came up to us and started talking. One of them must have been from California because there’s no other reason we would’ve decided to wander with them for so long. Sorry I can’t remember, but I was in the middle of hysterical emails and phone calls with my mom trying to cancel all of my cards. Anyway, we decided we’d all go with them back to someone’s apartment and mooch some booze except then my mom called and I had to wait at the metro opening to keep service so we lost them. So then we all just went to some gay bar.
         We went to a MacDo to use the toilets before trying to get on the metro because only some stops were open for entry. And then we couldn’t find an open station so we walked back to Maryse’s. Way to start, 2011.
          The next morning, my mom called to say she had wired me some scrilla but that I’d have to get it from Western Union. Oh, thank goodness I’m in Paris, I thought to myself. There should actually be something open. So after I said goodbye to Jen, I got on the computer to have a look. Welp, it was 11:30, so anything that was only open til 12 was out. Because I was in Paris, but it was still a holiday. I eventually found one that would be open when I needed it, got my life together, and peaced out for Western Union followed by the train.
           I somehow managed to find the Western Union and went inside to ask about the money wire. “Oh. We have the sign up, but the system’s not working yet.” Well, that’s super helpful, guys! Thanks! He said there was another Western Union up the road, so I walked for a while until I realized that there was nothing there and then called Maryse to see where the nearest one was, but my train was going to be leaving soon and wouldn’t that be just what I needed: to miss my train back to Belley. So I just decided to get on the metro. Oh wait, though, I don’t have any money to buy a ticket. So I waited for an attendant to show up and to cry to him/her, hoping for pity. Except since it’s France, no one showed up. I eventually just pushed through the exit to set off the alarm to get on the metro. Worked brilliantly.
Train ride back WITHOUT PROBLEMS. What!?
           Nicole picked me up from the train station in Culoz and said that she could drop me off or would I like to come over for dinner. I said I could easily just go back to the school. She had ulterior motives, though, and so she took me back to her house where she asked me some questions about the English papers she was grading. Just after we arrived, her oldest son Xavier came by to borrow the car. Then he left.
             While she prepared the meal (sausage and potatoes), I met her husband Jean-Michel. They’re a darling couple. Every time Nicole would ask him to do something, he would respond with “Oui, chef.” Which is mostly just enchanting because in French, “chef” means boss or chef. So it was a total double entendre.
              Around dinner time, Nicole’s middle son Hadrian rolled up with his girlfriend, Lucie. We had a nice meal with a galette des rois for dessert. The galette is a cake that’s eaten in celebration of Three Kings Day. There’s a fèvre (a little token) inside that determines the winner, who then gets to wear a crown. It’s basically a King’s cake without the winner having to bring a cake the next year. I won the crown. Naturally.
              After dinner, Nicole said Hadrian and Lucy would take me home. Except, of course, my bag was in the car that Xavier had just taken. So some phone calls were made, and we arranged to go fetch it on the way back to Belley. Legitimately, the least of my problems at this point. Lucie is lovely and quite talkative, so we had a nice little convo on the way back to the lycée. We also saw a wild pig native to the region run across the road. Twas the first she had seen since living here, so we’ll always have that.  Hadrian sat quietly in the back.
              Then I got home and exhaled.
OH my gosh, I’m so close to being caught up,
Jess

Paris, the City of Lights, Is Glowing this Evening

The week of Thanksgiving, life in France carried on as usual.  So, I tried to ask my students, “Does anyone know what holiday is in the US this week?”  Legitimately, no one knew.  Well, that’s not true.  On Wednesday, I had one student who nervously answered, “Thanksgiving.”  New favorite?  Probs.  So after I would explain what the holiday was to everyone, dating back to 1621 and its history that went from loving the Native Americans to celebrating defeating the “heathen Natives,” I would ask if there was anything for which the students were grateful.  Loud and clear, I got the message: No. 

            On Thursday, I had a lesson on identity with the Première Littéraire group.  (Lycée/high school in France goes for three years.  You start as Seconde, then to Première, then to Terminale.)  Obviously, since we were talking about race and identity, I played this video for them.

           After the class ended, one of the girls, Noämi came up to me to tell me she had been to Canada.  “Where in?”  Ontario.  “For what?” I asked her.  She said a response.  “Sorry?”  She repeated it.  “Sorry?” and I leaned in.  She repeated again.  I just said I had never heard of it since I still couldn’t understand what she was saying.  I’m fairly certain she just wanted to tell me she had been out of France before.  Then she asked where I usually eat lunch.  So I told her that I eat in the cantine, and she asked if I eat with students.  That’s when I realized she wanted to eat lunch with me.  So I had to let her down and tell her that I eat with the teachers.  First time teaching this girl, and I’m already being asked out to lunch.  Kind of strange as I can’t imagine ever asking one of my teachers to eat lunch with me.  Especially not in a cafeteria. 

            I’ve actually just come from my second class with Noémi.  As soon as I walked into the classroom, she came up to me to ask, “Where have you been these two weeks?”  I’ll admit, I was shocked at the unexpectedness of the question.  I told her I had been here.  She said, “I’ve been looking for you, but I can’t find you anywhere.”  So I told her I usually only come in just before a class and will hang around for a bit after, but otherwise, I go home.  (Which is true.)  So then she said she wanted to talk to me and that she’d do so after the lesson.

            This lesson was about fashion and what it tells you about personality.  Unfortunately, most of the students told me that they wear clothes so that people can’t tell what their personalities are, which kind of hindered the lesson.  I ended up asking them what kind of stereotypes they have about different ways of dressing: jock, preppy, street, and gothic.  Then I remembered that one of the profs had told me that French people often make fun of how British people dress.  So I asked if it was true.  The students resoundingly affirmed.  I asked what they associate with British style.  Their response?  Boys in leggings.  I actually have no idea what this means or where it comes from.  Clémence told me that last week she saw a boy wearing yellow flowered leggings.  I asked her where she saw this, and she said London.  How is this possible?  Anyway, later in the hour, I asked what they associate with French style.  Fashionable and stunning.  Obvio.  Then I asked about American style.  The first word on the list?  Tacky.

            After class, Noémi came up to me to ask what I do on the weekends and vacations.  I told her I travel.  Then she asked what I do at lunch and on Wednesday afternoons (since French schools have Wednesday afternoons libre/free).  I told her on Wednesdays I don’t do anything in the afternoon.  She asked about the cantine and if I could eat with her.  I told her probably not, and she said, “What if I ask the headmistress?”  Has any teacher ever been so sought after?  I told her it’s not good to show favorites, so she dropped it.  But then she was all, “Maybe we could do something on Wednesday afternoon?”  So I thought maybe she wanted me to tutor her, but nope.  She wants to go to a show or something.  So I told her she could email me and she asked if I was on Facebook, and I said yes but that I don’t think I’m supposed to be friends with students on in.  So, I gave her my email address.  Then, I guess that wasn’t enough because she asked if I have free periods during the school day, which obviously I do.  So I told her if she emailed me, I’d let her know.  This is getting really strange really fast.  I’m trying to figure out a way to be not rude about not hanging out with this 15/16 year old girl.  I don’t need any fatal attractions.

            Back to Thanksgiving week, though.  So, Thursday after I got out of school, I got on the bus to Chambéry to catch a train to Lyon Part-Dieu where I would be getting a train to Paris to visit Maryse for the holiday.  The train from Chambéry to Lyon was, I’d say, not heated.  But definitely not as not heated as the Lyon train station where I had a 30-minute wait.  It was so cold that I went into the Relay store and looked at some mugs for an absurdly long time just so that I’d be warm.

            I got on the train and made it to Paris in about 2 hours, though in total my journey took 5 hours to complete.  Maryse fetched me from the train station, and we went straight chez elle.  She lives in a lovely apartment near the Bastille with a crazy American woman from Viriginia, Sarah, who’s there every few months (this being one of those times when she was around) and a girl from Strasbourg named Cécile.  While Maryse was preparing our turkey and mashed potatoes (made from some of the biggest potatoes ever), Sarah was wandering around with her French copine/girlfriend and a Eiffel-tower glasses of red wine.  I was on Skype with the ‘rents.

            Maryse wand I enjoyed the luscious meal before having one gin and apple juice each and heading out to go dancing at one of Maryse’s treasures: BizzArt.  BizzArt is a bar with a restaurant all the way around, so throughout the night, you could look up at the second floor to people who had stopped their dinner conversations to blame it on the boogie with the dancers and drinkers below.  When we walked in, the cover band, who was really sensational, was covering Michael Jackson.  This always means a good night will be had.  They sang Jackson 5, Michael Jackson, the Jacksons, Luther Vandross (you read that right), and a slew of other artists.  All were excéllent.  At one point, the lead singer (so obviously mixed—especially with a name that was something like Najoua McNamara) pulled up a random woman to sing with the group.  Later, there was a massive group in the center, just in front of the stage, all doing the same dance moves in time.  It was like the most impromptu and uninspired flash mob ever.   Then they switched to DJ-ed music, which was great, considering they played Whitney Houston.  While they played this music, though, they had images projected onto the wall, which is great.  You know, I’m as down for mixing the two genres as the next person.  But the way they did it was really strange.  For a while, they had just a repeated still frame from an episode of Soul Train on the walls.  Then, later, they had music videos of African American artists, but not the ones who were singing.  (Which was a real shame because they sang MJ’s “Do You Remember the Time” and Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.”  Great videos—anything with Magic Johnson or gender-bending is okay by me.)

            When they played “It’s in His Kiss (The Shoop Shoop Song),” though, I was a little confused.  So the next time they played an undanceable song, Maryse and I peaced out.

            The next morning (which wasn’t the time when Sarah came into the room where I was sleeping to get something from her baby fridge way early in the morning), Maryse went to work while I continued to sleep.  Around 10:30, after Sarah gave me directions, I set out.  I walked through Place des Vosges:

and came upon the Bastille:

For the glory of the French citizens who armed themselves and combatted for the defense of public liberties on the memorable days 27, 28, 29 July 1830.

Then I realized that I didn’t actually know which direction to start walking.  I knew I needed to be walking along the Seine, but funny thing about rivers is that they go two directions.  So, I guessed that I was supposed to be going to the right and magically happened to guess correctly, but I didn’t find that out until about 20 minutes into my walk.  That’s when I saw signs pointing towards Notre Dame and just about every monument you think of when you think of Paris.  And so I continued on.  I felt even more rewarded when I came upon this sight:

Backside of Notre Dame Cathedral.  Back back back it up. YEAH!

            Since I couldn’t really remember if I had been in Notre Dame (I remember standing outside for an inordinate amount of time two years ago and taking photos of it), I decided to do a quick walk through since there was no line.  Which is quite remarkable for this cathedral.  As soon as I got inside, I realized that I had been in before, but I kept on going just because.  When I had the opportunity, I sat down for a few minutes since after leaving here, I intended to go to the Musée de l’Orangerie in the Jardin des Tuileries, which is just what I did. 

            Even though these photos make it look like the weather is just absolutely lovely, trust me when I tell you that it was bitterly cold.  I was gloves in pockets all day with scarf doubled around my neck.  I stopped to get a tarte au sucre from a Paul stand once I arrived in the Tuileries.  It’s situated just across from this place:

Obligatory Paris picture.

Naturally, I had to take off my gloves while eating it.  Instant regret.

            I walked the whole of the Tuileries on my way to the Musée, and was so glad to finally get inside.  Having never been to this museum before, I didn’t really know what to expect, but I was pleased with what I did find.  They have two large oval rooms with gigantic Monet landscapes.

I would live here.

The space was chosen so that it would be like the viewer was actually surrounded by the images—as if they were real.  Perhaps this photo is helpful to get an idea of the scale.

And the scale is SABADO GIGANTE!

It was quite peaceful in the rooms.  Everyone just sat and looked at the paintings.  (Except when security had to tell people “Pas de flash!”/No flash!)

            Downstairs (aka underground!) the museum continues.  I first went into the special photography exhibit that was displaying the work of German photographer, Heinrich Kühn.  Not gonna lie, some of his photos were totally hipster.  Loved it. 

  

 Then I went to the other side where they had Impressionist works.  Naturally, I took a photo of this Renoir: 

So, once upon a time, my mom went to France when I was a little girl (WITHOUT ME).  When she came back, she gave Alex and me a Memory card game where you had to match the paintings of famous painters: Degas, Van Gogh, Gaugin, Renoir, and 3 others whose names I can’t recall right now.  Maybe Modigliani is one?  (This is fact.  You can look in my CD holder at home.  The deck of cards is still there.)  Anyway, as I continue traveling, I get so excited when I see paintings from that deck of cards.  So that’s one of them.  End of meandering into my past.

            I continued walking in the bitter cold trying to make my way over to the Musée Marmottan Monet.  I crossed to the other side of the Seine (the side with the Eiffel Tower) before realizing that I was overeager (and just flat out wrong) and so I went back to the correct side.  As soon as I got back on the right path, I stumbled upon this monument:

Flamme de la Liberté: Exact replica of the flame of the statue of Liberty offered by the French People through donations from the entire world as a symbol of the Franco-American friendship on the occasion of the centennial of the International Herald Tribune (Paris, 1887-1987)

            I continued on my way and paused when I saw this building, which is absolutely designed to impress but utterly ravaged by graffiti:

You can't see it, but there's a skate ramp on the left.  Also graffitied.

I’m not entirely sure what it is.  I think it might be something to do with modern art, but I really couldn’t tell.  It also seemed strangely vacant for a Parisian space.

            At this point, I decided to stop for a hot chocolate instead of making time for lunch because I was behind schedule.  So, I got a cup at a stand across the river from le Tour Eiffel and continued walking.  I eventually got to the Musée Marmottan Monet, which was (you guessed it) a museum dedicated specifically to Monet.  It housed other artists’ paintings of him, various drafts of his works, his early caricature drawings, and a whole bundle of other things.  For the Monet completist in your life, this is the perfect museum.  It is certainly more intimate than many other museums.  For me, to be perfectly honest, it wasn’t my favorite.  Although I did enjoy the southern couple standing at the poster of the Money family tree and trying to figure out what was going on.  It was pretty straightforward, to tell you the truth.  Basically, wha ha happened was, Monet had his wife Camille but she died after they had some babies.  Then Monet’s family moved in with the ­­­­­­Hoschedé family, who had a litter of their own.  After Mrs. Hoschedé died, Mrs. Hoschedé and Monet got married.  So, too, did Monet’s oldest son and one of the girls from the other family.  It’s kind of Flowers in the Attic, but not really because they were like 30 when their folks got hitched (also because it didn’t take place in an attic).  Anyway, this gal at the museum was insisting that her husband was misunderstanding even though he was pointing to the lines on the family tree.  After about 5 minutes of listening to them argue in their drawls, she saw that he was correct.  Then she said, “That’s kind of creepy.”  Funny given the reputation of many Southern states in the US, n’est-ce pas? (Isn’t it?)

            Other thing learned about Monet is that he had cataracts and that he started wearing colored glasses to correct the distortion of colors that resulted from his corrective surgery.  Very interesting stuff.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t crazy about his paintings from this period.  In any event, I can cross yet another Paris museum off my list.  Also, while I was inside, it started to snow!  I kind of went bananas.  But by the time I got back outside, it had melted.  No complaints here.

            Then I hot-footed it to the métro to meet up with Maryse at a night market in Montmartre to get some grub for dinner and to buy apples for the apple pie she intended to make for Sunday evening’s Thanksgiving dinner.  Great news is that the 10 tickets I bought for the weekend in Paris to be used on public transportation stopped working at this point.  So I kept trying to put my ticket it and it kept telling me it was invalid.  Naturally, this all started to happen just as rush hour was starting.  I stepped out of the way to let the first throng of people through.  Then I gave it another go, because I’m nothing if not cheap (and I had already paid 12€ for the tickets!) and this time it worked.

            I managed to get to Maryse only 30 minutes late.  Luckily, I got to watch a French man put the fear of God into some older British tourists.  (This isn’t lucky because I feel for my brethren.  Oh yes.  I went there.)  We wandered around the market and stopped to get some apples from a delightful man who decided to ask me from out of nowhere if I was Brazilian.  NO!  Should I have lied to get a better deal on the apples?  YES! Jokes.  This is what we saw on our way back to the métro:

NBD or anything... Just the Sacré Coeur

            We went back to Maryse’s to have some leftover cauliflower soup, bread, and cheese.  Then we left to meet up with some of Maryse’s friends at the Champs-Elysées Christmas market.  The people in attendance: Jesselyn (Maryse’s paramour), Tori (Jesselyn’s roommate), Roberto (Tori’s Italian petit ami/boyfriend), and Sam (assistant in Poitiers and apparently my blind date).  We wandered up and down for a bit.  It was as thought this was Maryse’s first Christmas market (and it may well have been) because she was pulled in by every singly stall, regardless of what they were selling.  This is a Christmas market with a wide assortment of wares being peddled.  Sausages, nougat, marshmallows, Russian stacking dolls, Russian stacking dolls of Michael Jackson, naughty Christmas costumes, you get the picture.  After we finished with the market, of which I didn’t take many pictures because I had been there 2 years before—SORRY, FRIENDS—we made our way over to a bar for some of my country’s finest dish: fish and chips.  (You can take the girl out of Britain…)  Before I forget, here’s the one photo I did take of the market:

It was on the wall of an indoor skating rink even though it was totes cold enough for that mess to be dehors/outside.

            After we had basically second dinner, we parted ways.  By the way, for the entire rest of the weekend, Maryse smuggled me into the métro because I like to live dangerously and because I didn’t feel like dealing with the hassle of arguing for new tickets.  So Jesselyn, Maryse, and I went back to Maryse’s while everyone else did something else.  I’d imagine, went home.  The three of us sat in the salon for a bit with Cécile just chatting while waiting for Cécile’s friend, Mathieu to arrive.  Then there was a black out.  It was thrilling.  But it was also cold outside.  So Maryse stood at her balcony and took this photo for me:

You try taking a photo of a blackout and see how you do.

            Maryse said it was a shame Sarah slept through the blackout and we tittered.  Then to bed! 

            The next day, I got up to do some reading while waiting for Maryse to rise and shine.  So I breakfasted with Cécile and Mathieu.  Actually, what happened was that Cécile and Mathieu ate while I awkwardly sat and watched even though Cécile offered me croissants/baguettes and her mom’s homemade confiture des fraises/strawberry jam.  As soon as they bounced, you can bet I devoured a healthy helping.  Maryse and Jesselyn strolled in around noon.  Jesselyn had to go to new job training, so Maryse and I puttered about for a bit before deciding to head to Ladurée, which is the place where they invented macarons and is also the shop that supplied them for Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette.  Naturally, it was a place I absolutely had to see!  So I snuck on the bus after Maryse and we took a ride to the premier arrondissement and went to the shop.  It’s absolutely delightful inside and it’s quite easy to see how Sophia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette was influenced by it.  The menu has a history of the confection, and I was surprised to read that the macaron was not even invented until the 1800s, therefore making its presence in the film anachronistic.  But, then again, so were the powder blue Converses in this magical song scene:

Sorry for this tacky photo, but I wanted to get as much of the ambiance in as possible.

So, Maryse and I shared a pot of Marie Antoinette tea while she enjoyed a délicieuse violet and I sampled four macarons.  I had Madagascar chocolate, blackcurrant violet (representing for the UK), salted caramel, and rose ginger (by far the winner).  Afterwards, we took a short walk to look in the department store windows where all of the Christmas displays are up.  There seems to be a theme with teddy bears and/or the circus during this holiday season in France, and, quite frankly, it’s a bit strange.  There was one store that had windows with musicals’ songs playing—sometimes the songs were translated, which was kind of funny to hear, especially with Mamma Mia.  But they also had Mary Poppins and Hairspray among others.  I particularly enjoyed the one with the umbrellas and teddy bears with the score from Les Parapluies de Cherbourg playing.  Luckily, I was there to explain the cultural reference to Maryse.  Because I’m nothing if not a know-it-all.  There was such a massive crowd to see some of the animatronic window displays that I distracted myself with the ceiling, which was certainly nothing to dismiss.

            Then we went back to Maryse’s for dinner and watching some British Indian sketch comedy from Cécile’s DVD collection.  Maryse and I also peeled apples for her first pie, which she baked a bit later in the evening (with me doing all of the conversions from imperial to metric).  We had plans to go out but as we’re getting old in our old age, we bailed.  Instead, Michael Martinez (who also went to Wash U and who is also working as an assistant in Paris) came over until about 3am and we had a luscious time.  Cécile joined in the action as well once she was home from her babysitting jobs.

            The next day, I woke up just as Maryse’s friend, Hallie, was arriving with the real turkey to be cooked for the dinner.  Jesselyn arrived shortly after with the necessary ingredients to make stuffing from scratch.  Michael came later with ingredients to make his candied yams.  Generally, a good time was had by all as we grooved to Christmas music or oldies and I watched people cook because I had nothing to contribute.  Though I did hold the turkey legs together while Hallie tied them and I did relattice Maryse’s pie so it was picture perfect.  Don't worry, though.  I enjoyed some genuine Kwanzaa entertainment courtesy of Maryse's childhood.  You can enjoy it too!

Around 2, though, I had to say my farewells because I had a train to catch!  So, Maryse walked me across the street to the bus stop and I got on illegally and got on my train about 10 minutes before it pulled out of the station.  Sensational. 

            When I got to Lyon, I had made plans to meet Marc at one of the métro stops in the burbs (near his parents’ home), so I set to it straight away.  (This was not originally the plan.  On Thursday, before I left Belley, I texted Marc to see if he could pick me up from Virieu.  He said no but that he could get me from Lyon if that’s where I would be.  Thankfully, yes it was!)  Good thing I did because it ended up taking about an hour to get there, but it was fiiine with me because the métro stops are warmer than waiting in the train station!

            Came back to the good ol’ internat, which wasn’t heated, obvio.  I set up the chauffage éléctrique/electric heater next to me in the kitchen while I cooked myself some dinner and chatted with the ‘rents.  Afterwards, I went to my room and plugged in the heater for a bit before deciding it was still a bit cold and making a move to plug in the heated blanket my momz had sent me.  Oops.  That blew a fuse and then none of the sockets in my room were working anymore.  So, I put all of my blankets on the bed, pulled the covers over my head, and went to sleep.

Somewhat toastily,

Jus

P.S. Did I mention that all the walking I did on Friday (from Maryse’s to the Musée Marmottan) was hugely disagreeable to my right foot?  Just today I was able to manage without an aspirin.  Think I’m being a baby?  Here’s the GoogleMap of my trek: