Last Sunday I went to a concert with Negin from Wash U. It was for The Drums at the Black Cat. The opening band was two guys called True Womanhood, and the lead singer was wearing a Fila sweatshirt and glasses. It wasn't until he took those two articles off that he looked like a front man. They were good but nearly impossible to understand. I then got a ginger beer with actual pieces of ginger in it! (Have I already told you that in Britain, pulp is sometimes called juicy bits? Well, I guess these were beer-y bits.)
We were expecting the performance to be kind of hipster and apathetic, but it was basically the opposite! The front man for The Drums was swaying and almost like a Paul Anka for the "over it" set. Maybe he's be better likened to Vince Fontaine in Grease. You can see his retro TV host swag here. He opened the concert by saying, "Thank you for coming out tonight. We know Sunday nights can be very relaxing, so we'd like to make sure that doesn't happen here." It was a good concert, and they performed nearly all of their songs. But NOT their first single, which was a huge letdown. (Sidenote: their lack of interest in that music video explains why we thought they would be bored at their own concert.) But if you had a huge amount of success (I'm talking on the Indie scale here) with a certain song, would you get tired of performing it? Senior year of college, I went to a concert with some friends, and the lead singer of the band (fun.) had previously been in a different band called The Format. People started asking him to sing their "big hit." He responded by saying, "I'm in a band called fun. now." But then he sang it anyway. So, the lesson is, GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT.
Also, The Drums say: We only write about two feelings: one is the first day of summer when you and all of your friends are standing on the edge of a cliff watching the sun set and being overcome with all of your hopes and dreams at once. The other is when you're walking alone in the rain and realize you will be alone forever.
Last week, I went on a few walks. During one, had three lovely discoveries. One was a front garden art exhibit:
Whimsical whimsy.
Found art?
Takes a lot of balls to do something like this
Walkawalkawalka, I passed Ralph Lauren on the high street, where they were putting up Christmas decorations. Why do people have no respect for Thanksgiving as a legitimate holiday to be recognized and celebrated?
When I got into residential territory, I came upon this GIANT caterpillar.
The leaves are to give a size idea.
And also to make it look like a butterfly..
SO GIANT.
On Friday, I went to The Fashion Centre (they think they're British... Like me.) at Pentagon City. It was probably the most terrifying mall I've ever been to. Just too large. Like Del Amo in Torrance size. At Del Amo, they have multiples of the same stores. Is this true at Fashion Centre? Don't know because I was too scared to run around and check it out. Anyway, they're on the Christmas bandwagon as well.
TOO SOON.
Look at the size of that tree. But, more importantly, look at the size of that mall! And only with one toilet that was practically outside... But I digress.
I also went for a run and saw a thing to memorialize Harry Potter.
Too much.
I also went to a Meetup event on Friday because I need to know more people in this strange and wondrous people. It was fairly successful. We'll see who I still know in a few weeks, EH?
Also, in terms of employment, I started with a temp agency and have a phone interview tomorrow. But who cares about that?
Last Saturday I went to dinner with Nana, her friend Pat Elwood (whom I've known since I came to DC so many moons ago), her friend Ellie, her brother Mike, her two sons (Doug and _______), their wives (Carrie and Stacy), and her three grandsons (Sean, Darrin, and Ryan). It was her birthday! She and Ellie kept talking about this girl named Victoria who's having her wedding in a "bahn." That was the first time I realized that Pat is from Boston. The wedding's in a barn.
Here are some photos from runs.
Eight legged Freak!
Surprisingly, the first time I have seen Scooby Dooby Doo decorations. (I also just realized the implications of that part of the theme song. Shaggy and Scooby Dooby Doo. I'm ashamed it's taken this long.)
Yesterday I went out for the day. I started off with brunch at Thunder Burger and bar in Georgetown. Since I took the bus there, though, I arrived a bit early. So I took the opportunity to wander around Old Stone House, which is just across the street from Barnes and Noble. And, oh yeah, it's the only pre-Revolutionary house in the whole city. Built in 1766.
Normal thing to be across from a major chain
It was the perfect start to the day. There was a crispness in the air that reminded you that it was fall. The sun was out and the sky was blue. Walking down Georgetown early-ish on a Sunday, with its old buildings and its semi-empty sidewalks, I was happy to be in D.C. And so I wandered through the garden, which seems like it is miles away from a city. Maybe it's because most of the plebeians hadn't yet stumbled out of bed and into their hangovers, but there wasn't any sound save my feet patting the ground. See this loveliness for yourself:
I love a good weeping willow. Sold.
A bench. Let me live here. (In the garden, not the house.)
So charming!
A power line runs through it.
There were some roses still in bloom, but I can't even begin to imagine how lush this place must be in spring. The very thought of it makes me giddy! I'll be sure to go back and check on it for you. And in case, for some reason, you care about the house itself, which was started in 1764 by a carpenter and then finished in 1766 by his widow, here are some photos. (Keep in mind that rear and second story additions were made later.)
I still can't believe how this is nestled onto one of the major shopping roads in the capital.
So then I went back across the road to Thunder Burger & Bar to meet Kim and Amir. Kim and Amir both went to Wash U and were both Ervins (my scholarship program). Amir also was my RA second semester of freshman year, and Kim and I took a course together. (They've also been together for 5? 6? years.) We are also just plain old friends. So it was really good to see them. They were 15 minutes late but I couldn't decide what I wanted anyway, so I didn't mind studying the menu intensely.
I was in Georgetown last week and almost stopped there for meal, but I thought that the inside was going to be all just a bar but with friend things to eat so I moved on to go to Bistro Français (because you can take the girl out of France..). I was totally misled! I'm glad that Amir's godbrother suggested that they go there for brunch because it was decent. It might be my fault that I'm calling it decent since I didn't get a burger burger but I got a falafel burger (because I'm Moroccan). But it wasn't crispy. So what are you gonna do? Kim and Amir seemed pleased with their meal choices, so that was good. Both got things with beef burgers. Lesson learned! They also have an extensive champagne cocktail selection and Bloody Mary menu, so maybe I'll be back to make better food choices.
After we finished three hours later, I shoved off to get to the National Gallery of Art for an Andy Warhol and journalism exhibit. As soon as I got off the bus, I was prompted to take the first really touristy photo. For you, dear readers!
Just call me a mallrat!
So I was a bit confused because there are actually two Warhol exhibits on across the street from each other. There's the one at the National Gallery of Art and the one at the Hirshhorn/Sculpture Garden. So I checked my phone (forgot the map I bought) to see which direction to go. Naturally, I started walking through the Sculpture Garden. Wrong! So, remember how I said it was such a lovely day? It was. Would I have gone out in a tank top and flip flops? Never. Sometimes I think there needs to be an acceptable/weather appropriate dress code for people. But since there's not, I sometimes see one person in a summer dress and another in jeans, Uggs, and a North Face all in the same walk. Luckily, it was in the mid-60s yesterday, so I guess the variation was ookay.
Anyway! Before I made an about face in the garden to get to my intended destination, I snapped some photos of the sculptures.
Look at these people trying to be in Paris. Poseurs.
So then I crossed the road to the National Gallery of Art. When the security guard asked me what was in my bag, I said, "Normal things." He said I looked normal and asked where I was from. I told him Los Angeles, where all the normal people are from. Clearly. So I wandered through the building looking for signs to Warhol. Oh, naturally it's in the East Building. So back out I went.
Finally! I reached the right place! Up I went to the exhibit. It was really good. But far too small. Since it was an exhibit of journalism, it only looked at how Warhol reappropriated headlines for his pieces. Which meant it was way too small for my taste! But it really makes you think about how much work goes into putting together a tabloid and how people who work for them likely consider it a work of art, and not some rag. It also points out the sensationalism of it all and the importance of a personal connection. AKA it focused you on the "Stars Just Like Us!" part of everything. No photos allowed so you'll have to forgive me.
Then I walked through some tapestries because my sister loves them, but I just don't really get them. They were all about the Portuguese taking over Morocco. It was funny to see since the Flemish weavers who made them had never been to Africa, so they didn't know how different the architecture is. So the Moroccan cities had roofs that looked more red and Spanish than anything else. Also, they put monkeys in the tapestries to signify that the scenes took place in Africa. Really?
Went through the rest of the upper floor and stopped at some that stood out to me. And now you don't have to go to a museum today!
Gauguin's Flasher?
Part of the Alphabet exhibit
In for the close up!
Persian Nightingales by Paul Klee (Swiss!)
This is a painting that is similar to the cover of my Microfiction book. That's the only reason I took a photo.
Lichtenstein made this. WITH SAND.
As I was finishing the top floor, I ran into my friend Matt. It wasn't coincidence since we had talked about meeting up, but the timing was perfect. We sat and chatted for a bit before going down to the gift store, which I always enjoy seeing. I was tempted to get a spray can martini shaker (brilliant, right?), but since I don't have a home and I don't often have martinis, I restrained myself.
We went through the lower floor, which had a room of amazing mobiles by Alexander Calder. They kind of reminded me of the art in Shel Silverstein's books. To be totally honest, I actually preferred to watch the shadows that the mobiles created to looking at the actual works of art themselves. But maybe that's the point of it all..
There were some pieces I enjoyed, but a lot of the times, I just feel lost when I'm looking at modern art. I don't get really get Rothko, but I want to. There was a Stations of the Cross with 14 canvases that looked nearly identical. I need someone to explain these things to me. But I definitely understood the paining of cakes and the pie sculpture. Miam miam! (French for yum yum.) As we were about to go to the West building, I took a closer look at this piece by Chuck Close:
It's at least 10 feet tall. It seems pretty normal, right? Well, think about the fact that it's entitled Fanny/Fingerpainting. BAM. Is your mind blown? Mine was. You can actually see the fingerprints. There will be no forging this one.
The one I saw at MdO
We got on the moving walkway, which is apparently one of Matt's favorite parts of the museum. It might be called "Multiverse." It's actually really cool and unlike any other connecting tunnel I've been through. We went almost immediately into a collection of French Impressionist paintings. As when I was at the Musée d'Orsay and came upon one of Degas's paintings, I teared up. Anyway, Impressionist art is definitely one that I can get behind, so I enjoyed that part of the collection. Went through to see some sculptures, some fountains (one with a woman wringing out her hair so that there was a drip. And I actually had a dream about it but it was dispensing anesthesia instead of water?), and artifacts from them olden dayz. There was a plate with a rape scene on it, which is something I cannot imagine thinking would ever be necessary. They also had Marie Antoinette's writing table! And a portrait of Madame DuBarry! Good thing that everything I ever learned about Marie Antoinette came from the Sofia Coppola movie! Shortly thereafter, the museum closed. Back home for some grubz.
Moments from the week:
1. Sitting on a bus and having a sound like the most annoying sound in the world pulsing for about 10 minutes. The bus driver started to hit the machine, and then apologized to it. Eventually it stopped.
2. Sitting on a bus and a woman got on and greeted the bus driver saying that last time she had a Snickers and some tea for him but he wasn't there so she ate the Snickers and gave away the tea. When she walked down the aisle, I noticed she was missing about 4 of her front teeth. So how did she do it?
3. Same bus. Another woman got on and said, "Hello, how are you?" to the bus driver. No response. She repeated, "Hello, how are you?" No response. So she said to herself, "Alright, fine," and sat down.
4. At dinner with Nana, Uncle Tony, Aunt Diane, Asantewa, Mustafa/Demetrius, and Naiah (sp?) for Asantewa's birthday, Uncle Tony told a story about when he was in Ghana hanging out with the king. He kept saying, "Your Majesty this" and "Your Majesty that." The king then said, "You don't have to be so formal with me. You can just call me Majesty."
So this one time, on the last weekend in January, I went to London because I’m obsessed and I guess I figure that if I spend enough time there, I’ll just be offered citizenship or, like, at least a husband or something. So I took the bus to the train and got to London no problem. (After I listened to some French/Swiss guys get swindled into buying the Gatwick Express tickets, which are ridiculously overpriced. If I ever hear about any of you taking that, consider yourself disowned. But I didn’t step in to save them, so I guess I’m partly to blame.)
I got off the plane and hustled my bustle to get to the Gatwick train station ASAP. Naturally, the ticket machine was like, Ionwant that card. And Ionwant the other one either. Gimmeh some o’ dat cash. So I shoved in my pounds and yanked my ticket so’s I could sprint down the stairs to the train that was arriving in 1 minute. Because, oh yeah, when I got to the train station, I saw that there were 4 minutes before the next train. Otherwise, I’d have been sitting pretty (which is the only way I know how to sit) for 30 minutes. I’d have none of it.
So I made it. And I made it to London Bridge Station and was happy to be “home.” There’s something really lovely about taking the train to the same train station that I used for 3 months when I lived in London. I honestly wouldn’t have it any other way.
Because I have such a tight sense of direction, I walked over to Adam and Laura’s without having to phone or anything! Mind you, I hadn’t been to London since October so this was pretty much swag swag swag swag. Adam met me at the door and we hugged and Laura and I hugged and we put down my mess of stuff (after I gave Adam the 13€ box of Lucky Charms) and went across the road to Tesco to get some food stuff. Shopping for nachos here was kind of wack. I really wanted to get some pepperjack, but England's not known for its cheese varieties. Just, like, pathetic. That's certainly not to say that shopping for it in France would have been better. Dare I say that American's love of cheese and it's melting pot culture (fondue reference?) makes it ideal to cheese shopping? I dare.
We decided to have nachos for dinner. And fajitas, which were really more like burritos once you got down to it, but I digress. So we went back to theirs and prepared the food and watched a movie. We started watching a bootlegged Black Swan, but quickly decided against it. I want to say that we watched Fight Club, which someone (or maybe my film text book) had awesomely ruined for me when I was in college. Oh yeah, this was my first time watching it, but I already knew the twist. So I watched it the first time the way most people watch it the second time. Triste! But whatevs. (Now that I’m talking about it, I’m 100% sure that that’s what we watched.) Then we went to beddy by.
Next day, I woke up first and kind of quietly moved about waiting for Adam and Laura to awaken, but I was getting super antsy because I was supposed to be meeting Jen and Laura Cross for lunch during Laura’s lunch break. (I hope people don’t forget that any Laura mentioned with Adam is Laura Moreira da Cruz and any Laura mentioned with Jen is Laura Cross. While their names look the same, when you say them, say Laura MDC’s name with a Portuguese accent because that’s what she is. Laura Cross can be British.) Shmanyshway, Laura and Adam eventually got up and I think we had a small breakfast before I dipped for the tube to get to Laura’s stop.
As I swiped my Oyster to get off the tube (basically a native Londoner. Would you please stop fighting it?), I was horribly frightened as I heard shrieks begin to bounce off the walls of the station. I looked up to see two balls of joy bounding towards me: Laura and Jen. We had a beautiful reunion complete with a 3-way hug and jumping around together. It was pleasant and decidedly un-French. I don’t hate it.
We went to get lunch at this place by Laura’s office that’s a sushi/wrap place. I mean that in the sense that you can get sushi or wraps, but also in the sense that you can get a wrap-sized sushi. Got it? I think it’s called Abocado or something. It was nahce. But the miso soup I got was a bit salty. We caught up until Laura had to go back to work, so we walked her over. I stole her facilities access, and then Jen and I set on our merry way.
Where to? Where else, y’all? It was Friday. Borough Market. We wandered and didn’t get anything really. Just got dem samplez and I drooled over as much as I usually do. We did get some fudge from Burnt Sugar. We had a lovely chat with the guy running the stand. They both made me feel well ignorant for thinking that fudge is generally chocolate. Supposedly, it’s vanilla fudge unless it says specifically chocolate fudge. Whatevs. They don’t know. We also got some squidgy toffee. On the way out, we stopped for some hot drinks to help warm us up as it was not arctic, but certainly chilly.
Before we managed to escape the deliciously sticky grasp of Borough, we stopped into the chocolate shop. We poked about for ages mooching samples and whatnot until I gave in and bought some chocolate from the clearance booth. I mean, it was gonna go bad in like 2 weeks. What was I supposed to do? Just not eat it? Niño, por favor. So I paid homage to my current situation and got chocolate with the following description:
50% “Dash of Milk” Crêpes Dentelles
Island Growers, Saint Lucia
Crisp, wafer-like textures of baked crêpes stirred into the natural cream and caramel flavours of this chocolate.
Then on the back, it continued:
“Dash of Milk”—a new style of chocolate midway between a classic milk and a classic dark. All the deep cacao flavours of a great dark but with a dash of milk for a little mellowness. There’s as little sugar in here as a 70% dark.
To say anything but “yes” would have been an insult.
Seeing this ad makes me
sad I missed this movie.
Jen and I stragetized for a moment before deciding to take the bus to see Black Swan at a theater near theirs after stopping off for banana bread ingredients. And that’s exactly what we did. We saw it at this supes adorbs theater in Brixton that was quirky and independent. Just my speed. They sold clothes, had free postcards of the movies, and held events there on a regular basis. Why am I not living there? Prolly 'cause of the Disney Channel movie called Phantom of the Megaplex, which I never actually saw. (Actually, more like because of this Are You Afraid of the Dark? episode that still creeps me out to think about..) Here’s a nice, blurry photo of the inside of the screen room:
"They'll never shut down the Rialto. It's a landmark."--AYAotD
Black Swan happened. Then back to Jen and Laura’s to wait for Laura to get home so we could order dinner: Chinese take out. We got some staples, including chop suey. Which was a HUGE disappointment after having grown up on Flower Drum Song(side note: the main singer in that, Juanita Hall, is black), which made it sound like a magically mixed concoction. Alas. We watched Finding Nemo, and I tried to forget.
Bedtime.
The next day, we bummed about in the morning while I made banana bread. Jen left first to play with her lady, and Laura and I followed a bit later. As we walked to the tube station together, we stumbled upon this sign:
British mess
Firstly, how much more British can you get than calling poop “mess”? Secondly, how does it cause blindness? Laura was quick to inform me that if you touch poo and then rub it in your eyes, you’ll go blind. What a ridiculous way to warn people about “mess.” I mean, it certainly has the fear element. But when I see “mess,” I’m way more scared of it getting on my shoes than my eyes. Cultural differences, I spooooose.
Anyway, I was going to the tube so as to get onto a train going to Oxford to visit some favorite residents from last year. Jen had told me that there were delays on the Bakerloo Line (the main line I would be taking), but I was all “Well, good thing I’m leaving 45 minutes for a 25 minute ride.” Well, I was wrong. I should have left 1:15 for that 25 minute ride. Needless to say, I missed my train. But would you have expected anything else from this blog? Nah.
So I waited in Paddington Station (yes, the Paddington Station) until the next train left at the following hour. When I arrived in Oxford, residents Parker Brogdon and Ellie Cooper met me at the station! We went to Ellie’s room so I could leave my backpack (aka Adam’s backpack full of my junk) so that we could wander uninhibited. And that’s exactly what we did.
So I give you photos of Oxford:
Inside a college.
Fancy fence.
Park where we had a walk.
We walked around parks and colleges and all kinds of things. How different it is to study at Oxford than to study in London. Or at least in London at King’s. Not that I would have changed it for anything. Also, I mean, Oxford is a bustling metropolis compared to Belley even though it’s practically sleepy next to London. Oh, relativity! You never cease to play tricks.
We decided we’d stop for a snakebite and a bite to eat at this awesome pub/café that Ellie had seen on her runs along the Thames, so we started walking in that direction. Walk walk walk. Walk walk walk. Search search search. Walk walk walk. No dice no dice no dice. Ellie had no idea what happened to the restaurant, but we never passed it. So we turned around and walked back, watching the incredibly intense crew teams practicing all the while. But it was also sometimes calm and perdy.
Perdy like Perdita. Pongo was elsewhere.
We went back to Ellie’s through a market. And since we had empty bellies, I got us some cupcakes. Ellie didn’t have one, though. Mistake. They were surprisingly good, which is saying something given England’s spotty history with cakes. In my personal opinion, anyway. The great cupcake search of 2008 is evidence of this dearth of moist delicious cake. But I digress.
After getting back to Ellie’s, I got my bag. Ellie was feeling a bit under the weather due to some major raging the night before, so we said our farewells, and Parker and I headed out in search of a bite. We ended up stopping for Thai food at a place he knew. Naturally, because he’s the most popular boy at the sockhop, we ran into some people he knew and that was cozy. We didn’t eat with them, but it was cozy.
Afterwards, we dipped and scurried to the train station so I could make my train on time. Since I had arrived in Oxford an hour late, I was obvio an hour late going back. Adam was texting me asking where I was, which was surprising to me because he and Laura had gone to a football/soccer match that was meant to be several hours in the afternoon. But whatevs. So then I got back and got off at London Bridge and waited for the bus that was meant to save me heaps of time and oodles of cold appendages. False. I waited at that stop for ages. Every other bus came by twice while I was just waiting for that 68. It got to be that I had waited so long I knew that I would have been at Adam’s if I had just walked but then I knew I had to wait it out so that I could feel like there was meaning in my life and that things still made sense and that London was still dependable. And just as I was on the phone with my folks, up rolled the 68. Without explanation for its whereabouts.
Got off at the Tesco and got some wine and cereal (because I was out in Belley and a girl’s gotta have breakfast on a Monday, which can be complicated when stores are closed on Sundays). I got wine because Adam had arranged a party that was shortly downgraded to a small get-together after Adam created a Facebook event for the party and invited his roommates whom he had forgotten to ask about having the party in the first place. So anyway, Adam was having this party because, I don’t know, I’m basically super popular and likeable and people just want to see me when I’m in London. Well, maybe.
Got to Adam’s and greeted everyone. That’s actually not true. I’m not really friends with any of Adam’s roommates, except Laura, so I don’t really talk to them except in passing. Not in a rude way, just in a “I have no idea what to say to you besides pleasantries” way. You understand.
Anywaaaaaay, people I DID talk to at the gathering were Jupe, Adam, Laura, JJ, Ruthie, and Jupe’s friend Sanaa. People I didn’t talk to at the gathering were Adam’s roommates, the boyfriend in attendance, and 2 people who arrived late. We sat around playing this Friends game that was like Chicks vs. Dudes (I’d imagine since I’ve never played.). The people I didn’t talk to were playing it. And we were playing it. Two separate games of the same game in the same room. We also drank while we played, but that’s a given, right?
Waaaaay later, everyone peaced out and we made sleeping arrangements. I chose the wrong hand when Adam asked JJ and me which hand was holding something, so I slept on the couch downstairs while JJ went upstairs to Adam’s bed. Ruthie slept in an absent roommate’s bed.
The next morning (more like later that same morning), I got up to make cookies for the house. People slowly awoke and partook. Laura and Adam got up and quickly thereafter set off to their match. Because, oh yeah, the reason they had been eager for me to get back was because their game that was to be keeping them away from me was actually on Sunday and not Saturday. Mess.
People slowly left to do their Sunday things. Then, all of the sudden, I looked at the time and realized that I needed to be leaving. Like, I don’t know what I was doing, but Ruthie and I noticed at exactly the same moment that I was supposed to be gone.
So I shoved everything into my bag and got going. I walked as fast as my legs would carry me, even jogging every once in a while. That is, until that strange foot injury (the same one from Paris) returned. When I was about 4 minutes away, I checked my phone for the time and saw that my arriving on time for the train to Gatwick was impossible so I just figured I’d take the next one. Except when I got to the train station, somehow, I was only like 2 minutes late for it. Which meant that I should have just kept up my running pace because surprise! My phone is 4 minutes fast. So whatever. Missed the train and got a pasty for grub and waited for the next train.
When I got to Gatwick, they were doing the final call for check-in to Geneva. That’s my number, as you know, so I made my way to the front. Through security to the waiting area. Bought a nail file and some water (and, naturally, stopped for a break in my favorite public bathroom of all time), and went to my gate.
Oh yeah. This whole weekend I had been like suuuuper stressed because I had NO clue how I was going to get back to Belley from the train station. Marc was in Bourdeaux with his lady. Nicole was going to dinner at a friends. And I was not feeling paying double for a taxi. So I had left a written note in Sabine’s locker at school hoping for a response. I also called Maud and Muriel while I was in London and left messages, both oral and textual. NO dice. Ruthie had assured me that someone would definitely call me just as I was boarding the plane. She was nearly right!
As I was in line for passport control in Geneva, I heard my phone ring, which was amazing because 1) someone was calling me on that phone and 2) I could hear the phone ringing. It was Sabine! And she said that she could fetch me from the train station! Unfortunately, the timing of her phone call was incredibly poor as it was just after I had confirmed with Flo that I could stay at hers overnight and then take the train back in the morning. It was also poor timing because I was at the front of the passport line. I moved forward and gave the guy my passport even though Sabine was still talking to me. He started off being smiley and then rapidly his face took a turn. He told me to step to the side, but then Sabine hung up. “Nous ne sommes pas la poste,” he said to me. (We are not the post office.) What that has to do with people being on cell phones is beyond me, but whatevs.
And so, Sabine got me from the train station in Virieu and brought me to Belley.
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!
