Jazz Hands

On Monday, I went to a jazz event with Nana and one of her "millionaire friends" (in quotations because that's how Nana described her and not because she's not a millionaire, because she definitely is) Judith Terra.  Naturally I showed up late because I forgot to bring the address with me so I was driving around the general area for about 15 minutes before Nana graciously called me and told me where to get to.  We were going to this event because Nana and Judith's friend, Lee Brian, is in charge of this UDC thing.  Nana and Judith made it very clear to me that they had no interest in going but that they were doing it for Lee Brian.  Judith basically reminds me of an aging 50s film star would be like today, with her giant rectangular emerald (? maybe not but they were green and large and definitely expensive) earrings and her diamond (again, most likely diamond) choker, smoothed back jet black hair, high cheekbones, and the way she talks as though she's been trained.  Almost Judy Garland-like.  Elizabeth Taylor maybe?  Anyway, we showed up and Lee Brian strolled on up to the car and Judith said, "Where do you want me to park, boo?"
       Lee Brian charmed them for a bit with both women laughing uproariously before he parked the car.  We all went inside, and I pick up a cookie because why not? and so many people came up to Nana to say, "There's my favorite mother" and things of that ilk.  I never really realized before that night just how beloved she is here.  I mean, I love her, obviousry, but I didn't know that everyone else does too!  Nana networked for me a bit and then we went into our reserved seats while Judith was at work on something in the lobby.  We were just sitting down when Nana leaned over to me to say, "Lee Brian is always telling me he's in love with me, but that man is gay as a plate."  Gay as a plate?  Never heard of it.  But maybe I misheard.  Then some more people came to sit down and they were elated to see Nana, so Nana had me switch seats with her so that they could sit together.
       When the program started, Judith gave the opening address since she's the Chair for the DC Arts Commission.  She then came to sit down and the music got going.  It was a bit strange to be at this University Jazz concert considering I couldn't conceive of any of the people onstage as being younger than I am.  As the program continued, Nana and Judith grew restless. Nana said even though she used to go to jazz shows with Papa back in the day, she never liked it.  That was until a song came on to which Nana knew the words--that's when she started singing along a bit.  During the next song, though, I guess they'd had enough because Judith said it was time to go, so the three of us in the third row got up.  And I don't know if you know this about 85 year old women, but their getting out of chairs times aren't that fast, so it felt as though we were leaving the row for ages and then crawling up the aisle to the exit.  I don't mean that as a "speed up, granny!" thing.  I mean it in a "we could have at least waited until the end of the song to leave" thing.  Especially since that number ended up being their last one.  Nana insisted that the only reason the performers ended the concert then was because we had gotten up and they were getting carried away as jazz performers are wont to do.

        After shmoozing, we made it back to the car.  Lee Brian hopped in and whispered to me that they wouldn't even notice he was there.  And he was nearly right.  We drove around the corner and then chatted with him for about 15 minutes in the street.  They were all gossiping about some woman who has taken to wearing terrible hats to functions and how it's all caused by her stylist.  Apparently, though, she's a beautiful woman, she just doesn't know how to dress herself.  I guess she wore some dress last year that had this massive flower that she had to keep folding down so that she could speak.
       On the ride back, it was funny to hear Judith and Nana kind of competing over their jazz in speakeasy stories.  I think Nana won out because she's just a bit more forceful and will speak louder, but Judith's tales from Greenwich Village would probably have won over the sheer glamour of it all.  But this is all speculative since we never heard the stories.

On Tuesday, I met up with some Wash U chums to see a friend perform his poetry at a place called Poets and Busboys, a restaurant/bookstore created in homage to Langston Hughes who used to live in DC and was discovered while serving some newspaper hotshot.  When Hughes heard that the man was from a newspaper, he slipped some of his own poetry into the newspaper for the guy.  The rest is what you call history.
       So the last time I decided to drive somewhere, it took me twice as long as Google said it would.  So when Google said that it would take me 20 minutes to get to Busboys and Poets, I thought I was super clever to leave at 6:15.  I'd show the internet, and I'd get there perfectly on time.  Well, except this time Googles was right, and I arrived around 6:30, but wasn't to meet with my friends for dinner until 7.  So I just sat in the car until it was near the hour.  Pathetic, I know, but I didn't realize there was a bookstore inside!  Otherwise, I'd have loitered inside.  So when the time came, I perused the bookstore until Kim and Shana showed up.  Did you know that there is a children's book about Bob Marley?  And there was also a book of conversations with Alice Walker.  It was sad to look in the index and see no mention of her daughter, Rebecca, aka my favorite author.  Not surprising considering she told Rebecca that being mother was "a role she had grown tired of," but still!
      We were seated in the room where the poetry was to be happening, which usually would mean that we'd have to leave our seats to line up outside before the show happened, but our waiter was dabomb and let us stay in our seats.  When the doors did open up to the poetry seekers, it was like a Wash U invasion.  So many people that I didn't even know were in the city were there.  A mini reunion that was unexpected but glorious quand-même.
      The whole thing reminded me of this thing I used to go to at Fairfax High School called Da Poetry Lounge, but more organized and in a nicer space.  Anyway, my friend (Aaron Samuels <-videos!) was the featured artist, so we had to wait until the middle to see him.  The performers there were first timers, weekly appearances, and everything.  Good overall, but Aaron was definitely the best.  And that is possibly my opinion because I have been watching WUSlam perform since my sophomore year, so maybe I've been conditioned.

Yesterday I got off my toosh and went to The Phillips Collection to see a Degas exhibit.  I accidentally got off at Adams Morgan on the metro at first and then, 1/4 of the way up the escalator, realized that I was supposed to get off at Dupont Circle.  Lucky for me, this was one of those obscenely long escalators like at Angel Station in London (which I've never actually been too, but whenever there are public works in tube stations in London, you get to learn facts like that Angel station has the longest escalator in London).  So I got a nice workout going up to come down.

       Eventually, I arrived.  The woman/girl at the desk said I could get a discount if I was a student.  When I showed her my King's ID (expired since December 2008) she gave me the side eye, but said "okay" anyway.  The Phillips Collection is kind of like the Barnes Museum in Philadelphia except not as great only because at the Barnes, they have furniture and stuff that echoes themes in the paintings.  The Phillips Collection is just in a house.  That is the only real similarity.  But The Phillips Collection does have an app that you can download on your phone, which is kind of awesome because you don't have to pay for an audio guide or anything.  So I downloaded it and was then disappointed to discover that there were only 5 stops on the special exhibit tour.  And the stops didn't really offer any analysis of the paintings.  Could have done better on that end, but I still thought it was an innovative use of technology.  It was a lovely exhibit, even though it was about 5 rooms.  It really drew the connection between Degas's methodology and that of a dancer's in terms of repetition and study.
       After, I wandered about the rest of the museum.  Lucky for me there was a Rothko room.  So, apparently Rothko wanted his paintings to be shown in a normal sized room so that you'd really be taken away by what was happening in the images.  Duncan Phillips loved the guy's work, so he was the first person to dedicate a public space to Rothko's works--one on each of the four walls.  (Not surprisingly, Rothko claimed The Phillips Collection was his favorite museum.)  So I sat in the room for a while trying to figure it out, and I think I might have made some headway.  Also, this room was kind of intense considering walkthroughs are prohibited.  Legitimately.  There's a sign.
      My favorite part, though, was in the original home in the music room where Vincent Tack took over.  He made a bunch of panels for the room, and the setting is gorgeous as well.  I couldn't tell what the photography policy was, so I didn't take any.  (And, when I got back to Madeleine's and saw my camera sitting by the door, I was glad I hadn't decided to take any.)  But here's a photo from this website that kind of walks you through the space.

After the music room, I really enjoyed The Migration Series and response photography.  The Migration Series is a series of paintings by Jacob Lawrence about the migration of Blacks north in the 1930s with short text bits acting as narration.  He painted all 60 panels at once, using the same paint mixture at each point so that the colors would be the same.  Does that make sense?  Like, say he was going to use indigo in 27 of the paintings; he'd paint the indigo parts at the same moment in time so that it would be the exact same color in all 27.  The response photographs are from recent times and taken all over the world by Allen DeSouza called The World Series.  The photos could be read as a single journey, since it starts at an airport and ends at a train station.  It was definitely a series that has to be read all at once to get the full meaning.  Come visit me and see!

It's supposed to snow tonight.

Ice box where my feet used to be,
Jess

I Moved for Days Like This

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.  

Small house of Uncle Thomas. 

It's shiny and silver.  Like after an ice storm.

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."

Informally,

Jess "Majesty" Williams

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:

Amsterdayumn (Or Bob Marley on Loop)

So once upon a time Jennifer Richard (from high school who’s teaching in Strasbourg through the same program) asked me what I was doing for the upcoming holiday and I told her I didn’t believe that there was a holiday and that I thought she was lying to me so that I’d miss school and have to make up the hours so that it wouldn’t be reflected in my paycheck.  Then I went to Lyon to visit Katelin and found out that it was the truth.  So, that Sunday night, I booked my EasyJet flights to and from Amsterdam.  Since it’s easiest to go from Geneva, I made arrangements to go from that airport (crossing my fingers that the grève, which I believe is still ongoing, wouldn’t interrupt anything aka the train schedule).  My flight would leave at about 6:30 in the morning on Thursday, which would be impossible to access were I to sleep in Belley Wednesday.  (We’re not in London anymore where transport at any time of day/night is plus ou moins a dream.)

            So, I emailed Flo to ask if I could lay my head down on Wednesday night and then on Saturday night (since my flight would get back at 8pm).  I didn’t hear back until Tuesday afternoon just after I had started looking up hostels to crash at for the night before.  Luckily, Flo called just after I had started looking at the first one and told me that she had been diving in Egypt and had just arrived back home, but would be delighted to have me stay for those days.  Sweet, sweet success.

            And so I found a train to get me to Geneva around 7pm on Thursday night.  I took the bus to the train station and was surprised to find the station closed at 4pm on a Wednesday.  I shouldn’t have been, though.  I looked at the opening hours for the gare and found that it’s closed far more often than it is open.  I actually doubt that I’ll see it open again before the close of this year.  So, I had to wait outside from 4:20 until 5:56 until my train arrived.  Naturally, as always happens when I am waiting at Virieu le Grand, a small troupe of philandering teenage boys showed up to do whatever it is that they do for a while.  What it is they do is smoke and, this time (because I was in for a holiday treat) was pee on the platform.  I guess it was alright since it had been raining so you couldn’t tell what liquid was what.  But I’ll know forevermore. 

            5:56 rolled around and no train.  Tick tock tick tock until 6:56 when the train decides to show up.  But since it’s so late at this point, I don’t know if it’s the train I want to Genève or the train that everyone else on the platform wants to Chambéry.  I frantically asked someone coming off and he told me it was Geneva.  Hopped on and let the show begin.  I looked at the display once on the train and saw that it said that the train was en route to Annemasse.  Hmmm.  Not right.  So I asked what about Geneva and some lady was like, way way way at the front of the train.  So I walked to the very front of the car and it still said Annemasse.  I stopped some people sitting on the train to ask what the dealio was and they said it was the first car of the train.  Naturally, I was antsy because, who knew where the trains would diverge?  So at the next stop (Culoz), I hot-footed it to the next car up in the train, where one of the controlleurs was looking at me like I was a hot mess, which I was.  He asked where I was going and I told him and he said I could make the real switcheroo at Bellegarde.  Which was good since I had gotten on one of the middle cars, which was going to Évian.  And so I waited 2 more stops and switched at Bellegarde.  Foolishly, I switched to the car with the rowdy French teenagers including the boy who answered every phone call with, “Oui, chèrie?”  At one point, he was outraged that the girl on the other end of the call said she had found one of his mates more attractive.  Or attractive in general.  Of course I wasn’t eavesdropping, though, so I didn’t get the full histoire (story). 

            Did I mention that I had wanted to buy a ticket at Virieu before getting on the train?  Well, since the station wasn’t open, obvio I was foiled.  So I was riding to Geneva in fear of being found out.  I got off no problem at the downtown Geneva stop, following a group of Model UN Americans where one girl was bragging about having been “here” before.  I don’t usually brag about having been at train stations before, but that’s just me.  So I bought a ticket to the airport in Geneva (because it’s closer to Flo’s) and thought the price of 10CHF was a little steep, but since Livia had been telling me how expensive everything in Switzerland is, I took it in stride. 

            It wasn’t until I got off the train and into Flo’s car that I found out that there is actually a 3CHF ticket that would have taken me betwixt the two stops.  Lesson learned.  Flo asked which flight I was taking back to Geneva from Amsterdam because she thought that her sisters (Véro and Marionne) would be on the same flight.  We would be.  We got back to her place and had a lovely meal with Gregoire, Antoine, and Marionne (who stays with Flo on Wednesdays).  Marionne informed me that she and Véro had been planning on going into Amsterdam for three months now.  Because they are half Dutch (mixed!), they miss some of the foods and so occasionally go shopping in Amsterdam.  They’d be on the first flight to Amsterdam and the last flight back.  Can you imagine?  Gotta love Europe. 

            After dinner, we watched La France a Un Incroyable Talent.

The next morning, Olivier drove me to the airport bright and early before he was off to go swimming.  I got in and on the plane without issue (except when security took my lotion because it was 200mL, even though I’ve been traveling with that bottle for about 2 years now.  So sad I nearly cried.  You think I’m joking, but I’m not.).  I took the first available seat I saw, which is the real trick with Southwest-style boarding.  I don’t know why people always want to sit in the back.  It means being on the plane longer.  This fellow asked to sit next to me IN FRENCH.  I denied him.  Jokes.  Do people do that?  Deny someone the seat next to them because of looks?  Something to ponder.  Anyway, on EasyJet, they say everything in 2-3 languages.  When I laughed at the joke made in English, dude totally double-took me (double-taked me?) because he thought I was French.  Ooooh yeah.

            Anyway, I closed my eyes and when I opened them, we were about to land.  After years of flying back and forth between St. Louis, it is such a treat to constantly have 1-1.5 hour flights here.  I got off the plane to see this:

Too soon.

            I then took the train to the main station in Amsterdam where dear Jen met me.  We walked around on the way to the hostel to get some grub.  She got a chocolate muffin while I got some apple thing.  I got apple because I know that apples are big in German dishes so I decided to make a huge generalization and guess that they were important to Dutch dessert culture (because dessert culture is the only kind that matters to me.)  Then we went back to the hostel so I could drop off my junk and so that we could pick up Jen’s friend, Sarah, with whom she had come to Amsterdam.

            We set off nearly immediately to Anne Frank’s House.  Or, as its called in Dutch, “Anne Frank Huis.”  On the way over, Jen and I recounted the story of Anne Frank to Sarah, who didn’t recall it.  It was a really lovely museum, set up in the actual house where she and her family lived for nearly 2 years.  Sadly, photos aren’t allowed, so you’ll have to find time to get there on your own.  In one room, though, they have a model of the secret annex and its layout.  It looks quite large and you kind of think, “Yeah, two years is long and all, but it doesn’t look too turrible.”  Then you get into the actual rooms and realize, “Holy moly.  This is tiny.”  It was quite unbelievable how small everything was and how many people lived there for so long without anyone knowing it.  The museum also has pages from her journals and letters from her father while he was searching for signs of his family after being released from the concentration camp.  It’s really heartbreaking, but it’s so wonderful that Otto Frank was able to do something so beautiful with the remains of those two years.  There was a video of him, taken 50 years ago where he’s talking about how he felt after he received her saved diary from Miep Gies.  In it, he talks about how surprised he was to see her self-doubt; the clip ends with him saying, “You never really know your children.” 

After going through the house and the front business rooms, you see pieces from the history of the Huis.  Bill Gates wrote a letter that made him sound quite pompous—shock?  He basically said how he recently visited with a sculptor friend and was moved.  Then his last line was something like, “You might be interested to know that my this friend’s aunt did the English translation of the Diary of Anne Frank.”  Way to make this all about you, Bill.  I was touched to see that Otto Frank replied to every piece of mail sent to the museum.

After Anne Frank’s, we went down the road to a pancake place that calls itself the most famous pancake place in Amsterdam.  Jen and Sarah split a caprese pancake complete with mozzarella, mushrooms, tomato, and basil.  Forget that.  I got the Autumn Special with poached pears, chocolate, whipped cream, sliced almonds, and (most importantly) cinnamon ice cream.  

They helped me finish it.

When we went outside, it was naturally raining super hard and the wind was blowing like it was going out of style.  Jennifer broke an umbrella.  I honestly wish I had taken a picture of her hunched underneath her umbrella that still only worked on one half.  The other flap, she was using to try to shield her face.  I swear that I tried to take a picture, but I was laughing too hard.

Afterwards we stopped into a coffeeshop to satiate certain people’s habits.  Because some people go to Amsterdam for the culture and some go for the lifestyle.  ‘Nuff said.

            We hustled to the Van Gogh museum, which Flo had recommended to me.  Even though we’d only have about 1.5 hours at it, we made our way over.  It really is a lovely museum, full of paintings by Van Gogh as well as those who inspired him.  I didn’t take any pictures because I wasn’t really sure if I was allowed to or not.  As the museum closed, we bounced and went to the market to get dinner: bread and cheese.  I got Oude while Jen and Sarah stuck with camembert and brie.  (French amateurs.)  This is where this traveler fails: we went upstairs to have a bit of a lie in (before going out) around 8:30.  Then we fell asleep and didn’t wake up until 11 the next morning.

            For breakfast, we had more bread and cheese.  We set off to walk around because, shock, the weather was actually nice.  So we went to the national monument in Dam Square, which was just a short walk from our hostel:

The national monument was erected in 1956 in memory of the World War II veterans.  As we stood in its shadow, I looked up, and I swear to Bob it looked like it was going to fall over and crush us!  It was kind of trippy.  I’m guessing it’s because of the particular angle at which I looked at it and because of the clouds moving behind it?  I’m not a scientist, just a girl with a dream.

            We stopped to take pictures in a shoe:

A shoe too big for even my pa!

On our way to take a canal cruise, I insisted that we stop at Oude Kerk, which is Amsterdam’s oldest parish church.  Erected in 1306, and now it’s the church of the red-light district.  We paid the 3€ to get in (quite a bargain in Amsterdam!) and were surprised to see that it wasn’t an ordinary church inside.

Massive organ?  I took a picture of a woman wearing a fur coat under it. 

Pretty inside with wooden roof.

              We happened to catch it on the day people were setting up for a modern art show that would be taking place on Saturday evening.

Art from junk mail.  One man's trash.... Same man's treasure!

Still, it’s quite a lovely church. 

         After we left, we stopped for a drink (I got Strongbow—Chav 4 Lyfe!) before going to the canal cruise.  Sadly, the boat was nearly full by the time we arrived and so we were facing the wrong way, which was a bit of a bust.  But, really, my main problem with the cruise was that the commentary was in 3 languages: Dutch, German, and English.  This isn’t really a problem except for it’s quite tiring when you’re listening to the two languages you don’t understand.  It essentially made everyone on the boat quite tired.  Anyway, we went past the bike hotel that houses 50,000 bikes, because didn’t you know that there are over 400,000 cyclists in Amsterdam?

            The cruise also showed us the “unique” view of the 7 canals in Amsterdam.  I’m not sure what that means, but the boat paused, so I took a photo:

            We left and went to dinner (bread and cheese.  Haven’t you seen noticed the pattern?  Actually, I also bought some yogurt.).  Then Jen and I went out while Sarah went to bed with a migraine.  I asked Jen to take me through the Red Light District since we had seen it in the daylight and there wasn’t much going on.  At night, different story.  Each girl has her own door, with lights around it.  What’s remarkable are the varying interest levels of the girls.  Some are totes trying to make some action (or please the tourists?) whereas others are sitting on their phones.  This is my pathetic photo: 

Roxanne, put on the reeeed light!

            After wandering about for a hit, Jen and I managed to find Escape, the club we were looking for.  (It seemed like everyone/all tourists were going there as we heard several people mention it at the hostel.)  We were walking towards the line when someone came out the back door, so I said we should just go on inside through that door.  I’m such a rebel.  But it didn’t matter since you paid once you were inside the building to get into the “club” part.  Bummerde.  Blah blah blah danced for a bit and went home.

            The next day, we schlepped our bags downstairs to pick up after we walked about for a bit.  We went across the street to get waffles and smoothies for breakfast.  I got mine with dulce de leche.  Jen got powdered sugar.  Sarah got plain.  Quite good.  We walked basically wherever the street signs with arrows pointed us, so we passed the stock market, saw some open air markets (one with a guy that was an orange juice making MACHINE), some graffiti, and eventually arrived at Waterlooplein, which is Amsterdam’s oldest market with over 300 stands.

            After perusing for a bit, I made my way across town to Begijnhof.  (Please note that I have no idea how to say 98% of the names of any places in Amsterdam.)  But not without stopping to take some photos:

Falling houses!

Perfect for seeing all modes of transport in Amsterdam!  (I'm clever.)

            Begijnhof is this square that’s essentially untouched from olden days.  Beguines were pious Catholic single women who performed good works but did not want to live in a convent and so did not take vows, and so this courtyard is surrounded by homes for these women.  Great fires destroyed the original houses in 1421 and 1452, so the remaining courtyard dates from the 1600s and 1700s.  There’s one house still standing (“Houten Huys”/Wooden House) that was built in the second half of the 15^th century.

Even though Roman Catholics weren’t allowed to practice openly for just over 200 years in Amsterdam, the Beguines were left in peace.  The last Beguine passed away in 1971, but all of the courtyard’s residents are still women.  It was very peaceful and totally quiet.

            Until outside there was this crazy intermittent drumming and whistling.  I thought it was a parade except that it never really went away.  So I went outside to investigate and take video:

       Then I walked back (basically) to where I had just been by Waterlooplein to go to Rembrandt’s house since I didn’t think I had enough time before having to get to the airport for my flight to go to the Rembrandt Museum.  It was an alright museum, but I wouldn’t have felt bad for missing it.  I should have known since the audio tour told me first thing, “You are in a special place.”  Anyway, here’s Rembrandt’s collection of stuff that he’d use for inspiration and whatnot:

Also, here is Rembrandt’s bed:

People in those times slept in box beds sitting up because they thought blood would rush to your head and you’d DIE if you slept lying down.  Makes sense, right?

            I missed a demonstration of how Rembrandt made prints.  But I didn't miss the prints hanging to dry:

            I watched a man make paint:

            Then I hot-footed it to the hostel to get my bag and leave.  But certainly not before stopping to take photos of the man making massive bubbles outside of the museum:

            I made it onto the train no problem.  Except that I stuck my arm out trying to open the doors for these two other guys and, newsflash, the doors on the Amsterdam trains are not motion sensitive.  So when I stuck my arm out, the doors kept closing.  They closed with my hand still waving outside.  I managed to squeeze my hand back through, but the metal part of the bracelet my mom had brought me back from Aruba was caught in between the rubber door jam.  So I rode along with my arm attached to the doors hoping that the next stop would have that side’s doors opening again.  But alas!  (And alack.)  They didn’t.  So when we got to my stop, I had to maneuver the bracelet out.  Good thing it’s made out of elastic.  So now it’s a bit stretched out.  But it’s still in France with me!

            When I got to the airport, I went to the supermarket that’s inside, which is totally crazy crazy.  I mean, it sells a ton of stuff like Pop Tarts, cake mix(!!), and many other treasures.  I got a banana and chocolate covered ginger.  Then I realized I had accidentally gotten to the airport about 40 minutes too early for my flight.  So I went through to wait, but only after being patted down in a manner that I can really only describe as "intimately." 

            I was reading my book when Véro and Marion showed up.  We got on the flight all together and went back to Flo’s to unload all of their Dutch goodies and enjoy some cheese and bread.  The next morning, Olivier took me to the train station, but since I was running a tad bit late and so didn’t have time to get a ticket before getting on the train.  Since I was only taking it one stop before changing in Geneva downtown, I figured I’d be able to get by no problem.  Mistake!  I got on and went upstairs and sat down.  Immediately after, the train woman came up to ask me for my ticket.  I told her I didn’t have enough time to get one and she was all, “Do you realize you’re in first class?”  Naturally, I didn’t.  She asked if I was going just to Geneva.  I said no since I was going to Virieu.  Then she asked for my destination.  It didn’t come up on her machine since it’s in France.  Then she asked again, “Just to Geneva?” and I still was saying no no no.  Then she clarified that I was just on that specific train until Geneva.  Then she charged me 15CHF for the ticket, which she said wasn’t a first class price since she’d let me slide, but I need to open my big fat eyes when I’m walking around.  Not exactly what she said, but maybe similar.

            Then I got off in Geneva and went to buy a ticket.  I waited patiently in line only to find out that I was at the help desk and not in the ticket line.  When I went to the ticket line, I had about 4 minutes left until my train was leaving.  So I didn’t get in it and figured I’d wing it again.  (Some people never learn.)  I was super nerveuse as I went through the “To France” entrance to get to my voie/platform because it says to have your ticket ready as you go through customs.  I just smiled and sailed through without anyone stopping me.  I tensely sat on the train the whole way to my stop.  SNCF (the train company) men walked up and down the train, but didn’t stop to see my ticket at all.  As they announced Culoz (the stop before mine), the controlleur entered my car.  I freaked out until we pulled into Virieu, when the controlleur was literally 3 people away from asking for my ticket.  Got off and waited 2 hours for my bus to come for me.  Then flounced back to my dorm where the heat had been turned off.

By the skin of my teeth,

Jess