Pondering "the What ifs" in Life

The tangled web of the French teenaged mind.

I played a game this week where I presented my students with a lot of unusual situations and they had to respond at random with what they would do. It's been an enlightening look into the mind of the average French 15 year old.

Par exemple:

Q: What would you do if you saw Tony Parker? 

A: I would hit him and ask for autographe.

Obviously the only viable response.

Some of my students are real sweethearts.

What would you do if you were a movie star? I would start a charity.

If you could read minds? I would know who loves me.
If you had a time machine? I would return to my childwood. (yes, childwood)
If you could make a movie? I would make a movie for my mother.

And, my favorite:

If you could fly? I would take Sarah to the sky.

Heartwarming. And it rhymes. Unfortunately his French desire not to put an emphasis on the right syllables prevented him from realizing his extra accomplishment.

Others are slightly more fixated on consumerism. My least motivated student became my most eager participant when I presented him with an opportunity to tell me his greatest desires. I asked him to be creative.


What would you do if you were a movie star? I would buy a car.
If you had a million euros? I would buy the cars (all the cars)
If you had a time machine? I would buy a flying car.


Keep dreamin' big Samy.

I saw so many responses in 48 hours, I feel like I could employ this game as a method of psycho analysis. 

One boy is definitely an at risk conspiracy theorist.

What would you do if you could read minds? I would know my friends' secrets.
If you were invisible? I would watch them.
If you could see through walls? I would spy on Obama.  

.... Hmmmm. 

Other kids had a strange fixation on control. These little opportunists could be the next dictators-in-making. They really shone when it came to authority.

What would you do if you were a teacher? I would be strict. Bah...and I would kill the students.

If you were queen? I would have my own empire.

If you found a wallet? I would take your money... or... I would keep the identity cards. (it's nice that it was an either/or situation for him)
 
I'd say these are normal enough responses (although I hope I never lose my wallet here), but in my last class, Dillan, the class clown, offered a truly unique perspective:

What would you do if you were a teacher? I would fight my students.
If you were king? I would kill everybody. (This wasn't even his question.)
If you found a cave? I would hide...no... I would visit it. (Ok then.)
If you saw Brad Pitt? I would kiss him.  
If you met George Clooney? I would kiss him.
 
A disturbing mix to say the least. Perhaps inspiration for the next HBO villain? The serial celebrity kisser? On reporting his answers to my French counterpart, she merely rolled her eyes.

Because this was my last class of the day and I had done ten of these panels already, I decided to pretend as if this game really did have a broader use in the field of psychology. Instead of scoring answers for correct grammatical structure, I rated the students' personalities. My usually worst class (and by worst, I mean least motivated, most disruptive in the entire school. Their history teacher refused to teach them that day) became rapt with attention.

T., you're a fearless adventurer, B., you're a sneaky spy (couldn't translate conspiracy theorist), S., you're an opportunistic consumer, G., you're a polite young man (he refused to look at girls in the shower even though he could see through walls, despite the other boys' encouragement), and Dillan, dear special Dillan, you're a passionate weirdo.

They were all surprisingly pleased with my classifications and took them seriously. I was like a backwards guidance counselor for a day.

Working on the conditional tense you learn a lot about people. Hence, I hope none of my students ever rule the world.

to Mont Saint-Michel

A continuation of my ambitious week of local travel:

Sunday, Krista and I had to get up extremely early to make it to our train for Mont-Saint-Michel. This meant, annoyingly, that we had to be responsible and duck out early from a birthday party for a couple of our fellow language assistants the night before. But the walk home was worth it. We walked through a very vibrant, very loud carnival going on in Nantes. The smell of fried food, the sight of overweight parents, the sound of loud children, terrifyingly creaky rides, and blaring radio tunes, the presence of overpriced, impossible games of chance... besides the portraits of topless women painted on some rides it almost felt like being in America.

Look closely at the right panel.

 We arrived to Mont-Saint-Michel Sunday morning after two trains and a bus ride, four hours later. And oh, what a sight.


We were expecting sun, but for whatever reason, weren't expecting the wind. Silly me. Saint Michel is an island off the north coast of France. Where there is sea, there will be wind.

I had worn a short(ish) flowy skirt in my attempt to look non-touristy. This proved successful as soon as we walked through the medieval gates, as a group of British teenaged boys mistook us for French and didn't think Krista and I could understand their English commentary on our sexiness. Yes that's right, sexiness. Now if only I could get this approval from someone in my own age group.

We spent the day touring the stone streets and windy shop district as we climbed up and up the little island to its main attraction, the abbey. It reminded me a lot of Eze, a little medieval town near Nice that's built on the top of a hill. Only, less warm and more mist.

Cavernous old rooms *

Krista and I made it inside the abbey and strolled through the cavernous old rooms. On the top balcony I had to make the gutting choice between saving my brochures or saving my ass from making an indecent appearance. FYI, never wear a flowy skirt to Mont-Saint-Michel.  I spent the remainder of my time trying to keep the wind from whipping it up and away as it did to my brochures.

After we had combed every nook and cranny that the place had to offer, we ate some lunch on some steps, people watched, and shivered in the sun.

Then we ventured down to the beach.



With all of the fog and mist, it looked like we were standing in some weird sky meets sky limbo.  As I was preoccupied about protecting young children from seeing a flipped-up skirt, I let Krista venture out further into the mucky beach on her own.  The sand around the base of the island was wet and already pulling at our shoes. I had tried to warn Krista about the dinosaurs. You know what happened to them, right? They got stuck in mud and now we reassemble their bones in terrifying displays in museums.

Krista chortled at my tale of caution and stomped out confidently into the ooze. Then she almost lost her sandals.

Krista not heeding my warning  *

Try as she might, she couldn't quite get the muck off her feet for the rest of the day.

That's what you get for laughing at my skirt problem Krista! HA!

When we walked back around to the entrance to the walls, we saw that tour groups had been instructed to take off their shoes before walking into the prehistoric muck lands. Lesson learned for next time: no loose skirts and no shoes on the beach!

After an hour and a half bus ride and one delayed train, we arrived safely back to Nantes, slightly more world experienced than before.



*Photos stolen from Krista Schilling. Please visit her blog: http://thesagaofone.blogspot.com/

to Les Herbs and 6 minutes in Clisson

Last week was pleine de choses pour moi.

For my Tuesday off, I took the bus to Krista's tiny lil town, Les Herbiers, and chilled there for a couple nights.  We saw some cows, took a walk in a forest, were watched by frowning old French men, were then ignored by her French roommates, and ate some gourmet feasts. On my way there I got to see green hills, grape vines, and bunnies. On my way back (5:30am) I got to see bleary eyed French travelers making their daily two hour commute into Nantes. I returned their bleak stares with my own barely-functioning expression.

All in all, it was a nice break from Nantes. Small town livin' and the smell of cows reminded me just enough of Cheney. (sidenote 3 more weeks America!)

Les Herbiers' Cows and Jennifer *

Saturday, I decided to go to Clisson. Actually, I've decided to go to Clisson every Saturday for the last two months but have never quite mustered the resolve to get on the train. This chronic inability to make it to Clisson isn't because I drink too much wine on Fridays, thus rendering walking impossible the next morning. Obviously it can't be blamed on cold weekend weather either, or me having zero money in my bank account . No, if this were the case then I wouldn't have actually made it on the train last Saturday, despite the existence of this combined trifecta of doom hanging over my head (recap: hungover, broke, and freezing).

Krista and I actually conquered all three of these possible deterrents and found ourselves standing in Clisson at 1:03pm.

6 minutes later, I found myself on the train headed back to Nantes. Seems the return train to Nantes on a Saturday is either at 1:09 pm or after 6 o'clock. And, well, Krista and I had places to be in Nantes before then. Plus, I've been told you can see all of Clisson in less than two hours, so we weren't keen on waiting around an extra three.

Therefore, I've stood in Clisson, I've looked at its trainstation parking lot, but I still have never actually been there.

So, using a complicated application of physics and the proven theories surrounding fate, the build up to me actually seeing Clisson means I can expect to reap a truly great reward upon achievement.  I'm hoping this reward will take shape in the form of a very dapper looking Vincent Cassel waiting at the castle, eager to make the acquaintance of a 20-something-year-old girl with an adorable American accent. Let's cross our fingers. Or at the very least, let's hope my next attempt in Clisson will result in me getting out of the parking lot of the gare.

A dapper looking Vincent Cassel.

Coloring

I've been filling out a job application. It asks me what other languages I speak and to rate my level of fluency: beginner, intermediate, professional, or fluent. What an interesting question. It's been 6 months now. So, how has my French progressed? 

Let me start by reminding you that progress isn't always linear.  In this case, it probably is better represented by a coloring book than a line. 

I'd love to attach one to this job application. Whoever gets it will leaf through and note that half of the pages have been scribbled on but nothing filled in. Upon closer inspection they'll see that certain elements have been given special attention. Maybe there's a bit of green on a blade of grass, a tint of red on a rabbit’s nose, a corner of sky colored blue. And then they'll run into some odd color choices, a blue giraffe, a pink carrot…mishaps clearly. Then perhaps I've gone off the grid entirely and added a flying unicorn on this page or hidden a gnome somewhere on the next (I've never been good at staying in between the lines)... 

I’ve dabbled here and there and I've made some mistakes.  The book hasn’t been completed yet.  While the progress isn't always evident, even spotty at best, at least I'm still a work in progress. 

After 6 months, "still a work in progress" doesn't sound too promising. Take a look at any of my old coloring books and you'll probably doubt the likelihood of me growing up to create art.  Success isn't always linear. And as most things in life, it isn't very neat either. 

I've always loved the idea of language, the philosophy behind it, the implications and broader social consequences of replacing "ca va?" with "ca. av?", the history that led to the delicate formations between formal and informal speech...  But my application of language and its fundamental principles has always left me wanting. I fail at practice. I'm a theory person, through and through. I know that doesn't make much sense to you practical folks out there, but this is the only way I can explain it. It warms my soul to float in that inbetween space, just above the tangible and just below the ideal, wondering about their meeting point. 

My successes in French communcation are like gleaming, elusive victories. They make me excited to continue learning and participating. But my failures and shortcomings in comprehension and grammar usage are daunting beyond belief. They cloud my judgment. I can't tell you what my level of French is. 

I can have a successful meeting with someone at my bank and we understand each other easily. Speaking French comes as smoothly as running water. Complete sentences are made, little jokes sprinkled here and there, comprehension all around.  I've had a human connection. And then a few days later,  I sit down at a restaurant, order two chocolat-banane crêpes, and my friend and I are served two sucrée-beurre crêpes instead.  It would be lovely to blame this on poor service by our waitress, but I can't ignore the fact that she's the native speaker and I'm the timid French-as-a-second-language customer.

I've had some other mishaps being the French-as-a-second-language speaker. A few months back one of the accounting teachers I work with stopped me while I was going to her class, said something about an "examen," then threw a "à tout à l'heure!" at me. She left me staring after her as she ran in the opposite direction.  I thought she'd said, "I'll see you later," as in, "I don't need you because there's an exam," so I left.  I found out later what she really meant was "See you in 5 minutes." I had left the school for no reason. It took talking to another native French speaker to learn that "à tout à l'heure" can mean see you in 5 hours or see you in 5 minutes. Talk about failure.

But then today I had a remarkable moment in an everyday sort of situation. One of the teachers in the staff room didn't know how to format columns in her Word document. None of the other teachers knew how to do it either. They couldn't even think of the word columnes (columns) and could only describe it as "mets comme sur le tableau" (put it like on the board).  So I said, "Excusez-moi," and listed out the instructions in confident French. The teacher was so surprised and grateful, she touched my hand, said "Thank you" in rusty English. I felt like a hero. Win. Shiny elusive victory. 

Such a tiny thing shouldn't make me feel so redeemed. But it's the everyday stuff that I struggle with the most.

One of my favorite experiences in French was a very un-everyday conversation.  While we sat in a cafe drinking our espressos, I had an hour long philosophical conversation with another professor. Together we treaded carefully through my limited French grammar and vocab. We forged our way through the thicket of possible meanings until we’d reached a satisfying conclusion.The root of this conversation had stemmed completely from my own musings, a complex thought process that had had murky beginnings even in English. Even now I couldn't really relate this conversation to you back in English. It was carved out of French. 

This was the first time in French where I thought, despite my shoddy accent, I'm communicating.  It was also my first time in France that I thought, woohoo, a real grownup conversation. It wasn't pretentious, it wasn't flaky, it was enjoyable and worthwhile. I'm wasn't just conversing, I was relating something of worth to someone else, showing another person who didn't speak my language a real part of myself. 

Now juxtapose this to what I struggle with on an everyday level. I try to have a simple exchange with some of my peers about what I did last weekend, what I plan to do tomorrow, or what the weather is like, and I become flustered, fumble over sentences and spit out the words as if I were a 12 year old learning French for the first time.  

These frustrating sequences rule the better part of my experiences speaking French in France. But instead of taking them as a discouraging sign of my failing acquisition of French, I've realized that they show me where my strengths and weaknesses lie elsewhere in my life. My usage of French reflects my character.

As a personal trait I’m shy. (Or, "reserved" as my parents like to say.)  As much as I’d like to speak and share myself with others, I’m simply not sure how.  I’ve never been very good at small talk. Acquaintances think I'm quiet. I might be considered witty, but this is usually reserved to an inner monologue. It comes out when I feel comfortable with everyone listening. I've always been slow to speak because of an unfortunate mix of insecurity, perfectionism, and cowardliness.  

In high school what I regret the most is not speaking enough. I should have spoken up to those who used me, I should have spoken up as the captain of my team, and I should have shared my opinions in class. I can think of at least one English teacher who practically begged me to speak in class every week, but I simply lacked the confidence to share my views with my peers. He resorted to reading from my papers when I was absent. I owe this to cowardliness.

Although I've improved in this department, I'm still lacking in others. Even in English I can be pretty embarrassing at ordering food. It took years of training not to become timid or flustered when deciding what to get at a restaurant. I had a truly unpleasant experience at a Quizno's last summer where I completely froze when it was my turn to order and I couldn't form sentences. My mind went blank and I didn't know how to get out of there fast enough. It was like a flashback to my youth.

And ask anyone who's talked to me on the phone and they'll tell you I'm the most awkward person when it comes to saying goodbye. I've just never learned how to gracefully exit a conversation. I say, "bye!" and hang up the phone before the other person can get an "ok, later!" out. No wonder it would take an embarrassing mix-up to teach me the subtleties in using "à tout à l'heure!" 

And small talk? I'm the worst. I've learned how to feign it in English. The trick is to actually find something you care about mentioning and let the other person take it from there. But it takes a while for me to warm up enough to have a genuine conversation in English where I can let my thought process roll out without constant re-editing, never mind in French. And before that can even happen in French, most people have written me off as inept at the language. All I can do is take that as a loss and resolve myself to not be so floundered next time by a simple "ca va?"

My struggles with French are my same struggles in English, only magnified by the glaring question mark of "fluency level" that hangs above every encounter. 

I have such a long way to go, but I’m not discouraged in my French speaking skills, not yet anyway. Perhaps a little unmotivated at times, but there’s hope for me yet. A friend just wrote me, "don't sweat the small stuff." So, instead, I'm learning to celebrate the small stuff. 

Just yesterday at Mont-Saint-Michel, I overheard a mother scold her son for climbing everywhere. I knew what she had said straight away, and then I thought about it a second later. Arrête= stop. Grimper = climbing. Constamment = constantly.  And then I was suddenly beaming. I had understood spontaneously spoken French. This had been my New Years Eve resolution:  understand French spoken in the street. And, eureka! I wasn't worrying about it and I had done it. 

My biggest desire in language is to just be able to roll into a conversation and contribute to it, feeling at ease in the spontaneity of it. But I weigh my words too much in both English and French and I’m insecure with my own self-image. I have been a work in progress for a long time. But I'm not discouraged.

Instead, I've realized that I've accumulated so many people in my life who excel at this sort of thing that I lack. Sometimes acting as my life line, sometimes acting as my downfall, I've learned from them and at times, hid behind them. They are the sort of people who can become best friends with just about anyone. They are also the ones, who for some unknown reason, feel compelled to pursue a friendship with me. These individuals are like guides who have kindly extended their hand to help me navigate the social complexities of life. 

To them, those who are still a part my life or have just passed through, I am extremely grateful to you. As for my time in France, speaking French, I'm thankful to those native speakers who motioned me into their lives and patiently let me try speaking French with them. To my fellow assistants, German-speaking, English-speaking, and Spanish-speaking, I'm grateful for you kindness in extending that first hello, and your patience in working with me as I stumbled through my French and my English.

So...

... Bye!



(told ya I was bad at exiting.)

picnicking!

(Pictures to follow at a later date)

(Pictures followed)

Can we just talk about how lovely France has become? It’s been in the 60s for almost a week (minus one or two rainy moments) and almost completely sunny. Flowers are blooming and birds are chirping like they are the chorus of spring itself.  

I’ve run alongside the river Erdre a couple times with sun on my face and blue water on my side. I only wish I were more in shape so that I could run longer. 

I had a picnic on Sunday with Lindsey and Krista.   It was Lindsey’s idea, and for the most part Lindsey’s food. I knew there was a reason I liked her.  The park was perfect. There were meadows and meadows of daffodils popping up anywhere and everywhere in wild tufts. There were magnolia trees exploding in soft pinks and snowy whites.  There were other colorful flowers in lavenders and blues that I have no name for but I wish I did. There were waterfalls freshly flowing and swans patrolling the banks. It was magnifique.

Lindsey's food

We dined on cheese, fresh bread, sparkling peach wine, and some snickerdoodles made possible by a container of creme of tartre I had smuggled back from Scotland in January. We even had a stick of wild boar sausage before a hawk swooped down and clawed it out of our hands… The carnage was unbelievable...
 

A hawk causing carnage

Not really. If this were a choose your-own-adventure we'd be screwed right about now. But luckily this is just my adventure, which was much more exciting. Although there were birds of prey circling high overhead they never landed. A much more bizarre bird-experience was when a man walked by with his two little children and his pet parakeet. The bird was in a cage, ducking and scuttling across it's bar, trying not to get hit by the hoop swinging back in forth. The man had a perplexingly sour French expression on his face for being out in the sun taking his bird for a walk through a daffodile field.

Besides these appearances of wildlife, there were other animals of prey circling the area. 

Dogs were out and about, off their leashes and  in their element. Weird little purebred alien French dogs and cuter bigger French mutts were racing around in pure bliss, celebrating their momentary freedom.  One of said little alien dogs stopped to stare at our picnick. He was luckily on a leash, otherwise I'm sure he would have torn us all to threads. Instead, his owner let him stand a few inches away from our blanket and stare up at us with his weird, disapproving eyes. This went on for a few minutes before the owner tired of who would win this staring contest and moved on.

There was another particularly rascally dog in our meadow that would pounce out of a mound of daffodils in a fit of joy every time a group of young children came by. Inevitably the French children just screamed and ran away. Every freaking time.  I don’t know what their problem was, he just wanted to play! I wanted to hug him.

I miss dogs, I miss big dogs. I wish you could rent puppies while you traveled. 

Now it’s raining outside, a sometimes heavy, but always insistent sprinkle, but that’s okay. The smell of the rain mixing with the warm weather and new growth makes it smell like spring. Home in the spring is exactly where I’d like to be right now, sitting in the hills behind my parents’ house, smelling the damp earth, feeling the grass on my hands, the sun on my cheeks, hearing little animals slowly going back to their activities after my initial disturbance. 

But if I can’t be there now, I’ll make the most of it here in France, which has shown me in the last week that it has its own special brand of nature and spring paradise to offer.

IRELAND (for real this time)

Part II of the thrilling saga:

On to Ireland.

On the grounds of Kylemore Abby

IRELAND!!!!!!

Beautiful lovely Ireland. Being surrounded by hills and fields and forest and nature was exactly what I needed. It was a little cold but anything compared to Poland this time of year feels like spring. We were lucky to have 6 days of almost perfect sunshine/clouds mix and mild temperatures. There might have been one or two afternoons when it was rainy or misty, but we were never outside when it rained.

Timeline:

First day/night: Dublin. Dublin its self isn’t too interesting. It’s just another big city, thousands of people on the road or in the street going about their business.  Besides witnessing what I'm sure was a leprechaun ducking into a 7-11 for a hot dog around 9am in the morning, I didn't see anything too unusual worth note. I think I was really just craving nature. Maybe if I went back after a summer in the country it would hold more appeal.

Hillary along the water's edge.

Second day/night: Went to Galway.  We spent most of the afternoon strolling alongside the coast, soaking up sun, looking at shells. 

Add caption

 

Then we went to a tea parlor and drank some very delicious tea out of very pretty china and read our books. 

Guinness, Galway, and entertainment

That night we checked out the pubs. We settled in first at the pub: Garavans Ltd. Despite the chilliness of the evening, we opted to sit outside to enjoy the musical styling of this street performer. He had a big, belting voice and sang for at least a couple hours without stopping.  He had the right kind of rough voice for a rousing rendition of "Zombie." Then he requested that Hillary and I buy him a drink as payment for our hour or so of listening, so we did. By this time we had made a couple more Irish friends, Paddy and Porich, who took us on a mini tour of other good pubs in Galway. Apparently this was the RAG week, the last week before exams for university students and the biggest party week for the whole year in Galway. Good timing as always.

Third day/night: We took a bus tour of the Cliffs of Moher. Tourists were everywhere, but it was easy to lose the crowded feeling once you staked out a spot alongside the cliffs, gazed out at the waves crashing in against them, and beheld the immensity of the place. Miles of verdant green grass juxtaposed against the slate blue of the ocean and so much sky...the jagged cliffs are the perfect border between three worlds. So amazing. 

Fourth day/night:  We took a bus tour of Kylemore Abby and Conemarra.  Gorgeous, empty terrain, filled with spindly legged sheep. 

Fifth day/night: We took a bus tour of Glendalough and KilKenny. Glendalough was my favorite destination. A beautiful, moss grown forest, shaking off the morning chill, erupting in birdsong, everything dappled in morning sunlight.  In celebration I even hugged a tree. There's a picture of this but you don't get to see it. I then proceeded to frolic in the woods. There is a video of this but you don't get to see it either.

That night we went out in Dublin. We stuck to the touristy Temple Bar district and settled in at the Aulde Dubliner to  listen to another very cute male Irish singer, though with a different, sweeter voice and calmer song delivery. 

Sixth day: We ate lunch and did some shopping in Ireland. Happily we found the Irish music CDs we had been searching for our dear old Da. 

Highlights:

Driving across Ireland. Getting to see all of that countryside was amazing, comforting, and awe-inspiring all at once. 

Meeting Yolanda, a Polish woman on our bus trip to Connemara. She speaks about as much English as I speak Polish (which isn’t a whole lot).  Luckily having just been in Poland, I could say about 5 words/2 embarrassingly pronounced phrases, such as: Yes, No, Hi, Please, Thank you, You’re welcome, Cheers!, My name is….

She was really quite fun. She sort of adopted Hillary and me for the day and we had some semblances of conversation.  I think having a conversation with someone when you can’t automatically speak English is one of the most gratifying experiences. It means that you both have to be really invested in the conversation and laugh at the mishaps. I was able to glean that her daughter is studying in Dublin and Yolanda is visiting her before taking a larger tour of Ireland. She knows Russian, German, and Polish and a little bit of Latin for medical reasons (perhaps she is a nurse?). She doesn’t think me knowing French is very impressive. 

Apparently that’s not a language she holds favor with. One of the mishaps we had? The bus driver kept referring to her as "Poland" and me and Hil as "Washington." This was a bus full of 20 plus people.  When I tried to explain this to Yoland, she mistook that she was supposed to introduce herself. "YOLANDA!" She excitedly interrupted the tour guide. Crickets..

All of the Irish accents! Along with the nice Irish people! They were really all so nice and charming.  My favorite thing they said was "sorry," as they squeezed by you on the street or in a store. They say it in such a gentle, endearing way they might as well be asking you to marry them (my answer is yes!). I also like how they say "sound" where I would say "cool." And yes my Scottish roommate Gregory says "sound" and I heard it all throughout Scotland, but it just never stuck in my head until one of the Irish tour guides said it to me. Sound.

Getting my nerd on and striking up a conversation about Irish Gaelic with our newfound Galway friends in the midst of a pub crawl. Hillary was embarrassed but I was living out a dream. Real live speakers!

I drank some very delicious beer (Guinness and a Kilkenny) and ate some hardy meals, including the best fried fish I’ve ever had (in Galway) and potato and leek soup (from Kilkenny).

Downsides: 

Leaving too soon! It hurt in my chest when we got on the shuttle to the airport.

No working debit card.

The realization that creepy old men exist in Ireland too. 

I think Hillary had enough of grubby hostels. 

(corresponds to that mystery picture of the first blog of IRELAND series.) It's a Fairy Circle!

Hillary and I were supposed to spend a couple days in Paris, but after one bad credit card situation after another, we just decided to call the whole thing off and return to Nantes early. We arrived in the Charles de Gaulle airport quite late and the next train wasn’t until 6 am in the morning. We resigned ourselves to having to sleep in the airport and/or train station again, until Keri Ann, wonderful roommate that she is, called up her friend living in Paris. This amazingly nice girl let Hillary and I, two complete strangers, crash on her floor. She even made up beds for us. It wasn’t until we got back to Nantes that we learned it had been her birthday the day before. She was really so generous and hospitable! 

We ended Hillary's vacation with a couple extra days in Nantes. The weather was perfect. We went to a park one day with my roommates Keri Ann and Gregory. The next day we took a brief tour around the town itself.  

The Cathedral on a resplendent March day.

Speculoos gelatto in the shape of a rose, charming!

We ended her trip by spending the night at the Nantes airport (because we love airports so much). Then I waved goodbye to my big sister and went home to my nice own comfy bed for some sleep. 

It was a great adventure for me and Hil.  We got to spend a lot of time together, catching up and getting reacquainted (we both might admit we spent a little too much time together). I love my sister! Thanks for coming with me Hil!

to IRELAND (and beyond)

IRELAND

So, you want to know about Ireland huh? Well, I want to tell you, but you’ll have to wait, because first I’m going to tell you about the Charles de Gaulle airport, and Poland, and the Charles de Gaulle airport again. Tricked you didn’t I? heh heh.

 (Bet you want to know what this is...)

This trip took place over my "Winter Holidays" in France.  From February 27th through March 11th. Hillary came over just for the occasion and so we decided to make this a trip about our ancestral orgins. It lasted about two weeks and if you needed one way to describe the two weeks: I did a lot of walking.

A lot. I’m not just being cute when I say the soles of my shoes can speak for me. We covered a lot of ground, uneven, hard, and diversified ground. Look at my boots:

I bought these boots for this trip. Now an inch of heel is gone. I’ve actually worn through about three layers of synthetic/corkish material, making an ideal surface for skidding down rainy cement. I was reminded of this fact when I wore them again for the first time today and proceeded to skate down a stretch of sidewalk. I kept my balance and my cool during the whole 3 seconds. Whoop whoop. Boot-slidin' cement-skatin' fun.

If I chose to believe my beloved old roommates that I used to stomp around our house like a giant (you know who you are), I would blame this on myself.  Instead, I’m siding with the far likelier conclusion and blaming this on shoddy shoemanship (coupled with lots of impressive amounts of walking).

(This blog is turning less into a recounting of my adventures and more of my ongoing misadventures with gray boots.  My love of the aforementioned footwear always leaves me feeling disappointed and used. They never last. )

The trip started for Hillary a full 24 hours before me since she had to fly from Spokane to get to Nantes. When I met her at the airport she was radiant and fresh, not looking at all like the road-weary traveler who had just spent over 30 plus hours awake. Putain.

We didn’t have much time in Nantes before we rolled out to Paris to catch our plane to Krakow. However, we did spend a lot more time in the Charles de Gaulle airport than I wish.  We caught the last train into the airport (getting us there around 10pm) and stayed until the plane took off at 7 am, NINE HOURS LATER.

I was worried we’d be the only people staying in the airport and get kicked out or something, but that was completely false. Almost every chair in our wing of the airport was occupied. Some of the early birds had even staked out what little turf grass there was on the raised platforms and made camps there for the night. Lucky bastards.  At least they got to lay down. The rest of us had to try to sleep sitting up in hard airport chairs.

Home for NINE HOURS.

Not that sleeping was much of an option. Hil and I read or watched Arrested Development most of the night.  Then, a few hours into our stay we realized that we had chosen seats closest to the home of the friendly airport mouse. Before our discovery, we kept noticing people react strangely as they walked by, even shrieking “souris!!!” as they passed. Hillary doesn’t speak French and I couldn’t see anything so it just didn’t register.  Finally the mouse got a little more adventurous and starting making loops around our bench. I tried scaring it off by throwing food in different directions but it just huddled near my backpack or tried getting into my boots.  So we spent the night awake and watching that our little visitor didn’t find its way into our possessions.  

The home of the mouse. Did he roll up the tin foil? or is he still just trying to get inside?

We arrived in Poland the most tired I’ve been on a trip. Poland was freezing but we had sunny skies for four whole days. I got to re-experience a lot of the stuff I wrote about already and made it to new places as well.  I also got to partake in fine Polish cuisine again:

Delicious and cheap.

The biggest difference this time around was the night life. Short on funds and freaking exhausted from all of the walking we did in below freezing temperatures all day, Hillary and I were in bed by 9 almost every night. 

I love Mosquito Hotel.

Highlights of the trip:

Delicious and vegan friendly.

Hil and I found the most delicious vegetarian restaurant where we ate copious amounts of veggie masterpieces.  If I had one of these restaurants in Nantes I’d probably be considered a vegetarian by default. My only complaint? The same I have for all "salads" in Poland. Shredded cabbage, shredded carrots, shredded other things all scooped onto your plate in shiny globs. Do me a favor Europe, stop deconstructing your vegetables and calling it "fancy." It grosses me out.

 We visited the medieval museum under the market square. Hundreds of years of garbage and mud has raised the ground of the original market square by two meters. Below the cobble stones we looked at the garbage that only five hundred years could make so truly fascinating: pointy shoes, crumbling tools, broken jewelry, etc. And the best part? Hillary and I were for no apparent reason, let inside for free. The woman at the counter charged everyone before us. Then to us she simply said, “For you today it’s free,” and we were kindly ushered inside. Fantastic, I’ll take it. 

Another highlight: running into French tourists in stalls and understanding exactly what they were saying. They thought they were being so sneaky in French.  “Look at this hat?” “Oh, so stylish.”  “Margot looks funny.”  Etc, etc. Looks like I'm actually the sneakier one. Operation-become-sneakier continues successfully.

Another highlight: being mistaken for natives or people who spoke Polish. Our first day walking around we were approached by a Polish girl asking for directions (I think). We responded, “Sorry, we only speak English!” and she looked embarrassed, said her goodbyes, and hurried off. This happened a couple other times in Krakow. 

Can you spot me or Hillary in this crowd of Polish people? Me either. Sneaky aren't we?

We went to Kościuszko mound just outside of Krakow. This was a cool monument, with steep winding paths carved up the face of a grassy man-made hill. When we reached the top we were given a spectacular view of Krakow and the surrounding countryside and forests. We were also barraged by a very strong wind.

However, what was most memorable on this particular journey was that I lost my newly bought hat (a necessary purchase because of the freezing weather!).  We spent an extra hour or so retracing our steps and walking up and down the road and paths (precarious with ice traps). I eyed nuns suspiciously as they walked past as they were the main pedestrians on the road. Luckily, we found the hat around the base of the mound. Then, I found my style. Check out that picture.

Stylin' in my winter accessories

Downsides of the trip:

IT WAS COLD!

We left way too soon. We didn’t have nearly enough time, just like the last time. 

My French debit card became locked (you can only enter 3 false pins over the lifetime of your card). This would prove problematic for the rest of our trip in Europe. 

Read my next blog to see just how problematic that debit card problem becomes.