Ibizaaaaa

Was insane. If you know where to go and you enjoy staying up until 6am, Ibiza, a small Spanish island, is the place for you.

We crashed a private party the first night, accidentally of course, but were told deliberately we weren't welcome there by the female attendees. Whoops! It was in a hotel bar, and a party was being held for the employees, with an open bar. We thought we would just be friendly to everyone and not be noticed so far in the back of the room, but pretty soon there was, "Quiénes son!" WHO ARE THEY?? from the girls. Le sigh. We left and got some early beauty rest for the all day pool party Friday, complete with cirque du soleil acrobats. (No matter how I try, I can't escape you France....) Seriously random entertainment (CDS acrobats suspended from A CRANE over the pool, an undercover singer bar-mitzveh style, a saxophonist, go-go dancers, more CDS spectacle) but excellent fun in the sun.

We missed David Guetta's show at Pacha the night before but went anyway for a different DJ and had a great time, meet great people. It was like any other club in Vegas and just as expensive if not more so with currency conversion (17 euros for a shot. A SHOT. And 15 euros for a drink. Los bastardos!) but we had a blast. We also meet a group of Welshmen whom I literally could not understand. Not like the music was blaring or I was drunk (I wasn't...until later) but I had no idea what they were saying unless they enunciated and repeated themselves at least five times. I've heard the Welsh accent is different and had met one or two Welsh girls but this was like Deep-South-Redneck-Games-difficult-to-understand-English. They were incredibly nice but me and Alma just kept looking at each other with plastered smiles, like, You...no? You don't, either? KAYGOOD.

Kehakuma Club Opening Party was Saturday night and true to Spanish form we left our hotel at midnight, waited in line for an HOUR (in heels) then paid 40 euros to get in at 1:30 AM. We stayed until 5, went to bed at 5:30, napped for an hour then got up at 6:30 to catch our 8am flight. Perf. ROCKSTARS.

Notes for Next Time or anyone seeking info on Ibiza clubs:
1.) Ibiza is not Vegas. People were flip flips, sneakers, and jeans to clubs. Like, really.

2.) Still not Vegas. We wore really cute, short, tight, sequin-y Vegas dresses (how often do I dress up to pound the cobblestones in Rouen?) and waited in line FOR AN HOUR. Sorry, I'm still upset, apparently. But in Vegas that would never in a million years happen. Not only that, I think I saw a handle out of the literally thousands of people in that club dressed up like we were.

3.) Bars give out glass drinks. And then people idiotically leave them on the floor of the dance hall where they get smashed by flip flops - don't ask - for people to DANCE ON. (there's a lot of caps in this post today) People don't accidentally dance on them and then freak out and ask someone to clean up the glass shards, they just literally just dance, totally unaware or unbothered. I'm actually glad I wore my three inch hells, if anything because they lifted me above the drink carnage and saved my feet. On the other hand I didn't realize how bad it was to DANCE ON GLASS SHARDS until I walked out limping unevenly. Uneven, rocky surfaces and house music really do a number on your knees.

27.

I also got carded for beer at a supermarket. *Pats self on shoulder* That's not bad for a 27 year old right? Especially given we slept for five hours and the drinking age in Spain is 18!! I gave the 20 year old cashier clerk a good once over, but she seemed totally awake and sane.

We also went to a picturesque pristine white sand beach on an island 20 minutes away by ferry and returned in time for the sun to come out in Normandie for the beginning of June. Beautiful. As that very well might be my last European travel until I go back to California in August, it was a lovely trip and I have zero complaints.

Hasta luego IBIZZAAAAAAA!

May

It hailed yesterday.



Yeah. That was my face.

OTC

How I miss that phrase. Over the counter. It's a sick ex-pat's dream on a Sunday, when every pharmacy in France is closed and I stupidly didn't think to go get drugs yesterday.

Miss you America. When I could recklessly self medicate and do it for under 5 bucks to boot.

Sniff.

Pros (and cons) of France

Prostitutes. They're everywhere. No matter what time of day, they've got a job to do. On my way to the gym at 2 in the afternoon, they line certain sidewalks, and on my way home at 4pm they're chatting with well-dressed businessmen. And it's always the well-dressed, normal-looking joes, with kids and a wife at home too.

France is the country of equality, fraternity, and liberty and that includes the oldest-profession known to man. The way its regulation works is, prostitutes are not fined, but their customers are. Which seems incredibly backward to me, but whatever. It's so weird, especially because, as far as I can tell and from what most French people have told me, none of the 'pros' are French. They're all immigrants. So then, decriminalized prostitution just seems like a way of encouraging (or rather, not discouraging) racial/economic job profiling. No self respecting French woman (or transvestite, as it sometimes is) is going to do it, so that leaves the vacuum wide open (no pun intended) for newly arrived, impoverished, accented immigrant women.

As my first year English students would probably say -- I am not agree!!

End rant.

Hearts in Rouen

Revision #813: I began my journey to write my very first full length novel six months ago. It was partially inspired by NaNoWriMo, part boredom, and part serious desire since I was 10 years old. I've been writing little stories or wanting to since forever, and teaching in France has given me the free time to do it. Now that the school year is finished, and I don't know how long I'll be moving back to California for in the Fall I'm on a desperate crunch to get this baby published. YES!

But that also means, diving head first into the world of publishing, agents, and query letters.
Badda bing! Badda boom! The problem with queries is agents receive hundreds a day, sometimes. So yours has to stand out quick! And if you query the wrong one, you often don't get a chance to send on to another agent at the same agency. It's funny because I thought about seriously pursuing acting in Los Angeles, but for some reason, this level of fast and dry applications appeals to me so much more. Especially when you find stumble across the perfect agent for your book.

The publishing saga continues.......

Santorini

Was gorgeous. Like, whoa. Beautiful picturesque sunsets, beaches, and really superlative Greek views. Even down to the black sand beach, Perissa Beach, whose tiny black volcanic stones whipped at us and lashed our swimsuited bodies in the tumultuous April wind. Even that was beautiful. If painful. Fratzeskos (sp) was probably my favorite part of the island, because I am a fat, seafood-loving , kid at heart. The tiny restaurant only opens when they have a catch, so the first night they were closed. The second night and fourth night on Santorini we dined there because it was so delicious. However, the two giant feta and tomato stuffed squid for 10 euros we got the first night, was a semi let down the second night, because we were one short. Don't ask me why but the second time we ordered the exact same thing (it was so good) we were served one instead of two. Such is the appeal of small, family owned restaurants, I guess. I definitely wasn't complaining because IT WAS SO GOOD and I'd heard of what lack of gratitude gets you in Greek. The finger! We also visited Akrotiri, the literally, prehistoric town, preserved by volcanic ash somewhere around 500 B.C. Take that Pompeii!! It was exactly what you think it is. Dusty skeletons of doorways and pottery, but pretty fascinating within the climate-controlled specially designed building, constructed around and over the excavation. Fira, the capital was awesome, but still quiet, in terms of capitals. We dared the 45 minute walk descending the stairwell, on the side of the cliff to reach the harbor, dodging mules (like 100 of them) as we went. Since we grew up in the country, both of us were skittish and nervous to walk behind the donkeys, but after the thirtieth stared blankly away from us, we got over it. From there we took a tiny ferry sailboat to the volcano. I don't think I documented the ferry ride to Santorini yet but the 9 hour trip from hell made me reluctant to ever reboard another boat. (Serious wind, APRIL YOU WENCH, and the enclosed space of my economy seat sent me up the desk within the first 10 minutes of boarding. So we literally spent all 9 hours at the top, getting wind whipped and ocean sprayed. Trish is such a good friend, she stayed with me the entire time. I didn't vom. But I wanted to. Instead I consumed almost the entire box of Samoas Girl Scout cookies that she smuggled from home for me. But I digress.) The sea was much calmer here though, and approaching the volcano from the boat was magnificent. We climbed and took pictures from the top. On the way back, we took a dip in the hot springs. Sounds great, right? But we also had to swim through thirty meters of FREEZING ocean water to get there. It felt good, swimming against the current to reach the enclosed lagoon area, heated by the volcano's subterranean activity. Then Ia, for one of the most beautiful sunsets in the world. All this was by bus by the way. We had the good, if inconvenient, fortune of coming to Greece just before the high season officially starts. So we were often the only tourists in empty restaurants, but we had limited choices for bus times. We were also pretty broke. Our last euro trip we were ACTUALLY poor. Little serious income, Trisha was couch surfing, and we had a strict daily budget of 20-25 euros, max. We often drank our dinner, and consumed protein bars and almonds for meals. Two years later, we got cocky and kept saying, we should really watch our spending, and I'm sure we will. Tomorrow. Budget. Starts. Tomorrow. PAROS! A mere 2.5 hours away from Santorini, we arrived in good spirits, after discovering motion sickness pills, and accidentally upgrading our seats. (I forgot that I had bought the business class tickets, since they were the same price I was expecting economy to cost. WORTH IT.) All the locals we met kept telling us, no one means to come to Paros but everyone comes back or stays on purpose. And as far as we could tell, it's true. We loved it there. Also, most of the locals we spoke with were transplants. They were never from Paros, but just sort of found their way there. That, and they were mixed. Someone's parent was Greek and American, or married a Greek, or were Greek and Australian. It was incredible the number of mixed couples or mixed heritage people we met on that island. We also discovered the Pirate bar and Entropy bar, both great places to hang out. Entropy is run by an American couple (the man is Greek and American) and they have tequila Tuesdays. I don't know if Trisha was tickled by going to the American bar at first but I was STOKED. Tequila, the good kind, is hard to come by in France. So much so, that when I got a random shot of Patron, I didn't recognize it. We had a great time there and made a bunch of friends with the locals, even returning to hang out the next night. Wednesday evening, after meeting up with the group we went to the local hangout, Islands. Only Greeks were present. It was awesome. We even got to witness traditional Greek dancing, but with napkins. I guess a few years back, smashing dishes (a tradition done to release bad energy, and let good energy flow into the world) was costing too many people too much money (you're drunk at a party, you wanna let go the bad joo-joo, SMASH! There go your cousin's boyfriend's mother's plates) so they outlawed it. Now, in public places anyway, you do the traditional dance with napkins. Little white, square cut napkins floated on the air as dark haired, Greek men lifted their knees and clapped from side to side. Loved it. We enjoyed a glass of wine before the sunset on the beach, our last night in Paros, and I allowed the millions of mosquitoes to attack my bare legs. No regrets. A dio!

Kalimera! Good morning!

Day 10. I really should have internet diaried earlier but I couldn't be bothered. What with the fine scenaries, colorful sunsets, Greek hospitality that translates into extra drinks, shots, and desserts I was too busy enjoying the vacation atmosphere with my friend to be burdened with recording details before they flitted from my mildly inebriated brain. Then came Paros. Athens. We spent a total of 4 days in the capital city on the mainland and we were treated to all of the archaeological wonders and sites of national heritage. I love history and so does Trisha so we had a grand old time exploring the acropolis, the parthenon, Zeus' temple, Athena's temple (one of a billion, oh patron saint of Athens), the museums, Hadrian's Arch (Roman conqueror/architect), the parliament where all the Greek economic protests are happening, the old agoras (both Roman and Greek), the mosques leftover from Ottoman rule, and the many many churches. The archaeological museum was particularly fasinating to us archive geeks, and its shipwreck exhibit presenting the many treasures unearthed at the bottom of the Mediterranean was breathtaking. Like, literally. There were statues that fell from the countless Roman ships that hid bad weather, and were embedded in the sea bed, preserving the fine marble for centuries, until Greek treasure hunters reclaimed it for the motherland. The parts exposed on the statue were corroded by infinite sea creatures. The visual effect of half a marble athlete's likeness in perfect condition, half in pockmarked ruin kept me staring for long after the rest of the crowd had moved on. The city center is fairly compact and made getting around on foot easy and cheap. We made some friends at our hostel and hung out with a pretty diverse crowd the first weekend before everyone else left the town. Trisha and I discovered thereafter, that as two young women alone we were of interest to the local men. Not everyone, though. Papous over the age of seventy seemed to ignore us. But during our remaining two days we were followed a few times and catcalled pretty incessantly. We never felt seriously in danger and were in the presence of other people, tourists, and locals alike constantly. But we did duck into a restaurant where a guy had offered us a first round of drinks free earlier, when it was clear the man behind us wasn't going away, and we resolved never to go back to the Central Market either. The Central Market was recommended to us by everyone and we went expecting to see whole sheep skinned and hanging for our viewing pleasure. Very Greek. (This whole trip I've been quoting My Big Fat Greek Wedding and Trisha doesn't like red meat. "You don't eat MEAT??") We also expected a bit naively to find some produce. Maybe some knick knacks as well. A cheese shop perhaps. How wrong we were. I got a quick shot on my camera phone before we started the walk through. Men in butcher's aprons stood by their product and took a few steps closer to check out our own goods. "Tourista!" we heard, followed by low chuckles and words in Greek. Trisha and I kept close to one another and she breathed, "I don't know if I can do this." She was referring to the bodies of animals stripped clean of their skin, exposing the muscle and sinews beneath. As we continued forward I found myself sharing the sentiment. What started at first as a tightening of my chest at the sight of the bodies (I do eat meat, and have been in butcher's shops in France and in California before, never before with this reaction) grew into lightheadedness, shallow breaths, and quickened heartbeat. The men stepped closer, some indifferent to us, most with a keen interest that had nothing to do with us purchasing anything. There was one woman and another pair of tourists (a man and woman) but otherwise no one else to dilute the sense of choking claustrophobia that was mounting in my mind along the two hundred foot marketplace. I raised a hand to cool my head and just searched for the exit as we came to the heart of the covered warehouse. Trisha blindly followed me, fighting her own lightheadedness and nausea, and as I breathed deep the clean air of smog and city smells, unsullied with fresh meat and fear, I turned to Trisha to find her still in the mouth of the market, a man holding her arm. He was asking, "Where are you from?" and she calmly replied, while I fought the urge to club him with a nearby haunch and bolt from the sidewalk with my friend. Do I think we were in danger? No. But the combination of the hanging, red, muscled bodies surrounding me, from kiosks that stood at my head level or higher for the entire length of the market, and the stress of being the meat on display in an enclosed space was enough to give me a panic attack, I think. I'm still not sure, especially because I think I've had ONE before. Especially, given the man that followed us the evening before, then continued past the restaurant as we were seated, it just struck me in an odd way. There was a sense of desperation about the city that I was expecting but didn't really feel at ease with in the middle of it. I don't know if it's the current Greek economy that feeds into that or if it's just an urban landscape with winding roads that make me uncomfortable, but I found myself aware of my surroundings and reluctant to take shortcakes and dark alleys. As I should be. Our last evening in Athens, we 'Greek danced' (you know what I mean, picture whatever stereotype you have and we did that) and enjoyed a fantastic dinner with live entertainment. One of the singers we even saw on television the following night in Santorini, so who knows what celebrities we did the grapevine with! Food has been incredible and we ate GIANT Greek salads, rife with olives which I hungrily devoured - I don't even like olives at home, but I must be so authentic, I can only eat the local specialities on site. Same with Guiness. I hate Guiness in California, but LOVED it in Dublin. Go figure. Moussaka is a like a Greek lasanga, but instead of pasta there's pureed potatoes and eggplant layers. Delish! Mostly, I've been spending my money on seafood, since the plat du jour in Rouen is mostly beef, peppered with chicken, varied with beef. Swordfish, bakaloa (local fish), stuffed squid, mackeral, red snapper, red mullet, calamari, fish roe, octopus have all dominated my thoughts and my budget and I have no regrets. Santorini! I'll document in the next post. Right now, I've made myself hungry. :) Kalinita! Good night!