Never gets old.
Except maybe during rush hour.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Sunday, August 18, 2013
"Welcome Home."
I will never get tired of hearing those beautiful words from the custom agent's mouth. You wait in line, disoriented from the time change, sick of that baby that was screaming in the back wing for the last four hours, and eagerly await your turn to reenter your country. Your home.
Unfortunately, my first week turned out to be less welcoming and more of a convalescent period. I got sick. I had a good forty-eight hours, involving a mini birthday pub crawl for a friend, a beach day, a second beach outing, karaoke, and then I got ridiculously ill. Like, crawling from bed to toilet, zombie-shuffle, delirium-ill. I'm not sure what kind of flu strain I had but it was only made better after I got antibiotics. All the RiteAid bought flu syrup in the world couldn't compete with the thirty minutes after popping my first dose of antibiotics. Thank you God for science.
So now that the first week has FLOWN by (ie: spent entirely in bed, watching tv, making mental movies of dreams/story ideas) I'm on my way to Sacramento for a quick pit stop before flying to Texas. Whaaaaaat? We're spending four days in the boons of the great Lone Star state and I can only imagine the shenanigans and barbecue awaiting me.
Culture shock: (This list is for sure gonna get a whole lot longer after Texas)
1. Starbucks! I never get tired of seeing it, but every time I come back it strikes me how many people CAMP. OUT. in Starbucks here. You bring your computer, a blanket, buy a coffee every so often and now that internet is offered in most locations, no one ever leaves. I missed seeing that in Paris, where people would purchase their expensive, shitty-tasting coffee, enjoy their beverage, then leave, sans to-go cup.
2. Americans are friendly. Like, suuuuper gregarious, even among strangers. I was in a Trader Joe's recently and just marveled at what a great exchange the cashier had with my friend. Because that's her job. To be friendly and make coming to TJ's an enjoyable experience. I mean, I guess there are down sides to that because if you're having a bad day and you don't want to be friendly to so-and-so-shopper, that's annoying. But from a customer service perspective, I LOVE IT. No more blasé French checkouts! PEPPY, EXCITED AMERICANS EVERYWHERE!
3. No walking? Like...ever? I mean, that's not true. I walked to a bar down the street last night with friends, but you can be sure they were like, wait, we're still walking? How far is this place?? (It was a 10-15 minute walk.) Nobody walks here! Especially not in LA but in general, driving is the way to be here in the USA. I mean, we know this, I knew this, but it still smacks me in the face when I realize I haven't walked anywhere in days since my return. Strange after literally being unable to pass a day without at least making a trip to buy groceries on foot.
4. Air conditioning. The French don't have air conditioning unless you're in the South of France from what I hear, or in a supermarket, because it's cold half the year and doesn't make sense economically/financially. Being in my sister's house with the A/C on blast because it's 100 degrees outside makes beautiful, frigid, relaxing sense. AMERICUH!
5. Beer pong!!! People know the rules here!
6. Happy Hour. America, a place where you can get drunk for cheap. (And not just on wine) Certain hours excluded.
Okay, more to add later as my latest round of culture shock becomes apparent to me. Now that I'm finally up off my deathbed, a week later I finally feel welcome and at home. <3
Unfortunately, my first week turned out to be less welcoming and more of a convalescent period. I got sick. I had a good forty-eight hours, involving a mini birthday pub crawl for a friend, a beach day, a second beach outing, karaoke, and then I got ridiculously ill. Like, crawling from bed to toilet, zombie-shuffle, delirium-ill. I'm not sure what kind of flu strain I had but it was only made better after I got antibiotics. All the RiteAid bought flu syrup in the world couldn't compete with the thirty minutes after popping my first dose of antibiotics. Thank you God for science.
So now that the first week has FLOWN by (ie: spent entirely in bed, watching tv, making mental movies of dreams/story ideas) I'm on my way to Sacramento for a quick pit stop before flying to Texas. Whaaaaaat? We're spending four days in the boons of the great Lone Star state and I can only imagine the shenanigans and barbecue awaiting me.
Culture shock: (This list is for sure gonna get a whole lot longer after Texas)
1. Starbucks! I never get tired of seeing it, but every time I come back it strikes me how many people CAMP. OUT. in Starbucks here. You bring your computer, a blanket, buy a coffee every so often and now that internet is offered in most locations, no one ever leaves. I missed seeing that in Paris, where people would purchase their expensive, shitty-tasting coffee, enjoy their beverage, then leave, sans to-go cup.
2. Americans are friendly. Like, suuuuper gregarious, even among strangers. I was in a Trader Joe's recently and just marveled at what a great exchange the cashier had with my friend. Because that's her job. To be friendly and make coming to TJ's an enjoyable experience. I mean, I guess there are down sides to that because if you're having a bad day and you don't want to be friendly to so-and-so-shopper, that's annoying. But from a customer service perspective, I LOVE IT. No more blasé French checkouts! PEPPY, EXCITED AMERICANS EVERYWHERE!
3. No walking? Like...ever? I mean, that's not true. I walked to a bar down the street last night with friends, but you can be sure they were like, wait, we're still walking? How far is this place?? (It was a 10-15 minute walk.) Nobody walks here! Especially not in LA but in general, driving is the way to be here in the USA. I mean, we know this, I knew this, but it still smacks me in the face when I realize I haven't walked anywhere in days since my return. Strange after literally being unable to pass a day without at least making a trip to buy groceries on foot.
4. Air conditioning. The French don't have air conditioning unless you're in the South of France from what I hear, or in a supermarket, because it's cold half the year and doesn't make sense economically/financially. Being in my sister's house with the A/C on blast because it's 100 degrees outside makes beautiful, frigid, relaxing sense. AMERICUH!
5. Beer pong!!! People know the rules here!
6. Happy Hour. America, a place where you can get drunk for cheap. (And not just on wine) Certain hours excluded.
Okay, more to add later as my latest round of culture shock becomes apparent to me. Now that I'm finally up off my deathbed, a week later I finally feel welcome and at home. <3
Thursday, August 1, 2013
CDG to JFK to LAX
Last foreseeable blog entry before landing on American soil.
I sit here in my almost empty apartment, strewn with dust bunnies, cleaning supplies, and (le sigh) memories and feel pretty good. This time last week I was barely hanging on, so nervous and worried for the future, and now that my departure is a day away, I'm satisfied with my experiences here. Well, my satisfaction is mixed with resignation, but I digress. I'm not too bent out of shape about leaving, mostly because I know I'll be back. If I actually intend to obtain a masters this year, I really need to come back by about February.
Moving apartments is always a little sad though, and I find myself wishing for a starbucks to help me finish the job and caffeinate me beyond caring.
Going away presents from Rouen:
1. I ate the best cheese ever yesterday. 6 month old Neufchatel and delicious Comté.
2. A homeless man masturbating in the street.
3. A waiter that tried to steal 20 euros from our bill for his tip.
Ya win some, ya lose some.
Goodbye for now, Rouen! I love you, despite your odd nooks and crannies and crazies, and I can't wait until we're reunited once again. See you next year! Bisous <3
On to the next adventure...
I sit here in my almost empty apartment, strewn with dust bunnies, cleaning supplies, and (le sigh) memories and feel pretty good. This time last week I was barely hanging on, so nervous and worried for the future, and now that my departure is a day away, I'm satisfied with my experiences here. Well, my satisfaction is mixed with resignation, but I digress. I'm not too bent out of shape about leaving, mostly because I know I'll be back. If I actually intend to obtain a masters this year, I really need to come back by about February.
Moving apartments is always a little sad though, and I find myself wishing for a starbucks to help me finish the job and caffeinate me beyond caring.
Going away presents from Rouen:
1. I ate the best cheese ever yesterday. 6 month old Neufchatel and delicious Comté.
2. A homeless man masturbating in the street.
3. A waiter that tried to steal 20 euros from our bill for his tip.
Ya win some, ya lose some.
Goodbye for now, Rouen! I love you, despite your odd nooks and crannies and crazies, and I can't wait until we're reunited once again. See you next year! Bisous <3
On to the next adventure...
Monday, July 29, 2013
Plane ticket refund?
It started with the tragic Asiana crash in San Francisco, continued with the Southwest Airlines crash from Texas to LGA, the Spanish train derailment, and now the Italian bus crash that just killed 39 people yesterday.
Summer Travel 2013 is looking positively dreadful and mysterious/bloody accidents keep piling up as my departure date looms ever closer. (this Friday) For this reason I have compiled a list of To Stay's and To Go's:
Reasons to Stay:
1. Visa madness. The prefecture has me by the knickers and twists violently every time I even suggest leaving.
2. French wine changes with altitude and increases in price over distance.
3. Mon français est déjà en train de s'emmerder. -- That's not even good French. It's already begun.
4. I don't wanna go down in flames over the Atlantic.
Reasons to Go:
1. It's been a year. I'd like to know if my little brothers have extra toes or tattoos yet.
2. The Sorbonne offers online classes.
3. I'm coming back sometime next year for the end of my masters anyway. -- Not au revoir yet, France!
4. I just found out Camembert cheese is legal to bring to the U.S.
And its subcategory: Reasons to Go and Then Stay Forever:
1. I don't wanna go down in flames in Nebraska. Thems a lot of flammable corn fields.
T-minus 5 days.
Image is the copyrighted property of its respective owner.
Summer Travel 2013 is looking positively dreadful and mysterious/bloody accidents keep piling up as my departure date looms ever closer. (this Friday) For this reason I have compiled a list of To Stay's and To Go's:
Reasons to Stay:
1. Visa madness. The prefecture has me by the knickers and twists violently every time I even suggest leaving.
2. French wine changes with altitude and increases in price over distance.
3. Mon français est déjà en train de s'emmerder. -- That's not even good French. It's already begun.
4. I don't wanna go down in flames over the Atlantic.
Reasons to Go:
1. It's been a year. I'd like to know if my little brothers have extra toes or tattoos yet.
2. The Sorbonne offers online classes.
3. I'm coming back sometime next year for the end of my masters anyway. -- Not au revoir yet, France!
4. I just found out Camembert cheese is legal to bring to the U.S.
And its subcategory: Reasons to Go and Then Stay Forever:
1. I don't wanna go down in flames in Nebraska. Thems a lot of flammable corn fields.
T-minus 5 days.
Image is the copyrighted property of its respective owner.
Friday, July 26, 2013
The Sorbonne
I GOT ACCEPTED TO THE SORBONNE!!!!
It actually happened a few weeks ago but I was still doing paperwork for enrollment, solidifying my acceptance, up until two days ago. I got accepted to one of the most prestigious French universities, and the most internationally well known French university, in the second year of the Masters program. BOOM!
Technically, I have the level of an M1 (first year of Masters) but I argued my way into M2 of the International Studies, English Studies program for pretty obvious reasons - American, 4 year college degree, awesome French skillzz. I couldn't be more excited!
And to boot, the entire scholastic year costs 514 euros. Take that $60 K price tag of American masters programs!!
I don't know what I'm going to do afterward, or even how the year is going to go, writing an 80 paged thesis in French while in California half the time, but I'm optimistic. Already getting this far is an achievement in itself, and I'm choosing to celebrate before letting doomsday thoughts win over.
With any luck, I'll have a masters AND be published (to self-pub or to agent, that is the question) by this time next year.
VIVE LA FRANCE!!!
It actually happened a few weeks ago but I was still doing paperwork for enrollment, solidifying my acceptance, up until two days ago. I got accepted to one of the most prestigious French universities, and the most internationally well known French university, in the second year of the Masters program. BOOM!
Technically, I have the level of an M1 (first year of Masters) but I argued my way into M2 of the International Studies, English Studies program for pretty obvious reasons - American, 4 year college degree, awesome French skillzz. I couldn't be more excited!
And to boot, the entire scholastic year costs 514 euros. Take that $60 K price tag of American masters programs!!
I don't know what I'm going to do afterward, or even how the year is going to go, writing an 80 paged thesis in French while in California half the time, but I'm optimistic. Already getting this far is an achievement in itself, and I'm choosing to celebrate before letting doomsday thoughts win over.
With any luck, I'll have a masters AND be published (to self-pub or to agent, that is the question) by this time next year.
VIVE LA FRANCE!!!
Hearts in Rouen, a love letter
to Rouen! My little city. I've spent the last ten months writing and perfecting my first novel, Hearts in Rouen.
Essentially a love letter to Rouen, Hearts in Rouen mixes elements that I love reading about in my favorite literature. Romance. Suspense. Mystery. Foreign culture. History. All with (to paraphrase the wish lists of so many agents) an engaging, unique voice that draws in the reader from page one. I love France and despite certain obnoxious parts of it (the préfecture, everything closing on Sundays/Mondays, HUGE taxes to support the amazing social welfare system here), when I sat down to write last November, the only subject that felt right was this country, this culture, this city.
Now that I've got my baby polished within an inch of its life, trying to find a home for it is my next objective. You know, along with moving back to California indefinitely, trying to smuggle as much Camembert in my luggage as physically possible, and finding a group of French friends with whom to keep up my language skills and/or drive me around since I won't have a car.
#todolist
Until then, stay tuned for publishing updates and maybe some excerpts from the book exclusively here on my blog.
Bisous!
Essentially a love letter to Rouen, Hearts in Rouen mixes elements that I love reading about in my favorite literature. Romance. Suspense. Mystery. Foreign culture. History. All with (to paraphrase the wish lists of so many agents) an engaging, unique voice that draws in the reader from page one. I love France and despite certain obnoxious parts of it (the préfecture, everything closing on Sundays/Mondays, HUGE taxes to support the amazing social welfare system here), when I sat down to write last November, the only subject that felt right was this country, this culture, this city.
Now that I've got my baby polished within an inch of its life, trying to find a home for it is my next objective. You know, along with moving back to California indefinitely, trying to smuggle as much Camembert in my luggage as physically possible, and finding a group of French friends with whom to keep up my language skills and/or drive me around since I won't have a car.
#todolist
Until then, stay tuned for publishing updates and maybe some excerpts from the book exclusively here on my blog.
Bisous!
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Singing
#ThingsI'llMiss
"Why are we singing?!?" asked a friend, a newbie to the usual weekend ritual of drinking, discussing, burning wood pallets swiped from behind the local supermarket, then passing out legit 30 paged books of raucous drinking songs.
"I don't sing!" she protested. Oh, but you will.
The French are widely known for their jovial love of gathering in public or private to sing. Rugby matches. Football (soccer) matches. Weddings. Birthdays. Parties and kickbacks. Ain't no thang. Someone will know a seriously inappropriate song with eight layers of double entendres and teach the rest of the crowd. Or type them all up, then disperse them among friends and family for generations to come, like my circle of friends.
I once was watching a rugby match online with P-baby and the English commentator (English vs. France - WATCH OUT, another 100 years' war is bout to go down) remarked there was nothing more wonderful "than a jubilant, French crowd," who can always be expected to burst into communal song at some point. And it's true.
And it's never the national anthem, the Marseillaise, because after the fall of the Bastille, nationalism has been equated with the crazy, xenophobic right wing political party. It's always songs about a "baguette" and the fireman's "hose."
Some people aren't brought up to sing willy nilly, as evidenced by the newbie to the weekend pow wow, but if you come across a group of jubilant French people, get excited and warm up your vocal cords. You're about to witness a spontaneous cultural expression of joy.
"Why are we singing?!?" asked a friend, a newbie to the usual weekend ritual of drinking, discussing, burning wood pallets swiped from behind the local supermarket, then passing out legit 30 paged books of raucous drinking songs.
"I don't sing!" she protested. Oh, but you will.
The French are widely known for their jovial love of gathering in public or private to sing. Rugby matches. Football (soccer) matches. Weddings. Birthdays. Parties and kickbacks. Ain't no thang. Someone will know a seriously inappropriate song with eight layers of double entendres and teach the rest of the crowd. Or type them all up, then disperse them among friends and family for generations to come, like my circle of friends.
I once was watching a rugby match online with P-baby and the English commentator (English vs. France - WATCH OUT, another 100 years' war is bout to go down) remarked there was nothing more wonderful "than a jubilant, French crowd," who can always be expected to burst into communal song at some point. And it's true.
And it's never the national anthem, the Marseillaise, because after the fall of the Bastille, nationalism has been equated with the crazy, xenophobic right wing political party. It's always songs about a "baguette" and the fireman's "hose."
Some people aren't brought up to sing willy nilly, as evidenced by the newbie to the weekend pow wow, but if you come across a group of jubilant French people, get excited and warm up your vocal cords. You're about to witness a spontaneous cultural expression of joy.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Des choses à faire
A little under three weeks and I'll be boarding a plane to New York where I'll spend a few days with my fabulous married friends, then fly on home to California. To sun and surf and English.
In the mean time I'm stocking up on Camembert cheese. And trying to accomplish various dreams and long standing wishes.
Acceptance to the masters program at the celebrated Sorbonne university: Check!
Completion of my first novel based in France and utilizing my knowledge of the language and culture: Double check! (Gotta get it while the getting's good)
Getting published: Ummm... well about that. I'm working on self-publishing but putting my infant expression of love out there for the wolves to devour is terrifying and not exactly an easy undertaking to boot. There are ebook covers involved and wiley ebook cover designers to sift through. I have a few recommendations from friends and the almighty internet is helpful but who really knows where to start? Then there's the issue of choosing a market to publish in, Amazon the Monopolizer or smaller sites that still provide access to world markets, but less strategically good odds for authors.
If anyone knows of good ebook cover designers, feel free to leave a comment here :) Otherwise, I hope to have made a decision (ie: published) before I leave here the beginning of August.
Let the countdown begin! (again)
In the mean time I'm stocking up on Camembert cheese. And trying to accomplish various dreams and long standing wishes.
Acceptance to the masters program at the celebrated Sorbonne university: Check!
Completion of my first novel based in France and utilizing my knowledge of the language and culture: Double check! (Gotta get it while the getting's good)
Getting published: Ummm... well about that. I'm working on self-publishing but putting my infant expression of love out there for the wolves to devour is terrifying and not exactly an easy undertaking to boot. There are ebook covers involved and wiley ebook cover designers to sift through. I have a few recommendations from friends and the almighty internet is helpful but who really knows where to start? Then there's the issue of choosing a market to publish in, Amazon the Monopolizer or smaller sites that still provide access to world markets, but less strategically good odds for authors.
If anyone knows of good ebook cover designers, feel free to leave a comment here :) Otherwise, I hope to have made a decision (ie: published) before I leave here the beginning of August.
Let the countdown begin! (again)
Friday, June 28, 2013
The countdown (again)
I leave France in a month and five days.
I'm already categorizing the items in my apartment into mental piles: To go, Toss, Store in P-baby's house.
I'm going home to celebrate my family and friends, renew some of my English/American, and make some serious life decisions. Like, where am I going to live for the next five years? Not only, what city is the best for bikes? Car travel? Stress? But, what CONTINENT.
I regret nothing about the last three years but there's been a fair amount of emotional tug and pull scattered among camembert packaging.
Maybe I'll come back after a few months. I did only live in LA for 2 years and I've lived in Rouen for 2 and Vernon for 1.
Nervy Coco.
I'm already categorizing the items in my apartment into mental piles: To go, Toss, Store in P-baby's house.
I'm going home to celebrate my family and friends, renew some of my English/American, and make some serious life decisions. Like, where am I going to live for the next five years? Not only, what city is the best for bikes? Car travel? Stress? But, what CONTINENT.
I regret nothing about the last three years but there's been a fair amount of emotional tug and pull scattered among camembert packaging.
Maybe I'll come back after a few months. I did only live in LA for 2 years and I've lived in Rouen for 2 and Vernon for 1.
Nervy Coco.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
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!
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!
Friday, May 24, 2013
Sunday, May 19, 2013
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.
Miss you America. When I could recklessly self medicate and do it for under 5 bucks to boot.
Sniff.
Friday, May 17, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
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.......
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.......
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
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!
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
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!
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
I should really be _______________.
But instead I'm writing my book. I wake up early just to write, edit, and obsess over the latest critique on scribophile - which is a Godsend, by the way. I stay up late just to fit in my entire day of 6 hours of writing/editing/critiquing other people's work, 3 hours of teaching, MAYBE some gym action, 2-3 square meals. I'M A BEAST.
There's a little naysayer in the back of mind that says I should not be investing so much time into this project, but it's my first book and I can't help wanting to love and nurture it until it blossoms or otherwise, till it withers like a cilantro plant in Normandie.
After four hours of writing and one hour of class preparation for tomorrow, my office butt says it's time to hit the gym.
Le siiiigh
Monday, February 4, 2013
A day in the life...
FINISHED. After two months of writing and one month of editing, I've finished my book. (Whaaaaaat!) In order to move on to the next step (coffee) I've begun the odd and confusing process of publishing. Yes, I think my book is good and am very aware no one else may like it, but I have just that much free time on my hands to go for it.
I wake up at 8 or 9. I edit, write, search for publishing companies in my genre and patrol the NaNo boards. At about noon, I have a second cup of coffee. At 1 or 2pm I have lunch, then teach a class (or not), then resume tutorials in how to write query letters. P-baby comes over around 5 or 6 and then I stop my work day and focus on making something appetizing to a Frenchman. Then I research the weather for the following day, to see if I can convince myself to walk 15 minutes in the rain to sit on a bicycle for the next hour. This last item fails more and more often to convince me to exercise, but tant pis. Oh well. More time to research!
A part from that, writing has literally been occupying the majority of my waking hours so much that - aside from the coffee date, or lunch date with friends - I've been breathing, eating, dreaming my book. Will it go anywhere?? Who knows!! But I crossed that colossal task from my bucket list and I couldn't be happier.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
January
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