Thinking

I've noticed that once I think it's about the be dinner time, I take a break from homework, thinking, "Ok, good. I'll finish after dinner." However, my idea of when dinner time is is consistently very different from when they think dinner time is. Despite that, I still waste time waiting, even though an hour and a half later, when I could have finished all my work, I'm still saying to myself, "Dinner will be....soon. And then I will have the time to do my homework."

I'm an idiot, and I'm hungry.

Thinking

Three things I did today:

1. Took my Physics final at the Univeristy, which was an 1hr40 minute oral exam. I started studying about a week in advance, but none of that seemed to matter this afternoon. I was really nervous, and every time I wrote something on the board, my professor would go, "Ooohla." And then he'd say, "Are you sure about that?" and I would say, "...oui?wait Non.....wait..uh, oui?" Even though I knew it was "oui" and he'd just say "Oohla" again, and scribble something on his paper.

2. Had my last session with the two girls that I teach. As a Christmas gift, I found two easy Roald Dahl picture books in English for them. They seemed to know who Roald Dahl was, and were really excited about the new books, though I kind of doubt they'll actually read them. Oh well.

3. Went to the theatre with my host mom and her friends. It was a 3 hr. comedy of errors, that was really well done and had a massive audience, and I understood presque tout.

Thinking

My host brother, Jacques, baked me cookies this afternoon. And then chased me around the attic, pretending to be a zombie. I think he's trying to fatten me up to eat me.

A Day in the Life

This is a little late, but one day, I thought it would be interesting to take pictures of the things I see every day in France.

My house. #17.

The alley way I walk down, where the crazies hang their heads out the window and yell at me.

Poop. There is a lot, a lot, of this by my house.

The church I walk past every day.

Rue d'Alger. Ever single day, I march my booty up this street...

...until I get here (I.E.S building)...

...where I do this (French literature.)

Ha. This was on the window of the house next to mine.

Thinking

Just came back to my room after Sunday lunch, and found Pamela, the house cat, asleep on my pillow. I think this means she likes me.

Edit: The cat is snoring. She kind of looks like a little snoring rug. Adorable.

Thinking

Onwards and upwards.

"You're ever welcome with me any time you like
Let's drive to the countryside, leave behind some green-eyed look-a-likes
So no one gets worried, no
So no one gets worried, no"

--"Blue Ridge Mountains" Fleet Foxes

A Revival of the Archaic

My host father is descended from a long line of nobles, and his family has owned for many years, a "small" 17th century chateau in the countryside, about an hour north of Nantes. The chateau is a national monument, open to the public most of the year and can be rented out for marriages, etc. For now, Geoffroy's uncle, Count Loik and his family, live in the chateau and maintain it, as well as the surrounding park grounds, which are often used for hunting.

When we first got there, I was introduced to Loik, his two sons and their wives and children, as well as some of his son's friends. They hunted during the morning while Veronique showed me the chateau, and then after we met for lunch I walked with the hunters for the remainder of the day.

Geoffroy getting ready to hunt.

Now, the southern side of my extended family lives for hunting. I once spent an enthralling weekend walking through cornfields in South Dakota with my semi-crazy grandpaw while he blasted the hell out of any unlucky pheasant that happened to cross his path. But French hunting is a world of its own. They get about 20 people, line up and walk straight through a section of forest, shooting at anything they happen to see. Two or three hunters will stand the end, so if any poor beast tries to escape, it's caught immediately.

I kind of have a problem with hunting in general, and I really have a problem with this. But I went along so that I can have something besides Obama to argue about with my grandpaw at Christmas this year.

After the hunt, we returned to the chateau for showers and aperatifs, which we took in a room fancier than any one I've ever been in. Over champagne in crystal glasses, Loik, Geoffroy and I argued about abortion (it was right at about this moment how heavily Catholic this family is), but, we left the conversation still friends. While we were in there, Eglentine (the wife of one of Loik's sons) arrived with a massive platter of small sandwiches, and with her, a large party of 20-somethings arrived, all carrying bottles of whiskey, wine, and Coke.

The room we took our aperatifs in. I took this photo standing next to the grand piano.

Suddenly, Loik and Geoffroy had disappeared, and I was standing awkwardly in a room filled with about 13 over-wealthy 20 somethings, all wearing ridiculous tweed jackets, Ralph Lauren, and hunting boots. I thought, 'French people my age! I should try to make friends." But they wanted nothing to do with me, so I left to find Geoffroy and Veronique, to wait for dinner.

At about 11 pm. we finally had dinner with the group of rich assholes, Loik, Veronique, Geoffroy, et moi. The dinner was glorious, and lots of wine was passed around, and all of a sudden, everyone started talking to me. No, not talking, more like making fun of me for being American. So I made fun of them back, saying things like, "Oh la la! I'm soo French." They loved it, and everyone including Veronique and Loik, laughed.

"...et, courant comme un mendiant sur les quais de marbre, je la chassais..."

Aube, par Rimbaud.

It was an interesting weekend.

Thinking

Every day, I walk into town via a small alley way behind my house. Often, when I'm coming home, I pass a girl who seems about my age, is always listening to music, and is always wearing the same clothes. She always looks a bit....deranged, and once, when I passed her, she let out this terrifying rage/scream/feral animal call that scared the hell out of me.

Anyways, I realized the other night while walking home that the reason I see her so often is because she lives in an apartment off the alleyway (she was hanging out of her window as I was walking.) This morning, on my way to lab, I passed her window and it seems she had pushed her entire dining table set and T.V. out the window.

I think I might start walking around the alley way. For my health.

Thinking

I accidentally stumbled across this on the internet while wasting time Google Image Searching 'Colorado.'

Commence puking from lameness

(In the woods at Chenonceau Chateau)

England, the novel.

Last Wednesday night, after 3 classes and physics lab, I took the train from Nantes to Paris, where I spent the night before heading to England for the long weekend. This time, (as well as the other time I visited Paris to meet other Grinnellians), I stayed in hostel called, "Woodstock Hostel" in Montmarte. It's a minute from the Metro station, less than two minutes away from Sacre Coeur, and about 15 minutes from the Moulin Rouge, and I completely recommend it if anyone is going to Paris. They give you free breakfast and they even have a cat. Totally a win in my book.

The next morning, my friend Kelsey and I took the Eurostar from Paris to London (about 2 hrs.) The train goes through the chunnel, which means that instead of looking at pretty countryside, you look at a lot of black for about 45 minutes. Once we got to London, I met my uncle Mark, and Kelsey set off to meet her other friends.

Mark and I navigated the incredibly busy tube stations, and finally made it back to his house in Eltham. Mark's house is older, but is decorated in a sort classic-Russian-meets-modern-London style, and I really like it. As soon as we got there, we said hello to my aunt Luda and my cousin Frances, and then headed off to an auction, where we drank milky tea and watched old men bid on relatively cheap antiques.

That night, the whole family ate Indian takeout by candlelight, and afterwards, Frances (12) invited me to go shopping with her and her friends at Oxford Street the next day. And by shopping, she meant going to Abercrombie and Fitch. Ok. I was once 12. And I once was obsessed with Abercrombie and Fitch. But in the United States, A&F is a label similar to the Gap, only a little bit more pricey. HOWEVER. The English have taken this store to a whole new level.

We found A&F on Savile Row (where all the very posh stores, such as Hardy Amies are located) by wandering straight into a queue that wrapped around the block. A queue for Abercrombie and Fitch. People were waiting in line to get into this store. Not only that, but there was (I'm not even kidding) velvet banners creating the line, and, get this, a bouncer. A what. A bouncer. A BOUNCER to get into Abercrombie and Fitch.

The entrance was marble steps leading up into a massive foyer, where a half-naked A&F male model was standing, waiting to have his picture with any girl that wanted it. And yes, Frances and her friends got two (with two different male models, duh.) I was too surprised at first to get one with the first model, but after Frances told me very bluntly, "You want a souvenir, Ruth? That body is a bloody souvenir. Get a picture," I damn well got a picture.

The inside wasn't very interesting, only that it was three stories high, pitch black except for spotlights on the clothes, and had a David-esque statue that was 1.5 stories high, wearing Abercrombie pants. Oh, and did I mention that they had hired dancers? They had dancers dancing on the balconies. What. I tried to explain American A&F to Frances and she just blew me off, saying, "Well Ruth, the English just does it much better. We just do it like we mean it."

So London is probably top two my favourite cities. Before I left, Mark and I went to the British Library, where we saw the Lindisfarne Gospels, the oldest Beowulf, and even the original Alice in Wonderland. Afterwards, I took the train to Leicester, to visit my aunt Claire and my grandparents.

While I was in London, my grandfather called to tell me that my grandmum wasn't so healthy, and wasn't feeling up to seeing me. Luckily, though, by the time I got to Leicester, they were both rested and feeling better, and managed to come over to Claire's appartment, where I was staying. We (once again) ate really good Indian takeout and watched Strictly Come Dancing. After loads of tea, and a lot of yelling at each other, we sufficiently wore each other out, and the grandparents left. Claire and I finished Halloween night by watching a movie and going to bed at 10:30. Wild.

My last day in England, Claire and I ate lunch with the grandparents, went for a walk and played a lot of cards (during which my grandmum got to make fun of me--something she's very good at doing.) They went to mass, and Claire and I returned home, where we ate a dinner of beans on toast, and then came to the conclusion that we should go bar-hopping.

We got dressed to the nines, (meaning Claire looked really good and I tried to make the one shirt I brought along smell a little better) and went to, not one, but two bars. Claire bought the drinks, I taught the bartenders how to make Whiskey Sours with Maker's Mark Whiskey and then we sat and compared notes on our family. It's nice to know she agrees with me.

These are the conclusions we made:

1. I am turning into my father.

2. My father is turning into his mother.

3. Whiskey Sours are really good.

4. So are Gin and Tonics.

Overall, the trip was pretty British. I don't think there is any other way to describe it.

Thinking

My hair is too wild for dreadlocks. Every night for the past two weeks, I've backcombed my hair, and then woken up only to find that my hair has undone the dreadlocks whilst I was sleeping.

Dang.

Thinking

Tonight, my host family had a friend over to dinner. Whenever someone else visits for dinner, it means my host mom cooks an amazing meal and I tend to drink a little too much whiskey/wine and then go to bed in a haze.

So, right when I was about to go to bed (about 11:45 p.m.) my host father questioned me about homosexual rights. It got to the point where I got all flustered and said (in French), "It's difficult for me to defend myself, because I don't speak French. Now, I have homework to do, and I'm going to bed." And I left the table.

...whee.

On Traveling

Last weekend, my friend Vicky (a student at Grinnell, currently studying in Granada, Spain) and her friend Laura came to Paris to meet our friend Davis (also from Grinnell, studying in Paris) to attend a Pixies concert. Vicky invited to me to meet them for the weekend, and since other kids from Nantes were going to Paris as well, I packed and hopped the Friday afternoon train.

Leaving was unsettling; not only because I was randomly going to an unknown city, but the farmers in Nantes were on strike (blocking the public transportation with their tractors and cows) and someone had been hit by a train between Nantes and Angers. But once I got to Paris, met up with Vicky, Davis and Laura in the train station, immediately all feelings of mal a l'aise disappeared.

While Vicky is a little crazy and a lot energy wrapped up into tight hipster pants, Davis counters her with his calm, and between the two of them, Laura holds her own. Needless to say, the four of us combined were a force to be reckoned with. We spent the weekend riding the metro, buying food from street vendors, and visiting the occasional tourist trap. And it was absolutely one of the best weekends I've had in France so far.

(Davis, Vicky, Me)

And to add to the fun, Vicky and friends from all over (Belgium and Morcco) and I had decided to meet the next weekend (this weekend) in Barcelona. My good friend Felicity had suggested this to me, and being not unlike my father, my first thoughts were ones of "Hmm..Barcelona sounds expensive...I don't know" (even though it was only about 70 euros.) And of course, I waited too long, and of course, the prices increased. And, ignoring all rationale and intellect that I have gained over the years, I bought the very expensive tickets anyways.

(Yes. My parents were unhappy. And yes, I spent last week in the grips of paralyzing guilt.)

I went to Paris two nights ago, skipping class, so that I could take the cheapest flight out to Barcelona. I spent the night in the beautiful and stereotypical centre-ville appartment of my host mother's sister (an appartment decorated with antique chandeliers, tapestries, and even a real, stuffed wild-boar head hung up on the wall.) At 4:30 Friday morning, I walked 30 minutes down the large, well-lit parisienne avenues, under trees and vintage lamposts, past churches and cafes and bars that hadn't yet closed, and had no intention of closing. And you know what? I was pretty proud of myself. It was kind of warm, there were people out that weren't going to mug/rape/kill me, and I knew where I was going without the help of Davis.

And then I got to the airport check-in and realized I'd forgotten my passport in my drawer back in Nantes.

I swear to god, I was dropped on the head as a child.

And though I pleaded, through sobs of terror, with the check-in attendant, my frantic attempts were met with a cold, emotionless reply of, "Vous pouvez prendre le train." Yeah, ok, I'll take the fucking train after I just lost 400 euros down the drain.

So I exchanged my train ticket, received 7 euros back (which, when the lady gave me, brought me to tears again) and spent the next 4 hours curled up in the fetal position in a corner of the train station. Think: shards of glass of guilt raining down upon me.

The gross thing is, the only thing (besides the 7 euros) that made me feel slightly better was, when I was walking from the airport terminal back to the train station, I read an advertisement for some insurance company. The ad had a student working out an organic chemistry problem, and immediately, in my head, I thought, "Diels-Alder: the double bonds move between the aromatic rings to connect and form a bridgehead."

Thinking

Tonight I introduced my host family to Snoop Dogg's classic 'Who Am I (What's My Name?)'

Needless to say, they were impressed.

A little late, butt...

(Left to right, back to front: Geoffroy, Mayalise, Ann, Veronique, Ingrid, Claire, Me.)

Last weekend, Ingrid visited me, my family, and Nantes. She chose the right weekend to come, as it was also my host mother (Veronique)'s birthday. For her birthday, the two daughters, Ann and Mayalise (neither of whom live in Nantes) also visited, and the entire family, sans Ingrid et moi, went to an 8-hour play on Saturday afternoon.

Glorious.

Instead, Ingrid and I went out with my friends, celebrating the Grinnell College tradition that is 10/10, which includes maybe drinking a little too much and 'creating community,' or something along those lines. She met all my friends, and we went out to eat at a Tex-Mex inspired resturant called, "The Ranch," where the waitresses don't wear bras and the heads of dead animals decorate the walls.

The next morning, we woke up, had an incredible lunch, and then sent Ingrid off, back to Tours. This upcoming weekend: Paris.

(left to right, back to front: Geoffroy, Mayalise, Ann, Veronique, Ingrid, Claire, Jacques, in front of the entire Western canon, and then some.)

Thinking

It's started to get cold and drizzley here.

Which means the mounds of feces, vomit, and cigarette butts on the sidewalk have kind of melted together to form little lakes of nastiness.

Mmm.

Refresh

A few weeks ago, when I wandered into a tabac to buy minutes for my cell phone, the woman working the counter heard my accent and asked if I would teach her two children how to speak English. I agreed, and since then, every Wednesday at 3:30 pm., for 10 euros, I walk across the city to the same tabac and teach these girls English.

Which is silly, because, as I've come to realize, my knowledge of French grammer far greater than that of English grammer. I have absolutely no idea how to teach English, let alone explain the English language in French.

But it's nice. The girls are adorable, and every time I come, the lady gives me as much coffee as I want, and has always baked a cake for me. And 10 Euros. Did I already say that? 10 Euros and cake. For an hour every Wednesday. I would call that a win.

Besides my famille d'accueil, this lady and her daughters are some of my first French friends. And as I've been getting more comfortable conversing in French, I've developed other friendships, too, in my climbing class, and with friends of my host family. While I have really good American friends, finding friends outside the Institut is surprisingly difficult, as we are somewhat isolated from other students our age. That, and the kids in my physics class at the university are surprisingly cold. The girl who sits next to me is innocent-looking enough, but she wears a pin that says, 'Fuck You, You Fucking Fuck.' Then again, it is physics. Maybe they just haven't gotten to the chapter about 'Social Aptitude' yet.

But, a few days ago, I met a boy while climbing, who ended up walking me home (a 45 min. walk) because he wanted 'to learn to speak better English.' And last night, my host mom drove me to meet up with her godson and a group of his friends, with whom I went to a bar, and then to a discotheque-costume-soiree thingy. And that soiree? Think eurotrash meets Halloween, and then add a lot of whiskey. I left at 4am (earlier than everyone else), and yes, that 9 am class this morning felt just great.

But I have French friends! Finally.

Thinking

Today, I climbed and ate an incredible Indian meal. And afterwards, my host family even let me watch a movie in English.

It was awesome.

Tomorrow: Mont St. Michel and St. Malo.

LOST SHOES. PLEASE HELP.

Of all the stupid things I have done in my life (and they are numerous), I have to say, taking physics in France is pretty near the top of the list.The people at my institute knew exactly what they were doing when they placed me with a psychologist host-mother.

This is going to be traumatic. But in that slightly hilarious way.

What is more traumatizing is the fact that I lost my $140 climbing shoes. Has anybody seen a virtually brand new pair of Dragons?!?! AHh... fml.