Blogging on the road

This is going to be quick because I'm using the hostel computer and I don't want to be obnoxious. I'm now in Prague. Tiffany is sleeping upstairs, Alexa, Laura and Emily are out getting Czech beer. I was dead tired a while ago but now wide awake, so here I am - blogging.

London was amazing, even though we had entirely too little time there. I'd been there before though, so we took a day trip to Stonehenge and Bath. Bath was beautiful; Stonehenge was a pile of rocks. A mysterious pile of rocks, yes...but still a pile of rocks. It took a while to get used to the fact that I could go up to strangers and speak English to them without seeming obnoxious.

Being in Prague is something else entirely. We arrived late in the evening and it took us a while to get downtown with public transportation. By the time we got to Old Town Square it was already dark out, but I'm glad we got a chance to see the nightscape because the architecture here is stunning. There are so many different styles right next to each other, it's dizzying. We're definitely in the touristy heart of things but I'm looking forward to venturing off the beaten path after we find our way around a bit.

It's extremely exciting being in a city where you don't understand anything. Even though almost everyone here speaks English (helpful but disconcerting), there's still something very novel about being in a place where you can't read any of the signs and where you have to figure out everything on your own as you go along. I've learned the words for "Hello," "Speak English?" and "Thank you," and am hoping I'll have enough balls to bust them out once in a while instead of just hopping straight to English. Everyone I'm on this trip with has traveled a lot in the past, but this is my first time staying in a hostel, one of my first times out of France (if you don't count St. Sebastian, which is right on the border). I'm thrilled to be out in the world, finding things out for myself.

This was probably totally incoherent but I don't care. Life is wonderful.

A series of non sequiturs

Right now, I am trying to do 50 things at once - book my flight to Lisbon in May, find something green to wear for St. Patrick's day tonight, make an excel spreadsheet of my medical expenses, feel warm and fuzzy from the "j'aime's" on my facebook satus, skype Dow-li, write a blog entry...

Alright, wrote the above about an hour ago. I just booked my flight to Lisbon with Sam! We're spending a day in Toulouse on the way there and stopping over in Madrid overnight, so hopefully I'll have enough energy to go night sightseeing in Madrid without passing out on the streets of Lisbon the next day.

Nothing really of note has happened lately...I did go to the radiologist's yesterday to get my ankle screened before my meeting with the surgeon (TO GET MY CAST TAKEN OFF. Can't say that enough) tomorrow. Dude. I had no idea the screw was that long. Also it looks like a mascara brush. A mascara brush that is really fucking long. So long that after I got home, I had to hobble to the window and shove my xray in a crack so I could take pictures of it while awkwardly balancing on one foot. I trust that most of you have seen my facebook photo by now, but here's another angle - 

Whooooo that thing is big.

The other semi-eventful thing that happened a while ago is that I sprained my other ankle. Why yes, I may actually be retarded. I woke up, stood up and started hopping to the window to open my curtains. I thought I'd mastered the skill of hopping on one foot; it is after all necessary in the fine art of moving and carrying shit in one's arms at the same time. Well, this time, I failed. Miserably. I lost my footing, rolled my ankle, fell to the ground. This definitely isn't my first time falling - wet cobblestone and crutches do not mix well - but it was the first time I fell on my ankle. On the plus side, I got my meals in bed. On the minus side, I was freaking out that I broke it. As Billy put it, I had no desire to make my way up the cast ladder to this guy: http://www.amazon.com/Family-Guy-Action-Figure-Seamus/dp/B000ILGI20

Other funny events include having the Frenchies sign my cast (favorites: "I risk, I lost, that's the fall" and "Good times rolls") and having Boris serenade me with a song called "Peggy Leg" set to Led Zeppelin chords. It went something like this:

Peggy leg

I want go hold you, peggy leg

I want to make you another leg

I want to buy you a new leg

Peggy leg!

It was the highlight of my life.

Okay this blog entry sucks. Sorry guys. I will put out something more substantial soon. Probably tomorrow after I get the cast off and get completely grossed out by what my leg looks like. Also I've wanted to do an entry on the art of French cheek kissing for months, but I have to figure out a way to do it justice.

À la prochaine.

Thirsty Thursdays are international

The Cock and Bull is our new favorite bar. On Thursday, we got a round of delicious vodka caramel shots on the house from Mickey, the English bartender, who refused tips because "The French don't tip." On Friday, the same amazing man offered us happy hour prices all the time, then gave us two shots each on the house. Yesssss. I knew we'd be back after the first time. 

The rest of Thursday night was spent barhopping around the Victoire district, famous for its nightlife. At one of the bars we went to, La Bodegon, you could order massive pitchers called "giraffes," which we picture-whored the hell out of. 

La Place de la Victoire is conveniently located by the tram, except as we predicted, we again missed the last one at 1 AM. Thankfully my host sister Lisa was out in the same area, so Laura, Tiff and I ended up meeting up with her friends. Outside, amidst historical monuments centuries old, drunk people and broken glass were everywhere.  We ended up going to their apartment, the same place as the house party that first weekend. There, while deliriously waiting for the first tram at 4:30, we decided to teach them some American slang to repay the favor of all the "argot" (French for slang) we had learned last weekend. Ambassadors for the United States of America as we are, we imparted such gems as "hook up," "facebook whore," hit it and quit it," and "walk of shame." Here are some of my favorite reactions, verbatim:

Q: (in French) I like this "walk of shame" expression, it's pretty funny.

B: I do not like this expression. It is not shame, it is natural. 

(Later)

B: It should be called the "walk of glory."

B: My last "plan cul" (French for hook up) was a Danish girl.

Me: Was she your hit it and quit it?

B: Yes.

Me: Was she hot?

B: I cannot tell you this. This is private.

In conclusion I love French people.

Today we went to St. Emillion to go wine tasting and it was so beautiful. Post pending with pictures! Going barhopping again tonight - I'm hoping to have more hilarity to share.

Not a real post

I have so many things to post about but not enough time/conviction. So here's a gem from today, straight out of Kelly's Bordeaux Quote Book:

"Why is the chocolate cock so expensive?"

- Tiffany Huang, January 15 2009, 12:29 pm

No, you don't get context.

No class tomorrow, which means another night of walking home after the tram stops running, or waiting for the first tram at 4 AM. If all goes well, that is.

Seriously I will blog about real things soon.

Too much French class

My brain is obliterated after 6 hours of French grammar lessons (the last of which consisted of 8 ruthless pages of fill in the blank done at lightning speed), 2 hours of French writing methodology, 2 episodes of Mad Men, and 1 fatty duck leg. Seriously, J'AI BESOIN DE VEGETABLES. I'm used to a 50% green diet and all I've been eating thus far is beige beige beige beige. I can't take credit for that comedic genius - Kelly was the first one to point out France's monochromatic diet. The food here is great, but I'm starting to think there's only so much bread, cheese, potatoes, and meat I can take. The only color in my diet so far has been wine, which is probably not a good sign.

[Note: I'm not sure I've made it through a single entry without mentioning alcohol. Also probably not a good sign.]

Since I have a grammar quiz tomorrow I haven't started studying for, I'll take this time to explain a little about the class I'm in. That's right, I'm not just here on a five-month alcohol tour of Europe, though that will probably happen at some point.

These first weeks have consisted of ILP - Intensive Language Prgram. That translates into a very French woman beating the life out of us with inane grammar exercises at ungodly hours of the morning. Actually, Isabelle, our instructor, is hilarious and the only thing that makes class remotely bearable aside from French hangman with Tiff. Isabelle is a woman whose her entire wardrobe consists of black, leather, and fur. Lots of fur. Fur with little feet hanging off it. Isabelle is a woman who loved Britney Spears's last CD and makes sarcastic remarks about our exercises - "What enormous suspense! Let's read out loud in dramatic voices, or everyone will fall asleep." Isabelle is a woman who terrified me on day one. When calling roll, a few kids, myself included - answered with "ici," the literal translation of "here." After going through the list, she looked up and said, "When I call roll, say 'présent.' 'Ici' is for dogs."

Our generation gives me hope, though. When retelling this story to Piga, the host of the French party, I got this response - 

Piga: pfffffff
elle est trop bète (she's really stupid)
ca a l'air d'etr une vieille naze (she seems like an old naze[?])
Lisa: HAHA
naze, c'est quoi? (what's "naze?")
Piga: suck

French youth may need to work on their English, but at least they get to the point.

Next entry: my woes with the French University system, in which NOTHING is online. That or my awesome host family, depending on what kind of day I'm having.

Also,

What gives us away as Americans is not necessarily our accents, which are pretty strong, but the fact that we speak perfectly proper literary French. Yeah, all that stuff you learned in school? Forget it. You're in the real world now.

Just got back from the Cock and Bull, an English/American pub in the Centre-ville (downtown, literally center of the city). It was a little awkward since none of us had drunk legally/been in a bar before, but I met a nice bartender from DC who used to go to school at Bordeaux. They had football playing on TV and shitty outdated American music, as in Nelly and pre-breakdown Britney. But they have all-night happy hour on Thursdays, which means we will be going back.

Oh and I almost got run over by a tram on the way home. Awesome. I forsee many more occurences of that phenomenon.

January 9, 2009: Californian invasion of Bordeaux

A few days ago, a director of our study abroad program cautioned us against debauchery in France.

"In France, they don't drink to get drunk. They have one or two drinks and that's it. You'll make a complete fool of yourself if you go out and get drunk."

I found out last night that this is complete and utter bullshit. Let's start from the beginning:

My host sister (also named Lisa) asked if I wanted to go to a party chez her friends Boris and Piga. Knowing that there was at least one other alcoholic in my program, I told her yes sans hesitation. I texted a couple of friends, not really expecting all of them to show up. My host sister and I were the first people at the party, which was not exactly awkward but a little confusing - I understand NOTHING when French "jeunes" or young people start yabbering to each other. It's incredibly fast and all in slang. Thankfully Lisa is amazing and leans over once in a while to ask me if I know what's going on, to which I unequivocally answer no, and then explains it to me in 3-year old French.

Anyway, then the "Californiennes" started arriving - all 9 of them. Oops. Lisa and the guys were joking that soon, "les Californiens" were going to outnumber "les Bordelais," Bordeaux folk. When the party got underway, I really enjoyed talking to the French kids, who were all hilarious. We explained to them what our program director had told us about French drinking habits, and they told us that it was ridiculous. And then proved it by taking consecutive double shots of vodka without chasers. I also mentioned a rumor I heard that French people don't smoke pot, and was proven wrong when a French girl pulled hash out of her purse. Damn.

There were so many hilarious things that happened at the party. Here are some of the most notable:

- Boris looking around the room and telling a friend that it was like 6 juin 1944, as in D-Day.

- Us speaking French to everyone, and everyone responding in English to us.

- Arnaud, a friendly Frenchie, yelling "Put your hands up! Put your hands up!" while awkwardly dancing to house music. Tiff and I tried to explain to him how 1990's that phrase is, and then taught him "Get low." We then realized we had created a monster, as he spent the rest of the night yelling "Get low get low, get low get low."

- Learning key words from our new French friends, like trashed, wasted, stoned, weed, and "shut your face."

- That one douche who asked Laura if "all American girls suck everyone," asked me if I liked to eat spring rolls, and threw a drink on Tiff's head.

- An unnamed friend who missed the last tram at 1:30 because she made out with a hot French boy and came back for seconds.

All in all, I love the French. Everyone, except that one asshole, was incredibly friendly and engaging. I'm consistently impressed by how well everyone speaks English, and I keep getting complimented on my French which is feeding my ego and hence fantastic. The only thing is that my clothes/hair/everything aboslutely reek of smoke now, because the apartment became a giant tobacco hotbox. Le sigh. Other than the chain smoking and the house music, it was just like an American party. It's good to know that alcoholism is an international language. At least I've got that one down.

5 of us missed the last tram, so we had to figure out what we were going to do for the next 4 hours before the first tram at 5 AM. Some brilliant guys had the idea to go to a discotheque, and since our other option was to stand in the freezing cold, we followed them. Except by brilliant I mean retarded, because this was the sketchiest of sketch places. Imagine the shittiest frat party you've ever been to. Now imagine it with 40 year old men and techno. We left after a little bit, but it was still only 4...so we decided to walk in the direction of home until the trams started running. This took half an hour. In below freezing weather. Except I didn't mind at all, because we were walking through the scenic, historical part of downtown Bordeaux and I had just had an amazing night.

All in all, a ridiculously good first weekend. Am going to leave soon for a British pub downtown and I'm sure I'll have much more to report after that.

Day 0: Pre-Bordeaux Notes

I was so excited on the flight over that I started manually writing journal entries at Heathrow airport. They're hardly relevant now in light of everything amazing/ridiculous/cold that has happened, but I amuse myself and am going to post them here all the same. So HAH. I am going to warn you that this is ridiculously long but I tried to label things accordingly so you can skip the boring parts.

Heathrow Airport, London, 1/5/2009, 11:00 AM

Try as I may, I will never be one of those women who waltz off airplanes looking like they just stepped out of a spa, completely fabulous and calm. Me? I'm always carrying too many too heavy bags, heaving with effort as I drag monstrous suitcases through terminals and escalators. My Cal sweatshirt bunched in the most unflattering way possible around my waist, I scan departure screens nervously and push rogue strands of hair off a panicked face. It doesn't matter so much in the States, where I'm up against overweight and sunburned countrymen. But here at Heathrow I look much too American for my liking. Which is why I just changed into Ralph Lauren in the airport bathroom. I mean...

It doesn't help that every time I fly, something goes wrong. It's cute that you think I'm exaggerating, but any of my friends will tell you I'm an airborne curse [edit: this was written before I learned of the travel catastrophe of my fellow Americans who were stuck in Paris overnight and lost their luggage]. Take today, for example. My flight to London was delayed for half an hour. No biggie, except that I just missed my connecting flight to Paris. Which means I missed my connecting TGV to Bordeaux. AWESOME. The shit hit the fan when I heard the pilot's ominous voice upon landing in Heathrow - "We're quite a ways from the terminal, so we're going to exit the aircraft from stairs and take shuttles to the airport." His charming British accent fails to mask that he's the harbringer of doom.

So here I am, sitting in Heathrow across from the duty free shop (always a bad idea - just bought a box of unaffordable designer chocolates), stranded as usual.

On the plus side, I got a free long-distance call to France. Two British Airways agents told me I had to call my Bordeaux host family from a payphone, which I was having none of. It may have taken a little persistence (and okay, a little pouting and eyelash batting) but finally an agent used his phone to dial for me (I did have to bust out my Rick Steves Best of Europe guide to look up the country codes though - embarassing).

Speaking of which, I finally spoke to my host mom on the phone! It was the first time I had a conversation entirely in French with a stranger. Thank the lord she's a teacher because she's speaks really slowly and clearly. I can't wait to meet her.

P.S. Heathrow's terminal 5 is FAWESOME. Designer stores up the wazoo. They have a cool system where you wait in "waiting areas" instead of directly at the gate. Much more fun this way, since you're staring at handbags you can't afford.

Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris, France, 1/5/2009, 3:00 PM

Just had my first taste of infamous French bureaucracy. To save money, I decided to take the TGV from Paris to Bordeaux and bought my ticket online ahead of time. But they don't give you a printable ticket - you still have to go to the ticket counter to pick it up. I trekked for like a mile to the TGV station in the airport, and now am faced with a line that is so long it wraps around itself 4 times. No one in line knows what's going on - there are no signs or helpful representatives, and 3 of the 5 registers are closed. I'm happy for you that you get a 2 hour lunch break, BUT MY TRAIN LEAVES IN 10 MINUTES AND I STILL DON'T HAVE A TICKET, YOU FUCKERS. I finally get to the front of the line and the agent tells me I have to pay for a new ticket because I missed my train. Um, the reason I bought my ticket online is so I wouldn't have to deal with this crap. Tant pis - too bad.

After shoving over 72 Euros with a complete sense of resignation, I make my way to the platform where a man in a funny blue hat tells me I have to make my way to car J. Except in French, J is pronounced like G and G is pronounced like J, so in a moment of anglophonic weakness I start getting on the G car until I finally figure out what's going on and have to sprint to the back of the platform. Always fun.

Now I am sailing through the French countryside on the TGV and dusk is falling, and it's beautiful. Everything is blanketed in snow, tractors parked forlornly and prim rows of fir trees. It was snowing when I landed in Paris and I couldn't stop smiling - snow! And in Paris! On a grassy patch between runways there was a rabbit hopping around.

French strangers I've encountered have been surprisingly kind of forgiving of my massacring their language, like when I kept asking "Où est la guère?" (Where is the war?) instead of "Où est la gare?" (Where is the train station?)

I will be at Bordeaux in 2 hours - no idea what to expect.