On a completely different note

The reason French girls don't wear shorts: French men.

A lesson learned the hard way.

Is it still called nostalgia if you haven't even left yet?

It seems to me that Bordeaux has blossomed overnight. I first noticed it stepping out of my host family's car a week ago. We had just gotten back from Garorock; it was two in the morning on Sunday night, pitch black. I was already half-asleep, clutching a backpack full of beer-stained clothes, and suddenly there it was - the scent of lilacs in the air. In the dead of night, I couldn't tell where it was coming from; a mystery, but unmistakable nonetheless. It wasn't until the next morning that I saw the piles of cut flowering branches stacked on the living room table, lavender petals tumbling to the floor. 

A few days later trees along my street started to explode with clusters of loose pink petals.

Yesterday, during Easter lunch, I noticed for the first time that the garden was green. The glass door to the yard facing the table was thrown wide open, letting in the midday light. Anna was traipsing through the grass with two small English children, friends of the family, showing them how to make wildflower bouquets from daisies that have sprung up in the lawn. Sarah was perched on the sun-warmed steps, an English version of Harry Potter clutched in her hands. I looked up and saw green leaves spreading from the giant tree in the yard without a clue as to when they appeared.

As idyllic as spring in Bordeaux is, it also serves as a reminder of all the time that has already passed, and the precious few weeks that remain. I am not even close to being ready to leave. French people generally seem surprised when I tell them that I have no desire to go back to the States, but I honestly feel like I could stay here forever. There are certainly things I miss about the US (like education, for example...), but it's not enough to tempt me back. A while ago I had a dream that I was back in America. Nothing was happening in this dream other than the extreme consciousness that my time in France had ended, and the pang of nostalgia I felt toward this country that I've come to love.

On the train from San Sebastian to Hendaye in Pays Basque, Tiff and I had a conversation about the possibility that to our host families, we're just one of many lodgers passing through. Even though I feel that I've truly bonded with my host sisters and my host mom, I'm still only one of four (and most likely more in the future) Californian girls who have stayed here. And while this has been a formative experience for me, I know that I can't expect to have the same impact on everyone I've met these past few months. Still, I can't help hoping that I won't sink away to the land of 5-second anecdotes about "that one American girl, la Californienne." If I leave even a fraction of the impression on the French people I've met here as they've left on me, I'll be happy.  That's really all I can ask for.

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.

I went to France and all I got was a broken ankle

Warning: this blog entry is about how I broke my ankle and my experience getting surgery in a French hospital afterwards. It's very long. Like Tolstoy long. But I tried to put in some funnies and pictures so maybe you can plow through it without too much misery. Bon courage!

The Incident

On Thursday there was a national strike that included both tram drivers and professors, so I wandered around town  instead of going to class. We were at Place de la Bourse, soaking up the sun, when Alexa and I decided we wanted a photo with the fountain.

Then we had the bright idea to stand on top of the fountain and take a jumping picture from it. Cute in theory, fail fail fail fail in execution.

As I was jumping, I didn't think about the fact that my shoes had no traction or that there was a small puddle of water on the ground right where I was about to land. Forgotten was my low calcium level and propensity towards broken bones. When you've never broken anything or gone to a hospital in your life, you tend to think you're invicible.

Well, my traction-less shoe slipped on the puddle of water and I landed straight on my ankle. At first I thought it was just a sprain - the pain wasn't constant and for the most part my reaction was to laugh hysterically. Laura ran to get me ice and we all sat on the ground stupidly for over an hour, texting friends to give me a ride home. With no responses, Laura finally took me home in a taxi, where I was promptly put to bed by my host mom. I thought I'd be back on my feet in a day or two, but we decided to go to the hospital to get an xray just in case.

The Hospital

After my x-ray at the hospital, the news came from two stony-faced surgical interns. I had fractured my medial malleolus, and I had to get surgery. At first I literally thought it was a joke, mostly because it was delivered deadpan with little to no sympathy. I had never broken a bone or had surgery before, so I started to freak out. I would go through phrases of extreme calm, laughing and joking with Laura - and then I would suddenly get hysterical and start crying uncontrollably and demanding to speak to my parents (and if you know me, you know that I never cry in public). Alternating between these two moods was exhausting. The "extern" who was helping me run tests wasn't helping either. In an attempt to console me, he delivered such empathetic gems as, "You'll have a cast and people can write on it!" and "Crutches are so cool! I would love to walk around on crutches all the time, they're so fun!" I snapped back, "Really? Would you?!" but I don't think sarcasm carries the same weight in France. Needless to say I wanted to hit him in the face.

(In hindsight a lot of people failed at making me feel better. Exhibit A: the man that helped Laura call a taxi for me. When he saw me hopping on one leg he proceeded to ask me a series of stupid questions and then proclaimed, "Yep. It's a sprained ankle." Thanks, Sherlock. Then he PUT HIS HAND ON IT and pretended to hit it. Not okay. Then he said, "It's so pretty! It's a pretty sprain!" Exhibit B: Upon hobbling into the urgent care center with my arm around Laura, a paramedic saw me and gave me a thumbs up, shouting "Formidable!" Marvelous! In conclusion French people need to work on not being idiots).

Later, I asked the ConsolationFail intern if there was anyone I could speak English to, because I needed to know all the English medical terms. He stared at me and Laura and said, "Euuuhhh...fracture?" and then, "Fracture?" except in a slightly more English accent. Thanks a lot buddy.

Because there was the possibility of operating that night, I had my blood drawn and was hooked up to a giant IV and pain meds. However, I requested general anesthesia (no way in hell am I listening to a 2-inch screw being put in my ankle) but had eaten that afternoon, so the surgery was going to be the next morning. I'd have to stay in the hospital overnight. Unfortunately, there were no beds or rooms left, so I spent the night in a small clinic room usually reserved for 10-15 minute checkups. The worst part was that since patients don't usually stay there, that area of the hospital is totally forgotten by nurses and doctors. There was no call button, so when I saw blood in my IV I had to yell "EXCUSEZ-MOI" 6 times to nurses in the hallway before I was noticed.

Also, I waited all night to talk to an English-speaking surgeon. I finally spoke to him at 12:30, hours after I expected to. He explained that since the break was inside a joint, a simple cast wouldn't be enough to set the bone correctly. They would have to operate to prevent arthritis.  They were going to put a screw in my ankle to keep the bone in place. I would wear a cast and crutches for 45 days, during which time I couldn't put any weight on my foot. For each of those 45 days, I would have to give myself an injection under the skin of my stomach to prevent thrombosis. During this time, my right leg would atrophy and I would need physical therapy after my cast came off to learn how to walk normally again.

The Surgery

Needless to say I was overwhelmed, but I tried to sleep...unsuccessfully. The next thing I know it's about 8 AM and nurses are undressing me. I think they assumed I didn't speak French, because all 5 of them acted as if I wasn't there and talked among themselves about how there actually were beds I could have used in another area of the hospital. I heard "La pauvre" (the poor thing) many a time and a sarcastic remark from one nurse - "Isn't France great?"

I have to say that one of the most frustrating parts of this experience was not understanding what was going on at all times. Surgery is terrifying enough when you've never had it, but when you have no idea what the procedure entails or what the next step is, it's that much more frightening. I was confused and nervous, but it made me feel better when my male night intern told me, "Vous êtes ravissante. Si vous avez des copines américaines aussi ravissantes que vous, présentez-les à moi." You are gorgeous. If you have American girlfriends who are as gorgeous as you, introduce them to me. It's good to know that not even surgery will stop a Frenchman from flirting. After donning a sextastic hospital gown that showed off the best parts of my bare ass, I was wheeled into a pre-op room while waiting for the operating bloc to clear up. Laura and my host mom were on their way to the hospital, but I was wheeled into the surgical chamber just minutes before they arrived. Laura later told me that they got there as they were wheeling my bed back. A nurse apparently joked, "This is her bed, but she's not in it!"

In the surgical room, a very nice anesthesiologist hooked me up to another IV, which he said was just nutrients and not anesthesia. The next thing I know I'm being wrenched out of a dream by a deathly bout of coughing. I didn't know where I was or what I was doing, just that I couldn't breathe. Soon shapes started forming and I realized someone was holding me down. I heard a voice: "C'est fini. C'était bien passé. C'est fini." It's over. Everything went well. It's over. They put an oxygen mask over my face.

Post-Surgery

Eventually the surgeon came out to talk to me. One of the hardest things I've ever had to do is speak French when coming out of general anesthesia. Everything was foggy and I'm sure I sounded like a complete idiot. He explained that the surgery went very well and that there weren't any complications. He showed me a post-surgical x-ray: there is a giant-ass screw in my foot. It's incredible. He had to explain to me three times that a nurse would come to my house for the first few days to change my bandage and give me shots. 

The next person I saw was carrying a big-ass saw that he was going to use to cut a window in my cast where the inciscion was so the wound could be cleaned. He held the blade against his hand, assuring me that it wouldn't cut through skin. Still, it sounded like a fucking chainsaw and scared the shit out of me. I don't know if it was psychological, but I definitely flinched in pain a few times when the thing made contact with my skin. Seeing my reaction, he came back later with a slower-moving modern blade that was much much better. Except, hello...couldn't you have started off with that?

The attendants in the recovery room told me I would be moved to a private room around noon. This was about 10 AM. At noon, they told me I could move in an hour. At 1, they told me I could move in the early afternoon. At 3, they told me the reason I haven't been moved is because they're waiting on a private room. As a jeune fille, young girl, they didn't want to put me in a shared room with an old man. I appreciated the sentiment, but I was approaching the 6 hour mark in a recovery room crammed with old people. I did enjoy talking to the nurses and interns during this time, though. They called me la petite Californienne, the little Californian. One attendant I really liked asked me if I surfed, because he surfs off the French coast nearby. When I told him not all people from California surf, he looked truly crestfallen.

Finally, at 5:00 I got wheeled to the x-ray room. Someone was supposed to come get me right after the x-ray, but somehow I got left in the room alone for 20 minutes. Finally the x-ray technician rolled me BACK to the recovery room, explaining to someone that "I shouldn't be left alone." At this point I didn't know what the hell was going on. I was in the recovery room for another 20 minutes (in which time I gloriously peed in a bucket in a room full of people) before someone finally took me to my private room. When I got there I almost cried from happiness. There was a window and a sunset and I could see Bordeaux's signature red roofs. The nurses were incredibly sweet and attentive. They checked on me every hour and gave me a call button, which made me feel like I was finally being looked after. Not soon after, Laura and Nicole, a director from the Center of California, came to visit. Nicole left after a bit and Alexa took her place, which led to this glorious picture:

I spent an uneasy night in the hospital, mostly because the nurses came in on the hour to check my IV or draw my blood. I have so many holes in my body from this weekend it's ridiculous. The next morning, the surgeon came to tell me I could leave that day! It was great news - I was expecting another day in the hospital at least. I was incredibly antsy all day long, especially when they finally took out my IV. Before that, I felt completely immobilized with only 1 arm and 1 leg, but now with three appendages in action I was ready to go. I wasn't supposed to but I hopped around the room and the bathroom for a bit on one leg, just so I could be vetical again. 

Going Home

In the early afternoon, my host mom picked me up with a pair of crutches and took me home. It was my first time attempting to walk with crutches and it was incredibly frustrating. I almost fell on the way to the elevator and landed on my bad foot, which is no good. When we made it home, I collapsed into bed. That night, Laura, Alexa, and Tiffany came to visit. While Tiffany was here, the nurse came to give me my first anticoagulant shot in the stomach. It wasn't nearly as bad as when I had it in the hospital, so I'm less freaked out about having to do it myself every day for the next month and a half.

So, that was my adventure with French health care. I've never been to an American hospital, so I have no basis of comparison, but according to Tiffany I was pretty lucky to have been treated right away without any questions about insurance. On the other hand, my room cost something like 1300 euro a night and my drugs are going to cost over 300 euro. Not exactly universal. And while on the whole I had a positive experience with the staff, there were several moments when I felt completely neglected. So I suppose there's no perfect system anywhere, even if France's is supposed to be the best in the world. 

Emotionally I'm all over the place. For the most part I'm calm as long as I can avoid thinking about what the next 6 weeks are going to look like. But someone will say something about traveling or walking on crutches and out of nowhere I'll want to cry. I'm trying to stay positive and fight off the bouts of self-pity, but it would be a lie to say that they're few and far between. I'm hoping it'll get better throughout the next week as I learn how to walk on crutches and find solutions to my frustrations.

Shoutouts

And now for the thank yous - I don't want to be cheesy but there is no way in hell I could have made it through the last 4 days without these amazing people.

Laura: Mickey a raison, you are truly an angel. You are the single person that prevented this experience from being completely miserable. You got me ice and called a taxi, took me home and then stayed with me all night in the hospital. You cracked funnies about hot French doctors and told stories when I couldn't stop crying. YOU SKYPED MY PARENTS. You woke up at 7 the next morning to call and reassure me and came to this hospital at 8, and then again in the evening. You brought me chocolate. And underwear. And Hanna's Daughters. And weird gummy candy. And French cosmo. You took care of everything when I was in no state to do so. I seriously owe you so so so much and I just hope that one day I can return even a fraction of the favor (but not that you have to break something for me to do so).

Alexa: You talked me into jumping and I still adore you, what does that tell you about our friendship? Thank you so much for harrassing Laura all day Friday to find out when you can see me, it means the world. I loved seeing you so much at the hospital and there's nothing like hilarious party stories to get your mind off a broken ankle. It takes a pretty amazing person to make me laugh when I should be in pain. And finally, thanks for stealing the you-know-what. I may have to wait until day 46 to use it but it'll be the best you-know-what of all time.

Tiffany: Thank you for all the concerned text messages. I know you wanted to come visit me Friday but I'm so so glad you came yesterday to provide me with emotional support and ward off awkward-cast-girl-at-a-party syndrome. Thanks for being so attentive and getting me piles of food, water, and chairs to prop my shit up on. And the chocolate. I'm excited to dig into that. But most of all thank you for lending a sympathetic ear to all my bitching and moaning, and for understanding.

Jasmine: Your call last night meant so much to me. I'm so glad you can truly empathize because you went through the same thing just months ago, but with a way more serious surgery. I am really excited to see you and Sherry in the next few days!

I'm not going to write shoutouts to the following because (I hope) they'll never see this blog, but I owe millions of thanks to my host mom and Joelle and Nicole, the directors of the Centre de Californie. They called me constantly at the hospital to check in and Nicole even came to visit, which I was not at all expecting. It feels so great to have a support network in France when you're away from all your usual friends and family.

To everyone else who wrote on my facebook wall/skyped/gchated me, thaaaaank you. It was great to hear from everyone.

Alright, my visiting nurse is going to be here in a few minutes so I'm going to get off the computer. I'll be back soon with more updates, hopefully not all of which will be about the ankle.

-- more pictures:

My legs for the next 45 days. Des bequilles. In France no one uses underarm crutches like the kind you see in the states - they're all forearm crutches like this. I feel kind of weird using them because they're usually reserved for the permanently disabled in the US. My host mom even laughed when I asked her about underarm crutches - "Those are from another era! Like Oliver Twist!" The other thing is that these are way harder to use and put a lot more strain on your arms. So basically after 6 weeks I'll have a shriveled, atrophied leg and my other 3 appendages will be massive and muscular. Hoorah.

El cast. Le plâtre. So sexy. Notice the little window where my bloody incision is. Sorry to gross you out.

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.

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.

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.