Going on strike: the solution to everything!

Let's not lie here, quality of education was not high on my list of concerns when I was picking where to study abroad. In fact, I had a hard time deciding between a semester here or in Paris, where I could study at the world renowned Sciences-Po political science institution. I picked Bordeaux because I wanted to really soak in French language and culture, and I knew it would be easier in a small, intimate city rather than a sprawling cosmopolitan metropolis. I don't regret sacrificing a stimulating academic environment for a more authentic experience of la vie francaise, but all the same...

This is fucking ridiculous. 

Let's backtrack, shall we?

There's a reason I've kept entries about my classes to a minimum. Mostly because the overwhelming majority of them have been a complete and utter waste of time. Unimaginative curriculums aside,  strikes and demonstrations at the school began within a week of classes starting. I have to admit that I know embarassingly little about the rationale behind the strikes, but it has to do with educational reforms at the national level. Sarkozy is notoriously unpopular in the southwest of France, and teachers and students alike stopped showing up to class as a protest against his measures. The French word for strike is grève, and the first week or two we laughed it off as another French idiosyncracy. "The professors are grève-ing!" We'd joke in Franglais at this charming, unapologetically fulfilled stereotype. No school? Cancelled classes? It seemed like a sweet deal; all it meant was an extra night of staying out late.

Our amusement quickly subsided as the grèves began in earnest. There was no way of knowing if your professor was a gréviste, a striker, so we had to trek to school and find out through trial and error. We'd show up to our classes and find them empty (keep in mind that some of us have 45 minute commutes to campus). Professors would spend two hours discussing the protests instead of going through the course material. We'd step into our lecture halls, only to find them taken over by general assemblies voting on various measures. Few of us have any idea what kind of work we're supposed to be doing outside of class, when to turn it in, how we're being graded. We'd try to get into classrooms and buildings, only to find them blockaded by students waving banners.

Recently they have been voting on a blocage total, which would barricade all university buildings and effectively halt classes completely. Today, it passed.

Look, I can appreciate the French sentiment of political activism. It certainly can be a refreshing change from the apathy that's so ubiquitous in America. I know there are nuances in the organization of educational institutions in France that I don't fully understand, but somehow I find it hard to believe that PHYSICALLY BARRING students from their classes is the best solution to dissatisfaction with the government. One of the reasons these reforms are being implemented is because France is lagging internationally in higher level education. It seems a little ironic that the prevailing reaction is to halt it altogether. 

On a personal level, I am starting to get really annoyed that I'm paying out-of-state tuition to sit on my ass. Sure, going out all the time is great, but even I have a limit - and my brain is reaching its rotting threshold. I have not once felt mentally stimulated since I've been here. I didn't come here looking for the same caliber of education as Cal, but this is just too much. I have to say I expected a little more from the country that gave us Descartes, Rousseau, Sartre, Montaigne (and Camus, for Jacob). Unfortunately, all I've been served is a healthy dose of waste-of-time.

--

Tiff's take on the subject here:

http://whereyouvelanded.blogspot.com/2009/02/by-way-school-is-joke.html

http://whereyouvelanded.blogspot.com/2009/03/french-universities-for-win.html

Things I am excited about

1. Garorock!! If you want to see the website in English, there's a small icon to the right. Basically this is the stoner French equivalent of Coachella - a grungy three-day music festival of reggae, rock, and electro. It's taking place in early April at Marmande, a nearby city. Everyone camps out and we've already got our three-day passes (which only cost 60 euro by the way...why can't American music festivals be like this?) I'm going with Alexa and Laura and my three host sisters, Anna, Lisa, and Sarah, along with all of their friends. I ran into Anna at school today and we walked home together while she painted me a scene from her last time at Garorock - she and her friends clustered around a fountain, knocking back drinks in the early afternoon until everyone was drunk enough to jump in and frolic. It definitely appealed to the Berkeley in me, and even though I am now deeply averse to fountains, I loved this story...and plan to be drunk for three days straight.

2. Willow, our new French dog. He's a husky-golden retriever mix and fucking ADORABLE. Just look at that mug:

He's only two years old and incredibly energetic. I was actually scared when he first got here because he runs around like a bullet and I was afraid he was going to topple me over. He's like a big furry teddy bear and gets along incredibly well with people (stick your hand out and he'll shake it - kills me every time). The problem is that he's attacked poor Billou (the other dog) on almost a daily basis and no one can figure out why. I think it must be some alpha male power play, but if he doesn't get his shit together he's going to be sent away. Sadface.

3. My photography class is proving to be one of my favorites. I almost never know what's going on in terms of assignments and due dates, but there's a studio we get to play with and we've had pretty interesting projects so far. The one due today was on "Folds," and our next assignment is to photograph images of the economic crisis. Some of the other kids are really talented, and it's inspiring to see all the stuff they come up with. Here are a few of my photos from the folds project:

4. Last but certainly not least, 14 MORE DAYS!!!!

Sun, sand, waves, and...oysters?

(edit: fixed a minor glitch and now you can click to enlarge all photos)

Yesterday, I went to the beach.

My fab host mom.

Necessary.

This is not a random creeper photo! I swear I actually know this guy.

Specifically, I went to Cap Ferret with my host mom, Cedric, Ricardo, and Bin, three high school boys who are staying with my host family for 2 weeks during their vacation from boarding school. It's a peninsula that separates the Atlantic Ocean and the Arcachon Bay, and from the beach you get a nice view of the Dune du Pyla, the largest sand dune in Europe. 

View Larger Map

I'm not gonna lie, it is a bitch trying to walk on a beach with crutches. You have to deal with them sinking halfway into the sand while simultaneously balancing one leg precariously so that your cast doesn't fill with sand. All the same, it was a beautiful, sunny day, and it felt so liberating to leave the house in a t-shirt. The beaches here are gorgeous; all fine sand and clear waves. I also got to take some photos for the first time in a long time, which was great even though I could only do it sitting down (which is why all my pictures are from the exact same angle). There were a ton of people out and I took a shitload of stalker photos of little kids.

After the beach my host mom drove us to L'Herbe, a little fishing village nearby. The houses were incredibly precious, each one painted a different bubblegum color. My host mom bought a bagful of huîtres, oysters, which are a specialty of the southwest of France.

A few photos from L'Herbe:

An oyster selling stand

Crates of fresh oysters

...I do not know.

We had the oysters for lunch today and I was honestly scared to try one. I once googled "What do oysters taste like?" and the predominant response was "snot." But I'd also heard from a Bordelais friend that they taste the way the ocean does when you're facing it and drops of seaspray hit your face from the crashing waves. Romantic, those French. Anyway, you're supposed to eat them raw out of the shell with an optional squeeze of lemon juice. I sucked it up and tried one and surprisingly loved it. The first thing that hits you is the saltiness of the liquid, which I suspect is mostly seawater, and you taste little else. But go for a few soft chews and you really get the flavor of the oyster, which is strong and briny but inexplicably delicious. Definitely not the last time I'll be eating them. 

(Chuck, this is the best I can do for now as far as food porn goes. I'll bust out the camera when I'm on my feet again, promise).

Backstreet's Back

Lately I've been plagued by this horrifying fear that come March 18th, when the cast is supposed to come off, the doctor will take one look at the x-ray and tell me that the cast is staying on for an indefinite amount of time. It didn't help when last night, at my host mom's birthday party, one of her friends decided to tell me about her daughter's disturbingly similar ankle injury. She had broken the same bone as me, and had one screw put in - like me. But after 6 weeks in a cast, she was told that her bone still wasn't set right and that she'd need another operation, another screw, and another cast...for another 6 weeks. If it comes down to that, I'm just going to tell them "fuck it" and walk around on a broken bone until I get back to the US of A. In all seriousness though, I've been thinking of little else for the past few days. I feel like even writing this down is jinxing it and giving it some sort of karmic guarantee, which seems to be a trend with me. Take, for example, the text message I sent Alexa upon arriving at the hospital - 

"Laura and i are at the hospital. I'm getting surgery tonight. Just kidding, but i am here to get an xray"

FML. But seriously, cross your fingers for me.

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Alright, I feel I should address the fact that I haven't updated in 3 weeks. The truth is I have no good excuse, or any at all for that matter. I've had more time than I know what to do with, most of which is spent curled up under my cocoon of blankets with my laptop illegally streaming Friends episodes. At the same time, it isn't true at all that nothing significant has gone down in the past few weeks. The truth is I think all the time spent in my bed has started to atrophy my brain in addition to my leg (which by the way, I find hilarious. I've got one hoss of a leg that's gotten used to supporting all my weight, and hence has muscles popping out all over the place - muscles I haven't seen since the heyday of crew practices. On the other hand, my other leg is now visibly smaller, weak, and flabby. It's like the ugly, stupid brother of the two. Sexy, I know). Anyway, I think I've let monotony take over with mornings marked by awkward showers with a trash bag taped over my leg, and evenings marked by those fucking injections. But NO MORE! I promise to start blogging again.

But for now I'm late meeting up with a friend to go see a movie. It'll be my first time watching one in France! We're going to see Slumdog Millionaire, with French subtitles. Whoo. Promise to report back.

Reasons I love my host mom: Part 843

Click here to see a photo of my incision. I'm warning you, it's pretty graphic so if you are squeamish DON'T CLICK IT. I happen to think it's kind of fascinating but I'm gross that way.

About to rip my hair out, pretty much

I have decided that the internet is the worst invention of all time. I have had more bleeding than normal at the site of the incision on my ankle, and even though my doctor and nurse have told me to sit tight and not worry all I've been doing is frantically Googling all variations of infection/incision/what the fuck is going on.

Some sort of health professional is coming to the house tomorrow to draw my blood. I could get used to this French system where people just come to you.

Still freaking out though - anyone ever have experience with this?

43 days to go

The essentials to recovery (click to enlarge).

It was a good day. In the morning 6 friends came to visit - party in my bedroom! It was such a nice respite to see friendly faces and talk about something other than drugs and insurance companies. Also, thanks to Laura I now have animal print sweatpants - she and Alexa each have a piece of animal print clothing so we're definitely going to coordinate "team jungle" next time we go out. 

Some of my favorite people around my bed. Find the cast and give yourself a cookie.

When Alexa came she brought a hilarious get well card signed by my friends and the Frenchies. Here's my favorite message, from Boris:

Yeah, that's all he wrote. Here's the greeting card:

HAHAHAHA. In Alexa's defense apparently there were only 4 non-birthday cards available. It says, "Friendship is a precious treasure!"

My host mom has been amazing through this whole ordeal and made a delicious lunch today for all my friends of Poulet Bordelais and yummy puree, mashed potatoes. Mmmmm. Best news: my surgeon emailed me back and said I could drink. HOORAH. Okay, I may be unhealthily excited about this, but being stuck in a cast for a month in a half AND not being able to drown away the misery with some whiskey makes for an unhappy Lisa. So you can imagine my panic when my visiting nurse told me I could not consume a drop of alcohol in the next 45 days. I almost wanted to cry (I wish were kidding). But after my surgeon's blessing, I'm having a fucking beer next weekend.

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.

What happens when I stop blogging for 5 days?

Answer: A shitload.

Thus far, there has been a epic storm with gale-force winds, two consecutive nights of walking home from downtown, a delicious fancy pants dinner, free tickets to an Oasis concert this weekend, more liver destroying, a giant French house party, kebabs, soldes, and a guy who stripped NAKED at a bar. There have been classes and struggles to understand French professors, and frustrations, too - academic and otherwise. Tomorrow there is a nationwide strike.

It's all activity here. There's never a moment of pause. Every single day is an adventure. Monotony doesn't exist in France.

I'm too tired now to write anything coherent (today was day 2 of trekking home à pied, or by foot), but tomorrow we have no school because the entire fucking country is on strike. That means no tram drivers and no teachers. Our French friend warned us to stay home - he said there would be demonstrations and cop fights everywhere. Which means I'll be staying home and blogging. First topic: the storm of epic proportions last Saturday.

Except more likely than not, I'll be downtown anyway, taking pictures of cop fights instead of avoiding them. You're only en France once, right?

Tomatoes and pets

Tonight my host mom made this wonderfully light vegetable stew. I was so excited to eat something not loaded with carbs or cream, but I had barely gotten the tiny squares of green and red into my bowl (first sign of color in my diet in weeks!!) before I heard, "Wait! You can't eat it like that - here, put some butter in your soup."

It's official - even soup gets buttered in France. 

But this time I wasn't going to stand for it. "NON MERCI." I made an excuse about  my cholesterol being high (unfortunately not fictional) and got away with it.

Yesterday I bought cherry tomatoes at the supermarket near my homestay. Not wanting to offend my host mom, who prides herself on her cooking (which is very good by the way - just a little heavy on the beige), I hid them behind my books, praying they'd still be good the next morning without refrigeration. They were. Like a thief, I rinsed them off in the bathroom sink, dreaming of antioxidants and vitamins, then wrapped them in a piece of purloined foil and took them to school. You know you've hit a dietary low point when you've got a secret stash of vegetables lying around your room.

Seriously, how do French women stay so skinny? Eating disorders must be an epidemic here becuase you could not eat a normal amount and not expand/die from a heart attack at 30. Meals are interesting in France though - you'll never see someone eating a sandwich on the tram or while walking. Mealtimes are sacred and slow affairs, meant to be savored. Dining is an event, not a necessity for survival. In fact, almost the entire campus has no class from 12:30 to 1:30 - apparently the French can't imagine life without a lunch break. Unfortunately, this means monstrous lines at the cafeteria during lunch. I guess you can't have it all.

--

One of the funniest things about my homestay is that I speak French to the animals - Bill (or Billou), the dog, Mausy the evil cat, and Mauschen the good cat have all been cooed over or chastised by me - en francais. I have yet to speak French to the poules (chickens), but I did get some shots of them today. Here are the non-human members of my family:

Billouuuuuu. He is the sweetest dog ever, though recently with the rain he's developed a, erm, odor. A strong one. He likes to sit right next to you during dinner, staring up and whining for the duration of the meal, occasionally pawing at your leg for attention. If you open a door he goes batshit insane wanting to go out. Close the door while he's outside and he goes batshit insane trying to get back in. In conclusion he is crazy, but I love him. He's an old dog with the soul of a puppy. I speak French to him a lot, but mostly to yell "Arrête!" (Stop that!)

Mauschen, the good cat. My host mom told me that Mauschen means little mouse, which doesn't make much sense but is still cute. He's not in the house as much, but when he is he never objects to petting. Likes to stake out the floor by the living room heater.

Mausy, the evil cat. Her name also means little mouse in German. She's not so much evil as bipolar - catch her at a bad moment and she'll launch at you with her teeth when you try to pet her. On a good day she'll plant herself on your lap and purr for hours. Both she and Bill sleep on my host mom's bed at night, it's precious. One time she came into my room and lay behind me on the bed without my noticing. I reached behind me to grab something from my coat without looking and ended up whacking her across the back. It freaked me the fuck out. I probably actually screamed. Since then we have kept a respectful distance from each other.

Chicken! I don't think they have names. Not yet, anyway. They're scared of me. And apparently eat out of frying pans.

Cobblestones and wine

Click for full-size images.

Yesterday I literally spent the whole fucking day on Facebook, because everyone and their mom, myself included, decided to put up photos from Bordeaux, and I needed to be supervigilant as bar-dancing pictures were uploaded and I had to protect my pristine reputation. 

The reason all the pictures went up yesterday is because we spent a beautiful Saturday at Saint-Emilion, a small town near Bordeaux famous for its wine. 

The town was lovely. I'm really glad we got to go during the off season because the streets were nearly empty, and my host mom told me later that during the summer there are people everywhere. The town was the definition of a quaint European village, with towering church spires and cobblestone roads laid during the 12th century. Extremely steep and potentially death-inducing cobblestone roads. We took a tour through the church's catacombs - it's the deepest underground church in Europe (or something equally impressive) and carved out of the side of a mountain. It was also cold as hell inside the buildings. I'm far from a fan of Romanesque architecture (too heavy and depressing), but it's hard not be be impressed by the sheer size of the buildings and the intricate paths underground. The day had been a bit gloomy, which was making for shitty photographs, but then the sun finally came out and it was glorious glorious glorious. 

After a historical tour of the city, we hopped back on the bus and drove to a winery not far away. I was a little surprised because it was extremely modern and indistrial, and not at all what you'd picture a traditional winery to be - no barefoot men stomping grapes (thank god) or dark stone caverns. Everything was steel and shiny. There were, however, barrels and barrels of wine at the end of the tour. 

You could smell it all around you, which no one was complaining about. At the end, we had an informal tasting of two wines. I would have felt pretentious but for all of us scarfing the stuff down like alcoholic and uncultured American college students. Oh wait, that's exactly what we are. At the end of the tour almost everyone bought some wine for themselves and their host families. I had no idea what I was doing, but I liked the second wine we tried so I picked up a bottle of that for my host mom. She promised to break it out for the next big meal.

--

A cafe in front of the church bell tower in St. Em. I love this photo for some reason. It just screams Europe to me. Sometimes after a day spent speaking English with fellow Californians, I forget that I'm here, but suddenly I'll be surrounded by waves of French on the tram or I'll see something like this, and then I feel so lucky to be in this place where everything is beautiful.

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.

I LOVE EVERYTHING

I HAVE INTERNET I HAVE INTERNET I HAVE INTERNET I HAVE INTERNET OMG OMG OMG OMG I HAVE INTERNET LIFE IS COMPLETE AGAIN.

Pathetic, but honest.

Massive-ass blog entries coming soon. I've been keeping records of everything in notebooks and on word, and even my sketched notes are pages and pages long. Consider yourself warned.

Dress codes and posture

Two posts within 20 minutes of each other seems like bad form, but right now I am too nervous/excited to give a fuck. 

Today I finally cracked open the handout given to us at our orientation - "France: A Cultural Primer." Yes, it's as frightening as it sounds. Here are some of my favorite excerpts - 

"Nothing amuses (or horrifies) [the French] more than the American habit of stepping out of one's home in shorts, sneakers or sandals, and a wrinkled T-shirt."

Uh...there goes my Berkeley uniform.

"The French body tends to be kept muscularly tense while walking, standing or even sitting, which induces a sort of stiffness further reinforced by wearing more formal attire."

I'm really hoping this handout is comprised of outdated non-demographically-correct French customs. Of course, if facebook pictures don't lie, my host sister's posture is positively lax, especially when she's passed out on couches with penises drawn on her face.

Then again, I have yet to see a photo of her in a t-shirt.

Warning: Freakout Follows

I am leaving tomorrow for Bordeaux. 

I think I have to repeat that to myself over and over again before I believe it.  Like I told Erin today, this entire semester I've been operating under the mindset of "If it doesn't work out, I can drop out." Call me a pessimist, but I think I might have been waiting for some disaster, even as I packed my suitcases and said my goodbyes. I never felt fully committed to the idea that I was actually going through with this, which is probably why right now it's hitting me like a Texas thunderstorm.

Holy holy holy holy fuck.

Appropriately, Feist just started playing on Pandora -

I feel it all, I feel it all

I feel it all, I feel it all

The wings are wide, the wings are wide

Wild card inside, wild card inside

There are a million things running through my head. I don't feel prepared at all, but then again I don't think I ever could. Tomorrow I fly to Paris with a layover at Heathrow, and from there I'm taking the TGV to Bordeaux.

I told Alex on the phone a few hours ago that I feel like nervousness is supplanting excitement - simply because my brain can't conceive of what's to come. I can't imagine myself alone in a foreign country. I can't imagine speaking broken French to flight attendants and train operators. I can't imagine finally arriving at Gare St. Jean in Bordeaux and scanning the crowd for a sign with my name on it.

All I need to do is calm down and breathe. Good thing that's impossible.