I am really bad at blogging

Mostly because it's hard for me to write about anything in hindsight. I write best in the heat of the moment, when I've just been inspired by something I've seen or done. The problem is a lot of my most interesting experiences have happened while I'm traveling, and thus sans computer. I just feel much less motivated to write about something that happened 2 months ago.

Nevertheless, this is my promise that over the next week I will try my best to blog about

1. Garorock

2. Pays Basque

3. Eastern Europe

Am planning to head to Paris for a few days next week. I got an internship in China this summer (hoorah! no living on the streets for me!) so I have to go get my visa there. All this immigration stuff is so complicated, but if it all works out I may be able to stay a few extra days in Bordeaux and save money doing so, so yay for that.

Back to art history now. Last paper of the semesterrrrrrrr

Last night, I lost my favorite black cardigan

...that goes with absolutely everything, but I don't even care because:

1. The bittersweetness of celebrating Emily's last night in Bordeaux

2. Debating about which country has the largest Christian population between gulps of beer

3. FINALLY placing at quiz night

4. Tabasco shooters that made grown men cry

5. Champagne on the house

6. Being asked if I understand what "enculer les moutons" means (fyi: "to fuck sheep")

7. Seeing three straight French guys spoon in one bed while another king sized bed lies empty 3 feet away

8. Sharing a bed with three other people while the radio blasts French power ballads at 11 in the morning

9. Taking the tram home at 11:30, looking through the photos on my camera and laughing out loud. Alone. On the tram. With a ton of French people staring at me.

Pictures on facebook soon.

Two families, two homes

My dad has a business meeting in Amsterdam this week, so my mom tagged along his trip and both of them are spending the weekend in Bordeaux. My dad came with 2 cameras, 4 lenses, and a tripod. My mom brought her Nikon D90. I walked through the streets of Bordeaux today with them, D80 SLR in hand. We looked like a band of runaway photographer circus freaks. And I loved it.

As I write, my parents are napping in my bed next to me, passed out after a long French lunch at my homestay and jetlag from hours of travel. It has been so nice showing them around the city, and I love that they can have a small glimpse into what my life is like here, which is so different from any place they've ever lived. My host mom made a delicious meal of beef bourguignon, a very traditional French dish, with potatoes and bacon-wrapped green beans. We finished with French vanilla ice cream and fresh strawberries. The meal was delicious, but the best part was watching my parents share stories and champagne with my host mom and my host sisters, while we all clustered around the same table I eat dinner at every night. My dad made corny jokes that my host mom laughed at - it was all perfect.

It's funny trying to see Bordeaux through a tourist's eyes again. When I first arrived, the architecture and buildings here were awe-inspiring, and I remember having conversations with French people about how beautiful this city is and being scandalized that as residents, they couldn't see it anymore. I could never have imagined looking around Bordeaux and finding everything "regular," or getting used to sweeping monuments and towering church spires. After five months here though, I can see where they're coming from. But now, I no longer see it as a lack of appreciation. Aesthetically I still find everything beautiful, but there's a comfort in the fact that I no longer get whiplash from craning my head to look around me. I don't do that anymore because this has all become part of my life. Bordeaux is my home.

Anticipation before a summer storm

I wish I could capture rumbling thunder in a photo, but these will have to do.

Storms have played a large role during our time here in Bordeaux. In January, I vaguely blogged about the "epic storm with gale-force winds," which does not give enough credit to what it actually was. The tempête, literally the tempest, battered southwest France and apparently killed 26 people (thanks, Google). The night it happened we were at a party. Laura and I were driven home the next morning because the tram wasn't working, and it was chaos. Looking out the window of our friend's apartment, you could see people walking by, blown almost horizontal by the wind, black umbrellas flipped the wrong way. On the drive home, there was trash everywhere from garbage cans who had been blown over by the storm. Car windows were smashed in by parts of roofs that had been whipped off. Giant tall trees were competely uprooted, collapsed onto the streets. I was dropped off a few blocks away from where I live, and I ran home because I was so terrified of dying from something falling on my head.

The second storm happened February 9th, a day I remember well. It was the first time I left the house in 11 days after I broke my ankle. Despite my host mom's frustrated warnings about the storm, I put on a jacket, hopped onto crutches and went to the Cock and Bull for quiz night and beer. When the rain started falling I pulled up my hood and kept on walking because I didn't have a free hand for an umbrella. The storm wasn't nearly as bad as the first one, but it's still one I'll always remember. 

I hope this one is a big one.

Allez Bordeaux!

I love World Cup soccer but I must admit that I know precious little about European football clubs. The only thing that matters to me about A.C. Milan is that Kaká is on the team. 

I'll just pause and let you savor that for a moment. Mmm.

Anyway.

It just so happens that Bordeaux's team, FC Girondins, is one of the best in France, and my host sister Lisa and all of her friends are huge fans. No study abroad experience in France could be complete without a football game, so last Sunday I, along with some California cohorts, decided to head to the Bordeaux vs. Sochaux game with some of our French friends.

As in the U.S., a game without alcohol is no game at all. So my host sister organized an apéro in our yard. Apéro is technically short for apéritif, a pre-dinner drink, but our friends here use it to mean a casual kickback...whiskey included. See? The French out-class us even in their pre-gaming vocabulary. I guess you could say that I had a lot of fun, especially considering that at one point I face-planted into a bush.

Click for full size:

The crew

Boys juggling before the game

I won't lie, the rest of the night is a little hazy, but I know that I still had a great time. We scored 3 goals, winning the game and tying Marseilles for number 1 in France for the Championnat (I think? Ligue 1 soccer is very confusing). For a football newbie, I have to say that the best part was the fans. All the songs and chants reminded me of Cal Football games, especially this one where the virage sud, the south side of the stadium (equivalent to our student section, aka rowdy as fuck) calls out to the north side, which echos back :

Aux armes, aux armes

Nous sommes les Bordelais 

Et nous allons gagner 

Allez Bordeaux, Allez Bordeaux...

Take up arms

We are Bordelais

And we are going to win

Go Bordeaux, go Bordeaux...

It sounds better when it rhymes but you get the idea. On top of that, everyone rushes the field for each goal. At some point someone was lighting fireworks. Flags were being waved everywhere. I felt proud singing "nous sommes les Bordelais," even if it wasn't really true.

I didn't bring my camera, but here are a few photos I've stolen from Emily and Alexa:

Alexa, Laura, and I

I don't know what I'm doing, and probably didn't at the time either.

Me and my host sister Lisa :)

Girondins banner

Just to prove that it actually was a football game.

Another reason to love les Girondins:

On a completely different note

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

A lesson learned the hard way.

Ce que j'aime c'est...

1. The French:

Last night, my three host sisters threw a huge party at the house.

At one point, I heard music coming from the garden and went to see what was going on. A guy was singing...and playing the accordian.

An hour later, someone was blowing fire in the backyard.

I learned that trying to explain the concept of a fraternity to a French person is difficult. Especially in French, especially at 6 in the morning. 

2. And the Californians:

I went to sleep at 6:30, huddled under covers shared with Sam and Tiffany. We woke up at 10, eating cups of yogurt and laughing hysterically for an hour and a half about things that happened the night before.

An afternoon spent with the girls and Eurotrip, three to a bed again, swapping stories all the while. 

Walking home from downtown Bordeaux with Laura, talking about how every conversation we've had of late is laced with the word "last." As in "last month." As in "I wish this could last forever."

La France me manque déjà. J'essaie de bien profiter du temps qui reste, mais je pense tous le temps à ce dernier jour qui arrive si vite. Je suis pas prête à quitter cette pays magnifique avec laquelle je suis tombée amoureuse...

A few of my favorite things

A day in numbers: 4 open-air markets, 2 African drapes, 1 animal print t-shirt/dress if you're feeling dangerous (and I'm feeling a little dangerous), 2 scoops of fluffy gelato, 7 Californian girls, 3 hours in Jardin Public, 168 photos for my photography project, 1 million ounces of joie de vivre coursing through me.

I woke up early today to head downtown to finish a photography project, but not before Bordeaux had already stirred into a flurry of activity. I first headed to Le Marché des Capucins, a produce market filled with farmers hawking their fruits and butchers chopping thick slabs of meat. Old women held out lilies of the valley to sell, a traditional gift in France on the first of May. Around the corner, vendors sat behind booths offering everything from belts and bags to flowy plaid dresses. I paid 1 euro for a box of raspberries and walked around to explore, fingertips soon stained red. I picked up two beautiful drapes, one yellow and printed with red tulips and poppies, the other blue and showing a girl's silhouette reaching towards a white sun.

After that I walked all over; to St. Michel to haggle at the flea market, back to Victoire to get the kebab I've been craving for a week, down rue St. Catherine, to the quais and Place de la Bourse, where the pool is finally working and full of frolicking families. From there, to Place de Parliament for the best ice cream I've had in Bordeaux, around narrow cobblestone streets to Place Saint-Pierre, finally arriving at Jardin Public to sink into the grass with good company and a cold beer. The weather is finally beautiful here after an entire week of rain, wind, cold - a week of peacoats and umbrellas. Bu today the sun beat down on us and our limbs finally reappeared from their clumsy fabric cocoons. I still smell like spring grass and sticky sunscreen.

I finally left Jardin Public around 6, fully intending to go home and study. But on the walk to the tram stop at Quinconces, I ran into another market - a temporary antique market that's been set up for a few weeks in May. Instead of the haphazadly placed knickknacks I expected to find, almost every tent was set up like the inside of a home. Sitting room with antique leather seats here, dining room with antique silverware there. One of the most interesting things I saw was a collection of catalogues of women's fashion from the late 1800's, called "La Nouvelle Mode" - New Fashion. There were also unimaginably old books that I was almost afraid to pick up. They looked like they would turn to dust in my fingers. I loved the idea that all of this was once treasured by someone, and wondered what belongings of mine would still be here a century later.

Eventually, I hit the river. Seeing the late afternoon light hitting the church spires of St. Michel, I was again drawn towards Place de la Bourse, the best place to capture the view (what is it with me and this place? For those who don't remember, it's where I broke my ankle...). There were twice as many people there now than just a few hours earlier. I should explain to those not living in Bordeaux that facing the building, on the other side of the street, is a shallow pool of water which is meant to be a relecting pool for Place de la Bourse. Today though, the surface was far from still and thank god for that - the pool was filled with children clad only in their underwear, splashing water irreverently at their parents. Siblings chased after each other, leaving waves in their wake. Smoking teenagers sat on the bordering steps. Guitars were being played and couples on bicycles whizzed past on the street below. You could hear nothing but laughter. The setting sun hit perfectly, turning the tops of everyone's head orange. All of a sudden I felt strangely removed. SLR in hand, earbuds in, a foreigner no less, someone leaving in little over a month, I was a person outside observing this scene from the lens of a camera. A song came on my ipod, all epic string arrangements and lilting violin melodies, and I almost started to cry.

I looked down to check the title. It was called "Happiness."

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.

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.

Garorock, il me tard

I will be more or less unreachable over the next three days, as I'll be at Garorock, a 3 day musical festival an hour away from Bordeaux. I'm bringing my camera and will do my best to document every moment.

Unwashed hair, French rap, and dead brain cells - here I come!

My life is ridiculous

What the flying fuck, my school is blocked for another week. That makes a month, and according to rumors flying around classes won't start until april 14th, which is technically our spring break that they're planning to cancel. Being foreign students, we're not even responsible for that week of class, which means that I'll basically have had a 2 month vacation in the middle of the semester. What the hell?! I have absolutely no structure in my life right now. My brain has dwindled to the size of a pea. Nay, the size of a...wow I can't think of an inanimate object smaller than a pea right now. THIS IS WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT. Brain activity = 0.

Today we had a meeting with one of our professors to hand back our papers that we turned in a while ago. Seeing as how no one did spectacularly, she let us know that we can either redo the papers or write on another subject. "When do we turn it in?" "Whenever you want." "Uhhh...meaning?" "When you finish it." "Okay..."

The problem is that I'm not taking any initiative to counter this lack of productivity on my own. I've got a house full of French novels, and I've read 10 pages of one. I've got online news sources and blogs at my fingertips, and I spend all day watching America's Next Top Model. The reason I haven't blogged in so long is because I do nothing all the time. If I actually blogged every day, every single entry would look something like this:

Today I woke up at 1 in the afternoon. Had lunch, then watched ANTM for the next 5 hours, only interrupted by occasional bouts of Facebook stalking. Dragged my ass out of bed at 7 pm for dinner and barhopping. Told everyone I wanted a quiet night out, but ended up coming home at 5 in the morning on the first tram.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

I suppose this whole ordeal is a test of motivation for me, one that I am failing miserably. In fact, as of right now, I'm going to get out of bed and pick up some Voltaire.

Or maybe I'll just catch up on the new Gossip Girl.

Get low

Tonight, I danced from the hips up and the hips down, both feet on the floor.

Love life.

Bordelais holiday

The weather at Bordeaux has been perfect these last few days - sunny, mid-70s, cool breezes clearing the air once in a while. Stepping out in a t-shirt has been a refreshing change from bundled scarves and wet umbrellas. We decided to capitalize on this probably short-lived string of blue skies by having a picnic at jardin public this afternoon, a public park near downtown Bordeaux. I'd never been there before, but fellow-EAPers had staked out sunny patches of grass ever since the sun came out. 

Since the school is still on strike and blockaded, our translation professor's guilty conscience decided to invite the handful of foreign students in the class to her home this morning. It was actually delightful - her house is charmingly set away in a narrow side street, filled with sunlight from the beautiful stone garden in the back. She's Canadian, too; I found out after she remarked on the flag sewn on my backpack (yes, I am still using that backpack). We had class in the kitchen, and between discourses on the present perfect her French husband and her adorable teenage daughter stopped in to give her messages.  I think a bit of wishfulness passed through all our heads. Gorgeous French home? A French husband and French kids? Yes, please.

After class we grabbed sandwiches and headed over to the park, which is beautiful - and gigantic. I didn't even explore all of it but already there was a pond filled with ducks and swans, towering leafy trees, a botanical garden, and yards and yards of sprawling green lawns. The grass was packed with people. The thing I found the funniest was the blatant self-segregation - on one side of the park was the older crowd, more or less quiet and subdued. Towards the back, where we sat, were all the young people. Look around and you'd see hookahs, smell weed in the air, hear acoustic guitar being strummed by a guy rocking dreadlocks. There were jugglers throwing pins and lovers cuddling in the shade. Alexa arrived, toting a 12-pack of Kronenbourg, chips, salsa and guacamole, which we demolished in no time. When our shoulders turned pink from sunbathing, we strolled to a snack shack and found relief in fruity popsicles and Coca Cola. Laura said something like, "I can't believe this is our life now, eating popsicles and picnics in the park."

She's right - this entire semester has felt like a suspesion of time and reality. To be sure, things aren't perfect all the time and frustrations with France crop up frequently - but even still, I have no desire to go back home. This afternoon especially was as carefree as I've ever felt on the other side of the Atlantic. I can't believe this is my life either, and I'm certainly not complaining.

Click for full size.

And for good measure:

Warning: Don't read this if you have a weak stomach

I could mold another cast out of the amount of dead skin I'm scraping off the bottom of my foot right now.

Grossed out? I don't give a shit. BECAUSE NO MORE CASTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Random observations:

1. I was obviously too doped up on anaesthesia and painkillers a month and a half ago to notice, but my surgeon is HOT. Like, Movie Star Real Life Version of Derek Shepherd Hot, good hair and all. He could have his own show revolving around the tragic interpersonal relationships of orthopedic surgeons. I'd play his emotionally distant but irresistibly charming intern.

Seriously though, Laura and I both checked out his left ring finger (gold band and all, unfortunately) so I'm not alone in this.

2. Casts smell. A lot.

3. My foot looks really weird right now. The joints are still really stiff so it looks all awkward and rigid - on top of that my ankle is weirdly swollen from the lack of movement. On top of THAT is the 6 weeks worth of dead skin. I feel sexy.

4. Walking definitely hurts, mostly because of the joint stiffness - it kind of feels like I'm stepping on a milder version of pins and needles every time I take a step. On the other hand, walking isn't as hard as I thought it would be - my nurse freaked me out with stories of another kid in a cast who is still using crutches 2 weeks after he got it removed. My verdict? Pussy. I've already taken a few steps sans crutches, and it's day one! It's far from comfortable but I know that 80% of it is just fear in my head. So fuck you joints, I WILL CONQUER YOU.

5. I have to do physical therapy 3x a week for 5 weeks. This kind of blows.

6. I am determined to be able to walk at a respectable speed by the time Erin gets here next Monday. Ideally, I'd like to go back with her to Paris that Thursday as well...but that might be pushing it.

7. You know how when you were little, you'd spread a drop of Elmer's glue on your finger, wait for it to dry, and then slowly peel it off? Remember the warm sense of satisfaction you got when it all came off in one continuous piece? ...No? Just me? Well, that's how I felt today when I pulled a 2 square inch piece of skin off my leg.

7. I took a shower without a trash bag and tape. This is much more glorious than it sounds.

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.

My brain is The Waste Land

Am now scrambling to finish a paper comparing (IN FRENCH) the salient poetic characteristics of Apollinaire, Ezra Pound, and T.S. Eliot , while simultaneously trying to shoot myself in the face.

That'll teach me to complain about lack of mental stimulation. Karma's a bitch. A wet, black, bitch.

That's a reference, just in case you thought I was being a racist pervert.

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. 

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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).