This weekend has been unusually eventful. I've gotten into the habit of doing absolutely nothing on the weekend. Three days of sedentary existence (except when I'm at the gym). This weekend was not that way.
After doing my laundry on Friday morning, I went down to the Camille Albane salon on Rue Monge. I spent a while looking up good salons nearby and I had printed out a picture of exactly what I wanted. Unfortunately, they were all booked up until 6 pm. So I gave it up, but on my way back up Cardinal Lemoine I stopped at a small, independent salon whose prices were posted in the window. 50 euros for a cut. I was planning on paying 45 already at Camille Albane, plus there was no wait, so I went for it. The woman was very French, asking me several times exactly what I wanted done, since apparently the picture I printed out was the same hair cut I had at the time. So whatever, I worked it out. At the end my hair was about 2 inches shorter and poofed out from the hair dryer, but it eventually settled down. So far, so good I think.
On Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 6 am. At first I thought I'd gone completely crazy and that I had to get up for work. Then I realized, no, today I am getting up at 6 am for fun. The bus left around 7:45, and then it was a straight drive to Villandry. Okay, I lied, we stopped at a mega gas station on the way to pee and buy snacks. I've noticed on the few road trips I've taken in France that there is very little in the way of towns and general civilization once you leave Paris, so instead there are these giant gas stations with giant 7/11 convenience stores, and usually some sort of Denny's-style chain restaurant. Except here this restaurant is called "Flunch." This is how they get us back for "à la mode," I think. Anyway, Villandry was a cool little castle. It felt less castle-ish and more like a large country home. There were some cool rooms and all that, plus good gardens. There was a great maze, though. The bushes were a little see-through, but there was a tower in the middle. So what did we do? We played some hardcore tag/hide-and-go-seek. Melissa, Colin, Derek, Lou and I went about four rounds in this labyrinth, managing to freak out some French kids and their parents in the process. The tower was base, and we each had to run away from "it" in order to get to it. We all took off and coats and put down our shit and ran around in the sunshine like 8 year olds. And it was awesome.
After our geriatric lungs gave out, we head out front to eat lunch. Colin accidentally bought some "apple rosemary" gelato, which naturally displeased him, so we all took turns tasting it and describing which household cleaning products we through it resembled. I mooched the leftovers of Keisha's salted-caramel crepe -- Paris really need to get with the program there. It started raining just in time for us to get back on the bus and take a good nap on the way to Chenonceau. Way back in French I, when I was 14, we watched this video about Chambord and Chenonceau, and I'd always wanted to see it. Now this was a castle. Melissa read the program while we went into each room and discussed Henri IV-Catherine de Medici-Diane de Poitiers love triangle. Chenonceau also has a bomb ass kitchen, with about four different rooms. While we were in the gallery, which is a big hall that goes over the river, a full-on storm started outside. Thunder, rain, wind, hail. It was pretty cool. Outside we tried to find the winery but instead took pictures of tulips and stalked lizards. I really wish MICEFA had switched the itinerary so we could've spent more time at Chenonceau. We contemplated round 2 of tag in the maze, but we decided against it. On the drive home we entertained ourselves by trying to figure out why there were all these weird parts on the bus chairs, and also trying to figure out which way the Earth spins, and if flying with the direction of the Earth's rotation makes flights faster. Yeah, I dunno either.
Today I woke up around 8 am with a throbbing headache and finally gave up trying to get back to sleep around 9. I felt like I was hung over. Dehydration? Perhaps. Around 1 I headed over to an apartment appointment. The day I put up my ad last week, this American woman offered to let me sublet her daughter's studio for a couple weeks to get me through June 12. I went over to see it today, and it is excellent. Well, it's actually about as small as my current studio but with much less light. However, it's right on the border of the Latin Quarter and St. Germain des Prés, and it's cheaper than my place now. And it has a double bed so Lauren won't have to sleep on the floor. It will definitely get the job done, and for only 150 euros a week.
Right now, I should be working on my exposé. I signed up to do it on Tuesday so I would have it out of the way before break and May, when Lauren and I will be traveling or she'll be staying here most of the time. Now I'm thinking I should've put it off. Exposés are just dumb anyway and boring for everyone except the professor, who will rip you a new one in public if you fuck it up. Sigh. The rest of this week is busy as well, with tests in Histoire des Français and a vocab quiz in translation. I didn't time-manage all this work very well. I need to take some crack or something tomorrow so I can stay motivated during my lunch break and after work.
I can't wait for break. On Thursday I'm bringing my suitcase to work with me, then going straight to Porte Maillot to catch the bus to Beauvais. I'm excited to explain to everyone that I have my luggage because I'm finishing this job and then going directly to Rome. Peace out, bitches.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
How do you say "blizzard" in French?
Translation widget says: tempête de neige. Seriously? That's the half-assed answer I would've thrown out if a professor had asked me in class or something. The French just have no vocabulary.
Remember last week, when I was getting all sentimental about the arrival of Spring? Well, I take back everything I said. On Monday morning, any fantasies of Spring were promptly crushed (maybe literally) by about 3 inches of snow. Now lucky for Paris, there's plenty of pollution and body heat and warm pavement (thanks Métro!) that snow melts pretty quickly. But as I rode the train out to Marly le roi, bright and early on Monday, I was pretty sure we'd taken a detour to Russia or something because the entire "countryside"(if you can call it that) was buried in snow. The forest was covered, the fields were covered, everything. It was completely surreal, and all the rest of the exhausted people in the train looked around and wondered how this had happened well into April. Especially since it was about 60 degrees a few days earlier. I was wearing my big coat in anticipation of the cold, but I was definitely not wearing the right shoes. I slowly tip-toed across the train tracks so as not to slip and fall and inevitably knock myself out on a railroad track and get hit by the next train to Paris. On the way to school I smacked a couple bushes, just to get a feel for the snow. I thought by that time that it would've condensed into one of those hard, icy balls that snow turns into in places where it's not quick cold enough to snow a lot. But no, it was fresh and powdery and got stuck to my glove. Kids were throwing snow balls at each other on the playground. Surreal indeed. Sadly, by the time I left work at 4:30, there wasn't so much as a trace that it had snowed just that morning.
The rest of this week is sort of a pleasant blur. I basically just trucked right through it. I had done all my work that was due, I was prepared. I was stressed, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. On Tuesday I got up at 8:30, worked out, went to three classes, ate some ice cream when I got home around 8:30 and then went to bed. On Wednesday I was in an unusually good mood. It was tempered by the wicked midterm I had in my translation class, though luckily it doesn't count toward our grade. Come to think of it, nothing really counts in that class. Each week we translate something together in class after taking a vocab quiz (that doesn't count). I assume the final counts, but that's kind of terrifying since we don't really get to learn anything except for the vocab. I still can't figure out why the Anglo-American studies department is allowed to conduct their classes in French. I mean, in my American civilization class, she lectures in English, but then gives the homework in French, lets kids talk to her in French, gives instructions for tests in French. I can't imagine any of my French professors speaking English to us at this level. And my translation class is completely in French except for the words in the texts we're translating. There's even this one professor, I assume it's an American civilization class, and not five minutes goes by where he doesn't translate something he just said into French. I sit outside his room and listen while I wait for my translation class to start, and every week, without fail, I hear him say something in English and then immediately repeat it in French. What is the point?
Hmm, what else is on my mind right now. I have one more week of work, I can't even believe it. Yesterday one of my students gave me a gift from "au nom de la rose" -- a candle, scented pebble things (I assume to put in your dresser or something) and perfume oil. I'm having some mixed feelings about leaving the job. When I think about waking up at 6 am, the hour plus commute, screaming at kids to stop talking...I want to leave and never look back. But there are some kids there that I genuinely adore (like Léa, the gift-giver) and will bad sad to leave. For the most part, I like the kids. I even like most of the teachers, even though I know they've had some not-nice things to say about me (according to my cunt bag inspector, who knows). This week two of them asked me to give grades to the kids. I'm not supposed to give grades, tests, or anything of the like, but I obliged the one teacher because we've got a pretty good system going (I grade them mostly on participation and pronunciation), but the other teacher who asked me yesterday was the idiot with the class that makes me want to throw myself out a window. Honestly, every time I yell at the top of my lungs to quiet her class down, out of the corner of my eye I see her looking at my like I'm insane. This is not your average noisy class. These kids are talking, parroting whatever I say, smacking each other, throwing shit, getting up and walking around -- just completely out of control. And all she does is the occasional "sshhhh" and maybe once in a while she'll tell one of them to sit down. I'm at the point where I don't care about it anymore. Yesterday I was having the kids recite "Hickory Dickory Dock" to work on their accents. Since they can't entertain themselves quietly while their classmates talk, I ended up going around to each kid and squatting down next to their desks so I could hear them. There are some great kids in that class, but it doesn't make up for the fact that most of them need to be on medication. And I'm not exaggerating there. One or two of them are actually smart and have actually learned something, but are just too agitated to sit still and pay attention. France has a 9380980495 and 1 programs for kids who are having difficulty in school --- I blame their incompetent salope of a teacher for not getting them help.
Aaaaanyway, that's enough of that. Today I'm going to do some laundry, then hopefully get a successful hair cut. I'm terrified. I don't even know what I'll do with myself when I get back to America and I don't have to formulate beforehand what I'm going to say to people every time I go to the drugstore or the hairdresser or the bank or whatever. And tomorrow is a big day trip to a couple castles, so I'll definitely bring my camera and actually take some pictures to show the little people at home. I am a horrible tourist, I think it's the photographic memory.
Remember last week, when I was getting all sentimental about the arrival of Spring? Well, I take back everything I said. On Monday morning, any fantasies of Spring were promptly crushed (maybe literally) by about 3 inches of snow. Now lucky for Paris, there's plenty of pollution and body heat and warm pavement (thanks Métro!) that snow melts pretty quickly. But as I rode the train out to Marly le roi, bright and early on Monday, I was pretty sure we'd taken a detour to Russia or something because the entire "countryside"(if you can call it that) was buried in snow. The forest was covered, the fields were covered, everything. It was completely surreal, and all the rest of the exhausted people in the train looked around and wondered how this had happened well into April. Especially since it was about 60 degrees a few days earlier. I was wearing my big coat in anticipation of the cold, but I was definitely not wearing the right shoes. I slowly tip-toed across the train tracks so as not to slip and fall and inevitably knock myself out on a railroad track and get hit by the next train to Paris. On the way to school I smacked a couple bushes, just to get a feel for the snow. I thought by that time that it would've condensed into one of those hard, icy balls that snow turns into in places where it's not quick cold enough to snow a lot. But no, it was fresh and powdery and got stuck to my glove. Kids were throwing snow balls at each other on the playground. Surreal indeed. Sadly, by the time I left work at 4:30, there wasn't so much as a trace that it had snowed just that morning.
The rest of this week is sort of a pleasant blur. I basically just trucked right through it. I had done all my work that was due, I was prepared. I was stressed, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. On Tuesday I got up at 8:30, worked out, went to three classes, ate some ice cream when I got home around 8:30 and then went to bed. On Wednesday I was in an unusually good mood. It was tempered by the wicked midterm I had in my translation class, though luckily it doesn't count toward our grade. Come to think of it, nothing really counts in that class. Each week we translate something together in class after taking a vocab quiz (that doesn't count). I assume the final counts, but that's kind of terrifying since we don't really get to learn anything except for the vocab. I still can't figure out why the Anglo-American studies department is allowed to conduct their classes in French. I mean, in my American civilization class, she lectures in English, but then gives the homework in French, lets kids talk to her in French, gives instructions for tests in French. I can't imagine any of my French professors speaking English to us at this level. And my translation class is completely in French except for the words in the texts we're translating. There's even this one professor, I assume it's an American civilization class, and not five minutes goes by where he doesn't translate something he just said into French. I sit outside his room and listen while I wait for my translation class to start, and every week, without fail, I hear him say something in English and then immediately repeat it in French. What is the point?
Hmm, what else is on my mind right now. I have one more week of work, I can't even believe it. Yesterday one of my students gave me a gift from "au nom de la rose" -- a candle, scented pebble things (I assume to put in your dresser or something) and perfume oil. I'm having some mixed feelings about leaving the job. When I think about waking up at 6 am, the hour plus commute, screaming at kids to stop talking...I want to leave and never look back. But there are some kids there that I genuinely adore (like Léa, the gift-giver) and will bad sad to leave. For the most part, I like the kids. I even like most of the teachers, even though I know they've had some not-nice things to say about me (according to my cunt bag inspector, who knows). This week two of them asked me to give grades to the kids. I'm not supposed to give grades, tests, or anything of the like, but I obliged the one teacher because we've got a pretty good system going (I grade them mostly on participation and pronunciation), but the other teacher who asked me yesterday was the idiot with the class that makes me want to throw myself out a window. Honestly, every time I yell at the top of my lungs to quiet her class down, out of the corner of my eye I see her looking at my like I'm insane. This is not your average noisy class. These kids are talking, parroting whatever I say, smacking each other, throwing shit, getting up and walking around -- just completely out of control. And all she does is the occasional "sshhhh" and maybe once in a while she'll tell one of them to sit down. I'm at the point where I don't care about it anymore. Yesterday I was having the kids recite "Hickory Dickory Dock" to work on their accents. Since they can't entertain themselves quietly while their classmates talk, I ended up going around to each kid and squatting down next to their desks so I could hear them. There are some great kids in that class, but it doesn't make up for the fact that most of them need to be on medication. And I'm not exaggerating there. One or two of them are actually smart and have actually learned something, but are just too agitated to sit still and pay attention. France has a 9380980495 and 1 programs for kids who are having difficulty in school --- I blame their incompetent salope of a teacher for not getting them help.
Aaaaanyway, that's enough of that. Today I'm going to do some laundry, then hopefully get a successful hair cut. I'm terrified. I don't even know what I'll do with myself when I get back to America and I don't have to formulate beforehand what I'm going to say to people every time I go to the drugstore or the hairdresser or the bank or whatever. And tomorrow is a big day trip to a couple castles, so I'll definitely bring my camera and actually take some pictures to show the little people at home. I am a horrible tourist, I think it's the photographic memory.
Friday, April 4, 2008
60 degrees? Could it be?
I have to laugh because it seems like everyone else is noticing it all at once, but I think Spring has arrived. Yesterday I left work at 4:30, in full sunshine, and I could actually feel warmth. For the past -- I dunno -- FIVE MONTHS, every time the sun came out I braced myself for some 27 degree arctic freeze. On Wednesday I didn't wear a coat. I wore a zip-up hoodie and that was it. I brought a scarf just to be cautious, but I didn't need it. Incredible. Although now I've completely forgotten how to dress myself for warm weather. I imagine the first time I put on flip flops again, I'll have a small stroke. Anyway, this is very exciting news, although it does mean soon will come the time to break out the self-tanner and the nail polish. Last night I got home from work at the sun didn't set until about 9 pm. I can't even remember the last time that happened, but things really look like they did when I first got here. Circle of life and blah blah blah, but that's really how it feels. As exciting as it might be to point and watch the seasons change, the romance wears off really quickly.
Unfortunately, now I have not only a pang of sadness when I think about leaving, but a sharp digging of anxiety because my landlady has revealed herself as the insufferable cunt she really is. Long story short, I have to move out May 31. I am in the process of finding somewhere to stay for two weeks. Luckily, my mom is 100% behind me and whatever I end up finding, whatever combination of hotel/sublet/friend-crashing I have to come up with, she'll pay for it. What's absolutely balls is that after a week-long vacation in Greece, I almost immediately have to start packing up to move. I'm thinking about changing my flight to a week earlier so I can leave right after Lauren does, but I don't know if all of my finals will be over by then. Regardless, she will be go where I go and I'll pay for however many cabs it takes us to get there. And she can sit and laugh at me while I pack and clean my apartment. The lesson in all of this is pretty obvious -- if something seems too good to be true, it most certainly, definitely, unequivocally is.
So that is added onto my search for housing in San Francisco. I actually got an email from someone this morning for an apartment in the complex I lived in last summer. Seems fine except the email is too....structured. Isn't that ridiculous? I'm wary of her because she seems too organized. I just feel like she might be too rigid. And actually I don't really want my own room, and I want to live with more than one person. I miss the sleep-away camp aspect of being in college. I want to live in a cabin full of cool people. Also she said that the heater is running 24/7 in the apartment, which turns me off. That's pretty ridiculous too, but I just hate heaters. I see all of these ads saying that the PG&E bills are higher in the winter but honestly, you must be living in a log cabin if you need to jack up the heat for months on end in San Francisco. Put a sweatshirt on, we're in an energy crisis.
Hmm. What else happened this week. My classes were fairly unremarkable, which is excellent because I ditched them all last week and as of yet I've seen no repercussions. Well actually I had a midterm in my American civilization class, but apparently I am such a psychic genius that I read two articles haphazardly in the reader right before class, and then we had to write an essay about the exact ones. Brilliant. Granted I didn't recall as many details about the colonies as I could have, but such is life.
I had an interesting commute to work yesterday. First I ran into Elisabeth in the in the Place Monge metro station at 7 am. She's a German girl in my atelier class at Nanterre, and I'd honestly throw myself out the window if she wasn't there. In this class we have to work as a group to write this stupid novel, and the other three people in my group are just short of completely useless. Not only is their French horrific but their story ideas are juvenile. Sometimes I honestly wonder if some of the kids in that class are intellectually stunted, because it feels like I'm in junior high. Anyway, I ran into Elisabeth, who was heading home after a night of partying. Lucky bitch. Then when I was on line 14 heading to St. Lazare, I saw a married couple who couldn't have been more than 19. They caught my eye because the guy got out his wallet and handed the girl a 5 euro bill. I probably noticed because whenever I see men handing money over to women, it makes my stomach churn. Clearly it isn't only a gesture of dependence, but it feels that way. First I saw his wedding band, then hers. Why.
In other news, I am pretty much in dire need of a haircut. I thought I could put it off until I got back to San Francisco, but my split ends are just nauseating. Anyone know of a good hairdresser in Paris? I'm sure they're all fine, but every time I walk by one and I see pictures of models with angular bombs died cherry red, I flee. Hopefully as long as I print out a picture and make it very clear that "J'ai envie d'une coiffure comme ça," nothing will go too horribly awry. So add that to the list of things I'm in search of: a sublet in Paris, an apartment in San Francisco, an overnight ferry from Ios to Athens on May 25, Ugg Classic Cardy boots in grey, and a good hairdresser in the 5th.
Unfortunately, now I have not only a pang of sadness when I think about leaving, but a sharp digging of anxiety because my landlady has revealed herself as the insufferable cunt she really is. Long story short, I have to move out May 31. I am in the process of finding somewhere to stay for two weeks. Luckily, my mom is 100% behind me and whatever I end up finding, whatever combination of hotel/sublet/friend-crashing I have to come up with, she'll pay for it. What's absolutely balls is that after a week-long vacation in Greece, I almost immediately have to start packing up to move. I'm thinking about changing my flight to a week earlier so I can leave right after Lauren does, but I don't know if all of my finals will be over by then. Regardless, she will be go where I go and I'll pay for however many cabs it takes us to get there. And she can sit and laugh at me while I pack and clean my apartment. The lesson in all of this is pretty obvious -- if something seems too good to be true, it most certainly, definitely, unequivocally is.
So that is added onto my search for housing in San Francisco. I actually got an email from someone this morning for an apartment in the complex I lived in last summer. Seems fine except the email is too....structured. Isn't that ridiculous? I'm wary of her because she seems too organized. I just feel like she might be too rigid. And actually I don't really want my own room, and I want to live with more than one person. I miss the sleep-away camp aspect of being in college. I want to live in a cabin full of cool people. Also she said that the heater is running 24/7 in the apartment, which turns me off. That's pretty ridiculous too, but I just hate heaters. I see all of these ads saying that the PG&E bills are higher in the winter but honestly, you must be living in a log cabin if you need to jack up the heat for months on end in San Francisco. Put a sweatshirt on, we're in an energy crisis.
Hmm. What else happened this week. My classes were fairly unremarkable, which is excellent because I ditched them all last week and as of yet I've seen no repercussions. Well actually I had a midterm in my American civilization class, but apparently I am such a psychic genius that I read two articles haphazardly in the reader right before class, and then we had to write an essay about the exact ones. Brilliant. Granted I didn't recall as many details about the colonies as I could have, but such is life.
I had an interesting commute to work yesterday. First I ran into Elisabeth in the in the Place Monge metro station at 7 am. She's a German girl in my atelier class at Nanterre, and I'd honestly throw myself out the window if she wasn't there. In this class we have to work as a group to write this stupid novel, and the other three people in my group are just short of completely useless. Not only is their French horrific but their story ideas are juvenile. Sometimes I honestly wonder if some of the kids in that class are intellectually stunted, because it feels like I'm in junior high. Anyway, I ran into Elisabeth, who was heading home after a night of partying. Lucky bitch. Then when I was on line 14 heading to St. Lazare, I saw a married couple who couldn't have been more than 19. They caught my eye because the guy got out his wallet and handed the girl a 5 euro bill. I probably noticed because whenever I see men handing money over to women, it makes my stomach churn. Clearly it isn't only a gesture of dependence, but it feels that way. First I saw his wedding band, then hers. Why.
In other news, I am pretty much in dire need of a haircut. I thought I could put it off until I got back to San Francisco, but my split ends are just nauseating. Anyone know of a good hairdresser in Paris? I'm sure they're all fine, but every time I walk by one and I see pictures of models with angular bombs died cherry red, I flee. Hopefully as long as I print out a picture and make it very clear that "J'ai envie d'une coiffure comme ça," nothing will go too horribly awry. So add that to the list of things I'm in search of: a sublet in Paris, an apartment in San Francisco, an overnight ferry from Ios to Athens on May 25, Ugg Classic Cardy boots in grey, and a good hairdresser in the 5th.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Life is skittles and life is beer
Okay maybe it's not, but this is the traditional song to sing when Spring has arrived. Although you really couldn't tell. It's a balmy 50 degrees outside, but it's rainy. I was really motivated to hit up the markets this morning, but I am officially over it.
Anyway, my week of distraction officially culminated on Friday with a birthday party for someone I've never met before, as is one of the great joys of having friends who go to different schools, and then them having friends all over the world as well. After a few shots of the worst whisky ever to come out of Scotland, we headed over to the birthday girl's apartment (Molly), who had decorated her door with a George Bush poster and declared it an America-only zone, so we could properly celebrate her 21st birthday in spite of the fact that here she's just another year older. But there were three French people there, all guys, and one of them sang us some songs on the guitar. And then Richard played "What I Got" and "American Pie" (we'll overlook the fact that Richard is, actually, Canadian). Ohhh the nostalgia. And at one point about five of us stood in a circle and shared a bottle of warm champagne while having a heated argument about whether marijuana actually ruins your life. At around 2 we headed back to Stephanie's because Matt and Joe had to catch a flight at 6, which meant they had to catch a bus to Orly around 3. But since everyone was of a varying degree of drunk/stoned/horny, it was more like 4 by the time we left. So they caught a cab to the airport, and I caught one home from Montparnasse. That's the second time I've taken a cab in two weeks, but I can't help it. To get home from Montparnasse takes wo night buses, or one bus and an unpleasant walk from Gobelins. It doesn't help that Parisian taxes are just so nice. Pretty much the only place I've ever taken taxis is Las Vegas, and it's always cheesy Ford Queen Victoria's with overly squishy tan seats. In Paris they're always shiny and clean with black leather interior, like a town car. And they line up at the taxi stands all nice and neat (as opposed to every other line-up situation in Europe) and it's just too easy. Anyway, it was very romantic, that cab, probably because I was drunk.
Sadly, all of those fun and games are over now and for the next three weeks I have to keep my head down and work my ass off. This is made more grim by my still as-yet-unsolved housing issues. My property manager never got back to me on Friday, and my landlady hasn't emailed me back (either she REALLY hates me more than I thought, or she died. Honestly this woman wouldn't stop checking her Blackberry if she was deep-sea diving). So I brainstormed a couple of options: one is to find a sublet for two weeks at the beginning of June. The other is to pray that two of my professors will give the finals the first week of June. Then I would move out on the 31st, stay somewhere for a few days, and then change my flight and go home a week early. Shit like this is always happening to me, man. The problem is that it's so up in the air right now that I can't do anything but wait. I need an absolution and then I'll go about fixing the problem, although for all I know there might not be a problem. Gah. I'm already shifting into full-swing for a San Francisco apartment, I don't need this crap as well.
On the other hand, all of this nervous energy is making me really motivated. Yesterday I emailed Madame LeMarchand to check up on my graduation credits so I can figure out if I need to a take a French class in the fall. My schedule is going to be packed. I don't know when/if I'm going to work. Or if I can get some sort of internship. Or if my mom would be willing give me more money so I could intern. Or if I could even get an internship since I don't have any clips right now. We need to have a phone conference. And I need to make an appointment with my journalism adviser this summer. And I need to find a good vet to clean my cat's teeth. A load of crap awaits me in San Francisco, but what doesn't await me is a well-paying job. For all the crap this assistant job has put me through, it's totally worth the 750 euros a month, no doubt.
Anyway, my week of distraction officially culminated on Friday with a birthday party for someone I've never met before, as is one of the great joys of having friends who go to different schools, and then them having friends all over the world as well. After a few shots of the worst whisky ever to come out of Scotland, we headed over to the birthday girl's apartment (Molly), who had decorated her door with a George Bush poster and declared it an America-only zone, so we could properly celebrate her 21st birthday in spite of the fact that here she's just another year older. But there were three French people there, all guys, and one of them sang us some songs on the guitar. And then Richard played "What I Got" and "American Pie" (we'll overlook the fact that Richard is, actually, Canadian). Ohhh the nostalgia. And at one point about five of us stood in a circle and shared a bottle of warm champagne while having a heated argument about whether marijuana actually ruins your life. At around 2 we headed back to Stephanie's because Matt and Joe had to catch a flight at 6, which meant they had to catch a bus to Orly around 3. But since everyone was of a varying degree of drunk/stoned/horny, it was more like 4 by the time we left. So they caught a cab to the airport, and I caught one home from Montparnasse. That's the second time I've taken a cab in two weeks, but I can't help it. To get home from Montparnasse takes wo night buses, or one bus and an unpleasant walk from Gobelins. It doesn't help that Parisian taxes are just so nice. Pretty much the only place I've ever taken taxis is Las Vegas, and it's always cheesy Ford Queen Victoria's with overly squishy tan seats. In Paris they're always shiny and clean with black leather interior, like a town car. And they line up at the taxi stands all nice and neat (as opposed to every other line-up situation in Europe) and it's just too easy. Anyway, it was very romantic, that cab, probably because I was drunk.
Sadly, all of those fun and games are over now and for the next three weeks I have to keep my head down and work my ass off. This is made more grim by my still as-yet-unsolved housing issues. My property manager never got back to me on Friday, and my landlady hasn't emailed me back (either she REALLY hates me more than I thought, or she died. Honestly this woman wouldn't stop checking her Blackberry if she was deep-sea diving). So I brainstormed a couple of options: one is to find a sublet for two weeks at the beginning of June. The other is to pray that two of my professors will give the finals the first week of June. Then I would move out on the 31st, stay somewhere for a few days, and then change my flight and go home a week early. Shit like this is always happening to me, man. The problem is that it's so up in the air right now that I can't do anything but wait. I need an absolution and then I'll go about fixing the problem, although for all I know there might not be a problem. Gah. I'm already shifting into full-swing for a San Francisco apartment, I don't need this crap as well.
On the other hand, all of this nervous energy is making me really motivated. Yesterday I emailed Madame LeMarchand to check up on my graduation credits so I can figure out if I need to a take a French class in the fall. My schedule is going to be packed. I don't know when/if I'm going to work. Or if I can get some sort of internship. Or if my mom would be willing give me more money so I could intern. Or if I could even get an internship since I don't have any clips right now. We need to have a phone conference. And I need to make an appointment with my journalism adviser this summer. And I need to find a good vet to clean my cat's teeth. A load of crap awaits me in San Francisco, but what doesn't await me is a well-paying job. For all the crap this assistant job has put me through, it's totally worth the 750 euros a month, no doubt.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Rater la vie
Well this past week was pleasantly long. Saturday night I picked up the broseph at CDG and we immediately went for kebabs and beer on the Contrescarpe. The rest of the week (until Wednesday, okay) involved lots of walking, lots of sight-seeing, and two disappointing excursions (Catacombs are closed, Eiffel Tower was a nightmare). Anyway, it was still really good. Matt got in Sunday night so we did some lame college student things like sitting around at home smoking weed and looking at You Tube videos. Of course there were many culinary excursions as well, because let's be honest, that's my specialty. Many-a-crêpe was consumed, as well as some delicious bakery items, and even a 40 euro lunch at Les Deux Magots, funded by mother dearest. We also introduced Sean to tecktonik and chavvy French guys with gelled-down mohawks. It rained a lot that wasn't so pleasant, but such is life I suppose.
Yesterday morning we got up at 6 to get Sean on the RER to the airport. I had requested that my mom get him a flight around 10 so he could leave and I could go to work at the same time. It would just figure that my first two classes got canceled so I didn't have to be at work until 10:30. So after I dropped him off, I went home and slept for another 45 minutes, then got up and typed up a dialogue for the lesson. I made it to the train with plenty of time to spare, and hopped on a bus the second I walked out of the station in Marly le roi. Unfortunately I'm retarded or something and I got on the right bus, but I thought it was the wrong bus, so I got off. I completely disregarded the fact that in the middle of the day in the small towns, the buses come about once an hour. I had noticed we were going in a weird direction before I got off the bus, so I followed the church and apartment buildings near the school to make sure I could locate then when I got off the bus. I used my incredible sense of direction to walk toward where I thought the school was, and ended up only losing about 15 minutes. I couldn't believe it. I was definitely on the total opposite side of the town. And then of course my 10:30 class got canceled so I did nothing in the teacher's lounge until 1:30. So by then I decided to improvise my lesson plan cuz I didn't want to waste it on half a day of teaching.
I was exhausted when I got home, but Matt said we were going to a party so I showered, blew dry and straightened my hair, the whole shebang. The party ended up not happening so he and Joe and I just hung and did whatever, I don't even know. There's supposed to be a real party tonight.
Today I am consciously ditching History of France. The class was canceled on Tuesday and there is a make-up today, but I'm just over it. That and the fact that I need to stay by my phone in case my property manager calls back. Turns out my landlady rented my apartment out the first of June, even though she told me (and I agreed with the summer tenant) to split the month of June. Although apparently this summer tenant I've been talking with is in fact, not the summer tenant. So I emailed my mentally unstable landlady and hopefully this will get sorted out. Maybe I will get a sublet for the first two weeks of June? The most irritating part is that Lauren will be here until the 3rd and it not fair to her if she has to be there while I'm packing and cleaning and generally being a headcase, which always happens when I move. And that I will have to immediately start moving when we get back from Greece. And freaking out about moving will inevitably fuck up my mood in Greece. Cross your fingers for a miracle.
Yesterday morning we got up at 6 to get Sean on the RER to the airport. I had requested that my mom get him a flight around 10 so he could leave and I could go to work at the same time. It would just figure that my first two classes got canceled so I didn't have to be at work until 10:30. So after I dropped him off, I went home and slept for another 45 minutes, then got up and typed up a dialogue for the lesson. I made it to the train with plenty of time to spare, and hopped on a bus the second I walked out of the station in Marly le roi. Unfortunately I'm retarded or something and I got on the right bus, but I thought it was the wrong bus, so I got off. I completely disregarded the fact that in the middle of the day in the small towns, the buses come about once an hour. I had noticed we were going in a weird direction before I got off the bus, so I followed the church and apartment buildings near the school to make sure I could locate then when I got off the bus. I used my incredible sense of direction to walk toward where I thought the school was, and ended up only losing about 15 minutes. I couldn't believe it. I was definitely on the total opposite side of the town. And then of course my 10:30 class got canceled so I did nothing in the teacher's lounge until 1:30. So by then I decided to improvise my lesson plan cuz I didn't want to waste it on half a day of teaching.
I was exhausted when I got home, but Matt said we were going to a party so I showered, blew dry and straightened my hair, the whole shebang. The party ended up not happening so he and Joe and I just hung and did whatever, I don't even know. There's supposed to be a real party tonight.
Today I am consciously ditching History of France. The class was canceled on Tuesday and there is a make-up today, but I'm just over it. That and the fact that I need to stay by my phone in case my property manager calls back. Turns out my landlady rented my apartment out the first of June, even though she told me (and I agreed with the summer tenant) to split the month of June. Although apparently this summer tenant I've been talking with is in fact, not the summer tenant. So I emailed my mentally unstable landlady and hopefully this will get sorted out. Maybe I will get a sublet for the first two weeks of June? The most irritating part is that Lauren will be here until the 3rd and it not fair to her if she has to be there while I'm packing and cleaning and generally being a headcase, which always happens when I move. And that I will have to immediately start moving when we get back from Greece. And freaking out about moving will inevitably fuck up my mood in Greece. Cross your fingers for a miracle.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Poisoning pigeons in the park
Spring is almost here, people. In the two weeks I was off of work and school, the time completely changed. On Thursday morning I went to work and by the time I was on the train between La Défense and St. Cloud, it was full-on daylight. I can still see the monuments obviously, plus the domes of the pantheon and Les Invalides. What doesn't make any sense to me is that if I remember correctly, when the time changes in the fall at home, it gets brighter in the morning and darker in the evenings. Right? We move the time back one hour, and then what it looked like at 8 am becomes what it looks like at 7? Here I think it gets darker and lighter in both directions -- during the winter the sun comes up at 8-ish and goes down at 6-ish, in the summer it comes up at 7-ish and goes down at 9-ish. Essentially, it makes no sense.
SFSU finally posted the summer school schedule, and let's just say I'm less than pleased. For one thing, this whole summer school venture was created by the head of the journalism department, who told me to take reporting last summer and then magazine writing this summer. Well, magazine writing isn't being offered this summer. There are only 3 journalism classes compared to last summer's 6. At least there's an advanced writing class, feature writing, which is the requirement I need to fill. I won't graduate with the magazine sequence, but whatever. Feature writing covers magazine writing (it's all long-form) and then I'll take contemporary magazines and get enough practice there. The other class I need to take is something about politics for GE. I wanted to take the women's studies class but the time doesn't work. I would have class every morning which is no good if I want to work. So instead I'm going to take the lame American politics class online and not even worry about going to campus.
I am really not ready to go back and buckle down. It's my senior year. I need to take these classes, I need to get some sort of internship. But I still need my job? Can I find a paid internship? I would feel really weird asking my mom to finance my clothes and entertaining so I could get an unpaid internship. Especially after three years of supporting myself there. I dunno. Second semester I want to take the news bureau class (in lieu of writing for the school paper) again, so I can do writing and fact-checking and stuff for real Bay Area papers and get some experience there. I've pretty much accepted that I'm going to stay in San Francisco for a little while after graduation. And actually, I'm okay with it. Unless some magical job opens in New York, I think it would be worth it to cultivate myself a little bit in a smaller market, then move to New York and hopefully be in a graduate program so I won't have to be full-on working in New York. I'm really going to try to visit Matt in New York this next year, if only so he can take me to NYU to talk to the journalism department. And stand in line to get into a taping of The Daily Show, of course. That's about all I want to do.
Other than that stuff, my first week back in grind went pretty well. Only five more weeks of work, four and a half if you count the day after Easter. In my American civilization class on Tuesday, this guy passed me a note (in English) with his email address(es), saying he wasn't sure if I spoke French or not but he wanted to "keep in touch." Before class, two girls standing about 10 feet away from me were whispering to each other and I thought I heard my name, but I always think I hear my name. Then this guy went up to them and whispered too, and I heard my name again. Woo look at the American girl! I feel like a zoo animal. Anyway, I think that's how he got my name. And you can never really tell whether people want to date you or practice their English, but I'm pretty sure this was the former. I showed the note to Keisha and told her it was from some gangsta in a fuzzy-hooded jacket, and immediately she goes, "Oh, honey, no." My thoughts exactly. I really like taking that class and my translation class, but I do get the feeling that the French students are a little territorial. Which is bullshit because Laetitia (French girl at SFSU) was always having these deep conversations with professors about whatever dumb poem we were reading and it wasn't fair to wonder what the hell she was doing there if she already knew French. Besides, I've learned stuff in American civilization that they would have never told us in America. Like we're full of religious nuts and think we're god's gift because we were founded by crazy Calvinists.
So there you go. I'm not a circus freak.
SFSU finally posted the summer school schedule, and let's just say I'm less than pleased. For one thing, this whole summer school venture was created by the head of the journalism department, who told me to take reporting last summer and then magazine writing this summer. Well, magazine writing isn't being offered this summer. There are only 3 journalism classes compared to last summer's 6. At least there's an advanced writing class, feature writing, which is the requirement I need to fill. I won't graduate with the magazine sequence, but whatever. Feature writing covers magazine writing (it's all long-form) and then I'll take contemporary magazines and get enough practice there. The other class I need to take is something about politics for GE. I wanted to take the women's studies class but the time doesn't work. I would have class every morning which is no good if I want to work. So instead I'm going to take the lame American politics class online and not even worry about going to campus.
I am really not ready to go back and buckle down. It's my senior year. I need to take these classes, I need to get some sort of internship. But I still need my job? Can I find a paid internship? I would feel really weird asking my mom to finance my clothes and entertaining so I could get an unpaid internship. Especially after three years of supporting myself there. I dunno. Second semester I want to take the news bureau class (in lieu of writing for the school paper) again, so I can do writing and fact-checking and stuff for real Bay Area papers and get some experience there. I've pretty much accepted that I'm going to stay in San Francisco for a little while after graduation. And actually, I'm okay with it. Unless some magical job opens in New York, I think it would be worth it to cultivate myself a little bit in a smaller market, then move to New York and hopefully be in a graduate program so I won't have to be full-on working in New York. I'm really going to try to visit Matt in New York this next year, if only so he can take me to NYU to talk to the journalism department. And stand in line to get into a taping of The Daily Show, of course. That's about all I want to do.
Other than that stuff, my first week back in grind went pretty well. Only five more weeks of work, four and a half if you count the day after Easter. In my American civilization class on Tuesday, this guy passed me a note (in English) with his email address(es), saying he wasn't sure if I spoke French or not but he wanted to "keep in touch." Before class, two girls standing about 10 feet away from me were whispering to each other and I thought I heard my name, but I always think I hear my name. Then this guy went up to them and whispered too, and I heard my name again. Woo look at the American girl! I feel like a zoo animal. Anyway, I think that's how he got my name. And you can never really tell whether people want to date you or practice their English, but I'm pretty sure this was the former. I showed the note to Keisha and told her it was from some gangsta in a fuzzy-hooded jacket, and immediately she goes, "Oh, honey, no." My thoughts exactly. I really like taking that class and my translation class, but I do get the feeling that the French students are a little territorial. Which is bullshit because Laetitia (French girl at SFSU) was always having these deep conversations with professors about whatever dumb poem we were reading and it wasn't fair to wonder what the hell she was doing there if she already knew French. Besides, I've learned stuff in American civilization that they would have never told us in America. Like we're full of religious nuts and think we're god's gift because we were founded by crazy Calvinists.
So there you go. I'm not a circus freak.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
La rentrée
I'm starting to think these long French vacations might not be such a good day. These kids have a week or two off for every six weeks of school. That means a week in November, two weeks for Christmas, two weeks in winter, then another two weeks for spring. After two weeks I'm usually adapted to my new vacation lifestyle and I have to drag myself back to the real world. However, I somehow got through yesterday relatively smoothly. This probably had a lot to do with the fact that I was extremely well rested after break, so even though I had about 5 intense dreams and woke up in between each of them, I was pretty energetic yesterday. It might've helped that I ran up about 6 flights of stairs to barely make my train on time. I really need to be in the metro at 6:50 in case, like yesterday, I miss the 6:52 train and another doesn't come for 6 minutes. You never realize how a few minutes can make a huge difference in your life until you have a 7:18 train to catch. Regardless, I made it. Next challenge of the day was the mother fucking hurricane going on outside. It was really picking up right at 10 am, when I was making the 10 minute walk in between schools. I was wearing a hat and coat and boots and brought my umbrella, but for whatever reason I decided my raincoat wasn't necessary. But of course you can't use the damn umbrella because it will turn inside out and impale you. So I just dealt with the pelting rain.
As far as classes, it wasn't that bad. A couple times I had to sip some water because the yelling was making my voice crack, but I think the kids got their energy out over break. I'm almost finished with the textbook thing I've used to teach them (which I'm not even sure is an ideal method, but it's just not French to tell me what they want me to use) and I'm glad because soon it's going to be all speaking, all the time. It's more work for me but it's better for the kids and keeps them more entertained. The little ones always want to sing songs, which is good for them but I can't help but feel like a giant dork. When I was in French classes I hated singing songs. Godfrey used to make us sing along to Notre Dame de Paris and I just couldn't control myself. The one hit was a Carla Bruni song, so maybe playing some popular music would work better. I could make them sing The Beatles or *NSYNC or something (haha). Or maybe a nice, resounding chorus of "Rehab," since they like it when I emphasize England (I don't think they realize that I didn't know what "pants" meant in England until recently, or that a bollock is an actual thing. I'm really not an expert). It's like asking them to teach me about Québec. Fuck if they know anything about those separatists, right? Same deal.
Anyway, I will solider on. When I got home, it looked like a tornado had ripped through my apartment. And actually, that's kind of what happened. Aside from leaving my raincoat at home, my #2 dumbass achievement of the day was not locking one of my windows (the one above my bed) before I left. When I walked in, the thing was wide open and there half the things on my nightstand had blown off, including about 200 flashcards. There was a puddle under the window, and my poor cat was freezing. In fact he spent the rest of the night spooning my leg under the covers. However this assuages my fear that he will jump out the window if given the chance -- it was probably open for 5 or 6 hours and he's still alive. I really can't wait for this hellish weather to pass. Clouds, rain, and cold are one thing -- but things like hail and hurricane winds are way over the top.
As far as classes, it wasn't that bad. A couple times I had to sip some water because the yelling was making my voice crack, but I think the kids got their energy out over break. I'm almost finished with the textbook thing I've used to teach them (which I'm not even sure is an ideal method, but it's just not French to tell me what they want me to use) and I'm glad because soon it's going to be all speaking, all the time. It's more work for me but it's better for the kids and keeps them more entertained. The little ones always want to sing songs, which is good for them but I can't help but feel like a giant dork. When I was in French classes I hated singing songs. Godfrey used to make us sing along to Notre Dame de Paris and I just couldn't control myself. The one hit was a Carla Bruni song, so maybe playing some popular music would work better. I could make them sing The Beatles or *NSYNC or something (haha). Or maybe a nice, resounding chorus of "Rehab," since they like it when I emphasize England (I don't think they realize that I didn't know what "pants" meant in England until recently, or that a bollock is an actual thing. I'm really not an expert). It's like asking them to teach me about Québec. Fuck if they know anything about those separatists, right? Same deal.
Anyway, I will solider on. When I got home, it looked like a tornado had ripped through my apartment. And actually, that's kind of what happened. Aside from leaving my raincoat at home, my #2 dumbass achievement of the day was not locking one of my windows (the one above my bed) before I left. When I walked in, the thing was wide open and there half the things on my nightstand had blown off, including about 200 flashcards. There was a puddle under the window, and my poor cat was freezing. In fact he spent the rest of the night spooning my leg under the covers. However this assuages my fear that he will jump out the window if given the chance -- it was probably open for 5 or 6 hours and he's still alive. I really can't wait for this hellish weather to pass. Clouds, rain, and cold are one thing -- but things like hail and hurricane winds are way over the top.
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