All Saints Day in Milan

November 1 in Milan
Thursday morning we woke up significantly refreshed, despite the hard beds and stiff pillows. Because we had reservations to stay in Como on Friday night, we thought we should go check and see how we were going to get there. So the first thing we did was head to the train station where the trains to Como leave from. We checked on their schedule and determined that a train leaves about every half hour and it didn’t appear like you needed a reservation or ticket in advance. Outside the station was a tent of books and me, being the bibliophile that I am, of course I had to check it out. They were all in Italian of course, but I managed to find a copy of “I Promessi Sposi” by Manzoni which the guide book kept mentioning was the most famous book written about Milan. It was a cheap version, but i thought it a fun souvenir, so I grabbed that (and paid at the register without the guy catching on that I wasn’t Italian and switching to English!).

From there we headed to the castle. Castello Sforzesco is not as majestic and beautiful as the ones I’ve seen in other parts of Europe, but it was old (built in the 1400s) and important and one of the things on the Milan’s Top 10 list. The fog hadn’t burned off yet so it was chilly wandering around the compound. There were about 8 different museums housed in the castle. We opted for the archeological one and the decorative arts. Since I’m not on a study abroad program this time I haven’t been dragged around to 87 museums all showing “significant”, if only slightly varied, works of Renaissance artists and unknown medieval sculptors. That made me able to appreciate this museum more. It was really quite interesting with pieces of stonework from the 8th century and sculptures from the 12th, etc. (Old stuff makes me excited.) But the coolest thing in the museum was a room painted by Leonardo DaVinci. The walls are covered but you can see the ceiling which is just plain neat. The room was painted like a forest so the ceiling is covered in tree branches that are all intertwined with celtic gold braid patterns. It is of course faded with the years and had been painted over at one point, but the detail is really amazing. Little birds and flowers and vines everywhere. If you looked at it you would never guess that it was done by daVinci. Anyway, we sat in there staring at the ceiling for a good 15 mins, and then enjoyed goofing off in the rest of the museum, mimicking statues and posing with suits of armor. The museum also houses Michelangelo’s last sculpture “Rodanini Pieta” and Leonardo da Vinici’s “Codex Trivulzianus” manuscript. From there we walked out the back of the castle and through the autumn tinted park behind it to the Arche de Pace. It was....under renovation of course! Only half of it was covered with scaffolding. We stood there for a few seconds and Andrea said- that looks like the Arc de Triomphe, like they copied it. It looked in the guide book: The Arco della Pace was commissioned by Napoleon to celebrate his triumphant victory and entry into the city, but it wasn’t even finished when Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo so it was instead dedicated to the European Peace reached in 1815. It’s smaller and not nearly as impressive as the Arc de Triumph but remarkably similar.

We strolled back to the main center of town and stopped at a sidewalk café for lunch where we both had pizza. Italian pizza is good, but it bears no resemblance to anything served in the US. Fast food has ruined my ability to appreciate fine cuisine I am afraid. I would have taken a nice hand-tossed Dominoes pepperoni pizza in exchange for my thin hard Italian one. What can I say? I’m a simple girl. After our repast, we went to the La Scala opera house to go through the museum of opera. Neither of us really cared that much about the museum, but it offered a view of the opera house interior from a balcony and we both really wanted to see that. I’m sure the museum would have been very interesting to someone who knew anything about opera, but the parts we liked the best were a display of fancy costume dresses. The interior of the opera house is basically the stereotype of what you imagine the inside of a grand theater to look like. Plush red velvet, gold accents, cream walls. It was huge and highly impressive. I can understand why seeing a performance there is such a big deal.

From there we went to St. Ambrose’s Basilica. Basilica Sant’Ambrogio is one of the most ancient churches in Italy, and was originally built by Bishop Abrose in 379-386 and took on it’s current facade in 1099. It was built over the site of the palace where Emperor Constantine issued his famous Edict in 313 granting early Christians the right to freely practice their religion. The church was interesting because of it’s long history, but the best part of the whole thing was that back behind the alter in an basement/anteroom type thing, they have the remains of Saint Ambrogio, as well as his disciples Gervase and Protase. And not only do they have them, they are on display. That’s right, being concealed in a stone tomb isn’t enough. So they have their skeletons in full pontifical attire laid out in glass cases. They have shoes and crowns and robes. It’s really strange. Normally you can just see it looking down from a window, but I happened to arrive back there right as the priest was giving a tour to some schoolboys and their dads, so he unlocked the gate so that they could walk around and get a better look, and he let the rest of us down there go through as well. It was just plain strange. For the record, if you ever decide to put my skeleton on display, jeans and a t-shirt is fine by me. I’d rather be comfortable if I’m gonna have to lay there with people staring at me. I think casual clothes would put people more at ease. But anything is fine as long as it doesn’t make me look fat.

We walked to the church where DaVinci’s The Lord’s Supper is housed. Sainta-Maria delle Grazie which was built in the 1400s.

Andrea and I both wanted to see the square where Mussolini’s body was hung. It was mentioned briefly in her guidebook but we couldn’t find it on any maps and the guidebook didn’t tell you where it was or how to get there. I thought I found it on the map. Piazzale Lorenzo. So we go traipsing across the city out to this square in a rundown part of town. And we’re looking and looking but don’t see any monument or plaque. And we start thinking maybe it’s not the right square. So we look in the guide book. Guess who memorized the wrong italian word? We were supposed to be in Piazzale Loreto, not Lorenzo. Goood job Lyndsey. I had to laugh though because this kind of thing runs in my family. My mom and my grandparents and I once took a road trip from Northwest Arkansas to Niagara falls and along the way we stopped at a lot of famous landmarks and somehow kept ended up in the wrong place. We couldn’t figure out why no one at the Eerie Canal visitor center knew the Eerie Canal song. About 10 miles down the road we got around to singing the rest of the song “from Albany to Buffallo-o” and realized that we had just stopped at the Eerie-Ohio Canal and not the real Eerie Canal in NY. And then we drove down a long dirt road to the “Lincoln family farm” only to find out, it wasn’t the log cabin where Lincoln grew up, but in fact, the farm that he bought for his parents once he was a grown man. It’s claim to fame? He visited them there at least once. Oh my. When we got to Niagara we double checked to make sure we were seeing the actual Niagara Falls and not something closely related.

Anyway, we finally found the correct Mussolini square. On the exact opposite side of the city from where I had taken us earlier. :-) As soon as we stepped off the metro it became obvious why the guidebooks and maps failed to tell you where it was. There’s nothing to see. We emerged at dusk into a busy modern city square surrounded by glass high-rises and financial buildings. Surely there must be a plaque or a monument or something to mark the historic moment?! Nope. There’s nothing on the square that remains from the days of the war. I assume the city was heavily damaged and so they found it easier to tear down and build new than to try to preserve the remnants of the past. I guess it makes sense. I can see how the Italian people would not want any reminders of that horrible period of their history. But still, I would think a plaque or something would be in order. After Mussolini was caught trying to sneak out of Italy disguised as a Nazi foot soldier up by Lake Como, he and his girlfriend were shot and their bodies were brought back to Milan with several other high-ranking government officials’ and were hung upside down from the awning of an Esso gas station in front of a mob of people who proceeded to basically treat their bodies like piñatas. I had never thought about it but Mussolini had a wife and kids and grandkids and they still live in Italy. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have a family member that is so hated by so many people. What shocked me is that his granddaughter is actually in politics now. Ironically, she founded some neo-fascist party and managed to get elected to the European Parliament. I have to think that if Mussolini was your grandpa, you might not want to go around promoting modern day fascism. Just a thought. I can’t believe that modern day Italians would tolerate fascism. Talk about not learning from history. Yeah, anyway Alessandra Mussolini (whose Aunt is Sophia Loren) is evidently quite proud of her heritage and fought a legal battle to add her maiden name to her kids last names. Go figure.

It was dark when we left Mussolini’s square, but it was still early evening, and as we had gone to bed so early the night before, we decided we didn’t want to do that again. Most of the tourist attractions were closing so we decided to do a bit of shopping for “Milanish” fashions as Andrea decided all things from Milan should be called. Milanese just doesn’t sound right. It was kind of funny because we didn’t really go in any stores we couldn’t have gone to in Paris, but buying stuff in Italy gives you the chance to say “Oh yes, I picked this up in Milan” which is basically the whole reason to buy anything overseas. We shopped til we were ready to drop. Neither of us were starving and we were both pretty tired (can you blame us? Look at all the stuff we did in one day!) so we opted for our daily gelato in place of dinner (I had mango and coconut. It got 2 thumbs up.) and headed back to the hostel. We got ready for bed and turned on some MTV since it was the only channel we could understand, and watched some of the MTV’s European Music awards hosted by Snoop Dog in Munich. About 10 minutes into the show, Snoop does a costume change and comes out in.... lederhosen. Seriously. Unless you’ve seen it, it’s really hard to wrap your mind around Snoop Dog wearing full-on German folk attire. Wow. He added an urban jacket, but he sported the lederhosen for the rest of the show (at least as long as we watched which wasn’t all that long). And that, my friends, was day 2 in Italy.

A European Halloween

Tuesday I had to get up early to finish my french assignment that wasn’t due until Saturday, but I knew that was my only time to get it finished. I went to class, come home, finished my french assignment, cleaned the apartment well, decorated a bit more, ran to the store to get ood for the party, and came home to start getting things ready. Cassie came over early after she got done with class to help me prepare foods. I decided to go with the most American foods I could find. We had cocktail wieners, veggies with ranch dip, chips, and our homemade pizza cut into bites, and “Western” potato wedges with “bacon flavor”, and of course Halloween candy. Cassie and Carly were awesome and got a wonderfully delicious chocolate-mousse cake. I blew out a votive stuck on top- lol. Had about 16 people all together at the party and I’m very thankful to all my great friends who helped me celebrate. It was a good time just hanging out with friends, and of course, what’s more festive than a good debate about international relations theory and nuclear proliferation? That’s what happens when you get too many ScPo students in a room together. I hope my neighbors didn’t mind the added noise for one night. Andrea was spending the night because we needed to leave at about 5 to get to CDG to catch our flight the next morning. And since we had an early day, everyone left before it got too late.

I, of course, hadn’t had time to pack yet. So after everyone left, I did a hasty cleaning of the apartment and threw a bunch of stuff in a suitcase. It was about 1:30 before we got to bed. I set the alarm for 4:15. That was NOT fun. We got up and dressed in the dark and cold and headed for the metros at 5. Now, I thought the metros opened at 5. I’ve always thought that, but never had an opportunity to test that fact. So we walk up to the metro strop closest to me, and the gate is still locked over the entrance. Wa??? We groaned and looked at each other. That’s when this dark skinned, thuggish looking kid who had been leaning against the metro entrance sign (and who I’d been watching surreptitiously as we approached) surprised us by asking in an American accent. “Do you speak English?” We were both so shocked that neither of us answered and the kid must have thought we didn’t understand. “Are you French?” Um... no, we’re American, Andrea told him hesitantly. “Do you know what time the metro opens?” Well it should be open now, I said looking at my watch that read 5:15. I guess we can wait? Any of you who have ever traveled with me know that I am a worrier. I am always worried about missing a flight, getting lost, getting stuff stolen, etc. etc. etc. so I want to be safe and not sorry, so feel like I need to be there crazy early for everything. We weren’t going to be late, but since neither of us had ever flown from terminal 3 at CDG, we didn’t know what to expect or how long it might take. I was worried about time and not really wanting to stand on the street at 5 am in north Paris, so I was all about finding an open metro. It occurred to me that maybe the next stop up the line might be open since it was a more major stop. “I’m on my way to meet a friend at the airport” our strange American said. “Where are you headed?” Same. “Oh good! I don’t really know how to get there. I just know it’s on the RER- B. I’m really glad I ran into you guys. I’ll just follow you.” Oh goody. He was about our age, not real big, but he was dressed very, uh...urban? I don’t know how to describe it, but baggy jeans, a leather jacket and a shirt unbuttoned most of the way. Not really your first choice of random people to hang out with, but to be honest, while I was still wary of him, I was glad to have him with us. We decided to walk to the next metro station in hopes that it would be open. That part of town isn’t dangerous, but it is a little sleazy, and at 5am there is no one out but people with early travel plans, and people who haven’t been home at all yet. In all probability that short walk with the 2 of us likely wouldn’t have been a problem, but I was quite thankful to have our male companion tagging along. When we got to the next station (open!) and got down to the platform, I was really thanking the Lord for sending a guy to stand with us while we waited 20 minutes with some “unsavories” for the first metro of the day. And when we had to go catch the RER at Gare du Nord which is a rough part of town. I got the impression that our friend probably couldn’t have done much to protect us if anyone tried anything, but I figured the deterrent would be more than sufficient.

I never learned his name, and he never asked ours but we chatted the entire way to CDG (much to Andrea’s annoyance- lol. “He just wouldn’t be quiet!”) He was Hawaiian, living in Paris for a month while visiting a friend and checking out art schools, and doing something that had to do with his family’s Bed-n-Breakfast back in Hawaii. He was certainly an interesting character. He was checking the internet to look up his friend’s flight info on his iPhone and telling about his hunt for American food. He was going to terminal 2 and we were at terminal 3, so we left him on the RER and said our goodbyes. Maybe it was just my inherited “weird person magnet” working overtime, or maybe it was some divine protection for two girls on their early morning trek to the airport, but as weird as he was, I’m thankful that he accompanied us.

It was cold in Paris, but it was even colder out of the city. We got off the RER and had to walk outside for 5 minutes to get to terminal 3 because, of course, the French can’t connect their terminals in a logical way! So we walk through the cold and arrive at a big building that was almost like a warehouse. So THIS is the other side of CDG. It’s a night and day difference. None of the frills of the international terminals, terminal 3 is for budget airlines. Check-in was surprisingly simple, and then we went and got some pastries from the snack bar and a french fashion magazine for the flight and went and hung out by the gate until time for boarding. We were flying EasyJet which, has non-numbered tickets, so it’s strictly first-come-first-serve as far as seats. And, you can’t just line up at the door and go get on the plane. You line up at the door and then get on a bus and then that takes you to the plane and then you go get on it. We get wedged into our seats and it isn’t long before Andrea is dozing against the window. The flight wasn’t a long one and I figured going to sleep would probably just make me more tired, so I decided to stay up and read the guide book and my magazine. Flying to Milan from Paris may be the only direct flight I’ve ever had in my life. It’s crazy to me that you can get from Paris to Italy as easily as flying from Daytona to Atlanta. And the flight attendants were trilingual. We arrived in Milan and got off the plane, took another bus to the terminal, and claimed our baggage and located the office to buy a ticket for the shuttle bus that takes you into the city. Milan-Malpensa is located almost an hour from the city center, but they have buses running every 20 mins, so it’s not real inconvenient.

The bus took us to the central train station in Milan, and then we were on our own. I had the directions to our hostel that I copied down from the website. After some wandering around we found a metro station, managed to buy a 48 hour transit pass, and find the right line. There are only 3 metro lines in Milan and not nearly as convenient as those in Paris. We take the metro to the designated stop and then we get off to find the tram we are to take. We find the right number but it seems to be headed in the opposite direction the best we can tell. Some general confusion and wandering around later, we find a stop to go the correct direction. The only problem is that the stop that my directions said to get off at, well there were 8 stops with that name. Seriously, they were all hyphenated and the first word was the same, and all mine said was the first word. My directions did say to go 6 stops. So I’m counting, and we get to the 6th one and get off. I was unsure because “go 6 stops” could mean, go get off at the 6th stop, or go past 6 stops and get off at the 7th. So we get off and can tell by the numbers on the buildings that we were not real close to where we wanted to be. So we walk a good 5-10 mins down this street hauling our bags and finally find the little building where our hostel is located...and 50 yards down from it, another tram stop. Clearly we were supposed to pass 6 stops. Oh well, we made it. Only one problem. There is a gate and it is locked. Not really sure what to do so I press the intercom button and hope for the best.
“Bongiorno”
“Bongiorno. Inglese, per favore?”
“Que? Do you speak English?”
“Yes!”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, the gate is unlocked.”
So I was thinking that I had successfully communicated in Italian.
A young girl met us at the door.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
“Can I ask you, what language were you speaking before?”
haahahah yes, that’s right. Apparently my Italian is not understandable. I apologized and explained that it was probably a cross between French, English, and Spanish. The hostel was nice and clean. We had a private room, only the bathrooms were shared. And there was a computer with free internet in the lobby area which was quite nice. We were tired but knew if we sat down we’d probably never get up again. So we dropped our stuff and headed back to the city center.

My first view of the Duomo was pretty impressive. It had scaffolding on the lower portion (like everything in Europe!) but the impressive spires were on full display. But more about that in a minute. It was lunch time so we decided to find a place to eat.
Me: What are you in the mood for?
Andrea: Italian food!
Me: We’re in Italy....it’s ALL Italian food.
Andrea: I know, I want Italian Italian food!

We found a cafe in the famous covered galleria shopping area and had our first Italian meal. After our repast, we headed to the big tourist attraction- the Duomo. Impressive from the inside, but stunning from the outside. If you know me, you know I am a sucker for ornate architecture and old buildings. I absolutely love the Duomo. Soooo cool. You can probably tell I’m a fan if you look at my pictures cause there are like 400 pics of it from various angles. Up on the roof of the Duomo the sun was so nice and warm. We stretched out on the slanted roof tiles and enjoyed the warmth. There were quite a few people just sitting up there and enjoying the day. It was pretty awesome, and a nice change from the Paris cold. We spent a good amount of time up top climbing around and taking pictures until the sun started to get low making it feel like it was much later in the day than it was. We decided it was time for some gelato. (Chocolate hazelnut and frutti di bosco for me). And after we finished our ice cream and walked around a bit more we decided we were both exhausted and should head back to the hostel. It was only about 5 or 6 when we arrived but fatigue overcame us and we fell asleep fully clothed on top of the sheets. Three hours later we woke up from our little “nap”. We were both too tired to really care about dinner, so we checked our email, ate some Prince cookies, and watched MTV because it was the only English channel on the TV. We went to sleep about 10. It was an anticlimactic end to my birthday, but I can’t complain since I got to be in Paris and Milan on my day. And that, my friends, is how I spent my twenty-second birthday!

Now it begins...

Friday I did laundry at the laundromat. I went to the closest one to me, and since it was a weekday, I had the place to myself. I lugged my overflowing laundry bag down the 6 flights of stairs and down the block while also carrying a bag with my laptop and other stuff i needed to study. Now I’m not a fan of laundromats in the US, but they are even worse in Paris. Like everything else in Europe, they are small. We’re talking like fisher-price sized little washing machines. This particular laundromat advertised one “giant capacity” washer. Size is relative because their “giant” sized one is basically the same size as the average American one. I opt for that one. I sat down there in the tiny laundromat using the folding table as a desk and drinking tea out of my travel mug. Laundry at home is the chore I mind the least, but here it is painful when you have to pay so much.

Saturday I spent most of the day working on my presentation “NGOs and the EU”. I took a break in the evening though, for some time with friends. Glenn, my Singaporean friend, lives with the Brian Kirby, my pastor here, and his wife Denise and little girl Annalise. The Kirby’s were stateside for the week, so Glenn wanted to organize a hangout evening in honor of our friend Sarah whose time in Paris was coming to an end. Andrea volunteered to make an attempt at mexican food and it was pretty good despite the improvisation. It was a fun night to just relax with friends and play a little Taboo, which is always entertaining, especially when not everyone is a native english speaker.

Sunday my partner Loren was to come over at 5 to practice our presentation, so I spent the afternoon working really hard on my half, and cleaning up. I even turned the heat on for the first time because I didn’t want to freeze my guest to death. (I had been putting off turning on the heat as long as possible since it hadn’t been reeeeally cold yet, and when you wear a fleece bathrobe and wrap up in a blanket it’s plenty warm-lol) Working with Loren actually wasn’t bad. It was basically the same kind of conversation you’d have with an American student you don’t know very well.
“Wow that’s a lot of steps up to your apartment. No elevator?”
“Nope. You should have seen me trying to get my huge suitcases up those stairs by myself.”
“By yourself?! And the first flight is completely crooked.”
“I know, I have a near-death experience weekly. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Just some water, thanks. This is a great apartment. So much nicer than most students. If you don’t mind, how much do you pay?”
You know, typical stuff, but with less smiling and laughing than most American interactions.
We decided to run through our presentation. Loren had the benefit of it being her native language so she could just use notes and freely talk about the topic. I, on the other hand, was stuck reading mine word for word from the paper. We ran through it once and I asked if she understood me or had some things to correct. She volunteered to go through my entire (about 10 minute) presentation and fix the French mistakes. How awesome is that?! She sat there for 20 minutes going “see this sentence doesn’t make sense in French, what are you trying to say?” When you try to do a presentation on something academic, it’s when you realize the limitations of translating sometimes. Certain words just do not have an equivalent in another language. I was trying to use the word “constituency” and I had looked it up and used what the dictionary listed as the translation.
Loren looked at me, “I don’t think this is the word you meant to use.”
Yes, I said, I want to talk about the people who are represented by each representative. The people who vote for them.
“Oh, then you say ‘citizens’. Is that what you mean?”
No, that doesn’t mean exactly the same thing. In english ‘constituent’ is more specific than ‘citizen’. Is there no word like that?
“I don’t think so...”
And so I wrote about European representatives being more removed from their “citizens” than national representatives. Close enough.

We ran through the presentation again, and halfway through, Andrea called. She was supposed to come over that evening as well to make plans for our trip to Italy for the end of the week, and I had told her I’d probably be done by 6 since I thought we’d only just run through it a couple times. I didn't’ foresee the editing and the discussion or Loren wanting to practice 4 times. I didn’t mind the extra work on it of course, because I need all the help I can get. But Andrea didn’t have anything to do in the city since it was Sunday night and everything was closed, so I told her to come on over and she could just hang out til we finished.
Andrea got there as we were finishing our last run-through. Loren and I finished up. She had prepared the outline that we have to pass out to all the students in the class to follow along with, all I had to do was add my notes. And print it. The problem being, I don’t have a printer at home and with our class starting at 8, we weren’t sure what time the computer rooms open at school to print it off. I suggested that I could run by a friend’s apartment to get at least one copy printed and then just run-off copies before class the next day. The problem being that the only friend I know in the city with a printer, lives on the other side of town.

Anyway, Loren left and Andrea and I got down to planning our trip. She had booked the plane tickets to Milan the day before, and now we had to find places to stay and figure out where all we wanted to go. We spent an hour or so looking at hostels online and when we had finally made the decision on which nights we wanted to spend where, Andrea had to run to catch the RER and get back out to Rueil, so I was left to book the hotels. Once that was taken care of, then I had to add in my notes to the outline. That took a while, and then I needed to print. I sent a text to my friend with a printer, hoping she would take pity on me. Not a problem. So at 10:30 at night I hopped on the metro and traversed the city to show up and print out 5 pieces of paper. We chatted a bit before I traipsed home. I had wanted to practice my part some more and maybe get to where I could do parts without the paper, but by the time I got home I was just so tired that I couldn’t make my brain function anymore.

The next morning came way too soon. It was still dark and cold and I could hear the rain drumming against the roof. Not a situation very conducive for getting up out of a soft, warm bed. I got dressed, put on my waterproof winter boots, and headed to school a good 30 mins earlier than I normally do, because I need to make the copies for the class and I didn’t know how crowded it might be or how long it might take. I arrived at ScPo at 7:20 and....it was locked. Seriously? I’m standing there in the cold rain and it’s barely light out, and I can see the little concierge guys running around in there, but they won’t open the door! And then I noticed two other international students from my class huddled in a doorway. They also had their presentation that morning and need to make copies. We stood looking forlornly at the barred doors and the warm light spilling out on the wet sidewalk. The computer room was supposed to be open at 7:25 I had learned so why were we still standing outside getting soaked? Finally one of the concierges noticed us and took pity and let us in even though they weren’t “ready” yet. Ready? Who cares! Open the door!
So I head for the copy room and...both copiers out of order. Great. Got to go to the computer room, pull up copies of the presentation that I emailed to myself and print out 25 copies. At least that worked out alright. I made it to class at 7:50 with papers in hand and as ready as I could have been for the presentation.

I was nervous, but knowing I could read it made it less nerve-wracking. I’d like to say that I’m just so good at French that once I got up there and started talking I realized I didn’t need my paper and did it just as fluidly as I would have done in English. I’d like to say that, but I can’t. I read every word from the paper. But, in my experience, better read and understandable, than incoherent free-speaking. All I was hoping was that people wouldn’t ask too many questions, or at least none that Loren couldn’t answer. I don’t know how I did, he didn’t give us our grades, but I was soo relieved to have it over, and a couple of the international students said I did a really good job, although they might have just been being polite. Loren and I sat back down and looked at each other and both made our phew!-glad that’s-over-with faces and smiled.

I headed home right afterwards in the rain. I arrived home tired, cold, and wet. I decided that after a week of stress about that presentation I deserved a break. So I got back into my PJs, made some hot chocolate, climbed into my nice warm bed, and watched a recently downloaded episode of Grey’s Anatomy while the rain tapped against the windows.

I had invited a bunch of people over for a Halloween/birthday soirée on Tuesday night, since Andrea and I were leaving for Italy early in the morning of the 31st. I took Monday afternoon to decorate for the gathering. I had Halloweeny decorations thanks to my mom who sent some fabric and odds and ends, and birthday decorations thanks to Carolyn who mailed me a “birthday in a bag”. And to that I added some festive fall colors and homemade decorations.

That evening I journeyed back out into the damp city to go to climbing class. It was a pretty exciting evening because I got to lead climb for the first time ever. There is definitely different schools of thought about climbing and of course, everyone thinks their own is the best. I may not agree with the lack of crash pads and mats under the climbing walls (just concrete floors!) and I may find it weird that they don’t make you do the whole “On belay? Belay on. Climbing? Climb on.” thing or that my way of belaying isn’t “safe” according to them, but I do like our teacher’s mindset that it is important for people to learn to lead climb as soon as possible, even if they aren’t great technical climbers. I have always wanted to lead climb but in most of the gyms back home you have to climb a certain higher-rated route perfectly and then take a class to learn how. Our instructor just picked an easy wall, showed us the basics and the safety precautions and said “go for it”. I thought it would be scarier than it was. I think it’s because I’ve been climbing so much and I’ve just gotten comfortable trusting the ropes and such and am more confident in my own abilities as a climber. Anyway, my first time up I followed a route and made it all the way to the top. I got down and my climbing instructor came over to me and asked if that was my first time climbing lead. “Really? I was watching you and you did really well.” I’m a sucker for a compliment so that totally made my day.

I wish that I could say that after a stressful week I was able to go home and relax. It was, unfortunately, just the beginning of what turned out to be an even more hectic week.

ScPo Woes

Wednesday found me sitting at a long table in the Petit Salon at ScPo. It’s an open hall off the main entryway where they hold functions or exhibits, but usually have space set up for students to work or hangout or whatever. I was sitting right under a bronzed plaque set in marble of Emile Boutmy “Fondateur et directeur de l’école 1871-1906” (Founder and director of the school). The rest of the walls have similar memorials hanging on them to commemorate the men who were responsible for the school back when it was originally created as the “Ecole Libre des Sciences Politiques” in the 1870s. Ironically, since I’m in a country that prides itself for its long glorious history and considers the U.S. a “young” nation, the University of Florida is older.

I was sitting in there because I had arranged to meet with my partner for the oral presentation required by my NGOs in International Relations class. I was both relieved and worried about having a partner who is French. On one hand, having a native speaker is a great advantage, but we had been warned about the coldness of the French students and there is always the possibility for it being awkward and stressful. As it turned out though, my partner seems very nice, which is god because we made plans for her to come over on Sunday night to practice our presentation before we did it for the class Monday morning. I’m excited about having my first french student visitor to my apartment! Her name is Loren and she’s from just outside of Paris and it’s her first semester at Sciences Po, so this is her first oral as well as mine. She had already made an outline for the presentation and done all the organizational stuff herself which was wonderful because it would have taken me hours to figure out on my own.

One of my classes, Intro to the Arab World, is a “major” french class which means it has a lecture section and the discussion section, much like the system for big lecture classes in the US. I had been going to the lecture section these past 3 weeks, but my discussion section had been canceled 3 weeks running. So finally we get an email from the secretariat saying that we will be having class this Thursday. I’m a little frustrated because everyone else is already doing presentations and book reports and essays and our class doesn’t even know what is going on. So I go to class and we’re all sitting there when the head of the secretariate comes in. She tells us that the professor who was supposed to teach our class has been having some serious health issues. He thought he would be well enough to teach this semester and so they just cancelled class the first few weeks, but his doctor now says he can’t work right now. So long story short, he’s not our teacher anymore, and instead, they got a professor who was already teaching another discussion section for this class to take ours on as well and he will be here shortly and not to worry because the people at ScPo know the situation and understand. Ooookay. A few minutes later, in walks M. El Oifi. He took one look around the room, said it was too small and went to get one of the concierges to find us a new room. We relocated next door and M. Oifi started speaking.

Oh brother.

Not only does he talk 90 miles a minute, but he his pronunciation is very thick and mumbled, tinged with an arabic accent. My French business professor at UF talked ridiculously fast about stuff I wouldn’t have understood in English, which greatly helped to prepare me for this semester of lectures and people speaking fast. However, my ability to understand drops off quickly when it’s not spoken in a crisp Parisian accent. He just started talking and I had no idea what he was saying for the first 5 mins of the class. I was just getting to where I could decipher his words when this loud noise starts beeping. Everyone looks at each other. “Is that the fire alarm?” the professor asks. We all sit there, unsure of whether we are supposed to leave or not, when one of the little concierge guys runs into the room. “What are you doing?! It’s a fire alarm! Get out! Don’t take your stuff, GO!” Well call me foolhardy, but it’s 40 degrees outside, I’m not about to go stand out in the cold for who-knows-how-long without a jacket. So we all grab our stuff and follow a couple other classes out the emergency exits to stand on the street. It’s 10:30 in the morning and there are about 60 ScPo students and 3 professors standing out on the swanky boulevard Saint Germain in the cold. We don’t know if it is an electrical problem, or a drill, or if the building we are standing next to is actually on fire. All I know, is a fire alarm 10 mins into the class that has been cancelled for 3 weeks, well, that’s gotta be a sign that this class should not take place.

We stood outside for about 10 mins and then they told us to go back inside. I dunno what the deal was, but anyway, our class finally got underway. By the end of the class I was ready to cry. I had been thinking I didn’t have a lot of work this semester, but this one class has more work for it than for all my other classes put together. A 7 page paper, a 10 minute oral, a book report, a midterm, and a 4 hour essay final. All in French, and all about a subject I have virtually no background in and can barely understand the teacher. AND, because it was cancelled for 3 weeks and we have to make up the time, we are going to have three 2-hour makeup classes later in the semester. It was NOT a good day.

Paris Casts Its Spell

(written mid-October)

Right now is one of those picture perfect Paris moments (minus my running nose). I was burnt out after being up late/early to finish my french paper and being sick, so after class I decided I should do something to make my day better, and so I headed to one of my favorite places in Paris- Ile St. Louis. At the moment, I am sitting down on the quay at the base of the island. My bare feet are dangling down the slanted stone wall, against which, several feet below, the Seine laps lazily. Tiny waves from passing tour boats and barges splash against the moss-slick wall. The trees on the quay have the first touch of fall and the faint breeze sends yellow leaves swirling down around me to land gently in the dark waters of the river. It’s late afternoon but the autumn sun has made it unseasonably warm and bright.

I have a superb view of Ile de la Cité and the buttresses of Notre Dame. A few guys just down the wall from me are having an impromptu chill session with their guitars. They’re playing Jack Johnson and old American stuff that is interrupted every so-often by the bells of the cathedral. My lips are a lovely shade of purple because I just finished some cassis gelato. For the life of me I can’t remember what the English translation of “cassis” is, but it’s a berry, and I don’t think it’s one I encounter often at home or I would know the word. *

There is an old man in suspenders with no shirt and his pants rolled up sunning himself while nearby seagulls dive for their dinner. Nelson, a once-white puffball of a dog, came to sit with me and watch the sun slip lower in the sky until his owner called him further down the quay. The sun marks a path of quicksilver across the water to my feet that is so bright it hurts my eyes and makes everything else seem dim. And that reminds me of a song so I start to hum, “and the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of His mercy and grace...”

Anyway, I know my descriptions can’t do justice to this moment, and even if I had my camera in my purse, it wouldn’t suffice to capture the feel of this place. It’s a moment that seems to suspend itself in time. It almost makes you sad because you know it will never be just like this again. The sun will set, the leaves will fall, and another day it will wonderful, but it will not be the same. But in this seemingly eternal moment, it is here. Life and time. Passing under your feet in the swirling waters of the Seine.

I hope someday you get a chance to see this city. And I hope that when you do, there is a moment like this where you want to do nothing but sit and exist in this place and feel the city whisper around you. It is in experiences like this that Paris concocts its magic. Eventually the moment will pass, even the memory will fade, but the spell is never really broken.

*FYI: I looked it up. Cassis translates to blackcurrant.
**And you should know that I wrote this whole thing spelling “quay” as “quai” and almost got mad at spell-check when it told me it was wrong, and then I said- oh wait, that’s French. Never mind. Thanks spell-check!

weekend o' sports

Amadeo, my french friend from Emmanuel is a tennis instructor and can take anyone who wants to to go play tennis at the courts where he teaches. I hadn’t been able to go the times before because it takes so long to get out to Rueil, but my Saturday (Oct. 20) was fairly open and it sounded like a nice way to pass the afternoon. I met up with Sarah A and we took the bus out to Rueil to meet Andrea and Amadeo for some tennis. Now the last time I was in Paris I did no sports. No physical activity. Nothing. So I did not pack for it this time around. And of course now I am in a rock climbing class and going to play tennis with friends and don’t have appropriate clothes. So I was wearing my lounge pants, a long-sleeve T, and my non-athletic sneakers. Amadeo took one look at me and said, “That’s what you wear to play tennis?” Yes, that is what I wear to play tennis in France when I packed nothing athletic!
Anyway, poor Amadeo. He’s a great tennis player stuck with 3 girls who, let’s say, are less than pros. But he was a good sport about it, and taught us how to do things properly.

That was the day I discovered that I have never played tennis with a full serve in my life. I also discovered there is a reason for that: I stink at serving. Seriously. I’m moderately athletic, but this is something that falls outside of my skill range. Once the serve was over I wasn’t too bad, but on games when it was my serve, other people didn’t get to touch the ball much...and the games were over reeeal fast. We played in one of those white tent domey things where if you leave the door open it’ll collapse. And it was chilly in there, but we had fun and it was good exercise. We played for two hours and then Amadeo made us have a play-off between the three of us at the end (drop serves not real ones!) and I’m proud to say I won, although I don’t think it was a result of talent.

That night was the Rugby World Cup Finals: England v. South Africa. I wanted South Africa just because English rugby fans are jerks. Basically the same reason I don’t like LSU. Some of the girls were going to get together to watch it. English rugby fans were everywhere that day in strange outfits. On the metro on the way down to meet the girls I was standing next to a group of young guys and a girl and they were already well into their bottles of wine and being really obnoxious. One of them wanted to ask me a question and have me weigh in on their inappropriate conversation but he didn’t know what language I spoke, so he proceeded to attempt to ask me in about 4 languages if I spoke English. I emphasize the word “attempted”. I stared back blankly and shrugged my shoulders. Pretending not to speak English is pretty entertaining because then people think they can say whatever they want because you don’t understand. Anyway, the rugby match was at least more exciting than the semi-finals, and South Africa won, and I only felt bad for Johnny Wilkinson (leader of the English team) because he’s just so pretty.

Sunday was a lovely day. The fall sun took the chill out of the air. After church we wanted to get something to eat, but instead of going out, a guy from church volunteered to cook if someone would run to the market. So the young adults all stayed and cooked lunch in the church kitchen. And since it was so nice, we set up tables out in the courtyard and had a very tasty lunch out in the bright autumn sun. It was really a pleasant afternoon. I thought that an afternoon couldn’t be any nicer, but I would be proved wrong later in the week.
Ciao!

When life hands you transit strikes...make pizza!

Back in October, while everyone at home was enjoying America’s National Pastime and watching the Red Sox win the World Series, the French were enjoying their own National Pastime...striking. Yes that’s right. America has baseball, France has social protest. And like all good sports, there are rules. (As much as I supported the concept, I think the stunningly rapid failure of the XFL proved conclusively that you lose something when there are no rules to the game...) The unions have to give a heads-up to the government that they are going to strike, so at least you know about it in advance and can somewhat prepare for it. I enjoyed listening to some of the first-timers at school talk in anxious/excited tones about the impending strike and the rumors and what would happen to the city without the metro. To Parisians, and anyone who has ever been a temporary Parisian, strikes are just a fact of life. They illicit exasperated sighs, rolled eyes, and a multitude of other gestures that are so French they are hard to describe to someone who has never seen them, but they don’t cause surprise or confusion. As I told some of the students during the methodology course in September when everyone was new to Paris: if you spend any significant amount of time in Paris you will experience a strike. It isn’t a question of “if”, only a question of “when” and “for how long”. I think the last time I was here there were at least 3 transit strikes and 1 postal strike, though none were major. This one, however, was supposed to be a big one: the first social test of Sarkozy’s presidency.

This particular strike started with the rail workers of the SNCF and spread to include the public transit workers of the RATP, as well as the major gas and electric companies. The problem was that Sarkozy is reforming the pension plans of the rail workers and they were none too happy about it. Since the French will strike over every little thing (getting their dry cleaning paid for, wanting to work 34 and not 35 hours a week, not enough free pastry in the break room...okay so I made that last one up, but you get the idea) I will give them credit for at least picking a more important issue as a reason to bring mass transportation to a halt this time around. See, back in the day when working on the rails was a very dangerous and demanding job, the French government, in all it’s socialist brilliance, decided to set up a “special regime” for the workers in these demanding jobs where they could retire by 50 and live on full pension the rest of their lives. This was all well-and-good back when the jobs were very dangerous and the men retiring at 50 usually didn’t live much past 60. However, since then, thanks to technology and health care, the jobs aren’t as demanding and the workers are living to 80+ years on a full government salary. It doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to realize that a state, even one with insanely high taxes, can’t possibly support that kind of financial commitment for long. So Sarkozy announced plans to reform these “special regimes” because it was costing the government billions of dollars. And honestly, the reforms aren’t even that drastic. (I’m simplifying since I’m sure there is more to it, but this is just the basic gist) It’s a step-by-step process and right now it was just a matter of requiring an extra 2.5 years before retirement on full pension.
The HORROR! Having to wait til you are 52 to retire?! It’s like slave labor!
At least that’s how the unions reacted. I was reading some of their rhetoric in the papers and the way their leaders talked, wow. One basically said that if these reforms go through, Sarkozy will have destroyed everything the “people” have been fighting for since the French Revolution. Seriously. He said that.
The problem with this strike is that it was an unpopular strike. Sometimes the strikes are effective because the citizens agree with or pity the workers and want the government to cave. This is not one such case. The French all want the reforms. They elected Sarkozy on a reformist platform. They recognize that it is a necessary step, and they don’t want Sarko giving in. He has very high approval ratings right now, and polls of people about their support of the strike showed an overwhelming percentage in support of the government. So that tells you right off the bat that it’s not going to be an easy battle since there won’t be any pressure on the government coming from the rest of the populace. And everyone knew that going in. Sarko wasn’t going to give in. He couldn’t. This was his first major strike as president. It was an obvious test of his mettle, and if he conceded anything to the unions he might as well pack his bags and head to Tunisia on a 4 year vacation because he wouldn’t be doing much more presidenting for the rest of his term.

I kept hoping that they would cancel class for the day of the strike. I mean, you have students who live outside the city with almost no way of getting there. But alas, t’was not the case. The strike started Wednesday night at 8. I only had one class Thursday morning and attendance is not taken so I could have just not gone, but we all know I am too much of a goody-goody to do that. Cassie is in that same class with me, and since she lives down in Sevres which is just outside the city limits, she was going to have a real hard time making it in. I don’t live real close to school, but it’s a lot easier to get there from my place than Cassie’s so we decided Cassie should spend the night at my place to make getting to school more convenient since we could walk if necessary. (When transit strikes happen public transit doesn’t shut down 100%, but it is severely reduced. Different lines have metros running at different frequencies. For example anywhere from 1/2 trains - 1/10 trains will be running. Which means that if you are going to try to take the metro, instead of waiting 4-5 mins, you could end up waiting 12-45 mins for a train and then it’s a crap-shoot whether or not you will be able to fit on it. Metro trains look like clown cars on strike days. More people than you ever thought possible in such a small space. So technically you can still try your luck with public transportation on those days, but it is better to avoid it if at all possible.)

So we decided since Cassie was coming over, we’d have a good ol’ fashioned sleepover. Cook dinner, watch a movie, have some fun... and then wake up real early to walk across the city of Paris in the dark and cold to get to our thrilling foreign policy class. My motto is: when life hands you transit strikes...make pizza. At least that’s what we decided to do this time around. We went to the Monoprix and Cassie discovered pre-rolled pizza dough. the only problem was that they didn’t have any of what we Americans consider “normal” pizza fixings so we had to improvise. No pizza sauce? A jar of Barilla Napoletana pasta sauce will do. No shredded mozzarella? Awkwardly sliced Tomme Noir des Pyrennes will suffice. No pepperoni? Smoked garlic sausage chopped into hunks. And some bell peppers for good measure. We weren’t sure our creation would turn out because 1) we were improvising with stuff we weren’t sure worked for pizza and 2) I had never used my oven before. But we figured at least it would be fun trying, and it was. That was some pretty tasty pizza if I do say so myself. I was glad to finally be able to put one check mark under the column of “Successful Paris food experiments” since I filled up the “Disasters” column then Lori and I tried to cook here in ‘05 with the “Mint-chocolate Mousse Fiasco” and the “Cambodian Rice Mush Incident.”
After our delicious homemade pizza, we settled down to watch “Funny Face” because Cassie likes Audrey Hepburn and I was horrified that she hadn’t seen it yet considering that it is set in Paris. (I highly recommend it for anyone who likes Paris/Audrey Hepburn/ old movies/musicals.) And then we crashed because class started at 8 and we had to leave by 7 since we didn’t know how long it would take to get there.

Thursday morning came and we rose and bundled up to head out onto the dark Paris streets to join hundreds of other Parisians trekking to work and school. We mapped out our route online the night before and determined that it shouldn’t take more than 45 mins to walk. I was glad for the company because the walk seemed to pass much more quickly with companionship and good conversation. It was really quite a lovely walk because of the landmarks we passed. We walked through the empty courtyard of the Louvre with it’s illuminated facade glowing gold against the still-dark sky, and emerged onto the bridge across the Seine just as the east began to lighten. I had to stop for a moment on the bridge. Standing there in the predawn chill, the view down the Seine was remarkable. The city still shrouded in shadows, the glow of street lamps and illuminated monuments, the spires of Notre Dame silhouetted against the first colors of morning creeping up from the horizon while the dark Seine swirled silently beneath the bridge. One of the most beautiful views of Paris I’ve experienced. It made walking halfway across the city at 7 in the morning worth it.

We arrived to Sciences Po at about 7:45, went and got our newspapers, and read until class started. Numbers were quite small, about 15 out of a class of 50. Afterwards I went and sat down in the cafe with some other intrepid students and hung out, ate a sandwich, fortified myself for the walk home, and told Cassie that if the strike wasn’t lifted that evening she was always welcome to crash at my place again.

I went home and decided that it might be cool to go check out the big rally that all the unions were having that afternoon. Of course I had to walk to get there, and it was a long walk, but it gave me a chance to see parts of the city that I probably wouldn’t have taken time to explore otherwise. I went down to the march route. They were going from Place de la republique to Place de Nation. I don’t know what i expected, but it was more like a street festival than a riot it seemed to me. The various syndicates were amassing around the statue in the square and street vendors were setting up, music was playing, big balloons and colorful signs everywhere. I walked down the route a bit with people handing me fliers and stickers explaining their grievances and reading the various organizations represented. It is so weird for me, coming from America where communism is still seen as the great evil, to adjust to a country where the communist party is open and active. When I see the communists in their red shirts and “pure left” signs, I have to resist my instinctive urge to start blacklisting movie stars and carpet-bomb Hanoi.

Anyhoot, I set up along the route and pretty soon here came the parade. They march with their syndicate and carry banners and chant things, and the rowdier ones light flares and yell while they carry half empty bottles of scotch. It is a smokey and loud affair, but rather entertaining because when you look at some of the people in the march you have to think that they don’t have any idea why they are protesting. I had my fill of social unrest and commies so I made the long haul home and tried to wash the smell of flare-smoke out of my hair.

The strike was held over and Cassie couldn’t get home easily, so she came to spend another night which was fine by me since I don’t have class on Fridays. The strike was supposed to be gradually lifting, meaning that traffic should be returning to normal throughout the day, but there is no guarantee.
Unfortunately, Friday was the Fall Family festival at Emmanuel and I had volunteered to help and I was in a quandary about how to get out to Rueil without consistent buses or RERs running. I asked around but no one who lived in the city with a car was going to try to make it out. I was getting disappointed because I had really been looking forward to such a typically American festival. Luckily, a friend called to say that another friend of ours who lives in Rueil and has a car was going to drive in to pick up the few of us who needed a ride. So that evening, dressed as Halloweeny as I could and still be warm, I went out to meet them on the edge of town. All the girls were there waiting, but our ride hadn’t turned up and he was pretty late. We called and found out that he was stuck in the traffic around the 4 lane round-a-bout that we were standing by and had been for about half an hour. Traffic was horrendous because everyone who doesn’t normally drive was driving because of the lack of public transportation, plus it was a Friday evening. Eventually Amadeo made it and we all piled into his car and held on as he exhibited a true big-city driver’s finesse while managing to cross about 5 ill-defined lanes of stop-and-go traffic at once without getting rear-ended or being hit by a motorcyclist. That was just the beginning though because traffic was horrible all the way out to Rueil and we were quite late, but not too late to help.

The festival was a lot of fun. Dozens of families, many who were French and aren’t members of Emmanuel, showed up with kids in a variety of costumes. They had trick-or-treating set up in the neighborhood and then games set up inside which is what we were in charge of running. I somehow ended up running the cakewalk, sometimes in 2 languages. That was interesting. And all I had was a radio and somehow managed to find a country-music station. So all the European kids not only got to learn about Halloween and American food (we were serving nachos, chili-chese dogs, sugar cookies, brownies, etc. and DR. PEPPER!), but they were also introduced to the wonders of Alan Jackson and George Strait. When we weren’t running the games, we got to snag some of the American junk food and candy and goof-off a bit ourselves. I tucked a Dr. Pepper in my purse to save for a rainy day. Actually, to save for a day when I am reeeeally missing the U.S. of A. Once all the little ghouls and goblins had taken their loot and headed home, those of us needing a ride back into the city all piled into Amadeo’s car again. We had more people than seats so it’s a good thing Miwa is from Singapore and small. We got back into Paris and it wasn’t real late yet so Amadeo suggested going to hang out. We were close to the Arc de triumph so he parked and we all walked down the Champs Elysee, stopped to watch some breakdancing on the street, and then found an all-night café where we got hot chocolate and sat upstairs and talked and joked around for a while. At one point we were talking about mascots and rugby and countries and such. This is how the conversation went:
Me: “Why is France represented by a rooster?!”
Sarah A.: “I don’t know. What does a rooster even do?”
Me:” They run around frantically and squawk at you.”
Sarah A.: “........yeah, that sounds pretty French to me”

Sarkozy didn’t give in. Traffic returned to normal. And that is how I spent the most “serious strike since 1995.”

A bientot!

Picture!

So I think I finally figured out how to add pictures to this thing. You should see a view of the Eiffel Tower by the Seine below. If not....I dunno, I have a Mac.

Allez les bleus!

Friday night was Bible Study at the Kirby’s house, and it was, as always, enjoyable. It was the first night that Scott, the young adult and music minister, was back from his sabbatical. We had a great meal of lasagna that the two Sarahs prepared and discussed the problems of closely spelled French and English words (appartement/apartment, gouvernement/ government, etc.) and the problems of “faux amis” as my french teachers call them. Words that look like they should mean the same thing in both languages and don’t. Often if I don’t know a word in French I’ll just say the english word with a French accent. For a lot of words that works, but certain times not so much. Scott told a story about talking with some French friends one time and trying to explain to them that canned food in America is full of preservatives. He said they all gave him weird looks and burst out laughing and he didn’t know what he had done until one of them explained he had just said that canned food in America is full of condoms. He didn’t know the French word for preservatives so he just said “Préservatifs,” which is a word in French, but does not mean the chemicals used to keep food from spoiling. It means condom. And another time he ordered a kilometer of ground-beef from the butcher instead of a kilogram. But that’s the fun of living in a country where you don’t speak the language fluently.

Saturday Cassie called because she and her Aussie roommate Carly were heading up to Montmartre to check out the fete des vendages. It’s an annual street festival in Montmartre celebrating the grape harvest and the first wines of the season. Booths set up along the cobblestone streets held the products of small vineyards, as well as meats, oysters, cookies, bricks of chocolate, pan fried potatoes, etc. Cassie bought a cone of roasted chestnuts because she’d always wanted to get some. We decided they are better in theory than in reality. I don’t know what I expected but it was kind of like eating hot acorns. I got a cone of churros. The deep fried sugared dough sufficed to cover up the weird nut flavor. There were street musicians and a stage with performers, people selling balloons, and lots and lots of people. It reminded me of some the various little festivals we have in downtown Daytona, but Europeanized. There was also the strangest parade I’ve ever seen. Bands, groups from different vineyards, civic groups, and I don’t know who else all walking down the street, interspersed with people in some really over-the-top costumes. We didn’t get to stay to the end because we want to go watch rugby, but on our way back to the metro station I did see a group of majorettes which answered the question “do they have baton twirling in France?” although all I saw them do was march in place in 1950s-esque majorette outfits. Maybe I could make some extra cash teaching baton while I’m here- lol.

Saturday was a big day in France. That’s right, the rugby world cup semifinals. After a shocking defeat of New Zealand in the quarterfinals, France faced England in the semis. Instead of showing the game on the giant screen in front of Hotel de Ville, because France was playing and they anticipated a huge crowd, they moved the viewing to giant screens on the Champs de Mars (the grassy area by the Eiffel Tower). I had made plans with some friends to take food and get there a couple hours before the 9pm kickoff. Cassie and Carly ran to Monoprix to get some food while I ran home to change into my rugby ensemble and grab some snacks and stuff from my apartment, and then we headed down to the Eiffel Tower. The atmosphere was already festive in the metros. English rugby fans (who are the most obnoxious of any country, by the way) in full-on face paint and carrying big blow up roses, mixed with the blue-white-&-red French crowd that was slightly more composed. There was yelling and horn honking as we walked to the Champs de Mars and that was more than 2 hours til kickoff. I loved it because it reminded me of Saturdays in Gainesville. We made it to the main screen and found our friend Alison who had arrived earlier with the woman she lived with and her friend, and had staked out a nice spot just about 20 yards from the screen. The grass was already filling up and people were beginning to stand along the sidewalks. It was the day after Pavarotti’s birthday so they were showing a tribute to him on the screens while we took out our picnic and began chowing down. I was dressed pretty ridiculously, but I did not stand out at all. Young French fans draped in flags and face paint were blowing whistles, throwing rugby balls, and randomly breaking into song. We borrowed the tricolored face crayon from the teenagers beside us. Alison’s slightly odd landlady was really into Pavarotti and kept yelling at the kids to shut up while he was singing. “PAS PENDANT PAVAROTTI!” We all looked at each other and tried hard not to burst out laughing at the french woman getting mad because people who had come to watch RUGBY weren’t sitting in silent awe at Pavarotti. I was thinking it was going to be a looong game with her there, but she decided to leave well before kickoff, so we didn’t have to find out. The grass was jam packed, and so our friends who arrived later had a hard time joining us. Andrea, my friend from church, arrived about half an hour to kickoff, and she brought with her a big bag of candy corn! She had just been in the states the weekend before, so she brought back some American Halloween treats. I was sooo excited. I think I might have been more excited by the candy corn than by the rugby game. There were camera crews everywhere filming the crowd gathered to watch in Paris, and it was a noisy scene with flares and airhorns and spontaneous crowd-led rugby songs and chants. We didn’t know the words, but that has never stopped me from joining in.

When it came time for kickoff, everyone stood up and cheered for the national anthems and introductions so I figured that we were going to stand the whole game, which was fine by me because we stand for 3+ hours in the blazing sun at Gator games so 1.5 in the cool Paris night wouldn’t have been bad. Instead, something that never would have been conceivable in America occurred. As soon as the game started, everyone on the grass sat down. Every last one. They sat down, faced the screen, and got more-or-less quiet. It was an impressive sight. I turned around and saw the glow from the screen reflecting on the upturned faces of thousands of rugby fans all packed sardine-like into the Champs de Mars, intently watching the game. If people stood up, they were thoroughly chastised by the entire crowd. People did jump up and cheer if there was a score, and the choruses and encouraging chants reappeared at key moments in the game, but for a people who are incapable of standing in an orderly line in everyday situations, they were remarkably orderly. Thousands of people stayed sitting down for almost 2 hours (minus half-time). It was impressive. We had such little space my legs were cramping that no amount of position changing ever made me truly comfortable. I have come to decide that standing is infinitely better. Only the lazy alumni sit down at Gator games. ;-)

The game was not a very exciting one as far as rugby games go and very low scoring, and while France led for much of the game, England came back and won in the end. It was a sad night in Paris, but instead of a depressed crowd draining from the Champs de Mars, most of them didn’t let the defeat ruin a good night of partying. French fans were obviously more subdued than they would have been otherwise (which might have been a good thing as far as getting home was concerned), but most of them didn’t take it too hard. The Champs de Mars was completely trashed with empty bottles and cans ( I blame it on the lack of “Put it in the can, Gator fan!” signs around) , but the men in green were standing ready to have the park in tiptop shape by sunrise. We hung around with friends waiting for the crowds to thin out, at then walked to a further metro station in hopes of avoiding the mobs. It wasn’t insanely crowded, but you could tell that many of the people responsible for those empty bottles and cans had been riding the metro. Moving vehicles and really drunk people don’t mix, if you catch my drift. So that was the end of France’s rugby world cup hopes, and the end of my night rooting for France. It’s really too bad cause I was looking forward to wearing my great outfit again!
Allez les bleus!
Lyndsey

America in a Box

Week two of classes went along more or less smoothly. I have started to see Sciences Po as my school and I feel like I actually belong there. Getting off the metro and joining the dozens of other students walking towards ScPo, running into people I know in the hall or on the street out front, sitting in lectures with everyone, it all feels pretty comfortable. Now don’t get me wrong, I still think the French methods of higher education make no sense, but I don’t feel isolated or feel like I stand out as “the American”. It has a lot to do with ScPo being 1/3 international students I believe. It’s funny when I look back at when I first arrived. I had no place to live, I knew almost no one here, and Sciences Po was this big intimidating place. A month and a half later and I have a whole life that I have settled into. I have a great little apartment, I know tons of people, I have activities and outings and friends, I’m involved in a whole community at church, and ScPo doesn’t seem so frightening anymore. It’s not like it happened overnight, but one day I woke up and realized that a whole Paris life has been constructed and I didn’t even notice when it happened. That’s one of the things that makes this time so much different from my last experience in Paris. Last time basically my whole world was the UF Honors in Paris program. Which, it was great, especially for a college freshman’s first big stint away from home, but it was limited. My friends were the handful of other UF students on the program and we went to classes taught by UF professors, and hung out with each other, and had trips planned for us, and our weekends booked for us. And maybe it was my own fault, the fault of my timidity, that while I lived in Paris, I never felt like I had a real life in Paris. It was more like being on an extended field trip. This time has been scarier, it has been harder (and it has only just begun) but it many ways it has also been better. But who knows how things will play out so I’ll reserve my final judgement until all is said and done.

Monday (the 8th) at 10 in the morning I had a package notice in my mailbox. It said “You have a package! Please come pick it up at the post office indicated after the date and time listed.” I look at the slip and it says that I can pick it up on the 9th after 5pm.....huh? Could someone please explain to me why, if my package has already been delivered, I have to wait a day and a half to go pick it up? No ideas? Yeah, me neither. That was frustrating, knowing that my package was within a half-mile radius of me and yet I couldn’t have it. So Tuesday, after 5pm, (which of course is rush-hour so the post office line is ridiculously long because they couldn’t have let me pick it up at 2 when there is nobody there) I go to the post office down the street from me with my slip and a I.D. and wait in line for 20 mins to pick up my package from my mom. But as annoying as all the package red-tape (pardon the pun) was, it was all forgotten as soon as I had my little box of America. Some of its contents were things I had requested (American measuring cups and spoons, face powder, shoe insoles, my black leggings, some Tuna Helper mix...) and then there were some extra stuff my mom stuck in just because she’s awesome (Goldfish crackers, taco seasoning, a bottle of ranch dressing, a DVD, Halloween decorations...). It was basically like Christmas. I was so excited I ran to the store to get ingredients so I could cook American food with my American measuring devices right away and watch my new movie. As wonderful as Paris is, nothing makes me happier than a little taste of home!
A bientot-
Lyndsey

Playdough and Chateaux

Friday morning I woke up early, even though I didn’t have class, because I had lots to get done before I had to be at the church that afternoon. It was the weekend of Emmanuel International Church’s annual fall retreat in the Loire valley. I had signed up to help with the kids because it sounded fun, but also because if you help with childcare you go for free and I’m a college student and the dollar is weak so that’s really the only way to afford it. When we (the young adults because that’s mainly who does the childcare) were planning, one of the girls who had helped before said playdough would be a good thing to bring. I mentioned that we could make it really cheaply compared to buying large enough quantities for the kids to play with, and since I mentioned it, it became my responsibility. So Friday I got up and looked up playdough recipes online. I had to sift through any that required cream of tartar or jello mix or other things that I don’t know how to explain in French and don’t think they have at my local Monoprix. I found one that just called for salt, flour, oil, and water, and ran to the store to buy large quantities of the dry goods. I’m sure the cashier probably thought I was insane buying 2 big bags of flour and 2 boxes of salt. The problem of actually making the dough was that the recipe was in American measurements and I had no American measuring device. I could do the conversion if I had another sort of measuring device, but I had nothing to measure with period. So I figured it was time to get creative. I had a 1.5 liter Evian bottle, so I cut off the bottom third. I looked up that .5 liter is 2.1 cups or something like that, so I figured my makeshift measuring cup was about that. I used that as a guide and basically just guestimated the best I could. It was messy and pretty funny with me trying to find the proper consistency, but I kept making playdough until I ran out of salt which was about 4 batches.

I finished packing my bag and headed out to the church. It’s not easy getting to church, but it is even less fun with a suitcase, granted a small one. I was doing fine for time, but then evidently they were training a new bus driver for the route, and he was having a hard time, going slow, running over curbs, so it took quite a bit longer than usual. I managed to make it there basically on time to meet Ruth who was to give me and two others a ride down to the retreat. Too make a long story short, we got off to a bit of a late start, but we had enough time to get there even allowing for Friday evening traffic. It was a tight squeeze in the car because for starters, it’s Europe so the cars are small, and then we had 4 people with all their luggage, plus the coffee pot, offering plates, tv, kids activities, etc. etc. that we were hauling for the retreat because Ruth helps out at the church. I really enjoyed being out on the road. I don’t get to ride in cars often in Paris, and it was so nice to be out of the city. If you didn’t look at road signs or certain French varieties of trees, it wasn’t hard to imagine we were driving in the states. Some of the land looks so similar. It brought back a lot of good road trip memories. Since the retreat was starting with an evening service we were supposed to eat before we got there. We were on a toll toad so the only place to stop was at a service park. They had a food court/ rest area type thing that crossed the highway so that it was accessible from both directions. It also had a playground with the most disturbing zombie giraffe decoration I’ve ever seen. I don’t know who thought it was suitable for children. I took a picture.

Not everyone was arriving for the Friday evening, and my friend Sarah and I had volunteered to teach the first session of the kids. Since there were 6 people signed up to help with kids we planned on having 2 teach, 2 help, and let the other two go to the service so we could all rotate. We only have about 8 kids Friday night. The problem was that 6 of them only spoke French. We knew that there would be some French kids there since both congregations were coming on the retreat, but the materials they had given us for lessons and songs and videos were all in English. We colored and sang along with a video with motions and tried to do a video, but decided to forego the lesson until the next day when the rest of the kids arrived. We didn’t really do anything after the service but it took a while to get everyone’s rooms sorted out and get settled in so it was late when we finally got to sleep, and we had to be at breakfast at 8 the next morning.

The place we stayed was a retreat center translated The Farm at Courcimont. It was a cute little place with exposed beams and horses and a pond just outside of a tiny little village. Saturday started off foggy and cold and taking care of a bunch of kids was not really high on my list of wants. We decided to all go in to begin with until things got settled and then let whoever could, go to the service. I don’t think that happened. We had about 20 kids ranging from infants to 11. Some spoke English, some spoke French, and some spoke Franglais (french-english), and the majority of them were wild. The playdough was a big hit, and I was surprised how many kids and workers alike didn’t know you could make playdough yourself. I asked the French kids what they call it and they said it’s “la pâte à sel” which is literally salt dough. I was impressed because it’s actually a more accurate description than what we call it in English. And a random fact I learned while looking up recipes: Play-Doh that you buy in toy stores was actually invented first as a wallpaper cleaner.

We certainly had our hands full. I mean literally. I was holding a baby in one arm, trying to comfort a 3 year old bilingual boy with the other and entertain him to make him stop crying, while intermittently having to tell one group in French to stop running, and mediating arguments between 8 year-old girls in English. It was confusing having the kids mixed because when you are dealing with so many kids and switching back and forth between languages, you tend to forget which kids speak which language or forget which language you yourself are speaking. There were times when I’d turn around to say something to a kid and they’d be staring at me blankly for a good 30 seconds before I would realize they didn’t understand whatever language I was speaking. It was a frustrating childcare situation because the rooms we had to use were not designed for kids so you couldn’t just let the little ones run around like you would in a nursery or something. And what was more frustrating to me was the fact that it seemed that some of the young adults who were helping didn’t have much experience, or at least not much expertise, in dealing with children. So while there were always at least four adults in there, I often felt like I was having to do everything, or at least more than my share. But as chaotic and disorganized as it was, it was an adventure and had some enjoyable moments, although I think it’ll probably take several months for the memory to fade before I’ll be able to ever think about having kids of my own again.

Before lunch everyone was split up into two teams and we played goofy team building games. It was fun and a neat thing to see the whole church, both congregations, doing stuff together, since my church at home is so big we hardly see people out of our department. Being at the retreat place and sharing bathrooms and eating at long tables brought back a lot of good Breakout memories. During the weekend all our meals were served on site in the dining hall. Now I know what you are thinking- retreat center food- ew. Well meals there were full-on 5 course French meals. Appetizer, main course, salad, cheese, dessert, coffee, and it was all pretty good fare, if not necessarily my first choice of dishes. But then, I’m not French, and I don’t have the same tastes as they do.

After lunch we had the afternoon free so everyone split up into small groups to go do various things in the area. There were plenty of chateaux nearby and a famous porcelain factory. I had been to two chateaux the last time I was here, so I ended up going with Ruth and a few other girls who were going to go to a different chateau from the ones I had been to before. We went to the Chateau de Cheverny. The weather was absolutely perfect and it was great driving on the rural roads in the fall afternoon sun. Ruth was teasing me because I got so excited about being out in the country. I didn’t realize how much I missed it til I was there surrounded by nature again. I felt so much more at home out in the countryside. The chateau was lovely. It’s a smaller one (as far as chateaux go) and belongs to a noble family. It was still lived in up to 1985. Many of the chateaux were built as hunting lodges, and this one is still a working hunting base. The family dogs are kept on the premises in the kennels. About 100 of them, and they take them out a half at a time to hunt Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday, during hunting season. I had never seen so many dogs together in one place, it was pretty cool, but it did not smell lovely. And as we were getting ready to leave, the keeper showed up and said that they were about to bring the other half of the dogs back from the hunt. He locked up the half that had had the day off, and then left the gate open. He said, “I’m going to bring the rest of the dogs in. Don’t worry, they will run right past you and into their pen because they want to eat. Just please don’t stand in front of the door because they will trample you if you get between them and their supper.” So we stood there just a few feet from the door and in a few minutes he came marching out of the stables followed by 50 hounds. One broke from the pack and raced ahead into the pen where the big mound of food was waiting, but the rest walked behind him until they got almost to the gate and then it was a free-for-all to see who could grab a dismembered duck head first. Only one dog didn’t go in like he was supposed to. He stood up at the railing looking in on his friends. “Dumb dog! You are going to miss dinner!” the keeper yelled at him and he went in.

We drove by another one of the bigger more touristy chateaux on the way back to the center and made it there just in time for dinner. The kids were wound up after dinner and made the biggest mess you have ever seen in your life with the playdough, crushed Goldfish into the carpet and wrote on the dry-erase board with a permanent marker. Fortuitously, I had a bad experience with a permanent marker and a dry erase board freshman year of high school in which I learned that bug spray will take it off. We had no bug spray with us, but I figured the reason the bug spray probably worked was because of the oil, so I decided to use the playdough, since it also was made with oil. It took a little elbow grease, but the oily playdough did the trick finally.

After the evening service when the older adults and younger kids had gone to bed, some of us decided to play Taboo. There were about 14 people playing, not all native English speakers, so it was an entertaining game. It reminded me of my days teaching at the ELI because we use Taboo with the students to help their spoken English and it is never dull. It was a fun evening but we stayed up too late and did not get enough sleep before another early morning. After breakfast we had a few minutes before the service so some of the other girls and I took a stroll around the pond. It was cool out but the sun made the morning dew sparkle, and that same dew soaked our socks and shoes right through. I was glad I had brought a change. Sunday morning, Sarah and I said we were going to the service no matter what because we had worked every childcare shift since we arrived and everyone else had been to at least one service. We were a little bit worried though about leaving Glenn in charge without us there to assist, but we sat just outside the door so that they could come grad us if they needed extra hands. The worship service was really enjoyable, especially because it was both congregations together so we did some mixed language worship. I always love it when we do bilingual stuff at EIC. The speaker for the weekend is the President of the International Baptist Convention, but he’s a good ol’ boy so I felt right at home listening to his southern drawl. Ruth, who’s British, can’t stand strong southern accents. She said she almost had to turn off Beth Moore the first time she heard her because her voice was so annoying- lol. I love southern accents...but then I guess it’s all about what you are used to.

We packed up after lunch and got ready to head back to Paris. We made it through the whole weekend without any kids dying, and I made some little friends who kept coming to sit with me at meals, so I would put it in the success column. I was glad to get home and take a nap, but it was sad to leave behind the fresh air and open spaces of the country for the concrete and pollution of the city. One great thing about being out there was that you could see the stars wonderfully at night. That was another one of those things I didn’t realize how much I missed. And when I got home my internet had miraculously begun to work again. Go figure. All-in-all it was a really beautiful and enjoyable weekend and a lot of fun to be part of a community. That’s such a great feeling when you are far away from your friends and family.
Gotta run!
Ciao-
Lyndsey

Classes continued:

Morning came too early once again on Thursday. I had another 8 AMer. “Grande Nation: Modern and Contemporary French Foreign Policy.” Fortunately it’s my one English class. Also fortunately, Cassie is also taking it, so I have an American buddy. It’s great because it’s the one class where I feel like I have the upper hand. That may not necessarily be the case, but at least English is my native language which it is not for many of the students in there. This is going to sound mean, but it’s nice to hear the French and other foreign students having to struggle a bit, makes me feel like the playing field is leveled a bit. The teacher was speaking with what sounded like an American accent at first, but then he said a few words kind of weird so it sounded like he had a slight brogue. I guessed Irish. I was wrong. He is French, but born in America and educated in England and at Sciences Po. So he speaks English with a mostly American accent tinged with British and French. It’s interesting. I thought paying attention in English would be easier than in French...but I was wrong about that too. I think I am just not trained to focus for more than 50 mins at a time. It’s the US public school system’s fault. Or at least UF’s.

As soon as class ended I bolted from the room to get to my next class because there are only 15 mins between classes and I had no idea where I was going. I had the address of the building and I found it and walked in to the courtyard and there was a big glass entrance into a deep mahogany interior with an elegant staircase. I read the sign on the window and it said something about Sciences Po but it didn’t list room numbers. I walked into the foyer and was hesitating about what to do next when another girl, who was evidently doing the same thing, asked me if I was looking for a Sciences Po class. I said yes and she asked which room. She was looking for the same class and we decided it might be on the fifth floor since the room number was listed as 510. We climbed all the way up to the fifth floor and there was the Sciences Po masters program office and a lady who told us we were not in the right building. Evidently there are two entrances at the same address and they are “technically” in the same building but the two portions of the building are not connected. So said go back down and out and look for a glass door, she told us. We sighed and climbed back down the 5 flights of stairs and when we got to the bottom we walked towards the courtyard and another glass entrance but before we got there a woman taking a cigarette break asked if she could help us. I was glad the other girl with me was a French student because she did all the talking and kept me from having to think on my feet too much. We said we were looking for a class room and she said, “But noo, you have to go back out onto the street and turn left and walk down to a glass door and then you will find the classrooms. We were both feeling a little frustrated and dumb I think, but at least we weren’t alone. So we finally find the classroom and we were almost late. We sat there for about 5 minutes and then the guy who works the welcome desk in that building came in and said that he thought our class had been canceled. If so it wasn’t something they had bothered to tell the students. All of us were present for the discussion section of my Mid-East class. No one really knew what to do, so we decided we would give the professor a few minutes to show up and then leave. We waited until 15 past time for class to start and then came to the consensus that we were not in fact having class. I was annoyed, but it wasn’t a big deal since I was already up for a class before. Although some of the other students who had it as their first class of the day were understandably less than thrilled with waking up for no reason. At least it gave me the rest of the day to run errands and get stuff ready for me to leave for the weekend the next day.
-Lyndsey

More on the first week of classes...

Monday when I got home from class I found that my internet had decided not to work well again. Only a sporadic connection. Very frustrating. So Wednesday morning I got up and went to Reid Hall before my 12:30 class to use their wireless. I sure am glad that I have my UF connection in Paris because it’s nice to have a familiar place to go when I need to do stuff like borrow internet! I left really early to find my class because it wasn’t in the main building and I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to find it. Finding classrooms is tricky business at UF too because buildings are listed by abbreviations and then room numbers don’t always make sense, but at least you know that your search is more or less confined to the clearly defined campus. Here Sciences Po holds classes in various buildings around the St. Germain-des-Pres district, and right now it is even more screwed up because one of their main buildings is being renovated so they are borrowing rooms from other institutions, etc. I find the building that my class is supposed to meet in, and it’s the building that is under renovation. So I walk up to it and there are construction workers everywhere and barricades and dust and various construction accouterments. And I see no other students going into this building so I figure that they just put the wrong building on the schedule or something. But I see a guy in a suit walk through the construction in the courtyard and into the glass doors at the back where there seem to be lights on, so I followed him. And I walked in and the little man at the desk asked what I was looking for. I told him I was looking for an amphitheater I thought. I wasn’t really sure because my schedule said 13 rue de l’Université, 7eme, JM. Usually it says the address and then the room number but I didn’t know what JM meant. In my head it was on the 7th floor (7eme) and would somehow be labeled JM. I was wrong. I told the guy my schedule says JM and he said “Oh yes, that’s the Jules Montagne amphitheater” and then told me to do down into the basement. Go figure. Evidently the 7eme just meant it was in the 7th district, not the floor, and JM is the abbreviation for the name of the amphitheater. I sure am glad that most of the buildings have the little men at the desks who know what’s going on.

The class is “Introduction au Moyen Orient” (Intro to the Middle East) and it’s a big french lecture class. About 125-150 I’d say. I ran into some other international students on my way in that I’d met during orientation, so I had people to sit with in class which was nice. It’s funny because Sciences Po is more like highschool than college to me because I’m used to the University of Florida. UF is so huge and most of my friends are in such varied disciplines that I vary rarely have classes with any friends. The exception to that is the French classes because those are small and the advanced ones tend to be the same small group of people who are French minors or majors. So anyway, I think it’s cool that I know/am friends with people in every one of my classes at Sciences Po. It’s a nice comfort thing when you’re in such a foreign environment.

The other nice thing about the lecture was that the professor speaks very clear, crisp French which is easy to understand, and he seems really nice. He lectured for almost the full two hours, and it was a little rough trying to stay focused for that long, but I understood pretty much everything he talked about and it seems like an interesting class. The professor also has a nice habit of saying names of international organizations, etc. in both French and English. That was a BIG help. At the end, he said that he knows there are lots of international students in the class and that language is going to be a problem, so we should never hesitate to interrupt him in the middle of a lecture to ask for clarification or ask that he speak more slowly or write a word on the board. He said the French students can just deal with it if he needs to go slower. I thought that was very nice of him trying to make us feel welcome and comfortable. I still imagine that the French students are probably pretty annoyed that there are soo many international kids, since we are 1/3 of the school. But at the same time, they are all required to spend their 3rd year of college abroad so they are going to be in the same situation as us soon and they should probably realize what a cool opportunity they have to be around and learn from people from every corner of the world. They don’t all seem as scary and standoffish as I expected though, so that’s a plus.

I got kind of annoyed with some of the other Americans in the class though because we’re sitting there surrounded by French students and they decide to talk about how annoying the French students are in their other classes and how they’re weird and don’t like us, and I’m sitting there thinking- well of course they don’t like us! You’re badmouthing them right in front of them at THEIR school! Can you blame them? I mean, after all, most of them speak English so it’s not like they don’t know what you are saying. I cringe whenever I see Americans contributing to the “ugly American” stereotype. On the metro, in stores, I see it all the time, and I think I’m probably more offended than the French are because they’re giving ME a bad name. I try not to judge them too harshly and remind myself that it’s just cultural misunderstanding and they don’t realize they are behaving badly but there are honestly times when I’m embarrassed to be an American. Ah well, I do my best to give people a positive impression of America and I wait until out of earshot to complain about the French. ;-)
bis-
Lyndsey

First Day of School

Monday morning came way too early since I am one of the fortunate people who have an 8 AM class on Mondays. I sat my alarm for 6 so I would have plenty of time to get ready and get there early to find the classroom and such. I even sat my alarm on the other side of the room so I would be forced to get out of bed. So the alarm went off, I got up and hit snooze...and went back to bed. Although, I guess when I hit the snooze I bumped the alarm set button and turned it off because the snooze alarm did not go off 5 mins later. Fortunately I woke up again, because with as tired as I was I could have easily slept for another 3 hours. But instead I woke up at 6:50. I had been planning to leave at 7:15, so I was a little annoyed that I had less than half an hour to get ready. I decided to wear my grey sweater dress over black tights and my black flats. I didn’t really know how the French students would dress but I figured it was a pretty safe outfit. Technically I only have to leave a half hour early to make it to class on time, but since I didn’t know where I was going, and I had to buy my monthly metro pass, I was really hoping to get gone before then. No such luck. I made it out the door just before 7:30.

Because I hadn’t purchased my Carte d’Orange for October I had to do that before I could take the metro to school. The station I normally walk to which is on the line that goes direct to the school doesn’t have a ticket window, only an automated machine, and most of those take coins and bank cards. So since I was paying with cash I had to go to a stop that has a ticket window. It’s actually closer to my apartment, but it meant I had to change lines which takes longer. So anyway, I head out towards the metro in the predawn light with the city just starting to wake up.

Just outside the metro entrance there were the guys who are always there in the morning passing out copies of the little free daily papers. I go to grab my copy of “Le Matin Plus” as I am heading down the stairs, but the guy doesn’t let go of it and says “Wait a sec, Madame!” I figured he wanted to give me some spiel about signing up for something or other and I really didn’t have time for that so I just let go of the paper and started down the stairs. “No wait! Take it,” he said, and handed me the paper. I took the paper and tucked it under my arm and continued down the stairs. The guy followed. He ran down the stairs after me, “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me!” He was trying to get my attention because I had my headphones in, and I didn’t know what was going on so I wearily took them out and looked at him. He leaned in and smiled. “Vous etes super belle, madame, et...” I don’t know how he expected me to respond to someone leaving their post to chase me down the stairs and tell me that I’m “super beautiful” or what he was about to add, but I just told him I was in a hurry and ran the rest of the way down the steps and into the station. I had to laugh. Only in France will a guy chase a random girl into the metro at 7 in the morning to hit on her. Well, maybe in Italy too. He went back up to hand out the free papers, and I got in line to buy my metro pass, and made it to school just on time.

I didn’t know where the room was because Sciences Po’s main “campus” is made up of several buildings linked together and it’s kind of like a maze. Fortunately, they had the foresight to have the guys who are normally at the front desk all standing around in the entry way to tell people where different rooms are. I was standing there looking confused and one of them asked nicely if he could help me find something. I told him the room number and he gave me directions on how to get there. I ran up the stairs and made it to class on time. It was the class I was most looking forward to: the role of NGOs in International Relations. It’s an elective class in French, which means it’s limited to 25 students, and it’s more interactive than a lecture. The professor is François Rubio who is the Legal Director for Médecins du Monde (Doctors of the World) which is an NGO that split off of Médecins Sans Frontiers (Doctors without Borders). I think that’s cool because he has real life experience in what he’s teaching.

I was glad to see a girl from Spain who was in my methodology class come in, because as least I had one friendly face. I was surprised when he went around and had us all introduce ourselves and tell what year, what we’re specializing in, and why we decided to take the class. The directors had told us during registration that half the seats in every class were reserved for international students to have first choice, and then the rest were held for French students, so I was expecting to be in a class of mostly French kids. During the introductions however, person after person said “HI, I’m so-and-so, and I’m here on the international program.” Out of the class I think only about 6 of them were French. It was cool for me because I suddenly felt like I was on a much more level playing field, but I bet the French kids probably get annoyed by it. The one problem was that my name wasn’t on the role. I know I’m enrolled correctly because I verified it online the night before when I looked up the room number, but my name was not there. I think it was just a problem with printing because the role stopped at V at the bottom of the page, so I think they just forgot to print the second page because I was probably the only name on there since I’m the end of the alphabet. But he told me to go check with the Secretariat. I thought that was a bit weird because in America usually the professors look into any problems with their roles. But whatever, it’ll be fine I’m sure.

He did the introduction to the subject with some brief history. I was understanding about 80% of what he said I think. It takes a while to get used to a particular person’s accent sometimes so hopefully it’ll get easier. The hardest part was that he was using terminology that I don’t know if French and, he was using the French translation of names of NGOs and governmental organizations. So he was talking about stuff that I know about, but because he wasn’t using the English name for them, I had the hardest time trying to figure out what organization he was talking about. And then, the ones he did say in English, his pronunciation was do heavily accented that they were equally hard to understand. It took him saying “Saive duh Chyden” about 10 times before I figured out he was talking about Save the Children. He seems really nice, and knowledgeable about the topic, so hopefully it’ll be an interesting class and I’ll get better at following his lectures. I started out taking notes in French, but I realized that while I understood what he was saying, my ability to summarize it quickly in French wasn’t as good as my ability to synthesize it in English. The result is that my notes are probably incoherent to anyone but me. Sentences are half in english, half in French, or written in English using French acronyms (NGO translated into French is ONG and the UN is the ONU). Ah well, at least I know what they say...I think.

The typical French structure for a class, which I was taught in methodology, is that on the first day they assign the work for the semester. They like to have different people present summaries of various topics on the day they are to be discussed in class. The kind of just go down the syllabus and say “okay, who wants to present this topic?” and you pick and then it’s up to you. I was a little nervous about that because I wanted to work with a French student because at least then I’d have someone to make sure the grammar and syntax was appropriate, but I don’t know any French students in the class and I was kind of afraid of them. The problem resolved itself, I think, though because I signed up for the topic about NGOs in the EU and he asked for a second person to work on that, and another girl volunteered, and she’s French. I think we are supposed to work together, and we present in November.

After class I went down to the Secretariat to check on the role issue but the line was about 45 people long, so I put that off for another day. I was so tired from not getting enough sleep and being up early and still being exhausted from Disney that all I wanted to do was go home and go to bed. Which is kind of what I did. I needed to rest because I had another class that evening- l’escalade! Yep, my rock climbing class is from 6-8 on Monday evenings. I wrote down the address off-line and looked it up on a map and left in plenty of time to get there, however it turns out the address was wrong. I walked up and down the street where it was supposed to be, and nothing. I was late, and lost on the outskirts of Paris, and getting really frustrated. I stopped a woman going into a preschool and asked her if she knew where “the place where one can do rock climbing” was. (I don’t know what the word for rock gym is in French, or if that is a well known word.) It was very fortuitous that I stopped her because she said she had just noticed the place for the first time on her way there. The address I had was wrong, I was close, but looking in the wrong place. The rock gym is built UNDER the RER (train) line. “It’s in the arches,” the lady said. In the arches? How can it be IN the arches? But there it was. The arches supporting the RER rail were enclosed, and in them is the rock gym. Each arch makes a separate room for climbing. It’s really a rather ingenious design, but I never would have found it on my own.

I go in, and I don’t know if it was just because I looked bewildered, or cause I’m a college girl, but the guys at the front desk said “You’re from Sciences Po?” I nodded. They told me where to go. Luckily I hadn’t missed anything, the instructor was taking roll and then started explaining the class and the equipment and such. I was surprised to find that the class is way more girls than guys. I think there are like 34 people signed up for it and they don’t have nearly enough equipment for us all, but they are working on figuring that out. The one bad thing is that climbing shoes aren’t included in the price of the class so I can either keep climbing in my tennis shoes (which is less than ideal) or rent them every week, or buy a pair. Our class last night was mainly to teach all the safety and make sure everyone knew the basics. It was a bit confusing because while I know all the lingo and such in English, I have no background in it in French so he was using a lot of weird words.

I am so excited that my friend Cassie is also taking the class because that means I have someone to hang out with and belay with. It’s an adjustment though because climbing isn’t exactly the same in America and Europe. They use different systems to rank the difficulty of a route and have slightly different ways of doing some things. For example, I got a lecture from the instructor because I wasn’t belaying “properly”. Evidently, the way that I was taught by a professional and have been using for a long time to take up slack isn’t safe. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never had a problem catching someone when they fall, and have never let anyone plummet to their death, but because it’s a method that the instructor isn’t familiar with, I had to learn a much more complicated and slow way to do it. Oh well, that’s just in keeping with being in France.
Why can’t they do this an easier way? Because they’re French.
Anyway, it was a lot of fun to be climbing again, and I think I’m really going to like having this as a class. Although I am going to need some more exercise clothes since I wasn’t planning on this when I packed for France.
So that was my first day of class at Sciences Po. I survived. Let’s just hope the rest of the week goes as well!
Ciao-
Lyndsey