Pricele$$

Really alarming how little time is left on this whole “study” abroad venture. I must say it is un petit peu frazzling when some act, as the end approaches, as if they will never return to Europe. Should this be the case, there are more serious and clearly sinister grievances in need of rapid rectification.

I have, quite unfortunately, witnessed numerous alarming attempts to rapidly imbibe any and all traces of so-called “culture”. As one who is, by fortune (misfortune that is), also known as birth, oh and also by genealogy, Eurotrash, I must say it will take a lot longer than a semester in the land of lack to perfect that smirk, my friends. Not to worry, you’ll be back soon. Perhaps.

SO updates? Ugh I don’t know I can’t really keep up with myself these days. I have enjoyed Bronzing on an uninhabited island in the middle of the Mediterranean. Chic. And uninhabited in this context means literally the only residents are gypsies on Razor scooters—which, considering the treacherous terrain of the island itself, proves a disconcerting choice. But to each gypsy his own, I suppose.

Regardless, I find that time has really flown. Summer plans are finally finally finalized, and I am quite pleased. Places such as Budapest, Prague, and the inevitable and unpronounceable Vouliagmenni (aka Athens) before returning to the states by early June, and a six week stay in the City of the Purple Sprite. I can honestly say that I will go retail and food crazy. I have said it before but I will not hesitate to say it again. White queso. Fajitas with jalapenos that give your tongue welts. 98 degree heat. 101 degree heat. Sweating namesakes brimmed with salt. Pretending to be on a Mexican holiday but then remembering it’s just the backyard. Manicures that bear an uncanny resemblance to the Youtube phenomenon. Dizzying retail therapy. The likes of Alice and Olivia summer frocks, shifts, and backless numbers inducing extremely labored breathing. Consuming. Consuming. Consuming.

Green. Money, that is. Pretending like Firefly is non-alcoholic and drinking it straight. Poolside. Wearing shorts and not being labeled a street walker. Sweet.

Anyhow sorry for the Screwston love poetry but I am now going back to the greater 02144/02155 at the beginning of July. Whatup real big JZ it's summerville time. Those flat-brimmed Red Sox hats and mellifluous accents are really trans-Atlantic-ally beckoning to me what can I say I’m the kind of girl who enjoys a good dose of class. More importantly, all of this affords me ample time to prepare for the most significant week of my youth, nay, existence. I don’t really want to go into torturous detail right now because I do eventually have to go to sleep and the mere mention of this casual attainment of legality sends me into an absolute psychotic, spastic frenzy. Let’s just leave it at that. For a hot second.

What’s left. Hmm. I have a presentation for my civ class on Tuesday, awkward how I get back from Cyprus right before. Excuse me while I reek of airplane and wear my chic travel ensemble to school. Most awkward part, I actually have to do the presentation. But I’m on spring break. Uncomfortable and less than ideal, I’d say. 

For all those in the Land of plenty I miss you very much. Especially Aslan. It won’t be long now till we can wreak havoc on wretched souls ensemble. 

SO, 3 weeks left in Aix? The cash Euros is flowin like water and I’d say it’s just about time for the likes of stacks on deck, Patron (Personally don’t consume tequila, so this should be replaced by Goose clearly) on ice, and whatever else the fuck I want. Like Nutella.

Love sometimes,

M

A cordial invitation to the other side of sanity

-       Hier I became cognizant of how many travel/transportation faux pas there can really be and attempted to document them. Alors. On the train back from Paris to Aix after my flight from Florence (yes I realize that this was an absolutely asinine route ) I sat myself down in my seat, reclined, put in my headphones, selected my bad bitch playlist (three hours and 23 minutes of absolute bliss—timed almost to the minute for the duration of the ride from Roissy-Charles de Gaulle TGV 2 into Aix-en-Provence TGV), took off my headband to prevent the inevitable snob coupled with hangover-induced migraine (why smiling is impossible when wearing Mikimoto and attempting to perfect the yes, I am looking down on you glare) and put on my sleep mask. Apres a fabulous weekend in Florence with two of my favorite people in the world I found myself utterly fatigued and prete to lazily recline as the French countryside rolls by casually devant moi at a measly clip of 200+ mph.

I am really not sure where I’m going with this. Okay.

So I am not really the most casual of travelers. I am, I can admit, quite neurotic. Here we go. Amongst a few things that irk me to no end when I travel: 

Individuals with busted ass luggage. Currently can’t decide whether this or outfit repeaters are worse. Leaning towards outfit repeaters but that is a more general and day-to-day offense, and probablement more heinous-- whereas the luggage is more of a concentrated, one time deal. I suppose, however, outfit repeaters could be doing so whilst traveling, and potentially (certainly?) with ugly luggage. Whatever. You have compris. 

Individuals who stroll casually inside the airport or train terminals as if they have nowhere to be. As Meryl Streep once said, by all means please move at a glacial pace. If that be the case congratulations but some of us are attempting to jetset, and VITE.

Furthermore. People sleeping in airports. Do you have a home?

People who try and purchase airline tickets at ticket and/or information counters. Do you have a computer?

People who publicly display affection in airports.  See “do you have a home” and ajoute “does it have rooms?” Oui? Get one.

People flying airlines that only allow one piece of luggage. Do you have so few belongings that one article of baggage will suffice?  TRISTE POUR VOUS. Just kidding y’all know I love budget airlines. I should have specified. My annoyance would be more directed at those who fly airlines that only allow one piece of luggage and act tellement shocked when told to consolidate their shit into said single article, and then proceed to open their horrific-looking suitcases while their belongings tragically spill onto the floor in front of me. No, thanks.

Almost on par with those who attempt to sneak onto trains or buses sans billets. Do you have a fixed income? If not, my condolences, but you should be looking for a job and not creeping like a vagrant around various mediums of transport. Please do not harass the rest of us with your futile attempts to hide your greasy selves from the authorities. There’s a place for people like you, and on le dit prison. 

 However, these irks absolutely pale in comparison to my disdain for those who travel with children. PARTICULARLY when I decide to pay extra to travel in first class to avoid exactly what happened to me on the train yesterday. Do not think for a second that I am irrational. I am absolutely the queen of rational thought. Rational could be my middle name, but my name is already too fucking long. So I do understand completely that children must be transported from endroit to endroit. In the same way that I realize that hipsters (alternative individuals, particularly males with long hair and strange shoes, if we want to be PC. WHICH I just discovered, in France is Partie Communiste. DONC logic tells me that PC=Politically Correct=Partie Communist=QED a Commie) must also travel. It’s just I wish they didn’t have to.

I am really really really sorry that I’ve built this story up. What basically happened was that a kid was kicking my seat and giggling hysterically. In my cracked out, sleepy state I looked over at the spawn’s mother, teary and bug-eyed out of sheer exhaustion, and she knowingly asked her fetus to stop attacking my seat and hissing like Harry P conversing with a snake. Desole that I just launched into a frenetic and spastic beyond belief tirade against children and travelers, but sometimes trop REALLY is trop. Oh, and trop has lately been very beyond trop. As Miss Langer/Perry would say, gremlins tend to find themselves waking up feeling like plastic bags. Every. Single day. Game that never existed over. 

Regardless, I can safely say that Florence is one of the most magnificent places I have ever visited. Shopping was fucking fabulous, I can ALSO safely say that I am now poor grace a Salvatore Ferragamo and the “giftshop” at the museum, aka the reason I will be on a liquid diet for the rest of abroad. Kidding. Except not.

Thus in the spirit of safe statements, I can also safely say that my friends are really the baddest bitches in the bah. I miss being with you all 24/7 beyond words. Don’t EVA. get. pregnant. At the very least I’m glad I got to hang out on Langer's jouch  (jean couch for ceux qui sont en retard or just actually retards) in Flo-city ce weekend.

PS Women in France can’t wear shorts. I think, from the angry glares/slow claps that I have recently elicited, that the interdiction on the burka has now been extended to wearing shorts. And bright colors. Triste. I’m pretty sure Lilly doesn’t make THAT in black.

PPS It’s now officially 30 minutes away from being Tuesday, which means it’s go time.

Sorry I am actually not sorry in the damn slightest,

Margarita Michaela 

Uninteresting

So I’d love to dish out a lengthy abroad update brimming with newfound sophistication, budget-savvy travel recommendations, provocative cultural comparisons, aix-istential musings, and whatnot. It pains me not at all to say that, considering I do absolutely less than nothing with my life on a day-to-day basis, an update of sorts is, as precedent would undoubtedly convey, laughable.

This week I had to make up a “midterm” that I had the misfortune of missing during my turbulent period of poor health. My “professor” asked that I show up at “school” at 11 in the morning to sit the exam. In order to make myself presentable by the crack of dawn as was cruelly demanded of me, I had to prepare myself by going to sleep very early the night before.

Going to sleep very early the night before in this context means that I didn’t open a tab and made it home before stores opened for regular business hours.

Slight sidetrack. Anyways, when walking to school the next day, poised and bright eyed comme toujours, something felt a little off about the light of day itself.  The reason for my feeling ill at ease, perturbed, if you will, strutting my way to “campus”, was due to the positioning of the sun. The world looks different in the middle of the morning and I had completely forgotten. Desolee. But hardly.

As an aside, I want to emphasize how absolutely difficile and a nightmare and a half it is to walk on cobblestone in heels. In Frog, heels are called talons, and to be honest they are literally the talons of Satan on a rough night out. One has not seen a stumble until witnessing a Tuesday night “stroll” on cobblestone. A little jaunt, if you will. SO QUAINT AND EURO.

However, I still insist upon wearing those bad boys every single fois I sort.

As an aside to the side that I have just made I should also mention that daytime marche-ing on cobblestone is also difficult. Particularly when I have my headphones in and am attempting to step/swag in time to the music, typically rap (or country, depending on how sorry I feel for myself at the time/if I'm wearing loose-fitted clothing which is for the most part, a rare occasion). ANYWAYS the walk ends up looking like kind of an uphill struggle waddle, SO enticing. And since I am in fine physical form there is usually a kind of panting associated with the walk, even more appetisante. 

Alas, it is, in fact, a Saturday night and due to the tiresome nature of the past week, what with the rigorous pursuit of academic excellence, intense endurance training/exploration of local mountains, resume padding, future planning, and the like, I am terribly exhausted. So now it’s just me, Greg House, and, by consequence, a lingering and currently heightened paranoia of contracting a foreign illness that does not adequately respond to Western medicine. All in all, today has been quite the casual affair. Currently contemplating a way to sneak around in the dark, unnoticed, and make my way to the kitchen, acquire the Nutella, and hold her captive till tomorrow. How very Entrapment of me.

It is currently only 11:45 pm. Or, as they say in France, 23h45.  Apparement, this is not only the land of flavorful biscuits but also the land of pretending to be in the military, all the time. Literally. For some godforsaken reason military time is not only used but also spoken out loud. I have yet, in my soon to be 21 years, (4 months from tomorrow, time doesn’t fly when you’re underage) to encounter a more useless lifestyle choice. Why yes, I would love to have my eyebrows waxed at 17:45. Let me just whip out my calculator and figure out what in god’s name you mean. Merci, bye.

TFlorenceM- ing this weekend with Lizzie Langs. Alex Dennett too.

In preparation for our reunion/the cult of Lilly koozies (minus MP/RP), I’ll close with a little proverb of the ages.

If you're not FaF, I DGaF. 

See, despite some evidence to the contrary, I haven't forgotten what's up.

Oh sorry is that rude,

Margarita 

Femme (dans une condition) Fatale

 In the most horrific and terrible twist of fate I am bedridden with some kind of exotic illness and unable to attend Sensation White in Belgium. If anybody is even reading this I would urge that person to call up some kind of hotline on my behalf. Oh and just to add insult to injury my exquisite French phone has just envoyed me a message (say it like MASSAGE,) stating that my credit has been depleted, what with  .14 cents remaining. Mother of all ironies what have me and my phone credit been reduced to.

Anyways I literally haven’t gotten dressed in 24 hours. I have been literally sitting in bed eating crepes drenched with tears and wondering if anyone has ever felt as sorry for themselves as I currently do. Through my impossibly tangled headphones the most somber of all playlists blares. I am literally wondering as to when my next encounter with another human being will be, eagerly anticipating the site of a friendly, familiar face.

Disclaimer, my emphasis of “literally” means quite the opposite: theatrical exaggeration, self pity, and creation of drama are, when sullen, my only extracurricular activities so please, for those of you who are not aware of the full of extent of my ability to stretch the truth, please read as follows:

“exotic illness”--  “a cold of low to medium severity”,

“I haven’t gotten dressed in 24 hours”—“I haven’t applied mascara since yesterday”

“Crepes drenched with tears”—“Crepes saturated with Nutella, powdered sugar, and fuck, a slice of apple pie on the side too”

“the most somber of playlists”—contemplating whether I should pre-order the regular or Deluxe version of the new Britney album (March 29^th come sooner please) while simultaneously deciding which of the recently released singles I prefer.

The bit about human encounters- Getting ready to leave my house and go book a hotel room for an important celeb who is going to be in Aix THIS FRIDAY—DADDY T taking a break from work and hanging out with me in Provence!! Also he has agreed to have dinner with me Hannie and the ho-mo… I will have to devote an entire novel to that meal good gott in himmel. 

Regardless, my life is literally like a music video to the Dark Side of Indoor Track Meets right about now. The house is abandoned. House here roughly means une espace approximately the size of a master bathroom we don’t exactly live in any kind of luxury. Ho-mo is off cooking quiche in the Alps, while Sophie our 38 year old host sister alias SoSo (for whom our dependable, supersonic, and ever-reliable wireless internet, SoSo13, is named) is most likely painting landscapes and quietly crying herself to sleep about not being married.

This is undoubtedly one of the most depressing experiences,  so depressing in fact that the heavens have clouded over in sympathy avec moi. I can not even explain. I am attempting to drown out the sound of birds and children with Britney’s divine voice, attempting to erase the fact that there is human life outside my drawn shades and locked shutters. Lots of throat lozenges and mind-numbing Macbook activity to take my mind of the fact that everyone I know and care about is currently in Belgium raging without me. I knew this “schoolwork” would eventually contribute to the depression of my typically phenomenally functioning immune system. Jesus.

Excuse me, I’m sorry, I’m really such a lady. It’s just that there is nobody even in Aix right now and I am really rather miserable, especially what with the ciel being so nuageux right about now, I am getting sunshine deficiency. Or that might just be the sobriety speaking. JUST.KIDDING.

don’t hold it against me,

M

As an aside, to one of my closest and first friends at Tufts (Milla1), Ben, Bborn, I love you so much and I am so thankful everything is okay. I am thinking of you always and I miss you so much. 

No Money Mo Problems

So the thought of abroad ending at some point in time literally sends me into an absolute panic-induced frenzy. I am spastically attempting to piece together a summer of substance and not just substances but I feel as though that is becoming exceedingly difficult on account of me currently being incapable of having intelligible thoughts or function. Just kidding. Except not at all. Let's not discuss this anymore.

This weekend Annie visited HEY GIRL you little Francophile you. In fact I found myself very surprised that someone who despises baguetteland to such an extreme would visit, and yet here I was showing her around our Aixciting little town. Shocking. And, even more shocking, I believe a return trip has or will be scheduled in the very near future. I just came to say HELLO and OH WAIT I’M COMING BACK BECAUSE I JUST COULDN’T GET ENOUGH. Oh how far we’ve come since the fond days of Tufts in Talloires managed to slash a good thirty years off my life span. (RIP my dignity you are sorely missed). Desolee I got sidetracked I forgot to mention that Annie is, in fact, allergique to France. Actually an amusing side side track, we found my Crolard pass in an old purse this weekend and I almost had an epileptic seizure upon holding it in my currently terribly manicured hands. 

So après we went to Paris to meet up with Shaun and Lizzy and JJo was there too hey hey. So the French, as much as they adore eating cheese that has passed its prime, drinking Communion wine with dinner “casually” for health benefits (I am anticipating the day that I, too, can consume in this manner…oh wait), and capris on men (and women, unclear which is worse), adore ripping off Americans in a quite sadistic but somewhat amusing fashion. Twice in our two day trip our “check” was handwritten on a napkin. Literally the most SDF-ass shit I have ever seen. After seeing the splendors of la ville lumiere late Saturday night we decided we would love some hot chocolate. We stepped into a little café that we stumbled upon—in this context "stumbled upon" means chased by the proprietors down the street who shouted at us and demanded we enter, and thus we obliged mostly out of terror— where, unlike traditional French service, everyone was extremely genial and kind, there were simply so many waiters, everybody was taking our orders, fawning over us, and eager to serve. This is when we realized that everyone in the café was blackout. Actually most of the people taking our orders didn’t work there. This is hard to explain. I’m doing my best. One of our “waitresses” was an Amazonian-esque woman (wearing her purse while working, etrange) who was completely Tuesday status. As in, eye contact was tricky at this point. She proceeded to give us our hot chocolate, napkins, and asked us to raise our hands (she demonstrated, it was like a cross between Saturday Night Fever and I’m scared for my life if she gets any closer) if we needed anything. Oh and then she casually explained that she didn’t work there. It was naturally even more baffling then, when she handed us a bill on a napkin for 18 Euro. LA VIE CHERE. Good thing I don’t sporadically go on psycho shopping trips for myself so I always have cash to pay for the essentials like a warm drink. (HA)

Of course Lizzy was, in true form, perfectly polite and friendly, meanwhile I was gawking, pointing, and making a general scene, as happens to be my way. GOIL

Upon arrival back in Aix after taking a 5 am TGV back on Monday morning, I found myself exhausted and in desperate need to do laundry. I was trying discreetly to weasel change out of my ho-mo for the Laundromat (don’t EVEN talk to me about it) I would have enough change to do the 50 pounds of wash that I needed to do. She was laughing in my face. I desperately repeated, exhausted and not really wanting to deal with French hijinks, “Madame, je voudrais faire la vaisselle aujourd’hui. Avez-vous de la monnaie pour moi?” 

The reality of my inquiry is bemusing in retrospect. In my exhausted semi-rage I was asking her to give me money to do the dishes. Like a servant. Cool. Glad my domestic vocabulary is nothing short of stellar. I’m not cut out for this life. Yes yes I adore the faire la fete aspect but not so much the Laundromat/stray dog in the street aspect. I have been fatigued lately due to the “assignments” I have had to do for “school”. Currently formatting a “bibliography” which includes various Wikipedia “articles”, and attempting to disprove, in a Pulitzer prize-worthy redaction for my Communist Communications class, the commonly held French attitude that Mo Money= Mo Problems. At this rate, expected graduation date from Tufts= 2015. Meanwhile, I had to wheel my garments to the Laundromat in an oversized Tumi suitcase. Like, the kind that you check when embarking on a Transatlantic voyage for a period of at minimum 3 months. So basically I rolled up (rolled in with? rolled the bag in? I don't know/care) at the local laverie with a suitcase for a hamper.

 I feel as though the only difficile things about being so far away from Hotdogland are missing bad bitch Meredith Paul (probably one of the few who will appreciate the GOIL reference that I cleverly inserted— the cult of competition? why yes I would love some), the Alice & Olivia cruise collection which I want more than anything to peruse in person at the moment, and quesadillas slathered in white queso very much.

So, Belgium this weekend for a 45,000 people all-white Rave with DJ Martin Sovleig. OHHHHH, okay. See you never.

      Infinite bisoux to most of vous,

M

Sky High

Hey hey hey hey long time no post. But time does fly when you’re having fun and by that what I generally mean is that I am quite possibly one of the laziest people that ever lived. SO Right now I am back in the broom closet that is mon petit chambre here in Aix, listening to a little Wiz, reminiscing on bygone days, —aka last week. In this context reminiscing means eagerly uploading photos onto my computer and sorting them into various iPhoto albums with generally unrelated (but still clever nonetheless) titles.

So various updates, as I have just returned from the land of tapas, sangria, and Espanish espeaking epeoples. I had several amusing encounters in Spain, quite funny little anecdotes. Amusing is a relative term considering these experiences have left me quite traumatized and afraid for my existence but they will clearly amuse the masses at my expense. Regardless I am in quite a good mood after my return to Crepeland so I will share. As a slight warning, there is a little bit of profanity in this post for emphasis. Mom don’t text me complaining about this, my French phone is out of credit so I won’t get it anyway.

It has come to my attention that while Europe is typically deemed a relatively inefficient continent, Spain takes this to a whole new level. Do not attempt to get a blow dry in Spain. A 3 o’clock appointment starts at 4 o’clock. It’s fine, I’m used to ghetto tardiness I live in Medford. I can handle this. But my complete and utter lack of Spanish prevented me from explaining that I need a non-Sulfate based shampoo (don’t get me started) so I settle for just conditioner. It’s fine, just give me a good style. As long as they are enthusiastic and polite, I’ll be fine.  I mean, in a country whose language utilizes an exclamation point on either sides of a word, one would assume friendliness and hospitality. Pas du tout mes amis. Pas du freaking tout. Moral of this generally useless update, if you want a chic blow dry and style in Spain, save time and ask for a 60 Euro migraine and some shitty service on the side. There you go, I basically have my own Yelp site it’s fine. Oh also I charged this to the room, and needless to say when I got my final bill they had put down a service charge for serving my a glass of water. 9 Euro. Now I’m no frugal Fran but hey now.

The world is a very, very, very petite place. In my early abroad Facebook album entitled Triple Aix (GET IT) please examine the gentleman at the left of photo 14 (of 118). For the lazy: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=500884471715&set=a.500325046715.265459.673271715&theater

Lauren, Hanna, and I had the pleasure of meeting him and his dear “co-pilot” on our very first night out (of abroad) in Aix in January. This gentleman enjoys purchasing giraffes of Hoegaarden beer for young Americans, has an ear fetish, and thinks it is funny to fly planes when severely inebriated. He even mentioned Sundays being the worst days to fly because of the hangover. This is when he told us he was a “pilot” to which I spat up liquor all over his face and told him that I was an American TV personality.

Coincidentally this lovely Espanish especimen, as depicted with his echic Espanish escarf, was none other than the FUCKING pilot on my flight from Madrid to Marseille today.

 I also found this extremely amusing. At the time. When I wasn’t a passenger. On a plane that he was FUCKING flying. Excuse my English. It’s generally terrifying to place your life in someone’s hands, but it is even more terrifying to place your life in this man’s hands. Hands that came way too close to my ears. Because, as I mentioned earlier, he has an ear fetish. And likes to fly planes while intoxicated. And finds Sundays difficult to fly, because of the hangover, AS I EXPLAINED EARLIER. And at 38,000 feet over the Mediterranean the irony that today was none other than the Lord's Day was just too much to bear.

I want to take a second to make this a real abroad blog and not just a place where I sardonically bitch about everything and everyone. It might be completely trite and annoying to say, but this is not real life. I have been to three amazing cities in the past twelve days, been inside 7 story clubs, walked down the Barcelona boardwalk, saw my beautiful family in London, slept at the Palace hotel in Madrid…This is the most amazing time I have ever had, a glorified vacation completely free of worry and stress. I am currently attempting to extend my stay till September, so fingers crossed that all works out. There is so much in store, so much to experience, it’s just absolutely overwhelming when I think about it.

The world is a very, very, VERY VERY VERY petite place. Lauren and I decided to pay a visit to the world-renown Sagrada Familia Gaudi church in Barcelona, a site unlike anything I have ever seen or will see again. Absolutely remarkable, stunning, you get the general idea. Because this sacrosanct Barcelonan symbol is just so splendid, tourists flock from all across the globe to see it. So it came as no surprise that we had to wait in line for about half an hour to enter (might have been a lot more, or a lot less… my sense of time is terrible in a worrisome way). So as Lauren and I are casually discussing the ins and outs of Barcelona, comparing cities, life musings and the like,  we come to the topic of how Barcelona somewhat resembles downtown Boston in some ways (I don’t recall exactly how we came to this conclusion, I think mostly because they are both, well, cities) but I took this opportunity to thank my lucky stars that I was nowhere near Medford. I think my exact words were, “I mean I like Boston a fair amount, but Medford is fucking disgusting. A complete and utter shithole.” (Disclaimer I don’t actually fully even feel this way but sometimes I tend to exaggerate for emphasis)

But I might actually feel this way. Just a little bit. Sorry I’m not sorry.

Lauren chuckles, then there is silence as we stare up at Gaudi’s unfinished wonder— gleaming in the absolutely brilliant Espanish esunlight in front of us. The silence is broken about a minute later as the elderly gentleman standing behind us, vacationing with his lovely wife quietly interjects.

“We’re from West Medford, we actually live on Monument Street.”

FUCKING townies.

Loving and missing each and every one of you beaucoup,

Mags

Safety first

They say that a safe topic of polite conversation in France is the weather. So I’d like to start off with an obligatory weather update. Currently I’m thanking my lucky stars I’m in the marvelous sud de la France where each day is warmer than the one before and the sun shines 360 days out of the year. This little weatherbug-esque tidbit is spurred by the catastrophe and a half that is the current apocalypse-status weather in the motherland (miss you, you commercial, efficient, beautifully superficial, home of country/rap music aka the only kinds that matter, speedy little place we like to call les Etats-Unis ). But oui oui I’m pretty sure there were icicle spottings in Screwston, which leads me to believe that it is, in fact, brrrrrrr and also very possibly the second coming.

Here when the weather forecast anticipates a partly cloudy day, what that generally tends to mean is that, at some point during the day, you may be able to spot a cloud if you squint really hard and stare into the sun until you can’t really see much of anything at all. Meanwhile, my excessive viewing of House re-runs on the ordinateur have me panicking over the possibility of having acquired a terrifying, undiagnosed illness of sorts, whereas most of the time what I’m dealing with is just a hangover. JUST KIDDING!!!! MOM, SERIOUSLY...I’M KIDDING. If you send me another email chastising me for my cavalier attitude towards alcohol I will knock myself over the head with the next bottle of rose I find. But just for you I’ve dedicated this post to safety and topics of discussion befitting a well-traveled young woman such as myself.

So now that I’ve covered my first safe topic, onto the next. Food. Cultural disparities abound, be warned. The French vivent pour manger, while we tend to manger pour vivre. (Duh) The frighteningly compulsive, blink-and- that-quarter-double has just done a vanishing act, characteristic of the morbidly obese aka your average American, is looked upon with disdain in France. In this context disdain reads more along the lines of sheer terror. They like to take their time, painstakingly drawing out their meals, which last for hours on end.They attempt to eat dinner as close to the witching hour as is humanly possible, thereby bringing you to the very brink of hypoglycemic-induced shock and starvation before aggressively shoving a wheel of unrefrigerated, unpasteurized cheese in your mouth, offering a baguette as a chaser. Apparement our confusion and the sound of growling tummies as we wait, salivating, for the next course, is dubbed uncultured, we're labeled base creatures incapable of comprehending the mighty art de vivre. What can I say, my pauper tastes just can't keep up. Shieeeeeeet. 

That being said, the Nutella banini (banana panini) that I’ve been concoting (don’t even worry I’m such a down to earth domestic woman, future fantastic breakfast maker extraordinaire for certain) for myself as of late is a true masterpiece. My tastebuds sing its praises on the reg. Speaking of tastebuds, my tastebuds haven’t been inflamed at all the entire time I’ve been abroad! For those who don’t know, my tastebuds swell up when I’m stressed out. At Tufts a walk down Professor’s Row after a Tuesday night out is enough to trigger those bad boys into proper ouchies. Perhaps a slight exaggeration, but it’s not like I have a penchant for excessive embellishment so pas de probleme really. MEANWHILE my real point-- I’m just living the life over here with great new friends, a fabulous new city, exciting travels/swimsuit season in the very immediate future, and petite, trendy tastebuds just right for sampling des choses comme French cheese, or different fine wines de la region consumed slowly, moderately, and solely for epicurean purposes. To be honest, which is something I rarely am, I forget what real life is like.

SO. Moral of the story, safety first. The French and their “wines” are not your friends. If there’s one thing I excel at, it’s safety, and if there’s one thing I possess en abondance, it’s the proper savoir-faire in a foreign country full of hedonistic fiends.

If you ain’t running with it, run from it mutha-frenchers

xo Mags

PS  On the subject of politics, one of my professors is an anarchist. Like fully a member of the Socialist political persuasion. Which he attempted to sell us like a freaking product on the home shopping channel in class the other day. Like, I’m almost certain I saw him strolling on le cours the other day with a defined French surly glare, coffee in one hand, and something by Engels dans l’autre. A combo of chic, caffeinated, and, oh, casually COMMUNIST.

We r who we r

First off. Last night as I was waiting for my vodka redbull sans sucre (sugarfree—you know just my favorite PHP classic but in Europe, so obviously more trendy and sophisistiquee)—a lovely young French man asked me a question that I was not paying attention to. I figured he was trying to squeeze into the bar or just casually attempting to place a drink order. I assumed this on the basis that my typical behavior in the vicinity of a bar is pretty needy, selfish, and, at times, downright rude. Realizing the error of my ways I decided to give him the response many deserve but never hear.

I responded, with a sheepish, “bien sur, Monsieur. Un moment j’attends mon vodka redbull sans sucre.” (it is in my experience quite a crucial conversation starter to drop that this is my drink of choice due to many people’s sadly misguided and small-minded opinions that mixing energy drinks and alcohol is for some reason a health hazard, and then gaining amusement from their failed attempts to justify this silly little notion and/or convert me to the cult of drinks that don’t induce heart palpitations) . Off track, And a big grin spread across his face—kind of like a deranged cat. Using all my Duchesnian intellect and acquired $omerville $treet $marts I recognized this as a warning sign of sorts. A red flag, if you will, that all was not well. After a brief translation (I didn’t need a translation, my French is fine, I just was more focused on the RBV) Turns out he was asking if I would kindly take off all of my clothing, s’il vous plait. Clearly I stormed off in a feminist rage, shuddering at the nerve of this horrifically leather-clad misogynist. He ended up following us to the 24 hour shwarma place, he’s actually a hoot and a half, pretty witty indeed.

Furthermore, clubbing apparently starts at 3 am. Fashionably late, clearly. (Where have I heard that before… excuse me while I off myself) Meanwhile the IPN club is so stocked they even have a stripper pole! Straight class. Thanking baby Jesus I made the clutch call to bring my Lysol wipes which I cleverly fortified with some Purell. So sanitary. Eric and I then befriended the owner. And by befriended clearly I mean accosted and photographed incessantly.

SO, this weekend we went to Nice, Monte Carlo, and Cannes. Glitz and glam. Except not quite when we roll up in a tourbus full of Americans with 70 year old chaperones wearing fanny packs. Fun weekend, lots of fun. We stayed in a hostel. Yes I spelled that correctly, I didn’t accidentally type an extra “s”. let me just reiterate, I stayed in a hostel.  Okay. A hostel. Well you get the general idea. It’s not a hotel. And we ate off trays. You know how they say, when on the French Riviera, eat at a cafeteria-style meal hole and sleep in bunkbeds. I was too __________ to care so it doesn’t really phase me, I was just that excited to be on the Cote d’Azur. I feel as though the physical beauty goes without saying, so I’ll just say it anyway. It’s very beautiful. Quite a long bus ride, but thankfully I had my jamz/my favorite playlist "rap songs for white girls" because its a rap playlist for white girls.

Currently re-evaluating my schedule and thinking of switching into a French lit class, mostly because I have to drop the 9 am as it is physically impossible that I will be able to wake up that early.

At the moment desperately trying to upload pictures but failing miserably because of the sub-human internet in my ho-fam’s “house.” Also, tonight at dinner ho-mo (stands for host mom, relax Tufts) attempted to lecture Huckie and I on the dangers of being loose women and urged us vehemently to spend more time in the library meeting French gentlemen and not rogue street walkers-- who, she seems concerned, might not actually even be really French. She then launched into a tirade about the opening of the frontiers and how permissive French culture has become, meanwhile I wasn't quite paying attention because the news was on in the background and it's supposed to be sunny this whole week. Sweet.

She also didn't laugh when I made a joke about meeting perfectly respectable gentlemen on the Cours Sextius (the street upon which most of our local haunts are located) at 5 am. She also urged us never to find ourselves on the Cours Sextius to begin with, which was kind of lost on us  je pense but nonetheless, in her words, she is not worried because we become wiser. Literally, she said, on grandit un peu plus chaque jour. In other words, we get bigger each day. I agree ho-mo, I have been getting bigger. Probably from all the cheese you're feeding us.

Au revoir for now.

Love, 

M

PS Expect pictures never. Expect stories always.

In the meantime I will enjoy being treated like a battered wife by Facebook.

Aix-en-Vacances

HOLA MY FRIENDS

So French accents in general never cease to amuse me, particularly when I was attempting to get into our apartment (see previous post with regard to the key situation, these keys are exceedingly tricky and the door seems to have a vendetta against me, meanwhile the locals find it vraiment amusant when I resort to pounding and kicking at the entryway in attempts to gain entry. And by finding it vraiment amusant what I mean is quite the contrary.)

Just got off track. Where was I? Ahhhh (donc en Français on prononce ca comme EHHHH), oui. Les accents.

So the other day a dog walked by me and whacked me really hard in the shins with its tail, its owner—a male wearing the most ornate scarf and tightest pants I have ever seen—then casually explains, DO NOT BE AFRAID MY FRIEND… THIS DOG.. IS VERY.. HOW YOU SAY…  VRAIMENT GENTILLE? Not so freaking gentille when I have more bruises to add to my collection due to this foaming canine’s disproportionately large tail but it’s casual. The purpose of this story was solely to demonstrate the French accent, which has been somewhat futile because there is no audio accompaniment to this post.

Meanwhile the language barrier proves, for some, exceedingly frustrating at times. My lovely roomie and very petite friend of many years Hanna recently ran into some difficulty attempting to buy a blow dryer at the Monoprix. (Luckily some of us are just born—oh and to clarify “born” in this context means spending exorbitant amounts of money to ensure maximum weightlessness/bounce factor of les cheveux)

In an attempt to ask the woman where she could find a device that would permit her to dry her hair, she eagerly asked, est-ce que vous avez quelquechose pour secher les cheveux? Meanwhile the lovely woman from the esteemed grocery chain Monoprix pointed, unenthusiastically (SO uncharacteristic of French service), to a towel.

So I know you’re all just squirming in your seats eager to hear about the absolutely stark-raving mad Euro nightlife and about cigarettes and such. Well, unfortunately, I don’t rage and tell. Mostly because my parents read this blog. (hey mom and dad classes are scintillating, can’t get enough) I have found that the only thing better than my beloved Tuesday night is Mardi soir. And for the linguistically retarded (excuse my use of the word…or don't I don't care, I'm not in Boston anymore. PC refers to a ghetto COMPUTER and nothing more for all of you), Mardi soir means Tuesday night but in French, clearly upping the ante and the level of sophistication with which my favorite evening is approached. We went to various local etablissements , starting off at a hodgepodge of bars and then wrapping up the evening and starting the morning off at a nightclub called Le Mistral—which is, ironically, the name of a Zagat-rated French restaurant in Houston. No comparison can be drawn between the two and that reference was generally irrelevant. The menu at the former consisted solely of a liquid dinner with a side of seizure-inducing lighting. Also please note that I use the term nightclub loosely here because when we returned, shopkeepers were preparing to open their businesses for the morning. Also we found a local 24-hour pasta/burger place and even made some new friends who attempted to engage Lauren and I in a political debate while simultaneously attempting to sell us drugs. Also, I should mention that the blatant French sexism works considerably in my favor considering entrance/cover charge sont gratuites for the ladeez. Convenient. Meanwhile it is currently 11 am and I am about to go to sleep. Had class at 9 am this morning  (I know right) and not again till 3:30 so I am going to take advantage of this time in this culturally rich endroit and spend it sleeping resting up for my second favorite night of the week, THURSDAY. I expect a very casual evening, game of cards, maybe a movie, you know me.

AIX-O AIX-O (it’s pronounced X, so this is clearly a clever pun)

Margarita

Ps. I introduce myself as Margarita to the Frenchies here because it makes me sound like a sophisticated Spaniard of sorts. This amusing little ruse can only broken should I have to spastically whip out the Bank of America card to pay for my drinks. Which undoubtedly means I have been having an unsuccessful evening if I need to get the credit card out to begin with.

jetcracked

WE'RE HERE. FINALLY. HELLO. Bonfreakinjour.

I should start off by casually mentioning how obsessed I am with Aix, probably one of the most amazing places I have ever been. Everything a "study" abroad locale should be: lively, classy, full of old-world architectural wonder that makes for impressive and obnoxiously artsy photos (SO hipster).


After one of the most ridiculous trips of my life, I am so happy (relieved) to finally be here (alive). Our apartment is in typical Provencal style, in the most perfect location. The main rotary/big fountain is a 20 second walk away from us and we live right by all the cutest cafes and restaurants. ALSO there is a hair salon on what seems every street, and we live next door to a spa-- they do nails too. What's up. All of these are highly crucial places which factor heavily into determining my peace of mind and general happiness whilst abroad. And by peace of mind/general happiness what I really mean is survival.

So the trip went not so smoothly and while it is still traumatic to recount, I had a slight moment of clumsiness involving an escalator at Charles de Gaulle which I'd like to forget asap--however, the intense  bruising prevents me from erasing the experience from my mind. This is undoubtedly why travel gurus, sane people, and/or doctors recommend manageably-sized luggage. Mes baggages consisted of one 70 pound suitcase, one 45 pound suitcase, and one 20 pound duffel (that was just the checked luggage and I deluded myself into believing I had packed extremely light). So considering my belongings weighed a fair amount more than me, it was quel surpris when I couldn't actually move any of it and sustained massive trauma to the entire left side of my body. Laugh if you will but I'm currently curious (and clearly when I say curious I mean living in utter terror) as to whether or not I have internal bleeding. Unfortunately for me it's le Jour du Seigneur so if I am, in fact, bleeding internally I have to wait till tomorrow to get that all checked out. Anywaysssss, after managing to board the correct TGV and crying to a random stranger and having him wheel my luggage for me, I managed to find the people from IAU. Normale. 

So after my 10 hour plane ride, 4 hour train ride, and 15 minute bus ride to the center of Aix, I finally got to my host family's house (after a ride in a car with a man who I think was from IAU. I mean he definitely was. Probably) So there is this elderly lady there who doesn't introduce herself-- she then points to a room (and by room I mean cupboard) that is supposed to mine, and after attempting to make awkward small talk with her, Hanna explains that apparently this woman is not our host mother, but our host mother's mother aka our host grandmother. How on earth am I supposed to know this? She hasn't said a word to me, the only form of communication was an awkward gesture on her part towards my suitcase, which is more like an African elephant with a luggage tag. She gives us our keys which are actually a joke, they look straight out of  a Harry Potter film. Also we have to spend half an hour attempting to get into the house because the keys are quite difficile. Or, you know, old.

After that awkward encounter, Hanna and I are off to explore the city on Saturday night-- unfortunately we are way too jetcracked to do anything of note so we settle for some pasta and a few glasses of rose at a super cute Italian place next to our house. Also ew I don't want to always be blogging about food BUT there is a Nutella crepe stand/kiosk open all night that also sells stuffed animals, I have a good feeling about that place. Also we went to Monoprix for water, they also sell clothes. I was tickled.

Today we walked around Aix with our host mom, had coffee at Les Deux G,  the most famous cafe in the city-- frequented in the past by famous artists and philosophers. I definitely wanted to kick back with a cig and ponder existentially.

Oh, also there was an open house today at IAU. I'm sure it was a great opportunity to meet people/get acquainted with the program. I wouldn't really know though because we forgot to go.

Orientation tomorrow/classes start Tuesday. Get it.

Infinite love from Aix,
M

Demain...

Bonjour tout le monde,

Here it is. The promised abroad blog. Not much to report maintenant, since I'm actually still in Texas. However, on the eve of my departure for la France, I thought I'd take a second to start up this chronicle of sorts-- hopefully a place I can share my travels and adventures as I roam aimlessly around Europe till the end of the summer. Just kidding. Kind of.

Hanna and I are staying in a homestay with an excellent location-- right off the main Cours Mirabeau, dubbed the "most satisfying street in all of France."-- a row of cafes, fountains, and a weekly open-air market selling local specialties amongst others.
SOOO in the guidebook which I've essentially committed to memory, neighboring Marseille is described as the antithesis of the northern urban French cities, an anti-Paris, if you will. Aix, thereby, is described in the lovely Cadogan guidebook as the stalwart anti-Marseille, depicted as "bourgeois, cultured, aristocratic, urbane, slow-paced, and convivial." There you go. Needless to say giddy is kind of an understatement at the moment. 10 hours non-stop to Paris tomorrow afternoon, followed by a 4 hour TGV ride to le sud.

Alors, ON Y VA. A bientôt , les Etats-Unis. Let's do this.

As an old friend, Charles Baudelaire, once astutely explained:

Enivrez-Vous

Il faut être toujours ivre.

Tout est là:

c'est l'unique question.

Pour ne pas sentir

l'horrible fardeau du Temps

qui brise vos épaules

et vous penche vers la terre,

il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.

Mais de quoi?

De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, à votre guise.

Mais enivrez-vous.

Et si quelquefois,

sur les marches d'un palais,

sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé,

dans la solitude morne de votre chambre,

vous vous réveillez,

l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue,

demandez au vent,

à la vague,

à l'étoile,

à l'oiseau,

à l'horloge,

à tout ce qui fuit,

à tout ce qui gémit,

à tout ce qui roule,

à tout ce qui chante,

à tout ce qui parle,

demandez quelle heure il est;

et le vent, 

la vague, 

l'étoile, 

l'oiseau, 

l'horloge,

vous répondront:

"Il est l'heure de s'enivrer!

Pour n'être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps,

enivrez-vous;

enivrez-vous sans cesse!

De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise."

I'd translate, but I want to preserve the pristine nature of the original text. HAAA.

Bisouxxxxx,

M