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.