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