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