What is it?

I have to wonder what it is about France that constantly forces me to maintain some state of illness. Currently I am sitting in bed with a small lake in my lungs (delicious, no?). This situation makes it fairly hard to function in class, let alone travel like I want to.

Regardless, I am headed to Paris this weekend and come Hell or high water, I will be getting on a train Friday. Traveling to or through Paris has been a common theme throughout my time here in the fabulous land of cathedrals and crêpes.

1. Paris weekend
2. Montparnasse/Gare du Nord transfer. Destination: London
3. Gare du Nord/Montparnasse transfer. Destination: Poitiers
4. Montparnasse/Gare du Nord transfer. Destination: Maastricht
5. Gare du Nord/Montparnasse transfer. Destination: Poitiers.

Needless to say, I'm well versed in the metro system and the line destinations by now.

I'm looking forward to my hostel location. It's at the foot of the Sacre Coeur and near Moulin Rouge, right in the heart of Montmartre. The metro station is close by (ligne 12) and it's unbelievably easy to buy an all access pass for the weekend. There are plenty of cafes around and it's simple to drop by some of Paris' most spectacular landmarks at the drop of a hat. I have fallen in love with this city. The only thing better would be to have my boyfriend and my flighty mistress, Paris, at the same time.

Looks so simple, doesn't it?

La Toussaint and French Meals

La Toussaint is a festival translated as "All Saints Day" in France. People flock to cemeteries to adorn graves with copious amounts of flowers and sometimes candles, especially in other European countries. It's a national holiday and since this year it landed on a Tuesday, Monday was made an unofficial holiday as well. When a holiday lands on a Thursday or Tuesday, it's pointless in the minds of French people to have just one work day in between days off, so they faire le pont and automatically make the day in between a non-mandatory work day. Usually everyone takes advantage of this in order to have an extra long weekend holiday. Leave it to the French to make excuses to get the biggest amount of days off possible. Kudos to you, France. I wish the United States would follow suit. I can see this being possible with Veteran's Day. Unfortunately my blog and whimsical ideas will never be seen by The Man, so for now I'm left to wish.


After a weekend of trying my best to fight off sickness, I managed to avoid a dinner last night where I would have most certainly been ignored the entire time. With La Toussaint, it seems that there is an abundance of feasts associated with it. Last night there was a big meal with 13 other people in attendance, and today I was drug into a lunch with at least that many. I was under the impression that it would just be my host mother and I eating lunch, until I came downstairs. Holy crap, not again. I was starving, so I had no other choice. I didn't hear any cars drive up... confound it, they're sneaky.

I knew most of the people there, and even enjoyed their company. No thanks to my host mother, this meal was actually entertaining; I had a good time. Both the husbands in attendance loved to ask me questions about what Americans think of French and I begged them to tell me what they thought of when I said "The United States". We also discussed my love of music, riding horses, how many instruments I play, and what sort of animals are found on and around the farm/ranch I live on. Spiders and snakes were also conversation topics. Hmm, someone actually asking about my life and engaging in a French conversation with me about various topics? That's a first. 


Interesting observation on French meals

I always expected to be on my best behavior during French meals, after all, the French are masters of eating and drawing meals out so I was only to assume it meant long, lavish meals with proper table settings, cloth napkins, "could you pass me the wine, good sir?" sort of speech. Although I have run into those once or twice, the vast majority are meals comprised of a mixture of things I would see as high class in the States with a free for all repas. l'Aperitif (pre-meal snack) is always served, but that's mainly where high class and savagery go their separate ways. The husbands, whom I've grown very fond of (and can never remember their names) provided excellent entertainment in the form of raucous laughter from idiotic jokes. Hands reached across tables, people poured for themselves, my host grandmother even smacked someone's hand and scolded another for not having dessert. It was all very familial. I loved it. At one point, I asked one dad to pass me the basket of bread. Without notice, a slice of baguette went sailing the length of the table. Cripes! I didn't know the man had an arm like a quarterback! Lucky I have lightning fast reflexes, heh.

I didn't mind the fact that the lunch took around 3 hours. I was engrossed in a french conversation about Sarkozy, Dominique StraussKahn (DSK), native animals to Europe, the fact that spiders are icky, and comparisons between French and Americans. I guess I just get along with dads more than women and preteens. Fine by me. We can all watch sports, go buy baguettes, and play squash together while the women gossip and the kids play video games.

I really should have had a host family with a father. My host mother doesn't make much of an effort to include me in anything and I think I would have thrived with a guy around the house. It's so unfortunate that I'm a female, sometimes.

Margraten, Netherlands

This post, while it will cover the fact that I had train fiascos coming back and had to switch tickets and re-route myself (there, I covered it) I really want to focus on the reason I ventured to Holland for just one night.

My grandfather, William H. Starns, was killed in the Battle of the Bulge. Buried in The Netherlands American Cemetery and Memorial, none of my family has had the opportunity to visit his grave - until now.

The cemetery is hauntingly beautiful. Family of the deceased are treated differently. I was escorted to my grandfathers grave by the American in charge of overseeing the cemetery that day. He took a camera, and a bucket of sand and discussed my grandfather with me as we walked to plot B, row 18, grave 18. I had brought a bouquet of flowers and my guide carried an American flag and a special vase for the fall assembly of daisies, roses, and tulips, among others. As my escort placed the sand along the inscription of my grandfather's name, he explained to me that the sand was used to make the words more visible (for photos) and was brought from the beaches of Normandy specifically for this purpose.

As I placed the flowers in the vase, he inserted the flag just to the left into the ground and backed up to take a photo. Then, the guide left me alone with my thoughts. I sat down next to my grandfather's grave and started sharing my life with him. I talked about all I had done so far and how he'd be proud of me. I sat there for a good long time, hoping he could hear me somehow. Think of it as crazy or touching, your choice.

When I returned to the visitor's office, my helpful employee had several things ready for me. He had printed out the photo on a card with the row, plot, grave and other information.  Also, he had researched more information about grandpa that I hadn't previously known and printed it out. On top of that, there was an elegant folder with more facts on the cemetery, and a DVD about the cemetery, including interviews and stories from relatives of the deceased. I thought it was going to be strictly about the cemetery, but when I began watching it while waiting for the train, elderly brothers were being interviewed about their oldest sibling who was buried in the cemetery. The old man's breath caught in his throat, and I began to cry. I cried a lot today.

Also in the folder was a pamphlet about adoption. Each grave in the cemetery (all 8,301) has been adopted and it has the strongest family/adopting family ties. I'm really interested in learning about the Dutch family who cares for my grandfather when we can't be there.

There are almost 2,000 graves of unknown soldiers. Names are marked on the wall near the entrance to the cemetery, and each individual grave reads: Here rests in honored glory, a comrade in arms, known but to God.

I love you, Grandpa. 

Je t'aime

London

  I am currently on a train to Maastricht in the Netherlands, and I thought I had time to type a few notes on my trip to London (from which I just got back to Poitiers yesterday - I am way too familiar with the train stations of Paris).

  I was so fortunate to have amazing hosts! Saail and his flatmates were accommodating, kind, and a blast to be around. While on the train, a fellow International Studies major and I bonded over similar interests. I mentioned I was involved in theatre and to my delight he said, "You know, Wicked is playing right now..." 

Sign me up. That night, I braved the Tube (the underground metro for foreigners) and ventured into the heart of London. Needless to say, the play was spectacular and even better than the first time I saw it. I had a glass of wine, and sat in the front row. Can't get much better than that.

  Day 2 consisted of mainly Portobello Rd. There was a train fiasco, which led me to meet another girl headed to the same market, Johanna. Originally from Finland, Johanna was working in London for schooling. Together, we managed to find our way to the market by taking a train, a bus, and walking our feet off. I must admit, a main reason I had such a desire to visit this attraction was because of the movie, Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Don't judge me. Johanna and I also made it to Big Ben, and Westminster Abbey.

 Why spend the day in London when you can take a coach two hours outside and see something older than the Bible? I took advantage of a tour bus and headed west, near Salisbury to see one of the most astounding things I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing:

  Yes, I took that photo myself. I was there, at Stonehenge. A Canadian student taking classes in Sweden was in London for the weekend and her and I both had the same idea afterwards: Tower Bridge. Continuing on our jaunt, Leceister Square was the next stop. Madonna had a movie premiere that night, so there was a lot of hubub about the square and roads were closed off. That night, after gazing at the countless advertisements in the Tube for plays, I said to myself, you're in London and you have another night. Why not go see another play? So I did.

  Les Miserables happened to be playing just off Piccadilly Circus at Her Majesty's Theatre. I stopped by an Irish pub before and grabbed a pint to kill some time. Having never heard a mass amount of the music, I didn't know what to expect other than the basic premise of the play. I nearly cried at the end, and that's saying something to the magnificent work the actors and orchestra did. 

  

Some things I learnt:

1. I would pick a French driver over a Brit any day. Although both are crazy drivers, the British have a propensity to run yellow/red lights. Constantly.

2. Stonehenge is noticeable from a ways away.

3. It's true: You can't understand Scottish people when they speak (and you're sober)

4. Platforms 9 and 10 at King's Cross Station are nowhere near each other. Sorry J.K. Rowling.

5. It's easy to tell when you're back in France: gothic and renaissance buildings dot the countryside.

The Loire Valley

I spent the past weekend wandering around centuries old buildings that are teeming with history. But first, I got drunk...

Our very first stop was a visit to Marc Brédif wine caverns. I had told my friend I would try to drink some Loire Valley wine after he insisted that I do so. Little did I know I was going to do just that. Our site director apologized for the visit to the caves, since it was barely after 10 in the morning - she figured it would be difficult to drink wine in the morning, to which my friend JP said, "...hair of the dog, man". The caverns held over a million bottles of wine, some dating back to 1874. At the end of the tour, we were given wine glasses and encouraged to try a few different specialities. After roughly a glass and a half, pens and clipboards were distributed. I should listen to my intuition when it tells me that something is about to occur that might not end in the best way (or turn out hilarious at my expense). There were more empty glasses spread throughout the room at stations, where there were a total of five "drinking games" set up. We had to determine which wine was what from the options we had on our paper. One game consisted of trying to discern which wine was a Sauvignon and which was a Chenin. Another was a bit harder: guess the year of the wine, followed by 8 year options, all within the last 30 years or so. At one point, there was a disagreement among my group of which wine was which (this game consisted of 3 different wines) and they looked to me for my opinion. By that time, I had forgotten and after a pause, I uttered the words, "Crap, I'm going to have to drink more wine". We came in second place in the game, so I guess the hangover I received from the countless glasses served it's purpose. Regardless, I bought two bottles of wine that I had tried.

  While perusing the town after the tour, I spied hot air balloons taking off a few fields away and rising over the ancient buildings of Amboise. Something overtook my fear of heights (vertige in French) and said, "Sam, you're going to go in a hot air balloon one of these days if it kills you." - it would have been right then if circumstances hadn't been so unfortunate.

Château d'Amboise

A beautiful castle atop a hill, and the resting place of none other than Leonardo Da Vinci. This is a combination of renaissance and gothic style architecture. My friend and I had wonderful kebabs for lunch before we ascended the stairs leading to the château. Our guide was amicable and kept the group entertained with fun facts about the history of the building. I never realized Da Vinci was buried in the chapel of the castle, and when I found out I immediately became gleeful. I'm a big fan of Leo. He's the bee's knees.

Château Chenonceau

The Ladies Castle. It housed 6 important women over time. Spanning the river Cher, it is flanked by two gardens, one of which was from Diane de Poitiers and the other from Catherine de Medicis. This has to be one of my favorite châteaux. It's gorgeous and has an intriguing history. After the death of her husband, Louise de Lorraine became incredibly upset and retreated to one room in the house. She locked herself in her bedroom and painted mourning symbols on the black walls. This lady (who might have been off her rocker, in my opinion) wore only white - the color of mourning for royalty. She was referred to as "The White Queen". 

Loche

The medieval stronghold of Loche stands high above the centre ville. I was fortunate enough to visit the donjon or the keep as well as the torture room. They preferred to call it "la salle de la question". Among the torture methods, they forced anywhere from 9 to 18 litres of water down ones throat. My personal favorite was this: they put salt on the prisoner's feet, and had a goat lick off the salt. It tickled like hell, but after a while became painful because a goat tongue can be rough, not unlike a cats. 


Enjoy some photos from the weekend, day two I had an amazing hairdo courtesy of Clara, a friend from Oregon.....

This looks photoshopped to me..

Note: My languages are starting to blur together. Some words that I know should be correct just don't look that way, and vice versa. I'm also becoming more fluent in oral comprehension (even surprising myself at how badass I am).

In Flanders Fields...

Every day that I travel to the university, there are little things I notice. After countless hours staring out the window, one is bound to discover something new beyond the tempered glass.

At my home in Oregon, California poppies are plentiful and always a joy to see them mix in with the wild Camas that coats our fields in a blanket of violet with dashes of yellow and orange. It's a magnificent portrait. The one thing that I had yet to see in person until now are poppies - not California poppies, these are different. I see them on a small hill each and every day. Amongst the green are bursts of red. When I got closer, I came to realize that there were other smaller flowers surrounding the main thing that drew me. I have yet to see them anywhere else in or around Poitiers. Maintenance could mow the flowers, since they are in the middle of an area that should be groomed. But the poppies remain unharmed. I can only think that they left them there just to admire.

The only time I had glanced upon them before was in a poem I was shown before a Veteran's Day Concert tribute to service members, specifically local ones. The poem was entitled: In Flanders Fields..

On November 11th, poppies are worn in honor of Remembrance Day, Armistice Day, or Veterans Day. WWI ended officially on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918. 

Darn you.

I spent the majority of Thursday being sick and trying to put together the hardest 250 piece puzzle I have ever worked on. That probably didn't do much for my physical health, as it began to drive me crazy. The puzzle itself was attractive, but there was a significant lack in details and color variety, which any puzzle aficionado knows makes it difficult to piece together. To top it off, there was a note written on the back and in order to read it one must complete the puzzle. I spent the majority of day sweating over the damn thing, muttering "I'm going to beat him to within an inch of his life".

I did finish the puzzle, by the way.

  This evening, my host mother is hosting (ha ha!) a dinner party. As I was helping her with groceries today, I noticed she had bought close to 10 bottles of wine. Welcome to France, Sam. I have seen this multiple times in the store with strangers. One would be tempting to throw around the word, "alcoholic" if someone purchased that much alcohol in The United States.

  I've been constantly fighting of some sort of malady since I arrived in this country. There is an ever-present sore throat and I'm starting to develop some flu symptoms. Busy work is rampant in my schooling and it's driving me batty. The French education system is inefficient and unorganized, and that's putting it mildly. The professors cannot stand anyone with a different answer than their own and they have a nasty habit of making students look incredibly stupid. I plan on giving it another month or so, and if things show no improvement, I am seriously considering cutting my stay to just a semester. My site director will probably have something to say about it, for the pure reason that when I come to her with issues (which is what we were all instructed to do, of course) she always has something negative to retort ("What are your real reasons for wanting to move into an apartment?" - "Come back to me after you think more about it. You should really stay in a host family"). 

I absolutely cannot wait for my mother to send me peanut butter. Here's to hoping it gets here toute de suite!

An American in Paris

My apologies in advance if this gets too lengthy, I'll try to keep it brief.....

Friday
 Clara, Emily and I took the train from Poitiers to Paris. We got off at Montparnasse and proceeded to meander around until we found a church, and decided to investigate. Like almost all churches in France, this one was magnificent. Continuing on our walk (with our heavy backpacks that we ended up carrying around all day) we stumbled upon l'Hôtel des Invalides, and with our student cards, we ended up getting in for free and had the pleasure of seeing Napoleon's grave. From there the three of us walked over to the Eiffel Tower and the Trocadero. We ended up having lunch in the park just off the Trocadero with a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower. In addition, I managed to snag a mean deal with one of the street venders who kept calling me "Lady Gaga". After we gave our feet a rest and filled our tummies, it was off to the Arc de Triomphe. After deciding it would be wiser to take the underground path instead of trying to forge our way through the hundreds of cars using the roundabout, we got to view the tomb of the unknown soldier. I provided the commentary on the history of the arc, as well as our next stop: Place de la Concord. We strolled down the Champs Elysees, where Emily had to stop and get Starbucks. From the Place de la Concord, we decided to meet up with the guy we were staying the night with, so our bags could be dropped off at his house outside the city. After taking the train and walking for 15 minutes, the house was in sight. Unfortunately, all of us were too fatigued to go back into the city that night.

I was the makeshift tour guide for the day, and the person in charge of making it safely through the metro, since I had been to Paris once before. The girls were slightly worried about pickpockets in the metro, as well as how to determine the correct train to board. After a demonstration of how to get to one place from another, they figured it out.

                                                                Saturday
7:00 wake-up call for me. I was interested in seeing Versailles and the Louvre, whereas the other two were content to wander around for the day. I navigated the train to Versailles, and managed to make it through 3/4 of the tour before I lost my mind. There was an abundance of ignorant Americans and just plain rude Chinese people. 10 tour buses full, at the very least. Bottlenecks at each doorway and droves of people who stop in the middle of hallways created a frustrating morning for me. The palace was absolutely stunning, and I wish I could have stayed longer, but my tolerance for stupid people was wearing thin. I also still had lots to see in Paris that day. Next stop: The Louvre. This was the location I was most excited to see. Having been there once before, I knew exactly where to go to see the popular artwork and then began to methodically make my way through the labyrinth. Combining both my visits, I believe I have seen almost every room, but not every piece of art. If one were to spend one minute at each piece of art and did this nonstop, they'd finish in four months. Not something I am planning on trying. This visit, I spent 5 hours awestruck in the museum and forced myself to leave because there was so much more of Paris to see. Other things occurred in the Louvre, but they shouldn't be written here due to the fact that I might get someone in trouble, or my face might end up on some paper where I wouldn't want it. Not to worry, I didn't break any rules that I'm aware of.  I met back up with the group in front of Notre Dame and we headed to the Luxembourg Gardens. Ice cream and a band playing - can't get much better than that. One tip: do not under any circumstances sit on the grass in the gardens. We made the mistake of doing so and got told off by a police officer. St Michel fountain is beautiful, and I recommend seeing it. Dinner was near Montmartre at a charming restaurant that seemed to be pretty popular, Chartiers. Wanting to see the Eiffel Tower lit up at night, the group (that had grown to 10 people) took to the metro and found ourselves on the banks of the Seine, taking a touristic boat ride.

Sunday
After sleeping in a couple hours, the four of us (Damion - the host, Emily, Clara and I) enjoyed a nice breakfast outside. Lunch was had in the Latin Quarter sitting by a balcony window overlooking a quaint little street. From there we caught the metro to Montparnasse and headed home. I was lucky enough to sit by a girl about my age, and we bonded over sudoku puzzles.

Here are some photos from the trip, the whole Paris album can be found on my Facebook (all 200 photos):

It's the little things...

A short while ago, the clouds parted as I received one of the best gifts I probably could ever get from my host mother: American peanut butter. Skippy to be exact. I've been having it on bread every morning for breakfast, so I'm quickly running out. I need to buy in bulk and keep a huge stock in my room. You never know how much you miss American food until it isn't available - at all. I'm jonesing for Muchas Gracias something fierce.

I feel I should introduce a member of the family that I have grown quite fond of, Mica. Named after the singer, Mica is the family cat. Very spoiled and very used to getting her way, Mica has become a natural target for torment for Salomé and Mathis so she only chooses to give affection when the children are otherwise occupied (like when they eat, although Mica doesn't realize they have sharp utensils in their hands just waiting to be momentarily diverted from eating to poking the cat). If we drive anywhere, I can be rest assured that Mica will greet us at the door when we get back. In one morning, I have had to open the door for that darn cat a minimum of 7 times in order for her to go in and out of the house.

There is a certain professor that teaches several of my classes that, when we are silently working, prowls the aisles like Filch's cat. It's strikingly similar, how she moves in between the students. Another professor and I had a pleasant ten minute conversation about our mutual love of maps and about where all I have been in France.
Today I had the pleasure of buying a roundtrip train ticket to Paris for this weekend, as well as my first bottle of wine. Sometimes I'm amazed at how well I can function in another country without speaking one word of English. Some people, I'm convinced, don't even realize I'm foreign. Albeit I might not have lengthy conversations with them, but during a normal interaction at a store some people don't even slow down like many do when they realize they're speaking with a foreign student.

l'Hôtel de Ville at night

I'm quickly growing tired of staying in one place for long, so I'll be spending this weekend in Paris. Here's to hoping my stay in France becomes more bearable when I start to travel more. I can't wait to revisit the Louvre and admire more of the fine artwork. The forecast is shaping up to be in the low to mid 70's (Fahrenheit) and sunny, perfect weather for having a lunch in the park by the Eiffel Tower. I'm planning on taking a massive amount of photos, which will have to be labeled under a completely different photo album, not just "France", because let's face it, The Louvre alone could have it's own album.

Dinner

A bit of complaining first...

Although I am invited to dinner with Laurence's (my host mother) friends, I really need to start being rude and not go. They spend hours talking and I can only understand 30% of the conversation, 50% at best. I am flattered that they thought enough to invite me, but once I'm there it's as if I stop existing. Dinners tend to take several hours and after dessert, more time is spent gossiping and discussing silly things. At some point during the evening, I have to fight the urge to say "screw politeness" and storm out of the house. By the end of last night, I had fallen asleep on my purse. It was well past midnight when everyone decided to say their farewells. La bise was at hand. After several sets of kissing (3 couples, 6 kids - you do the math) I had forgotten which people I had properly said goodbye to. I figured that if a person didn't lunge at my face, it was safe to say I had either given them la bise already or they just didn't care all that much, either of which was fine with me.

Many are entertained by the American accent and French people trying to speak like Americans. I can't count how many times during last night's dinner my host mother tried to correctly say an english word so that I could understand it through her heavy french accent. A big deal is made when a French person says something in English. If one didn't know a lick of French and was listening in on a conversation where someone spoke a word or two of English, you'd think someone just invented teleportation. When saying goodbye, multiple adults said "goodbye" or "see you later", to much applause from the other French people.

Another thing I've noticed in France, is that people comment on the way I eat. It's not really how I eat, but as in what and how much. At almost every meal, someone has noticed that I take small portions and at least twice I have been asked "Are you trying to lose weight?" - I find it ironic that they're commenting on how little an American eats.

I figure I probably should keep track of new foods I've tried while in France....
1. paté (at least 5 kinds)
2. caviar
3. goose
4. mussels
5. daurade
6. crab
7. gazpacho
8. countless wines
9. countless cheeses

There are others... I'll be adding more, I'm sure.

Although overall this hasn't been a pleasant experience yet, France has had it's moments. I'm hoping things get better and if they don't, I can always leave at the semester right?


On the photo: I was walking down a winding street in the centre ville one afternoon and saw this accordion player. I couldn't resist taking the photo, it was so French and the color contrast in the door and his bag really stood out to me.

Eggs

I'm not sure how widely known my intolerance for eggs is, but I guess for those who are not aware, I'll need a preface.

Preface:
 I love scrambled eggs, but over the past couple years, I've developed some sort of strange intolerance for them. If I eat scrambled eggs, over easy, sunny side up, etc. I become very ill afterwards. Why, I do not know. I am able to eat things that contain eggs, such as bread, cake, cookies, etc so this makes as much sense to me as it does you.

Now that the preface is out of the way, I'll begin at the beginning. Within my first few days, we had omelets one evening for dinner. I informed my host mother that I couldn't eat eggs because I had an allergy (because explaining what I just did in French is more complicated and not worth it). She said "okay" and left it at that. Over the past couple weeks, she slowly but surely tried to incorporate more eggs into the meals. With pasta dishes, she adds a raw egg or two. Now, I do not know this for sure, but I have been getting somewhat ill after I eat her pasta dishes (which are good, don't get me wrong). After tonight, I am even more suspicious that she does this - but I'll get to that shortly. I was asked this evening by my host brother whether I wanted eggs or cold sausage and chicken for dinner. I replied with the fact that I have an allergy, so I'll go with the sausage and chicken (I didn't like the sausage, but I figured it was better than an evening in the fetal position).
As I come downstairs, my mother notices I have the chicken and sausage instead of eggs. She comments. I say as a polite reminder, "Yes, I sort of have an allergy" to which she responds with "tu n'as pas une allergie". I look at her with a puzzled expression as she continues to tell me that I don't have an allergy because I ate eggs last night. Well, hmm. I don't remember eating eggs last night, the only thing we had was chicken and pasta. Pasta. That bitch evil woman tried to poison me. Now, because I hadn't mentioned I'd been getting sick after her pasta dishes, she must now think I am making the allergy up in order to get out of eating some sort of food I don't like. Fantastic.
For dessert she suggests I try this flan-like concoction. Then she "remembers" it contains whipped egg whites and informs me of this in a slightly exasperated manner. A sarcastic, passive-aggressive mother. Fabulous.

On top of that little gem to finish off my shitty less than spectacular 3 weeks day, the guy I gave my number to in order to "practice english" has been calling me nonstop today. My phone is on silent, so when I checked my missed calls today, I saw that he had called me a minimum of 4 times since 2pm today.

To fill you in: I ate lunch alone yesterday in the Rabelais. Correction: I ate lunch alone for 5 minutes. The guy sitting across from me suggested that we should talk because it was a waste to sit by each other and not converse. Okay, I'll give him that. So we chatted for a few minutes, after which he asked for my phone number, adding "to practice my english" hastily to the end of the statement. I don't know what the international rules are for asking for a girl's number, but I'm now fairly sure he didn't just have "practicing english" on his mind.

I Hate Seafood

It was a beautiful day at the ocean (The Bay of Biscay) in La Rochelle. The town is quaint, has lots of shops, and has great weather. We stayed in a wonderful house owned by my mother's friends. The interior was stone, nautical, and very artsy. The wife does a lot of sculpting. On our way to the beach, I asked my mom if there were any places to change at the beach because I hadn't slipped on my bathing suit underneath my street clothes. After a brief pause, she said, "non". She and my host sister went on to tell me that I would just change on the beach. Hmm. Is this a nude beach? Turns out, no. But unlike the United States, everyone is very comfortable with....... everything. Louise (friend's daughter) and I used a towel which wasn't too effective, while everyone else just stripped down to their bares. I'm starting to wonder if the French drink too much wine. Such a significant lack of modesty. Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

I really do hate seafood.

After having to try les moules and not liking them, I assumed that the trip to La Rochelle (on the coast) would be nice and my family would try to allow me to avoid seafood as much as possible.

For dinner on the night we were there, we went to a seafood restaurant. Now, I stupidly thought that there would be at least something on the menu that wasn't caught in a net. I thought wrong. After trying to figure out what sort of fish things were (anything with a shell is automatically off the table - no pun intended), I decided on daraude. It is a white fish that is "delicious" as my mother's friend said. I didn't know what I was expecting when the food came to the table, but I certainly was not expecting to be making eye contact with what I was about to consume. The damn thing was still fully intact. My mouth fell open and I couldn't say anything except "I'm sorry, fishy". After sensing hesitation, my host mother decapitated the poor victim. I was asked if I wanted wine. I wasn't going to pass that up at this point. Any wine would have been fine, but this wine was actually very good. I'm definitely going to keep an eye out for it from now on.

I wasn't able to finish the fish (maybe the eyes, scales, bones, and the fact the fish could look at me as I was devouring it tainted my appetite), and was partially mesmerized and partially mortified at the fact that my host mother was tearing apart a crab like a barbarian. The others were just as bad, prying things from their shells using all sorts of vile tools. One crab was obviously a female, and my host mother pried open her cache of eggs to many "oohhhhh"s and "ahhhhh"s from the rest of the table (except me, my mouth seemed to have fallen slack again). At this point, I was tipsy enough to not realize I was staring. All of the adults promised me that they'd stop disturbing me with seafood after tonight. I was relieved, I didn't have the heart to tell them I would never eat seafood again. Ever.

So for lunch the next day I had seafood.




I have developed this interest in taking photos of doors, since each one is unique. I thought I'd share some from La Rochelle....

  The door to the house we stayed in...