Tired eyes and a full belly

It's nearing seven p.m. on my third monday in Strasbourg, and I hope to begin catching up a bit on all the events of the past week and a half, without screwing up too badly typing with the somewhat different french keyboard. I don't -- once again -- have my computer with me, so photos and more extensive updates will come a bit later. Really, I have this running list of topics, but things have kind of gone crazy this last week and I haven't been in the best state to focus on anything internet.

This past week was very hard chez Mme (at Mme's house) because there was a tragic death in the family that came as a total shock. Extended family, and not anyone in Strasbourg, but it turned this last week into a flurry of tears that i really wasn't prepared for. Language barrier aside, there are cultural differences, and i simply didn't know what was appropriate for me, as a border, to do. The night she found out I was the only one there (her daughter usually gets home later than i do) and she was in complete shock. I ventured out on a limb to give her a hug, the only thing I could think to do, even though I wasn't sure if it was culturally appropriate. I stayed with her in the kitchen for awhile until she decided to call her mom and then i told her if she needed anything, i'd be in my room, available. Her daughter came home while she was still on the phone with her mom, so I didn't see her again that night, except for a quick goodnight.

The days that followed were not easy. I felt uneasy in the house and decided it would be best to keep a certain distance so that Mme wouldn't have to worry about getting me dinner at a certain hour, etc. I'm definitely not a part of the family and it felt like the house needed to have a familiar comfort... ie, sans etudiante. So I stayed at Ariana and Margeaux's place friday night and ate dinner elsewhere fri, sat, and sun.

Things have been difficult adjusting to living with a family with completely different habits and rules and sanctioned times for dinner, etc. The events of the last week added to the stress and nearly pushed me to the point of wanting to run away, more metaphorically speaking than anything else. I didn't feel like I had a place I really belonged. Things are starting to look up again, so I'm trying to stay positive. Obviously things have been much worse for Mme this past week, and I think she's finally beginning to return to every day life, now that she's started sleeping through the night and not wracked every second with overwhelming emotions. She and I had a nice lunch yesterday, one of the first times I'd seen her really smile in days.

So... that's been a HUGE and hard happening of the last week, and one of the reasons i haven't felt as excited to update on daily life.

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In other news... I have lots to update on, but seeing as how I have a limited amount of time and no photos readily postable, I think i'll choose a topic that has no pictoral embellishment but which I am excited about nonetheless. The topic? SCHOOL!

To begin with... things work VERY differently here, and even more so because I'm only taking classes through the foreign language institute save for my extra curriculars. Others in our group, like Ariana, are taking "real" classes alongside other french students. But most of us Lewis and Clark folk, outside of the two who were in France last semester, are in classes very different than the "real" lecture-driven, large-scale classes found in the regular universities.

Our schedule essentially consists of a language block, for which we get 6 credits, no matter how many hours of language class we have during the week. Those in the lower language levels may have up to 12 hours per week, but us in DAEF 4 (don't ask what it means, but it's one of the high levels) only have 8 hours with an optional but recommended ninth hour specifically to work on proper pronunciation. Our group meets four times a week for two hour chunks, with two different professors (two sessions with each). Mme. Sauvaget, one of our prof's, reminds me very much of a laid back Nicole (LC french prof) without all the energy but a wry wit that keeps us going through class. She's probably one of my favorites. Mme. Trescarte is our other language professor... a bit more timid, somewhat flustered at times, but nice and somewhat demanding.

On top of the 8 hours of language class, we have to take 1 hour/week electives (that's right, only one hour a week, and they're all on monday and tuesday afternoons/evenings). The institute requires three electives for the "diploma" we'll get at the end of the semester, but in order to get sixteen credits to transfer to Lewis and Clark, we need 10 MORE CREDIT HOURS of class. So I, along with most of the others, am taking 8 electives (remember, only one hour a week) plus a special Alsacien/French Culture class, designed only for our group, (and taught by an Indian transplate with a view from both the inside and the out) which gives us two credit hours for one hour of class for week b/c one of the requirements is a "Projet Village," for which we must research, visit, and experience one of the small villages in the Alsace area, after which we have an oral presentation and a research paper due which presents primarily one or two aspects of the culture. Students in the past have interviewed local villages about WWII occupation, about the Alscien language (more german than anything, but really unique), or about the local wines of the area. Last year one girl just sat getting drunk off local wine for a day and made a project out of it! My idea currently is to find a village that makes some damn good goat cheese...

So... what are my electives, anyway?

MONDAY'S SLATE (3 - 6 pm)
First: Anglais en Traduction (English in Translation). Our prof is British and lectures in a mix of English and French (and there are students in the class for whom neither is their native language). The point of the class is to improve one's translation abilities from one language to the other, all the while comparing similarities and differences between the two, regarding grammer, word choice, etc. Above all, this should be a USEFUL class more than an inherently interesting one.

Second: Diversité Linguistique (et Culturelle) (Diversity Linguistics)
The prof poses seemingly simple questions and proves them to be rather complex in the end. The first day we looked at the basics of how we communicate -- whether through words or pictures etc -- and today our prof took us through a brief history of how the french and english languages came to have so many words in common, and not by means of the more current and widely-despised "franglais." From about 500 BC through until now, he explained, in one hour, all the different historical happenings and conquests that took place to change the language both in france and england and what languages mixed, which ones didn't, and how many french words today that we think are anglocismes actually came originally from the ancient roots of the french language, in normandy, spoken (eventually) by decendents of the Vikings who had taken over the land in northern france. Did you know that tennis, which the french have acquired from the english, actually comes from the verb command "Tenez!" that oldtime french folk used when playing a form of squash/badmitton? Didn't think so... Dad, you'd LOVE this class!

Third: Littérture thèmatique (Thematic Literature). I have this prof for two classes (another literature class, to be explained in time) and she seems to be barely out of graduate school and yet has a strong grasp of the material and a vested interested. We're spending the semester on the theme of the Tragic Farce in french drama, mainly by reading Ionestco's "Rhinocéros." How exciting, after having directed Ionesco's "The Lesson" my junior year of high school, to now study the playwrite in his own language! What's more, the Petite France theater is putting on The Lesson starting tomorrow night, and thursday I think Alex, Martina and I are all going to go see it. I'm so excited to see it in its original version!

TUESDAY'S CLASSES: 1-3, 4-7 p.m.

Fouth: L'union Europeene (The European Union); A professor originally from Poland and very knowledgeable about the political situation in Europe. We'll learn about the events that lead to the creation of the european union and then about its structure, how it works, good merits, difficulties, etc. Finally, Melia is getting some politics lessons!

Fifth: Phonétique (Phonetics) Never in my life did i think phonetics would be an interesting class. but ours is taught by the guy who runs the foreign language institute here and he has more energy than a team of six horses (random comparison, but you get the picture). Literally, it's like watching a one-man show, his face contains so much expression! And every other sound that comes out of his mouth is the french "pvfft" which consists of making a lovely farting noise from ones mouth, as if giving someone (in this case, the air) a raspberry (for those of you who know what i mean by that). It often comes during a point of question, and might precede an "i don't know"... in any case, he does it after every question he asks us, and it was hard not to crack up. The others think he's exhuasting, but i think he's rather genius...

Sixth: Litérature XX... same lit teacher as before, except we're moving away from absurdisme and into... surrealisme? ah, we're in france after all. we talked a bit about freud and others who wrote about the subconcsious. not exactly sure if the class is going to be mostly theory or whether we're going to read specific works. Should be interesting though.

Seventh: Histoire Mondiale (world history)... from a french perspective? Actually, the class is going to focus on decolonisation post WWII. The professor is one of the favorites of past LC students, and I can see why. He's dynamic, very knowledgeable, and cares about the subject matter. Not to mention he finds his way into tangents every once and awhile...

Eighth: Philosophie Français... my last class of five, so i was rather hungry during last week's session, but i think, again, it'll be interesting to delve into little tidbits of french thought, especially political thought, which is what he wants to focus on (we're starting with Rousseau). The teacher is totally a philosopher. Can't quite explain why, but he just is...

So those are my academics... and the catch is, there's not really all that much homework (TOTALLY different from LC's massive reading load), we mainly have tidbits of reading, some exercizes, etc, But the bulk of the homework -- which isn't really q bulk at all -- comes from the language block. The catch? We're tested once, at the end of the semester, by oral or written exam, which may cover any part of what we've covered all semester long. And that's our grade for the course. Welcome to the french system! We've been advised to re-copy our notes each week to solidify things in our head, but i've already fallen behind on that task... i'm still figuring out my day-to-day.

For extracurriculars, i'm taking two danse classes, an hour and a half of beginning couples dancing -- there were 60 in our first class today! Including 27 guys! -- and an hour and a half of Modern Jazz on tuesday mornings, which is SO FUN, quite difficult for a novice like myself, but such a good workout. Martina and I are taking both of those classes together and having a great time of it.

I'm also taking Monday night choir... 2.5 hours of it! which means i get to school by 8:30 am (my only class of the week that early) and don't get home until past 11. i do have breaks in between though!

It's really refreshing to be taking courses so different from those i'd be taking at lc... a vacation, to throw myself into subjects i'd forgotten existed until now! History, politics, literature, philosophie, danse... and no psychologie anywhere in site (which is just fine, seeing as how i'll be doing nothing BUT upon my return)

Speaking of choir, it starts in 15 minutes and i have a ways to walk, so i best be wrapping up. In the coming weeks i may also begin to tutor some low-income high school students in english, one of the things they have available to do as community service. hopefully it'll come to volition!

so yeah, i have a lot of in-school time and am rarely at the apartment, but I have very little homework in comparison. Quite the opposite of last semester!!

more updates to come, sooner rather than later i hope!

"It's getting better all the ti-ime... better, better, be-tter"

leave it to the beatles to give some wise advice, eh?

This isn't going to be a long update, as i have a docment already started on my computer (which i left at home today, for practical reasons) and i don't want to gaspille (spend/waste) a lot of time online on the one afternoon i have completely free... planning to hit up the stores to re-stock my snacks (good, cheap chocolate, anyone?), get some chique europeene shoes, find some of my needed "text" books at the huge bookstore in the center of town, and perhaps do some more exploring, as i've been busy busy busy with other things for the past few days and still don't know where important places are (like the library, the big super-market, etc. NOTE: even though we all bemoan our huge stores in the US, i think all of us here are missing the presence of a decent grocery store. the little city grocery stores are often out of most things and don't have the variety one would hope. makes sense, but it's still frustrating that i can't find energy bars anywhere... in fact, i don't know if they're really prevelant here, b/c Martina didn't really undestand when i tried to explain it and Margeaux said that last semester Linnea had her mom send a box b/c she couldn't find anything comparable).

TO COME... updates on my culture classes, which proved to be very interesting... my sports classes, which i'm uber excited about... potential choir... musings on various details i've encountered, etc.

i'm hoping to have a chance to bring my computer here tomorrow after class for a lofty update. until then, know that i'm no longer ready to pull my hair out for the pure satisfaction of accomplishing something... things are still a bit tough and i'm definitely at that point of "oh god, it's not all fun and bar hopping any more..." now i have to figure out how to run my life, how to deal with cultural difference, adjusting to family living, and figuring out all the people around me, including the group of us LC and Bryn Mawr folk. i'm definitely starting to miss people back home, all the friendships already developed, the facility of a familiar city in a familar language... but i know it's just one of the phases of adjustment. "Ca arrivera" (it'll come soon enough).

when the weather stops being too cold to take one's hands out of one's gloves, i'll probably have more pictures to post. as it is, the three days of familiar rainy and not-so-cold Portland-like weather has decided to abandon us for mornings of -8 degrees (again, celsius, so don't think we're in the arctic... however i have discovered the art of wearing two pairs of tights under my jeans...)

Let me know how you all are doing!
::hugs to all::

Culture Shock -- it's all in those damn small things

I don't know how foreign students in America do it. But I'm certainly not succeeding at the whole details bit here...

I feel like ripping my hair out, screaming, crying... SOMETHING that would at least result in what it's supposed to result in.

I made myself a schedule this morning. A full crazy day, filled with everything I needed to do. Well... how much have I accomplished? Practically zip. And I'm skipping class right now because I could find any FRICKIN' INTERNET ANYWHERE for me to use to try and find the information that I need to inscribe in sports classes.

The wireless cafe right next to the building where I'm supposed to have my classes? Oh, wait, my computer SAYS I have wireless but it doesn't work.

Oh well, I think, I'll find some place on campus. Well, maybe there are places, but they're all PASSWORD PROTECTED and how am i supposed to know any frickin passwords yet????

So I skip class to come to the only internet place I know, near to school at least, but MY WIRELESS IS MESSING UP here as well, so I have to plug in. FINALLY I get on and get to the sports website to inscribe in the dance class I want (and all of the sports classes fill fast) and what do you know, it asks for my NAME AND PASSWORD... well, I try every variation of every thing written on my newly acquired student card... to no avail. So I can't even sign up.

More than that, I wasn't able to find the schedules for ANY of the regular university departments, because you have to go to the secretaries office... so I trudged around in frickin -4 degree (celsius) weather, having forgotten my gloves this morning... and of course they're all either closed or, in the case of the philosophie department, I stood in the room for a good 5 minutes, trying to look as confused as possible, but the no one working would give me the slightest glance... and I KNOW I have to be assertive, but frankly I'm sick of being the confused foreign student, so I just left instead of demanding their attention for a task I KNEW they'd look at me weird for (everyone else who has asked for schedules get questioned, since all the other students have already been taking regular classes for a week). Sometimes I'm just really not in the mood to be wrong, to be out-of-the-know, to feel fucked over and small and insignificant and unable to do just about ANYTHING because I'm so used to the facility of the internet, and at a university of about 18,000 they may have 30 computers with internet, for which you have to make an appointment the day before.

FR(*@#%*@(#%()CK!!!!

I have to run to class, my backpack heavy from carrying around my computer and getting no where with it... I still don't have a schedule to give Mme Zehr and I have an evening ahead of me of trying to get through more beaurocracy.

There's a reason I chose not to go to a large university, and trying to navigate one in another language is seriously making my head spin out of control. If only we didn't have to take classes. If only I didn't WANT to take extra classes, outside of the foreigner's program. If only I chose the simple life.

*sigh*

I"m going to be late.

MOre exciting and uplifting updates later... sorry, I just had to rant.

The Days Are Just Packed...

It’s about 1:30 a.m. and I’ve just returned from a smoky night out, courtesy of a second birthday in the group in need of celebrating (Erica had her 21st today).

Thinking back to daily life in Portland, Albany, or wherever, I can’t imagine a time when the days were more packed. At least in that having-a-blast, second-wind after second-wind (i.e. third wind, fourth wind, etc.) sort of way. Today Mme told me with a laugh “Nous n’allons pas te voir beaucoup ce semestre, eh?!” (“We’re not going to see you much this semester, eh?!”) as I announced I wouldn’t be coming home for dinner for a second time this week come tomorrow (it’s not like I’m trying to ditch out either, because Tuesday she was worried about getting home late from a doctor’s appointment, so I decided to make things easier by telling her I had other plans for dinner, and just getting some take out and sitting in an internet cafe... and tomorrow Ariana invited me over to her and Margeaux’s to cook... so my excuses are valid!).

In any case, today’s events started with a 9 am wake-up (I’m FINALLY sleeping through the night), a croissant and the usual cup of tea, a 15-minute tram ride and our first language class from 10:30-12:30. Our professor (one of two that our level will have) seems très chouette (very cool). She kind of reminds me a bit of Nicole, back at Lewis & Clark, though not quite as off-the-wall. We listened to a couple songs and received a couple poems to read for tomorrow... so familiar! I felt like I was back in a Mme. Selvin class, or at Lewis & Clark, listening to a song at the end of French.

The class has about 25 students in it, about six of whom are American. The other nationalities (as far as I remember) were Canadian, Russian, Italian, German, Croatian, Polish (?), Japanese, Korean, Chinese... and a few I simply didn’t recognize, though I thought one was an African nationality, by the sound of the guy’s name. Some of them were here last semester and knew the professor already, whom they talked to on a very familiar, joking basis... reassuring, considering what we’ve heard about the strict and distant lectures of the French system. Obviously, a small language class is going to prove different.

I arrived a bit early (Melia? Early?) and ended up sitting next to one of the Bryn Mawr girls, but, while I’m still trying to get to know them, I don’t want to get in an early habit of just sticking to the Americans. Luckily, at the end of class, the German girl sitting next to me happened to ask me if I knew where the copy room was, to buy our livrettes (work books). I said no, but that we could try to find it, and the Russian girl, with her entourage of we’ve-already-been-here-for-a-semester friends, offered to show us the way. Martina (the German girl), Alex (an LCer and the only male in our male, to his dismay), and I followed the Russian girl and picked up a couple other international students along the way, whom Martina had met the day before. Another American, from Michigan; a Chilean guy who was just passing through for a few days on his summer tromping-around-Europe break (yes, it’s summer break in Chile); and a girl from Taiwan, also named Alex. Unfortunately for our French-needs, the Chilean spoke no french but did speak English fairly well, as did both Martina and Alex (the Taiwanese girl). So... we spoke English all through lunch. But we did eat a very Alsatian meal of Tarte Flambée, which is essentially very thin-crust pizza with an amazing range of toppings (I had goat cheese, gruyère, tomatoes and herbs on mine... soooo good!).

TOP PHOTO: Martina, Alex (Taiwan), and Alex from LC
BOTTOM PHOTO: Grey (Michigan), myself, and the Chilean guy, who's name I can't remember


At some point, I – of all people – managed to bring up politics. On the subject of Bush, though it soon broadened to include discussion of voting in all the countries represented, as well as the status of the female presidents in both Germany and now Chile, which have been widely publicized here in the news. Both representing students said they didn’t think much of their presidents, not because of their being female, but simply because of the fact that they didn’t seem to have the right proficiency for the part. In any case, it was simply fascinating, having four different nationalities represented at the table, and even some diversity on the American side of things, as Grey, from Michigan, held that, though he doesn’t like Bush one bit, he’d have probably chosen him over Kerry, if he hadn’t cast his vote Libertarian. Oy. Certainly added some spice to the conversation.

Upon leaving, Alex and I invited the group to meet up later that night to celebrate a birthday, and we showed them on the map our rendezvous location. I then took a brief jaunt through the sales and managed to purchase a third scarf in two days (i know, i know, but it was supposedly 50% off 7 euros, and when it turned out it had been in the wrong box, I couldn’t justify having waited in line and not paying the extra E3.50) and made it back to the apartment around 5 pm. There were still children running about, yelling and laughing and crying about this and that, and Mme, who has caught the usual winter bug, was at the end of her patience. “Allez au coin!” (“Go stand in the corner!”) I overheard her yell at two of the children, one of which –Jules—is the cutest two-year-old ever, but a total mischief-maker. He has the habit of repeating “Meh-lya... Meh-lya... Où va Meh-lya??” when I leave the room (and really, it makes me want to go back and fawn him with attention, because small-child-speaking-french, especially when he’s calling my name with that ever-french accent, = too cute to handle).

As it was, I stayed in my room and made good use of my iPod to drown out some of the noise, choosing to rest up a bit to make sure I had ample energy for tonight. After a brief and delicious meal of potage aux legumes (a thick vegetable soup), with crêpes salé for dipping – no meat, for once!! – I transferred a bit of money, my tram-pass, and my cell phone into a pocket, stuffed my rather bulky digital camera in one of my jackets (I’m learning to do as the french do: dress in layers, known as “Faire l’onion” – Doing the Onion!) and I was off!

Most of the group showed up for the night out, along with Martina, the only one of the earlier lunch bunch who made it (besides Alex and I). Others were: Gilly, Ariana, Kate, Margeaux, and Erica (birthday girl) from LC, along with Anisa from Bryn Mawr (see picture).


FROM THE LEFT, AROUND THE TABLE CLOCKWISE: Martina (Germany), myself, Alex, Gilly, Margeaux, Erica, Ariana, Kate, Anisa (Bryn Mawr)

THE BIRTHDAY GIRLS:
We headed back to The Irish Times (English speaking bar from the time before that gives free birthday shots) and managed to run into Neil, the American student who studied here two years ago and is now back in Strasbourg, working part time at The Irish Times and part time with Beth, helping organize our trip. He’s totally working without the proper papers, but he decided to stay on in Strasbourg after a summer internship because it was better than his original plan of returning to New Orleans to find work (a plan devised pre-Katrina, which hit just before he was planning to go home).

We all got drinks to start of the night, and without even thinking, I ordered the first thing that I could remember from the menu... the Blowjob. Oy. My first shot in Strasbourg and I was going to have to do it sans mains (No Hands!). Awkwardly (or expertly, depending on how you look at the task), I managed to get all the liquid in my mouth before rescuing the empty glass from my lips and then gulping down the alcohol. Bailey’s, Amaretto, and whipped cream... damn good, I must say.

It being Europe, where things can happen that simply never would back in the states, Neil called over an English friend of his sitting at the bar, who just happened to have with him a recently purchased, uber-expensive 18th century Japanese sword, so sharp it can easily cut through metal. A bit wary to be around so much alcohol and such a sharp object, we hesitantly oooed and awed over the craftsmanship, very aware that the blade glinted quite menacingly and that we’d better stay on very good terms with this fine lad. I guess he’d actually brought the sword specifically to show Neil, who’d just gotten off his shift, but really... in how many bars do you randomly get to see a swordsman’s masterpiece, shining brilliantly amid empty mugs of Guinness?





After a good hour or more in the English atmosphere, we decided to head back to the well-known student bar we’d gone to for Ariana’s b-day to hit up their happy hour. Upon surveying the crowd when we entered, I suggested we try going down to “the cave,” beneath the main floor, which I’d remembered Neil explaining as a rowdy and carousing place, filled with long tables that got filled in the evenings. Little did we know how true this was...

We walked in and there were at least 100 people, all college-age, sitting along the benches with ample pitchers of beer covering the tables. They were clapping excitedly and singing rowdy drinking songs, whose lyrics were so out-of-tune and slurred we couldn’t understand more than a word or two. Upon our entrance, the entire room turned to look and everyone burst into cheers and began to clap and sing even louder. We laughed nervously, embarrassed, and made our way to the only empty table, near one wall. The next hour consisted of the loudest and rowdiest bar festivities I’ve seen yet, with one of the drinking songs mentioning something about “une fesse” (an ass) and before we knew it, one guy was on the table, pulling down his pants, to reveal a rather sun-deprived buttocks, in clear view. I think it was Kate who turned to the group of us, with an apt question: “Um, so WHO was it that told us that the French didn’t get drunk??” And it’s only Wednesday!

Ariana spent the night trying to convince me to get on the table and sing a rousing verse of “Twinkle Twinkle,” with everyone else backing her request but refusing their own company on the tabletop... a typical situation. Somehow they had (or rather, Ariana had) picked me as the person most likely to get up on a table and sing an English song as loud as I could for the benefit of over 100 drunken French students. Unfortunately, seeing as how I had drunk significantly less than anyone else in our group, I wasn’t quite to the point of sacrificing the last of my poise, though I did promise one table-top bar song by the end of our Strasbourg semester. So stay tuned...

Where else would they serve two sausages with an order of fries? Needless to say, no one was really in the mood.


As the bar was clearing out, and we were all preparing to go, two french guys came over to our table and asked us some question about if we were having a good time, or something. They soon realized we weren’t french and got very, very excited that we were from the States. While us females were originally wary to get into conversation with two obviously inebriated french guys (the exact profile we were warned about), the fact that they were talking to us in broken English about whether we knew “Sex een za citee? Za beastie boeez? Freendz?” and clapping every time we said we did, clapping every time we said where we were from (“Ah! New York! You er from New York! I like you!! Ah! Californie! San Francisco! *screeeeam!* They are from San Francisco! They speak English! Talk with us, please!”)... they were just too amusing to prove as sounding boards for our practiced french cold-shoulder. They tried, as always, to persuade us to go out with them later, but they were fairly nice – drunk nice – and didn’t follow us but said “Bye-bye!” when the time came.

And thus concludes my second night out in Strasbourg... many more to come, I’m sure. I’m very excited to get to some clubs, sketchy as they may be... Ariana and Kate said they were excited to go dancing, and Martina says she likes dancing to electronic music (ah, Germany!) so I’m hoping I’ll have someone to go to that genre of club with, even if isn’t the typical LC-er’s scene.

It’s so awesome to be meeting new people, getting to know the LC & Bryn Mawr crowd better, all that jazz. Martina seems awesome and I think she had ample conversations with others in the group throughout the night. She’s originally Romanian, raised in Germany, has taken English for 8 years (and her English is much better than my 8 years of French), French for 5 (and again, her French seems much better than mine), Latin for 5, a tad of Spanish, and she speaks a regional dialect at home with her parents. She may know another language as well, I can’t keep track. Europeans have the language thing down, that’s certainly something that’s becoming more and more evident.

Kate, in her drunkenness, called me fucking awesome tonight. So I think the whole bonding thing is coming along... The more we’re all together, the more little nuances emerge, and it’s definitely been interesting to feel where I click with each person, and what we do or do not have in common. I have a bad/good habit, depending on how you look at it, of mirroring, to some degree, whoever I’m with, so I think people end up thinking I have more in common with them than may actually be true. That certainly came up tonight. It’s no big deal, but I am aware that it’s easy for me to get sucked into the chameleon game, and I just want to make sure I stay true to me, to “Meh-lya,” who ever this strange, Strasbourg-loving, francophied girl may be.


The famous cathedrale, at 1 a.m... prettier than ever. And we're all excited to hear Mozart's Requiem there with all the amazing acoustics of an old cathedrale, come January 30.


And just because I love making to-do lists so much, as well as formulating goals that may or may not come to volition....

- On the subject of my name... make sure those in my group don’t try to Englishify “MEH-lya” and turn it into “MEEL-ya” which is simply an ugly name that needs to be stricken from anyone’s vocabulary. In French, “MEH-lya” is fine, endearing, even beautiful. In English, the only way to pass is with an accent on the second syllable and first syllable avoiding, at all costs, a pronunciation that reminds me of the second-grade class meel-worms we used to raise as pets. Oy.

- Obtain and read the fifth Harry Potter... in French. I haven’t read past book four, so why not do my catching up while practicing my chosen language?


- Learn some basic German while I’m here, before traveling across the border. My host mom speaks it fluently, and of course I now know Martina, so I think the only thing keeping me from a few simple phrases is a completely new accent to try and tackle.

- Shop for a cheap purse (we’re in the midst of “les Soldes” after all (the Sales)) that’s not as heavy and shoulder-breaking as the one I have. For Europe travel my current one is good and safe, but for a simple jaunt to town, I really need something smaller and lighter.


- Upon returning from bars, use Febreez on smoke-saturated clothing before dumping in hamper with potentially re-wearable clothing (that may have been the best purchase Gretchen and I made when doing our Walgreen’s run before leaving).

- Devise an alcohol budget. Even if I only have one drink every time we go out, the tab gets pretty steep after a month of going out three or more times a week.

- Find a Papetterie (like a stationary store, except better.

- Keep up the no-American-chains-allowed rule. I have so far not been tempted by a 1 euro sundae at MacDonald’s (the only thing I’d ever eat there anyway), and, though I do love Office Depot back home, I made a point to pass up its convenient location and vowed to take my business to one of the Papetteries. I mean, come on... it’s only in France that you have stores that devote themselves almost entirely to Claire Fontaine stationary and supplies, all with the awesome multi-colored lines.

- Find the cute shoes I’ve been shopping for (and make sure they’re comfortable! As comfy as my boots seem to be, I literally had shin-splints for 24 hours after the last time I wore them, for 20 walking-packed hours straight).

- Not spend too much money on the sales, even if it is true that any of the shopping I want to do, I should do now.

- Meet more international students... not just stick close to the Americans in our group. And maybe, just maybe, try and meet some French students... outside of the bars.

- Find ways to speak French outside the house and DO IT! So far, it’s all been in English with the group... and even the international students today, partly the Chilean didn’t speak French, but we all knew English.

- Sign up for one of the many dance classes offered here through the sports department. Potentially a way to meet some french students, non?

- Get to bed before 3 a.m. next time I come back from a late night... hence, save some of the writing for later!

Crazy day!!!

Yesterday was full and fantastic, tiring and trying, and full of unexpected excitements.

After the placement test in the morning, a group of us (of the LC and Bryn Mawr posse) went to lunch at a nearby café to pass the time before our scheduled bank appointments to open an account here. We sat around talking and as at least two people in our group lit up cigarettes, I silently cursed the beauty of smoke in french cafés.

While my throat and eyes are still having some difficulty adjusting to the smokiness of things in cafés, bars, etc., my mind takes a photographic journey through the famous works of Robert Doisneau and others, who expertly captured french smokers at work. In the café, sunlight from a newly cleared sky streamed in through the windows and caught the smokers at the window in silhouette, downplaying their features against the whirl and twirl of the smoke, dancing up from burning tips of ash. Oh how I wished I’d brought my good SLR camera and had the guts and ability to capture such images! As it was, I sat and stared, trying not to mind the smell and sting of something so goddamn beautiful (luckily, the only way to really appreciate the beauty is to sit back a ways, so no worries... I won’t be picking up the habit myself).

After a successful bank appointment, Kate and I were in some need of la toilette, and thus we decided to trek down along the riverside to a public bathroom she’s remembered seeing somewhere along the quay. As we began our walk, an entourage of racing police cars and motorcycles speed past us, and looking up, we saw in the distance a massive surge of people in bright yellow reflective vests, crossing the next bridge down and heading in our direction. We’d seen a few of them earlier, holding signs that looked ripe for protest. Now was our chance to see what everything was all about.

We hurried down the riverside, only to see the police entourage emerging from their vehicles in full riot-police regalia. Huge shields, crazy looking weaponry, and the crab-like walk of each set of policemen (one in front with the shield, one behind, with a hand on the first’s shoulder) set up a human barricade to make sure the protestors stayed on track and didn’t fan out into the intersection. As we got closer, so did the pack of brightly vested and (as we soon learned) incredibly inebriated protesters, all men with various forms of “Dockers” written on their clothing. Yelling, singing, chanting, drinking, they moved past us, over the river and across the tram tracks that presumably weren’t in use during this planned-out demonstration.

As Kate and I looked on in amazement, fumbling for our cameras, one of the guys, with alcohol on his breath, came up and started clapping his hands at us, telling us in very rapid and somewhat slurred french to support his cause. We smiled and nodded, barely understanding a word, and clapped some, to appease his adamant requests. Alas, this just fueled him on more, and the next two minutes of french that poured from his lips was not understood in the least, though I certainly did register the sensation of airborne spittle landing on my face. When his friends finally motioned him to keep with the pack, he turned back for one last “Ooo, alors, vous êtes filles, eh?” (“Ooo, so, you’re girls, eh?”) followed by a suggestive wink. We quickly turned our backs, laughing from embarrassment and the fact that, of everything he said to us about the protest, the only we’d understood was that last suggestive and terribly obvious remark.

After managing a couple skilled “Excusez-moi de vous déranger monsieur, mais est-ce que vous savez ce qui ce passe?” (“Excuse me for bother you, sir – [the quintessential french addition to every question] – but do you know what’s going on?”), we were told by some of the other on-lookers that it was the dock workers from all over Europe who were there to protest the European Parliament’s pending decision to pass a law that would allow only those who worked on the boats to handle their contents, hence invalidating the position of dock worker all together. No wonder they were protesting.

Despite the excitement, our bladders got the better of us, and we decided to walk against the crowd and try to go the extra block to the public toilets. Unfortunately, upon surpassing the last of the Dockers crowd, we reaching the bathrooms only to find them locked and shuttered. “Perhaps it’s because of the protest?” Kate offered, and we soon realized that this probably held some truth. As we returned, along the same path we’d come, we saw a phone booth whose door had been (very recently) completely shattered. As we walked farther, back to the place we had just been, we saw smoke. “Holy....” I muttered, as we neared the black plumes and saw the ever-so-familiar image of an over-turned and burning car, right across the tracks of the tram, about 20 meters from where we’d just been. As we neared the scene, we heard a firetruck approaching.

My first thought, as I neared the scene, was that there better not be anyone in that car. We soon realized there wasn’t, as no moving car could have gotten anywhere near the crowd in the past ten minutes, and it indeed looked as if it had been overturned from a parking spot right on the protestor’s route. The car was right over the tram tracks, and, as we learned later, right across from the house of one of the Bryn Mawr girls, who’s host mom’s car was parked right next to the one they’d over-turned. Luckily, her car was spared the blowing up (all morning, we’d heard what sounded like huge explosions, and she confirmed that they were using smelly gas compressed something-or-others to do damage and intimidate). Unluckily, the car was essentially beaten to death by crowbars, as she (the host mom) looked on from her balcony, right across the street, completely helpless to do anything but scream at them to stop.



Good god. We were in the thick of it. We were there. And these weren’t even the riots.

So that was our morning/afternoon.

Post car-burning, Kate and I headed back to meet up with Anisa, the Bryn Mawr student who lives in the same house as Kate. We were going to do some grocery shopping (they only get three dinners a week and then are responsible for the rest... and I needed snacks for my room) and then hit up the sales to look for some shoes. After picking up some necessities (toothpaste, body wash, q-tips, and oranges on my part), we walked back to Kate and Anisa’s, which is actually quite near my apartment, just across the river and smack dab in the heart of Petite France. They’ve got the cute Germanic architecture, and through the entire neighborhood. It’s simply charming, as is their host mom. A widow in her late sixties, this woman has got to be one of the coolest french women on the face of this planet. She knows everything about art history and takes her students with her to museums every Sunday for some show and tell... she’s got the most gorgeous long silver-white hair and the best smile and smile-wrinkles you could imagine! She owns a three story “house” (i.e. looks like an apartment with three floors, stuck fast with the other buildings on either side, but it’s all one house), and she rents out the bottom floor, lives on the second, and lets the two girls have the third, equipped with two large and attic-like bedrooms, a toilette, and a minifridge and hotplates for their dinners independent of her.

I was totally jealous. While I love my host mom and she and I have a great time talking each night, the smallness of her apartment, the fact that you can hear *everything* anyone says or does, no matter where they are, the fact that there will be small children running around from 8am-6pm five days a week, and thus no place to come back to for a midday rest... well, let’s just say I can really appreciate, from afar, the situation Kate and Anisa have, although I know they probably don’t get as much intensive french as I do, living more independently and with one another (though they say that they’ve been trying to speak french in the mornings together).

I guess another reason I’m jealous is that both of them (Kate and Anisa) are two very cool people. And I think I’ve caught a case of the “I-want-to-be-your-friend” syndrome, which can be hard to manage if you feel like the odd one out (living situation-wise). While I’m really enjoying the larger group, for the most part, I’ve definitely had personal difficulty with the negative outlook a few members seem to bring to the table (and it just seems like a personality thing, not really that they’re having a bad/hard time). I’m in France, I’m totally stoked to be here, I’m looking forward to a fun and overflowing semester, and the last thing I want is to participate in a long conversation about the negative aspects of everything, from the weather, to Lewis and Clark, to colleges in general, to student populations, to lack of things to do... I mean, come on! Live a little and make an effort! As it is, I feel most drawn to Kate and Anisa, and am ever so glad they are fairly near to me, location-wise.

The whole getting-to-know people thing can be so exciting but also a tad daunting, and part of me always feels a bit insecure about potential inequalities (the last thing I want to do is be the tag-along that is ever-so-excited to be hanging out with the group when she’s actually the last person everyone wants to see). Ariana’s here, but she hasn’t really been going through the whole orientation process, since she was here last semester, along with Margeaux, who’s now a really good friend of hers. It’s a tad strange coming to France and already knowing someone who you haven’t really interacted with for a semester. I’m excited, though, because we’re definitely planning on hitting up the International Theater together, as well as some other play houses around the town. There are innumerable plays I want to go see, and we get in for 5 euros a show with our student cards! Oh que c’est fantastique, Strasbourg!

To continue with yesterday’s (night’s) events, Kate, Anisa, and I went back out after dropping off groceries and finally hit up some of the sales that are happening all over the city (all over France, really). Kate was looking for some boots and I was hoping for a pair of comfortable and oh-so-european varicolored tennis shoes, but as soon as we entered Galleries Lafayette, some thing else filled our field of attention: SCARVES!

Tables and tables of discount scarves, soft and warm and oh-so-french! We went a little crazy, trying on style after style, with Anisa offering expert advice as to whether a given color actually went with our coloring or not. Heck, I’d never really considered my coloring before, but with her help, I picked out a very nice, very soft, very warm, and decently long light purple scarf that looked quite good, along with a multicolored velour shorty that I found on the 70% off rack. They each bought a scarf as well, and Kate threw in a red beret, rounding out our attempt to get frenchified. In a smaller boutique Kate found her chique black boots, but I’m going to have to keep shopping around for my desired shoes (though I found a pair of fuzzy burgundy boots, sans heel and 50%-off, and I briefly courted the notion of buying my second pair of boots in a week until it became evident that they didn’t have them in my size).

After returning home for dinner (heaping pile of steak on my plate... oy), I changed clothes and got a bit spiffed up for my first night out. It was Ariana’s 21st birthday, and I was to meet her at Margeaux’s (where she’s staying temporarily), from where we would leave for late-night happy hour at one of the local student bars. A tram ride and a walk later, covered with a light speckling of snow, I arrived at Margeaux’s and entered to the site of an already tipsy Ariana. I guess rum was her birthday drink of choice, and they’d chosen the cheaper route of drinking first so they wouldn’t be tempted to get much and spend lots of money in the bars. We sat around talking and sipping wine for about an hour at Margeaux’s digs, home of her host “dad,” a 30-something cool and laid back guy, with a girlfriend with whom he was away for the time being. Then we headed for the bar.

I can say one thing for sure... beer here definitely has merits higher than any I’d tasted back in the states. Then again, the cheap beer of choice at LC is PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon) which tastes, in my opinion, like expired cleaning solution. Let’s face it... I’ve never liked beer, and while I can definitely taste that the stuff they have here is of much better quality and is definitely a decent drink, I’m hard-pressed to give up my preference of wine, which, thank god, is still available here in large quantities, despite the German influence.

After a good while and some 50-for-the-price of-25 cl. mugs of beer, we headed to the Irish Times, a local bar that serves the English-speaking population where a friend of Ariana and Margeaux’s was supposed to get Ariana a free drink. Alas, we’d arrived too late, but the waiter begrudgingly forked over a shot of tequila on the house. I passed up the opportunity for a delicious-sounding mixed shot of Bailey’s, Amaretto and whipped cream, interestingly called “The Blowjob” which perhaps partially refers to the cream-part, and partially to the fact that you’re supposed to drink it “No Hands!”, calling for some pretty advanced lip suction if you don’t want 5 euros worth of alcohol drizzling down your neck. Margeaux treated Ariana to the concoction, which she nearly succeeded at drinking by the book (pictures to come, once I get them from Ariana), but at the last minute she had to raise a hand to steady the rather unwieldy glass).

And thus was my day... after getting a tad lost (*ahem* I swear I didn’t decide to “take a shortcut” through Petit France at one in the morning, walking by myself... I swear I didn’t... and even if I had – which I didn’t of course – it’s my dad’s blood that made me... not my fault...*), I finally made it back to the apartment, tired enough to finally sleep through the night... which lasted until 1 this afternoon.

I’ll stop with the updates now, as it’s nearly 9 pm and I haven’t had dinner yet – I told Mme. I’d take care of it on my own tonight, since I new I had copious internet-business to take care of, and I didn’t think I’d be back in time for the usual 7:30-8:00 dinner hour.

À bientôt!



* p.s. for any worried souls out there, Strasbourg is a relatively safe city, and while it is recommended that one take a taxi after about 3 am, students of the past have felt fairly safe walking around fairly late in the night. What’s more, I didn’t bring a purse with me, on recommendation, so that were I to be spotted by an unsavory soul, I’d be less appealing. Not to mention the whole “it’s all in how you hold yourself” and I’ve really been practicing the french stature, holding yourself tall and confident, with obvious business to be taken care of and no time for pish posh.

So what do tests really assess...?

Yesterday we had our entrance exams to figure out what level of French we’ve obtained (and thus what language block we will be in). The test was set for 8:30 in the morning, just great, considering we were all still jet-lagged and unable to sleep regular hours. In any case, I arrived, having briefly looked over my plastic sheet of French Grammar reminders, and found that, alas, anyone with a last name past S actually had to wait a good two hours before our test began (more people than they’d anticipated, hence two start times). Oy. Not that I would have had much of a chance to “sleep in” had I known. I’d woken up at 4 am after going to bed around midnight and was unable to fall back asleep, tired as I was. As it was I had two hours to kill, sitting with two others with last names past S. Read up a bit on world news in french... talked about our respective schools (one of the girls was one of the three Bryn Mawr girls)... bitched about the weather. All in all, very negative and uninspiring conversation for that early in the morning. Not my cup of tea.

In any case, the test finally got underway, with a half-hour listening portion that had us answer three multiple choice questions (spoken to us via tape) after listening to increasingly hard little blurbs or conversations (also by tape). Reminded me of Mde. Selvin’s third year french. And how much I sucked at those kind of tests b/c I’d get caught up on one question and it’d already be on to the next. The second part of the test was a bit of an improvement, being a written portion that gave us an awesome picture of a shorts-and-t-shirt santa claus, holding his hat and standing atop a cliff over-looking the mediterranean, with a mischevious smile on his face. We were supposed to answer questions along the line of “What do you think is happening here?” “What do you think happened just before this?” “What do you think will happen?” I think I had too much fun on this part, because the difficulty was not in answering the questions, but in trying to show off my french while trying to construct witty and rather complicated sentences about how he’d run away from his wife and the cold and decided to ditch christmas for a holiday in Nice, the whole thing ending with his wife catching him on the beach with another woman (I used more than one sentence to describe all that, don’t worry). I figured, hey, if my french screws up a bit (which it undoutable does, as I misplace/misuse the tiny connecting words and mix up gender and forget what tense I’m using), at least perhaps I can woo them with some humor...?

After the Santa Claus escapades, I had barely a quarter of the time left to do the 15 tricky subjunctive/etc sentence completion clauses, details that I could barely remember from back in the Mde. Selvin days (really, my grammer has gone down since her heavy handed rule), as well as a mini-essay on what I think of the gov’t mandated vacations now implemented in France. I was, as usual, the last to finish, and left feeling a bit down, as I felt I hadn’t done as well as perhaps I should have. For once in my life, I wished they’d actually had an oral section, one-on-one, where I could actually talk to someone and prove my capacity in that way. Ah well.

Scores were to be posted next day, 5 pm. Which is in about 15 minutes, but I just checked and they were already up. I’m in the second to highest language group, of 13. So I guess I didn’t do terribly. There are four main language groups and I’m at the top of the third (all the main groups are divided into four additional groups, save for the very top group, which already has so few students that they don’t bother). Part of me felt just a tad jealous that I didn’t make it into that top group (you know, that competitive streak, always striving). And then I noticed that their first language block began at 8:30 am, whereas mine wasn’t until 10:30. So I felt a bit better and rather relieved. With the copious events (theater, music, bars, clubs, etc.) that I’m hoping to attend during the evenings all through the semester, it’s just as well I won’t have to wake up the next morning for an 8:30 class.

Another 3 students from our group made it into that language level, though one is, according to her file/Mme Zehr, “so good” she’s going to take all her classes at the regular Political Science University, along with Ariana. Part of me felt good that I was on her level, or her on mine, and part of me was a bit annoyed that all Mme. Zehr talked about was how advanced she was, how she’d be taking classes full time at the university, etc. etc. etc. and she simply assumed all of us were little babies in comparison. Alex is the other LC student in the group (the third is another of the Bryn Mawr girls), and I think he might have just finished up his first class in the 300 level?? So obviously the written test is only a small portion of everyone’s full capacity, as it doesn’t seem to think there’s a difference between Alex and the girl who’s taken french since 2nd grade.

MEAT!

So, at the beginning of my stay, Mme Reiss and I had the extended conversation about food, and I explained my whole deal with meat... my newness to red meat, how I just recently started eating it again, but that all in all, I'm not a big meat person, and that chicken is what I tend to eat most and like best. She assured me that they didn't eat much meat in their household, and chicken was indeed their favorite, except now that the avian flu was going around causing so much panic, she was avoiding the white-meated bird.

Well, I was relieved. A Strasbourg home without that much meat. Joy!

Except I've come to question just what "not that much meat" means in this region. I have been served platefuls of some sort of meat dish for every night I've been here! Last night it was half a plate of steak (thankgod it was fairly well done) along side some pasta, after a huge bowl of soup to start the meal. The night before it was avacado (the one vegetable I forgot to say I didn't much care for) stuffed with tuna/egg salad, followed by tomatos stuffed with these wopping meat balls of some very strong and heavy meat, a special Eastern European recipe, she explained. That I had a hard time finishing. And the night before was the fish with the squiggly oysters incident.

Mme always asks me how I like the meal, and at this point, I'm hard pressed to say "Well actually, i don't much care for..." like she's been encouraging me to do, so that she doesn't cook that dish frequently in the future. So far, I've managed to range on a scale of "Oui, ça va" ("Yes, it's good" which usually means I'm having difficultly with it) to "Oh, OUI, c'est excellent!" which has been sincere and means I'd love to have it again. Unfortunately, I have not been able to telepathically send Mme the translations for this scale, so if she hears "ça va" she knows I'm not jumping out of my seat, but she'll think I like it.

This is something I need to work on sooner rather than later.

I also need to assure her that, please, she needn't cook so much food! She doesn't do left-overs and really likes for me to finish up not only what's on my plate, but also what's in the pan. And she cooks a lot! Especially when confronted with some of the heavy meats, huge meals can prove rather difficult to confront. Additionally, since we eat rather late, I don't doubt that part of my early-morning wakings have been due to a bit of an upset stomach in response to the night before.

*sigh* And the food sagas continue...

Petites Detailes (Little Details)

Note: I believe this is going to be a running subject line, bringing together a bunch of random paragraphs of things I happen to write about in small spirts that lack order and time. I have a running document that I keep open on my computer which I've been writing in at random moments, mostly at night, when I can't fall asleep and don't have the internet to distract me. Hence... the following:

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I need to un-learn the word “Quoi.” Any time anyone asks me a question and I don’t hear them, this seemingly fitting word rolls of my tongue faster than I can catch myself. Direct translation of “Quoi?” = “What?” or “Huh?” but unfortunately it sounds harsh and rude to French ears, which I was warned of my first night here after one of the last-semester Kalamazoo students overheard me say it to my host mom. “It’s considered extremely rude” he explained, as I turned a belated shade of red. Unfortunately, it has slipped out of my mouth at least 3 times since then, one time being only seconds after I was introduced to Mme Reiss’s daughter, Marie, who’s 19 and rarely home (either at the business university, with her boyfriend – whom Mme n’aime pas (does not like) – or at her sister’s, who’s married with a new baby). The proper response is a delightful sounding “Pardon?” much like we have in English, though I’ve never been in the habit of using the word at home, hence the difficulty automatizing the response here. I literally lay in bed for a good five minutes, whispering “Pardon? Pardon? Pardon? Pardon?”, hoping to get it down, and then promply said “Quoi?” the next question I was asked. Oy. I’ll get it down sometime, I swear.

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I like dogs. For the most part. They can be fun, loving, and the like, but for some reason I’ve never really been able to deal with dog-breath and the way petting them leaves a smelly, slightly sticky(?) residue on my hand. Let’s face it, I’m a cat person, through and through. But Mme (short for Madame, by the way) has this small white dog named Molly who simply defies the dog-breath/hand-residue standard I’d become used to with pups back home. Molly’s fur is incredibly soft and fluffy and feels almost like you’re running your hand through a child’s hair. It leaves no residue. In fact, she doesn’t seem to smell at all. Even when she licks me, which she loves more than anything to do, constantly, until I say “Non, Molly, ne me leche pas!”, she just looks up with wide eyes, as if to say “Hey, why not? I’m not like other dogs... I don’t leave a smell... I’m totally cute... and if you don’t do as I like, why, I may just steal your shoe or your stuffed animal and deposit it in Mme’s room!” So far, this threat has not come to volition, although I was warned that this was one of her favorite pasttimes. Hence, I’ve been keeping my door closed when I’m not in it, a very French thing to do anyway. I have yet to meet other French dogs, so I’m not sure if Molly is the rule, or simply a loveable exception. As it is, she is challenging my dog-wary stereotype with adorable expertise.

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I think I’ve figured out why the French have this image of being/staying thin, while jealous Americans try everything to emulate the French diet, pick up smoking, and wonder why it doesn’t work for them. It’s not vanity. It’s necessity. “Quoi?” you say (or perhaps you catch yourself in time and let slide a perfect “Pardon?”). My response stands. Necessity. If the French ran on the large side they would not be able to get anything done. Or else they’d have to rebuild all their cities. They’d have to make the elevators larger, the showers, the toilettes (the tiny rooms where they keep the toilet, different from the “salle de bains” which houses the shower, etc.), the sidewalks, the alleyways. My heart goes out to those who suffer from claustrophobia and yet make their home here. Life must be tough. Or perhaps natural selection has purged such a phobia from the French bloodlines.

Seriously though, I am continually amazed at the small spaces I encounter on a daily basis (okay, so I’ve only really been here for just over 24 hours, but still). I realize that America is known for its urban sprawl, its excess, the extra space it seems to take up without real reason. I also realize that part of what makes much of France so charming, so quaint, filled it with such character, is the proximity of everything, the compactness of it all. I am not praising America, nor knocking France. I am simply musing in amazement at the French ability to fit in some of the smallest elevators/showers/toilettes I have ever encountered. My experience has not been as graceful... both showers I’ve taken so far have consisted of me trying very hard not to accidently knock an elbow against the rattly shower door/walls and failing each time as I try to suds up quickly in order to be able to turn on the hot water quickly.

FYI: The French grimace at water wasted, which is defined, according to Beth, by anything more than a five minute shower. Mde specifically asked me to “do it the french way” by dousing oneself briefly, then turning off the water, sudsing up, and finally turning the water back on to rinse off. I guess I’ll have to find another place to take part in my daily reflections, while feeling good that I’m building decent conservation habits.

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Culture Shock is an interesting thing. As Beth described, it’s not being “shocked” at another’s culture... it’s rather the frustration that comes with not being able to do things you’d consider simple back home. Like ordering food at the only café in the neighborhood open on Sunday, when you see no menus, the waitress doesn’t offer you one, but eventually comes around to your table and asks what you want even though you have no idea what they have, and you’re so tired and hungry and flustered all you know how to do is repeat the last thing you heard someone at the next table over order: “Un chocolat chaud, s’il vous plaît.” Hot chocolate. When you haven’t eaten since breakfast, which consists daily of a piece of bread, some jam, and a warm cup of tea. It helped warm me up, but didn’t do much for the growling in my stomach. And I sat for an extra 15 minutes, waiting for the bill instead of looking elsewhere for food (or asking if they were serving any, which I simply couldn’t bring myself to do. Sometimes, you have moments of embarassed flustration and you don’t feel able to risk being misunderstood). In any case, bills are different here, waiters and waitresses don’t really wait on you, but wait for you to ask for the bill. And given, they may not come near enough to see your signal for a good long time if you’re sitting in a little corner, apart from the rest. As the student here before me assured, “You’ll feel like you’re being rude at first, demanding the check so overtly, but then you get used to it. It’s what you have to do.” Oy. Much to get used to.

Another little detail... last time I was in France (5 year ago, with my parents for part of the time), we (being my parents and I) noticed a number of road signs that one might encounter when confronted with a roundabout from which many other roads diverged: Name of Place, followed by “Toutes directions.” Translation? “All directions.” So, if you want to get to the Centre Ville, you can take any one of the 5 streets that branch out in opposite directions? We never managed to get anywhere that easily, and the signs certainly did us no good.

Just tonight, I encountered a new contradictory situation. My lost baggage arrived yesterday night (they delivered it to the door, thank god!), and inside was one of the many things I’d been eagerly awaiting: the cellphone I acquired from Tia, who had it during her stay in Strasbourg a year ago. After charging it up last night, I found a cellphone store with the same service listed on the phone and bought a ticket to add 15 euros to the phone (=30 minutes... phone calls are expensive here! You get a good 150 text messages for that price, though, so everyone just texts each other). When I got home and called the number, from which point I was to type in the given code and thus recharge the phone’s account, I got a nice little message that said something along the lines of “I’m sorry... this phone is past its recharge date, which was the 15th of June, 2005. We invite you to call our customer service line at 9-0-0...” So, somewhat frustrated, I call the other line, expecting to have to speak to a representative on the phone, which is more daunting to understand than french spoken face-to-face. Instead, I get another message “I’m sorry, you’re phone no longer has any minutes. Please call 9-6-5 to recharge your phone via card or special receipt.” Well, wouldn’t you have it, 965 was the first number I called. Just to make sure, I redialed that number. “I’m sorry... this phone is past its recharge date, which was...” Oy.

I guess I’ll have to find another store tomorrow and figure out what’s going on. I feel naked without a cellphone, and really, you need one here so that you don’t impose on your host family (it costs nearly as much to use a landline to make even local calls).

-------------------------------------------------------

Food troubles #1...

Upon arrival Mme kindly asked me what I ate and didn’t eat so as to get an idea of any restriction I had. I explained my situation with meat, that I’d recently started eating red meat again, but that I’m still not totally used to it, etc. She assuaged my worries by expaining that they were not big meat eaters and their favorite thing – until publicity surrounding the avian flu, of course – was a good breast of white chicken meat. Perfect, I thought. Me too. She then asked if I ate fish and I said “Oui, oui” because hey, I like salmon, tuna, some other kinds, and I was simply relieved to hear it was highly unlikely that I’d be served blood sausage within these walls. It briefly crossed my mind, as we moved on to discussion of other food groups, that perhaps I should have specified that, while I enjoyed fish, on the whole, this did not necessarily mean I was a big seafood person. But considering I couldn’t think of the word for “seafood” in French (still can’t, as a matter of fact), and we were already discussing the merits of fruits and vegetables, I decided not to bring it up. And tonight, it arrived on my plate.

Not much, not noticeably. Mixed in with Spanish “paella,” a rice dish, I spied a couple small shrimp. No problem, I thought, though my stomach did a miniture flop. I eat shrimp accidently when they’re mixed into sweet and sour soup, and I barely notice. So I took a bite. Fine. Didn’t taste it that much, no problems there. It was only after a couple more bites that I spied my true adversary. Small and squiggly and slightly brownish around the edges, I couldn’t fully tell what it was, but I had a feeling came in some sort of shell. And, besides pearls, the inner contents of shells simply don’t sit well with me.

I sighed. I had promised myself I would try to eat new things I encountered, and, while I hadn’t exactly prepared for meat of the sea, I figured it wasn’t much different from anything. So, forking the little squiggle, I took a bite.

Within seconds, I could taste the entirity of the sea, in all its salty, strong, and seemingly spoiled glory. With one, wide-eyed gulp, I tried to get the entire forkfull down as fast as possible. But man, it fought back. The taste overpowered my mouth... small, shell-fishy hands seemed to wrap themselves around my throat in an attempt to asphixiate their purpatrator. I was afraid to breathe (because everyone knows half of tasting is done through the nose) and my throat seemed to constrict in ardent protest, trying to appease the shellfish gods, assuring them that they had truly not meant to disturb their shellfish peace. It took everything I had, as Mme talked on about something I simply did not have the attention to follow, to not twist my face into an evil grimace and launch the remaining mouthful into a ready napkin. Internally plugging my nose and reaching for my (ever-so-small) glass, I chugged down three gulps, hoping to down the ugly beast. It took another glassful before my throat stopped its involuntary spasms (which I tried as best I could to keep subtle and unnoticed), and finally I was able to once again focus on the conversation at hand, which had seemingly gone on for the duration of the 30 second crisis without noticing that one of its participants was momentarily detained.

Mme later offered me more “meat” and luckily placed more of the fish on my plate. She then spooned up another squiggly bit and asked “Tu aimes des moules?”... ah, so they were mussels. Good to know. I quickly responded with an understated “Non, pas vraiment” (“No, not really”) and she willingly backed the spoon away. A few minutes passed and then she herself made a somewhat ill face (though very subtle compared to what I had gone through) and agreed that these were somewhat “bizarre.” She picked hers out too, and I didn’t feel nearly as bad for having a small pile of squiggles at the edge of my plate.

Hopefully this means I will not have this particular encounter again. But now, I’m on the lookout... it is not the blood sausage that will get me, after all. No doubt it’ll be something I least expect.

Moral of the story: Melia doesn’t like mussels. Nor other types of shellfish. It is not a choice, it is simply the way she was born. Perhaps one day she’ll start a civil rights movement with others like herself. For now, she will continue the trend of piling any dark little squiggles in a far-off corner of her plate, hoping to avoid their wrathful spirit.

The End.

Strasbourg!!

It's 6:16 pm here in Strasbourg, and I am still rather jetlagged from the whole journey. I have a loooong post that I wrote last night, trying to stay up to begin the acclimation to France time, which is 9 hours ahead. Consider I hadn't slept for a good 24 hours during the transit over here, it was surprising to get a second wind.

Before I post from last night, I'll add a couple of updates... for one, I mentioned how it was "Sooo cold" here after a brief encounter with a sunny day yesterday. Turns out yesterday was a "beautiful" day, by Strasbourg standards. In that it was sunny and only about 35 degrees Fahrenheit. Today it hit a temperature low, and even in with tights and wool socks under my jeans and four layers on top (not to mention the necessary hat, scarf, and fleece gloves), I was chilly walking around, with a light snow fall just barely sticking on the pavement. For the next four weeks France's government-mandated bi-annual sales are going on, so I think I'm going to invest in some more warm clothes while the prices are (hopefully) reasonable, considering California-bought winter clothes just don't quite understand what cold weather is really about.

Just an update on the internet situation... I'm one of the three in our ten person group that does not, alas, have internet available in the home. Thus, casual chatting (especially via Skype, by voice) may not be as easy as I'd originally hoped (of course, without the internet at my finger tips, I'm sure I'll be more inclined to spend my time in perhaps more productive ways about the town). I just bought, however, a convenient month-long, unlimited internet access card at a cheap internet place somewhat near the university. It's a bit of a walk from my apartment, but since I'm somewhat farther out, I get a free bus/tram pass, and the city is very easy to get around in, so I'm sure I'll get out here pretty frequently. In the next week or so, I'll investigate whether I can find a corner of the university with wireless and a bustling atmosphere such that no one would mind if I sat talking to my computer... perhaps then I can call all of you who have Skype-connected computers.

Okay, without further ado, here's the entry I wrote up last night. More to come, of course!

À plus tard!
Melia

P.S. It's a long post, i know... but you'll be rewarded w/ a couple pics towards the end!

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Mon premier jour à Strasbourg (My first day in Strasbourg)

It is currently 12:54 PM West Coast time back home, Friday afternoon. Here, it is nearly 10 p.m. and I’m sitting in the bed that is to be mine for the next four months, trying to process the tiring pursuit this day has been. I woke up about 30+ hours ago to begin my journey to France, and I’ve had barely a wink of sleep since the whole thing began. Me, who is known to conk out within minutes of buckling up in any moving vehicle, could not, for the life of me, sleep during the two main legs of the journey (4 hours to Chicago, 2 hour layover, 7.5 hours to Paris, 3 hour layover, 1.1 hours to Strasbourg). I managed to catch about 40 minutes of sleep as we flew from Paris to Strasbourg, my body finally giving in to inch of extra leg room Air France offered against the cramped and claustrophobic confines of United Airlines.

As it is, i’m finally here... and it’s all beginning to sink in. The flight over was unreal... besides being jittery and unable to doze off, I simply felt indifferent to the fact that I was heading to Strasbourg for my semester abroad. I was incapable of believing it, not in the “Oh my GOD, I can’t believe this is happening!!” sort of way. Rather, the “Hmm, let’s read some more in this book and MAN i wish i had a bed right now and wouldn’t it be nice if they turned down the heat in this frickin plane??” In other words, the thought that I was on my way to what is supposed to be a quintessential part of the college experience simply didn’t have enough umph to keep it my mind more than a minute. So instead I read nearly all of Alice Walker’s “The Color Purple” (and what a COMPLETELY different world that is from either the world I was leaving or the one I was about to enter). I listened to an hour or two of Neil Gaiman’s Anansi Boys... quite well done, enough to nearly make me snicker aloud on the plane. Listened to at least one proton mix, half of the Rent soundtrack, other music... eventually i just gave up on focusing (did someone slip me a caffiene pill this morning because really, I was pumping with exhausted adrenaline) and after a good 24 hours of flight... we arrived.

I should qualify “we,” perhaps. I ran into Alex, the only LC guy on the program, in Chicago, and we ended up a few rows from each other on the plane to Paris. We got in, maneuvered our way around the enormous Charles de Gaulle airport, dared to try a little french, plopped down in a pub while waiting for the next check-in and talked to a chill-attitude, language-loving American (portland-esque) “dude” who was returning to Slovakia with his Slovakian wife. He in his sweats, dreds piled under a huge hat, with his backpack, a laid back attitude, and talkative style was a complete juxtaposition with his quite, well-tailored, and rather proper young Slovakian wife. Some couples make you wonder in that amazed “never woulda thunk it” sort of way. In any case, Alex and I met up with two other LC students Erica, who’d just returned from a fall semester in rural Morocco and Gilly, and we finally got on our last plane, to head to our final destination (my and Alex’s forth airport of the day).

To meet us in Strasbourg was Bethany, the small, smiling American correspondant that coordinates the LC trips alongside her husband, both of whom have lived in Strasbourg/Nancy for 20+ years. That being the case, I was rather surprised to hear one of the worst French accents I’ve ever come across escape Bethany’s lips when she attempted to ask one of the baggage claim personnel a question about potentially missing luggage. Seriously... dad, if you think you’re french accent is bad, you haven’t heard nothing...! I’d been forewarned as to this detail, but man, “20 years??!” just kept resonating in my mind, and I finally had to resign myself to the explanation that, well, some people just don’t get languages. Alas.

Worse than the accent however, may have been the fact that, while everyone else seemed to retrieve their “potentially missing luggage” easily (once we figured out it was coming out of a completely different baggage carosel) one of my bags was simply no where to be found. Talking to one of the personnel with list in hand, I saw my name under the “luggage left behind” list. Oy. Turns out one of my bags never made it past Chicago. Thankfully, the larger suitcase with the bulk of my clothes and immediate necessities had come through. But somewhere the smaller one, with details like toiletries, decided one flight was enough. I should be getting it within the next few days, they say. Until then, i’ll be off to “Monoprix” tomorrow to stock up on veritable toothpaste, shampoo, towel, etc.

So... how is Strasbourg, you ask?? Well, I can honestly say I don’t fully have a grasp yet, what with only an hour of sleep-deprived wanderings about the town tonight, but the following tidbits do come to mind...
• Frickin’ COLD!!! My god! My ears felt like they were about to fall off when we were walking about, and I nearly fell to my knees with a halleluja when I unpacked later tonight and found that my warm toasty ear-covering hats were not sitting uselessly in Chicago, but rather ripe and ready for any ventures out come tomorrow.
• Beautiful... the buildings here... old apartments with architectural detailing, funky desings, and lights everywhere! The town is still decorated from Christmas, although I hear it’s only a skeleton of what it was during the bulk of the holidays. Skeleton or not, everything seems lit and gorgeous, and because the sales are here, everyone was out on the street tonight, running from shop to shop (FYI: France’s stores have sales twice a year, in January and in July, with everything going on sale for up to 50% off, if not more. The rest of the year, sales are unheard of. I guess the figure getting it done in two frenzied chunks is better than trying to compete for low prices all year round).
• Busy. Perhaps it was just b/c of the sales, but people were bustling here and there all over the downtown (which is a mere three tram stops from my apartment), even though it gets dark here quite early.
• Fun! While Mde Reiss’s last semester student (who was showing me around town) seemed a bit jaded by the whole deal and was greatly looking forward to heading home, I saw potential in every street corner, every little pub they pointed out, the river running through town, the bridges, the cathedral (only saw a glimpse, but MY GOD!), the tram, the people, the character... I know it’s not going to be easy to just step into Strasbourg life as a foreigner, but the more the girl and her friend (both from Kalamazoo and leaving tomorrow) talked about “yeah, this place is good b/c they speak English” “well, you’re really busy at the beginning and then there’s like, nothing to do” “i had an okay semester. I was going to leave half way through, but I stuck it out” and “no, the clubs here kind of suck”... the more they talked, the more determined I became to make this experience just the opposite. Moaning and groaning – while valid at times – is not how I want to start out my semester (and given, they were just ending theirs and were in a very different place than me. Especially with the level of french they knew, which wasn’t all that much).

Tomorrow we meet up with Beth for orientation and a tour of the city. I’m excited to get back to the LC group and hear about everyone’s families, talk to people just as enthusiastic about being here as I am, and get more familiar with the city itself.

As for my homestay and host mother, I think it’s going to work out well. The difficulties I can already forsee (like hardwood floors and five to seven small children running around pitter-patter pitter-patter and screaming with delight and/or agony outside my door from 9 am until 6 pm Mon-Fri) are just going to be new experiences to add to the list, new challenges to get around, new stories to add to the books. Mme Reiss (whose first name I heard once in a fleeting moment and can’t for the life of me remember... will work on that one) is probably in her fifties, doesn’t speak a lick of English (which is a good thing), and runs an in-home daycare for a living. She’s a good cook, not heavy on the meat (thank god! And she asked to make sure she knew my likes/dislikes), and her evening relaxation takes place in front of the TV, which is on all day, although not obnoxiously loud and not audible from my bedroom. She’s very welcoming, sociable, warm, but firm in her requests and explanations. I’m sure it’ll take some getting used to, and I’ve already started a list of things I need to remember to get in the habit of (turn the heat down in my room when i leave... put the “do not disturb” sign on the bathroom door when i use it, as it does not lock (worrisome with six small children about the house, but I guess they understand)... clean out the shower briefly once i’ve finished... call a good amount ahead of time if i’m not going to be home for dinner... only use one light in the room at a time... speak to the dog in french if i want him to stop licking me b/c he really does listen, but only to his native language, of course... etc. etc.). But as it is, Mme. is really quite friendly, impressed with my french and we were able to have a fairly up-to-speed conversation at dinner, although she certainly stopped me a few times to say she didn’t understand what I was trying to say, and she’s a fervent grammar-corrector, which I guess will be useful in the long run.

The home is a forth-story apartment in one of those exciting old complexes that allow you to spy on someone across the way, with their light on and yours turned off, Amelie-style. I already know I might be peeking across to a young artist/designer who I watched briefly bent over his drawing board across the way tonight, as Mme demonstrated why I might want to draw down the shutters in the evenings. The apartment is fairly small and the hardwood floors squeak, making every step available for all to hear. No sneaking about this place! All in all, i think it will work well, as long as I remember to ask if there’s a discrepency and try to foster some of the habits listed above, not to mention digging out the earplugs if attempting a midday nap amid rather vocal children.

My room (well, half of it)


The other half of my room


The view from my window


A closer look at the view from my room... um, y'think they just have a better turning radius than we do? Because this looks like a rather hopeless situation...


Well, it’s now reached 11 pm france-time, and I think going to bed now should get me on a decent schedule for the time-adjustment. I have Sleek, my silky-soft seal, to curl up with tonight, as a necessary and comforting familiarity in this new place i will call home. Call me a freak for using prime packing real estate on a stuffed animal, but you would not believe what comfort can be found in the seemingly frivolous, unnecessary, and or seemingly childish extras. I personally think everyone would benefit from a stuffed animal to curl up with each night (lacking something better, that is, like a warm body).

Okay, throwing in the towel. Future updates probably won’t be as long, but knowing me... well, they might be. Who knows.

Bonne nuit!

And We're off!

Within five hours I will be on a plane, headed towards the bright gleam of next semester... France, french, fresh bread, more meat than I can fathom, a taste of germany, a new experience, classes, internship(?), being apart and coming together, trekking europe, couchsurfing, and making connections I'll remember for a life time, even if it's only a fleeting moment of conversation on the subway.

It's been an interesting ride, preparing for this trip. I feel like I've been immersed in this preparatory practical mindset and it still hasn't quite hit me that I'm leaving in about an hour for the airport, that the two suitcases (yes, my hypothetical luggage expanded when put to practice) and one backpack I'll have with me are going to keep me for the next six months... that I'm about to be immersed in a language I *promised* myself I would practice this break (perhaps I've muttered a few "bonjour!"s at most)... that it's really happening.

Once I get there, I'm sure things will begin to sink in. As it is, I'm thinking only as far as the looong plane ride, for which I will bring a Alice Walker's The Color Purple, another small little book on fostering hope in our political, social, and personal world, and a fully-charged iPod with 10.5 hours of Neil Gaiman's Anansi Boys, read expertly by his funny and accented self (as well as a good 18 GB of music, if i eventually get sick of prose...). I figured I've got all my bases covered, and enough to keep me going for a good long while. And then of course there's sleep. And that I'm sure to do a lot of, as it seems inevitable that my circuitry turns itself off once I settle in to any sort of moving vehicle (can you imagine how scared i was to learn to drive? I was afraid the default system would kick in and I'd simply doze off in the thick of it!).

Now to stuff the last of my stuff (i.e. this computer) into my already bulging backpack, catch a bite of eggs, and wander, bleary-eyed, into the start of a crazy semester...

Bon Voyage, mes amis! Next stop: la France!

Websites and packing and backpacks, oh my!

My eyes are beginning to glaze over from the extended time they have spent scouring the internet for the best travel websites, the most comprehensive "what to bring" lists, and the top-rated travel backpacks on the market. As it is, I have printed out a good 30 pages of excellent information, I'm starting to worry that -as usual- my current mental packing list is pages too long, and I have my eye on some well-designed Eagle Creek backpack styles. Sadly, my mom and I purchased a convertable rolling backpack on sale at REI over the summer... before we'd done our research. It is rather bulky, not ergonomically designed, and not all that secure. Alas. The downside of snapping up a deal when it comes along (in this case, months before I'd even starting researching for the logistics of my trip).

In the plans for the next week: DEVISE A BUDGET! I have a wonderful money-spending tactic of buying things "only when I know I'll use them." Unfortunately, this applies to lots of things, and doesn't really cut down on my expenses. I can *always* use more music, more books, daily sustenance (translate: eating out)... and, ever since this Europe trip, more clothes, as the ones I currently have are not made to withstand cold, snowy winters. I've put a good amount of effort into documenting my spendings during the past few semesters of college, but again, "documentation" doesn't automatically lead to a decrease in the money turned over.

Thus... I turn to the ever-illusive budget. And I'm going to have to do everything in my power to create it wisely and actually stick to its stipulations. "Just one more night of clubbing" every week of the semester may well deplete the funds I need to make my way around Europe this summer.

Just in case you are among the many that doesn't really know where Strasbourg is...


The city itself is a about 10 miles from the German border and has a prominant German influence, as it has volleyed back and forth between French and German ownership throughout the past few centuries. It's nicknamed the "Heart of Europe," perhaps due to its central location, but also for its prominent role in EU affairs. It seats the European Parliment and the European Court of Human Rights.

I speak from afar, currently, as I'm still biding my time in the rainy California Bay Area. But 10 days from now... the adventure begins (and I should be able to report more personally on the nuances of my home-to-be).