Reflections

It’s easy to get distracted

by the river’s gentle pace

as you try to match it

to your own. Like lace,

the weeping willow’s tendrils

drape sweetly on the water’s edge,

caught briefly in the current’s pull,

but, caught by wind, instead

drifts upwards, tangling others in its grasp,

then sinking down again,

once the wind has had its laugh,

to kiss the river’s surface.

Yet to watch this playful folly

on the banks of the Ornain,

I can’t help but feel a little sad.

For as I watch this game unfold,

(just as countless others have perhaps)

and the scene has drawn my gaze

to elsewhere but the ground,

I notice that my foot gives in

to something quite less solid than before,

and ere I look I know what I will see.

No, I am not the first to walk

this path along the shore.

Others have walked along this path before,

and not alone, if I may add.

Oh, what a fool was I,

distracted by the view!

For as you see,

I’m ankle deep in dog shit.

Oh, ça pue!

Lazy Sunday

Basically everything is closed on Sundays in France, so I spent most of my day sitting in my cold, cold room and trying to decorate a little bit.  Then I realized it's high time I put some photos up of my place so you can imagine me there.  Just picture me with a little beret and baguette under my arm and you've pretty much got the idea.

 My bedroom!

 And on the other side, my dining room...

 Kitchenette

 Shelves stocked full of French food and Water Street coffee.

 My bathroom.  Not very exciting.

 As you can see, I've started putting up some pictures above my bed!  Look closely, there's probably one of you.

The view from my window!

Le week-end

Hello friends!  Well, it’s been another successful day in Bar le Duc.  I let myself have a lazy Saturday morning, drinking coffee out of a bowl (French-style, but also because I don’t have any mugs) and doing the last bit of unpacking.   I finally feel settled in, but I’m still looking forward to a trip to Ikea.  The bare lightbulbs hanging down from the ceiling aren’t very homey, and I’m going to get frostbitten toes from the cold tile floor if I don’t find a rug.  But other than that, everything seems to be functioning well and I’m enjoying the independence that comes with have my own little place.  While I loved my host mom in Strasbourg, I could never get over the fact that I was still a guest in someone else’s home.  Last night, I celebrated making my first dinner in France with a green pepper, tomato and emmental cheese omelette, baguette with tartare (a cheese spread with garlic and herbs—Strasbourg ladies, you know what I’m talking about) and bien sûr, a glass of wine.  The bottle of wine was under 3 euros and from Alsace, so I figured I couldn’t go wrong with that.  Have I mentioned that I love France?

So back to today.  I decided to take a walk around town and get my bearings, which led me to wander up the main street, Boulevard de la Rochelle and then into the Ville Haute, the medieval part of town that’s high above the rest of the city.  It was quite the hike, but once I was up there, the streets turned into narrow little passageways with alleys and paths veering off in every direction.  I would’ve gotten completely lost except that I knew that to find my way home, I just had to go down.  I visited St. Etienne, a beautiful church with a famous sculpture that was incredibly beautiful but darkly gothic. 

After that I took another hike up through the city’s old fortifications where I found the local museum and the clock tower, for which Bar le Duc is famous.  The tower wasn’t open for tours at the time, so I just stood outside and tried to summon one of the local cats over to me.  Didn’t work.  Méchant minou!

 Finally I made my way back down to the main part of town, guided by the steeple of Notre Dame right outside my house.  I stopped at the tabac by my house (they sell things like cigarettes, magazines, lotto cards, etc) to buy some phone credits.  I finally got a taste of being the “celebrity American” when the cashier asked me if I was English.  When I said no, I was American, his face lit up with a huge smile!  He said his daughter was going to study abroad in the U.S. in January (he didn’t know where yet) and asked where I was from.  When I said Chicago, his smile grew even bigger.  As I was leaving the store, I heard him say to the other people in line, “Elle vient de Chicago!  Elle est Americaine!”  If only being American always garnered this response. 

I’m going to look into buying internet on Monday, but for now, it’s still McDonalds.  Yes, Daniel, it’s hard to break my daily two quarter pounders with extra mayo habit.  But I’m working on it.  For now, a view of the city from Ville Haute:

Bonjour from Bar le Duc!

Bonjour tout le monde!  I'm finally here in Bar le Duc!  What a day (or two) it's been.... My flights were all great but the SNCF strike really tested me.  Let's start with my arrival in Paris.  After I passed through customs, I saw the sign that read SORTIE (exit) and immediately went through the sliding doors and they shut behind me.  But it turns out that you were only supposed to pass through that door after collecting your luggage from the baggage carousel.  I wish I could blame this on lack of directional signage, but no, it was completely my fault.  So, that was my first moment of panic because it was forbidden to enter back through those doors.  I ran to the information desk and explained that I had forgotten to pick up my bags after customs and the man simply told me, "No problem.  As soon as the next person exits through the sliding doors, just run back through them."  I thought this was a terrible idea and that if a terrorist asked him the same question, this man would've unwittingly let them bypass security.  But who was I to complain.  So I ran through the sliding doors as they opened and someone walked out and was immediately stopped by a police office (of course) but I frazzledly (not a word I'm sure) explained in botched French that I forgot to pick up my luggage.  He smirked and let me pass, and then I heard of surge of laughter rise behind me as he told the other officers what I had done.  Stupid American. 

The next order of business was getting on the RER (the suburban Metro) to get the the Paris train station.  Unfortunately, this was the first time trying to carry all my luggage by myself, and it turned out to be much more difficult than I had imagined.  My back ached almost immediately from my huge backpacking backpack, and I thought my arm was going to fall off from dragging my big rolling suitcase behind me.  I had to take frequent breaks.  Once on the RER I had a welcome half hour rest as it rode into the city itself.  As the graffiti-tagged banlieues outside Paris raced passed me, I smiled at the sight.  I was finally in France.  I felt completely different from the last time I arrived in France, two years ago.  Even though I had been with ten other people and I was going as part of a program that had planned out every travel detail for me, I had been a complete wreck when I arrived in Strasbourg.  But this time around, I felt comfortable and at ease.  The sights weren't new for me anymore, but familiar.  As we approached Gare du Nord, Sacré Coeur rose from the skyline, perched on its hill overlooking the city.  Had my camera not been packed at the bottom of my backpack, I would've taken a picture because it was a beautiful vision. 

Finally we arrived at Gare du Nord, and my next mission was to get to Gare de l'Est, from where (I hoped) my train to Bar le Duc would be departing.  Even though the two train stations are only a few blocks apart, I opted to take the Metro because of my bags.  Well, if only I had known how relatively simple it was to carry my suitcases through the airport, I might have appreciated it more.  Because once I got off the RER, I had to carry my luggage up and down multiple staircases in order to take the Metro.  Even though my boss had emailed me to warn me against accepting help from strangers who offered to carry my suitcase, I still allowed two different men to help me carry them up and down the stairs.  Obviously if they were sketchy looking and smelled bad I probably would've said no, but they were both so nice and polite, and one of them joked that he hoped I would find some escalators during the rest of my journey and wished me bon courage. 

So then I was at Gare de l'Est, talking to the man at the information desk, who informed me that ALL trains to Bar le Duc had been canceled.  ALL OF THEM.  If it hadn't been for the Valium I had taken at the beginning of my journey, I probably would've burst into uncontrollable sobbing on the spot.  But fortunately, I held it together as he told me that there was a train living in 20 minutes for St. Dizier, which was about 30km from Bar le Duc.  I tried to call my boss, Isabelle, from a pay phone to let her know my situation, but the phones only accepted Carte Bancaire, which is a debit card with an electronic chip (they call it a puce or "flea" in French).  Well, I didn't have one.  So my only choice was to get on the train and hope for the best once I got to St. Dizier.  Fortunately, I had bought a first class ticket originally (it had only been 6 euros more than the second class!), and that still carried over to this train.  This was a life saver, because the train car was awesomely comfortable, spacious and nearly empty, save for a nice group of Australians who helped me with my luggage. 

The train ride itself was fine.  I slept most of the time, then woke up and got a bloody nose out of nowhere.  Fortunately the train's carpet was red so I kind of let it leak on there til I could find my kleenex..... gross.  Once in St. Dizier I had to wait two hours to take the bus to Bar le Duc.  This was probably the low point in my journey because I felt completely stranded.  Even though I knew I could take the bus to Bar le Duc, it still felt like I was caught in uncertainty.  Would the bus actually come?  Would it take me to the right place?  Once I was there would I be able to find Isabelle?  Fortunately, it was yes to all three.  Besides the awkward encounter with the bus driver asking me to come back to his place (was he serious??) and the minor inconvenience of the strike going on in Bar le Duc as well, causing traffic to be really jammed up, I got the the Bar le Duc station, borrowed a nice person's phone and called Isabelle to come get me.

Isabelle is, in a word, amazing.  She took me to get my paperwork filled out at the foyer at which I'll be living, helped me bring all my bags up three flights of stairs to my room, then took me back to her apartment so she could make me dinner and so that I could email my parents from her computer.  She told me she'd be my mother for the time I was here!  I feel a lot better knowing that she's here to help me out.  After that, I went back to my room and crashed for 13 hours.  I've been feeling great all day so I'm hoping I beat the worst of the jetlag. 

Today was mostly running errands.  Got my bus pass (so I can ride the bus for free!), bought some groceries and unpacked... kinda.  It's still a mess.  But I'm really feeling settled in, and hopefully the weather will be nice tomorrow so I can explore the city (it was pouring rain all day, which led to a funny conversation with Isabelle about the idiom "It's raining cats and dogs."  She asked, "Do people actually say that?")

Alright, McDonald's is closing soon (I don't have internet yet so here I am....) so I should wrap up.   Stay tuned for more exciting updates....

Aeroport

At the airport with two hours to kill. I'm tempted to have a glass of wine, but then I think: in 24 hours I'll be in France. Wouldn't it be insulting to waste my money on a cheap glass of American wine when I could get a bottle of good French wine for the same price tomorrow? Probably. But it doesn't make a glass of wine in O'Hare seem any less appealing.

Un Bon Voyage (I Hope)

Since midnight has come and gone, I guess I can officially say that I leave today.  I'll keep it brief because I'm tired and still have an episode of Mad Men to watch before bed...  In short-- I'm excited, but mostly overwhelmed and anxious.  Found out today that SNCF (the French train system) will be on strike when I arrive, so I have no idea if my train will be running.  If not, I'll have to catch another one, but that throws off my whole schedule, like meeting my boss in Bar le Duc and getting the keys to my apartment.  But you know what?  I'm going to France.  And what better way to arrive than during one of their infamous grèves?  I'll just down an espresso, grab a baguette and find a park to read in until I can catch a train.  That actually doesn't sound so bad, does it? 

Alors, au revoir, mes amis.  A la prochaine! 

One week, or should I say, une semaine?

That's right, one week. Or according to my handy dashboard widget--6 days, 23 hours.

I was mildly productive today. I called Sallie Mae to ask what to do about my loans that I'll have to start paying back in January and was told that they don't accept payments from foreign banks. Something to do with the exchange rate, the woman with the thick southern accent told me, before informing me that she had never left the United States, as if this had some bearing on the matter. Unfortunately, I started spacing out as she listed my other repayment options. Something about an international money order made out in U.S. currency. Too much to think about right now.

After that, I read about fused participles on the New York Times grammar blog. They sound much more exciting than they actually are, but have the potential to make me sound like a bad ass.
"Hey, Laura, what did you do today?"
"Oh not much, just corrected some fused participles."
"That's bad ass."
If I had said, "Oh not much, just inserted a possessive before the gerund, thereby making the sentence grammatically correct..." Well, it doesn't really have the same ring to it.  (By the way, I had no idea what a fused participle was before today. I can barely tell you the difference between a direct and indirect object. The rules of grammar never really stuck with me which is why I find this blog so enlightening.)

In addition to grammar blogs, I'm painfully making my way through The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.  I'd rather read the collected works of Dan Brown five times over while sticking needles in my eyes than this book.  At least Dan Brown's novels are page-turners, which is more than I can say about this supposed crime thriller.  I'm about 400 pages in, and it's FINALLY (thank god) holding my attention.  In addition to being poorly written, it's poorly edited too.  It could've been cut down by about 300 pages (by that, I mean the first two-thirds of the book could have literally been ripped out).  Not to mention it's being hailed as a "feminist" novel, but all I see is a female character that doesn't fit the "normal" female lead crime thriller stereotype (except for the fact that she DOES because she still partially exists just to be a sexual partner for the lead male detective, but at least she gets to do a little detecting too), and who is horrifyingly accepting of her being sexually abused (let me digress for a moment and point out the totally non-fused participle that just happened in that sentence.  Woo!)  Then again, it's been on the bestseller list for months (a whole lotta good that's going to do the dead author), made into a film, and has had two successful follow-up novels too.  Shows what I know.  Maybe I should reevaluate my desire to go into publishing.

That rant aside, I think I'm going to go read some more.  One hundred pages til I'm done and can go read a good book.  At least it's serving to distract me from the fact that I'm leaving in one week!

Les Temps Ils Sont A-Changeant

The Chicago summer has, in typical fashion, bypassed any sort of traditional late-summer-easing-into-fall-transition, wherein one slowly becomes accustomed to chilly nights and windy days after three months of beating sun, drenching humidity and shouting "LIES!" at the weatherperson on TV who reports that temperatures are "cooler near the lake." No, instead we've been treated to an overnight metamorphosis from unbearable summer heat that makes my hot yoga class feel like a refreshing escape to Northern Wisconsin, to long pants, sweatshirts, grilled cheese and tomato soup weather. I don't want to sound like I'm complaining because I'm not, I actually prefer this kind of weather, but this seasonal shift only serves as a reminder of my impending departure on the first day of autumn: September 22nd.

Two years ago, I was a week into study abroad in Strasbourg. When we arrived on September 1st, it was hot. I remember wearing shorts on our walking tour of the city and standing in the sunlit Place Kléber, soaking it all in. A day later it was cold and rainy on our boat tour along the River Ill. By the time we returned from our group trip to Paris a week later, it was so cold that I had to wear two pairs of socks to bed and spent as much time drinking cappuchinos in warm cafés as possible until October 1st, the government-mandated day when the heat is turned on. That night I slept with the radiator turned all the way up and woke up covered in sweat. I was so happy.

The fall colors in Strasbourg were beautiful. Place de la République was filled with golden-colored trees, and when it rained, the wet leaves on the ground smelled just like they did at home. Because I walked or took the tram everywhere, I was always very aware of the weather. In the mornings, I left my apartment and cut across the misty, frost-covered lawn of the Council of Europe to get to my tram stop, listening to "M-79" by Vampire Weekend, the first song on a mix that became the soundtrack to my study abroad experience. To this day, when I hear that song, I am viscerally brought back to my morning commute. Most of the time when I think about my journey to class, I remember being cold and tired and looking forward to arriving at MacDo for my morning coffee. (McDonald's in France has amazing coffee for only a euro, and since my host mom only made me tea in the morning, I went to MacDo at least once a day. Plus, they were one of the only places in France where you could get coffee in a paper cup to go. Yes, I know, there were some American traditions that I refused to give up.) It rained a lot in Strasbourg and my 5 euro umbrella was in pieces by January. While I always thought that it was very cold in Strasbourg, in actuality, it never dipped much below 30 degrees Fahrenheit. (I never bothered to convert the Celsius temperature into Fahrenheit so I could actually process it, and therefore I kept thinking, "By God! Negative 2 degrees?" I've also retrospectively given myself a British accent.) Reality gave me a good slap in the face when I returned home to Chicago in the middle of January. Eight degrees and two feet of snow. Hello Midwest! Hello lake-effect snow!

One year ago, I had just moved into my apartment in Kalamazoo. Trips to the farmer's market yielded acorn squash and pumpkins, and a trip to the apple orchard with my family had me making apple pie and applesauce for weeks afterward. It was certainly a Michigan autumn alright. But while the weather slid into cool fall temperatures and the leaves began to change, I found myself getting sudden, heart-pounding flashbacks to Strasbourg. A mere breeze could transport me back to the banks of the Ill or outside Café Brant. I kept thinking, "This weather is just like it was in France!" as if the weather itself was uniquely French and foreign to these American shores. But the autumn weather in Strasbourg had been imprinted in my mind along with all of the other experiences I had had that first month I was abroad. Our mind is so incredible! It records all of these associations and wraps it up into one little memory so that when we recall one aspect of that memory, a deluge of emotions and experiences comes rushing back to us. I had associated a walk through Place de la République with gorgeous fall weather, so when that fall weather came around again, albeit on the other side of the ocean, I was suddenly transported back to that park in Strasbourg, even though I was clearly grounded in Kalamazoo, Michigan. It's the same thing with "M-79" by Vampire Weekend. My mind had succinctly summed up my morning commute with that song, so whenever I hear it, I'm pulled back to those frosty mornings on my way to school. Incredible. (If this interests you, by the way, there's a related NYT article that calls these associations "neural scaffolding" which is the perfect analogy, I think.)

So here I am in 2010, next to my open bedroom window where I can feel the cool air seep in, with Vampire Weekend stuck in my head. In 12 days I leave for France, and feeling much the same way I felt two years ago. Mostly anxiety with a little bit of that stomach-dropping feeling of dread, mixed in with occasional bursts of pure excitement. Overall, I'm really looking forward to going back. Although I'm sometimes reminded of how homesick I was in Strasbourg, I don my rose-colored glasses when I look back on that experience (they don't call it la vie en rose for nothing, you know.) I was in a different place mentally and emotionally, and the stress of the unexpected was enough to make me want to get on the next plane home. But this time around I'm just a little bit older and wiser (I said, just a little bit) and I have a better idea of what to expect. I see study abroad as Intro to French Life 101 and I passed with a pretty good grade, so I'm ready to move on to the more advanced courses. That being said, if I don't have wifi in my apartment this time around I might have to take some drastic measures. That just about killed me last time. Call me a spoiled American, but I like to Skype with my loved ones, in my pajamas, day or night. So if I have internet in my room this time around, I think everything's gonna be juuuust fine.

Alright, time to close that window. It's getting chilly in here.