Goodbye, Lyon

After almost five months in France, it's finally begun to feel familiar. Not until recently have I felt that when I'm away from Lyon, going back is like going "home." It's like when you first go to college and after a while, you realize that you feel more at home at school than you do in the place you've spent most of your life. I'm so incredibly excited to see my friends and family, but I know I'm leaving a wonderful family and friends here; a home I've created for myself. I'm not sure what I'll feel when I'm back in the US, but the words "reverse culture shock" do come to mind. However, I know that no matter what, I'll always been incredibly grateful for an experience that's taught me more than I could imagine. I've gained so much confidence in myself and my abilities to cope on my own, and to handle any situation. I feel like after coming to a foreign country completely alone and being okay, I'm really capable of anything. And not only am I okay, I have had the best semester of my life. I have absolutely zero regrets. From now on, my primary goal is to figure out how I'm going to get back to this ridiculous, wonderful place.

Florence, Italy

Florence is one of the most lovely towns I've visited yet. I got to see some incredible art (Botticelli, Michelangelo, etc) and taste some delicious REAL Italian pizza. 

Ponte Vecchio

Margherita pizza from a local joint

Ahh, Florence

Fl

Ciao Roma!

The Roman Forum

The Coliseum! And a random guy. Nice shot. 

My classes are finished, and now is the time when students usually embark upon a month-long traveling spree throughout Europe. As someone who has a tendency to be a homebody, I was somewhat overwhelmed by this concept and decided to limit my travels to Italy and the South of France, and ending up in Paris, where I’ll be flying out of. I really didn’t feel the need to have a frantic European tour like many of my classmates, as I’ve visited a lot of places this semester already, and don’t like traveling in a constrained time frame. As a result, this is my fourth day in Rome and I’m currently sitting in my hostel, writing this blog. Don’t worry, it’s 5:30 in the evening, and it’s raining outside.

            My first day, I wandered around a lot, trying to get a feel of the city. Rome is large, but doesn’t have the same somewhat stressful feel as other big European cities like Paris. It’s quite relaxed. Italians are also very friendly. They’re perhaps a bit too friendly, for those of them of the male persuasion. Yesterday some 15 year-old boy tried to kiss me on the street. It’s fine.

                        The second day, having met up with friends, I braved the crowds at the Vatican and St. Peter’s Basilica. The Vatican wasn’t that great, all the decoration and renaissance art gets old after about five minutes, but obviously I had to see the Sistine Chapel.  The Chapel is swarming with people who are all talking and taking pictures (both not allowed), which pretty much ruined the atmosphere, but it was still super cool to see the famous “Last Judgment.” Fun fact: After Michelangelo’s death, the church objected to the amount of nudity in the chapel, and planned to paint over it completely. Luckily, one of his students volunteered to paint clothes on top of all the naked people. Today, most of the clothes have been removed once more, but you can still see some strangely placed leaves and garments on a few of the paintings.

            After utter exhaustion from the previous day, on day three, our strength was flagging. But we still had the Pantheon, Coliseum, and the Roman Forum to go, so we sucked it up and started with the Roman Forum (after wandering around trying to find the entrance for two hours.) It cost 12 euros to go in, but with this admission we also got admission to the Coliseum, so it was okay. However, it was not okay when I lost my ticket and couldn’t get into the Coliseum. That was not okay at all. Instead, I wandered around the Palentine Hill, which was actually really, REALLY cool, and probably my favorite part of the trip. My friends had gone into the Coliseum, so I was completely alone, and it was actually nice to wander around the gorgeous gardens placed along the ruins at my own pace, smelling all the nice smells and seeing all the nice ruins. I stumbled upon many alcoves and tunnels, and little caves that had once been rooms. It’s so mind-blowing to think that these rocks have been there for thousands of years. Those Romans knew what they were doing. It definitely takes some imagination, however, to try and think about what you see now as what was once a temple, or a house. This is probably why the Coliseum is so famous. It’s obvious what it was, even though it’s partially destroyed, but I can definitely imagine what went on inside and around the structure. After the Coliseum, we were completely spent, and took a bus back to our hostel. Today, I wandered around some more to the Spanish Stairs and Piazza Espana, and then to this park by the Coliseum. I have an early train tomorrow though, so I think I’m gonna call it a night once I make myself some pasta in our hostel kitchen. 

Mixed Dorm

Ahh, hostels: The true student-traveler experience. I spent two nights in Hostel Allessandro, a very nice hostel nearby the train station. It was clean, the staff was friendly, and there was free wifi in the rooms. There was even a bar downstairs. What more could I need? However, my very first night in the mixed 8-bed dorm turned out to be quite disastrous.

            I was alone when I checked in, but could see that there were people staying in my room with me. When I got back around 11:30 that night, everyone was sleeping and it was pitch-black, so I met none of the people I’d be sharing the room with. I didn’t know if they were girls or boys, though due to the snoring I was hearing around me, I assumed they were all large, middle-aged men with sleep apnea. With the smell coming from the one next to me, I assumed they were all large, middle-aged men with sleep apnea who hadn’t showered in a while. It was all very stressful. That and the noise from a drunk American girl outside (“NO… I BELIEVE IN GOD, OKAY?”) kept me awake for a while. After a while, I finally fell asleep, only to be awoken by someone’s phone at around 4 am. This someone didn’t answer, clearly dead to the world. Praying it was just a call and not an alarm, I went back to sleep.

            The phone went off again a short while later. And again. And AGAIN. I was starting to worry no one else in the room could hear it, as nobody seemed to be awake, including the person who’s phone it was. On the ninth ring (I was counting) what turned out to be a girl on the top bunk across the room jumped down and attempted to rise the sleeping person. “Hey! Your phone is ringing!” The sleeping person turned off the noise and we all breathed a sigh of relief. Several people (all Americans, two girls and one boy) said things like, “That’s gone off a million times.” And “Thank God.” However, we had spoken too soon, when the alarm went off a tenth time several minutes later. I took initiative this time, clapping my hands in front of the sleeping person’s face. (How do you wake up someone you don’t know? You aren’t really allowed to touch them. It’s an awkward situation) The person turned out to be a girl, who woke up, as I informed her, “Your alarm’s going off, by the way.” But all she said was “oh…” and I was worried it had gone to sleep again.  She had. The eleventh time the alarm went off, the boy above her, who had been quiet until now, snapped. “Are you RETARDED?” He yelled. “Your phone is going off and keeping everyone awake! Do you have somewhere you need to be??” We all tried to reason with her, but it was beyond her to form coherent sentences. I asked her if she was drunk, and she said, “No, I’m just….“ and let out a large sigh as she clearly drifted off again. However, the not-so-quiet-guy had taken her phone and turned off the alarm, so we all went to sleep as well, thinking at last the ordeal was over.

            At 5:30 am, someone knocked on our door. Being a super light sleeper, I was the one to answer it, and an American girl and guy were standing outside. Trying to appear casual in my sleep-deprived state, all I could think of to say was, “What’s up?” I’m sure I’d said it in a more aggressive way than I’d meant because they both looked frightened and asked if Allie was in the room. “You must mean the girl whose alarm has gone off eleven times.”  I replied snarkily. “She’s over there, completely unconscious. You can deal with her.” Everyone in the room was awake now, except Allie, and was telling her friends what a pain she’d been all night. “Just get her up and LEAVE,” was the general consensus.  They had some sort of whispered conversation with her, trying to convince her to please get up, they had a flight to catch, etc. I wondered why they didn’t just pick her up and take her out of the room, she was clearly mentally handicapped in some way and reasoning with her wasn’t going to work.  After what seemed like forever, Allie got up and left. She came back about five minutes later to get her shoes, (which she’d walked out of the room without) but finally it was all over. And then we went to sleep FOR REAL.

            The next morning I had a very nice conversation with the two boys who had remained sleeping throughout the entire ordeal, and turned out to be French. I was excited to speak another language that I actually knew (Italian is foreign to me) and was ecstatic when one asked me for “crème solaire” and I knew what it was. So I suppose these random-room arrangements have pros and cons. But in this situation, I’d have to say the cons overruled pros. I wonder if Allie made her flight? 

Pastry Wednesday

My days in Lyon are coming to a close, and it's really freaking me out. I'm realizing I'm in serious denial about goodbyes, after consciously saying, "see you later!" to several people who I am most definitely not going to see later. Unless "later" means "possibly never and definitely not in the near future." I keep thinking everywhere I walk that it could be the last time I see this view or the last time I have to run past that homeless man to avoid his drunken advances. I'm getting quite nostalgic, and as a very non-nostalgic person, it's very unnerving. I'm really grateful for the few days I'll have after my travels for unfinished business/mad picture taking binge session to make up for the lack of photos that have occurred in Lyon.

Today, attempting to be productive and buy some last minute gifts, I wandered around the city for the majority of the day. Despite the fact that I only bought two gifts (and one was for myself, whoops) I felt fairly accomplished. Having also eaten an unnecessary amount of chips, I was going to forego Pastry Wednesday due to looming swimsuit season (ugh). But THEN I realized I only had a 5 euro bill and I needed coins to buy a metro ticket in the morning on my journey to the airport, as I'm heading off to Italy for the next few weeks. So obviously the solution was to purchase a mini gâteau in the Banette near my house. It was so worth the calories.

Pastry... Tuesday?

Finals week is upon us. I have five exams in four days, and two papers, and on top of all that, am attempting to plan my May travels and ignore the fact that I'm getting sick. Desperate times call for desperate measures, ie. eating pastries on days that aren't Wednesdays. Don't get me wrong, this doesn't mean I'm not eating pastries tomorrow. Having actually LOST weight due to my poverty stricken state in Barcelona, I feel as if I can afford it. In addition, I have only one week left in Lyon, and I don't feel like I've eaten nearly enough pastries. I need to make up for lost time. It will be difficult, but I think somehow I'll manage.

Today's treats were two mini tartelettes that I bought on the way home from school at a cafe near my house. The one on the left was prettier before it was put into a bag, but it was super delicious anyway. It's a tarte au citron, and is basically lemon curd in a little pie. Fantastic. The one on the right is shaped like a little leaf (the only reason why I bought it without any knowledge of its contents) and is cake with jam inside a marzipan coating. Life changing, to say the least.

Now to study. Can't procrastinate any more by writing blogs. More pastries tomorrow.

Barcelona/Mallorca

Since I don't currently have time to write a long blog about my AMAZING time in Spain, I thought I'd put some photos up to tide everyone over for a while. I spent Friday in Barcelona, flew to Mallorca (small island off the coast) on Saturday, and then flew back to Barcelona for the rest of the week on Wednesday. Although I didn't exactly get the beach vacation I was hoping for (I bought a new swimsuit, pathetic), I still had such an incredible time and can't wait to go back one day.

Some friends and I in Gaudi's park, on the longest bench in the world. Great view of Barcelona.

House designed by Gaudi!

Mercat de la boqueria! I got the most delicious juice there for only one euro.

I
La Sagrada Familia! Still under construction until 2026... I'll be 34!

Interior of the Sagrada Familia

Tiny door inside the giant door of our hostel

Ahh, Palma

Another church renovated by Gaudi. He's all over Spain, apparently.

Me on the beach in Mallorca. So heavenly.

Un-Pastry Wednesday!

Today, I was too exhausted to drag myself to a pastry store. Last night was my friend's birthday, so even though it was Tuesday, there were festivities. I had no problem with that, besides the fact that my classes were again 11 am - 8 pm. So when I got home tonight, the stores were closed, and the fridge contained a very special treat that I'd been drooling over ever since I bought it last week.

France's grocery stores don't just have any old pudding selection. They have wonderful special gourmet puddings with coconut flavoring, or caramel at the bottom, or raisins. They even have rice pudding! AND, best of all, they have creme brulée. I am aware that creme brulée from a grocery store is obviously not as good as some from a restaurant, but guess which one was only 2 euros for two little glass pots? They come with a pouch of crunchy caramel to pour on yourself, and it solidifies into a layer much like real creme brulée. It also had real vanilla bean in it. I was extremely happy with the results. The thing about French food is that even grocery store desserts are frighteningly delicious, and so are the pre-made foods. Don't even get me started on their frozen pizzas.

So that's what I dug into tonight, as I watched Grey's Anatomy on my laptop. Barcelona in two days!

Prague: Penises and Pierce Brosnan (in the same day!!)

One word that sums up Prague: Interesting. It's a magical place where ABBA is still beloved, where beer is cheaper than water, and where you can buy terrifying puppets on the side of the street. It's a place where you can be flashed in the forest and see a famous person in the same day. Last week, my friend Missy and I spent four fantastic days wandering the cobbled streets and investigating churches, castles, and synagogues that make up Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic.

We stayed with wonderful friends of my parents, Nancy and Rick Johnson, who have lived in Prague for the better part of a year, and took great care of us. Every morning we ventured out to see various sights the city had to offer. We bought a pass to the Jewish Museum, which is made up of multiple synagogues and an extremely interesting cemetery, all housed in the Jewish Quarter. The cemetery is about four meters above street level, because they didn't have enough room to expand and kept piling more and more graves on top of each other. The gravestones were all moved up, though, so it's completely filled with them, leaning every which way. However, not everyone in the Czech Republic seems to have used this method when attending to graveyard issues. On our third day, Missy and I took a day trip to Kutna Hora, a small town about one hour outside Prague. The attraction to Kutna Hora is a small church on the outskirts of town, which is decorated with thousands and thousands of human bones. Apparently, centuries ago, during the plague, the cemetery started to fill up, and they had to dig up all the old graves. Naturally, the strange folk who ran the church thought it would be a dandy idea to use these old bones as decoration for the interior of the church. Like I said, the Czech Republic is an odd place. But, it makes for one heck of a tourist attraction.

Most days we would go to the grocery store and get lunch for later, spending way too much time marveling over interesting new foods and the large variety of breads. The groceries in CR are interesting not because of the kinds of food, but because normal foods are rendered unrecognizable due to strange packaging and completely incomprehensible language. We knew which chocolates were good, though, and were delighted to discover (once we'd painstakingly calculated the strange crown to dollar ratio) that they were much cheaper than the same brands in France. I bought an 8 pack of Kinder Bars to take back with me (they're gone now) and some marzipan, which was really popular in Prague as well. I'm starting to like beer, which is great, because I definitely need to add to the list of things I like that make me fat. But it was cheap in Prague, so it was consumed frequently as well. One night Rick and Nancy took us out to eat to a traditional Czech restaurant and we all had some goulash, which is a meat stew with "dumplings," or slices of doughey bread that soaks up the sauce. It was heavenly.

The amount of walking we did there definitely made up for the amount of food we ate (or at least I like to think so). I may have permanently damaged my feet, but it was worth it. One day we decided to take the trail up to the top of the large bluff that overlooked the city, on top of which rests a monastery and a very small replica of the Eiffel Tower. I have to warn younger readers and those who are easily offended to skip this part, because something that was kind of disturbing (funny now, though) happened to us up there. We were almost to the top, and were quite alone, when an old man walked past us on the trail. Good for him, out-hiking two college girls at that age, we thought. As we were standing there, contemplating where to go next, this man popped out from behind the bushes. I wasn't really even looking at him until Missy started shrieking, and there he was, making this really frightening, lecherous face at us. It took me a full couple of seconds to realize that it was not, in fact, a hot dog he was wiggling around out of his pants. Hmmm. How does one react in that sort of situation? I didn't scream, but did manage to made a kind of offended sound and shout some expletives at him. I informed him of how disgusting he was, and we turned around and walked very fast back down the trail. Looking back, it's a good story and quite hilarious, but at the time I had a stick with me on the rest of the way up the hill "in case he came back." I also contemplated going back and throwing rocks at him. So many options. But what we really did was continue to enjoy our day and eat bread overlooking Prague, while laughing hysterically about our strange lives.

However, I'm really glad that all happened, and here's why: If we hadn't made that detour, we wouldn't have seen something (or rather, someone) that entirely made up for seeing that old man's family jewels. I'll explain. A bit later, we were semi-lost (90% of our trip was in this state) and wandering around looking for the castle, which was remarkably hard to find. We came to a street that we recognized, and about to turn onto another, when a car pulled up and some fancy people got out. Three men in suits and one very pretty blonde woman, all wearing sunglasses. They walked ahead of us for about twenty feet, and were about to go into this restaurant, when one of the men (the less-beefy of the three) turned around and said in a British accent, "Oh! I forgot my scarf!" The others said something to him, and he turned around and went into the restaurant, and at this point I realized that the man who had forgotten his scarf was in fact, PIERCE BROSNAN. JAMES BOND. (Well, one of them) THAT ONE GUY IN MRS. DOUBTFIRE. BASICALLY JUST A SUPER FOXY BRITISH MAN. I turned to my friend and re-affirmed this just as the girl in front of us turned around and said, "I know! I'm texting my sister about it right now!" We freaked out for about 20 minutes and took stalkerish pictures of him standing on the patio from about 100 feet down the hill where we had a good view. It was great. He probably looked at me, since I was standing directly in front of him. Luckily I hadn't at that point yet made the connection, so my face was completely expressionless and nothing like the face I made about 5 seconds later when I realized I'd just seen the guy Sally Field dated in one of my favorite movies. Definitely a high point in my life.

So all in all, Prague was a success. Any place where I can see history, art, some old man penises, and celebrities is okay with me.

Pastry Wednesday: Late

Pastry Wednesday came and went, and I had no pastry. Midterms were in full swing, and I didn't have any time that day to get a pastry. It was a sad day (as was my performance on some of my exams. Let's not talk about that.) However, yesterday, I was wandering around enjoying the GORGEOUS weather with some friends, when we felt the need to sit down and have some pastries in the setting sun. Wise decision, right before dinner, but I felt entitled to my weekly pastry!

We went to a Brioche Dorée, which is like a café chain, but since it's a FRENCH café chain, it's still really delicious. I bought this puffy thing that immediately caught my attention, because it looked like a cross between a really big cream puff and strawberry shortcake (two of my favorite desserts.) We sat down and watched the people on the street. People-watching is a great thing to do in France. It mostly consists of oo-ing and ah-ing over people's clothes and ingenious outfit combinations, but sometimes you get the odd fasion-disaster. That's always fun. Yesterday I spotted a woman wearing some kind of extremely tight black dress (not flattering, I might add) and you could see her large, pink underwear through it. Luckily, in France, when you're just starting to feel bad about your own fashion knowledge, someone usually comes along to make you feel a bit better in comparison.

My pastry had a really long and complicated name, and I agonized about actually ordering it because I didn't know how to say it. But I somehow pulled it off because the smiley brioche man understood what I wanted AND didn't start speaking English back to me. This is a common problem, here. I think people are trying to be helpful, or practice their English, but it's kind of depressing, especially when you only say about one word and they immediately know you're not French. My accent isn't that bad, is it? When I was in H&M the other day (bad idea) literally the only words I said to the check out guy were "bonjour," and "merci," and he still said as I left, "Heve a nize dayyy!" And, when I was walking to school, a woman came up to me on the street in a WWF smock saying, "Hello! You speak English?" HOW DID SHE KNOW? I WAS WEARING A BLAZER, FOF GOD'S SAKE. I angrily ran away saying, "Non!" Oh, France.

Anyway, back to pastry, it was delicious. It was also really pretty. It tasted exactly like a cream puff (only slightly eggy-er and lighter crust) and had little nuts sprinked on top. Definitely an awkward thing to eat, though. I had to take the top off and eat it separately, and then the bottom. There was SO MUCH whipped cream. It was wonderful.

Awkward Metro Moments pt. 3

France doesn't have open container laws. This means, if you so desire, you can walk around with an open bottle of wine and nobody arrests you or judges you (well, maybe a little judgement). On Friday and Saturday nights, this leads to quite a bit of fun on the metro. It can be really awkward if you're going to your friend's apartment to watch "The Notebook" and drink tea and everyone is taking huge swigs out of their various bottles, dancing, singing, etc. But if you are one of these people, it can be a blast. It's a magical time of night when everyone on the metro becomes friends and shares bottles, etc. I've had a girl offer me some of her whisky, once. (I didn't take it though, she looked kind of dirty)

Last night some friends and I were on our way to a get-together of international students, and we took the metro. I didn't have a bag, so I was lugging a sizeable bottle of vodka and two cans of Red Bull. Healthy, I know. We sat down across from some guys carrying a few bottles of their own. However, I was pretty apprehensive of them. There is a kind of guy in France that is very unlike the usual hipsterish, peacoat-wearing, swooshy hair type. These boys (usually they are teenagers) can not be described by any other word but "hooligan." They wear shiny, puffy jackets, track pants, and sneakers, and they all have the same bizarre hairstyle. It's really short all over the entire head except the VERY top, where there is so much gel on the remaining hair that it stands up in wet-looking tufts that I'm sure are quite sharp and not at all normal hair texture. I'm not a fan. If there is anyone ever causing trouble in the street, or in the metro, 90% of the time it is these boys. I don't understand who they are, why they always seem hell-bent on making everyone around them uncomfortable, and most importantly WHY they wear their hair like that, but whenever I see them I literally cross the street because the chances that I'll be harassed are very high.

So when I sat down across from these guys, I was kind of nervous they were going to give us trouble. But as soon as they heard us speaking English, they got really excited and started trying to talk to us in English as well, which was hilarious. The most talkative one's name was Mahmoud, and the only phrases he seemed to know were things like, "I have 24 years old," and "My name is Jack Daniels." They seemed to mean well, though, and soon we were all conversing happily. And by conversing happily, I mean they were talking to us and we were laughing at them/trying to ignore them. They were drinking some kind of sketchy off-brand soda out of the can, and apparently wanted to mix them with something, because one asked me if I had a "goblet." Sadly, I did not have such a thing, although I think I'd like one so I could feel like Harry Potter when I drink out of it. Anyway, lesson learned, I suppose. Even hooligans can be nice, apparently, on the magical night train. I'm going to do some more research next weekend.

Exercise: French Edition

The title of this blog is quite the oxymoron. Here's why: as a whole, French people don't exercise. At least not in the same way Americans do. There are two types of Americans: fat ones, and super intense health freak ones. French people are not like this. They are moderate. They eat moderately, they walk around, and they smoke a whole lot. They also have miraculous metabolisms that allow them to eat vast amounts of carbs without gaining weight. As a result of this phenomenon, I rarely see people running here. If I do, it's either men or middle-aged women who's carbo-loading has finally caught up to them. Girls my age DEFINITELY do not run.

Unfortunately, I don't possess the French girl metabolism. I watch what I eat, and used to work out every day back home. Here, I don't have access to a gym, but I told myself that as soon as it was warm out, I would go run outside. There are some nice parks around, and the river is also nice to run on. Today, I suggested this idea to two of my friends, and we set off to this really nice park. We had to metro there, which meant we had to walk to the metro in our running clothes. This posed a problem, as we had to walk past cafés and the shopping mall that the metro stop is on. I don't know how the French who go to the gym get there, but I never see them walking around in their workout clothes. The amount of carbs they eat in comparison with how thin they are means magic must exist, so maybe they apparate? Or teleport? Puzzled, we awkwardly walked past staring people stylishly sitting at their tables and sipping coffee. And when I say staring, I mean STARING. I actually heard one woman say, "Quel horreur!" Humiliated, we darted into the solace of the metro. But it wasn't much better in there. None of us spoke in order to draw the least amount of attention to ourselves. I felt like I wasn't wearing any clothes, the way people were looking. Finally, we got to the park, where at least some people were running.

These people didn't look like us, though. The few French people who do run dress very differently than American runners. Despite the fact that in their everyday life, the French are usually impeccably dressed, their workout style is quite lacking. I know it's not important what you look like when you work out, but I'm used to the spandex shorts and colorful workout tops people wear at my recreation complex at Mizzou. At the rec, you dress to impress. I never go without earrings. I'm serious. I had no idea people would look so incredibly dorky when they worked out here. On women, I saw a lot of ragged sweatshirts, too-short track pants (the ones made out of that swishy material that were popular in the late '90s) and bad shoes. I even saw one girl running in DENIM SHORTS (the only female runner I saw under age 40) Everyone was also wearing way too much clothing for how warm it was. Long sleeved shirts with jackets over the top, and long pants. I felt like a complete floozy in my capris and tank top. I felt worse for my friends, who were wearing shorts. The men, however, dressed on the opposite end of the spectrum. I saw many alarmingly-short shorts, and very small tank tops.

All in all, it was a successful run, workout wise. Fashion wise, I don't know what I'm going to do. Probably take up night running.

Pastry Wednesday: Noix au Caramel

Although I was trying out a new hairstyle, feeling pretty stylish, and wearing my leather jacket because it was absolutely luuuurvely outside, today still sucked marginally compared to other days of the week. Being inside staring at the FINALLY blue sky and smelling cigarette smoke wafting into the window (it is France after all, no fresh-cut grass smell for me) makes me quite depressed. So I decided that despite my overindulgence in Paris (baguettes) I would treat myself to a pastry. It's Wednesday, after all. I also really wanted to go outside instead of aimlessly wandering around the hallways like I normally do during the awkward break I have between classes. So I hopped out of my seat as soon as our professor started to say goodbye (I'd already rudely put on my jacket) and ran to the boulangerie. I found a new, more French place than the last one I'd been to, it was called the "Fournil Lumiere." I saved the bag like a dork.

I instantly gravitated towards the tarts. This was a tart kind of day. I was slightly overwhelmed by the selection, until I saw a brown one with nuts on top. Without even reading the label, I decided that I would have to try it. Brown meant it was either chocolate, or caramel, both of which I would be okay with. It turned out to be caramel and walnuts, like a really sophisticated candy bar. It was perfect. I couldn't contain my excitement walking back, and since I had been walking so fast, I got to class 15 minutes early. I plopped down on the floor outside the room (French girls NEVER sit on the floor, but this was an urgent situation) and broke off a little piece of the crust, before realizing I should probably take a picture. The quality of the photo is explained by the fact that it was taken on a phone camera by someone I barely know and isn't really good at focusing their camera, apparently. And it was probably 300 million times more delicious than it looks in the picture. It tasted like really rich, thick, homemade caramel with walnuts in it, in a tart. Basically what it was, and everything I'd hoped it would be. Dreams = came true.

Paris

View of the Seine in the evening
Basilique du Sacré Coeur

The hostel we stayed at! Interesting wall colors, but overall very good experience.

Awkward Metro Moments: Bus Edition

Since a bus is a type of transportation vehicle, I think it's acceptable to put this incident in the Awkward Metro Moments hall of fame. It was a bit different than most of my transportation woes however, so be prepared for a lack of awkwardness and an excess of terror (which is a strong word, but I'm trying to build interest, here.)

I was lucky enough to take the TGV on the way up to Paris, which, if you remember, is a very fast and pleasant ride. On the way back down to Lyon, however, I took the bus. I thought it would be a lark, going with my friends on a hilarious road trip where we didn't have to drive and could eat chips and sing all the way. There were chips and singing (on my part), but it was definitely not a lark at all. First of all, the bus is pretty sketchy. I've taken the Greyhound in the US, so I was prepared, but it was still a bit disarming. The people were normal, although unwashed for the most part. However, they had an unfortunate habit of taking other people's seats. I wish I had the language skills to argue in French, but even if I had, half the people on the bus didn't even speak it, so I figured it was fruitless. After much negotiating, my friend somehow managed to get us some seats together, and we were off.

The ride was mainly uneventful, and I even slept for a little while. The awkward/terrifying part came in the home stretch, when we had about an hour left to go before we reached Lyon. It was night by this time, and the bus had just gone through a toll area. But instead of speeding off like it normally did, it stopped. There was an official-looking man flagging down the bus. The bus door opened, and the man came onto the bus, shining his flashlight into everyone's faces. Turns out he was a policeman. I have a hard time recognizing the different types of law enforcement in France, but it was clear that this guy had authority. He got to the back of the bus and announced that we all had to get out, take all our bags, and get the rest of our luggage out from under the bus. We filed out, and by this time, there were several police cars and about 6 or 8 policemen milling around menacingly. All the people on the bus were now in two lines, facing each other, with their bags in front of them. I was internally panicking at this point, imagining all sorts of scenarios where we could potentially lose our lives. These were probably corrupt policemen, who would take our valuables to sell on the black market. Worse, I imagined a complicated plot in which terrorists disguised as policemen had flagged down our bus in order to kidnap us and hold us ransom until the French government forked over enough money. Many of us would die in captivity. Worse yet, they were just lining us up so they could shoot us all efficiently. My thoughts continued in this morbid direction until they brought a dog out.

It was not the usual drug sniffing German Shepherd. It was in fact, a Labrador, and completely unintimidating. It happily ran around smelling everyone's bags in a distracted sort of way, while a policeman ran next to it saying, "Tu cherches, tu cherches, tu cherches..." It was useful because this dog seemed to continuously forget that it was cherche-ing for drugs, bombs, etc. I started to think that maybe instead of killing us all, the purpose of this detour was to get some practice in for the sweet lab that reminded me of my own dog. It went back and forth between the two lines for a good 15 minutes, with the man pointing out people he thought looked suspicious for him to sniff more thoroughly. Unfortunately, he was blatantly biased against the passengers of color, and I wasn't the only one who noticed. After people seemed thoroughly annoyed, the policemen announced that all was well and we could get back on our bus. No explanation, no apology. I hate when thoughts like this cross my mind, but all I could think was, "This would never happen in the US." Maybe I'm spoiled, but I think it's pretty normal to give an explanation as to why you decide to flag down a bus that's not crossing any borders and make all the passengers stand outside in the cold for 20 minutes while you practice training your drug dog.

I have to admit though, it was still pretty funny once I was sure we weren't going to be robbed, kidnapped, or shot. When we were going back on the bus, I saw one of the passengers ask take a picture of the dog, and the policeman agreed. So that was nice.

BONNNNNNJOURRRRR PAREEEEE

"BONNNJOURRRR PAREEEEE!!!!!" is not what I first said upon arrival in the City of Light. In my head, possibly, but in general I try to pretend to be more cool than that. This welcoming phrase was in fact shouted inches from my face by a strange man while walking down the street. Initially, I was quite alarmed; this man probably got his kicks from frightening tourists. Also, how did he know I was a tourist? I try so hard to blend in here, and I wasn't even wearing my backpack. I was slightly offended. However, I decided to take it as a welcome gesture from the city (which really hadn't gotten off to a good start with me anyway, if you remember the metro door incident previously mentioned) and plodded on to my hostel.

Before this, I'd spent several lovely days with my roommate from Mizzou, where many pastries and baguettes were eaten. The lovely thing about baguettes is that they're only one euro. In Paris, this is about the cheapest food item you can find. Let me tell you, Paris is expensive. Food was expensive, but more importantly, drink prices are RIDICULOUS. Happy hour prices in Paris are more expensive than regular drink prices in Lyon. Every night that I went out (and there were not many of these, mind you) I wondered and really hoped that Parisians have heard of pregaming, for their sake. However, the food was good. And those one euro baguettes were to die for. M and I had a very nice lunch by the Seine with baguettes, meat and cheese and were ecstatic about it. Also, once you find the places run by foreigners who cater to cheap tourists, you'll be okay. I don't know why, but these are the best-priced places. I had a gyro with unknown meat for only 4.50 euro (plus fries), and it was the best gyro I have ever eaten in my life. I wish I knew what kind of meat that was, though.

In the middle of the week I left M's to stay at the hostel with buddies from Lyon. It was centrally located, close to the Notre Dame, clean, and had a free breakfast with really good coffee. We spent every day out for about 12 hours, and walked most everywhere. We walked up the Eiffel Tower, down the Champs Elysees, up Sacre Coeur, down the Seine. Needless to say, my feet have been hurting for about four days now. It was worth it. Now that I'm back, though, I appreciate Lyon a lot more. Paris was lovely, but exhausting. I'm glad to be back.

Awkward Metro Moments: Paris Edition

Je suis arrivée a Paris! A new city means awkward moments. On top of this, the size and confusion of Paris absolutely guarantees even awkward-er moments. Shortly after my arrival, I was unfortunate enough to have a near-death (not really, but it was really embarrassing) experience on the Paris metro.

After a pleasant ride on the TGV (which stands for really fast train in French) I arrived at the enormous Gare de Lyon station. My lovely friend M eventually found me wandering around the main floor and we proceeded to take a very long and complicated route back to her place, where I'd be staying for a few days. The Paris metro is about thirty times more complicated than the one in Lyon. Not only do they have more lines, but not all of them connect, some are fast, some are slow, some are above ground, and some below (that rhyme was accidental but I'm keeping it). All of the entrances are different and there are multiple checkpoints where you need to re-submit your tickets. My Lyon metro pass is useless here and I didn't have any tickets, so I had to hop in behind M after she scanned hers. I realize this is illegal and I can get a ticket if I get caught, but it was only for one night. Checkpoint after checkpoint, I would manage to get in behind her with no difficulty. And then we got to the last checkpoint.

I forgot to mention the kind of luggage I took on this trip. To France, I took one large wheelie bag, one satchel, and one giant backpack. The "Oh, you're backpacking across Europe, aren't you?" kind of backpack. It's green, and in my opinion, quite stylish. Since I'm only in Paris for one week, I brought just my backpack. At the train station however, I became quite envious of all the chic French girls and their tiny wheelie bags that follow them obediently without knocking their heels or catching on things. I was even more jealous I got to this particular checkpoint in the metro.

It was quite busy, and many people were coming and going through the scary sliding plastic doors. M scanned her ticket and went through, and so did I. But my backpack did not. It was stuck between the doors. I immediately commenced panicking to such a degree that some valiant soul behind me tried to pry the doors open, but to no avail. I was convinced that I was going to be trapped there FOREVER, and would most certainly die. Worse, be caught by the metro police, who patrolled around looking for rule breakers such as myself. The man behind me kept pulling on the doors, audibly struggling and making weight-lifting type sounds, and I just sort of thrashed around trying to free myself. There was a long line behind me, and people were yelling in French that I didn't understand. Would I ever get out? This ordeal lasted about thirty seconds, which doesn't seem that long, but to me, it was FOREVER. It was one of those occurrences that you think is going to only last a few moments but just keeps going, and going, and going... It was quite scarring. Eventually someone, (not M, who was staring uselessly at me) thought to re-scan their card to let me out, and I scurried away after thanking the nice man for saving me.

After that, I bought some tickets. They're really expensive, but I don't care. I will do almost anything to avoid another experience like that again. I'm sure one day I'll look back on this and laugh. One day.

Pastry Wednesday: Croissant

Hey all,

I want to apologize in advance for the following blog, as it will most likely be very boring. How's that for an attention-getter? I'm sure my past English teachers would not approve. However, it's 10:30 pm, I had class for 9 hours today, and I'm tired. The most I managed to do was eat a croissant, and I'm going to tell you about it. There's another writing faux-pas, telling the audience what you're going to write about. I'm really sorry.

Today, I brought two clementines to school, thinking that between 10:30 and 4:30 they would be enough to sustain me until I could rush to a bakery somewhere and get my Pastry Wednesday pastry. I was wrong, obviously, I don't know how I thought two measly clementines would possibly be enough to eat for six hours. I was originally only going to bring one until I thought, "no, let's be indulgent and take TWO! Walking on the wild side, today." Generally, sitting in three hour long each classes in painful enough, especially when they're titled "Tocqueville and American Democracy in the Internet Age." Sitting in these classes is even more difficult when you're starving. After listening to my stomach growl for about an hour, at break time the girl next to me said concernedly with her hand on my shoulder, "don't you think you should go eat?" But with ten minutes, the only thing one can do is eat a room temperature clementine that's been sitting in their bookbag for some hours.

FINALLY, my half an hour break between classes came, and I literally sprinted off to a street where I knew somewhere there must be a bakery. I had a hankering for an almond croissant, but the first one I found only had plain. I was so hungry I bought it anyway (only .75 euro!) and ran back to my next three hour class. I took about twenty minutes to eat it bit by bit, savoring every buttery morsel. (I definitely didn't tip the bag into my mouth to get the last crumbs or anything) I don't know if it tasted so good because it was actually good, or because I was in the beginnings of starvation, but either way, it was delicious. I liked that bakery a lot, and plan to go next Wednesday. They had some interesting looking tartes.

I'd tell you about croissants, but let's be honest, you all know what they are already. And I'm going to bed.

Pastry Wednesday: Cannelés

It's Wednesday! Pastry Wednesday blog is up! This is not a miracle, but a result of having to wait for a new episode of "Modern Family" to load since the internet in my room isn't exactly the best. I really have nothing else to do.

For the past month, I've walked past a stand on Rue Victor Hugo that has these intriguing tiny cake things. Every day, I would fantasize about what they would taste like, what kind of cake they were made of, etc. Based on their appearance, I guessed they were some kind of yellow cake, perhaps drenched in honey or caramel. I did not research what I soon discovered were called "cannelés," as I was under the impression that all French pastries are delicious and you can't go wrong with something that's probably cake and probably dipped in honey.

I purchased one of these darling little guys for 1.30 euros. "Should I get two?" I pondered, but then realized that it was "Pastry" and not "Pastries" Wednesday. I really can't afford a second seat on the airplane back for my soon-to-be massive bulk. Anyway, I excitedly went over to a bench, sat down, and took the first bite of the supposed "cake." Quelle surprise! The cannelé was in every way the opposite of what I thought it would be, and NOT in a good way. First of all, it did not taste like, cake, honey, or caramel. It tasted like rum. And not a nice rum flavor that reminds you of Christmas and rum balls and spice cake, but a stale, sickly rum flavor that reminds you of a certain time(s) when upsetting amounts of rum were consumed. Secondly, the texture was all wrong. It was almost like a giant crépe was put in a mold, and came out gummy, chewy, and eggy. It was not cake. Nothing at all like cake. It was so terrible I almost didn't eat all of it. However, I tried to convince myself that it was just so unlike what I had fantasized about for a month that I didn't know how to process it.

Completely disillusioned, I scoured the internet for answers. What I found was in fact, very helpful. These pastries, fully named "Cannelés Bordelais," are quite rare due to the fact that they are very difficult to make correctly. According to numerous blogs, they are supposed to be caramelized and crispy on the outside (due to ingredients like BEESWAX) and soft and custardy inside. This is nothing like mine, which wasn't crispy at all, and seemed to have the same gummy texture throughout. I read the blog of a woman who tried for months to get them completely right. (here's a link, it's a really interesting blog, actually: http://chezpim.com/bake/canele-recipe-method)

Based on this thorough research, I've decided that my cannelé was defective, and I'll scour Lyon for the perfect one. I refuse to believe that something that looks so delicious can taste that bad. Like people, pastries should not be judged by one sub-par member of their species. I'm no pastryist.

Pastry Wednesday

Wednesday is an awful day. It's the middle of the week, usually the one when everything seems to pile up. It's also terribly far from the weekend, but you've already had two days of weekday BS. This semester, I have a ridiculous amount of classes on Wednesday and don't get out until 8. This is the price I pay for none on Monday or Tuesday so I'm not complaining. However, I needed to think of a way to make Wednesdays a bit more bearable. Perhaps give myself a little something to look forward to. And then, walking past one of the many patisseries that haunt me from every corner of Lyon, I thought of the brilliant idea of Pastry Wednesday. Every week, I will buy one pastry, take pictures of it, smell it, examine it, and eventually eat it. I will then review said pastry on my blog. This has the advantage of brightening up my crappy Wednesdays, curtailing my pastry eating throughout the rest of the week (very necessary), and giving me something to blog about.

I'm aware that it is, in fact, Saturday, but seeing as I have class until 8, Pastry Wednesday blogs will probably rarely be posted on Wednesdays. Let's be honest, here. This Wednesday, I decided to try the wonderful cookie that shares my name, the Madeleine. These guys are about as big as the palm of your hand and made out of yellow sponge cake. Sometimes they're dipped in chocolate, but I opted for the classic plain cookie. I bought a package of them at the grocery store because I was too lazy to look for a patisserie, but it was still really delicious. Buttery and sweet, the cakes are baked in special pans that form their unique shell shape. The name's history is somewhat unclear. The most common story seems to be that they were named after a 19th century pastry chef, Madeleine Paulmier. Or that's what Wikipedia said, anyway. The point is, they were great. So great that I ate five. Note to self: buy pastries in one serving size next time.

Awkward Metro Moments pt. 2

In my French Culture and Civilization class, almost the first thing that my professor discussed was the problem of "male aggression" in France. Apparently, French men tend to be constantly harassing women on the street, trying to talk to them, etc. As a result, French women have developed a defense mechanism known as the "bitch face," (you will not find this term in the Encyclopedia) which they wear whenever they are walking alone in public. This face says simply, "talk to me, and I will cut you." I'd noticed the women here and how they generally walk fast, looking at the ground, scowling. However, I hadn't yet experienced any extreme acts of this so-called male aggression.

My bitch face is not at all good. It's not like I walk around smiling all the time, but I tend to look around a lot, observing my surroundings, and apparently this means I'm very vulnerable to preying sorts like the kiosk people in the mall who shout at you "MISS! DO YOU KEEP YOUR NAILS NATURAL??!!" They always seem to know that unless someone is there to drag me away, I'm absolutely helpless and will end up letting them give me a complete manicure and buying the stupid Magic Nail Buffer.

Today, it became apparent that this issue of mine is also present in France. I was going home on the metro, which can be quite crowded in the evenings, and stepped aside to let people in at a stop. A guy came in, and said a short phrase to me that I didn't understand, not in a creepy way, but in a "oh look at this situation that we're both in, let's make conversation to pass the time" kind of way. At least that's what it seemed like. I really had no idea what he'd said, and asked him, "comment?" the french version of "what?" He said it again, and I just blankly stared at him, not really knowing what to do. He then proceeded to kiss each of my cheeks, the typical french greeting between friends (although I had never seen him before) while asking me, "Bonsoir, ça va?" Which directly translated means "Good evening, how are you?" but can be said in a number of situations and is generally a typical greeting between two friends. Out of habit, I mumbled, "Oui, ça va..." and he then walked away. It was quite odd. I wasn't freaked out or upset, just extremely perplexed as to what this guy had gotten out of the interaction that had just occurred. He wasn't bad looking, either, so no problem there. I had a little laugh to myself on the rest of the way back. I don't know if I will ever understand this place. However, if the worst thing that happens to me is strange men kissing me in public transit, I think I can live with that. Although, I really need to work on my bitch face.

Lost

Don't worry guys, this title isn't foreboding a whiny, emotionally lost post, I promise. This post is about getting physically lost in a geographic area, specifically Lyon, France (my current location, if you haven't gathered that already).

I am unfortunately a person who is what I like to call "directionally challenged". I am hopeless at translating maps to my current location, confuse right from left (I'm aware that this is not normal at this stage in my life), have an almost opposite sense of direction (sadly not opposite enough to be reliable) and get distracted by my surroundings while simultaneously ignoring them for later use as landmarks. Needless to say, a new city in a new country, mapped completely differently from the United States, poses a problem.

The night before my very first day of class, I had mapped out which metro lines I was going to take, which direction, their titles, etc. The university was a block away from the stop. My plan was foolproof. Or so I thought.

Issues began immediately when I left the house. I had explicitly asked my host mother which direction I should turn upon exiting the building, knowing that if I didn't, it could be a terrible start to a journey of doom which had no end. However, in the morning, even though I was thinking about 5 minutes before I walked out the door, "turnleftturnleftturnleft," I turned right. I then turned the correct direction, but since I was going the wrong way, I went even further from my destination. When I got to the river, I figured that something was wrong. Luckily, I was miraculously able to find the house again and started over, this time in the right direction. Once I was on the main street, I had no trouble finding the metro station. This was it! I would get on the train, make my change, and walk to school. All was well in the world. But of course, I discovered upon arrival that I could only pay in coins for an individual ticket. My useless American credit card would not work, as we're about 10 years behind in card technology and don't use the right kind of sensor. I ran back out of the station, and into a cafe where I frantically asked the waitress for change (although I didn't know the word for change). She understood what I wanted, however, as I was pathetically waving a 5 euro bill/almost crying, and gave me change and a smile. For the record, change in French is "monnaie." Good to know, friends. I ran out of the cafe and back into the metro, where I boarded the right train, going in the right direction (a miracle). I rode one stop, and then made the correct line change (another miracle). I rode three more stops, and arrived at my correct destination that would take me to school. Found exit (yet another miracle) and walked up the stairs onto the street, confident that today was really going to be a great and successful day.

Once on the street, I had absolutely no idea which way to turn. I started walking in a completely random direction, hoping that the school would somehow appear. It was a University, how hard could it be to find? If it was at all like Mizzou, there would be signs, a campus, gardens in the shape of the school logo, etc. The map I'd looked at showed a straight line to where it was, so as long as I walked in a straight line, one out of the 4 ways I could go would be right. Sadly, I was already late, so walking turned into running, and I was running in what turned out to be the direction away from the University. I eventually realized this, and went another direction. Also wrong. Decided to backtrack and go to a gas station and ask for directions. In yet more pathetic French, missing many crucial words, I asked/mimed the man in the gas station where the Manufacture des Tabacs (name of the building, which I wrongly thought was one of many at Lyon III) was. He had no idea what I was talking about. I then broadened my search to "Lyon III", which drew more blank stares (a crowd had gathered around the counter at this point). Finally, when I asked where "the university" was, he understood, and gave me directions which I did not understand but pointed to a direction in which I had not yet ran and said to turn left at the McDonalds. I thanked him and bolted out of the station, ran down the street, and saw the glorious McDonalds in the distance. Never have I been so happy to see a McDonalds (this is kind of a lie, sometimes I really need a small fry). I managed to get to my session before anything really crucial had started, without loss of too much dignity or sweat.

Having braved the way there, I should have had no trouble with getting back. Wrong. I went into the wrong metro station, as I wasn't aware there were different stations for different directions but the same line (why) and had to use two tickets. But, after this minor issue, I made it back to my home station. I found my building after walking back and forth on my street only a few times and trying to put my key in the wrong door while people inside were watching me. Overall success, I'd say.

It's been two weeks and now I know my way around, most of the time. But I still make mistakes. I missed my stop today because I was zoning out on the train, and had to walk the rest of the way back, but I see it as more exercise. But after the utter disaster of the first day, I'm not really afraid of getting lost anymore. I did it once, I can do it again. And now I know the word for "change".

Internet-less in a foreign country

Bon matin everyone! (or nuit still, for most of you in the US) I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve posted, we were having technical difficulties involving the internet at my house and my computer’s spontaneous inability to access it. It was serious stuff.

I still have no idea what was wrong, the computer genius (to French standards, which is not exactly saying much) just left after possessing my darling Macbook for the entire week. Even now, I have no idea what was keeping it from accessing any internet at my house as I don’t speak techie and certainly not techie French. The point is that it works. I’m ecstatic.

The question remains, what did I do that whole time? Without Facebook, email, online television, my blog, etc, I had nothing to do. I felt disconnected with my family, friends, and entire life back home. It didn’t help that I have no homework yet, have read all my books and magazines, and was raining every day. On top of that, I had no phone yet, so was unable to contact my friends in Lyon to get together. I found myself sleeping out of boredom. Saturday I didn’t leave the house, and moped around all day. But Sunday, despite the weather and the fact that I got about 4 hours of sleep (jet-lagged STILL) I decided to get outside and explore a bit. On my way back from school earlier the first week, I saw that there was a long river walk along one of the two rivers that borders my neighborhood. I walked along it, and looked at the brown, churning water, as well as the cliffs on the other side, on top of which sits the Basilique. Even though I see it every day, I still can’t get over how beautiful it is. It looks exactly like the castle on the Disney logo, only a lot more intricate. The cliffs also, according to my French Culture and Civilization professor, house Roman ruins. I have yet to see them, although I don’t exactly know what she meant by “ruins”. There is an ancient-looking wall going down the cliffside, but there are also some caves that look like they could possibly be made out of stone. In Europe, it’s hard to tell which things are the oldest; there are so many.

A funny thing about France (and the rest of Europe, I’m guessing) is that people are very insistent on not working too much. They always close the shops and offices for two hours at lunch, and absolutely nothing is open on Sundays. When they have bank holidays on Thursdays or Tuesdays, the take the Friday or Monday off too, just for good measure. The word for this in French literally means to “bridge”, between the weekend and day off. Personally, I think this last policy is awesome, but do you really need TWO HOURS to eat lunch? I’m all for leisurely meals, but this seems a bit extreme. Maybe I just need to adjust.

Anyway, my point is, on this walk, I discovered the French in Lyon have discovered a way around one of these cultural eccentricities. Further down the river walk, I saw some tents along the sidewalk, and found that it was a little street market. It extended several blocks, vendors selling fruit, vegetables, clams and mussels, flowers, and cooked food. I didn’t have any money, and they were starting to pack up anyway. But somehow, it made me feel a bit better, knowing that even though I was completely cut off from my home, I could at least get a bite to eat on a Sunday.

Keep in mind that this post was written a few days ago, when I was internet-less and in the depths of despair. Not really the depths, just above the middle-area of despair, really. But all is well now! Have a lovely weekend!

Awkward Metro Moments pt. 1

I'm going to make this segment a recurring feature, as I'm been here only two days and already had a number of awkward metro moments. The most awkward has been today, going to Lyon III on the green line to Sans Souci. It's a short ride, but today was supremely awkward as I hit it at almost 2:00 pm, prime time for people going back to work from their lunch breaks. A rule of the metro is: more people = more awkward.

One thing you need to know about the metro is that you must not make eye contact with anyone. Nothing will happen to you if you do, but it will be exceedingly awkward. I accidentally made eye contact yesterday with an elderly fellow, who proceeded to narrow his eyes and waggle his eyebrows at me in a seriously alarming way. I immediately averted my eyes to the floor. The floor is generally the best place to keep your eyes on the metro, and it's also nice because you get to have a look at everyone's stylish French shoes. However, it poses problems in very rare scenarios such as one I experienced today. The metro being so crowded, my usual technique of staring blankly straight ahead was ineffective, as other humans were in my field of vision. I once again tried to staring the floor. However, something, or rather someONE was obstructing my vision. I found myself accidentally and quite obviously staring at a Little Person. He was dressed very snappily, in a leather jacket and those stylish French shoes. Of course he saw me looking at him, and he gave me quite a Look. I imagine this isn't a very common situation, as I've never seen a Little Person on the metro before, however, if you're in a similar position, look at the ceiling of the train car. Sometimes there's gum up there.

Yogurt Breakthrough

For those of you who know me at all, you know I hate yogurt. With a passion. Due to an unfortunate childhood incident involving a misunderstanding of lactose intolerance for bacterial imbalance in the digestive system, I was force fed giant bowls of yogurt daily. When it was discovered I was actually lactose intolerant, and in part the yogurt which was making me so sick, I vowed never to eat the stuff again. Even though I grew out my dairy allergy a few years later, I still associated the smell of yogurt with nausea. It didn't help matters when in tenth grade a weird girl in one of my classes started to routinely drink cups of Danimals smoothies like they were shots. She really threw them back. I suppose I would do the same if forced to drink a yogurt smoothie, so as to avoid any taste whatsoever, but I think she actually liked them.

Anyway, we've established that yogurt isn't my favorite food. I'm not a picky eater, I will try anything, and I like most foods that aren't internal organs of animals. However, yesterday, I went back on my word and ATE YOGURT. Having gotten out of my first information session early, I wasn't very hungry because I ate breakfast late. However, I didn't want to look like an anorexic American girl just ordering a water for lunch. My options were candy, yogurt, unknown pastries, and paninis roughly the size of my head. I wasn't exactly able to pronounce the name of the pastries, and I was going for nutritional value here, so I decided to order yogurt. Maybe because it was French, or because I was just in a trying-new-things mood, but I vaguely liked it! I was so proud of myself, I ate yogurt again today. And I didn't die. Moral of the story: Trying things won't kill you, even if you're absolutely positive you won't like them. Because you could be wrong.

Jan 3rd continued

Lyon!

After my arrival at my host family's house, a lovely 4 bedroom in the center of town, I did a bit of exploring. This is the view from the Basilique Notre Dame de Fourviere, which sits on top of a hill overlooking Lyon. It's absolutely stunning, and although in real life it was much clearer, you can just make out some mountains in the background. The largest one is the Mont Blanc, the largest mountain in France.

So. Tired.

If there were a magazine published about my life, this would be the cover. The backstory of this photo is that it's based off a Mary Kate Olson impersonation video series, called Very Mary Kate. She's always talking about how tired she is. Let me tell you, I can relate. Jet lag has finally caught up to me.

Jan 3rd

The view from my hotel you get if you lean out the window like a goon. Which I did.

Well. Somehow I made it to Lyon. In Heathrow, I bid adieu to dear Charlie, who had been showing me all the sights of London as we were landing. "There's where Madonna stays", he informed me, pointing to a large white hotel across from a large green. He showed me his apartment, which was directly across from Green's Park in the middle of London. I was pretty jealous that Charlie was going home, and thought about what a nice feeling that is. Instead of going home, I was going further away, and into the great unknown.

Once I got out of the strangely disorganized Lyon airport (spent about half and hour in line on a set of stairs to get to customs) I needed to find a taxi. I went outside to the cue of taxis, and went up to one and waved at him. Awkward moments ensued when he rolled down his window, and looked at me in a way that said, "what could this girl possibly want?" You would think it wouldn't be that difficult to understand what someone wants when they walk up to your taxi with about seventy pounds of luggage and wave in your window. However, I must have missed the special code word for taxi drivers in French class because this one took about thirty (very) awkward seconds to figure out that I actually would like him to give me a ride to my destination.

After a longgggg (and expensive) cab ride, I finally arrived at the Hotel Résidence. The room was very nice, although the bathroom gave new meaning to the word claustrophobic.

After watching "Mary Poppins" in French, which made me feel a little less homesick, I slept semi-well, woke up, and had some fancy french breakfast. French hotel breakfasts are about three million times better than American hotel breakfasts, and a lot cuter. They have countless adorably packaged yogurts, cereals, individual packages of nutella, and cookie/cracker things called "Petit Gourmands" that I'm guessing are for children. I wasn't very hungry, so I just had coffee and some fruit. I checked out of my hotel, and took another taxi to the international office. I searched for "la bagagerie," where I could put my bags for a bit. After stumbling around the campus for a while, with my enormous wheelie suitcase and backpack (everyone stared) and even walking into a classroom while class was in session, I found the tiny office and dropped off my bags. The international office was in complete chaos, as everyone seemed to be arriving today, but eventually I was given a pink slip of paper telling me when my information session was. I then took yet another taxi to my host family's home. I'm there right now! It's a lovely apartment in the Presqu'île area, which is basically the downtown area. I'll do some exploring today, I think. A bientôt!