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!

Jan 2nd... somewhere between timezones

Sitting down in seat 36J, flight 98 to London, I had the exciting thought, “when I leave this airplane, I’ll be in another country!” I was sadly mistaken, however, when half an hour after our supposed departure time the captain announced that there was a “slight inconsistency” with the gas gauge, and he would be checking back when he knew more. This is never a good sign on airplanes, or anywhere really. When someone tells you they’re going to “check back when they know more”, it really means, “Damn, well, I suppose I had better tell them something before I shock them with the horrible truth that whatever they had hoped would be happening at this moment is not happening, and in fact, things are about to take a sad turn for the worse.” When people die on the operating table, the doctors always tell their families initially that they’re “doing everything they can”, and they’ll let them know “when anything changes”. What this really means is, “Terribly sorry, but your auntie Agnes is not going to make it. She’s just taking much longer than necessary to kick the bucket”.

My feeling of doom intensified as frequent updates from our charming captain began to sound more and more hopeless. After another half hour, he announced that we would be switching planes, “when they could be located”. I had many questions for my wonderful seatmate, an older military man I’ll call Charlie. “Where are these planes? They’re not just lying around out there, are they?” I knew this trip did not bode well when Charlie’s bag spontaneously burst out of his overhead compartment and fell onto his face.

A good start, I’d say.

Jan 1st

On my way!!! Starting the new year in a new country. Wish me luck!