Thank you, nice ass!

Before I left for Paris, the most common question people would ask me was, “Do you speak French?” and my response was almost always, “Apparently.”  More often than not, that really confused people.  I would try and clarify by saying something like “I’ve taken four semesters but I’m not very good,” which wasn’t really what I meant but normally was enough of a response for someone to still look slightly confused but stop asking questions.  After spending a month in French speaking countries, I’ve realized that this is the best response I could have been giving people.  Because I do, kind of, speak French.  At least I think I speak French.  In reality, I’ve been speaking a kind of French-Lindy hybrid which makes sense to roughly 0 native French speakers.  For example, I found out last weekend that the way I pronounce “Merci beaucoup!” does not come out as “Thank you very much,” but rather, “Thank you, nice ass!”  So I’ve been unknowingly complimenting the behinds of just about every store clerk, waiter, and random person who’s held open a door for me in the last month.  Which is hilarious but also a major problem.  What’s worse is that no matter how hard I try I cannot seem to pronounce the “oup” in “beaucoup” correctly.  I just repeat “ass, ass, ass, ass” thinking I’m saying it right while Parisians laugh at me.  There’s roughly 8,224 ways to pronounce the sound “oo” sound in French.  To me, they all not only sound exactly the same, but for the life of me I cannot make my mouth differentiate between the o sounds in words such as “l’humour”, “l’amour”, “la mort” and “l’humeur”.  Which is kind of an issue because any time I try to talk about humor (l’humour), love (l’amour), or a mood (l’humeur), it comes out sounding like “death”.  Awesome.  Next thing I know I’ll be telling people I want to kill their nice ass or something.  My French professor finds my accent both hilarious and a huge nuisance and spends a decent chunk of our 3 hour classes trying to have me repeat words over and over until she eventually just accepts my horrible attempts and moves on.  At least I’m not as bad as another girl in class who actually sounds Chinese when she tries to speak French.  She’s from Oregon.  Sometimes it’s frustrating because I don’t understand why people can’t understand me, because to me, it’s so obvious what I’m trying to say.  But then I remember the Korean woman I tutored in English last spring who spent 5 minutes trying to explain to me what a “reeshard” was and how much her son liked them.  When finally I said, “OH! A lizard!” she looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “Yes, a reeshard.”  They were exactly the same word to her.  I guess that’s exactly how I sound to the French.  I still try whenever I’m out, but most people just respond to me in English.  Because people aren’t lying when they say everyone speaks English.  I was at a Salvador Dali exhibit the other day and a Dutch woman was speaking to the French receptionist in perfect English.  Neither spoke the others native language, but they both spoke English and had no problem communicating.  Crazy.

So while I’ve been trying to figure out how to make the switch from pseudo-French to real French, I’ve been busy exploring Paris and some different areas of France.  Last weekend (when I discovered my knack for complimenting butts), I spent Saturday and Sunday in Normandy with Kari (my big in Pi Phi) and her Parisian friend, Will.  Will picked us up on the Champs-Elysees Saturday morning and we drove about 3 hours to Normandy.  We went to The Caen Memorial (a museum dedicated to World Wars I and II, with a focus on the Battle of Normandy) Saturday afternoon before heading to the seaside town of Deauville (note: I am 100% incapable of pronouncing “Caen” and “Cannes” differently and Deauville was just DeVille as in Cruela in my brain).  Deauville was incredibly picturesque and reminded me of a hybrid between the town Belle lives in in Beauty and the Beast and where I lived in Germany.  Will had Kari and I try gaufre, after warning us that it “looks like an American waffle but it’s not a waffle and you may not like it but just try it, it’s very French.”  So I ordered a nutella gaufre, which was disguised as a waffle, and bit in to it to find that it was, in fact, a waffle.  Maybe Will can taste a difference, but Kari and I couldn’t.  Anyways, the gaufre/waffle lady had for some reason decided that I needed about half a jar of nutella on my gaufre, so as the three of us were walking along the beach, I literally had nutella dripping off of my gaufre and flying in the wind onto my hands/face/coat, while Kari and Will ate without issue next to me.  I finally understood why my parents banned me from eating chocolate ice cream in public as a child (I’m still bitter about this).

After our adventures in French cuisine, the three of us drove from Deauville to the middle of nowhere to where we were sleeping for the night.  Will had only made the reservation a day before getting there, and he had apparently found the only place in a 50-mile radius with two open rooms.  So we were all kind of braced for the worst.  But we were so pleasantly surprised when we got to Au Pressoir Pas Presse and found the most charming bed and breakfast, run by the adorable and incredibly welcoming owners, Oliver and Gregory.  Oliver showed us to our rooms and invited us downstairs once we were settled to try some pear cider and chat for a bit.  The house they lived in had been converted from an old brewery, which specialized in pear and apple ciders (kind of like apple or pear beer, in a way), and they were very proud of this fact and eager to introduce us to their unique pear drink.  It was delicious.  When we left the next morning, Kari and I each had bought a bottle and Will brought 3 home for himself.

After talking to Gregory and Oliver for a bit (who found it hilarious that I can’t pronounce “beaucoup”) we drove about 20-30 minutes to Cabourg (I think?) for a late dinner, before heading back to bed.  The next morning we got up around 9 for breakfast, which consisted of the standard baguette, croissants, etc, but also homemade cakes and this strange milk/honey/jam thing that was supposed to be sweet milk but it was brown and slightly terrifying until I tried it and then proceeded to question why we didn’t have something that heavenly in America. 

We reluctantly left Au Pressoir Pas Presse, cider in hand, for the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial at Omaha Beach that morning, making a stop in Arromanches Les Bains on the way.  Omaha Beach was one of the most surreal places I’ve ever been.  Normally monuments don’t really get to me.  In fact I think it would be safe to say that the only other time I can remember being moved by a monument was the Vietnam War Memorial in DC.  But standing on a cliff overlooking Omaha Beach, surrounded by countless white marble crosses bearing the names of the young men who died on the ground you’re looking at, about to be standing on, is absolutely indescribable.  Scattered throughout the crosses and Stars of David are fresh roses, wreaths, and American flags left by loved ones.  Many more than you would anticipate seeing.  And that just makes it all the more real.  Every single day there are people visiting this cemetery from across the ocean to pay their respects to a loved one who died there.  And it’s so amazingly beautiful.  It’s tragically beautiful.  While we were there it was warm and sunny and looked so peaceful, it was almost impossible to imagine what the shoreline had looked like almost 68 years ago.  We climbed down from the cliff where the cemetery rests and wandered along the shore for a while before heading back to the car and driving 2 hours east to the gorgeous town of Honfleur. In Honfleur I made a second, more successful go at chocolate and banana gaufre, and the three of us strolled through the ancient cobblestone streets before deciding to drive back to Paris around 7. 

It was nice to get out of the city for a weekend, to be reminded that real people exist outside of the fairytale world that is Paris, and it was great to get a taste of France outside of Paris.  Because apparently all Parisians think that France is comprised solely of Paris and those from the rest of the country think the exact opposite. 

This coming weekend I’m spending Friday in Chartres and the weekend after that I’ll be in Amsterdam with a friend from Madison, so the next few weeks look just as exciting as the previous few.  Bon soir!

Struggling with my nutella gaufre on the boardwalk

Will and me drinking cider at the bed and breakfast!

Au Pressoir Pas Presse!  With their adorable dog, Elfie

One of the many crosses with flowers from a loved one

Kari on Omaha Beach

Gaufre #2, much easier to eat with a fork and knife and not walking

Reluctantly Parisian.

How does one even begin to describe what life in Paris is like?  To try to capture the feeling, the life, of this city in words almost seems like an insult.  But that’s not going to stop me from trying.  I think the best way to start is to give you an idea of where I’m living.  I couldn’t have asked for a better location.  The first night I was here with Madame, I decided to take a walk.  I left the maps behind and set out knowing only my address and banking on my generally good sense of direction to guide me home (which, thankfully, it did).  All I knew about my area (the 6th arrondissement or "district") was that it was supposed to be “nice,” and I set out wandering.  I turned left and right, passing cafes and bars, a young couple walking and sharing a bottle of wine, an old woman carrying home a baguette for dinner.  I had been walking for maybe fifteen minutes when, suddenly, the street opened up, and I found myself at the Seine.  I don’t know how to describe the feeling of exploring your new Parisian neighborhood and simply stumbling upon the river that is so often romanticized in books and movies.  It’s a very surreal thing.  All I could do was smile and laugh to myself as I crossed the street onto its bank, trying to believe this was real.  When I got to the river, thinking there was no way this could get any cooler, I realized that right across the bank, staring me right in the face was the place I basically plan on living while I’m in Paris.  The Louvre.  I started to cross the river, needing to see the giant glass pyramid for myself to actually let myself believe this was real.  As I was halfway across the bridge, transfixed on the massive glowing building that houses some of the most incredible works of art in the world, something told me to stop and turn around.  I turned to the left, and there, over the rooftops of Paris was the symbol of France herself: the Eiffel Tower.  Trying desperately to not start jumping up and down and screaming with elation, I kept turning and found myself staring at Notre Dame.  At this point I’m sure I looked insane to anyone who walked past me because of how massively I was smiling and because I kept turning to look at each, not sure which was more stunning.  I finally gathered myself together and continued on to the Louvre (which was as beautiful as you’d imagine) and eventually I made it back home (after realizing my street was about one down from the bridge I had crossed-literally a 10 minute walk from the museum).

Probably because the location is so unbelievable (10 minute walk to the Louvre, 20 to Notre Dame, 35 to the Eiffel Tower), the neighborhood in which I live is ridiculously… luxurious is the only word I can think of to use.  The closest main intersection to my apartment has a Louis Vuitton, an Empirio Armani, Swarovski, Cartier, and a world famous café, Les Deux Magots (where Hemingway, Picasso, and Simone de Beauvoir all used to hang out) on its corners (intersections here often have more than 4 corners) to give you some sort of an idea of what this area is like.  It’s a ridiculously nice area that screams “Paris”.  It’s essentially what you think of when you think of Paris, in both attitude and appearance.  Needless to say, living here is incredibly lucky and has given me plenty of opportunities to go out and explore the city.

In my short time here so far, I’ve come to find that the city in which I now live is incredibly paradoxical and very unique.  Wandering around, I’m stunned by its beauty, yet it is one of the dirtiest cities I can remember being in.  There is liter everywhere, no one cleans up after their dogs (who show absolutely no concern for their whereabouts when they go to the bathroom), and graffiti covers most buildings.  But somehow the constant fear of what you may be stepping in doesn’t detract from the contrived yet seemingly effortless beauty of Paris.  And wandering between the beautiful architecture and piles of dog poo, you’ll find a slew of grudgingly romantic Parisians.  No one seems to want to give in to the notion that this city is the most romantic place on earth, yet the Parisians themselves are tragically romantic.  From my friends cousin who has gone into a deep depression over the “love of her life” not returning her feelings (she had a crush on a boy who didn’t feel the same way) to the old men helping their fragile wives slowly climb the stairs of the metro, Paris doesn’t disappoint in the romance department.  Normally being single doesn’t bother me at all, but it’s hard to be in Paris and not have some of it rub off on you.  What I’ve essentially come to realize in these past two weeks is that Paris is beautifully, unknowingly, and reluctantly stereotypical and that’s exactly what I’ve fallen in love with.  And I can't wait to discover more of its quirks.

I promise, I've done more than just wander to the Louvre and back since getting here.  And in writing this post, I really set out to write about my actual experiences, and not waste time on observations, but writing this somehow took much longer than anticipated.  And I’m about ready to fall asleep on my keyboard.  Alors, now that I've gotten the descriptions out of the way, I’ll hopefully be writing in the next few days about my actual life.  À plus tard et bonne nuit!

A couple kissing in front of the I Love You wall in Montmarte.  I stood behind them for an awkwardly long time waiting for this shot.

A couple at Le Sacre Coeur

Same couple in front of Le Sacre Coeur

French artist painting pictures of beloved Paris, the last thing you would expect to see here.

Belgium is Stupid

Belgium is stupid.  My cousin, Bridget said that to me the day I arrived in Brussels and it soon became very clear what she meant.  The country is cute, quaint, and incredibly Belgian.  That’s really the only way to describe it.  Visiting Brussels, Bruges, and Antwerp was kind of like visiting cities that were very confused about which era they were in, which continent they were on, and who comprised their population.  Brussels, being home of the EU, is kind of like the States in that it’s a melting pot of different cultures and ideas.  You would think this would make for a very unique and interesting city, when really it kind of seems more like a Jackson Pollock of random shit.  The city center and historic Brussels are very beautiful and stereotypically “European” (cathedrals, impressive architecture, etc.) and then you walk a bit further and the identity crisis becomes apparent.  I soon realized that even “traditional Belgian food” doesn’t really exist and is basically just beer, pommes frites (French fries), chocolate, and waffles and apparently most people don’t consider this adequate sustenance for every meal (although I wholeheartedly disagree, but that’s just me).  This being the case, it seems like the streets are lined with Italian, Chinese, and Middle Eastern restaurants.  They almost seem to go in a perfect pattern.  Pizza.  Rice.  Kebap (as they say).  Pasta.  Stir Fry.  Pita.  Throw some bars and stores in there and you’ve made your very own Brussels.  While it wasn’t the most breathtaking place I’ve ever been (I’ll also concede that I was there in February and it was roughly -832 degrees), I definitely enjoyed my time in Belgium.  For one thing, there is always, and I mean always, someone playing music (most likely the accordion) while you’re riding the metro, so metro rides kind of transport you from the bleakness of Brussels in February to the canals of Venice (or something like that).  The people are incredibly nice and helpful and everyone speaks English (and probably French, Danish and another language, too).  And they do make a great beer.

On the subject of beer, Saturday night Bridget and I decided to go to a bar called Delirium, famous for its extensive beer list of over 2,000 beers.  The plan was to try a few new kinds and then call it a night.  However, while I was enjoying a Leroy Christmas (one of the bars own brews) and Bridget was trying to stomach something called a Pink Killer (aptly named because the beer is pink and it is horribly fruity) we made friends with a bunch of Americans stationed in Germany and they somehow convinced me (like it was hard…) that we should all go next door to the Absinthe bar.  Let me first say: Absinthe is not now, nor has it ever been, hallucinogenic.  I researched it and basically it’s either an old wives tale or the people who saw things were drinking contaminated drinks, so this isn’t that kind of story.  Let me now say: just because it won’t make you see things, doesn’t mean it won’t get you absolutely shitfaced.  Somehow this second realization only came to me on Sunday morning.  Even though I watched the bartender light my shots (yes, taking two seemed like a good idea) on FIRE it still didn’t hit me on Saturday night that I was about to be taking shots of something that was roughly 70% alcohol.  I just knew I was safe from hallucinations.  That was my biggest concern.  So two shots and another beer or two later, and I’m basically best friends with everyone in Belgium and it’s definitely my bedtime.  Lucky for me, Bridget opted out of the Absinthe and could guide my drunken ass to a taxi stand and back to her apartment.  It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized I had left my camera at the bar.  Even luckier for me, a bartender had picked it up and I was able to get it back on Monday.  And thus was my failed attempt at a crazy European Absinthe adventure.  But basically what I learned from the ordeal was that 1. Absinthe won’t make you see things, but it will in fact make things much harder to see 2. Just because something is green, shiny, and can be consumed while flaming through a straw, does not mean that it should be, and 3. I should be required to tether all of my personal belongings to myself.  Ah, my first taste of Absinthe.  I overdid it a bit and therefore things were rather uneventful.  Had I skipped the second shot, who knows where the night could have gone.  Alas, maybe it’s for the best.  Belgium is stupid anyway.


The rest of my stay in Belgium was pretty uneventful.  I made it to Bruges on Thursday and although I don't completely agree with Colin Ferrell that "Bruges is a shithole", it's definitely not the epitome of a bustling city.  I really liked the quiet, ancient cobblestone streets and the canals that ran through the city.  I could tell Bruges had no interest in winning me over, however, because the 3 things I most badly wanted to do- climb to the top of the central tower, go to the Belgian National Fry Museum, and visit a Picasso exhibit- were all closed.  So I was left with a relatively dead ancient town to explore.  The afternoon was nice, but it could have been made much better with some abstract art, a stunning view, and a complete breakdown of the history of French fries.  Ah, well.  Reason #384 why Belgium is stupid.

By the time I left Belgium on Tuesday I was ready to move on to something new. Paris was calling my name and I knew things would be much more eventful here then they had been there. But the adventures of the last 6 nights are for another time. À bientôt!

Random finds in a market in Brussels

Abandoned toy train

Haggling in the market

Bridget and me at a stupid castle in Antwerp!

Dog trying to stay warm

Leroy Christmas at Delirium 

Absinthe shot #1

Absinthe shot #2, consumed through a straw contraption