Weird. It's my last week in Paris and I'm doing the desperate scramble to see...well, to see everything that I told myself that I had all the time in the world to see when I arrived in February. Zoinks. Fortunately, my mother is here to facilitate this process. When I was younger, she was the queen of the fanny pack, the walkie talkie, and a plethora of multi-colored brochures that all promised novel experiences within a vast throng of tourism. She's calmed down considerably. So, we're here together in Paris and I'm so pleased that I can show her around.
She had a bit of trouble getting to my apartment yesterday. Her flight got in three hours late due to a major air-conditioning system fiasco at La Guardia that caused her and her fellow passengers to enter and exit the plane three times. Some people just ended up taking off and then the flight was further delayed while someone looked for their luggage. When she arrived in Paris, she got on the RER and was on her way. However, when they got to Gare du Nord, an announcement came on and everyone filed out and she was told that she had to get off the train. "No! I'm going to Saint-Michel....Saint-Michel!" Those of you familiar with Paris have already spotted the problem. METRO STRIKE!! Fortunately, she found her way here without any problems.
Our plan for the day is the Grand Palais. Last, as we walked to my favorite Japanese restaurant near Pont d'Alma, she was very curious about the building and was pleased to learn that I haven't explored it yet. We leave on Saturday for Dubrovnik.

It's nearing the end of my stay in Paris and, as one might imagine, my feelings are mixed. One on hand, there's the mad dash to try to cram all the unseen and undone into two weeks. I know it's not going to happen, especially in light of final projects/papers/exams, but I tell myself that it's all the more reason to return someday. On the other hand, I miss home. I feel beyond homesick. Like I don't feel depressed, just tired of being away from the people (and animals) I love. My mom will be here next week, so that provides me with a great deal of comfort. I look forward to showing her around and our eventual travels throughout Croatia and Italy. 

Despite the above lackluster report of current relationship with Paris, this past week or so has actually been thoroughly entertaining. Susan's class has taken us to somewhat less familiar arenas of Paris's extensive array of art exhibition, contributing to my ever-increasing list of things-to-do before I leave. And then there was the Moulin Rouge with Paul. Doubly exciting because I understood almost everything our charming brace-faced guide said. One of my better days. It's incredible how much my French comprehension fluctuates. At this point, I think it all comes to down my willingness to concentrate. Anyway, the Moulin Rouge is, as I'm sure you've imagined in your wildest dreams, quite entertaining, even during the lull. We didn't do as much backstage peeking as I would have hoped, but a large part of our guided history lesson was pleasantly accompanied by song and dance. At this point in m post, I could show you some pictures of practicing Moulin ladies but taking pictures of the stage was "interdit". Sigh.

For all you music fans, I saw a couple of amazing acts this weekend. Friday, Mark Lanegan and Isobel Campbell at La Cigale. For those of you that are unfamiliar, they've been described as a modern day Lee Hazelwood and Nancy Sinatra. If you don't catch the significance of this last reference, I give up on you. For good. Although I appreciate the dulcet tones of Ms. Campbell, let's face it, I was there for the soul-shaking bass of a crooner some know as The Dark Horse. As incredible as this man sounds in my headphones, I didn't anticipate the sheer exhilaration of feeling his voice live. The man can hit some serious low notes. I kid you not, I could feel it reverberating in my throat. 

Saturday, I hit up Villette Sonique, a festival at the Parc de la Villette. I had planned on splurging and using my hard-saved cash reserves to go to a show every night of the festival, but then I thought about how I can see many of these acts for a fraction of the cost back home. There is something to be said for catching shows in Paris, but I've already been to quite a few, so I feel satisfied. So back to Saturday. I meant to catch Health, which did an album with Crystal Castles (see below), but unfortunately I got there a little later than expected. Bummer, I guess. They were followed by Chromatics, whom after many technical difficulties were able to start an hour and half later. My man, Forest, reports that they were once great, but since their since their fiscally advantageous genre change to disco, they've lost their edge. And damn did I feel it. The lead singer was doin' the side shuffle throughout the show. Talk about lack of stage presence. The Muppet Band has more panache. 

However, the next act more than made up for it. Introducing...Chrome Hoof! They were amazing. Cultish, even. I'm hoping my youtube videos load, so you can see how truly electrifying these talented young individuals can be. A million thanks. 

Erm, it's been a little while since I've written, but time really feels like its slipping by now that we have less than a month left in Paris. I made a list of all the things that I want to do before I leave, which mostly includes museum visits, but the list seems impossible at this point. For the last few months, I think we can all safely say that there have been moments that we've put off all that Paris has to offer because the end of the semester seemed so far away. It's beautiful now, of course, which makes everything seem like it goes by quicker even though the days are longer. I go back and forth between whether I'm satisfied with my French after living here for three months. If anything, my comprehension has definitely improved. Unless someone has an accent...or is young...or is using slang....or I'm not paying attention, I can usually understand pretty much everything. I notice this most often when I'm in the street and I snatch up bits of conversation here and there. It's a remarkable difference from when I first arrived. However, last week during our private viewing of the Louvre (it was a Tuesday and therefore closed) while listening to our charming guide Sebastian I found myself struggling to understand. His accent was very clear and I recognized the bulk of the vocabulary, but it became clear to me how much of my understanding relies on context. It also takes me a moment to process things and meanwhile within that moment, everybody else has moved on. However, the combination of spring break and the aftermath also left me a little unsteady in terms of, well, speaking. Before spring break, I didn't. think. so. carefully. about how I was going to construct my sentence. Do I use the subjunctive here? Since this event would come before the one i just mentioned but still in the future, what form of the future tense do I use? Or is it conditional? Now I feel less confident. I get stuck. But in the meantime the French person I'm speaking to answers for me and I nod my head in agreement. My host sister from Berkley, Bria, just lets loose. Wings it. And while I notice that she has said something incorrectly, she communicating and people understand her and it's not slowing her down. Meh, I guess it's just yet another hurtle.
Last week, I tried to get back into the groove of going to shows since my few nights out on the town by myself at rock venues in the 19e turned out so smashingly. So I checked out my List O' Shows for Paris and decided to go see Telepathe, Fuck Buttons, and Crystal Castles at Trabendo on the Île de la Musique. It's pretty much at the Boulevard Periphique, seriously the outskirts of the city proper but I decided to walk there. So, since I was walking there, I decided to brig my bag with my headphones and map and water bottle, all the trimmings. This was my first mistake, since the show later turned out to be pretty raucous and I had no timid friend to leave my stuff with. I also brought no metro tickets since I decided that Paul was so wrong about the Velib sitch since I see tourists renting them all the time.
The show was great. Better than great. Insane. However, there was the bag thing, so I couldn't really let loose in the incredibly packed crowd that insisted on continuously trampling me. After several young men helping me up countless times, one of them put his arm around me in a protective gesture. Awww. Then he got his watch caught in my hair and in the end, he got to keep some of it. At one point he leaned over and said something in French about doing something for the last 38 hours. I still have no idea what he said and I thought it better not to ask, particularly since the screaming in my ear was painful enough the first time. Another hilarious incident; listening to a trio of indie "bros" repeatedly (and enthusiastically) saying "Yeah, beech. Brang eet on, beech" in between sets. This was less enjoyable once they started flirting with two blond girls from Nebraska named Kylie and Dakota (this is a lie, but it could have easily been true).
After the show I headed to the nearby Velib station, confident that I would be able to bike home that night and every night. Henceforth. In perpetuity. Hubris anyone? Turns out that, much like the automatic tellers at the metro stations, the Velib stations don't like my credit card. Either of them, in fact. Shucks. I really wanted to bike around Paris at night. Maybe I should just rent one from one of those bike shops that will inevitably rip me off.

Last week was our last visit to the Louvre *tear*. This was a huge draw for the trip but after we had class this week in the Petit Palais, it was like, aaaahh, air! Quiet! Less annoying tourists that stomp around you in exasperation, convinced that you're blocking their view of the best painting ever because there's a big group talking about it. Yeesh. Oh yeah, and the Petit Palais is appreciably beautiful.

Also this week: My second ever celebrity sighting! Pssh. I know you're jealous. So, I was walking home from class on Tuesday. Heading down the Rue de Rennes as usual, about to turn on to Saint German when I notice a very attractive and, yes, recognizable young man walking in my direction. It took me a minute to place his face, but given my extraordinary power to recollect character's from film and television (please email me if you know a way I could utilize this talent for monetary gain), I immediately identified him as "Michael Something-or-other", the lead male in the box office bomb Underworld (or perhaps it did better than I recall, since they made a second one. Either way it reeked.) Usually I don't let myself be subject to the Hollywood machine, but I've had a thing for vampires since I was a kid. Witches, too, but to a lesser degree. So no matter how incredibly subpar I know it will be (and let's face it, many vampire movies are), I'm cursed to watch one uninspired vampire movie after another. One of which, in particular, pertains to the this story. Which I will now continue. Attractive "Michael" stops me in the street and asks me if he can buy a cigarette off of me. I reply that he doesn't have to buy one, but they're menthol. He's says that's fine. I juggle my things while he waits patiently, lighter in hand. I keep looking at his face trying to remember the name of the stupid vampire movie...Was it Netherworld? No, that's not it. Shit. By this time, I've produced a cigarette and he's off (did I mention that this was all in English?) after a quick thank you.

"Hey...don't I recognize you?"
"Maybe. I think so."
"Are you an actor?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."

........and that was it. I didn't want to bother him but I also wanted to be sure it was him without revealing that the one thing I'd seen him in was so unremarkable that I couldn't conjure up the title. I went home and looked him up on IMDB. Scott Speedman. His gig roster is mediocre and he dated Cameron Diaz. Pretty dreamy.

My other celebrity sighting (wait, I just realized that I have another one besides this) was the guy who play Xander on the Buffy the Vampire Slayer t.v. show. Noticing a trend? However, just-recalled-celeb-sighting-number-three was my best and most fave although it doesn't exactly fall into the same category because it wasn't completely random. Last summer, Wes Anderson and Jason Schwartzman were touring around following the release of the Darjeeling Limited. I knew they were going to be at the Michigan Theater for the premier, but depite all my hook-ups, I was unable to attend. As luck would have it though, that evening my boyfriend and I were riding around on our bikes downtown and we passed them. We went back and talked to them for a bit. Very friendly. Mr. Schwartzman said I looked really good on my bike. Hott.

With the exception of a few showers, it has been exceptionally beautiful in Paris since my return from break. I've been walking so much lately that the calluses on my toes have been sharpened into talons and my Converse are barely holding it together. I would buy more shoes, but the same moment I'm tempted, I'm reminded that I could find the same pair for a fraction of the cost back in the States. Plus, my feet are apparently inordinately large for the likes of Paris, since I can't seem to find my size anywhere. In light of this past week's site visit to the Bon Marche and Les Galleries Lafayette, I desperately want to go shopping and recreate my wardrobe in the image of la jeune fille parisienne, but it'll have to wait. I have one month left to go and I refuse to blow the rest of my cash when the dollar is so grossly undervalued. 

Friday Sara and I walked to the Bois de Vincennes and stopped for a bit in Parc Barcy for une pique-nique. Once we reached le bois, we came across a hilariously unattended carnival complete with an amusing and decidedly French interpretation of American pastiche (please see above and I repeat, blogger sucks). We rode the ferris wheel to get a look at the carnival from above and laughed at how few people were there. Then we continued to walk around the moderately confusing bois, getting a little lost on several occasions. I looked at map as we were leaving and realized that they area that we walked around was actually pretty small, so I'm planning on a return visit. 

Last night was the La Nuit des Musees in Paris and apparently throughout France and perhaps in other parts of Europe as well. Carolyn (whom I met at le Institut) and I planned on hitting up Musee Quai de Branly, Musee de L'arme and Musee Rodin because of their close proximity. We got some most excellent sushi and headed over to Branly to find a crowd that wrapped around the block. In the spirit of French...I don't even know what to call it at this point...they were heavily regulating entrance. Security checks, attendance capacity, blah blah. We decided to head back later since everything was supposed to be open until 1am. I had read that there was going to be some sort of light show inside the dome of Les Invalides, so we spent some time around the Musee de L'arme, which was infinitely more interesting with Carolyn, since she has studied fencing for several years and wants to use her art history degree to specialize in military history. I probably don't have to tell you that the light show under the dome was incredible. I've never seen anything like it and I really don't know how to describe it here. It described France's military history from 1630 to WWI and I understood about 65% percent of the narration. We were packed in to the stairs, so parts of the light spectacle that focused on the tomb below were lost on us, but I was entertained nonetheless. 

We tried the Musee Rodin afterward, but depsite the fact that it was only a quarter to midnight, the guards in front insisted the museum was closed. From a small gap in the gate, I could see the two floors of the museum lit up and crowded with people, but I guess they were trying to make sure that the place was empty by 1. We had given up on Branly, but I knew that Pompidou was supposed to open later, according to a quasi-friend that works there. So we metroed over, but again were thwarted. Bummer. Carolyn headed back to her place, for fear of missing the last train and I decided to wander around for a bit and enjoy the spectacle of Paris at night. 

After a few block and several incoherent French men trying to grab me, I thought perhaps the aforementioned spectacle might be better enjoyed from my balcony. I headed back to the apartment and poured myself a scotch. 

I'm back from vacation and a long stint of internet deprivation, so this should prove to be a lengthy entry. Needless to say, I feel slightly more fulfilled having visited three more foreign countries in 3 weeks. I've also gotten the chance to play tour guide here in Paris, as Forest has had the pleasure of staying with my host family and I for a total of nine days. He doesn't speak much French, but has picked up some things here and there during his travels. Most importantly; "Je ne comprend pas" in a deliciously sultry accent, accompanied by furrowed brow. When he arrived on Wednesday, we had one of those cinematic running-towards-one-another-and-embracing-in-a-whirlwind-of-passion that either makes you cry and/or hate yourself when you see it predictably play across the screen. I've tried my best to act as translator during his stay, which has been slightly more difficult since our return as I try to recover from two weeks of strictly speaking English. Marie-Pierre and Jacques seem charmed by him, especially since he brought them more chocolate-covered cherries from Michigan and presented them after we had carefully practiced: "Merci pour tout. J'ai un cadeau pour vous." We haven't spent much time around them and hopefully they don't take it as an insult. On the whole though, I think they find us inoffensive.
We didn't leave for Bremen, Germany until Friday, so we spent Wednesday and Thursday exploring my neighborhood. At first I sensed something a little off with Forest, but I attributed it to jet-lag (which had an incredible effect on him. He slept for almost 20 hours the first day and a half he was here) and the adjustment to a foreign city. Paris was definitely overwhelming when I arrived, but my get-by-able grasp of the language allowed me to be more excited than intimidated. It wasn't until later, in Germany, that I would realize how daunting it can be to unable to communicate with the exception of hand signals and small handful of words. However, that wasn't to come until our second stop in Bremen. Yes, that's right, Forest and I traveled to three times in this mid-sized port town in Northern Germany. All of which lasted less than 24 hours. Asinine? Actually, it turned out to be more cost effective than flying directly from Paris to Dublin or Dublin to Malta. This seemingly ludicrous itinerary actually ended up saving us $150. Leave it to Ryanair, I guess.

*A quick note on this "low fares" airline: even after the hidden fees, one wonders how they manage to keep it going...until you're on the plane. Then it's like you've been sucked into a timeshare meeting. Once you enter the bright blue and yellow interior of the plane, accompanied by the quirky Ryanair jingle that makes you feel like you're in the Sims, and you notice that the overhead luggage compartment conveniently serves as ad-space, you realize that something. feels. different. "Two for one shooters" (they come in a plastic pouch), "Buy a Ryaniar scratch-win-ticket and you could really become a member of the Millionaire Club", "A selection of perfumes and colognes: Perfect gifts!". You can't even get water for free (which is particularly infuriating after airport security informed me that no liquids could be brought on the flight except for tiny containers in plastic bags and then promptly threw away all my toiletries and some of my make-up. You can, however, buy these things anew in the duty free shop next to the boarding queue).

We were only in Bremen for the afternoon, arriving at 14h and leaving at 22h, giving us some time to take the tram into town and explore a little. The woman at the information counter at the airport instructed us to get off at Domsheide (P.S. If you ever go to Bremen, don't bother buying tram tickets. They don't check and "students" ride for free. Less than half of the people that boarded validated the little piece of paper that we bought at the airport). Domsheide is the stop right next to St. Peter's Cathedral, which I had read a little bit about before our trip. Since February, I've visited a lot of churches in Paris, but there's most definitely a special place in my heart for the almost kitschy fairy-folktale Neo-Gothic German style.
>>>>
After checking out the cathedral, we walked around a bit and found a couple of bars. Originally we went to this Irish pub, I guess in our anticipation of going to Dublin (?), errrr, but we left due to the loud pop music that for whatever reason didn't seem to bother the seasoned crowd of malcontents. We ended up at a kind of Tex-Mex restaurant called "El Sol" that played mostly 90's Top 40 and featured a beach motif. Not really our style, but (blush) comfortingly "Am-aaiirr-ikan" (you should be imagining this with a Texas drawl). We had encountered several adequate English speakers while wandering the streets, but the effect of not being able to read anything was incredible. Plus, it was happy hour. Actually, Bremen is pretty cheap. Dinner for two plus drinks runs you maybe 20 euros. Gawd, what a relief. I later took advantage of this and bought back all the toiletries thrown away by airport security and put them in Forest's bag, which of course they didn't check for "liquids" because he's a man.
When we landed in Dublin, the woman at customs grinned when Forest leaned over to give me a kiss on the nose as she inspected our passports. She gave us a pass for a month after I told her we'd only be there for a few days and assured us that we would love the city so much that we wouldn't want to leave. We took a double-decker bus into town and located our hostel, falling asleep immediately after debating whether we should join the obviously active nightlife of Dublin. The next day, we searched our map and decided to go record shopping and then head out for Irish Film Institute, which turned out to be one of my favorite events of the trip (We saw a French called Naissance des Pieuvres, but was running on the more friendly English title of Water Lilies. Think synchronized swimming as a metaphor for adolescent dysfunction. Are you sold on it yet?) While digging around for records, Forest spotted a T.Rex on T.V. bootleg which features some never-before-seen performances which capture Marc Bolan's journey from heart-throb to laughing stock. I've had an obsession with Bolan for the past few years and this DVD is priceless! It even features cuts from his T.V. show "Marc", which features a performance by a young Billy Idol when he was playing with Generation X. Forest said that he had never heard me laugh like that before and truly, watching a fat Marc Bolan blunder "Dreamy Lady" due to intoxication that prevents him from being able to hold the guitar, let alone lip synch, is a testament to the power of schadenfreude.
Although I had planned for us to try and see some of the surrounding countryside, we only could have managed this by renting a car or signing up for a tour. A car would have been preferable, but due to expenses, obviously not an option. At first, I didn't mind the idea of a guided tour, but it reeked of fanny packs and souvenir t-shirts and I'm happy now that we decided to forgo this style of traveling. However, we did get our fair share of it when we went to the Guinness Brewery the next day. You gotta love that free pint and view of the city from atop the "Gravity Bar", but I would say that unless you're a beer extremist, the museum is not a must-see extraction (if you do go, I recommend skipping the floor entirely dedicated to the effects of alcohol on the human body). In line, we met a couple of American flight attendants that talked our ears off about their occupational plight, convincing me that this is not only an undesirable way to travel, but guaranteed to make you incredibly boring.
Our last day was spent walking along the harbor, where we discovered a secret motor-cross track and cluster of abandoned bikes. The view was beautiful and we returned to town just long enough to stop at the film institute for lunch and the best cappuccino I've had since I came to Europe. I got to geek out a bit with the barista, who had just bought the shiny new Gaggia behind the counter.
So back to Bremen. We were supposed to land at 19h, giving us enough time to head downtown again before returning for an airport lock-in, since our flight left at 6h the next morning and I saw no reason to spring for hostel accomodations or finding a couchsurfer for the short stay. However, the flight was delayed and we didn't end up getting in until 22h, making the trip into town impossible since the trams stopped running a little before midnight. We drank at the airport bar before they shooed us along and we decided to go across the street for one last drink at the airport hotel. When we returned a little later, we were dismayed to find the doors of the airport locked! We saw people sleeping inside but we had no way to get in. I spotted a custodian on the other side of the glass doors and waved him over, only to discover that the language barrier prevented us from learning anything beyond his inability to let us in and that we should go "that way" as he motioned violently to our right. Still unable to find a way into the airport, we found an open door into an office building next door and tried to find a warm hallway. After pulling on several more layers of mismatched clothing, I tried somewhat successfully to sleep while Forest plowed through 200 pages of Lynch on Lynch. Three hours later, we jumped into action when we heard someone enter the building below. I shoved everything into my bag (including my phone and charger, as i had made use of a nearby outlet) and braced myself for the barrage of German, reprimanding us and demanding an explanation for our presence in the building. Just as we got our things together, a well-dress business man appeared at the top of the stairs and began walking towards us. As our mouths gaped, he greeted us with a tip of the head and a friendly "Guten morgen" and continued past us, oblivious to our shock (later, our couchsurfing host, Torsten, would explain that this was completely normal as we tried to emphasize how not okay this would have been in the States). We returned to the airport to find it bustling with activity at three in the morning. What happened there? I still don't know.

We arrived in at about 10h and took a two hour bus ride up to Mellieha. Someone at the airport advised against it, but it really is the best and cheapest way to travel. First of all, the buses look awesome and you get to experience the sheer terror of riding the highways of Malta. There are zero traffic laws, very narrow streets in the urban areas, and the land is very hilly, so you're bouncin' around like crazy. Hotel Panorama is located behind this incredibly beautiful church on one of the highest points on the island and as promised, the view was excellent. We were decidedly the youngest guests at the hotel, it being the destination of mostly British and German senior couples. We passed out for awhile and woke up in time for dinner, which was part of the package I bought online. The food was what you'd imagine for, well, a package that you'd buy online. I even threw up the last night after eating some chicken that I originally thought was fish until I was a couple of bites in. But wine was cheap and we took full advantage.
We were all set to spend an entire week in this Mediterranean paradise, but I was adamant about starting on my tan early, so we headed down to the beach early the next morning and proceeded to lay in the afternoon sun for over five hours...without sunscreen. Somehow I have yet to learn my lesson when it comes to sunburns, having thoroughly convinced myself that I tan well as a result of my Croatian/Yugoslavian background. I at least suffered less than Forest, who is of German heritage and got into the shade about an hour before I did. We both ended up with some ridiculous burns, somehow burning in some areas while remaining completely fish-belly white in others. Forest's shoulders got the worst of it, while it was the back of the legs for me (particularly painful since we did A LOT of walking the next couple of days and climbed an endless number of stairs). On our way to the hotel the previous day, I had noticed a couple of young cats at the end of an alleyway and went up to pet them (I am in serious cat-withdrawal. I miss my kitty! Mavis, I miss you!) until Forest pointed out that they were scratching themselves furiously. To and from the beach, we noticed several more cats. Seriously, cats EVERYWHERE! I had no idea, but we were to learn later that this is common to the Mediterranean and led us to make several jokes about the promotion of authentic "rabbit" stew in front of several Maltese restaurants (We, in fact, saw no rabbits on the island, despite our meanderings into the countryside).
The next day we headed to Valleta, the capital of Malta and an incredible mixture of beautiful slum and British tourism. We took several "arty" pictures (at least, I like to think so) and ate at this great little outdoor restaurant that overlooked the sea called Les Deux Baronnes. We got the "maltese platter" and two "maltese coffees" (Excellent! Blood orange rind in a medium-roast, probably African) and we started taking notes for our next dinner party. Maltese food is awesome! We planned on going back to try more, but unfortunately never got around to it. That night we went to check out some Maltese films at the European Film Festival after we saw a poster in town. Three euro for a night of films and after-party potential! Pretty siked, we got some coffee and waited for the evening to begin. The film center was a peculiar modern building that kind of reminded me of being in a minimalist sea shell. It was a pretty swanky crowd and I felt a bit self-conscious with my lobster tan and totally casual attire, but after one or two films it was like, jokes on you pretentious London crowd! They were basically student films that were formulated like Hollywood trailers and needless to say, Forest and I hightailed it out of there immediately after, despite the promise of free wine. We went to get some dinner, which I was really enjoying until I checked my bus schedule and realized that we had missed the last bus back to Mellieha. At that point we had no choice but wander the streets until 5h or take a cab back. The chilly night air eventually convinced us of the necessity of returning to the hotel and we bit a thirty-three euro fare as a result. Ouch.
When we first got to the hotel, we noticed that on the other side of the bay was this crazy cliff and our adventurous spirit prompted us to promise each other that we would climb out there before the end of the trip. When we awoke the following day (after Valletta), I was anxious to get outside and we decided that we'd sunscreen it up and conquer the cliff. We estimated that the trip would take us about four hours, there and back, giving us time to rest and explore. Working against us was the hottest day of our trip and the inviting look of the beach as we passed, but we were still crispy so another beach day was out of the question. The first leg of the journey was spent hiking along the edge of winding highway, which was kinda scary due to the aforementioned Maltese rules of driving conduct. Once we got up past the Red Temple (check out Wikipedia!), there were very few cars along the road and we had a great view of the island. The closer to the cliff we got, the higher we were and several times we walked to the edge to look down into the sea. At one point, we noticed a steep trail and the water looked so blue and inviting. We climbed down and as we reached the bottom rocks, I suggested we go skinny dipping. Forest had never swam in the ocean before and I laughed when we got in the water and he thought the salty taste in the water was his sunscreen (he knew that it was salt water but was struck by just how salty it is). The little cove we swam in was gorgeous and I loved being able to enjoy the sea without the bother of a beach full of tourists. Once we finally made it to the cliff, which we learned later is called the White Tower, we sat on the edge and watched the waves crash against the rocks, thrilled by that feeling that you won't be able to stop yourself from jumping or falling (We were very careful). The journey took about as long as expected and I gorged myself with cheese and crackers from the buffet upon return.
The next day we went to the Blue Grotto, taking a bus into a nearby town and walking along the highway to coast. The road wove around a rural area, split down the center by a massive gorge where spotted some local kids playing. Once we got to the Blue Grotto, my camera died just after I got a picture; the last from our trip since I was concerned about the carry-on baggage weight limit and didn't bring my charger. We stole away to a quiet area and tried to share a romantic moment, but after a moment of kissing, I opened my eyes to find that we were surrounded by tourists, all trying to politely ignore us. I really wanted to yell at them, can't you find somewhere else to sight-see for five minutes!? We climbed around a bit and then went to a nearby restaurant to enjoy some of that fine Maltese "rabbit", which really did taste like chicken. We were having a great time until the waiter started trying to kick us out, finally removing my unfinished plate and informing us that we could pay downstairs and leave our tip with him. Yeesh. We hitched a ride with a friendly local back into town and took the bus from there.
After all that excitement, we needed a day to wind down and since our burns had pretty much faded, we went down for another day at the beach. A shorter day. With sunscreen. Everything went pretty smoothly and though I'm peeling a bit now, I'm brown as hell and loving it as I see so many bright pink chests and shoulders on French girls back in Paris.
Our last full day was spent on the two smaller islands, Comino and Gozo. Comino first: a rocky island with tons of caves and very little beach, all of which was occupied by tourists. We brought our bathing suits in case we wanted to swim, but there was no way that we were going to try to squeeze in with that crowd. However, Comino is surrounded by several smaller islands (??? More like giants rocks and cliffs jutting out of the sea). There was one that was hollow in the center and framed the horizon like a window out into the sea. Beautiful. After short discussion, we put on our suits and jumped from a rock into the sea, swam towards the rock island and carefully climbed it. It was a steep surface and the coral-like texture of the rock hurt our bare feet, but once we made it to the top (about 75 ft high), it felt so good to look down and watch the waves crash into the cave.
We didn't have much time in Gozo, having learned our lesson about Maltese public transportation, but suffice to say that we once again renounced the beaten path, walked along a country road by-passing a mass of horny sheep, climbed a dangerously steep hill covered in unfriendly plant life and risked death sliding down a path of loose dirt and made it back to our hotel satisfied.
The next morning, we once again took the bus to the airport and I couldn't believe how homesick I was feeling. For the first time since I've been in Europe, I don't just miss my mom or my cat or my friends, I miss Ann Arbor. I miss my country. I never expected that. The feeling was amplified once we landed in Bremen for the last time and once again I was faced with a place in which I was unfamiliar with the language. Our couchsurfing host, Torsten, didn't get out of work until 19h, so we had hours to kill. When we finally met up with him, we ended up sitting around his place and talking with him and his housemate. Both great people. Torsten lived for a semester in Oklahoma when he was in high school and so our conversation focused a lot on our perceived differences between the cultures. On the plane back to Paris the next morning, I was surprised that I didn't feel comforted that I was returning to the place that I've been calling home for the last three months. I wanted my old neighborhood, my car, my old stomping grounds, the familiarity of a place that I have so often lamented. Strange.
Now that we are back in Paris, I feel better. Being able to show Forest the places I've come to know since my arrival, all the gardens, Sacre Coeur, Pompidou, the Quartier Latin, I feel a little more secure and excited about my next two months abroad. I plan on keeping busy and really digging into French, especially since my recent lone outings to the bar have proved successful. Tomorrow I'm going to see Tindersticks with a potential French friend. Yeah, I know, I'm a dork.

Finally, it's break. The next two weeks are to be spent abroad. Well, more abroad. Tomorrow morning, my man and I go to Bremen. We'll be there long enough to head downtown for a drink , then back to the airport to fly to Dublin. Unfortunately, I was unable to find a couchsurfing host, so we're staying in a hostel. We're right in the Temple Bar area, so we don't have to worry much about getting around. We're there for three days and then off to Malta for a week. If you're not familiar with it, Malta is a beautiful Mediterranean island south of Italy that has an architectural history dating back to the Neolithic. It looks incredible. Seriously, go google it right now. I found us a great hotel deal in Mellieha. A room with a balcony looking over the beach. I read some mixed online reviews of the hotel, but even the people that said they wouldn't go back mentioned that the view was amazing. The island is pretty small, so we'll be renting a scooter in order to get around. I need beach time. Especially considering the shitty hand we've been dealt regarding the weather in Paris. I hope it's warm when we get back.

This was presentation week for me for both Paul and Suzanne's class. For Paul, we read about Les Invalides and Napoleon's tomb. Admittedly, I've become more and more fascinated with Napoleon since I arrived in Paris. He is one of many characters that seems to be constantly evoked in la vie quotidienne. Hugo, Voltaire, Molière...these names have been consistently referred to during my stay, as if these characters continuously reinforce French identity.
Both the Church and the tomb are, like all French monuments, impressive. I especially like the peristyle. Nice one, Visconti.

Paris is the best city to get lost in. I highly recommend it, darling, but do bring a notebook in case you ever feel like getting lost there again. Actually, my notebook isn't really that helpful anymore since it's full of random street names and shops that I passed but couldn't bring myself to go into due to pre-buyer's remorse.

Recently I discovered the 20th and, baby, it's my kinda place. Pretty much every cool show that I'd be interested in going to is there. Alas, I discovered this too late to see Black Lips play tonight at La Maroquinerie, but I guess I can always see them back in the States...it won't be as fun to brag about it though. Tomorrow night, Silver Mt. Zion will playing there with the Tra-la-la band and I'm going to try to get in even though the girl at the ticket booth told me that it was sold out. I checked online and fnac still seems to have tickets, so I'm going to count on the inefficiency of the French bureaucracy and hope I can get in.

Also in the 20th: Les Bauttes-Chaumont. Yeah, the Luxembourg gardens are nice, but do they have a suicide bridge? It also happens to be the only (that I know of) park in Paris where you can walk on the grass. And by golly, people aren't just walking on it, they're making out all over it. I love it. While I was tromping along, all set to do some critical reading for Paul's class, I passed several pairs of legs sticking out of bushes. It made me think of how annoyed and offended we get in the States about public displays of affection. Later that night on the metro I saw an older couple giving each other nosies and kissing, not giving a damn that they were literally surrounded by people. That's awesome, even if it's not your thing.

So, we visited the sewers this week and that was all fine and good, but if you want a sensationalized tour of Paris, look elsewhere. I remember when I took the underground tour of Seattle and it was all about bad plumbing and prostitution. Just let your mind wander a little and you'll see what I mean. The Parisian Sewer tour reminded me a lot of our trip to the Water Treatment Plant when I was in elementary school. Very informative. Very polite phrasing. I even learned a new inoffensive way to say "poop". No naughty stories though (alas!).

Finally, next week is spring break. Excitement!

I just got back from my first traversing-Paris-after-midnight walk (le gasp!) and it's true; Paris really is more beautiful at night. Drunker, too. After seeing Deux Soeurs pour un Roi (it's not a coincidence that the French title is hotter) with Ornella, Lena, Leetal, Sara, Molly, and Molly's charming younger host-brother, I opted to head home rather than join them to scout out the most expensive and tourist-ridden area in Paris for a "cheap bar". Especially since it always seems to take us almost an hour to find a place we can all agree on. So, I headed towards the Tuilleries and was immediately accosted by a young man in search of a cigarette and hence learned a lesson that would serve me well for the rest of the evening. It's all fine and good to be able to speak another language, to be able to say that, no, you don't have a cigarette, but as soon as someone hears you have an accent they are so ready to take advantage of your presumed cultural ignorance. So, I did like a good French girl and completely ignored every man that tried to engage me on the way home and listened to their friends laugh at them as I passed by, starring purposefully ahead.
This has been my favorite week in Paul's class. Great presentation by Sara (as for the powerpoint: Yoink!). Great class discussion. Best site visit ever! Père-Lachaise is exactly the kind of place that I want to spend every day in. Densely packed, amazing gravestones, clandestine places to make-out (speaking of which, my boyfriend comes in to Paris in 10 days! Finally! I've been watching people make-out all over the city for the last two months. Take that, sexy French people!).
The cemetery is gorgeous and my pictures really do not do the view any justice. I don't know why I didn't think of it before, but I'm going to try to visit a cemetery in every city I travel to while I'm in Europe. Back in the States, hanging out in cemeteries is one of my fave pastimes. They're charming, they're fun to explore, and usually there's not really many people there so you can pretty much do whatever you want. I remember Hans mentioning a cemetery back in Amsterdam, but I never followed up on it. Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

A'dam!...What? That's what they call it.

So, I got back from Amsterdam in the early hours of Tuesday morning. Home long enough to take a shower and have a really vivid dream about my host-parents hanging out in the bathroom with me. My first dream en français, except I apparently don't have enough a grasp of the language to have done any talking in the dream, but at least I understood what they were saying. I remember looking at Marie-Pierre and wondering what was different about her and then I realized that she was bald. I thought, "Oh! So, she does wear a wig!", because her hair always looks great. I slept for about 45 minutes and then I had to either go to class or...not. So, I called Stella (Catho classmate and traveling companion) and said not. Then, I thought about it and decided to suck it up and called her back and told her to bring my laptop to class, since I left it at her house the night before we left and I hadn't been able to contact anyone while I was in Amsterdam...except for an email I sent my mom on Saturday from their amazing state-of-the-art library which read, "Hey! I think I forgot to tell you that I'm going to be in Amsterdam this weekend. Just wanted to let you know in case you're wondering why you don't hear from me tomorrow". Notice the completely unconvincing evocation of forgetfulness. Fortunately, she was really excited for me.
I've had a few friends that have visited Amsterdam and the resounding impression was a sort of like candyland with drugs, so I guess I was surprised upon arrival. The city is cute. All those bottle-shaped buildings and canals. What am I getting at? It wasn't Paris. If I wasn't sure before, and I was, then I'm even more so now. But I had fun.

I visited Rembrandthuis, the Van Gogh, and the Stedlijk. They were incredible. I love visiting museums, but I usually reach my point of saturation after a couple of hours. I do a lot of browsing in order to see as much as possible before I feel like my brain can't take anymore and I need a nap. But in Amsterdam, I was just wanted to keep going, despite my lack of sleep, which really was more a result of trying to wake up early in the morning so I could sneak into Stella's hostel for free breakfast than partying all night. Well, except for the last night I was there. Hans, my host took Angela, an Australian couchsurfer, and I to a couple of bars and I ended up dancing like an idiot to jungle and bad metal all night. Oh, and letting Dutch guys try out their American English game on me.

Then suddenly, Angela had decided she had had enough and wanted to leave. When I asked her what time it was, I was surprised to learn that it was almost seven in the morning! So after looking for my hoodie with no success (too bad since it was a Kristen Ferrell screenprint), we went back to Hans and I slept for only a few hours because I wanted to explore as much as possible before I left that night.
Since then, I've been trying to be as school-focused as possible so I can be as unoccupied as possible when my boyfriend, Forest, arrives the 15th. Yay! He's never traveled to Europe either and I planned out an incredible trip for us at an even more incredible price which I've been toiling over for weeks. But it's going to pay off, I'm sure. Couchingsurfing in Germany and Ireland and then a blissful week in a hotel on the beach in Malta. Yeah, I'm thinking the same thing.
Oh, hey! I bought a sweet old-school *working* coffee grinder as a souvenir. Then Hans told me that it's German. Oops! We still love each other.

It has pigeons and black yards. The people have white skin.

Despite living here in Paris, I really felt like I could be in any large American city this week. I guess a lot of people are on vacation for Easter, or Zombie Jesus Day as they say in Ypsi. I think I heard more English and French, which may have been facilitated by a trip to an Irish pub on St. Patrick's day with Ornella, Kristen, and Evelyn after Suzanne's exam. Turns out that the Brits think we're even less worth polite interaction than the French. Our friendly bartender, Tom, repeatedly insisted that we were "O.K." when we people asked if we were American with a singularly raised condescending eyebrow. I don't consider myself patriotic and despite reports of U.S. bashing from my U of M comrades, this was the first time that I actually felt offended about assumptions concerning my American-ness. For a moment, I was almost inclined to defend my country, which pissed me off more than any alleged insinuation.
I've been planning my trip to Amsterdam for the long weekend and I'm pretty siked that someone decided to host me on couchsurfing. He has great references and he's "Level 3" security, meaning that he actually provided his bank account and a credit card to verify his identity. He does mention something called the "Church of Fun" on his profile, but that doesn't sound so bad does it? Seriously though, he seems harmless. You don't even wanna know who I emailed in the mad dash to find a host. Suffice to say that one of them began his profile with, "..before you contact me, ask yourself if I'm really the type of soul that you want to spend time with.." and then preceded to say that he can see the beauty in people by staring into their eyes. Most people that messaged me back claimed to already be hosting someone, but this guy turned me down flat. I guess he saw in my eyes that I really kind of thought he was "dingue".
We went to Saint-Denis today and it's going to have to duke it out with Sacre-Coeur for most beautiful church (thought technically basilicas...basilici?). Incredible architecture and founded on the cult site of a beheaded saint, which are my two criteria for measuring if a site visit is worthwhile. Unfortunately, there was a strike, so we couldn't see all the tomb sculptures that were purposefully made to look like decaying flesh, but it they certainly looked interesting enough from behind the railing we leaned over.
So, I leave for Amsterdam in less than nine hours. I'll be sure to have photos when I return.

Secrets travel fast..

The week started out with a trip to Malmaison, the "modest" home and retreat of the imperial couple and ultimately Josephine's place of exile. But if we were to rewind a bit, we would find the author exploring her new neighborhood, hoping to discover potential haunts. It was in this setting that I saw my first Parisian cockroach, excuse me, cafard. It began as a simple hunger for Chinese food. I found a little place that looked tasty and inexpensive, with a second floor so I could look out onto the street and read Hugo in peace. Just as I finished my last crevette, something scuttled across the table. Er. I shooed it away from me with my napkin and it made haste towards the edge of my table, under a ledge that ran along the wall. I picked up my stuff and shook it out to make sure that there wasn't anything hiding in it. Then I did something I wish I hadn't: I looked under the ledge. Yes, it's what you're thinking. Several of them. Crawling all over each other and making cockroach love. My elbow had been there only moments ago. I left, not knowing whether to inform the staff or if they would even care. Unfortunately, I don't have a picture to commemorate my experience. Whatever, I'll go back.

Malmaison is not as impressive as you would think.

I mean, an Emperor lived there, but I guess I expected something grander. The rooms are surprisingly modest in size and lack the grandiosity of say, Napoleon III's apartments. Sometimes I cant's help but compare Napoleon to Augustus, although this is probably not a remarkable parallelism on my part. Although I think Augustus was definitely more astute when it came to image..or maybe not.

From the reading, I had this gorgeous chateau (grrr Blogger, why do you hate circumflexes?) complete with wild lush gardens in my head. Maybe it was just too gloomy out for me to really get the force of it. To be sure, my mom would dig the Empire style: her bedroom sports the requisite dark woods and Egyptian theme, although probably a little too Bed, Bath, and Beyond to qualify as such.

After discussion in the classroom with Paul on Tuesday, Sara and I decided to walk from the Institut to Sacré Coeur. I know, we're so cool. We walked up Sebastopol most of the way and went through what must have been the Weave/Nail District to be followed by the Hideous Bridal Gown/Prom Dress quartier. By the time we reached Sacré Coeur, it was just before sunset and. it. was. beautiful. I mean, first we had to bypass the entourage of guys trying to grab our hands so they could tie friendship bracelets around our wrists...and then the massive group of Italian? Spanish? students that were conducting some sort of experiment with giant dice on the slope between the steps...and then the group of tourists that were egging on the musical stylings of a couple of musicians that knew a whole lot of Bob Marley and Dylan covers. But then, by golly, that view was somethin' else.

The inside of the basilica is indescribable. I actually started reconsidering Christianity (well...). We had a chance to sit on part of Vespers and..what can I say? The atmosphere, the sounds of the nuns voices...It was very moving.

Wednesday was in the Louvre with Suzanne again. We had a pretty major set-back when we realized that the room housing Rubens's Marie de Medici's cycle was closed. However, this didn't stop Suzanne from attempting to lecture us in separate groups while trying to peer into the room, despite the constant reproach of a museum worker. It was definitely a disappointment to all. Later, we moved to David's Sacré and discussed its' significance in relation to Rubens, as well as its' mercantile significance.

This week we explored the Métro with Paul. Actually, today was my favorite site visit. I don't know if it's the appeal of the underground or the awesomeness of Guimard, or perhaps that we were discussing a time period that holds a lot of interest for me. Regardless, it made me somewhat regret my vow to take the subway as little as possible in order to save money and see the city (above ground).

Cou cou

Unfortunately, the last week or so has been a progression of me getting sicker and sicker. So, I haven't done as much exploring as I would have liked, especially in light of this week's readings on the Flâneur (which I found pretty adventure inspiring, all presupposing "bobo"-ness aside). Speaking of bobo, I returned to Pompidou last week and hung out on the fifth floor for a couple of hours. Soaking up all this early modern French art has been amazing, but I have to say that it was Dada, Surrealism, and Neue Sachlichkeit that sparked my desire to study art history.




Friday night, I went to a bar with Lena near the Place de Bastille. We had a good time chatting with some French fellow originally from Morocco. I spent most of the evening talking to this guy, Youness. He was nice enough, but call me a tease, I was really just in it for the dry-run in French flirtation. After suggesting some places that I might like to visit, he asked for my phone number and I didn't see the harm in giving it to him. It seemed like an opportunity to make some French friends in a seemingly harmless way. Stupid, stupid, stupid. According to Suzie, although she just told me this yesterday, in France they don't have that "X" amount of time before you call, between calls, etc. that so characterizes "typical" American dating practices. I don't know how true that is, but I wish I would have known that before. The calls started immediately after I left the bar and persisted the following two days. Lesson learned.

So, I did laundry last weekend for the first time. I was kind of hoping I could strike a deal with my host parents or that Marie-Pierre might offer to let me use their washer, but I decided that I would ask them where the closest laundromat was and see their response. No dice. Marie-Pierre kindly directed me to two laundromats in our neighborhood, citing the one on Rue de Seine as better because there's more to explore while you're waiting for your laundry. However, the one on Grande Auguste-Comte is closer, so that's the one I headed for. I packed my dirty laundry into my smaller suitcase and started down Rue St-Andres-des-Arts. I wandered around this part a little my first day, so after I got my stuff in the wash (and left...and then returned abruptly when I realized that when I set the temperature, I was thinking in Fahrenheit), I went in search of some good coffee. I've had some serious anxiety over finding a good espresso. If all my coffee geek friends back home hadn't already warned me, I would be really surprised about the quality of coffee in arguably the gourmand capital of the world. I returned my when my clothes were done washing, to discover that the coin operator was no longer working, so nobody could dry their clothes. The owners didn't seem to think this was a problem, but I decided that I really didn't want to wait 24 hours for my jeans and socks to dry, so I went looking for Rue de Seine. I wish I had had my camera on me, but suffice to say that my neighborhood is incredible. I hadn't been back by this little area before. I got manic. After dropping off my dry clothes and talking with my mom on Skype for a few minutes (back home, my car's dead, again), I returned to explore a little with Lena and have a glass of wine in one of the cafés.
That night (Saturday), I went home and had dinner with my host parents, Jacques' brother, and his girlfriend. Turns out Jacques' brother put on the first Parisienne rave. I love that. Then we looked at some of the pictures from Nick Cave's recent photo-shoot, the one featured in the Le Monde. Jacques's best friend just happened to be the photographer. So great. Not only is my location amazing, but my host parents are incredibly cool. They're constantly telling me about things they think I might like as they find out more about my interests. I love the way that Marie-Pierre introduced me to Jacques's brother:
"This is Erin. She's the student that's staying with us right now. She's from Michigan and she likes rock music".
"Oh, Michigan. Of course. Iggy Pop!"
The funny thing is that I've been telling people that I'm from Chicago, since the first few times I said Michigan, people looked at me quizzically. Since this introduction, I've been telling more people that I'm Michigan and I've gotten that a few more times. Iggy Pop!

Sunday, I wasn't feeling so great and the feeling has persisted. However, the classes with Suzanne this week have been really interesting as we have been discussing prominent female negotiation of power and legitimacy via art. Wednesday during break, she started telling us a little bit about her academic career and I got a few questions answered about graduate school. She's had the opportunity to do some pretty envy-inspiring things and I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do with myself once I graduate in August.

What is that romantic thing that does happen to you....

*Wine sip*...Ahh, Paris. It's strange to think that I've been here for a little over a week now. On one hand, it's gone by so fast. I can't imagine what it might be like for someone here on vacation, leaving so soon. On the other, I've managed to do so many things in such a short span of time. My host parents have started to begin each meal by asking "Where did you go today?" (except in french, only blogger won't let me use accent marks for some reasons). Shall I began with a recounting of the past weeks events?

Day One...

I arrive at Charles de Gaulle. My shuttle's not there, but no worries. My flight was late getting in. I call. They come and get me. I get to my host family's apartment. Hhmmm, they're not there either. So, I stash my luggage in the (locked) entrance way and find a phone. Marie-Pierre answers and tells me that they won't be home for another three hours. In the meantime, I have three hours to kill and a neighborhood to explore. The Boulevard Saint-Michel is teeming with people and I start to walk in circles to avoid getting too lost. It's beautiful outside and I immediately encounter the fountain at the Place Saint-Michel. It hits me....I'm in Paris. I live in Paris. I immediately start taking pictures of everything from the pâtisserie around the corner to the people sitting outside the café who anxiously eye me as I snap there picture from the middle of the street.
I return later to meet Jacques, who laughs nervously when I don't know how to open the elevator door. Within moments of getting into the apartment, my mom calls and Jacques hands me the phone. My luggage is still in the hallway. She tracked my flight and I quickly explain to her why I failed to email her hours ago. Jacques offers me coffee after I explain to him that I work as a barista back in the States. I spotted some Jamaican Blue Mountain beans on the counter and I am dying for it! He hands my some instant and looks at me strangely when I don't know what to do with it. I've been working with coffee since I was 14 and I've never had instant, but I still feel like he might think I'm slightly retarded after the elevator incident. We talk a little until Marie-Pierre arrives and shows me to my room. Dinner in an hour

My French is a little stilted, even though I sat in on a class until the last week before I left in order to keep in practice. We chat a bit over dinner. Jacques and Marie-Pierre are very nice and extremely forgiving of my blunders.

Day 2
The next day, I decided to set out in search for Notre-Dame. My map indicated that I lived close by, but anyone who has fallen to my sense of direction will tell you that I don't have the most reliable sense of direction. My boyfriend always teases me of my "scenic tours" of Ann Arbor, a city that I have lived in for almost two decades but still haven't managed to accurately navigate. So, I'm walking in what I think is the right direction, unabashedly holding my map in front of my face. So...all I have to do is cross this bridge, turn right, ok got it, any minute now I should...Oh! I'm here! That can't be right. I can't really live around the corner from Notre-Dame. I get out my guide to see if there are any Notre-Dame replicas in my area...seriously.

Since finding Notre-Dame and photographing the exterior from almost every conceivable angle (and some surrounding streets just for good measure) took only an hour, I decided to head to the Jardin du Luxembourg. Not too far in the other direction. Needless to say, it's beautiful but I'm anxious to see what it's like in the spring. Marie de Medici's fountain was my favorite thing to see there and turned out best in my photos. I watched some kids rid donkeys and some old men play boules before I started back for my new temporary home.

That night after dinner, I went to see "Perd(s) du Noir" at the MK2 Hautefeuille. I saw a poster for it during my travels on foot. Marie-Pierre informed me that it was right around the corner, but I still managed to get lost. I asked for directions in French and completely understand the French women that helped me! I was kind of proud of myself and very relieved to discover that the French are even friendlier than Polly Platt described. The movie was amazing and featured some great animation from one of my favorite artists of the comic genre: Charles Burns. Seeing it in French without subtitles was a little daunting at first, but I understood more as the movie went on.

Day 3

Les Jardin des Plantes. Very different from the spacious lawns of Luxembourg. Both are beautiful, but I think I prefer the winding paths of Des Plantes and I imagine that it's going to look pretty spectacular once the bulbs in the front courtyard start to sprout. My host-dad prefers this garden as well, especially since it features a rare flower that he says can't be found anywhere else in Paris. To my delight, I stumbled upon La Menagerie during my visit. It's doesn't compare in size to the Toledo Zoo, but it's in Paris, so it's got that going for it.
I went to another animated in film. Also, French. Persepolis. When I returned for dinner, my host-parents that within the three days since I arrived, my proficiency had noticeably improved? "Vraiment?" I asked. "Oui" they replied. "Vachement?" So pleased!

Day 4

Orientation. Met Paul and Suzanne for the first time, as well as the some of the other girls that were unable to make it to the meetings back in Ann Arbor. Everyone seems to be very nice. We planned some potential visits over the next few days. We left in a pack from the meeting and those of us that were phone-less headed to Orange. After, I went and met some of the other girls at a café and had some truly incredible onion soup that cost about $9. Damn.

Day 5
Paul took us on a tour of several noteworthy sites between la Catho and...well, my apartment. The tour set the tone for Paul's class, which encourages curiosity and active participation; a good indication that I will really enjoy this class. That night, Paul took us all out to La Table de Gourmet for dinner on the U of M's dime. Very nice. Very Moyen Age, if I remember correctly. We met at Pompidou and as I walked up, I was listening to this Tortoise song that.was.just.perfect for the moment. I could Leetal all alone by the big giant golden flower out down below, but I couldn't help but rewind the track and look at the building from the street a little longer. In my mind, I was like, "Check!". Since Friday would probably prove unfruitful in regards to Malmaison, Pompidou was definitely on the menu. Shortly after I went down to join Leetal, Paul walked up and chatted with us until the rest of the group showed up. Dinner was great. Made plans to meet at le Tour Eiffel for Elisabeth's birthday the next night.

Day 6

After a later than intended start, I went to Pompidou mid-afternoon. Amazing. Completely. I took more pictures there than anywhere else in the city and I was exhausted by the time I reached the second floor of the museum. After a quick look at the collections on the floor, I made a note to return as quickly as possible. Museums of Modern Art, let me count the ways...

That evening, we met up for dessert at le Tour Eiffel. Really, however cliché, the Eiffel Tower at night is truly one of the most beautiful things I've seen since I came to Paris. Admittedly, when I first arrived I wasn't dying to see it, partly because of the "tourist-y" connotation. Now, I wish I had come to see it my first night here. Although, I probably would have cried.




Day 7
After seeing all the beautiful and well-dressed women of Paris, I decided that I desperately needed to go shopping...on the cheap. Marie-Pierre told me about the Marches aux Puces in the north and I'm ready to go when Lena calls. I tell her where I'm headed and she's down, so I give her directions and we meet. The front features a lot of coats (yay!) and shoes (even more yay!) for very reasonable prices. I buy a little brown leather jacket and we cruise towards the back, which promises antiques. The back section is ex-pen-sive, but, ya know, incredible. Hello, dream living room....

Day 8
Classes begin! The first day of French class was full of "jouets de connaissance" like "Qui suis-je?" and other introductions. There are about 25 people in my class, 10 of which are Americans, the others a mix of Vietnamese, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Canadian, and Italian. I was pretty good about answering in French when my fellow ex-pats tried conversing en anglais. Fun, but I have to admit that after three hours of French, my brain hurts a little.
After that, I met up with the rest of the group at the Louvre and got my special I.D. that allows me free entrance (!!!). Then, class with Suzanne. Class with her promises to be full of discussion, as she encourages everyone's active participation and critical analysis. Brava!

Day 9
A little discouraged at the beginning of French class, as it seems too easy for an intermediate level, but I'll hold out until next week. Class with Paul was a walking tour of Le Marais (4th arrondisement), interesting because it escaped the Haussmann-ization of the mid-19th century and so retains many of its' 14th century foundations. We saw and discussed the significance of the different architectural elements of several Hôtel Particuliers and ended the excursion by visiting the main drag of the Jewish quarter for tasty treats.
Day 10
My French class proved to be much more challenging and even a little intimidating. The organization is much different at la Catho. Back home, I'm used to learning a tense, then how to use that tense with negation, then future and past, etc. Here, we jumped from asking a question using inversion, to the several other ways to ask a question with prepositions abound. Also, the text doesn't provide English translations (obviously), so while I was doing the exercises accurately, at one point I realized that I didn't know what I was asking! For instance, "Pourriez-vous passer me prendre?" Huh? Would you pass me to take? It took some googling and intuition to figure out that this phrase means "Would you pick me up?" By the end of class, I felt a little down on myself. The last exercise was watching a film clip and I had a very difficult time understanding (although I'd like to think that this was partly due to the sound quality of the VHS). On the other hand, it seemed like more than half my class was is the same boat and Madame noted that this was an difficult exercise. I need a little more immersion, so instead of listening to my headphones as I walk around the city, I've decided to take advantage of the radio on my cell phone. Also, I bought some magazines in order to work on my colloquialisms.
We met Suzanne at Musée D'Orsay. Originally a train station, this museum has the feel of early Industrialism. I love it. We mostly discussed Manet, but I have to admit that while the points that we discussed we intriguing, I was having difficulty holding on after my intense French session. When I returned home, I decided to study a little. That "little" turned into 7 hours of alternating between language and history. One question led me to another and before I knew it, it was almost midnight. I passed out watching Coppola's Marie Antoinette.

Day 11
Paul took us on a tour of the Louvre as a monument. Unfortunately, the weather hasn't been too kind to us, so I think I'm going to have to give in and bring an umbrella with me for this class. After a history on the expansion of the building over the centuries, we went inside and saw the foundations of this once Medieval fortress.






After that, we headed upstairs to see Napoleon III's lavish apartments. Chandelier, anyone?

After Paul dismissed, Lena and I searched for the Anselm Keifer exhibition. For some reason, I anticipated more than three pieces of art, but I'm still happy that we found it after trying to navigate the Louvre.
I returned home to Skype with my mom and my boyfriend. I can't wait for them to visit, I already have so much to show them.