My Sandwich Savior

Monday is my second longest day of the week. I have 5 hours of class with an hour break from 12-1. I’m trying to live on the cheap, but have decided to treat myself to a sandwich from the sandwich man every Monday and Tuesday, my two longest days on campus.

So it was finally sandwich time, and I went out to the little shack only to discover that it was closed. I assumed he was on strike for some reason or another, because that’s the way things work around here. This put a damper on my day, but I resigned myself to the cafeteria instead. But when I got to the cafeteria it was closed, too!

I was starving and had 4 straight hours of class coming up, so I trudged over to the building where I had my next class and decided to get something out of the vending machine. I had all of my supplementary snacks (yogurt, granola bar, and a banana), so I just needed something small. Unfortunately when I got to the lobby I realized that this was not the building with the good vending machines. Don’t get me wrong- the hot beverage machine was there, but that doesn’t cut it when you’re starving. Besides, coffee on an empty stomach causes ulcers. Do you hear me, all you people impatiently waiting outside of Starbucks at 5am? Dad, are you reading this?!?

Dejected, I headed back toward the other building with the food vending machines, desperately hoping that in an amazing and unlikely twist of fate, the sandwich man had given up his strike and come back to his sandwich shack. But I was not so lucky. I was sinking into a depression, thinking about the disgusting pamplemousse (grapefruit) yogurt that was going to be my lunch (It came in a variety pack. That's the thing about variety packs- they always screw you over with some reject flavor that nobody actually wants. It was the last straw. Never again.).  Then all of the sudden, I spotted something out of the corner of my eye. Something bright…something orange.

A kid from our classes happened to be headed in my direction. He’s extremely friendly, even though I don’t know him that well. The funny thing is he has fiery red hair and 99% of the time is wearing this bright orange windbreaker. Needless to say, he’s hard to miss, and I saw him before he saw me. He looked kind of preoccupied so I debated on whether or not he was in the talking mood. As he got closer I decided to say hi. He immediately made a bee-line for me, completely abandoning whatever mission he was on prior to our encounter.

Kid: “Hey! How are you? How was your weekend? Did you do anything fun?

Want a sandwich?”

Me: Puzzled, and wondering if he can read my mind, or if my longing for a sandwich is really that obvious. “Excuse me? Oh…um…yes, but all the places are closed.”

Kid: “I know. I got one this morning at a place by my house. But I ate one of the halves and can’t eat any more. It’s really good. Here you go.” 

A “sandwich” here is like an entire baguette, so half a sandwich is a pretty substantial amount of food. Was this really happening? It was almost like he was a genie, there to grant me a wish. And at the moment, my greatest wish in life was for a sandwich. And just like that, a sandwich presented itself to me. And it was delicious. I like to think it's karma. Despite what my family says, I'm actually pretty nice. But I'm sure it was just lucky timing...maybe even the pigeon poop luck that is supposed to be heading my way :)

I am forever indebted to anonymous kid, my “ginger” beacon of nourishment...or to the pigeon that bombed me a couple weeks ago. 

Peace and Love

I’m starting to think I’m living with an atypical French family.

This isn’t a complaint at all. They’re really great and I definitely lucked out. I’m in the perfect location, they’re really nice, Sophie feeds me well, and I have a cat here who pretty much lives on my bed. But comparing my situation to others in the group, I realize that my experience is a little different, and I’m grateful for it.

First and foremost, they feed me. I know this seems like a given, but since French people don’t eat breakfast, a bunch of students in the group also skip breakfast by default. Some of the lucky ones get a slice of toast in the mornings. That wouldn’t cut it for me. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. At home I eat a bowl of oatmeal, a banana, half a grapefruit, and coffee for breakfast almost every day…except for Saturdays and Sundays. Those are the bacon days. Fortunately Sophie always has a French version of Special K, oatmeal, juice, and coffee most of the time. And sometimes bananas, if I’m lucky. Dinners are also good. Wine, bread, and cheese are usually in ample supply. Despite eating really late (This evening dinner started at 9:15) it’s relatively healthy, filling, and tasty. I know of one other person in our group who is served pureed vegetable broth every night for dinner… and maybe something else on the side if she’s lucky. So even though my breakfast isn’t quite as fantastic as it is back home, dinners are great and I have no room to complain.

Even though only 3 of us live here in the apartment, it’s rare that only 3 of us are here at any given time. Between Sophie’s boyfriend, her boyfriend’s son, Chloé’s boyfriend, neighbors, and other friends, we almost always have dinner guests. In fact, I’ve been here for a month and we’ve had at least 5 dinner parties with 9 or more guests each time. Sophie’s cousin Anne is here for a week visiting from Paris, so tonight was kind of an impromptu dinner party. I wish I had known. This morning Sophie mentioned her friend Pascal was coming over for dinner. I like Pascal and was looking forward to a nice relaxing evening. Well, as it turns out, Pascal was coming, plus the 3 of us that live here, plus the 2 boyfriends, plus the boyfriend’s son, plus Cousin Anne, plus another friend. Had I known, I would have waited to do laundry until tomorrow. But since all of my clean clothes were hanging out on the line to dry, I got stuck wearing my gelato stained jeans (I knew my recent gelato addiction would cause problems! Why did I have to get chocolate?!). At least we were sitting at a table where it wasn't so noticeable...

I’ve suspected for a while, but confirmed this evening, that my host family and their friends are all huge hippies.  We actually toasted to “peace and love” at least 4 times-then to feminists, then to strong women. Then someone busts out the acoustic guitar and it turns into a hippie circle sing along. I love it.

The hazards of being without coffee

We've been out of coffee for 5 days. Two things have resulted from this: First off, the hot beverage vending machine and I have become even better friends. Second, I have filled the void with something almost as good as coffee: gelato. I recently tasted the most amazing gelato known to man. Get ready for this. The winning flavor: salted caramel butter. I know it sounds weird, but it’s this great mix of salty and sweet, cold and creamy…basically just heaven in a waffle cone. The prices aren’t bad, and best of all; it’s just 2 blocks from my house! I pass it on my walk to school every day. (PS-I am questioning whether or not that semi colon should be there...I think not, but Word seems to think it's necessary.)

First, I felt lucky. There are so many gelato shops around here with mediocre quality and skimpy scoops. I can’t believe the best one in town is right here beside me. They don’t skimp. And now that I know that the salted caramel butter flavor exists, I’ve been on the lookout and realized it’s nowhere to be found except for at this particular shop. Twice a day every day I walk by the shop, scanning the flavors just to make sure they still have salted caramel butter.

But the proximity of this gelato shop to my house is starting to feel like a curse…I want the salted caramel butter all the time. I need it! And there it is, every day, like a tease in the store window. A delicious tasty tease. But I know I can’t just willy nilly have gelato whenever I feel like it. It’s just not healthy. I think if I had gelato as often as I wanted it, it would be seeping out of my pores along with the garlic. I’m also relatively certain that I’d develop diabetes, which would result in me having to give up gelato altogether, and that would truly be a tragedy. 

Note to host mom: 

Coffee needs to be purchased soon, lest you find me lying in a puddle of melted gelato passed out in a sugar coma.

How being illiterate can land a new friend

The other day I mentioned that I don’t have any classes with real French people. This poses a problem because the whole purpose of my being here is to improve my French skills through interaction with French people. Instead I spend most of my day stammering and trying to muddle through a conversation in French with a bunch of Russians who are about as fluent as me, which is ‘not very.’ 

So you can imagine how thrilled I was to stumble upon a poster on the campus bulletin board saying (in French) that this guy Victor was looking for an English tutor. So I text him and he’s definitely interested. Excellent! I am thinking to myself…Finally I’ll meet a real French person. Maybe we can set up a language exchange…half English, half French!

So we set up a meeting, which never happened. But after a miscommunication and him getting sick, we finally rescheduled and met on Monday. He was extremely nice and happens to speak perfect English, which was really weird. The whole time I was thinking why did he post an ad for an English tutor? So I try to casually drop into the conversation “I can’t help but notice your English is perfect” to which he replies “Oh, yeah. Well I spent most of my life in Canada. Vancouver, not the French part.”

At this point, I’m truly confused and slightly annoyed. So he’s NOT a real French person, and now it turns out he’s Canadian?!

Regardless, conversation was interesting and he was very nice. We finished our coffee and parted ways, making plans to hang out later in the week. I go home, still confused about what just happened. Then I put it out of my mind. I think to myself not French, but at least someone new and nice.

Wednesday I’m back on campus. I’m visiting my best friend, the hot beverage vending machine, when I see Victor’s poster again. I give it a quick glance and something catches my eye. Wait a minute….I read it more carefully, and suddenly everything makes sense.

What I thought the sign said:

[Seeking] English lessons from an Anglophone with negotiable hourly rate.

What the sign actually said:

Offering English lessons from an Anglophone- hourly rates negotiable. 

Oy!  

Lessons learned the hard way:

-Always take a cell phone to the bathroom in case you get locked in a stall

-Keep an eye on the ground AND the sky

-Pay Cat Man if you take his picture

-You cannot read.

These are some pictures from Le Musée d'art moderne et d'art contemporain (MAMAC) here in Nice. Some of it's interesting, but most modern art makes me feel like I'm just not smart enough to understand it.

He's the Cat Man!

Have I mentioned Cat Man yet? Yes, Cat Man…not Batman. Trust  me, Batman is way cooler. I don’t think I have said anything about Cat Man, though, and he certainly deserves a post.

Cat Man is a guy in revolutionary garb who stands on a podium and dances to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” with his two white cats. I mean he goes all out-powdered white face, a wig, the coat, stockings, everything.  The cats look miserable, either sleeping on his head or clinging onto his arms for dear life.

Question: What does Celine Dion have to do with the Revolutionary War? Or cats?

Answer: Absolutely nothing. I suppose that’s what makes it so strange. Everyone is so weirded out that they have no choice but to stop and take his picture. And that’s where he gets you. If you take his picture, give him some money or YOU WILL REGRET IT.

One of my friends learned this the hard way. We had run into each other at the grocery store. She left before me, but on my way out I saw Cat Man holding my friend by the arm and pulling her back to his abandoned podium (and cats). Apparently she had snapped a picture and walked away. He chased her all the way down the block, which must have been an amusing sight (slightly horrifying for my friend), grabbed her elbow with a cat hair-covered glove, and dragged her back through the crowd of spectators that had gathered, demanding that she give him money.

So I’m running low on funds and also need a “cultural activity” for one of my classes. I’m thinking “Plume is pretty awesome. Today she was perched on my shoulder and I was just sitting on my bed.  Maybe I can go out to the public square and play Electric Feel and wave Plume around for some rent money…”

One small step for me...

I recently went to the market with my host mom, where we found this vendor selling “living art.” The guy had all of these plants out on display. Some of them were wall hangings and others were potted. The interesting thing about them is that they’re real plants that have been injected with glucose and are supposedly preserved for ten years. No sunlight or watering required. Even I should be able to keep one of those alive, right?

From the moment we saw them, host mom was hooked. She brought home a brochure and talked about the plants with her boyfriend, her daughter, and anyone else who was willing to listen. I knew her birthday was coming up and it would be a perfect gift… Of course I have no memory whatsoever. Fortunately I remembered just in the nick of time (the day before her birthday). So back to the market I went. 

This is the one I bought for her.

One of the greatest things about Nice is the unbelievable outdoor market. Every morning, hundreds of vendors set up stands of produce, meat, cheese, bread, soap, mustard, honey, pastries, candied fruits, arts and crafts, jewelry, and more. It’s all locally made or grown, and it’s absolutely amazing. It smells fantastic, looks amazing, and I love the vendors’ smiling faces and the friendly chitchat with customers. A feast for the senses. It stretches along several blocks parallel to the ocean, and at the far west end is a flower market. You can buy bouquets, individual flowers, potted plants, trees, cacti, pretty much anything imaginable.

There are also some interesting characters at the market. Saturday, we walked by a table piled high with some of the most fragrant and delicious looking strawberries I’ve ever seen in my life. The vendor was standing there looking extremely bored, cigarette in one hand and money in the other (Ok, so maybe not ALL the vendors are smiling…). We pointed out the strawberries we wanted and she casually flicked the cigarette to the ground, stamping it out with a grubby shoe. She picked up our strawberries, exhaling smoke on them, took our money, and handed them over.

I feel like if that had happened back home someone would have freaked out and done something very dramatic, like threaten a lawsuit…or at least call the health department. I can see it now. Instead we smiled, thanked her, and took the strawberries to the beach. I couldn’t help but be secretly proud. I felt like I took one more baby step toward accepting that the way of life and general attitudes here are not necessarily better or worse-just different. VERY very different.  

My big fat bed of lies

One of the funny things about classes here is that I’m in a program for foreign students learning French. This means that:

A-Encounters with real French people are few and far between.

B-French is the only language we all have in common, and none of us are actually fluent.

As a result, conversation is usually kind of awkward. Everyone in my classes seems pretty nice, but for the most part, we all stick to small talk.  This morning I got to class a little early. I was the first one there, and a few minutes later this Romanian kid named Octavian came in. We made eye contact, smiled, and he asked how I was. I responded that I was fine, just a little tired. You can imagine my surprise when he asked me why I was tired. Real conversation?! I was taken aback, and as a result I blurted out the first thing that popped into my head, which happened to be a lie.

Me: “I went out last night. I got home really late.”

Why did I just lie to this perfectly nice young man? I wasn’t out late last night. Maybe it just seemed easier than telling the truth-Host mom and I chowed down on cheese and chocolate and I was tucked up in bed by 10pm…one of my many grandmotherly habits. But I can’t back out now. By this point I was committed to my lie, and I felt that the only thing I could do was just go with it.

Octavian, the Romanian: “Oh…on a Monday? Where did you go? A discotheque? (club)”

Me: “No, no. I am a terrible dancer, trust me. I was just out at a pub.”

Finally a bit of truth thrown in. But a pub on a Monday night? Now he probably just thinks I’m an alcoholic.

Please let this be the end of the interrogation!  

Octavian, the Romanian: “Oh, there are some great pubs in Old Nice. Which one did you go to?”

Curses!

Me: “I don’t remember the name. It was on Rue de la Prefecture. You know there are a bunch over there.”

Octavian, the Romanian: “Right. So where are you from?”

From here, the conversation went relatively smoothly. But it’s slightly disconcerting knowing that the only real conversation I’ve had with someone has left them with the impression that I’m a drunk American girl who can’t dance. Almost none of those things are true!

It’s 10pm and I’m exhausted. Hoping for a good night’s sleep in my bed of lies! 

Have you guys seen this optical illusion? The word "Liar"... or a man's face?

Garlic: How much is too much?

Ok, here it is. A post about school.

Classes started on Feb 14^th, and what better way to celebrate the silliest holiday of the year?  Bring on the misery!  Kidding…sort of. Despite taking 19 credits, I think I’ll actually enjoy the semester. Classes here are completely different than they are back home. Most of them only meet once a week, so even though 3 straight hours of French literature would make any normal person want to poke their eyeballs out with a pencil, I’m confident that my trusty new friend (the hot beverage vending machine) will carry me through. 

The professors here are characters, too. A couple of them seem absolutely insane, but at least they’re keeping it interesting!

For the first fifteen minutes of my phonology class today I was cracking up because I thought my professor was wearing a cape. I was convinced that she was a vampire. A cape and short silver hair slicked down? What else was I supposed to think? Fortunately since I consume massive amounts of garlic and, according to my grandmother, it is “seeping out of my pores” I felt safe in her presence. (PLEASE tell me if garlic actually is seeping out of my pores. I really will cut back!) Turns out the professor was really wearing a button up shirt with a popped collar and a sweater draped over her shoulders. The whole ensemble was black and I was in the back of the classroom…or maybe I should be wearing my glasses. Either way, imagining her wearing a cape made the lesson far more interesting. 

My French lit professor is this crazy old woman who is about 5 feet tall and 95lbs. She wears really big black plastic rimmed glasses that magnify her eyeballs and her dark brown hair flies all over the place when she moves. One of her favorite things to do in class is to pace around while lecturing in a booming raspy voice, then suddenly stop, smack her hands down on your desk and lean down so her face is about 6 inches away from yours. Then she smiles, cocks her head to the side, blinks her magnified owl-eyes a few times, and asks *in French* “Do you understand?”

The professor for my oral expression class is also pretty interesting. She showed up Wednesday morning ten minutes late and looking awfully frazzled. Apparently she went to the wrong classroom first. None of these people are like any professors I’ve ever had. She was wearing a beige sweat suit with boots and a purple shawl. She had a short gray hair ponytail directly on top of her head, and the sides of her head were shaved. Everytime she talked or moved the ponytail bounced around and made me think of Pebbles on The Flintstones. She wore a giant hoop earring in one ear and a tiny stud in the other. Despite her odd appearance, she seems to know what she’s doing. The class is going to be divided into two parts. Since it’s 3 hours long, the first hour and a half is like a debate class. We talk about current events, issues, etc. The second half is listening comprehension. She plays a recording for us and we analyze it, answer questions, discuss the challenging aspects. She seems really approachable. I have a feeling that may end up being my favorite class, ponytail and all.

Carnival Crazies

I’ve been shirking my blogging duties for the past two days, and I intend to make up for it now. Goldfish/Octopus mascots everywhere. Carnival is officially underway, and Nice is insane. I don’t have any pictures because several people have warned me that the crowd is swarming with pickpockets and I thought it was best to leave my camera at home.

So it seems like Carnival isn’t actually for the people that live here. Instead, it’s catered to tourist who come and are willing to spend crazy amounts of money to sit on bleachers and listen to a thumping bass beat and see a giant goldfish parade around the town square…or maybe an octopus, who knows?   

Creepy, huh? -Google image

It’s not that I have a problem with this. In fact, if it was free I’d probably check it out too, but I do have a problem with paying to see it. And believe me, the city of Nice has ensured that if you don’t pay, it’s extremely difficult to even catch a glimpse of what’s going on…unless you walk to the end of the street and see all the floats as they’re leaving the parade.  They’ve put up all these barricades and walls that make it almost impossible to see anything in the square, but walking about 100 yards gets you a perfectly good view of everything. Granted that 100 yard walk is like a gauntlet of silly string and confetti and creepy people in disguise. Despite the creepiness and the fact that it takes about 3x longer to walk anywhere than usual, it’s actually really awesome to take part in all the excitement… I’ve been pulling confetti out of my hair for the past 24 hours.  

Oh no!

I just got home from a bar with a cover band. Wenfei (kid in our group) made me dance...yikes! Fortunately they played Van Halen and MGMT, so I didn't care. This is the only interesting development for today.

Lazy and loving it.

I still have to do a post for day and I’m exhausted, so nothing exciting. Today was extremely uneventful and I loved it. I’m really glad I don’t have Friday classes. I got to sleep in, get up and suffer through miserable shower just in time to meet up with friends for a pizza picnic. Then I went to the beach to read, which was really relaxing until a rogue wave came out of nowhere and soaked me from the knees down. For the record, it was not just me. It got about 10 other people in the vicinity. 

This is kind of what it looked like.

After the wave I came back home and got ready to go out. Sophie invited me to go see a movie with her and her boyfriend this evening. It was called “La Nuit Américaine” (1973) and it was a movie about making a movie. Interesting and funny, especially since it takes place in Nice. I didn’t understand everything, but enough to enjoy the movie.  Then Sophie and John asked if I was up for stopping off at a wine bar where they treated me to a couple classes of pretty tasty red wine…how could I say no to that? We spent quite a bit of time there talking, and I’m supposed to meet the rest of our group in a little while to go dancing…but if you recall the image from the last post, dancing is not my thing. So it’s 11:30 and I’m getting sleepy and tempted to bail. Maybe I'll just eat a bunch of chocolate and pass out...hmmm….

Missing the mark

One of the toughest things about being abroad and not speaking the language is the daily humiliation you suffer as you struggle to make conversation and go about your business. It’s extremely frustrating to want to say something and not be able to articulate your thoughts without sounding like a moderately intelligent 4 year old. Sure, I know enough to get by. I can talk about the weather for hours! But when it comes to anything moderately complex, speaking can be clumsy and awkward, like me trying to dance. 

In French, like Spanish and Italian and probably a bunch of other languages, you have a formal and informal “you” subject. It’s always better to err on the side of being too formal, so I always address Sophie in the formal “vous.” But when it comes to Chloé or any younger people, like fellow classmates, I bounce back and forth between the formal “vous” and informal “tu” about 20 times per minute, which is really awkward because verbs are conjugated differently depending on the subject.

Then other times I really miss the mark by choosing the wrong language. The other day in class someone asked me a question and I responded with “Si! Oh, I mean yes…no, oui!” Then yesterday Chloé came home and popped her head in my room and asked how I was (in French) and I responded “Hey! Good, how about you? Oh! Oops, Ça va!” (in English). 

But the absolute worst is when you use the wrong word altogether. I'm not talking a close synonym. I mean when you want to say "a cat" and you say "to get run over in the crosswalk by a bus."

This was my after dinner conversation tonight, translated from French to English:

Me: “Thank you for dinner, Sophie. If you leave the dishes in the sink, I will wash them tomorrow morning because I don’t have school.”

So far, so good

Sophie: “Oh, thank you! We’ll see” (this probably means she’ll wash them anyway).

Me: “Good night! Oh, by the way I went to the grocery store today and got some things for myself for lunch. I put them all in the fridge in the top right corner”

Here’s where it gets interesting…

 Sophie: “Ok, great. They are all together, so we will know they are yours.”

Me: “Oh yes. They’re all together, except I also understood a chicken cordon bleu. It’s in the freezer now.

Sophie: *puzzled* “Oh….ok. Good night”

********

I came back to my room and was thinking to myself how impressive that exchange was. I’m becoming a natural! Just as I was really starting to feel proud, I realized I had used the word “comprendre-to understand” instead of “acheter-to buy.” No wonder she looked confused….

Someone "understanding a chicken"

What to do with a date? Stuff with cheese, wrap with bacon!

I recently learned that both Chloé and Sophie have a birthday this week. Birthdays are great and all, but I’m not sure what the protocol is for this type of occasion when living with a host family in a foreign country. Should I get a gift? If so, how much should I spend? What do they even like? I’ve only been here for 2 weeks…

Sophie is the one who cooks all of my meals and buys groceries and does laundry. Maybe I should get her a gift. What should I get her? I keep eyeing the Greek sheets in my suitcase and thinking “If only they were the right size!”  

The Greek sheets?????

Back in Maryland my roommates and I just moved from Hyattsville to Beltsville. I got to live in the new place for about a week before packing up and flying over here for the semester. The Beltsville apartment is really great, but also comes with some quirks, one of which is a crazy old Greek woman who is our liaison with the wealthy foreign (mysterious) landlord, who we have yet to meet. This Greek woman’s name is Hope, but I always call her Faith by mistake. Hope is full of funny superstitions as well as opinions she can’t seem to keep to herself.  The first time we met her she greeted us at the door of the apartment (half an hour late because she “forgot” we were coming to see it) and insisted Lori and I both step in with our right foot first. Stepping into a new place left foot first is bad luck.

Second visit to the place was early December and it was freezing. She met us at the door of the apartment and lectured us on the dangers of using the heat. It’s better for your health to breathe in the fresh cool air. Just bundle up!

Third visit was to sign the lease. While Lori and I are talking about something odd we found in the paperwork, she starts talking to Sam about the Seed Vault (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Svalbard_Global_Seed_Vault) and then scolds us for not paying attention, because the Seed Vault is Norway is far more important than signing a lease.

For all of her annoying quirks, I think she’s actually a really nice person. Right before I came over to France she reminded me to make sure I brought my own bed sheets because it would be extremely rude not to. I knew from meetings and emails that the host family would provide all of my linens, but I just smiled and nodded. Also, she claimed, it was really important that I take my host family a set of sheets as a gift, because Europeans love American sheets.

Is this true? I don’t know. I told her I didn’t have any unused bed sheets, and 5 minutes later she comes back with a brand new set still in the original packaging, plus 4lbs of dates. I was not surprised that she had a brand new sheet set and a bunch of extra dates laying around because we recently discovered that she's a hoarder. Her back porch is actually so packed with 'stuff' that you have to go in single file. Anyway, the sheets are really nice and she tells me that all Europeans have full size beds, so they should fit. She also insists that they really love dates because they’re a Mediterranean delicacy. I don’t remind her that I’m going to the Mediterranean. I just smile and thank her. Within the span of 24 hours, Hope had brought us 6lbs of dates. At the time it was just Lori and me at the apartment and neither of us are big fans of plain dates, so we did what any sensible person would do: stuffed them with goat cheese and wrapped them in bacon. I refused to pack dates in my luggage for France. I was trying to cram everything I thought I’d need for the next 6 months into one suitcase under 50lbs. No, Lori, I did not want to make room for the dates. She kept trying to pawn them off on me, but I stood my ground. I’ve already got sheets in my suitcase…what will my host family think of me if I show up with bed sheets and 4lbs of dates?

By the way, all beds in Europe are most certainly NOT full sized. In fact in this 3- bedroom apartment, there is not a single full sized bed. So I’ve been hanging on to the sheets because apart from them being the wrong size, I don’t have the vocabulary or energy to describe Hope (or how I ended up as the mule transporting a sheet set from a bizarre old Greek woman to my new French host family).

Question: Does anyone know if a full size sheet set will fit a queen sized bed? 

 By the way, I took this picture today. I'm telling you, creepy Carnival logo everywhere! Even on the side of the trams now. Imagine seeing that whiz by you every 4 minutes. See how I mistook it for a goldfish?

Newfangled Alien Technology

Classes started this week. So far, so good. They’re pretty long but most of them only meet once per week. I’m also the only one in our entire UMD study abroad group who managed to not have classes on Friday! I’m not sure how it worked out, but I’m not asking any questions…

Mondays and Tuesdays are my longest days. This morning I had class from 10-1, 2-4, then 4:30-7:30. Needless to say, I’m exhausted. I’ll write more about classes tomorrow, but today I want to tell you about the fancy new technology    ( /best friend, machine category) I discovered that is going to get me through all of my dreadfully boring 3 hour classes. A hot beverage vending machine!!!

I’m sure this isn’t actually that new, but it’s really impressive (coming from someone who just learned the copy/paste keyboard shortcuts less than 2 years ago) AND it happens to be located in the building where I spend a significant amount of my day. And the best part is, it’s only 30 cents for a drink! I’ve walked by it several times and not even bothered to check, expecting it to cost 2 euros, minumum. But Monday I was really draggy in between my classes and decided to check it out. You can’t even imagine how thrilled I was to discover how cheap the drinks were. It’s only about a 6oz cup, but they have a pretty decent variety and since my morning coffee here is actually that terrible Nescafé Instant stuff, even a really small mediocre latté seemed like a win. It surpassed my expectations and the machine is so high tech it scared me…like self-checkouts at grocery stores. I just knew that something would go wrong and I’d have to go get help (or at least some big embarrassing light was going to start flashing to signal someone over)…but nothing! Even I could not screw that up. I ordered a latté so I got to adjust how much sugar would go into it. It was an extra step, but I still managed to make it through without problems. Blue lights flashing, a bunch of clicky noises, and presto-or should I say “voila!”…my drink was made right there. It was funny to see this crazy machine doing the job I’ve been paid to do by hand for the past 5 years.

 These are pictures from a couple weeks ago that I've been meaning to post. This is the area just outside of my apartment in Old Nice. I love all the little stores and markets.

It's a fish! It's a squid! It's...a lazy-eyed octopus?

The city is abuzz with excitement. Friday is the kickoff of the Carnival of Nice, where people pay lots of money to sit in bleachers and watch a parade. My host family and our program director have both advised against buying a ticket. Instead they said “Go to McDonalds and watch for free out the 2^nd floor window.” Maybe I’ll do that. McDonalds here is pretty much exactly the same as at home, but more expensive, in a fancier building, and they serve beer and a few “gourmet” burgers.

Just in the couple of weeks I’ve been here I’ve seen a lot of preparations for Carnival. Every day the city is plastered with more and more advertisements and the squares are slowly being filled with bleachers. This makes it even tougher for pedestrians and drivers who are trying to navigate through the bleacher-filled public squares. Everywhere I look there are signs for Carnival featuring the mascot- a deranged looking cock-eyed octopus sporting a crown and holding a carnival mask in one of its (7?) tentacles.

Actually, maybe the mascot changes every year, like the Olympic mascots…I hope so. This one is freaky. Up until I google-image searched for it a few minutes ago, I was under the impression it was a goldfish...or a clown fish. I guess I hadn’t really given it more than a passing glance.

In any case, it's slightly unnerving. Ever since Saturday's bird bombing I'm trying to keep an eye on the sky as well as on the streets, and catching that mascot out of the corner of my eye always gives me the creeps.

Why the chicken is scared to cross the road

For as many pedestrians as there are in Nice, you would think that walking would be relatively safe.  But the truth is, the minute you’re out the door and on the street (or the sidewalk, for that matter), you’re taking your life in your hands. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve seen someone almost get mowed over by a car, tram, motorcycle, bus, bike, or rollerblader since I’ve been here. There are several reasons for this:

First of all, no one uses the crosswalks. Pedestrians just dart out into the street willy nilly (villy nilly) without even bothering to check for traffic. At first I was shocked and I stuck to the crosswalks like a law-abiding citizen. But having had some close calls myself at the crosswalks, now I say “why bother?”  You get the white pedestrian “go” light for about 5 seconds…just long enough for you to get out into the middle of the road. Then the pedestrian light turns red with no warning and cars come screeching at you from all directions and you’re darting around in the middle of the road like a squirrel trying not to get hit. And that’s only if you’re lucky. Because sometimes you wait around for the pedestrian light and cars don’t even stop to let you cross. The other day it was my turn to cross the street and a big bus whipped around a corner and flew through the intersection, paying absolutely no attention to the people stepping out into the street to cross.

So you stick to the sidewalk…but even the sidewalk isn’t safe. When the light turns red, motorcyclists drive up on the sidewalk so they don’t have to wait. The first time I saw that was quite a surprise. The motorcycle pulled off the road up beside me and zoomed down the sidewalk, weaving around pedestrians, bikes, strollers, kids, skateboards.

The final hazard is the public squares. There are several in Nice and they’re great meeting places with street performers and fountains, lined with cafés and other great little shops.  I spend quite a bit of time at one particularly busy square that also happens to be on the tram line. It’s funny because there are hundreds of people milling around watching a Michael Jackson impersonator or a guitarist, then you hear a bell ring and a giant tram comes barreling through at 30mph. People are darting around on the track just a few yards ahead of the tram. And because there aren’t any roads that go through the square (only tram tracks), drivers trying to get to the roads on the other side weave all over the square trying to avoid pedestrians. “Straight path from one side to the other? What is that?”

I am terrified. 

*Despite what Akashdeep says, this is NOT a complaint...merely an observation. I still <3 France and all of its weird little quirks. 

A message from on high

Yesterday I mentioned that you always have to watch your step when walking around Nice because there is dog poop everywhere. I also told you that my friend Carrie says that you haven’t experienced Nice until you’ve stepped in dog poop. These past couple weeks I’ve kept my eyes peeled, scouring the ground in front of me to avoid the inevitable. Well it looks like staying vigilant just got a whole lot more difficult. Not only am I supposed to look at the ground, but apparently I also need to keep an eye on the sky!

Today I got pooped on by a pigeon.  I know that’s supposed to be good luck, but walking around town with bird poop dribbling down your "party cardie" just doesn’t feel very lucky. Fortunately I made it home just in time to throw the sweater into a load of laundry…wait a minute? Was that my “luck"??? Because if I hadn’t been pooped on in the first place, I wouldn’t have needed the luck at all. 

This is me with my dad in 2006, holding a pigeon. One would think that if you're gonna get pooped on, this would be the time. Instead they catch me 5 years later walking to the beach for a group picnic.

The sad thing is that this is not the first time I’ve been bird bombed…pigeon bombed, to be precise. When I was au pairing in Italy in 2005-2006 the mother and I brought the kids over to Nice for a long weekend in spring. We took the train and just as we were walking out of the station I got pooped on with a baby in my arms, but not baby poop. Pigeon poop. It was kind of like my “Welcome to France!” And it was here in Nice, just a few blocks away from where it happened again today. Is there something about these particular birds? Why are they dead set on showering me with a lucky inaugural poo? I don’t remember anything particularly “lucky” happening after the first attack, but I’m going to insist that getting bird bombed means I am  “experiencing Nice."

A Practical Guide for Looking French in France.

Monaco (2/10/11): Pay no attention to my horrible squinty face. The sun was so bright! Instead look how pretty the water is!

1) Always look like you’re in a hurry. If you’re not mowing people over, you are obviously not French. Also, don’t bother excusing yourself.  Dig your elbow into a soft spot on the person lollygagging in front of you and push that fool out of the way. You’ve got places to be!

2a) Do not look surprised that half of all French people bring their dogs everywhere, often dressed in   silly clothes. The other day I saw this poor little poodle-like dog squeezed into a ridiculously tight fabric tube-like garment. All you could see was a puff of fur at either end. I think he also threw me a glance that said “Please help me.” Somewhere, I’m pretty sure someone is missing a legwarmer.

2b) Furthermore, do not look surprised when the person with the oddly dressed dog in front of you suddenly stops to let it take a big steamy poop on the sidewalk and then casually walks away without bothering to clean it up.  In fact, don’t be surprised you see this happening with two or three dogs at the exact same time.

3) As a direct result of number 2, ALWAYS watch where you step. This is crucial. Recently my friend Carrie was here in Nice doing the same program as me. She said you haven’t actually experienced Nice until you’ve stepped in a heaping pile of dog poo.

4) Smoke. Always smoke. Smoke like a chimney. If your head is not constantly enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke, you’re obviously not French.

5) Do not travel as a herd of loud English speakers. That is no way to meet the locals…unless of course by “meet” you mean “get pickpocketed.”

6) Do not carry around a gigantic map. If you must have a map, be discreet about it or you will probably be accosted by skeezy people trying to “help” you...or you’ll be pickpocketed. The first couple days I was here and needed to use a map, I grabbed one of those free newspapers they are always handing out on street corners and tucked the map discreetly into that. 

7) Do not look depressed when “breakfast” consists of a tiny slice of baguette and jam. Didn’t they learn that breakfast is the most important meal of the day?! French people are notoriously skinny. I’m starting to understand why.

8) However, if you are in France you must always demand a minimum 2 hour lunch break. I assume that this must mainly consist of smoking cigarettes, talking, and blatantly staring at other people.

9) If you have a job, you and your fellow employees must always go on strike. This is especially crucial if you work in a service-oriented field like public transportation or education. As a foreigner trying to blend in, just learn to always anticipate a strike of some kind interfering with your plans.

10) DO NOT EVER convert euros to dollars in your head!!!! Don’t do the math…just don’t.  It’s already depressing enough to discover that dental floss is 3 euros. 3!?!?!…but then when you convert it to dollars….well, how badly do I want that chicken out of my teeth?

Word of the day:

Grève (feminine noun)- a strike. Yesterday’s bus trip to Monaco was significantly less pleasant and overcrowded than it normally would have been. Buses were off schedule due to “une grève.”

Ballin' ? ... in Monaco?

So I realize I’ve gotten myself into a blogging rut. I’m a day behind posting everything. Yesterday I posted about the day before, today I planned to post about yesterday, and tomorrow I would have to post about today. But that’s not happening. Today I break the cycle. Today I am posting about what happened today. This means that yesterday is getting the short end of the stick. I suppose I can squeeze in my story about the public restroom manager (an overly tanned and leathery fat man in a speedo who took my 35 euro cents and jipped me on TP…2 squares?!) at a later date. 

Today was a very exciting day. We went to Monaco...Unfortunately today was also the one day since I’ve been here that I forgot to bring my camera. Oy!

Monaco was pretty much exactly what you imagine. We left the bus stop and walked along the road, which was “clean enough to eat off of,” as one girl in our group said. To our right, the port full of fancy schmancy yachts, and to our left, fancy schmancy stores that I would never be able to afford in a million years. Our first order of business was finding lunch. We ended up at the famous Café de Paris, which is right outside of the casino. I wasn’t too thrilled to see that the cheapest thing on the menu was plain spaghetti for 13 euros, but in Monaco that seemed to be the going rate. All of the other restaurants had similar prices, so we all sucked it up and forked out the dough. We walked up to the host and requested a table for 7. We asked for outside seating, but they told us that there wasn’t a big enough table for our party, so he led us inside. Secretly I think we just weren’t dressed up enough and that they only let the rich and famous or designer clad customers sit outside. Those kinds of people probably attract more business than poor American college kids. When it came time to order, I momentarily let myself go a little crazy, pretended I had money to burn, and ordered NOT the plain spaghetti….but the spaghetti bolognese, which cost 3 euros more! Almost everyone at the table ordered the same thing, except for Paymon, who was feeling brave and ordered the steak tar tar. The waiter looked really surprised and confirmed with him several times in French “You know that it’s raw, right? Completely raw! That’s what you want?!” He assured them that he knew it was raw and that he did, indeed, want it. When they brought our food out, I was slightly underwhelmed by mine, but overly impressed by his. Kinda jealous, even. I got a rather small bowl of spaghetti, and that was it. He got this giant hunk of ground beef on a plate with some French fries (In France they are neither “French” fries nor “freedom” fries, but just “fries.”). Everyone in our group looked disgusted by the steak tar tar, but I thought it looked delish. Then I got to try it, and it was even better than I expected. It wasn’t just a boring slab of ground beef…it was perfectly seasoned with garlic, salt, and other spices and herbs. Maybe one day when I’m “ballin’” (Lori- is this the correct use for the word?) I’ll be able to order my own steak tar tar in Monaco. Lunch was pretty much the highlight of the day. It should also be noted that the bathrooms at the restaurant were awfully fancy, but that’s to be expected in Monaco, right? 

After lunch we walked around a bit and ended up in a mall. The stores were so nice, we were all afraid to go in any of them. Instead we huddled outside store windows like a bunch of weirdos and muttered to ourselves about the prices. We got bored with that pretty quickly and decided to check out the casino. We knew that it cost 10 euros to go all the way inside to the game room, so instead we walked in and took a quick tour of the lobby, which was gorgeous…crystal chandeliers and Rolex clocks everywhere, and a coat room bigger than my whole apartment. After sufficiently perusing/cruising (hehe) all the plaques and examining all the nooks and crannies and ornate decorations in the enormous lobby, we headed for the royal palace. After a million more stairs (By this point, I’m learning to expect to climb a million stairs to get anywhere.), we ended up at the palace. Though it was beautiful and the view from up there was fantastic, it wasn’t what I was expecting. Maybe I’ve seen too many Disney movies with overly elaborate cartoon castles. Maybe it was also because part of it was under construction…I can’t say for sure. I’m glad to have seen it, but I don’t know that I’d make a point of going back.

Word of the day:

parcourir (transitive verb) –to peruse. I’m not gonna lie…it’s one of my favorite words in English. One time at work, I asked a customer if they were still “perusing” the menu and I guess they misunderstood me because they replied “yeah, still cruising!”

It’s been a running joke ever since, and I really just wanted to use it today.

No pictures from today because I forgot my camera, but here are a few that I've been meaning to post anyway.

Who moved/ate my [goat] cheese?

After I posted yesterday, I realized that it was well past my lunch time and I was starving. I shuffled into the kitchen to find food, only to discover that there was none. Part of the deal with living with a host family is that two meals per day are provided for you- breakfast and dinner. Up until that day, fending for myself for lunch had been a non-issue. Between all of our group excursions and school, I hadn’t had time to even come home for lunch. I had to grab a sandwich on the run. But yesterday I was home and realized I had nothing. So off I headed to Monoprix, which can best be described as a smaller scale Super Walmart or Kroger. They have everything from fresh meats, cheeses, and produce to dental floss, and clothes, which is probably why I find myself there almost every day (Me?! Going to a Kroger-like store everyday? Never!). This particular trip I stocked up on a few lunch essentials… mainly sandwich and pasta stuff. Later on I hear Chloé in the kitchen and I smell food cooking. I think nothing of it until Sophie comes home and is thrilled that Chloé and her boyfriend have surprised her by cooking dinner for us all- a goat cheese and spinach lasagna.  I see my baguette sliced up on the table with the bubbling gooey cheesy lasagna. I realize that the pasta sauce I bought is no longer in the fridge. “What kind of lasagna is this?” I ask Chloé…She replies, ”Goat cheese and spinach…”

Goodbye goat cheese…and baguette…and pasta sauce. I suppose another trip to Monoprix is in order.  Though slightly bummed, I know that she had no idea that those things were mine, so I decided not to say anything. I’ll just make a point of putting all my groceries together in a corner of the fridge or something.  Plus the lasagna was delish, which made it a little less depressing.

By the end of the night, all was well. Sophie’s boyfriend and Chloé’s boyfriend were both there, and conversation was really interesting. I’ve gotten pretty comfortable chiming in when I have something to say or ask.  I think I’ve mentioned before that Sophie’s boyfriend John is a singer/guitarist. During the after dinner grazing period (We’ve pretty much finished eating but are still sitting at the table and picking at remaining food and finishing off a baguette or 2) he started playing “Oh, Champs Elysées,” on his guitar Sophie, Chloé, John, and Fabian all sang along and it was really cool. I haven’t heard that song since 10^th grade French when Ms. Brown and a classroom full of 15 year olds repeatedly botched it. Back then, no one cared because singing songs in high school French meant you weren’t actually doing any work… and isn’t that how an easy A course is supposed to be? Now that I’ve heard it done properly I know it’s actually a really beautiful song! Then comes the crazy part.  All of the sudden John abruptly changed over to playing “She’ll be comin’ round the mountain” and let me tell you- If you’ve never seen 3 French people and a Canadian singing “She’ll be comin’ round the mountain,” you haven’t lived! That was maybe one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen in my life. The French version is pretty much the same, but they throw in this extra “oooohhh ahhh oooh ahhh” verse in the middle. Then we did it in rounds. We went around the table and each person sang a verse solo and then everyone had to repeat the verse with them. John’s verse and mine were both in English (Fortunately, I went before John and managed to score “Six white horses” …It’s the only verse I know besides the main one!) and when it came time to repeat them, it all fell apart. John and I were singing in English, Sophie tried to sing them with us, but Chloé and Fabian gave up and did the “oooh  ahhhh oooh ahhh” instead. Very funny stuff.

As for today, we had a group excursion to Grasse, the perfume capital of the world, a town about 20km from Nice, but a million hours by bus. We toured a perfume factory and museum. More details tomorrow. Just know that like everywhere else around here, the view was amazing. 

"Where are my teeth?" From one old soul to another.

The oral expression portion of my placement exam was this morning.  That’s always been the most challenging aspect of French for me. I can read, write, and understand just fine, but when it comes to actually forming coherent sentences I tend to sound like a stuttering bumbling buffoon.

They say that immersion is the best and fastest way to learn a language. I’ve only been here for a week, but already I’ve noticed some improvement. It’s not that I’ve learned tons of new words or phrases (Though I have learned quite a few)…but it’s more that I’ve become pretty comfortable with the language. I understand what’s going on around me most of the time. I’m not afraid to go to the store or go out on my own. I’m more confident in my language skills than I was before, and that just makes it easier to assimilate. So this newfound confidence was really useful during my test this morning.  I got to the room a little bit early and was greeted by short little French man with thick glasses and a huge smile. I was already feeling pretty relaxed, but any remaining nervousness melted away upon learning that this jolly little man was the one who was testing me.  He seemed grandfatherly….like someone I’d love to talk to. (Now it’s been said by certain unnamed individuals that I act like a grandma. I suppose that the cat obsession, early bedtime, lots of oatmeal, and splitting a daily grapefruit with a fellow “grandma” probably doesn’t help my case.) 

Anyway, the test went really well. We talked about where I was from, what I study, why I’m interested in France, etc. Before I knew it, time was up and I’d just had a delightful conversation and hadn’t come off as idiot. Reward: a spoonful of Nutella and 2 hours reading and relaxing on the beach.  

Word of the day:

This is actually a phrase we learned last night.

C’est pas catholique! – That’s not Catholic! The French equivalent of saying “that’s not kosher/that isn’t right”

Lesson learned

Today we had our first round of placement exams. This consisted of several sections, including oral comprehension, written comprehension, and written expression. Tomorrow I go back for the final and most challenging part of the test- oral expression. I have a 10 minute one-on-one time slot with a professor who will be grilling me on an unknown topic. Yikes! Fortunately for me I’ve heard they weigh your written proficiency more than oral competency. Testing wasn’t really too bad, either. I think I did fine. Plus we had a short break in the middle to venture off, stretch, get snacks, use the restroom, etc…(why are lines for the men’s room always so much shorter than ours?). 

After today I promise to [try to] never blog about bathrooms again, but something interesting happened the other day that I think is worth mentioning. I got locked in a bathroom on campus. I know that in hindsight it’s really funny, but at the time it was terrifying. We had just finished class for the day and I went to the cafeteria with 2 other kids in our group. The food isn’t great, but it’s pretty cheap and fast. We were in a hurry to eat because we had to be back to our director’s apartment to meet up for a group excursion. So we ate our lunches and I went to find a bathroom. After wandering aimlessly for a couple of minutes, I found one.  Another weird hiccup about this bathroom was that the toilet paper was NOT in the stalls. You had to grab it from a dispenser shared between all of them. So after clearing that up I went to a stall, but come to find out the lock was broken. So I go to another one. The lock works and I have TP in hand. I think I’m out of the woods…but I’m not. 

It turns out that this particular lock worked a little bit too well….so well, in fact, that I couldn’t unlock the door at all. So I’m standing there twisting, pulling, turning the lock and nothing is happening. The stall door goes from floor to ceiling, so I couldn’t even crawl under.  I start to worry. Then I realize I left all of my things at the cafeteria table with the other students. I don’t even have a phone to call for help. No one has come by this bathroom in the entire time I’ve been here. I pound on the door…nothing. I call for help...still nothing.  Finally I hear someone come in and I shout

-Excusez-moi!

-Oui? (I’ve never been so relieved!)

-Je ne peux pas ouvrir la porte! (‘I can’t open the door!’)

(My panic was momentarily overshadowed by the burst of pride I felt for being able to form a coherent sentence in French under such extreme stress.)

She struggles with the door from the outside, but to no avail. She tells me to wait while she goes to find help. After she leaves I feel worry start creeping back in. What if she doesn’t come back? What if she gets distracted by the bacon quiche and forgets to find help for me? Fortunately I think that I scored the last bacon quiche, so no distractions, and she came back a minute later. She said someone was coming with a key. I thank her and she leaves. Soon someone shuffles in and I hear the lock turning from the outside. The door opens, and I’m free! I thank the janitor and she says “Oh yes, I forgot that this lock is broken.”

All’s well that ends well, I suppose…but why would they not put a sign up? How many people have to get locked in the stall for them to bother? Oh, well. Lesson learned- never go to the bathroom alone. Or if you must, at least check the lock and make sure you have your cell phone to call for help.

Word of the day:

Plume (noun)- a bird feather, or the adorable grey and white fluffy cat whose fur is covering all of my belongings. Cat hair everywhere…I feel so at home!