October 17, 2009

11:35 AM

Dorm

P.S. Sorry there aren't many photos to accompany this yet, but I left my camera to upload my pictures in Paris, and it's currently in the hands of the European postal service, I hope.

Things are going well in Granada, but since I’ve returned from Paris a week ago, I cannot stop thinking about it. Maybe it’s that it was my first “European” trip, maybe it’s that I got to see friends I really missed, maybe it’s that it was my first getaway from my program, or maybe it was just that it was Paris. In any case, I adored it.

On Thursday night I got on the last bus to Malaga and stayed at a hostel for 10 euro (I love Europe). I shared a ten-bed room with 2 other men who, when I arrived at 11, were already sleeping. Don’t know what other peoples’ experiences are like with hostels, but I find them to be incredibly awkward. I was trying to tip-toe around and not wake them up but I kept smashing into things, which was really silent. The best part was that I had to make my own bed. I basically ended up sleeping in a “sheets burrito” so I wouldn’t have to turn on the light and noisily tuck my sheets in and everything. I do like burritos, though, so it was fine.

The next day I boarded my flight to Paris bright and early and watched the sun rise from the air. When I got to Paris the airport was massive, and for some reason I forgot that people in France speak French, not Spanish. I speak Spanish, not French. Luckily everyone there, although they get kinda pissed when you ask them if they do, speaks some English. Yay America! Nevertheless, I must have been looking particularly French that morning (after taking a two-hour bus ride, sleeping four hours, taking a two hour flight and wandering around the airport confusedly) because many people struck up conversations with me. My response for everyone was a motion with my hand that was very similar to the motion you would make to describe throwing up. It began with my hand sort of near my mouth and then kind of fanning out into the air accompanied by my saying “I’m sorry I don’t speak French” to which most people responded, “Oh, OK,” and walked away. All in all, a successful method. At one point on the metro during the weekend someone asked me something and I attempted a little “Desole, j’n’parle pas frances,” which sounded approximately like “J no, par pals frances.” The woman I said it to laughed, turned to her friend, and either said (in French, so I’m not sure), “Italians never speak French,” or, “Maybe it’s because we’re Italian.” Really I have no idea, I just am positive that she said something about Italians.

Carly and Bryn met me at the airport and even though I just saw Carly two weeks ago and Bryn at the end of the summer, it was wonderful to see them come around the corner to find me. We hopped on the metro after paying 8.50 for one ride and arrived half an hour later at their apartment, which, coincidentally, is on the same street as the Spanish Embassy. Spooky. They also happen to live about a four second walk from the Eiffel Tower, which is alright, I guess. I guess if I could live anywhere in the world I would accept living right next to the Eiffel Tower. We took a walk over and were bombarded by men trying to sell us one-euro key chains and other weird paraphernalia. Sometimes they get word that the cops are coming and all gather up their mini Eiffels and go sprinting in the same direction. I saw it once. It made my day.

The first day rounded out with a trip to a Fondue restaurant. This is not just any fondue, friends, this is wine in baby bottles, money taped to the walls, scary French waiters, tiny little dining room fondue. In other words, awesome fondue.

I’m still not sure how I feel about drinking nice white wine out of baby bottles with a little nipple, but it happened, so I went along with it. At the end of the meal we all felt nice and warm for our wine and cleansed from our cheese fondue facial. The pots sat in the middle of the table and the steam wafted up into all of our pores, especially Beckie’s. It made for a really spectacular feeling the next morning. We also went to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle that night, and watched a man spit fire, which was awesome and terrifying. Another man had a Turkish flag draped over his shoulders. He must have won a race and was taking his victory lap.

I got up early the next day to watch True Blood and eat French cereal (the same brands as the US but approximately 100% better, crunchier, tastier, awesomer) before anyone else got up. Eventually Bryn and I headed out to see the Notre Dame, and unfortunately upon getting off the metro walked the wrong direction and couldn’t find it before we had to leave for a bike ride in the park with their business school abroad. Our bike ride was fun and, as it turns out, there were two people there with Brookline connections (small world)! My first hint about their program director was that he was wearing green sweatpants with some Boston thing on them, a Celtics playoffs shirt from a LONG time ago, a Boston marathon windbreaker, and a New Bedford fishing association hat on. He fit in really well in Paris. He heard me talking about Brookline with one of the French students who has family there and who studied at Milton Academy for a year, and almost fell of his bike.

Apparently the director’s family lives on Chestnut Hill Ave, which, for those of you who don’t know, is about a five-minute walk from my house. It’s my neighborhood. I was blown away that not one, but two people there had family in my town. How weird.

That evening, after escaping early from the bike ride, stepping in some dog poop and buying some sweet boots, we all went out. Our night ended at a little café with a pitcher of wine, a café au lait, a chocolat chaud, and a té au lait. Actually, our night ended with a Banana Nutella crepe, which was heaven in my mouth, and on my hands, and my chin and a little on my pants, too. Oops. That’s when my love affair with crepes began.

On the last day we went to the Louvre, and got in free! Apparently because we are studying in Europe we’re considered European citizens between the ages of 18-25, which means we get into the Louvre free! We saw all the usual stuff, but didn’t get a single explanation because EVERYTHING in the Louvre is written in French, and nothing, with the exception of the signs telling you to “Keep your hands of the works of art,” is written in English. Luckily Bryn, with her several semesters of art history, was able to give us some valuable notes about several paintings and several styles of art. Yay for Bryn! When we left we asked an American if he could take our picture. Bad idea. It took forever, he wanted to take it from approximately 10 different angles, and then wanted to be in a picture. Boo.

Afterwards we headed to the Musee d’Orsay, which for me was arguably more fun. They have a huge collection of impressionist paintings, of which I found a favorite: Snow at Louveciennes painted by Alfred Sisley.

I don’t know what it was about this painting that I loved so much, but tears came to my eyes when I first saw it. When I’m a trillionaire I’ll own it. OR, if someone wants to buy me it, I’m sure it’s not THAT expensive. Outside the Musee d’Orsay are several sculptures of humungous, very real-looking safari animals (and a horse). I obviously took pictures of them. There was also a crazy man singing. Cities are awesome for so many different reasons.

Just before bed Amanda and I headed to the Eiffel tower to get a crepe, and I, mistaking someone speaking French for someone speaking Spanish, struck up a conversation. Amazingly, it was semi successful. The next day I got on the Metro alone at 745, and with only slight difficulty made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare. I love Granada, and it was a nice feeling to step off the bus here and feel like I was home, but I fell in love with Paris. I hope my life takes me there at some point.