Only Speak English? No Problem!

English truly is the universal language. Most people under the age the of 30 -I only met two who didn't know english- can speak fluent english and most with an American accent, I can count on one hand how many second language British english I have come across. When out in public with friends from other countries, we speak to the French and they can immediately tell it isn't our first language -obviously the accents- and then they switch to english. Not all the time, but most. I have watched a Brazilian, Colombian, Japanese, and Austrian speak to a Frenchman and switch to english. ALMOST EVERYONE* KNOWS IT. It's the automatic language people switch to when foreigners communicate with some difficulty. The french know instantly I speak english no matter how hard I try to conceal my accent -it's the R sound- and they'll switch, it's gotten to the point that I'll respond the first few sentences to english but then I'll go back to french because that's what I'm here for dammit. Among students also, english is used A LOT. American music is all over public radio, when I hear french music in public I get excited. 

In a lot of schools -I have learned- it's a requirement to start learning english at a young age. People have asked me why a majority of Americans don't know a second language -fluently- because we seem to be the only country like that. I tell them in America, it's not required from a young age to learn any language -generally-. In high school, yes you need to have at least two years in order to graduate, but that kind of learning will get you by being a polite tourist. We don't have the need to learn a second language because our country is so large and everyone in it speaks the same language. In the amount of time it'll take me to drive to Idaho this summer, I could drive from here in Amboise to Karlovac, Croatia which is still 35 miles shorter but still 4-5 countries away -depending on the route you take-. Point is: with that amount of distance my destination will still have the same culture, language, and laws -relatively speaking-. We don't have the necessity to speak a second language. Now, if you live in the states boarding Mexico, yea it's a smart idea to learn some spanish, and a lot people in the north east know french because of the Canadian influence. But as a population in general, Americans don't speak a second language. I know a lot of you at home might be reading this and want to argue some of these points but I'm speaking in general terms. If you plop a German in Tennessee he's pretty much going to be forced to speak english, and good luck to that guy because he might have some trouble with that southern accent they've got goin on. 

If you have fears of traveling to Europe because you don't speak the language of your destination I promise you, you will be fine. I knew a Japanese girl who went to Paris and she communicated to everyone with english because, like I said, everyone* knows it. Even in small towns that are tourist destinations most will know english, it will be a little more broken than the english you'll find in a major city but communication is still attainable. 

Yesterday I went to Loche, it has a castle and dungeon and other cool stuff. As I sat waiting for the return bus to the train station to get me home, a 60-something old lady sat down next to me and she just started talking to me. We talked about Loche, how beautiful it was, how she was waiting for her grand daughter to arrive, how she was going to take her to the castle the next day, how she loved Amboise, and she was funny. She was one of the nicest old ladies I've had the pleasure of speaking with. The best part about this to me: she was a stranger. She didn't ask where I was from or about my accent until the very end of the conversation, and she was so happy about everything. When her grand daughter arrived she left, it was a wonderful treat the universe plopped on me. It cashed in a few of those good karma points.

As for today, it has been raining since morning. I'm sitting on the glass terrace listening to the rain with my favorite kitty next to me, writing some postcards -I have sent over 100-, drinking some warm apple cider, while wearing my PJs. Things aren't so shabby <3

Mr. Zen. My favorite of the three cats.

Le Jardin. 

*= Generally speaking=most of the time

Open Unattended Gate = Fair Game

It's been a while. Apologies. So here's an update! A few weekends ago I visited my friend Megan in Paris again and she took me to Versailles, which was oh, so magnificent -not to mention the social history involved-.

Marie's got nuthin.

We did not go inside the palace because the gardens are always open to the public. Megan had warned me I would not be ready for how big the gardens were and also warned that we would not be able to see the grounds in one day. Pshaw I say!... She was right.

This is only one side of the palace and not even a quarter of the garden.

It was huge. I'm glad I wore the comfiest shoes that day. To escape from all the people who visited on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, we took one road that disappeared into the woods and walked all the way until it stopped.... on the other side of the property by the horse stables. On the way we found this...

This is a side gate to a palace solely for Miss High and Mighty Marie. If you notice the smaller structure on the right you'll notice it has a small gate... and it's open. Since there was no one around, no cameras, and Megan was my look out: I took that open gate as fair game, which is a mantra I have adopted over here. I entered that tiny gate and walked down stone steps below the earth, I didn't go very far because at the bottom it was flooded and smelled bad. Not to mention I had a slight fear an evil sorceress capturing my soul and locking it away in a jar forever. But I digress! 

Our road.

It was also here, in the woods of Versailles, that I heard nature call and I went to answer it! On my way off of the 'path' to make myself more discreet, I walked right into a batch of fresh Stinging Nettle. I only know what it was because when I was younger I had done a similar thing and ran to the house crying. This time, poor Megan was concerned as she couldn't see me and she could hear me yelling profanities.  So, with red bumps all over the tops of my feet we trekked on. 

                                                         And then we rowed a boat.

All in all, it was a really cool day. We were exhausted by the end and slept for a full 12 hours that night. So you don't think we are pansies, here is an aerial view of the palace. The entrance is where it says Versailles, we walked along the edge of the lake(?)/pond(?)/water, along and walked in the diagonal direction that lead straight to where the yellow meets the green (go pack) in the perfect V shape. That was REALLY far. And of course we had to walk our way back. Our legs I tell you....

 Versailles is a beautiful reminder of nature in the middle of a big city that can smell pretty gross sometimes.

How I Ended Up Sleeping On A Stranger's Couch In Amsterdam

Amsterdam.

love love love love love Amsterdam

It is the best city I have visited in Europe. I only have good things to say about it. It's clean, beautiful, the people are friendly, the police vans have built in coffee machines on the side, there are no homeless people, there is every flavor accent from every country, the scent of Mary Jane everywhere, and the crime rate is really, really low. What I like especially is how it felt like it had a Milwaukee beat to it: music, art, theatre, hippies, and the vibe of everyone helping each other out. It felt like a cooler version of home. Oh, and the city is so flat, biking is the main form of transportation. In one year 60,000 bikes are stolen which make it the biggest petty crime. There are so many bikes, people lock their bikes onto another bike because there isn't anymore room to lock it, they have their very own lane of traffic -stop light and crosswalks included!-. I will say however, the language is impossible to try and use. When Monica and I arrived at the metro station Sloterdijk, we looked at the the schedule to get downtown and could not pronounce a single word. At all. This is also applicable to street signs, just don't even try to say it, you'll kill it -and when you try to pronounce it to a local they will give you the 'what' face until you show them the word and their face lights up and they pronounce it completely unlike how it looks.... figures-. Let me start at the beginning:

My friend, Monica, and I arrived downtown Amsterdam, Thursday 23:30 and found our way to The Flying Pig hostel. Now the hostel is a world I had prepared myself for from all the things anyone had ever said, movies, and magazine articles but I was not fully prepared. If you have never been to a hostel it's like playing the Sims College Life game but add 80% more hot guys under 30, some frat and sorority people, more communal bunk bed rooms, a bar, and pillowie smoking room. We checked in and there was already a party going, music plays 24 hours and there is always something going on. After check in we went to the nearest "coffee shop" -which conveniently happened to be across the street- so I could look at a menu and order a "few things". Those things blew my mind away. We returned to The Flying Pig and looked for our bed, which turned out to be in a 16 bedded room made up of mostly guys with their shirts off. I wasn't prepared. Monica and I shared a full sized top bunk which gave me prime scoping space of the fabulous view below, but I didn't think about how much noise a lot of people make when they sleep in the same room. Man farts, snoring, choke snoring, sleep talking, scratching, whispering, and the door opening and closing all night from people going to and fro are a few examples. 

Friday morning Monica and I got up and ready and immediately went out to explore. The problem was, we had excellent plans for arrival and departure, but not for the actual stay so we didn't know where to go first. The nice lady behind the desk gave us a map and pointed us in a few directions. On the first day we visited Anne Franks house, the Sex Museum, and the Red Light District -along with lots of wandering around and exploration time-. Around 8pm we decided to go back to the hostel for a little nap so we could experience some night life but we accidentally slept the entire night into the next morning.... whoops.

Red Light District- so no ladies in these windows :(

Saturday, we went to the Heineken brewery tour, Gassard diamonds tour, ate warm waffles with Nutella on top, walked more of the Red Light District and we ran into a minor issue: we had no where to sleep. We made reservations at another hostel but realized it was too far away and there wasn't transport back to the train station early enough for us to get on the train we needed and all the other hostels in town where either booked or had a two night minimum stay. Ok, we are a little screwed. At the last minute I remembered 'Couch Surfing', its a website and app used by people all over the world who want a free place to stay. We looked in our area -there were hundreds of hosts- and I sent out four pleas and one responded with detailed directions -take tram 9 and get off at Nic Lublinksraat- and time. He had all positive reviews and had been doing it for three years. Perfect. Monica and I were a little nervous, for obvious women traveling reasons, but we both know people who have done it and say it's awesome. Upon intros we all hit it off, his apartment had Rastafarian music playing, he offered food and opened a beer for me right in front of my eyes. He was a cool dude. He had three friends come over -two frenchmen and a dutchman- and we talked until the wee hours of the morning. None of them did drugs, one was a jazz guitarist, one was a musicologist, and one was a pilot. So we slept on a guy's couch, in good faith, good company, and we will never see him again. That's really cool.

Around 5:45 Sunday we got up and made our way back home to Amboise. On this trip, we used every form of transportation offered: bus, metro, tram, city bus, train. I can now tell you how to use all of these in France and NL. I already miss Amsterdam <3 


Oh, btw ladies: the man to woman ratio is 4:1 and three of the four are REALLY HOT.
If you want to pass on a good pair of genes, just go to Amsterdam. You can line them up, pick one, and it's yours.
I got caught staring sometimes.... there were so many! Eye candy central. Another super bonus.

I Like Being Risky

I like France, it's a cool place. However, little things keep popping up that are odd and I'm not prepared for them. For instance, today for dinner there was a fish on my plate. Normal? Not quite. It was a fish with its tail and head cut off..... I had no idea what to do. Yes, I've cleaned fish my brothers and gutted them and what not, but I consider this different. After watching Jane I took the 'skin' off, cut it open, and pulled its little spine out in one go. Then with a chunk of butter she taught me to mush it all up, squeeze a lemon and lime on it, and put it on bread with its little tiny tiny bones and all. I think, in my entire life, that was the most atypical thing I've ever eaten -and I've eaten a lot of different things-. This is but one of the quirky little aspects I've witnessed and/or been apart of.

Another of the sort are the hours in which stores are open; every Sunday and most of Monday -if not the entirety of Monday- almost EVERY store and cafe/pub is closed. It's depressing a bit and I don't understand why.

One thing I have figured out -the hard way- is the game I like to call “Let's Get Risky.” Don't buy a train ticket, and see if you can get to and fro without someone catching you. It's very exciting! And if you do get caught you don't get in trouble, you just have to buy a ticket. I have saved A LOT of money getting on a train without a ticket and hoping someone doesn't ask to see my ticket, which has been 8 out of 10 times. So the odds have been in my favor. It's actually quite liberating making a train just on time and the only reason is because the universe spat some luck on you while you were literally running to the train, hopping on, and it departing in that instant. The only times I have ever run since I got here, have been to make the train as it leaves. It's such a good feeling, it's my version of an adrenaline rush over here.

There is one thing I'd like to address: PDA is normal for everyone. I remember my first day when I was still en route to my house and I had a pit stop at a train station, there were two young adults -14 or 15- completely making out for a solid 20 minutes. I was astonished at first but then I thought, they're young, every high schooler at that age is crazy hormonal and has the 'fuck the world' attitude so I understood. I thought I understood. I had yet to understand. Little by little, I noticed I was the only one walking around without a plus one... in Amboise, Paris, Blois, Tours, and everywhere else. There is nothing like being in France to make you realize how single you are; after passing by the 8^th couple making out in public I had been desensitized.

Also, there are many more interracial couples in France than I have ever seen in America, ever. A petite blond girl with a dark Arab, a ginger guy with an African lady, a latin midget with an Asian, and the list goes on. It made me realize how openly accepting everyone -at least in France and especially Paris- is. In America -in my experiences anyway- if someone mentions that so and so is dating a black guy/girl it's cuz 'they've got that jungle fever.' Or since someone is dating a latin person, it's because 'they like that extra spicy flavor.' Here, no one cares who you're dating. As long as you're A) not a douche bag B) dress everyday like you actually care C) are useful to society and D) an all around good person, you can date whomever you'd like. It's refreshing. Btw, the mixed babies are super cute, and with that little French voice a 6 year old can make me swoon if he's being polite.

I have developed a theory about quiche that is the same about my theory on pizza: “Every pizza is a personal pizza if you try hard enough.” Oh yea, quiche is. Awesome.

Funny French joke:

What did the Frenchman say when he stubbed his toe? “Oh! Le pain!”

It's ok to laugh and admit that was funny.  

French ladies from the 20s. You're welcome.

Chateau de Chambord

Every castle I've been to has been awesome, because what castle isn't cool? Who doesn't pretend they are wearing gowns, jewelry, and being escorted by men in pumpkin pants? Today, while exploring the 426 rooms, seeing 282 fireplaces, and climbing some of the 77 staircases I could't help but pretend I was Queen... or Francois 1st's love affair, that's fine too. Intended to be a hunting lodge, Francois was my age exactly in 1519 when he commenced construction of Chambord and reigned France for 32 years, but he only spent 72 days at the chateau.

One of the exterior staircases

The grounds cover 5,440 hectares -the same area as Inner Paris- and 800 of that is free and open to the public. 

Backside

Really cool clock

All in all, it was a free train ride, cheap bus fare, and easy walking transportation to arrive at this gate. Pretty cool.

Don't act like you don't want a bed on a stage in a room full of gold

The Feels.

Studying abroad is an experience I am glad to be acquaintanced with at this time. Whenever I see Orion in the sky, I say hello -or bon soir- and tonight as I paid my regards I couldn't help but think about how last year, this time, I never thought I would be in another country. I have said goodbye to two people, so far, that I have made deep connections with and that I will miss deeply; they touched me in a way that I felt I had known them for years and am sad they live on the opposite side of the world. On my walk home, after a night of sharing a bottle of wine by the river side -which has become the usual on a nice evening-, I was thinking about how lucky I am. 

Often, when I meet someone they ask me what I study and what I'm going to do after I graduate school and every time I have found my self floundering for a productive answer that makes me sound like I have my shit together. However, tonight when I admitted to two of my favorite people here that my answer to the question "what are you going to do after school?" is really "I don't know" one said, "that's what I love about America, you have so many options." That phrase made me realize that it's ok to not know what I'm going to do with my future. Don't worry Mama and Papa, I have a plan, but it's hard to explain to someone who's expecting and answer like doctor, lawyer, or race car driver. I read a quote from somewhere recently that went something like this "Life doesn't begin till 40, before then it's merely a test drive." People here know that I love to do theatre, it's just something that I'm going to do the rest of my life for fun but it can never be a career. I'm an unmarried 25 year old undergrad. I'm a spinster. At this point in my life still being in college, single, and sort of having a plan for after college is grounds for a judgement stare that people think they are hiding. I can see it, and I know I'm not following the path of a type A personality that has their life planned out with a nuclear family in 3 years but I know what I want. Happiness. I'm finding it everywhere. Here in France, at home with my dog, with my diploma I'll have next year, with my car that can drive me hundreds of miles, and with a spirit that isn't held down by what society expects of a mid 20's woman in her prime. 

When I arrived home, my lady's daughter and husband had surprised her with a visit. When I meet new people I am always nervous because I am not fluid with perfect French response, but when we sat down for dinner I couldn't be more comfortable. The son in law was engaging, charming, and curious about my thoughts. The daughter was accepting, informative, and loved helping me with my grammar. We sat at the dinner table for two hours discussing places to visit in France, politics, religion, America, cheese -today was the first time they had sharp cheddar cheese from Wisconsin. Yes fellow cheese heads, my dad sent me a package with that in there.... and a 40oz bag of M&Ms-, and life in general. Tonight was a major turning point for me, I had to answer questions I was absolutely not prepared for that I had to keep politically correct but yet still personal with a vocabulary and sentence structure that was understood by all parties. Let me tell you, I have never in my life applied conditionnel, conditionnel passe, subjontif, subjontif passe, present, passe compose, imparfait, and futur in one rolling conversation before. Yes, they understand I'm a student. Yes, I have an accent. Yes, they know I'm not a pro. But, it felt SO GOOD to communicate ALL THE FEELS with no pause. When I ever I said "I have a question" the son in law immediately would focus all his attention and say "Yes Mica please ask". I have never felt so comfortable with strangers and asking so many questions about France and life, after my questions they would ask so many about America and how I felt about certain things. I felt like I was apart of the family. 

After dinner we all sat around the computer laughing at Basset Hounds running photos. Tonight was exceptional, I have only been here for a month an 4 days and I know, for a fact, my oral response has improved 100%. I am very happy with where I am at this life check point. 

On a Train to Somewhere

Today, I got ready and went to the train station. I didn't have a specific location in mind because I've come to find out if you make plans to go somewhere they eventually change about 5 to 6 times, so, I just went and decided once I got there to get a ticket for the next train to Tours, France. I didn't know what there was to do in Tours but the population is more than double that of Amboise so I figured they would have more options. Upon arrival I found la Rue National which is the shopping street full of boutiques. It is here at Yves Rocher that I purchased my first French perfume. Delicious. There were signs for Chateau de Tours and when I found it I thought there had been a mistake. It wasn't a castle. It was a large building with one turret. I was incredibly disappointed, if it isn't at least a 2000 square foot building with grandiose design, servants quarters, and floors of marble or ivory I want nothing to do with it. Standards people. I have them. But it's ok, because I found this instead:

Saint-Gatien

Before I saw this striking building, I never realized how beautiful gothic architecture was. To say this was more beautiful than Notre Dame is like asking a parent to pick their favorite child, they both are both so different but their differences make them unique. The cool thing about cathedrals is they are always open to the public and are free, the house of God is always open to the lost sheep. That's another factor I find so interesting: these buildings are older than America and represent a history where religion was so influential to masses of people. Awestruck inside, I almost forgot I was in a church until a man knelt in one of the side chapels and started to pray. 

When we entered I thought three things. 1st: It's really, really cold in here. 2nd: Omg this place is so huge. 3rd: Where is the organ? I immediately set out to find the source of the sound that held me spell bound just inside the door. Usually, you will see the enormous pipes of an organ in the "back" of the church opposite the altar, generally where you enter and above your head. I kept turning around in one spot and couldn't see it, so I set out at a brisk walk closer and closer to the deep, deep rumble of music. Right around the corner, there she was, in her sublime glory. Once I laid eyes on her I couldn't move, she held me captive like a siren of the sea. I stood, mouth agape for I don't know how long looking at the organ while she sang her psalm of exaltation in a minor key. I know that's what did me in, the minor key. In the gothic church. With the rumbling of the lowest notes caressing my soul. 

But this cathedral was pretty cool. I got to be on a personal level with the gargoyles, explore the cloisters, and learn a few things. 

Even though it rained on and off all day, I consider it to be a success. Getting on a train to somewhere, ending up there, and exploring. I can't think of a better way to experience the unknown. 

Paris Fills Your Heart... And Hurts Your Legs

Ever since I can remember I have been a traveler of sorts. Family vacations to the Grand Canyon -hated it at the time but in retrospect it was really cool. I was just too fat, greasy (puberty time), lazy, and stuck with four other pubescent boys to realize how cool it was-, Niagara Falls, NYC and Disney World for performing, and layovers with my dad in San Fran, Salt Lake City, or Mexico. This list could go on, but Paris is a city that is unlike any other I have visited.

I left on the train immediately after school was over, my friend living in the city, Megan, and I had a rendez-vous point and time but no means of contact or communication with each other: 6:00pm, at the Chapel St. Louis. It was late evening when I got off the train looking for this place, it was my first time actually being in the city and I had only photos off of google maps that I took 4 hours earlier. Of course I couldn't find it -even though I was exactly where the map said I should be- and no one knew or had even heard of this church. With dusk approaching I was reaching an anxiety level -similar to the kind I get when I have to deal with train station- and decided to ask a security guard where to go. He had no idea where this church was, had to pull out another map, and pointed the way. Turns out, it was attached to a hospital and further from the main road than Megan and I had thought. I arrived at 6pm on the dot and tried to find some wifi to send her a FB message. None. No one is around and it's getting dark. “Shit.” Immediately after, off in the distance “Mica!”. Seeing her face had melted all my anxiety and worries away, I was safe with my foreign Parisienne.

Notre Dame Altar

The Metro is the heart beat of traveling in Paris: its beat is the train that comes every five minutes to every stop, and the blood coursing through its veins are the people flowing in and out, rushing down the stairs to catch it on time or curse fate for being those precious two seconds late. I experienced the Metro for the first time on a Friday evening, during rush hour, on Valentines Day. Yes, the Parisiennes celebrate Vday with flowers and happy things like we do, only its not as commercialized. The phrase “packed like sardines in a can” had never been so applicable to my life. I was sitting on the last seat available, Megan got shoved standing behind me yonder, people were standing shoulder to shoulder, and I had man crotch in my face. I couldn't escape. But, the man crotch came attached to an incredibly attractive gentleman -positive thinking folks-. After making one more connection we were on a 5 minute walk to her home where her host lady welcomed me with warm, sassy, and food filled arms. -side note: the metro is a lot easier than the subway in NYC-

The hangover the next morning from the Green Bay Packer bar was everything I hoped it wouldn't be, but it was nothing a quiche and cappuccino with a cute server couldn't fix. After some french nourishment Megan led the way to the Eiffel Tower, L'Arc de Triumph, Le Champs Elysee -which makes you feel wonderfully expensive just walking-, and the Moulin Rouge. Everything was awesome. Everything. 

We however hit a road bump when trying to find the Moulin Rouge. First: it isn't indicated where to find it specifically on the Paris map -an extremely common one- we had. Second: it took us 45 minutes walking in the wrong direction to figure out that North and South were opposite on the map. The streets on that side of town are comparable to those in San Fran, incredibly hilly, steep, and there are a lot of them. By the time we found the Moulin Rouge it was almost dark and my body felt comparable to what it feels like after running a 5k. We were exhausted. It was also there we found a Metro hookup in the heart of it all.... kill us now. -for all you future Paris travelers, Blanche is the Metro stop literally at the Moulin Rouge, so get off there and avoid what we had to go through-.

Around 8pm we arrived back to Megan's side of town and had dinner -can't remember the name of the establishment- around the corner from her house. America, I'm not sorry: this joint gave me the best burger I had ever had. Ever. It wasn't dripping with grease, but it melted like buttah in my mouth, and the man who owned the place makes his own buns -he was so excited to tell us that-. So, Paris wins at burgers.

The next morning Megan took me to the farmer's market two blocks away. I was not ready, nor could I have prepared myself for what I would experience. If you've seen Aladdin, you would know the scene when Jasmin is in the market place and a man throws a fish in her face yelling “Fresh fish! We catch em you by em!” followed by other shocking events she witnesses. Well this farmers market was like that. If you ever want to see 5 octopi, 3 fish as long as your legs, and clams next to deodorant, body wash, and makeup next to cheese blocks bigger than a car battery, 20 different kinds of bread, and pastries next to bras and underwear next to children's books next to all the veggies known to man, next to jewelry, then this is the place for you. As confusing as I'm sure that was to read, actually being at one took me off guard. Rows, upon rows, upon rows of stands selling their specialties on a sunday morning to a full crowd trying to shuffle their way through to get what they want. After being led through the market was I ready to choose what I wanted: a sweater, a scarf, a lemon tart, an orange, hair pins, and a children's book. It was the coolest farmers market I have ever seen.

We dropped our loot off at Megan's house and made our way over to Notre Dame. It was astonishing. It's sheer size and detail was magnificent. We made plans to return for a Gregorian mass in the future. Because when am I ever going to be able to go to a Gregorian mass at Notre Dame again? If I can do it on Easter that'll be my own personal jackpot.

Just two bridges down from Notre Dame is Le Pont des Arts. I have come to call it the Lover's Bridge. Here, two people in love can write their name on a lock -if they wish-, lock it onto the bridge together, and throw the keys into the Seine representing their ever lasting love. Walking on the bridge, there was a old man playing his french accordion music creating an atmosphere I'd only ever seen in movies.  

This city was an adventure. Only good things happened <3

End blog 5.

Defining Culture with Stereotypes

It's funny how many stereotypes of the French are true, and how many of them aren't true. For instance:

1. The French don't wear deodorant.
   As often as we poke fun at the French in the states for the smelly pits, this stereotype is a farse. I only encountered one smelly arm pit and upon critique of the individual I found if you planted his hippy, bearded face into a theatre or hipster group in Milwaukee he would fit right in. So, I would officially say the french DO, in fact, wear deodorant. In fact, they smell quite pleasant.
   
   
2. There are no fat people in France.
   This stereotype is as true as true can be. I saw only one fat lady and that was my first day here on the train, she was an employee on the train and a French woman. Being from America I found seeing an overweight woman a normality -I also don't mean she was 5-10 pounds over weight, she was what America has come to say "beautiful on the inside"- but the more days I'm here without seeing anyone over the average body size I realize how rare it is to see someone over weight. I actually find it really hard for someone to be over weight here because you have to walk EVERYWHERE and there isn't a lot of bad food here. Even with packaged foods it has less than half of all the bad things we find in American packaged foods. So, I feel that woman on the train has to be an anomaly among the french.
   
   
3. The French are stuck up and hate Americans.
   False. False. False. False. False. It's funny, the French are actually more pleasant with stranger interaction than Americans are. If you do encounter a snobbish Frenchman it's probably because you're in Paris asking a question in English at the Metro in the middle of rush hour. As long as you are polite, use formalities, and speak a little French they will happily assist you; usually they will pick up on the fact that you can't speak perfect French and will pay closer attention to what you have to say, and if they do speak English they will switch over with ease (if they can). When they find out I'm American they say “Oh you're from America! What region? Oh it's really cold there, you must have a lot of snow!” I have also come to find out no one knows where or what Wisconsin is, so I tell them it's an hour north of Chicago and their eyes light up with understanding. They also have no idea, truly, what cold weather is. Here it's between 40 and 50 F and it never gets below 30 F. I find it rather pleasant, when it's not raining, while others are huddling in their full winter coats. Pansies.
   
   
4. There is no public water.
   This is true. There are no water fountains. Period. Sometimes an establishment doesn't even find it required of them to let patrons use their restrooms or even supply toilet paper. So bring your own water and kleenex. The latter problem, however, does not happen often.... but you never know, so be prepared.
   
   
5. The French don't like American food.
   I haven't been able to find this applicable to me yet. All of the foreign kids always want to get hamburgers or pizzas when we go out to lunch which I find disturbing. I always say “hey who wants to go get a quiche?” (cuz they're so good”) and I get trumped to get get something I can find in a 10 minute drive in America. Does this mean they like American food? I don't really know yet. This is a stereotype I still need to uncover.

Side note: America, you are the only country that makes Coke with corn syrup. This is a serious problem because it tastes awful. Put real sugar back in your soft drink. Please and thank you.  

End blog 4.

Food Porn.

Chateau de Chenonceau

I absolutely did not take this picture. But this is it en totale. 

Today, I went to the Chateau de Chenonceau -BTW, since it has half of my name in it I claim half as mine-. It's about a ten minute car ride from where I am living in Amboise and I went with three other classmates. When you arrive, after walking down a road lined with tall symmetrical trees -comparable with the movie Ever After- this is what you see

From this side, it doesn't look like much at first but when you see it from the Loire its magnificent. It was built in the 16th century, and it was built for a woman. It is known as The Ladies Chateau. The Great Catherine de Medici lived here, she also was the lady who introduced le macaron to France. That's right people, le macaron is from Italy.

This massive hall is what stretches over the river, it is the Gallery. It was opened in 1577 and after seeing many pieces of art, dancing, and other festivities it played many important roles later in history. During the first world war the Chateau was turned into a hospital and this room held a great deal of the wounded or dead. In WWII the entrance of the Chateau was occupied by Germany, but the bank of the river on the other side was not. With German artillery always ready to destroy the castle, people secretly passed through this hall to the door -that you can see- to enter the 'free zone' on the other side and escape tyranny -so muther effing cool-. 

Floor of the Guards Room. Wear and tear but it's still there.

Standing in a building that's older than America's constitution is astounding. It is privately owned and generates 75,000 euros everyday in the summer time. Walking around a place as grandiose as this made me realize: Being a princess is over rated, being a queen is where it's at. I am made to be a god damn queen, but I'm born in the wrong era. 

Stupidly huge fire place. (All of them are enormous)

Centaur from a tapestry featuring Diana.

This is the second castle I've ever seen and first ever to actually go inside. My inner history geek took all her clothes off and started running around naked from all the excitement.

End blog 3.

I am Living with Professor Trelawney

The lovely lady with whom I am living is Mme Varennes, she is pretty much professor Trelawney with short hair. She's an expressive individual with a lot of patience -probably because she's a retired special ed teacher-, she has three cats -two of them sleep with me at night-, and the best part is she cooks three course dinners. Yesterday, I arrived a few hours before dinner which happens at 8pm sharp! She began with soup -tasty!-, then a salad with a dressing she made, and for the main course she served the best quiche I've ever had in my mouth, ever. After we were finished she brought out dessert which consisted of apple sauce and cookies. Dinner conversation with this woman is funny, her humor is so hilarious and puts you at ease because she knows how to converse with people who aren't completely fluent. She asked me what I'd like for breakfast the next morning and gave me several options, I opted for coffee like a normal person. The next morning I woke up, got ready, and went downstairs to find a bowl and spoon on the table. I sat down and she started to pour the bowl full of coffee. I was not prepared for a bowl of coffee. I can hardly finish an American sized cup of coffee, but I'll tell you it was damn good coffee.
What I find interesting is the daily schedule of meal time because they are more like events you need to prepare for. Breakfast is small and early in the morning, lunch is more like two meals split between the times of 2 and 5pm, and dinner is at 8 every night. When I returned from exploring town -which I will get into more detail later- she immediately began making crepes -today is national Crepe Day- and they were oh so good. For dinner, just a few hours later, Mme sits me down and puts a bowl of mini radishes in front of me with a salt herb blend next to it. Side note: my mother never, ever put radishes on the table so I didn't really know "the right way". I watched her pour the blend on her plate, dip the mini radish, and eat it. I followed suit and it was darn good. Then, she pulled a roast beef out of the oven with herb seasoned potatoes and carrots. I was so. full. But wait! There's more! She appeared out of nowhere with cheese and a baguette -c'est francais-. At this point I can barely sit up straight from all the food and am glad I can change into comfy clothes. So now we're finished right? Nope! She made more crepes. Why was I surprised? It's crepe day so why wouldn't we eat more crepes?
I learned a new word today: Repu, which means I'm so incredibly full I need to unbutton my pants, and so she did. I did not because I was not wearing pants.

Chateau d'Amboise

Navigation in Amboise is a little more arduous than America. At home, we have the convenient grid system where road numbers can direct you east, west, north, or south and it's easy to find your way even without a map. The map of Amboise is as such: place 5 drunk men in one spot, facing different directions, and set them free. There's your map. The only part that makes sense is the road along the river. Even with my map, as I was peregrinating around town, I found myself turned around on several occasions. The town is so small however it's easy to find your way back to where ever you intended to go and it's easy to remember and familiarize yourself. Conveniently, it's less than 15 minutes to my school from home and you can cover the entire town on foot in less than 3 hours, including wandering lost time and curiosity. These things aside being a pedestrian here is really nice, at a cross walk all the cars will stop for you every single time. In Milwaukee, if you want to cross the street, even at a pedestrian crossing, you need to play chicken with traffic and try to get across in one piece. I also have no problem walking alone at any time being female. I did notice that most the people about town were couples; carrying a bag with baguettes peaking out the top, crowding in front of boutiques and cafes. Rarely did I find a single person walking alone, except one old man carrying a basket full of empty. It was so cute. End blog 2.

I Have an Angel and His Name is Harry.

They say to brace yourself for some culture shock when you go anywhere outside of the United States especially those where customs are different. Mexico, whatevs. Canada, who wants to go there anyw-eh? Hawaii, pretty much like a more awesome version of Florida except the locals really hate white people. These things being said, traveling somewhere I had never been before -alone- was a little bit of a challenge.

Arriving in Paris wasn't the problem, once I got off of the plane there was limited English but if you can't speak French you'll be just fine. Things took a turn for the more complicated when I arrived at Montaparnasse train station; I really hate trains, it's a personal anxiety that I try to avoid at all costs even in America. I'd rather drive, walk, boat, or fly to my destination because I feel those things have more room for error than a train does. Once I was inside the train station I realized I had no clue what to do, but that's fine because things figure themselves out. I went to the ticket counter to purchase a ticket and my debit card was rejected -mother eff-, I went back a second time to use my credit card and I was rejected a second time -double mother eff-, so I went to withdraw some more cash and it was without fail rejected; having limited amounts of euros on my person with an account that had been frozen by my bank had caused my blood pressure to rise exponentially. But soft! A solution! I could purchase a ticket online and print it at the train station! I called my father at 3am central time and pleaded for him to buy me a ticket so I could print it and not have to wait 6 hours for my bank to open and resolve the issue. He did so (superman) and lo and behold I could not print the ticket because I didn't have the credit card. At this point, I am so close to anxiety failure I can feel my hair frizzing. To avoid complete melt down I went to a young gentleman, Harry, who spoke perfect English, and he told me I needed to buy another ticket but to choose the option of 'print at home' so he can print it in the office. Twenty minutes later I have a ticket -hallelujah!- and I have one half hour before my train leaves, I get to the train platforms and look at my ticket only to realize it's for March 3^rd. Frazzled, I go back to the counter to change the date and they do so for a fee.

Here's what they don't tell you about trains in Europe: you don't know what platform your train will be on until 10 mins before it leaves, the train number is not on the train itself, and the cars are not numbered. Walking by the train I hoped was mine, I tried to find car 16, not knowing that NONE of them are marked; in the last 5 minutes of desperation I found a woman who explained the first car is number 11 and they continue on from there. I fail to see this logic. Up to this point, every single french person I came in connection with was incredibly friendly, so I asked an old lady if she could help me -because all old people are friendly- she however didn't respond to my plea and two young lads in front of her confirmed that this was, in fact, car 16. YUS. Got in the car. A friendly old man who could see I was new to this took my giant roller bag, placed it for me, and explained how the seating worked. Thank you friendly old man.

You would think the troubles are over and all is well? False. I had a connecting train in St. Pierre de something that I had to get off at. For the hour train ride I refused to fall asleep incase my luck decided to fall short again. The train platform at St. Pierre de something was incredibly bleak: there was no train schedule, the platforms had numbers AND letters -doesn't God know algebra doesn't belong in real life or train stations?- , and there were no station attendants as far as I could see. Oh! Is that a uniform off in the distance! Madame! The one and only attendant told me exactly what platform and train to get on, she even came and found me right before I was to get on to make sure I would. Ten minutes later I was in Amboise. It took me, from flight take off, 15 hours to arrive at my destination. 15 hours of brain melting and heart palpitation.

BUT, I will say the trains are incredibly fast and efficient... if you know what you're doing. Which I do now. Next weekend I'm taking a train to Paris to visit my friend Megan to see the Louvre and drink at a bar called Wos, which happens to be the official Packer bar in Paris. End blog 1.

                                                              Le Pont de La Loire