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