Serena Abroad.com

I've Moved!

2008-08-02T09:28:00.002+02:00

Stop by and visit me at www.serena-at-home.blogspot.com.

2008-07-07T05:28:00.000+02:00

Welcome Back, Your Dreams Were Your Ticket Out....

2008-05-20T09:04:00.004+02:00

So, I am back. I have been...duh, for a while now-- back, that is to say, in the States, not really back in the blogsphere. I've been completely nonexistent in that sense. But I just got internet back in my little apartment, and I am feeling a need to jump back in.
As I am not "Abroad" anymore, I am starting a new blog. I do hope to return to this blog (as I hope to return to my life abroad), but right now, Serena is in Seattle!

A short film

2007-03-19T19:14:00.000+01:00

I am making a movie.
I am applying to a few European film schools and part of this process requires a portfolio, included in which must be a completed short film. Now, I have been preparing a portfolio for the last couple of years. It has film treatments a few scripts in it, but no produced pieces. I'm fucked.
Now, I have less than a month to get this thing together-- and to make things a lot worse, because none of my other scripts can be shot with my very limited resources, I had to come up with something different.
Oh, and this is my last semester and it just so happens that I need to graduate all of the classes that I am taking.
So, between that and actually planning the rather expensive celebratory weekend my parents are hosting for the actual commencement, I am going slowly crazy...
Making movies are fun. I like them. I like the process, and I like the people. But I am terrified this monster is going to be awful because I won't have the time (or energy) to commit to it I need.
We'll see.

Other complications in Serena's life right now:
I am on a diet for lent: 1200 calories/day
I have a boyfriend-- who is not my boyfriend, but is.
I need to find a place to live this summer.
I need to find a job for this summer-- which is next to impossible considering the town's population drops from around 30,000 to 5,000 during the summer and no one is hiring.
I am broke.
I have no bedroom window treatments to cover the five very large-- street side windows in my bedroom.
Did I mention I've been living off 1200 calories/day?

Things that make Serena very happy right now:
It's springtime and the Palouse is a rolling sea of green wheat.
The bulbs in my yard are already blooming and yesterday it was in the 60's.
I am getting my haircut this week.
As I type, the day is getting warmer, the sun brighter, and summertime camping and road trips that much closer!

I am also that much closer to finishing my film. Wish me luck.
--just don't expect to hear from me anytime soon.

**Last year at this time, I was on my amazing trip to Croatia--you know, the one I never blogged about. However, visit my photos/hvratska blog to see some of the sights and read a few short anecdotes. Enjoy!

Life lacking spice (a post about food)

2007-02-03T06:37:00.000+01:00

I am not going to bore you with the details of my life in the U.S.-- and that is, unfortunately exactly the outcome of me rehashing the uneventful...er, um events of the last few months. Let's just say I've been busy, and I've been bored.
That said, one thing I must share with all of you is my new hobby: cooking. It all started for Thanksgiving. For the first time since my parents divorced (over 15 years ago), my father decided to spend the holiday with his daughters instead of a trophy wife or girlfriend. My sister was flying in from the big city and I would be driving to the rez (Daddy lives on an indian reservation in eastern Washington). But before that, I volunteered to cook Thanksgiving dinner. I went without cooking the entire time I was in France and desperately wanted to create a memorable holiday. So, I did what any obsessive perfectionist would; I held several practice dinners where I entertained my friends and rehearsed cooking my thanksgiving dinner. Guests rated and critiqued recipes and I spent about $300.00 on ingredients. I cooked whole chickens instead of turkeys-- too big, and made them (my friends-- not the chickens) bring their own wine.

Final Dinner Menu:
Free-range turkey with basil and butter rubbed underneath the skin: soooooo moist!
Au gratin potatoes: gruyere, mozarella, parmesean, and six (!) other random cheeses (a new family favorite)
Cornbread and andouille stuffing: I expanded on the recipe by adding plums for color and moisture, peas, and rosemary, basil, and oregano.
Green beans flash fried with pecans
Sweet potato pudding: I've made this for every dinner and brunch since then (see recipe below)
homemade buttermilk biscuits: never again-- I will buy a mix!
gooey pumpkin cake (I like this so much better than pie)
homemade whipped cream: see buttermilk biscuits

All of that for 3 people! I spent 5 hours cooking and didn't even get to shower that day. Pictures of me at the table show my greasy head and stained t-shirt (I refused to face the camera), while my sister and father are both dressed to the nines.*
Best part of that day: I left the bottle of bourbon I'd bought for the pudding at home. I couldn't find bourbon extract at the one grocery store in town and had to drive to two different neighboring towns to find an open bar. I bribed the bartender $20 for 4 tablespoons of bourbon. A toothless woman with a mullet saved the holiday.
Ahh, holiday memories...

Sweet Potato Pudding

2 pounds sweet potatoes, roasted
3 eggs
1 cup heavy cream
Pinch of grated nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 cup pecan pieces
1 cup (packed) light brown sugar
2 tablespoons Steen's 100 percent Pure Cane Syrup
Pinch of salt
1/4 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 tablespoons bourbon
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup flaked coconut
1/2 stick (4 tablespoons) butter, softened

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Peel and mash the potatoes in a mixing bowl, until smooth. Stir in the eggs and cream. Add the nutmeg, cinnamon, 1/2 cup of the pecans, 1/2 cup of the brown sugar, syrup, salt, vanilla, and bourbon. Mix well. Pour the mixture into a 1 1/2 quart greased round baking dish. Combine the remaining pecans, remaining brown sugar, flour, coconut and butter. Using your hands, mix the ingredients until the mixture resembles a coarse texture. Spread the mixture over the pudding and place in the oven. Bake for about 45 minutes, or until bubbly. Serve hot.
-- I don't crumble the coarse mixture over the top, but mix it in with the rest--

*Does anybody know the origins of that saying?

Starting Over: Part the 1st

2006-08-18T07:41:00.000+02:00

Well, here I sit: the television and air conditioning providing white noise, my mother's couch a little bit of comfort, and my hometown a depressing reminder of a lifetime past. How is this post supposed to start? How am I supposed to start? It's hard here: everything is exactly the same as I remember. No surprises, but so difficult to adjust to. I am confused and surprised by the most everyday of things. How do I start?
I guess the airport is a good place...
I arrived at the American Airlines check-in with 1 and 1/2 hours before my flight's departure. I got in line to check-in and waited. And waited. And waited.
With 30 minutes to spare, I got to the counter and was told that my baggage was too heavy-- 80$ too heavy. I checked my bags and walked over to the AA customer service counter to pay the 80$. My card was declined.
"Looks like you went a little overboard with the shopping"
"That's appropriate, thank you." I replied. "I'm going to the ATM-- I'll be right back." I've experienced problems with credit card machines and find ATMs to be almost 100 percent reliable.
The ATM declined my card as well. This frustrated me on several levels:
1) I knew I had money in my account-- I checked the balance online that morning.
2) The airline had already tagged and sent off my luggage
3) My flight was supposed to leave in about 10 minutes
4) I had no other way to pay the 80$. I made a point to spend all of my cash before getting to the airport, I had no American dollars, and none of my other cards.
I returned to Mr. Smug sitting behind his customer service counter...
"So you believe me now?"
"What are my options here? I need to get on that plane, but I have no way of paying you... I don't know what to do."
"Why would you do this? Do you have any idea how late you are? You have to pay or lose your ticket."
"I wouldn't do this-- I didn't! I don't know why my card isn't working."
"Do you have a phone number in the States"
"YES!" I replied thinking he was going to take all of my information down and work out a way for me to take care of this problem from Seattle.
While I wrote out any and every piece of personal info. I could think of, he had begun helping someone else.
"Hello! Pay attention! I need her credit card number and expiration date as fast as possible."
"Whaaa? Whose credit card? What are you talking about?"
"Do you want my help?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to make your flight?"
"Yes..."
"Then you need to pay attention: I'll need her credit card information."
I looked at the woman standing at the counter next to me in confusion
"Sir, what are you talking about, whose?
"How should I know, whoever is on the phone! Whose number did you give me?"
"My mother's-- It's 3 am there! You called her? Fine, give me the phone!"
"uhhh, wait just a minute, I need to take her off hold...you can't just pick up my phone!"
I talked to my very groggy mother for about 5 seconds, gave him her info, and got on my flight after I cut to the front of the passport check-in line, darted up the escalator tubes, cut through the security line, and ran, and ran, and ran.
The plane had not even begun to board when I reached the gate.
When we did board, the plane sat on the tarmac for 1 and 1/2 hours.

one hundred

2006-07-29T12:44:00.000+02:00

This is it: both my 100th post and the last words of wisdom I offer to you from abroad. I am leaving France in two days, and disconnecting my internet in a few minutes. Thus, my 101st post will be direct from the Pacific Northwest. I should mention that July 14th was also Serena Abroad.com's first birthday. France celebrated with fireworks and declared the day a holiday, thus post offices and government buildings were all closed. I was touched.
The year has been good, bad, great, terrible, educational, I feel like I've regressed in so many ways. Above all, I don't want to return to the States, but understand that that is the plan laid before me. I have never been one to argue with "fate." I return hopeful that the year will truly be full of "lasts." And, I get to see some people I have missed (glass half full), but will be forced to mingle with those I left trying to escape (glass half empty).
Looking back on the blog, some of the things I've experienced/written about still make me laugh, while I feel that other posts would've been much richer (and possibly much shorter) had I been willing to share a little bit more of my real identity. Dommage. I also noticed several spelling/grammar errors and am happy to say that I really just don't care enough to go back and fix them. Desolée.
Well, friends, I will be back to post on my re-entry next week, but until, thanks for reading, your comments, and support.
Á bientôt,

Serena

Harmoniously Ever After...

2006-07-29T00:12:00.000+02:00

I received an email from a friend recently: she is the same age as I am—I’ve known her for several years, in fact. But we are in very different places. She graduated from college two years ago and while she has a steady job/career, all of her time and energy as of late have gone towards finding a husband/provider of seed. The email was a simple “this is what I am doing in my life,” “Voilà, the latest gossip from people we really couldn’t give a shit about unless they are miserable and, therefore, merit discussion,” and coming from her: “this is what I am doing to find a husband (be it dating, stalking, fraud…).” Sounds like she is doing well.
Anyway, in her e-mail, she explained she has been trying out online dating services; one she particularly likes:eHarmony.com. “They have this test that asks every question you could ever imagine about life and sex and relationships—it’s proven to work. You also get a personality profile that tells you all this stuff about you.” She was very impressed by said test and said I should take it; “It freaked me out!”
Well, I was bored last night; I’ve packed up all of my DVDs and books, and I couldn’t find a movie online, so I went to eHarmony.com. I just wanted to take the test (I’m not really into dating services—or looking for anyone to date at the moment).
The test is thorough and, consequently, very long. It took longer than 30 minutes to complete, but at the end, their site gave me about 4 pages of small print psycho-analysis (a $40 value—yours free at eHarmony.com), and another 4 pages telling me about my perfect man. Unfortunately, it didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know (I’m a pretty self-aware person).
Now, I just wanted to take the test, I wasn’t going to sign up for anything, nor did I want to cruise their site. I just wanted to take their test, but after you take the test, they automatically match you with other eHarmony clientele. And what do you know if I didn’t have some matches. As a non-subscriber you can view their profiles, which are also…er, um thorough, and if you would like to talk to them—or if they would like to talk to you—you have to subscribe. I just wanted to take the test. But some of my matches continue to express interest in contacting me. I am not a subscriber. Sorry.
The problem with all of these “matches” wanting to talk to me: it really freaks me out. Not because these men are on a dating service, or that I don’t know them, or that one of them is 19 and looking to get married and have a family (apparently, he doesn’t mind if I already have children). It freaks me out because I am sssssssssooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo not in that place. I don’t want to get married or have kids right now—hell; I don’t want to date anybody right now. I had a small panic attack while reading my matches’ profiles. I couldn’t help but feel very claustrophobic. I’m sure these guys are all very nice (they never would’ve had a chance if I was seriously seeking love), but if given the choice, my profile would not have been available to be compared to anyone else. eHarmony isn’t exactly Adultfriendfinder.com; these men are looking for serious relationships. They want to open lines of communication with me and see if we really are a “match for friendship or maybe even love!” *shudder*
I know there is no pressure for me to contact any of them—I am not able to as I am not a subscriber, but there is some kind of pressure to be, at the very least, dating right now. My therapist says that I should at least go out with more men “to practice,” if you will. I told her I’d rather practice with my vibrator. She said that’s not what she meant.
The whole experience just sorta freaked me out. That’s all.
It’s a thing—a problem, I know.
So, as you can imagine, I am a little wigged as every time I’ve opened my inbox in the last 24 hours, I’ve been greeted by a new match looking to “open lines of communication with me.”
My view of dating services is a bit closed-minded (I tend to not look to favorably on them), but this whole “freaky” experience has got me thinking: I’d like to know what all of you, my adoring fans think.

UPDATE: check out cute story in comment

20 pts for film:
“I can see it all now, this is gonna be just like last summer. You fell in love with that girl at the Fotomat, you bought forty dollars worth of fuckin' film, and you never even talked to her. You don't even own a camera.”

you spell it S-A-N-T-A-C-L-A-U-S

2006-07-25T20:05:00.000+02:00

Last night (Monday, July 24th, 2006), I was perusing the Library of Congress online archives for a movie to watch. There are several classic films available to download or stream for free (public domain films), and I chose Reefer Madness followed by Santa Conquers the Martians. It was made in 1964. It stars a very young Pia Zadora. It is not a classic. It was one of the saddest-- not funny in a pathetic, ironic-- things I have ever seen. You MUST watch it. If, for no other reason, than the song: a classic holiday ditty that, sadly, never really seemed to catch on.
You see, after walking around the 'cook-an-egg' HOT streets of Paris for close to 5 hours, I was ready to sit naked in front of my fan and watch something that would make me laugh. My day started by being turned away from La Villette. They are open everyday-- except Mondays (MERDE: it takes forever to get out there). So, off I went to see the Cindy Sherman at Jeu de Paume at the Tuilleries. It too is closed Mondays. FUCK. Serena. Getting. Hot. As in. Both. Angry. And. Faint. With. Chaleur.
So, I decided to head to le Grand Palais where a bunch of machines of the ancient world are on display (catapults, etc.). Instead of descending back into the bowels of hell er, um... I mean the Metro, I walked along the Seine and laughed at tourists (my new favorite sport-- that and 'Name That Tourist's Nationality').
When I got to le Grand Palais, I couldn't find the entrance or ticket booth. The facade of the building is covered in scaffolding and confusing signs with arrows pointing me in every different direction. Finally, I found the "entrance," but no one was there, and the ticket booth windows were all closed. I was there during their hours of business, the right day of the week, and I verified the dates of the exposition, but as with some things in France: it just wasn't open, and no rational reason can be provided. Dommage.
Then, I headed to the very other side of town to the Jardin de Plantes. It's a zoo, garden, and paleontology museum (dinosaur bones, wooley mammoths). But, because the RER C line wasn't running, I had to take a bus and didn't get there until after 5:30. They weren't letting anybody else in. AARRGGHH! So, back to St. Michel to catch the RER home.
A rather fruitless day.
But, OH! Santa Conquers the Martians made my evening.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

2006-07-22T19:19:00.000+02:00

*

If you have stopped by a few times in the last few days (doubtful-- where have all my blog friends gone?), you will have noticed a few changes. Yep, I'm back online. I have updated my Serena Approved links, Photo Albums, I even made a few posts. And more is to come.
I leave France on the 31st of July. I won't lie: I don't want to leave. Just the thought of making the move renders me ill, and I won't even allow myself to think about the re-entry "culture shock" crisis I'm going to have.
So, to be sure, the first week or so that I'm back won't be too busy here; I will be occupied watching television and catching up on films I missed in the last year.
But, until then, count on me. I have a lot of shit to unload er, um...share with all of you.

*Too Much Information Warning: David Bowie gets it done for me in a way I cannot put into words. His androgynous hottness is equaled only by Tim Curry in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. As Gareth in Labyrinth, he was the first man to give me that same funny feeling between my legs I get on a bumpy bus ride.
I. LOVE. HIM.

Bois de Vincennes

2006-07-20T12:15:00.000+02:00

I woke up this morning with a very sore knee. The awkward angle at which I kept my leg, ankle, and foot yesterday while driving did not agree and I could barely extend my leg today. I spent close to 30 minutes trying to walk it out, but as soon as I deemed it road worthy I headed out to the Twingo and decided to go…somewhere. Sure it’s Sunday in France, but that doesn’t mean the open road is closed. In truth, I would’ve been content just to drive all day, but I didn’t want to pay for the gas and tolls. I drove to the Bois de Vincennes. Just on the other side of the city limits, Vincennes is a big wooded park and home to the City’s zoo and botanical gardens. It is also surrounded by some very beautiful, never-in-my-life-will-I-be-able-to-afford-to-live-here homes. I took the Pte de Charenton exit and tried my best to follow signs to the zoo. Surely, if it wasn’t open, I could park the car and enjoy the park quand meme. The problem was that I couldn’t find the zoo. I found myself driving around the park not really sure where I was going, however, it was such a lovely day, I really didn’t care. The French were out in full force: joggers, cyclists, families picnicking, footballers, and kids playing with squirt guns. The two-lane park roads were full of cars looking for parking spots and vintage auto owners out for a Sunday drive. I just followed the flow of traffic; if it was easier to turn, I turned. If it was easier to go straight…
I found myself turning back towards the direction of Paris when I entered a large roundabout completely full of parked cars. ? I wasn’t really sure where to go or what to do when the people behind me started to honk their horns. And then I looked up: Le Chateau de Vincennes. Impressionant, wouldn’t you say? I navigated through the “parking lot” and headed back to the Parc Floral to leave the car.
I miss driving, and I miss driving a little car even more. My very first car was a 1989 Hyundai Excel (a two-door hatchback). I loved it. Fast and conveniently compact. I could whiz in and out of traffic, parking, etc. Before I left home, I was driving a boat that has sustained its fair share of damage (I am a good driver but when it comes to the big cars, I can’t park for shit). When I return home, my father is giving me his 2001 Lincoln towncar. A whale. A luxury whale to be sure, but a whale. Gas alone will probably bankrupt me every month, but due to family politics, selling it is not an option.
But, I digress…
I decided against taking the guided tour of the castle and church (the famous donjon—the tallest medieval donjon in existence—is, due to renovation, not open to the public), and walked around the grounds taking photos and soaking up the sun. It’s a great little castle complete with chapel, his and hers wings, giant donjon, and wall built to withstand dragons and knights of the roundtable.
Crossing to the other side of the castle grounds, I stopped to grab a sandwich and éclair, and picnic in the shade. Picnics on park benches will be missed. In the states, eating is done in your home or certain designated places: a restaurant, picnic area. You can’t just go into the mall, roll a burrito and start munching away.* In France—throughout Europe, cities are planned in such way that open-air, communal spaces are used for everything from, yes, eating to exercise, walking the dog to (in Paris) making out/grinding against a loved one. It’s not rare to find a young, beautiful American tourist sitting on a bench next to a busy commercial street enjoying her lunch. And said young, beautiful American tourist has no reason to feel at all out of place as many locals are doing the same.

Next up: le Parc floral. I really just walked around the park for a couple of hours. It’s quite large, and offers several amenities including a children’s play area, concert pavilion, several green house, restaurants, and relatively clean bathrooms. As it was Sunday afternoon, the park was full of families picnicking and enjoying the sun. The were everywhere. I felt a bit like John Candy in Summer Rental stepping over and on people as he made his way across the beach to his family. But it was fun to see a couple thousand people all in good spirits, all relaxed away from the city. Also, if you do have children, and you plan on coming to Paris, you must visit le Parc Floral for this:
This mammoth is only one of many pretty extraordinary “toys” to enjoy. They have bumper boats, mini golf, an outdoor discovery science park, etc. I was tempted to start climbing myself.
Admission to the park cost me 1€50 (student) and is open everyday.
Driving my little Twingo back to the city, I sighed and accepted the fact that I still have another month before I can drive whenever I want, and that I only have one month here in Paris.

*10 pts. for that one: film and name of character—not actor who played him

Life is a Highway

2006-07-20T02:08:00.000+02:00

I actually really like that song. I know it’s a bit dated, I know it’s a bit trite, but it kinda kicks ass, and is—in my book—one of the all-time great road trip songs.
“Its relevancy to today’s post?” you might ask. Well, July 1st, I embarked on a journey: a road trip. I rented a car, filled it to the brim*, and drove through the picturesque Norman countryside and into Île de France.
I left Caen around 1 p.m. I didn’t immediately take the “interstate;” I wanted to make a quick stop in Lisieux to see the famed Carmelite Basilica. I had seen it from the train, sitting atop a hill, overlooking the city several times, but never made the 20-minute voyage. By car, it is more of a 40-minute trip as one travels at much slower speeds and must stop in every little hamlet and village on the way there. This is a complete pain in the ass if you are driving a manual transmission for the first time in almost 10 years.

The Basilica is…enormous. imposing. large. really large…big**. It is fairly new (built in the last century), and completely shames every other major cathedral I have ever seen. Ever. It’s big, yea—bigger than Notre Dame or Sacre Coeur in Paris, but the best thing about this church is the interior design. Every interior surface is covered in mosaic tiles. Saints, biblical scenes, heavenly beings, this church is off the hook, yo! They used bright, rich colors and the effect is…affecting.
There is very little else of interest in Lisieux. It is a pleasant French town with a population large enough to support a “mall” and McDo, but really skippable. The Basilica, however, is not. It is by far, my favorite church in Europe***.
Next, I was on the interstate, rocking out to a Scottish radio station I miraculously picked up. They were all about the upcoming UK/Portugal game, and were playing requests—including Tiffany’s I think we’re alone now!!!! I will never forget rolling all of my windows down, turning the volume all the way up and rocking out to my favorite 3rd grade song. I scared a few French cows, and received some concerned looks from other motorists.
Normandy is truly a beautiful region, and in the summertime, actually pleasant to visit. It is hot, green, and they like Americans. I really loved the drive, but I paid 16€ to put a quarter of a tank of gas in my Twingo, and another 15 on tolls. *grump*
Getting into Paris I did something I swore I’d never, ever do: I drove through Paris. I wish I could explain the rules of the road here, but I fear there aren’t any. In the city, there are no lanes, just space for one regular-sized car, or two compacts side by side, or two compacts and a scooter, or one regular-sized car, a dangerously close compact, and a scooter (sans helmet, of course). And as this is France, there are few stoplights, but several round-abouts. It appears to me that these are rather complete and total free-for-alls. At any given time, the large round-abouts in Paris (like Place d’Italie and l’Etoile) can have as many as 80 autos circling their cobble-stoned “lanes,” and not one of these cars, trucks, wagons abide by any of the same protocols as any of the others. And no one minds the speed limit. But I did it. I drove in Paris, and I lived. I am used to driving in heavy traffic—next to L.A., Seattle is the worst in the States, but I am not in the habit of driving in crazy traffic. Crazy traffic is…er, um crazy.
I got settled into my room, but without a parking permit, I was forced to leave the Twingo on the street. Unbeknownst to me, France would later win their World Cup Match against Brazil and everyone partying and watching the match on the big screens at the stadium next door would be spending the better part of three hours partying in said street. When I heard the fireworks, horns, and screams, I ran out into the street and to the car. I got in, locked the doors, and rolled the windows down. No one would be hurting my rental. No one. I had to sit, parked until all of the festivities were over with—which was a painfully long time, and spent several minutes trying to convince a guy that he and his girlfriend should not make-out on my bumper, and that no, I did not want to join them.
I will say that it was quite a show. Everyone was going completely nuts and the street—a main vein in Paris-- was shut down by the celebration. There was no traffic; the cops weren’t even trying. No fights, no vandalism (no permanent vandalism: a few over-turned trash cans), and a lot of fun.
And thus ended my first night back in the City of Lights.

*It took me about 3 hours to load the car (a Renault Twingo). I had pretty good visibility, but couldn’t move my seat or open the passenger door or hatch. Its tiny wheels earned their mileage that day.
**all the same thing, but different because of the spelling
***I am close to sure that is a Carmelite church. I could be wrong. I am also close to sure that Liseux does have the French equivalent to a mall, but folks, Serena-abroad is a non-profit blog and thus, has little in the way of resources to commit to fact checking. That said, we gladly accept your generous donations in the form of clicking on the ads at the right of your screen.

Munchen to Frankfurt: New Year’s Eve (St. Sylvestre)

2006-06-29T23:01:00.000+02:00

I was to spend the grand fête with German girl from Killarney. Katrin had extended an invitation for me to come and visit her, but because of Poppy’s death and a few lost days, my RSVP was short notice. She lives outside of Frankfurt—about one and one half hours outside of Frankfurt—but I lost track of that little fact in my head when she volunteered to meet me at the hauptbanoff. She met me at the station, took me on a whirlwind tour of Germany’s banking capitol (skyscrapers and luxe shops), we even snuck into the opera house. Then back to her house by way of train and short car ride. This girl after only knowing me from a few shared days in Ireland, invited me into her home and she introduced me to her family and friends. Once again, European hospitality amazes me!
We ended up spending the night at the home of a friend in Marburg. A party of several nationalities gathered together for a potluck dinner, after which, we climbed a hill in the center of town for the best view of the fireworks shows (if you could call them that). Germans love fireworks, and as far as I could tell, there are no regulations. Whatsoever. Marburg was a war zone. Pink, green, and yellow explosions on the horizon, purple bursts of flames in the streets, and red smoke coming from the rooftops. I have never seen anything like it. And to add to the madness, everyone was drunk, using their empty bottles to launch rockets, and spread glass over the ‘war-ravaged’ streets. Walking around town, one had to use extreme caution to avoid firecrackers and bubbling fountains of sparks, not to mention in-coming projectiles around every corner. It was madness. I loved it.
We ended up at a club that was miserably hot and smoky, but fun. Circulating through the crowd: two blonds—each one taller over 6’4” and trashed as all hell. They actually looked a lot like Marlon and Shawn Wayans in White Girls. They were dancing on tables, falling over drunk, and wearing next to nothing.
The next morning, Katrin took me back through town and showed me the sights. Marburg is a very old town with a large university and home to the super lethal virus of the same name. It has some of the most picturesque streets and homes, and a castle at the top of a hill in the center of town. I like this place.
Adding to her already overwhelming hospitality, Katrin presented me with a feast of a breakfast, and helped me get a cheap flight out of Frankfurt. She then proceeded to take me all the way to the airport (a 2 hour-trip both ways for her). I paid 190€ for a last minute -same day flight and said goodbye to my friend. In two hours I was back at Charles de Gaulle and fighting to get my pack from the carousel.

Germany was better than anything I could have imagined, despite obvious disappointments, avoidable expenses, and the loss of a loved one, my Christmas alone was one of the best ever. I love the German people, they are kind and welcoming, I loved shopping and their cinema, and left totally impressed with the culture.

Munchen IV

2006-06-14T12:50:00.000+02:00

Not being one to break from tradition, I woke up late Friday morning. Maybe it was the snoring of the “brother” above me (I cannot tell you how much I wanted him to choke on his stupid puka bead necklace, or maybe swallow his “Live Strong” bracelet), I didn’t sleep very well that night. But I had things to do; it was my last full day in Munich and I had a film studio to see, and a concentration camp to visit.
Thanks to our very own JG Stephan, I heard about the Bavarian Film Studios, and made time for them on my trip. They are easy enough to reach by tram—the 25 line stops about two blocks away (the stop is named after the studios), and for that, no special fare is required. I paid 7 euros for a guided tour of the studios, and another 8 euros for two small films in an interactive theatre. The cashier told me to pass through the archway, and wait in front of the MacDonald’s. Yep, there is a MacDonald’s there. It serves only the Film Studios.
So, there I stand—it is FREEZING cold, in between the world’s favorite fast food stop and the gift shop when I notice a group of people lining up by a giant (two-story, in fact) hairy statue of King Kong. Too timid to approach the group alone, I poked my head into the gift shop to confirm where I was supposed to be. Like everywhere else I’d been in Germany, the staff (one guy with badly dyed black hair and too many facial piercings to be working at a family attraction) spoke excellent English. He was completely unable to help me but tells me the tours run every 20 mins. and my ticket is good for any. I decide to peruse the shop and its collection of movie posters, stuffed animals and clothes. I’ve never been one for souvenirs, but fell in love with a pair of Falcor slippers (not available in my size).
The tour was in German. What can I say? French, English, and Japanese tours are only available during the season. I got very little out of it other than a few photos on the set of Enemy Mine, Das Boot, and The Never-ending Story. The guide spoke English, but as I was the only anglo-phone, he hardly ever did. Also, none of the sets/attractions were heated. I spent an hour running around in the cold following a group of Germans through a theme park.
That said: I had a great time. I amused myself. And while the “amusement” part of the park did little for me, seeing the Das Boot submarine—you get to walk through it—and getting my picture with Falkor was unforgettable.
I had purchased tickets for two short films at an interactive theatre (moving seats, 3D) but I was losing time and decided to eat the 8€ and head back to town.

Dachau is a small, charming town 40 minutes by train outside of Munich. The Memorial/Museum closes at 5:30 p.m. or so I thought. In reality, the park/ garden/ work camp-turned-museum closes at 4:30 p.m. and they start to kick people out at 4 p.m. I arrived at 4:15! Merde.
I ran through the museum. Not impressed. Much like the Nazi rally grounds in Nurenburg, the museum consisted of few artifacts, and several pictures with captions that repeated themselves over and over again. I feel completely let down by these WWII exhibits, and am conflicted about what I would want to see—if I would actually want to see some of the things I was expecting to be there?
Anyway, didn’t have time to see the slightest at Dachau before being kicked out. There was, however, plenty of time while waiting for the bus in the freezing—FREEZING—cold and I started talking with two Americans girls on touring the continent on their Christmas break. Their vacation was a mad dash of monuments and bars. They were actually drinking on the bus and train back to Munich. These two girls, whose priorities and lifestyles were so different from mine—were unabashedly proud of their nationality and collection of shot glasses. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I was meeting two Americans proud to be so. I am tired of meeting fellow countrymen falling over themselves to apologize for being American, for our foreign policy, and for the behavior of other Americans to people they don’t know nor will ever see again. No, my meeting with these two girls was quite refreshing.
Went to another movie at Cinema, and crashed hard after a long day.

Munchen III

2006-06-13T13:15:00.000+02:00

This was the day I had been waiting for my entire trip; a day of a castle tours and small Bavarian villages—not the fake tourists traps that have set up shop throughout the states, but authentic towns with stunning murals painted on the side of each town, towns that have nestled next to their surrounding mountains for centuries.
I never learned the name of the coach line I took. I signed up through the Office of Tourism. The tour cost 45 euros and includes transportation to Linderhof and Neuschwanstien castles, and stops in two small villages. “Audio guides” are available in all European languages, as well as Japanese and Chinese. It does not include the price of admission into any of the castles (which I was not told until we were on the autobahn), nor is the Guide really a guide. He is more of a pompous ass who doesn’t know the meaning of personal space. He had very little to say about the countryside we were passing, the towns we stopped in, or even the castles themselves. He was, however, happy to convince you to shop in such and such shop, or eat in such and such restaurant as the coach line took a cut of the business they brought in. Admission into the two castles was 13 euro. This is a discounted price only available to tours. The tour is still not at all worth the price…or effort.
To my knowledge, Linderhof is not reachable by public transportation, but easily accessible by car. If you are driving, fear not: wintery roads are cleared away, and large signs point you in the right direction.
Neuschwanstein Castle, or the Sleeping Beauty Castle is a big attraction, and getting there is much simpler. It is also nearby to another large castle, Hohenschwangau, and the two can be toured with the purchase of one ticket. Each tour is about 45 min.* and available in several languages. If you speak a language a Guide doesn’t, electronic guides are available.
From the town of Alpsee, tickets, guides, souvenirs, etc. are sold from one ticket office—for both Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau. From Alpsee, the castles are available by foot or by horse-drawn carriage. It’s about a 45-minute walk, uphill in the snow (at least, during December) to Walt Disney’s inspiration (and I hear the same for it’s neighbor as well).
Sure, it’s pretty. No one can deny that it is pretty. But the interior is unfinished and the rooms that are: less than breathtaking. Opulent, guilded, a bit over-the-top to be sure, and absolutely worth the trip, but, I wasn’t amazed. A little part of me wasn’t changed—now demanding from that day forth a better “piece of the pie” for myself. It was just a series of pretty rooms—rooms that no one is allowed to photograph (with or without a flash, folks). I was allowed to take photos from the castle windows of the surrounding views and landscaping—a small consolation.
I slept when I could on the way home, but the Portuguese grandma sitting next to me wanted to play with her precocious (read: annoying) grandchildren**, and the seats in the coach (of which there were none to spare or spread out in) were incredibly uncomfortable.
Back in Munich, I walked down the street and grabbed a small pizza from, where else? Pizza Hut. Apparently, it is “how America does pizza.” I am not a Pizza Hut fan. I have never been a Pizza Hut fan, and it wasn’t exactly the meal I was craving, but it was close to the Yaager, hot, and—most importantly—cheap. I went to bed early. Another night of five snoring roomies, including smelly-footed Italian guy, two American frat boys, and a really drunk trashy party favor the frat boys brought in—I’m not sure if she actually paid for the bed she slept in but she was SKANKY and none of my male roomies were gonna see her go.

*Beware, a friend recently visited Neuschwanstein and was taken on a 30 min. tour.
**Grandma, grandchildren and parents. All dressed in leather, fur, and a rainbow of colors. They were always the last ones on the bus after each stop, and we were crunched for time due to their dawdling.

Munchen I & II

2006-05-22T11:32:00.000+02:00

Munchen I

I rolled into Munich around 6:30-7 p.m. It was dark and painfully cold—so cold it took my breath away. I found the tourist office (just outside the train station) and asked about Hostels. The 3 hostels inside the downtown area are all right next to each other, and they are all less than one block from the train station. I chose the Jaagger Hostel. Not for any particular reason; they pretty much all have the exact same facilities (none have a kitchen, none have laundry services, the Jaagger is not set up with Internet). I paid 60 euros for 4 nights in a mixed, 6-person en suite dorm. The first night, I would be bunking with a man in his 30’s with rank feet, a Korean student who was backpacking through Europe, and a young Spanish couple. I installed myself on a bed, shoved what I could into my locker* and headed out for dinner and Internet. Across from the train station, there is a large Internet café and call center. Around the corner from that, there is a much cooler, much cheaper Internet Café and call center. Coffee Fellows, offers fresh juice, good coffee, great foccacia sandwiches, and desserts. Munich internet cafes were a bit expensive, but I was able to post about my first days in Berlin, answer some e-mails, and look into airfare for 7.50 euros.
Later, I decided to take a walk and discover the neighborhood. There is a giant mall/movie theatre complex a few blocks away—no O.V.’s that night, several kebab stands, and a few large department stores. Nothing too spectacular, but a safe and (relatively) clean neighborhood.

*Unlike most hostels, the Jaager doesn’t rent locks for the lockers they provide. Instead, for 3 euros, you can buy a pad lock and 3 keys. Pas mal.

Munchen II

The next morning, I was the last one out of the dorm (around 9:30 a.m.). First stop: the tourism office where I got a map of the sights, and information about castle tours. Then, I hopped on the tram and headed to the middle of nowhere (tram line 17 terminus) to Nymphenburger Palace. That may or may not be the exact name/spelling—but, as I don’t internet access and didn’t save any of the info, we’ll just keep it as it lies. The tram stops not in front of the Palace, but in the park behind. One must walk through wooden gardens, cross a bridge, then circle around and enter through the front of the building. A beautiful fairytale stroll if not for the artic cold and wind that cut off the feeling in my toes (despite wool socks and boots) and hands (despite fleece-lined mittens). Worth the pay-off.
The house is incredible. The highlight being the portraits of beautiful women collected by Ludwig. Ranging from his Italian mistress to the local delivery girl: all beautiful, all beautifully captured by the artists of the day. The gallery is filled with them—each one different, each one more beautiful than the next*.
From there, I walked over to the carriage house and spent way more time than I should’ve enjoying the Cinderella carriages, the museum of porcelain, and then, headed out back to a little retreat guilded in silver and swathed in silk. If you ever make your way to this castle on the outskirts of Munich—and Serena-Abroad.com is of the opinion that everyone should, pay the extra 3 euros for the carriage house, museum, and small annex. The time and money are well worth it.
A few hours after arriving by tram, I left the same way. I was en route to the Munich Olympic Village, stadium, and tower.

The day had turned from sunny and cold to dark gray and miserable with tiny pebbles of hail blowing horizontal. But, I was there… and I didn’t have a lot of time. I stayed. Starting with the BMW museum, I walked around the park and headed up the tower for views of the city—obstructed by the fog. If making the trip to Munich’s Olympic Park remember the following:
1). Bavaria is frickin’ freezing in the winter.
2). The “Rock Museum” at the top of the tower is considerably less impressive than the collection at your local Hard Rock Café.
3). While under construction, the BMW museum is not worth the visit. Wait until its completion in 2007.
4). The facilities—while perhaps ‘state of the art’ in the 1970’s, you’re just looking at an old stadium (small), and a few matching buildings. Also, if you’ve seen one radio tower, you’ve seen them all. Visit the Space Needle, or the tower in Berlin; the one in Munich is old, and doesn’t even have a rotating restaurant on top—isn’t that, like, you know, some kind of requirement or something?
I rounded off the evening with a movie: Rumor Has It in OV. Munich has a very groovy theatre called—of all things—“Cinema.” It’s all OV, all the time with sneak previews every Friday, and a bar. Unfortunately, it is a bit of a walk from the Yaager, and public transport stops running at midnight, making the 11 p.m. sneaks impossible to stay for.

*After touring some of Europe’s most opulent castles, I’ve grown rather tired of painting after painting, portrait after portrait of the king’s inbred wife, his fat mistress, and his ugly—even more inbred children. My favorite are the anecdotes that accompany each queen/mistress/child: “The King was smitten by her beauty and agreed to make peace with…, not kill…, serve her the head of…, hang and quarter…,” etc. One is left thinking that the king either had very low standards, was blind and she had a great personality, or the subject just wasn’t that photogenic…er, um…

Getting Caught Up

2006-05-09T08:25:00.000+02:00

For the record, it took 5 weeks to get my computer fixed, and then I went on vacation for 10 days. But, I have so much to post and am working on getting it up. I AM STILL ALIVE!
Thanks for waiting, everybody!

En Panne

2006-03-19T23:11:00.001+01:00

My computer is in the shop-- along with 10 new entries waiting to be posted. I also have several weeks worth of rants about the CPE strikes that are slowly putting me over the edge! So, check back in a couple, forget me not, et cetera.

Jagger is a LIAR!

2006-02-23T16:37:00.000+01:00

Whoever said time is “on their side” never saw that semi coming. Time is not on our side. Be it moving too fast or too slow, time is the enemy of all things. Here it is: the end of Fevrier and I find myself floating somewhere between the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end of my stay abroad. As with all séjours, they never last as long as we want, or, in the case of the Donner Party, they cannot end soon enough. “Where do I fall?” Dunno. My time here has been wonderful. A much-needed respite from “real life,” France has taught me a few lessons—none of which I want to share with any of you. And not from knowing I can do something (such as this year) without said family and friends, but because I know I want to, I am liberated. I want nothing to do with the life that awaits me in the States. I do not want to escape it completely—I am not so naïve that I think I could. I just don’t want to continue on the path in front of me—not that I have any idea where it leads.
There are, however, some roadblocks I cannot help but see on the horizon: My education has forced my into an obscene amount of debt (the most vile of all 4 letter words) waiting to be paid off, seeing…people for the first time back*, narrating the same slide shows over and over again, and let us not forget, graduation and the final nail in the coffin of my youth. No, time is not on my side, for as long as time continues with its sadism, these are all inevitables I must face. And I can. I just don’t want to.
France, or rather, Europe has been great. I want to keep moving east and have the feeling I won’t be content to return to Washington until I must do so by crossing the Pacific. There is still so much I want to see and do. Thankfully, I am not one of the many students here who see this as my one opportunity. As I sit here eating my Asterix (lemon) and Obelix (strawberry) PEZ**, I am keenly aware that “I’ll be back.” I know I don’t have to shove all of Europe into my backpack this one trip. I have all the time in the world… Oh Shit! SEMI!
Or so goes irony. If you haven’t met her, she’s a bitch.
Yes, at the moment, that is where I lie. I am happy to relax and enjoy the pace of my “life” in France for now, knowing that I can spend my life doing those things I have always yearned to do (and fear not, I am of the cloth who actually goes out and does them) if I have the time. What if I don’t have the time? A semi’s trailer can be filled with worse things than death. Pregnancy, for example; Prince Charming, or perhaps more debt leading to criminal and otherwise unethical behavior, a desk job followed by suburban bliss (say it ain’t so), et cetera.
School ends in May. If all goes according to plan, I return to the States in August. There, I will finish my bachelor’s, consolidate my loans at a less-than-enviable interest rate, and sell my all of possessions to buy a ticket for the jet plane I’ll be leaving on. Wish me luck, eh?
And at the rate I’m going, I won’t have even finished telling my tales of Christmas vacation by then. “ARGH!” she screams as she strangles herself with the completely useless USB cable “connecting” her computer to the Internet.

*or ever again for that matter. There are certainly people I have not missed. The constant blather of certains, the over affection or lack thereof from others. No, I have not missed many people.
** I haven’t had anything to eat since noon, but as it is after 22:30, I am not in the mood to eat. Just snack. On PEZ.

Thanks Bobby! I LOVE the Muppets.

2006-02-21T07:10:00.000+01:00

You Are Dr. Bunsen Honeydew

You take the title "mad scientist" to the extreme -with very scary things coming out of your lab.
And you've invented some pretty cool things, from a banana sharpener to a robot politician.
But while you're busy turning gold into cottage cheese, you need to watch out for poor little Beaker!
"Oh, that's very naughty, Beaker! Now you eat these paper clips this minute."

The Muppet Personality Test

Tick, Tick, Tick

2006-02-18T12:33:00.000+01:00

Just wanted to let everyone know I am alive and ticking. Just finished the first week of classes, and "boy, are my arms tired."
Have much, much, much more to post on Munich and the rest of my trip, but, per usual, computers on campus are not working and they keep kicking us out of the student union to make room for private parties-- no students allowed. God Bless the French. The following is a list of...well, see for yourself:

France has neither winter nor summer nor morals. Apart from these
drawbacks it is a fine country. France has usually been governed by
prostitutes." Mark Twain.

"I would rather have a German division in front of me than a French one
behind me." General George S. Patton.

"Going to war without France is like going deer hunting without your
accordion."
Norman Schwartzkopf.

"We can stand here like the French, or we can do something about it."
Marge Simpson

"As far as I'm concerned, war always means failure." Jacques Chirac,
President of France.

"As far as France is concerned, you're right." Rush Limbaugh

"The only time France wants us to go to war is when the German Army is
sitting in Paris sipping coffee." Regis Philbin.

"The French are a smallish, monkey-looking bunch and not dressed any
better, on average, than the citizens of Baltimore. True, you can sit
outside in Paris and drink little cups of coffee, but why this is more
stylish than sitting inside and drinking large glasses of whisky I don't
know."
P.J O Rourke (1989).

"You know, the French remind me a little bit of an aging actress of the
1940s who was still trying to dine out on her looks but doesn't have the
face for it."
John McCain, U.S. Senator from Arizona.

"You know why the French don't want to bomb Saddam Hussein? Because he
hates America, he loves mistresses and wears a beret. He is French,
people."
Conan O'Brien

"I don't know why people are surprised that France won't help us get
Saddam out of Iraq. After all, France wouldn't help us get Hitler out of
France either." Jay Leno.

"The last time the French asked for 'more proof' it came marching into
Paris under a German flag." David Letterman

Only thing worse than a Frenchman is a Frenchman who lives in Canada.
Ted Nugent.

War without France would be like...uh...World War II.

"The favorite bumper sticker in Washington D.C. right now is one that
says First Iraq, then France.'" Tom Brokaw.

"What do you expect from a culture and a nation that exerted more of its
national will fighting against DisneyWorld and Big Macs than the Nazis?"
Dennis Miller.

"It is important to remember that the French have always been there when
they needed us." Alan Kent

"They've taken their own precautions against al-Qa'ida. To prepare for
an attack, each Frenchman is urged to keep duct tape, a white flag, and
a three-day supply of mistresses in the house." Argus Hamilton

"Somebody was telling me about the French Army rifle that was being
advertised on eBay the other day -- the description was, 'Never shot.
Dropped once.'" Rep. Roy Blunt (MO)

"The French will only agree to go to war when we've proven we've found
truffles in Iraq." Dennis Miller

Raise your right hand if you like the French...Raise both hands if you
are French.

Q. What did the mayor of Paris say to the German Army as they entered
the city in WWII? A. Table for 100,000 m'sieur?

"Do you know how many Frenchmen it takes to defend Paris? It's not
known, it ' s never been tried." Rep. R. Blount (MO)

"Do you know it only took Germany three days to conquer France in WWII?
And that's because it was raining." John Xereas, Manager, DC Improv.

The AP and UPI reported that the French Government announced after the
London bombings that it has raised its terror alert level from Run to
Hide. The only two higher levels in France are Surrender and
Collaborate. The rise in the alert level was precipitated by a recent
fire which destroyed France ' s white flag factory, effectively
disabling their military.

French Ban Fireworks at Euro Disney (AP), Paris, March 5, 2003 The
French Government announced today that it is imposing a ban on the use
of fireworks at Euro Disney. The decision comes the day after a nightly
fireworks display at the park, located just 30 miles outside of Paris,
caused the soldiers at a nearby French Army garrison to surrender to a
group of Czech tourists.

The Day After

2006-02-13T22:57:00.000+01:00

Under the impression everything had been shut down for the last few days, Sunday brought with it a new understanding of holiday. Nothing was open. Trains stations(!), all stores, all restaurants not connected to a hotel—everything. I wandered around town (yes, the same town, the same few ancient blocks, the same few ancient churches [also closed). One might say this was simply poor planning on my part—at least, that is what I would say. I couldn’t even take a day trip anywhere; I had no way of buying a ticket. After lunch at the one kebab stand in town, I headed back to my room for a warm snuggle in my bed, and a few German-dubbed movies.
When all of a sudden, the phone rang…

A Tall Man

2006-02-13T22:01:00.000+01:00

My grandfather is the third relative to have passed away since I arrived in Europe. I have not been able to return home for anyone’s services, and I was not able to do so for Poppy’s. I spent the rest of the day and night trying to find a flight cheaper than 3200 euros (roundtrip), and how I might return to Caen before returning to the States, but it was not meant to be. Even after some extended searching the next day (to no avail), I still had my heart set on returning home.
For the first time since May, I wanted to be home. I wanted to see my mommy, my sisters, and brother. I didn’t want to see my grandma; I didn’t want to see her crying, or watch as she buried her partner and best friend of 60 years. But, I wanted to be there for her, to let her know how much he meant to me, and how much I loved and supported her.

Poppy was a war veteran. He fought in Japan during WWII. He was a carpenter, farmer, and cowboy. He continued to break horses well into his 60’s, and loved to tinker with antique farm equipment. He taught me how to play—or rather cheat at cards, and always managed to swindle me out of any candy I happened to have. He loved the Seattle Mariners, and—should there be a game on, always insisted we watched it over anything else (he also had a thing for Dr. Quinn). Poppy was the only relation as tall as I. He loved my height, but always greeted me with a hug, and a quick measure to make sure he was still taller. He loved my mother’s meatloaf, and ate a grilled cheese sandwich everyday for lunch.
He was laid to rest—against his wishes (he wanted to be cremated, Mimi insisted he be buried), at a veteran’s cemetery in Idaho. The service included a 21-gun salute and flag folding ceremony. Several of my white-trash cousins didn’t show. We have yet to decide if that was disrespectful or simply for the best.

When I finally accepted the fact that I would not be going home, I curled up on my bed and cried for a few hours. But, as I had to be in Munich that night, I dutifully gathered my belongings and headed for the Bavarian capital.

Christmas Day

2006-02-06T02:57:00.000+01:00

I was joined by Megan and Michael from Australia, and Mayumi from Japan (incidentally, all of them live in the UK). They were all part of the group of us that went out my last night in Nuremburg. I had invited them all to join me, as we were all traveling alone, and had nowhere special to be on Christmas Day. They met me as I walked out of my hotel’s dining room where I had just finished breakfast. We dropped some stuff off in my room, and went to explore the city. It is exactly like how every brochure and guide has ever said it is: old, charming, colorful, authentic. Unfortunately, everything was closed for Christmas. We walked around the old walls, explored a few small streets; and found a Schneeball* shop that was actually open, so we went in to see what the fuss was all about.
Lunch—for me, was potato dumplings, schnitzel, and a cup of potato soup at a small (couldn’t have sat more than 20 people) restaurant offering Christmas specials for 5.50 euros. I didn’t get the name of the joint, but it was run by a young couple (both of whose waists were bigger than the bar); very quaint atmosphere, with great prices for good local cuisine.
A few souvenir shops were open, and although I didn’t buy anything that day, we all stole handmade ornaments from various trees poised in the church squares and around town. I got a wooden Santa head complete with beard and hat.
Wparted ways around two in the afternoon. It is, for me, always awkward to say good-bye to people with whom, while we’ve only just met, I have bonded and share new memories. I often opt for the friendly, but quick and wide-berthed hug. Handshakes are too impersonal, cheek kisses too pretentious, and what else is there, really? I will probably never see most of these people again. If I like them enough, I’ll get their e-mail and maybe even tell them about Serena-Abroad.com, but most likely, I’ll never see (or hear from) them again.
On my way back to the hotel, I decided to pay the 4 euros admission into the Christmas Museum in the center of town. It is above a giant Christmas store, and an actual museum with antiquities, dedicated to the history of Christmas and its conservation. It’s small, but worth the 4 euros.
After a nap and a few hours of American movies dubbed in German (Long Kiss Goodnight, Ski Patrol, 48 Hours, etc.), I put on every layer of clothing I had with me, and joined a torch-lit tour of the ancient city.
Sadly, much like the petite ballad I went on in Auvergne, this was nothing like the brochure. It is not a tour of the city, but a hike-ish type excursion, into the dark, surrounding countryside. Everybody gets their own torch** and nobody can see beyond their own torches’ light. We were an angry mob storming the castle/village. And by ‘an angry mob,’ I mean Burberry- and fur-clad, middle-aged tourists and their bored-out-of-their-skulls teenage children. There was a guide, but no tour as there was nothing to see. Black forests and the occasional car. All alone, I began eavesdropping on groups around me. An American couple with two teenage boys were playing a creepily intimate game of “Grosser than Gross” and “Would you rather…,” and a giggly French couple made out while walking the narrow path—almost setting me and several others on fire.
Halfway down the trail, the group is led to a clearing with a giant bonfire in the middle. Gluwheine and cookies are served, and two men—dressed as medieval night watchmen, no less—sing Christmas carols. I whipped out my cell phone and played games for the show. When we finally started back, I was given a new torch, and with it, endless hours of pyro-maniacal fun.
The tour costs 6 euros and lasts a little longer than 2 hours. Don’t waste your money. The countryside is ONLY seen in the daylight, and as much as I enjoyed the torches, you can stick a sock in a bottle of wine, light it on fire, and walk around in the dark for free… on your own.

*A schnee ball tastes a bit like what I imagine a mothball would taste like, covered in chocolate, caramel, wrapped in sugar, or perhaps filled with Marzipan. Rarely have I put something in my mouth so big, and so unfortunately bad tasting (but really, does that say more about me or the company I keep?). Strips of dough (think pie crust dough without any sugar [read: flavor) are wrapped around each other to form the schneeball, once it has reached the desired circumference , it is baked, then the outer layer—and only the outer layer is dipped, glazed, dusted. Schneeballs start around 2.50 euros, and are available on every corner in Rothenburg. Avoid them at all costs.

**Who knew torches bring instant fun. Have a party that’s a pooper? Bring out the torches. Saddened by a recent loss? Run around the block with a torch. Not only will your recent loss excuse such eccentricity in the sight of neighbors, pretending to carry the Olympic Torch through the ‘burbs is just as fun as it sounds…er, um… I assume?

A Feast for the Princess that I am

2006-02-06T02:48:00.001+01:00

Chirstmas Eve—not Christmas Day, in Germany is the big day of celebration, and that night, my hotel was only serving guests a special holiday meal—nothing à la carte nor room service (as they were running a skeleton crew).
Now, this backpacker brings only essentials when traveling the world, and when traveling by myself, I don’t go places that necessitate nice clothing. Thankfully, I was able to dress up jeans and a black t-shirt with a corduroy blazer, scarf, and a pair of burgundy kitten-heeled ballet slippers I had just bought in Berlin. It wasn’t anything like the fur and leather* on display in the dining room, but was much better than my soon to be retired Pumas. Alone, I was hopping for a small table in a back corner, or perhaps, at a table of other mish-mash diners: I was seated at my own booth in the dead center of the dining room. Now, I have an amazing ability to completely zone out, and move into my own little world, but warding off stares from fellow diners proved too difficult, and I was not able to enjoy myself as much as I would’ve liked. So, I ordered a carafe of wine J.
Then, as if the evening had not been humiliating enough, the host asked me if I wouldn’t mind sharing my table with a few late-to-check-in guests. “Sure,” I grumbled drinking more wine. Enter a young Japanese couple. He spoke English and she understood it, and we exchanged a few pleasantries. Overhearing from the next table, a middle-aged Irish couple joined in, and the five of us passed the rest of the remaining two courses making fun of the French (regardless of the fact that there was a French couple sitting right behind me), and how, for the Japanese, at Christmastime, it is tradition to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken. *shrug* Richard and Mary (the Irish couple) live near the Black Forest while she finishes her doctorate in German History. They were affable and offered me lots of tips on Rothenburg and the surrounding area (they spend every Christmas here). I will see them several times throughout the next several days.
The 5-course dinner, 35 centiliters of the house red, and a bottle of table water (because, like France, tap-water doesn’t exist in Germany) cost me just a little under 60 euros, and was worth every cent. I retired to my room and watched Christmas Eve celebrations being televised from all over the country.

*What is it with European women—okay, the men too, pouring themselves into leather pants (I saw someone in a unitard—that was… um, er… disturbing: it zipped up from the ankle to the chin)? These women tend to be much to old to sport the second skin look, and adding a fur hat to your head? It doesn’t make you look fashionable or rich. Just tacky.

2006-02-06T02:48:00.000+01:00

A Feast for the Princess that I am

Chirstmas Eve—not Christmas Day, in Germany is the big day of celebration, and that night, my hotel was only serving guests a special holiday meal—nothing à la carte nor room service (as they were running a skeleton crew).
Now, this backpacker brings only essentials when traveling the world, and when traveling by myself, I don’t go places that necessitate nice clothing. Thankfully, I was able to dress up jeans and a black t-shirt with a corduroy blazer, scarf, and a pair of burgundy kitten-heeled ballet slippers I had just bought in Berlin. It wasn’t anything like the fur and leather* on display in the dining room, but was much better than my soon to be retired Pumas. Alone, I was hopping for a small table in a back corner, or perhaps, at a table of other mish-mash diners: I was seated at my own booth in the dead center of the dining room. Now, I have an amazing ability to completely zone out, and move into my own little world, but warding off stares from fellow diners proved too difficult, and I was not able to enjoy myself as much as I would’ve liked. So, I ordered a carafe of wine J.
Then, as if the evening had not been humiliating enough, the host asked me if I wouldn’t mind sharing my table with a few late-to-check-in guests. “Sure,” I grumbled drinking more wine. Enter a young Japanese couple. He spoke English and she understood it, and we exchanged a few pleasantries. Overhearing from the next table, a middle-aged Irish couple joined in, and the five of us passed the rest of the remaining two courses making fun of the French (regardless of the fact that there was a French couple sitting right behind me), and how, for the Japanese, at Christmastime, it is tradition to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken. *shrug* Richard and Mary (the Irish couple) live near the Black Forest while she finishes her doctorate in German History. They were affable and offered me lots of tips on Rothenburg and the surrounding area (they spend every Christmas here). I will see them several times throughout the next several days.
The 5-course dinner, 35 centiliters of the house red, and a bottle of table water (because, like France, tap-water doesn’t exist in Germany) cost me just a little under 60 euros, and was worth every cent. I retired to my room and watched Christmas Eve celebrations being televised from all over the country.

*What is it with European women—okay, the men too, pouring themselves into leather pants (I saw someone in a unitard—that was… um, er… disturbing: it zipped up from the ankle to the chin)? These women tend to be much to old to sport the second skin look, and adding a fur hat to your head? It doesn’t make you look fashionable or rich. Just tacky.

2006-01-17T15:36:00.001+01:00

Nuremburg + Rothenburg = 1 Hell of a Day

2006-01-09T16:09:00.000+01:00

An intended early start was actually me waking around 10:30 (no chance of making the 7:30 a.m. to Rothenburg Ob de Tauber), eating a leisure breakfast of leftover everything I hadn’t already eaten (didn’t want to pack it, didn’t want to waste it), and checking out around noon. I caught the 12:50 to Ausbach where I got on a connection to Stusbach, and finally, the 20 minute commuter to Rothenburg (on the Tiber). I had a reservation at the Top Goldenes Fass Hotel for 3 nights at 77 euros/night. I was under the impression that this particular establishment was inside the medieval city walls and an “authentic” Rothenburg experience. Sadly, it was neither.
But before I continue, let us take a moment to understand why this was such a problem for Serena…
Last May, before leaving for Paris, my sister and I had begun plans for Christmas in Italy. She loves Italy and I’ve never been. We were going to ‘full court press’ several cities and gorge on gelato and vino. Unfortunately, grad school has proven to be more difficult than she had anticipated; she was unable to join me for the break. No one was able to join me for the break.
I did receive a few invitations (from friends/family), but all too late to prepare or save up. Going home was not an option. I had my heart set on Christmas in Europe. I was going to have Christmas in Europe.
After perusing the Rick Steves’ Website, and flipping through my Lonely Planet guide, I decided on Bavaria with a few days in Berlin. I was going to hostel my way through Bavaria with the exception of wherever I stayed for the holiday: I wanted to treat myself and stay somewhere really nice for Christmas—if I was going it alone, I was going it alone in style. I was going to stay in a clean, cozy room, with a bathtub, and spend hours in it pruning the tips of my fingers and toes. I was going to sleep naked under the toasty down comforter, and walk barefoot on the carpeted floors*.
So, fast-forward to Christmas Eve day…
The Top Goldenes Fass was a clean and tidy establishment with a friendly staff dressed in floral aprons with ruffles on the shoulders, and feathered mullets on their heads. The lobby and restaurant were decorated with wicker baskets full of silk flowers, cows, and scary, handmade Christmas elves. My room, small but tidy, had red veneered furniture, polyester bed linens, and a view of the gravel parking lot. They did not have Internet services. They did not have spa services.
You might be wondering why I was upset—and I was upset. I was very upset. This was the German equivalent of a Super 8, or Red Roof. It was nothing like its online description (no lectures, please. I am aware of the risk one runs booking online). I hated it. Spent about 5 minutes getting angry at reception, dropped my stuff off in my room, and headed into the Old Town to find another.
And therein lies my mistake. I should’ve taken one look at the lobby, and turned and ran. But I actually checked-in and gave them all of my information.
I did find another room—easily, in the hotel I had originally tried to stay in, but couldn’t book online. The Reichs Kuchenmiester Hotel is situated in the heart of the city. It is an ancient building with ambiance coming out of its carved wood-paneled ass. The staff was professional and clean cut. They all spoke English, German, and French. The hotel has a sauna, pool, and gym; and it has an arrangement with a day spa a few doors down. It was exactly what the Top Goldenes Fass was not.
I took their last room, and returned to the Top to check-out. I walked through the front door, and immediately went to reception. I told the woman at the front desk I was happy to pay for this evening as I had already checked in, and hadn’t given her the required 24-hour notice, but did not expect to pay for the two remaining nights. I was, however, happy to pay the nominal cancellation fee of 20 euros. Surprised, she looked at me, and said, “I am not going to charge you a cancellation fee; you have already checked-in. But I do have to charge you for tonight and tomorrow.” After discussing with her how unreasonable this was (I was giving her notice with a smile), she left to talk to her manager, returned and charged me 158 euros for two nights.
Nauseous from anger and burned from the second impulsive room change in several days, I stormed to my new room, and stewed for a few hours. But this was where I wanted to stay. I decided to forget about it until the tourist office opened the next day, and dress for dinner.

* luxuries I am currently without in Caen.

Nuremburg I

2006-01-06T13:24:00.000+01:00

I left Berlin not really having seen much of anything. Sure, I had a great time, and I saw stuff, but not nearly as much as I wanted. I’m afraid I fell victim to the amenities of the Adrema. I found myself addicted to Sadam’s trial and a huge shower with hours of hot water (that is not to say that I was somehow in need of a hot shower after watching said trial coverage—that is not to say that at all). I rolled into town around 6 p.m. Unlike the directions David’s of Berlin gave me, I found the Lett M Sleep Hostel very easily. It is located inside the old medieval city walls and about 400 meters from the train station (or one Underground stop), right next to the wall, in fact. I checked in, paid 3 euros for sheets (why didn’t I bring my bag?), and 30 euros for 2 nights. I was assigned a bed in the all-female dorm, “Vive La Trance” (I have no idea).
After spending close to $400 in Berlin, I was eager to pinch as many pennies possible, and headed, next, to a grocery for supplies. I picked up some cream cheese (!), deli meat (!), bread, a couple mangos, a couple tomatoes (the veggie section was less than spectacular), chocolate, and sour cream and onion chips (!). I didn’t realize how much I was missing certain items in France.
Getting to the supermarket, I had exited the city walls and walked around them. turning, I decided to walk along the inside. The inside perimeter is quite and dark. Not scary, but peaceful. I was enjoying a few chips and the fresh night air when I almost walked into a black patent stripper heel dangling on a toe connected to a bare leg hanging out of a window. I looked up to see a half-naked woman falling out of her bra, smoking a cigarette, and glaring at me. She heard someone coming and thought I might be a potential client. I snapped out of my little world and looked up and down the wall. I was not alone in the street. It was full of loitering men avoiding eye contact with each other and horrified to see me. In the buildings opposite the wall, scantily clad women were hanging out of every first and ground floor window. One block was home to young white girls dressed as everything from a naughty Christmas elf, to school girls, school marms, and Bavarian barmaids. The next housed black women wearing white and fluorescent colors under a black light, after that, a mish mash of the old and toothless, to the fat and ugly. I was compelled to stop, at one point—against my better judgement, and stare as an old whore with tits around her waist attempted to mount a bar stool. She kept (in vain) jumping to hoist herself up, and in doing so, launching her breasts over her shoulders, a couple times coming close to hitting her chin. I found myself, mouth agape, gawking at this woman for several seconds, until a man, eyes averted, bolted across my path. Um…er, eeww.
I dropped off my food at the hostel and headed to the famous Christmas market in the center of town. The thing is, it’s not really in the center of town. It is in every part of town—okay not the red light district part of town, but everywhere else. Booths and booths, block after block. All carrying homemade arts, ornaments, nativity and dollhouse furnishings, flowers, vegetables, food, food, and more food. Oddest of all? Little doll-type people made of dates, prunes, and walnut shells mounted on round chips of wood. Thousands of them every two or three booths. Apparently, they are unique to Nuremburg, and each one handmade by the proprietor of the booth from which they are sold. They ranged in price from 2.50 euros to 30 euros for intricate wedding toppers and were clothed in quilting scraps, with hair, button noses, etc. At first glance, I was horrified by these little novelties, but after shopping around for them, I think they are adorable. After finishing my souvenir shopping* I headed back to the hostel for a mango and bed.

*I typically stay away from buying souvenirs—especially when backpacking. There just isn’t the space. Also, I really find it hard to justify spending money on crap to give as gifts to other people. Postcards and pictures: that’s my motto. But as this was Christmas, and as several people I know have always wanted to see the Nuremburg Market, I did splurge a little.

Nuremburg Part II or How the Reich Stole Christmas

2006-01-06T13:03:00.000+01:00

I had planned an early start. I was going to visit all 14 of the featured attractions inside the city walls after a trip the Nazi Rally grounds and museum, but per usual, I slept in. After a long, unnecessary tram trip (do not take the #9 Tram in the direction of Thon—that is the wrong ‘end of line’), I made it to the museum. The building itself is a modern addition to the coliseum built as part of a larger complex intended to both intimidate, and flaunt the power of the Reich. It remains the largest example of Nazi architecture standing. The entrance to the museum is scary, brilliant but scary…
Unfortunately, the rest of the museum isn’t nearly as impressive; an audio guide is free with admission, and absolutely necessary for those of us who don’t speak German, and all there is. One moves from wall to wall “reading” different nuggets of information with the occasional video and blown-up photo. There are little to no exhibits (in the traditional sense), artifacts, memorabilia. Just wall after wall of words. In German.

The whole experience put me in kind of a bad mood, for several reasons: 1.) It was a museum about the following the rise of Hitler’s power, his armed forces, and even a few jewels from his concentration camps. 2.) As interesting as it could have been, it wasn’t 3.) and because of that, sooooooo boring. 4.) The whole thing added two hours to my late start. 4b.) It was rainy and cold outside, so 4c.) I wasn’t able to walk the 2 k.m. to the Zepplin Field where all the action took place. Hhmpf.
I took a bus back to town—knowing simply that it was headed into the city walls—and not any idea where. I hopped off when I saw an old church and went inside. I’ve seen my fair share of European churches/cathedrals, and they all sort of blur together unless I am able to identify them by their history and/or cultural signification (a bit of a buff, I am).

As I didn’t have a guide to any of the churches, their architecture, or their reliquary, I just walked around and enjoyed the handmade Christmas decorations. Seeing these Bavarian churches (okay, no onion domes*, but as they are in Bavaria, they count) all decked out for the season was something to behold—and each one was so different. I loved it.
That afternoon, I walked around town for several hours, spent even more time and money at the market and ate the following:
2 Nuremburg sausages (which really equals four as they serve two skinny little sausages on one roll)
3 deep-fried hashbrown-type patties with applesauce
1 serving of nougat
1 shish of chocolate-covered fruit
1 mug (shaped like Santa’s boot hand-painted with scenes from the market—which I got to keep!) of glüwien.
1giant mug of hot chocolate
1 piece of spice cake
YUM!
It was a dark, miserable day with cold, icy drizzle and wind which was seemingly unaffected by the large buildings across its path, but I was able to take some great photos, lose my way back to the Lett M Sleep, only to once again find myself between the wall of medieval brick and mortar, and a wall of half-naked, skanky women. I was easily able to find my way from there. Thank God for landmarks.
I took a nap and chatted with a bunkmate. Marissa from Australia spoke a little German and gave me a few tips. She also introduced me to a few other hostelmates. They were all headed out to a local pub and invited me along. There was no crazy partying in Nuremburg, there was actually no partying of any kind. One pint of Guinness—what is it with people flocking to Irish pubs—1.) they’re everywhere—would you really rather go there than a…oh, I dunno: a German pub? 2.) We had met some rather intriguing (and nice to look at) local boys, but after losing them in the shuffle (some ass from our little int’l group insisted on moving down tha’ the pub instead of the agreed upon bar, I really wasn’t in the mood to party, and was back in bed by midnight.
I really enjoyed my stay in Nuremburg. Had I the time (and choice), I would’ve stayed an extra day there. The people I met at the Lett M Sleep, and my experiences in town left me content to have stayed a while longer, see more churches (maybe go to a Christmas service), check out some of the other landmarks, museums, and galleries (of which there are a lot of in the area).

*I am told that Catholic churches in the heart of Bavaria all feature onion domes, while the Protestant houses of worship tend to be much more subdued and… well, Protestant.

It shouldn’t have worked, but it did…

2005-12-27T19:05:00.000+01:00

Me (standing on platform in pig-tails and fleece): It’s too bad you didn’t find us last night, we headed to a different bar. I’m headed out of town in about 20 mins.
Him: That’s too bad; you’re very cute.

Berlin Day Two

2005-12-27T18:32:00.000+01:00

I slept in today. What can I say? My bed was so warm and soft, and it stayed up watching news and raiding the mini-bar (it too, is ridiculously cheap—well, for a mini-bar) until around 2:30 a.m. I headed to the tourism office from the day before (next to the Christmas market where I had another type of sausage hot dog and a hollow ball of fried dough powdered with sugar) and bought a Welcome Pass to Berlin. It offers discounts on most of the sights, and free passage on all city transportation. 2 days cost 16.99 euros. Learning from my experience in Dublin, I planned to milk out every savings possible, and make the most of the pass. I started with the zoo and aquarium across the street. With my discount, I paid 13 euro for admission into both. I had fun, but both proved to be rather unremarkable, but not without anecdotes:

1) while watching the North American brown bears frolick in their enclosures, a tubby short one was attempting to climb over an enormous log. He got one leg over, and was trying his hardest to get the other. Or so I thought. Actually, he was just humping the shit out of it.
2) While watching the hippos frolick about in their enclosure, one swam by the window, releasing a stream of diarrhea. Following swiftly behind? A family of ducks greedily dining on hippo poo.
3) The big cats in the Big Cat exhibit were all inside for the day, it was cold and rainy, and cats big or small just can’t be bothered with either. The lion and lioness were incredible. I’ve seen tigers and pumas—and up close, but never before a live lion. They were magnificent; their paws were bigger than my head, and his mane… his mane was unbelievable. I could’ve sat for hours just watching them, bored out of their minds, yawning at on-lookers. Their muscles, their teeth! How was man ever able to kill them before the advantage of firearms? Amazing. Serena. Speechless.
The zoo was like any other zoo I’d ever been too, but not nearly as nice. There were no maps available to guests, all of the animal houses smelled awful-- overwhelming awful, and very few of the sights were kid friendly.
Leaving the Zoo, I headed back to Postdammer Platz and the Sony Center. The Berlin Film Museum is there. It is my new favorite place on earth. It is a cross between a business park and commercial center, with a couple cinemas (all VO* all the time), the museum, restaurants, bars, and the like. It, too, has a Christmas market with a sheet of ice for hurling in the center of it.
The Film Museum was awesome. The building in super modern and the interior inspired. The exhibits take guests through the history of film, German film, it’s place in history, actors, actresses, etc. I am torn between the Marlene Dietrich exhibit and the Ray Harryhausen display. They had some of her most famous costumes, photos, letters, luggage, knick knacks. They had some of his models from the “Clash of the Titans” and “Jason and the Argonauts.”
The exhibits are in English and German, and audio guides are available for a refundable 10 euros deposit.
If you ever make it—and I recommend that even the most film-illiterate of travelers do, look for me in the guestbook.
Next stop: shoe shopping. The boots were not in my size (two big [!] or too small), but I did pick up three pairs of shoes that aren’t tennis shoes. In lieu of a food court, the mall had two different grocery stores. One of them had a deli/bakery-type place where I dined on a sesame seed rye bagel sandwich with cream cheese, fresh sprouts, tomatoes, pastrami (oh, patrami, how I’ve missed you), and a bottle of orange juice. The best meal I’ve had in a long time. You see, my adoring fans, that is the closest thing I’ve had since my arrival in May to what I generally eat at home.
I then headed back to the Sony Center where I watched “The Chronicles of Narnia” and “Serenity”—both of which I was eagerly anticipating. I wasn’t disappointed with Narnia like I was with Harry Potter (I am still to angry to post about it), but I wasn’t enraptured. Joss Whedon, on the other hand, really came through. I was not disappointed in the least.

Unfortunately, “Serenity” ended after the Underground closed and I had to take a cab. Equally unfortunate, I forgot the name of my hotel (I’m an ass. I make no apologies), and my cabbie didn’t speak English—I’m not entirely sure he spoke German. I did make it back to the Adrema for less than 10 euros, and stayed up even later watching CNN and The BBC World.

Monday started Sunday night

2005-12-22T21:52:00.000+01:00

Sunday night, I hopped on the last train out of Caen. I got to Paris around 11:45 p.m. and took the Metro cross-town to Gare de Lyon. There is a night bus that runs from there to Orly (where I was taking an EasyJet to Berlin). This was the first time I had taken a night bus—the first I’d heard of the night bus system. Sure, it makes sense that a city the size of Paris would have one—millions of people use public transport in Ile de France, I just never did after 1 a.m. The night bus to Orly is the 120. Unfortunately, several stops—on several different lines all have Orly in their titles. I had no idea which one was the Orly airport, and no idea what bus to take there. Worse still, the bus stops for Gare de Lyon are not all in one place; they surround the enormous station on all sides, some are located on side streets, and some a not so short walk away. There is no site map showing you where exactly each one is located. I spent about 15 minutes looking for a station employee (I wanted to know exactly where I was going before I started running around the quarter in the cold), then another hour just looking on my own—employees of any kind are hard to come by in this city after 8 p.m. I started to get very angry, I was so tired, cold, and, despite having a healthy 4 hours before my flight, terrified I would miss it.
The first of the night buses arrived around 1:30. The driver told me I needed to catch the 120 and to wait by the moped parking. I waited for another 45 minutes and found myself on the right bus, desperately trying to stay awake*. The airport was totally empty. I had my pick of chairs right in front of my assigned check-in counter, and fell asleep for an hour and a half.
I was one of the first in line to check-in at 4:40 a.m., but no one was allowed through security until 5:30! I walk down to the shops—none of which opened until 6 a.m. and got a call from my sister. She was a welcomed distraction, as I had completely lost my ability to be patient or polite to everyone at the airport. Whether being mowed down by old ladies with huge carpet bags or yelled at by security (okay, I yelled at them first) for not leaving the screening area (int’l airports close at night here. How? Why? There are still flights coming in and out, just no employees!).
After hanging up, I headed back over to the security area where there was now a line of about 200 people. Moving very slowly. I got through without having to take off my shoes or belt and made it to my gate 5 minutes before departure time. Whew. I even got a seat in the front row (hello, leg room!). I buckle up, and listen intently as the pilot announces we are waiting for six people who have checked in, but are stuck in the security line. We took off an hour later. Serena. Very. Angry.
It was snowing when we landed in Berlin, big white flakes, and I easily found my way through the airport. Serena. In. Much. Better. Mood.
They (and by They, I mean two fraus with braids and moustaches [it’s funny because it’s true] at the customs desk) wouldn’t give me a stamp on my passport because I was coming from France. Hhmpff!
The next hour was me finding my way to Berlin’s Zoo station, and from there, my hostel which was supposed to be just around the corner. That, unfortunately was not actually the case. It is just around the corner from a station three stops away from Zoo. What didn’t help, everyone I stopped and asked directions from—including a woman at the tourism office, told me I was on the right street. There was a big Christmas market a few blocks from the station where I had lunch, and took a break from wandering aimlessly around the street looking for my hostel. I stopped by an Internet café to confirm the online directions and address, and my e-mail. It was freezing outside, and my pack was kind of killing me. With my frustration mounting, I returned to the tourism office where a very rude woman told me where I needed to go.
When I got to David’s Hostel, a greasy man orienting a group from South America to the facilities greeted me. I was told to take my shoes off and given a mattress in a co-ed dorm. It was small and, upon first glance, not anywhere I wanted to spend the next three nights. It was, in a phrase, the straw that broke the camel’s back. I dropped my pack on my mattress and headed down the street to another internet café run by a strange Russian woman who spent the entire time I was there yelling over the phone in Russian. I logged onto every site I could, and found a hotel on Expedia.com for $50/night. In contrast to the 8 euros I was paying at David’s, it was a splurge, and I tend to make rash decisions, and spend money dangerously when frustrated, angry, and/or out of my element.
I headed back to David’s and got my stuff together. I couldn’t get my money back for the three nights, but I was really okay with just eating it at that point. Worse, being totally passive aggressive, and in loathe of confrontation, I told the short, greasy man that my travel plans had changed and that I was headed elsewhere for the next few days. As we chatted, my opinion of the place began to change. The man’s name was Adrian (from Athens), and he shared a few anecdotes about his experiences there. He also offered me three nights stay there in the coming weeks. He felt bad that he couldn’t refund my money, and was eager to make it up to me. I told him I really appreciated that, and would give him an e-mail if I made my way back to Berlin. Okay, I overreacted, this place was not the Ritz—nor should it have been: it’s a hostel. And not a bad one. But, I was committed to the hotel, so headed there next.
The Adrema Hotel is on the Spree River, which dissects the city. It is on the 245 bus line and a 10-minute walk from the Ernst-Reuters Platz Underground station. It ix a boutique hotel: modern in furniture and design,hip bar, great amenities. The employees all spoke English and were very accommodating. My room kicked ass. So clean, so new. I had my own bathroom**, soft—so soft mattress, and TV and Internet access!
AAAhhhhh. Serena. Euphoric.
My extra day in Berlin was scrapped. I spent it walking around the same street for several hours, and spending 8 euros worth of time in Internet cafes.

*I hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, and it was about 2:30 a.m. And the bus was dark and warm with cushy seats.
**Of course, I had my own bathroom, but, after living months without one, I really see it as a luxury.

First Night

2005-12-22T20:52:00.001+01:00

I ended up taking a nap for a couple of hours, and headed out for dinner and a movie. A girl at reception told me about Postdammer Platz, home to a mall*, and several movie theatres that play films in English.
Emerging from the Underground station, I crossed the street to yet another Christmas market (the third I’d been to that day). I had some kind of wurst, and a cookie type thing. It was a kind of spicy, mushy gingerbread with a papery wafer on the bottom, and a layer of chocolate on top. I know it sounds good, and in theory, should’ve been, but was not. Oh well, the whole meal—with grande hot cho at Balzac Coffee cost 4 euros. The Markt was just in front of the mall, where I bought some new jeans, and did some window-shopping. It was close to 8 p.m. and everything was closing up for the night, so, after seeing a pair of boots I absolutely had to have, I vowed to return. Now, as all of you know by now, I am tall. Very tall, one might say. The fact that I found jeans—in abundance—in my size the first place I looked, left me teary eyed. That doesn’t happen in the States. That does NOT happen in France (or should I say Lilliputian). And it wasn’t just pants, shoes too! I crossed the Markt, yet again, and made my way to the closest movie theatre. I made it as the previews began rolling on King Kong**. I caught one of the last trains and was in bed, snuggling and watching CNN*** buy 1 a.m.
So, first impressions of Berlin? I really like this city. Sure, getting here sucked ass, and took me to a very, very bad place, but it’s Christmas in Berlin. There are Markts everywhere, and all of the streets smell like gingerbread, sugar, and pipe tobacco. Everybody I’ve asked to help me, has gone out of his or her way to do so; the Underground and inner city trains are really easy to navigate; and, everything is so cheap here. Everything. This world-class city is less expensive than Caen! Also-- and know that last certainly does not mean least in this instance—everyone here is tall—many taller than me. Hot, beautiful Master Race specimens waiting in line to meet and greet Serena at eye level. I am loving Deutschland!
Oh yeah, I hear Berlin is also home to museums, historical sights, and a live bear in the middle of the city. Stay tuned…
Shame on all of you for the last quote challenge. It was Will Ferrell in “Elf.” He was talking to the Gimble’s Santa right before they got into a fight.

This might be too easy, but I’m in a generous mood. 10pts. for character and film.
“Look! Bed pans!”

*I packed one pair of jeans, one pair of tennis shoes, hiking boots (thank the good Lord for my hiking boots), and not much else. While at Orly, trying to make a loud, angry exit from the security gate, I ducked under a line ribbon and split the crotch of my pants. This, however, was no ordinary rip. Sure it was loud (I was thankfully too far away from the guard for him to hear), but it was big. So big, that had I not been wearing long underwear, my modesty could’ve been easily compromised.
**I loved it, I don’t care how long it was, I would’ve have changed a second of it. Sure, things could’ve been taken out, but Jackson knew they shouldn’t have. I loved it. I even like Naomi Watts in it. Loved, loved it.
***In Germany, all of the commercials for phone sex that play on late-night TV have clips of topless woman bumping and grinding in a variety of different settings. Some are S&M types, others school girls getting it on with their locker doors, one was in a weight room not using the equipment as the good people at Nautilus had intended. *shudder* It was really adult, and yet, really available on a couple of my cable channels. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been that surprised. It was after midnight.

Je m'appelle

2005-12-17T20:08:00.000+01:00

Christmas Elf Name

My Christmas Elf Name is

Get your Christmas Elf Name at JokesUnlimited.com

I stopped by Spinning Girl's blog. I don't really have anything to blog on right now. I am leaving tomorrow night for Paris, where I will spend the night at the airport-- waiting for my 6 a.m. flight to Berlin. I am spending the next 10 days in Germany: Berlin, Nuremburg, Rothenburg, Fussen, Munich, and wherever else I feel like dropping my pack. :) If any of you have tips, would love to hear them.
And, because Germany is not in the stone ages (like some of its European neighbors), I will have internet access wherever I go!

10 pts. for title of this new Christmas classic:
"You smell like beef and cheese! You don't smell like Santa. "

Reims Part II

2005-12-12T17:03:00.000+01:00

I knew my time in Champagne was limited and I was determined not to let this setback ruin the trip for everyone—especially me. I was going to have to suck it up and ask for help*. All the girls were very gracious—they could tell it was a humbling experience for me, and knew I was good for the cash, so were also very generous. After getting as much information from the Board of Tourism, we headed to Epernay by way of a 20 min. commuter train (which was hysterically small—my POS Pontiac at home is bigger). Epernay is home to most of the Champagne Houses, and the Boulevard de Champagne—which is not nearly as spectacular as it sounds. We signed up for a tour of the Moët et Chandon Caves. Moët et Chandon owns the most famous champagne labels, including Dom Perignon, and Veuve Cliquot (my favorite), and of course, Moët et Chandon. The tour is more of a journey through the moldy, dank labyrinth that is the company’s storage and mixing house before tasting (in my case) several of the house labels. The whole thing cost me 28 euros, but tour/tasting rates begin around 8 euros. There are several champagne houses in Epernay, which is a cute town surrounded by vineyards. Big on ambiance, but not a lot to do there. If you’re not interested in the (half) day trip, stick to Reims, where one finds just as many cave tours—if not of the big labels.
We had time to kill after our tour and decided to take a petite promenade around town. We ended up walking out towards the outskirts of town and vineyard on a hill to watch the sun set, thousands of birds swirl in the air creating black clouds, and pick wine grapes from the vine (technically illegal).
That night, we headed out for a nice dinner. Our hostel—the only hostel in Champagne, is only several blocks from the center of Reims, where we found a restaurant serving local dishes with a menu** around 22 euros. We were seated in the no-smoking section on the lower level by a hostess, and introduced to our waiter—the worst waiter in the history of bad French waiter stories.
He literally threw our menus at us, and stormed away, clearly upset by our presence in his section. As the cuisine was local, we were unfamiliar with most of it, but eager to experience something new and waited for him to return to ask questions and order some wine.
I got his attention first, and ordered bottle of the house red. He laughed, sighed a little, and then walked away before I could inquire about the menus. When he returned with a carafe filled with red water, he took a moment to answer questions. One moment. I attempted to ask him several things, but he wouldn’t let me complete any of my questions, talked over me, and became so frustrated by my refusal of his attempts to guess what I was going to ask, he walked away in a huff. Now, my French is not perfect, but it just so happens that I was speaking very well and very clearly that night. The problem was not in my communication skills.
The wine was disgusting; it tasted like vinegar and cherries, and it had a gritty texture that scratched my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I am still unable to account for this—or forget that awful taste. Blech! We have our theories—one of which includes our waiter emptying half of the full bottle we ordered into a carafe and filling the rest of the pitcher with urine, keeping the bottled wine to himself.
The food was amazing, I started with shrimp and basmati, stole one of Maggie’s escargot, and tried some of Andrea’s cow marrow. Marrow is not as disgusting as it sounds or looks. It is gelatin. Brown gelatin served still in the bones, with sea salt and hard toast. It tasted like salt and hard toast.
I had duck—my favorite, with mushrooms in a black sauce, and ended the evening with chocolate and cocoa covered profiteroles. YUM! Unfortunately, the service got progressively worse with each course. Everyone in the no-smoking section was smoking, and terribly drunk and loud, which was fine as they included us in the fun, but were awful to our waiter who took it out on the table of foreign girls. Thankfully, one of the neighboring tables consisted of an amateur soccer team who “love the US and American women!” I like to think that their ogre-like behavior—including tipping over the two melted ice buckets, and throwing food at other tables was their chivalrous idea of rescuing four damsels suffering at the hand of a greasy, stringy waiter.
We returned to the comfort of our hostel after dinner. Having originally planned on staying the night in Epernay, we were so impressed by its facilities, we decided to stay the extra night in Reims. To say that it was nicer than our dorms is not saying much, but the shower, toilet, even the beds and linens were so luxurious by comparison, we felt spoiled as we settled in for the night.

Travel Tip: When visiting the Champagne Region, one is sure to encounter lots and lots of champagne and champagne recipes. But beware! Those charming bubbles giving your morning orange juice a kick, served as an aperitif during dinner, and then an afternoon of tasting will leave you flatulent. You and all of your traveling companions. This can be humourous but a bit off-putting. Avoiding dairy products of all kinds can help, and opening all windows will rid the room of such an ungodly odor and prevent the respiratory problems we encountered throughout the night. Just be sure to ask the front desk for extra blankets.

*The dirtiest word I know
**Culture lesson of the day:
in France, the menu is called la carte. A starter is called l’entrée, and an entrée is called un plat. Stay with me…
If you would like to order a meal consisting of two or more courses, you choose from a selection of Menus that typically offer an entrée , un plat and dessert; with cheese and salad courses also available.
Menus typically start around 15 euros for un plat and dessert. If you would like something that is not offered within a Menu , you must order from la carte as we do in the states—or rather, à la carte.

Reims Part III

2005-12-12T17:00:00.000+01:00

Sunday (most of Sunday) was spent at the hostel. We woke early, but were so exhausted, stayed in bed until the maid knocked hoping to clear the room. I had reserved a single for that night*, so we just moved our stuff over to the single and continued to ready ourselves at a leisurely pace. When we finally did emerge from the hostel, it was around 1 p.m. (just a few hours before the girls had to catch their train back to Caen). As it was Sunday—and in the off season, town was deserted. We profited from having the streets to ourselves by taking pictures of Reims’ beautiful and eclectic architectural styles. We saw several war memorials (varying from small signposts to a garden stretching several acres), an old roman aquaduct/bridge/ possible gateway thing—that is much bigger than it looks, and then on to the Cathédrale de Reims, or la Cathédrale des Anges.
It is, thus far, the most impressive in France. It is not as big as most, but light and airy inside, cheerful almost. And the Chagall windows au fond are stunning. Vibrant blues, hot reds and oranges, and haunting images: I loved these windows.
After dropping the girls off at the station, and saying our goodbyes, I headed back into town. Reims has great shopping, and I spent hours ‘licking the glass’ as everything was closed. I also took in a movie, Woody Allen’s “Match Point.” Liked it, would’ve loved it if it didn’t have Scarlett Johansson in it.
The next day, I was checked-out, and waiting at the entrance of the bank offices at 9 a.m. I entered as the receptionist unlocked the doors. I explained to her my situation (now with no money in my pockets) over and over again. She kept telling me to come back Wednesday afternoon when the machines are emptied. I kept repeating that that was not an option and why, my voice getting louder and more forceful each time. I think she finally realized—only after my voiced cracked and I began to tear up from frustration, that I was not being unpleasant and demanding for the hell of it, and called somebody down. I assumed it was simply someone who could speak English, but she didn’t call just anybody, she rang up the Vice President of Customer Relations. He didn’t speak English and after hearing my story in French, repeating it back to me to confirm he undstood, offered me a cup of coffee and couch to sit on. He then called down someone who did speak English, but didn’t just hand me off to her. The VP of Customer Relations stuck around and insisted on taking care of the situation himself. They asked for my phone number and told me they would contact me in a few hours. I told them that if I did not hear from them, I was going to return and hold a protest in their lobby with the other customers who--having lost their cards, too, during the weekend--had begun to loiter in the lobby, waiting to see how my situation was handled. They laughed lightheartedly, and I glared at them. I was not joking.
I wandered around town, taking pictures, more window shopping, and I spent the last of my cash at an internet café.
They called me just before noon to let me know they had my card and I could retrieve it at any time. I was stunned. The people at Caisse d’Epargne went out of their way to take care of me. They were incredibly apologetic, and made a point of giving me customer service information, phone numbers (their private lines), and even offered me a couple months free checking (free checking does not exist in France, as a matter of fact, nothing is free in this country) should I want to open an account there. I have not received this kind of treatment from a bank in the States, so I was left a little speechless as it came from one in France.
With money and a credit card, I bought a first class train ticket back to Caen by way of Pairs and was at home snuggling in my bed by 11:30 that night.

*see Reims Part I

Hot for Teacher

2005-12-08T17:30:00.000+01:00

I have always had a thing for older men. Even now, if given the choice, I would prefer to pass my time with a gentleman, than a guy. So, it should come as no surprise that I am crushing hard on one of my teachers. Actually, he is no longer my teacher; because I moved up from level 4, I don’t see him in class every week. I do, however, see him on campus and always make a point to flash a big smile. He is an elementary teacher but teaches a couple oral classes/week. Monsieur Dupont is one of maybe 20 Frenchmen—ever -- over 6ft tall, he’s in his early 30s (okay, not that much older), with thick black hair and an amazing smile*. He has a deep voice and he rolls his r’s as though he was from the south of France. In fact, I have no idea where he is from, what he does in his spare time, or what kind of car he drives; but as I plan to stalk him, I will keep all of you posted.
Friday last, I spent the evening drinking margaritas at my new favorite Mexican restaurant, followed by several pints too many at the local Irish pub, where who should I run into but François-Michel. He was sitting in a corner with friends, but stopped over for a few minutes to say “hello.” He was forced to stand very close to me and whisper salutations in my ear, but I became too nervous to respond in French, and simply admitted to being much to drunk to do so…in English (which he, of course, speaks beautifully). So, very drunk, I was unable to be “clever, enchanting Serena” in French and made a few lame comments--again, in English about the French country-western band playing bluegrass covers, and how I was much better suited I was in level 5. After making a complete ass out of myself…ironically, in my native tongue, M. Dupont returned to his corner where he was joined by a teeny, tiny Asian wearing ‘man-eater’ boots (even with a 4-inch stiletto, she couldn’t have been more than 5’3”)
During this time, my drinking companion had taken a liking to a Croatian sailor sitting nearby (they are docked here for the week). He and two friends joined us—or rather trapped us in our corner, and bought us a round. Unfortunately, a flower man found his way to our table, and one of the Slavic semen bought us each a rose. Sweet, I guess, but I was not at all interested. Awkwardly holding my rose, and silently drinking my beer as Megan exchanged numbers with the cute, English-speaking sailor, Monsieur Dupont passed eyeing my flower and giving me a “Not Bad” look. To which I responded (in French), “A little help would be nice.” But he didn’t understand what I was asking and simply asked nudgingly if I was making friends. Dommage.
He spent the rest of the night playing with his precious little doll (fetishist! I’ve seen My Size Barbie’s bigger than her!), and I stumbled out of the pub a couple hours later much, much too drunk to walk myself—or my friend home. Thankfully, our not-as-drunk friend, Joey, guided us to safety.

Update: Serena is feeling the strain of being in France for several months...alone. Needs are not being met and she is going a little stir crazy: picking up a few facial ticks and has begun to bite fingernails.

*French dental hygiene = *shudder* Floss didn’t make its way into this country until the mid 1990’s.

Cry Me A River

2005-12-06T11:22:00.000+01:00

I have had very little internet access lately, and in truth, have wanted very little to do with Serena-Abroad.com. It is not that I didn’t miss any of you (or the attention you shower on me), but that I had other things consuming my time (and for a while, me). Re-reading my last few posts was depressing—I really don’t know how any of you did it. What a whiner! Ick. And while everything is hard right now, I am tired of blogging about it. Blech! No more will I subject you, my adoring fans, to the black cloud under which I make a point of walking.
I have been running a lot lately—and oh, how that has helped my mood, and overall well-being. But, oh, how it has hurt. My first time out, I thought it might be best for me to start with no more than 70 mins (I have not worked out since this summer). I was sure this would be a smooth, relatively painless length and set out at a strong pace. Oh, how wrong I was. I thought I was going to have a heart attack and began feeling pain shooting up and down my left arm (psychosomatic). Since then, I’ve made a point to hit the cobblestones at least 3 times/week for around 90 mins (sometimes more, often times less because of weather). I have seen some really wonderful areas of town previously unavailable to me as they are off the tram and bus lines and discovered the most beautiful neighborhood, filled with houses from the 1800s—not destroyed by the war, with a great park in which I met a very hot gardener. I also live close enough to the WWII peace museum/memorial that I can go running through the large grounds. England, the US, Canada, Germany, and France all sponsor gardens there, but few of the museum’s many visitors stick around to tour them.
Navigating traffic and busy streets has been a bit difficult*, but I am really enjoying myself. Thank you all for forgiving me my rather pathetic self-pity/loathing last few weeks and for coming back.

*see Third Person Runner

Third Person Runner

2005-12-06T10:00:00.000+01:00

Serena knew she should turn around. The sun had dropped behind the Castle twenty minutes before, the sky was quickly changing from a its rich royal blue to indigo, and that light, refreshing sprinkle of rain was now a bitter-cold shower blocking her vision and soaking her clothes and trainers; but where to go, which of the many twisting streets would take her back to campus? She had paid very little attention to where she was going, concerned only with running off the day’s stress that weighed so heavily on her shoulders, and keeping pace with the beat of the music that flowed from her iPod. Her muscles, despite being pushed harder than usual were cooling with the evening temperature, and the curried rice she ate for lunch bringing sweat to her brow. She recognized several of the store fronts on the street stretching in front of her, that boulangerie was open on Sundays, and she had stopped into the bar next to it once, asking the moustachioed owner for directions. Serena started off with hopes that this familiar rue would take her home just as the Caesar’s Jerk It Out began pumping through her headphones. It was just what she needed to make the final push home. This ‘second wind’ got her head bobbing and her feet splashing through puddles at a strong pace. In fact, she was disappointed to see a large roundabout crossing the road in front of her; she would be forced to slow down—if not stop completely while waiting for traffic. As she approached, she saw a break in the flow of tiny, economy cars entering the whirlpool and decided to sprint through the gap. Crossing, she neared the edge of the far side bike lane, and jumped over a patch of gravel left by road workers from the last big snow. Proud of her slick, gazelle-like maneuvering, she glanced at the driver waiting for her to reach the other side of his lane. He smiled and winked as she nodded her head and, keeping her deft speed, advanced a few more strides. But, in taking her eyes off the pavement at her feet, Serena didn’t see the large patch of wet leaves in front of her…or the mammoth pile of dog poo laying underneath.
Her pace not affected by her anonymous flirtation, her right foot hit the leaves/ poo hard and skidded forward. By some miracle she did not immediately land in the gooey, brown—now skidmarked—mound, but her left knee buckled, bent, and landed on the sharp concrete curb, causing her body to launch forward onto the sidewalk. As Serena’s face scraped across the stone, headphones ripped from her ears, she thought not about the pain shooting through her body (her knee and jaw—both of which she had landed on would hurt for days), but the guffaws and honking horns bellowing from the cars in the roundabout. The rising laughter rendered her completely incapable of a graceful recovery and she slowly, painfully rose to meet the flashing headlights celebrating her face-plant into the gutter.
Head down, pace now somewhere around a slow limp, Serena continued up the street to her dorm. It was much closer than she had thought, but her recently incurred injuries forced her to take her time, and double the effort. It was then that she vowed to publicly humiliate—and possibly inflict pain on any and all French dog owners and parents of young children leaving their broods’ feces in the streets of this otherwise pleasant and pedestrian friendly country. She will not sleep until a steaming pile of justice is served to each and every one of them.

Happy Birthday to Me!

2005-11-19T18:11:00.000+01:00

My 25th Birthday was last month. I told few people about it here because I still didn’t know everyone very well, and I didn’t want a ‘pity’ party—a nice gesture, but always awkward for all. Actually, I didn’t want any kind of party. Had I been at home, my family would’ve forced me into spending the day with them, but as I wasn’t, I was looking forward to a peaceful evening alone.
After class, I went home, got dressed up, and went to dinner at an Afghani restaurant. I had an amazing meal with cocktails and dessert (22.50 euros!), and headed home. A couple people had remembered the occasion and had taped a homemade card on my door. Cute and sincere, it was nice to be remembered. Later, all of the Americans showed up with a grocery store cake they had rushed out to get. They were stunned I actually considered spending my birthday alone—without cake, without candles, and without them. The biggest crime of all: eating in a restaurant by myself!
They convinced me to go out dancing with them, and I spent the next 4 hours in some basement night club killing my lungs with second-hand smoke and sweating out all of the alcohol consumed earlier in the evening. It was a stereotypical European club with monotonous house music and creepy guys who like to bump and grind and wear trashy gold jewelry. IT WAS SO MUCH FUN! I am not a club kid, but I had a blast—we all did, and I will always remember my 25th as spent with American strangers in a foreign country, an Afghan meal, followed by clubbing eurostyle.

Warning: the following is meant to make you laugh-- after years of repression, I find these stories funny. Laugh with me.

The reason I hate my birthday—or rather, would like to spend the rest of them alone:
I have had very few birthdays that haven’t ended in some kind of trauma.
At 9 years old, weeks before were spent picking out the perfect decorations*: teal, pink, lavender, and light blue unicorns with polka dots and stripes. I had matching invitations, favor bags (with slap bracelets, scrunchies, ect., and gift certificates to MacDonald’s in them), plates, cups, table cloth, signs, even the cake had a unicorn on it (my mom also bought me a teal and hot pink outfit with unicorns—including hair pins and socks). This was to be the best, coolest party ever. Three nights before my party, she got drunk and trashed my room. Apparently, I was a spoiled child who didn’t take care of my things and didn’t deserve them. She told me if I didn’t clean up the mess before my birthday there would be no party. There was no party. My parents got me a drafting board, charcoals, and some art books. My mom’s best friend (a cheap consolation to my own who was not allowed to come) got me a sweater or something equally lame.
And so began the trauma that is October 13th.
The next year, I changed schools. Because my birthday was so early in the school year (and I was still working on meeting new friends), we decided to postpone the party, and have a Halloween/birthday celebration. Once again, the decorations were perfect, my parents went all out and turned our downstairs family room into a haunted house. Costumes were mandatory, and I was a very cool witch with green face, a very goth dress and hat—even boots. I invited 20 girls—from the old school and the new one, and all RSVP’ed. 4 showed up. I was heart broken.
Age 11. My parents split during the summer and were in the beginning stages of what became a very dirty, bloody divorce that would last longer than my adolescence. My frenemies were all there. At this point, I was hanging with the right crowd; we were all much to cool for…everything. I decided to serve brownies à la mode—which was waaay cooler than cake, and opted out on the sleepover—which was so 3rd grade. My dad showed up; only for a few moments, but in that time managed to make both myself and my mother hysterical. My friends were horrified—mine were the first parents to divorce—but not the last. MMMWWWWAAAAHHHAAAAHHAAAA!!!!!
Age 12. My father was, at this point, not welcome in the house, and had to take me out to celebrate my birthday. He took me to a bar where he had a beer and ordered me a sandwich. I kept telling him this was not where I wanted to spend my birthday dinner. It was, afterall, supposed to be my choice. He got mad at me for complaining and made me cry…in front of everyone at the bar (I have gotten to a point where I refuse to eat out with him alone anymore—this happened more than once during my childhood, and several times in my adult life).
Age 13. My father was living with his former mistress—now just plain old girlfriend, and we celebrated my birthday and one of her son’s at the same time. I celebrated with my mother and my two sisters in a very different way. They (all older than I) thought that this day was too important for cake and ice cream, so they rented a limo, made reservations at the nicest restaurant in town, and took me out. I woke up the next morning soaked in blood. I was now…ahem, a woman.
14 and 15. I spent quiet (and very separate) evenings with my mom, and dad.
Age16. No spectacular sweet 16 for me. My mom treated my sister and me to one of our favorite restaurants. She tried to surprise me by inviting some of my friends from school. Unfortunately, she didn’t invite anyone I genuinely liked, and I spent most of the rest of the meal in the bathroom avoiding ‘friends.’ My dad gave me a check. We weren’t really talking at this point. My sister got a car for her sweet 16 two years earlier, I got a ski jacket.
Age 17. I just gave up and asked my mom to forget about a party or celebration of any kind. We had a nice, quiet dinner at home. Dad took me out to dinner and made me cry—much to the horror of our waitress, by telling me that I was ruining his marriage and he didn’t want me to come over to his house anymore. Nevermind the fact that his whore of a gold-digging wife was fucking everything she could lure into her bedroom. I will never go back to that restaurant. Ever.
Age 18. A ray of hope. I woke up late that day, and after being told I would fail my class if I was ever late again, I raced to school. My 3 best friends had filled my car with balloons, confetti, toilet paper, and little presents. The exterior was even worse. As excited as I was to have fallen victim to such a prank, my very well known car had to sit like that in the school’s parking lot all day…okay, I loved all of the attention it brought, and several other friends had remembered my birthday and greeted me with presents. My mom took me to our favorite Greek place and I blew out a candle in a piece of baklava. Dad was out of town. Best birthday ever.
Age 21. Completely dry. Same Greek restaurant. Celebrated with family as all of my friends were off at college. Mom and Dad (now speaking amicably to one another), one of my sisters, an aunt, and two close family friends proceeded to get ‘can’t recognize my own car’ drunk and I played designated driver. Not bad, just not what I had always envisioned my 21st would be.
From there, things sort of mellowed out: I have all but stopped celebrating. It’s not that I am unhappy about being born, or that I don’t like presents (let’s get this straight, my sentiments regarding presents are quite the contrary. QUITE!). It’s just that I have learned from experience, that it’s not meant to be. *sigh *
I realize, in writing all of this out, I sound like a spoiled princess. The truth is, the story of my birthday has become legend amongst my friends. In a dark way, these anecdotes—especially the first, are hysterical.

*If somewhere out there, those decorations still exist, I would buy any and all that I could and use them to celebrate my 26th.
**Note: Unicorn Decorations pictured in no way reflect just how cool mine were.

Depression and Self Loathing in Caen

2005-11-12T18:24:00.000+01:00

Tonight, I am sitting alone in my room. Sure, I am tired, but, more than anything, I am just unhappy. I cried on my way home from Auvergne—not because I was so sad to be leaving, although, it was a wonderful time, but because I am really, really unhappy in Caen. I feel trapped and completely out of control here. I have reverted to a self—an old self that I thought I had matured out of, that no longer existed inside me. I find myself to be negative, cruel, and when in a bad mood, I completely isolate myself. There is a girl* here, who, having no social grace whatsoever, grates on my nerves in a way no one ever has. I am able to co-exist with her because I must, but the fact that she thinks we are the best of friends (I am one of two that can stand to converse with her), and that I must do everything with her (she is in all of my classes, and insists on eating all meals together): I am dying a slow and painful death inside. She is toxic, and yet, only one of several problems in my life right now.
I am in a mood. I have been listening to Radiohead for several hours now, and my balcony door is wide open—letting in the frigid, coastal wind (the one thing I can feel at the moment). I should be working on homework; I failed a test this week, and have a large paper and presentation due next, but I… I am in a mood.
Someone, please, leave me a note, a comment to cheer me up, intrigue and fascinate me—or perhaps put things in perspective letting me know how little I really have to complain about (I am partial to dirty jokes).
Where is my therapist when I need her?

10 pts. for movie title and character, 20 pts. for name of actor who should’ve won best supporting Oscar for his role in this film.
“People who speak in metaphors oughta shampoo my crotch.”

* She is named after a Duran Duran song. 10 pts. to whoever guesses correctly

Ahhh, Vacation

2005-11-12T17:34:00.000+01:00

I am in Auvergne, again at the house of mes amis Parisiens. It is All Saints Day weekend (no Halloween celebration for me), and I have no school on Tuesday; so naturally, I skipped my classes on Friday and today (Monday).
I took a train from Caen to Paris, and then hitched a ride with the family to Auvergne (the house is near the city of Issoire). The cast of regulars is all here: grandmother, several aunts and uncles, cousins, friends from town, and it’s nice to be among them all again.
I arrived late Friday night (dinner at 11:30), and Saturday was spent at the market, then taking photos of the fall foliage. We were joined for dinner by Giles and Muriel (more cousins), who have a vacation home a few villages away. They invited me to stay the night at their house, and participate in the Ballade d’Auvergne the next day (Sunday).
The Ballade d’Auvergne isn’t any kind of oral lament or celebration of the region—it’s a walk—or what I thought would be a walk. Ballade in French is a kind of a promenade: a sightseeing promenade. I was under the impression this ballade was a guided walking tour of the surrounding villages, with wine tasting and a traditional lunch following. Here is why I was confused: I was told that there would be “beaucoup du vent (pronounced vehn)” or a lot of wind—but I heard “beaucoup du vin (pronounced vihn)”—or a lot of wine. I had planned on leisurely strolling the countryside, making casual conversation with others, and taking some fun pictures. But this ballad wasn’t even a walking tour of the surrounding villages. It was a full on 10-mile + nature hike in the mountains, mud, and even across pastures. With cows. My little promenade was, in fact, an adventure trail. I did not discover this until, after one kilometer, the trail veered off the road and onto a small path, over a bridge-less creek, and up the face of a rock wall.
To prepare me for this tribulation, I was told I would need a good pair of shoes (my now worn and beaten Pumas: check), a windbreaker (light-weight gortex jacket: check), and layers, as it can get cold in the higher elevations (t-shirt, fleece: check). I was not warned, however, that I would need hiking boots, wool socks as my feet would invariably become soaked, or a water bottle (again, I was looking forward to a day of wine tasting) and small provisions for energy (I had skipped breakfast).
My ass got kicked. I should have taken heed when I saw everyone at registration with backpacks, boots, and walking sticks. People where actually doing stretches and warming up as I sat drinking cider and taking pictures.
I started off at 9:15 a.m. at a brisk pace; I was walking alone and didn’t want to be the last one to finish—it wasn’t a race, but that would’ve been just too humiliating. I made it to the first checkpoint in an hour. Not bad, but there were 5 checkpoints—best hurry if I want to make it in before 3 p.m. The next few were relatively close together, but the terrain was tough and each took at least one 40 minutes to get to. The volunteers at each stop marked down that I made it, offered me a dried prune or fig, and asked me, with a regard filled half with pity, half with confusion, “Vous êtes toute seul?” (you’re all alone?).
The final stretch was the roughest. It began with a steep descent down a paved road (tears were actually forming on my kneecaps), and then up an equally steep hill (funny how that works), through a small village where people where lined on the side of the road as if the Tour de France was making its way through main street, then off the beaten, across yet another pasture, and into the woods. Once clear of the forest, I saw the village of St. Etienne (the starting and finish line) and almost began to cry.
This had not been my idea of a leisure stroll. I was sprained and scratched and bleeding, had tasted no wine, and actually been deceived into paying money to play. I arrived. There was no prize, no title of prestige; no one had even really recognized that the American had made it back. Giles and Muriel (two organizers of the event) weren’t even there to say “Job well done.” And when I did search them out, all they said was how glad they were it wasn’t raining, and how lucky I was to be in Auvergne for such an event (apparently, it only happens once each year. Apparently, they have never done it).
Lunch was beef Bourgogne, local cheese, apple tart, and apple cider. No wine.
I called my friends to let them know I was finished and that they could come to retrieve me as planned. They said they had just sat down to eat, but would be by when finished. No problem. Giles and Muriel are super, and volunteered to show me the village of St. Etienne. 20 people live in St. Etienne. There is one street and a handful of driveways, a small café, a church that has no priest—and therefore, no congregants, and a school which doubles as town hall. We were finished in 20 minutes. My friends, I would later find out, received visitors and had forgotten me. I spent most of the afternoon and early evening helping Giles and Muriel prepare for a dinner party to which I had not been invited. They were not put-out by my presence—on the contrary, I think they enjoyed having me, but I felt a little like my parents had forgotten to pick me up after basketball practice (which happened a lot during the divorce and took me to kind of a bad place. I don’t want to talk about it…).
Ahhh, vacation.

10 pts. for character:
"Look kids, there's Big Ben, Parliment"

Whaaaa?

2005-10-26T20:33:00.000+02:00

Okay, update: I am back online, but all of my links, ect. have been lost-- please stay with me as I have had several adventures in the past couple of weeks and will post them all as soon as I can!

Don't know what's going on...logged on today to find my site (template and everything) wiped clean. Thankfully, my pictures, and all of my posts are still in my account (and what's more, I have everything backed up anyway). Has this happened to anyone else? How do I get my site back?

Show me the money

2005-10-22T14:10:00.000+02:00

Something very wrong has occured. I went online to take care of some banking and saw that I am over 550 USD overdrawn! I don't know what happened, I don't understand. I am currently close to vomiting as the word "overdrawn" is not in my vocabulary, and do not know how this happened. To. Sick. To. Continue. Blogging.

Tag, I'm it.

2005-10-22T13:18:00.000+02:00

Seven things I want to do before I die:

1. graduate with my bachelor’s degree
2. marry
3. buy a new car
4. finish reading A Tale of Two Cities (I’ve started and stopped halfway through a million times)
5. forgive my father
6. sing karaoke (I can’t sing, and have yet to be drunk enough to get up and not sing in front of others)
7. show someone (whose opinion [and intellect] I respect) my ramblings…er, um writings

Seven things I can do:

1. flirt
2. speak French
3. drive a manual transmission VROOM!
4. pretend to like you
5. code my blogger template
6. splice and build a film (I was a projectionist)
7. spike a volleyball and hit a quarter on the other side of the court

Seven things I cannot do:

1. drive a manual transmission well GRIND!
2. tie a cherry stem into a knot using only my tongue (sorry, boys)
3. eat spicy food
4. tan (I burn, freckle, and return to lily white)
5. run a mile in under 5 minutes
6. resist ice cream
7. write legibly (my penmanship is atrocious)

Seven things I say a lot :

1. “Je t’ai cassé” (you must see Brice de Nice)
2. “Shit”
3. “Ah, merde!” (ok, same thing, but different language)
4. “Emilio!” (Night at the Roxbury)
5. “Amen”
6. “I will C-I-L-L Kill you” (Eddie Murphy, SNL)
7. “Fuck! That hurt!” (if I’m not stubbing my toe, I’m bonking my head, or jamming my finger)

Seven things I find attractive in a male:

1. intellect
2. a sense of humor
3. morality/spirituality
4. humility
5. sweet skills
6. a job (preferably one that doesn’t involve narcotics), and decent credit
7. oh, and duh! height ;)

Seven celebrity crushes:

1. Daniel Auteuil
2. Jeff Goldblum
3. Jeremy Irons
4. Catherine Keener
5. Shirley Manson
6. Tim Roth
7. Steve Buscemi*purrrrr*

Survival Guide to a Traditional Irish Breakfast

2005-10-16T14:27:00.000+02:00

The traditional Irish Breakfast (heretofore referred to as TIB) is offered at all Bed & Breakfasts, Hotels, and some hostels as a way of providing a cultural experience and a hearty meal to their weary travelers. These establishments are also very likely to offer fruit plates or scrambled eggs (which are greatly encouraged by those of us here at Serena-Abroad.com as the better choice for reasons explained below).
Do not be fooled, while TIB offers more food and variety for the price, any alternative is a better alternative to a plate of food that, while sitting for several hours in your stomach, turns your arteries into sausage—black, spiced sausage, the consistency of couscous.
TIB usually begins with a bowl of cornflakes and a glass of orange juice. Now, while this is not always the case: if presented with any sort of cereal, Serena-Abroad.com encourages you to eat it with as much sugar as possible to counteract the affects of what’s to come, and ask for more orange juice—or any other kind of juice, the more acidic the better (stay away from coffee and tea, and under no circumstances, should you consume more phlegm-inducing dairy than necessary).
Next, you will be presented with a plate of what is best described as the 5 grease groups: eggs, ham, sausage, vegetables prepared in grease, beans; and toast.
The eggs will be fried (some establishments offer a choice of preparation—with little to no difference in amount of regret later). Eat them first. They have protein and will coat your stomach with a semi-protective layer of poultry reproductive fluids.
Ham (called Bacon) is an overcooked to the point of jerky ham steak. Relatively harmless. Eat this next as it is another source of protein for the busy day of sightseeing ahead of you, and the second least greasy (assuming you trim the fat) item of the TIB.
The sausage…just avoid the sausage. It is quite possible you will be presented with a variety of colors and sizes of sausage on your plate; whether bright orange, clotted-blood black, or regular kielbasa brown, DO NOT EAT THE SAUSAGE! Not to merely sample something new, not to experience this aspect of Irish culture, not even if you have recently been bitten by a mythical wolf man and must eat meat to avoid eating your traveling companions. Not even then! Make friends with diners around you and offer to trade them your delicious, plump sausage for their cereal.
The beans, I assume, are meant to be eaten with the toast, but, if beans and toast aren’t for you—as they aren’t for me, indulge in sampling the plethora of jams sitting in the middle of your table.
Beans on toast taste like beans (in ketchup) on dry, white toast, that is to say, they taste like ketchup on toast and offer the unfortunate tactile experience of dry, white toast and bean mush (warm if you’re lucky), and runny ketchup. As far as I can tell, there are no nutritional benefits and no rational reason to eat Beans on Toast.
Your TIB plate will be garnished with a cooked tomato, and mushrooms. Expect both to be covered in oil, butter, lard, or all of the above. If this is not the case, consume any and all vegetables available—before anything else.
As with many things in Ireland, each region has their own, slightly different way of doing TIB. The Dingle Peninsula, for example likes to include a fried fish steak. I’ve never been a fan of fried fish for breakfast, and when included on a platter of the 5 major grease groups, it is the opinion of Serena-Abroad.com that one is best avoiding the fish with the same fervor as the sausage.
If, after reading this, you decide not to heed my warnings, remember this:
You have just consumed 4 servings too many of animal by-product. Do not engage in any of the following activities:
Running (or physical activity of any kind), smoking (unless you’re feeling lucky—well, do ya?*), eating anything else for several hours, and never get on a bus going…anywhere. Roads in Ireland are winding, and it is very likely you will, along the way, hit something, or someone. This trip, on a bus is enough to make even the most seasoned Grey-hounder ill, adding to it TIB creates a travel memory not easily forgotten (as I learned the hard way).

European has inspired me: 30 pts. and eternal glory to the best limerick (your choice of subject). Some of you are quite clever indeed and I encourage you to respond-- even those amongst you lacking in the clever department ;)

*sorry, couldn’t help myself.

Back To Ireland

2005-10-13T16:35:00.000+02:00

Hitchhiking in Ireland is nothing like hitchiking in the US. Everybody does it here, it's safe, legal, and there are no negative connotations attached to the people that do it.
That said, no one is guaranteed a trip just for sticking their thumb out or holding up a cardboard sign. I do not recommend doing it in downpour, torrential rainfall, high winds, or both. Especially if you are a foreign traveler with no means to dry your clothing after a few hours of standing out in the rain (with your hood down and no umbrella just to make sure motorists know that you are a girl [and, therefore, much more likely to get a lift). Pay the 10.50 euro for a bus ticket to TraLee from Dingle and spend that time, instead, paying 4 euro/hour at the only cyber cafe in town and maybe splurging 2.50 euro for ho-cho.
I ended up taking the bus anyway (damn that 20-20 hindsight!), but missed the connecting bus to Doolin and the Cliffs of Moher. Instead, I got as far as Limerick and spent the night.
I stayed a block from the station at a B&B run by the Boylan family.
I got as far as the front hall of the Boylan B&B and was told to wait by an old man sitting slumped in an armchair off to the side. He was wearing a hat, trench coat, and house slippers. He asked me where I was from, and told me he had been to Boston several times. Enter Theresa Boylan: "Leave the poor dear alone, can't you see she's soaking wet!"
"I was just talking to her, she is American."
"American?" I'm American, you know?" She says to me in a thick Irish accent.
Turns out, the mister and 'Mother' Theresa (as I began to refer to her), met in the states while they were in college. She actually got citizenship and loves all things Kennedy, Boston, and Catholic. In fact, her entire dining room is dedicated to them. She gave me a room (with a giant crucifix over the bed), and showed me the bathroom (next to the giant picture of the Virgin Mary). But the house wasn't at all scary or overbearing, there was lots of laughter from her many (11!) adult children (who all happened to be there that night), and she insisted on putting my clothes in the dryer--they don't offer laundry services and she did this for free. Then, I sat down and watched more Hurrican Rita coverage and ate some take-out from down the street.
I didn't see but one street in Limerick, the one in front of the train station, but was greeted with incomparable hospitality. Mother Theresa made a point to check in on how I was doing every half hour or so, and loved talking to me about her time in the States. She would enter the room, grab the remote control and turn up the volume, then begin to try to talk over it. She informed me that there was a prophet of some kind at the local church who foresaw that America was about to be chastened. She (MT) was sorry to hear it, and was glad that I had no family affected by the recent tragedies.
As I headed up to my room, to retire for the night, she hugged me "Good Night" and told me to be ready for a big breakfast in the morning...

Just a note.

2005-10-10T22:33:00.000+02:00

Shit for school Wi-Fi won't allow me to use Safari and I am struggling with internet explorer. I can't post pictures, and I must post two or three posts at a time as I can only use the internet after business hours ( I am sitting in the dark on the wet grass outside the student union [and I use that term loosely).
So, scroll down and read both of my posts as they are in order from bottom to top.
Please know that I am stopping by all of your sites when I can and will try, in the coming days, to get a set blogging schedule so I can get back on the blogger track.

I hope that's the int'l sign for more ketchup?

2005-10-10T22:31:00.000+02:00

Since my arrival, I have seen his cakey white face on posters all over town. Leering out at me, “What are you doing here?” “Ooooh, that does make you look fat!” “Can you help me get out of this invisible box?”

Marcel Marceau, the famous mime everyone thought had died decades ago, is touring France with a new show and was in Caen last night. As much as I didn’t want to pay anything more than what loose change I had in my pocket to see a mime, it was Marcel Marceau: the mime. At 83, the man of silence is still going strong. His stage show was something to behold. Granted, it was still a guy in whiteface not talking in front of a room full of people (completely sold out). But he projected an amazing amount of energy and any physical comedy he can no longer include in his show, was replaced by skill only found in the most expert of performers. The control he exhibited over his body and expressions was striking, and, after a while, one became completely enraptured with the “scenes” going on onstage, and forgot about the single performer. This was humor without politics or sex, an acute study of the both the human body and how it is used, and a celebration of one of France’s most beloved performers once again making the rounds. The spectacle was followed by a 10 minute standing ovation that brought tears to the eyes of both the mime and his adoring, cheering audience.

Nothing particularly breathtaking about the show stands out in my mind—only hours later, but I will forever remember that I saw Marcel Mar-fucking-Ceau live in France.

Welcome to the Hellmouth

2005-10-10T21:32:00.000+02:00

I am in Caen…well, my mother told me if I didn’t have anything nice to say, don’t blog about it. *shrug* It is not Paris.

I really don’t like it here. From the soviet ghetto-type dorms to the fact that the language placement exam was a fiasco and no one seems to have been placed accurately*; the fact that the only people I know here are American and speak in English to me all the time, and that they all insist on doing things in a big group like we are all in jr. high and not capable of going to the mall by ourselves (meet ya’ in front of the Orange Julius)!
It’s just a lot of change and a lot of stress all at once—and I don’t have internet (my solace) in my room, building, or the whole north side of campus. And the rooms with internet are only open until 5 p.m. each night. I should be able to sit outside the Wi-Fi hot zones at night and catch the signal, but I still can’t seem to configure my browser.

I have had to buy all new bedding, towels, dishes, and even rugs for my room as it is a complete hole, and the rotting pieces of fabric issued to me by the school aren’t cutting it. The kitchenettes on each floor consist of one hotplate, and a large sink that (on my floor) is always plugged with hair. There is no refrigerator or microwave, and neither are allowed in the rooms. I have no way of keeping or preparing meals as I have no pots or pans, and no cooler. Fortunately, the weather has been very poor and I have just enough room on my windowsill for yogurt and milk. This means I eat out for close to every meal, and am bleeding money.

I am really trying hard to stay positive: if I don’t I won’t make it through the semester, let alone the year.
I am still mourning my move from Paris. I have plans to go back in November for the Rufus Wainwright concert (yea!), and will be there at Christmas for a few days… *sigh*

The city isn’t bad, not nearly as expensive as Paris, and the public transport is great (a brand new tram system and really easy, clean buses). There are two enormous markets, and I think Sunday mornings for the rest of the school year will be dedicated to the market. Caen also has some great nightspots, but I’m not really a club kid—or even a barfly. Two of the three cinemas play films in both French and their original English versions, and there are lots of ancient and medieval buildings, ruins, and sites (including an enormous medieval castle in the middle of town, and across the street from the university).

*The school policy requires that students spend the first TWO WEEKS!!! of class in their original placement before moving them to another—perhaps better suited level. So, regardless of what class I end up in—and I can assure you it won’t be the one I’m in now—I will have missed the first two weeks of class!

Saddle Sore

2005-09-25T20:24:00.000+02:00

I awoke the next morning early and in surprisingly fine shape. It was my last day in Killarney and I wanted to make the most of it.
The night before, Haim (the Israeli) and I had talked about renting bikes and visiting Ross Island and the medieval Ross Castle, as well as Muckross House (giant Victorian manor), and the Muckross National Park. We invited a few others to join us, but the only taker was Pete, the Aussie.
We rented bikes from the Sugan for 10 euros for the day. None of us had a bike that fit: mine was way to small, and I spent the day bent over the handle bars (and feeling the full weight of my breasts), Pete's (who is a teeny little super guy) was waaaay to big, ect. And we all felt a little like the Von Trapps riding around the countryside singing (matching clothes made out of drapes would've been cool).
Together, we headed out for Ross Island where we toured the coastline, stopped for a snack, and chatted with a few strangers.
Ross Island looked a lot like Wenatchee National Forest, with huge green trees, evergreens, hilly, and so peaceful, but there was almost no undergrowth-- just dead leaves and dirt on the ground (think Sherwood Forest in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves).
We then headed to Muckross House and the national park. Now, it had been some time since I was on a bike, let alone for such distances and my ass was already starting to complain (and no, not flatulently). The whole undercarriage was sore and in pain. Everytime I dismounted, or worse, got back on my bike, shards of pain leaped from my groin up and down my legs and back. And, to make matters worse, my knees (completely blown out from years of athletic abuse) were cracking at every incline. But, I was traveling with two strapping young lads and there was no way in hell I was about to complain or turn back-- not just yet.
We stopped at Muckross abbey (which is completely skippable), and passed the manor for a hike up a large, steep waterfall. We lunched on a small cliff half way up an even larger, uneven stone stair (think Seven Years in Tibet).
Pete had been waiting all day to dig into his sausage, hashbrown, butter baguette (which had coagulated into a brown, greasy mush). After tossing that to the birds, and finishing off our candy bars, we climbed the rest of the way up the stair to what we thought would be the top of the waterfall. Not so. We had overshot the damn thing and there really wasn't anything but the beginnings of a creek to gawk at. Dommage.
After the waterfall, we made our way back to the bikes (waiting patiently for us at the bottom of the trail-- actually far away from the bottom of the waterfall trail, but that is a longer story) filling the time with a debate about whether Truman should've dropped the bombs, and the physical and psychological differences of sex on men and women (I think we came up with a some really effective solutions to much of the world's problems that afternoon).
I had really wanted to tour Muckross House, I had heard some amazing things about it, and I really like that sort of thing, but the boys had no desire and wanted to check out the Meeting of the Waters, which is where three large lakes...meet. I decided to join them for a few reasons, but the most important being that Muckross doesn't offer discounts to students over 18 (!), and admission was 5.50 euro!
But, alas, as we headed to the 'meeting' my knees began to grind and I had to stop and walk up a couple hills. Now, I am sure that had it not been a rented bike, had I spent some time on a bike recently, and perhaps, not climbed and then descended down the waterfall's Tibetan stair before making it that far, I would've been okay, but that was not the case and I was losing speed. Fast. The guys were great, very patient and showed no signs of frustration at my crybaby whimperings, and we made it back to town in about an hour instead of the 30 minutes it normally takes.
That night, we met up with several others from the Sugan and hit the clubs/pubs. More drunken hours spent in the street talking about nothing-- this time with three Dubliners instead of Germans, and some really white trash Aussie girl.

And with that, kiddies, takes us to my vacation from my vacation.

Overheard in Ireland:

old man with cane walking along path: Yes, (Angelina Jolie) damn sure is (hot).
overheard at Ross Castle

Israeli to Aussie: so, Harrison with pierced ear and The Fugitive beard walk into a bar with a Snickers bar in one hand, and Reese Witherspoon in the other...
overheard several times throughout the day

Too easy, but I walk around inapropriately spurting this quote at really dramatic moments:
"I have a brother? I have a brother!"
5 pts for full name of brother and actor that played him

Killarney: the biggest little town on Earth

2005-09-23T21:43:00.000+02:00

Day One:

I left Cork for Killarney the next day after Blarney Castle. The German girl I had met at Blarney had recommended a good hostel in town and I easily found it from the bus station. It is the famous Sugan Backpacker's hostel. It was amazing! It's in one of Killarney's oldest buildings-- and is certainly the town's oldest hostels. It felt more like a base camp lodge than a tourist retreat. The ceilings are low and musty, with mugs hanging from the rafters and the most eclectic collection of photos hanging from the walls (tribes from various continents, children, former guests and employees, ect.), and there is always some kind of very groovy music playing in the background.
All of the rooms at the Sugan are dorms and all of the bathrooms shared. And when I walked into mine (6 bed female), I was greeted by my German friend. She was sleeping in the bed next to mine-- bizarre coincidence! *shrug*
She was leaving from Kerry Airport to get back to Frankfurt and would be around town for a few days. We went to Murphy's Pub that night to listen to a small trio play traditional Irish music and grab a couple of beers. That was the first night/time I actually went to a pub in Ireland. Looks of shock and surprise may be crossing your faces right now, I have, afterall, been here for 12 days now; but where I come from, girls don't go out to bars by themselves-- and I've just never been that brave. So, yes, pub+ beer+ 3 old guys playing "O Danny Boy" (one of whom slipped my friend his number!): fun was had by all.

Day Two:

The next day the two of us signed up for a Ring of Kerry bus tour. The Ring of Kerry is a tourist trail in County Kerry. The route covers the 110 miles of road, starting from Killarney around the Iveragh peninsula; it passes through Kenmare, Sneem, Waterville, Cahersiveen and Killorglin. Touristic attraction points are, among others, Muckross House (near Killarney), Staigue Fort and Derrynane House, home of Daniel O'Connell*.
The ring can be done in several hours or several days. We took the 6 hour tour, and thanks to some awful weather, spent most of that time on the bus:( Our driver and guide was James Sullivan from County Kerry. When he wasn't talking into the microphone, he was singing little ditties to himself. The day cost 14.50 euros with student discount (or special discount available to Sugan guests), and does not include lunch-- although the bus does stop at a pub for a quick tour of a bog village and 5 euros Irish coffees(!), a cafeteria, and, later, the little village of Sneem. Despite the weather, I had a good time: beautiful views, some really nice people on the bus with us, and I took some amazing pictures (which will probably not be uploaded for several days).
When we returned, I went down to the internet cafe where I paid 4 euro/ hour (holy fuck!) to check e-mails and let the family know I was alive. Sadly, outside of the big cities, where I was paying around 4 euros for 5 hours, that is the average price charged per hour.
As that night was her last in Ireland, she wanted to go down to O'Connells pub for some more music and beer. There, we ran into a group of guys from the Sugan: an Israeli, an Australian, a Kiwi, and 3 Germans-- one of which had a four foot fire baton he later took out into the alley and began dancing with. After the pub closed around 11, we went to an after hours dance club (the only thing open at that hour).
The fire twirling, dreadlocked German was eager to talk politics (blech!),** but another good time was had by all, and I met some of my roomies.
Much, much later that night, myself, the Israeli, the Australian, and 2 of the Germans stand in the street, drunk and drinking, and very loudly talking about nothing at all important.

Overheard in Ireland

drunk man being photographed: Think Viagra!

overheard in O'Connel's Pub by one of two young girls he was being photographed with

old guy with sharp teeth: I'm Jesus Christ, would you like to meet my mother Mary?

overheard in O'Connel's Pub

*Thanks Wikipedia. The Free Encyclopedia.
**For future reference, if any of you would like to debate American politics with me, be sure that you 1) can speak the language well enough to both understand what I am saying and respond accordingly, and 2) know just as much as you do about American politics as you do about the English Language, 3) acknowledge that I am under no obligation to agree with you. Ever.
***Fire Twirler in photo is not dread-headed German guy

A Vacation From My Vacation

2005-09-23T20:50:00.000+02:00

Tonight, I am in the town of Dingle, on the Dingle Pennisula, in County Kerry. I am taking a break. I am posting on all that has happened to me in the last few days (and that is quite a lot), so scroll down to read about each day's adventures.
I got here, today, after a very long and nauseating bus ride. I was exhausted from a night of drunkness and little sleep-- which I wasn't able to catch up on on the bus; it was completely packed and not at all comfortable. I arrived with no room reservations-- or even the name of a hostel or B&B, as I had planned to continue on to the tiny village of Dunquin for the night. Buses to Dunquin only run twice each week and only once each of those days-- neither of which is today. So, after my long, cramped bus ride, I was forced to carry my sack around town looking for a room. The tourist office was little help and it's the start of a weekend: not a lot of vacancies. Finally, I decided to walk into the 'luxury' hotel I kept passing. The idea of spending a large sum of money on a room for the night was becoming more and more appealing as my sack was becoming more and more heavy.
Now, I walked into that place looking like a nightmare; I was wearing dirty clothes, greasy hair, my sack and jacket covered in mud (it had been raining all day), and I was greeted with a giant, sincere smile and welcomed into their lobby. I am still unable to account for this. In the states, if I had walked into...well, most establishments looking like I did, I would have not been well received, let alone welcomed with open arms. But for the nicest hotel in the town to treat me like they did was amazing-- even before they knew whether or not I was seriously inquiring about the room.
I am paying 150 euros for one night. I have a soft, cushy double bed with several feather pillows, and ironed (!) linens*. There is a giant jacuzzi tub, which I have already put to use, in the bathroom I have all to myself. Should I feel the need, room service is available for a ridiculous amount of money, and the pub downstairs serves guests of the hotel complimentary drinks and reduced prices for desserts.
I am taking a luxury vacation from my backpacker's vacation. No hostel for me tonight, I just ate a 30 euros dinner-- which, not incredibly expensive, but when compared to the other meals I've had on this trip (the most expensive having been 11 euros), it was quite the feast (started off with a crab and avacado salad, had fish and chips as my entree, and apple crumble a la mode for dessert)! Tonight, I will return to my room (no roomies for me) as loudly as I would like, and take one more long, hot shower before getting into bed and...wait for it...WATCHING TV! That's right, kiddies, I have tv in my room, and while the only thing interesting that's on right now is Hurricane Rita coverage, this is the first time since May that I've watched tv.
This is the best vacation from a vacation ever!

*I love ironed linens

Hang in there, Baby

2005-09-21T21:57:00.000+02:00

The online man of my dreams is going through...something. As I am unable to lend a helping hand, shoulder to cry on, bosom to weep into ;), to him, I say this:

The Blarney Stone: I kissed it.

2005-09-19T23:44:00.000+02:00

Yesterday, I slept in until about noon. I am trying to rest up and fight this cold, but am currently losing. :(
I decided to go to Blarney Castle, kiss the Blarney stone and return to Cork for a some more site seeing. Except that after a only a few hours of walking around Blarney, I was exhausted, and had to return to the hostel to take a nap. I was awakened by a woman moving in (damn, no more room all to myself-- I hate sharing).

Blarney Castle was cool, but it was torrential down pour and very cold. Yeah! The grounds were so beautiful and electric green, with crazy looking trees, caves, druid rock type things, and very fun to explore, but don't forget your umbrella (or your flashlight-- for the caves and dungeons). The bus ride from Cork to Blarney was about 30 minutes, and round-trip cost 4.90 euros. Not bad, however, admission to the castle and grounds-- for a student-- cost 5 euros! I am still on the fence as to whether or not it's actually worth it. *shrug*
As I was walking to the castle, I met a girl from Germany (with an Irish accent-- of course), who was also headed to the castle. We hung out for the day and it was nice to have a buddy to walk around with. Her English is quite exceptional and we had a good time. After days of hanging out by myself, the company was a welcomed change.

While in Cork, I stayed at Sheila's Hostel. It is nice enough with internet, a mini cinema, a big communal kitchen, a sauna (?), and a lot of clean rooms. I stayed in a 4 bed dorm ensuite for which I was only paying 14 euro/night. It is close to the Cork city center, and near many other shops and restaurants. The front desk staff was welcoming and was able to get me set up with travel info., including bus timetables, maps, places of interest, ect. Sheila's is a great hostel; my only complaint is that the only laundry services available cost 6 euro. One can't do their own laundry (no public facilities and the bathroom sinks are too small), but must pay the staff to do it for you. There is one laundromat in town-- far, far away from Sheila's. Also, breakfast is not included with the price of your room.

Cork has a lot to offer in terms of restaurants. There are many fast food joints, a wide array of ethnic cuisine, and even cafeterias. One I rather liked was The Gingerbread House. It came highly recommended from a staff member at Sheila's and I would say it is the most rockin' cafeteria I've ever been in. The food is good, and comparable to most fast food. Everything from pizza to quiche, tarts and custards, to a traditional Irish breakfast for under 5 euro.

Overheard in Ireland:

old woman in front seat of bus: it has chicken and turkey in it.
bus driver: but it's meat. What is it: chicken or turkey?
old woman: both-- you put it in the microwave. I never cook anymore, I always use my microwave. 4 euro at Dunnes, not bad for chicken and turkey.
bus driver: but which is it? That is a whole piece of meat-- it can't be both?
old woman: it's chicken and turkey-- it's for the microwave.
old woman #2: I love my microwave, Shelley gave it to me.

20 pts. for film title:
"My little brother got his arm stuck in the microwave. So my mom had to take him to the hospital. My grandma dropped acid this morning, and she freaked out. She hijacked a busload of penguins. So it's sort of a family crisis."

This is one of my all time favorite movies. I will give you a hint: "I want my two dollars."

Wearing my house.

2005-09-19T23:17:00.000+02:00

Things I brought with me and can't use:
My iPod. It is broken and with it, I brought a cord to charge it, headphones and remote.
My cell phone. It should work. It is a European phone with Tri Band and a universal calling plan. But it doesn't.
My laptop. The battery is dead (didn't bring my spare), and I can't charge it for reasons unbeknownst to me (and the guys at the Apple Center).
My flip flops. They are leather and I can't wear them in the shower. Also, it's freezing outside and not sandal weather.
My beloved Air Rifts. I love these shoes so much, but refuse to wear shoes that my toes stick out of in public (however, I can't bring myself to throw them away and have tied them to the outside of my sack).

Things I brought with me and don't need but have used anyway:
My gortex jacket. It is a little bulky to carry around in case of rain (and I also brought my umbrella), but it is earning its keep as a neck pillow/blanket for those long bus rides.
My sleeping bag. I love, love my sleeping bag. And while I've been provided with sheets every where I've stayed, I prefer the warmth and comfort of my blanky...um, I mean sleeping bag.
My leather driving loafers. I wore them over on the plane because I like to dress nicely when I travel, but they are now squished into the bottom of my sac and I don't anticipate a need for them until I fly out again. Oh, I dunno. Maybe I'll wear them shopping in Dublin.

Things I wish I hadn't brought with me:
Full-sized bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body gel. Travel size would have sufficed.
My beach towel. A hand towel would have sufficed.
Lysol brand wet wipes. They suds up your hands which actually creates more problems as I use them when I don't have access to water. Stick to brands you know and trust.
My Philosophy Skin Care line. It's bulky and because of all of the stress and changing environments/weather, my skin has broken out anyway. Cleansing cloths would have been more practical.

Things I wish I had brought:
Cold medicine. That's right, kiddos. Serena is sick. I have a mild fever, am coughing, sneezing and exhausted. Also, my sinus and ears are killing me. And, because I take medicine that doesn't like to play well with others, it is difficult to find over the counter remedies (apparently impossible in Ireland where all products are made from the one drug I can't have-- or so says the pharmacist).

Waterford by Bus

2005-09-17T22:13:00.000+02:00

Breakfast at the Mayor Walk B&B is served promptly at 8:30 a.m. Don't expect to come waltzing in at a quarter to 9, because it won't be there. This morning I ate with a couple from northern Idaho-- who actually seemed pretty normal (no white hoods or extra toes), and a couple from France. We had sausage, bacon (thinly sliced ham steaks), and eggs. I was out the door shortly thereafter.
As it was Saturday morning-- early Saturday morning, no one was on the cobblestone streets of Waterford as I made my way past the walled garden of the Presbyterian/Methodist Church (a combination I never thought I'd see), through the city square, past the closing United Colors of Benetton, or onto the Quay. There were a few locals setting up for the Saturday market, but just nuns selling bread, and a ponytailed thinman wearing a wolf t-shirt and selling his wood-carved dragons, crystals, and role-playing game cards.
I caught the 3 bus to the Waterford Crystal factory. The route starts out in front of Kelly's Fine Clothing Department Store for Women, and loops the town every 20 mins. or so. It is a great way to see the town-- even if you have no particular destination. I was the only female on the bus, I was also the only person on the bus (including the driver) under 60 years old. I was greeted with bigs smiles and a couple of winks. At the next stop, another old man gets on and proceeds to greet everyone on the bus. They are all on a first name basis. As we continue through the route, people get on and off, greeting each other and saying farewells. They also talk about people they see walking on the street:
-"Oh, there's Peter, there. Do you see he's got himself a new cane?"
~"I did! He was showin' it off down the pub last night."
or:
-"You know, she used to be a pretty lady, but I much prefer her daughter these days"

It was so cute. Waterford isn't a tiny village, it is an large town with shopping centers, and a strong economy, but it felt so quaint and everyone on the bus wished me luck and told me they hoped I enjoyed my tour of the factory as I left!

Unfortunately, the tour of the factory was more like on of those "luncheons" you have to attend while to get that free weekend in Vail.
Sure, you get to go through the factory, but at every stop, the guide made a point to sell-- even the craftsmen had memorized a bit, telling us to make sure to stop by the gallery and pick out something pretty to keep them in the job. Ick.
But, with my student ID I only paid 4 euro, and I did have fun seeing the town.
Then, I headed back to the Quay to catch the bus to Dunmore East. This is a tiny village in County Waterford. It is a fishing village with a beach, a park, a church, and not much else. But it is so beautiful and there weren't any tourists-- it was almost as if the town couldn't support any kind of tourism. It is that small. It is also very green, the water is very blue and the surrounding rocks, cliffs, and beach staggeringly beautiful. Today was warm and the sun was shining, so I played on the beach, picnicked on the cliffs, and talked to locals. My bus driver there and back was named Percy. Percy had to be about 80 years old, and like most of the inhabitants of Dunmore East, was more difficult for me to understand, than anyone I've ever heard speaking in French. Even in Waterford I've encountered some strong accents, but today was the worst. I felt like a complete idiot, because I had to ask people to repeat themselves several times.
While on the beach-- in my new suede PUMAS (I think I'll regret that one later), I made friends with a couple who lived across the water in Wexford County, and a little boy who was running around the beach completely naked, playing with his big, black dog. Now, it was sunny and warm out, but the water was freezing cold-- even the wet sand was cold (hence the PUMAS), but this kid was begging his mom, "Ma? MMMAAAAA! I want to go in the water with the boats!" His little bum and hands and feet were covered in mud, and he was so happy splashing in the tidal pools.
Tomorrow, I am making my way to Cork and hopefully, good weather and luck will follow:)
I am still having problems with my side bar, I don't know how to pull it back up from the bottom of the page, and I still can't post any of my pictures. But, stay tuned.

One of my favorite websites is Overheard in New York. Today, I bring you Overheard in Ireland:

Tour Guide: Are you Catholic?
Tourist: No, we're American

-- heard in Christ Church Cathedral

Man on street talking to buddies: It's called Ciallis or something like that. It's like the other one, but is supposed to work for days instead of hours.

--heard in Dunmore East.

Waterford City, Waterford County

2005-09-16T20:23:00.000+02:00

I am in Waterford City in Waterford County, Ireland. It is a small little place and because it's off season, there aren't a lot of tourists (Yea!). I rolled into town today with no reservations and no idea of how long I wanted to stay. My bus ticket from Dublin was 10.50 euros for a 3 hour trip. I was pleasantly surprised with the bus: clean, speedy, and cool-- as in, not hot. From the depot, I crossed the street to the tourism office. They called the one b&b in town in my price range (there are no hostels here, but I am only paying 26 euro [!] for my room-- and it's pretty nice-- not pretty, but nice). They booked a reservation for me and I walked up the hill and through town to check in. I am set to leave on Sunday and between then and now, I will go to the Waterford Crystal factory, another little coastal town (the name escapes me), and explore this one.
In other news, I bought a pair of PUMAs today. My wonderful camel-toed Nikes are showing their age and will not make the rest of the trip. I paid 80 euro-- which is waaaayyyyy more than I would've paid in the US or even Paris, but that's my own fault for not replacing my beloved shoes sooner.
The power cord for my laptop is not working-- I don't know why, but it is quite possible I fried it when I plugged it into the outlet at my hostel in Dublin last night. Dommage. Now my battery is close to dead and I can't use my precious. I am trying to check out all of your sites as usual, but for some reason, my links and side column are not showing up on this cafe's computers? Do they not normally show up for all of you? Anyway, I am reading along when I can. And as soon as my precious is up and running again, I will post pictures.
Also, if it is the beginning of Fall in Paris, it is the dead of Winter in Ireland! It is bitingly cold and rainy and miserable.

Part One: I’m Baaaaaaaaaccckkkk.

2005-09-15T21:23:00.001+02:00

I haven’t posted anything for a while because last week was my last one in Paris. *tear* And instead of packing, preparing, and doing all of the things I didn’t get done during the summer; I played tour guide for some visiting friends. It was fun—but exhausting. We visited several sites each day and my digital camera was stolen.
Last Friday, the girls’ first day in Paris, we saw almost everything there is to see in this great city. We started at the l’Arc de Triomphe, walked down the length of the Champs Elysée (where the girls had their very first authentic Parisian café experience), stopped by the Place de la Concorde for pictures, crossed the street to the Seine for (more) pictures of the Eiffel Tower and the Alexandre III bridge, the re-crossed the street and the Place de la Concorde to the Madeline Church by way of some very expensive window shopping (Hèrmes, Chanel, Dior, Valentino, ect.). It was there—at the church, that I set down my camera to consult my guidebook. We were headed to the Opera next and I wanted to make sure we took the shortest route possible (it had been a long day of walking thus far). I got up and left with my guidees, but left mon appareil de photo resting on the seat. When I returned for it, it was gone. This sucked for several reasons: 1.) It was one of a very few gifts from my father I actually like, 2.) It will take several weeks for insurance to replace it, 3.) I had to go to the Police Commisariat to fill out a police report for my insurance claim, which wasn’t awful, but finding the damn place took about 2 hours or walking around the same city block over and over again. 4.) I was broke and had no way of replacing it myself before I left for Ireland (Captain Obvious says: “leaving you without a camera for your big trip!”)
“Why was I broke?” you might ask. Well, because my financial aid had been spent on a program I was not participating in. I am an exchange student. I pay normal tuition—unlike study abroad students who pay for special programs (which tend to be much, much more expensive).
That night, we also filled two and half hours with 2 days worth of art at the Louvre, went to Trocadero and had kir while waiting for the Eiffel Tower to sparkle. It was the first time I'd seen sparkle-- and Trocadero is the best spot to watch it. We got home around 2 a.m. and were up early the next day for more.
All of my money woes were all taken care of on Tuesday before I left. I had sent a rather seething e-mail to my financial aid officer letting her know that I was close to panhandling in the metros, and that I needed my money pronto. It was waiting in my bank account Tuesday morning. So, after seeing the girls off (to London), I headed to the FNAC digital…and I bought the most amazing toy in the world. It is a Casio EXLIM It weighs less than my cell phone, is about as long and thin as my index finger, and the screen is almost twice the size of my old one! Yea! Toys! It came with a 5 year warranty, extra lithium battery, memory card (512mb SD). It is 5 mega pixels—3 for film. I am still learning how to use it, but I really, really love it.
I also took advantage of my newly acquired wealth and bought a 250 euro pair of Vera Wang* sunglasses I had been lusting over for a few days.
I finally got packed up and ready for my 2 week adventure in Ireland, but even on the plane over, all I could think about was leaving Paris—a city I have absolutely fallen in love with; I don’t want to move.
I am moving because I am registered at the University of Caen in Basse-Normandie for the Fall/Spring 2005-6 school year. These plans were made long before I ever arrived in the City of Lights, and cannot be changed now.
Anyway…..
I flew from Paris’ Beauvais Airport to Dublin last night at 11 p.m. courtesy of RyanAir.
I had no idea how far away Beauvais is from Paris—about 1h20mns by shuttle bus (which is not free contrary to what several guidebooks claim. It costs a whopping 13 euros and they don’t like to wait while you rustle through your pack to find change). I left Paris around 4 p.m. with hopes of dropping my very heavy backpack off in an airport locker, and returning to the city for a movie, and one more sentimental good-bye, but when I realized the effort (and expense) that would require, I just stayed at the airport—if you can call it that. It is tiny—teeny, even. It’s great because it cuts down on airfares, but there isn’t much there to do.

*Fun Little Fact: no one in Paris knows who Vera Wang is. I think this has to do with the fact that there are so many couturiers throughout the city, a Vera Wang wedding gown (or any of her other fashions) are much less impressive/important.

No points for this one... too obvious.
“We’ll always have Paris.”

Part Two: Sorry, Lady. You’re Just Not My Type.

2005-09-15T21:00:00.000+02:00

After signing in and going through security, I waited by the gate, on a bench next to a woman. She was playing with a very cool camera phone, and I said so. Being the proud new owner of a camera myself, I was happy to talk about some of the new gadgets coming out—and it was an opportunity to speak in French. Turns out, we were both headed to Dublin. She is trying to learn English for work, and is going to school here.
Before long, the plane arrived and we jumped in the free for all that was forming at the gate. Now, here is why I don’t like to make friends in close quarters. She asked me for my phone number and told me that we should definitely get together next time she was in Paris (I had neglected to tell her I was moving to Caen). I smiled and mumbled that that sounded nice, but quickly changed the subject. So, of course, she manages to sit right next to me on the plane, and insists that I give her my number. I happily do so, except that it isn’t so much my number as a few random digits I quickly scrawled on a napkin. Then, feeling more and more like a completely insensitive ass, I pretend to be so tired, I must sleep…immediately. But after a while, she is moving in her seat, flipping buttons and doing her best to “wake me up.” So, I bite. We end up talking for the rest of the 1h30mns. flight. Thankfully, the baggage carrousel was insane and I lost her going through customs. She actually told me I would never find transportation to my hostel and that I should stay at her house for the night. Eeeewwwww! Now, I don’t say “eeeeewwwww” because she is a woman, or even because she is an old woman (okay, middle-aged [but there was already some tragic sagging). I just don’t like being picked up on by strangers—male or female. It makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable (I have issues, I know), and she was just too touchy, just too forward for me to do anything but run full speed towards the exit. I hoped into a cab before she could find me again. What is it about me? I know people who have had random conversations in airports that have led to lucrative careers, love, and a free place to stay whenever they’re in town. AAARRRGGGHH! Why do I always strike up a conversation with the assholes, creeps, and stalkers (that is a completely different story)?
I had to take a taxi because I only knew the name of my hostel—check me out: world-class traveler forgot to write down the address of where she was staying and paid 20 euro for a cab. I am at the world-famous Avalon House. It is a big, old brick building in a great neighborhood (Dublin, too, is divided into numbered neighborhoods, but I have no idea how it works). The people here are nice, very accommodating, and so far, I am the only person in my 4 bed, ensuite dorm. I’ve had the place to myself, I paid an 8 euro deposit for a giant locker, and fixed myself dinner in the kitchen tonight. There is a Dunnes grocery market just down the street.

*The "Fuck" airline in the picture is supposed to be RyanAir.
**No Kilkenny planes or passengers were injured in the taking of above photograph

Part Three: Top O' Tha Mornin' ta Ya'

2005-09-15T20:59:00.000+02:00

Yesterday (thanks to an hour time difference), I was up early, out the door in search of breakfast before 9 a.m. (Avalon offers a continental breakfast-- but it is awful). By accident, I stumbled across the Dublin City tourism office. It is just a few blocks from the hostel and quite large. They have everything anyone could ever want to tour Dublin. I bought the Dublin Pass which gives me free entry into most attractions, museums, and monuments for 48 hours from the first time I use it for 49 euros. This is worth it if you plan carefully and make the most of your 48 hours.
Dublin is not a tourist-friendly city. It is less expensive than Paris and London, but offers little in terms of transportation than taxis, and guided tour buses. The city bus system is awful. Not only could I not find a route map, the routes are not posted in their entirety at each stop and not at all in the bus itself-- so during my rides, I was forced to ask the driver several times what stop I needed to get off at and was this it. One driver negelcted to alert me of my stop and I had to walk back to town from the city zoo (which, like most city zoos, is located on the edge of town). One thing Dublin has going for it is the fact that it is very small and can be walked across-- but who wants to?
I started at Trinity and the Book of Kells. I had to pay the 10 euros for the guided tour, but it was worth it. Then, I walked up Dame Street, toured the Temple Bar, and hit Christ Church Cathedral. Then, I walked over to the Chester Beatty Library. I had no idea what expect from it, and I was very impressed. Not only did my Dublin Pass give me a free book from the gift shop, but I really enjoyed the collection of books, art, and asian antiquities. Tired and exhausted from my walk back from the zoo (!), I stopped by Lonely Planet (best store in the world-- when is Paris going to get one?), and went home, where I played with my camera and picked up some dinner from the market down the street.

Today, I started out equally early and I went to Dublin Castle for the first tour of the day. After the tour-- which was very cool and I highly reccommend it, I had plans to go to the National Museum of Art and History, but the bus system was becoming more and more complicated in my mind and I decided to walk to the Guiness Storehouse instead. It is not too far a walk, but it rained, hard in Dublin today, all day. My pants from the knees down were soaked. The Guiness tour kinda sucked and I was glad it was included in the price of my Dublin Pass (it is self guided and would have been so much more interesting/engaging with a guide [which are available for groups/extra arrangements).
After drinking my free beer in the Gravity Bar, I caught the 123 Bus to the Spike. The Spike is a giant metal spike in the middle of a street in the middle of town. It is 10 ft. wide, and more than 300 ft. tall. A strange sight.
Then, I headed back to my hostel by way of Cranston Street and Nude (an organic cafe where I had a rather yummy bagel with ham, apple chutney, and tomatoes-- none of the above being available in France-- or, at least, not together ;) .
I took a petit repose and headed to the birthplace of George Bernard Shaw. It was a longer walk than the guide claimed and I was getting miserably wet and cold-- even with my umbrella. But this is a self-guided tour worth taking. You listen to headphones as you walk through his house, which has been completely restored and returned to its original Victorian glory. It was warm and cozy inside and this was one of the few places I've been able to take pictures-- let alone with flash.
Then I was off to St. Patrick's Cathedral. It is bigger than Christ Church and equally interesting to tour. There is a park in the back, and while there is no crypt to tour (like the one at Christ Church), worth the expense (also covered by the Dublin Pass).
Well, I am off to dinner. This cyber cafe is closing and I am paying way more money than I should be to use the internet.
Tomorrow, I leave Dublin for...I have no idea yet. Wish me luck!

10 pts. for character, 10 pts. for movie:

"Fuck you, lucky charms!"

Land of the Dead

2005-09-08T00:02:00.001+02:00

Cimitère Père Lachaise is on the opposite side of Paris from me. I must change from train to metro, and from one metro line to another after that. When I finally arrived at the Père Lachaise station, I saw the giant wall surrounding the cemetery. It is really tall and topped with spikes. I didn't see an entrance gate anywhere so I just started walking along the wall... and walking, and walking, and walking. The wall disappeared behind store fronts and restaurants, but there were still funeral service stores, flower shops, and tombstone dealers along the street so I continued along with hope. Finally, I walked into a small garden that ran along the giant wall. I assumed this was some kind of formal entrance for the grand graveyard, but it was just a garden that ran along the wall.
When I did make it to the entrance, I was told if I wanted a plan of the cemetery that listed the famous headstones, graves, and other sights, I needed to go "over there," "up there" the security guard told me (in French) and he pointed. So I walked straight "up there" in the direction he pointed to the crematorium. There were other buildings there as well, but none had any kind of welcome offices-- or any other kind of offices, and there was a funeral going on, so I decided he must have meant for me to walk past this group of buildings. I continued my walk... and I walked, and I walked, and I walked. One thing about Père Lachaise-- it's fucking big. Sure, there are a few main paths (normally in cobblestone or pebble--both of which suck to walk on and I ruined my favorite pair of shoes), but step off the beaten, and you are forced to literally climb over jumbles of tombstones, crawl around sarcophagi, and bramble through weeds, roots, and crumbles of stone. And, just like every other street in Paris, none of the paths at Père Lachaise are straight, but rather wander into one another, change direction, and, sometimes, stop rather abruptly in the middle of nowhere. I walked from one end of the joint to the next, and found nothing. Not one kiosk (granted that would be extremely tacky in a cemetery), employees, gardeners, ect. I had to walk back through the maze of marble and ask the same guard what the hell he was talking about.
He was with a gardener who was showing off a brand new skillet he had just found in the street (there's a whole garbage foraging subculture in France that is worth its own post...). They politely informed me that I needed to walk to the other side of the cemetery and I would find maps available in a small office building near the front gate (an entrance much, much closer to the metro than the one I had entered from. I was just there. I had just walked back from there!). But the gardener-- who was pleased I like his skillet, offered to give me a ride through the "park." An offer I quickly accepted-- it's not like he was driving a hearst or a cold storage truck, just a little gardener's golf cart.
It was a long ride and the gardener tried to make polite small talk.*
-"You're German?"
~"American."
-"Is your family okay?"
~"Excuse Me?"
-"Do you live in the south-- in the hurricane states?"
~No, thank you for asking. They are all safe in the Northwest"
-"Ah, yes, good. It is a very, very bad thing."
~"I cannot begin to imagine."
-"No."
*awkward silence ensues*
-"We are here."
-"Walk down there and turn right."
-"Bonne Chance!"
Parisian cemetery maps suck. They are easily read, but not at all practical in use. It is almost impossible to get one's bearings, and then, to find one tombstone among 60. *sigh* I finally decided to make an effort in finding Jim's grave, and then, wander, get lost, and go home. I knew what general direction I needed to be going in, and walked, and walked, and walked, and then, realized I had gone too far. I did find it; there is a permanent guard placed just next to it, with scores of people-- most caring less about Morrison's tombstone than about watching/photographing the freaks and hippies making their pilgrimages. It is the cemetery's most popular gravesite, but something I would have easily passed over; it is very plain and surrounded on all sides by other tombstones and sarchopagi (therefore difficult to get a good look at). After paying my respects to Jim (having been born after he died, I will mourn the loss of Val Kilmer much more. Ah, Val Kilmer *flutter*), I just walked around, enjoyed the breeze, and the start of my favorite season of the year: fall. The leaves have been turning for a weeks now in Paris, but it was the first time the air had that autumn crispness that is so fresh (and believe me, a welcome addition to the sometimes overwhelming scent of dead leaves and rotting flowers).
I saw Chopin's grave. As I walked up to it, a very old, withered man approached behind me with a small ghetto blaster. He positioned himself right next to the guard rail (most of the Père Lachaise's famous residents have some kind of barrier surrounding them), and hit "Play" on his little stereo. The four or five of us taking pictures all stopped and for about 2 or 3 minutes listened to Chopin. When it was over, the little old man hunched himself over his cane and without saying a word, walked away.

I took a couple hundred pictures, and will probably go back for 100 or so more. In the mean time, check out my link at right.

Okay, this one is difficult. It is difficult because, while from a widely known and popular movie (based on the even more widely known and adored book), you just don't ever see it anywhere-- except, perhaps, the occasional PBSmarathon.

"My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes."

20 pts. for film/character.
Good luck, I only have this memorized because I watch waaaaaayyyyy too much public television and last year, saw this show 4 times.
*HInt: delivered rather melodramatically by a tween girl

*I hate smalltalk. I am capable of it. Thanks to a socialite mother, I am quite skilled in the art of entertaining, bullshitting, and complete insincerity, but I rarely care enough to even try. I dislike being in the position of pretending. Why do people always assume that the person they have been forced into close quarters with wants to interact. When I am forced into a small space or intimate situation, I am never rude, but would simply prefer it to be as least invasive as possible. I don't like to talk to my neighbor on a plane, and I don't really care anything about the other women waiting in line for the bathroom!

Gimme Some Sugar, Baby!

2005-09-06T14:28:00.000+02:00

The gaunlet has been thrown down!
This morning around 9:30 a.m., while eating my muesli, I visited a few of your blogs. I should have been getting ready to meet up with my friend Patrick-- who I was scheduled to meet at 10:30 (I hadn't even gotten in the shower yet!), but I was wasting precious time surfing the blogger world instead (Spinning Girl knows what I'm talking about). I went to The Dark Pig, responded to his faux spammer note with one of my own, and from his site, I clicked the link to The Urban Cannibal.
I was surprised to see that even the zombie slut-lovin' UC was affected by the media whirlwind that was Brad & Jen and has now become Brangelina, but I must admit I paid little attention to his post after being issued a challenge:

"“Gimme some sugar, baby” – name that one Serena"

Now, I end most of my posts with a relevant film quote of some kind-- and I must admit, they've been pretty easy (however, only UC seems to be the only person either 1). interested in or 2). capable of answering them). Our little flesh feeder is currently leading with 30 pretend points, but today is the first challenge placed at my blogger feet; the first quote I've been asked to name. And FUCK! For most of you this is so ridiculously simple-- so obvious (see "Yo' Adrian," "May the force be with you," or "I see dead people"). But I read it over and over and continued to draw a blank-- completley clueless. I was stumped.
I couldn't believe that after all of the bragging I've done (on this site alone) about my freakish film fetish, I had no idea where this quote came from. It sounded so familiar-- I knew it somewhere, at one time-- but when? Where?
Obviously, it was spoken by a man to a woman... The Ladies Man with Tim Meadows? No, too obvious and not really UC's style. Okay, what is UC's style? Horror movies, classics, NOT Meg Ryan (probably not Rob Schneider)....
Blacksploitation? Sugar Daddies the candy are kinda retro? Jackie Brown? Definitely* not. Shaft? No.
Crap, it's almost 10!
And so, I left (running) for my rendez-vous with Patrick--he's French, so actually, that's Pa' trEEk (and very angry).
What to do? What to do? I know this, but how? Who was Baby? And who wanted her sugar? I cannot not answer correctly-- I would loose all credibility as a geek and... CHEAT! I could cheat. Oh yeah, I hate cheaters-- and if I cheated, then it would be OK for everyone else to cheat on my quote quizzes. Fuck.

Now, here's where providence kicks in...
I met up with Patrick at Denfert-Rochereau. We had made plans the day before to go to the Catacombs (some of you know where this is going)! And, I have pictures and tales (yesterday I went to Cimitère Père LaChaise, too) and will post on those later tonight, so check back. There we are, half crouched, trying to avoid drips of water from the leaking ceiling, and I get it. I cannot lie, I'd been thinking about it unceasingly since I left my room, and I was becoming very, very frustrated.
I am standing amidst piles upon piles of bones (an army, one might say), and I have my Jumpin' Jack Flash moment. You know, the one where Whoopi is at her computer after hours, trying to "sing with me and find the key." She gets pissed, gives up, and throws the songbook into the trash. She sighs, and then...EPIPHANY! "OOOOOOhhhhhhoooooo hhhhoooo!" *enters "B-Flat"* "You know I'm right, you know I'm right" *presses enter, and watches as the computer screen flashes in color and reveals a 1980's-style chat room*
And that was me: "OOOOOhhhhhhhhhhoooooooooo hhhhhhhoooooooo"

And so, Urban Cannibal, here is your answer:

Ash to Sheila. Army of Darknees or Evil Dead III

"You know I'm right! You know I'm right!"

Now, here is where I must humbly cede to my man-eating friend: I know (that's not true: I think I remember) that Evil-Ash also says it somewhere in the film, but it's been so long since I've seen it...

And that, kiddies, will be today's quote quiz (UC will not be eligible but will receive 10 pts for stumping me on this part):
If Evil Ash actually does say, "Gimme some sugar, baby"-- where in the film and to whom?
This one's worth 30 pts.

*In looking back on some of my old posts, I noticed I've spelled "Definitely" wrong several times (the Blogger spell check doesn't work with Safari and most of the time, I just don't care:). That's all. Just acknowledging that I, too, am capable of the occasional mistake.

And now for something completely different

2005-09-03T20:39:00.000+02:00

I love Daniel Auteil. I find him to be incredibly sexy. If you do not know who he is, please allow me to describe:
He is short, more than middle aged, a bit rotund, with thickly defined wrinkles on his face. His nose is not only...well, French, but it was (I assume) at one time broken and not set properly. And if that doesn't wet your seat, how's this?

This man has a presence, a sensuality that I cannot begin to describe and everytime I see him on screen, my stomach flutters and I can't take my eyes off him. Today, I saw two movies, Dark Water (forgetable) and Peindre ou Faire L'Amour (To Paint or To Make Love). It's about a middle-aged couple who become swingers. It was good-- not great, but there was this man again. He is probably older than my father, and most likely the top of his head does not even reach my shoulders, but there it is: I lust after this man.
He's a great actor, he can be funny, dramatic, dark, silly, good guy, bad guy...anything. I've seen many of his films and liked most of those, and he has the most wonderful crooked smile. This man is old enough to be my grandfather and I can't stop thinking about him (I've been in France too long ;)

This is one of the most underrated romantic comedies ever. It is actually very funny and I pick up more everytime I see it.
20 pts. for name of film:
"Those French! They hate us, they smoke, they have a whole relationship with dairy products I don't understand."

Happy Labor Day Weekend!

2005-09-02T20:17:00.000+02:00

I have spent the entire day at my laptop. Away for the last week and the events of Hurricane Katrina, I spent today getting caught up on what has happened, is happening, and what is coming. I am depressed, angry, and feeling very useless and homesick.
I started with MSNBC, moved to Headline, CNN, and Fox News. I searched the blog world for more info, and hit up Le Monde and Figaro for info spun by the French. Today's news was not good (if, by some miracle you were able to escape coverage-- trust me: not good).
I am angry. This hurricane-- before it has even ended its destruction, has become political. That I have read so far: Venezuela and one Canadian province have offered aid.
1. Venezuela doesn't get any props. The offer came with sharp (albeit completely ignorant) comments, and their thinly veiled gesture of *ahem* charity just makes Hugo Chavez look like an ammatuer politician and enormous ass.
2. When I receive horrible service at a restaurant, I leave a tip-- I leave one quarter. This, unlike leaving nothing, sends a strong message of dissatisfaction (and, at times, contempt). Thanks, Canada.
3. $25 billion dollars is not going to break our back-- sure, we'll be feeling the aches and pains for quite some time, but we don't need the aid (at least, not desperately). But today, in a situation like this-- it's the thought that counts. Where are our friends? Where are our allies? Have we become so hated; does the world really see Katrina as our just desserts?
I returned to Paris yesterday by car. En route, I was informed that a hurricane had hit the south. My French companions were concerned (they had seen the news-- I hadn't [for several days). But I (rather arrogantly) explained to them: 'tis the season;' these storms hit the south every year. No big deal. When I got home last night, a friend called and explained to me what was actually going on. Needless to say, I have been glued to my ecran for several hours.
Reading criticisms of the gulf coast's cities evacuation plans, the city of New Orleans infrastructure, and President Bush at this time are difficult to stomach for me (especially when they are coming from people within the New Orleans city government).

New Orleans was aware that the city levees wouldn't hold in case of...well, in case of Katrina. But the city regularly practices evacuation procedures and was prepared for much. And the White House has very little to do with the immediate responses to a natural disaster. Its FEMA's job to work with local officials. The White House is certainly involved in aftermath cleanup, and (hopefully) works to streamline future relief efforts. George Bush is not at fault for New Orleans' current situation (or any other city affected by Katrina).
I am disgusted and dismayed at the situation some survivors are now faced with. The city has been destroyed. Completely smote by an act of God (Sonja, I was as speechless to read that article as you!) for which there is no Fight and very little hope of Flight from (I know: preposition at the end of a sentence. Kill me).
A few years ago, Seattle was hit by an earthquake they felt down in Utah. 1 woman died that day-- but of causes completely unrelated to the quake. Right now, in Washington State, Mt. St. Helen's has been blowing smoke and bubbling lava since last spring. She could go at any minute. If that happens, few injuries (and I doubt any deaths) will be incurred thanks to expert evacuation, search/rescue procedures. Even closer to Washington's largest metropolis, Mt. Ranier is scheduled to errupt sooner than later. When that does happen, the entire west coast of North America will suffer from crazy tides, and clouds of ash will block out the sun as far as Wyoming. Lava and mud will dessimate towns, and our big cities will be covered in meters of ash stopping traffic and halting all air travel. But, Washington State is prepared for this. We know it's coming and everyone that lives on or around Ranier participates in regular evacuation drills. When disaster finally strikes, few lives will be lost. Washington is also prepared for tsunami, avalanche, and forest fire. No plan, however, is in place should the giant super volcano growing in size and force under Yellowstone burst. And, let's face it, I don't think any of us have begun to think about that cosmic dust cloud ready to descend upon Earth.
These natural disasters are so called because they are DISASTEROUS! What part of 'Act of God' don't these people understand? Regardless of how prepared we are, a catausrophic event destroys that which man creates-- by definition.
Like most of you, I really don't understand what is going on at the NO Convention center-- or any other part of the city. I have all of the same questions as Harry Connick, Jr. If he can drive his car down there, why aren't more buses showing up, where are the tankers of water? Ect. And, because this is American politics we are talking about, a commision will convene, a report will be written (perhaps become a NY Times bestseller), and political careers will end.
In the mean time, flood victims are dying of dehydration.
AAARRRRGGGGHHHH!
New Orleans, the Jewel of the South, is dead. One of the most historic and culturally rich cities on the continent is gone (and much to the delight of city's Klan members, NO's destitute minorities are being "cleansed" from the face of the earth).
I am confused and feel impotent without a television to yell at; I am surrounded by a very international community, who personally are crushed to witness what is going on right now-- absolutely brokenhearted, but politically, want nothing more than to scoff. This is hard.
I'm sure you've all got something to say about what I've got to say. No doubt many have important comments to make. Please do so. Today's post wasn't exactly well thought out-- just the angry ramblings of an American in Paris.

"I gotta go Julia, we got cows." (and) "Debris, we got debris."

Chocolate or Death? Chocolate, please.

2005-08-24T22:53:00.000+02:00

I am heading to Auvergne for the weekend to stay at a beautiful old French manor house (envy me), and socialize with some very nice, kind people. I like these people because they are intelligent and classy, but also because they don't treat me like an idiot because my language skills are not as strong as theirs. They are patient with me and very gracious. This will also be the first opportunity I've had in a while to converse in French (vendors on the street and in the market don't count), and I am very excited.
Today, in preparation for this trip, I headed out to buy a hostess gift. I stopped by a chocolatier-- not any one in particular, I just needed to pick up some chocolate for the lady of the house. I know very little about fine chocolate and less about choosing a chocolatier. So, I went to Blvd. St. Germain where pretty much everything is of quality. I had passed the Patrick Roger Chocolaterie on many occasions, but never gone in--not that I wasn't tempted. He has the most amazing windows, and a life-size man made of chocolate in his store! And walking in today was a bit intimidating, but as I was the only one in the store at the time, the two employees gave me their full attention and I was able to make (what I think to be) the perfect selection of truffles and other yummy treats. The whole experience felt a bit like buying jewelry and the box it all went in is certainly worthy of the finest diamonds! The man who helped me was actually Patrick Roger himself, and after doing some reading up on him, I am quite content with the chocolatier I choose. I will definately be back (can't wait for Easter-- he is famous for his eggs).
Anyway, after spending the most amount of money I've ever spent on chocolate, I got to thinking about how different the chocolate culture here is from the US.
First and foremost, the chocolate is much richer and more bitter than in the States (which is not really saying much--most of the rest of the world hates our chocolate). And, in France, chocolate is not considered a candy, but something much more serious. Its own food group, if you will. I was feeling weak one day (after touring around town with little to eat), and stopped in a store to buy gummi bears while my friend reached for a mini-brick of chocolate. I consider 100% fruit snacks to be a healthier choice than chocolate, but she was almost amazed. "Not CANDY," she told me. "Have some of THIS. Not candy." And I got an "oh, Americans" look.
It's a very strange difference that I am still not fully able to comprehend, and therefore, inept to describe. I have been told that Belgium has the very best chocolate in the world, and I can't wait to go there, but in the mean time, I love even the cheap generic stuff France's groceries have to offer. Even that is better than anything in North America (imports don't count).

So, yes. Off to spend the next four days having fun and making friends. I am really looking forward to this trip. This will also be my first real train trip (with luggage and a destination further than a few miles). I am very excited (it really doesn't take much). What will all of you do without me?

20 pts. for movie. 10 pts. for character's FULL name:

"Chock-LATE, heh he? Rock-EE Rohhd, heh he?"

Hairballs

2005-08-24T00:08:00.000+02:00

The 3 Jours, 3 Euros film festival ended tonight with classic medical drama Deep Throat at the Brady Theatre on Blvd. de Strasbourg. I had finished watching Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (not nearly as funny in french) at The Rex and made it just in time to get a seat in the front row. The house was packed. With men, women, all ages-- which was quite a relief to me (being SWF toute seule).
It was funny, over the top, cheese (for lack of a better word-- but, ewww! that one seems really inappropriate). I have to admit, I wasn't overly impressed with Linda's *ahem* skills, until the final scene. Here, her partner was quite endowed-- more so than the rest of the men in the film, and she definately deserved a round of applause for swallowing such a difficult...er, um 'pill' (long and thick).
I think this is a generational thing-- kind of like when we (children of the 1980's and 90's) see Diane Keaton play charming neurotic, quirky girl. To many of us, it's just another neurotic quirky girl, and are too young or too ignorant to understand that it was she that popularized--some may say invented it. Back then, 'deep throating' it was almost nonexistent as many men and women were ignorant about the pleasures of oral sex and fearful of its moral ramifications. I, however, do not suffer from the same affliction. And to see a woman go (all the way) down on a man is not sensational to me. Just what I hope to be business as usual for many happy couples. But, again, I think this has more to do with what will heretofore be referred to as the Diane Keaton Effect (gosh, I hope that catches).
What was, however, sensational to me was the amount of pubic hair my 3 euros afforded me. Maybe it was because I was sitting in the front row, but I left with the distinct feeling my gums had just received a 'deep' flossing. Ick! We are talking about very, very bushy, hairy balls, shaft, pussy, and ass. Linda was the only egyptian hairless in the bunch, and everyone else was walking around (okay, not a lot of 'walking' per se in this film) au natural. Now, I like to think of this as a travel blog (just go with me on this), and do not often blog about sex (and anything relating to), but I am with GamblOr on the whole pubic hair issue. If there's grass on that field, I am willing to forfeit (which sounds a bit more Michael Jackson than I intend). Hair just makes a messy situation worse, and while I can tolerate it, I generally won't. If I go to the trouble (and PAIN!) of taking care of my business, I expect the same general grooming efforts from my partner. We are not animals. We have several hygiene options that are much more effective than those of our feline friends who lick themselves clean only to later cough up the nasty reminders of what seperates us from them.
Also, (yes, I am aware that many prefer a big bush) I just think it feels better. Anyone with me on that? Anyone? At all?
Okay, I am finished.
Go see Deep Throat in a theatre or rent it for the comfort of your own home. It was a good flick, but I have a feeling I would've enjoyed it more stoned. Out of respect for my modest 'adoring fans,' I will not post any graphic pictures, but I am happy to direct you here (scroll down a bit). There are many, many more pictures of the most famous blow job in the world, just hop over to yahoo and enter any number of obvious key words.

This one's only worth 5 pts. (film and character):

"There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it. "

This showed up in my Google images search for "Deep Throat." Kinda funny, kinda disturbing.

Sent to an Island to procreate with him? ...ummm (Yes, please!)

2005-08-23T00:01:00.000+02:00

Things did not go as planned yesterday, and I only saw one of the four films I planned on attending. Unfortunately, it was The Island. Fortunately, I only paid 3 euros for it. At least we know the globe is still on its axis; Michael Bay loves his car chases, Ewan McGregor loves his motorcycles (or various incarnations of), and Scarlett Johansson cannot act (sure, folks, she's hot-- she had me fooled in Ghost World too, but only because she was playing 'affected.' And don't even bring up Lost in Translation: she deserved none of the attention she got for her performance [1. It sucked. 2. Anna Faris stole every scene they shared]. She made me hate that movie. Stay tuned for my post on how she single-handedly ruined the SpongeBob movie).
The only great thing about this movie? Djimon Hounsou. *prrrr* He just looks and sounds sooooo good... I want to do bad things to him (see today's film #4)
But, I digress.
Don't go see The Island. Don't even bother to rent it.
Yeah, it had some good stuff, but most of it was fluff-- not even good fluff, just the same (recycled and re-wrapped) shit that left a bad taste in my mouth last time. And in terms of product placement, it was worse than Le Transporteur II.

Anyway, today brought with it 4 new films, and its own set of adventures...

#1.
I started out with a Cold Shower. Think The Karate Kid meets every French menage à trois film ever made. It was in French with no subtitles, and it had a lot of slang, but I understood most of it (yea me!). It was good, not great. The girl had amazing tits, so it'll probably be released on video in the states.

#2.
I was going to watch Truffaut's Fahrenheit 451, but was running to late, so I watched La Moustache (also in French). *pats herself on back and gleams with pride* I liked this film-- but, as with everyone that I've talked to, I didn't understand the ending. It was almost presented as a riddle the audience is supposed to figure out...on their own, after the show as no clear answer was given. Still, very good and this too, will make to the States, but I forsee a complete Hollywood remake with a different, happy ending and a marquee face. Tant pis.

#3.
Ah, Hitchcock. How I love thee, let me count the ways. North by Northwest is one of his bests. It is smart, wickedly euphemistic, and Martin Landau used to be kinda hot (in a Crispin Glover sort of way). Also, Cary Grant (see above sentiments regarding Djimon Hounsou).

#4.
I knew very little about the Deep Throat phenomenon-- although, my therapist can thank my dad's "I choked Linda Loveless" t-shirt for her new diamond earrings. *shudder* But this is a great documentary. It's very entertaining, smart, and the interviews are hysterical, "Terry, are you done?" I am scheduled to watch Linda recover her clitoris from deep inside her throat tomorrow at 10 p.m. and now, I can't wait (but I must as it only plays once/week here)! Very excited!

All of today's theatres were again in the Latin Quarter and close the Luxembourg Gardens (see photos at right), and I picnicked there for lunch and dinner. And all three of the theatres I went to (N by NW and Inside were both at Les 3 Luxembourg), were new to me. One looked like an old speakeasy with a screen hanging from one wall. It had two gold cherubs on either side of the screen holding back red curtains, and the most guady brass wall sconces this side of Robert Evans gold-veined bathroom mirror. Another looked like what I always imagined the interior of King Friday's castle would look like. It had the exact color blue walls, with ridged, castle wall-like gray molding, and medieval-looking fixtures. The other was a very small room with the screen off to one side (i.e. not centered on the wall) and the chairs all facing straight, but grouped together at an odd angle. Also, in everyone of the theatres I was in today, the bathroom was in the theatre itself on the same wall as the screen. People would walk in and out during the show, and once, we were all privy to one man's very slushy bowel movement. Ick.

I must say, I was saddened to see no one earned any points from my last post. So here's 10 points to anyone who can name the film the following comes from (and another 10 if you can give me the character who said it):

"Wouldn't a fly swatter be easier?"

That's almost too easy.

Nothing is more suspicious than Frog's Breathe

2005-08-20T23:41:00.000+02:00

I did go see Apocalypse Now: Redux-- or at least, most of it. I had to leave before the end to catch the last metro (it was much longer than I thought), and I saw up to the dinner scene with the French plantation owner. I liked this movie (or what I saw of it), and I really want to see the rest of it! I'll try to rent it v.o. when I get a chance. Hmmpf!
I was amazed at how much Martin Sheen looked like Emilio Estevez (I can't imagine why). "Emilio! Emilio!" Quickly...20 pts. to the first person to name the film that comes from.
Last night I went to the Louvre. I spent several hours walking through the galleries (that were actually open) in the Sully Wing, and perused the Italian Artists' gallery in the Denon Wing. That includes-- of course--the Mona Lisa. I really couldn't care less about seeing her. Her face is so widely known and the real one had no affect on me...but you can't not see her when visiting the Louvre.
The Louvre is a great place, but I don't enjoy it because of the famous works of art that adorn its walls. Just the opposite; I like experiencing for the first time, something I am not at all familiar with; I enjoy the works I've not ever see before. It was also a royal palace for many centuries and the architecture and detail throughout the building is stunning. But more than anything else, my favorite thing to do at the Louvre is play 'Celebrity Look-Alike.' There are millions of faces on display on canvas, carved in stone, and some of them even look like people in People. Yesterday, I saw Edward Norton, Roseanne (formerly Bar, then Arnold), Ben Franklin (okay, that doesn't really count as it was Ben Franklin), Vladimir Putin, and Jerry Hall.
As I left, the building was lit up and its sandstone bricks were glowing gold. I took about 100 pictures, but few actually turned out--photo at left is not one of them :(. It was such a fresh, crisp night; I took a walk through the Tuilleries Gardens before riding the train home.
Today, I spent about 3 hours creating a schedule for the next 3 days. Tomorrow marks the beginning of the 3 Jours, 3 Euros film festival. Every theatre in Paris, EVERY film playing in Paris is 3 Euros. Now, there are over 300 theatres in this grand city, and I wanted to make sure to get the most out of this festival (thank you patron saint of free monuments/museums/movies :). I had worked out a schedule of 6 films/day for the next 3 days, but I am not as young as I used to be, and alas, that is just too much. So, I narrowed it down to 4 films/day and am rather pleased with the way it turned out. Not only did I take into account the start time and length of each show, but the theatre's location as well. For instance, tomorrow, all of the films I'll being seeing are in the Latin Quarter. I'm watching Annie Hall at 2 p.m., The Island at 4:15 p.m., Melinda Melinda* at 6:45 (cutting it a bit close), and Bill Plimpton's Hair High at 10 p.m. There were so many movies to choose from and I know I am missing several (festivals for Truffaut, Hitchcock, Ozu, Godard, Hepburn/Tracy, Jim Jarmusch, Burton, David Lynch, Fritz Lang, Fassbinder, and Luis Bunuel are all going on right now!). Tant Pis.
However, I found myself unable to wait until tomorrow for a flick fix and went to the Tim Burton film festival tonight. I saw The Nightmare Before Christmas or l'Etrange Noël de Mr. Jack. I love this movie and while watching it, I realized that I have the entire thing memorized! I've seen it several times-- to be sure, but I never knew I had a problem until tonight. I've joined an online support group for Tim Burton groupies, his stalkers, and Goths who like to knit (not a real diverse group). My favorite line from this movie is...20 more points for anybody who gets it right!

*There is a Woody Allen festival going on right now-- but, I think that by law, there must be a Woody Allen festival going on at all times in Paris, and the shows just rotate from theatre to theatre.

Cinema En Plein Air

2005-08-18T01:51:00.000+02:00

La Villette is a an area of Paris where one finds the mother of all exploratory museums, a music museum (something along the lines of EMP in Seattle), a huge parc, children's museum, concert venue, ect., ect., ect. And, today, I was going to hit all the attractions and stay for Cinema En Plein Air and An American In Paris. But, I got started kinda late... really late and by the time I made it across town the museums were closing. Instead, I explored the park-- which is right on a large canal, enjoyed the sun (shining brightly until around 9:30 p.m.), and hopped on the Metro to hit another canal. St. Martin is one of the more famous canals... and I was really unimpressed. Actually, I was a little pissed off-- it was a long, hot Metro ride to get there-- only to have to turnaround to go back for the show! I wouldn't want to spend any more time than I would absolutely have to in that area of town, and the canal itself wasn't particularly beautiful (I much prefer the canal at La Villette. You can bike ride along its curb, picnic in its park and soak up the sun); St. Martin is surrounded by dirty streets, shade trees and cheap shops.
I had bought a Carte Villette earlier in the day. It gets me into most of the parks attractions for free: free movies, jazz festivals, theatre sur l'herbe. Plus, I get free deck chair rental for all of the shows (they even come with blankets to keep me warm)!
I seated myself in the middle of the screen in the middle of the field-- right in front of the projection tower, and I waited, and waited, and waited. I only had my bright green Michelin guide with me, so I did my best to avoid looking like a complete idiot tourist reading my guide book by hiding as much of its cover as possible. About an hour before the show started, a man (kitty corner behind me) asked me to watch his stuff. He would be right back. No problem. When he returned, we struck up a conversation about the giant screen (which was a huge inflatable white rectangle-- not really a screen at all), musicals and Gene Kelly-- who is very popular in France. He was a really nice man, if his french a little too fast for me, and we had great conversation about movies.
I had seen An American In Paris before (I think I even own the DVD), but it's been quite a while. And though it's never been one of my favorites, it is a classic and I was it watching under the stars in Paris!
After the show, my new 'ami du cinema' and I returned our chairs and blankets, and he walked me to my Metro stop. This was not a romantic encounter, just a nice man who offered me a few hours of conversation (something I am seriously in want of now that I am living completely alone in Europe [that's a depressing sentence, isn't it). It was a wonderful night and I hope to repeat it tomorrow (Apocolypse Now: Redux--never seen it).

MERDE! MERDE! MERDE! MERDE!

2005-08-16T23:22:00.000+02:00

I have just spent the last two hours uploading photos onto my new photo blog. But, thanks to...actually I still have no idea why, all of those photos just got deleted. Thankfully not from my iPhotos folder-- just from the post. I am trying to move all of my pics from my .mac homepage-- which is seriously limited in space, to another blogger site, but have only managed to get a view random pics of Paris up. AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH! Two HOURS!!!!
MERDE!
Also now available (although only on my .mac page) are photos from yesterday's trip to La Défense. Like I said, space is limited so I only put up photos of the art on display. Just check back when I've finished pulling all of my hair out in rage and frustration and get a chance to post all of them.

I'm sorry, did I say "post?" I meant RE-post.

La Defense: Europe's Biggest Business Park or Post-Apocalyptic Sculpture Garden?

2005-08-16T00:30:00.000+02:00

Today, I went to La Défense. It was totally barren. I had the entire place to myself for a few hours this morning before tourists started appearing at La Grande Arc around noon (like gnats to ripe cheese, folks). I should have known something was up when my supermarket was closed this morning (I needed supplies to picnic in the Bois de Bologne-- a HUGE park on the west side of town). But, I just chalked it up to it being a Monday-- nothing is open in France on Monday. But, La Défense-- Europe's largest buisiness center, home to multi-national corporations, the city's only concentration of skyscrapers, and a Starbucks in every building's lobby (a novel concept to sidewalk café-loving Parisians), would surely be filled with suits working overtime, tourists, and international VIPs. But no.
I started the morning off with my bus schedule and a croisant. The Paris bus system is not an effective means of transportation to get to La Défense-- but I haven't spent a lot of time in the western part of the city, and wanted to see as much of it as I could: thus, the bus. I figured I could get within a few blocks by taking three buses. But, after missing my first transfer stop, I decided to get off at the Opera (today's other post) and look around. Having totally sidetracked myself, I finally got to the Neuilly (a very posh city that borders Paris' west end).*
This was the end of the line (line 43 to be exact) and let me off right in between the l'Arc de Triomphe and La Grande Arc. I couldn't believe my luck. I was actually much closer the La Grande Arc, but had a wonderful little Green to take pictures from! No one had ever told me about this little place and yet, it was right in front of the depot. I had to walk more than a couple blocks and cross over the Seine, but I did get to see much more of the city (okay, much more of Neuilly).
Upon arrival, I was greeted with totally empty (as in abandoned-- not just void of people) office spaces. Windows were broken, floors were covered in dirt and leaves, there was graffiti on everything. I passed two or three giant buildings whose ground floors were exactly the same, and at one point, I had to use an escalator to get to another tier in the cement landscaping. The stairs were blocked off, but here was this escalator-- en plein air, w/o any kind of covering-- just a random escalator, running at full speed as though thousands of commuters were trekking up and down it. It too was dirty and covered with graffiti. I half expected radioactive tumble weeds to blow by me! And I was the only one there-- standing, dwarfed by these ultra modern skyscrapers, abstract art, and fountains. Just me! There wasn't any noise (this is not a residential area), there wasn't any traffic (it is separated from the roads and trains), and all was perfectly calm (okay, eerily calm). A freak flash of nature destroyed all life on Earth ('cept me), and left all of man's deferences to commerce standing. Quelle sensation!
Finally, as the morning wore on, tourists and joggers started to emerge from the oblivion.
It is a remarkable place; carefully planned and every corner a tribute to style and design. The art is all abstract, oversized, and/or very colorful--and available for all to see. There are fountains, pools, and green spaces abound. It is also very free! There is a small fee to go to the top of La Grande Arc, but as I have climbed to the top of every other monument in town, I really couldn't care less if I never again see the Paris skyline. For those not familiar: La Grande Arc was built in the late 80's. It is a giant cube/arch in which the entire Notre Dame Cathedral can be placed. It is an enormous office building, but it is itself dwarfed by its neighboring towers.
After having my fill of La Défense, I headed to the 16th Arrondissement and La Fondation Corbusier. 20th century architect Charles-Edouard Jeanneret (or Le Corbusier) was famous for use of white concrete cubist forms. The center offers documentation of his work, video, photos, ect. But was closed. Why? Why was everything closed today? That is an excellent question. It's not because it's Monday-- at least, today is not just any ol' Monday but a jour de férié (public holiday). So, every museum, every grocery, most bus lines, theatres, boutiques: closed. I was not, however, astute enough to realize this until much later in the day-- after I had walked all over the 16th trying to find the damn Fondation Corbusier!
But, said holiday did make for a wonderfully peaceful day. I didn't have to deal with obnoxious tourists and their devil spawn children. And, when I finally took the metro home, I had a car all to myself. The streets were practically empty and I got to explore much more than I would have, had I made it to where I wanted to go.
So...yea public holidays?

*A very strange bus ride to Neuilly began with a man getting off the bus without his german sheppard. For several stops the dog continued to run up and down the aisle whimpering until we (only about 10 of us on the bus) figured out what was going on. The driver called dispatch and was instructed to force the dog off the bus (thereby leaving the poor guy alone-- several stops from home and owner)! But, the dog didn't want to get off. This would have been comical but he went from whipmering to growling very quickly. Finally, a woman coaxed him off the bus. She returned to her seat, but as we pulled out into traffic, she decided she simply could not allow this dog to be left alone, and demanded the driver let her off (he did and she traipsed off after the dog). Then a smack head gets on the bus and starts tripping out. The driver is once again forced to stop and kick this guy off. He doesn't want to get off the bus either-- but has thouroughly creeped out all the other passengers who are now trapped behind him and unable to get off. Finally, with the help of another passenger, the freak is left on the curb and we make it to Neuilly without further incident. A very strange bus ride indeed.

L'Opera: the Jewel of Paris

2005-08-16T00:14:00.000+02:00

With my heart set on La Défense today, my stop at the opera house was quite spontaneous. I missed my bus stop (to transfer to another line [again, any chance I have to take the bus, I will. It is so much better than the metro), and got off in front of the Opera to get my bearings. But, as the Opera was one of the things I most wanted to see, I decided why not today-- why not now. Student admission was 4 euros and didn't include a tour (which I did fine without-- but I think guided tours get special access to other parts of the building). The main staircase, the salons lining the lobby, and, bien sur, the auditorium itself...C'est Manifique! I felt as if I was walking in a jewelry box. Everything was gilded, festooned in velvet, silk cording. Everything was marble and muraled. It was phenomenal. The public is only allowed into the auditorium through a few open boxes on the first floor. They are all deep red with plush seating and carpet. Its ceiling and chandelier are breathe-taking. There is so much history (mixed with legend) in that building-- and one feels it the moment you walk into it. I cannot wait to return: for the ballet, for a tour, with a friend. It is one of my new favorite--must see's-- in Paris.

Double Feature Samedi

2005-08-13T23:48:00.000+02:00

While out and about today, I ran into Festering Face Wound Guy again. Twice. It looks like he went back into the doctor, because he had new stitches holding together his oozing skin. Someone had also shared with him that it is a good idea to keep his greasy blond hair out of his wound, which has now been cornrowed-- his hair not his wound. The first time I saw him, I was walking out of Gibert Joseph on Boulevard St. Michel (great place for new/used DVD's and CD's). He was once again yelling into his cell phone-- someone should warn him that, like his hair, if he keeps his phone next to his face for that long, that infected gouge will just heal around it. The second time I saw him, I was waiting for my train and he was yelling at what I assume to be his small child. The kid was trying to play with/touch daddy's face (which was met by a collective squirm from everyone else on the platform--ick!).
And that little nugget of gold is why I moved to Paris.

Today was double-feature samedi. I saw Land of the Dead and My Summer of Love.
I love zombie movies and this was good, but felt like merely a shadow of Romero's previous masterpieces. I really didn't like any of the characters, didn't hate any of the characters, and the fact that at the very end-- the zombies were not enemies as much as they were just looking for shelter (a place to call their own). THEY ARE ZOMBIES!!!! Even if they are thinking for themselves now, they eat people. Don't let them go! Shoot them! Aarrrgh! Dennis Hopper was the bad guy in this one and much like Dr. Doom in The Fantastic 4 he just wasn't villainous enough. In fact, I think that is what I didn't like about Land of the Dead: it wasn't enough. Enough gore, enough biting social commentary, enough characterization, enough bad guys, enough good guys, (and the worst) enough humor. Romero has earned the right to rest on his laurels-- I just wish he hadn't.

My Summer of Love was a film I'd been looking forward to seeing for a while. It did not disappoint, but it didn't exactly rumble my seat, either. A friend had described it to me as a Heavenly Creatures in which no one dies, and I really couldn't agree more. It wasn't as highly stylized as Peter Jackson's drama either. No fantasy sequences, just foggy, jostled camera shots and haunting music. What I didn't expect was for this film to be funny; but it was. Darkly so. I know people who just did not get this film. Several wondered what it was they were trying to say about Christianity, what were they trying to say about homosexuality and lust? I have my own thoughts (and because I am tired and feeling a bit lazy I won't write them all out) and I am curious to hear yours-- if you've seen it. The acting in this one was phenomenal-- subtle, quick, and very affecting. The three main were simple amazing, and I wouldn't be surprised if at least one of them receives some attention during awards season.
I recommend both films. Especially if you are in Paris between the 20th and 23rd of August: 3 euros for all movies. ALL MOVIES. 3 EUROS! (I would like to show you the oh-so-Parisian video they've created just for the festival but I am not that computer savvy. Click here and scroll down to the Windows Media icon. Enjoy).

Now, in regards to those of your comments that 7 euros does not equal 40 US dollars I say this: it sure feels like it when everytime I buy something the euro forces me to bend over and grab my ankles!

The Richelieu Wing

2005-08-12T13:39:00.000+02:00

As I mentioned in today's other post, Je l'Ai Fini (Harry Potter Book 6), I spent Wednesday at the Louvre.
The first thing I did upon arrival? I bought the Carte Jeune (Youth Pass). It's available to anyone under 26 and costs 15 euros. It is valid for one year and includes admission to all permanent and temporary !!! exhibits everyday (and special night openings), and qualifies you for discounts on any other special events. And, twice/week when the museum is open at night, I get to bring a friend for free! It allows you to enter from a special VIP entrance (no waiting in line) and basically pays for itself after two visits (again, thank you, patron saint of free museums/monuments). This is by far, the best tip I can share with you-- get one immediatley upon your arrival.
I limited my visit to just the Richelieu wing, which is large enough to be its own museum, and has everything from European sculptures, objets d'art (mostly church reliquary), the restored apartments of Napoleon III (from when the Louvre was still a royal residence), Islamic art and antiquities, and several painting galleries from all over Europe. Yes, all of that in the Richelieu wing.
I particularly enjoyed Napoleon III's apartments, and the Islamic antiquities.
Everyone raves about the opulence and beauty of Versailles , but I was much more impressed with this display (I am trying to get my pictures linked up as soon as possible). From the furniture and wall hangings, chandeliers, china and flatware, ect., it was phenomenal. Granted, Nappy 3 lived much later than Louis XIV did, and had access to many different resources not available during the time of the Sun King, so the comparison is a little unfair. But do make a point to tour the apartments. With just a few rooms on display, it only takes minutes to walk through.
The Islamic antiquities gallery was full of art, rugs, ceramic tiles, pots, objet d'art, scientific tools, ect. and covered several Islamic cultures. It is rather small compared to other parts of the Richelieu, but filled with beautiful objects and pieces of history. It was my last stop for the day, but I made a point to take time and soak in the colors, the details(!), and really enjoyed myself.

I saw several famous paintings, by several famous artists, and enjoyed that novelty-- but in terms of the paintings and sculpture I saw, I most enjoyed the studies of old people (les plus agés). One often sees young, nubile women posing for portraits, and (often self) portraits of men, but rarely the very old. In both marble and on canvas, I saw works detailing the lines and veins on faces, the wrinkled skin and thining hair. These were my favorite works; to me, the most interesting.

After spending several hours at the Louvre, I decided to walk to Chatelet and catch the RER, instead of taking one of the Louvre's metro stops to a transfer station. I walked down an almost deserted Rue de Rivoli as the sun was setting behind me--turning all of the buildings around me bright pink, and causing all of the guilded grillwork to glow. It was beautiful night in Paris, and I considered briefly not going home. But, with HP 6 burning a hole in my purse-- begging to be read, that was simply not possible. I mean, Harry Potter #6 vs. a night out in Paris? Puh-lease! There's not even a question there.
Again, "Comments" are open for comments, news updates, thoughts, feelings, concerns, letters of love, ect.

Je l'Ai Fini!

2005-08-12T12:39:00.000+02:00

I did it, and now, I am sad it is all over. My only regret: while surfing one night, I accidently read a few spoilers telling me who the Half Blood Prince was and who dies. It really spoiled a lot of the experience for me. But, not to worry, no spoilers here. Unlike Sue-Asian, I would rather discover the twists and turns on my own.
It was good, it was dark (a little scary-- I can see how it could be terrifying for a young child), and there is plenty of teen romance/angst stuff. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are certainly growing up.
Needless to say, I am, all at once, looking forward to the seventh and am loathe for it to be released-- it's the last one!
Like every other book in the series, I got this one and did not stop reading it until I finished it. I think in total 16 hours (but only because I fell asleep, took time to eat a bite, and other unavoidable necessities).
I got a call from the bookstore that it had arrived on Tuesday, but couldn't pick it up until Wednesday afternoon. I had already planned to spend Wednesday at the Louvre, so I had to wait until that evening to begin.
Worth the wait.

If you've read it, let me know what you thought--just be sure (if necessary) to label your comment with SPOILER ALERT to warn those who've not begun/finished.

Quatre Fantastique

2005-08-10T14:36:00.000+02:00

What to say? Ioan Gruffudd was in it--possibly it's only redeeming quality (okay, it has the Commish, too, but I don't think we are allowed to call him it now that he plays good cop/bad cop on The Shield). I had heard so many awful things about this film, that my expectations had been drastically lowered (I was also not too familiar with the comics, and ran no risk of disappointment in that sense). So I didn't hate it. I didn't love paying 7 euros to go see it-- which by the way is about 40 US dollars.
This film...what to say? It was a mess--messier than my bedroom was the year my mom cancelled my birthday party (that one's for you Sue-Asian). Not enough character development-- they just got super powers, let's see a little less motor cross and a little more experimenting, humiliation, ect. They tried but fell very short. I didn't even get to the point where I actually cared about these people. They didn't earn the drama of friendship and love they forced down my throat.
Also, the villian just wasn't villainous enough. He wasn't even an asshole-- just had a god complex (which is pre-requisite for 'role of villain,' anyway).
The effects were cool, but weren't cool enough to carry the movie.
Little could've saved this movie. Dommage.
Also, the Commish, playing a mook from Brooklyn "who does the walkin" and the Human Torch were both supposed to have (at one time in the movie's timeline) worked for NASA. What? There characters (again, in the movie-- I don't know the comics) were played as idiots-- but apparently, they are NASA idiots.

Has anyone else seen it? What did you think?

* I couldn't find a french version of this poster. English will have to do.

Two Things.

2005-08-09T23:30:00.000+02:00

First.
Shuttle Discovery landed at Edwards AFB early this morning
(I Heart Spacemen)

If you read my July 26 post: Blast Off! Shuttle Discovery blasts into space, I Dine on cheese, you heard me write (you know what I mean) about the Shuttle Columbia's disasterous take-off. I was mistaken. The Columbia exploded during re-entry. Egg on my face. Also mentioned in the same post was my enthusiasm about the shuttle program, the space center (people living in outer space!), and the reverence I have for astronauts (did you know that Johnny Depp is one-- it's true, I saw it in a movie. Apparently, he is also married to Charlize Theron. I don't think Vanessa Paradis is au courant).

Warning, the following may contain sentiments too saccharine and nationalistic for the International community-- and prove dangerous to anyone who hates America.

I get a very infantile sense of joy whenever I think of such an amazing accomplishment that we (and by 'we,' I mean NASA, the DOD, Industrial Light & Magic, and Lance Bass) continue to build on. The space program is one of things that Americans-- all Americans are proud to claim. With so many anti-American sentiments coming from within our own country (read into that what you will. This is not a political blog and if you wish to know of which side I affiliate myself, [I won't tell you but...] you should check back everyday and leave at least two comments each time. Also, tell all of your friends about my blog), varying degrees of disdain from the other cultures, and varying degrees of antipathy--yes, I mean antipathy-- from world leaders, it's hard to be enthusiastic about the state of domestic (or int'l.) affairs. But the space program is different. We're not competing with anyone-- in fact, we're working with several countries (including Big Red... er, um... I mean Russia), and unlike our sports stars, actors/actresses, and especially politicians, Astronauts are still real heros. The former are pathetic displays of what humanity becomes when given fame, fortune, and power with little to no effort. And what do they do with that power-- they disappoint. But astronauts are still going into the unknown, they are still putting theirs lives in danger, they are smart, successful, and they aren't doing it for fame or fortune, but for their country, for science, and for the love of it.
An astronaut is different from a soldier (although many start out in the armed forces) in a few ways, but most importantly in the way the public sees them. An astronaut will never be hated by the public for merely doing their job, and Americans will never look at an astronaut with pity and consider him just a brainless pawn in the President's "game." Astronauts are America's last true heros. And to hear that they made back, that the shuttle is set to launch in September, and that we still get it right some times is quite... uplifting.

Second.
Peter Jennings, 67, died Monday at his home in New York.

For those of you not familliar with American television news, Peter Jennings was an icon in journalism. I had the opportunity to hear him speak last spring as he was accepted a lifetime achievement award. I was awed that one man had experienced so many significant, historical events and movements. ABC World News Tonight was the only American news program I watched (while still at home) and he will be missed (painful understatement-- I know).

The following was taken from the ABC website and highlights some of the many accomplishments of his career.

He was in Berlin in the 1960s when the Berlin Wall was going up, and there in the '90s when it came down. He covered the civil rights movement in the southern United States during the 1960s, and the struggle for equality in South Africa during the 1970s and '80s. He was there when the Voting Rights Act was signed in the United States in 1965, and on the other side of the world when black South Africans voted for the first time. He has worked in every European nation that once was behind the Iron Curtain. He was there when the independent political movement Solidarity was born in a Polish shipyard, and again when Poland's communist leaders were forced from power.
And he was in Hungary, Czechoslovakia, East Germany, Romania and throughout the Soviet Union to record first the repression of communism and then its demise. He was one of the first reporters to go to Vietnam in the 1960s, and went back to the killing fields of Cambodia in the 1980s to remind Americans that, unless they did something, the terror would return.
He established the first American television news bureau in the Arab world in 1968 when he served as ABC News' bureau chief for Beirut, Lebanon, a position he held for seven years. He helped put ABC News on the map in 1972 with his coverage of the Summer Olympics in Munich, when Arab terrorists took Israeli athletes hostage.

And, I will never EVER forget amidst the turmoil and pain of September 11th, watching him cry during his marathon coverage (he spent more than 60 hours in front of cameras reporting) of the events of that day and week. Many of you may not understand why a news reporter would be such a loss to an entire country, and, sadly, there are many Americans who couldn't care less. But many of us saw him as one of the last great seekers of truth. He was not a TV personality, he was a real journalist. He came into my home every evening, and made the harsh realities of the world a little bit easier to stomach because it was news being delivered by a trusted friend-- not a reporter w/ questionable motives, and certainly not diabetes-inducing "Ray of Sunshine" Katie Couric. He will be missed.

In Summation.
Astonauts: good. Peter Jennings: good, but dead. Serena: overly sentimental and still so removed from current events that she didn't find out about his death until today.

I was going to spend this evening posting public restrooms in Europe. I have encountered more than one significant difference and have quite a bit to say on the subject-- and a few words of advice (take it from someone who, unfortunately, had to learn from her mistakes). But I heard about the two aforementioned events today and, frankly, it doesn't take a lot to trump a bathroom post. Again, folks, I like hearing from you, but "Comments" is also a good place to leave news updates, headlines, grand openings, birth announcements.

Personally, I prefer my clothing medium-well.

2005-08-08T16:13:00.000+02:00

I received a visiter today. This visiter tends to stop by each month around the same time and renders me very disagreable and not interested in much else than a hot bath.
So I'll just leave you to mull over something equally disgusting: The above is a picture of the Flesh Dress. It was created by canadian artist, Jana Sterbak in the late 80's. It is made of rotting meat. This dress (or another incarnation of it) is on display at the Centre Pompidou where I took the below photo during my visit yesterday. If you look closely at the floor the model is sitting on, you'll notice that the meat has permanently stained the gallery parquet.
The dress was left rotting in its initial installment until it reached its current dried, shriveled state. You can still see pieces of the salt stuck to the flesh originally added to preserve it. I don't know what is more terrifying-- a dress of rancid meat or the fact that someone accepted money to wear it.

Sunday: Free Art, Expensive Erotica

2005-08-07T21:32:00.000+02:00

That's right, kids, it's Sunday. As you already know, Catholicism reigns in France. That, of course, means that on the first Sunday of every month, all state owned attractions and museums are free and open to the public.
I decided to skip the Louvre today (tomorrow I am buying a year-long student pass and will have free admission thereafter) and headed for the Centre Pompidou. It houses the city's modern art collection. It is also known for its modern/odd architecture. The line was about 200 people long but the wait allowed me to watch a man and his marionette "The Beatles" show, a clown with a giant plunger on his head, and several other animations along the way.
Inside was a bit crowded; twice in my presence sculptures were knocked over and the glass on a framed painting was broken! Which is actually a lot more funny than it sounds--the clatter from each accident froze every single person in the gallery. Faces went white and gasps were uttered, but the museum staff-- who at this point must hate this Catholic tradition-- were just like, "whatever, keep moving" (only in French w/ their very unhappy Gaullois glower). The center itself is huge, but the permanent expositions were relatively small-- I'm glad I got in for free (thank you patron saint of free monuments/museums).
After waiting a few hours to use the ladies room (it was free which equals 'worth the wait'), I caught the 31 bus to Pigalle and the Musée de l'Eroticisme (Museum of Erotica). Pigalle is the closest thing Paris has to a Red Light district. Prostitution is not legal, but here you find peep shows, adult book stores and film houses, live shows, and, bien sur, La Moulin Rouge. The museum cost me (w/ student disc.) 5 euro, the same price I paid to get into the Musée d'Orsay which is a (100x's bigger) world-class museum. In that regard, very expensive, but I had been looking forward to visiting it all day.
The museum has taken up residence in an old residence, so while it is six stories, it's small. It has ancient symbols of fertility, old porn and erotica, art, and a few devices that made me blush. Me!
Making my way from the bottom to top stories, I think I enjoyed Les Films Interdits (forbidden films) the best. Basically, black and white silent porn. Their scores sound like something from a circus, and added to the absolutely bizarre experience of watching such graphic sex from an era I've always thought to be quite prude (prohibition, girdles, chastity belts). Upon reaching the top floor, I was greeted by a man dressed in leather hot pants (with a studded cod piece), suspenders, a hat and not much else. I had to pass him a few times while roaming the gallery (it really is a small place). As I was leaving, he asked me if I would like to participate in a small animation by simply sitting on the purple velvet chair in front him. First, from the looks of it, it wouldn't have been small. Second, I was the only one in that gallery, and any show about to commence would have been for my eyes only. Non, merci.
What does one tip for a lap dance in a museum, anyway?
And that is what Sundays are all about in Paris-- just as God had intended them to be.

More Cowbell, Baby!

2005-08-06T20:45:00.000+02:00

Nothing really to post today. I got lost trying to find a patisserie that is actually open this month and discovered an enormous, beautiful park in the neighborhood by my house. I sat down for a picnic just as it started raining-- and then I had to walk for another half hour to find my street.
Ahhh, adventures.
The above always makes me laugh. If you aren't familiar with the SNL sketch, laugh anyway: it's funny.

*I've got a fever and the only perscription is more cowbell, baby

*This one's for you, Dark Pig

Antici.......................pation

2005-08-05T23:24:00.000+02:00

Yes, I am one of those. I love Harry Potter (HP); I love the books and I love the films. I don't know if I can wait for the 4th movie-- waiting for Book 6 has been hard enough (after finally finding an english bookstore in Paris that was actually selling the US Scholastic edition [the UK and the US have different editions-- different illustrations, different languages], I had to order one as they had already run out. It will be here by the end of the month!!!!). I am planning on making it to the UK to see HP4 in London opening weekend and make a huge, geeky, don't-look-at-me-that-way-lady-I-know-I'm-too-old-for-this-but-at-least-I-didn't-dress-up-Freak! sort of deal. But after being hurt by so many landmark franchises (Star Wars, The Matrix), I am terrified with each new installment that I will be disappointed. But, HP is not the only thing I spent today waiting for. I have been trying to attach a couple of photos to an e-mail for several hours-- they just won't attach. I don't understand. The photos are in a folder on my desktop, but I have also tried putting them on an internet file and attaching them from there. No luck. I am angry. I am inpatient. AAAARGH!
I had to wait until after 1 p.m to shower thanks to a very (ironically) smelly plumber who had no problem flirting with my neighbor and taking his sweet time fixing the drain--the sink drain-- there weren't any problems with the shower, but he still wouldn't let me in there! After a freezing cold night (fell asleep with the window open), I so wanted a hot, steamy shower. Dommage.
I also spent several hours today waiting for that oh-so-important e-mail that is still not in my inbox (if you are reading this--you know who you are-- stop! You owe me an e-mail!). It is one of those that the longer I must wait for it, the worse it will be to read. Sigh. But, I stopped waiting for it early this evening and decided to go for a walk. I walked the over to Montrouge and explored the city for a few miles.
Technically, Montrouge is not in Paris. But one must only cross a street to make the transition from city to city. Montrouge looks exactly like Paris-- only less dense. There is more green and it's less noisy. It is a mixture of modern, industrial and commercial buildings mixed with almost ancient apartments, houses, and parcs. It is still Paris in my book. It felt so great to get outside after confining myself in my tower for the last two days. The sun had begun to go down and a breeze picked up, making it very pleasant. The Friday night crowds had not yet emerged and the work traffic had already dispersed. It was exactly what I needed.
Then, I came home and immediately checked my e-mail (I never said I was strong, or very committed for that matter). Empty.
Now that I have no real responsibilities or...anything, really on my schedule, I find myself filling my downtime with anticipation of things to come: school in the fall, visiting friends before that, HP and several other movies I want to see, Christmas and winter in France, e-mails (HINT! HINT!), the new Camille CD to be released on iTunes USA, comments from all of you (HINT! HINT!), ect.

Neville, a boy after my own heart

2005-08-04T19:32:00.000+02:00

I haven't been feeling well lately. Actually, things have been a bit cloudy for a few days; a combination of personal health, personal life, and personal strife. Today, I spent in bed-- not in a 'I need a few extra hours of sleep to recuperate' sort of way-- or even in an 'I'm a lazy kitty soaking up the sun' sort of way. No, this was much more of an 'I am too 'too' to get out of bed, and all the while loathe to stay.' Today, my apathy could not be combatted by any amount of chocolate, the allure of Paris calling me from my window (just a few steps from my bed), or the anticipation of an important email, which sadly, has yet to make its way into my inbox.
I spent today looking too closely at my nails and cuticles; the manicure and pedicure I had just before I left now destroyed by (respectively) nervous biting and hours of walking/touring about the city. They are a mess, as is my hair (which I have stopped styling all together-- I shampoo/condition it everyday and leave it dry in its own very Prince Valiant way [a bad hair cut that I am still paying for), and my skin (finally evening out after the initial shock of being here). I wasted away a good hour in front of the mirror just gawking at how much I've aged since the last time I spent an hour in front of the mirror just gawking; when did I get so wrinkly, so fat, so pale, so tanned, have I lost weight?
If you aren't familiar with the rather debilitating sensation of ennui, please allow me to share:
A desperation for sensation, and greatness, anxiety and temptation. A yearning, an itching to act, to do-- but never enough desire to actually do anything. An overcoming feeling of fatigue, dissatisfaction at everything that lies in front of and behind me. And, of course, to be completely and utterly void of emotion--happy or sad, excited, angry, energetic, pain, or pleasure.
Yes, this was my mood. All day long. I read about ten pages into 20,000 Leagues. They have only just found the Nautilus-- which they still think is a monstre-- they haven't even met Nemo, let alone boarded the sous-marine. Which means I haven't even breached 1 of their 20,000 leagues! I also spent about a half an hour tanning on the balcony while the maid cleaned my room-- but I was asleep for most of that, so it doesn't really count as an activity as much as a change of location.
And because I wasted away the day on my convertible sofa bed (Living in an IKEA), I felt incredibly bloated, indulgent, pitiful, self-centered, ect. Why is it I feel guilty for suffering from something out of my control?
Tomorrow, I vow, to get out of my house, to put some sidewalk under my feet-- even if it comes with random piles of dog poo.

the above painting is by CARLO PITTORE

Cinema Francais

2005-08-03T18:18:00.000+02:00

I watched The Transporter 2 at the famous Grand Rex Cinema. It wasn't in the large theatre with the three balconies and grand stage, but the room I was in had a fiber optic ceiling made to look like a night sky, plush seats (as all the theatres in France do), and a large enough distance between each row, that I had both leg room and a clear view.
I love the theatres in France. Having worked at a theatre in the States (and wow do I have stories)--and being a film afficianado, I hate walking into a dirty theatre. I hate the tiny, plastic seats bolted down to permantley sticky floors only to watch a screen pocked with gummy bears and chewing gum.
Because so few of the French take food into the theatre with them, theatre owners/managers can afford rich velvet upholstery, wood accents and thick carpet throughout the room-- not just down the main aisle. This makes for a rich, lush theatre-going experience. I feel as though I've snuck into a VIP showing-- not one afforded by my student discount. I don't have a problem with people who eat in the theatres-- I like popcorn every once in a while, but when in our society did it become acceptable to leave your garbage on the floor of a public place: "I'm done eating my extra large vat o' butter, I think I'll wipe my hand on the cushion of the seat next to me, and throw the container on the ground. Then, I'll put my feet on the seat in front of me and talk on my cell phone." This behavior would not be tolerated in a concert hall or play house, on an airline, or even in a classroom. Why do people assume it's okay in a theatre? And excuse me for not sharing my gorey (and I mean gorey) history of finding young children, old people, and every middle age in between having sex! What is wrong w/ us?
Anyway, after the flick, I walked down to St. Vincent de Paul. I couldn't go inside as there was a wedding going on (what I intitially mistook for a massive terrorist attack of a chiffon and lace factory). It was the most god-awful, gaudy parade I have ever seen-- and I've seen many a Pride Parades in my day. The guests lined up in a sort of gauntlet on the stairs in front of the church to welcome the bride to the ceremony. In the small park in front of the Church, two very drunk, homeless bull dykes serenaded the bride with their rendition of "Oh, Happy Day."
Then, I hit a book store. I bought 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (in french), a Truffaut biography (in english-- but I didn't find that out until I got home, oh well), and a gift for one of my sisters.
The ride home was interesting. The metro was packed and hot and smelly. The indian man who frequents the 4 line was there rapping his middle-aged heart out to 1982 boob box he has jimmy-rigged to a market bag. As he was coming down the aisle, I moved out of the way to let him through and got a whiff of something that made me dry-heave. At first, I just thought it was the B.O. of the gross guy standing next to me yelling into his cell phone, but there was no way this was just B.O. and I quickly realized that the tear inducing odor was coming from the festering wound half hidden by a green and black bandage on this guy's cheek-- right next to my face (excuse me, I just threw up a little in my mouth)!
Ah, busy fun day in Paris. I'm still not sure how I am able to live such an adrenaline-pumping lifestyle-- it must be the crack.

Je L'Ai Regarde en Francais

2005-08-03T17:15:00.000+02:00

I went to see the Transporter 2 today. I was impressed with the first one; smart, quick, good action, hot Jason Statham. But this one just felt like a really long commercial (complete with excessive product placements: Audi, Heineken, Aston Martin Vanquish, whatever suit Statham wore, a very sleek cell phone, ect.) with a semi-interesting plot drawing lines between the use of each product. Ebert and Roper complained that it was shot too quickly (i.e. quick camera shots and fast editing) and that one misses all the action because of it. When I heard their review, I thought they must really be nit-picking--it is an action film, afterall. But, this could not be more of an understatement. At one point, I thought I was going to be sick. The camera jostled about in one direction and the actors in another. It was too much. Statham in good at what he does. He kicks ass and looks cool doing it. Just like the first one, the fight/action sequences were excellently choreographed but Louis Leterrier (director) didn't allow the audience to see any of it. Instead, he upstaged his star with a severe misuse of the technology and budget available to him; any of the drama and suspense he worked to create in front of the camera was lost in the editing room.
This film does show another dimension to the Transporter's character in his interactions with the child he is in charge of chauffering around Miami, the semi-romance with the child's mother, in a way that doesn't turn him into the 'kindergarten cop' with a heart of gold. The writing credits include Luc Besson, and it isn't a bad film, but if ever a script, performance, millions of dollars were wasted away by one director! Leterrier must have been on speed-- he certainly made the audience feel like they were. But he didn't completely destroy the franchise for me and I'd like to see a third in this series sans Leterrier.

A rather enjoyable day

2005-08-02T19:46:00.000+02:00

Today, I passed a rather enjoyable day. It was hot in Paris, and thankfully, everywhere I needed to be today was indoors. I started the day off by visiting the local police prefecture (remember that appointment I missed, well, today was my reschedule). I explained to the man that I would like back all of the official papers I submitted to get my visa. He did not understand and continued to ask me why I was here. Now, this was not a language problem. He was unaware that he had the authority to give me back my application papers, and I (and as well as an advisor from my school in Paris) was told that that would not a problem. "Monsieur," I said, "I am here to get back the official papers from my application." "That is all, I do not to need to file anything, submit anything, complain or pay," I said. "I would simply like my papers back." This was beyond his comprehension. He was nice (see travel tip posted in comments section), but it took a while for him to understand I had no greater purpose in being there. Upon leaving the prefecture, I decided to walk a few blocks further and catch a bus to the Champs Elysées and my pharmacy. I have only just started to use the buses in Paris-- previously limiting myself to the RER's and the Metro. I love the bus. It's never as hot, rarely as packed, and there is a view. The bus is the cheapest way to see the city in all of its glory and so cheap (free with my metro pass)! There are several lines, none of which are straight shots anywhere, but I have yet to get lost.
Side story from Serena's past:
My freshman year of high school-- still too young to drive--I had a doctor's appt. across town and neither one of my parents were able to take me as it was during the middle of the day. I had no choice but to catch the bus. The bus system in my hometown is small and I had no problem getting to my appt. However, on the way back to school, the bus driver, while turning a corner, ran straight into a car parallel parked on the street-- going much faster than he should have. Now, this is the middle of the day, in the middle of the week in a town on the west coast where no one uses public transportation unless they absolutely have to. There were 11 people on the bus; I was the only one over 5 and under 70 that spoke english and thus, after waiting one and one half hours for the police and the owner of the car to make it to the scene, I was the only one capable of answering any questions. I spent another two hours filling out forms and fighting the urge to kick the small children playing under my seat-- they wouldn't let anyone off the bus until the scene had been cleared and each of us had been checked by a paramedic-- who took longer to arrive, and forced me to wait another hour before I could even step out into the fresh air. That's right, four hours on the bus. I missed all of my classes that day, and never took the bus, ever again.
It was, needless to say, a traumatizing experience and had biased me to the Paris Bus system, but now that I am finally on it, I love it.
So after visiting the pharmacy, I walked down the Champs to the Grand Palais. It was, along with its neighbor, the Petite Palais built for the 1900 Universal Exhibition (World's Fair). They are both very beautiful buildings--or so I think, they are both covered in scaffolding thanks to restoration efforts. The Petit Palais is closed, but I did drop by the discovery museum inside the Grand Palais. It has everything from moon rocks, chemistry, geology, astronomy, anatomy, a room dedicated to the number pi, and a temporary exhibit on Brasil-- again, I have no idea why Paris is celebrating Brasil. It was interesting, and to my surprise, there were more adults than children (despite the exhibits being directed to the younger, more curious sect). I missed the planetarium show which I hear is pretty cool, but had a good time.
I found myself back on the bus to get home. As I was the only one on the bus for several stops, the driver took that opportunity to tell me jokes over the intercom. I understood only 30% of what he was saying, but giggled after he finished delivering what I assumed was each punch-line and made a new friend.
A tour around the city, people watching, a giant human cell made out of flourescent glass, some dirty french jokes... a rather enjoyable day.

Also, does this scare anyone else?

Praying for complete and total collapse of the Euro

2005-08-01T20:37:00.000+02:00

This was a rather expensive weekend, and by 'rather expensive' I mean that my ass is still bleeding from the buggering it took. I went to EuroDisney with a friend this weekend. I did not end up paying for anything because he owed me some cash and the expense was close enough, but eating out (just a sidewalk cafe or two), going to see a movie, trains, a book, some shampoo and a baguette and I have practically bankrupted myself for the month-- and sadly, I am not exagerating. Whatever happened to the Americans being the rich ones? Whatever happened to Americans worrying only about the Yen-- which is practically ours anyway? Am I happy for the EU and do I realize that prosperity for Europe means prosperity for the rest of the world? Yes. But I am less happy that America is not even 'at the table' right now. My monthly resources are almost cut in half when converted to euros. I think I might have to buy one of those hermorroid donuts (at least I can say that I lost my anal virginity in the same city that Tom Cruise proposed to Katie Holmes-- now that's romantic).
And what really gets my goat (please excuse the use of such an archaic phrase), is that Americans are still the ones being targeted by the organised 'homeless' and 'needy' on Parisian streets, next to the monuments, and in the trains.
Whether it's the Bosinians who approach anyone speaking English, "Are you American?" They ask as they hand you a piece of paper describing why they were forced to flee their country, "Please Help Me." To which I respond clearly and loudly, "No, sorry, I don't speak any english."
The vendors selling cheap chotchke on the streets, "You American? I love America. Come, come look at my stuff-- for you, because I love America, 20 euro-- just for you" Yeah, thanks, 20 euro for something worth less than 2. I am neither stupid nor rich (at least, not at the moment) and I really don't feel guilty regarding these people with absolute disdain. You may be thinking, "what is she talking about?" These aren't rich Europeans, but people forced to the street to either beg or scrape together what ever they can by selling whatever they can." And my response to that would be, I have no sympathy for someone who spends more hours of their day trying not to work than working. These people have careers, they are organised. Now, if someone is sleeping on the metro grate trying to stay warm, I might drop whatever coin I have on me into their little cup, and certainly, I am a sucker for anyone with a dog (which, sadly, there are a lot of in Paris. Almost everyone homeless person has at least two dogs, which I find disgusting. If you cannot or choose not to have the means to support yourself, you should not be allowed to have so many animals under your care).
Living in the sixth, I became familliar with many of the dirty, smelly faces that frequented the shelters and bars near my house (even in my neighbor, there were several), and to these people, if I had some coin, I was happy to give it to them. More often than not, I had nothing, but a smile always sufficed. Never have I felt unsafe, harassed, or somehow at risk with the regular homeless guy on the street. There is a man, who can be found on Avenue St. Germain near the church, who carves vegetables into the most amazing, intricate animals, flowers, ect. I think he might be autistic. I love to watch him work, but because I have no use for a radish goldfish, I always pass at his offer to take something after I drop a euro into his bowl. These people don't beg and follow me down the street, but I am always made to feel uncomfortable by those with pre-made signs, propaganda, and glow in the dark Eiffel Tower necklaces. Yes, homelessness and unemployment are big problems in France, and not much is being done about it-- unless, that is, you count the millions of dollars from the pockets of exploited tourists.
But I digress.
Serena has decided to do what she can to make a little extra cash (see advertissements and Google search bar at right). If you would like to contribute, please feel free to click on any or all of the ads. I find them quite ugly and feel a little dirty having placed them on my site-- have I sold my soul? But hopefully, after a few million people hit those links, I can buy one of those glow in the dark Eiffel Tower necklaces.

Choosing Just One

2005-07-27T12:13:00.001+02:00

Nique wants to know what my favorite film is. What should I tell him? I love watching movies; I can escape for a few hours in the middle of my day and just feel something else. Make new friends, make new enemies, appreciate the art, become embittered at the loss of 2 hours and 8 bucks. Unlike a book, there is no real commitment of time or energy. Just have a seat and look forward--dazed and confused for a few hours. If it's a good movie, you feel something, you have a physical and emotional reaction-- not a mental one. A good movie doesn't allow me to think until after the ride is over, until after I have had time to process the content. A good movie puts me in the moment.

I have been thinking and searching (because I don't have my video/dvd library with me in Paris, I can't just look through it and weigh each film's merits, but here is a list of films I absolutely couldn't survive without. They come from all different genres, all different eras and movements, and I know I have left several out (but that's why we have a comments section! Let me know what you think of my random list and tell me what you think should've made it.).

Comedy

Big Lebowski, the (1998): Dude! This has one of the all-time greatest casts in filmdom.

Bottle Rocket (1994): I really believe Dignan to be the most endearing film character of all time. In high school, my 3 best friends would join me for Bottle Rockets nights. I miss them.

Clue (1985): If you have not seen this film, you are not allowed back to my sight until you have.

Fargo (1996): BRILLIANT! I have since perfected my mid-western accent. Oh yea, you betcha!

Goonies, the (1985): I grew up vacationing next to where they filmed it, but more than that, I still love this movie! Note: Sean Austin is in three of my all time favorites (four if you count Encino Man, but let's not).

Groundhog's Day (1993): most people I know hate this film. I love it, and the more I see it, the more I love it.

Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975): "I fart in your general direction" I know most people prefer The Life of Brian-- I am embarrassed to admit I've never seen it.

Pink Panther, the (1963): It's the first one and the best one. But sign me up for anything with Peter Sellers.

Princess Bride, the (1987): "Stop that rhyming and I mean it! -Anybody want a peanut?"

Resovoir Dogs (1992): IMDB lists this as a crime drama/thriller, but I'm a pretty sick fuck and I laughed the whole time. Steven Wright on KBILLY, Michael Madsen dancing and singing to 'Stuck in the Middle With You' and lopping a cop's ear off? How could anyone not? This is also one of my favorite Harvey Keitel roles of all time, and by far, my favorite Taratino movie.

Secretary (2002): James Spader, how I love thee, let me count the ways! This is about as far as I'll venture into the romantic comedy genre-- and it's one of the better ever made. Low budget, smart, sexy, funny.

Spaceballs (1987): And they say the 80's was a bad decade for film! So, Prince Valium, Joan Rivers and a Mog walk into a bar...

Waiting For Guffman (1996): I love Christoper Guest. I love Best In Show, A Mighty Wind, and, of course This is Spinal Tap, and I am considering them all one entry ( and dispute me on this one if you will) but of the four Best In Show is my favorite.

Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror

Dune (1984): This was the first VHS my family ever owned.

Killer Klowns From Outer Space (1988): This is my all-time favorite movie about alien clowns who terrorize a small town by putting people into cotton candy pods then drink their blood with silly straws.

Lord of the Rings, the trilogy (2001-2003): duh!

The Matrix (1999): sorry, the other two sucked and there is no place for them on my list.

Omega Man (1971): "Soilent Green is People!" Okay, wrong movie, it's just that that is much better than any of the quotes from this film. But I do love it, Heston is so cool and he does 'Jungle Fever' much better than Wesley Snipes.

Poltergeist 1 & 2 (1982, 1986): "Go into the Light, Carol Anne." The third one was awful. I still flinch when I watch these films.

Red Sonia (1985): I wanted to be her! I grew up watching this movie again and again, and as I grew taller, I knew that someday, my destiny was to star in a hip buddy-cop movie with Eddie Murphy and, later, marry Flavor Flav.

Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975): Tim Curry-- my first major crush! Okay, it's still going pretty strong.

Scream the Trilogy (1996-2000): All three are brilliant, all three are worth watching several times.

Total Recall (1990): I remember being 10 years old and going to see this film in the theatre. Forget the Terminators, this is the best Schwarzenagger film of all time.

Zombie Flicks (they get their own category-- I love them too much!)

28 Days Later (2002): The zombies were fast, violent, and the make-up was awesome.

Dawn of the Dead (2004): Maybe it's because I saw Romero's for the first time when I was younger and couldn't fully grasp his genius (and I do believe the man is a genius), but I prefer the remake.

Reanimator (1985): good ole fashioned gore fest.

Shawn of the Dead (2004): A smart, funny homage to Romero. Look for filmmakers Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright's zombie cameos in Romero's new flick: Land of the Dead.

Drama/ Musicals

7 Brides for 7 Brothers I just love the oversimplified take on love and 'courtin'' And the songs are amazing.

The BBC's Pride and Predjudice (1995): It's seven hours and I think I've seen it twenty times. I loved, loved the novel and Colin Firth is the most perfect Darcy in the whole world.

Easter Parade, the (1948): Favorite Fred Astaire movie-- yes, I like it even better than Swing Time.

In The Name Of The Father (1993): I sob when the father dies and the prisoners drop their burning papers out the window. Sob. And, again, anything with Daniel Day Lewis is for me.

Rudy (1993): one of the greatest sports movies of all time.

Singing In The Rain (1952): I had a big crush on Donald O'Connor. I was a weird little kid.

Sound of Music (1965): The sentimental favorite.

Tombstone (1993): Val Kilmer should've gotten an oscar out of this.

Holiday

The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993): possibly my all-time favorite movie. Ever.

Elf (2003): fairly recent, but an instant classic.

A Christmas Story (1983): "Fragilé- that must be Italian."

Foreign Language

Anatomie (2000): there are parts of this film that make me wonder what the director was thinking and other parts that leave me awestruck.

Commitments, the (1991): "Don't sing with your accents: It's ride, Sally, ride-- not roid, Sally, roid." This is in English, but was too charming and smart for me to consider it as anything else. Waking Ned Devine also falls into this category.

Couching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000): I (heart) kung fu, and this film is just too phenomenal. Also, Chow Yun Fat is so pretty-- cannot. resist. hot. chinese man. He is more of a gangster in a hot suit in most of his other films, but silk frocks and swords work for him too.

Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain, le (2001): I am listening to the soundtrack right now. How do you not fall in love with Jeunet's films?

Lola rennt (1998): Even my mother (who's tastes tend to be very conservative and vanilla) loved this movie.

Monsoon Wedding (2001): Mira Nair's use of color and photography are phenomenal, acting is strong and the end product left me wanting more.

Nikita (1990): Luc Besson should have murdered John Badham for Point of No Return.

Quatre cents coups, Les (1959): I am including the entire collection as one entry. The life of Antoine Doniel changed the way I watched movies. Truffaut's oeuvre is quite remarkable, but these remain my favorite.

And now that I have taken the trouble to write all of that out, I realize there are about 100 more that I should add. I feel torn and slightly disloyal. This is too hard. You'll notice that most of these films are fairly recent-- within the last two decades. I like classic, older films, but rarely do they fall into my 'favorites' list.

(see full animation with sound)

So, comments section is officially open for feedback and criticism.

Blast Off! Shuttle Discovery Rides Into Space, I dine on cheese.

2005-07-26T19:23:00.000+02:00

That's right folks, America has once again shown the world how superior they are by sending their best and brightest into outer space (where, apparently, they will be of more use). After the Columbia tragedy in 2003, everyone was a bit nervous (I assume; like the Tour, I was not able to attend this landmark event), but thankfully, Jeb Bush was there to quelle fears with his expertise in aeronautiques and engineering. The ascent went off without a 'hitch' (that one is for you, Jeb) and over the next few days NASA will be replaying video footage on as many networks in as many countries as possible to illustrate the point that we really do do things better out west (and by west, I mean back east...in Florida). NASA is planning on bringing their fly boys down in 12 days (that's the eighth of August to you and me) and in one final desperate PR move, said astronauts, perhaps their wives, and certainly any other NASA employee remotely involved in the launch capable of supporting ten whole minutes of their own 'human interest' segment on the TODAY show will be paraded around with their patches, voyage photos, and heart-warming, patriotique tales. Coming to an elementary school near you!
It is an exciting acheivement-- not because they somehow managed to make it into space without any of the on-board hair dryers malfunctioning, but because, there are people in outer space! I forget that there are people, humains (okay, lets give credit where credit is due-- the monkeys made it up there first) living in and exploring outer space! And an event like this reminds me of what's going on up there. Mars, anyone? Lance Bass? That's right, members of NSYNC can go follow in the footsteps of Capt. James Tiberius Kirk, er..umm, NSYNC is breaking the way for Capt. James Tiberius Kirk?
Anyway, I do find it exciting, and I am glad they all made it there safely. Can I say how shitty it must've been for the crew of the Columbia to realize seconds into their trip-- the trip they had waited their entire lives for, the trip that would bring them fame and glory (and put their faces on countless commemorative porcelin plates and maybe a few postage stamps) that they weren't going to even break through the atmosphere? No. Too soon? Okay, well let me just say this, then: I admire astronauts,b/c much like Navy SEALS, these men and women must be both smart and athletic-- no pudgy computer technicians for the shuttle, just intense, focused, disciplined astronauts. I will never be an astronaut. You see, the claustrophia doesn't cancel out the acrophobia, so, being that high, and trapped inside a small tube for several hours would render me 'Here come's Johnny' insane! Compris? But, how cool would it be-- if ever, for the rest of your life, you had to fill out a form-- be it a credit card application, membership savings card at the dry cleaners, or pledge sheet for the March of Dimes, to write under 'occupation:' Astronaut?

Today was a lazy day at La Maison Danoise. I woke up around ten and ate my muesli as usual. I read for a while, cleaned my room, finished my laundry and did some grammar excercises in my workbook. Very exciting, very thrilling stuff. Around 4 p.m. I heard singing coming from the building across the street. A choir was practising and because their window were open, I have been listening to them for the past few hours. So beautiful, so peaceful.
For dinner tonight, I had a mushroom and tomato tart with bread, camenbert (one of my favorites), a peach, and some chocolate mousse.

Warning: If, having read all the way to this point, you have reached your limit and are not capable of handling anymore excitement, do not read on.

Tomorrow, I have a few errands to run, then, I will picnic in the Tuilleries and spend drop by the louvre. I might-- if I am feeling particularly adventurous (hold your breath) catch-up on some e-mails!

Ah, life in the fast lane.

FYI: the comment section is open for, well, comments. But it is also a good place to leave tidbits found in the news (to which I have no access) that you find particularly interesting or, perhaps, a waste of the news media's time.

Layer Cake, ummm, Cake.

2005-07-25T21:04:00.000+02:00

Today, while out running errands, I saw Layer Cake. It's a new film out of the UK with one of my new favorite actors Daniel Craig*. I saw him in The Mother last year and I thought he gave a spectacular performance (overall, an amazing film) and when I heard he was touring the festival circuit with this film, I knew I had to see it. He is both our narrator and nameless main character. He is a drug dealer about to retire with millions when things (as they tend to in all of the modern gangster dramas coming out of the UK) go farcically bad. Craig gives strong performance, and just like its counterparts, the film features a mad, edgy score/soundtrack, hot photography, and humourously dark death scenes. Was it better than some of its predecessors? No, but it was smarter. The script and plot-- even for the jaded film student offers a few nice surprises, strong dialogue and great characterization, but features a less than stellar ending that felt a bit forced-- filmed to somehow shock the audience and give the script a bit more of a realistic, credible feel. Right, because that always works.
I give it 4 out of 5 Etoiles. Go see it.

If you've seen it, I would love to hear what you thought.

* For more info of Craig or Layer Cake or any other film for that matter, see Int'l Movie Database link at right.

Je l'Ai Rate! Merde!

2005-07-25T20:35:00.001+02:00

I am angry! For some reason, I thought the Tour de France ended next Sunday (remember folks, I am without t.v. or radio) and I missed Lance win his 7th and final! I am depressed. Yesterday, I did my laundry-- actually, I only did part of my laundry, I talked to my mom, and read for a while!!! I could've been on the Champs! Merde! I had absolutely nothing better to do.
Je suis déprimé!

Smart People Are Stupid

2005-07-24T11:10:00.001+02:00

I couldn't sleep last night and spent way too much time exploring the blogger.com realm of the world wide web. I encountered a couple really well written, original and insightful blogs that shamed me and Serena Abroad.com. These were writers-- like me, who are actually using their blog to write. I know, but the obvious tends to escape me at times.
Contary to my last statement, I am of above average intelligence (and modest to boast), but I don't have a talent for anything in particular. I like Math; my obsessive-compulsive brain is calmed when forced to do long, drawn out equations. There is an order that I find safe and calming. But math is too confusing for my dyslexic and ADD mind and my self-defeating personality gets frustrated and gives up. Science I love. I love biology--especially genetics, atoms and other small things not visible to the human eye (bacteria, virus, cells, ect.) and I love Science Fiction (no sci-fi here, please). I love to read. I love literature, plays, not so much poetry, and even good magazines. But, I am not a one of those recreational readers who can recite several meaningful passages/quotes from the book and-- here's the kicker, retain them for eternity. I rarely remember the author's name (unless they are very famous or the book was particularly spectacular). I was raised on television (and I am living proof that it is an addictive medium that should be much more closely regulated by parents). When not with my nanny, I was supervised by the t.v. and allowed to watch whatever I wanted. Thanks Mom and Dad, by the way, I am stll, to this day, scared of Trolls--both the sad excuse for a horror movie and the mythical creatures.
In fact, my parents thought I was some kind of savant when I was little because I had a freak encyclopedic knowledge of television and film (in particular of the cheap 1980's B genre), most of which is now lost in the haze left lingering from the cocktail of perscription drugs I injest every morning. But, in truth, movies and television were my domain. I was in charge and could escape to any world I wanted with the click of my remote.
So, there are many things I am okay at, many things I enjoy, but nothing that sets me apart or makes me feel particularly prideful, and I really felt inadequate while surfing last night (maybe I should wait a few days before taking my USB for another ride). On the flip (I know, very cool and effortless use of hip, if slightly dated slang), I ran into some awful blogs: illiterate, politically extreme, cutters, pedophiles, photographers lacking skills in photography, ect. That made me feel much better. You see, I am completely aware that there is no real need for my blog (it's truly the ultimate form of self-indulgence), and I am okay with that. In fact, as much as I don't expect anyone to care, let alone read some of my more dry postings, I love getting your comments. Comments, comments, comments!-- like Candy, Candy, Candy at Halloween*.
Umm...so, yeah. Just a few thoughts.

And here's a Deep Thought/travel tip:
If you drop your wallet into a river of molten hot lava, don't jump in after it. Because, man, it's gone.

*Hope you're all familiar with the comic stylings of Jerry Seinfeld.

Living in an IKEA: I want a Burrito!

2005-07-23T17:44:00.000+02:00

I put a counter on my blog last night! There will be no prize for the 100th visiter (except maybe a wonderful sense of accomplishment and pride).

I am living in a house for Danish students, academic researchers, professeurs and their families. I am the only American. No, I don't speak Danish, but there is no need as all of them speak English and most of them speak French.
The house was built in the twenties in the Danish Modern style. Everything is Danish blue. My furniture all serves more than one purpose and is either on wheels and/or collapsible and very...well, Danish.

I have my own sink (which is hidden inside a tiny closet-type room), but share a WC and showers with the rest of the people on my floor. They are co-ed. Now, in theory, I have no problem with this. And even if I did, the toilet and shower stalls are all very modest. However, the first time I took a shower, I realized just how deeply ingrained I am with the North American idea that men and women should not share facilities. I was showering and heard someone come in. This was not strange, but then: a cough, a manly cough (yes, I am aware of how stupid that sounds). There was a man showering in the stall next to me. I could see his feet! I then looked up to make sure the sky hadn't begun to fall and down to avoid any fissures opening into hell. The world was not coming to an end, but what a strange sensation it was. It shouldn't have been. It shouldn't have been anything at all noteworthy, but for about one minute, I felt a bit out of place; panicking that I had gone into the wrong shower room, ect. One of the many cultural differences between Scandinavia and the US.

Since I arrived last May, there have been very few things I miss about the States. Actually, I am doing okay without everything, everything except Mexican food. You cannot find decent Mexican food here, at all. I am fine without bleach in my laundry detergent (I'm a bit of a germ freak), I can do without my car (although I do miss 'White Lightning' [a 1993 Pontiac Grand Am!), I don't need access to the grocery store 24/7, nor do I desperatley need a television or radio (I've got Wi-Fi in my room). But I do miss authentic tortilla chips, arroz con pollo and flan (well, the French have flan, but it's just not the same).

Now, there are a few Mexican establishments that I patronize at home, and I am not really a fan of any of the chains (although props to Chevy's mango salsa and steak quesedillas [I have no idea how to spell that). But, I would settle for greasy, reheated tacos from Taco Bell at this point, I have been to a couple Mexican food restaurants in Paris (no, not TEX-MEX), restaurants off the beaten-- filled with locals, who claim to be authentic, but in reality are just overpriced and disappointing.

Mexico has a house down the street with the same concept as mine. I wonder if I can get someone to make me a meal-- maybe if I promise them hard, manual labor for less-than-ethical-standard wages, ignore them and/or make jokes about how dirty they are-- then, we'll both feel at home (oh, wait, I guess that would only work for the Mexicans from the U.S. Nevermind).

And speaking of famous South American revolutionaries:

Every tourist stand, kiosk and boutique in this town is selling Che Guevera merchadise. Normally, the famous T-shirt we've all seen, but with "Paris" scrawled across it, or some idiotic tag line on it. Why? Anyone? Did he spend some time in France? Does he have some kind of cultural significance unique to France? Paris? Or, are these venders simply capitalizing on his now, very recognizable face? They do, afterall, sell 'Paris' thong underwear, novelty Penis cigarette lighters (everyone is getting one as a souvenir), and anything else you could never want.

So, in looking for an IKEA picture for this post, I ran across the following photos. Kinda funny.

Also, I am pretty sure this is photo shop, but so funny.

(In the best Stewie voice I can muster)
"Yes, yes, that's very original. Taking a photo and changing it to look like someone else as a joke. Oh, yes. That's very clever. Ha. Ha."

Okay, I miss "The Family Guy," too.

Louis was never content to 'keep up' with the Jones. He insisted on royally showing them up, then having them guillotined.

2005-07-22T23:04:00.000+02:00

I spent the afternoon at Versailles, that is to say, the Chateau Versailles. I was only in town to briefly walking to and from the train station. It seems like a beautiful, quiet little place that I would've liked to spent more time in, but I got started late and spent the day walking...and walking...and walking around the Chateau.

D'abord: If you plan on making this day-trip from Paris, get the Versailles Passport which is avaiable at any SNCF Ile-de-France boutique (or really at any ticket counter on the RER C line). It cost me 21 euros and included round-trip train passage, priority entry into all of the Chateau self-guided tours with free audio guides. It also included priority entry to the Queen's Hamlet, The Grand Trianon Palace, The Petit Trianon Palace, the fountain show (which, sadly, was not running today), and the gardens. The pass more than paid for itself, I can't imagine seeing this sight any other way-- it was well worth the time it took to seek a SNCF boutique that sold them (I had to trek all over the city b/c most of the stations on Line C are closed for construction from now until August!).

Ensuite: I went through the Chateau first, and it was nice. A giant, guilded castle where lots of famous people lived and lots of famous stuff happened. Cool. I like history. There weren't so many people that I couldn't enjoy the different tours. The one place I wanted to see-- the Opera House-- was closed for some reason and the Hall of Mirrors (open but under restoration) was not as magnificent as I was lead to believe. I was much more impressed with Fountainebleu, which is another of France's royal palaces just outside of Paris.

Puis, I traipsed through the garden just to the head of the grand canal. Now, at first glance, one really only sees the edge of the stone balcony that leads out into the open grounds (not at all impressive). But at my left, I saw a group of people standing/gawking at something just on the other side of the balcony rail. I went to join them and saw a beautiful topiary garden, behind which was a man-made lake. Very ornate, very Louis XIV.

But, surely, I thought to myself, this isn't it. I had done my research and I knew all about the Grand Canal which had a fleet of over 30 boats, there were famous fountains, a botanical garden-- but where were they?
A few steps later, I got a look at what the hype was about. From where I stood to the horizon, well kept gardens stretched into a long river (canal really doesn't do it justice), forests, labyrinth-like hedges, and it just went on and on and on. A truly awesome sight (it was bigger than the mall in Washington D.C., these gardens are bigger than my entire university campus!) I cannot begin to describe how large they really are. This-- for the first time since I've been here, was impressive, really impressive.

I rented a bike for an hour (5 euro) and took the jaunt around the grand canal. It was so peaceful but energizing and the same time. I haven't been on a bike in a while (and it's never any fun going slow) so I will be in pain tomorrow.

I walked up to the Grand and Petit Trianon Palaces. Not thrilling, just more of the same (you can skip the Petit all together). The Queens Hamlet is even less exciting, but the grounds are very nice; rustic gardens if you will.

And I just loved spending the afternoon walking around, surrounded by green instead of dark, dank, smelly metro or side-stepping dog shit on a too-narrow sidewalk.

As I walked back to catch a train, I noticed it was getting late and that I would never make it back in time to eat dinner at home (I prefer to frequent the very cheap caféteria for dinnertime meals just next to my house), so I stopped at the MacDonald's across the street from the gare. Now, this is not something I am proud of (nor something I particularly enjoyed), and I really regreted it later. I rarely eat fast food at home, and I haven't since I've been here. Ick!

Alas, Versaille took up the last of my cash and I am afraid it is going to be an uneventful week of animations gratuit instead of going on tours, or eating nice meals (Oh, well. My ass can afford to miss a few).

Bah-humbug to love, bah-humbug to Francophilia.

2005-07-22T22:27:00.000+02:00

Yesterday, I planned to go to Versailles. As I am sure, everyone already knows, it is the famous, opulent home of Louis XIV (the sun king). He modeled it after Vaux-le-Vicomte and spent twenty years making sure it was better and bigger in every way. I have never been and as much as I wanted to go, not really looking to going by myself. I had had the opportunity to go with a group of kids from school (but at the time I had had my fill of over-priviledge Americans intent on eating at a MacDonald's in every European city they go to [sadly, I'm not joking), but opted to hit the Musée D'Orsay and the Musée Rodin that day instead.

Well, today, for reasons beyond my comprehension I was not able to make it out to the Chateau today (hopefully tomorrow-- knock on marble, as the french say [according to them, it's much more clever b/c marble is harder than wood...whatever.).

So, I picnic'd in the Luxembourg Garden--so beautiful-- and started HP #5 in french. Shakespeare and Co. still hasn't received the US Scholastic edition! It was a lovely afternoon and I got an odd-shaped sun burn on my left arm and right leg (don't ask).

I feel the need, at this point, to offer a bit of a disclaimer. I am not a francophile. Unlike most of my peers (among those in the States and those abroad in France), I am not a lover of all things French. I do not swoon at the accent, watch old films set in Paris with hopes of someday buying a trenchcoat and a thick pair of heels to tour the city in. I am not passionate about the culture or the people. So many friends and family members continued to remind me (before I left) that I was single-- but not to worry b/c I was going to get over here and meet a hot, greasy frenchman.

Well, whooo-fucking-hooo! Finally, a reason to study abroad. And here I was content to simply learn the language during my time here. What the hell was I thinking.

You see, there are so many girls, women-- even men, who see this city/culture/country as this magical place where-- if only they could get there, it really would be just like the movies. Pretentious Americans who hide behind their knowledge of wines and wine culture, fashion, cuisine, ect. have renounced the barbarism that is the North American lifestyle because they feel it's somehow much better here. It is not that these things do not interest me or are beyond my comprehension. Not at all, in fact I rather enjoy all of the aforementioned nuances of French life. However, I do not derive any sort of power from my knowledge of them nor do I feel somehow more accultured or refined by it. And I am not passionate about them-- or anything else French for that matter.

I chose to study French by default. It's a long story that starts with me as an agri-business major (hoping to one day become a resource lobbyist "friend to both the environment and the farmer") and ends with me simply wanting to graduate before I turn 30 with some kind of degree. Well, here I am. I have been given-- you know what, scratch that, I have worked my ass off to get here. It's a great opportunity (and thank you to those who've helped out along the way), but I am not here to change my life (perspective, maybe learn some lessons? Yes), or to find a mate. This was not ever my hope, and remains far from it. I am content to be single at present. It's true, there are times when taking care of business would be much more fun with someone else, and touring the continent would feel a little less far away from home if I had a companion, but when did I suddenly become surrounded by cretins who believe a woman's worth begins and ends with her spouse (and the number of children they produce). Is it so scandalous, I ask you, that at 24 I am single (and by this, I mean both unmarried and--scandal!: unattached) and not looking to become involved with someone?
From time to time, I am reprimanded by my father for not being feminine enough (read: whore-ish [my dad's idea of beauty is very different from my own). He wonders if I am gay (he doesn't share with me stories about his personal life and I refuse to offer up ones about mine just to appease his homophobia and ancient concepts of femininity). Who knows, maybe someday, I will bend to a different standard. But, until then, I. AM. NOT. LOOKING. STOP. PESTERING. ME. ABOUT. IT.*

And that takes care of the ranting portion of today's post.

Elsewhere on Serena Abroad.com today, I added a couple links to other blogs. Be sure to stop by "Disgusting Girl I Work With." I spent three solid hours crying and peeing and falling off my chair. Madman is hysterical and offered some much needed comic relief after a particularly disappointing phone call home.

*If you are a family member or friend who is lucky to receive one of those very expensive phone call-thingys from me after not hearing from me in weeks (or possibly months), don't-- I repeat-- do not let the first words out of your mouth be: "So, are you seeing anyone?" or "Have you met any cute guys?"