VCU Office of International Education

Sometimes days pass by in minutes. I woke up one morning to the sounds of American music on a French radio station when I realized that, in a week, I would sitting at home, too wilted to unpack my bags, but full of rib-breaking stories for my family. Over a week since that point, I am home, satisfied with all the warmth of familiarity but hankering for the many elements of French culture I admired and even envied while studying abroad. And I'm not just talking about Nutella and cheap movie theaters, either. I'm talking about France's heightened sense of ecology and environmentalism, their emphasis on interpersonal relationships, their great taste in food, their rich tradition in art and architecture, their percipacity for fashion, and--God, if I continue, I'll end up penning a whole other essay instead of focusing upon my final week in the country. Let me wrap up in saying that sometimes you have to experience something firsthand to become fully infatuated with it. Otherwise, I have no other way of understanding stamp collecting. 

The last week of class was both a relief and a heartbreak. My Sup de Co teacher obviously did not want to see us leave, which surprised none of us. She lived for us. Everyday she would come in early (I generally arrived about fifteen minutes before class, but it was clear that she had started working far before then) and never failed to have a full day planned for us. I've had my share of teachers who simply taught during a transition period in their lives until they began graduate school or a more prestigious job. I've had teachers who popped in videos at every opportunity, could hardly ever answer student questions with a satisfying response, and did everything in their power to look disengaged. On the opposite side of the spectrum have been teachers like the one I had at Sup de Co: totally dedicated, passionate about their subject, eager to awaken their students' curiosity about said subject, etc. They don't just, as my Sup de Co teacher jested, "Show a film and give the class bon-bons." I was and remain grateful that my Sup de Co teacher was enthusiastic and knowledgeable. The pedagogy graduate student in our class had minimal critiques, and, while I understand what she meant about improving upon certain teaching practices, I still feel like I learned as much as I possibly could have in a month without locking myself up in a room full of books. She printed out all kinds of papers, copied magazines and newspapers, filled the whiteboard with vocabulary, and constantly prodded for our opinions to force us to open our mouthes. Occasionally the class conversations got uncomfortable, such as when she asked about our views on love and marriage, and taunted one girl for not ever wanting to marry and have children. Apparently this automatically meant she was promiscuous. But, maybe that IS what not wanting a husband and children means in France.

Even if it was the last week of classes, it hardly felt like it. Our teacher continued her "sweat and tears" approach and spiced up every lesson with her unique blend of French liberal sarcasm. The moment I walked into the classroom, fifteen minutes early, the teacher looked up and commented upon my hair. (There is no higher fashion flattery than to have a stylish French woman compliment you.) She called the color "eggplant" and, while I agreed with her, I said that the dye box described it as "red chocolate." Then she joked about how hair dye boxes are always labeled one way but always turn out otherworldly. We chatted a bit, but I mostly left her to her work and drew as other students trickled into the classroom. Once everyone had arrived, the teacher perked up from her desk and launched into "tour de table," where everyone shares one notable experience/observation they've had/made within the last twenty-four hours. We always feared what one girl in particular had to say for this part of class; the first time, she had learned that her husband's grandfather cut his hand off in a farm accident the night before; the second time, she had cut her own finger; and the third time she told a horror story of going on a rowing trip with her host mother and the host mother's boyfriend, only to hear them argue the entire trip. She also ended up doing all of the rowing. 

That same girl and I were partners for the class marketplace field trip. She and I were stuck with the stench of fish--which our teacher swore didn't smell. Either French people are oblivious to the stink of most fish or lack olfactory senses altogether. My classmate and I had the embarrassing task of interviewing fish/seafood vendors and clients and recording the exchanges. We also had to observe what specifically the vendors sold and what the clients bought. In an ideal world, such an activity would be fun and educational, but the world is not a bowl of "cherises" even in France. We had a particularly hard time with one customer who refused to give us straight answers. All we wanted to know was what she planned to buy ("pas de thon") and how she planned to prepare it, but she made it seem like we'd have to torture her first before she revealed that information. She could have declined to participate in the first place and gone on her merry fish-buying way, but she didn't. Even our Sup de Co teacher admitted that the French are very individually minded; I hope this woman was an exception rather than a rule. I know for sure that at least a handful of nice French people exist.

The most notable academic happening of the week came when I had to knock my knees together for twenty to twenty-five minutes talking to the class about French cinema. I babbled on and on and on because I knew the whole point of the project was to practice oral communication. I could've talked about anything (the list of options ranged from rather conversational to more academic). I mentioned notable French actors (Josiane Balasko, Daniel Auteuil, Gerard Depardieu, etc.) and films ("Les Enfants de Paradis," "A Bout de Souffle," "Jean de Florette," etc.) in addition to spewing out relevant vocabulary and facts about French film history, directors, and French movie-going habits. Though my presentation was not as entertaining as it could have been, I definitely maximized my time and crammed in as much information as possible. I chugged along, even as my classmates drooled and nearly fell asleep.

We also took a rapid-fire final exam based upon the special topic presentations we the students had given over the past three weeks. Questions ranged from the French education system to the French word for "credits" and "casting" to French writers. Put otherwise, information we could have easily looked up (evidently I'm not a big advocate of tests and quizzes that only require you to memorize data rather than analyze them). I couldn't remember the name of the region where Paris is located. So, thinking that the Paris Region was too obvious, I wrote Lutecia to be a smart-ass. That was the city's name back during the era of the Roman Empire, when France was still Gaul. I drew a smiley-face to prove that I was kidding. Certainly such a move would have annoyed the uptight French teacher I had my last two years of high school, but I think it made my Sup de Co teacher smirk as she sat at home grading papers. If it didn't, at least I smirked. 

We ended our official curriculum at Sup de Co by watching "Astérix et Obélix: Mission Cleopatra," a comedy based upon a popular comic book series. If you need a film that pokes fun at Gaul, ancient Rome, and ancient Egypt all at once, this is possibly your only viewing option. A couple of the French jokes don't translate into English, but I was surprised by how many of the French jokes required an understanding of English language and American pop culture. Apparently the average French person gets a kick out of hippies and the concept of "love and peace." It could be that they get a kick out of anything American/British/Anglophone, though.

Before we left Sup de Co for good, the teacher handed out our certificates of achievement. The certificates confirmed that we had passed a course at the school and that we had reached a certain level of control with the French language according to European standards. Our class had achieved B1, which means high intermediate or advanced low. At least that's proof that I can say more than, "Where's the Holiday Inn, garçon?" After presenting our certificates, the teacher insisted on taking several class photos with all of our cameras. Thanks to one of my classmate's suggestions, my dear Lenore made it into the shot. I nestled her in the teacher's cupped hands, to which she said, "Is this some kind of symbolism?" I looked at her, befuddled. "Calling the teacher a dragon!" I smiled and said no. If anyone's a dragon, it's Sarkozy. 

My last week was not without its shopping escapades, though I was mostly finished throwing my cash to the French wind. My escapades included seizing a pair of nude Texto sandals with a flesh-colored ring around the big toe and punky studs. The splurge I had intended for a coat or dress went toward a big book purchase instead. The name of the bookstore was, literally translated, Arts and Distractions. That in and of itself was enough to lure me in, despite the fact that one classmate told me it was nothing special. On the contrary, it was very special and very French. I'm not sure where else I could purchase an encyclopedia full of detailed pen illustrations of pocket watches' workings. Later on in the week, I also checked out a mystical bookstore. I was tempted to buy one of the many fairy paintings on display, but, alas, they were too expensive and would have been difficult to transport home, besides. So I settled for a used book on mysterious civilizations. 

Determined to see the majority of the Rochellais museums, I wandered through the Maritime Museum with a classmate the same afternoon of my book shopping spree. Really, the museum was just one fishing boat and a cruise ship docked and open to the public for eight Euros a head. It was disappointing because there were no labels or placards anywhere. All we had was a measly brochure with three paragraphs about each boat. At least I took good pictures of Lenore. I shoved her into sailors' barracks, wedged her into the nooks and crannies separating machinery, and balanced her from heights perilous to a 6'' plastic dragon. 

I also treated myself to the last films of the trip: "Le Herisson" and "Bancs publiques," the latter I saw straight after walking out of the Maritime Museum and persuading my classmate to buy a pocket watch. I much preferred "Le Herisson," though I'm certain that's because I did not get all of the jokes in "Bancs publiques." If I'm watching a French film without subtitles, I generally gravitate toward dramas because comedies involve too many subtle references for me to go all "Hon-hon" at the humor. Though, even if I did get all the humor, I doubt I'd laugh the deep belly laugh of a French uncle.

On Monday, still antsy about how I would spend the last week, I parked my bike outside of the tourism office and rummaged through all the racks and shelves for suggestions. Most of the flyers blabbered on about activities we had already done or ones that were simply too costly. A few of the activities were located farther out in the Poitou-Charentes region, an hour or two away by car and thus unreachable by city bus and painfully far by bike. I started to get discouraged, that is until I read about a mystery ghost game at the three medieval towers that have made La Rochelle such a popular tourist destination. Three of my classmates and I had already visited the towers during the day, but this game promised theatrical performances, danger, suspense, and--giggle--treasure! I showed the flyer to my VCU professor the next day and rallied other members of our university group to play. My professor then placed an order for the tickets and I picked them up at the tourism office after our group ate at a café (only in France can you eat fresh lamb over rice and lettuce in the middle of the day as if it's nothing special.)

Les Evadés Tower game was worth every one of those eighteen Euros. The actors were some of the most animated I had ever seen and loved interacting with the audience, even if it meant physically touching them and yelling in their faces. All of the actors portrayed some historical character related to La Rochelle. The man who played a prisoner stank...literally. They told us tales and occasionally played games with us so we could solve for secret codes. In the end, we won a history book about La Rochelle, a coupon for a butter cake, biscuits, and candy--not exactly the treasure I imagined, but maybe that's because the little girl in me was crossing my fingers for a gilded pony. The only unpleasant part of the game came when we exited one of the towers and stopped because we saw a woman dressed up in a Scottish highlands costume. Because she had on such a full skirt, we kind of assumed that she was part of the show. After about ten minutes, I felt like we were in the wrong place, since most of the other acts had been brief and were of a much higher caliber. Maybe twenty minutes passed as we listened to her mediocre flute-playing in the freezing winds before someone from the game came out and rushed us along to claim the treasure. Needless to say, we were all annoyed at ourselves.

The next day, we redeemed the coupon we had won during Les Evadés Tower game so we could feast upon our butter cake. Two of the classmates in our group suddenly became tired and headed back home instead of joining in. So the remaining classmate and I meandered to the marina and plunked ourselves down on a filthy curb. I was disappointed with the cake but shoveled a good third of it into my mouth, anyway. We had worked hard to earn it, so I might as well have eaten some. We did not eat the butter cake until two or three hours before stopping by a French hair salon first.

Two of my classmates were positively set on getting their hair done in France. I was more hesitant for several reasons: I had just dyed my hair and didn't want it to endure so much processing so soon; I wasn't too intent on getting it cut because I prize my long hair and trust few people with it; it was expensive; I feared having a French woman relax my hair since not many folks understand curly hair, anyway; I have never gotten anything done at a salon before because I'm staunchly D.I.Y. about almost everything, especially my appearance, and wasn't convinced I wanted to change that philosophy. Why, then, did I even consider getting my hair done in the first place? Because I was in France and part of me wanted the princess treatment. Even more, the whole study abroad experience had such a big impact on my being that I felt like I was beginning a new chapter in my life. In this chapter, I would be more adventurous, more open-minded, and therefore willing to try completely new things, including getting my hair done at a salon instead of taking a pair of craft scissors to my mane. The more practical side of me won, however. I figured dying my hair multiple shades darker and trimming my split ends was big enough of a make-over during my one-month stay in the land of cheese snobs. I was shocked by that kind of audacity alone and was confident my boyfriend, friends, and family would be, as well. (Requisite anecdote: when I saw my boyfriend when I returned, I waited about an hour until I drew attention to my hair. He had recognized that it was darker but thought it was "the French sun." Utterly nonplussed, I asked what that meant and said that, if anything, "The French sun would've bleached it." He shrugged his shoulders in his very innocent way and said, "I don't know about these things." Then I said, "I dyed it." "Artificially?" Obviously my boyfriend knows nothing about hair and make-up. Though, to be fair, he's not accustomed to me making artificial enhancements.)

Even if I left France without getting my French haircut, I knew I couldn't leave France without trying their version of McDonald's. Wait, let me correct that statement. I had scarfed down one simple cheeseburger there as a late afternoon snack once (really, only the cheese differed in that it tasted sharper), but I had yet to buy a full-fledged French McDonald's meal. I scanned the menu, saw that it was mostly the same, but noted a few new names. I went for a "So Grilled." A So Grilled is a grilled chicken sandwich laid out on dusty bread. It contains lettuce, tomato, and one of France's numerous white mystery sauces. I began my order when the cashier cut me off and asked me if I spoke English. Not many Francophones had asked me that question yet, though virtually all of them spat out some English once they discovered I was American. Because of my light olive complexion, I think I confused most of them. This cashier, however, was overly-eager to practice his English, even it meant being slightly rude in interrupting me. Once I answered yes, he said, "Okay, so let's do this in English." He puffed up a bit, visibly prepared for it. I caught on pretty quickly that I had to talk slowly but overall we understood each other. Until he asked, "Big menu or little menu?" A couple seconds later, I said, "Do you mean size? Big size or little size?" He looked at me with a sliver of doubt for a moment, but speedily regained his confidence: "Yes."

On the topic of food, my "last supper" with my host family consisted of chicken, pork, and stewed tomatoes with rice. There were also the requisite cantaloupes (one of the region's specialities, I learned), and way too many cheeses to name. As usual, my host father offered me more and more food and looked mildly offended when I eventually declined. I was afraid my stomach would explode and then fly around the room like a loose balloon. My host mother defended me and gave her husband a stern look like, "Seriously, she's American. You know they can't handle this much food unless it comes from a drive-thru." Dinner wound down and I cajoled my host family into the courtyard for photographs. The sisters, to my regret, were not there, but I needed pictures regardless. I took a couple of photos of the mother, father, and brother standing together and then the father took photos of me standing with the mother and brother. 

The eating was not over, though. My family then took me out for ice cream, where I ordered a sundae called "Thriller." I knew that if I pronounced Thriller in my American English accent, the server probably wouldn't understand me because I had had that experience before pronouncing the names of American actors and cities. So I asked my host mother how to say Thriller with a French accent. Then my host father asked how to say it in American English. He looked utterly lost. My host mother asked me to say it in British English, so I gave a shot at the BBC pronunciation. Their eyes immediately lit up in recognition. For the record, the sundae was fabulous. After eating the sundae, my host family and I parted ways. I met a few classmates beneath the city's big clock and we went bar-hopping. We spent two hours at one bar chatting with insanely drunk French people who complimented our "cute" accents. 

During the ride to the car ride the next morning, my host mother and I discussed a few mundane things, as if we weren't really parting for what would probably be the first and last times in our lives. Somehow the conversation drifted to the subject of homelessness in La Rochelle, which was totally removed from what we would experience in a matter of minutes. When the time came for us to really leave each other, we threw each other a long and tight hug. Then my host mother excused herself, saying she was afraid of crying. She ran off in her billowing sweat pants and baggy sweater, the same garments she had made fun of earlier in the morning. I turned around and chatted with the two classmates sitting on the curb. They commented on how close I seemed to have grown with my host mother, which prompted my monologue. I went on about how wonderful my host family was. It was a bittersweet morning because I was starting to feel the itching of homesickness but still in enamoured of France and the French.

I was lucky enough to hear Mrs. Andrew's voice once more before bidding farewell to La Rochelle. The Sup de Co field trip coordinator, who we called Princess Di, stepped onto the bus and called, "Where's Christine?" I waved. "I just wanted to give you one more taste of my English accent before you left." It was a very British, tongue-in-cheek way of saying good-bye. 

The long bus ride to Chartres consisted of me napping, waking up to find dribble on my cheek, reading, napping some more, waking up and feeling like a million elves pounded on my neck, drawing, napping again, waking up and giggling at how all the other students looked as they slept, napping yet again, and then waking up and feeling cranky for the rest of the ride. 

Sadly, I, like every other student as far as I was aware, was too exhausted and excited about going home to fully appreciate Chartres. In other words, it was poor planning on the responsible professor's part.  I was annoyed that we were visited it in our grumpy state, especially since I had wanted to see Chartres ever since I took Advanced Placement Art History. Of course, it's very spoiled to say that. I still got to see Chartres, after all. Not everybody can honestly claim to have done that. Inside Chartres, my classmates and I immediately noticed a labyrinth carved on the floor. When I asked my professor what it symbolized, she explained that it represented the spiritual path that we all embark upon during our lives. That sounded a tad too New Age, hippy-dippy for the Middle Ages, however. For lunch, three of my classmates and I checked out a place with a rooster for its logo and bright red wallpaper. I ordered a delicious galette "verte" with spinach, ham, egg, olives, and swiss cheese all melted to amazing yumminess. It's never easy to find a real lunch for under nine Euros that isn't a ham sandwich in France, but my group managed to find just that. It was hot, made to order, high-quality, and far more appetizing than the two dozen ham sandwiches we were all tired of.

I didn't get to spend time doing anything tourist-y in Paris; I had to finish packing, decide how to transport the red wine my host family gave me, and chat with the rest of the group before four of us boarded the shuttle with a funny Indian man who spoke French. It took us close to an hour to arrive to the airport, where I stayed with K.C., my flight buddy from before.

K.C. and I sat outside of the airport and watched the sky waver in and out of romantic colors as the sun set. Then I got impatient and whined about when we'd eat next, so she gave in. We pushed our carts toppled with luggage over to one of the few restaurants that wasn't situated in the terminals. For my very last meal in France, at least until my next trip, I tried to eat a "Saveurs de Sud" (Flavors of the South) as daintily as possible. I held the chicken on my tongue for as long as I could get away with. It orange spicy sauce was tantalizing.  Shortly after, K.C. I went to a bar, where I ordered expresso. I am not a coffee drinker and probably don't gulp it down more than four or five times a year, but I wanted to stay awake. I was afraid of sleeping in the airport. Afraid that someone would bother K.C. and me, afraid that someone would steal our luggage. Mostly, I was afraid they would steal my camera and computer; the books I could eventually find at a library and I own far more clothes than anyone should, but my art and writing are irreplaceable. 

I read and napped on the flight from Paris to Geneva. The flight only lasted an hour, so I couldn't possibly stay bored for long. Sipping hot chocolate and tearing into a buttery croissant was enough to keep me content until the next flight. Or so I thought. [Insert melodramatic music here.]

When my father and I searched for my plane tickets a couple of months before my trip, we figured a one hour stop-over would be too short. I've had one hour stop-overs before, but because my planes never run on time, I always end up sprinting to catch my second flight. I often drop a bag in the process, something embarrassing flings into the air, and I blush as I gather my panties/my dirty socks/my package of sanitary napkins. So when my father and I saw a three hour stop-over opportunity, we clicked 'reserve' faster than--well, I'm sure nothing else goes that fast. I would have enough time to comfortably get off of the plane, use the restroom, buy a snack if I so desired, verify that my checked bags had made it onto the next plane, pick up my boarding pass, and then sit down at my terminal without waiting very long. That, dear reader, was only hypothetical. The reality featured much less agreeable pacing and a heck of a lot more stress.

The Geneva airport was a nightmarish maze where nothing was labeled. The only signs read A, B, C, D, and E, but never explained what each letter meant--in English, German, French, Italian, Chinese, Finnish, Tagalog, or any language for that matter. I had to ask four people where to go, but they couldn't tell me. We dragged around our luggage; I literally could not pay for the two Euro cart unless I went to an ATM, which would have only spat out twenties. The optimist in me will pipe up, "At least you girls got your exercise!" Yeah, a fortnight's worth. When K.C. and I actually determined where we had to go, a long line greeted us. I doubt I thought of anything but strangling the airline employee if they told us we were in the wrong line (I was prepared for anything at that point) for the next twenty minutes. At last, it was our turn. The airline employee confirmed that our bags had been transferred and proceeded to interrogating us: Who packed your bags? Did anyone give you anything to hold after you checked in your bags? Are there Afghani terrorists hiding in your bags? To top it all off, the airline didn't even have a seat for me until the very last minute. 

Boarding the plane at last meant I could relax. I immediately unwrapped a blanket and pillow to snuggle up. Then I watched "Duplicity" and "The Ghosts of Girlfriends Past." I read, attempted to speak to the man next to me who apparently only spoke German, and stared out the window. Nine hours later, I was home.

I'm trying to avoid thinking about the fact that I will be sitting at home in one week--my very real and American home, not my dreamy, host home. Shock, not sadness, would more accurately describe my emotions right now. I can't believe that nearly a month has passed already, despite my occasional bouts of homesickness. Yet this has also been one of the fullest months of my life, so it seems like a week and a quarter of a year at the same time. I wish I could stay longer but I acknowledge that it's probably healthier for me not to stay stuck in French fairyland forever. Thankfully I have an interesting and rewarding lifestyle awaiting me, otherwise I'd kick and scream at the airport. Well, I'll probably kick and scream at Charles de Gaulle, anyway, but not because I'm upset about leaving the world of cheese snobs. I'll kick and scream because the employees there are remarkably clueless.

Anyway, I should recount how I spent my final weekend in La Rochelle. I tried to profit--a word the French employ at every opportunity, so they can stop criticizing American capitalism as if they're not guilty of some of the same crimes--from the sunshine and blue skies without becoming a total beach bum. The weekend began five minutes before class generally lets out at 12:30 p.m. We wrapped up a French version of the board game Taboo (one classmate had to get his team to guess the word toilet water during the Pictionary portion) and then wandered off to the main lobby to scarf down lunch. I had packed whatever was lying around my host family's kitchen, from apricots to chocolate mousse, and then bought a sandwich in one of the school vending machines. The option of buying a pre-wrapped sandwich from a machine known for selling candy and soda surprised me, but I figured I might as well try it. The bread, a rich wheat, was delicious. Unfortunately, the rest of the sandwich, was not. It contained chicken, way too much mayo (again, the French can stop criticize America for O.D.ing on condiments), and crudités. Crudités are raw vegetables, but you have to be careful anytime you see the word "raw" in this country. You'd be surprised by what this country doesn't cook. They did, after all, serve as raw hamburger meat in the university cafeteria one day like it was sanitary and even appetizing. I politely insisted that they cook it. Mad Cow Disease doesn't sound like a fun malady.

Once we finished our lunches, we boarded the charter bus headed for Cognac. The ride was over an hour, so I grabbed my own row, as most of the students did, and curled up with a book. When I decided to rest my eyes, I videotaped scenes from the countryside. Let it be known that France grows many, many sunflowers. Van Gogh wasn't hallucinating. Or if he was, at least he imagined very realistic scenery.

Finally we arrived in the City of Cognac, right outside of the Hennessy headquarters. A few of my classmates and I explored the figmental town for about thirty minutes before our scheduled tour of the distillery. For a non-drinker, visiting land famous for producing liqueur definitely has the potential to be boring. I, on the other hand, considered my visit to Hennessy nothing short of a success. I got to go on a boat, literally just to cross a canal barely wider than the C&O. My whole class laughed because when the tour guide instructed us to get on the boat, we assumed we'd go down the canal, not across it. Non. Our ride lasted five minutes, including the time it took to dock the boat.

We got out and followed our tour guide. She was about 5'6'', brunette, and young, probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore a chocolate-colored suit from head to toe and spoke English with a very heavy accent that was not entirely French. I'm convinced that French was her early second language and English was her very late third, but I couldn't determine what her native one was. Normally our school requests all-French tours for us, but somehow we got mixed up with a bunch of British tourists, so the tour couldn't be conducted in Frog. The British can make fun of Americans for not knowing foreign languages, but it doesn't seem like many of them can utter words outside of the realm of "bullocks" and "sprocket," either. Only two English people I have met on this trip have been able to adequately express themselves in another language. Otherwise, they know French the way many Americans know Spanish: "Yo quiero Taco Bell" and "Living the Vida Loca."

The Hennessy distillery was full of bulbous machines and big barrels and baskets containing alcohol from the 1800s. Black fungus, which the tour guide called angels, also covered the interior and exterior walls of most of the buildings. The fungus eats most of the alcohol that evaporates during the fermentation process. Once the tour guide finished explaining how they manufactured their cognac--using the finest ingredients, of course!--we headed over to the bar and shop. I tried cognac for the first time and nearly choked. A classmate captured its essence when she said it tasted the way rubbing alcohol smells. I gave the rest of my sample to someone who actually liked it.

I saw not one but two cognac producing companies, including an independently-owned family business. Hennesey's plant was grander and their store featured crystal bottles, but the family business won my approval because it radiated to much more charm. The estate was only six hectares big and featured a four-hundred year old family home made of stone. The tour guide was a tiny French grandma who bought the vineyard with her husband back around World War II, but apparently the land has been used for cognac and pinot production for the past couple hundred years. I tried pinot for the first time and, while it was not as strong as the cognac, I did not love it. I could only tolerate it. It smelled lovely, though. The highlight of that tasting portion came when a classmate bought nearly three-hundred Euros worth of cognac. Her father's a huge fan. The school representative who has organized the excursion--a British lady who looks like Princess Di--kept laughing at the purchase. She asked over and over again how the girl intended to bring that all back to America, to which the girl responded she had brought an entire extra suitcase just to bring back gifts from the trip. Apparently when the girl went to her host mother's later that evening, the city bus driver honked at her and made a drinking motion when she got off. It's ironic because she's such a responsible drinker, but she looked like an alcoholic carrying all of those bottles.

The rest of the evening was supposed to involve me eating one of the pre-packed dinners my host mother had made with the aforementioned cognac-stocker-upper girl, watching a movie at Vieux Port, and walking around town/clubbing. Yet some plans remain nothing more than plans. 

My host family was out for the weekend because the mother's sister was going married, which meant I was all alone. I invited my classmate over for dinner because my host mother had left me with far more food than I could possibly eat alone and, besides, I wanted company in the big, old house. I sort of live in the boonies, so the bus to my neighborhood does not run especially often. By that hour Friday night (8 o'clock or so), it had stopped running altogether, so my classmate and I walked all the way from the bus station to my host family's house. We chatted about the Cognac excursion, how the study abroad trip was going altogether, and how eager we were about our plans for that evening. When we finally reached my host family's house, I unlocked the gate, wove through all the clutter in the courtyard, and straight to the house door. It was locked. I wiggled the handle again, just in case it was stuck. Ha, no, it was completely locked, when my host family always leaves the door unlocked. The previous night, they had said they would either leave the door unlocked (like usual) or put a key out for me. They didn't leave a key out for me the next morning, so I assumed that the door would be unlocked like always. I wake up earlier than anyone, so there was nobody to ask before I left for school on Friday morning. I wasn't worried about it, however. I hadn't had a key up until that point during my stay, anyway.

I cracked. Everything I needed was in the house. I had packed an especially light purse that day because I didn't want to drag around my life on the Cognac field trip. My classmate stood there helplessly as I desperately tried the other doors and searched around the courtyard for a key. Pas de chance. She did her best to calm me down, but I was so nervous about not being able to get to my belongings until Monday. I rushed over to my host family's tenant who rents a room separate from the rest of the house. I was thrilled to discover that he spoke Spanish because I was so upset that my French had nearly escaped me by that point. I explained the situation to him, but he didn't have the family's cell phone number or an extra key. He guided me to a neighbor across the street, so I had to switch back to French. Those neighbors barely knew my family, but pointed to the house next door. I knocked on the neighbor's gate because they had no doorbell. Nobody answered. I raced over to the photographer who lived in front of my family because the host mother had referred to him as a close friend. He answered the door but was of no help, either. By this point, I was practically hyperventilating. That's when I rushed back to the courtyard, where my classmate and the tenant stood. The tenant pointed to a window. It was my bedroom window, but I hadn't even thought of trying it because I knew I had locked the shutters that morning. The optimist in me won over, though.

I seized a chair and stepped on it. Then I began fiddling with the shutter lock. This involved me bending my arm and folding my hand in very uncomfortable positions. Somehow I wiggled my little hand in there and, though I nearly cut myself in the process, unlatched the shutters. Thank Buddha I had not locked the window. I crawled in and immediately sprinted to unlock the front door. I thanked the tenant and my classmate came inside. I still did not have a key, but at least I was safe, inside, and close to my valuables. My classmate tried to get me to breathe. I searched for our VCU professor's phone number and she called her while I searched for keys. I crossed my fingers that there were spare ones somewhere in the house because I was afraid of leaving the house unlocked the whole weekend. It's the Washingtonian in me to think someone is going to creep into my house in the middle of the night. Besides, I was responsible for the house while my host family was away. Call me paranoid, but if anybody unwelcome came in, I would be in huge trouble. My classmate pointed out some keys hanging near the family computer, keys nobody in the family had told me were there. Most of them appeared to be car keys but I grabbed the ones that weren't. I asked her to lock the front door so I could test out the keys while she continued talking to our professor. Eventually I found the right one. The professor was very understanding and apologized. She said if I had been truly locked out for the weekend, I would have of course been allowed to stay with her. She also coached me in what to say when my family returned. She told me a story of a French woman staying in a British or American's home. The woman knocked a vase off a table and then blamed it on the hostess, saying that the vase was in the way and that it was probably broken to begin with. Denial is very French. My professor then ordered me to have a nice evening. She told me to take a taxi with my classmate and go have a nice dinner; she would re-imburse me for the cost.

God, I should get locked out more often.

I called a taxi. The receptionist said the car would arrive in five to ten minutes, but this is France. Half an hour later, my classmate and I got into the taxi and asked to go to Vieux Port. When we interrogated the driver about good restaurants in the area, he mentioned one called L'Annexe and offered to drop us off there. The answer was, 'Yes, please, because we are starving.'

My classmate and I sat ourselves down, to the chagrin of one of the waitresses. She was wearing that mildly perturbed face I've seen many French servers wear. She gave us menus and my classmate and I spent the next several minutes choosing the components of our formule, which included an appetizer, an entry, and a dessert. I went for something with chorizo, honey duck, and brioche with chocolate ice cream. My classmate chose cream of asparagus soup, veal head, and chocolate lava cake. I am, of course, giving you the short English names for everything. The actual French names were long and very descriptive. The French don't have brevity in mind when they write menus...or anything. 

Whatever my appetizer was, it wasn't Spanish sausage like I requested. It was some kind of mollusk with diced tomatoes. I didn't care because I was so hungry and ate it anyway. My classmate won in that arena, however. Her appetizer was great. I kept dunking bread into it (Note: I've noticed the French like eating hard, almost stale bread.) I won for the entree, though. My duck included mashed potatoes and baked apples with a thick honey sauce. Dark green salad with vinegrette came on the side. My classmate's veal head was, as she said, "mooshy." Dessert was fantastic, too, but I think my classmate won in that department. Hers was ultra-chocolatey. Mine was more buttery. The only unpleasant part of the evening came when I pulled the tiny table next to us up to ours. Our table was so small that we couldn't fit all of our plates on it. I figured it was late, nobody was going to sit there, and that the staff wouldn't mind. Wrong. They did mind. A waiter said, "Non, non, non" very quickly and pulled the table back to his  place. Uh-oh. Faux pas on my part. I probably annoyed him further that evening when I made prolonged eye contact with him when I wanted the check. You can't wave or smile at French waiters when you need something. I'm pretty sure it's a law. So the man probably thought I staring at him.

By the time my classmate and I were done with dinner, it was far too late to watch a movie, but we walked over to the Grosse Horlage, a giant clock, where we had agreed to meet other classmates to go strolling/bar-hopping/clubbing. Only one was there, despite the fact that we were ten minutes late. The classmate who I ate dinner with went home almost right after because she was so exhausted. That left me alone with the other classmate, who wondered why we hadn't come to the movie.

He and I spent the next three and a half hours trolling La Rochelle. He bought very bad beer at a convenience store and then we laughed at all of the empty discotheques (apparently the clubs don't get started until 4 or 5 a.m.!). Everywhere we went, the dance floors were either empty or full of weird lounge lizard types. The only place that was happening took us forever to find, charged a cover, and was so packed that there was a huge line to get in. I wasn't in the mood for paying to unintentionally grind against sweaty Spanish tourists. The highlight of the evening came when he and I raided a garbage pile and I found a bunch of old homework and gay porn. It was hilarious to read through some French high school kid's English homework ("I like dolphins.") and go through naughty French photos of over-eager men starring in pun-filled DVDs. When I went home, I watched a French cartoon called "Naftaline la fete."

Saturday was the highlight of the weekend. My VCU professor took my group on a boat ride to Ile d'Aix. We saw Fort Boyard, the location of a very popular French reality TV show, on the way. All throughout the ride, we saw puffy clouds, sailboats, and long stretches of blue-green sea. The island was postcard perfect, with quaint houses, a combination of sandy and rocky beaches brimming with tidal pools, woodsy paths, and cute shops and cafes. My group enjoyed a long, French picnic of cherries, peaches, cheese, cookies, baguette, cheese, turkey, salad, and who knows what else. I ate far more than my body's designed to eat, but it was lovely to discuss race in American and French contexts, and comparing American and French school systems. Then we went for a walk that ended in a rocky beach before we split up. I wandered a little before running into my professor and another classmate. The three of us went to a cafe and discussed everything from bargaining in French stores to French mothers' sexualization of their sons. We were there maybe an hour, with me sipping my apricot juice, my classmate drinking lemonade (citronade!), and my professor stirring her ice coffee. Then we hit gift shops. My professor and I bought similar wooden watches. Mine was brown with African motifs. 

When we returned to La Rochelle, one of my classmates and I checked out a precious boutique full of fantasy sundresses and tunics that were all far out of our price league. The style was definitely mine, though. Then we went to a much more affordable shop a couple of storefronts down. While their summer clothes were on sale, I was eyeing their fall collection. It was full of purple, black, and gray, which I all wear very often. As tantalizing as the Victorian and 1980s details were, I resisted. Maybe I'll go back my last day and splurge. After lusting after beautiful clothes, I left my classmate for Monoprix. I took a while comparing all the different French hair dyes before I found one I thought was safe. I had never died my hair before (only used sun-reactive highlighting spray), so I was a bit nervous, but I wanted to come home with a new look. I was lucky to find a color I liked with easy-to-understand instructions. Afterwards, I went home and relaxed.

Two classmates and I met up later that evening to go clubbing, but we just couldn't stay out that late. I was so tired from my long and fabulous weekend that I was in even less of a mood to dance with Spanish tourists. I went home and watched "Les Choristes" for the first time. It was around 3 a.m. or so by the time I collapsed in bed.

Sunday was much mellower. I stayed home, dyed my hair with the coloring I bought at Monoprix after the boat ride, and met up with classmates for lunch and a movie. We saw "Une Semaine Sur Deux," which is about two kids whose parents get divorced and try to find new love at the same time the daughter begins to date. Then I worked on my presentation on the nation's cinema while noshing on a French TV dinner. It's strange how quickly La Rochelle is beginning to feel like a second home. 

he little girl in me needed no other persuasion when I heard that my university group was scheduled to visit palaces and medieval castles relatively close to La Rochelle. Considering that I have wanted to be a princess since I knew what a princess was (minus the beheading peasants part), I was very excited to see Amboise, Chenonceau, and Clos Lucé (the last place Leonardo da Vinci lived) with students from VCU, U. Minnesota-Mankato, and the University of Richmond. The fact that I had to board a bus at 7 a.m. was completely worth it, though under any other circumstances I definitely would have grumbled. Okay, that makes it sound like I didn't whine at all. I did complain about how painfully early the charter bus left that gray Saturday morning (especially since I had spent the previous day at La Braderie, La Rochelle's annual summer sale, and bar-hopping until an hour I won't mention), but I didn't whine as much as I would have had we been scheduled to, say, visit a candle factory. Somehow candles don't compare to the mind-boggling decadence of iron-work windows large enough for elephants to walk through without scraping themselves. The sheer wealth of all the royalty and aristocrats who passed through those manors is at once wondrous and disgusting. Instead of helping to feed the surrounding peasants, they shelled out their gold coins for things like pheasant roasts and mirkins.

Needless to say, I took photos of my favorite 6'' plastic dragon in these beautiful historical locations. She would have resented me if I had not. Besides, I couldn't have created more realistic scenery for Lenore myself if I had raided A.C. Moore and the Museum of London. The stone, the velvet, the oil paintings, the views from towers and terraces--everything was incredible with that perfect old-timey aesthetic. My favorite site was Amboise, though, because it was the oldest and most Gothic. Everything looked dangerously pointy, thanks to exquisite curly-cues and, well, points. I was not surprised to hear the tour guide say that Charles II supposedly died by knocking his head against one of the stone doorways and suffering from internal bleeding. Amboise's rooms were spacious and the period furniture allowed me to visualize myself in a time before forks had been invented. As I walked through the castle, I felt the spirits of a hundred dead men call to me, breathe on me, and feel as real as if they had been standing right next to me, digging their impatient elbows into my ribs like modern Frenchmen in line at La Rochelle's Dragon Cinema. Furthermore, I couldn't resist all of the stonework animals in the estate's St. Hubert chapel, ranging from monkeys to goats to frogs to serpents. It was a Middle Ages version of "Littlest Pet Shop."

My time since celebrating Bastille Day has consisted of more than castle visits, however. I know I could easily spend a whole month in France during nothing but touring castles, but that would not be the most well-rounded view of the country. I have to escape fairyland sometimes. 

As usual, I have class everyday from 8:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m., where I learn about everything from French scatology ("crottin" is just one of many words reserved specifically for animal dung) to translating American satire about French culture. I have also discovered that dental floss is always placed by condoms in the few French stores that actually carry dental floss and that the French sometimes hold pancake or flu parties. At pancake, or crêpe, parties, the host puts a hot plate on the table and allows each guest to pour his portion of batter onto the plate. Everybody then watches their pancake cook. Apparently it's very riveting, assuming you're five-years old or you've already had a lot of wine. Flu parties are organized to help the French build immunity against the disease. Someone with the flu invites his friends, family, neighbors, co-workers, and perhaps random hobos on the street (in the spirit of "convivalité") to get everyone they know sick. It sounds like a wonderful, cheese-and-fruit filled way to start an epidemic, rather than a science-based solution for minimizing people's reaction to the flu bug in the fall. Of course, maybe I don't understand because I'm American.

With my university group, I have also seen a WWII Nazi bunker, built when the Germans occupied France. The bunker is located in a La Rochellais hotel but it not the least bit advertised. The owner is rather secretive about it, I suppose because he wants to preserve the space and artifacts as well as possible. Thankfully my school has a good relationship with him and he was happy to open up his Nazi cave for us. Plenty of WWII paraphernalia from all over La Rochelle layered the walls and tables. Imagine scores of maps, jackets, helmets, guns, letters, submarine parts, and photographs everywhere. My favorite artifact was a garishly false Nazi propaganda poster that showed a map of France with cities full of flames to indicate where Anglo-American forces had supposedly attacked. Uh-huh. Nice try. Funny that all of those cities should appear in the Western part of the country, the part the Germans occupied. (Correlation? Um...) 

Anyway, following the bunker came a trip to La Rochelle's Natural History Museum. To put it bluntly, it was a building full of dead things. Considering how morbid I can be, that fact delighted me. I basically wanted to take home every glass globe of stuffed songbirds, even if they were far beyond the point of being able to sing. I wasn't bothered by the dead animals themselves; many of them were gorgeous. I was bothered by how the tortoises and gazelles and owls had to sacrifice their lives for human's vain obsession with science. The museum wasn't in any way remarkable; it was like any other natural history museum I'd ever seen, except much, much, much smaller and with virtually no multi-media. (Then again, I grew up fewer than nine miles from the Smithsonian Institution's Natural History Museum, so it's hard to impress me.) At least now I can say I have seen a French science museum, where the specimens were beautiful but the collection was not as grand as I wished.

Besides the palaces, the bunker, and the history museum, I've made time for other tourist traps, ahem, sites, as well. I've been to the Musée des Automates, which is full of mechanical dolls from the 1700 through early 1900s. The dolls come in a variety of sizes and forms, but all have one thing in common: they move. They not only move but they move with an eerie stiffness. Nothing about them is realistic because they're way too freaky. Their eyes are glass, their clothes are perfectly tailored (though in some cases moth-eaten), and their skin lacks the softness of true humans. I love them nonetheless. That could just mean that I like scary things but I think the fact that the museum even exists and that it was completely crowded when I went shows that others find them enchanting. It's astounding to realize that these motorized dolls have existed in some shape or form since Ancient Egypt. Apparently Egyptians still had energy left over after erecting pyramids and mummifying pharaohs (ha, wait, slaves did that) to tinker with creepy dolls. I was especially drawn to the Baroque and Victorian dolls, but I generally am. The dolls nearly drowned in their velvet, pearls, silk, lace, and feathers. One scene of motorized dolls depicted two women in a parasol shop, right down to the wallpaper. The shopkeeper bent slightly to hand the customer a parasol. Another one showed a bunch of Baroque boys and girls dressed up for a ball. Right after visiting the Musée des Automates, I went to the Musée des Modèles Réduits, which was full of tiny cars and boats. Needless to say, it did not excite me the same way the motorized the dolls did. My favorite boat was named, "Le Pourquoi Pas," the Why Not?, which I found funny. Names like those just prove that a kingdom CAN have too much money. There were a couple of pretty Chinese junk boats, as well. A classmate and I also walked to "Jardin des Plantes" [Garden of Plants]; apparently the French see a need to specify what a garden entails. It was enjoyable but nothing spectacular. The only point worth mentioning is that whoever designed the garden chose to include both a Greco-Roman style statue and a massive Oceania head. I'm not sure why.

I've watched a few movies since Bastille Day, too. I took my host sister to see the sixth Harry Potter in French. Yes, they do change the names and, yes, it is hilarious to hear the French voices in place of the original British ones. I also saw "Les Beaux Gosses" [The Good-Looking Kids] with a classmate. It's a French comedy about two nerdy fourteen-year olds trying to navigate through all the pains of adolescence as they transition from middle to high school. There's a huge emphasis on, as you would imagine, first kisses and the early stages of dating. It was funny, vulgar, and a smart introduction to current French slang. I've also gone out of my way to watch movies at the Mediatheque. Luckily, I got to see "Sweetie" (1989), an Australian Cannes winner, and "You Only Live Once" (1937).

Obviously I've snuck shopping into the past week. My most notable retail adventure was to Carrefour, the equivalent of a French Wal-Mart or Target. They sell everything a discount department store normally carries in the United States (except sporting goods) with a very expanded food section. I saw everything from octopus packaged like deli meat to chocolate-covered truffles to fresh fish to mussels.They also had several fruit samples; my classmate and I spat out our bites of passion fruit in unison. I ended up buying a dress, two pairs of shoes, and a gift for my host sister because the prices were astonishingly low by European standards. I didn't even visit during La Braderie, when prices are supposed to be jaw-droppingly cheap and it was still inexpensive. 

Afterward Carrefour, the classmate who I'd come with was hungry, so we wandered around the nearby mall a bit. Nothing in the food court seemed nearly as good as what we were accustomed to seeing downtown, where most of the food is prepared fresh daily. At least he spotted a pocket watch brandishing a mini motorcycle. Eventually he and I settled for a bar just outside of the mall. I ordered strawberry juice (it doesn't taste quite as sweet as plain strawberries) and he ordered a beer. I'm not sure if it's because La Rochelle is a tourist city or not, but it seems that so long as a restaurant is open, you can buy alcohol regardless of the time of day. I had praline ice cream, too. Sadly, it was not like the ambrosia I order at Ernest's, the parlor with the most flavors in all of La Rochelle. There I have tried two types of chocolate, including a kind of African dark chocolate and Oriental Chocolate. Oriental Chocolate contains sesame seeds, honey, and maybe a touch of ginger. I'm not sure it exists anywhere else.

I'm also happy to announce that my host mother's birthday took place this week. It was fun to serenade her from my host sister's bedroom window. She was doing laundry in the courtyard when my host sister nudged me to croon. We burst out in a round of "Joyeux anniversaire." Then I attempted to help my host sister choose her outfit for that evening's dinner, but it is never easy to placate an eleven-year old, French or otherwise. I tried crayfish and sea snails for the first time at a quaint restaurant located in the countryside, where the host family too me to celebrate the mother's 46th. (Yes, the crayfish looked like big bugs and, no, they did not taste gross, but it is hard to remove all of their legs). Apparently, it's my host mother's favorite restaurant, even though she repeatedly described it as simple. It wasn't by any means fancy, but the food was top-notch. For dessert, I even tried black currant ice cream, which was quite possibly the best fruit ice cream I have ever tasted in my life. The rustic touches added to the restaurant's charm. Instead of setting a water pitcher on the table, they gave us a glass wine bottle (full of water, not wine). They also put rocks marked "Reserved" on our table to prevent anyone else from sitting there. I couldn't exactly complain about having a clear view of the Atlantic Ocean, either.

 

I should also mention that during this past week, I've had the opportunity to meet a few other people my age, all European. To get an idea of how the rest of the world views America, let me briefly list a small number of the questions and statements European teenagers and young adults have muttered to me recently: "Is it true that over 80% of all maps in America are of the United States and no other country?"; "Is it true that it's illegal to be gay in America?"; "Is it true that they don't eat fruits and vegetables in America?"; "Do most kids wait until they're 21 to start drinking in America?"; "Is it true that in America you don't have [row] houses?"; "Young Americans are so much politer than British kids."; "America is so religious."; "Americans eat McDonald's all the time"; "Americans don't know much about other countries and only like to study their history and culture"; "Americans are big." I'm only going to comment upon those words in saying that they are offensive, but I realize that Americans harbor plenty of stereotypes about the French. According to most Americans, the French only shower about once a week (Fact: They shower once a day, but take shorter, more economical showers than most Americans because hot water is expensive.); they don't wear deodorant (Fact: Many Frenchies do wear deodorant, but they aren't as obsessive as Americans are about re-applying it throughout the day. Some of them simply use perfume instead of deodorant but I haven't died from smelling anyone's stench yet.); they drink all the time (Fact: the French do drink more frequently than Americans traditionally do because they have so many wines for so many gastronomical purposes, but most do not drink very much per sitting because getting drunk is perceived as rather pitiful.); and Frenchies are skinny (Fact: Fat French people do exist, but, overall, there are fewer big people in this country than the United States because they eat plenty of fresh fruits and vegetables and walk/ride bikes more often).

It's satisfying to review everything I've done simply since Bastille Day--and this is merely an overview. I can't possibly list all of the details (ranging from bike rides with a crazy French eleven-year old to conversations with my host mother about love and marriage to flipping through a picture-free, French version of the Karma Sutra to asking four different Frenchies how to get to the city's bird park only to hear four different responses), while still making time to revel in all the Frenchness that surrounds me. But I've given you the snapshot of my past seven days in La Rochelle. Fortunately, I still have seven more. The negative side is that I still have so much more I want to do, see, and experience. 

July 14 is sort of the French version of July 4. It's therefore ironic that I missed celebrating Independence Day back home because I was in France for the holiday but had the opportunity to experience the French model. Needless to say, it lacked BBQ. Instead, my host mother prepared salmon and spinach, which I can't imagine most Americans eating on July 4th. While it was a good meal, it was more hoity-toity than the hot dog or hamburger and baked beans I probably would've eaten for July 4. To their credit, though, the French don't skimp on fireworks. My host father, younger host sister, and I went to see the city's display and I almost had seizures afterwards because the lights were as bright as Japanese video game's. The most surprising were fireworks in the form of mini parachutes; I thought midgets were invading us. I taped most of the spectacle to show my sick host mother and eventually my real family. The mother had to lounge around pathetically back home thanks to a nasty ear infection. The situation was even worse, however, because a famous French singer--one of her favorite--had personally invited her to his after-party that night. It was the final day of the Francofolie and she couldn't go thanks to oh-so-cruel Mother Nature. Or karma. But I'd rather not villainize a lady who bakes me the best apricot tarts I've ever eaten, even if we're all guilty of minor sins from time to time.

La Rochelle is not Paris, but that doesn't necessarily make it the boonies. Tourists, like me, simply have to be more creative about planning their day, since there isn't something arresting on every street corner. That is, except during Les Francofolies.

What is Francofolies? Or, more grammatically correct, what are they? Short answer: An annual French language concert in La Rochelle, France. Long answer: An annual French language concert, featuring famous artists from Africa, Canada, and Europe as well as numerous vendors and street performers, located in La Rochelle, France. The name literally means "Francophone craziness." Imagine every kind of European--nationality, race, sex, age, socio-economic level, etc.--crammed into a medium-sized port city, competing to see both free and ticketed concerts, rummaging through marketplace wares, and edging into the circles around street performers. Many of them are drunk, many of them are smoking, many of them are oversexed, and all of them are loud. Over 100,000 people alone buy tickets, but that does not count the scores more who come to check out the free festivities. It's both thrilling and overwhelming at the same time, perhaps even more so because everyone is speaking a language other than my own. Whenever I stop by the Francofolie, I find a million reasons to cement my belief that French people are some of the most adorable people who have ever lived (it is very amusing, for example, to hear a French person pronounce the word "hardcore.")

Apart from making every effort to get near the Francofolies during its July 10 through 14th stay, however, you probably wonder what I do with my time. The answer is not, "Sulk in my room for a lack of English-speakers and fellow Americans," as much as it might please some people to hear me complain about the language barrier. Nor is the answer, "Get plastered." I don't view much of a point in getting drunk period and see even less of a reason to get drunk here in France when I have paid several thousand dollars to visit a country I have never seen before. The real answer to the question is many things. Call me vague.

I ride my bike--ahem, a bike borrowed from my host brother--everywhere. Sometimes I just go for joy rides around the neighborhood or to one of the numerous beaches in La Rochelle. At the very least, I get to people-watch and house-hunt. My Sup de Co teacher constantly asks questions about Americans, but she should spend more time observing her fellow Frenchman. Not many people call their lovers cabbages and inhabit buildings with more doors than the labyrinth in Alice in Wonderland. (Note: Every room in every French house has a door. These doors must remain closed at all times, even the bathroom door. At first I wondered if the French worried about circulation and mildew. Now I realize that they are all trying to grow cheese in their houses.)

When I am not biking, I pop into a bunch of boutiques. That does not mean I approve of the prices (the cost of one of their blouses could send a Haitian child to school for a year), but I do enjoy inspecting dolls dressed as carrots or flipping through satirical books from 1882. It is also interesting to note that; judging by the store selections, French women apparently do not wear bigger than a size 9 in shoes or 10 in clothes. How such clotheslines would fail in the United States, where "Mammoth" is the size that best describes most of us American women--relatively speaking. While shopping, I also observe the other shoppers: no matter how old French women get, they make every effort to look sexy. That means no sneakers and encouraging 80-year olds to put on high-heels.

My host family is my most common source of entertainment, though. Their foster daughter especially makes an effort to talk to me, sweetly mock my pronunciation, include me in her strange French childhood, and get me to eat whenever possible. I am not sure how many times I have lied to my host mother and told her I was hungry for dinner when I wasn't, simply because the foster child felt like munching on cheese. The girl insists on telling me that the Mario Bros. are French, and she does not believe me when I say that Bros. is an abbreviation for brothers in English. When the occasion arrises, the girl puts on spectacles for me, too. These spectacles involve song and dance routines, sequined cowgirl hats, and sunglasses. As difficult as it may be to believe, there is nothing kinky about them. I converse with my host parents; as well, and do my best to answer questions about American culture, including whether or not Prince is homosexual.

In addition to all of this, I obviously attend class (as annoying as it is to travel 40 minutes by public transit, my perky professor compensates for the commute) and sightsee (before you die, be sure to see a Napoleon fish, as I did at the La Rochelle aquarium). Occasionally I have time to read, write, and draw, too, but I try to avoid such activities because I can so easily do them at home. I would rather lounge in my family's courtyard eating apricot pie and listening to Charlie Winston's "Like a Hobo."

After graduating from high school, transferring colleges, and having no intention to attend grad school, I never expected to be new to a school again. The days of being the shy, clueless kid who didn't have the inside scoop on anything relevant were over. Or so I thought. I am now a summer student at--get this--"Sup de Co." The full name translates to, more or less, The La Rochelle Business School. During the regular school year, French students go there to earn Bachelor's and Master's degrees in programs like Economy and Tourism. During the summer, entitled upper-middle class college students like me come from all over the world to "apprendre Français."

 

My host father was kind enough to drive me to school on the first day so I wouldn't have to endure the forty-minute bus ride for another twenty-four hours. I came just on time, perhaps two or three minutes late, but it didn't matter because the other American students were still jamming up the atrium. Besides, everything was running on French time. I went up to the other VCU students and told them about the party I attended Saturday, including my new knowledge of French drinking games.

 

We finally started ten or fifteen minutes late. I wasn't complaining, though. That meant ten more minutes for me to try and digest the fact that I was attending an all-French school for the next three weeks of my life. Like equestrian lessons on Grandfather Sebastian's estate followed by dinner at the country club, it sounded too much like a chapter out of someone else's uppity existence. Before I signed up for the trip, I was fairly certain I wouldn't have a chance to see France until my Honeymoon, let alone study with a whole cast of very animated native speakers. And yet there I stood in my $10 jeans, carrying my French-English dictionary from a free book pile at a library back home, about to embark upon one of the most bourgeois things a 20-year old white American can do. Granted, I'm not staying in a flat overlooking the Eiffel Tower and studying the history of wine tasting for a semester. Thankfully, I like staying in a popular port city better. There's more grit.

 

We began with, no surprise, a Powerpoint. A British lady who had us all deceived until she revealed her Anglican name talked us through all of the school rules and procedures. It was a snooze fest but it had to be done. I worked on a drawing as she talked about how we should conduct ourselves in the city. Apparently, "French men are like [rabbits in heat]," so we are not to interpret "Bonjour" as anything less than a come-on. Well, well, well, time to pull out the burka. Oh, wait, Sarkozy is about to forbid those.

 

After the Powerpoint, the school staff and administrators introduced themselves, but it was rather uneventful. French people got up, welcomed us to their city, told us about their jobs, and then sat down in their French ways (by that I mean they didn't look like they were about to break the chair because they had eaten too many Twinkies.) The aforementioned British lady gave us a tour of the school, still speaking her remarkably flawless French. The building is very white and sterile looking, which makes it somewhat hard to navigate. Everything looks the same, even the occasional young French person who loiters in the hallway. I swear French boys don't know how to comb their hair, but I'm still deciding whether that is a good or bad thing.

 

The school is clean and well-equipped, but it has its inconveniences. First off, it's far from my host family's home. I have to walk to the bus stop, board the bus as its only passenger for about fifteen minutes (someone always hops on for the last five minutes), transfer buses, make half-way coherent conversation with my classmates on the second bus, and, eventually, arrive half an hour early. There is no other way to do it...and still be on time.

 

For my third day of school, my second day of real class, I figured I could leave about fifteen minutes later and still make class in time. That would have been a swell idea save for one major error on my part:

Two of my classmates and I were heading over to the school cafeteria the second day of school, which to add to the school's however mild inconveniences, is about a fifteen minute walk from the building where we take classes, when we realized that we had no idea where we were. I swear the only distinguishable building in the area was McDonald's. We were nervous because class lets out at 12:30 p.m., only half an hour before the cafeteria supposedly closes, so we were afraid we wouldn't have the chance to eat. 

I mustered up the courage to ask a couple people where the cafeteria was but none of them had a clear idea. We knew we were in the general area but that doesn't help much in a sea of gray and beige buildings and poorly marked streets. One of my classmates asked a college-age guy where the caf was and he said it was just straight down the street. Okay, that was easy, even easier since he said he was going there himself. We followed him, discovered that the cafeteria was still open, and found out that the guy was rather funny. He even got us to chat with one of his friends. Forty-five minutes and several attempts on their part to speak English later, three of my classmates and I had set a rendez-vous with the Frenchies: 10:00 p.m. at General Humbert's, a former sailors' pub. Let's just say that it's not everyday a French guy invites me to a bar. God, that sounds sketchy. Even worse because I have a boyfriend. But I swear that my intentions, as well as those of my classmates, were completely innocent. I really did want to spend time with young French people who didn't talk like they had just leapt out of my high school textbook/video/CD series.

 

I spent the afternoon in suspense. I completed a homework assignment, which involved visiting a French magazine stand, buying one of the assigned newspapers, and interviewing the owner about French reading habits. Afterwards, I shopped in adorable boutiques. Then I went home and played with my host family's foster child, the most precious eleven-year old I know. With our mutual love of fairy princesses and hatred of alcoholism (her mother, who recently died, was an abusive alcoholic), she and I have enough in common to entertain each other during card games and puzzles. I like greeting her with "Coo-coo," the way small French children say 'Hi,' and sitting down and discussing the facts of life while eating Nutella sandwiches. 

I also took a nap and when I woke up, my host mother's mother, brother, sister-in-law, and friend congregated around the living room coffee table. Everyone was celebrating my host brother's high score on the Bac, sort of the equivalent of the French SAT sans multiple choice. I tried a third of a glass of champagne for the first time in adult life and detested it, but the dinner as a whole was worth my time. I ate a tomato stuffed with pork on a bed of white rice. The grandmother thought I was pretty wonderful and asked me all sorts of questions about the United States; she even invited me to the Mediatheque [a public French library with all kinds of media beyond books] the next day, where I had the chance to watch <<Un enfant dans la foule.>> The rest of the family grilled me about Bush and Obama. They approved of my stance on each man (Bush-boo, Obama-yay). Anyway, that was I how diverted myself before I biked over to the city's big clock to meet another classmate at around 9:30 p.m. Shockingly, the sun is still bright at that hour.

 

My classmate and I decided to meet a few minutes before our rendez-vous with the Frenchies because A) we had no idea where the bar was, even though the kid we had met gave us directions, and B) if you're not familiar with a bar, your first time there can be very scary, especially if you're alone in a foreign country that speaks a different language than your own. Some nice French teenagers pointed us the right way and off we went. Of course, we were unfashionably early, so we didn't dare go inside. We meandered around first. Let it be known that French allies, even ones containing marketplaces, smell like the beautiful union of cat and human piss.

 

Ten minutes or so later, my classmate and I wandered in front of the bar and, almost immediately, our new friend popped out and beckoned us inside. The fellow American and I became popular rather quickly. We practiced our French, answered basic questions about our country (yes, I did draw a map of the United States and label the major cities. No, I did not include Cincinnati), and occasionally corrected the Frenchies' English grammar and slang when they asked. Even though I had clearly stated that I didn't drink--a lifestyle that basically doesn't exist in France--the Frenchies bought me beer, anyway. I gave it to my classmate; he drank it so fast that he surprised our new acquaintances. I told them it was the American way and they laughed. Europeans love it when Americans make fun of their own country. Thankfully degrading humor is my specialty.

 

So, time passed, vulgarities were exchanged, pronunciations were mocked, and fun was had by all. I only experienced mild discomfort when the same guy asked me twice to kiss his friend who was leaving for Australia the next morning (No, I did not kiss him and no, I do not regret turning down a kiss from a French man.) If nothing else, I gained a new interpretation that evening: perhaps one of the reasons Anglos call Frenchies frogs is because in their early learning of English, they sound like they are croaking. I am not sure what animal sound to compare early English speakers' pronunciation of French; all I know is that we never seem as enthusiastic or congested as native Francophones.

 

About an hour and a half later, my classmate and I announced that we had to leave. We had class the next morning, after all, and couldn't party all night long. This didn't please the Frenchies very much, but they bid us farewell. I figured that I would be home at 11 :45, which meant I could be asleep by midnight. But such planning came from the heart of a young idealist. Nothing ever works out so simply.

 

Nope, as soon as my classmate and I exited the bar, we ran into two guys from our class. We probably could have said hi and bye fairly quickly if it had not been for a malcontent and a hot pink bunny rabbit.

 

I promise that I was not high. Somewhat sleep deprived perhaps but not delusional. There really was an old man in a faded plaid shirt who stumbled toward us and started rambling in French. He hated what La Rochelle had become, how the tourists had destroyed it, how it was not his city anymore. Consider his somber lament a huge juxtaposition to the middle-age woman dressed up in furry ears and a snug costume just across the narrow street. The drunk's random complaints began to irk me so I went over to talk to the bunny. My main question was why she was dressed that way. I almost hoped that she would admit to being a prostitute since I have never met one before, but she had a much more chaste response. She and her girlfriends were celebrating the equivalent of a French bachlorette party. 

 

Fast forward fifteen or twenty minutes. The classmate I originally came with and I are riding around on our bikes, a tad confused because the stone buildings look even more similar at night than they do during the day. When we get to the cathedral, though, I found my way. My classmate and I parted. Then I arrived home, felt a sudden urge to check my email, and a while later readjusted my alarm clock. That last item on that list is where my mistake occurred. In my exhaustion, I accidentally set my clock and alarm too late ...by an entire hour.

 

The next morning, I woke up and yawned very peacefully. Since I had been thirty minutes early the previous day, I figured that I could leave fifteen minutes later and still have enough time to chat with classmates. I sludged over to the shower and shortly afterwards, was bent before the refrigerator, playing Eeny-meeny-miny-moe with confitures when I heard the foster daughter shuffle into the kitchen. She was still mostly asleep, fluttering her blue-green eyes.

 

When I asked why she was up so early (I knew she was not supposed to even wake up until my class already began), she said, « Oh, just because. » I thought nothing more of it and concentrated on the tartine and abricots before me. A bit after, the father came in and told me I was going to be late for school. I explained that I had arrived too early the previous day so that I could afford to come in later today. « Thirty minutes too early yesterday, thirty minutes too late today, » he mumbled. I laughed. Ten minutes later, I was eating at a relaxed pace when he said, « No, really. You are going to be late. » I looked up at the kitchen clock for the first time all morning and shouted, « Sh*t ! I set my clock wrong. » It was 8 :10, which meant that class began in twenty minutes. I dashed into the courtyard, hopped onto my host brother's bike, and peddled with a foggy vision of the route in my mind. Now I was awake.

 

Before that day, I had never chased a bus. When I first left the house, it was too late for me to catch my first bus. I crossed my fingers that I could catch the second one, but it was not at the bus station when I arrived. Lacking the generosity of time, I kept going. But La Rochelle is a bigger city than you may imagine. I was lost until I turned a corner and saw my second bus a couple hundred yards in front of me. I raced to catch up, knowing that there was no other way to get to class at a decent hour. My hair blew in all directions, my muscles burned, I could feel the sweat forming on my skin.

 

When the bus reached my school, I stopped so quickly that I jolted forward and nearly fell off. My host father had given me long enough of a lecture about bike thefts in La Rochelle that I did not even consider leaving the bicycle unlocked. But I swear that it had never taken me longer to lock up a bike. I kept fiddling with the curled antivol until it latched and then sprinted to my classroom.

 

I tried to enter the classroom quietly, but, even still, it was hard for the others not to notice my bright red face and, I am certain, my stench. A classmate offered me a waterbottle on sight. The teacher, startled by my appearance, asked if I had gotten lost and I politely asked if I could explain later. She said yes, I sat down, and was soon asked to express my opinion on Michael Jackson. When I gazed up at the clock, I realized I was no more than fifteen minutes late, which is not an utter disaster for a four-hour class. I was still disappointed with myself, though. I had been carrying on fairly well in France.

 

Only a few days after my arrival, I was already beginning to establish myself in La Rochelle and, apart from nearly losing my lungs as I followed my bus with the fury of a dog taunting a mail carrier, I am off to a productive start. Maybe I will finally learn real French. At least now I can execute a truly offensive insult.

St. Michel was every bit as beautifully mysterious as all the dramatic photographs and illustrations depict, so there's no false advertising there. It is my favorite building I have ever visited in my whole life and, yet, to call it a mere building is to demean such a work of art. That's like The Charterhouse of Parma's just a book. St. Michel and the grandiose architecture that it represents makes me nostalgic for the Middle Ages. For as long as I can remember, I have adored medieval aesthetics, poetry, and social history ("Dragon Girl" was one of my high school nicknames for a reason), but this visit had made me a bona fide medievalist.

After eating the whole monastery with my very hungry and appreciative eyes, I strolled through the gift shops, of which there are plenty if you need a classy place to lose money. Better yet, they are exactly the kind of gift shops that appeal to me. They all carry their versions of fairies, castles, swords, and, yes, tacky tourist T-shirts. I made an effort not to purchase a tacky T-shirt, however. I avoided the gaudy ones (with rhinestones, glitter, too many cartoon animals all competing for limited chest space) and went for a fitted rib-tee instead. Though I am generally a bargain shopper, I have become slightly more lenient with my money here in France. I realize that I may never visit the country again, or at least not for several more years, so I want to take home whatever souvenirs I can, including T-shirts that violate my $10 rule. The T-shirt I bought at St. Michel is burgundy, my absolute favorite shade of red, with white print on it. The print reads "Mont St. Michel" and also features a simple contour drawing of the monastery and its accompanying island. A few gulls, shaped the way first-graders draw flying birds, hover in the sky.

I sat down for a while after buying my tourist gear and just people-watched. It's one of my top activities, so I figured that I ought to do it in one of my favorite places. People are more interesting than they may believe or maybe I only think that because of my penchant for psycho and socio-analysis. It seemed like scores of English and Spanish were amongst the tourists, though I heard the occasional American accent so I didn't feel completely alone. Most of the people spoke Frog.

I was sad to leave St. Michel but it had to happen eventually. My university group and I had to meet our host families in La Rochelle, the third most popular tourist destination in France. It's a beach city with a long port history located on the Atlantic Coast. At the point that I boarded the charter bus from St. Michel to La Rochelle, that was about all I knew. I would have to wait about six hours before I discovered much more.

I spent the bus ride doing a lot of what I would normally do at home, so it was almost as if I were not in France at all. I edited a short story I had written, uploaded photos, drew, and read. Every now and then I looked out and, even more rarely, I shot video of the countryside. Whatever I did, I tried to avoid thinking about meeting my host family in a matter of hours. Like everyone else on the bus, I was a tad nervous about not being able to speak my native language for the next three weeks. I didn't suffer as bad a case of the butterflies as a few of the students on board who freaked out to the point of not being able to remember basic phrases that they definitely knew. I realized that nerves would cramp my ability to speak properly for the first couple of days, but I'd eventually loosen up enough to avoid total idiocy. I hoped.

It was nice when the bus stopped. I needed, quite frankly, to "faire no. 2," which wasn't allowed on the bus. Apparently, there's a French law that requires bus drivers to stop after a certain number of hours, so our driver pulled over at a local gas station. Apart from the obvious language difference and the items listed on the fast food menu, the gas station was pretty similar to what I'm used to back in the ol' U.S. of A. Oh, wait, no, c'est ne pas vrai. One thing shocked me. I had not believed it when I heard one of my classmates describe her experience in Russia, so let me begin by saying this: French toilets are much more varied than America's. This particular restroom housed two kinds, one rather similar to the ones Americans use (except they use press-pads instead of handles for flushers) and another that involved impressive thigh muscles. The latter demands that the, er, patron squats and places her feet on two ceramic hollows so she doesn't lose her balance. She must then urinate in a hole. That's right--just "aim and fire." I'm not ashamed to admit that I would probably fall over.

My group arrived in La Rochelle perhaps two and half hours after I scrunched up my nose at the gas station. The bus driver kindly lugged all of our duffle bags and suitcases out of the bus and we waited for our host families to scoop us off to wild European adventures. Well, that's what my evening became, anyway.

My host mother almost snuck up behind me, then she very eagerly hugged me, kissed me, and welcomed me into her life. A new cluster of butterflies sprung up in my stomach, but I kissed and hugged her back. I immediately got into her car and we chatted as she drove me to her house. She thought it was hilarious that I don't like raw tomatoes but that I eat them cooked.

The moment I walked into the house--which is full of gorgeous hardwood and boasts plenty of open space; it's very "shabby chic" and warrants a full description in another essay--she gave me a tour. She moved fast enough to rival any startled cat I've ever seen. Obviously she was happy to have me and that helped me calm down. Soon after, she invited me to a friends' wedding anniversary party. She showered while I unpacked my things. Her husband came home and we left soon after. I didn't even have time to check out the refrigerator.

This is what I learned at the party: French people love American dance music, especially really passé songs; they think gnomes are real belly-busters; they like to speak English with Americans to try and prove that they're bilingual (even if they're not) and therefore superior to Americans (who they assume are monolingual); and even if their country allows a lower legal drinking age than the United States, their teenagers still sneak around with alcohol. It was a very amusing, yet long evening, especially considering that I'd been cooped up in a bus for most of the day.

I watched all of the adults dance to the likes of Michael Jackson and other distinctly American artists; they waved their arms around, jumped up and down, and made a bunch of noise. It was only when I realized that all of the party guests were neighbors that I stopped asking why someone hadn't already called the cops to complain. I had fun just watching them move around with so much enthusiasm. One man probably had too much fun with my host mother, though, and tossed her into the outdoor pool. Keep in mind that she had on a stylish Parisian dress and even trendier shoes. Though she laughed, I doubt she was thrilled about what had happened. My host mother was the only one who "swam" the whole night. Apparently the pool was reserved for something more...unsual. Virtually all of the party guests gave the married couple gnomes in all sorts of forms as kitsch gifts. As the couple opened the gifts before the cheering crowd, they were to toss all "non-gnomes" into the pool. This included a ceramic duck. With the pool for a disposal pit, I couldn't swim there. I took the time to rescue two fallen moths, but I didn't even dip a toe in the water.

Ironically for a non-drinker, I spent a good portion of the night learning a couple of French drinking games because I inevitably got stuck with restless high school kids. I also learned the various names for pot and got to hear the kids make fun of the Spanish. We ate some tabouli, huddled around bags of McDonald's hamburgers, and talked about who-knows-what, as well. I definitely asked them way too many questions but they seemed proud that I took so much interest in their country. None of them spoke English so it was a real exercise in my language skills. At least now I know what a Royale avec Cheese is.

Allow me to explain the difference between an embroidery and a tapestry: an embroidery is--surprise!--embroidered. That means that somebody with a creative spirit, no social life, and way too much time takes a needle and basically "paints" with thread. A tapestry is woven and therefore involves a loom, which is a big contraction that helps overlaps the fibers to make something that hopefully doesn't look too hokey. Now that you are aware of this difference, you will believe me when I say that the Tapestry of Bayeux is wrongly named. It's not a tapestry, it's an embroidery and you can tell that immediately by looking at it. Perhaps the French art historians who named the piece were like Mr. Magoo and couldn't make out anything within two feet of them. Either that or they never took Home Economics.

Despite the fact that the Tapestry of Bayeux was misnamed, it is astounding. The tapestry depicts William the Conqueror's 1066 invasion of Normandy, with details like smiling horses and nude, headless corpses. The colors are fairly muted, but I'm not sure if that's merely because of their age. Who knows? Maybe years ago they were as vibrant as Technicolor. Last time I checked, cameras didn't exist back then and nobody from that time period's alive to remember. After we walked through the tapestry exhibit, audio guide in hand, we dropped them off and perused the gift shop. They had all kinds of dragon figurines to accompany my beloved Lenore (my 6'' plastic dragon who appears in a few of my art projects and even boasts her own Facebook page), but I wasn't about to shell out what they were asking. Sadly, beautiful medieval themed gifts surrounded me, but I didn't have a chance to look at them all. I had to race over to yet another cathedral. On our way from the tapestry to the cathedral, the French teacher from the University of Minnesota-Mancato who's traveling with us told us an amusing story:

In that same town, an American woman stood with two of her friends, overlooking a body of water. Very snottily, she mocked some of the other tourists and said, "I can't believe they were calling this the Pacific Ocean. Obviously it's the Atlantic."

Upon hearing this, the French teacher budged in and said, "Actually, ma'am, this is the English Channel."

Needless to say, "Ms. Arrogant-ina," as I like to refer to her, blushed.

The other students and I had been admiring an old mill while the French teacher told this story, but now that he was done, we had to get on the move again. The cathedral was a short walk away, so I knew I could quickly pop my head into a shop and catch up with the group again. I asked the shopkeeper, "Avez-vous des T-shirts avec des dragons, Monsieur?" [Do you have dragon T-shirts, sir?] He said no and pointed to a pirate T-shirt instead. Pirates have their cool points but they can't compare to dragons. I thanked him and met up with the group again. I took photos of Lenore the Dragon outside of the cathedral and went inside. What mainly distinguished this one was its crypt--I'm sorry if that sounds jaded. The best part was when a boy in our group lied down in one of the stone coffins and took a picture.

After seeing the Tapestry of Bayeux and the cathedral, we saw three sights in Normandy. We ate lunch in Port Arramanche (I nourished myself with left-overs from the previous day, including a whole avocado), stopped by some of the shops (I bought a black, bejeweled T-shirt that reads, "I Love France."), and visited their museum. Before we left, I took one more look at the water. The English Channel gleamed in the high sun and, though I saw a stretch of blue-green before me, I wondered what the water would look like in red.

Following Port Arramanche, the group hit a cluster of World War II cannons. Apparently last year a girl on the same trip climbed atop the earth sheltering the cannon and broke her ankle in three places. She had to go to the hospital and her mother even came from the United States to look after her (of course, I think any mother in her position would have loved to have an excuse to come to France.) What bothered me was how much garbage surrounded the cannons, from straws to soda cans. Besides the pollution factor, there was the respect factor. Speaking of respect, we also ventured to an Americans' cemetery in Normandy. It was nearly silent, despite the hundreds of people congregating around the memorial and gravestones. My stomach turned at the sight of all the pure white crosses and the occasional Star of David. The reason why I've never enjoyed studying military history was because I don't believe wars should start in the first place.

The rest of the day was far more cheerful to compensate for Normandy's morbidity. We stopped for the night in St. Michel in Bretagne, the site of the famous St. Michel monastery where St. Michel supposedly slayed a dragon. My roommate and I checked into our bungalow--yes, you read correctly--where our group stayed in a campground. Almost instinctively, we inspected the bathroom, but it still topped the Kellermann's. Then we persuaded another classmate to go on a walk before dinner. Ultimately, that "walk" translated into browsing the supermarché. I asked a clerk to point out dragon T-shirts but was disappointed by the selection. I was determined, though, and eventually found a lovely fairy necklace. Strangely she was marked as an elf, despite her elegant form and very prominent wings. I didn't even have to think about it; she represented exactly the kind of fairy necklace I have always wanted. For 8 Euros, she was mine. It sounds peculiar to frame the action in terms of commodification and ownership because fairies are matriarchal, but I'm simply explaining what happened. I don't advocate the enslavement of mystical creatures.)

After shopping, my roommate and I put away our purchases, ate some French cookies, and skipped to the restaurant where the group was scheduled to have dinner. Perhaps "skip" does not appropriately describe our action on the outside, but it describes everything that went on inside. I was chipper and, again, happy to be in France. I could have run into a telephone pole without a tear so long as it was a French telephone pole.

Dinner was point-blank delicious. Imagine vegetable porridge, quartered chicken, and green beans all steamy and seasoned to French perfection. Obviously they brought out bread, too (cool fact: the French don't butter their dinner bread, nor do they use olive oil.) I don't care if it sounds pretentious the meal as a whole 'était magnifique. I was so stuffed that I couldn't manage dessert. Even if I had been hungry, however, I wouldn't have finished that creme brulée. It was the one "eh" moment of the dining experience. For probably thirty to forty-five minutes following dinner, three classmates, our professor and I engaged in a heated feminist discussion about oppression and victimization. You know, the standard. It was a good exercise in digestion.

By the time our conversation on women and pornography ended, it was already ten o'clock. I refused to go to bed without getting a closer look of St. Michel, so I convinced a classmate to walk there with me. For two kilometers, we marched onward, totally agape. I've never seen a more impressive architectural feat in my whole entire life and I haven't exactly stayed cooped up in the boonies all my years, either. The monastery, in all its stone glory, rests atop an island that overlooks acres upon acres of farmland. A miniature village, where monastery caretakers once lived, forms a ring around the structure. I kept taking photographs but none of them could do a justice to the better-than-Disney castle before me. I almost couldn't breathe as I witnessed the sun set behind it. I half-expected a flock of fairies to flutter out of the numerous castle windows during those magical minutes. I really wish I could have shared that brief period with my beloved ones. The thought made the walk very poignant. It felt like six months since I had last seen home.

The walk back to our bungalos was darker and rockier. I tripped more than once but never actually fell. I was glad to finally retire to my Honeymoonesque lodging, where I took a thorough shower, put on my nightgown, and snuggled into bed before chatting with my roommate. We were both incredibly nervous about meeting our host families the next day.

To say that France is full of churches is an understatement. During the drive from Paris to Lisieux, my group visited two cathedrals and went inside yet another in Lisieux. Just in the vicinity of Hotel Esperance, where we stayed in Lisieux, stood three separate cathedrals. You could spend an entire vacation church-hopping in this country, though your sanity might suffer. After seeing ten of them, you would start spotting Jesus in your Nutella.

The first church, called Collégiale Notre-Dame in the historical town of Mantes, was my favorite of the day. I took photo after photo after photo until my finger started to hurt from pressing the camera button. I also liked how "Un guide détaillé en couleurs est en vente au bureau d'accueil" [A detailed guide in color is for sale in the reception office] was printed at the top of the flyer. Even churches try to sell you things these days and not just in separate boutiques, either.

In addition to touring cathedrals, we went to Monet's house and gardens, as well as a museum that features impressionistic paintings. In case you're not familiar with impressionism, it's a style of painting where the artist depicts the effect of lights on things instead of all the fine details, kind of like he's a bat with a paintbrush. Take off your contacts and squint your eyes at a flower and then you'll see like an impressionist sees. The most amusing part of Monet's house was the random box that read "Fresh Eggs" in a room that looked nothing like a kitchen or dining area. I like to imagine Monet storing eggs in that box so he could paint them full of lilly pads every morning.

The best part of the day undoubtedly involved eating. Food almost always makes me happy, especially when it's delicious (and yet I'm not morbidly obese!). We had a picnic lunch that showcased ham, chicken, turkey, two types of chicken, ice cream, avocados, apples, bananas, tomatoes, tabouli, and, of course, baguette. It's not a French meal unless bread and cheese are included; I didn't need to come to France to learn that. We sat down on a patch of lawn beside a river, a stone castle, and yet another Tudor style house full of pigeons on its roof. Somehow our conversation turned to ferrets' kleptomaniac nature, and a spider bit one of the boys in our group. I just appreciated being able to sit down and bite into gouda without being in a hurry.

We spent the evening in Lisieux, a medieval town. Though we were scheduled to eat dinner at seven o'clock, the hotel staff was definitely on Frog Time; they didn't seat us until about 7:20 p.m. or so. After devouring the ham and cheese quiche they brought us as an appetizer, however, I let go of my grudge. That quiche was a Godsend. I also had pineapple juice, which I could've done without, considering that it cost three Euros. I enjoyed the beef and green beans they brought out but the potatoes were far too bland. They tasted like boiled paper. I skipped them after one bite and concentrated on dunking my green beans into the beef broth. The conversation with the three other students at my table revolved around everything from "Michael Jackson the Artist vs. Michael Jackson the Weirdo" to the irritating qualities of tourists, specifically at the HIlton in Virginia Beach. Needless to say, it was an entertaining conversation, so chocolate mousse could only improve the experience. Maybe I should have demanded an extra cup of mousse to compensate for the potatoes.

A couple of the other students and I went walking around Lisieux after dinner, but were shocked by how empty it was. We saw several tour buses but none of the tourists. Only the bars were open, which doesn't translate into much entertainment for a non-drinker like me. It's not like they were playing music, either. So my classmates and I wandered and wandered until we had enough of admiring the same style of historical homes over and over again. Everything began to look the same, even if it was a pretty sameness. Only two things seemed amiss in the haunted setting: a giant bagpipe and a giant watering can. They were probably made out of fiberglass and inhabited a median each at the opposite sides of town.

My professor and I shared a room, just the two of us, which wasn't as awkward as I had anticipated. Correction: it wasn't awkward at all. Neither one of us sleepwalked or revealed humiliating habits or blackmail worthy secrets. Instead she and I talked about harmless things (computers, French, the town) and read. I fell asleep with my book, still exhausted thanks to the time change but excited to sleep in a real bed. At the Kellermann, I had stayed on a rickety bunkbed positioned much too closely to an armoire. Every time I climbed down the ladder, the hangers in the armoire shook around violently. It made me feel like the stereotypical fat American instead of some lithe French girl in a striped shirt and beret small enough to fit a toy dog. Also unlike the Kellermann, Hotel Esperance featured true bathrooms with bathtubs not in any way controlled by the sink. I even had counterspace for my contact lenses. I don't ask for much space in this world, but the Kellerman was too minimalist. Hotel Esperance was much more understanding about letting me put my whole body into the shower. Thanks for the accommodations, ghost town.

K.C. and I arrived at the Kellermann early enough. We checked in, dumped everything in our rooms, and finally found our long-lost third member. I ran down to see our professor fairly soon after, logged onto the Internet (it's adorable how the French pronounce WiFi like "weefee."), and met a couple of the other students in our group. After asking questions and waiting for the other students to join us, the group went on a walk sans the professor. Our neighborhood is called Port d'Italie, so you would think that it's full of Italian restaurants and shops. Nope. Part of it's Chinatown and the other part is mostly residential. The group eventually split up, half going to central Paris, the other half staying in Port d'Italie. I stayed and had the chance to peruse Chinese businesses with French signs and chat up a bunch of fourteen-year olds.

I have a habit of interacting with the locals because, obviously, they have the best knowledge of the area. I approached a gaggle of young teenagers and asked them where the most interesting places in the neighborhood were. They were thrilled to talk to an American--one of the first sentences out of the friendliest girl's mouth was "I love Obama!"--and practiced some of their English with me. I'm sure I sound just as ridiculous when I speak French; they had to constantly have me explain how to say certain words and phrases, but didn't manage too well with pronunciation. I insisted on speaking as French as possible with them and, luckily, they understood me. The only real embarrassment came when I told the friendliest girl that she was "mignonne," which translates to cute. I meant it as a harmless compliment, not because I wanted to hit on her. But she shot me a little look of surprise, so I had to clarify! I didn't want her thinking that Americans are perverts. 

Around 5:00 p.m. our university group reconvened at the Kellermann so we could head out to dinner. Instead of going to a restaurant, however, we ran around Mono-prix, a French supermarket that also contains a fair amount of books, clothes, and dishes. The professor told us to grab whatever we planned that night, so I reached for several French specialities, like Buffalo mozzarella (?!?!) and apricot-apple pudding. Delicious! We ended up eating at a very scenic park close to our hostel, where I stayed long afterwards to take photos and videos. 

That wasn't the end of my evening, however. Remember my promise to check out the Latin Quarter? I kept it. In case you've never heard of it, the Latin Quarter is a trendy neighborhood where many teenagers and young adults congregate at cafes, bars, and night clubs all set amongst historical buildings. It's sort of like the Parisian version of Georgetown or Old Town Alexandria. I convinced three other students to ride the Metro there. Considering that it was Tuesday night, it was not too busy, but certainly more bustling than Port d'Italie. I enjoyed the buzz, including street buskers who played music or performed tricks. It reminded me of Montreal in that sense, where buskers seem to abound. My four-some poked our heads through various businesses, but settled for an Asian buffet full of cheap egg rolls and dumplings. Apparently they call Chinese dumplings "ravioli" in French, which surprised me. 

Unfortunately we had a 1:30 a.m. curfew so we couldn't stay at the Latin Quarter too long. We hopped on the Metro and returned to the hostel, where we all took much-needed showers and sleeps.

After winding around and around the Parisian airport, finally tracking down my classmate's luggage, and unsuccessfully seeking out another classmate (surprise! She arrived at the Kellermann before we did because she left during the time we desperately tried to find her jet-lagged self. It's obvious who the smartest one in THAT situation was), my airport buddy and I called it quits. My original plan to take the Metro from the airport to the youth hostel dissolved and we opted for a taxi instead. We were simply too tired to lug all of our junk. Thankfully we didn't have to wait long for a taxi, but the drive from point A to B could've been shorter for my taste. I was thrilled to get out of the airport and see the real Paris, not suburban sprawl. It's like I always tell tourists: Dulles International Airport is not Washington, D.C.; it's located in a very boring part of Northern Virginia about forty-five minutes from the action. 

The taxi driver was gallant, but, as an airport employee explained, they are trained to be helpful. The taxi driver loaded K.C.'s and my luggage into the mini-van and politely asked for the address and stated the approximate cost. To his shock, I spoke to him in French. He said that most of the tourists he drives have little to no knowledge of the language, so that definitely put me at an advantage. I know how easy it is to trick tourists; they're über-excited, naive, often loaded with cash somewhere on their bodies, and far from home. If a tourist can speak the  language of the place he's visiting, however, it's harder for natives to dupe him out of extra money. 

At first K.C. and I kept to ourselves and just vented about our frustrating experience in the airport. Our passports still weren't stamped, but we figured it was too late. Eventually, though, I realized what a great opportunity it was to have a native Parisian in the car, all to ourselves, for close to an hour. We could ask him anything and everything about the surroundings, where to go, where to eat, what to see and do. Thus, I launched into a 1,0001 questions, talking like a dinosaur-obsessed child on his first visit to a dig site. The taxi driver didn't seem annoyed about my interrogation mode, though. Like many city people (yes, I will include myself in this), he liked bragging about where he was from. I heard about Paris Disneyland, the Latin Quarter, the Louvre, le Marais, and more all from a Parisian's perspective, including which places are expensive and which ones, not so much. After all of the chatter, including my frequent stumblings in grammar and vocabulary I'm sure, I personally vowed to visit Le Quartier Latin during my first night in France.

And I did.

As soon as we got off the plane, we asked an airport worker where the British Airways terminal was so we could meet up with another girl in our study abroad group. Strangely, the woman never even thought to ask whether we had claimed our luggage and gone through customs. Neither one of those places was in plain sight, so we figured we'd see them later on. It turned out that the woman directed us through a door that led us away from luggage claim and customs. We spent the next hour trying to get to the opposite side of a huge glass wall. Picture standing in line, speaking to several different people who all suggested different things. ("Go through THAT door!" "What are you doing here?" "Stand over there!") Oh, and I've learned to speak French to French people. Speak English and you insult them so they pretend not to understand. Eventually, my airport buddy was able to get her luggage, but we went on another adventure just searching for the third girl.

 

Eventually, we gave up and took a taxi. Now that is an essay all its own.