Bellisima!

Just returned from my vacation within a vacation: Rome and Venice.

All of Rome was a surreal experience for me. I didn't go to a single museum because the entire city was  standing piece of history. Look to your left, just some casual ruins. Look to your right, its the Pantheon! Yes, I've learned about the Roman Empire like 17 times throughout school but to see it in reality was magnificent. The time period just seems so fictional, thousands gathering to watch gladiators fighting lions to the death. But this actually happened!

My days in Rome were spent choosing in what order I wanted to eat my pizza, pasta, and gelato. Which of the three would get seconds today? Sit down for dinner on a terrace and a dashing violinist will come add a soundtrack to your meal. A few hours by the Trevi Fountain and a couple more by the Colosseum. Rome has been completely taken over by tourism and I couldn't help but wonder how the actual citizens felt about the exploitation of their culture and history. Not too heartbroken, right? We keep their economy going!

Next up was Vatican City. We did the hour long trek there and as soon as we arrive, what else do we find but a reenactment of the passion! It was complete with dead spirits, gladiators and a bloody Jesus. 

It was a Sunday and we stood outside watching the big man himself give the Sunday mass via live-stream. We tried to go in but the Swiss guards wouldn't have it. Don't be fooled by their goofy clown costumes, they will cut your throat if they have to.

An hour after mass was over we were let inside. The ornateness of it was so overly-indulgent, that much like Versailles, after a while I couldn't even process it any more. It was simply extravagant.

Our second day at the Vatican was mostly in line waiting to see the Sistine Chapel. No really, we spent almost three hours in line for it. We finally made it in but much like St. Peter's Basicila, this extravagance was beyond comprehension. How did people make this? I spent my time in the Sistine Chapel in awe wondering about the infinite amount of God-given talent and fecundity that existed in a man like Michelangelo.

Hoping some of that talent rubbed off on me. The closest I've ever gotten to being an artist was watching "The Joy of Painting" with Bob Ross as a child. Yeah, you know what I'm talkin bout. 

Vive La Grève!

You know the French, they really enjoy their protests. But this one's on a whole nother level, baby.

People from all sectors have united to strike against the government's plan to raise the retirement age by two years. Even high school students have taken on this retirement cause with passion and zeal, skipping school only on Tuesdays or Thursdays to make it clear they're not just trying for long weekends. Wish I could tell you more, but I'm about to head to the airport for Italie! Let's hope my pilot isn't on strike too..

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/travelnews/8071527/France-strike-flights-cancelled-airlines-told-to-carry-enough-fuel-for-return-journey.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-11576711

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/10/21/AR2010102103924.html?hpid=moreheadlines

C'est pour moi: A French Tug of War

So picture this, it's about 7:30 pm and I'm walking out of a boulangerie with my dinner in a bag. It's getting dark and the drizzling rain is threatening to become more than just that. Sans my umbrella, I'm trekking quickly, barely dodging people on the narrow sidewalk, and straight ahead is an old man in a tan suit shuffling along with his eyes glued to the ground. Attempting to slow down and turn sideways to avoid him but BAM! I run into him hard and my purse and apologies spill out.

It takes me a couple steps to gather myself and close my purse when I turn back around to make sure nothing fell out. There I see my blue French portfolio folder underneath his shiny brown dress shoe. I bend down to grab it and start wiping off his wet foot-mark, when he grabs hold and starts cleaning it too.

Aww how cute, I thought. "Pas de problème," I assured him, no worries! But then he begins tugging at it and repeating "C'est pour moi, c'est pour moi!" Okay, I thought, this is a joke. Just tell him it's yours. "Non, monsieur, c'est pour ma classe de français"and I'm reassuring him that really, it's no big deal, I'll take the folder now. But he REFUSES to let go and his tugging is getting increasingly more violent.

Time seems to slow and drag with my increase in heartbeat (uhm why am i SO dramatic?!). I look around nervously to see if anyone can help this angry old man understand that this folder really is not his. We go back and forth for minutes and it induces him to open up the portfolio where we see typed print, clearly my last written assignment. He reacts like he had written the piece himself.

Okay, he is clinically insane, I think. Mental disorder, for sure. Did a split second cost-risk analysis in my mind (rain, panic, it's only for French class, I like my face the way it is) and decided, girl, it's not worth it! Let the old man have the folder and live another day. So after what feels like an hour (and in reality was probably no more than two minutes), I apologize for taking "his" folder.

I walk away completely in a daze with my heart still pounding like crazy. Did that really just happen? I turn around and see him fading away in the rain with a hint of blue between his hands..

WTH how do I explain this to my teacher?! Really, "Sorry Professor, a psycho old French man stole my homework?" What a joke! How do I turn this into a rational explanation? Did I still have stuff saved on my computer? Why did you let him have it, Yomna? You are such a pushover!

In the height of this mental assault on myself I open up my purse, and there it is. My blue French portfolio folder. In my purse. NO WAY.

WAY!! He was right, it was his folder. I was the crazy one. Mental disorder, for sure. We had the same exact blue portfolio and mine never actually fell out of my purse. No words can explain exactly how I felt at that moment. I kind of just stood there for a second in the rain as a hundred different things ran through my mind. How did this crazy of a coincidence just happen? Who upstairs is laughing right now? How could we have had the same folder, inside and out? Why didn't I notice him holding it when I first saw him? Poor guy omg, did I even apologize? Go back and apologize!!

But he was gone and for a few seconds I even had myself convinced that it never even happened. Moral of the day: even the young'ins be crazy sometimes. Forgive me old man, I love you!

Fashion in French Class

Remember when I said that even the most casual Parisian dresser is better dressed than you? Still mean it.

Currently working on a biography of Yves Saint Laurent for French class. Brother was born in Algeria in 1936 (more on the history behind this later..) and moved to Paris in his teens where he quickly became Christian Dior's apprentice.

Oh and did I mention we spent the last class dissecting the revolutionary designs of Coco Chanel? Like weather is to Americans, fashion seems to be the go-to small talk for Parisians, and I like it!

Next week is Fashion Week and I may go creeping around the shows to try to sneak a peek. Wish my stylist sister was here to enjoy this with me.                                                                                               

Just Jazzin'

Came back from my first jazz club here featuring the Thierry Fanfant quartet, a French-Carribbean band. My feet are still tapping and I can't wait to go back!                                                                                                              

Eid, or something like it.

Last Friday was the end of the thirty-day fasting marathon we call Ramadan. My friends cheered for me as I walked into the cafeteria to have my first mid-day meal since the program began. But it was bittersweet and my stomach, twisting and turning, wasn't too happy either (tho that just may be St. John's food). Since then, I've regained the nearly five pounds I lost in my daily struggle to find food in Paris after 8pm. No longer does my dinner need to be saran-wrapped by the sweet cafeteria workers; I can eat with everyone else and go out for dessert. Yes, my pants are quite snug.

My excitement and anxiety of Eid in a foreign country woke me up with the rising sun. We never got the chance to go to taraweeh and so everything about this day was going to be new. What was the masjid like? Would the sermon be in French? What do the Muslims here wear on Eid? What if we get lost and miss the whole prayer? 

Technically, we made it to the mosque on time, but what I would have given to have been an hour early.. My roommate, Hira, partner in all things French, captured our strange/interesting experience best:

"Under normal circumstances, I’m sure the Great Mosque of Paris is a beautiful testament to architecture, but today, swarmed as it is by devoted Muslims for the post-Ramadan holiday Eid-al-Fitr, I can barely take in the beauty of the sight before me when I am pushed forward by people crying out, “Avancez, avancez!”

Prayer is a messy affair: constrained by all the people around me and the small space, my motions during the prayer are jerky and ungraceful. Afterwards, a woman in a hurry bowls over my roommate, but many sets of hands reach out to catch her before she falls over a small hedge and into the greenery."

I had to "avancez! avancez!" to the point where claustrophobia was written all over my face. I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people being crammed in the garden as the general prayer spaces overflowed. I had been balancing myself between a palm tree and a bush as shiny, festive people continued to push their way through when Yomna took a tumble. 

Those "many sets of hands" were of two Algerian women who adopted us family-less American girls. They kept a motherly eye on us, making sure we could share their prayer rugs. They brought us dates and sweets and kissed us four times on each cheek wishing us a wonderful Eid in a mix of Arabic and French.

Sermon was in Arabic (thankfully!) and I did some translating for Hira, but was mostly distracted by the hoards of people finally making their way out. By the time it was over, there were few families left taking photographs of the beautiful mosque and it was then that I realized that oh yes, I'm in a beautiful mosque! We had no particular place to be so we stayed and explored and finally were able to appreciate its beauty. It was calming and reassuring that even in a city as secular as Paris, spirituality and religiosity can remain.

The weather was also celebrating Eid: sunny, clear and warm. We decided to grab some sandwiches and head towards the Eiffel Tower, spending the rest of our day beneath its grandeur. A far stretch from home, but it was splendid.

To Normandy, and Beyond!

Our first weekend in France (yes, I'm that behind..) was spent on a ‘bonding’ trip to several cities in Normandy, including Honfleur, Deauville and historical sites and memorials of WWII. We left at about 7am Friday morning for the three-hour bus ride with stunning natural views the entire way. By the afternoon we had made our way to two very different graveyards—one for the American soldiers of WWII and one for the Germans. The difference was black and white, literally. The American graveyard was bright and beautifully maintained, white crosses atop every grave in an intriguing diagonal design. Germany’s was dark, off-setting and we didn’t stay for very long.

Several sites later, I had met nearly everyone on the program but I was tired and fasting and just wanted to eat and sleep (preferably at the same time). We arrived late at night to our dinky hotel in Caen just in time to break my fast. Hira and I were excited to have our first real French dinner (not one of St. John’s mystery meals). We were told about a pizza place nearby but we were adamant that we did NOT want to eat pizza as our first French meal. Thirty minutes later, we were eating the pizza. Caen is a college town dead during the summer. I missed Paris—bad. Overall, day one of this trip just felt forced and over-programmed but luckily, things quickly turned around on Saturday.

Enter Honfleur. The most beautiful little sea-side town I will ever know.  Walking its streets felt like we were walking through a Claude Monet. Why? Because we were. Honfleur was the inspiration behind the impressionist movement and it’s hard to imagine why. If you gave even me an easel and some oil pastels I’m sure I could create a masterpiece in moments. We had five hours to explore the French town on our own and the day’s plan was simple: explore, eat, experience. Well, 2/3 ain’t bad. I got to vicariously watch everyone else eat the fresh fruit from the market, the warm croissants from the bakery, the intoxicating gelato through the window. Honfleur’s narrow cobblestone streets and quaint, muti-colored houses had me ready to quit everything and move. After a few hours, we had seen every little nook and kept running into each other so we just spent the last hour sitting by the port, feet over the edge, watching the boats and the people pass by, wishing I could stay forever.

Our last stop was Deauville (where Coco Chanel opened her first boutique!) where we spent the second half of our day. Luckily, once more, the only plan was to meet back on the bus at 6pm. Deauville was an interesting paradox of a town. It was aesthetically similar to Honfleur  but it was also the place of an annual American film festival. Walking the boardwalk towards the beach, I saw both nude children playing in the sand and old men in speedos. How French, I thought. Two steps later and I felt transported to a Texas state fair where we found ourselves watching the most bizarre 'Cotton-Eyed Joe' square-dance tutorial given by a group of French women. I kid you not. It was hilarious, confusing, and oddly disturbing. Disturbing for me to realize just how ubiquitous American culture really is. I’m in France, whyyy is cotton-eyed Joe here too?!