Pas Adieu, Mais À Bientot

I just ate at my favorite café in the 7th arrondissement for the last time. I just glimpsed the Eiffel Tower at sunset for the last time. I'm eating my last macaron, drinking my last bottle of wine, breathing in my last Parisian night. Why do all these "lasts" have to come so quickly? Where did the time go when I was having all of my "firsts"? When I had no idea where the 7th arrondissement was. When I didn't know a macaron from a chocolate chip cookie. When I couldn't tell a Bordeaux from a box of Franzia. It's 10:26pm Paris time, and my flight back to the U.S. leaves in 13 hours. Last week's sheer excitement of returning home has peeled away to reveal un comportement triste. A sad demeanor. One that's difficult to explain. Maybe it's the tugging of the roots I've begun to build here. Maybe it's the memories that wash over me as I pass that familiar boulangerie along Rue St. Honoré or that spot on the Champs de Mars where I had my first sip of French wine. Or those bars in the Latin Quarter 
and St. Germain where my friends and I acted like idiots by night and laughed hysterically about our antics the next morning. Even sitting in this apartment, a place that felt like another world back in January, I can't help but recall all these memorable moments, and feel like I'm about to leave a small piece of myself behind. The red wine stain on the carpet, hidden by a strategic placement of the couch. The refrigerator where an unnamed Chi O sat eating pastries in the middle of the night. A corner of the floor where an unnamed 
Big Brother of mine passed out from some aggressive pre-gaming. The small sofa, barely able to fit 2 people, where Devyn and I sat every day, laughing about our latest adventure, lamenting over some bit of culture shock, or talking through some issue that had popped up in our lives. Never would I have thought I'd call a place other than Lansdale, PA or Washington, DC.... home. But Paris, despite some of its annoying idiosyncrasies, managed to achieve such a distinction. I've done more growing here than I could have ever imagined. Experienced so many new things, it's lucky my head didn't explode. I honestly cannot wait for the next time I'll be in this incredible city, to visit old haunts, laugh on the same street corners, stumble on the same cobblestones, sit on that same spot along the Seine, eat at that same café....and further discover all of the things Paris has yet to show me. 


I wouldn't have had the chance to leave my footprint on Paris if it weren't for a few choice people. 

First, to my parents, the people who asked why I would want to cross an ocean to take the same classes I could take at GW. I'm sure by now, you've gotten your answer. Thank you for supporting and tolerating me. With every little complaint, every request for money, and every idiotic loss of a valuable possession (no more prescription Ray-Bans for me). You stuck with me through these last six months by being my rocks back home. I promise you that one day, I'll bring you guys to the incredible places I've seen. Because if there are any people as deserving of seeing this beautiful world, it's you guys. 

Next to my brothers for keeping me sane (most importantly and keeping me updated on the goings-on of the Washington sports world. Time differences do not work out too well when you're trying to watch a Caps playoff game 6 hours ahead, or following the Skins drafting a sick QB when you're somewhere in Africa. Despite all the great people that I've met over here, the two I want to see most are you guys. Save me a seat in the basement for the next Nats game or Call of Duty session.

To my two grandmothers, whose generous Christmas gifts gave me an incredible spring break and paid for all the baguettes, escargot, and Camembert a guy could ask for. You will never know how much you guys mean to me.

Finally to all my friends with whom I shared this experience. Whether I crashed on my couch (or vice-versa) or I met you in Paris, you all made my time abroad absolutely unforgettable. I don't know how I became so lucky to grow so close to such a great group of people. Santé mes amis.

Now hate to cut this short, but there are still 2 bottles of wine that need finishing and some macarons that my brilliantly forgetful roommate left behind. Sorry, Dev, can't fit them in my bags, so why should they go to waste? If there's one thing that I learned over these last six months, it's that nothing should go to waste. Not a single second of daylight. Not a single opportunity you can seize. Not a single experience you can enjoy.  And not a single macaron. Nothing in life is meant to waste. Jump at it. Live it. And love it. 

À bientot Paris. Je ne vous oublierai jamais.

As the Sun Begins to Set...

There I stood. On the cliffs of Oia, the iconic town atop the northern point of Santorini, Greece. This was my view. Five months of jumping around Europe like it was my own personal playground, and this was the grand finale. Something hit me as I gazed out at the blazing lightshow radiating across the sky. There's a funny thing about sunsets. When they begin, they seem to take forever to pass. The sun moves so slowly, never appearing to get any closer to that horizon. On its way, it shines a final light across the world, like close friends getting in one last wave goodbye before parting. But as the sun touches the horizon, you notice how fast it's actually moving, how close it is to disappearing. And the second you realize how fast it's going away, you want it to stay as long as possible. To light up the world, in which you feel so lucky to be alive. Yet it keeps going, eventually sinking below the horizon, leaving twilight in its wake. In that sunset, I saw my abroad experience. The second my feet hit French soil at the beginning of January, mid-May seemed a lifetime away. But over the past few days, time has sped up, bringing me closer and closer to that flight home on Friday, May 18th. I want to hold on to this experience as long as I can. I want to still see the sun shine on the landscape of these last five months. I'm not ready for them to disappear beneath a horizon and exist only in the darkness memory. Yet the sun keeps moving faster and faster as it sets on my abroad experience, shedding its last light on some incredible memories. Especially the one's I made over the past six days I spent in Greece. Like climbing up to the top of a rocky bluff, overlooking all of Athens.

Or lounging in the sun for 7 hours on our ferry from mainland Greece to Santorini, drinking Heinekens, and munching on all kinds of food like we were ocean royalty.

As the sun kept setting, more memories of my Grecian adventures kept lighting up in my brain. Arriving in Santorini's port, passing gigantic cruise ships and fishing boats, all bobbing on the surface of the water, juxtaposed in their size, but equal in their claim to the sea.

Hopping on ATV's, tearing through the dirt of the island, and whizzing past jaw-dropping, panoramic views of Santorini and the Aegean sea. Finding our own little corners of the island. Or even following a stray dog to an incredible beach, hidden away from the main road, where we swam out to rocks to jump into 20 ft. deep water, laid out in the sun, and threw rocks for the dog to fetch. (I named the little guy Chief, but a shopkeeper later told me the locals call this particular stray Emilio).

Taking a cruise on a wooden boat around the island, hiking up a volcano, eating fresh seafood, drinking rum and cokes, and jumping off the boat to swim in the middle of the Aegean Sea.

All of these moments flashed through my mind as the sun continued to set, and I couldn't help but wish that these great times would last forever. Because the sun wasn't just setting on the island of Santorini, it was setting on the most incredible experience I could have ever asked for. Not just here in Greece, but over the last five months in London, Barcelona, Amsterdam, Dublin, Marrakech, Rome, Florence, and everywhere else I managed to go. And especially Paris, a city where I've had some of the greatest experiences I will ever have. But, like my time abroad and any good sunset, the incredible has to be cherished while it lasts. Once it's gone, you must hold on to it in your memory and hope for another moment just as incredible to come along. So here's to that hope. That life's incredible moments keep coming my way.

A Few Parisian Perplexities

Alright, so for the last few posts, I've been writing about how wonderful a place Paris is. How it provokes deep thoughts, craps rainbows, farts butterflies, blah blah blah. Well I just got home from almost being run over by a guy on a razor scooter in the metro, and as I stood there with my heart pumping while that idiot zipped away on a CHILD'S TOY, I got to thinking about other things in Paris that are just backwards. 

We'll start with...

ADULTS RIDING RAZOR SCOOTERS:


Now here's the thing, this isn't the first time I've seen a fully grown adult riding a Razor scooter here in Paris. However this is the first time I've almost been run over by one while walking through a crowded metro station, so here's my rant. Is your next destination so important to get to, that you need to bring ANOTHER mode of transportation to get to your connecting metro train? I sincerely doubt that a brisk walk would not yield a similar pace, sir. It would also save you the embarrassment of looking like a complete tool with that stupid thing strapped around your shoulders and the bright green, infantile HELMET. Yeah, as nicely fitted as your fancy european suit is, you just lost all credibility when you hopped on a means of transportation that human beings typically stop using when they start hitting puberty. Unless they're hipster and trying to be ironic in traveling by means nobody else uses anymore. But we just roll our eyes at them.


Next...


LACK OF SHOWER CURTAINS:

Okay, so in Paris it's hard to complain about slow service in restaurants or tons of people smoking cigarettes because these behaviors are rooted in the French 
culture. Smoking is a very social activity and service is typically slow in cafés because the French like to sit for a long time and enjoy their meals. However, there is no human being in the world, regardless of culture, who enjoys slipping and falling on their bathroom floor because there is a gigantic puddle of water splashed across the tile. The designers of bathrooms in America have fixed this problem with a revolutionary product known as a shower curtain. For any Parisians reading this blog, a shower curtain is a waterproof barrier that is hung around the exterior of a shower to prevent water from spilling onto the bathroom floor. I know, completely ingenious. In almost every bathroom of every Parisian apartment I've entered, a shower curtain is nowhere in sight. Most just have this sort of half wall that seems more pointless than an umbrella in the desert. Yeah nice token effort there French bathroom designers, but the place still floods when I shower, so why don't you put down the baguette and head back to the drawing board.


OVERBEARING PHONE BEHAVIOR:

This is probably a cultural thing, but it’s just something so glaring and different from how I’m used to communicating via text messaging, I had to make a note of it. Here’s the story. A bunch of us were at a bar last week, having a few drinks, standard Friday night. My scarlet letter of a roommate began to engage in some DFMO-ing with a French gentleman. Innocent enough. More power to you, Dev. She woke up the next morning to multiple texts reading “it was super great to meet you last night” and “did you get home good?” and “can’t wait to see you again.” All these texts would have been perfectly fine if every other word wasn’t interrupted by a smiley face emoticon. Not just a normal smiley face emoticon, but a smiley face emoticon with a nose. That’s right, we’re talking one of these… :-) . Now to an American, the use of an emoticon typically indicates that you want ON the other person big time, so these texts SCREAMED overly aggressive and creepy. Combine that with the fact that the guy used a nose, and it was like he was trying to bang down our apartment door while holding a box of condoms. Now once again, this is probably a cultural thing, but I couldn’t help docking this guy some man points with each emoticon he texted, and 10 man points when he sent one right after the other. “:-) ;-)” Relax dude. Take a lap and try again. Despite my misgivings, Devyn agreed to go on a date with the guy, coming to find that he is a French swimmer training for the Olympics and studying engineering. Smart, athletic, seemed like a catch for her. But alas, all credit was lost throughout the days following the date. The over-emoticoning progressed to multiple calls per day, the record topping out at 11. This is where I’ll throw the culture excuse aside. Whether you’re French, American, or Martian, if someone calls you an amount in the DOUBLE DIGITS, we’ve officially reached Restraining Order status. Needless to say, Devyn never got back to her overbearing French gentleman. Ah well, at least she got a free meal out of it.

ILLEGAL KETCHUP REBOTTLING:

People say that ketchup is “the Irishman’s gravy.” This couldn’t apply more to my Irish soul as I drown my burgers, fries, potato chips, mac and cheese, even sometimes my pizza into a big pool of ketchup, much to the disgust of my fellow diners. I also epitomize brand loyalty when it comes to ketchup. It’s Heinz or nothing. Don’t give me any of that Hunt’s crap. There’s a reason Jimmy Buffett says “Heinz 57 and french fried potatoes” in "Cheeseburger in Paradise." Because it is the ONLY ketchup to eat. So imagine my happiness when I found that most of the restaurants here in Paris had Heinz bottles sitting on the tables. Then imagine my disgust when I first dipped my frites into a big ocean of delicious tomatoey goodness and found that it tasted nothing like Heinz. I was put off when I first encountered this, but as it kept happening again and again, I became downright angry. Hey café owners, you can’t pull a fast one on me. This guy grew up eating his own weight in Heinz 57 each month. I know everything from that delicate balance of sweetness and acidity, to the exact spot on the glass bottle to tap to ensure a generous deluge of my revered condiment. So who are you to bismirch the good name of Heinz 57 with your generic French swill? Plus I’m pretty sure presenting a different product in another company’s label is not entirely legal. You’re lucky the French legal system doesn't engage in civil lawsuits. Because I would a legal team on you faster than you could bring me another plate of frites...which of course I'd want to bathe in Heinz.

PLACEMENT OF LIGHT SWITCHES:

I’ve adjusted to this nonsensical difference, but let me take you back to my first week of classes when I went to the bathroom during my French class. I entered the bathroom, the door closed, and I was plunged into darkness. My hand instinctively reached to the wall to the right of the door, but it passed futilely along the smooth wall. Try number 2. Left wall of the door. No light switch there either. Now I was just plain confused. In the dark. Literally. The next 5 minutes were spent blindly flapping around the bathroom, hoping to find that mystical light switch. My attempts managed to haphazardly turn on the hand dryer, the sink, and I think I flushed the toilet around 4 times before giving up. From the sounds I was making, anyone outside the bathroom likely thought its occupant was having a seizure. Flummoxed and confused, I found the door and exited the dark, perplexing world of a French bathroom, I noticed a little switch a few feet down the hallway wall from the door. Flicking it up caused the light to immediately illuminate the bathroom. Really? It didn’t make sense for the electrician to put the switch to a light IN THE ROOM IT WAS ACTUALLY IN? “Nah, that’s just plain idiotic,” the guy probably thought. “Let’s put the switch a few feet away OUTSIDE the bathroom.” As I've continued to do my business in more bathrooms around Paris, I’ve found that this was the mindset of most French electricians. I wish I had known that before I spent an obnoxious amount of time in the bathroom blindly searching for a light switch. Especially during my first days of French class. The evasive light switch took up so much of my time; people probably thought I was pooping. Awesome first impression, Ryan. Awesome.

A Refuge from the Rain

You know a few blog posts ago when I went on and on about how the weather in Paris has been fantastic? About how we all lounge in Paris' myriad parks and enjoy picnics all day? Well, Mother Nature has turned on the city of Paris, turning the last two weeks into France's version of monsoon season. That cabin fever that I felt during the Parisian Ice Age back in February has started to sink in again. Where can I go apart from my apartment and school to stave off the inevitable insanity? This was my dilemma during the first week of my rain-induced prison. Having recently finished The Hunger Games series, I figured it was time to find a new book to read. And let's face it, when I head back to the US and DC life, the mystical activity of "reading for pleasure" will be disappear. 

Enter Shakespeare and Company. Probably the most famous bookshop in Paris, immortalized by writers like James Joyce, Ezra Pound, and Ernest Hemingway. Hemingway describes the shop perfectly:

"A lovely, warm, cheerful place with a big stove in winter, tables and shelves of books, new books in the window, and photographs on the wall of famous writers both dead and living." 
                 -Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

Little did I know that when I stepped through that door to simply buy a book and continue on my way, I would return every night for the following two weeks. The place is like something out of a book itself. All sounds from the city outside die away. The smell of old leather from the worn books gives the place an air of a time gone by. I'm very old-fashioned when it comes to how I read. I buy newspapers and read them in the morning when I'm at home in DC. I will never read from a Kindle, Nook, or iPad. There's just something about holding a book, turning that page, feeling the paper underneath your fingertips, that furthers your connection to the story held within its pages. A book feels like it has life to it. When text is read from a screen, it feels too sterile, too soulless. There's a character to books that no e-reader could ever replicate. To me, the experience of reading a book imprints a story on the book itself, a story completely different from the one contained within its pages. You can look back on old books you've read and see the food stains from your fingers or watermarks from tears that might've fallen as you read. You can recall your own memories reading it, what you were doing, where you Books become precious tokens that way. So as I weaved throughout the towering stacks and shelves of books, I felt right in my element.

Venturing to the back of the store, I found a staircase leading up to a reading room. Nestled into a soft, squishy, time-tattered armchair was the book Fall of Giants by Ken Follett, an author a friend of mine had recommended to me a while back. Just sitting there, as if the bookstore was inviting me to sit and stay awhile. So awhile I stayed. For six hours. And then again the next night. And the night after that, each time hiding the near 1,000 page book under different shelves. It was like forming a secret bond with the shop that only we knew about. This place became a refuge for me, a literary sanctuary where I could escape the rain, read to my heart's content, and even listen to the occasional person play a little number on the shop's quaintly out-of-tune piano.

Imagine my excitement the other day when I clicked onto a friend's blog to see a post dedicated to her love of Shakespeare & Co. Here's the link. Maddie Hendricks. Insanely gifted writer. http://alexmadparis.tumblr.com/

Finally! I had someone to share this place with. Enough people had already discovered it, judging by the notes and letters taped and thumbtacked to the walls upstairs, written in all different languages, extolling the bookshop for providing a little slice of the world where everything was peaceful. Where you could just lose yourself.

The bookshop even gave me a little reward for my loyalty the other night. It was around 7pm when I had settled into my armchair by the piano to start devouring more of Follett's excellent fictional pre-WWI tale. An Irish girl, Eileen, who works at the shop came up to let people know that a book reading was about to start downstairs followed by a Q&A session with the author. As I went down the stairs to check it out, I found that it was a book reading for a new novel The Paris Correspondent written by Alan Cowell, a British journalist currently working as a foreign correspondent in Paris for The New York Times. An incredibly well-known reporter, Cowell has been stationed all over the world, covering conflicts in the Middle East, Turkey, Africa, and Egypt. His new book weaves his own personal experiences into a fictional story of foreign correspondents in Paris. As a Political Communication major, my interest peaked big time, and I found myself a seat in the middle of the already large crowd. The following hour and a half was something that would have made my fellow SMPA nerds drool from the mouth. Cowell read bits from his book and engaged the audience in a discussion on the current state of flux in which today's media landscape currently finds itself. How traditional media institutions are adjusting to this new, digital, 24 hour, constant news cycle. It was out of this world. To top it all off, wine and cheese was served afterwards. Because Paris. Cowell mingled through the crowd in the tight maze of bookshelves, even making his way to me. For a few minutes, we discussed how young adults, like myself, can enter the political media fields. We even scratched the surface on how new media technologies have influenced events seen in the Middle East and North Africa with the Arab Spring. So basically, I got to discuss topics like those over wine and cheese with an award winning New York Times foreign correspondent. And get a copy of his book autographed, which I'm currently 97 pages into. The accolades to this guy's writing are immensely well-deserved. 

So an escape from this omnipresent raincloud led me to one of the most memorable moments I've had abroad. As I get closer and closer to going home (which, don't get me wrong I'm incredibly excited for) I can't help but think that it will be these little discoveries, especially that bookshop, that I'll miss the most.

Mrs. Donovan Goes to Paris...

Call it being psychic, call it mother-son intuition, call it a lucky guess, but as I sat in my apartment around 11am on April 5th, I felt impelled go downstairs and check if my Mom was here yet. As soon as I opened the big metal door to the courtyard of my building, an airport van turned down my street, and a huge jolt of excitement coursed through my veins. Kathy Donovan had arrived in Paris.

Over the past 4 months, I've built a life in a completely different country, one she had never been to. I owe both my parents so much for giving me the opportunity to build this life. They never got an opportunity like this - to live abroad and to explore the world. They were too busy building the incredible family and life that I grew up with. So the six days my Mom was going to be in France would only be the beginning of me paying her back. Of course, as any family knows, when Mom's happy, Dad's happy, so it was an indirect thank you to my Dad as well. I'll also get him Redskins season tickets one day, so you're getting taken care of too Dad. Don't you worry. 


The six days flew by faster than the space shuttle Discovery flew across the DC sky today (yeah to all you people posting pictures of it on Facebook, can't tell you how jealous I am). I was completely neurotic when it came to every little detail. I wanted everything to be perfect. As I've regaled my parents on Skype with tales of my crazy adventures, the sights I've seen, and the people I've met, there's been a part of me that felt disgustingly spoiled. At a mere 21 years old, I've seen more of the world than my parents have, and it just doesn't seem right. This was one of the many things my Mom and I talked about while she was here, and we attributed it to the fact that our parents' generation lived in a different time, when the world felt a lot bigger. The technology that brings the world to our fingertips today did not exist when they where young. However, everyone deserves to see the world. That's why I wanted everything to be perfect. 


From her first view of the Eiffel Tower:

To her first crepe:

To her first view of the Mediterranean Sea as we took to the French Riviera for the weekend:

Of course, things never go perfectly, but that's when something makes for a funny story later on. EXAMPLE: I accidentally had us get on the wrong train to the French Riviera, so we spent the first half of the journey without seats, just chilling in the train stairwell watching a movie on my laptop. We simply rolled with the punches and eventually reached the southern coast of France. We stayed in this village right next to Nice, Villefranche Sur Mer, which was aboslutely perfect. Away from the hustle and bustle of Nice, the quiet village nestled into the mountains gave us a relaxing setting and a breathtaking view:

Each new experience made my Mom light up. Every bite of food, every new vista, every sip of wine. Even racking up a 36 euro bar tab at the Monte Carlo casino on just 2 cocktails.

Our last night in the Riviera eventually arrived. As we were sitting at dinner at a quaint, little seafood place nestled in the port of Villefranche Sur Mer, my Mom asked me how I was going to approach the task of writing about her visit to France. I told her that I always like to write about something with a purpose in mind. I don't just like to give an hour by hour account of what I did every day. There has to be a point, a lesson, something that I got out of that experience. We racked our brains as the wine kept flowing and the chocolate soufflé was served.

Our stomachs stuffed with the fluffy chocolate creation, we finally came to a conclusion. What I got out of my Mom's trip to France. 

Throughout her trip, my Mom kept saying that while I was growing up, when she was driving me to soccer practice or cleaning my skinned knee after falling off my bike, she never imagined I'd be leading her through France one day. Those six days were a turning point in the relationship between my Mom and me. I finally felt like an adult around her. What's more, she LET me act like an adult. There weren't any "Because I said so"s or "I'm your mother, so I'm right"s. Coming from me, there weren't any "You're not fair"s and "Are we there yet"s. It was like we both reached this point in our relationship where we both were equal, having had life experiences the other hasn't had, but wanting to learn from each other's respective experiences. Now this doesn't mean that I'll return home all high and mighty over my parents like "I know so much more about the world" because that just isn't the case. Both my parents and I have lived incredibly different young adult lives. I know how to jump around Europe, while they actually understand what the hell a mortgage is. I've eaten escargot in Paris and gnocchi in Italy, while they actually know how to prepare a legitimate Thanksgiving feast. So I guess what my Mom's visit taught me is that as you grow up, you will never NOT have something to learn from your parents. It's just that they will start having some things to learn from you.

Oh, and another thing I learned is that if you want to make your Mom cry, take her on a dinner cruise along the Seine that ends with the Eiffel Tower sparkling above her.

Hopefully she'll remember this moment the next time I piss her off. Which, let's face it, will likely be within the first hour I get home.

And Now A Word From Devyn's Mom...

We have a guest blogger, folks. April has basically been "Parents Visit Month" here in Paris. We had my roommate Devyn's parents here for a week, and my Mom came the day they left. So here's a bit of insight from the one and only Mrs. Tami Brauer:

Being the parent of a college student studying abroad definitely has its perks! Number one is they miss you more and really appreciate anything that reminds them of  home... even us!  Coming  to visit means bringing all their spring clothes, Wawa coffee, peanut butter and other things that they need and miss. It's not like they can't get peanut butter  in Paris, it  just costs 8 euros for half the size  jar as in the US.  They also get to eat out  in restaurants that they would never spend their  own budget on. We take them shopping and fill up the refrigerator with enough food to last more than a few days. I have to say the food  in France was incredible and don't understand why everyone  there is so skinny. Everywhere you look is a boulangerie  and patisserie that sells the most beautiful and delicious pastries and bread that could kill any low carb diet. How do they do it? Wine at every meal, amazing bread,  everything is made with the freshest butter and cheese and to top it off, creme  brûlée!  Immediately you can tell the Americans from the French. Only the Americans were fat!

We are truly glutens for punishment. Here in the US we like everything "super sized". In France the portions are just enough. Nothing is wasted and they look at you funny if you ask to "take away" leftovers.  That brings me to another point...the waiters.  Since the tip is already factored in they don't care that you wait  a half hour for a menu or if they ignore you altogether because you don't speak French.  I noted how these waiters wouldn't make any money in American restaurants with that level of rudeness. 

Probably the greatest perk of studying in Europe is the ease of travel to other locations and countries. We took a train to Nice and stayed in a really cute "flat" right on the beach.  This allowed us to explore the entire French Riviera  and even drove right into Italy for lunch, then back to France for dinner.  No passport was needed at all. Each village was something out of a fairy tale or a bigger version of Epcot. The road along the coast weaved in and out of small towns with cobblestone streets. There were amazing views of the mediterranean sea all along the route.  Our favorite was the  mountain village Eze with a  castle hotel at the top.  Next time we are staying there... $3600 a night!   We saw Monaco and Monte Carlo where Devyn gambled  and lost legally for the first time. Everything was perfect....until the train ride home! We took the last train back to Paris from Nice and were moving along fine until we got to Toulon.  After 30 minutes of trying to figure out what was going on and not understanding the language we  became very frustrated. People were getting off  the train and chatting in French. Nobody outside would tell us  what was going on. Announcements over the speaker system sounded like gibberish. Everyone seemed calm but annoyed. My faith in French culture was wearing thin. Employees of the train came into the car and spoke to  only a select few. Eric asked a women  across the aisle if she spoke English. Luckily she did and could tell us what was going on. She told us someone jumped on the tracks and committed suicide.  She explained every announcement.  She made sure we understood what to do. They had to send the train back to Nice for the night and then leave in the morning. They announced that if anyone didn't have a place to stay overnight they would find a " solution".  That's when she asked if she could call and get us a room too.  Her husband made arrangements for a hotel  for us near the train station. The" solution" for everyone else was to sleep on the train. So our new best friend took us and even told us she would wait downstairs in morning and go to station with us. I was amazed. Everyone we had  met in France up to this point was  not at all friendly or helpful.   She was like a "guardian angel". Even when our 5:30am alarm didn't go off she found our room and knocked to wake us up. Not even in America  would that happen. What I found out was she was a Palestinian that was forced to leave  her country as a child and her family was in Kuwait when Sadam Hussain invaded. She married a French man and is a social worker in Paris. If anyone should be a social worker it should be her. We spoke for the entire 8 hour train ride. What I realized  was that because she endured so much hardship  in her life she wanted only to help people. Whats no food or water  for 8 hours when bombs are going off outside her home. When we finally got back to Paris I hugged her for all her help and couldn't thank her enough. 

I feel so blessed to have shared in Devyn's  travel abroad experience. This will not only open her eyes to the different cultures in the world but inspire her to make a difference too. 

Now that we're home safely and getting ready for Passover I will think about all the places in the world where  education, safety, freedom, and food are scarce and I will say a prayer for them.  My wish is that there are many more " guardian angels"  out  there to help them be safe!  I now know that Devyn will be one of them! 

My Official Induction into the French Guild of Pretentiousness

France bestowed on me its highest honor in Nice last weekend - a spot in their Guild of Pretentiousness. As beautiful as the French Riviera was, and as great as it was to spend time with my Mom, this had to be the best 2 minutes of my time along the southern coast of France. The induction ceremony is simple. What you need is a group of non-French speaking tourists and 2 or more French speakers with at least one being a native of France. The procedure goes...Talk in French about the tourists' stupidity. That's it. See? Told you it was simple.

The French planned my induction ceremony in a beach-gear shop right off the shoreline in Nice. I had just orderedmy lunch order at the café on the beach where my Mom and I were eating. The sun became too annoying, and I needed a cheap pair of sunglasses. I walked into the nearby shop, muttered a quick "Bonjour" to the shopkeeper, and went to the glasses rack. Three adults speaking English entered the shop right after me. By their accents, they all seemed of Indian descent, and a quick glance over my shoulder confirmed my assumption. As I was trying on different pairs of sunglasses, I couldn't help but overhear the adults asking the shopkeeper prices of various tote bags he had in stock. Then they began bartering with him, asking the man if they could have the 30 euro bag for 20. "Oh this should be good," I thought. The next few minutes saw an angry cultural clash of people used to bargaining for goods and a shopkeeper used to a market of fixed prices.


"No!" the shopkeeper shouted in English. "In this country, the price is the price, and that's it. I do not know where you are from but you must respect that!"


"20 euro."


"NO!"


"25 then?"


"30 euro is the price. If you do not want to pay that, please leave my store."


"Okay fine I pay 30."


The shopkeeper let out an exasperated sigh as he went behind the counter to ring the gentleman up. I had  approached the register at that point, so he rang me up first. As he took my sunglasses to scan, he says:


"Ces étrangers, quel cauchemar."
"These foreigners, what a nightmare."


Taken aback for a second, I realize "Holy crap he thinks I'm French....Don't. Blow. This." 

I respond nonchalantly:
"Oui, c'est différent ici et ils ne le respectent jamais. C'est difficile."
"Yes, it's different here and they never respect/comply with it. It's difficult."


Shopkeeper:
"Oui, et si je dis quelques choses, c'est comme je parle à mur."
"Yes and if I say something, it's like I'm talking to a wall."


Me:
"Ah je sais, je sais. Alors bonne chance!"
"Ah I know, I know. Well, good luck!"


Shopkeeper:
"Merci, bonne journée et bons pâques."
"Thanks, have a good day and a good Easter."


Me:
"Oui et vous aussi."
"Yes and you too."


I walked out of that shop feeling like the coolest person in the world. A French person thought that I was a fellow French native who turned up their noses at idiotic tourists. Being welcomed into the Guild of Pretentiousness was probably the highlight of my time in Nice. The water suddenly looked bluer, the sun shone brighter, the food tasted better, and my French flowed smoother. Who knew being such a snobby ass could feel so good? 

Well...I guess the French do.