Category: Ma Vie en France

The final countdown: Amsterdam Edition

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Wow, that sounded way more final than I meant it to. But nonetheless, it is true. I am in my last week of classes here in Aix and being the considerate friend and blogger that I am, I decided to give all of you study-holics and insomniacs who are in finals mode a new way to procrastinate that doesn’t include Robot Unicorn Attack or likealittle.com (it’s just creepy). A new blog post! (applause)

So before the final week of classes began, I had my final trip. And what better way to end 4 months of Euro-fun than AMSTERDAM. In an effort to keep this blog readable for all ages, I’ll omit many of the morally questionable events of the weekend (not that there were any, Mom and Dad but hypothetically). I arrived with my fellow voyagers, Audrey and Laura, around 4 on Friday. We made sure to profit from the free drinks policy on the plane (Author’s note: US, please try to adopt this policy. Flyers would be MUCH happier and I’m pretty sure this would’ve avoided the Jet Blue worker freak out circa Aug/Sept 2010) and even created a flight sensative drinking game: most important rule being that when Ali freaks out, Ali has to drink. Mom, I”ve been flying without Dramamine these past few months and so the freakout have been plentiful. They lessened as the flight went on grace à our little game. Lesson learned: All these years of sleep-inducing Dramamine should’ve been replaced by white wine, rum, vodka or – most recently tested – gin. Who knew?

After arriving on Friday, I could officially start answering the question “Whatcha doin’?” with “Nothing, chillin’ at the Holiday Inn.” The 10th grader inside of me felt a great deal of pride being that since the first time I heard Chingy utter this phrase, I had – for some reason – a huge urge to use it in my day to day life. Mission accomplished. We then left our Holiday Inn and went to a coffee shop to, ya know, get some coffee. When in Rome, right? There we rendez-vous’ed with our, for lack of better phrasing, French entourage. Cultural lesson here, readers: We Americans are used to very specific directions when trying to meet up or get somewhere. And after an entire semester of reading chapter after chapter of Raymond Carrol’s “L’etrangete Francais” I thought it was all bull$hit. Turns out, she may have been right on this one: directions can be culturally based. Example: “Meet at the church.” People, this is Europe. If you didn’t know, there are churchs everywhere. The Europeans of days past were verrry adament about churches on every street just as we seem to be determind to place a Starbucks on every street corner. Thus, meet at the church gets a little confusing. Still, we managed to get by and find our way through the cobbled and snow covered streets of the ‘Dam.

Saturday: huge ititerary (how badly did I butcher that spelling?) With only 48 hours in Amsterdam, Audrey made sure to wake us up at the crack of dawn to really take advantage of our time. Her shrill, morning-person voice still echoes in my ears…at least she followed through on her promise of coffee within 5 mins of waking up. Nonetheless, we started early and got a lot done! First stop: Van Gogh museum – which turned out to be a great way to pass time in a culturally educational fashion because it was blizzarding outside. Then IAMSTERDAM sign, then a park (see Facebook for photos) and then the Heineken Brewery, all while trudging through the continually falling and ever so slippery Amsterdam snow. The rest of the night went in typical Amsterdam fashion – coffee shop, Red Light District, general loss of morals and my soul. No big deal.

Sunday: Anne Frank house. Truly one of the best experiences I’ve had since in Europe. We went the four of us and I’m pretty sure not more than 4 words were uttered upon entering the half-museum, half-memorial to the writer of one of the most celebrated journal’s of all time. I found myself holding back tears, many times without even knowing I was about to cry, upon re-reading the lines of the Diary I had read so many years ago. I found it only fitting to finish the visit with a copy of the book that came from the Annexe itself. But to me, the best part of this visit was the way that they made the issues relevant today. Interactive features that created ties to present societal issues of persecution and prejudice help the legacy of Anne Frank to live on in a capacity that isn’t just a remembrance, but a precedence and an applicable example. In this way, Otto Frank’s dreams and wishes have been acheived: tolerance will forever be relevant and in this way, we can use Anne Frank – her words, thoughts, wishes – today. I will always find it amazing how much relevance history has (and always will have) in contemporary society not just from a political and economic standpoint, but from a moral point of view as well.

We left Amsterdam Sunday afternoon – tired but well-toured; praying for sleep but instead receiving a death-defying flight home. I swear, I was preparing in my head for where I would exit in the case of a water landing. Still, we arrived – safe and generally sound – just in time for our last week of classes here at AUCP. And speaking of, I now have my last art class. Author’s note: Art classes generally tend to be more trouble than they’re worth – especially if you’re someone who just really isn’t an artist and, honestly, just took the class because you didn’t want to take anything that would involve using your brain. I now know for next time.

Hope this provided sufficient procrastination! Now get back to work – most of you have finals to take and I don’t want to come back and hear you crying about how you failed. Good luck little Smarties! À bientôt!

And maybe things really are meant to be…

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My “religious” philosophy and idea of faith is undoubtedly confusing and convoluted. But for those of you who have sat through my long and winding explanations of why our lives are glorified RL Stine Choose-Your-Own-Ending novels, I think I have a newfound appreciation for the author’s ability to foreshadow. There have been clues, the more I think about it, that I would end up here in Aix. And after writing a reflection on Alphonse Daudet’s “Lettres de mon Moulin” I realized that Paris, or anywhere else in the world for that matter, was never really an option for me because, en fait, I was always supposed to end up here. I was never overly educated in the small towns of France – in fact, the most I heard of them was when Belle sang of her life “in this small Provencal town” in the opening sequence of Beauty and the Beast.

But, for some reason, ever since being assigned the artist Paul Cezanne in 7th grade for a French project on French artists, the name “Aix” has always stuck with me. It would pop up at random moments – in conversations, in paintings that I came across at random junctures of my life, in articles that I’d find dispersed throughout the pages of my morning paper (yes, I’m a 50 year old businessman at heart). And upon hearing these simple three letters strung together into a word, my mind would race back to an image of a bearded artist who spent his life around these cobblestone streets that all lead back to the Cours Mirabeau. I’m no art connoisseur, as many of my Art History aficionado-friends can attest to, which makes it all the more surprising that this project of little life importance would stick with me so much throughout my life. And I guess, in the end, I can thank Miss Kress for helping the author of my Life Novel write me a chapter where I spend 4 months in the South of France.

Still, it’s strange realization to come to – knowing that you’re just where you’re supposed to be, no matter how much you cried and said you wanted to go home in the beginning. I believe now that all the butterflies, all the anxiety, all the half-pronounced, half-swallowed unsure French syllables, were pre-written to bring me to my current point: far more self-assured, far more self-reliant and far more confident with my ability to overcome any difficult situation. And I think that’s what I was directed here for. I’m pretty sure that this chapter of Ali Vitali was meant to be one of character development and overcoming obstacles – another example, I’m sure, of foreshadowing because I’m positive that another circumstance like this will come up in my future. Knowing me, nothing can be done easily – everything has to be a battle of sorts, usually of my own doing. Yes, Dad, like father like daughter. But we come out better off that way, don’t we? At least, I think we do. And now I can go back to sitting in the closest thing to a PJ’s Coffee Shop I found here, Book In Bar, and enjoy the fact that, for right now, I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Everything really does happen as it should.

Happy November 25th!

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That’s right readers, it’s Thanksgiving. In celebration of this American holiday that my current country has really no idea what it’s all about – someone even had to clarify “you eat turkey, right?” – I’m sporting the All-American I’m-From-NY look. Yup, you guessed it: tall Uggs, tucked into jeans with a ratty, old, torn, should-never-be-worn-in-public-B’Cliff Bears Football sweatshirt. Hey, a girl’s gotta rep her country.

That being said, I’m going to take a turn to slight more serious town and say that while it’s weird actually having classes over this time of holiday cheer, it’s even weirder not being able to spend it with the people who matter most to me – especially when all I want to do is attack my sister with hugs, kissses and assorted Green Wave apparel to congratulate her on her recent admission to Tulane. I honestly could not be prouder and no matter what she decides, I’m behind her 1,000%. AUCP, my program here, is trying to make this not-home-for-the-holidays experience slightly more homey by hosting a Thanksgiving dinner here tomorrow night, so I do get to celebrate with some turkey and 106 of my closest fellow French-speaking Americans and their host families and friends. But there’s something to be said for my grandma’s old recipe of cranberry sauce where she’d always manage to slip ever so slightly on the amount of alcohol she put into the bowl. (Yes, she put alcohol in her cranberry sauce. Yes, that’s what drew me to taste it in the first place.) My mind right now is winding back the calendar pages as it focuses its blurry lens more closely on the Thanksgiving’s that have come before this…the smells of Aunt Lisa’s corn bread which always cause me to lie belly up on the couch, more full than you ever want to be, swearing I’ll never eat again; the sounds of football fans cheering on TV as their favorite quarterback throws a TD deep into the right corner of the endzone (well, unless you’re a Giants fan – then it’s probably just Eli throwing an interception); the little things that remind us of Grandma as we throw stories back and forth across the table, overflowing with steaming plates and smells; the fact that when I look to my right, left, across, even down when Mishu finds his way under the dining room table, I know that I’m home.

I’m so thankful for this experience here in France, it’s something some people only dream of doing let alone actually get the chance to do. But it’s also made me so much more appreciative of what I’ve left behind: good friends, great family and memories that are as much a part of this holiday as is the turkey and stuffing that give it it’s commercial edge and cheer. It’s important to remember on this day of thanks, the words of JFK: “As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.” And so now that I’ve uttered a couple of hundred words, I’m going to go try to live by them, regardless of how far I am from the people who I love the most. Love and miss you, family and friends! I send thousands of kisses, hugs and French amour from my little desk in Aix-en-Provence.

Et les regles continuent…

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#15. Here, Facebook vousvoyer’s you. I’ve never felt so respected by a piece of technology! For those of you who don’t know the in’s and out’s of the innate hierachal system of the French languge, there are two different ways of addressing someone in the “you” form – “tu” and “vous.” Tu is used for your friends, people you know well. Vous is for people who you need to show respect to – professors, parents, etc. Make this distinction and learn it well, it could have some prettttty big potential for a malentendu if you accidentally “tu” when you should’ve “vous”ed. So, faites attention!

#16. Balls are the closest thing you’ll get to a sorority/fraternity formal here in France, but there’s really something to be said for a nice Greek sponsored tab at a local trashy bar while you’re wearing a cocktail dress. While Saturday was fun, I’ve never appreciated being a PiPhi as much as I do now.

#16.5. I should add something here: men in uniforms are a plus. This is something we should really consider instituting back in the US for formal events – ahhem fratstars – beacuse honestly, everyone looks better in a military-esque uniform. Marines with French accents? D’accccccord.

#17. The French are, in general, “be-ers” while Americans are “do-ers.” Let me clarify (as per usual): in our class discussion today, which was the most sophisticated use of FranGlais that I’ve ever heard (and I’m fluent in this mixture, so that’s saying something) that the French can just be. And for any of you who have seen me on a stressful day, all I really want to do “is JUST BE.” Let me drink my coffee, read my book, stare into space IN PEACE! Here, that happens. Sure, you may end up 30 minutes late to an appointment but you could, if you wanted to, eat each individual flake of your perfectly buttered and baked croissant without once glancing at your watch to check the time. Unimaginable, right? And while there’s a fine line between peace and just being plain slow (something else I can’t stand), it’s kind of nice that that’s an option here. Par contre I am a New Yorker and if being here has taught me anything it’s that I cannot tolerate things done slowly when they can be done in 15 minutes or less. Guess being in France has taught me more than just language: I am aware, now, that I would be hard pressed to find somewhere other than NY to spend the rest of my life. To be honest, I’d probably stroke out before the time I hit 40 if I had to pretend that I could mosey through the streets at a glacial pace. (Really people, just a littttttttle faster!)

#18. This place has the potential to make even the Grinch like Christmas. I am that person that is insanely annoyed when radio stations play Christmas music before Thanksgiving is even over, but with my lack of connection to the outside world – this has happened far less frequently than at home. (Damn you 106.7 and your incessant need to spread cheer and good will to man!) Also normally around this time of year, I would be cursing the forced Hallmark happiness that surrounds me as I state to any and all people with ears that I hate Christmas.And it’s true – I do. But with all of these lights and little chalets lining the Cours Mirabeau, it’s hard not to feel my heart growing a few sizes. So while I still remain your lovably green and fuzzy idol of all that is anti-Christmas cheer (sorry, Jesus), it’s getting harder by the day. Someone even called me out and said that I do like Christmas and am lying to myself. I’m currently planning my revenge by taking all of her Christmas presents on the night of the 24th. Watch out, Sage!

#19. AUDREY AUDREY AUDREY AUDREY AUDREY and something else about AUDREY. Now when she reads my blog, she’s mentioned and involved 🙂 But really, she is. I just haven’t had the opportunities to really write about it. Yet.

Now to come back to our sheep (yes, that’s a phrase here)

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Now, where did we leave off with these “Rules of the Game”? Ah yes…

…#9: Always compliment a boy on his velo. If you want to make French friends, apparently this is what you’ve got to do! During an ever so unnecessary group meeting on Monday night, we were told a story of a girl who met a boy while she was buying a baguette (so French) and who walked outside, made eye contact and said “Hey, nice bike.” He, of course, reciprocated and they came to talk. She then asked him, after 30-45seconds of social graces, if he wanted to have lunch with her. He did. So he bought his baguette (he’s French) and off they went. The next time, he brought his friend Boris. It was there that Boris met Kelly, and eventually, they got married. Moral of the story: compliment someone’s bike if they’re outside your local patisserie. Authors note: I just learned that Kelly and Boris have divorced. With this new knowledge in mind, make your choice of whether or not to speak to the boy on the bike. His best friend could be a heart breaker.

Rule #10: Be an ice queen. Apparently, French guys like this. For the two boys in our program, they must also play the role of Ice Queen. The validity of this rule is still being tested…

(Are you getting the idea that our director just wants us all to find husbands here?)

Rule #11: Abroad is abroad. We’re here to explore, not study. This mentality so eloquently put by the one and only Christina Houser has dominated my actions thus far in France. But after receiving a rather abrupt letter from the Abroad Office about my grades transferring – something I choose to forget quite often – I guess I need to come back to my moutons and lance into my studies. But not before partaking in Rule 12…

Rule #12: It’s always acceptable to get drunk off champagne with your host family, even if it’s after wine class on a Wednesday, and especially if it’s your host brother’s birthday. And so was my night last night. After having been certified in the degustation of wine – certificate and all! – I came home to find apertifs and a bottle of champagne waiting for me. Merci, David!  It’s always a little awkward being drunk in the presence of a freshley 45 year old “brother” and his 60+ year old mother, but things definitely got interesting when I smiled a little too big when David, describing Amsterdam, said: “il y a des coffee shops partout.” I laughed (nervously), he laughed (knowingly) – but c’mon, everyone knows why college students go to Amsterdam. I downed the rest of my champagne and he promptly refilled me. And so it went for the rest of the bottle.

Rule #13: No feet on the seat! Another encounter with the French but this time I was lucky enough to be a bystander while my friend Jamie got verbally smacked for having her shoes on the seat on a public bus on our way back from Prague. The couple in front of her, having only just sat down, turned around and expressed their inner rage at her infuriating actions! “Do you do that at your house?” She took her feet down. I’m not even surprised anymore – or I shouldn’t be – this kind of thing seems to happen pretty souvent.

Rule #14: Balls exist. At least, this weekend they do. I’ll let you know how this goes…Marie Claire’s last student passed out in our bathroom (naked!). I hope to fare better than her. The way I see it, if I can make it through Mardi Gras clothed, I can do this. And yes, parents, I make it through Mardi Gras clothed – albeit, in neon.

“Is this gonna last forever?”

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So I’m realizing as I continue further into my abroad experience that we are now beginning the beginning of the end. Wow, that’s redundant but nonetheless true. As we were enjoying our new purchase of Belgian chocolates in the Brussels airport on our way over to Prague (where I currently sit in Suzy’s living room writing this entry as she naps off last night’s escapades), we realized that our lives really are unreal. I, of course, related them immediately to David After Dentist. If you have no idea what I’m talking about and have just crawled out from under your rock to read this blog, create a new tab, go to YouTube and type in David After Dentist. Watch it and then continue. Did it? Good. The Remix is worthwhile, too, so now you have something to preoccupy your time after you finish reading this too. Thank me later.

Anyway, right now I find myself in between when the drugged out little child asks “is this real life?” and “is this going to last forever?” And the evil father figure filming answers, “no, bud.” And it’s true. These past four months are something I thought about ever since my older cousin, Gina, went to London for her abroad experience. What would it be like? Who would I meet? Where would I go? So many questions that always seemed to have answers so far in the future it seemed I’d never find them. And now I’m here. I’ve answered Where and Who and What – and am still answering them. But someone so eloquently reminded me that “Ali, you leave in a month and a half.” He then added that we had to take advantage of the time left – and it’s true. Now is the time to profitez-bien from the time I have left, in Aix, in France and in Europe as a whole. In the words of one of our French friends: “t’as raison faut profiter.”

But it’s strange to start looking back. I’m ready to be back in New Orleans, but I know that I’m going to miss this new lifestyle that I’ve become so accustomed to. And I wonder if I’ll experience that same culture shock I felt in those first few weeks in France. It always takes leaving somewhere to realize why you chose to be there in the first place. It happened first when I left NY for NOLA and now NOLA for France. Most of you who’ve talked to me, or maybe it’s only been Foster who’s gotten the most of this, have known that I’ve been very back and forth on France. But as I sat in the cab on the way to Suzy’s yesterday night, I bbm’ed Jamie something very Lilli-esque: L’air me semble vide sans français. I even shocked myself. But it was in that moment that I realized how changed this experience has made me. And while it’s not going to last forever, it’s going to continue for right now. Off to continue profiting in Prague…à bientôt, readers!

And we’re off (again)!

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Figured I’d post a quick blog before heading out to the Gare Routiere to catch our bus to the airport. PRAGUE THIS WEEKEND!! I have the great fortune of being able to stay with none other than the lovely Suzy Appel who has taken up residence in this land of, well, I actually don’t know what exactly Prague is famous for…but I will soon! Oh, the joys of learning while abroad. I return late Sunday night with much homework to do, as I am pretty sure that none will get done this weekend. Eh, tant pis.

In Tulane news, the demons that consistently plague the Tulane system have struck again. While having my mother register me for my courses (I lost internet….again) I found my account had been randomly disabled! Two hours of long distance calling later, they fixed the problem. Nothing is ever easy, really. Either way, schedule done and MWFs start at noon for me! This makes up for the 9h30 start on Tues and Thurs but hey, whats a little give and take once in a while?

OK off we go! Story time on Monday, readers!

“Ici, nous parlons francais.”

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For you non-French speakers: “Here, we speak French.” The “here” being in Aix-en-Provence and the “we” being a man at the bus stop who chastised my friend and I for speaking English. I was totally floored, partly because I couldn’t believe the luck I’d been having lately with old European men (see “The Oinker”) but mostly because this is exactly the kind of rude stereotype that is propagated throughout the world about my current country. This is the event which prompted the status: “The stereotypes continue to perpetuate themselves.” I’ll explain further. This man stated that if he were chez vous, that’s to say the United States, it would be disrepectful to speak anything other than English. Here, in France, it’s the same.

I’m sorry but he clearly has never left his little corner of the Rotonde. The US itself is a melange of languages, Spanish and English mostly, but in any corner of most cities you can hear some dialect, some foreign tongue and I’ve never felt the need to tell them that it’s a matter of respect to speak my language. This man probably would’ve stopped a Cajun speaking French and told him to chagne his dialect because it wasn’t true French.

He stopped talking to us after we said we were d’accord and that we understood. He started again, this time with an example of how if he went to Italy or Germany he would still speak their language, even though he doesn’t know how to. Considering that makes absolutely no sense, I’d love to see how that trip worked out. He’d either be a mute the entire trip or a babbling idiot in between the romantic sounds of French and the harsh syllables of the German language. Good luck, monsieur. He stopped again after this ridiculous example of Franglitian. We tried to return to our conversation – this time in French. He interrupted…again. “C’est pas mechant.” He said, almost trying to convince himself and the others who had started listening to our exchange. It’s not mean? Are you serious? Not only are upholding the standard of being rude, but you’re also upholding the stereotype of the crochety, mean old man.

Few things render me speechless – in fact, for those of you who know me, you probably wish it happened more frequently – but this event caught me so offguard that I’m pretty sure a part of my jaw is still laying on the ground near my bus stop. It’s because of this initial shock factor that all I could say was “d’accord” and “OK.” I even agreed that he wasn’t being mean and I’m pretty sure I said I understood his reasoning. I sat on the bus feeling, not only embarassed having been chastised like a 4 year old by this man in front of a crowd of bus-awaiting francais but also like a complete idiot who couldn’t uphold her sense of self. Could I go back and find that little old man with his brown/orange sweater vest and tufts of gray hair sprouting from his head and ears, it would be a very different conversation. One that probably would’ve upheld the stereotype of a loud ignorant American fighting for her right to speak her language where ever she wants. And maybe he was right – I’m in a french immersion program and should probably be speaking French. But to say it the way he did, maybe doesn’t come across in this article, but was absolutely, well, rude. And to talk about a matter of respect and then talk to us like that? Well that’s just absolutely hypocritcal.

“Did we just get oinked at?”

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So, I’m currently in the process of reflecting on the past 10 days of vacation. And I type this reflection to you from my bed which means, yes readers, I have finally found the solution to my internet problem. Thank you, Nathan Eberhart…and SFR. But mostly Nathan Eberhart. Anyway, my meandering thoughts brought me to one of my favorite moments in the Italy Extravaganza: the oinking 60+ year old man at the Vatican. As we 6 Americans thoroughly enjoyed our gelatos (and crepe) a little old man hobbled over, peered at us over his tortoise brimmed, oversized bifocals and then started snorting at us. Yes, I’m serious. And this wasn’t just any snort – for those of you who have heard me laugh, you know that’s saying something. Picture the most horrendous noise that you can think of, a mix of week 3 of a never ending cold/stuffy nose and Shakira’s voice when she does that tribal thing in “Whereever, Whenever.” It was absolutely, for no better word, gross! At first, we just stood there confused. Tongues poised for the next lick, the snorting noise came again – this time louder and with a vengeance. It reached our ears as the cherry and chocolate met on my taste buds. We all stopped – incredulous. Was he snorting at us!? Now, keep in mind that all of us are studying in France and, the French have a habit of commenting on those who take their food, snacks and – worst of all for me – coffees, to go. Thus, it’s not uncommon for us to overhear a “bon appetit” as we walk through the street eating our freshly prepped and bought sandwiches from the Greek stand just 5 minutes away from school. Hey, we’re busy! Still, in all of the snide remarks thrown my way by my host-countrymen, never had I encountered such a way to say “hey, Americans, get a table!”

Dana’s first response, of course: “Guys, he’s calling us fat.” And considering the amounts of pasta and gelato consumed by us on a daily basis, it was a possibility. Maybe he saw the mounds of ice cream and saw it as his window of opportunity to live us to the “Mean Old Man” stereotype. Maybe he was envious but had forgotten his wallet at home and thus, had to remain gelato-less for the afternoon. Maybe..who the hell knows. Regardless, I can say I’ve been oinked at in one of the holiest places in the world. AND that gelato was some of the best I’ve ever had. So take that Evil Oinking Man! I’m sure my reflections will breed more stories later, but my newly acquired Internet just seems to keep navigating to Ch131.com and the 3rd episode of Gossip Girl. I can’t fight with it so early in our relationship, so I should probably suck it up and watch some more absolutely horrible, but totally guilty pleasure TV. *sigh of satisfaction* Finally.