Posts (page 2)
It can't be a good thing when you walk outside in 30 degree weather, thinking it's actually not that bad out.
Of course, considering that when I left my house this morning at 9, it was 10 degrees, 30 seems practically balmy in comparison, which I suppose is the point. I've been told countless times today that this weather is incredibly rare for Paris. In fact, it supposedly hardly ever snows here, which it did on Monday as I was on my way to school. I have photos, even. Because snow in Paris? It's like a fantasy. I'll pass the metro bridge and the little pastry shops on my way to the metro, making sure not to slip on the icey side-walk, and little white flurries getting caught in my hair and settling in the trees, and all along the balconies and the roofs of Paris. Then I get to the Latin Quarter for school, across the street from Cluny, and it's this old, medieval abbey with a park next to it, covered in snow. Like a nice, historical dream, only one in which my eyeballs are freezing.
I've spent much of the past few days asleep thanks to jetlag and hormones, both of which suck and can be a serious distraction from getting back into the swing of school. Today was actually the first day back that I've felt like a real human being, and not a monster out to eat anyone who disturbs my slumber.
This morning was one of my last French Society classes, in which we discussed French politics, which are, not always obviously, very different from ours. We as Americans know, for the most part, that they're a more left-wing country than we, having an actual established, semi-popular Socialist party (that was in power for a few years in the 80s). For instance, up until 1877, the French executive branch (the "government", not the president) had the ability to dissolve at will the Parlement, which had the same power to dissolve, at will, the "government". Very effective, yes? You can imagine what happened when you had a royalist president and government against a republican Parlement.
It's weird being here without a roommate; I got used to having someone in the room with me. Not to mention, there are only about 4 or 5 other AIFS students left here until February, so my classes are empty and it's just—weird. Very different from when I left, even though it doesn't really feel like I actually did leave.
Ah, well.
My mom comes in two weeks. This is the major sale time of year for Paris, with 50% to 70% off in many major stores. Understandably, considering it's not tourist season and there's definitely a reason for that.
Brrrr.
Pictures of the snow to come tomorrow.
My last day in Paris until the new year.
The Fondue dinner on Wednesday night was excellent, even if the waiter/owner was a jerk to us for being American. It was a traditional French style restaurant, wherein there are two long tables, and everyone squeezes around them. Food is served in large portions at the center of the table that everyone shares. I ate the meat fondue; we were given a bowl of chunks of raw steak to dip into hot oil. The cheese fondue I only sampled, but it was delicious too. Then as part of the included menu, we got a fruit cocktail, and a baby-bottle of wine. By baby-bottle, I literally mean the type of bottle you give a baby (only hopefully filled with milk). It even had the rubber nipple. Drinking wine from that? A little bizarre.
Everyone has all these plans for their last day: hanging out with friends to say goodbye at the Eiffel Tower or the Champs Elysee . . . Me? I get to sit in my room, pack, eat dinner, and then I plan to go to bed early. The shuttle taking me to the airport is going to pick me up at 7:15 in the morning. I guess I'm not special enough to warrant someone to want to say goodbye to me? Ah, well. I could be going out to get some drinks later, but, um, hello? What part of waking up early and spending all day on a plane makes them think adding a hangover to the mix is a good idea? Learned my lesson on that one, thanks.
Besides, I've got some writing I need to do. I've been putting it off all week. It just sucks how the big social thing is drinking.
I'm looking forward to making cupcakes. I have some holiday-themed decorations in mind which will be fun and easy to make.
For lunch today I'm having a chili-and-rice microwaveable meal, with emmental cheese that I sprinkled on top. Mmm om nom nom. Very delicious.
Tomorrow I have the first half of a huge test in my cours practique. Tonight will involve studying. But tomorrow night, a few of us have a sort-of goodbye dinner planned at a fondue restaurant in Montmartre. It seems so surreal that I'll be home in a few days, but then again, it seemed so surreal that I'd be spending the semester in Paris, and now I have.
Speaking of surreal, apparently today a bomb was found in the Primetemps store in central Paris?
And while we're on the subject of surreal, how about the fact that I spent the weekend in Budapest, Hungary? As in, Eastern Europe? As in, a city where NO ONE speaks English, and the language is so different from any other language that it's impossible to even attempt to understand. The exchange rate was lovely, though, at 1 dollar equalling about 200 Forint (abbreviated Ft—so we took to calling them feet, seeing as we had no idea how to pronounce "Forint"). When I paid for pizza, the bill was 2,690 Ft. Sounds like a lot, right? That's around 10 euro. It was cool to hold a bill that read "20,000".
Ever seen the movie Eurotrip? Absolutely horrible film, but their depiction of Eastern Europe is accurate: bleak and depressing. The stone buildings are usually a darker stone, looking damaged or tarnished, and being an incredibly impoverished country, well, it's just bleak. The public transportation is shady, it's filthy, and basically the word I uttered most in response to the city was "sketchy." The first night, we got a cab from the airport to our hostel, and when the driver stopped, it was on a dark, deserted street across from the train tracks, with broken chain link fences and scary dogs barking on the other side. He said "This is it" and I just sat there in the back seat going "Uuuuh. This? Way sketchy." It turned out most of the city is like that. The hostel itself, however, was a house owned by a couple of hippies that has been painted brightly and decorated with the usual tie-dye/Bob Marley/peace/OM pictures and incense burning on a table by the front desk. The guys who worked there were the pot-smoking, don't-shave, typical modern-day hippies.
We slept in a dormitory style room with around 10 beds, storing our backpacks in lockers, and getting about 7 hours of sleep the whole weekend. Although I think I averaged less than that given unforseen (unpleasant) circumstances Sunday night . . . which I really will be able to laugh about once I'm far enough removed. That hasn't happened yet.
Long story short: Budapest is pretty in a sort-of second-world way. Not third-world, or completely Westernized. A mix. Lots of castles and cool old stuff, very different from France in the architecture. I wish I'd gotten to go to the Turkish baths they have there (and are famous for—natural hotsprings under the city), but one member of our group didn't want to go, and two more didn't have bathing suits, so that plan got nixed. I got lovely photos of one of the outdoor hotsprings though, which I shall be handing over to my dad when I get home (in four days—holy cow). Also, you can buy 4 4-packs of 55cl Heineken for, like, 5 euro. Not that I know this from personal experience, or anything. I'm just saying, hypothetically, that you can.
Monday morning, bright and early, I got to the Budapest airport to fly home and spent the entire flight hoping I wasn't going to puke. The flight was about an hour late, so needless to say I didn't get to class. Thankfully, I'd already informed my teacher I might not be there, and it's all good.
Yikes. I need to start packing.
PS. The Danube makes the Seine look like a creek in someone's backyard.
Tomorrow I leave for Budapest!
But today, I had class at noon, as per usual, and found it extremely difficult to drag myself out of bed at almost 11. My roommate left around then for her own flight to Budapest, which was today along with her boyfriend. We're going to meet up when I get there tomorrow. I get to class and we spend most of it going over how to say "this/that/those/these", in French. There are too many variations. On peut dire "ceux", "celles", "celui", "celle", "ce" "ce à quoi", "ce pour quoi", "ce quoi", "ça" (but that one only works when speaking, never for writing), "cela", "celle-ci", "celui-ci", "ceux-ci", "celles-ci" and the list goes on. After cours practique was my final class of phonetiques before Christams vacation, and I got my second test back. My two test scores for phonetiques are both the best grade in the class: 20/20 and 19/20. Bascially, that means I know how to pronounce things correctly.
And can I just add how frustrating it is to be learning a language in which the spelling and the prononciation depends entirely upon which century the word itself was created in? And it's not something that's obvious, or that has a pattern to follow, it's completely random and a matter of life-long memorization. Fun.
(I also find myself melanging (<--case in point) French and English unintentionally in my head or when I write. My spelling ability has gone completely out the window, too. And I used to be a damn good spell-er.)
Aphrodisiac, anyone? I went out early in the evening (as the French are wont to do) for a brief pre-meal. One of the girls ordered a platter of oysters (38,60 euro! oy!) so I was inspired to try them. To sum up: they're slimy, and don't taste horribly of anything other than whatever you decide to put on them (lemon juice and some vinagrette), but they look, frankly, like something you'd find up a troll's nose. I ate one before I decided that was brave enough and hey, at least I tried it, right?
It's bitterly cold here. And by bitterly, I mean the highs are in the mid-thirties. The sun is rarely seen, and there's a nice wind that makes your entire face hurt and is the reason earmuffs were invented, contrary to what my parents probably think. Budapest is only marginally warmer, from the forecast.
I finally got around to giving my host family the card my mom sent me (to give to them), along with a few Little Debbie Christmas Tree cakes, which she also sent me a box of. Those conversations are always awkward. I hope they don't think us Americans are gross after eating those. I adore them, but who knows? When I ate the first one after being here for 3 months, I almost spat out the first bite, it was so sweet. I didn't realise how much sugar we put in everything until I got unused to it.
10 days from today I'll be on my way home. Have I really been here for 3 months? Apparently.
Yesterday morning I got up early with a few other students to go to the catacombs of Paris. Something like 160 kilometers of tunnels beneath the city that were created when mining the stone used to build half the area. It's been both a substitute graveyard and a headquarters for military operations. Back in Napoleonic times, the cemeteries of Paris were overflowing (literally, one got so full that bodies burst out of the ground in a sort of landslide, spilling into a nearby apartment building—gross! Imagine coming home to that?) and even more bodies were just being buried in local parks (because the Edict of Nantes had been revoked and Protestants weren't allowed to be buried in cemeteries). So it was decreed that around 6 million bodies would be buried in the catacombs. I'm glad I didn't have the job of moving the bones and then arranging them inside these tunnels. Back then, candles were used to light the way, and sometimes the flame would go out. People got lost in the tunnels and died there.
Of course I loved the place. Historic and morbid. I did, however, find myself squeamish about touching any bones (no one else in the group was willing to touch them either, which is probably a good sign). Taking pictures for your viewing pleasure (or horror) was another story:
Classes are winding down, in other news, and I'm having exams interspersed with exposées. I feel like I'm in real school for the first time all semester. This weekend I head to Budapest for a few days, where I might be going caving. It depends on whether or not the hostel will arrange a special weekend tour for our group, because usually they only do caving during the week.
I know I'm not getting enough sleep, which is why tonight I've designated as going-to-bed-early night. In the morning I want to go by the Richard le Noir market that I missed Sunday for being too tired and in order to do that I have to get up at 8:30.
My list of Christmas presents-to-get is about halfway checked off. Some people are harder to shop for than others, but the market should have some cool things. If not, there's Budapest and a whole week left.
I'm looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, but I'll miss the sight of the Eiffel Tower on my walk to school everyday. The ease of the metro, where I don't have to get in a car and drive (if I even remember how). I must start figuring out how to pack the things I'm bringing home into my suitcase. This semester has gone by so fast. If I weren't coming back this would be a lot harder
"Alone" Edgar Allen Poe
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
Saw this poem today and I remembered why I liked it so much.
Anyway, this weekend has mostly been spent sleeping and preparing a 15 oral presentation on the portrait of Louis XIV by Hyacinthe Rigaud that I have to give tomorrow in my painting class, at the Louvre, standing in front of the actual painting. The idea is cool but the reality is more work than I really want to do.
In addition to school work, I spent the evening going back and forth to the laundromat. Walking down the street on my way there, I saw a man leading a string of donkeys dressed up as reindeer. Completely random group of donkeys under holiday lights, next to cars and trucks and parking meters, and no one pays them any mind. Next there was a couple in the laundromat making out while waiting for their clothes to dry. Public place, brightly lit and not at all empty, and this girl just climbs on her boyfriend's lap and—you get the point. These are the images that stuck with me throughout the day, for some reason.
Food from home that I found myself missing today: chicken pot pie and popcorn. In addition to burritos, which I've been missing since I got here.
The Sorbonne has in each classroom a coat rack with wooden hangers. Chalk boards are used instead of dry-erase. And they have a light to specifically illuminate the board. I think that's a nice indication of where the French rank education in their priorities. Although the chalk board might seem random, they never have markers die out halfway through class and because the classroom comes equipped with boxes of chalk, they don't run out of that either.
"We could've been killed. Or worse: expelled." -(Pop quiz: place that quote.)
This update comes to you from a day of classes (9:00 to 18:00) and a boredom hits whenever I'm in a classroom and lack any creative writing inspiration. It's sad that though I listen with one ear and never take notes, I still get the best grade on my Societé Française test. 18/20. Maybe a tad unfair that half the questions were about French history, history buff (not to mention major) that I am.
Yesterday in the late evening I went out to dinner at Breakfast in America, the American diner I've talked about before. I had eggs, pancakes, and bacon. Real bacon. We'd planned to go to the movies (the Duchess) but it got to be late and we did have class today. Instead we walked along the Champs Elysee lit up for Noël. Up and down the street they've set up these little white houses that during the day are shops and cafes. Some sell scarves, hats, ties, others sell Christmas decorations and trinkets, and at the cafe stands, they serve what's called vin chaud. Hot wine. It was incredibly cold last night, with spitting rain, so we got cups of said vin chaud, sipping it as we walked beneath white-lit trees. Smelling strongly of wine but tasting a mix of wine and cider, it made the perfect finish to the evening. I'm bringing home a bottle for Christmas (along with a Beaujolais-Nouveau and a wine from the Pays d'Oc).
This morning I have my early class so getting up wasn't fun before the sunrise.It gets light around 8:30 and starts getting dark at 16:00. Class is booooooring hence I get the chance to write all this. Then I have French class from 12 to 14 (cours practique) and a make-up painting class this afternoon at the Louvre. Time flies fo a history major in a city where churchs a hundred years old are new. Which means it's already December and tonight is the Lion King.
In French Society today, we're discussing food. In the Middle Ages, they didn't have tomatoes, potatoes, corn, chocolate, or coffee; meat was reserved for the nobility and the wine was undrinkable by today's standards. Cabbage and turnips were staples fo the diet, along with a grey-ish or yellow-ish colored wine. Forks didn't exist until the 16th century. They'd keep bread for years, making it not just moldy but hard as brick. In order to eat it, they had to put it in their soup. And here I think a baguette is inedible after two days.
Which is a thought that reminded me of a comment I made last week regarding a certain fad of the moment. "I think if I hear anymore fangirl squeeing over Twilight, I'm going to beat someone with a two-day old baguette." Needless to say, a months old baguette would be much more effective. The point being, of course, that I am sick of this Twilight obsession. In order for my venting to make sense, it requires some exposition:
Twilight is a book series by Stephanie Meyer about an ohsospecial girl named Bella and a vampire named Edward. Classic vamp love story: he thinks he can't be with her because (gasp!) he's dead and he'd have to make her dead too. Oh, wah. Then there's a bad vampire (versus Edward, who only drinks animal blood) who wants to kil Bella. Edward (::enter swooning fangirls::) saves her; end of first book; enter guilt about putting her in danger; cue Edward taking off for the unknown. Meanwhile, Bella spends the second book whining, pining, and trying to get herself killed because (oh noes!) Edward left her. Her werewolf neighbor tries to win her over because he loves her and they make out. Edward returns, there's a whole other book of will-we-won't-we angst between the couple, and then the fourth, most recent book. Edward and Bella get married, go on a honeymoon (but no sex), Bella gets pregnant with a half-vampire baby that kills her from the inside and fully develops in only a month. In a truly grotesque and over the top scene, the baby (unfortunately named Renesme—Rene and Esme being the names of Bella and Edward's respective mothers) bursts out of Bella's stomach, killing her quite dead. Edward decides now's a good time to vampifiy her, and the new mommy awakes, reborn, with superpowers and better at being a vampire than those who have been the undead for hundreds of years. Ohsospecial Bella, remember? It's a happy little family, including werewolf Jacob, who fins out when he first looks at baby Renesme that she is his True Love and Soulmate. ("Hey, babe, there was this one time I made out with your mom . . .")
But it's romantic. Or so say all the preteen, teen, and young adult women who adore these books. Okay, fine, to each their own, right? And if the purple prose does it for 'em, well, it's just more proof that few appreciate good writing. (An example of purple prose would be: Sue was beautiful, with long waves of chocolatey brown hair and sparkling emerald eyes.") Except in these books, Edward has "topaz" eyes and "sparkling" skin (literally—he sparkles in the sunlight. Dazzles.) Can these books get anymore ridiculous?
Oh, wait. Yeah they can. Because I haven't even gotten to the reason I cannot condone the reading of these books. They're a joke, bien sûr, poorly written, but mostly harmless, right?
Except they're not. The relationship between Edward and Bella is the definition of unhealthy. Around 70% of what ol' Eddie tells his lady-love is in the imperative—a demand. An order. And she "obey[s] silently". In one particular scene, she tries to leave but Edward grabs the back of her shirt and tells her, "You're not going anywhere" and not in a playful way. Edward—the guy hundreds of thousands of young girls think is oh-so-romantic and oh-so-sweet and oh-so-perfect and gosh! I just want my own Edward—breaks into Bella's room back in the first book and sits in the corner to watch her sleep. She has no idea he is there.
That? Not romantic. That? Is creepy. It's out-and-out stalking. How these books got to be so popular and how these girls can think such misogynistic behavior is romantic is beyond me.
Whoa. Once I get on a tangent . . . .
One of the other AIFS students has started packing. We go home in two and a half weeks. I can't believe I've been here for going on three months.
À demain.
Je ne pourrai pas dormir toute la journée comme aujourd'hui. J'ai trop de faire. La lessive, les devoirs, le menage, recharger mon passe navigo, etc.
Donc je dois me coucher plus tôt qu'hier.
I went out tonight to get dinner and groceries, and lo and behold, the city was lit up. This is the street I live off of:
The sun set today at 16:58, also known as far too early. I guess I really am living up north.
Thanksgiving does not exist here, though I wish you all a very happy one with lots of turkey and stuffing (and pumpkin pie mmmmm). I'll be dressing up in my new shoes and black dress for the dinner prepared for us American kids who are used to stuffing our faces today.
In French class this afternoon, we had two tests: one a written exam where we had to tell (using the passé composé and the imparfait and the plus-que-parfait) how we've changed from who we were five years ago. That was interesting. The other test was a listening exercise, where we listend to some snippets of French radio and had to answer questions. That one I bombed. The sound quality was really crappy, thanks to it being radio and interviews with people over telephone on the radio. But on the up side, we got out of class early, and I had time to get a panini jambon before phonetiques.
I went shopping yesterday at H&M even though we have those in the States, but they cater to different (very different) tastes and the clothes here are much more my style than the H&Ms I've been to before. It's getting to be automatic, moving around the city and using the metro regularly. Speaking of, I need to get my passe navigo recharged for December (that's the metro pass, in case you didn't know).
I'm not homesick in the sense that I want to be home. It just feels weird not to be. I don't like missing out on things, and this time of year especially, I'm so accustomed to being around family.
It's snowing today in Paris.
Not that it's adhering or accumulating, but snow is coming down and not just one or two flurries. Which I suppose is Nature's way of making up for the past two days of being absolutely, unbearably cold. Snow and Christmas are the only things that make winter worthwhile, and the week ahead looks to be the coldest we've yet had, with highs of 40 at most.
I have classes all week, including a test Thursday, because Thanksgiving doesn't exist here. The AIFS staff is holding a Thanksgiving dinner for us though, complete with turkey, stuffing, and pumpkin pie (mmm). We have to dress up to the event, which means I need to go buy shoes and skin-tone hose. I have boots and I have tennis shoes; no shoes for going with a dress. It's tragic.
This week was a bit jam-packed. I had that painting test on Monday, then a test in French Society on Wednesday, and a grammar test in French on Thursday. Wednesday night I had a classical concert on the Champs Elysee which was good for the first hour, boring the second. I love music, but those seats were uncomfortable, I was exhausted, and one song—one song—lasted an hour. These songs were written in a time when the only way to hear music was to go to a concert or play it yourself, and there was nothing better to do with your time (no listening to music while doing homework, no listening to music while you read, etc.) so these concerts were a big deal. They had to last awhile. Now they don't. I can listen to these songs on my own if I wish, while I'm on the metro in the morning or falling asleep at night. Seeing the performace live is always better, of course, but keep it shorter than two hours. Especially if you're going to sit your audience in seats with backs that point inward and are lacking in butt-cushions.
In other news, I made plans this week for two trips: one in February to Scotland (with another girl from the south—we're going to freeze!) and one to Budapest the weekend before I leave Paris for Christmas break (mid-December). I'm also in the midst of planning a short weekend in Strasbourg, where they have spectacular Christmas decorations and festivals going on from 29 Nov. thru 23 Dec. I can get a round-trip flight for $30 on AirFrance, but the taxes are what kill you. It's so worth it though. I'm so incredibly lucky to get to do all this, and experience all this. I'm hoping to visit Vienna, Prague, and Florence too at some point next semester; I've been talking with one girl who's also staying the year about a trip to Germany (Berlin and Munich, mainly). So that's my Christmas wish list: money for travel. Or clothes for the Northern European climate, which I am severely lacking in. But mostly money for travel because vain thing that I am, I do so like clothes shopping.
I learned new curse words in French, too, which is always interesting.
Friday was a walking tour of Montmartre, the hill to the north of the Seine, where one can find Sacre Coeur and the Moulin Rouge. It's an infamous artist hang-out, home to Picasso, Van Gogh, Toulous-Lautrec, and many more. Because it's situated so high up, it's windy and very cold, but offers an amazing view of Paris as a whole. I think of all the places in Paris I've been so far, Montmartre is my favorite. It's quiant, with little streets and cute buildings, lots of history, and home to the last vineyard in Paris (apparently, though, the wine is so horrible it's literally undrinkable). It's home, too, to a cabaret where I intend to go one weekend, in which there are no can-can dancers and the thing to do is sit around and sing while you drink. Supposedly a very Parisien experience, and the building couldn't be cuter. It was originally the hang-out of every n'er do well and criminal of the area; then it was bought and the new owner wanted to make it less attractive to the rough crowd. So he hired a painter (A. Gile, hence the name of the cabaret: Agile Lapin—translating to agile bunny) to paint a fluffy bunny on the front. No tough-guys are gonna go there, right? And it worked! Cleaned up the place considerably. Picasso hung out at this cabaret in his time. Gave them his paintings instead of money.
The square where the artists hang out and offer to paint you at exorbitant prices is where, back in the day, nuns used to hang people who didn't pay the tax on their alcohol. And a little further up is the metro stop Abbesses, where during the Revolution, the abbesse of the church was beheaded. The place has a morbid history, going all the way back to its name: Montmartre. Martyr Mountain, basically. It's said that Saint Denis was the first person to bring Christianity to the area of Paris, and when the people there heard of the new religion, they didn't like it or him who brought it, so they beheaded him. His corpse then picked up his own head, washed it off in the horses' trough, and walked all the way to the nearest consecrated ground (now aptly named St. Denis) and buried himself there.
Sacre Coeur is actually one of the newest churches in Paris. It was started in 1875 as a dedication to France making it through the loss of the Franco-Prussian war. It wasn't finished until 1914, when the outbreak of WWI delayed the consecration of the place, so it wasn't officially a basilica until 1919. This is what the Parisiens consider "new". The stone it's made out of looks so white not because it's frequently cleaned, but because the type of limestone gets whiter when it rains. Nifty, huh? And it's home to the largest mosaic in Europe, that covers the ceiling and walls of the center of the basilica. Like St. Paul's in London, you're forbidden from taking pictures inside, but unlike St. Paul's, you don't have to pay admission fees. This is why I like the French.
After the tour, we went out to dinner and I sampled the Beaujolais Nouveau (it was just released Wednesday night at midnight). It was quite good, though what do I know about wine other than what I like and don't? I'm bringing home a bottle to have at our Christmas Eve celebration.
Saturday, with a high not out of the 30s, we went to Versailles. Me being the resident expert on Marie Antoinette and the French Revolution, I refrained from correcting our tour guide when she made grevious errors in historical fact. Not everyone loves history like I do and I think I'm finally learning not to correct teachers when they're wrong. They don't like it much. It would take a good two full days to see the entire inside of the chateau, and another two days to see the gardens. Add two more days for visiting the Grand and Petit Trianons. The place is enormous. The chateau itself has over 700 rooms and was home to more than 10,000 people prior to the Revolution. We saw the main u-shape: the king's apartments, the queen's apartments, the Hall of Mirrors, the chapel, and the marble courtyard. I bailed before we toured the gardens though, because I couldn't bear the cold and the wind that was about to tear my face off. I get to go back in the spring anyway, when the fountains will be turned on and I'll be much more open to pulling my hands out of my pockets to take pictures.
Now I'm resting, listening to Christmas music, and eating a rasberry tart (my parents were getting on my case about eating more fruits and veggies ::grin:: ). I picked up my room and did laundry today, and I'm reading yet another biography of Marie Antoinette (it's one that I haven't yet read, surprisingly, seeing as I've read at least 5 already, plus two more that focused on Louis XVI and/or their attempted escape to Varennes). I tried to find some "French" Christmas music, but I discovered that for the most part, they listen to the same things we do: Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, etc. I did find a nice version of Noël Nouvelet on iTunes, sung by Loreena McKennitt. And "Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel" by Enya, which is hauntingly beautiful. I'm a fan of this holiday, for the spiritual aspect and not the religious. I love the feeling in the air, the music, the decorations and the general cheer. Which is why I'm in love with Paris; there are decorations everywhere, and the city is lit up at night. Friday after dinner, we went on the ferris wheel that's at the Place de la Concorde and it looks down the Champs Elysee which was all aglow. Lovely.
I'm a little homesick, and am glad to be going home in a few weeks. But I'm just as glad that I'll be coming back, because I'm not ready for this adventure to be over. I'm glad to be where I am; I just miss what's familiar (and, admittedly, what's easy).
