6:32 pm. My bedroom, Brentwood, Tennessee.
Here's the thing. I'm back, but I still have a lot to say about being abroad. After being in the US for exactly ten days, I have noticed a lot about my home country. I knew re-adjusting would be interesting, and possibly even rough (and they were right; it can be at times), but this part of the experience has been just as rewarding as actually being abroad.
Earlier, I wrote about having difficulties hearing English all around me. I still take issue with that from time to time. As a culture, I find that we speak loudly (or the French are just that quiet), and sometimes, I don't want to hear you whine about the color your patio furniture actually turned out to be, or why he isn't calling you. Sometimes, I just want to say, "Hey! Get some perspective, because in the scheme of life it's JUST patio furniture!" and "If he isn't calling you, he doesn't want to, so stop binging on Sonic with your girlfriends and go read something intelligent!" I know, my inner monologue is harsh.
There is a very apparent lack of reality around me, as I understand it. Brentwood is a fairly nice suburb of Nashville with some wealthy families, so it's common to see sixteen year olds with cars that cost more than the down payment on a house, for example. Not only that, but when I tell people where I studied abroad, you'd think I told them I decided to donate my left leg for research or something. I know it's sort of a random far away place, but crazier things have happened. On one hand, it's like I'm in Reunion again, and I stick out and I'm interesting. But, the other side of being back is that you're no longer the novelty. It's like one of those movies where the main character just woke up or something and they time traveled or are actually still dreaming and no one knows them anymore and the world is not the same. Except less dramatic. Today is not my day for similies.
Some things, like driving my car and texting, I have recovered with no problems. I still don't immediately recognize my ringtone when it goes off, but I'm positive that with a few more weeks of operative conditioning, I'll be just as addicted as I was before. I must say that I dislike it very much that if I were to try to purchase something alcoholic, I'd be carded (the drinking age in France is 18), so, begrudgingly, I have a few more months to sweat it out until I'm free to purchase again. I still have a surprised reaction, if only for a second, when I find out that a store is open past 8 or 9 in the evening. The size of coffee astounds me. That in particular is funny, because I remember complaining so much that the espresso shots were so tiny in Reunion. Ha! Now, I can barely finish half a mug.
Tennessee's heat is slightly more oppressive than Reunion's. I attribute that to the humidity here that replaced ocean breezes and lots of direct sunlight there. While I'm on the topic, something that still irritates me more than it should is the absolute dependency in the US on central air conditioning. I'm freezing all the time, it seems. In the morning I wake up with a scratchy throat, and pretty soon, my dad will probably catch on to the fact that I'm the one who keeps turning the temperature on the AC up by a degree every now and then. I know I griped about the heat in Reunion, but after about a week, it was pretty easy to get used to it. Not only that, but Americans have a very strong aversion to seeing people sweat, being sweaty, or looking anything other than perfectly collected and well-deoderized 24/7. It's sort of possible here, but why sweating normally isn't an option, I just can't understand yet. It's damn near unattainable in Reunion, so pretty quickly I stopped paying attention to perspiring, because there was no use sweating it (lol, see what I did there?)
Yesterday evening, I talked to my friend for awhile about my re-adjustement. We talked about the food (thank God for the Mexican influence in the USA), and the language difficulties (every now and then I forget a word, can't structure a phrase clearly, or just say a french word mid-sentence). I think the most important bit of the conversation was that I was finally able to verbalize my biggest beef so far: the pieces of Americana that just get under my skin. I can't even definitively describe it, which is the funny part; I just know that there's something about home that I don't like 100%. He listened carefully to me talk about how Americans don't understand what they mean to the world, or how Brentwood really is a bubble of fantasy-money-land, or the problems of other nations that no one here even acknowledges (or knows about). Having spend about six months abroad himself, he just smiled and called me a bleeding heart. Yes, I know that these things are completely normal and anticipated for anyone spending time out of the country, but I didn't realize how weird it would make the USA seem. What's more is that I know I'll get over all of these things eventually, change my ringtone to something attention-grabbing, and possibly stop craving quesadillas every other day, but I know that this is why traveling changes people. Once you see how another part of the world operates, how another culture sees themselves (and you), you can't ever go back to that naive part of you who could afford to turn a blind eye to those things. Nor would you want to.
Everyday presents something new to me. One of the first days back I was guilted into attending my neighborhood's monthly bunco game with the local ladies. Picture: 11 suburban housewives and me, the 20 year old fresh from spending 5 months living a life completely opposite of theirs. It was interesting, to say the least. I recalled an evening in January back at school. It was about two weeks before I left, and I saw my friend Erin for the first time since she got back from spending her fall semester in France. Erin was uncharacteristicly quiet, and standing off to the side of the party with a friend. I practically skipped over to her and curiously asked anything I could think of. She only answered about three of my questions, and they were one word answers. Although I had never traveled before, I could tell she was trying to readjust; that her mind was elsewhere. That's how I felt at my neighbor's; like I was seeing my culture and surroundings for the first time. I was uncharacteristicly quiet and tried my best to observe everything.
I think about Reunion every day. I miss the ocean, I miss my friends. I miss speaking French to strangers. I want to go back to France someday. I want to learn more and see more and enrich my understanding of my piddly existence as best as possible. I have a long way to go, but as I move slowly back into the swing of things in my US life, I'm beginning to gain a different persepective on more than I ever thought I would.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
The World Is Smallish
5:09 pm. Boston Logan Airport.
So, once again I heralded a promise to update you on my travels, and I give myself a big red F for effort. I’m back in the US, and here is the saddest excuse for a detailed rundown of my journey since I last left you.
Since I am too cheap to spend $4 on the Wifi here at Boston Logan, I will assume I told you about getting to Paris and Versailles, which was our first day out being tourists. The next day we saw the Notre Dame, and a little of the Latin Quartier on the Left Bank. We were so tired from walking around Versailles the day before we sat at a café near Montparnasse and sipped espressos (anything more than a sip and it’s gone) and watched pretty people go by for most of the afternoon. We all dreamed we’d be those fashionable ladies with hats that match our shoes and sunglasses with a smart haircut as they floated by on their chic Vélib’s, Paris’s free public bicycle service. Meghan and I were the two very proud and out art and museum nerds of the group, so we opted to go to the Musée D’Orsay the next day and dragged our couchsurfing hosts, the super nice Sébastien, Ludovic, and Luic with us. They bailed early, but Meg and I spent an impressive five hours and saw literally everything. I could go on for an entire post about the Musée D’Orsay, so all I’ll say is that it was stellar. Check out my album on Facebook.
That night our hosts took us to a party in the neighborhood, and we met their really awesome friends. A quick note about our hosts is that two out of the three are engineers of some sort, so it was a huge, French-nerd-housewarming-COSTUME party. I wish I could throw a party with that theme. Imagine that if you can. No, you can’t. It was that epic. And that’s all I’ll say about that.
The next day Meghan and I earned our stripes and made it out to the Louvre at 10am and immediately felt like we were punched in the face by the enormity of history and culture our own country lacks. I knew it was immense, but was not prepared for the veritable zoo it was. It probably didn’t help that it was the first Sunday of the month, and hence free free free to the world, but we didn’t care. Albeit tired, we trudged through hall after hall, passing up enormously important works of art to go seek out others, and we were still never sated. And then, providence smiled down on my travel-weary soul as I heard from across a gallery (of very large and very important paintings) “CHELSEA??!?!” in the prettiest Milwaukeean accent you could imagine. And yes, it was the one and only Matt Warner and Jenny Hauf duo, travel-seasoned themselves and the most incredible forms of all I viewed that day. We had a glorious reunion in the middle of the Louvre, hugging and “I cannot BELIEVE it!!” ing and “oh man you look so great!” ing. Jenny and Matt and I worked on the Heifer farm in Massachusetts last summer. We were actually hoping to meet up to go visit another friend from the farm who’s studying in Cambridge, England, but it didn’t work out. To top it off, the number I gave them to meet me in Paris didn’t work, so it was completely au hazard that we met. The four of us split for lunch, ate some mediocre pitas, and made plans to hang the next day. It really was super cool, and we could not stop cheesin’ the whole time. Matt and Jenny are in Europe with WWOOF (WorldWide Opportunities on Organic Farms) and recently came from Italy and France before they move on to Ireland and England. They are also blogging about their experiences (www.beautyandthecheese.blogspot.com). They’re great writers, so if you’re looking to live vicariously through someone else now that I’m back to reality, I liberally give their blog my recommendations.
The next day I left the girls to do their own thing and I spend the day with Matt and Jenny. We started out in Père LaChaise, the really large and famous cemetery in East Paris. We visited the graves of Gertrude Stein, Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, and Edith Piaf. It was tight. The graves themselves were pieces of art- some family crypts were literally tiny churches, some were so old the names were completely erased, but no two were alike. I felt like I was in another museum. The weather was overcast and drizzled slowly and deliberately all morning, creating perfect cemetery-viewing weather. After spending a moment in thought at Jim Morrison’s grave (“Do you think he broke on through to the other side?”) we went back to where they’re couchsurfing in the Marais. Jenny shared some of the sausage and cheese they took from their last farm, both of which knocked my socks off, and we spent a few moments talking about organic farming, shepherding sheep (Jenny’s a pro now, for reals) and cheesemaking. We had de-lish falafels for lunch, purportedly the best in Paris, and then moved on to Shakespeare and Company. S&C is the beacon for practically all young expats, and has been for years; Hemingway, Miller, Stein, and Joyce all visited or worked or lived or wrote there for a time. Nowadays, you have to practically ooze chic-nerd to be even looked in the eye. I felt like I was not cool enough to ask them for a certain title because 1) I was an American tourist and 2) ugggh why can’t you just find it yourself? I’m clearly focusing on keeping my cool new jagged haircut out of my eyes to help you find something you probably will never understand. Okay, so I’m kind of exaggerating. But still-- I mean, just think of all of those authors, organizing on those same shelves, sitting in the same armchairs to edit a fellow’s manuscript, or stomping up the deep-step 16th century stairs to retire to their rooms for some bedtime reading. We killed the day off with a visit to Kandinsky’s exhibit at the Centre Pompidou and I found a new love for an artist I hadn’t really known about before.
The next day Meghan, Katie and Steph left for Munich to begin their Eurotrip to see Reunion friends and Germany, Amsterdam, Italy, and southern France. I spent the better part of the morning lugging my shit across town to meet my Mom and Dad as they arrived in Paris to celebrate their first ever vacation and 30th wedding anniversary. They were luggageless thanks to Air Canada, but smiling like kids on their first day of school with the sheer giddiness that the unknown adventure brings. Even though they fell asleep while I was talking to them, it was still great to see them. That night I left Paris to visit Le Mans and see my friend Chloé, with whom I studied this fall semester at Maryville.
Ach, sorry for the length. Actually, no, I’m not; this is one of the last exciting things I do, so soak it up, people. Laugh and cry with me one more time. In Le Mans with Chloé I had a great time, and I really felt like I was in France for the first time. I was with a French family in a French home. I slid easily into their home life. My French was workable to participate in some conversation and TV watching, but man, was it hard to keep up! I began to feel some remorse, actually. I know I’ve spent the last four months in Réunion, but it became very clear that Reunion was NOT France. The culture, the food, the language all were different. I got used to the Laborde’s dialect towards the end of the week, and the food was amazing. It just came down to promising myself I’d return to mainland France to get a good feel of it. I kind of wish I could have stayed with a family in Reunion. Anyway, Le Mans was buzzing on this particular week, as it was their famous 24 Hours of Le Mans car race. We went to the parade and I even saw Patrick Dempsey, who was on a team this year. It was really cool, because once the race started, you could hear the cars shifting gears from Chloe’s house, which was about 2 km away.
On Sunday, Mom and Dad came to Chloe’s and we had a proper French lunch. It started at 1pm and we didn’t get up from the table until 3:45pm. Three bottles of wine, four courses (including foie gras), lamb from Madame Laborde’s sister’s farm, and fresh cherry clofutis. It was melt-your-face, give-you-a-new-stomach good.
Then, the Barkers Three embarked in their shiny Peugeot minivan on a tour of Normandy. There was much merrymaking, many a sumptuous supper, and general jocularity. The Mont Saint Michel: too impressive to capture in photos, a true labyrinth of ancient halls and rooms and such. They started building that bad boy in the 8th century. Things all ran together, too—the Debarquement Beaches, Honfleurs (a port fishing village in the North that inspired the Impressionist movement), and Giverny, Monet’s hand-crafted and personally designed Eden where he birthed many of his most famous paintings. The return to Paris was a blur—Le Sacre-Coeur and Place des Vosges (where Victor Hugo lived and wrote Les Miserables) before a lovely last dinner with my generous benefactors of good food, Mom and Dad.
I was riding on the RER B to Charles de Gaule this morning, as bizarre as that is to write, and I felt like I should have been filming what I saw. I was sitting in one of the last cars, facing the city as the train bumbled north. I had my luggage stacked neatly to my left, and I was watching carefully out the window on my right as the landscape turned from urban to dirty urban to industrial to not even slightly Parisian, and in fact, rather like every small town the economy’s forgotten in the US. It made the world seem small to me. It doesn’t matter where you go, because on some level, it’s all the same. A pretty businesswoman gracefully sprung off the platform, the older woman across the aisle conversed with a smile in her voice to her daughter on the phone, and a young man with an accordion swayed and played as his sounds poured into each corner and rounded out the seats and walls with its gaiety. Then, a glimpse of the beige sprawl of Paris through the trees of a park- but only for a moment. I smiled to myself, closed my eyes, allowed a little ha! to escape my mouth. Was I really listening to accordion music as I left Paris to return to my predictable North American life? Ha! indeed, someone roll the credits! It was somewhat surreal, to be honest.
Now I’m on a plane in Boston, waiting to be told to turn my computer off. I’m off on my second to last flight for my near future. My cousin Ben is getting married this Saturday in DC, and I’ll be seeing nearly all of my extended family there. I can’t wait, to be honest. It feels very weird to be back in the US. My voice when I speak to strangers sounds funny- do I always sound like that when I speak English, I wonder? More nuances to come, I’m sure. If you read all of that, email me and I’ll send you a gold star for being a wonderful follower of my experiences.
If you believed that even for just a second, go pinch yourself. It was too good to be true.
So, once again I heralded a promise to update you on my travels, and I give myself a big red F for effort. I’m back in the US, and here is the saddest excuse for a detailed rundown of my journey since I last left you.
Since I am too cheap to spend $4 on the Wifi here at Boston Logan, I will assume I told you about getting to Paris and Versailles, which was our first day out being tourists. The next day we saw the Notre Dame, and a little of the Latin Quartier on the Left Bank. We were so tired from walking around Versailles the day before we sat at a café near Montparnasse and sipped espressos (anything more than a sip and it’s gone) and watched pretty people go by for most of the afternoon. We all dreamed we’d be those fashionable ladies with hats that match our shoes and sunglasses with a smart haircut as they floated by on their chic Vélib’s, Paris’s free public bicycle service. Meghan and I were the two very proud and out art and museum nerds of the group, so we opted to go to the Musée D’Orsay the next day and dragged our couchsurfing hosts, the super nice Sébastien, Ludovic, and Luic with us. They bailed early, but Meg and I spent an impressive five hours and saw literally everything. I could go on for an entire post about the Musée D’Orsay, so all I’ll say is that it was stellar. Check out my album on Facebook.
That night our hosts took us to a party in the neighborhood, and we met their really awesome friends. A quick note about our hosts is that two out of the three are engineers of some sort, so it was a huge, French-nerd-housewarming-COSTUME party. I wish I could throw a party with that theme. Imagine that if you can. No, you can’t. It was that epic. And that’s all I’ll say about that.
The next day Meghan and I earned our stripes and made it out to the Louvre at 10am and immediately felt like we were punched in the face by the enormity of history and culture our own country lacks. I knew it was immense, but was not prepared for the veritable zoo it was. It probably didn’t help that it was the first Sunday of the month, and hence free free free to the world, but we didn’t care. Albeit tired, we trudged through hall after hall, passing up enormously important works of art to go seek out others, and we were still never sated. And then, providence smiled down on my travel-weary soul as I heard from across a gallery (of very large and very important paintings) “CHELSEA??!?!” in the prettiest Milwaukeean accent you could imagine. And yes, it was the one and only Matt Warner and Jenny Hauf duo, travel-seasoned themselves and the most incredible forms of all I viewed that day. We had a glorious reunion in the middle of the Louvre, hugging and “I cannot BELIEVE it!!” ing and “oh man you look so great!” ing. Jenny and Matt and I worked on the Heifer farm in Massachusetts last summer. We were actually hoping to meet up to go visit another friend from the farm who’s studying in Cambridge, England, but it didn’t work out. To top it off, the number I gave them to meet me in Paris didn’t work, so it was completely au hazard that we met. The four of us split for lunch, ate some mediocre pitas, and made plans to hang the next day. It really was super cool, and we could not stop cheesin’ the whole time. Matt and Jenny are in Europe with WWOOF (WorldWide Opportunities on Organic Farms) and recently came from Italy and France before they move on to Ireland and England. They are also blogging about their experiences (www.beautyandthecheese.blogspot.com). They’re great writers, so if you’re looking to live vicariously through someone else now that I’m back to reality, I liberally give their blog my recommendations.
The next day I left the girls to do their own thing and I spend the day with Matt and Jenny. We started out in Père LaChaise, the really large and famous cemetery in East Paris. We visited the graves of Gertrude Stein, Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, and Edith Piaf. It was tight. The graves themselves were pieces of art- some family crypts were literally tiny churches, some were so old the names were completely erased, but no two were alike. I felt like I was in another museum. The weather was overcast and drizzled slowly and deliberately all morning, creating perfect cemetery-viewing weather. After spending a moment in thought at Jim Morrison’s grave (“Do you think he broke on through to the other side?”) we went back to where they’re couchsurfing in the Marais. Jenny shared some of the sausage and cheese they took from their last farm, both of which knocked my socks off, and we spent a few moments talking about organic farming, shepherding sheep (Jenny’s a pro now, for reals) and cheesemaking. We had de-lish falafels for lunch, purportedly the best in Paris, and then moved on to Shakespeare and Company. S&C is the beacon for practically all young expats, and has been for years; Hemingway, Miller, Stein, and Joyce all visited or worked or lived or wrote there for a time. Nowadays, you have to practically ooze chic-nerd to be even looked in the eye. I felt like I was not cool enough to ask them for a certain title because 1) I was an American tourist and 2) ugggh why can’t you just find it yourself? I’m clearly focusing on keeping my cool new jagged haircut out of my eyes to help you find something you probably will never understand. Okay, so I’m kind of exaggerating. But still-- I mean, just think of all of those authors, organizing on those same shelves, sitting in the same armchairs to edit a fellow’s manuscript, or stomping up the deep-step 16th century stairs to retire to their rooms for some bedtime reading. We killed the day off with a visit to Kandinsky’s exhibit at the Centre Pompidou and I found a new love for an artist I hadn’t really known about before.
The next day Meghan, Katie and Steph left for Munich to begin their Eurotrip to see Reunion friends and Germany, Amsterdam, Italy, and southern France. I spent the better part of the morning lugging my shit across town to meet my Mom and Dad as they arrived in Paris to celebrate their first ever vacation and 30th wedding anniversary. They were luggageless thanks to Air Canada, but smiling like kids on their first day of school with the sheer giddiness that the unknown adventure brings. Even though they fell asleep while I was talking to them, it was still great to see them. That night I left Paris to visit Le Mans and see my friend Chloé, with whom I studied this fall semester at Maryville.
Ach, sorry for the length. Actually, no, I’m not; this is one of the last exciting things I do, so soak it up, people. Laugh and cry with me one more time. In Le Mans with Chloé I had a great time, and I really felt like I was in France for the first time. I was with a French family in a French home. I slid easily into their home life. My French was workable to participate in some conversation and TV watching, but man, was it hard to keep up! I began to feel some remorse, actually. I know I’ve spent the last four months in Réunion, but it became very clear that Reunion was NOT France. The culture, the food, the language all were different. I got used to the Laborde’s dialect towards the end of the week, and the food was amazing. It just came down to promising myself I’d return to mainland France to get a good feel of it. I kind of wish I could have stayed with a family in Reunion. Anyway, Le Mans was buzzing on this particular week, as it was their famous 24 Hours of Le Mans car race. We went to the parade and I even saw Patrick Dempsey, who was on a team this year. It was really cool, because once the race started, you could hear the cars shifting gears from Chloe’s house, which was about 2 km away.
On Sunday, Mom and Dad came to Chloe’s and we had a proper French lunch. It started at 1pm and we didn’t get up from the table until 3:45pm. Three bottles of wine, four courses (including foie gras), lamb from Madame Laborde’s sister’s farm, and fresh cherry clofutis. It was melt-your-face, give-you-a-new-stomach good.
Then, the Barkers Three embarked in their shiny Peugeot minivan on a tour of Normandy. There was much merrymaking, many a sumptuous supper, and general jocularity. The Mont Saint Michel: too impressive to capture in photos, a true labyrinth of ancient halls and rooms and such. They started building that bad boy in the 8th century. Things all ran together, too—the Debarquement Beaches, Honfleurs (a port fishing village in the North that inspired the Impressionist movement), and Giverny, Monet’s hand-crafted and personally designed Eden where he birthed many of his most famous paintings. The return to Paris was a blur—Le Sacre-Coeur and Place des Vosges (where Victor Hugo lived and wrote Les Miserables) before a lovely last dinner with my generous benefactors of good food, Mom and Dad.
I was riding on the RER B to Charles de Gaule this morning, as bizarre as that is to write, and I felt like I should have been filming what I saw. I was sitting in one of the last cars, facing the city as the train bumbled north. I had my luggage stacked neatly to my left, and I was watching carefully out the window on my right as the landscape turned from urban to dirty urban to industrial to not even slightly Parisian, and in fact, rather like every small town the economy’s forgotten in the US. It made the world seem small to me. It doesn’t matter where you go, because on some level, it’s all the same. A pretty businesswoman gracefully sprung off the platform, the older woman across the aisle conversed with a smile in her voice to her daughter on the phone, and a young man with an accordion swayed and played as his sounds poured into each corner and rounded out the seats and walls with its gaiety. Then, a glimpse of the beige sprawl of Paris through the trees of a park- but only for a moment. I smiled to myself, closed my eyes, allowed a little ha! to escape my mouth. Was I really listening to accordion music as I left Paris to return to my predictable North American life? Ha! indeed, someone roll the credits! It was somewhat surreal, to be honest.
Now I’m on a plane in Boston, waiting to be told to turn my computer off. I’m off on my second to last flight for my near future. My cousin Ben is getting married this Saturday in DC, and I’ll be seeing nearly all of my extended family there. I can’t wait, to be honest. It feels very weird to be back in the US. My voice when I speak to strangers sounds funny- do I always sound like that when I speak English, I wonder? More nuances to come, I’m sure. If you read all of that, email me and I’ll send you a gold star for being a wonderful follower of my experiences.
If you believed that even for just a second, go pinch yourself. It was too good to be true.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Versailles and More
Cachan (South of Paris). 12:30am. La salle de sejour.
Wow, so much has happened in the past few days! Please let me catch you up.
On our first day after arriving in Paris we decided to leave Paris and visit Versailles. We had originally planned on the Louvre, but it’s free for students on Sunday, so that got rescheduled. So, we woke up at the early hour of 8 and didn’t get our Reunion-paced butts out of Andrew’s apartment until 10:30am. It’s okay, though. We kept giggling and nudging each other knowingly. “Hey,” we’d say, in a low voice, kind of like a car salesman who’s going to give you an extra 5% off because he’s in a good mood. “We’re in Paris right now. Seriously.” Endless entertainment for American girls.
Meghan, a friend of Stephanie’s, who is studying in Dresden this semester, met up with us to do Paris. It adds a fun dynamic to what has been a pretty static 4 month old group. Since Meghan doesn’t speak of lick of French, we’re having fun translating and ordering for her. It’s a huge ego boost, actually. Meghan keeps joking about how the tables will turn once she, Katie, and Steph go to Germany with Meghan next week. I’ll stick with French.
Anyways, Versailles was, to use one word, EPIC. But of course, everyone knows that. We spent the morning wandering through the gardens, making fun of Greek gods and goddesses (Man, it must be cold! hehehee), and pretending like we were in the fourth Harry Potter book. We had lunch (baguette sandwiches, cherries, and a bottle of white wine) and ventured to see the fountains and the King’s Garden, and the Grand Canal. You can’t even appreciate the scale of Versailles, even when you’re there. It’s just that big. The palace itself was enormous; our tour took at least 3 hours and we only saw three wings on two floors, but the gardens are about twenty-five times the size of the palace. No joke. Not all of it is thirty foot high perfectly manicured walls of trees and geometric topiaries, but much of it is. Farther in are the Trialons, which was the mini-palace that Marie-Antoinette built “to escape” life in the big palace (a fifteen minute walk away). It must have been so stressful, being so consistently oppressive. Anyway, it was a site to respect. The gardens themselves are actually public; free to enter, utilized by runners and lunchers and the youthful on dates. You should Google a map of the grounds, and you’ll see how they really are. I think my favorite part was the Orangerie. It’s on the side of the palace, and it has completely even swirly patterns of grass and gravel paths, bordered by hundreds of kinds of trees (orange trees included, clearly). It had its own canal/pond, too. You know, in case you really couldn’t wait to walk five minutes to your other enormous pond. It’s summertime, so the grass and tree are verdant and the flowers are bright, and it’s just very impressive.
I have to say that I’ve always wanted to visit Versailles, ever since I learned about it. I couldn’t believe I was actually there, and it was just so cool. Being at a place of such cultural significance for France (nineteen royals were born there, for example), and even the world (the Treaty of Vesailles was hammered out there. No kidding!!!) was a very neat feeling. Foreign dignitaries are still greeted there, and if France votes to negotiate constitutional changes, they meet there too. I mean, the walls that bordered the gardens are older than my country. My nation. Bizarre. France 1, USA 0. Story of our lives, right?
Now, here’s a confession, for those who don’t know the degree of my nerdiness. I love museums. I love being a tourist, and I love asking questions about completely obscure things, and blogging about them as if no one else would know or ever bother to ask for themselves. Love it. I’m a total nerd, and I have no shame asking a random stranger if this place has good coffee or how to get someplace, or why something is a certain way. So, as you can imagine, me being in Paris is kind of how a botanist would feel in Reunion, or a fat kid would act in a sweet shop.
Regarding the inside of the castle, I could go on forever. Really. The entire first floor was full of galleries of paintings. Royals, bishops, archbishops, royal babies, royal baby mommas, random royal cousins, and even a room dedicated to royal painters. Because Versailles needed so many. Not even kidding. We went upstairs (one of the seventy plus staircases in the palace) and visited the “important” rooms. There were drawing rooms, and visiting rooms, and the Peace Room and the War Room, the queen’s rooms, and the king’s rooms, the Hall of Mirrors, and the Hall of Battles (when I saw hall I mean 140 feet by 35 feet)…. it was all so overwhelming. Versailles was mainly built by Louis the XIV (The Sun King), and was a dedication to his right to rule France by “divine right.” Basically he thought he was entitled to everything and anything because he was born to someone with a title. His extravagant and pompous attitude made for an interesting époque in France, and one that didn’t end so well for the royals, but it makes for excellent interior design. The entire palace is full of statues and paintings and carvings and tapestries and motifs of Greek mythology. There’s a lot of Bacchus in the gardens (the God of partying, basically), and Mars (God of War) is painted on the ceiling in the War room, etc. My conclusion (and I think the 18th century bourgeoisie of Paris would agree) is that the French royals were pretentious snobs (“Let them eat brioche!”), but man did they have that gilding thing on lock.
That was also an interesting day for me culturally. Not only was my American self totally humbled by the history and cultural significance of one of the greatest structures in the world, but it was the first time in a long time that I was around so much English. It’s true that they say that everyone in Paris speaks English. I’ve heard more American English in the past two days than I have in months, and it really weirds me out, as bizarre as it is to admit. If it’s not coming from Katie or Steph’s mouth, it’s like my brain doesn’t recognize it. It sounds cruder and foreign. Never thought I’d say that. It’s almost ridiculous. You hear it on the streets, most signs on things remotely touristy are translated into English (and sometimes Spanish), and if you give even the slightest indication that French is not your native tongue, folks immediately switch to English. It’s frustrating, since all I want to do is speak French. I know they’re trying to help, but I don’t want it. I learned though, that if you just keep speaking in French to them and ignoring their English replies, they eventually get the picture.
I know this is wicked long, but I have so much to say. I will leave out what we did today, and try to catch up tomorrow. I shall leave with a list and hopefully inspire you to Google and Wikipedia for further knowledge:
- The queen gave birth in public to prove the legitimacy of her children as royals (whaaa?)
- I’m really freaked out by the fact that I’ve gone from winter to summer; it’s actually colder here, and I’m rather unprepared for that, but also, there’s so much dang light! The sun doesn’t go down until 10:30pm. In Reunion, it is DARK at 6:30pm. It’s really hard to get used to.
- The bread here is outrageously good. The French know what’s up.
- They don’t cut their pizzas before selling/delivery. For reals?
- The fashion here makes me feel like a hobo. I have been taking mental notes all day.
- I still love the French language; speaking, listening, translating… but I have a long ways to go.
Okay, more to come. Sorry for the length, but my brain is so stimulated here!
Love and croissants,
Chelsea
Wow, so much has happened in the past few days! Please let me catch you up.
On our first day after arriving in Paris we decided to leave Paris and visit Versailles. We had originally planned on the Louvre, but it’s free for students on Sunday, so that got rescheduled. So, we woke up at the early hour of 8 and didn’t get our Reunion-paced butts out of Andrew’s apartment until 10:30am. It’s okay, though. We kept giggling and nudging each other knowingly. “Hey,” we’d say, in a low voice, kind of like a car salesman who’s going to give you an extra 5% off because he’s in a good mood. “We’re in Paris right now. Seriously.” Endless entertainment for American girls.
Meghan, a friend of Stephanie’s, who is studying in Dresden this semester, met up with us to do Paris. It adds a fun dynamic to what has been a pretty static 4 month old group. Since Meghan doesn’t speak of lick of French, we’re having fun translating and ordering for her. It’s a huge ego boost, actually. Meghan keeps joking about how the tables will turn once she, Katie, and Steph go to Germany with Meghan next week. I’ll stick with French.
Anyways, Versailles was, to use one word, EPIC. But of course, everyone knows that. We spent the morning wandering through the gardens, making fun of Greek gods and goddesses (Man, it must be cold! hehehee), and pretending like we were in the fourth Harry Potter book. We had lunch (baguette sandwiches, cherries, and a bottle of white wine) and ventured to see the fountains and the King’s Garden, and the Grand Canal. You can’t even appreciate the scale of Versailles, even when you’re there. It’s just that big. The palace itself was enormous; our tour took at least 3 hours and we only saw three wings on two floors, but the gardens are about twenty-five times the size of the palace. No joke. Not all of it is thirty foot high perfectly manicured walls of trees and geometric topiaries, but much of it is. Farther in are the Trialons, which was the mini-palace that Marie-Antoinette built “to escape” life in the big palace (a fifteen minute walk away). It must have been so stressful, being so consistently oppressive. Anyway, it was a site to respect. The gardens themselves are actually public; free to enter, utilized by runners and lunchers and the youthful on dates. You should Google a map of the grounds, and you’ll see how they really are. I think my favorite part was the Orangerie. It’s on the side of the palace, and it has completely even swirly patterns of grass and gravel paths, bordered by hundreds of kinds of trees (orange trees included, clearly). It had its own canal/pond, too. You know, in case you really couldn’t wait to walk five minutes to your other enormous pond. It’s summertime, so the grass and tree are verdant and the flowers are bright, and it’s just very impressive.
I have to say that I’ve always wanted to visit Versailles, ever since I learned about it. I couldn’t believe I was actually there, and it was just so cool. Being at a place of such cultural significance for France (nineteen royals were born there, for example), and even the world (the Treaty of Vesailles was hammered out there. No kidding!!!) was a very neat feeling. Foreign dignitaries are still greeted there, and if France votes to negotiate constitutional changes, they meet there too. I mean, the walls that bordered the gardens are older than my country. My nation. Bizarre. France 1, USA 0. Story of our lives, right?
Now, here’s a confession, for those who don’t know the degree of my nerdiness. I love museums. I love being a tourist, and I love asking questions about completely obscure things, and blogging about them as if no one else would know or ever bother to ask for themselves. Love it. I’m a total nerd, and I have no shame asking a random stranger if this place has good coffee or how to get someplace, or why something is a certain way. So, as you can imagine, me being in Paris is kind of how a botanist would feel in Reunion, or a fat kid would act in a sweet shop.
Regarding the inside of the castle, I could go on forever. Really. The entire first floor was full of galleries of paintings. Royals, bishops, archbishops, royal babies, royal baby mommas, random royal cousins, and even a room dedicated to royal painters. Because Versailles needed so many. Not even kidding. We went upstairs (one of the seventy plus staircases in the palace) and visited the “important” rooms. There were drawing rooms, and visiting rooms, and the Peace Room and the War Room, the queen’s rooms, and the king’s rooms, the Hall of Mirrors, and the Hall of Battles (when I saw hall I mean 140 feet by 35 feet)…. it was all so overwhelming. Versailles was mainly built by Louis the XIV (The Sun King), and was a dedication to his right to rule France by “divine right.” Basically he thought he was entitled to everything and anything because he was born to someone with a title. His extravagant and pompous attitude made for an interesting époque in France, and one that didn’t end so well for the royals, but it makes for excellent interior design. The entire palace is full of statues and paintings and carvings and tapestries and motifs of Greek mythology. There’s a lot of Bacchus in the gardens (the God of partying, basically), and Mars (God of War) is painted on the ceiling in the War room, etc. My conclusion (and I think the 18th century bourgeoisie of Paris would agree) is that the French royals were pretentious snobs (“Let them eat brioche!”), but man did they have that gilding thing on lock.
That was also an interesting day for me culturally. Not only was my American self totally humbled by the history and cultural significance of one of the greatest structures in the world, but it was the first time in a long time that I was around so much English. It’s true that they say that everyone in Paris speaks English. I’ve heard more American English in the past two days than I have in months, and it really weirds me out, as bizarre as it is to admit. If it’s not coming from Katie or Steph’s mouth, it’s like my brain doesn’t recognize it. It sounds cruder and foreign. Never thought I’d say that. It’s almost ridiculous. You hear it on the streets, most signs on things remotely touristy are translated into English (and sometimes Spanish), and if you give even the slightest indication that French is not your native tongue, folks immediately switch to English. It’s frustrating, since all I want to do is speak French. I know they’re trying to help, but I don’t want it. I learned though, that if you just keep speaking in French to them and ignoring their English replies, they eventually get the picture.
I know this is wicked long, but I have so much to say. I will leave out what we did today, and try to catch up tomorrow. I shall leave with a list and hopefully inspire you to Google and Wikipedia for further knowledge:
- The queen gave birth in public to prove the legitimacy of her children as royals (whaaa?)
- I’m really freaked out by the fact that I’ve gone from winter to summer; it’s actually colder here, and I’m rather unprepared for that, but also, there’s so much dang light! The sun doesn’t go down until 10:30pm. In Reunion, it is DARK at 6:30pm. It’s really hard to get used to.
- The bread here is outrageously good. The French know what’s up.
- They don’t cut their pizzas before selling/delivery. For reals?
- The fashion here makes me feel like a hobo. I have been taking mental notes all day.
- I still love the French language; speaking, listening, translating… but I have a long ways to go.
Okay, more to come. Sorry for the length, but my brain is so stimulated here!
Love and croissants,
Chelsea
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Leaving and Paris
I write to you from the beautiful and summery seventh arrondissement of Paris, the city of light and love! It's about 6:06 pm here, although I can't even begin to imagine how long I've been up. Our flight left Reunion last night at 9:25pm and arrived this morning at 6:25am. It was beautiful and surreal watching the sun rise over the western Italian coast as we slowly lowered ourselves into France. I have to say that I love this land.
When we left, the three Americans, "Team America" definitely closed the door on a chapter of our lives. I can't believe that I just lived abroad. I can't believe that I am in Paris now. Leaving was harder than I thought, actually. The hardest part was leaving my friends, for certain. I can't say for sure when I'll see these people again, if ever. That's a hard pill to swallow. I mean, I have friends from all over the world, which means if I had the means, I could go places. And that's cool.
Although, on Leaving Day, everything seemed to go according to plan. Too smoothly, though. Of course, France wouldn't let us used-to-efficiency Americans (old habits die hard) get off the island without a fight. We expected to get our monthly stipends like normal on the beginning of the month, (236 euros to be precise) and we ran into a problem. The school wouldn't give us a measley centime since we were leaving and were going to spend it off the island. I can't go into specifics, because I 1) don't understand it completely myself and 2) it's tooooo long. After thirty minutes of arguing, talking to our useless ISEP coordinator, and the Vice President of forign students, I ended up arguing my way into getting paid for the two days we were in June and the seven days in January when we arrived without getting paid. 94 euros is better than 0 euros, but still not as good as the 236 I budgeted for. Apparently my argumentative French is pretty good. I held my own, and I was proud of myself. It still put me in a bad mood, though.
Regardless, the day rolled into night and we hugged our friends. I'll admit that I welled up just a little bit, and then we hopped on a plane and spent a very fitfull ten hours with AirFrance.
This morning we navigated thorugh the Parisian metro (which is really straightforward and fast, thank goodness) and rolled to Andrew's neighborhood (a one minute walk across two streets to the Eiffel Tower) around 10:30am. Andrew is a friend we found through www.couchsurfing.org who kindly is sharing his apartment to us travelers to show us Paris and give us a more local feel to being a visitor. As it turns out, he's an expat, so we're having fun catching up on the US and pop culture. The website is a great social networking tool, so I highly suggest you check it out! There are even surfers in Antarctica!
My first impressions of the city are exactly what I hoped. I have visited Paris for a few hours on the way here, but being here and staying here is SO much better. It's summer in this city. It was a refreshing, chilly sixty degrees this morning. The people here are nicer and more fashionable than I thought they'd be. While navigating the metro without escalators (each of us with 2 pieces of big luggage; one of mine with a broken handle) several people helped us out. Thankfully, we were in good spirits, simply for having survived a long ass flight and for being the spectical of three Americans dragging their lives behind them through the grimy tiled labyrinth of metro halls. We had a serious case of the giggles.
Paris is exactly like the movies and shows. It's colorful and fresh, and full of people moving at a pace much faster than "tropical island." I can never stop looking at the taupe, smooth buildings with shiny black balconies painted with splotches of red geraniums in terra cotta holders. Little old ladies walk around with shoes that match their handbags and necklaces and sunglasses I don't think I'm adventurous enough to try, old men walk with wicker baskets to get their yogurt and baguettes (which, by the way, BLOW the baguettes from Reunion out of the water), and young fashionable ladies walk their small dogs around with purpose. It's completely Parisian, and completely intoxicating.
It was completely surreal, walking around, hearing AMERICAN accents for the first time in five months. (This arronsissement is full of expats and tourists).We kept remarking on how eerie it was seeing so many white people. Men don't whistle or yell when we walk by. We are not anomalies anymore. It's weird and refreshing. I'm sure it will be many more things as my time outside of Reunion continues.
I am sorry if this post sounds disjointed, but while I'm experiencing this I want to remember as much as possible. Tomorrow I think we will go to the Louvre! Can't wait!
A plus!
When we left, the three Americans, "Team America" definitely closed the door on a chapter of our lives. I can't believe that I just lived abroad. I can't believe that I am in Paris now. Leaving was harder than I thought, actually. The hardest part was leaving my friends, for certain. I can't say for sure when I'll see these people again, if ever. That's a hard pill to swallow. I mean, I have friends from all over the world, which means if I had the means, I could go places. And that's cool.
Although, on Leaving Day, everything seemed to go according to plan. Too smoothly, though. Of course, France wouldn't let us used-to-efficiency Americans (old habits die hard) get off the island without a fight. We expected to get our monthly stipends like normal on the beginning of the month, (236 euros to be precise) and we ran into a problem. The school wouldn't give us a measley centime since we were leaving and were going to spend it off the island. I can't go into specifics, because I 1) don't understand it completely myself and 2) it's tooooo long. After thirty minutes of arguing, talking to our useless ISEP coordinator, and the Vice President of forign students, I ended up arguing my way into getting paid for the two days we were in June and the seven days in January when we arrived without getting paid. 94 euros is better than 0 euros, but still not as good as the 236 I budgeted for. Apparently my argumentative French is pretty good. I held my own, and I was proud of myself. It still put me in a bad mood, though.
Regardless, the day rolled into night and we hugged our friends. I'll admit that I welled up just a little bit, and then we hopped on a plane and spent a very fitfull ten hours with AirFrance.
This morning we navigated thorugh the Parisian metro (which is really straightforward and fast, thank goodness) and rolled to Andrew's neighborhood (a one minute walk across two streets to the Eiffel Tower) around 10:30am. Andrew is a friend we found through www.couchsurfing.org who kindly is sharing his apartment to us travelers to show us Paris and give us a more local feel to being a visitor. As it turns out, he's an expat, so we're having fun catching up on the US and pop culture. The website is a great social networking tool, so I highly suggest you check it out! There are even surfers in Antarctica!
My first impressions of the city are exactly what I hoped. I have visited Paris for a few hours on the way here, but being here and staying here is SO much better. It's summer in this city. It was a refreshing, chilly sixty degrees this morning. The people here are nicer and more fashionable than I thought they'd be. While navigating the metro without escalators (each of us with 2 pieces of big luggage; one of mine with a broken handle) several people helped us out. Thankfully, we were in good spirits, simply for having survived a long ass flight and for being the spectical of three Americans dragging their lives behind them through the grimy tiled labyrinth of metro halls. We had a serious case of the giggles.
Paris is exactly like the movies and shows. It's colorful and fresh, and full of people moving at a pace much faster than "tropical island." I can never stop looking at the taupe, smooth buildings with shiny black balconies painted with splotches of red geraniums in terra cotta holders. Little old ladies walk around with shoes that match their handbags and necklaces and sunglasses I don't think I'm adventurous enough to try, old men walk with wicker baskets to get their yogurt and baguettes (which, by the way, BLOW the baguettes from Reunion out of the water), and young fashionable ladies walk their small dogs around with purpose. It's completely Parisian, and completely intoxicating.
It was completely surreal, walking around, hearing AMERICAN accents for the first time in five months. (This arronsissement is full of expats and tourists).We kept remarking on how eerie it was seeing so many white people. Men don't whistle or yell when we walk by. We are not anomalies anymore. It's weird and refreshing. I'm sure it will be many more things as my time outside of Reunion continues.
I am sorry if this post sounds disjointed, but while I'm experiencing this I want to remember as much as possible. Tomorrow I think we will go to the Louvre! Can't wait!
A plus!
Friday, May 29, 2009
The Last Adventure
Well, here it is. I knew it would come this week, but I didn't actually believe it. My last adventure on Reunion.
Yesterday, Sarah (from Wales), Stephanie (fellow Nashvillian) and I decided that we wanted to see Cilaos, the most visited place in Reunion. It's the southernmost cirque, and is accessible by car and bus, but it takes a longgggg time to get there.
We left a little after 8am and took a bus to the big bus station in town. We thought we'd hitchhike to St. Louis, which is where the buses that run to Ciloas leave from, but we actually didn't get a ride, which is very odd for three white girls. I should probably blog about hitchhiking, but I'll give you condensed blog here, as I am running out of battery power.
When I first got here and learned that hitchhiking (faire l'autostop- isn't that adorable?) is a major form of transportation for people here who don't have cars (ie: study abroad students) I was a little hesistant. After all, hitching in the US is pretty much a death sentence, whether it be for the hitcher or the hitchee, ESPECIALLY for girls. Nevertheless, with a few seasoned students, I became used to the idea when we were running late, it was a Sunday or bank holiday, or we just were plain tired of taking the dang bus. I would like to be clear that I never hitch alone. People are very friendly on this island (more on that to come) and it is nearly always a good experience, if not an adventure. I've been picked up by old ladies, couples with kids, singles, moms, you name it. They are always very polite, and most of the time will take you exactly where you need to go in their quick little manual French cars. The fact that hitchhiking here is relatively safe is a really neat thing about being here. Most people are very curious about the US, the University, our studies, where we're going, and life in general. Plus, it's a great way to get to know some locals and practice French.
Okay, but back to our adventure. Since we didn't get a ride, we took two buses to St. Louis. When we arrived there, we had just missed a bus to Cilaos by about five minutes. So, we asked a nice young couple where the best place was to faire l'autostop. They pointed and gave directions, but since we weren't really in the most convenient part of town to get a ride, we were somewhat disheartened. About two minutes later the woman came back and said there was a local bus we could take that would put us in a better place to hitchhike. She even went and explained to the bus driver. So, we let a complete stranger put us on a bus to somewhere we didn't know. It was neat! Some fifteen minutes late we were dropped off at a random intersection. After about 10 minutes of no luck and tired thumbs, we asked a pedestrian if there was better place, and she directed us up the road. No sooner had we arrived than the first car that passed picked us up!!! It was awesome.
She was a really nice woman, about my mom's age, which made us all feel really comfortable right away. We got to chatting and told her about our travels, and the semseter, and Reunion. She informed us that winter officially started on March 23rd here, even though I got sunburned at the beach yesterday and it's still hot enough to sleep with your fan on all night. She also told us all about Cilaos (where she was born and ran a tourist gite, as a matter of fact) while she zipped up and over the hairpin turns and one-lane tunnels. It. Was. Awesome. She said we couldn't see much in one day; after all, it had taken us 5 hours to get where we wanted to go, and had to be back that night. She even offered us a place to stay in her gite for free so that we could properly see Cilaos, but we had to politely decline. She said that the next time we come back we can stay for free! I'm telling you, you meet the nicest people. I'm bummed I don't have the chance to come back.
The sleepy town of Cilaos is high in the hills of a collapsed, ancient volcano. I feel like a say that a lot when explaining Reunion, ha. But it is beautiful. Beyond it, really. You can't even see the top because it's in the clouds, which, in Reunion, are always perfectly white and fluffy and give just the right amount of coolness to a hot day. About 7,000 people in total live in the cirque, with about 3,000 living in the main city where we were. That means about 4,000 others live in tiny villages that you can't see from the main road. Reunionais are so hardcore.
We visited the church, which was founded in 1850, and took lots of pictures of the garden and the green, mountainous walls that surrounded. We searched fruitlessly for a crepe because somehow we had heard that they're the best on the island. We settled instead on buying some Cilaos wine, which is meant to be served as an aperatif and not as a table wine. I have yet to open the bottle, but I'll let you know. We found a yummy patisserie and then had some amazing cafe au lait before getting the bus back home. Although our visit was short, it was so relaxing and peaceful to be in the mountains, away from the noise of the city. I never realized how loud it was until I left.
We made it home around 9pm (after having taken 7 buses, a new record). I was quite tired for not having done much all day except for eat pastries and sit on bus, at a bus station, or in a nice lady's car. However, I realized that by doing this last minute excursion, and crossing "do Cilaos" off my list, I was saying goodbye to my island. I know I've said it before, but I CANNOT believe I'm leaving this week. Four days, and I'm off for Paris to begin my travels before coming home to the US.
I'm going to the beach (for my second to last time!) this afternoon to say goodbye to my Quebecois friends. Tonight, I begin packing.
Yesterday, Sarah (from Wales), Stephanie (fellow Nashvillian) and I decided that we wanted to see Cilaos, the most visited place in Reunion. It's the southernmost cirque, and is accessible by car and bus, but it takes a longgggg time to get there.
We left a little after 8am and took a bus to the big bus station in town. We thought we'd hitchhike to St. Louis, which is where the buses that run to Ciloas leave from, but we actually didn't get a ride, which is very odd for three white girls. I should probably blog about hitchhiking, but I'll give you condensed blog here, as I am running out of battery power.
When I first got here and learned that hitchhiking (faire l'autostop- isn't that adorable?) is a major form of transportation for people here who don't have cars (ie: study abroad students) I was a little hesistant. After all, hitching in the US is pretty much a death sentence, whether it be for the hitcher or the hitchee, ESPECIALLY for girls. Nevertheless, with a few seasoned students, I became used to the idea when we were running late, it was a Sunday or bank holiday, or we just were plain tired of taking the dang bus. I would like to be clear that I never hitch alone. People are very friendly on this island (more on that to come) and it is nearly always a good experience, if not an adventure. I've been picked up by old ladies, couples with kids, singles, moms, you name it. They are always very polite, and most of the time will take you exactly where you need to go in their quick little manual French cars. The fact that hitchhiking here is relatively safe is a really neat thing about being here. Most people are very curious about the US, the University, our studies, where we're going, and life in general. Plus, it's a great way to get to know some locals and practice French.
Okay, but back to our adventure. Since we didn't get a ride, we took two buses to St. Louis. When we arrived there, we had just missed a bus to Cilaos by about five minutes. So, we asked a nice young couple where the best place was to faire l'autostop. They pointed and gave directions, but since we weren't really in the most convenient part of town to get a ride, we were somewhat disheartened. About two minutes later the woman came back and said there was a local bus we could take that would put us in a better place to hitchhike. She even went and explained to the bus driver. So, we let a complete stranger put us on a bus to somewhere we didn't know. It was neat! Some fifteen minutes late we were dropped off at a random intersection. After about 10 minutes of no luck and tired thumbs, we asked a pedestrian if there was better place, and she directed us up the road. No sooner had we arrived than the first car that passed picked us up!!! It was awesome.
She was a really nice woman, about my mom's age, which made us all feel really comfortable right away. We got to chatting and told her about our travels, and the semseter, and Reunion. She informed us that winter officially started on March 23rd here, even though I got sunburned at the beach yesterday and it's still hot enough to sleep with your fan on all night. She also told us all about Cilaos (where she was born and ran a tourist gite, as a matter of fact) while she zipped up and over the hairpin turns and one-lane tunnels. It. Was. Awesome. She said we couldn't see much in one day; after all, it had taken us 5 hours to get where we wanted to go, and had to be back that night. She even offered us a place to stay in her gite for free so that we could properly see Cilaos, but we had to politely decline. She said that the next time we come back we can stay for free! I'm telling you, you meet the nicest people. I'm bummed I don't have the chance to come back.
The sleepy town of Cilaos is high in the hills of a collapsed, ancient volcano. I feel like a say that a lot when explaining Reunion, ha. But it is beautiful. Beyond it, really. You can't even see the top because it's in the clouds, which, in Reunion, are always perfectly white and fluffy and give just the right amount of coolness to a hot day. About 7,000 people in total live in the cirque, with about 3,000 living in the main city where we were. That means about 4,000 others live in tiny villages that you can't see from the main road. Reunionais are so hardcore.
We visited the church, which was founded in 1850, and took lots of pictures of the garden and the green, mountainous walls that surrounded. We searched fruitlessly for a crepe because somehow we had heard that they're the best on the island. We settled instead on buying some Cilaos wine, which is meant to be served as an aperatif and not as a table wine. I have yet to open the bottle, but I'll let you know. We found a yummy patisserie and then had some amazing cafe au lait before getting the bus back home. Although our visit was short, it was so relaxing and peaceful to be in the mountains, away from the noise of the city. I never realized how loud it was until I left.
We made it home around 9pm (after having taken 7 buses, a new record). I was quite tired for not having done much all day except for eat pastries and sit on bus, at a bus station, or in a nice lady's car. However, I realized that by doing this last minute excursion, and crossing "do Cilaos" off my list, I was saying goodbye to my island. I know I've said it before, but I CANNOT believe I'm leaving this week. Four days, and I'm off for Paris to begin my travels before coming home to the US.
I'm going to the beach (for my second to last time!) this afternoon to say goodbye to my Quebecois friends. Tonight, I begin packing.
Monday, May 25, 2009
8 Days is not a long time- or is it?
I leave my pretty little island in eight days for Paris. I am a huge melange (mix) of emotions right now, including, but not limited to: sad, happy, excited, remorseful, hungry, tired, confused, anxious, content and indifferent. You probably don't want to know, but here you go anyways. (I mean, I have internet access this afternoon; I'm almost obligated to blog :) )
I cannot believe my time is coming to a close. I have had an incredible time here. I've met some amazing people from all around the world, I've learned an entirely new culture and language, seen incredible sights, and yet I could probably still do more. The thing is, that I'm just so dang excited to experience Paris and France (this time for more than 6 hours) that it has become my new focus. So, right now, I'm slightly indifferent to Reunion. Sure, there are plenty of things I have yet to do. This is going to sound selfish I think, but my time here has suited my purposes, and I'm ready. It's all coming at a good time, though. I've done some good thinking and growing here, and while I love it here, I'm beginning to feel just a wee bit claustrophobic. I mean, I can spend only two hours on a bus that makes frequent stops and get to the other end of the island. Like I said, there's more to be done, but you get the idea.
Anyway, tiny things, I must admit, have begun to get under my skin. For example, all of the creepy or disrespectful men that yell or look at you like you're edible all the time. Or, the lack of easy transportation. I think the phrase "waiting for the bus" could be the subtitle to my entire experience. Warning to readers: selfish and spoiled American coming out: I can't wait to have my car again! Whew, I said it. Perhaps the little oddities that stick out to me really aren't that bad, but since I'm anticipating my return to America (Happy Memorial Day, everyone), they stick out even more.
I do not, in any way, want to sound ungrateful or disrespectful of Reunion. En fait, I really love it. Studying here has been the best thing I've ever done for myself. So, in the next week, I plan on seeing a few more sights, languishing on the beach for old times' sake, and starting to pack. Eight days to soak up Reunion, eight days until Paris!
I cannot believe my time is coming to a close. I have had an incredible time here. I've met some amazing people from all around the world, I've learned an entirely new culture and language, seen incredible sights, and yet I could probably still do more. The thing is, that I'm just so dang excited to experience Paris and France (this time for more than 6 hours) that it has become my new focus. So, right now, I'm slightly indifferent to Reunion. Sure, there are plenty of things I have yet to do. This is going to sound selfish I think, but my time here has suited my purposes, and I'm ready. It's all coming at a good time, though. I've done some good thinking and growing here, and while I love it here, I'm beginning to feel just a wee bit claustrophobic. I mean, I can spend only two hours on a bus that makes frequent stops and get to the other end of the island. Like I said, there's more to be done, but you get the idea.
Anyway, tiny things, I must admit, have begun to get under my skin. For example, all of the creepy or disrespectful men that yell or look at you like you're edible all the time. Or, the lack of easy transportation. I think the phrase "waiting for the bus" could be the subtitle to my entire experience. Warning to readers: selfish and spoiled American coming out: I can't wait to have my car again! Whew, I said it. Perhaps the little oddities that stick out to me really aren't that bad, but since I'm anticipating my return to America (Happy Memorial Day, everyone), they stick out even more.
I do not, in any way, want to sound ungrateful or disrespectful of Reunion. En fait, I really love it. Studying here has been the best thing I've ever done for myself. So, in the next week, I plan on seeing a few more sights, languishing on the beach for old times' sake, and starting to pack. Eight days to soak up Reunion, eight days until Paris!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Piton de Neiges (Peak of Snow- although there hasn't been snow there in years)
1:55pm, my desk. le 17 mai. One week ago, I was making some supper in the communal sixieme etage (6th floor) kitchen, making small talk with my neighbor, Flo. He said he was doing Piton de Neiges this week. I expressed excitedness for him; Piton de Neiges is the highest peak in the Indian Ocean at 3,070 meters (about 10,069 feet) and takes a solid bit of gumption and time to conquer. I told him I had not yet done it, but planned on it before I left (read: I was too lazy to organize the trip myself, but because most students claimed its views to be totally worth it, I wanted to go, but was losing interest). About three minutes later, Anjte, another neighbor said she had heard I was interested and that a spot in the gite had opened up in their group and would I like to come, because they would be leaving promptly at 7:05 am. The next morning. And so, that’s how the hardest hike of my life fell into my lap. So, after three hours switching buses that wound through tiny coastal towns and finally into Cirque de Salazie, we found ourselves in the tiny Creole village of Hellbourg (named after Monsieur Hell, an early explorer). We followed the directions (walk to the end of the main street, go left, and start scaling the walls of a giant collapsed volcano). I won’t lie that the hike was HARD. Our group of three Germans (Flo, Anjte, and Isabel), two Norwegians (Mari and Weslemøy) and I faced several hours of straight climbing. We chose the longer, but more scenic and gradual ascent. It paid off. We went through breezy jungly stuff (through which Weslemøy and I ate our weight in goyaviers) to a jungle of tall trees that made me feel like I was in California. The ground was spongy, and the air was moist, and the air was so undeniably fresh. Here, the kind of plants changed rapidly, like any rise in altitude in Reunion. I tried to memorize everything; the shape of the leaves, the color of the blooms, the consistency of the soil, and the smell of oxygen. Once again, I was thankful for my hiking boots on the slippery logs and rocks and roots. I kept thinking about my botany professor back at Maryville, and how he would have probably felt like a kid in a candy shop. After the forest we reached the wall that contains Salazie and makes it into a bowl shape, and we climbed stairs for hours. Hours. Long hours. Mini Reunion geography lesson: Piton de Neiges is an extinct volcano (since about 20,000 years ago) that dominates over the three cirques of the island (Cilaos, Mafate, and Salazie). If you google image search for Reunion, you’ll notice three crater-like bowls (the cirques) in the middle of the island and Piton de Neiges is the peak where all three meet. So, at the top, I could see all three cirques which was pretty impressive. Back to the adventure. Amazingly, we had reached the top of Salazie’s cirque walls, but couldn’t see anything because we were in/above the clouds. That was neat. It’s a very mystical thing and made me want to write poetry. I didn’t. I thought I’d stumble upon Mr. Tumnus, or something. I didn’t. At this elevation, it’s considerably cooler and windier. Our different paces had lumped us into natural groups of two, and Weslemøy (I still can’t say her name; my mouth cannot make Norwegian phonemes) and I were getting frustrated with the remaining time we had until we reached the gite, our destination for the night. Our mantra became “nous sommes presque là” (we’re almost there!) and repeated it through kilometers of head-high, scrubby heather bushes and a path of Arizona-red volcanic rocks. Finally, around 6pm, we found salvation at the gite (like a hostel for hikers- with beds, blankets, sometimes showers, and hot meals). It was amazing. After everyone made it in, we enjoyed a cup of hot tea and went to bed around 7:30pm. Not kidding. The special thing about Piton de Neiges is that the sunrise is reportedly one of the best you can see. And, since the gite is about 500 meters below the summit, hikers make a neat sight, rising at 3:30am or so to hike, like a fluorescent caterpillar, enduring the remaining two (very intense) hours to make the summit in time for the sunrise. It was really cold and sort of surreal to be wearing all of my layers on a tropical island, but the hour or so we spent oohing and aaahing and whoaaaing over the colors and clouds and view was quite unbelievable. I think it may have been the coolest thing I’ve done here. If there aren’t clouds, you can reportedly see Mauritius, the small island nation that lies just 137 miles to the slight northeast. Even though we didn’t get that privilege, it was a spectacle, nonetheless. After a petit repose at the gite, we descended through Cilaos. Once, when we got a little closer to the bottom, I saw what I honestly thought was a black bear- it turned out to be an ENORMOUS black dog. Since I’m used to hiking in the Smokies, I had legitimate cause for concern, but my European friends just laughed at my little gasp of surprise and full stop I made in the middle of the trail. A few hours and buses later we returned back home to St. Denis, tired, smelly, but oh so fulfilled. The rest of my pictures are on Facebook.
Countdown: 17 days until Paris!
Countdown: 17 days until Paris!
Friday, May 8, 2009
The Beginning of the End
5:22pm. My Desk.
On Monday, Stephanie turned to me and said, "I feel like things are going to go a lot faster after this." Truth. That was Monday, and today is Friday. Someone really pressed the fast forward button. Allow me to lead you through last week and this week.
Last weekend a few friends and I had a farewell hike planned for our friend, Katha, who has since returned home to Germany. In planning this, we realized that our exact hike was the route and end destination to a somewhat famous reggae festival held every year. It's somewhat famous because Mafate, the cirque in which it is held, is only accessible by foot or by helicopter. So, it's remote, to say the very least. All of the bands (about 8 acts, I think) and their equipment were helicopter-ed in and about 200 reggae fans followed the not so easy hike to a spectacular night. We drove through Salazie, another cirque to get to our trailhead on Friday afternoon. It was basically a Mazda commercial, the way to road was cut through the hills. We hiked down the side of the ancient collapsed volcano, across a plain of dead trees, and descended to a river. Plaine des Tamarins was flat and had hundreds of uprooted deciduous trees covered in a pale green moss. I felt like we were in Lord of the Rings. When we finally got to the river, I was so thankful for my waterproof hiking boots (thanks again, Momma!). Crossing was no trouble, and the water was so cool and clear, I just wanted to exist in it. Ha, the way I read that just now makes it seem like I'm going to find a unicorn next, or something. I half expected to see a dinosaur or some other archaic beast, to be honest. I still can't get over how different Reunion is at every turn. I keep forgetting that altitude changes everything- weather, flora, fauna, temperature, views, moods... it's powerful after living the past few months at about 200 feet about sea level.
We roasted food over an open fire, shared a bottle of wine Katha generously hiked in, and danced with some dirty hippies to some kickin reggae in the village of Marla, which has a reported seven families living within its limits. On our hike out in the morning, we went a longer way back, and made a stop at La Nouvelle, another Creole Village in the cirque of Mafate. We went up and down and ultimately back up into the heights of Mafate. The land changed from a jungley-paradise to cooler and more Colorado/Wyoming looking, to pine trees that made me think about growing up in Upstate New York, and grass so green it looked like someone puked green Play-Doh all over the plain on which La Nouvelle existed. La Nouvelle looked almost too quaint to be possible. The tiny homes were painted brightly and maintained perfectly for a town that isn't close at all to anything most would consider "civilization." There was even perfectly spaced laundry on the lines outside a few homes. It was just surprising. Steph called it Stepford. After a nice repose, we gained over 550 feet in elevation in about an hour, which included a lot of water breaks, swearing (in French and English and German), and rest breaks in which we decided that we can't wait to hike more of this incredible island, despite our protesting legs and low oxygen intake. Hm. Maybe we said we wanted to do more because we were oxygen deprived. Or, perhaps it was the mega-cool factor that we walked from below the clouds to above the clouds in an enormous collapsed volcano. Maybe.
When we finally got home to St. Denis several hours later, we made a hearty dinner and explored the monthly Night Market of St. Denis. There are many different artisan marketeers and lots of Reunionais cuisine food vendors there. I was too exhausted and too broke to buy anything or eat any more, so Steph and I dangled our legs over the wall blocking the angry ocean from interrupting the night's spectacles. While there, we happened upon our friends who perform in the local circus, of the fire juggling, street-acrobatic, colorful baggy pants-wearing, and red squishy nose bearing persuasion. I seriously have the coolest friends.
To finish a not-so-brief post, if I wasn't on vacation before, I for sure am now. 11 of us rented a house in Petit-Isle for the past four days. I cannot even begin to tell you how nice it was to be in a real house, even if it was with a bunch of gross college kids for a few days. Insert some AMAZING dinners (we took advantage of having an oven and a dishwasher and many cultures represented), hours upon hours of techno and dance parties, and getting to wake up, drink eal coffee, and eat cereal on the sofa in front of the TV (France has some hilarious game shows). Now, I'm back, and Steph's still right: now the clock is ticking! 24 days until Paris! On y va!
On Monday, Stephanie turned to me and said, "I feel like things are going to go a lot faster after this." Truth. That was Monday, and today is Friday. Someone really pressed the fast forward button. Allow me to lead you through last week and this week.
Last weekend a few friends and I had a farewell hike planned for our friend, Katha, who has since returned home to Germany. In planning this, we realized that our exact hike was the route and end destination to a somewhat famous reggae festival held every year. It's somewhat famous because Mafate, the cirque in which it is held, is only accessible by foot or by helicopter. So, it's remote, to say the very least. All of the bands (about 8 acts, I think) and their equipment were helicopter-ed in and about 200 reggae fans followed the not so easy hike to a spectacular night. We drove through Salazie, another cirque to get to our trailhead on Friday afternoon. It was basically a Mazda commercial, the way to road was cut through the hills. We hiked down the side of the ancient collapsed volcano, across a plain of dead trees, and descended to a river. Plaine des Tamarins was flat and had hundreds of uprooted deciduous trees covered in a pale green moss. I felt like we were in Lord of the Rings. When we finally got to the river, I was so thankful for my waterproof hiking boots (thanks again, Momma!). Crossing was no trouble, and the water was so cool and clear, I just wanted to exist in it. Ha, the way I read that just now makes it seem like I'm going to find a unicorn next, or something. I half expected to see a dinosaur or some other archaic beast, to be honest. I still can't get over how different Reunion is at every turn. I keep forgetting that altitude changes everything- weather, flora, fauna, temperature, views, moods... it's powerful after living the past few months at about 200 feet about sea level.
We roasted food over an open fire, shared a bottle of wine Katha generously hiked in, and danced with some dirty hippies to some kickin reggae in the village of Marla, which has a reported seven families living within its limits. On our hike out in the morning, we went a longer way back, and made a stop at La Nouvelle, another Creole Village in the cirque of Mafate. We went up and down and ultimately back up into the heights of Mafate. The land changed from a jungley-paradise to cooler and more Colorado/Wyoming looking, to pine trees that made me think about growing up in Upstate New York, and grass so green it looked like someone puked green Play-Doh all over the plain on which La Nouvelle existed. La Nouvelle looked almost too quaint to be possible. The tiny homes were painted brightly and maintained perfectly for a town that isn't close at all to anything most would consider "civilization." There was even perfectly spaced laundry on the lines outside a few homes. It was just surprising. Steph called it Stepford. After a nice repose, we gained over 550 feet in elevation in about an hour, which included a lot of water breaks, swearing (in French and English and German), and rest breaks in which we decided that we can't wait to hike more of this incredible island, despite our protesting legs and low oxygen intake. Hm. Maybe we said we wanted to do more because we were oxygen deprived. Or, perhaps it was the mega-cool factor that we walked from below the clouds to above the clouds in an enormous collapsed volcano. Maybe.
When we finally got home to St. Denis several hours later, we made a hearty dinner and explored the monthly Night Market of St. Denis. There are many different artisan marketeers and lots of Reunionais cuisine food vendors there. I was too exhausted and too broke to buy anything or eat any more, so Steph and I dangled our legs over the wall blocking the angry ocean from interrupting the night's spectacles. While there, we happened upon our friends who perform in the local circus, of the fire juggling, street-acrobatic, colorful baggy pants-wearing, and red squishy nose bearing persuasion. I seriously have the coolest friends.
To finish a not-so-brief post, if I wasn't on vacation before, I for sure am now. 11 of us rented a house in Petit-Isle for the past four days. I cannot even begin to tell you how nice it was to be in a real house, even if it was with a bunch of gross college kids for a few days. Insert some AMAZING dinners (we took advantage of having an oven and a dishwasher and many cultures represented), hours upon hours of techno and dance parties, and getting to wake up, drink eal coffee, and eat cereal on the sofa in front of the TV (France has some hilarious game shows). Now, I'm back, and Steph's still right: now the clock is ticking! 24 days until Paris! On y va!
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Challenge Nature: Allez les Fraizes!!!
This weekend, I participated in "Challenge Nature" (but you have to say it with a French accent: Shah-lahnge Nah-tyure). It was SUPER fun, albeit exhausting and frustrating at times. Here's the breakdown.
Teams of four (that had to have at least one girl on them) assembled at 6:30 am outside the Gymnase. I really had no idea what I was getting into. All I knew was that we were biking, running, climbing, doing some archery, and swimming. All in one day. As a team. Tight.
We recieved team tshirts, gatorade (my first in several months, and OH how I relished it!), and stopped at the table for free cafe (how could you expect the Frenchies to compete without their daily espresso?). We got our two bikes and were escorted to the starting line, which was several kilometers away from the school. Once we started, we had 6 "enigmes" (clues) to decipher at each stop. It was pirate themed, so we had to answer questions about treasure and ships and such. Stephanie was actually part of our last clue; our friend Romuauld is a magician, and did a trick for the last symbol, which magically appeared on the arm of Stephanie the Lovely Assisstant (also dressed as a pirate). Throughout the race, we had to submit our answers to recieve the clue for the next stop and also get a sticker with a symbol on it. Some were cipher based, some were word problems (we let Youssef, the only Francophone on the team, handle those ones), and some were just physical challenges or challenges of wit. It was all fun!
We had a sixteen kilometer run/bike from St. Denis to St. Suzanne, two towns over. We rode through a park that extended along the shoreline. It was a gorgeous, sweltering day. I was excited for the physical rigor of it. It also marked one year exactly since I completed my first marathon in Nashville, so it was definitely nostalgic. While I'm at it, congrats to my friends who ran in the half and full! I am jealous.
We took turns running and biking, solving, and cheering each other on. We ran along the beaches, past goats, in tiny neighborhoods, and through what seemed like hours of sugar cane, taller than any man. They swayed in the sea winds, clunking together lacksidaisically, and sheltering us from the heat of mid-morning. As we progressed, our symbols corresponded to numbers. Team Fraize (Team Strawberry, but a little more hardcore, as we spelled it with a "z") learned some archery (which was more difficult than you'd think) and then ran just a bit more to a waterfall, where I did some climbing to get a clue, and Luke swam to the waterfall to recover another. It all finished with a nice kayak down the river back to the place where we did the archery. We were the second to last team to finish, but that didn't matter to us. We had a blast and just enjoyed each others' company.
I didn't move for most of Sunday, except to go get some ice cream with a friend. In a true Carpe Diem moment, I tried a new flavor, patate douce banana. Yes, I had sweet potato-banana ice cream. Much to my surprise, it was delicious! High five, Reunion Island for making yet another excellent parfum (flavor) of dessert.
This week, I started summer vacation- not that much changes, but I celebrate the occasion nonetheless. Next week, a bunch of the foreign students rented a house in the south of the island before people start getting on planes to leave here for reals. After that, six of us are spending around 8-10 days hiking across the island. I'm will expect to be exhausted but probably see some of the best sights of my life. Then, it's just two weeks more until Paris and my parents!
I hope to accomplish a lot between now and then. I hope all is well back home. Please avoid swines of any sort. I miss you, and love you (especially my family and my dedicated neighbors in Brentwood!) I'll see you all in the second half of June!
Until next time,
Chelsea
Teams of four (that had to have at least one girl on them) assembled at 6:30 am outside the Gymnase. I really had no idea what I was getting into. All I knew was that we were biking, running, climbing, doing some archery, and swimming. All in one day. As a team. Tight.
We recieved team tshirts, gatorade (my first in several months, and OH how I relished it!), and stopped at the table for free cafe (how could you expect the Frenchies to compete without their daily espresso?). We got our two bikes and were escorted to the starting line, which was several kilometers away from the school. Once we started, we had 6 "enigmes" (clues) to decipher at each stop. It was pirate themed, so we had to answer questions about treasure and ships and such. Stephanie was actually part of our last clue; our friend Romuauld is a magician, and did a trick for the last symbol, which magically appeared on the arm of Stephanie the Lovely Assisstant (also dressed as a pirate). Throughout the race, we had to submit our answers to recieve the clue for the next stop and also get a sticker with a symbol on it. Some were cipher based, some were word problems (we let Youssef, the only Francophone on the team, handle those ones), and some were just physical challenges or challenges of wit. It was all fun!
We had a sixteen kilometer run/bike from St. Denis to St. Suzanne, two towns over. We rode through a park that extended along the shoreline. It was a gorgeous, sweltering day. I was excited for the physical rigor of it. It also marked one year exactly since I completed my first marathon in Nashville, so it was definitely nostalgic. While I'm at it, congrats to my friends who ran in the half and full! I am jealous.
We took turns running and biking, solving, and cheering each other on. We ran along the beaches, past goats, in tiny neighborhoods, and through what seemed like hours of sugar cane, taller than any man. They swayed in the sea winds, clunking together lacksidaisically, and sheltering us from the heat of mid-morning. As we progressed, our symbols corresponded to numbers. Team Fraize (Team Strawberry, but a little more hardcore, as we spelled it with a "z") learned some archery (which was more difficult than you'd think) and then ran just a bit more to a waterfall, where I did some climbing to get a clue, and Luke swam to the waterfall to recover another. It all finished with a nice kayak down the river back to the place where we did the archery. We were the second to last team to finish, but that didn't matter to us. We had a blast and just enjoyed each others' company.
I didn't move for most of Sunday, except to go get some ice cream with a friend. In a true Carpe Diem moment, I tried a new flavor, patate douce banana. Yes, I had sweet potato-banana ice cream. Much to my surprise, it was delicious! High five, Reunion Island for making yet another excellent parfum (flavor) of dessert.
This week, I started summer vacation- not that much changes, but I celebrate the occasion nonetheless. Next week, a bunch of the foreign students rented a house in the south of the island before people start getting on planes to leave here for reals. After that, six of us are spending around 8-10 days hiking across the island. I'm will expect to be exhausted but probably see some of the best sights of my life. Then, it's just two weeks more until Paris and my parents!
I hope to accomplish a lot between now and then. I hope all is well back home. Please avoid swines of any sort. I miss you, and love you (especially my family and my dedicated neighbors in Brentwood!) I'll see you all in the second half of June!
Until next time,
Chelsea
Thursday, April 16, 2009
good morning!
Jeudi, le 16 avril 2009. 10h. My desk.
My alarm goes off at 5:05am. Uggh. I slowly rise, and get dressed. For breakfast, the sweetest and softest bananas I’ve ever had, with some granola and local honey. I fill my water bottle, tie my keys into my shoelaces, and meet Priya. Time for our morning run.
It’s dark, and for once, cool outside. The stars are still winking at us and the city is quiet beneath our campus on a hill. Quiet greetings. Watch set. The stray dog that lives outside our dorm, creatively named Spot, licks my leg as I stretch and he wags his skinny tail, waiting for some acknowledgement. Even dogs whom no one loves are loyal. Priya and I leave campus, running through the gates, past the mosque, and turning left at the Conseil Regional (like the capitol building of the island, which is both a department and a region of France). Spot skips ahead, pees, and waits for us. We’re slow today. We go left at the roundabout, crossing under a campus bridge heading west, towards downtown. It’s a flat sidewalk that accommodates for runners, strays, lingering drunkards, and old ladies on their morning walk.
We pass the light morning traffic. There’s a little house on the left with a swing set, banana tree, and rooster in the front yard. Bonjour. Other runners pass. ‘jour. By the time we get to our turnaround point, the clouds are mottled with pewter and the beginnings of blue. The sun lends the picture grapefruit gelato and butter cream. The sea is choppy today, after the lingering cyclone and heavy rains. Its tips reflect bits of white my way. At another roundabout, and underneath a billboard advertising reduced yogurt prices, we run beneath an enormous tree. She has innumerable vines cascading from her canopy and is LOUD with the chittering, tweeting, squeaking and jibber jabber of a thousand small finches. No other tree is like that here- it’s as though they just found out Cinderella can go to the ball after all, or something. My first smile of the day at the thought of their happy, happy conversation.
Priya and I wind up a hill in the park, catch our breath, and do some sun salutations after stretching. Spot lolls around on the mini-plateau and considers chasing a german shepard nearby. He’s totally out of his league, so he concedes and trots back, seemingly unfazed by the mileage, increading heat, or humidity. He snuffles my arm and bucks off like a puppy. It makes my heart ache for my dog back home.
We return along the sidewalk and pass the construction workers beginning their day with a joint of the ever ubiquitous zamal (marijuana, in créole) at the pizza shop on the corner. Although under construction, for a paltry 12 Euros you can buy pizza with tandoori chicken, or another with pineapple and tuna and some weird cream sauce. This culture is something quite unique, I’m reminded.
We’re nearing campus, thank God. Priya runs away from me, having properly warmed up her legs that never seem to end. Spot chases after her. The sun is almost visible over the mountains, and the sky is a lemon yellow and cotton candy pink girdled by long lines of periwinkle clouds. Mademoiselles, bon matin, mademoiselles! I hate that the men yell at women here. It makes me feel like an object. Priya and I bite our tongues- expressing our slim knowledge of French insults would be a waste of breath, and we have a hill to conquer before we can feel vindicated. Breathing deeply, leaning into the hill, leading with my knees, I slowly eek past the gendarmerie, whose ranks are just beginning their day. Cool down into campus, past the mosque-goers, eating samoussas (a Réunionais specialty: a fried triangle with a meat, veggie, or fish filling) and rubbing sleep out of their eyes for morning prayer. Pour Spot my remaining water in a styrofoam leftover container. A small snort of thanks in my ear as I free my keys. Success: we’ve gone and returned before the sun is even up. Even now, only an hour later, I can feel the difference in the breezy tropical air from when we began. My face is red, and I’m tired, but I’m satisfied, having properly greeted my pretty island as it arose. It’s hard not to love Réunion.
Classes are going to be over by next week, and some of my friends are leaving in just three weeks. Signs about check-out procedures have been posted, too. I can’t even imagine leaving now. Or soon. Or at all. Didn’t I just get here? Nevertheless, I too will be on a plane in only six weeks. I don’t let myself think about that right now, though. I have a bucket and some clothes to wash before I can go to the market, which is possibly my favorite thing ever. Mango and pineapple seasons are over, but tangerine/avocado/banana season has begun. I’ve never lived such a colorful, flavorful, exciting, and different life. Goddamn, I’m lucky.
Wish you were here,
Chelsea
My alarm goes off at 5:05am. Uggh. I slowly rise, and get dressed. For breakfast, the sweetest and softest bananas I’ve ever had, with some granola and local honey. I fill my water bottle, tie my keys into my shoelaces, and meet Priya. Time for our morning run.
It’s dark, and for once, cool outside. The stars are still winking at us and the city is quiet beneath our campus on a hill. Quiet greetings. Watch set. The stray dog that lives outside our dorm, creatively named Spot, licks my leg as I stretch and he wags his skinny tail, waiting for some acknowledgement. Even dogs whom no one loves are loyal. Priya and I leave campus, running through the gates, past the mosque, and turning left at the Conseil Regional (like the capitol building of the island, which is both a department and a region of France). Spot skips ahead, pees, and waits for us. We’re slow today. We go left at the roundabout, crossing under a campus bridge heading west, towards downtown. It’s a flat sidewalk that accommodates for runners, strays, lingering drunkards, and old ladies on their morning walk.
We pass the light morning traffic. There’s a little house on the left with a swing set, banana tree, and rooster in the front yard. Bonjour. Other runners pass. ‘jour. By the time we get to our turnaround point, the clouds are mottled with pewter and the beginnings of blue. The sun lends the picture grapefruit gelato and butter cream. The sea is choppy today, after the lingering cyclone and heavy rains. Its tips reflect bits of white my way. At another roundabout, and underneath a billboard advertising reduced yogurt prices, we run beneath an enormous tree. She has innumerable vines cascading from her canopy and is LOUD with the chittering, tweeting, squeaking and jibber jabber of a thousand small finches. No other tree is like that here- it’s as though they just found out Cinderella can go to the ball after all, or something. My first smile of the day at the thought of their happy, happy conversation.
Priya and I wind up a hill in the park, catch our breath, and do some sun salutations after stretching. Spot lolls around on the mini-plateau and considers chasing a german shepard nearby. He’s totally out of his league, so he concedes and trots back, seemingly unfazed by the mileage, increading heat, or humidity. He snuffles my arm and bucks off like a puppy. It makes my heart ache for my dog back home.
We return along the sidewalk and pass the construction workers beginning their day with a joint of the ever ubiquitous zamal (marijuana, in créole) at the pizza shop on the corner. Although under construction, for a paltry 12 Euros you can buy pizza with tandoori chicken, or another with pineapple and tuna and some weird cream sauce. This culture is something quite unique, I’m reminded.
We’re nearing campus, thank God. Priya runs away from me, having properly warmed up her legs that never seem to end. Spot chases after her. The sun is almost visible over the mountains, and the sky is a lemon yellow and cotton candy pink girdled by long lines of periwinkle clouds. Mademoiselles, bon matin, mademoiselles! I hate that the men yell at women here. It makes me feel like an object. Priya and I bite our tongues- expressing our slim knowledge of French insults would be a waste of breath, and we have a hill to conquer before we can feel vindicated. Breathing deeply, leaning into the hill, leading with my knees, I slowly eek past the gendarmerie, whose ranks are just beginning their day. Cool down into campus, past the mosque-goers, eating samoussas (a Réunionais specialty: a fried triangle with a meat, veggie, or fish filling) and rubbing sleep out of their eyes for morning prayer. Pour Spot my remaining water in a styrofoam leftover container. A small snort of thanks in my ear as I free my keys. Success: we’ve gone and returned before the sun is even up. Even now, only an hour later, I can feel the difference in the breezy tropical air from when we began. My face is red, and I’m tired, but I’m satisfied, having properly greeted my pretty island as it arose. It’s hard not to love Réunion.
Classes are going to be over by next week, and some of my friends are leaving in just three weeks. Signs about check-out procedures have been posted, too. I can’t even imagine leaving now. Or soon. Or at all. Didn’t I just get here? Nevertheless, I too will be on a plane in only six weeks. I don’t let myself think about that right now, though. I have a bucket and some clothes to wash before I can go to the market, which is possibly my favorite thing ever. Mango and pineapple seasons are over, but tangerine/avocado/banana season has begun. I’ve never lived such a colorful, flavorful, exciting, and different life. Goddamn, I’m lucky.
Wish you were here,
Chelsea
Monday, April 6, 2009
Rain Makes You Feel Weird Everywhere
Normally, I love the rain, especially on Sundays. It rained on and off all day yesterday. The island was cool and quiet, and my curtain made my whole room feel alive and fresh; like a diaphragm lending fresh air in and escorting used air out of my happy little half-pink-and-half-gray-walled chambre. It was a perfect day to watch episodes of Friends in French and eat warm food without leaving my jammies. A good day indeed.
Today, though, is Monday. It's not that I have a particularly huge amount of work to be done, or a lot of class to attend. On the contrary, my life here is much quieter than it is in Maryville. I have less class, and fewer responsibilities. While I do have a small job teaching English to kindergarteners in the local public schools (my hat goes off to all teachers and care givers of small children everywhere), my agenda is rather liberal. I really miss the hustle and bustle of Maryville and my responsibilities to my amazing school and my friends and my team. It's hard being so far away from my life. But, as I keep reminding myself, my life is not put on hold simply because I am here and it is there. I wrote about this (with a slightly more optimistic view) a few months back. I live here now, and this here is as much my life as are my cross country team, ResLife job, and SGA Class Presidency (which I may actually miss the most- my classmates mean the world to me and it's hard being away from their lives. Incidentally, I am up for re-election, and will have to run a campaign from over here starting tomorrow, so please wish me your best).
I sort of forgot what the point of this post was. Perhaps to vent, or to publicly share some of me, but whatever the case, Tropical Storm Jade (a surprise for us Indian Oceaners post-cyclone season) is getting into my head.
Studying abroad is the best thing I could have done for my growth. I find myself striving to communicate more effectively, make clear my ideas and motivations, make friends with complete strangers, and identify what exactly drives me to do, say, and feel the way I do-and, more importantly, how others percieve those things. As much as I'm learning French and riding the roller coaster of new cultural experiences, I am meeting a girl named Chelsea. And I like where it's going.
Today I took the Myers-Briggs personality test (http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes1.htm) for the first time in several years. I've found that "my personality" (ENFJ) has become slightly more moderate since the last time I took it. I wonder if that's really true, but it's nice to read up on the profile of my type and feel like someone gets me in the sense that they understand where I'm coming from. It's a great test; I suggest everyone takes it. It'll only take you about 3 minutes, and it's not like you can get anything wrong.
For now, though, I will continue on my merry way for a chocolat chaud and a solid bit of translation work to clear my head. Thanks for loving me.
Always,
Chelsea
BARKER Chelsea
Chambre 628
Cité Internationale
Université de La Réunion
15, Avenue René Cassin - BP 7151
97 715 Saint-Denis Messag.9 Cedex
LA REUNION
FRENCH OVERSEAS TERRITORY
chelsea.barker@my.maryvillecollege.edu
Today, though, is Monday. It's not that I have a particularly huge amount of work to be done, or a lot of class to attend. On the contrary, my life here is much quieter than it is in Maryville. I have less class, and fewer responsibilities. While I do have a small job teaching English to kindergarteners in the local public schools (my hat goes off to all teachers and care givers of small children everywhere), my agenda is rather liberal. I really miss the hustle and bustle of Maryville and my responsibilities to my amazing school and my friends and my team. It's hard being so far away from my life. But, as I keep reminding myself, my life is not put on hold simply because I am here and it is there. I wrote about this (with a slightly more optimistic view) a few months back. I live here now, and this here is as much my life as are my cross country team, ResLife job, and SGA Class Presidency (which I may actually miss the most- my classmates mean the world to me and it's hard being away from their lives. Incidentally, I am up for re-election, and will have to run a campaign from over here starting tomorrow, so please wish me your best).
I sort of forgot what the point of this post was. Perhaps to vent, or to publicly share some of me, but whatever the case, Tropical Storm Jade (a surprise for us Indian Oceaners post-cyclone season) is getting into my head.
Studying abroad is the best thing I could have done for my growth. I find myself striving to communicate more effectively, make clear my ideas and motivations, make friends with complete strangers, and identify what exactly drives me to do, say, and feel the way I do-and, more importantly, how others percieve those things. As much as I'm learning French and riding the roller coaster of new cultural experiences, I am meeting a girl named Chelsea. And I like where it's going.
Today I took the Myers-Briggs personality test (http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes1.htm) for the first time in several years. I've found that "my personality" (ENFJ) has become slightly more moderate since the last time I took it. I wonder if that's really true, but it's nice to read up on the profile of my type and feel like someone gets me in the sense that they understand where I'm coming from. It's a great test; I suggest everyone takes it. It'll only take you about 3 minutes, and it's not like you can get anything wrong.
For now, though, I will continue on my merry way for a chocolat chaud and a solid bit of translation work to clear my head. Thanks for loving me.
Always,
Chelsea
BARKER Chelsea
Chambre 628
Cité Internationale
Université de La Réunion
15, Avenue René Cassin - BP 7151
97 715 Saint-Denis Messag.9 Cedex
LA REUNION
FRENCH OVERSEAS TERRITORY
chelsea.barker@my.maryvillecollege.edu
Monday, March 30, 2009
My favorite yogurt flavor so far is coconut, and other neat stuff
Things on my mind:
My favorite yogurt flavor so far is coconut, but pineapple, letchi, and mango are close behind.
I live here!
Water is really important to the human body. Like, really important.
You can't soak beans indefinitely. They go bad.
America is wonderful and sucky, but neither all the time.
Reunion is wonderful and sucky, but neither all the time.
I miss being busy, and using an agenda planner. Yes, it's true that I don't use one here. True.
I really like French.
I brought too many shoes.
Saturday was a sortie scolaire (a field trip) with my culture class. We went to this guy's house where his kids played with land tortoises (as much as you can play with one) while he taught us how to string a traditional drum. He played some freaking awesome music with his son. Then, we went to a Hindu temple (living color, smooth statues, a peacock [!], well-worn bare feet, chilis and roses in the garden), followed by a park for lunch. I went for a walk with my cornet de glace (ice cream cone) and did some yoga before heading back on the bus for a visit to La Vierge Noire. It's a statue of the Virgin Mary on a site where both Catholics and Hindus come to worship, leave hair shavings from exorcisms, dip their children's hands in the streams, and mash little intentions scratched on paper into the rock wall that supports Her. I decided to pray, or talk in my head, or get more confused there for a little bit. So I did, and it was pretty alright.
In Reunionais cemeteries, their rectangular graves have neat little white pebble walls and are packed with flowers, herbs, and color. That's what I'm talking about.
I don't have anything really awesome or exciting to add. I'm in a semi-weird feeling right now. I cannot believe I'm actually here- I've waited and worked my whole academic life to get here, and now that I have two months left, I'm tredding water. Go, go, go! I'm seeing more places, meeting more friends, and simultaneously planning my life once I get back home. It's awesome and bittersweet and inevitable- I have a life to return to, after all and yet so much more to learn here. It's a limbo that extends across the planet, two languages, two countries, two very different cultures, and the ambitions and evolution of a young adult. Pretty damn cool, n'est-ce pas?
Skype: chelseacbarker (I'm on the Maryville, Tennessee network)
Email: chelsea.barker@my.maryvillecollege.edu
Mailing Address:
BARKER Chelsea
Chambre 628
Cité Internationale
Université de La Réunion
15, Avenue René Cassin - BP 7151
97 715 Saint-Denis Messag.9 Cedex
LA REUNION
FRENCH OVERSEAS TERRITORY
I love you all very much.
Chelsea
My favorite yogurt flavor so far is coconut, but pineapple, letchi, and mango are close behind.
I live here!
Water is really important to the human body. Like, really important.
You can't soak beans indefinitely. They go bad.
America is wonderful and sucky, but neither all the time.
Reunion is wonderful and sucky, but neither all the time.
I miss being busy, and using an agenda planner. Yes, it's true that I don't use one here. True.
I really like French.
I brought too many shoes.
Saturday was a sortie scolaire (a field trip) with my culture class. We went to this guy's house where his kids played with land tortoises (as much as you can play with one) while he taught us how to string a traditional drum. He played some freaking awesome music with his son. Then, we went to a Hindu temple (living color, smooth statues, a peacock [!], well-worn bare feet, chilis and roses in the garden), followed by a park for lunch. I went for a walk with my cornet de glace (ice cream cone) and did some yoga before heading back on the bus for a visit to La Vierge Noire. It's a statue of the Virgin Mary on a site where both Catholics and Hindus come to worship, leave hair shavings from exorcisms, dip their children's hands in the streams, and mash little intentions scratched on paper into the rock wall that supports Her. I decided to pray, or talk in my head, or get more confused there for a little bit. So I did, and it was pretty alright.
In Reunionais cemeteries, their rectangular graves have neat little white pebble walls and are packed with flowers, herbs, and color. That's what I'm talking about.
I don't have anything really awesome or exciting to add. I'm in a semi-weird feeling right now. I cannot believe I'm actually here- I've waited and worked my whole academic life to get here, and now that I have two months left, I'm tredding water. Go, go, go! I'm seeing more places, meeting more friends, and simultaneously planning my life once I get back home. It's awesome and bittersweet and inevitable- I have a life to return to, after all and yet so much more to learn here. It's a limbo that extends across the planet, two languages, two countries, two very different cultures, and the ambitions and evolution of a young adult. Pretty damn cool, n'est-ce pas?
Skype: chelseacbarker (I'm on the Maryville, Tennessee network)
Email: chelsea.barker@my.maryvillecollege.edu
Mailing Address:
BARKER Chelsea
Chambre 628
Cité Internationale
Université de La Réunion
15, Avenue René Cassin - BP 7151
97 715 Saint-Denis Messag.9 Cedex
LA REUNION
FRENCH OVERSEAS TERRITORY
I love you all very much.
Chelsea
Monday, March 23, 2009
Chicken and Lava Flows
Just a week ago, Katie, Stephanie, and I had a really good day. You know when you wake up and you're a little bit tired, but you have this awesome day in front of you? So, no matter what, it's all going to pan out? It was a lot like that.
On Saturday evening we checked our emails (sitting outside various academic buildings stealing wi-fi because it NEVER works in our dorm) and found that Sylvie, a woman who works with international students, had invited us to go explore the eastern coast of the island with her two cheek-pinch-worthy kids, Ocean (Oh-sae-ahn) and Mathieu (Mah-tyu). We really like Sylvie. She's always so glad to see us, and apologetic for calling us into her office again for the fourth copy of our passport, or our signature on this, our resumes, our birth certificates... always something. It's such a pain to go there, mainly because we would rather they just scan these documents so they can print, copy, and fax them to their hearts' desire without bugging us. But having Sylvie makes it all worth it. Always accommodating, always willing to help, always looking out for us.
Of course, we jumped at the opportunity to spend a day speaking with a 5 and 6 year old who can blow our French out of the water, and getting a mini-van tour of a part of the island we haven't seen. So, somewhat bleary-eyed and waiting for our great day to happen, Sylvie picked us up and brought us back to her nearby apartment. We finished packing the picnic and watched some French cartoons ("Lucky Luke," based on the pioneer days of the American West), and hopped in.
She showed us the sugar cane fields, parks, and pools. We wound down the coast stopping at gorgeous old churches and a suspension bridge, a waterfall (Cascade Niagara), and a Hindu temple. We took turns sitting in the front and speaking French (she says mine has improved! I gave myself an imaginary gold star for that) and sitting in the back and listening to the kids giggling at nothing at all. We stopped to eat lunch at a beautiful park on the ocean (Anse des Cascades- Cove of the Waterfalls). We wound down a steep hillside into a forest of palms freckled with colorful Creole families sprawled on the ankle-high grass, spending their Sunday together. Old men sitting around and women watching their brood. There were waterfalls trickling down the night-black rocks, accentuating the absurd amount of green. My rods and cones could not handle it! We enjoyed a crab-cucumber-tomato-corn-lemon juice salad, macaroni and cheese (made with Camembert, not Kraft American cheese-ha!-as if), poulet grille (amazing rotisserie chicken that you only buy from shacks or roadside vendors), and fresh pineapple juice. An enormous fresh baguette was a given. It was the best lunch I've had in a long, long time, and definitely the best one I've had since being here. Homey, refreshing, complete.
We also were lucky enough to see the lava flows from Piton de la Fournaise, which is the very active volcano on the island. We saw a church called Notre Dame de la Lave, Our Lady of the Lava. After an eruption in 1977, lava flowed all the way down the mountainside and stopped about two feet from the foundation of this tiny church, and flowed around it. Needless to say, it's a pretty important landmark for the faithful of Reunion. Then, we drove by the lava fields and saw the vast expanse of craggy black with tiny shoots of green, the first stages of primary succession. We even saw lava cooling from an eruption that happened last year!!!!! Yes. And it was as cool as it sounds. Sylvie was a gracious tour guide and pulled off to let us snap a million photos of her beautiful island.
We finished the trip by going to a natural pool by the sea and watching a rainbow extend from the green jungle to the endless horizon. On the way home, we pulled off and mimicked the locals, and picked goyaviers. They look like tiny pomegranates, with flesh the texture of tomatoes, guts like passion fruits, and a taste like a spicy apple. They're about the size of ping pong balls, and oh-so yummy.
I told you it was a freaking awesome day.
On Saturday evening we checked our emails (sitting outside various academic buildings stealing wi-fi because it NEVER works in our dorm) and found that Sylvie, a woman who works with international students, had invited us to go explore the eastern coast of the island with her two cheek-pinch-worthy kids, Ocean (Oh-sae-ahn) and Mathieu (Mah-tyu). We really like Sylvie. She's always so glad to see us, and apologetic for calling us into her office again for the fourth copy of our passport, or our signature on this, our resumes, our birth certificates... always something. It's such a pain to go there, mainly because we would rather they just scan these documents so they can print, copy, and fax them to their hearts' desire without bugging us. But having Sylvie makes it all worth it. Always accommodating, always willing to help, always looking out for us.
Of course, we jumped at the opportunity to spend a day speaking with a 5 and 6 year old who can blow our French out of the water, and getting a mini-van tour of a part of the island we haven't seen. So, somewhat bleary-eyed and waiting for our great day to happen, Sylvie picked us up and brought us back to her nearby apartment. We finished packing the picnic and watched some French cartoons ("Lucky Luke," based on the pioneer days of the American West), and hopped in.
She showed us the sugar cane fields, parks, and pools. We wound down the coast stopping at gorgeous old churches and a suspension bridge, a waterfall (Cascade Niagara), and a Hindu temple. We took turns sitting in the front and speaking French (she says mine has improved! I gave myself an imaginary gold star for that) and sitting in the back and listening to the kids giggling at nothing at all. We stopped to eat lunch at a beautiful park on the ocean (Anse des Cascades- Cove of the Waterfalls). We wound down a steep hillside into a forest of palms freckled with colorful Creole families sprawled on the ankle-high grass, spending their Sunday together. Old men sitting around and women watching their brood. There were waterfalls trickling down the night-black rocks, accentuating the absurd amount of green. My rods and cones could not handle it! We enjoyed a crab-cucumber-tomato-corn-lemon juice salad, macaroni and cheese (made with Camembert, not Kraft American cheese-ha!-as if), poulet grille (amazing rotisserie chicken that you only buy from shacks or roadside vendors), and fresh pineapple juice. An enormous fresh baguette was a given. It was the best lunch I've had in a long, long time, and definitely the best one I've had since being here. Homey, refreshing, complete.
We also were lucky enough to see the lava flows from Piton de la Fournaise, which is the very active volcano on the island. We saw a church called Notre Dame de la Lave, Our Lady of the Lava. After an eruption in 1977, lava flowed all the way down the mountainside and stopped about two feet from the foundation of this tiny church, and flowed around it. Needless to say, it's a pretty important landmark for the faithful of Reunion. Then, we drove by the lava fields and saw the vast expanse of craggy black with tiny shoots of green, the first stages of primary succession. We even saw lava cooling from an eruption that happened last year!!!!! Yes. And it was as cool as it sounds. Sylvie was a gracious tour guide and pulled off to let us snap a million photos of her beautiful island.
We finished the trip by going to a natural pool by the sea and watching a rainbow extend from the green jungle to the endless horizon. On the way home, we pulled off and mimicked the locals, and picked goyaviers. They look like tiny pomegranates, with flesh the texture of tomatoes, guts like passion fruits, and a taste like a spicy apple. They're about the size of ping pong balls, and oh-so yummy.
I told you it was a freaking awesome day.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Le Chaudron
Vendredi, le 20 Mars. Mon Balcon. 4:06pm
I have chosen a very exciting time to study abroad in France, it seems. At least, in La Reunion. Not that it wouldn’t ordinarily be exciting, but as you may or may not have heard, general strikes have found their way to French Overseas Departments. At first they were only in Guadaloupe (lasting for 44 days beginning around January 20th, blockading the island and killing one person), but on March 5th, the strike came to Reunion. The protests were different from the University strikes that I had been experiencing. “Oh great,” I thought. “As if it weren’t difficult enough to get to class during a University strike, what’s it going to be like when the whole island shuts down?” Well, little white suburban Chelsea soon experienced what it was like to be in a civil uprising.
Before I get to the exciting part (for my friends, the scary part for my adult friends), let me tell you why French Overseas Departments are rioting. Guadaloupe, Martinique (in the Caribbean), French Guiana (South America), and La Reunion are DOMs (Departements Outre-Mer, or French Overseas Departments). I don’t remember if I’ve explained this, but they are like Hawaii is to the USA- all the rights of a mainland state, just farther away. Well, they may have the same political rights, but in fact, life here is structured quite differently. For Reunion, the unemployment rate is something like 50+%, compared with about 18% in métropole (mainland France). Also, there’s a built-in 57% sales tax on all products, which makes life here, as you can imagine, quite expensive. I also need to explain about being a civil servant in France. Any state job- bus driver, teachers, professors, magistrates, etc- have a pretty sweet deal. They get paid pretty well and they get good benefits. That’s all fine and well, but for the rest of the island that’s employed, many are on minimum wage and trying to live on what I imagine to be, less than a living wage. Hence, the protests. After throwing an enormous hissy fit, blockading the island, rioting, and using all their gas, food, water, and energy, Sarcozy finally caved and decided to give those living on minimum wage a 200 Euro a month increase. Sweet. Except, that’s only Guadeloupe. So, what kind of example does that set? Naturally, Reunion said, “Oh, well they protested and got a raise? Well we will, too.” So here I am, sitting on my balcony on the second day (albeit not consecutive) of the General Strike. Fliers are all over campus trying to attract the youth population, and yet somehow classes are still going on (save for my surf class.. grr… I can’t exactly pick up where I left off in Maryville..).
So far, things aren’t as bad as they were on the first day, but who knows. It could get bad by tonight. Let me recant to you how it went down last week. After Steph and I got out of class last Tuesday around 3:30, we kept hearing muffled booms coming from somewhere nearby. As we went for our weekly visit to the International Student Office, Sylvie and Sophie (the tiniest, nicest women ever) informed us to STAY INSIDE tonight- “Don’t leave campus,” they warned. Those booms we were hearing were tear gas bombs being launched in the neighborhood just down the hill. Apparently the protest from the town center had marched all the way to our part of St- Denis and was now agitating the police and army enough to warrant tear gas bombs. Cool.
By dinnertime, it had not abated. In fact, there was a pretty good view of it from our cafeteria by nightfall. So, what do sociology students do? They go check out the riot. Minutes later, Steph, Richard, Ivan, Chaz, and I were walking out of campus and down the hill toward the market and grocery store I frequent about once every two days. Le Chaudron, as the neighborhood is called, is also home to a big bus depot. It’s a busy place. We were immediately greeting with enormous garbage cans overturned and burning in the streets. Gradually we crept closer and closer. At first, it was (and I’m quoting Steph here), a lot like the 4th of July. People were out with their families and children looking at cars maneuvering around the burning poubelle and listening to the shouts of rioters and booms of bombs. Ten police cars passed, and a few army cars passed too. They all had huge shields and the two soldiers on the end of each truck had their rifles out. We moseyed down the street, crossing a soccer field and heading to a side street. More burning garbage, and the sounds got louder. Eventually we could hear the shouts and yells of the rebel men, battling the police. Rocks, bricks, and Molotov cocktails against tear gas and trucks. We were joined by a few of our Creole friends and another Brit, Becky, so the huge group of white Anglophones didn’t look as conspicuous. We still stuck out, though. Steph, Becky, and I were the only women around at this point. Men were stalking by, marching with long, deliberate stomps. They were baring their chests with tshirts swaddled around their faces to protect their lungs from the piercing tear gas. At this point, the bus depot (a small building where you can buy tickets) had burned to bare boards, and stood steaming. Stranded cars fell prey to the masses and were overturned and burned without a second thought. Ivan, Chaz, and I dared to go closer; Stephanie and Richard and Becky hung back, displaying far more sense than I allowed myself to have. I kept thinking how I wanted to document this all, send it to the media, and all the while memorize every detail- I can’t help my sociology leanings sometimes. “Les yeux, les yeux” cried Steve, our native Reunionais friend. Apparently you don’t have to run everytime you see something launched- it may just be a warning shot. Watch it. It may be a bomb of tear gas, the force of which you can feel on your back when the explosion moves the air around you. At this point, a slight drizzle was leaving an itchy film on my skin and making my toes slide in my Chacos. They reminded me once again of how I must stick out. The American white girl in a French uprising. Amazing, amazing experience, but still so bizarre. Not only have I never been exposed to anything like this- Hollywood doesn’t count, but looked scarily similar - but this is my quiet little neighborhood where I buy mangos and potatoes on Wednesday and Sunday mornings. When we saw men sprinting forth from the fog of smoke and tear gas, we ran in the same direction. That’s a rule of a riot; you don’t want to have people behind you. That means you’re on the front line. If you see people run towards you, do a 180 and get moving. Ask questions later. When the bombs launched, we ran. The rain, a silent and almost unnoticed actor in the fiery evening made the whole ordeal ironically more dangerous. We were slipping around while running and looking back. Enough was enough, and the crowds certainly weren’t going to defeat the police force. We returned, blood pumping, chattering because of the adrenaline and marveling at the sites we saw.
Later, a helicopter swooped and hummed low over the city, illuminating the clouds of tear gas and the stronghold of rioters in its beam. Things were quiet just a kilometer up the hill on my pretty campus. By morning, the tear gas bombs were few and far between. 16 arrests, a few injuries, an evening to remember.
Studying abroad- wow. Please know that my parents and brother scolded me well enough for getting so close. I never felt as though me or my life was threatened, and I’m no worse for wear. Just another exciting experience to add to my study abroad adventures.
I have chosen a very exciting time to study abroad in France, it seems. At least, in La Reunion. Not that it wouldn’t ordinarily be exciting, but as you may or may not have heard, general strikes have found their way to French Overseas Departments. At first they were only in Guadaloupe (lasting for 44 days beginning around January 20th, blockading the island and killing one person), but on March 5th, the strike came to Reunion. The protests were different from the University strikes that I had been experiencing. “Oh great,” I thought. “As if it weren’t difficult enough to get to class during a University strike, what’s it going to be like when the whole island shuts down?” Well, little white suburban Chelsea soon experienced what it was like to be in a civil uprising.
Before I get to the exciting part (for my friends, the scary part for my adult friends), let me tell you why French Overseas Departments are rioting. Guadaloupe, Martinique (in the Caribbean), French Guiana (South America), and La Reunion are DOMs (Departements Outre-Mer, or French Overseas Departments). I don’t remember if I’ve explained this, but they are like Hawaii is to the USA- all the rights of a mainland state, just farther away. Well, they may have the same political rights, but in fact, life here is structured quite differently. For Reunion, the unemployment rate is something like 50+%, compared with about 18% in métropole (mainland France). Also, there’s a built-in 57% sales tax on all products, which makes life here, as you can imagine, quite expensive. I also need to explain about being a civil servant in France. Any state job- bus driver, teachers, professors, magistrates, etc- have a pretty sweet deal. They get paid pretty well and they get good benefits. That’s all fine and well, but for the rest of the island that’s employed, many are on minimum wage and trying to live on what I imagine to be, less than a living wage. Hence, the protests. After throwing an enormous hissy fit, blockading the island, rioting, and using all their gas, food, water, and energy, Sarcozy finally caved and decided to give those living on minimum wage a 200 Euro a month increase. Sweet. Except, that’s only Guadeloupe. So, what kind of example does that set? Naturally, Reunion said, “Oh, well they protested and got a raise? Well we will, too.” So here I am, sitting on my balcony on the second day (albeit not consecutive) of the General Strike. Fliers are all over campus trying to attract the youth population, and yet somehow classes are still going on (save for my surf class.. grr… I can’t exactly pick up where I left off in Maryville..).
So far, things aren’t as bad as they were on the first day, but who knows. It could get bad by tonight. Let me recant to you how it went down last week. After Steph and I got out of class last Tuesday around 3:30, we kept hearing muffled booms coming from somewhere nearby. As we went for our weekly visit to the International Student Office, Sylvie and Sophie (the tiniest, nicest women ever) informed us to STAY INSIDE tonight- “Don’t leave campus,” they warned. Those booms we were hearing were tear gas bombs being launched in the neighborhood just down the hill. Apparently the protest from the town center had marched all the way to our part of St- Denis and was now agitating the police and army enough to warrant tear gas bombs. Cool.
By dinnertime, it had not abated. In fact, there was a pretty good view of it from our cafeteria by nightfall. So, what do sociology students do? They go check out the riot. Minutes later, Steph, Richard, Ivan, Chaz, and I were walking out of campus and down the hill toward the market and grocery store I frequent about once every two days. Le Chaudron, as the neighborhood is called, is also home to a big bus depot. It’s a busy place. We were immediately greeting with enormous garbage cans overturned and burning in the streets. Gradually we crept closer and closer. At first, it was (and I’m quoting Steph here), a lot like the 4th of July. People were out with their families and children looking at cars maneuvering around the burning poubelle and listening to the shouts of rioters and booms of bombs. Ten police cars passed, and a few army cars passed too. They all had huge shields and the two soldiers on the end of each truck had their rifles out. We moseyed down the street, crossing a soccer field and heading to a side street. More burning garbage, and the sounds got louder. Eventually we could hear the shouts and yells of the rebel men, battling the police. Rocks, bricks, and Molotov cocktails against tear gas and trucks. We were joined by a few of our Creole friends and another Brit, Becky, so the huge group of white Anglophones didn’t look as conspicuous. We still stuck out, though. Steph, Becky, and I were the only women around at this point. Men were stalking by, marching with long, deliberate stomps. They were baring their chests with tshirts swaddled around their faces to protect their lungs from the piercing tear gas. At this point, the bus depot (a small building where you can buy tickets) had burned to bare boards, and stood steaming. Stranded cars fell prey to the masses and were overturned and burned without a second thought. Ivan, Chaz, and I dared to go closer; Stephanie and Richard and Becky hung back, displaying far more sense than I allowed myself to have. I kept thinking how I wanted to document this all, send it to the media, and all the while memorize every detail- I can’t help my sociology leanings sometimes. “Les yeux, les yeux” cried Steve, our native Reunionais friend. Apparently you don’t have to run everytime you see something launched- it may just be a warning shot. Watch it. It may be a bomb of tear gas, the force of which you can feel on your back when the explosion moves the air around you. At this point, a slight drizzle was leaving an itchy film on my skin and making my toes slide in my Chacos. They reminded me once again of how I must stick out. The American white girl in a French uprising. Amazing, amazing experience, but still so bizarre. Not only have I never been exposed to anything like this- Hollywood doesn’t count, but looked scarily similar - but this is my quiet little neighborhood where I buy mangos and potatoes on Wednesday and Sunday mornings. When we saw men sprinting forth from the fog of smoke and tear gas, we ran in the same direction. That’s a rule of a riot; you don’t want to have people behind you. That means you’re on the front line. If you see people run towards you, do a 180 and get moving. Ask questions later. When the bombs launched, we ran. The rain, a silent and almost unnoticed actor in the fiery evening made the whole ordeal ironically more dangerous. We were slipping around while running and looking back. Enough was enough, and the crowds certainly weren’t going to defeat the police force. We returned, blood pumping, chattering because of the adrenaline and marveling at the sites we saw.
Later, a helicopter swooped and hummed low over the city, illuminating the clouds of tear gas and the stronghold of rioters in its beam. Things were quiet just a kilometer up the hill on my pretty campus. By morning, the tear gas bombs were few and far between. 16 arrests, a few injuries, an evening to remember.
Studying abroad- wow. Please know that my parents and brother scolded me well enough for getting so close. I never felt as though me or my life was threatened, and I’m no worse for wear. Just another exciting experience to add to my study abroad adventures.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Le Jardin
Last night at about 1 AM, I was gazing at the ocean- not unusual for me. However, it was such a dreamy night. The moon was so bright that it was casting shadows, even though where I live is pretty well-lit. It was also shining on the ocean, which was something I’ve never seen before. I was mesmerized. If you think back to my post about the sunset, you’ll remember that I try to find exact colors for things- I think it’s so I’ll be sure to remember it when I’m old and far from the memory. So, as I was taking the visual snapshot of the moon on the ocean, I decided it was an ethereal kind of color- definitely not a one-word Crayola color, either. It was gray and green-blue and silver all at the same time, but it moved. The closest tangible thing I could relate it to would be, perhaps, the color of the ripples in a White-out patch after it’s been photocopied. Except slightly greener. Anyway, it was a living color, and it was beautiful.
Then, my eyes wandered to the scene below me. I live on the sixième étage (6th floor), just right of the center of the building, as you look out (ie: looking at the building, my room is slightly to the left). I have a spectacular view of both the mountains and the ocean and the city growing inbetween. I can also see all of the foot traffic that goes in and out of the building. The entrance is actually on the third floor, which holds the front desk, vending machines (where you can get passion fruit flavored soda and hazelnut chocolates), the computer room, and several multi-purpose classrooms. On the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, and 6th floors are where the students live. But, I digress. On the same level of the first floor is “le jardin” or the courtyard (literally, the garden). I really love to look at it. As I said, I have a good view of the right side of it, as it is divided by the walkway that comes from campus level (the third floor). So, it’s like a sunken courtyard. I hope you can visualize this.
The walkway/parking/hangout area out front connected to the walkway makes a giant “T” with the stem of the T leading to the front doors, and the top of the T making one face of the enormous patio out front. Making sense? Good. So, I want to tell you about what I think about my little view of le jardin.
I find it simply charming. I have no idea who tends to it, who planted it, or really what to think of its existence. On the right side in the corner, next to the door, there are two banana trees (a big bunch of them will be ready in a few more weeks!) and several bushes. They all are shiny and very chlorophyll-y. I imagine that the rich volcanic soil and the endless sunshine make for very happy plants. At least, I’d be happy and well-fed if I were a plant here. A few weeks ago, the banana tree nearest me made a new leaf. At first, it was a long, booger-colored baton, extending from the center of all the other fronds. Then, slowly, it grew longer, and greener, until one morning, after a night of fairly turbulent storming, I saw that it had unfurled and begun to fan itself in the early breeze.
To the right, growing in a crack in le trottoir (sidewalk), is a tangly mess of an impatient plant. Impatients are the little colorful, 5-leaved flowers that my dad used to let me pick up at the Agway when I was 6 or 7 or 8, to plant in my own garden. Imagine seeing the actual plant growing wild in its natural climate, and not in a 6-pack of black plastic. Pleasantly surprising. Its arms are long and have several white blooms at each juncture of stem and leaf. It sort of looks like the land squeezed a pore and out squiggled a flowering plant!
In the middle of the grass, there’s a stump. The tree was cut down a long time ago; the weathered leather-brown color of the middle matches the color of the remaining bark and roots. I wonder what kind of tree it was. Probably coconut- they’re as ubiquitous here as maples and pears are back home. The stump is hatched like the top of an apple pie, or like the back of a piece of clay when you score it to attach to a bigger piece of pottery. The lines are surprisingly exact, and they make me want to trace my fingers through them. Or, stand on it and declare something, like the Lorax would do.
When I first arrived, I used to lean over my railing and watch a Mother Cat and her one Baby live like tigers dans le jardin. The mother is a pale orange, and the baby is gray like a rain cloud. Mother Cat would nap under a shrub, and Baby would creep up in front of her and practice her pouncing skills. Later, Baby would feed, and the two would stalk around like the plants needed patrolling. Naps, playing, feeding, repeat. Now, I hardly see them together, and Baby is nearly the size of Mother Cat. I still want to know how they get in and out. It seems like such an isolated little hide out, but cats are crafty like that.
To finish what I can see from my balcony: just under me there’s a line of bushes with smalls blooms the color of coral. Also, there’s a plant with shiny green and red and yellow stripes. Those abut the sidewalk. Across from them climbing up the wall of the “T” (where the stem of the T and the top of the T meet) are various kinds of vines. Some are alive and some are dead. If I were a snake I’d wind myself up and down in them all day. One can hardly see the faded white fall behind them, and I’m reminded of The Secret Garden or Harry Potter. In front of the wall is the grass patch (with the Apple Pie Stump).
My favorite part of the courtyard is actually what inspired this post. Down in my right corner, there is a rose bush. It’s probably three feet tall and has one main stalk and two smaller ones. It’s interesting, because one of my professors was saying how roses can’t grow here because it’s too hot. Well, the thing about courtyards and roses is that the roses usually don’t just appear there, nor are they abundant enough to make me believe that a seed landed there. So, someone knew that that section of the garden would get just enough light and just enough shade to grow but not scorch the delicate flower. Just four days ago, I spent a good amount of time just staring, partly in disbelief, at the fact that there was a beautiful, perfect bloom on my rosebush. The plant is positioned perfectly so that at night, the light from the stairwell between the ground and first floors is illuminates it. She puts on a show for anyone who has the view and happens to notice. The bloom was a beige-peach color, and I imagined what it smelled like. Like a rose in the US? Probably not, but who will ever know?
On Saturday morning, the flower had dropped all of its petals, and the plant blended back into the green background of le jardin. Who planted that bush, I wonder. The thing about roses is that they are so stereotypically French-romantic (to me, at least), and I stereotypically love them. I am always reminded of the rose character in Le Petit Prince. So, it seemed trite to write about a rose I saw this one time in France, but I couldn’t help myself. If you had seen it bloom, you would have to write too.
I’m not posting a picture, because by now, you all have an image of what it looks like in your mind’s eye, and I don’t want to ruin your imagined jardin. We all need to use our imaginations from time to time. Have fun exploring the courtyard with yours.
Then, my eyes wandered to the scene below me. I live on the sixième étage (6th floor), just right of the center of the building, as you look out (ie: looking at the building, my room is slightly to the left). I have a spectacular view of both the mountains and the ocean and the city growing inbetween. I can also see all of the foot traffic that goes in and out of the building. The entrance is actually on the third floor, which holds the front desk, vending machines (where you can get passion fruit flavored soda and hazelnut chocolates), the computer room, and several multi-purpose classrooms. On the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, and 6th floors are where the students live. But, I digress. On the same level of the first floor is “le jardin” or the courtyard (literally, the garden). I really love to look at it. As I said, I have a good view of the right side of it, as it is divided by the walkway that comes from campus level (the third floor). So, it’s like a sunken courtyard. I hope you can visualize this.
The walkway/parking/hangout area out front connected to the walkway makes a giant “T” with the stem of the T leading to the front doors, and the top of the T making one face of the enormous patio out front. Making sense? Good. So, I want to tell you about what I think about my little view of le jardin.
I find it simply charming. I have no idea who tends to it, who planted it, or really what to think of its existence. On the right side in the corner, next to the door, there are two banana trees (a big bunch of them will be ready in a few more weeks!) and several bushes. They all are shiny and very chlorophyll-y. I imagine that the rich volcanic soil and the endless sunshine make for very happy plants. At least, I’d be happy and well-fed if I were a plant here. A few weeks ago, the banana tree nearest me made a new leaf. At first, it was a long, booger-colored baton, extending from the center of all the other fronds. Then, slowly, it grew longer, and greener, until one morning, after a night of fairly turbulent storming, I saw that it had unfurled and begun to fan itself in the early breeze.
To the right, growing in a crack in le trottoir (sidewalk), is a tangly mess of an impatient plant. Impatients are the little colorful, 5-leaved flowers that my dad used to let me pick up at the Agway when I was 6 or 7 or 8, to plant in my own garden. Imagine seeing the actual plant growing wild in its natural climate, and not in a 6-pack of black plastic. Pleasantly surprising. Its arms are long and have several white blooms at each juncture of stem and leaf. It sort of looks like the land squeezed a pore and out squiggled a flowering plant!
In the middle of the grass, there’s a stump. The tree was cut down a long time ago; the weathered leather-brown color of the middle matches the color of the remaining bark and roots. I wonder what kind of tree it was. Probably coconut- they’re as ubiquitous here as maples and pears are back home. The stump is hatched like the top of an apple pie, or like the back of a piece of clay when you score it to attach to a bigger piece of pottery. The lines are surprisingly exact, and they make me want to trace my fingers through them. Or, stand on it and declare something, like the Lorax would do.
When I first arrived, I used to lean over my railing and watch a Mother Cat and her one Baby live like tigers dans le jardin. The mother is a pale orange, and the baby is gray like a rain cloud. Mother Cat would nap under a shrub, and Baby would creep up in front of her and practice her pouncing skills. Later, Baby would feed, and the two would stalk around like the plants needed patrolling. Naps, playing, feeding, repeat. Now, I hardly see them together, and Baby is nearly the size of Mother Cat. I still want to know how they get in and out. It seems like such an isolated little hide out, but cats are crafty like that.
To finish what I can see from my balcony: just under me there’s a line of bushes with smalls blooms the color of coral. Also, there’s a plant with shiny green and red and yellow stripes. Those abut the sidewalk. Across from them climbing up the wall of the “T” (where the stem of the T and the top of the T meet) are various kinds of vines. Some are alive and some are dead. If I were a snake I’d wind myself up and down in them all day. One can hardly see the faded white fall behind them, and I’m reminded of The Secret Garden or Harry Potter. In front of the wall is the grass patch (with the Apple Pie Stump).
My favorite part of the courtyard is actually what inspired this post. Down in my right corner, there is a rose bush. It’s probably three feet tall and has one main stalk and two smaller ones. It’s interesting, because one of my professors was saying how roses can’t grow here because it’s too hot. Well, the thing about courtyards and roses is that the roses usually don’t just appear there, nor are they abundant enough to make me believe that a seed landed there. So, someone knew that that section of the garden would get just enough light and just enough shade to grow but not scorch the delicate flower. Just four days ago, I spent a good amount of time just staring, partly in disbelief, at the fact that there was a beautiful, perfect bloom on my rosebush. The plant is positioned perfectly so that at night, the light from the stairwell between the ground and first floors is illuminates it. She puts on a show for anyone who has the view and happens to notice. The bloom was a beige-peach color, and I imagined what it smelled like. Like a rose in the US? Probably not, but who will ever know?
On Saturday morning, the flower had dropped all of its petals, and the plant blended back into the green background of le jardin. Who planted that bush, I wonder. The thing about roses is that they are so stereotypically French-romantic (to me, at least), and I stereotypically love them. I am always reminded of the rose character in Le Petit Prince. So, it seemed trite to write about a rose I saw this one time in France, but I couldn’t help myself. If you had seen it bloom, you would have to write too.
I’m not posting a picture, because by now, you all have an image of what it looks like in your mind’s eye, and I don’t want to ruin your imagined jardin. We all need to use our imaginations from time to time. Have fun exploring the courtyard with yours.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Strikes and Iguanas and Anti-Climactic Vanilla Cooperatives
Sorry for my absence. Things have been sort of busy around here, what, with me actually going to class on a regular basis. Also, as you know, internet connections aren't the best, so I'm happy to be able to post. And now, time for a brief-ish rundown of my past 10 days or so.
I know I promised a blog on the stike that was happening/is happening/will continue to happen on campus. Well, as you know, the French love to strike. To them, the government is always to blame. So, naturally, when the Minister of Education proposed sweeping changes to the national university system, everyone freaked. It is actually kind of a big deal, because this is the first time that the schools have held wide strikes. I think at its height 70 universities were shut down (it's around 50 now). You see, professors are civil servants (and get fairly good benefits), so if they strike the government doesn't care because they don't have to pay them. Unfortunately, now that everyone's jumping on the bandwagon, they can't really ignore it. Way to go strikers!
So, I must confess that I'm not actually sure what they're protesting. I am fairly certain it involves the following: cutting professors' benefits, cutting/altering research funding, changing the way the poor get scholarships. Again, I can't be too sure, but that is what I gather from my professors. Regardless, the strike has come to Reunion. Here's what's happened so far: in the second week of school, class kept being interrupted by polite students that quietly knocked on the door and asked the professor for a few minutes. They explained that there was strike and here's why they were striking. They professor promptly stopped lecturing and sat back, giving these complete strangers the floor. As I said the French love and respect their strikers. The same week, the students started to protest and march around campus one morning. There were a few hundred, so it looked cool. Of course, the sociology major in me was immediately attracted to the French Culture happening, so I followed like a bug to a lightbulb, and resisted the urge to take along a notebook for my records. Our large group ended up in front of the administration building, locking themselves between the builiding and the street. Meanwhile, the crowd blew horns, beat drums, smoked weed, threw some fruit and blocked traffic. It was pretty cool. Then, the leader said they were breaking for lunch and would resume later. So French. They love their tuna and corn sandwiches on baguettes, too.
After that, the campus would be sproadically closed. One day, I woke up to find that students had torn down lampposts and put them in front of the gates so profs couldn't get it. That week the President completely shut down campus for a day. Since then, it's been completely closed one more time and half closed (lampposts blocking cars and students only allowing foot traffic) about three times. It may sound cool, but it's actually sort of annoying. I'm here to get a formal French education. While I am learning a lot about the culture, not being able to go to my French translation, culture, and grammar courses is frustrating. I only have four more months, after all! Still, I'm sure those of you out there who know me are saying, "geez, Chels, quit being such a nerd and enjoy not having class." Don't worry- I do. It just highlights the difference that the French and Americans place on education. Everyday I learn something new, and for the most part, class has resumed as normal.
At first I thought I wasn't going to be able to get credit (if I don't have class I can't have homework and I can't get a grade! Ahh calm down, Chelsea). But now, it's pretty evident that there's only a small group of students that are totally gung-ho about it. This past week they made a paper-mache Sarcozy to BURN (yes, burn-- if students did that with Bush [or Obama], they'd be shot or lynched or dragged behind a truck or something) but I'm not actually sure what became of it. Campus is scheduled to be closed to cars tomorrow (read: the students striking voted to put the lampposts in the road), so who knows if class is actually on. It's impossible to tell which professors are striking, too. Even if they aren't, enough students to hold class might not show up, so class still may not happen. Sigh. Campus may be totally closed on Thursday, though.
On a completely unrelated note, the ENTIRE ISLAND may be on strike this Thursday because of all of the economic changes Sarcozy wants to make to French Overseas Departments (Guadaloupe, Martinique, French Guiana, and Reunion). You may have heard that there were some pretty serious protests in Guadaloupe in the past two weeks. Basically, Sarcozy appeased the crowds (sort of) by promising them 240 more Euros a month (to civil servants), but he failed to promise the same for the other three overseas departments.. cough cough.. Reunion. Now the mindset is, "well, Guadaloupe got the money, so if we strike, we will too!" So, now, if the University isn't striking, the island will be. My translation professor told us to expect the worse, stock up on food, and if possible, go downtown to watch the protests at the prefecture. Oh so cheerily she offered: "Yes, wear your tennis shoes, and if they start throwing rocks, the riot police will respond with tear gas, and you can just walk down a side street and be out of it!"
France. Love it.
I'll let you know how that goes. In other news, this blog post is getting entirely too long, but I'm perservering because I owe you stories on seeing my first iguana and lame vanilla museums. Last weekend I went to Salazie, which is one of the cirques of the island. It's beyond gorgeous. The cirques are ancient collapsed volcanoes, so once you're in, you're just surrounded by an impenitrible wall of verdant tropical life. Team Anglophone (the Americans and the British) searched for a cascade (waterfall), but failed. Instead, we had a great time trekking around on a trail, stumbling upon adorable Creole homes and gorgeous vistas. I swore that I was going to see a terradactyl fly over the canyon. The plants were so big and we were so far from people that I swore I was in the Mesozoic Period or something. Amazing. So worth it. Anndddd on the way out, we were stopped for a water break and we saw an iguana! He was so cool and orange and striped. I would have liked to have had a conversation with him, perhaps about his opinion on paperback books versus hardcovers. I think he'd have been into it. I refrained from asking, and we hastened to get back to St. Denis and get ready to go to a rave (techno music all night long, yes!!!) and sleep on the beach. Success. Team America (Me, Katie, and Stephanie) dominated that weekend.
This weekend was just a good one. Saturday, Stephanie and I spent the day with our German friends and spoke French the whole time (yes!!!). We were searching for a Vanilla plantation/museum, but it was in the next town over, so this really nice woman took us in her tiny French car. The museum ended up being kind of lame, but I did learn some good things about the plant. For example, did you know that the vanilla plant originated in Mexico? Also, that it doesn't self-pollinate and that it must be done by hand in Reunion? I sure didn't. Yesterday we went to the beach and got supremely sunburned. Good thing I just got an enormous shipment of aloe from my parents (thanks Mom and Dad!). I was so worried I wouldn't have a use for it! Haha. At the beach, I snorkeled for about 45 minutes and saw the most INCREDIBLE sea life, including my favorite fish for the first time ever!! (http://blog.nesthostelsvalencia.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/long-fin-angel-fish.jpg). I don't know why I like it so much, but I think they're gorgeous. I saw about ten, and one was about the size of my head! So cool. I obviously didn't take the picture, but y'all get the idea. Thanks, Google Image.
Well, I hope your eyes aren't stinging from reading my short novel. As always, please keep in touch and tell me about what you're doing! If you send me your address, I will send you a postcard or letter. Stay warm in the crazy storm. I'll eat a fresh pineapple and think nostalgically about what winter feels like...
Bisous!
I know I promised a blog on the stike that was happening/is happening/will continue to happen on campus. Well, as you know, the French love to strike. To them, the government is always to blame. So, naturally, when the Minister of Education proposed sweeping changes to the national university system, everyone freaked. It is actually kind of a big deal, because this is the first time that the schools have held wide strikes. I think at its height 70 universities were shut down (it's around 50 now). You see, professors are civil servants (and get fairly good benefits), so if they strike the government doesn't care because they don't have to pay them. Unfortunately, now that everyone's jumping on the bandwagon, they can't really ignore it. Way to go strikers!
So, I must confess that I'm not actually sure what they're protesting. I am fairly certain it involves the following: cutting professors' benefits, cutting/altering research funding, changing the way the poor get scholarships. Again, I can't be too sure, but that is what I gather from my professors. Regardless, the strike has come to Reunion. Here's what's happened so far: in the second week of school, class kept being interrupted by polite students that quietly knocked on the door and asked the professor for a few minutes. They explained that there was strike and here's why they were striking. They professor promptly stopped lecturing and sat back, giving these complete strangers the floor. As I said the French love and respect their strikers. The same week, the students started to protest and march around campus one morning. There were a few hundred, so it looked cool. Of course, the sociology major in me was immediately attracted to the French Culture happening, so I followed like a bug to a lightbulb, and resisted the urge to take along a notebook for my records. Our large group ended up in front of the administration building, locking themselves between the builiding and the street. Meanwhile, the crowd blew horns, beat drums, smoked weed, threw some fruit and blocked traffic. It was pretty cool. Then, the leader said they were breaking for lunch and would resume later. So French. They love their tuna and corn sandwiches on baguettes, too.
After that, the campus would be sproadically closed. One day, I woke up to find that students had torn down lampposts and put them in front of the gates so profs couldn't get it. That week the President completely shut down campus for a day. Since then, it's been completely closed one more time and half closed (lampposts blocking cars and students only allowing foot traffic) about three times. It may sound cool, but it's actually sort of annoying. I'm here to get a formal French education. While I am learning a lot about the culture, not being able to go to my French translation, culture, and grammar courses is frustrating. I only have four more months, after all! Still, I'm sure those of you out there who know me are saying, "geez, Chels, quit being such a nerd and enjoy not having class." Don't worry- I do. It just highlights the difference that the French and Americans place on education. Everyday I learn something new, and for the most part, class has resumed as normal.
At first I thought I wasn't going to be able to get credit (if I don't have class I can't have homework and I can't get a grade! Ahh calm down, Chelsea). But now, it's pretty evident that there's only a small group of students that are totally gung-ho about it. This past week they made a paper-mache Sarcozy to BURN (yes, burn-- if students did that with Bush [or Obama], they'd be shot or lynched or dragged behind a truck or something) but I'm not actually sure what became of it. Campus is scheduled to be closed to cars tomorrow (read: the students striking voted to put the lampposts in the road), so who knows if class is actually on. It's impossible to tell which professors are striking, too. Even if they aren't, enough students to hold class might not show up, so class still may not happen. Sigh. Campus may be totally closed on Thursday, though.
On a completely unrelated note, the ENTIRE ISLAND may be on strike this Thursday because of all of the economic changes Sarcozy wants to make to French Overseas Departments (Guadaloupe, Martinique, French Guiana, and Reunion). You may have heard that there were some pretty serious protests in Guadaloupe in the past two weeks. Basically, Sarcozy appeased the crowds (sort of) by promising them 240 more Euros a month (to civil servants), but he failed to promise the same for the other three overseas departments.. cough cough.. Reunion. Now the mindset is, "well, Guadaloupe got the money, so if we strike, we will too!" So, now, if the University isn't striking, the island will be. My translation professor told us to expect the worse, stock up on food, and if possible, go downtown to watch the protests at the prefecture. Oh so cheerily she offered: "Yes, wear your tennis shoes, and if they start throwing rocks, the riot police will respond with tear gas, and you can just walk down a side street and be out of it!"
France. Love it.
I'll let you know how that goes. In other news, this blog post is getting entirely too long, but I'm perservering because I owe you stories on seeing my first iguana and lame vanilla museums. Last weekend I went to Salazie, which is one of the cirques of the island. It's beyond gorgeous. The cirques are ancient collapsed volcanoes, so once you're in, you're just surrounded by an impenitrible wall of verdant tropical life. Team Anglophone (the Americans and the British) searched for a cascade (waterfall), but failed. Instead, we had a great time trekking around on a trail, stumbling upon adorable Creole homes and gorgeous vistas. I swore that I was going to see a terradactyl fly over the canyon. The plants were so big and we were so far from people that I swore I was in the Mesozoic Period or something. Amazing. So worth it. Anndddd on the way out, we were stopped for a water break and we saw an iguana! He was so cool and orange and striped. I would have liked to have had a conversation with him, perhaps about his opinion on paperback books versus hardcovers. I think he'd have been into it. I refrained from asking, and we hastened to get back to St. Denis and get ready to go to a rave (techno music all night long, yes!!!) and sleep on the beach. Success. Team America (Me, Katie, and Stephanie) dominated that weekend.
This weekend was just a good one. Saturday, Stephanie and I spent the day with our German friends and spoke French the whole time (yes!!!). We were searching for a Vanilla plantation/museum, but it was in the next town over, so this really nice woman took us in her tiny French car. The museum ended up being kind of lame, but I did learn some good things about the plant. For example, did you know that the vanilla plant originated in Mexico? Also, that it doesn't self-pollinate and that it must be done by hand in Reunion? I sure didn't. Yesterday we went to the beach and got supremely sunburned. Good thing I just got an enormous shipment of aloe from my parents (thanks Mom and Dad!). I was so worried I wouldn't have a use for it! Haha. At the beach, I snorkeled for about 45 minutes and saw the most INCREDIBLE sea life, including my favorite fish for the first time ever!! (http://blog.nesthostelsvalencia.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/09/long-fin-angel-fish.jpg). I don't know why I like it so much, but I think they're gorgeous. I saw about ten, and one was about the size of my head! So cool. I obviously didn't take the picture, but y'all get the idea. Thanks, Google Image.
Well, I hope your eyes aren't stinging from reading my short novel. As always, please keep in touch and tell me about what you're doing! If you send me your address, I will send you a postcard or letter. Stay warm in the crazy storm. I'll eat a fresh pineapple and think nostalgically about what winter feels like...
Bisous!
Friday, February 20, 2009
Bagatelle, Edema, Cilaos et Perrier
18 Février 2009. 6 pm. Ma cuisinette.
Today was one of the hottest days I can remember. After waking up after a fitful night of sleep (my fan stopped working, so it was pretty uncomfortable), I did some laundry with Stephanie. We remarked on how heavy wet laundry is. We thought back to the sum of our remembered pre-industrial art: those women had guns. We attributed it to doing all the laundry by hand, carrying toddlers around for years, and generally hauling things back and forth without the aid of cars, busses, and ..ahem.. men. We also decided that by the time we leave, our arms and backs will be just as strong- there’s a lot of manual labor to be done here.
A short trip to Jumbo (the grocery store) enlightened me to even more Réunionais culture. We were searching for “something American” for an international dinner tonight. I settled on macaroni and cheese. I was surprised that after so much seemingly Western influence that there was such a “lack” of American food to be bought. How presumptuous of me. We’ll see how the mac and cheese turns out, seeing as even the crappiest cheese in France is about five times better than cheese in the US.
Other quirky, cultural things I’ve noticed: women here really like shoes, and really like to dress up. I feel like an absolute scrub when I wear my favorite outfit of Nike shorts and a t-shirt. Most everyone here looks great- brightly colored scarves, shirts, pants, cute tops, and really nice sandals or heels that look like they give some serious blisters. Additionally, I’ve noticed that women really like having their bra straps show. That’d be really weird in the US, in my opinion. Regardless, the women are all gorgeous all the time.
I had my first solo outing to downtown St. Denis today to exchange mon ventilateur (fan). That’s when I really started paying attention to the people and places around me. Everything I can see is a picture: the colors are so lively- the walls, the clothes, their skin, the sky, the tropical trees… I never want to close my eyes. On this trip I also continued thinking about how I live here; I am learning to pick my way through crowds like a Créole, carry myself like one, and take care of myself like one. Yea, I live here. It feels good to finally be getting a hold of it. Honestly, I don’t ever want to stop.
My French is improving daily. I was remarking just the other day how I don’t notice as much how I struggle to converse with people; I can wake up and speak relatively well and not feel (as) tired from a day of speaking when I go to bed. I pick things up from people when I’m in public, too. I’m learning so much vocabulary, so many verbs, thanks to my very patient neighbors and friends. They ask me how to say something in English and I ask them how to say everything from hiccup (houque) to bloomed (éblouissant) in French, and rarely, Créole. I love listening to people speak French, and I love learning it. Five months is not enough.
For now, that’s all. You may (or may not) have heard, but nearly all of the universities in France are striking. Mine is too, but I’m not that adversely affected. More on that in the next post. For now, I’ll wait on my macaroni and then head to my Réunionais Folk Dance class. Yes, I’m learning how to dance. Hold your laughter until after you see my sweet skills. À plus!
Today was one of the hottest days I can remember. After waking up after a fitful night of sleep (my fan stopped working, so it was pretty uncomfortable), I did some laundry with Stephanie. We remarked on how heavy wet laundry is. We thought back to the sum of our remembered pre-industrial art: those women had guns. We attributed it to doing all the laundry by hand, carrying toddlers around for years, and generally hauling things back and forth without the aid of cars, busses, and ..ahem.. men. We also decided that by the time we leave, our arms and backs will be just as strong- there’s a lot of manual labor to be done here.
A short trip to Jumbo (the grocery store) enlightened me to even more Réunionais culture. We were searching for “something American” for an international dinner tonight. I settled on macaroni and cheese. I was surprised that after so much seemingly Western influence that there was such a “lack” of American food to be bought. How presumptuous of me. We’ll see how the mac and cheese turns out, seeing as even the crappiest cheese in France is about five times better than cheese in the US.
Other quirky, cultural things I’ve noticed: women here really like shoes, and really like to dress up. I feel like an absolute scrub when I wear my favorite outfit of Nike shorts and a t-shirt. Most everyone here looks great- brightly colored scarves, shirts, pants, cute tops, and really nice sandals or heels that look like they give some serious blisters. Additionally, I’ve noticed that women really like having their bra straps show. That’d be really weird in the US, in my opinion. Regardless, the women are all gorgeous all the time.
I had my first solo outing to downtown St. Denis today to exchange mon ventilateur (fan). That’s when I really started paying attention to the people and places around me. Everything I can see is a picture: the colors are so lively- the walls, the clothes, their skin, the sky, the tropical trees… I never want to close my eyes. On this trip I also continued thinking about how I live here; I am learning to pick my way through crowds like a Créole, carry myself like one, and take care of myself like one. Yea, I live here. It feels good to finally be getting a hold of it. Honestly, I don’t ever want to stop.
My French is improving daily. I was remarking just the other day how I don’t notice as much how I struggle to converse with people; I can wake up and speak relatively well and not feel (as) tired from a day of speaking when I go to bed. I pick things up from people when I’m in public, too. I’m learning so much vocabulary, so many verbs, thanks to my very patient neighbors and friends. They ask me how to say something in English and I ask them how to say everything from hiccup (houque) to bloomed (éblouissant) in French, and rarely, Créole. I love listening to people speak French, and I love learning it. Five months is not enough.
For now, that’s all. You may (or may not) have heard, but nearly all of the universities in France are striking. Mine is too, but I’m not that adversely affected. More on that in the next post. For now, I’ll wait on my macaroni and then head to my Réunionais Folk Dance class. Yes, I’m learning how to dance. Hold your laughter until after you see my sweet skills. À plus!
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