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!
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