Well, I finally heard the news today. I guess only having access to internet twice a week keeps you out of the loop.
I'm shocked and somewhat terrified about what happened- I don't know really how to react.
I've known her for 7 years- starting from Gym Class freshman year with Mr. Dane and CC. I think that the three of us were the people in our gym class who won the trevian spirit award.
I'm sending all my thoughts and prayers to everyone at home affected by this- especially for my best friends that I love so much. You'll be able to pull through, but I know it will be hard.
The entry that I was planning for today will come in a few days. For now, it's just time to meditate on our lives, and how to understand things like this that are so unexpected.
Miriam: You will always be remembered and missed.
To my friends and family: I love you.
Margaret
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Apples ‘à la Français’ (in the French style)
My host family has been great about making sure that I am aware of cultural customs. Things like putting the bread on the table, not on the plate, putting your water glass directly above the plate instead of to the upper right, and most importantly- teaching me how to eat food in the French way.
There are a few basic things to know: you never cut salad, if you cut a bite you must eat it right after, it’s rude to cut bites in advance and let them sit on your plate. But the most important thing that I have learned in terms of eating involves apples.
I remember the second day that I was here- I was starving, I had just gone to the grocery, and I devoured an apple. I put the core in the trash pile- assuming that would be the end of it.
But, of course, it was not.
The next day, presumably after seeing the core in the trash, my host mother ate an apple after dinner. She ate it very elegantly, cutting it into fourths, and then only taking out a very small part of the fruit around the seeds. But the most fascinating part of this adventure was the skin. She peeled the entire apple using her knife. Not medieval style- where you just use your left hand and a paring knife. No, this was more elegant. She used both a fork and knife. As she deftly peeled the skin away, and ate about 90% of the apple, her message was clear: this is how to eat an apple in France.
I tired several times, mostly to no avail. I would get frustrated trying to cut it into fourths, or only end up peeling a tiny part before the fork, which was holding the apple in place, would slip. But tonight (October 7th, a fateful day), I decided to get over it, and learn how to peel an apple the French way.
I had a perfect window of opportunity as I was planning my meal- no one else was in the apartment. I made my pasta with no trouble, and just as I was sitting down to eat, my host mother came in the door. She came to say hi, and there was no going back- she saw the apple on the table. It was clear that I planned to eat it after dinner. I couldn’t back out without her realizing that she had intimidated me out of eating the apple.
She nicely left the kitchen, and left me to my project. I cut it into fourths- that was okay. Then things started getting tough- some of the seeds when flying, deflected by the water pitcher on the table, others went to the floor and were immediately eaten by Poker, our Jack Russell terrier and my constant dining companion. I finally got it cut in fourths, and got all of the seeds out. Then I had to peel it. There was a lot of slipping, and mess ups, and many loud clangings of the knife on my plate, or my fork on the table. But I grit my teeth and got through it. It was extremely delicious- the apple à la français. As I got to the final quarter, I had the hang of the peeling. It was practically second nature! Then disaster struck- I lost my grip, and the final piece of apple went flying through the air. I frantically held off Poker, who thought that Christmas had come early in the form of ¼ of a Norman apple, and tried to catch it. But I didn’t make it, and it went skidding off the floor. I had come so far, only to suffer defeat at the very end. I wasn’t going to let that apple get the best of me. I picked it directly off the floor and ate it- and I’m praying that the 5-second rule works across continents.
(Sorry Mom, I know you’ll be disappointed that I ate it off the floor. But I had worked too hard for it to go to Poker).
Anyway, I miss you all. Things here are settling into a rhythm, or at least are calming down somewhat. Which is definitely a good thing. I love getting mail- so please send it! And let me know about what’s going on in your life.
Gros Bisous,
Margarette
There are a few basic things to know: you never cut salad, if you cut a bite you must eat it right after, it’s rude to cut bites in advance and let them sit on your plate. But the most important thing that I have learned in terms of eating involves apples.
I remember the second day that I was here- I was starving, I had just gone to the grocery, and I devoured an apple. I put the core in the trash pile- assuming that would be the end of it.
But, of course, it was not.
The next day, presumably after seeing the core in the trash, my host mother ate an apple after dinner. She ate it very elegantly, cutting it into fourths, and then only taking out a very small part of the fruit around the seeds. But the most fascinating part of this adventure was the skin. She peeled the entire apple using her knife. Not medieval style- where you just use your left hand and a paring knife. No, this was more elegant. She used both a fork and knife. As she deftly peeled the skin away, and ate about 90% of the apple, her message was clear: this is how to eat an apple in France.
I tired several times, mostly to no avail. I would get frustrated trying to cut it into fourths, or only end up peeling a tiny part before the fork, which was holding the apple in place, would slip. But tonight (October 7th, a fateful day), I decided to get over it, and learn how to peel an apple the French way.
I had a perfect window of opportunity as I was planning my meal- no one else was in the apartment. I made my pasta with no trouble, and just as I was sitting down to eat, my host mother came in the door. She came to say hi, and there was no going back- she saw the apple on the table. It was clear that I planned to eat it after dinner. I couldn’t back out without her realizing that she had intimidated me out of eating the apple.
She nicely left the kitchen, and left me to my project. I cut it into fourths- that was okay. Then things started getting tough- some of the seeds when flying, deflected by the water pitcher on the table, others went to the floor and were immediately eaten by Poker, our Jack Russell terrier and my constant dining companion. I finally got it cut in fourths, and got all of the seeds out. Then I had to peel it. There was a lot of slipping, and mess ups, and many loud clangings of the knife on my plate, or my fork on the table. But I grit my teeth and got through it. It was extremely delicious- the apple à la français. As I got to the final quarter, I had the hang of the peeling. It was practically second nature! Then disaster struck- I lost my grip, and the final piece of apple went flying through the air. I frantically held off Poker, who thought that Christmas had come early in the form of ¼ of a Norman apple, and tried to catch it. But I didn’t make it, and it went skidding off the floor. I had come so far, only to suffer defeat at the very end. I wasn’t going to let that apple get the best of me. I picked it directly off the floor and ate it- and I’m praying that the 5-second rule works across continents.
(Sorry Mom, I know you’ll be disappointed that I ate it off the floor. But I had worked too hard for it to go to Poker).
Anyway, I miss you all. Things here are settling into a rhythm, or at least are calming down somewhat. Which is definitely a good thing. I love getting mail- so please send it! And let me know about what’s going on in your life.
Gros Bisous,
Margarette
Thursday, October 1, 2009
ICP
Side Note: I finally put photos up on facebook! So you can get a very small idea of what things are like here.
Anyway, here is the real reason for the post: My Gothic Art Class at L’Institut Catholique de Paris.
Yesterday, I was ready to go for my first lecture for gothic art. It started at 3 pm, and since my class before ended at 2pm, I felt as though I had to hurry while on the metro. I got on and stealthily checked my map in my purse. I was confident that I would arrive to class on time, as long as I walked fast (never a problem for me). I got out of the metro, checked the map (stealthily again, in my purse), and started walking. 10 minutes later, I realized that I had been walking the wrong direction. Awesome.
I walked back to the metro station and started walking in the correct direction. I finally arrived at my destination about 7 minutes later. I finally got there, walked into the building, and realized that I had no idea what to do. It was the equivalent of arriving on campus with a class and professor name, but no idea what building, what room, etc. I searched frantically for the art history department, but I couldn’t figure it out for the life of me. I walked through all the courtyards, climbed 3 different staircases, and got lost in a series of cloisters that all looked the same.
Eventually, I found the department of ‘history and letters’, on the second floor (but here called the first floor. You enter on floor zero). I went to the office, and saw the postings of classrooms. I found my class, found the classrooms for both my lecture and discussion section, and was generally feeling pretty good about myself.
That is where I should have known something was going to go wrong.
My class was located on the fourth floor (which is actually the 5th floor, considering the numbering system). I walked up there, and was about 5 minutes early for my class. The door was closed, and there was no one waiting in the hallway, so I took a deep breath and whipped open the door.
I was promptly stared at by the 60 students who were still in the middle of a lecture (that was not my class). I awkwardly apologized and closed the door, and went to go sit in the hallway.
I waited in the hallway, and eventually students started spilling out of all the rooms. I kept waiting for other people to be waiting by my room, but everyone just seemed to be congregating in the middle of the hallway. Which was not a huge deal, I just went over to hang out with everyone else. I met a few French students, none of whom were in my class, but all of whom were really nice. I walked over to the room at about 5 after, and it was completely empty, except for the professor who had been there for the lecture before. Then I realized that there was a middle aged man, who appeared to be waiting for the same class as me. He asked me what coursed I was waiting for, I told him, and he agreed that he was in fact, waiting for the same course. We went to talk to the professor, who told us that she had no idea who was supposed to be in the room after her. So, we walked down 3 flights of stairs to the office, to verify the room.
We had the right room number. So we went back up 3 flights of stairs to the room. At quarter after, we went back to talk to the secretary. Surprise, surprise. My class was cancelled because my professor had a previous commitment. Apparently this had been part of the morning announcements on Monday (when I was not there. So there was no way to have known).
So, it has been rescheduled to be before my first discussion section, which is this Saturday. After all that, the moral of the story is that I have class this Saturday from 8-11am. And apparently there is one really nice old guy in my class.
Wish me luck.
Gros Bisous,
Margarette
Anyway, here is the real reason for the post: My Gothic Art Class at L’Institut Catholique de Paris.
Yesterday, I was ready to go for my first lecture for gothic art. It started at 3 pm, and since my class before ended at 2pm, I felt as though I had to hurry while on the metro. I got on and stealthily checked my map in my purse. I was confident that I would arrive to class on time, as long as I walked fast (never a problem for me). I got out of the metro, checked the map (stealthily again, in my purse), and started walking. 10 minutes later, I realized that I had been walking the wrong direction. Awesome.
I walked back to the metro station and started walking in the correct direction. I finally arrived at my destination about 7 minutes later. I finally got there, walked into the building, and realized that I had no idea what to do. It was the equivalent of arriving on campus with a class and professor name, but no idea what building, what room, etc. I searched frantically for the art history department, but I couldn’t figure it out for the life of me. I walked through all the courtyards, climbed 3 different staircases, and got lost in a series of cloisters that all looked the same.
Eventually, I found the department of ‘history and letters’, on the second floor (but here called the first floor. You enter on floor zero). I went to the office, and saw the postings of classrooms. I found my class, found the classrooms for both my lecture and discussion section, and was generally feeling pretty good about myself.
That is where I should have known something was going to go wrong.
My class was located on the fourth floor (which is actually the 5th floor, considering the numbering system). I walked up there, and was about 5 minutes early for my class. The door was closed, and there was no one waiting in the hallway, so I took a deep breath and whipped open the door.
I was promptly stared at by the 60 students who were still in the middle of a lecture (that was not my class). I awkwardly apologized and closed the door, and went to go sit in the hallway.
I waited in the hallway, and eventually students started spilling out of all the rooms. I kept waiting for other people to be waiting by my room, but everyone just seemed to be congregating in the middle of the hallway. Which was not a huge deal, I just went over to hang out with everyone else. I met a few French students, none of whom were in my class, but all of whom were really nice. I walked over to the room at about 5 after, and it was completely empty, except for the professor who had been there for the lecture before. Then I realized that there was a middle aged man, who appeared to be waiting for the same class as me. He asked me what coursed I was waiting for, I told him, and he agreed that he was in fact, waiting for the same course. We went to talk to the professor, who told us that she had no idea who was supposed to be in the room after her. So, we walked down 3 flights of stairs to the office, to verify the room.
We had the right room number. So we went back up 3 flights of stairs to the room. At quarter after, we went back to talk to the secretary. Surprise, surprise. My class was cancelled because my professor had a previous commitment. Apparently this had been part of the morning announcements on Monday (when I was not there. So there was no way to have known).
So, it has been rescheduled to be before my first discussion section, which is this Saturday. After all that, the moral of the story is that I have class this Saturday from 8-11am. And apparently there is one really nice old guy in my class.
Wish me luck.
Gros Bisous,
Margarette
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Marc's Party
This was en event that deserved it’s own proper blog entry. This past Saturday, I went to a party where I actually knew no one. Not a single person. Perhaps I should explain the premise…
When my dad was in business school, he was very good friends with a guy in his class who was Parisian. For the sake of privacy, I wont tell you his whole name. But I’ll refer to him as Messieur P (M. P from now on…). When my dad told M. P that I would be in Paris for a semester, he told his 26 year old son, Marc. So, Marc texted me on the second day that I was here (I had no idea that anyone had my phone number, so when my phone went off in class, I looked around for the guilty party. I seriously had no idea that it was me, I’m sure that I was convincing enough that my professor didn’t think it was me).
So, Marc’s text (which was in English), said that he was having a party on the 19th at his apartment, and would love if I could go.
I had to think about my very rigorous social calendar for all of 4.2 seconds before texting him to say that I would love to go.
So, finally, a week and a half later, the day finally came for me to go to Marc’s party. I had been at dinner with my family friends who were in town for the weekend, and it was a lovely dinner. So I was basically moving from everything that I was comfortable with, to a situation where I actually knew no one.
I take a taxi to Marc’s apartment. He gave me the code to get into the building, and I was super proud to buzz into his apartment building. Then came the real problem- I had to use the box to call up to his apartment- and I had no idea what number that was. I frantically checked the code, which had no resemblance at all to an apartment number. Luckily, there was kind of a directory, and I found ‘Marc P’, and called up to his apartment. He let me into the stairwell. Once I was in the stairwell, there was still a problem about which apartment was his- but I followed my instincts and went to the loudest one I could find (it was pretty rowdy). I took a deep breath, reminded myself that this is a good way to improve my social skills, and rang the doorbell. It was promptly answered by a middle aged woman, behind her I could clearly view what looked like a family reunion. I painfully explained that I was searching for the party of Marc P., and she told me that it would be on the top floor.
After I got over the embarrassment of having gone to the wrong apartment, I finally walked up to Marc’s apartment (on the 7th floor). I rang the doorbell, and was let in…. but not by Marc. Everyone in the room turned to look at me, and I awkwardly stood by the door. Eventually Marc came out from the kitchen, so I could figure out who he was (having never seen him before). He gave me some champagne, and pushed me into a group of his friends.
There were three premises to this party:
1. it was a party for his friends from high school to meet his friends from work (kind of awkward to begin with)
2. it was for couples.
3. Everyone else was between 25-30 years old
And it wasn’t a dinner party- it was a combination of wine and cheese, and an adult version of a kegger.
I met about 15 different French people, many who were really nice, none of whom spoke English.
All his friends from high school thought that I was a friend from work, and all the friends from work thought that i was a friend from high school. WHAT UP. They all asked me how I knew Marc, and I had to explain that this was actually my first time meeting him, that our fathers had been friends at university while in the US. I met his best friend (who was really nice), and spent the majority of the night talking to his best friends wife (who also didn’t know anyone. So we sat together and talked about university life).
Marc was a good host, so he kept floating around the party, trying to talk to everyone or about 5 minutes. By the time he finally got to me, it was about halfway through the party. And I actually got to get to know him a bit. He’s 26, works for Kraft (the same one we have headquartered in northfield), he’s studying to take the TOEFL and GMAT, and wants to go to business school in the US (like his dad). He asked me about Northwestern, and it was clear that his parents had given him the same kind of info that my parents had given him about me.
He had done some facebook-age (apparently I still had open profile set for the france network… oops). He asked me about my marriage- MY MARRIAGE TO CAROLINE CORBOY. (he couldn’t see who it was to, which made it a bit easier to explain).
(this was not supposed to be my daily shout out, but ceece- here it is. You got mentioned at the party. Feel special!)
Yes, he asked about it. So sorry ceece, but I had to take that down. We also laughed about our earlier text message conversations- he had attempted to text me in English when he didn’t know I spoke French, and I had used ‘vous’ instead of ‘tu’ a couple times, stuff like that.
I ended up staying about 2 hours, I left around the same time that his sister did (not the first, but not the last. I wanted to be polite). But that’s how I spent my Saturday night-
At a party where I actually knew no one, not even the host. And I actually had a good time, and generally people were really nice to me.
Gros bisous,
Margarette
When my dad was in business school, he was very good friends with a guy in his class who was Parisian. For the sake of privacy, I wont tell you his whole name. But I’ll refer to him as Messieur P (M. P from now on…). When my dad told M. P that I would be in Paris for a semester, he told his 26 year old son, Marc. So, Marc texted me on the second day that I was here (I had no idea that anyone had my phone number, so when my phone went off in class, I looked around for the guilty party. I seriously had no idea that it was me, I’m sure that I was convincing enough that my professor didn’t think it was me).
So, Marc’s text (which was in English), said that he was having a party on the 19th at his apartment, and would love if I could go.
I had to think about my very rigorous social calendar for all of 4.2 seconds before texting him to say that I would love to go.
So, finally, a week and a half later, the day finally came for me to go to Marc’s party. I had been at dinner with my family friends who were in town for the weekend, and it was a lovely dinner. So I was basically moving from everything that I was comfortable with, to a situation where I actually knew no one.
I take a taxi to Marc’s apartment. He gave me the code to get into the building, and I was super proud to buzz into his apartment building. Then came the real problem- I had to use the box to call up to his apartment- and I had no idea what number that was. I frantically checked the code, which had no resemblance at all to an apartment number. Luckily, there was kind of a directory, and I found ‘Marc P’, and called up to his apartment. He let me into the stairwell. Once I was in the stairwell, there was still a problem about which apartment was his- but I followed my instincts and went to the loudest one I could find (it was pretty rowdy). I took a deep breath, reminded myself that this is a good way to improve my social skills, and rang the doorbell. It was promptly answered by a middle aged woman, behind her I could clearly view what looked like a family reunion. I painfully explained that I was searching for the party of Marc P., and she told me that it would be on the top floor.
After I got over the embarrassment of having gone to the wrong apartment, I finally walked up to Marc’s apartment (on the 7th floor). I rang the doorbell, and was let in…. but not by Marc. Everyone in the room turned to look at me, and I awkwardly stood by the door. Eventually Marc came out from the kitchen, so I could figure out who he was (having never seen him before). He gave me some champagne, and pushed me into a group of his friends.
There were three premises to this party:
1. it was a party for his friends from high school to meet his friends from work (kind of awkward to begin with)
2. it was for couples.
3. Everyone else was between 25-30 years old
And it wasn’t a dinner party- it was a combination of wine and cheese, and an adult version of a kegger.
I met about 15 different French people, many who were really nice, none of whom spoke English.
All his friends from high school thought that I was a friend from work, and all the friends from work thought that i was a friend from high school. WHAT UP. They all asked me how I knew Marc, and I had to explain that this was actually my first time meeting him, that our fathers had been friends at university while in the US. I met his best friend (who was really nice), and spent the majority of the night talking to his best friends wife (who also didn’t know anyone. So we sat together and talked about university life).
Marc was a good host, so he kept floating around the party, trying to talk to everyone or about 5 minutes. By the time he finally got to me, it was about halfway through the party. And I actually got to get to know him a bit. He’s 26, works for Kraft (the same one we have headquartered in northfield), he’s studying to take the TOEFL and GMAT, and wants to go to business school in the US (like his dad). He asked me about Northwestern, and it was clear that his parents had given him the same kind of info that my parents had given him about me.
He had done some facebook-age (apparently I still had open profile set for the france network… oops). He asked me about my marriage- MY MARRIAGE TO CAROLINE CORBOY. (he couldn’t see who it was to, which made it a bit easier to explain).
(this was not supposed to be my daily shout out, but ceece- here it is. You got mentioned at the party. Feel special!)
Yes, he asked about it. So sorry ceece, but I had to take that down. We also laughed about our earlier text message conversations- he had attempted to text me in English when he didn’t know I spoke French, and I had used ‘vous’ instead of ‘tu’ a couple times, stuff like that.
I ended up staying about 2 hours, I left around the same time that his sister did (not the first, but not the last. I wanted to be polite). But that’s how I spent my Saturday night-
At a party where I actually knew no one, not even the host. And I actually had a good time, and generally people were really nice to me.
Gros bisous,
Margarette
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
I actually wrote this two days ago, about 9/14. But everything still stands.
--
So, my dear friends and loyal readers (if you exist…), today was a fairly run-of-the-mill day in Paris. (It’s so far from a run of the mill day in Chicago, it’s crazy).
--
But first, some quick things I love about Paris:
1. When you go to buy turkey in the open-air market, because you’re American, cooking for yourself, and have no idea what else to do, it comes with is neck and head still attached. Just an FYI.
2. While I was in the metro the other day, I saw a bunch of soldiers who had recently come back from their tour. They all had their huge military backpacks, but were dressed in normal clothes because they were leaving to visit family. There was one who actually had a Louis Vuitton signature print man bag. I was so proud. Only in this country would there be an off duty soldier carrying his military duffel and a Louis Vuitton signature print man purse. I love it.
--
I got up at 7 to take a shower, and attempt to get some of the hot water before it all ran out, but alas, Guillaume, my host ‘bro’, totally took most of the hot water. Considering BOTH of his parents still had to take showers, I was a good sport and took a cold shower. This might not sound bad, but then you must remember that I have long, wavy hair. That probably weighs at least 5 pounds dry. I know- this is where you start to consider the pain that is a cold shower when you have too much hair.
After my shower, I jumped into my travel towel that I brought with me. My host mother keeps saying ‘oh, I’ll give you a towel later today’ when I ask her, but so far no towel has materialized. Never mind, being the resourceful girl that I am, I use my two foot by one foot extremely absorbent travel towel. Let’s just say that a 50 degree shower, plus a tiny towel and an exterior temperature of 57 degrees makes for a cold morning.
I had French class at 9, which was fairly uneventful. We had to make a speech about an issue affecting the economy, and I talked about the French bailout plan for their automobile industry. Interessant, non?
After my 4 HOUR French class (crazy, I know), I went out to lunch with a friend from class, Caroline. We went to a brasserie for a ‘quick lunch’ of a croque-madame, but in true French fashion, a quick lunch turned into 2 hours. The company was good, the food even better, and it just happened to occur that way. After lunch we went to her apartment (apartments are the other option for people in the program, but I prefer the homestay), and she showed me the building, etc. We then went on an adventure to La Tour Eiffel (second day in a row, I’m getting spoiled), and then over to Trocadero (the monument across the Seine). I’ll try to add pictures, but I had some difficulty with the last post. If you can’t get them to work, I’ll probably just put them on facebook.
As you can probably guess, my French aptitude has gone up about 300%, while my English grammar and syntax have fallen to abysmal levels. Who knows how I’m going to manage my winter quarter classes. Which reminds me, I have to change my net-id password before it gets locked. Thanks for reminding me, NU Bulkmail.
daily shout out (new, but I thought it would try it): Melissa! It’s so exciting that you actually read my blog, and I hope that the move-in to DZ goes smoothly. Let me know how living in the house is, I want to have a better idea about what I’m getting in to ☺
Also, a final thought: I’ve reached a new level of honesty with myself. Someone asked me what I liked to do for fun, and I responded by explaining the American concept of Karaoke. The thing is- I love it. I’m glad I’ve come to terms with that.
I hope you are all having a lovely time in the states, and I miss you all!
Gros Bisous,
Margarette
--
So, my dear friends and loyal readers (if you exist…), today was a fairly run-of-the-mill day in Paris. (It’s so far from a run of the mill day in Chicago, it’s crazy).
--
But first, some quick things I love about Paris:
1. When you go to buy turkey in the open-air market, because you’re American, cooking for yourself, and have no idea what else to do, it comes with is neck and head still attached. Just an FYI.
2. While I was in the metro the other day, I saw a bunch of soldiers who had recently come back from their tour. They all had their huge military backpacks, but were dressed in normal clothes because they were leaving to visit family. There was one who actually had a Louis Vuitton signature print man bag. I was so proud. Only in this country would there be an off duty soldier carrying his military duffel and a Louis Vuitton signature print man purse. I love it.
--
I got up at 7 to take a shower, and attempt to get some of the hot water before it all ran out, but alas, Guillaume, my host ‘bro’, totally took most of the hot water. Considering BOTH of his parents still had to take showers, I was a good sport and took a cold shower. This might not sound bad, but then you must remember that I have long, wavy hair. That probably weighs at least 5 pounds dry. I know- this is where you start to consider the pain that is a cold shower when you have too much hair.
After my shower, I jumped into my travel towel that I brought with me. My host mother keeps saying ‘oh, I’ll give you a towel later today’ when I ask her, but so far no towel has materialized. Never mind, being the resourceful girl that I am, I use my two foot by one foot extremely absorbent travel towel. Let’s just say that a 50 degree shower, plus a tiny towel and an exterior temperature of 57 degrees makes for a cold morning.
I had French class at 9, which was fairly uneventful. We had to make a speech about an issue affecting the economy, and I talked about the French bailout plan for their automobile industry. Interessant, non?
After my 4 HOUR French class (crazy, I know), I went out to lunch with a friend from class, Caroline. We went to a brasserie for a ‘quick lunch’ of a croque-madame, but in true French fashion, a quick lunch turned into 2 hours. The company was good, the food even better, and it just happened to occur that way. After lunch we went to her apartment (apartments are the other option for people in the program, but I prefer the homestay), and she showed me the building, etc. We then went on an adventure to La Tour Eiffel (second day in a row, I’m getting spoiled), and then over to Trocadero (the monument across the Seine). I’ll try to add pictures, but I had some difficulty with the last post. If you can’t get them to work, I’ll probably just put them on facebook.
As you can probably guess, my French aptitude has gone up about 300%, while my English grammar and syntax have fallen to abysmal levels. Who knows how I’m going to manage my winter quarter classes. Which reminds me, I have to change my net-id password before it gets locked. Thanks for reminding me, NU Bulkmail.
daily shout out (new, but I thought it would try it): Melissa! It’s so exciting that you actually read my blog, and I hope that the move-in to DZ goes smoothly. Let me know how living in the house is, I want to have a better idea about what I’m getting in to ☺
Also, a final thought: I’ve reached a new level of honesty with myself. Someone asked me what I liked to do for fun, and I responded by explaining the American concept of Karaoke. The thing is- I love it. I’m glad I’ve come to terms with that.
I hope you are all having a lovely time in the states, and I miss you all!
Gros Bisous,
Margarette
Sunday, September 13, 2009
and the adventure continues...
So, a week ago today I was leaving for Paris. It’s so strange to think that I’ve only been here less than a week (since I got in on Monday). I’ve done a lot of things, but today was my favorite day (I think. Even though it’s only 1pm).
Friday I went to Musée D’Orsay, it was FANTASTIC. They have an amazing collection, and I love that they converted a train station into an art museum, it’s a really great way to interact with the space. Friday I also bought the textbooks for my French classes. Here’s the best part- in France, there is no such thing as a campus bookstore. There are specific bookstores that specialize in academic books, and they are really, really big. So, I went to one (Gibert- Joseph) that’s next to Université de Paris IV (Sorbonne).
Yesterday I went to the Louvre- it is amazing. I want to spend the rest of my life there. Maybe they’ll decide that they need a new curator for the Spanish paintings department? ☺ unlikely, but a girl can dream. It was somewhat an exercise in hilarity as I was there- I got off at the Métro stop called ‘Musée de Louvre’, but surprise surprise, that’s not the stop at the front entrance. It’s the stop on the back corner of the Richelieu wing, and you have to walk through two courtyards, a series of guards with machine guns, and another courtyard before you get to the famous I.M. Pei pyramid entrance. Once I made it to the pyramid, I had a fit of panic- I didn’t know how to get into the museum. And it’s not marked. Why would the best museum in the world not have a huge red sign that says ‘ENTRÉE ICI’ at the entrance? Who knows. I walked around the courtyard searching for an entrance, scoured my guidebook frantically searching for the secret of getting into the building, and walked around some more. Eventually I figured out that in order to get into the museum, you need to go under the pyramid. Right. Once I got into the museum, I went to the ticket counter and explained (en français, toujours!) that I’m studying art history while in France, and that my ticket should be free (that’s one of their non-advertised policies. It’s fantastic). The woman at the ticket counter said “of course! Just head to the membership office to get your pass”. So I went to the membership office, where after waiting in line for 30 minutes, I was told that I get the free ticket at the ticket counter. Then I went to the information desk and asked them- they had no idea (much like how I am when I work at the art institute info desk). I got back in line for a different ticket window, and this time I TOLD him, didn’t ask, that I needed my free ticket. So he gave me it. Simple, non? After that I spent about 6 hours at the museum, and basically only saw the Egyptian section and part of the French sculpture. I hit the highlights of the other parts of the museum, but mostly am trying to take it in stride. It’ll take at least 5 more visits.
Today, went to La Tour Eiffel. And guess what? THEY WERE HAVING A RACE. Yes ladies and gentlemen, a RUNNING race. It was so fantastic that it gets it’s own blog post- that will be my next one. But it was fantastic, there were 15,00 runners who were all women! The race was called ‘la parisienne’, meaning, the women of paris. It was just an amazing experience to be there- running is just become popular here, the following that this race had was very comparable to say, the Chicago marathon. The entire city shut down to support the runners. It was great.
I’m going to attempt to add pictures, but that might be a different post. Anyway, I’m having a great time, but I’m missing home a bit. I can give you my address if you are interested, or give me yours if you want a postcard.
Gros Bisous,
Margarette
(i tried to add pictures and it didn't work. I will email them if you give me your email address).
Friday I went to Musée D’Orsay, it was FANTASTIC. They have an amazing collection, and I love that they converted a train station into an art museum, it’s a really great way to interact with the space. Friday I also bought the textbooks for my French classes. Here’s the best part- in France, there is no such thing as a campus bookstore. There are specific bookstores that specialize in academic books, and they are really, really big. So, I went to one (Gibert- Joseph) that’s next to Université de Paris IV (Sorbonne).
Yesterday I went to the Louvre- it is amazing. I want to spend the rest of my life there. Maybe they’ll decide that they need a new curator for the Spanish paintings department? ☺ unlikely, but a girl can dream. It was somewhat an exercise in hilarity as I was there- I got off at the Métro stop called ‘Musée de Louvre’, but surprise surprise, that’s not the stop at the front entrance. It’s the stop on the back corner of the Richelieu wing, and you have to walk through two courtyards, a series of guards with machine guns, and another courtyard before you get to the famous I.M. Pei pyramid entrance. Once I made it to the pyramid, I had a fit of panic- I didn’t know how to get into the museum. And it’s not marked. Why would the best museum in the world not have a huge red sign that says ‘ENTRÉE ICI’ at the entrance? Who knows. I walked around the courtyard searching for an entrance, scoured my guidebook frantically searching for the secret of getting into the building, and walked around some more. Eventually I figured out that in order to get into the museum, you need to go under the pyramid. Right. Once I got into the museum, I went to the ticket counter and explained (en français, toujours!) that I’m studying art history while in France, and that my ticket should be free (that’s one of their non-advertised policies. It’s fantastic). The woman at the ticket counter said “of course! Just head to the membership office to get your pass”. So I went to the membership office, where after waiting in line for 30 minutes, I was told that I get the free ticket at the ticket counter. Then I went to the information desk and asked them- they had no idea (much like how I am when I work at the art institute info desk). I got back in line for a different ticket window, and this time I TOLD him, didn’t ask, that I needed my free ticket. So he gave me it. Simple, non? After that I spent about 6 hours at the museum, and basically only saw the Egyptian section and part of the French sculpture. I hit the highlights of the other parts of the museum, but mostly am trying to take it in stride. It’ll take at least 5 more visits.
Today, went to La Tour Eiffel. And guess what? THEY WERE HAVING A RACE. Yes ladies and gentlemen, a RUNNING race. It was so fantastic that it gets it’s own blog post- that will be my next one. But it was fantastic, there were 15,00 runners who were all women! The race was called ‘la parisienne’, meaning, the women of paris. It was just an amazing experience to be there- running is just become popular here, the following that this race had was very comparable to say, the Chicago marathon. The entire city shut down to support the runners. It was great.
I’m going to attempt to add pictures, but that might be a different post. Anyway, I’m having a great time, but I’m missing home a bit. I can give you my address if you are interested, or give me yours if you want a postcard.
Gros Bisous,
Margarette
(i tried to add pictures and it didn't work. I will email them if you give me your email address).
Thursday, September 10, 2009
My Second Blog Entry.
I love Paris so far. It’s an amazing city of beautiful buildings, amazing food, and fantastic art. My program has been a bit overwhelming so far- everyone else here seems to be a French major, or at least a French minor. I claim to be a French minor but I actually haven’t filled out any of the paperwork.
The biggest cultural differences that I have observed so far include:
1. There are no screens on the windows. Luckily, my room is on the first floor. When you open a window here, you really open one.
2. Professors really don’t care if you do well in your classes. The main goal is for you to learn the things that the VERY knowledgeable professor is going to tell you. They don’t have office hours. There are no grades besides your Exposé Oral and your final exam. You might get a 15 page paper if you’re lucky.
3. You absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, put cream or sugar in your coffee.
I’m really enjoying it here, and many things seem to be small triumphs- I negotiated my cell phone contract today. I managed to get a phone that was relatively inexpensive, with a decent pay-as-you-go plan, all ‘en français’ !
My host family is really, really nice. There are two parents, the father works at an office and the mother works from home. They have four kids, aged 15, 18, 22 and 24. The 22 year old is backpacking for 6 months in china and Taiwan (her parents are freaking out, we talk about it frequently at dinner). The 15 year old is the one that I see the most, she’s really nice and extremely outgoing. The 18 year old (the only boy in the family), is studying to be an engineer. In France, this means going to school from 8:30 am-10:15 pm in an attempt to prepare yourself for a good engineering school. Once you (one of the lucky 200 to be accepted from a pool of 30,000) get into engineering school, it’s even more work. I can’t imagine how he does it, but I think that one of the best ways to describe his parents would be ‘driven’, if that explains it. Once they say something, it is done. I don’t think that Guillaume really had much of a chance debating it. The sister who is 24 works as an auditor (still not really sure what that is), and her job is roughly from 9 am to 1:30 am and doesn’t even get paid overtime! (according to her father, “Ça C’EST VERITABLEMENT INSUPPORTABLE!). You can probably tell that we have very lively discussions about the state of the kids in the family over dinner.
Since being here, I also bought my monthly metro pass- it’s about a 30 minute ride for me to get to the majority of my classes, I only have to make one transfer. I’m really lucky that I only have to make one stop- there are plenty of people who have to spend an hour on the train to get to class. I took the metro around the city yesterday after orientation to see some of the major sights in my neighborhood- l’opéra, galleries la Fayette, etc. I also have a killer view of the Eiffel tower across from where I like to get my morning coffee- no joke. I think I’m going to have to take a picture to prove it, but I hope that everyone finds time in their schedules to come visit me and see La Tour Eiffel. We can also get baguettes and have cheese and wear berets- all those good ‘french’ things (we can actually do all of that except the berets. There I draw the line).
If I post this in the evening on Wednesday, which I hope to do, it should be around 1pm in Chicago. If I post this tomorrow, I should be posting anytime around 11am (4am Chicago). There’s a weird internet situation at my house… my host mother has told me that I can use her WIFI internet (imagine it pronounced ‘weeeeeeeeeehuh feiiiiiiiiiiiuuuugh’. I know, it took me about 2 minutes to figure out what on earth she was trying to describe to me. But now that I know, I should be able to connect ‘sans mot de passe’, but it doesn’t seem to be working. Maybe I’ll figure it out. If not, I’ll use the IES internet tomorrow.
Anyway, I hope that you all (if anyone reads this) are having a lovely time ‘aux etats-unis’. I just got a cell phone, and it’s free for me if you call it (I think it will charge you a bloody fortune). But if you’re interested in calling me, for whatever reason, send me an email and I can give you my number.
Gros bisous,
Margarette
The biggest cultural differences that I have observed so far include:
1. There are no screens on the windows. Luckily, my room is on the first floor. When you open a window here, you really open one.
2. Professors really don’t care if you do well in your classes. The main goal is for you to learn the things that the VERY knowledgeable professor is going to tell you. They don’t have office hours. There are no grades besides your Exposé Oral and your final exam. You might get a 15 page paper if you’re lucky.
3. You absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, put cream or sugar in your coffee.
I’m really enjoying it here, and many things seem to be small triumphs- I negotiated my cell phone contract today. I managed to get a phone that was relatively inexpensive, with a decent pay-as-you-go plan, all ‘en français’ !
My host family is really, really nice. There are two parents, the father works at an office and the mother works from home. They have four kids, aged 15, 18, 22 and 24. The 22 year old is backpacking for 6 months in china and Taiwan (her parents are freaking out, we talk about it frequently at dinner). The 15 year old is the one that I see the most, she’s really nice and extremely outgoing. The 18 year old (the only boy in the family), is studying to be an engineer. In France, this means going to school from 8:30 am-10:15 pm in an attempt to prepare yourself for a good engineering school. Once you (one of the lucky 200 to be accepted from a pool of 30,000) get into engineering school, it’s even more work. I can’t imagine how he does it, but I think that one of the best ways to describe his parents would be ‘driven’, if that explains it. Once they say something, it is done. I don’t think that Guillaume really had much of a chance debating it. The sister who is 24 works as an auditor (still not really sure what that is), and her job is roughly from 9 am to 1:30 am and doesn’t even get paid overtime! (according to her father, “Ça C’EST VERITABLEMENT INSUPPORTABLE!). You can probably tell that we have very lively discussions about the state of the kids in the family over dinner.
Since being here, I also bought my monthly metro pass- it’s about a 30 minute ride for me to get to the majority of my classes, I only have to make one transfer. I’m really lucky that I only have to make one stop- there are plenty of people who have to spend an hour on the train to get to class. I took the metro around the city yesterday after orientation to see some of the major sights in my neighborhood- l’opéra, galleries la Fayette, etc. I also have a killer view of the Eiffel tower across from where I like to get my morning coffee- no joke. I think I’m going to have to take a picture to prove it, but I hope that everyone finds time in their schedules to come visit me and see La Tour Eiffel. We can also get baguettes and have cheese and wear berets- all those good ‘french’ things (we can actually do all of that except the berets. There I draw the line).
If I post this in the evening on Wednesday, which I hope to do, it should be around 1pm in Chicago. If I post this tomorrow, I should be posting anytime around 11am (4am Chicago). There’s a weird internet situation at my house… my host mother has told me that I can use her WIFI internet (imagine it pronounced ‘weeeeeeeeeehuh feiiiiiiiiiiiuuuugh’. I know, it took me about 2 minutes to figure out what on earth she was trying to describe to me. But now that I know, I should be able to connect ‘sans mot de passe’, but it doesn’t seem to be working. Maybe I’ll figure it out. If not, I’ll use the IES internet tomorrow.
Anyway, I hope that you all (if anyone reads this) are having a lovely time ‘aux etats-unis’. I just got a cell phone, and it’s free for me if you call it (I think it will charge you a bloody fortune). But if you’re interested in calling me, for whatever reason, send me an email and I can give you my number.
Gros bisous,
Margarette
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