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
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