So I offically moved to Paris yesterday just in time to start my internship. Having problems sleeping in new beds I had hoped to move Saturday to have an extra night to adjust but things being the way that they are (and my luck being the way that it is) it didn't happen that way. I managed to get my stuff into the new place at like 10pm Sunday night and my attempt at sleep after that all but failed.
When I finally was so exhausted that I could sleep my alarm went off and I couldn't ignore it because getting to work by 9am meant I had to leave the apartment at 7:30 (to be safe). I also had to look somewhat decent (add one hour) and there I was, hauling my tired ass out of bed and into the shower at 6:30am.
Fortunately my first day of work consisted entirely of orientation which meant I didn't actually have to do work, I just had to sit there and passively listen to presenters. Unfortunately all of the presenters are HR. And HR personnel in France don't speak English.
An entire day of French on like no sleep and I didn't manage to get fired. I consider that a victory.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
72 hrs
So after a month of being at home I was back in Paris after getting absolutely no sleep on the plane (damn that Benjamin Button movie, why did it have to be so good damn long?).
Anyways this means I had been up for approximately over 48 hrs when I landed in Paris and still had to lug my check in bag, laptop, bookbag, and purse to the hotel where I was meeting my friend CD.
Since I tend to lose things not attached to my body the practical thing to do was to strap everything to my body. I looked kind of like this. After almost falling over a couple of times and weird looks from people on the metro I finally arrived at my hotel and took the world's best nap.
Two hours later in the mist of my blissful horizontal sleep CD came and proclaimed that it was Saturday night and we would be going out! I told her I had been up for 48 hours. She told me she lives in Iowa. I was trumped.
So out we went and somehow we ended up missing the last metro so we had to stay out till the metro started running again. At 5:15am.
At first it was fine. Somehow the copious amounts of alcohol we had consumed made us both happy and awake as witnessed by the unfortunate souls who obviously had first, the misfortune to have to wake up at 5am and then, the misfortune to be in the same metro car as us as we belligerently yelled at each other followed by proclamations of love followed by yelling, proclamations of love, etc, etc.
At approximately 6am we arrived at our hotel where finally I could get some sleep. Only we couldn't get in. It was locked. We peeked at the reception desk. Nobody there.
You couldn't imagine the horror/disappointment. Images of myself passed out in front of the hotel curbside flashed in my mind.
We banged on the door relentlessly like dogs in a storm until a woman across the street told us to stop. We didn't. She poked her head out the window again and told me I was stupid. I told her she was stupid.
And then finally someone came and grumpily opened the door for us.
And that. Was the best moment of my life, dirty looks and all.
Anyways this means I had been up for approximately over 48 hrs when I landed in Paris and still had to lug my check in bag, laptop, bookbag, and purse to the hotel where I was meeting my friend CD.
Since I tend to lose things not attached to my body the practical thing to do was to strap everything to my body. I looked kind of like this. After almost falling over a couple of times and weird looks from people on the metro I finally arrived at my hotel and took the world's best nap.
Two hours later in the mist of my blissful horizontal sleep CD came and proclaimed that it was Saturday night and we would be going out! I told her I had been up for 48 hours. She told me she lives in Iowa. I was trumped.
So out we went and somehow we ended up missing the last metro so we had to stay out till the metro started running again. At 5:15am.
At first it was fine. Somehow the copious amounts of alcohol we had consumed made us both happy and awake as witnessed by the unfortunate souls who obviously had first, the misfortune to have to wake up at 5am and then, the misfortune to be in the same metro car as us as we belligerently yelled at each other followed by proclamations of love followed by yelling, proclamations of love, etc, etc.
At approximately 6am we arrived at our hotel where finally I could get some sleep. Only we couldn't get in. It was locked. We peeked at the reception desk. Nobody there.
You couldn't imagine the horror/disappointment. Images of myself passed out in front of the hotel curbside flashed in my mind.
We banged on the door relentlessly like dogs in a storm until a woman across the street told us to stop. We didn't. She poked her head out the window again and told me I was stupid. I told her she was stupid.
And then finally someone came and grumpily opened the door for us.
And that. Was the best moment of my life, dirty looks and all.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
grandma panties
So a while a go I wrote about how the director of my residence at school almost saw me in my underware. There are worse things. Like how your bf's grandparents can see you in your underware.
And yes. This happened to me. How? There are factors. The biggest one being that they don't believe in a/c here in europe (France included) so any thing that can be opened to help ventilate is. This includes front doors.
Now you might be wondering why I was in my underware in the first place. First, see above paragraph. Second, I don't like pants. Third, before lounging around in my underware I asked the question "Do you think anyone is going to come around unexpectedly because if they are I will be putting on some pants." I was told definitively no.
So imagine my surprise as I am sitting at the laptop downstairs enjoying the the brillance of Gene Weingarten (a man who encourages a union beween a man named "Hamburger" and a woman named "Frankfurt" for humorlistic value) when in walks the grandparents.
It gets worse. Because in France you can't just say "Hello" at a respectable distance and then go run upstairs to put on your pants. No. You have to get close enough to the person as to give the standard greeting of the cheek to cheek kiss. Yes. Even grandpa. And even if you are in your underpants.
And not just any underpants. Because I had been on holiday and doing laundry I was wearing what I call my "emergency underware" or as others call it "grandma panties". They look like this (minus the waist band).
Now which is more likely? That 1. I can pull off these bad boys as shorts? (they are a little baggy on me) Or b. I'm not fooling no one and should be more embarassed about my poor underware tastes and inability to size underware correctly.
I don't know. It all happened so fast and I don't have much "Your bf's grandparents are suddenly saying hi to you and you are in your underware" experience so I'm just hoping for the former.
Sigh. Everything. Happens. To. Me.
And yes. This happened to me. How? There are factors. The biggest one being that they don't believe in a/c here in europe (France included) so any thing that can be opened to help ventilate is. This includes front doors.
Now you might be wondering why I was in my underware in the first place. First, see above paragraph. Second, I don't like pants. Third, before lounging around in my underware I asked the question "Do you think anyone is going to come around unexpectedly because if they are I will be putting on some pants." I was told definitively no.
So imagine my surprise as I am sitting at the laptop downstairs enjoying the the brillance of Gene Weingarten (a man who encourages a union beween a man named "Hamburger" and a woman named "Frankfurt" for humorlistic value) when in walks the grandparents.
It gets worse. Because in France you can't just say "Hello" at a respectable distance and then go run upstairs to put on your pants. No. You have to get close enough to the person as to give the standard greeting of the cheek to cheek kiss. Yes. Even grandpa. And even if you are in your underpants.
And not just any underpants. Because I had been on holiday and doing laundry I was wearing what I call my "emergency underware" or as others call it "grandma panties". They look like this (minus the waist band).
Now which is more likely? That 1. I can pull off these bad boys as shorts? (they are a little baggy on me) Or b. I'm not fooling no one and should be more embarassed about my poor underware tastes and inability to size underware correctly.
I don't know. It all happened so fast and I don't have much "Your bf's grandparents are suddenly saying hi to you and you are in your underware" experience so I'm just hoping for the former.
Sigh. Everything. Happens. To. Me.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
language learnin'
Level 1 – You learn token phrases like “Hi my name is…” and this either charms/amuses people because you have at the least attempted their language although failing miserably at it (most countries), shock and delight people because a foreigner monkey speaks! (Japan), or stare at you with burning contempt because you are butchering their beautiful language (France).
Level 2 – You learn to say “Do you speak English?” and “I don’t know” really really well due to extreme use.
Level 3 – You learn words like “No”, “Bad” or “I don’t understand (as in you)” because you hear it so damn often.
Level 4 – You learn to cheat your way through life in a non English speaking country without actually having to learn annoying things like verb conjugation by using catch all phrases like “Ok” (as in I’m tired of trying to understand you so I’ll just going to say this now and sort it out later) or “Me too” (as in when the waiter asks you what you want to eat you point to a plate within view and say “Me too”).*
Level 5 – You learn all the dirty words and how to swear (this is coincidently when you start to make friends with the natives).
Level 6 – You either a. start to get really frustrated you can’t communicate beyond monkey gestures or b. start being embarrassed that you’ve been in the country that long and haven’t learned a damn thing so you start to learn things like vocabulary and verb conjugation. You get really excited at any opportunity to use what you have learned even if what you learn is useless and doesn’t communicate anything (like “this is a pen” or ‘there is a blue car”).
Level 5 – Those hours of studying pay off and you start to form the same sentences that toddlers can.
Learn 8 – You feel proud of yourself that you are “speaking” the language until you friend comes to visit you from the States and you realize that what you can communicate in the foreign language (I’d like a red wine please) they can communicate just as well using monkey gestures (points to red wine, makes drinking gesture).
Level 9 – You can watch a movie/show and understand parts of conversations but only the unimportant part like you understand “what are you doing here?” (useless) but you don’t understand the answer(useful).
Level 10 – Conversing like a normal adult and not hearing a. “Your [insert foreign language here] is good” in an encouraging way or b. excuses as to why they didn’t understand you the first three times (there’s a lot of noise in here) other than the fact that you suck.
Level 11 – The ability to get jokes and not be a humorless prick.
*** Levels 10 and 11 are guessed as I am only currently at level 9
Level 2 – You learn to say “Do you speak English?” and “I don’t know” really really well due to extreme use.
Level 3 – You learn words like “No”, “Bad” or “I don’t understand (as in you)” because you hear it so damn often.
Level 4 – You learn to cheat your way through life in a non English speaking country without actually having to learn annoying things like verb conjugation by using catch all phrases like “Ok” (as in I’m tired of trying to understand you so I’ll just going to say this now and sort it out later) or “Me too” (as in when the waiter asks you what you want to eat you point to a plate within view and say “Me too”).*
Level 5 – You learn all the dirty words and how to swear (this is coincidently when you start to make friends with the natives).
Level 6 – You either a. start to get really frustrated you can’t communicate beyond monkey gestures or b. start being embarrassed that you’ve been in the country that long and haven’t learned a damn thing so you start to learn things like vocabulary and verb conjugation. You get really excited at any opportunity to use what you have learned even if what you learn is useless and doesn’t communicate anything (like “this is a pen” or ‘there is a blue car”).
Level 5 – Those hours of studying pay off and you start to form the same sentences that toddlers can.
Learn 8 – You feel proud of yourself that you are “speaking” the language until you friend comes to visit you from the States and you realize that what you can communicate in the foreign language (I’d like a red wine please) they can communicate just as well using monkey gestures (points to red wine, makes drinking gesture).
Level 9 – You can watch a movie/show and understand parts of conversations but only the unimportant part like you understand “what are you doing here?” (useless) but you don’t understand the answer(useful).
Level 10 – Conversing like a normal adult and not hearing a. “Your [insert foreign language here] is good” in an encouraging way or b. excuses as to why they didn’t understand you the first three times (there’s a lot of noise in here) other than the fact that you suck.
Level 11 – The ability to get jokes and not be a humorless prick.
*** Levels 10 and 11 are guessed as I am only currently at level 9
Friday, June 5, 2009
my hat
So I lost my beanie the other day. I know this doesn’t seem like a big deal for she who loses things but that’s precisely why it’s kind of a big deal. Until last week I somehow managed to not lose this particular beanie for ten years.
I bought this beanie when I was a freshman in University. My college roommate and I each purchased the same style (but different color) matching beanies and scarves from The Gap. I had, of course, long ago lost the accompanying scarf.
It’s a bit of a mystery why I hadn’t characteristically lost the beanie earlier. It has all the characteristics of something I would lose. It’s small, something I often take on and off, and not a permanently attached to my body. Among the list of countless sunglasses, wallets, backpacks, scarves, gloves, and other hats I have lost over the years this beanie managed to elude my absentmindedness and remained within my possession for ten years.
It was with me all throughout University life as I crossed the windy drill field of campus during the winter months of Blacksburg, Virginia. It kept my head warm while I learned to toe in snowboarding and while I laid in my bed freezing when the timer on my heater would go off at night during Hokkaido’s six months of brutal winter. And it remained in my purse, still unlost and at my disposal in case of a hail storm during Normandy’s fickle spring when it had been sunny and warm earlier in the day.
About a month ago I saw a recent picture of myself wearing the beanie and had to admit in a moment of reflection that it was old, had lost most of its shape and was probably ill-suited for chic French society. I decided that, after ten years, it was probably time for a new.
And then last week when I was getting ready to go out on a particularly chilly spring morning, I couldn’t find my beanie to keep my head warm. I searched in all the likely places I usually throw it; in my purse, in the laundry hamper, in my closet. After I couldn’t find my beanie in those places I searched the unlikely places; under my bed, in my drawers, in my laptop case. And when I didn’t find it, I just knew. After all these years I had finally managed to lose it. And it made me sad.
And emotion inspires poetry.
Oh hat,
Where are you at?
I had you ten years long
And now you’re gone
Your absence felt instead
Mostly by my head
Mais c'est le temps je crois
Pour notre au revoir
I bought this beanie when I was a freshman in University. My college roommate and I each purchased the same style (but different color) matching beanies and scarves from The Gap. I had, of course, long ago lost the accompanying scarf.
It’s a bit of a mystery why I hadn’t characteristically lost the beanie earlier. It has all the characteristics of something I would lose. It’s small, something I often take on and off, and not a permanently attached to my body. Among the list of countless sunglasses, wallets, backpacks, scarves, gloves, and other hats I have lost over the years this beanie managed to elude my absentmindedness and remained within my possession for ten years.
It was with me all throughout University life as I crossed the windy drill field of campus during the winter months of Blacksburg, Virginia. It kept my head warm while I learned to toe in snowboarding and while I laid in my bed freezing when the timer on my heater would go off at night during Hokkaido’s six months of brutal winter. And it remained in my purse, still unlost and at my disposal in case of a hail storm during Normandy’s fickle spring when it had been sunny and warm earlier in the day.
About a month ago I saw a recent picture of myself wearing the beanie and had to admit in a moment of reflection that it was old, had lost most of its shape and was probably ill-suited for chic French society. I decided that, after ten years, it was probably time for a new.
And then last week when I was getting ready to go out on a particularly chilly spring morning, I couldn’t find my beanie to keep my head warm. I searched in all the likely places I usually throw it; in my purse, in the laundry hamper, in my closet. After I couldn’t find my beanie in those places I searched the unlikely places; under my bed, in my drawers, in my laptop case. And when I didn’t find it, I just knew. After all these years I had finally managed to lose it. And it made me sad.
And emotion inspires poetry.
Oh hat,
Where are you at?
I had you ten years long
And now you’re gone
Your absence felt instead
Mostly by my head
Mais c'est le temps je crois
Pour notre au revoir
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
hi, i'm glad you're alive
So when my parents came to Paris my mom saw some old friends, one of which she hadn’t seen in 50 years. And when they saw each other it was “Hey, glad you survived”. Literally.
When people were fleeing Vietnam, everything was shrouded in secrecy so, outside of close relatives, nobody knew who left and who didn’t let alone who made it and who didn’t. And unfortunately, the reality of the situation was that many people didn’t.
Each of my mom’s friends had their own story, recounted with now still bewilderment that it happened, and relief that they are around now to re-tell it. They reminisced about what it was like to live under the communist regime similar to how my college buddies and I would reminisce about campus life. And there I was, having the rare opportunity to be the privileged child fly on the wall to hear it all. Uncensored, as told by fellow survivors over coffee.
I like my mom’s friends. They know the value of life, the absence of freedom, and what it truly means to be lucky. And they live their lives this way, never forgetting how it was, appreciating that it’s no longer this way, and realizing the value of things most people take for granted.
That and they fed me my first decent bowl of rice in a while. Like I said, they know what’s important in life.
When people were fleeing Vietnam, everything was shrouded in secrecy so, outside of close relatives, nobody knew who left and who didn’t let alone who made it and who didn’t. And unfortunately, the reality of the situation was that many people didn’t.
Each of my mom’s friends had their own story, recounted with now still bewilderment that it happened, and relief that they are around now to re-tell it. They reminisced about what it was like to live under the communist regime similar to how my college buddies and I would reminisce about campus life. And there I was, having the rare opportunity to be the privileged child fly on the wall to hear it all. Uncensored, as told by fellow survivors over coffee.
I like my mom’s friends. They know the value of life, the absence of freedom, and what it truly means to be lucky. And they live their lives this way, never forgetting how it was, appreciating that it’s no longer this way, and realizing the value of things most people take for granted.
That and they fed me my first decent bowl of rice in a while. Like I said, they know what’s important in life.
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