It's Bastille Day! Run amok in the streets! Storm the prisons! Behead the nobility! Tie tri-color balloons to your nether regions!
The star-crossed roomie and I are celebrating tonight wiz zuh steenky cheez and zuh wahn zat ees compleecated lahk a womun ov zee certayne ahj. But we can celebrate right this moment here in cyberspace with a selection of Frenchy blog posts I've freelanced for my friends at Go Green Travel Green.
Your guide to mealtime in France: You know I was something of a gourmande last year. This post describes all my favorite dishes and desserts, with a special section on les apéros.
How to use the French train system (SNCF): We Americans who live in Fly-Over Land sadly have little occasion to discover what rail travel is all about. I compiled an exhaustive list of tips on how to ride the French rails for choo choo novices, from how to get your ticket to where to put your luggage.
Paris museums off the beaten track: I ended up going to Paris eight times last year to meet up with various visitors, and I got real sick, real fast of going to the same durn places all the time. These museums are the ones to check out once you're all art-ed out.
Paris in a day: If you're only going to be in Gay Paree for a couple of days but want to stuff as much of it into your eyeballs as possible, read this guide (based on a real-life 25-hour visit).
In other news, I now officially have only three weeks left of funemployment before I rejoin Society as one of its Productive Members. I've learned to keep work and blogging separate so I won't publish the name of my soon-to-be employer here, but if you're curious you can send me an email.
I'm looking for ways to make a little extra dough betwixt now and then (gotta keep up that fromage habit somehow), so if you think you might like to pay me to freelance a bit for your site, let me know in the comments below.
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
July 14, 2011
March 10, 2011
Stylish? Moi?
This morning I was mining my blog stats (because if anything gets me going in the morning, it's statistical analysis... um, I'm serious) and saw that some traffic had been sent my way by Melissa at Fashion Me French. Turns out this Lyonnaise crowned me with a Stylish Blog Award two weeks ago, and I failed to notice because I was really busy stuffing my face with gelato and breasola-grana-rucola pizza for a fortnight. Merci Melissa!
Melissa has obviously never witnessed my sartorial choices in person, or she probably would have thought twice about giving me this particular award. Fart of the Week was much more appropriate.
Nevertheless, my duties as a "Stylish Blogger" are to tell you seven things about myself and then to pass the honor on to another worthy blogger. Without further ado, here are seven tidbits you always knew you never needed to know about Neenuh:
1. I have developed an appreciation for cured pork products. Before coming to France I was a very good Jew and abstained from pigs aside from the extremely sporadic piece of bacon. But les cochons are a bit more difficult to avoid here in Franceland. Lardons, little flavorful cubes of delicious bacon, are freaking everywhere, in boeuf bourguignon, tartiflette, and oeufs en meurette, to name but a few of my favorite local dishes. Lardons were my gateway drug. Now I'm eating... (you're going to want to cover your eyes, Tribesters)... saucisse sèche with delightful noisettes sprinkled throughout. It's like kosher salami but better. The thought of eating a pork chop or any big chunks of nitrate-free pork still makes me gag, so that means I won't be smite-d with a lightening bolt, right?
2. I watched a lot of crime shows growing up, and as a result I spent much of my childhood free time practicing going up and down our creaky stairs without making a noise. This skill has come in handy exactly twice. I also make a point to leave a good set of fingerprints whenever I'm in a car just in case the driver decides to abduct me.
3. Sometimes I dance like this:
4. My parents sent me a box of sundry items this fall that contained glasses I stopped wearing my sophomore year of college, Twilight fan magazines and posters, and a tube of Gold Bond medicated foot cream. Thanks Ma and Pa!
5. I miss things about Portland, OR every day of my life, including but not limited to: the man who would play his bagpipes while unicycling outside of the Saturday farmers market; the bike racks around which someone knitted a bike rack sock; the thick plastic glasses, ironic haircuts and all the plaid; our pink velour pullout couch that wasn't all that comfortable but I really liked having a pink velour couch; getting shamed for not frequenting my local independent video store and not using organic laundry detergent and not composting and actually bathing every day; Dingo the Clown Wizard and his open mic nights. But what I miss most of all is the fat cat that hung out around our apartment and always tried to sneak in through an open window while I was sleeping.
6. I'm constantly worried about the Dude getting lost. On our last day in Paris he told me he was going to meet me at the front doors to the Centre Pompidou at 3:00. I got there at 2:50. At 3:15 I figured he had been transfixed by the vulgar paintings on the second floor. At 3:30 I thought he must have found someone really interesting to talk to who was actually a witch in disguise, and he was powerless to leave of his own accord. At 3:45 I was convinced that the plexiglass tubes on the outside of the building had transformed into suctionators and he was being Augustus Glooped to lord-knows-where. At 4:00, I vowed that if I ever saw him again I was going to kill him, but then reneged when he finally arrived at 4:05 and I got lost in his pretty blue eyes.
7. Yesterday I asked my students to tell me what they did during their vacations. One told me, "I stolen seengs." I thought perhaps I had misheard, and asked, "T'as volé quelque chose? T'es un voleur?" I pantomimed snatching something. He affirmed. "What did you steal?" I asked him. "Zuh shooing-gum." "But why? Don't you have money?" "Si, j'ai des sous," he said, "boot ay no want pay foh zuh shooing-gum." This is the same student, by the by, who when I asked for New Years resolutions told me he wanted to, "fook more my wayf." I guess that's not really something about me, aside from the fact that nothing gives me more joy than transliterating the accents of my students.
I now pass the Stylish baton to my girl Emily of Emily in the Glass, who writes so beautifully it hurts. Plus I know for a fact that she is indeed a very stylish lady, and is the owner of a wool coat with the fanciest silk lining I've ever seen.
Melissa has obviously never witnessed my sartorial choices in person, or she probably would have thought twice about giving me this particular award. Fart of the Week was much more appropriate.
Nevertheless, my duties as a "Stylish Blogger" are to tell you seven things about myself and then to pass the honor on to another worthy blogger. Without further ado, here are seven tidbits you always knew you never needed to know about Neenuh:
1. I have developed an appreciation for cured pork products. Before coming to France I was a very good Jew and abstained from pigs aside from the extremely sporadic piece of bacon. But les cochons are a bit more difficult to avoid here in Franceland. Lardons, little flavorful cubes of delicious bacon, are freaking everywhere, in boeuf bourguignon, tartiflette, and oeufs en meurette, to name but a few of my favorite local dishes. Lardons were my gateway drug. Now I'm eating... (you're going to want to cover your eyes, Tribesters)... saucisse sèche with delightful noisettes sprinkled throughout. It's like kosher salami but better. The thought of eating a pork chop or any big chunks of nitrate-free pork still makes me gag, so that means I won't be smite-d with a lightening bolt, right?
2. I watched a lot of crime shows growing up, and as a result I spent much of my childhood free time practicing going up and down our creaky stairs without making a noise. This skill has come in handy exactly twice. I also make a point to leave a good set of fingerprints whenever I'm in a car just in case the driver decides to abduct me.
3. Sometimes I dance like this:
4. My parents sent me a box of sundry items this fall that contained glasses I stopped wearing my sophomore year of college, Twilight fan magazines and posters, and a tube of Gold Bond medicated foot cream. Thanks Ma and Pa!
5. I miss things about Portland, OR every day of my life, including but not limited to: the man who would play his bagpipes while unicycling outside of the Saturday farmers market; the bike racks around which someone knitted a bike rack sock; the thick plastic glasses, ironic haircuts and all the plaid; our pink velour pullout couch that wasn't all that comfortable but I really liked having a pink velour couch; getting shamed for not frequenting my local independent video store and not using organic laundry detergent and not composting and actually bathing every day; Dingo the Clown Wizard and his open mic nights. But what I miss most of all is the fat cat that hung out around our apartment and always tried to sneak in through an open window while I was sleeping.
6. I'm constantly worried about the Dude getting lost. On our last day in Paris he told me he was going to meet me at the front doors to the Centre Pompidou at 3:00. I got there at 2:50. At 3:15 I figured he had been transfixed by the vulgar paintings on the second floor. At 3:30 I thought he must have found someone really interesting to talk to who was actually a witch in disguise, and he was powerless to leave of his own accord. At 3:45 I was convinced that the plexiglass tubes on the outside of the building had transformed into suctionators and he was being Augustus Glooped to lord-knows-where. At 4:00, I vowed that if I ever saw him again I was going to kill him, but then reneged when he finally arrived at 4:05 and I got lost in his pretty blue eyes.
7. Yesterday I asked my students to tell me what they did during their vacations. One told me, "I stolen seengs." I thought perhaps I had misheard, and asked, "T'as volé quelque chose? T'es un voleur?" I pantomimed snatching something. He affirmed. "What did you steal?" I asked him. "Zuh shooing-gum." "But why? Don't you have money?" "Si, j'ai des sous," he said, "boot ay no want pay foh zuh shooing-gum." This is the same student, by the by, who when I asked for New Years resolutions told me he wanted to, "fook more my wayf." I guess that's not really something about me, aside from the fact that nothing gives me more joy than transliterating the accents of my students.
I now pass the Stylish baton to my girl Emily of Emily in the Glass, who writes so beautifully it hurts. Plus I know for a fact that she is indeed a very stylish lady, and is the owner of a wool coat with the fanciest silk lining I've ever seen.
January 1, 2011
Bonne année, 2011!
I can't remember ever having a good New Year's. I remember plenty of bad ones: the one I spent being a grossly underpaid babysitter; the one I spent alone watching The Hangover, taking a bath, and packing; the one I spent watching a movie about a Palestinian suicide bomber the night before flying to Israel; the one I spent fighting with an ex-boyfriend outside in sub-zero Minnesota weather....
But last night reversed that NYE shame spiral. Last night was awesome.
Nick and Kelly invited some of their French and American friends over to their apartment, where we feasted on my ever-present pear and goat cheese crostinis and toasted each other over Fruit Star Expresses, my love-magic-and-danger-filled signature cocktail brought out of a long retirement for the occasion.
At 11:00 we left clutching two bottles of champagne and plastic cups as we made our way to Montmartre via the métro. We were worried we weren't going to make it to the top of the hill by midnight, so we scrambled up the steep sidewalks and staircases as fast as we could until we arrived, panting, to the hillside just below Sacre Coeur.
A cheer went up at midnight, as the people around us lit their flares and firecrackers and fireworks. Our new French friends let the corks pop on the champagne, and poured a glass for everyone. We couldn't see the Eiffel Tower through the fog--the reason we had come up to that elevation in the first place--but that didn't matter.
In France, instead of kissing that one special person at midnight, everyone does "les bises." As I kissed the cheeks of my friends, old and new, French and American, and wished them a "Bonne Année!" I felt so happy, so lucky, so grateful.
Wishing all you Francey Pantsers a 2011 filled with health and happiness.
But last night reversed that NYE shame spiral. Last night was awesome.
Nick and Kelly invited some of their French and American friends over to their apartment, where we feasted on my ever-present pear and goat cheese crostinis and toasted each other over Fruit Star Expresses, my love-magic-and-danger-filled signature cocktail brought out of a long retirement for the occasion.
At 11:00 we left clutching two bottles of champagne and plastic cups as we made our way to Montmartre via the métro. We were worried we weren't going to make it to the top of the hill by midnight, so we scrambled up the steep sidewalks and staircases as fast as we could until we arrived, panting, to the hillside just below Sacre Coeur.
A cheer went up at midnight, as the people around us lit their flares and firecrackers and fireworks. Our new French friends let the corks pop on the champagne, and poured a glass for everyone. We couldn't see the Eiffel Tower through the fog--the reason we had come up to that elevation in the first place--but that didn't matter.
In France, instead of kissing that one special person at midnight, everyone does "les bises." As I kissed the cheeks of my friends, old and new, French and American, and wished them a "Bonne Année!" I felt so happy, so lucky, so grateful.
Wishing all you Francey Pantsers a 2011 filled with health and happiness.
December 31, 2010
Wes Anderson's Happy Place
I'm coming off of a week of hardcore Paris touristing with the little brother, which came on the heels of a week of hardcore Morocc'ing, both of which I fully intend to tell you about. But I want to wait till I'm back in my Digoin palace and have the leisure of staring contemplatively at the wall for hours on end, which is how I usually prefer to blog.
I spent yesterday and today at a much more leisurely pace, and tried my best not to feel too bad about wasting precious Parisian hours in a movie theater watching Love and Other Drugs (en version originale, no less) and in St. Nicholas and Kelly's apartment reading March by Geraldine Brooks.
But then the guilt was just too much, so Kelly and I hit up the NYT-approved Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature. It's full of taxidermied animals and velvet wallpaper and twee hand-written explanatory signs and drawers with elaborately decorated guns in them and boar heads and stuff.
And bears!
And weird stuff in jars!
And the heads of small horned beasts arranged geometrically on the ceiling!
And stuffed gorillas about to dine near an artist's rendering of their innards!
And the insides of hunting cabins so twee you can hardly stand it!
I know of several people who would get a huge kick out of this place (Will, I'm looking especially hard at you), so why don't you just drop the pretenses and fly to France this month? I'm looking at at LEAST a 1.5-month-long visitor drought till manf gets here.
Just saying.
I spent yesterday and today at a much more leisurely pace, and tried my best not to feel too bad about wasting precious Parisian hours in a movie theater watching Love and Other Drugs (en version originale, no less) and in St. Nicholas and Kelly's apartment reading March by Geraldine Brooks.
But then the guilt was just too much, so Kelly and I hit up the NYT-approved Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature. It's full of taxidermied animals and velvet wallpaper and twee hand-written explanatory signs and drawers with elaborately decorated guns in them and boar heads and stuff.
And bears!
And weird stuff in jars!
And the heads of small horned beasts arranged geometrically on the ceiling!
And stuffed gorillas about to dine near an artist's rendering of their innards!
And the insides of hunting cabins so twee you can hardly stand it!
I know of several people who would get a huge kick out of this place (Will, I'm looking especially hard at you), so why don't you just drop the pretenses and fly to France this month? I'm looking at at LEAST a 1.5-month-long visitor drought till manf gets here.
Just saying.
October 11, 2010
Paris in 25 Hours
When I first found out I was headed to France, I had a large number of folks promise me a visit. I figured most of them were just saying that and never intended to hop the pond, but this weekend I got to play tour guide to my first round of promise-keepers! Ted and Danielle are on their first European excursion, and had about a week in Jolly Old England before they took the Eurostar over to Paris on Saturday morning. Their train got in at 11:30 a.m. after a slight delay, and they were due to leave Sunday afternoon at 1:00 p.m. That means I had only 25 hours and change to show them the most magnificent city in the world. Ready? Allez-y!
12:30-13:00: After heaving our luggage up and down multiple sets of stairs in the metro, finding our hotel, and checking into our hotel, we took a a stroll down the Boulevard St. Germain des Pres. We stopped for some savory crepes on the way, and then poked around in the quarter's eponymous church for a look-see.
13:00-13:30: Our next stop was obvious: macarons at Ladurée, with an éclair for Ted. We brought our treats down to the banks of the Seine, where we nibbled them as we waited for our riverboat cruise.
13:30-14:30: We paddled in our Batobus toward the Ile de la Cité and the Ile Saint Louis, made a loop around them, and continued west until we stopped at the Eiffel Tower.
14:30-16:00: I had heard warnings for days that Paris, and especially the Eiffel Tower, were due to get terroristed. Thus I was beyond relieved that Ted and Danielle were content to just wander along the base of the tower rather than mounting it. Plus, the lines to get up stretched all the way to Digoin. So we artfully dodged the crap vendors, took a peek up the tower's innards, gazed upon the Champs de Mars, snapped some pics, and then got back in line to take the riverboat up to the Musée D'Orsay.
16:00-17:30: This is apparently the perfect time to go to the Musée D'Orsay, home to works by Van Gogh, Dégas, Seurat, Manet, Monet, Toulouse-Lautrec, Rodin, Renoir, and others. There was no line! Plus, I got in for free when I showed them my visa! Double huzzah. We gazed upon masterpiece after masterpiece until the museum shut its doors for the night.
17:30-19:00: Since we weren't going to mount the Eiffel Tower or the Arc De Triomphe, I wanted to take my buds up to Montmartre to give them a lovely, peaceful panoramic view of the city. We got off at the Abesses métro stop (tip: take the elevator to avoid the billion stairs to the top) and encountered a giant, noisy parade. I at first assumed it was yet another protest against the change of retirement age from 60 to 62, but we soon figured out it was to celebrate the grape harvest. We headed up to Sacré Coeur and encountered a mob of Parisians getting their wine-tasting on. After touring the church we spent a frustrating 20 minutes trying to make our way down one of the side streets so we could get outta there.
19:00-20:30: My Digoin friend Suzanne had recommended a restaurant for us to go to, but we were bone tired after all the stairs and the squishing and the walking uphill and the stairs and the walking downhill, so we just plopped down at the first good-looking restaurant we happened upon. Ted got escargots as a starter, we both had duck with honey sauce as a main course, and he had creme brulée for dessert. Danielle had a greek salad, boeuf bourguignon, and mousse au chocolat. My dessert was a very boozy mojito sorbet. We shared a bottle of Bordeaux.
20:30-21:00: I hatched a plan to take mes amies on a forced march through nighttime Paris so they could see some of the important things we wouldn't have time for on Sunday. Our first stop was the Moulin Rouge, which is on a very lewd streets with sex shops as far as the eye can see. We then took the metro to Opéra, so they could see the magnificent rococo building in real life after seeing the model in the Musée D'Orsay.
21:00-22:00: We walked down the Avenue de l'Opéra to the Louvre, the magnificent, gigantic palace that is now one of the world's most important art museums. We arrived just as the Eiffel Tower began its sparkle motion. Alas, my camera was unable to capture it properly, so instead you can feast your eyes on the glass pyramid entrance to the Louvre.
22:00-23:30: We strolled along the Seine, encountering several groups of youngsters guzzling wine and beer en plein air. It's been awhile since I've been out in Paris on a Saturday night, so I don't know if that was just the usual Bacchanalia or if it was in honor of the harvest festival. We reached Notre Dame, and paused to watch a group of buff French rollerbladers make magic with their limbs along a course of overturned cups. We got a bit lost on our last leg of the trip, but we made it back to the hotel safe and sound, and promptly passed out.
9:00-10:30: After breakfast at the hotel, we set out for Notre Dame. Danielle and Ted toured the cathedral while I waited in line to go up the towers. This was a perfect plan, because by the time they were done exploring the line had stretched all the way to Digoin again. I got in for free by flashing my visa, and we climbed to the very tippy top. The cloudless day afforded magnificent views of the city.
10:30-11:00: We trucked over to Saint Chapelle, home to beautiful stained glass windows. We were properly awestruck, and glad we went.
11:00-12:00: I took a slight detour so I should show the bibliophiles Shakespeare & Co., an English-language bookstore where Hemmingway used to hang out. We got some panini sandwiches at a nearby street stand for lunch, and then hightailed it back to the hotel so we could catch the metro in time for our respective trains.
I'm proud of what we were able to see in such a short amount of time, but holy Jacques is it exhausting. 25 hours in Paris: c'est possible!
12:30-13:00: After heaving our luggage up and down multiple sets of stairs in the metro, finding our hotel, and checking into our hotel, we took a a stroll down the Boulevard St. Germain des Pres. We stopped for some savory crepes on the way, and then poked around in the quarter's eponymous church for a look-see.
13:00-13:30: Our next stop was obvious: macarons at Ladurée, with an éclair for Ted. We brought our treats down to the banks of the Seine, where we nibbled them as we waited for our riverboat cruise.
13:30-14:30: We paddled in our Batobus toward the Ile de la Cité and the Ile Saint Louis, made a loop around them, and continued west until we stopped at the Eiffel Tower.
14:30-16:00: I had heard warnings for days that Paris, and especially the Eiffel Tower, were due to get terroristed. Thus I was beyond relieved that Ted and Danielle were content to just wander along the base of the tower rather than mounting it. Plus, the lines to get up stretched all the way to Digoin. So we artfully dodged the crap vendors, took a peek up the tower's innards, gazed upon the Champs de Mars, snapped some pics, and then got back in line to take the riverboat up to the Musée D'Orsay.
16:00-17:30: This is apparently the perfect time to go to the Musée D'Orsay, home to works by Van Gogh, Dégas, Seurat, Manet, Monet, Toulouse-Lautrec, Rodin, Renoir, and others. There was no line! Plus, I got in for free when I showed them my visa! Double huzzah. We gazed upon masterpiece after masterpiece until the museum shut its doors for the night.
17:30-19:00: Since we weren't going to mount the Eiffel Tower or the Arc De Triomphe, I wanted to take my buds up to Montmartre to give them a lovely, peaceful panoramic view of the city. We got off at the Abesses métro stop (tip: take the elevator to avoid the billion stairs to the top) and encountered a giant, noisy parade. I at first assumed it was yet another protest against the change of retirement age from 60 to 62, but we soon figured out it was to celebrate the grape harvest. We headed up to Sacré Coeur and encountered a mob of Parisians getting their wine-tasting on. After touring the church we spent a frustrating 20 minutes trying to make our way down one of the side streets so we could get outta there.
19:00-20:30: My Digoin friend Suzanne had recommended a restaurant for us to go to, but we were bone tired after all the stairs and the squishing and the walking uphill and the stairs and the walking downhill, so we just plopped down at the first good-looking restaurant we happened upon. Ted got escargots as a starter, we both had duck with honey sauce as a main course, and he had creme brulée for dessert. Danielle had a greek salad, boeuf bourguignon, and mousse au chocolat. My dessert was a very boozy mojito sorbet. We shared a bottle of Bordeaux.
20:30-21:00: I hatched a plan to take mes amies on a forced march through nighttime Paris so they could see some of the important things we wouldn't have time for on Sunday. Our first stop was the Moulin Rouge, which is on a very lewd streets with sex shops as far as the eye can see. We then took the metro to Opéra, so they could see the magnificent rococo building in real life after seeing the model in the Musée D'Orsay.
21:00-22:00: We walked down the Avenue de l'Opéra to the Louvre, the magnificent, gigantic palace that is now one of the world's most important art museums. We arrived just as the Eiffel Tower began its sparkle motion. Alas, my camera was unable to capture it properly, so instead you can feast your eyes on the glass pyramid entrance to the Louvre.
22:00-23:30: We strolled along the Seine, encountering several groups of youngsters guzzling wine and beer en plein air. It's been awhile since I've been out in Paris on a Saturday night, so I don't know if that was just the usual Bacchanalia or if it was in honor of the harvest festival. We reached Notre Dame, and paused to watch a group of buff French rollerbladers make magic with their limbs along a course of overturned cups. We got a bit lost on our last leg of the trip, but we made it back to the hotel safe and sound, and promptly passed out.
9:00-10:30: After breakfast at the hotel, we set out for Notre Dame. Danielle and Ted toured the cathedral while I waited in line to go up the towers. This was a perfect plan, because by the time they were done exploring the line had stretched all the way to Digoin again. I got in for free by flashing my visa, and we climbed to the very tippy top. The cloudless day afforded magnificent views of the city.
10:30-11:00: We trucked over to Saint Chapelle, home to beautiful stained glass windows. We were properly awestruck, and glad we went.
11:00-12:00: I took a slight detour so I should show the bibliophiles Shakespeare & Co., an English-language bookstore where Hemmingway used to hang out. We got some panini sandwiches at a nearby street stand for lunch, and then hightailed it back to the hotel so we could catch the metro in time for our respective trains.
I'm proud of what we were able to see in such a short amount of time, but holy Jacques is it exhausting. 25 hours in Paris: c'est possible!
September 26, 2010
Pastry Porn
My No. 1 goal for my weekend in Paris was to hit up Ladurée, an amazing pastry shop introduced to me by my good friend Sarumph on my last trip here. This is where I fell irrevocably in love with French macarons, a fancy meringue cookie sandwich with ganache in between. If you're coming to The Wedding, you have Ladurée to thank for the fact that we will have macarons in lieu of a cake.
If you come to Paris I will take you here toute de suite.
 |
| They have the prettiest pastel window displays. |
 |
| After considering the Saint-Honoré Rose-Framboise so I could see what "raspberry stew" was like, I instead went with the Divin. |
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| Almost too pretty to eat. Almost. |
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| St. Nick and Mrs. Clause each got the macarons. The flavors represented above are chocolate, pistachio, coconut, lemon and coffee. |
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| OMD this was good. |
Three of my meals thus far have had a Nutella course
I'm trying to stay up as late as I can to limit my jet lag to one day, so I thought I'd update my favorite ninnymuggins on my adventures thus far.
After my travails trying to make my flight in San Francisco this summer, I was determined to make it to the airport with plenty of time to spare yesterday (my goodness; was it only yesterday? feels like many moons ago). Thankfully The Dude was able to wrangle a gate pass, so I didn't have to spend that extra 2.5 hours staring moodily into the distance and missing him. Instead, my fellow passengers were treated to a gross display of human emotion as I boarded the plane and we were forced to part. What can I say. Four months is a long time without your beloved.
I wedged my way into my window seat next to a fleshy Englishman intent on invading my personal space. He promptly dozed off, leaning ever-closer to my shoulder, when he would awake with a snort and correct his posture. This continued for all six hours of our flight into Reykjavik, as I made several failed attempts to find a comfortable position that would allow me to doze. We made it into Keflavik Airport at 6:30 a.m. Icelandic time, 1:30 a.m. Minneapolis time.
(At this point jet lag claimed me. It is now Sunday morning for moi, the middle of the night for toi.)
I stumbled around the airport bleary of eye and definitely not bushy of tail. I got a croissant that was 250 krona. I thought it was kind of a lot of money for a croissant but I handed over my card anyway.
My next flight was much more comfortable and pleasant. I enjoyed looking at the quaint English hamlets from above and imagining that they populated by Middle Ages peasants as illustrated in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
The plan was to meet my high school buddy Nick (henceforth known as St. Nick) at the RER station at Terminal One of Charles de Gaulle Airport. Which was great, except it doesn't exist. I took the airport shuttle to the next terminal, where I approached an official-looking man in a red vest to ask, with a huge smile plastered on my face, "Euh... excusez-moi, monsieur, mais ou est la station RER?" (I worked really hard on pronouncing that AIR-euh-AIR in my sleep-deprived state.) His response was something like, "Garble garble nonsense ferme garble garble bus nonsense. Tu comprends?"
I tried again. "La station AIR-euh-AIR. C'est ou?" Big, big smile. That tipped him off that I was a dumb American, and he told me, "The train ees close. You mus' take zee bus to next station. Go by there. OK?" No, I told him. Not OK. I was supposed to meet my friend by the train station and now I don't know where to go and I think I need to call him and I need a phone is there a phone I can use? At this point a Helpful European decided to take me on as his cause and he led me to a pay phone. He told me I could use my credit card to make a call. I thanked him profusely for all his help. Which was great, except my credit card wouldn't work. I awkwardly wielded my two suitcases into a shop with bizarrely small doors and bought a phone card. I awkwardly wielded my two suitcases out, went back to the phones and, as I called St. Nick's wife Mrs. Clause, I saw a tall lanky dude loping toward me. St. Nick! Merry Christmas!
Thank Rudolph for St. Nick, for I have no idea how I would have lugged my two gigantic suitcases up and down the dozens of flights of stairs on the way back to his abode. Elevators, Paris! Get on it! Mrs. Clause was waiting for us in their adorable French apartment with the yellow cupboards and blue and yellow dishes and view of Parisian rooftops. She made us delicious baguette sandwiches and, more importantly, proffered a giant vat of Nutella for dessert.
Once I could make my legs move again, we headed out for the Centre Pompidou, home to the world's best modern art. I'd gone there maybe five times before but never made it inside. The first gallery we went into had a gigantic painting of two faces. That's odd, I thought. That one's mouth looks like... and that one's eyes look like... oh. And there was a fiber sculpture in the room that looked like a weird canoe, except... oh. And there was a video of blood coming out of... oh.
Moving on...
I saw more nakedness in that museum than I have in my whole life. There were videos of butts clenching and unclenching. There were videos of naked ladies hula hooping with barbed wire on the beach. There was a massive sculpture of bloody gloves.
Once I get my teacher's card that gets me into national museums for free I'm totally going back.
The rest of the evening was a blur of skinny, booty, scarfy, chic, skinny, OMD eat a crepe Frenchies; me trying to make OMD (oh mon dieu) happen; Nutella; and crashing.
After my travails trying to make my flight in San Francisco this summer, I was determined to make it to the airport with plenty of time to spare yesterday (my goodness; was it only yesterday? feels like many moons ago). Thankfully The Dude was able to wrangle a gate pass, so I didn't have to spend that extra 2.5 hours staring moodily into the distance and missing him. Instead, my fellow passengers were treated to a gross display of human emotion as I boarded the plane and we were forced to part. What can I say. Four months is a long time without your beloved.
I wedged my way into my window seat next to a fleshy Englishman intent on invading my personal space. He promptly dozed off, leaning ever-closer to my shoulder, when he would awake with a snort and correct his posture. This continued for all six hours of our flight into Reykjavik, as I made several failed attempts to find a comfortable position that would allow me to doze. We made it into Keflavik Airport at 6:30 a.m. Icelandic time, 1:30 a.m. Minneapolis time.
(At this point jet lag claimed me. It is now Sunday morning for moi, the middle of the night for toi.)
I stumbled around the airport bleary of eye and definitely not bushy of tail. I got a croissant that was 250 krona. I thought it was kind of a lot of money for a croissant but I handed over my card anyway.
My next flight was much more comfortable and pleasant. I enjoyed looking at the quaint English hamlets from above and imagining that they populated by Middle Ages peasants as illustrated in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
The plan was to meet my high school buddy Nick (henceforth known as St. Nick) at the RER station at Terminal One of Charles de Gaulle Airport. Which was great, except it doesn't exist. I took the airport shuttle to the next terminal, where I approached an official-looking man in a red vest to ask, with a huge smile plastered on my face, "Euh... excusez-moi, monsieur, mais ou est la station RER?" (I worked really hard on pronouncing that AIR-euh-AIR in my sleep-deprived state.) His response was something like, "Garble garble nonsense ferme garble garble bus nonsense. Tu comprends?"
I tried again. "La station AIR-euh-AIR. C'est ou?" Big, big smile. That tipped him off that I was a dumb American, and he told me, "The train ees close. You mus' take zee bus to next station. Go by there. OK?" No, I told him. Not OK. I was supposed to meet my friend by the train station and now I don't know where to go and I think I need to call him and I need a phone is there a phone I can use? At this point a Helpful European decided to take me on as his cause and he led me to a pay phone. He told me I could use my credit card to make a call. I thanked him profusely for all his help. Which was great, except my credit card wouldn't work. I awkwardly wielded my two suitcases into a shop with bizarrely small doors and bought a phone card. I awkwardly wielded my two suitcases out, went back to the phones and, as I called St. Nick's wife Mrs. Clause, I saw a tall lanky dude loping toward me. St. Nick! Merry Christmas!
Thank Rudolph for St. Nick, for I have no idea how I would have lugged my two gigantic suitcases up and down the dozens of flights of stairs on the way back to his abode. Elevators, Paris! Get on it! Mrs. Clause was waiting for us in their adorable French apartment with the yellow cupboards and blue and yellow dishes and view of Parisian rooftops. She made us delicious baguette sandwiches and, more importantly, proffered a giant vat of Nutella for dessert.
Once I could make my legs move again, we headed out for the Centre Pompidou, home to the world's best modern art. I'd gone there maybe five times before but never made it inside. The first gallery we went into had a gigantic painting of two faces. That's odd, I thought. That one's mouth looks like... and that one's eyes look like... oh. And there was a fiber sculpture in the room that looked like a weird canoe, except... oh. And there was a video of blood coming out of... oh.
Moving on...
I saw more nakedness in that museum than I have in my whole life. There were videos of butts clenching and unclenching. There were videos of naked ladies hula hooping with barbed wire on the beach. There was a massive sculpture of bloody gloves.
Once I get my teacher's card that gets me into national museums for free I'm totally going back.
The rest of the evening was a blur of skinny, booty, scarfy, chic, skinny, OMD eat a crepe Frenchies; me trying to make OMD (oh mon dieu) happen; Nutella; and crashing.
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