On the train to Paris, Genevieve and I practiced our French. Well, by French, I mean the token phrases found in the back of our "Let's Go" book (hi, how much is, where is, etc.). And by practicing, I mean me practicing, Genevieve badly mangling the language. Genevieve has many talents, but languages are not one of them.
One of the only words she could actually say was "garson," "waiter" in French. Before leaving on our trip, Genevieve kept talking about how she wanted a French waiter. She eventually learned how to say "Where is the condom, waiter?" and kept repeating the phrase so much that I had to shush her in case there were French people nearby. I was bright red. Luckily, the train was about 1/4th full (traveling at an off-peak tourist time, how much do I love thee? Let me count the ways...)
Our room in Paris was a place we lovingly dubbed "the depths of hell," because, well... it was. It was all the way down three flights of stairs into the center of the earth, cold and clammy and under construction because of remodeling. We did get our own room with our own shower, but the beds had about 8 inches of space between them and the shower curtain had mold growing on it. The showerhead also didn't stay on the wall, so we had to hold it the entire time, including soaping up.
Our first day in Paris, we went to the Eiffel Tower, or, as I came to think of it, the Tower of Imminent Death. It looks nice enough from far away, but I started climbing up the stairs and slowly got more and more freaked out. The steps had holes in them so you could look straight down to the ground. The higher I got, the more worried I was that everything would fall out from under me and I would plummet to my death, despite the fact that it had been there for more than 100 years and no one had died yet.
We got to the first floor and started climbing up to the second. Halfway up that flight, I totally lost it. I could barely move, tears streaming down my cheeks, certain (100% certain) I would die. It's strange—I've always known I was somewhat afraid of heights (thanks to my dad), but it was never this crippling before. I was having a panic attack and had to coax myself back downstairs to the first floor again. I refused to even take the elevator up, certain that would break too. So I just walked around the perimeter of the first floor, looking at the city and finally calmed down with a hot chocolate and pan au chocolat.
Francie and Genevieve were understanding about it and after coming back down, we walked over the river to the Arc de Triumphe and down the Champs Elysees. While doing this seemingly idyllic stroll, it began to rain... and didn't stop. Well it did stop, but only for about a minute two times and then it would just come back with renewed strength. We hid out in various stores, including Louis Vuitton, and just for a moment wished we were back in California, if only to not have ice balls sliding down the collar of your clothes and onto your neck.
That night, we ate the Restaurant de Copains d' Abord, which means "Friends Above All." It was a rather expensive but the most adorable place you have ever seen with even a French singer guy with his guitar singing French songs. So perfectly Parisienne! It turns out that he was fluent in English and sang a few English songs for us, including Eric Clapton's "Layla." We sat listening to him and talking to each other and it was the cliche French experience. In the end, he came and talked to us and we bought his CD to remember better times later on.
Genevieve was sick the next day, so she stayed in bed with bread and cheese. Francie and I went to Sacre Couer, a beautiful white church on the hill of the Montmatre that took about a million steps to get to but was totally worth it. It was so pretty on the inside (and quiet!) and the view outside was breathtaking. We lit candles for people we remembered and gazed onto Paris... as sketchy street vendors guys tried to sell us stuff. We found a fondue place while walking back to the subway station and couldn't help ourselves. It again started hailing while we were gulping down bread and melted cheese and we felt so cozy.
We took the subway to the Luxembourg Gardens and finally found the Medici fountain after searching for about 15 minutes. This was the fountain where our dad proposed to our mom. We had visited it once before when we were 10 with our parents, but this time we were a lot more curious about the occurence... what did our dad say? Did our mom get all girly and start crying? It was fun to think that's where our story started, especially since the fountain is "of two people making love" (yes, our dad said this when we were only 10. Hippie parents!)
After the fountain, we went on a huge trek to find this amazing hot chocolate place we had been to two years ago and found it, after seeing Notre Dame (CRAWLING with tourists, so it was so loud you couldn't even hear yourself think), our umbrellas getting blown inside-out and more hail (see a pattern emerging?). We sat next to an annoying American tourist couple who were almost worth being near to hear what they were saying ("This stuff is nauseating after three sips!"..."The Louvre has some pretty good stuff in it!")
The next day, Genevieve felt a bit better so we walked around the Ile de San Louis (where our dad said we had to go) and had possibly the best gelato I have ever tasted, recommended by our guidebook. We went to bed early because we had to wake up at 3:45 a.m. for our flight to Madrid... damn you, RyanAir!!!!
Friday, April 20, 2007
Leaving home
I know what you're thinking right now. "Kelly has a month of life to catch up on. She takes about two pages a day normally, and now she has to do the same thing for thirty days? How am I going to pretend like I read this when really I kind of gave up halfway through?" I promise I will try to be brief, even though I was doing something new every 24 hours. But I might as well try. Lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for!
York has a five-week spring break. I know. I KNOW. Isn't that craziness? Supposedly it's so that it will be the same length as the Christmas break, but it seems a bit much! They all call it "Easter" here, though. Everyone thinks it's so funny when I say spring break... "just like the drunk American kids in the movies!" What can I say, I just love living up to their American stereotypes.
My friend Genevieve from Oxy and Francie and I decided we would travel around Europe for four weeks, considering it would take 10 hours each way to go home and jetlag would eat up two of the weeks of our break if we decided to go back to California. Plus, it would cost money and what would we do there? We will never again be this close to Europe and wanted to take advantage of it.
Genevieve and I started out in London. We had both gotten less than five hours of sleep each the night before we left (me because I was freaking out over the phone with my parents, her because her flatmate had experienced a minor mental breakdown) and we passed out on the train. When we got the train station, I was surprised by my friend Kyna from Oxy. I knew that she was in London and wanted to meet up with me, but I had no idea she would meet me at the station! Needless to say, I was stoked.
She was there with her ex-boyfriend Morgan who was studying there. Morgan had once visited Oxy for Kyna's 21st birthday, so it was fun to see another familiar face. They took us out to lunch at possibly the best creperie I have ever been to and to cookies for Ben's cookies. They also helped us figure out the subway sytem (I mean, the TYUUUBE), which I was so grateful for because I used the knowledge for the rest of the trip (Paris, Madrid, Rome, etc.)
We met up with another Oxy person Justin that night (St. Patrick's Day) at a place called the Troubadour (where Paul Simon and Joni Mitchell have played!) We ordered a pitcher of really bad sangria and heard about his adventures in Amsterdam. We then moved onto a pub to get pints of Guinness (what else?) and saw all of the drunk English people dancing around (to "Sweet Home Alabama"... they are all inexplicably IN LOVE with this song) with their special Guinness hats on. If you bought four pints, you got a free felt hat with four-leaf clovers on it and they were ALL wearing theirs.
That's one of the things I love about English people. They get so into celebrating. When they go to themed parties, they all dress up. When a really cheesy old song is played at clubs, they all dance to it with enthusiasm comparable to mine. When they get free felt hats, they wear them instead of jamming them into their bags. It's refreshing that they aren't always trying to look "cool" like Americans would.
The next day, we went to Camden where they have a HUUUGE street market. We wandered around for a few hours before finding our mecca: about 10 vintage stores, all in a row. Genevieve and I could only stand there and gape at the true beauty of the place before diving in. By the end, I was almost sick of vintage dresses, which I never thought I could say! I ended up buying an old Rolling Stones concert shirt. It started raining (a freezing rain) and Genevieve and I warmed up in Starbucks with tea... I'm English! (It was only mint tea, though, which my English friend Toby says "isn't real tea," but I think of it as almost the gateway drug into real tea.)
On Monday, we went to the Victoria and Albert Museum, a rather eclectic one with bronze replicas of famous statues (Michelangelo's David, Trajan's column, etc.), the largest collection of miniature portraits (most smaller than a credit card) and an incredibley cool photography room with awesome photos (everything from bears to awkward teenagers to John Lennon). We walked to Hyde Park and I got to see Albert Hall ("now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert HALLLL..."). We returned to the same creperie (the crepes must have cocaine sprinkled in them) and caught the late afternoon train to Paris.
York has a five-week spring break. I know. I KNOW. Isn't that craziness? Supposedly it's so that it will be the same length as the Christmas break, but it seems a bit much! They all call it "Easter" here, though. Everyone thinks it's so funny when I say spring break... "just like the drunk American kids in the movies!" What can I say, I just love living up to their American stereotypes.
My friend Genevieve from Oxy and Francie and I decided we would travel around Europe for four weeks, considering it would take 10 hours each way to go home and jetlag would eat up two of the weeks of our break if we decided to go back to California. Plus, it would cost money and what would we do there? We will never again be this close to Europe and wanted to take advantage of it.
Genevieve and I started out in London. We had both gotten less than five hours of sleep each the night before we left (me because I was freaking out over the phone with my parents, her because her flatmate had experienced a minor mental breakdown) and we passed out on the train. When we got the train station, I was surprised by my friend Kyna from Oxy. I knew that she was in London and wanted to meet up with me, but I had no idea she would meet me at the station! Needless to say, I was stoked.
She was there with her ex-boyfriend Morgan who was studying there. Morgan had once visited Oxy for Kyna's 21st birthday, so it was fun to see another familiar face. They took us out to lunch at possibly the best creperie I have ever been to and to cookies for Ben's cookies. They also helped us figure out the subway sytem (I mean, the TYUUUBE), which I was so grateful for because I used the knowledge for the rest of the trip (Paris, Madrid, Rome, etc.)
We met up with another Oxy person Justin that night (St. Patrick's Day) at a place called the Troubadour (where Paul Simon and Joni Mitchell have played!) We ordered a pitcher of really bad sangria and heard about his adventures in Amsterdam. We then moved onto a pub to get pints of Guinness (what else?) and saw all of the drunk English people dancing around (to "Sweet Home Alabama"... they are all inexplicably IN LOVE with this song) with their special Guinness hats on. If you bought four pints, you got a free felt hat with four-leaf clovers on it and they were ALL wearing theirs.
That's one of the things I love about English people. They get so into celebrating. When they go to themed parties, they all dress up. When a really cheesy old song is played at clubs, they all dance to it with enthusiasm comparable to mine. When they get free felt hats, they wear them instead of jamming them into their bags. It's refreshing that they aren't always trying to look "cool" like Americans would.
The next day, we went to Camden where they have a HUUUGE street market. We wandered around for a few hours before finding our mecca: about 10 vintage stores, all in a row. Genevieve and I could only stand there and gape at the true beauty of the place before diving in. By the end, I was almost sick of vintage dresses, which I never thought I could say! I ended up buying an old Rolling Stones concert shirt. It started raining (a freezing rain) and Genevieve and I warmed up in Starbucks with tea... I'm English! (It was only mint tea, though, which my English friend Toby says "isn't real tea," but I think of it as almost the gateway drug into real tea.)
On Monday, we went to the Victoria and Albert Museum, a rather eclectic one with bronze replicas of famous statues (Michelangelo's David, Trajan's column, etc.), the largest collection of miniature portraits (most smaller than a credit card) and an incredibley cool photography room with awesome photos (everything from bears to awkward teenagers to John Lennon). We walked to Hyde Park and I got to see Albert Hall ("now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert HALLLL..."). We returned to the same creperie (the crepes must have cocaine sprinkled in them) and caught the late afternoon train to Paris.
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