Just another day in Paris...

PARIS!!

2010-06-04T03:11:00.000-07:00

I have only one thing to say, my best friend in the world arrived in Paris today!!

Not even an hour has passed and one croissant, one financier, and one bottle of wine purchased.

Orange you hungry?

2010-06-01T07:30:00.000-07:00

(Ok, let's just excuse that title for now...)

I promise I will not turn this blog space into a springboard for my personal political sentiments. However, for the good of my own conscious, I must briefly insert my thoughts on food in America.

Living abroad has taught me so much about how different cultures treat food.

Yes, once upon a time I too had stubborn preconceptions, “The French don’t refrigerate eggs?? How can that be safe?”

Though I still prefer to keep my eggs chilled, the basic principle I’m trying to suggest is that Americans paradoxically tend to equate “safe food” with unnatural regulations. Antibiotics, pesticides, and genetically altered crops are just beginning to surface in the nation’s conscious, even though their grasp currently reach across the majority of the food that’s served everyday on our tables.

Whether it’s a “lack” of time in our fast food culture, or the greed that drives capitalism, does not concern me as much as the overwhelming fact that Americans, for whatever reason, have removed everything but their mouths from the food industry. What we put in our bodies is largely unknown to us, and yet we’re not alarmed. The unyeilding trust with which we approach food suppliers suggests, to me, a fundamentally unhealthy relationship.

During my stay in Paris, I have participated so frequently in the local French markets that watching “Food Inc,” a documentary on the American food industry, gave me my first dose of reverse culture shock.

Back to the super-sized kingdom where it’s always whatever season fits your fancy. Pumpkin pancakes in July that sounds appetizing, right?

Wrong. A sour Florida orange pie would set me up quite nicely. Just because I’m leaving Paris, doesn’t mean that Paris has to leave me.

(Ok I’m all done Billy, you can like me again : ) hehe)

Realizations and Affirmations

2010-05-30T23:18:00.000-07:00

One aspect of my life that Paris has made me re-evaluate is what I want in life and how to get it. For so long I’ve been a one-focus kind of girl. The classic “Chrissy” move was to put on blinders to the rest of the world, and really go after one goal. For a long time that goal had been college. I have to go to New York, I have to go to New York. The mantra was exhausting, and let’s face it, led to a bit of a disaster when fall 2008 came around and I found myself in Gainesville, Florida.

My only coping mechanism was to find a new goal. Paris became my way of dealing with second place.

It occurred to me about a month ago that I had finally accomplished my goal. I did it! I’m living in Paris. Though empowering for about 30 seconds, this realization consequently sent my mind into a tailspin. What now?

The problem with one track thinking is that you always need something to go after. At the risk of sounding very Miley Cyrus, it’s not so much the end result that propels you forward, it’s the chase. However, for me, it’s also this one track way of thinking that stops me from trying new things, being open to new experiences.

I know that my near-obsessive determination got me to Paris, but I have to stop making my opportunities in life so concrete, because the next thing I know I’ll be chasing goals and careers without really knowing why I’m chasing them.

So here’s my list, just to make it official, of things I’m interested in regardless of them not fitting into my “path.”

-I adore markets and I love cooking, I’d like to try culinary school.

-I’m going to buy a camera, a nice camera. No, I’m nowhere near the photography level of the majority of my friends, but I enjoy it.

-Those people who just pick-up and get a job in Ireland for the summer, or work on an organic farm in Italy, I envy them. Spontaneity, that's going to be my new goal (that's a paradox, I realize).

-I'm going to join a team. I miss teams. Softball, ultimate frisbee, it doesn't matter!

-Still not giving up on that New York dream, but I’m not saying I have to live there anymore, because get this, I haven’t even seen 4o of the states in the US. That’s just irrational to limit myself to one city. So as clichéd as it sounds, road trip?!

-Here's a shocker, I like to write! I'm going to write. It's as simple as that.

-Travel to my heart's content.

-What did I miss most in Paris? My people. Not my books, or my grades, or my stuff. So people move to first priority for good. Who's going to look back and say, yeah that Chrissy she got good grades. Laughable.

None of these goals fit, none of them will further my “professional” possibilities, but they are moving to the front of my focus from now on.

So it's time to stop hiding behind my plan, I'm going to be more like Affirmation Jessica, "I can do anything good." (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qR3rK0kZFkg)

Do you still love me?

2010-05-20T11:58:00.000-07:00

So, 20 days without blogging. That's pretty neglectful.

I don't even feel like I can own this blog anymore. Not after all that time. Have you heard it takes 30 days to break a habit? How long does it take to form one? If it's the same amount of time, then that doesn't bode well, does it?

Why can't I blog lately?

It struck me today when I had one of those moments; those Paris moments that make you stop and think, my life is beautiful.

Despite all this beauty, it didn't last like it used to. It didn't immediately have my mind cranking away, gears turning, trying to come up with my master plan of how to really move to Paris. I think, in the simplest terms, I'm homesick. Finally, truly homesick. No matter how many lamenting, "What now? Back in Dirtona..." facebook status updates that I read, I am homesick. I'm 100% in love with Paris, but the people I love, my family and my friends, aren't in Paris. The latter always trumps whatever lure the City of Lights could possibly hold over me. So, I'm ready to return back to the States.

Will it be painful? Most definitely. We've had a good run, Paris and I, but it's summertime and Buffet, burgers, and boats are calling me.

Bienvenue à Paris!

2010-05-13T05:32:00.000-07:00

This is my mom, she's pretty cute, huh?

She came to Paris in the wake of a crushing recession, just to visit her baby. That multiplied by the fact that it was to be her first time in Europe and, get this, she broke her foot just weeks before departure, created big pressure on her little daughtie to make it the trip of a lifetime.

Looking back, what did I have to worry about? Did I actually doubt Paris? She stands for herself, no help needed.

All the same here's a little taste of what we enjoyed.

Favorite mom memories....

Baguette sandwiches on the Seine and being asked for directions in French, do we look real?

Brunching like we were royalty and calories don't exist at the lavish Champs-Elysées Ladurée.

Introducing mom to Monet's miles of waterlilies, and becoming macaron connoisseurs.

Using Peggy's peg-leg to ride the elevator to the top of the Arc de Triomphe.

Sunday jazz on Île St. Louis.

Spoiling my mom with impressionism.

Eating our weight twice-over in ever Paris staple crêpes, wine, coq au vin, bread, falafel. What you didn't realize falafel could be Parisian? Hello, le Marais!

French food festivals and free tasters.

Stumbling across an art exhibit featuring Paris through children's eyes. Yeah, sometimes I feel like the métro is a monster coming to gobble me up too.

Bye-bye Paris!

Roma!

2010-05-05T01:33:00.000-07:00

Here's a piece of advice, no matter how broke you are NEVER take the "Free guided tour of Rome." I can't even repeat half of offensive, awkward, and scarring things that spewed out of this seriously deranged man's mouth. Creepy doesn't begin to describe his demeanor.

Just take my advice.

And yet, despite the worst of all tour guides, we managed to have the time of lives. Good friends are amazing like that, aren't they?

You could be hopelessly lost, and yet perfectly happy.

Three girls, three coins, one fountain.

"Live from the Vatican"

2010-05-04T05:15:00.000-07:00

"Live from the Vatican." I can't remember how many times I've heard those words over the news, and just one short week ago I was standing in St. Peter's Square, practically rubbing elbows with the Swiss guard and being chums with the top dog himself. In all my Italy research, I must admit, I had skimped on the Vatican. Cathedrals, altars, crosses, believe me, I went to Catholic school and I know that song and dance. The reality, however, was stunning.

First off, the Vatican is a separate geopolitical country. Hello! Just knocked my country-count up another notch! Even beyond this superficial meaning, entering Vatican city, truly was an unforgettable experience. Pay no attention to the thousands of tourists surrounding you, you are entering "The Vatican." Almost bone-chilling in a very Da Vinci Code kind of way, isn't it? The highest worldly seat of Catholic power sleeps just over there. Michaelangelo and Raphael painted, albeit against their will, in these very buildings.

Favorite part? I know that it should be the impressive St. Peter's Basilica, or Raphael's famous frescoes, but I adored the Hall of Maps.

I could've spent hours here analyzing maps that though dating to the 15th and 16th centuries, are today 90% accurate. How could you possibly accomplish that?

The bust Michaelangelo carved for "The David" was actually inspired by the bust pictured above.

So here's a little Bernini architectural magic, if you stand in the spot above and look at the four rows of columns surrounding St. Peter's Square, all the columns disappear into just one row. Incredible!

Italy, could've been a dream...

2010-05-04T03:05:00.000-07:00

Goodbye dripping gelato, sparkling Prosecco, and bronzed Umberto.

It’s mid-day in Paris, and my mouth is watering. After spending over a week in Italy, gelato had become a readily adopted part of my daily life, not to mention my afternoon snack. One day out, and I’m already beginning to feel the initial withdrawals.

Il fait froid à Paris. I mean shivering cold. Had it always been this way, or did the Tuscan sunshine change my perspective? Judging from the grey streets and the swirling vampire-pale figures, I can vaguely sense an old form of normality, and it just ain't right.

And so, entirely ill-prepared for the bitter weather I hustled my light cardigan-clad body straight home after class and dove into my (new) yoga pants, and fittingly back into bed. Ahh… and here I lay, recovering in my miniature French antique bed. Cocooned in my down-feather comforter, with unlimited internet access and a dark chocolate bar in hand, my George Clooney look-alike gondolier himself couldn’t tempt me to move.

But where to start? I’m sure my faithful followers, though surely dwindling in numbers, want updates. In a nutshell my trip could be summed up in one dripping cone of the good stuff, but here’s a brief re-cap:

Rome

The Vatican Museum, St. Peter's Basicila, St. Peter's Square, the Sistine Chapel, the Pantheon, the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, the Trevi Fountain with an apéritif, la Boca della Verità, Trastevere, the Spanish Steps, g-e-l-a-t-o, creepy creepy free tours of Rome tourguide (never again)

Cinque Terre

Riomaggiore, Manarole, Corniglia, Vernazza, and Monterrosso al Mare

Stunning views...

Pisa

Local grown picnic, leaning tower pictures, and pino grigio galore!

Florence

Uffizi, Accademia, the David, more picnics, Ponte Vecchio, the best riso gelato, the Duomo, mmm... some good food and Chianti wine.

Bologna

Suited for lifestyles of the rich and famous, not quite the college student's budget, so a leisurely day of noshing cheap eats where we could find them, and sitting on fountains.

Venice

Umberto, our gondolier, was George Clooney, and that is all you need to know.

The most romantic city, I've every been in.

My favorite part was getting up and seeing the city at sunrise. So quiet.

For all I knew, it was just me, my cappuccino, my torta al pistachio, and the Grand Canal.

Watching a Murano glass blower form a glass horse in less than a minute flat. Mind-blowing.

Cross all your fingers

2010-04-23T10:28:00.000-07:00

It's quite obvious that recently I've been avoiding a certain natural disaster, which even now, I will only indirectly reference so as not to jinx my Italy dreams.

The important point is that the skies have cleared, I'm ready for take-off, and so I must take leave of you all once again for a much anticipated spring vacation. If you've followed my travels since the beginning, you know the drill. My blog will be inactive for the following week, except for maybe a few short lines whenever I happen to pass through a hotspot. I'll try to check-in when I reach my destination safely.

Ciao!

When you start running in Paris

2010-04-20T04:41:00.000-07:00

If you’re under the impression that I’ve continued running since my initial running blog you’re wrong.

In fact, it’s pretty certain that if and when I ever do go for some exercise, you’ll hear about it. Blogging is validation. “Yes, I ran! Look it says so right there.”

Check, and I’m now free to proceed with macaron noshing as previously schemed.

How did this happen to me again? Well, there were those waffles in Belgium, the crêpes in Paris, the beer and Bulmers in Ireland, and all that Indian food from Brick Lane. Right. Well, all I know is that when sitting down becomes such an ordeal, what with all the lifting, tucking, and sucking in of air, that sometimes you’d rather stand on the metro it’s time to look into your options.

You can continue down this path. Return home a completely different person.

Or, start your damage control. Which by this point in your life you’ve had to invoke a few times already. You know the routine, you just can’t seem to get that crêpe out of your vice-grip clamped hand. A hand that doesn’t even look familiar anymore.

Ookkk so I might exaggerate a little, but let me reiterate people. Bathing suit. Two months.

At first, running in Paris can make a person a little self-conscious. An over-sized green Gator gritting it’s teeth splashed across your chest just doesn’t seem to fit in as all as it does in Florida. Moreover, the simple act of one's beastly-sized body barreling down the street can cause havoc on the health of passing pedestrians. The slight breeze produced from one’s movement can leave a trail of tottering models, all attempting to maintain balance on their platform stiletto heels.

Not to mention, the other hardcore Parisian runners you'll encounter.

Yup they all come out of the cracks when the weather turns for the better, and let me just tell you I’ve had more than my fill of lean male upper thigh lately.

My milky thighs are like thick sticks of butter compared to their skinny over-exposed twigs.

But, I will prevail. I have to, I can't even afford new jeans.

So, I've been three days strong so far, thought about a forth today, but hey, a girl’s got to have her happy hour every so often, so until tomorrow!

Can you feel it?

2010-04-19T04:52:00.000-07:00

What crueler punishment than to be stuck indoors doing work during Springtime in Paris??

Off to the garden with Starbucks in hand, I'd come up with a master plan: Take it to the park! Snagged a chair poolside, of course à côté de two adorable little old men, and got ready to work.

And got ready to work.

Is that a harmonica I hear? Aww, cute duckies! Mmm... dripping ice cream cones. Nice breeze. Look! Kids playing cache-cache.

Oh no, another little old man searching for a chair. I perhaps I could just go take some pictures and give him mine.

[Work, was never going to happen. But lovely day at the park!]

*I'd like to note here, for Dylan Lennon, first Starbucks since Gainesville.

What do you have to say about me now?

hahaha notice grand-mère taking a nap in the background.

I couldn't stop laughing at this preppy pair of men, and then I tripped, karma?

Madame Chocolate

2010-04-19T04:49:00.000-07:00

Personally I don’t have anything against butter. Butter is a part of daily life. But when you put on your striped jcrew shorts and your rear end begins to resemble a bloated circus tent, it’s time for a few temporary sacrifices. And so, in sight of looming carbs tossed in tomato sauce and garlic (what country could it be??), and being stuck in body that’s prematurely peaked at critical mass before I’ve finished my European tour, I contained my grocery shopping to the vegetable aisle today.

I got all my "healthy" groceries home, and was in the process of prepping my ingredients for a fresh veggie omelet, when what do I spy but a crystal bowl filled with jewel and chocolate-toned treats set out on my untouched breakfast platter.

8am Monday morning class never affords me time for much more than rolling out of bed and into the elevator, so I hadn't yet been downstairs, but the treat wasn't surprising.

For the past week Madame has been putting my favorite macarons in a magically refilling crystal bowl on my breakfast platter. What's that? Oh you mean you don’t have a breakfast platter, tea set, and cheery French woman to start you day? Weird…

Regardless, macaron consumption never stops at one. It's like she could sense I was going to be healthy this week.

Canal St. Martin

2010-04-17T03:47:00.000-07:00

Once we got past the bit that looked more like a homeless riverfront village than an "up and coming neighborhood" a very worthwhile visit. Definitely the kind of place that makes you want to grab the neck of a bottle wine, a few blocks of cheese, and scream "Picnic!"

Shi Fu Mi!

2010-04-16T00:42:00.000-07:00

Only one word can describe the neighborhood we had found ourselves in, sketchy.

There were chunks of hair, tumble weaves, rolling down the sidewalks, men standing on opposite corners of intersections ready to practice whenever business was their specialty, and a distinct absence of streetlights that forced us to stick close to the glaring florescent shop windows. No, this was no the best place to be, but I assure you no immediate danger was sensed, and I have pretty sharp senses. If I do say so me’self.

I know. You’re yelling at me in your head right now, but get over it because I’m obviously safe writing you my bloggie.

So, why exactly had we found ourselves in this neighborhood? Two words, free couscous.

Ok, I’m laughing even as I type it, because it sounds absurd. We weren’t looking for a soup kitchen, or some charity organization. No, it was very legitmate business that we were after. Several highly regarded websites told me so. (Annnd my mother probably just broke her other foot trying to teleport herself to the closest computer with a skype. Aww momsie… it really gets better!)

So right, we were on the hunt.

Heeere Tribal Café.

“Oh, OH! I just saw people wearing colors walk down that alley, they look like they’re going somewhere!” whispered Katie in my ear. Up to this point it had been like The Giver. Creepy book, colorless life. And of course the two of us were dressed like two beacons of light, so it was obvious we didn’t belong.

“Let’s try it.”

Sure enough, ducking through a narrow archway produced a full view of exactly what we had been so frantically searching for only moments earlier, Tribal Café.

Resisting the urge to kick our legs up in celebratory poses, we shuffled in, and snagged a table just as another pair were leaving.

Leaving? Before 9pm free couscous??

We got comfortable up on the booth side of our table and ordered a few drinks.

9:25pm… hmm couscous probabilty not looking too bright.

Katie grimaced, turned to me with apologetic eyes, and was about to reiterate once again how sorry she was to bring me through, let’s face it, a Parisian ghetto, for a few frosties and no free food in sight. Just then, out of the kitchen bursts the most joyous parade of couscous plates stacked high with, not only the anticipated grains themselves, but chicken, and vegetables, and every good thing.

“Another round?”

Ohhh I think so.

One scraped clean bowl, and some form of poultry’s carcus later, we were satisfied and thanking our ingenious forethought to have worn stretchy material.

We were about to consider braving the streets once again, when a French man’s head popped into my bubble of personal space, and asked if we like to play a game with he and his friends. He was nice. In fact, quite different from every other European man in a bar that I’ve experienced thus far. You know the type, the ones that makes you feel like you need a shower after just exchanging a glare with.

No, this one was quite different, and he had already recruited a good quarter of the bar to join in, so you know what? We joined to! It was the most memorable international experience to date. What made it so great? The mélange. Who would’ve thought that and rock, paper, scissors in Japanese and a few dice are all one needs to break down cultural barriers?

Need my Sugar and Spice

2010-04-15T16:51:00.000-07:00

I am stressed. Yup, I’m not sure what tipped me off faster, the suddenly spiking itunes bill (yes… my need for a Jim dreamland has returned) or my insatisable consumption of food blogs.

Truly, the full acknowledgement of my anxiety probably came with the latter. I’d say about the time when I was so engrossed in my “Joy the Baker” world, blissfully denying the mounting assignments, that I decided to start recruiting other like-minded bakers to join in my bad habits. Several clicks, a copy and paste later, and my culinary cousie was just an engrossed as I was. That’s better.

Why is it that when you’re doing something bad, it feels so much better if someone else does it too?

Another cupcake? Well if Kelsey is…

Another trip to Ireland? Mom would really like it…

So anyways here I am satisfying my “stress time” need for baking through cyberspace. Pathetic?Yes. I’ll spare you any further analogies on this one, but let’s just say it doesn’t cut it.

I need the experience. Butter, sugar, flour… ahh and the ultimate, and unattainable in Paris, peanut butter. Some of you don’t like me for this. Ok miss holier than funfetti…

Funfetti does it for a quickie, but I’m looking to spend some time. Escape.

Regardless of my needs, virtual baking is about as close as it gets at the C’s. When your oven looks like this is, it makes even the kitchen broiler of an oven I use in Florida seem straight out of a Martha Stewart dream.

So gird your loins (or, at least put on your sweat pants) family, friends, and most certainly my strong appetite’d (??) boyfriend, because you’re going to get an explosion of pent-up baking when I get home.

And that my two faithful readers, is how I came to be blogging at 2am Paris time. (Yup, my baking need is that strong.)

Oeuf. Jambon. Fromage.

2010-04-13T00:44:00.000-07:00

I’ll start this blog where it properly must be started, but you’re not going to like it mother.

Too much fun last night. It started with a friendly pint of Bulmers and ended with an ever-replenished glass of red wine. An interesting mix, I know. But as is the case when you meet your friend for Moose Monday and return home to find a 65 and up party in your living room. So, in other words, it was inevitable.

However, I must clarify for my mother’s mental health, there was neither stumbling, nor repelled bodily fluids. In fact, not even a single absurb facebook message sent, but notheless, as evidenced by my headache this morning, it was just a little too much.

That being said, it was rough 6:30am wake-up for class this morning, but I did it.

I woke up, got dressed (though trully this morning was the closest I’ve ever been to wearing sweats in Paris), boarded my packed metro, changed packed metros, climbed up 6 flights of stairs, and do ‘ya know what?

No class. The professor was called away unexpectantly by ministerial business.

(Angry face inserted here)

Composing myself, I decided I’d grab a little breakfast and hit the library since I’m already here, and my work, oh my work… lots.

I went to a café, hmmm.. OH! Bagel with lox please…

The guy looked up at me, pointed to an empty space in the display case and dismissed me saying a curt, “Non."

On an empty stomach, oh you can bet I got angry, really angry. So much so, I got sassy. In french.

Vous êtes trooooopp gentil, merci beaucoup.

(I know, in retrospect, whooo go Chrissy!)

I wandered a bit, almost bought a 8 euro (gasp) omelette because my grumbly tummy was running out of time, and then I saw my answer.

Marché Raspail. Like an organic green, glowing heaven.

It only gets better from here. Just walking into the long vendor-lined aisle made my chest fall, my breathing relax and a little smile start to pull at my big chipmunk cheeks. I picked over piles of fruit and nuts, assembling great snacks to keep me going in the library.

Ok looking better…. and, bam. Crêpe stand spotted.

No breakfast in the morning produces temper-tantrums. Let’s avoid that.

This is what I’d been looking for. The crêpe stall was still setting up, but I chanced it, and with my biggest innocent, wide-eyed face, I asked “Est-ce que je pourrais avoir un crêpe s’il vous plaît??”

Stopping all their preparations, boxes of ingredients and bowls crêpe batter in their hands they looked at me, laughed at my pleading face (obviously they did not understand my dire situation), and said “BIEN SUR!” Adding, “Anything for a pretty girl like you.”

I was swooned.

Best crêpe, best vender, best pick-me-up of my life.

This adorable crêpe man threw on his aporn and concocted the most satisfying savory crêpe one could ever create.

Oeuf. Jambon. Fromage.

It’s been done before, but never like this.

He must’ve spent at least 15 minutes working on it, all the while chatting me up. Telling me things like, “This will change the taste of your morning,” “So where in Italy are you from?" (a rather bizarre French misapprehension I’ve encountered several times), "Salt and pepper??", "You’re American?!", "Just a little more butter, you deserve it!", "My wife’s an LA girl", "How about we make it crispy?" and it went on and on… all in patient French.

And the end product? Salty and savory melted goodness, encased in a buttery golden crusted pancake. (I'm hungry again, just describing it.) It made me want to go back and see what he could do with nutella.

He changed my day. I love crêpe men.

Curse my work

2010-04-11T13:38:00.000-07:00

“Christina?”

“Oui?”

“Est-ce que tu pourrais….”

Ahh… I couldn’t even hear the rest of what Madame was trying to ask me from downstairs, all I knew was that I would have clean up really quick and the likelihood of that looked doubtful.

Open books, dark chocolate tin foil wrappers, and empty mugs with the remaining soggy tea leaves were scattered about the room. It had been a day full of studying, finally. Sweats and a tee-shirt was about as far as I made it in the personal upkeep realm, and from the sounds of the dinner party that was starting downstairs, my raggedy muffin look wasn’t going to cut it.

I’d already graciously refused an apértif and a dinner invitation, and was at a loss as to what I was being summoned for.

I jumped into my too tight jeans and met Madame downstairs. All the usuals were gathered, and welcomed me to their party.

Madame’s close friend approached me and handed me a bag of books, cook books. We had talked about our passion for cooking the week before at Easter dinner over her succulent confit du canard that would put my wildest culinary dreams to shame. She remembered, and told me that she brought me some of her french cook books to look through.

I must’ve lit up like the Eiffel Tower, because she just laughed and told me to take me time, she knew I had work.

I’m so in awe of this woman. Her remembering me like this is only encouraging my secret dream that I have of truly befriending her and learning all her culinary crafts.

I mean how does one broach that topic. Hello elegant French woman. Please take me to your kitchen and teach me your craft… and possibly how you coif your hair like that… that’s all.

Kelsey, when I saw this recipe I immediately thought of you. Pain brioché perdu, avec caramel beurre salé, like a song.

Beehives and Bordeaux

2010-04-10T03:16:00.000-07:00

After a half-productive day of getting my life in order, I decided a treat was in order, so I met up with my friends for some Parisian fun. (aka sunset drinks on the steps of Sacré Coeur)

By the time we all arrived the sun was well on it's way down, but that didn't take away from our atmosphere. We had all of Paris before us, live music, red wine, and eventually, we even got cups. What can I say, we like to keep it classy.

Though a bit dodgy, there's no better view of Paris at night than the top of Montmartre. And what do we live for, but a bit of sport and adrenaline, all in a night's fun.

But, in all honestly Sacre Coeur is a bizarre attraction. Where else can one find a woman growing a bee's nest from the roots of her scalp (you can just make her out above), see men hawking Heinekens on the steps of a cathedral, listen to a live beat-boxer (not so great actually), nearly get killed by a stray soccer ball, and still have time to pop into the 8:00pm Saturday night mass... haha I'll just tell you, nowhere but Sacré Coeur.

As if all the fun, and wine wasn't enough to keep us satisfied, a solid finish to the night at The Moose. Paris night, well done.

Bear claws in bars, oh my!

Un dejeuner parfait!

2010-04-09T09:12:00.000-07:00

I'll admit, I was a little testy this morning. Assignments piling up, and not a spare moment to get some work done in my already planned (a month in advance) day of fun, I was feeling stressed.

But, as always, raw vegetables and strange poultry trumped any sour mood, so read on, this blog's a happy one : )

Every since I arrived in Paris, I've been dreaming of cooking class. Surrounded daily by food and french culinary culture, who wouldn't?

So, upon meeting Kelsey, aka my food soul mate, we put our calendars together and scheduled a market class.

Basic premise: You go to a market with a French food expert, make up a seasonal menu on the spot, return to their kitchen, and whip it up!

Our expert was knowledgable and passionate about french cuisine, but not one to be tested.

Apparently I was taking too much time enjoying the market and taking pictures, so when I caught up with the group our chef leader smiled, and without saying any words handed me the heavy grocery bags to carry home. Always in trouble...

Our menu for the day:

Soupe de choux fleurs (Cream of cauliflower soup)

Agneau (Braised Lamb with Olives)

Fondue de poireaux (Translucent sauteed leaks)

Clafoutis de Pomme (Similar to an apple tart in orange perfumed dough)

Meal prep and taste testing time.

What an interesting group we had.

An American french teacher who moved to france permanently (sigh).

A woman who was in Paris because "she has to get away from her husband one month a year for her mental sanity." (Eesh!)

Kelsey's dream California couple. A doctor who works for Google developing medical software so that he can have more of an impact than just "one patient at a time" (bahaha) and his homemaker wife would likes to volunteer at the organic, sustainable farm and teach children where their food comes from.

(Kelsey and I went back and ate all the leftovers,

while everyone else moved on to the cooking, duh.)

I wish I had a notepad and pen, or a better memory. This woman was spewing the most hilarious and adorable cooking lines I'd ever heard.

It came out pretty nicely, didn't it? Kathleen would describe this as my gingerbread zone. I get a little too detail-oriented when it comes to sweets.

It's my time to pretend I'm a pastry chef hehe.

That face says,

"Oh no, I don't add pepper."

Ominous quote,

Cooking is like music to me, and when I came in the kitchen I didn't hear the right tune.

Don't worry, we fixed it.

Tablescape time! I could have lunch/dinner parties 24/7, I love them so much.

Tao! Ca suffit! The most adorable blind ball of fluff I've ever had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with. We were best friends by the end of the class, much to the dismay of my Bichon-hating friend, Kelsey.

Yummy apple dessert! Gone. Look at Tao, those adorable blind eyes (aww... I'm sick).

A Wet Waddle

2010-04-08T07:14:00.000-07:00

I find myself, once again, sans mes sous vêtements, as is predictable when one’s laundry machine breaks down for two weeks. Two weeks! That’s a lot of undies.

So, upon arrival of a new washing machine today, and no money for the laundry mat down the block, I knew I had to do some negotiating to do. I pleaded my personal hygiene’s case to Madame for second dibs, and was miraculously granted permission. No time to spare, I went straight to work fishing out every pair of undergarments I could get my hands on. At the last minute I grabbed my multi-use yoga pants (i.e. grocery-shopping, sleeping, yoga…) that I couldn’t stand to wear another time until they were clean, and considering I was going to have yoga that afternoon, it was now, or never.

3 hours until class. More than adequate time, right? Non.

The wash cycle was a breeze. Now, how to turn on the dry cycle in a French combination wash and dry machine, a little tougher to figure out.

Nearly half an hour of Mme. C and I putting our buns together over that machine produced no progress, and with time before my classes slipping away I was forced to abandon my unmentionables and take the yoga pants on the road, sopping wet.

Madame assured me as I left that M. C would figure out how to dry my clothes while I was gone.

Great.

As if bringing my load down in my see-through space bag wasn’t embarrassing enough, now M. C would be testing out his dryer for the first time on my underwear! I could just imagine him sticking his hand in the load to see if it was drying or not, and getting all tangle up in my… well, my unmentionables!

It was too much to bear, but I had no choice.

And so my day continued, me trying to incorporate drying my pants into every daily Parisian task I did, despite the French scowls I received.

Going to school, yoga pants streaming out the metro window; group project meeting, yoga pants displayed in the cafeteria; reading in the park, yoga pants laying out on a lion statue; all this and not a bit of difference, still wet. I made it to yoga class, and begrudgingly went to the locker room to change.

Let me just tell you something. Wet you-know yoga = extremely uncomfortable.

Not only did I now leave rear-end watermarks, that upon seeing the size of which I was sure could never belong to a human being, let alone, myself, but with every move new parts of my body were exposed to the cold, cellar “yoga studio” air rendering me incapable of getting into my yogi zone.

I couldn’t wait to rip those bad boys off of me as soon as I got done with class. In fact, I was so eager to get them off my body that I ended up leaving them behind in the changing stall.

Yup. Now, I have to go buy yoga pants.

What happened?

2010-04-07T00:37:00.000-07:00

My life right now, not so fun. Made the realization that I am actually in school, a tough one at that, and my work is piling up. An entire day indoors and not much progress made. Highlight: I now have enough books to make my tiny antique desk tall enough so that my legs fit!

What happened to my perfect Parisian life?

J'aime le printemps!

2010-04-06T13:45:00.000-07:00

Ok, so you're standing on the edge of a curb, waiting for the crosswalk light to change and suddenly there's a raspy voice so close to your ear you can feel its owner's hot, moist breath puffing into your ear with every syllable it annunciates as it sings

"Vos cheveux sont très très beaux..."

What do you do?!

If your answer was put on your biotchy (hehe) Chrissy face and throw the iciest glare you've ever mustered, then you followed the course of action I took when this happened to me today.

Disgusting? Uncomfortable? Frightening?

All of the above. I mean really, does that ever work for you creepy man?

Aside from my negative street experience, I had yet again one pretty darn amazing day in Paris!

I had two endroits in mind for exploration today:

Shakespeare and Co. bookshop, and le Jardin du Luxembourg.

Though I had been before, I had never really had the time to fully explore Shakespeare & Co. It wasn't until my friend Katie came beaming back to me after a wonderful afternoon in the bookstore that I set my mind on seriously checking it off my to-do list.

So today, with the return of the beau temps, off I went to the Latin Quarter!

And adorable doesn't even begin to describe it.

Nooks and Crannies galore, stacks of piled-high books, a quirky upstairs visitor resting place, and I was in heaven.

The message above the door reads "Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in diguise." Well good for them and their happy wanderers, but that philosophy doesn't quite mesh with the message I learned from "Taken".

Ahhh, but I did want to steal the upstairs visitors lounge. It was all set up for me a bed, a desk for writing, and a perfect view of Notre Dame. Does anyone really live like that?

After a small purchase I was on my way again, this time off for some relaxing (err... mandatory) reading in the sun at the park.

Ok, imagine yourself in a drowsy, luscious garden, and you have a two books with you.

Which would you choose?

a. A French cookbook filled with all the yummy things you can cook from your local market

b. A 200 page French book about strategic patent protection for businesses

(ohh yeah, in French)

Now do you see how hard it is to study in Paris?

Where did ALL this GREEN come from?!

Nope, I have red Keds, that can only mean one thing... Katie came and visited with me at the park! Afternoon well spent. Oh Katie! I meant to mention, we should do wine at the garden cafe while the weather is good : )

Easter Day Escapades

2010-04-05T13:20:00.000-07:00

Soo after recovering from our champagne coma a little coffee and Baileys had us ready to start our Easter adventures. Where in Paris was Christina Willard? Le Marais!

Love. Pretty gates. Heart cut-out cookies. Elephants.

Meandering through the streets, searching for falafels.

Not attractive.

We get silly together.

Bluesy Jazz Man!

I don't even know how to explain these pictures... creeeeepy man.

I'll try and explain later.

The Paris bunny treats me well...

2010-04-04T13:49:00.000-07:00

Since my friend Katie had never been to Notre Dame for Easter mass (go figure hehe), I agreed to go to early Easter morning mass (8:30am!) with her at the famous cathedral this Sunday.

A quick hour of french sermon and awestruck wonder later and we were thrust into the Paris streets by then teeming with miles of tourists.

Being the good Catholics we are, what was the first thing we did after mass?

Loaded up on libations for the days festivities!

Don't worry I haven't gone completely wild in Paris, but it occurred to me that the day was special, and some celebration was in order. So, upon finding a 7/11-like store that was open I turned to Katie and asked, "How do you feel about champagne?!"

"I feel like I like it!"

And that is how the idea of Sunday morning brunch was developed.

An excellent new tradition if I do say so myself.

Back to her apartment we scurried with all our goodies, ready to wake up the last member of the trio, who, in the words of Uncle Bill, was "worshipping the church of the holy mattress."

(Beautiful pictures thanks to Katie! Note to self, one has to bring one's camera in order to take pictures, not just a battery pack.)

Some lite scrammies, a bubbly mix of mimosa, a bowl of fruit salad, toast and bien sur some bonne maman confiture, and we were ready to go!

Easter attire and smiles, so perfect!

love.

Easter Bread

2010-04-03T02:00:00.000-07:00

It's not lost on me that lately my blogs have been following a certain trend, food. While you may be done with it, I can't stop. I know you’re thinking, "Another food blog?!

Really Chrissy, step away from the carbs,

put a carrot stick in your macaron hole, and get over it already."

But really it's not my fault. It's Easter weekend, and the markets are flooded with such amazing new goodies, how could I resist? Suddenly, interesting loaves of bread, decorated decadent cakes, and colored sugary confections are popping up everything for all those little saints who’ve been fasting for the last 40 days. Again, whoops.

Today I had one goal, Easter bread.

Once I spotted it in the market last weekend, I knew it was all over. I had to try it.

So today I returned to my neighborhood market to find my Easter egg treasure.

Momentarily distracted by well-priced clementines and tomatoes and shelter from a soaking downpour, I finally made my way through the zig-zagged aisles to le boucherie.

For some reason it had been one of the only places I saw le pain du Pâques, so despite having to walk by les foies, les langues, and les poitrines of various animals (which by the way I discovered my aversion of animals parts turns to quite the opposite feeling when the labels are in french, even though I know the translations... weird) I was going to give it a try.

Chatted with the bucher, picked my bread, waited with my ticket, and finally, there it was all wrapped up and ready to go home with me!

I met Alice in the elevator and immediately showed off my find.

"C'est joli! You have to take a picture for me!" she said.

Did I even mention I love her? Happiest French woman ever! Well maybe with the exception of Madame C who couldn't stop smiling when she saw the package I brought home.

All excited, she began recounting to me the entire history of le pain du Pâques back to Napoleon's invasion of Russia. Adorable. So, I thought what better than to share my Easter treasure with my favorite French couple?!

We decided to break in to it tomorrow at Easter dinner, apparently there's a game you play that involves each person tapping their egg with a spoon. We all know how much I love games, so I'm pretty excited. : )

Good Friday to Ya!

2010-04-02T09:39:00.000-07:00

Again... I'm such a market girl. Just the sight of canvas-covered stalls from a distance has me readying my camera and counting my euros.

Today was no different. On my way to meet up with my favorite Parisiennes for a girls night-in of Good Friday sushi, baking, and picture-swapping, and what do I find but a Easter Market!

Soo many interesting stalls. All the imaginable homemade one could think of: honey, soap, sweaters, jewelry, and baked goods.

I had to get something, but what?! Brioche du Pâques! (Easter Bread, not the with the eggs though, that's tomorrow's adventure)

Soft buttery sweet yumminess! Think King's Bread only French : )

Cute bread men!

Mom's favorite Beignets... stick that in your Chicory and gnaw on it.

To a first of many...

2010-04-02T02:41:00.000-07:00

My blog is 100 posts old! In honor of this momentous turning of age, I had to put something special together for you all.

Well it turns out my friends did all the work for me. A few days ago my friend Katie booked a reservation at Le Procope, famous past hangout of philosopher's and notables like Voltaire, Rousseau, and even good 'ole Ben Franklin (and probably his Paris mistress).

Really this was just a happy coincidence, but what a special occasion indeed. A splurge dinner on the night of a landmark blog, Paris magic at its best.

Old world class, the kind of restaurant you'd expect to find the C's hiding around the corner.

Adorable antique boxes, fraying worn books, and thick rich tapestries,

this was a French restaurant.

And seizing the occasion, I thought of the most French dish I'd had yet to try, Coq au Vin.

Little did I know what I was getting into...

And for starters?

and those little critters drenched in butter, flavored with garlic, and seasoned with parsley

yup

Escargots!

Too bad the slippery buggers kept sliding off my clamp and flying across the table. Must work on my French dining etiquette. I felt like a barbarian.

And when our main course finally came out...

Apparently they saw me coming and thought, "Whoa killer! One plate will not do, let's give her the whole cauldron." I kid you not, an entire copper cauldron full to the brim of the most savory mouth watering meat concoction.

Il n'y a rien plus triste qu'une vie sans hasard. - Honore de Balzac

There's nothing sadder than a life without spontaneity. (Well at least that's the closest translation I can come up with.)

Busy Bee...

2010-04-01T03:11:00.000-07:00

Strict timeline today, only time to say a few words.

http://www.joythebaker.com/blog/

If you love me; if I'm your niecey, your best friend, or your favorite daughter, you must follow this link an read this woman's blog. Today's entry "How to Impress a Boy with Baking," was spot-on me. It's basically my life. How could she steal my future life before I even got to it? Bitter.

I love her. I mean I want to be her. How do I become Joy the Baker? I don't even have the right name. Chrissy the Creator... the Cater... the Cake Maker? No, it won't do.

So now, in addition to honing my culinary skills, acquiring a witty(er) blog, developing photography skills, and learning to take risks, you mean I have to choose a new name??

Oh là là.... maybe finance won't be so horrendous after all?

How to get what you want in life, that's a blog I'd like to see.

2010-03-31T12:32:00.000-07:00

“Today I will be productive!” I repeated to myself, as if a repetitive affirmation was actually going to get me back on track.

All day I’m been squeezing in my studying intermediately between an embarrassing amount of time doing things I can’t even remember. Facebook, an Office episode, little distractions (Is that sun?? I should go take a walk), and frequent “Snack time!” breaks.

I was currently on the last stage of that cycle, and had decided to make myself a power snack to get me in the studying mood again.

I creaked down the stairs and peered into our refrigerator to see what delights it had in store for me. Post two dinner parties, the appliance could’ve been a treasure-trove for all I knew

Target, one individual ramekin filled to its lip with a thick dark chocolate mousse.

Pre-Paris, I’d never been a fan of mousse. It’d always seemed like a sissy dessert. A mousse was one of those desserts I ate at someone’s house when they were trying to be fancy, and then when I got home I immediately made myself a proper bowl of ice cream once you got home. Not satisfying in the least.

Ohhh, but Paris mousse. Good gracious. The only way I can describe it is that it’s like eating a bowl of chocolate truffle. Yup. That’s the perfect description.

I almost escaped the kitchen, unseen, with my mousse somehow already smeared on my nose when I heard “Ahh, Christina tu as trouvé la mousse au chocolat.”

It was Alice, she’d come to do some sprucing up for Mme C.

Inside I immediately put up my guard. I knew what was coming, she was going to make that lips pursed, cheeks puffed out face that Monsieur makes at me everytime I dip into my Nutella supply. Just as I was translating a sassy “You don’t know me,” in my head, she broke my concentration in a completely unexpected way.

“Tu l’aimes?? Tu dois la cuisiner, c’est très facile. Voilà! Laisse-moi te montrer!” And off she flew into the kitchen. For those of you who didn’t understand that, Alice was more than supportive of my over-consumption. In fact she said it’s essential for studying (“the sugars are good for the brain,” she said), and insisted on showing me how to make it for myself, “Verrry easy,” she told me, “make it for all your friends!”

On some level I should’ve been offended right? Here I was ready to devour an entire cereal bowl of dark chocolate mousse, and she was showing me how to make even more. What species of whale does she think I am?

But nothing of the sort entered my head. I was enamored. This little French woman was showing me how to cook. Albeit, it was just a simple mousse, but I was hanging on her every French syllable.

Vrai ou Faux?

2010-03-31T02:46:00.000-07:00

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Among my usual thoughts and plans there’s new troubling revelation, my brain has been tampered with, I’m a Pavlovian test puppy. Only it ain’t kibble and bits that gets me salivating at the ding of a bell, think bubbly and smooth at the sound of a grand pop… champagne.

What 20 year old comes home from class to find some bubbly, a gourmet cheese platter, and ritzy crackers the likes of which Wheat Thins could never compare to? Oh yeah… me.

You want to slap me silly at this point, but there’s more.

A dead bottle signals c’est à l’heure qu’on passe à table. Time for dinner!

As I settle my growing derriere into a creaking 19^th century chair, Mme. C acts the perfect hostess to her modest dinner party. A five course meal, overflowing bread basket, and an endless stream of Bordeaux, it’s a miracle my chair didn’t collapse under me, or that the button of my jeans didn’t explode off my body making an almost sure trajectory for my neighbor’s eyeball.

Finally winding down around 1am, the party ended and I dragged myself up the step stairs to my cozy room. No class tomorrow, sleeping in ahh….

From my Paris-princess life, I can faintly foresee my return to my former life, and let me tell you, it’s not going to be pretty.

A la Dwight on “The Office” I’m going to come home soaked in sweat and chlorine from lifeguarding and be sore and bitter without the slightest clue why. My mouth will open, hand extend, ready to receive my ration of champagne and treats for the day, only to receive nothing and my mouth left dry.

Oh maybe I'll get thrown a bone every once in awhile, perhaps some Kendall, maybe (gasp) some Moet, but won't be the same. To use my aunt's favorite line, "Dogs don't know it's not bacon." Whelp, looks like this pup just found out it's not bacon. It's not even meat. It's some sort of artifical, faux meat like... hotdogs.

What are the C’s doing to me??

I don’t think life’s going to taste the same back home. I don’t mean that metaphorically, I mean literally. I’ve become far too accustomed to the good life.

Bahaha ok now you can slap me.

Rainy Day

2010-03-30T04:00:00.000-07:00

Ohhh Mme. has something cooking for tonight! And guess who got an invite?! Actually, perfect timing because all I had left was a block of cheese and an empty wallet. I think she notices these things, because my invitations have seemed to be so conveniently timed.

Rainy day of tea, studying, and class. Around 7pm the sky suddenly cleared and I was determined to sneak in a short walk. Well a short walk turned into an hour and a half, and of course I had my camera with me. I need to stop, but everyday I find something new.

I want to be that couple promenading down the Seine... sigh.

Another amazing day of adventures...

2010-03-29T07:00:00.002-07:00

As my other newly Parisian friends can attest to it, there are certain days in Paris that are just right. Perfect, magical, fascinating, mesmerizing. One could attach a dozen words to it, trying to describe the feelings it produces, but nothing will do.

It's just a day in Paris.

I'm losing you, you think I've turned into a fake Paris snob, but just give me a second.

Nothing amazing happened to me today. It was a day of class, errands, and lots of walking, but it ranks as one of the best days of my trip thus far.

What was so right about it was the comfort. I felt like I was at home. I went through the movements of general errands without a single thought, and upon finishing them, when I found myself in a new area I meandered without the worries about what street I was on, or where the nearest metro was located. It felt so effortless.

So, yup, it was a good day : )

(Found myself in the ritzy part of town and located the third Laduree today!)

Julie, I am a terrible sissy. I led you so far astray that I don't know how I'm ever going to compensate for the ways I wronged you on your Paris visit. Remember when we bought our coveted teas and wished we had the adorable container like Mme. C? Well we were not at the vrai Mariage Freres. No, we at an imposter. A very cute tea shop, but not the real deal at all.

Oozing richness, seriously, I saw a man accidentally drop the biggest bill I've ever seen in my life, the true Mariage Freres was like heaven on earth for a tea snob.

(Do you see that man behind the counter? Hawk eyes. He caught me taking a picture from the inside of my purse, and shut me down just like I knew he would. I thought I'd out-smarted him with my maneuver, but apparently not. Quite awkward actually... hehe)

Tea museum! Rather small and not very exciting,

but at least no one yelled at me for pictures.

The next set of pictures are for Kelsey and Katie, we need to eat/drink at these places immediately! I had to take pictures so I wouldn't forget, so celebratory "we got through the week dinner" this Friday??

I finally made it to Ile St. Louis, par hasard! It's so funny, whenever I set out to do something or go somewhere I always get distracted and never make it. It's when I'm least thinking about visiting the place that I end up actually going.

Ile St. Louis, so chic they use Sudoku toilet paper.

No Nuggets Here

2010-03-29T07:00:00.001-07:00

I just finished an entire rotisserie chicken today.

I mean I scarfed up every last bit of meat and left a carcass of bones and cartilage in my wake.

As I type this, a conversation with Billy in which he related to me one of his post-game meals, (yup you guessed it) an entire rotisserie chicken, just popped in my head.

I’d be lying if I told you all that I didn’t judge Billy in that moment. I mean the image was just startling to me. You’re telling me that you, as a person, have an entire chicken inside you?! You're done.

Granted I consumed my bird over the span of three days, but regardless, quite a feat, right? I mean that boy is 6’5” 215 lbs, and I’m well… I’m just not that, no more information needed.

All of you who knew me in my veggie year are sticking out your tongues out at me and making very attractive faces I’m sure.

There’s just something so animalistic about eating an entire chicken by yourself, but I couldn't help myself, I was addicted. I would actually lament having to buy other food while I was out and about in Pairs this weekend because I knew there was a succulent chicken waiting for me in my fridge.

So I ate it, and it's gone. I'm more than a little disgusted with myself.

I'm melting... in a good way

2010-03-28T06:52:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning, and despite the pile of work accumulating in the sticky notes on my mac desktop, I've always made it a point to at least keep Sunday day peaceful and worry free and this Sunday would be no different.

Maybe it's the Sunday boating culture that's been engrained in me since my move to Florida, I don't know, but for whatever reason I keep this rule at the highest priority and I make myself relax whether I like it or not ; )

So a gloomy morning in Paris, and I was determined to have a nice long walk.

I showed up damp and frizzy at my friends' apartment due to the morning shower I experienced on my way over, but my spirits were still high and we dove into finalizing our Italy plans.

3 hours later we hadn't gotten very far, but at least we have a

solid idea of what we need to get done.

After an extended stay at my friends' apartment, turns out it wasn't such a gloomy Sunday in Paris after all.

Instead of getting on the metro at Odeon I decided to walk at least halfway home. You miss so much underground, and with the rain stopped and the sun coming out I had no excuse.

Meandering through Saint Germain crooked alleys and crossing busy intersections already packed with tourists, and I found myself on Ile de la Cité at the entrance of the Marché aux Fleurs. I'd always meant to go, but until this moment had completely forgot about it.

Charming, bizare, quaint, and, by 5 o'clock, a little sleepy, the market provided the perfect Parisian twist to the end of my week.

With an 8am class tomorrow morning I'll let the

pictures I took do the rest of the talking for me.

More than just a flower market, this cute little space constructed of two covered aisles produces pots, birds, soaps, and knick-knacks galore.

The bird below had it out for me. Of course he was the only one not in a cage.

I'd say a day well spent. Seriously, I can just feel the stress rising out of my pores and evaporating into the air. Got to love lazy Sundays.

Happily Sunday ever after.

Eating Like Royalty

2010-03-27T04:27:00.000-07:00

(so, sooo jealous. He obviously understands the advantages of a grandma cart.)

Ok, I know you are all done with my market stories. Really, how many times can getting my groceries be amusing, right?

In fact I used to hear these same stories of the wonders of European markets and just roll my eyes and gag a little. Oh, aren't you just so cultured, aren't you just so down to earth, just get your groceries and eat them already.

In the words of Elizabeth Bennet, "Do not repeat what I said then..."

I love it so much, I almost can't wait to run out of food so that I can go again.

However, this was not supposed to be my story today. No, my intent this morning was to (finally) get some work done. I left my apartment in search of a quiet cafe, "A change of scenery, that will eliminate my procrastination, I'm sure."

While wandering through the streets of an adjacent neighborhood, I turned the corner and was face to face with a mountain of artfully piled fruit. I was so dazzled that I didn't initially realize that I'd found myself in the middle of a bustling street market, not 5 minutes from my apartment.

It was like experiencing it again for the first time. My eyes watered a little, no joke. Which really shouldn’t be surprising to you because a cursory review of my blog produces uncountable Chrissy crying moments. I swear I’m stable. Anyways this was the good kind of cry.

This was, "I am so lucky."

So anyways, I bet you can predict what happened. Yup, I whipped out my potato-sack, eco-friendly shopping bag (always prepared hehe) and began to mill through the stalls, going about my shopping like a real local.

Market are magical. I sound like a sap, but I fully believe it.

No where else can you get the feeling like you're actually experiencing the culture. It's like the market is a picture, but instead of looking at it, you're in it.

It's a real sensory experience. It has the usual strata of sights, sounds, and smells, but then there's a deeper layer. The steam rising from freshly steeped tea, juices dripping off roasting chickens, a bright orange rolling down the sidewalk, little old women shuffling from stall to stall, the butcher's booming voice hawking his meats...

I sound crazy, but those experiences just don't fit sensory schemas.

Where else could it ever be acceptable for a man to hack off a piece of cheese pop it in your mouth and ask you for your number, or while magically spinning his skewer of roasting chicken win your heart over by posing for pictures and calling you his princess.

Open air markets have character. Essential errands become adventures. And shake up your routine. Today I changed, (haha) not significantly so, but I’ve been a goat girl since I got here, but I learned the Swiss know how to do the cheese thing too. New tastes easily discovered through a short, simple market interaction.

Those are eggs baked into that bread... yes, Easter bread! Who knew?!

Sausages and pretzels...

Where in the ocean is that from exactly??

Hot, fresh roasted chicken!

Yes my beautiful princess, would you like my chicken?

Meal time :)

Ok so I have this friend (I mentioned her before, the saboteur, remember?) that's obsessed with roasting chickens (not weird, we consider ourselves amateur, aspiring foodies). I now get it. When I slid the bird out of its bag and onto my plate for slicing the most succulent herbs and oils dripped onto my hands... good thing no one else was around except for nude neighbor across the courtyard, and she really can't judge me.

With no oven, it's a good thing I love salads.

Do you see my mean comments to myself "FOLLOW EXACTLY, NOT OPTIONAL"... nothing works. I can't control me-self, it's exhausting.

2010-03-26T14:53:00.000-07:00

After the accumulation of almost three months of insufficient quantities of sleep, I’d set a goal of bed by ten o’clock tonight. Just one night to recuperate, surely I can do that. I religiously followed my pricey new skin regime, had a quick chat via Skype with Megan, and snuggled into my bed. My Mac was off, I’d officially checked out for the night.

However, it’s just not that simple anymore. Physically I may be ready for some much-needed rest, but my mind was still turning and spinning through ideas, plans, and lists.

Just when I was truly feed up with myself, my brain unearthed the most surprising recollection from the depths of my memories.

One moment I was curled up in my yoga pants and an oversized Gator t-shirt, and the next I was sporting a blue and white polka-dot bikini lounging poolside with favorite aunts and cousies. A mixture of coffee-scented tanning lotion and chlorine was wafting through the air, and my aunts were staking claims from their inner-tube thrones to the snacks Kathleen had returned with from the 7/11.

I’d been agonizing once again, admittedly in my typical obsessive nature, over my future.

What am I going to do in life?

Heavy thoughts for a err… 18 year old at the time. (haha my poor weary brain)

My aunt, spinning her raft to face me and wielding a Cheetos between her index finger and thumb, told me to do what I’m truly passionate about in life.

Chrissy what do you love?

Everyone has these times. The times that you unabashedly proclaim, “I like to cook!” or “I like French!”

These moments come, get you all worked up, and pass just as quickly, leaving you to alone to putter around with your “realistic” ambitions once more.

For the most part, that’s how college has been for me. A stream of competitions punctuated by passionate aspirations. Something different has happened while I’ve been abroad. The blinders that seem to always keep me on my “right path” have slowly vanished and left me with seemingly endless possibilities. I really can choose to go wherever I wish.

Where is that?? you might be wondering.

Well short of my Irish husband’s farm… I’m still not quite sure, but an important realization nonetheless.

What smart aunties I have : )

At least I get the tax back...

2010-03-25T04:21:00.000-07:00

Everyday I wake up in Paris there’s a new war being waged by my skin on my faltering face. It’s ugly and painful, and quite frankly completely new to me.

Acne.

Isn’t that some pre-pubescent horror that plagues middle school girls flipping through the newest issue of Seventeen magazine? Apparently my skin education was sorely lacking because this affliction, that I was so arrogantly was sure that I’d evaded, has slapped me upside my once-clear face and taken up residence, seemingly for good.

What I did today was sickening, I know. But truly, it’s not like I hadn’t tried other alternatives. Oodles of drugstore creams, scrubs, and ointments were bought, tried, and no progress made. In fact, I think my efforts only further aggravated my aggressor. New mountainous blemishes unearthed across my face at an alarming rate.

No, it would not do. So, today I made a choice that my bank statement will come to regret soon enough. I went to Sephora.

It made so much sense only two hours ago. You’re in Paris, your skin is horrendous, go take a little walk to your neighborhood Sephora.

Catch: My neighborhood Sephora is the mother of all Sephoras. It spits on Florida Mall Sephora like it’s a tacky imposter chapstick to its Dior Addict.

I should’ve foreseen that such a towering monster of beauty solutions is budget suicide during times of self-conscious crisis.

From the moment you walk through the door, the store does its best to corrupt and seduce you. The flowery perfumes floating through the air, flawless milky-skinned French women twirling makeup brushes every five steps, and endless aisles of products illuminated by soft white lights produces an insurmountable hold on the average lowly twenty-something with a poor complexion and an even poorer self-image.

It’s funny because I knew I was about to do something that I shouldn’t, but nothing could stop me. I’d fallen under the Sephora spell. I may as well have just signed a blank receipt the moment I stepped foot in the store because I was ready to do whatever damage it would take to get me feeling confident again.

I was passed off through a series of professionals until they’d finally located the right consultant for me.

I knew what was coming, but I couldn’t help but laugh when I finally saw her. Of course they’d located the most adorable, brilliant, petite French girl in the store, to assist me with all my skin needs. I felt like an ogre be tended to by the beautiful fairy princess.

She began snatching all the potions off the shelves, loading down my basket with magical names like Dior, Clinique, and Sisley.

After a lengthy consultation, and perhaps a few quickly scrawled notes on my part, my skin fairy dropped me off at the register and bid me Au revoir!

Face tightening, stomach churning.

And your total is….

Whoops.

I hate making enemies...

2010-03-24T14:58:00.000-07:00

I wish I could do this more justice because this is the kind of event that make a blogger's day. When these types of things happen, Aunt Mary can vouch for me I'm sure, you think to your bloggie-self, "Jackpot." In fact the majority of my days since my blogs inception have been spent in search of moments like this, hoping that I can save my readers from boredom just one more day.

Anyways, I wish I could do justice to it, but I can't. With the growing mass of work that has not been attended to, I can hardly write these sentences here without feeling a twinge of guilt thinking that my time really should be spent more wisely. Regardless, the fact that it happened must be documented.

So I left my apartment this morning at 10:30am, ipod buds already in my ears, ready to start a new Parisian day. I folded myself into the closet sized elevator and was pushing the ground floor button when a flash of white collided with the elevator glass door. Snapped out of my Dave Matthews reverie, I found myself face to face with my nearly naked neighbor from across the hall.

Mouth agape, eyes wide, I stared at his panting, tidy-whitey clad self, completely unaware of his moving mouth and the words that he was saying to me.

I popped my earphones out of my ears and acclimated myself to his hushed rapid foreign tongue. He was rambling on in an increasingly harsh tone about a door... my door... every morning.... EVERY MORNING.

It suddenly dawned on me, my door was waking him up every morning. Oh, faux pas.

I felt all my blood rushing to my face, and gave him the most panicked deer face I think I've ever mustered. Obviously comprehending that I hadn't meant to be rude, he asked me a final time to be quieter, turned on his heel, and stormed off back to his apartment.

Awkward.

Initially I beat myself up about it, worked on my door-closing skills, and even took the downstairs door and few times, but really the more I think about it, the more I think:

a) every grown adult should have pants on by 10:30am.

b) shouldn't you be at your job anyways?

c) YOU try and quietly close a knob-less antique door

Je suis americaine...

2010-03-23T03:30:00.000-07:00

Billy likes to remind me that I’m not actually French, I live in America, and in fact I will live in America again in a few short months.

It’s these times, when he’s reeling me in from my French fantasy, that I think to myself, “He’s crazzzzyy.” Of course I’m American. I love Starbucks, wearing Nike running shorts to class, and furniture that’s conducive to lounging. I love that, in the United States, we do-up holidays American style because, big secret, I like getting little presents on Valentine’s Day and decorating every nook and cranny of my house in red and green during December.

So needless to say, when he insinuates these changes that I’ve undergone, I smile and think to myself “Silly Billy.”

Until today.

I was walking to the metro stop from class peering into the stylish shops that line the street of my school. It’s officially Spring in Paris, and the window displays are shedding their somber leather and bundling tweed of the season past and replacing this death-like predeccesor with vibrant jewels, florals, and shines.

Prada, Christian Louboutin, Hermes, Stuart Weitzman… they were all catching my eye. I dashed across the narrow street just before returning to Boulevard Saint Germain to get my daily envious peak into a small vintage shop boasting the Chanel and Vuitton of every decade dating back to the fifties. After sufficiently slobbering up and down it’s window, I returned to my course and just as I was about to step into the street a monstrous Yukon XL, blaring it’s horn, nearly barreled me over. Physically I had escaped harm, but the mental realization was traumatizing. I’d been snapped out of my Parisian dream by an American GM icon, not far from the model I drive myself. Suddenly everything around me wasn’t mine like it had been several minutes and one near-death experience before.

I continued to the metro station glancing into displays, but it wasn’t the same. Checking out Prada’s new spring line on you walk home from class isn’t normal. Don’t get me wrong I don’t appreciate it any less, but I think I’m beginning to comprehend the culture shock I will feel when I return back to my real life.

Gainesville is going to have to up its game. (ha-ha)

I Need my Yogi Man

2010-03-22T06:14:00.000-07:00

Once again had the pleasure of spending the majority of my day running from business to another trying to get an additional part of my Visa paperwork finished.

Wait? You mean I already got a visa, and am actually living in France??

That means nothing.

Apparently once you get your visa in your host country you then have to basically apply again in an entirely different way once you enter France. Being a little (or two months), behind the curve, my heart was racing all day just thinking about all the scenarios that would play out it my process wasn't completed.

I have to get this paperwork done or I can never come back to France. The no France possibility would definitely put a damper on the split country (half US, half France) Masters programs I've been looking at...

Oh the joys of French bureaucracies.

The result?

Just as I'd almost given up entirely, I came back to my apartment with tears leaking out from under the rims of my oval sunglasses and found M. C. putting an extra spacer in the dining room table (no doubt for another party tonight). He pulled me all together, helped me gather all the supplies I was missing, and walked me over to the post office. I didn't even have to physically go to their office, all I needed to get was a silly little stamp that ensured I would be alerted when the immigration office received all my paperwork.

Sigh of huge, huge, huge relief.

"I'm living in a kind of daydream..."

2010-03-21T04:54:00.001-07:00

It's Sunday in Paris and though the weather has returned to whipping winds and an overcast sky, I was determined to have the leisurely morning that I'd been looking forward to all week. Everyweek I try to sneak in a new essential Parisian experience. Last week I visited le marché aux Puces and le cimetière du Père-Lachaise. This weekend I chose le jardin d'Acclimation and le marché Raspail. That's one of the true advantages of Paris. I complain sometimes about certain city life, but there's always a new place to explore. An advantage, that truly trumps any outstanding annoyances.

So a little about the second destination I mentioned...

Le marché Raspail is an organic market with 40 vendors featuring a diverse range of products from the usual fruits and veggies to soaps and honey, nuts and beans, whole roasted chickens and freshly caught sting-rays from the Northern coast of France. Ever since I discovered it in an article featuring Barefoot Contessa's favorite Parisian foodie destinations, I've been bubbling with anticipation.

Morning of, I gathered my supplies, I'd decided to walk, and set off for the seventh arrondissement.

It was a promenade, no hurry. I stopped and took photos as I crossed the Seine. The weather was cooler, but I was just happy to be outside away from the pile of books that were judging me everytime I entered my room.

I found myself at the glorious market within no time, and one step into the main aisle thrust me into the stream of people going about their Sunday shopping.

I've been to great open-air markets before, but for me, Raspail does it right.

It offered the goods you would expect, but the quality was overwhelming. There was a diverse range of vendors, but the quantity was not overwhelming.

Before I knew what I was doing, my shopping bag that I'd purchased in London was out and goods were flowing in. Peering into my sac to judge how much room I had yet to spare was like looking into a sack of jewels. All the colors and textures of my finds gleamed back at me, encouraging me to forge-on and purchase more. (Precisely why I did not go to the atm before I left this morning, and empty wallet says "You're done" so much better than my conscience.)

I nestled myself in line at a bustling produce stand, and while waiting struck up a conversation with a greying french man (I honestly think there's something about me that attracts everyone over the age of hmmm... 65) on how to pick the best fruits. I wish I had a wider vocabulary to describe him, but only one word does the job here, adorable.

The line at my fruit and vegetables stall was long, but honestly I didn’t mind. Just another excuse to people watch and eavesdrop on every guttural r or nasal'ly syllable I heard passing by. Plus, long lines means good products, so I knew I was in the right place.

Nonetheless, the épicier, trying to encourage our patience, began tossing us a new slice of fruit everytime he returned to the queue. Every juicy clementine and crispy Pink Lady-esque apple he threw our way, had me loading down my red wicker backet with additional goodies.

Oh yes, a fruitful morning. Handmade muesli, sweet potato filled pastries, 5-grain baguettes, fresh fruit and veggies, a potato pancake… and well there could've been soo much more, but that’s where my money ran out.

After doing a farefall tour of all the stalls and grabbing a greasy hot-off-the-griddle potato pancake I left my market euphoria and returned to the streets of Paris. I couldn’t contain my excitement to try all my new finds, so I went against my own Sunday ideology and took the quick metro right back to my kitchen.

First order of business, a big fresh salad.

Next?

Well it's Sunday, there's just no reason to even try not to have dessert.

Spicy Mariage Frères "Mandalay" tea and a sweet potato tart. Is this Fall in my mouth? Of course it is. Because it's Paris, and any flavor you want is possible.

Changed my mind, I'm completely a city girl. Can I never leave?

The Saboteur

2010-03-19T06:21:00.000-07:00

Everyone has that one friend that sabotages your diet every time you so much as think about starting one. It's as if they have a healthy thoughts radar. The moment you decide, "Yes, my pants are restricting my breathing because I can't keep my cookie-hole shut," they show up, usually cookies in hand ready to lead you astray once again.

I have one of those friends. She's a culinary genius, and I tend to benefit from every creation she's taken a whack at so far.

However, tonight it was my turn.

Ok, a good healthy meal. I decided on a smoked salmon, goat cheese, capers, and walnut salad to start. Then... balsamic chicken and sauteed vegetables with chickpeas. Filling, wholesome, perfect.

She arrived, red wine and homemade cookies in hand. And do you know what, I was relieved. The meal was great, but I needed a little splurge at the end, and those cookies were just it. I just wouldn't have been satisfied without them. Why go through life, constantly denying yourself of things you want? Who wants to be healthy when you could have cookies?!

So next time someone sabotages you, just eat and be happy. Those little indulgences are the things you're supposed to look forward to!

Moderation, that's what I say. Moderation of my daily crepes, and pastries, and baguettes, and... really I should weigh as much as a house right now, I know.

Blog worthy material

2010-03-19T02:07:00.001-07:00

Ok I thought this was blog worthy only because it's loss had a serious effect on my Parisian experience, I found my iPod!!!! Yay! Return of Dave Matthews Band, crappy French pop and rap, and of course Jack. SOOOOOOO happy :)

No need for Jim anymore (well for now), Paris can hold it's own once again!

2010-03-18T12:35:00.000-07:00

Fully enjoyed another sunny day in Paris:

Left my peacoat at home on purpose. I didn't need it!

Picnic lunch on the Seine.

Promenading along the river and through the (finally!) returned bouquinistes piled high with stacks of yellowing books, antique posters, and knick-knack Paris souvenirs.

My Cold War make-up history class got canceled, how French, but it allowed me to....

Make my Yoga Class!

Great calming mid-day Yogi session with a surprise substitute teacher. Let me just say he was the most adorable pocket-man. This was no exaggeration, I nearly crushed the poor free spirit in a half shoulder stand, but despite my beastly comparative stature he was parfait :)

2 hour french class in which we simply discussed why we're studying what we're studying.

It's so clear to me where my true future lies.

Happiness is possible, and it in no way involves finance... à cœur vaillant rien d’impossible.

(sigh of relief)

Dinner party with the girls.

Wine?

Was that really a question?

Missing my Ireland Stories??

2010-03-17T10:16:00.000-07:00

Just updated my missing Ireland blogs, goto February 27th to see lots of Wicklow pictures provided by my fabulously talented friend Katie :)

The Bateau Boys

2010-03-17T07:44:00.000-07:00

Never before has a sunny afternoon revived my spirits as quickly as the one I experienced today.

It was sunny in Paris! I felt 20 pounds lighter, maybe I never gained any weight, maybe it was all in my winter coat that I left at home today (mmm... maybe). Those of you in Florida may not appreciate just how special this can be after a long winter, but I was. (Or perhaps you can after the frosty reports I’ve been receiving.)

Just one week in Parisian March weather had my sister spewing diagnosis after diagnosis of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD indeed).

It wasn’t until today that I realized I’d been under its gloomy influence these two months past, because today I was finally alive again!

Taking advantage of my beau temps I took my work to le Jardin de Tuilieries. Arriving just in time to snag a pond-side green metal chair, I slipped on my Jackie Kennedy sunglasses, unraveled my tight bun, and basked in my new found happiness that is Spring in Paris.

After I’d sufficiently absorbed the moment and developed my mental picture, I realized and even more inviting scene was unfolding in front of me.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one excited about this turn of temper in the meteorological gods. Surrounding all the edges of my pond were groups of boys screaming at and cheering on small sailboats that they’d let loose on the surface of the rippling water.

Patched sails of bright colors and perfectly clashing patterns gracefully sailed in criss-crossing paths across the small body of water.

The sport was singular, only one boy to every boat, but its fans were numerous. Everyboy who had not secreted away their pocket-change for this very moment were hanging over the edges of the pond’s wall screaming and cheering for their faorite bateau.

There was strategizing, betting of cookies, anticipation of crashes, and rolling cheers, all of which did a sufficient job of distracting me from my work for une bonne heure, but looking back it was without a doubt mental time well spent.

When else do you get to watch battling sweater-vested boys with wire-rimmed glasses and loafers duking it out on the… err high seas of Tuilieries??

Don’t worry I was a creeper, there are pictures, this was too good to pass up!

I can still hear the little boys screaming as two boats came close to colliding….Ohhh ohhh OHHHH… AWWWWW!

The one in the green vest reminded me of my best friend. [I'm sorry Megan but you had the most adorable glasses when you were little. It's a good thing :) ]

All by myself... hehe

2010-03-16T09:17:00.000-07:00

The C's are off AGAIN, from Provence in the south now they're off to Alsace in the north. How can I get their lives??

And while they're off galavanting around France I'm left at home to answer their doorbells, which I kid you not rings a least 3 time nightly by various building residents who've come to talk with M.C. about their life problems, he's like our village shaman.

What has become of me?

2010-03-14T13:46:00.000-07:00

There are times when you actually leave your earthly body, look down on your pathetic self, and realize what has become of me?!

The habits all formed so gradually I can hardly put my finger on where exactly I went wrong (though crums in your personal knooks and crannies are usually a dead giveaway), but today my conclusion was so shockingly apparent that the catalyst of my current situation was an inconsequential detail.

However, all this being said, is there anything I can really do to help myself? I must admit, I've become quite accustomed to my daily luxuries: face-sized meringues, personal baguettes, and my delightful dark chocolate squares. Yes, it must be stopped, but how?

And, to be truthful, food is not the only unmonitored binge I've been indulging in. I think that if I download another itunes movie or The Office episode I will be cut off all together, whether it be by my bank account limit or the reserves of my new computer's hard drive. ( Billy you know my obsession.. but really, can anyone else attest to the mesmerizing hunk that is Jim Halpert?? He can solve all my problems. One bewildered shrug, that's all it takes.)

All these good mood producers compounded by the warmth of a down-feather bed makes the cold wet streets of even Paris look menacing.

Ok, queue self pep-talk... It's time to start your adventures again. You were a little over-whelmed after three countries in 1 week. Classic "Chrissy doing too much." But now that you're settled in, you put down the chocolate and get back to planning, it's a tough life but you signed up for it :)

That's right a Cemetery

2010-03-13T14:10:00.000-08:00

So this is how I spent my weekend... in a cemetery. Well a cemetery and le marché aux Puces (which was amazing, despite initial EXTREME sketchiness). I have a project in my French class on a Parisian tourist attraction and my subject was Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Weird? Yes, at first, but I surprisingly really enjoyed the visit! Pere Lachaise is the largest cemetery in Paris, receives 1.5 millions tourists annually, and boasts bragging rights as the final resting place for Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Honore de Balzac... and many many more.

So I thought I'd show you a little slice of what I saw during my visit.

Warning

2010-03-12T04:57:00.000-08:00

My head is so busy with work right now, I'm going to have to inform you all that my blogs will most surely be less frequent and more irregular for at least the next... gasp month.

I just have to get through this month and then I'm back in the enjoying my time in Europe game!

Home, finally! (Well Paris home hehe)

2010-03-06T17:36:00.000-08:00

Winter break is over, and I have returned to the city with my sissy to show her all the sites that Paris has to offer... like the ax in her bedroom :) I know that I have sooo soooo much to catch you all up on, but you're going to have to be patient (even though I got the best surprise today, my Macbook!) So, fully armed, I'm ready to tackle my mountainous pile of pictures and journal scrawlings. It'll take awhile, but I'm hoping that within the next week you'll have a perfect idea of how exactly I fell in love with Ireland!

Our second night in Ireland Katie and I decided to go out for a pub to get a real sense of the Irish culture. Dublin nightlife had not been what we were expecting, all neon lights and skirts up to girls' private bits... not me (shocking right?), so we were hoping to find a cozy pub that would renew our warm idealic notions of Irish culture. I was sitting in our booth scrolling through my camera while Katie was securing a second round of hard cider 1/2 pints (you laugh, but they're ridiculously good and I saw quite a few hearty men cozying up to our drink of choice as well.) I had the great idea, as I was looking through my photos, to blow up the Ireland landscapes into poster-sizes to decorate my room when I get back to the states. It was either that, or permanently move to Ireland because I absolutely loved it. Thinking that I'd probably need to start taking better quality photos I flipped to the camera's menu and changed the pictures to a higher format.

Terrible mistake. All the photographic evidence of the beautiful mountains and lakes of Wicklow County that I'd been drooling over for the past ten minutes had vanished! Apparently, and I'm not sure why I hadn't remembered this from prior experiences (sorry again Kathleenie!!) I should not EVER go into my camera's menu. It always ends in disaster. Needless to say a hard cider just couldn't revive me from the state I then found myself in, so I walked right up to the bartender and ordered a foamy Guinness to cry in. (Minus the crying, because Ireland is just too happy of a country to cry in :) )

Soooo, no Wicklow pictures just yet, but thank goodness my amazing photographer friend was with me on the trip, and has already offered any of her near professional shots. For now, we'll skip the first to days and head straight to the West Coast, Galway Bay!!

"Ohhh now I understand"

2010-03-06T13:35:00.000-08:00

By far my favorite part of London was Portobello Market. If I were to be a Londoner this would be my holy ground. It had all the makings of an area that I could endlessly visit without ever becoming disinterested. Set in the posh neighborbood of Notting Hill, home to celebrities the likes of Claudia Schiffer and Stella McCartney, the Portobello Road Market is the star surrounded by criss-crossed streets chocked full of gourmet gems, chic cafes, and eclectic clothing shops. How could we have waited until our last day in London to discover this?!

My purchases?

Two 19th century maps, one of Paris, one of Galway Bay (my favorites!)

Three tiled patterned hooks to hang on the wall in my room at home for all the jewelry I'll be bringing back.

One delicious carrot cake cupcake.

(It was painful not to purchase more, but another time I'm sure.)

[I'm just going to apologize now for the coming onslaught of Pride and Prejudice references. Julie and I watched it while she was in Paris... and there's nothing but Pride and Prejudice in my head :) ]

We are not the Buckingham palace type

2010-03-05T14:13:00.000-08:00

Early Friday morning Julie and I scrapped ourselves out of bed, and consequently out of our lingering Indian food coma to brave the cold for the illustrious changing of the guard. What made us do it, I know not. Truly, it was probably the fact that I'd found the event in the "Free parts of London" in my guidebook, but never again will I let my pocket determine where I spend two hours on a cold and blistering London morning. Perhaps the changing of the guard would actually be enjoyable and worthwhile in the summer (though I'd venture to say "probably not"), whatever the case it was not well received by us, and really what were we thinking? It's just not our scene.

In order to revive our spirits we left Buckingham palace on a mission, we were set on finding tea and scones. We walked a little down the street and were met face to face with a happily situated coffee shop called "Crumpet." Perfect? Well, not so much. When we inquired inside for baked goodies, we were offered only savory food: pizza, sandwiches, pasta, but nary a scone. Apparently a language barrier.

After a quick coffee at "Crumpet," we set off to continue our day at the British Museum.

We couldn't have indulged our nerdiness more. Synchronized audiotours, history lessons, and then a stop at a local bookshop, what a wonderful use of a day.

The end is near...

2010-03-05T12:15:00.001-08:00

Soooo exhausted! One more day of London, then I'm homeward bound, that is Paris-bound (I got you all excited didn't I Billy??). Not to worry, once I'm back in my proper blogging atmosphere, you will all have more blogs full of crazy adventures than you know what to do with.

I can hardly believe the end of my Winter Break is so near! Good thing I get a Spring Break too (bahaha evil laugh)! And just wait until you hear about my plans for that...

Miss you all! Lots of postcards heading your way :)

London!

2010-03-04T13:22:00.000-08:00

All in a trip to Ireland

2010-03-03T00:26:00.000-08:00

Ireland Accomplishments:

-Consumed vast amounts of Irish stew, Guinness stew, and Seafood Chowda'

-Drank lots of... tea (hehe)

-Savored scones

-Enjoyed a few Guinness'

-Erased all my initial pictures enjoying said Guinness

-Though I'd like to forget it, tried blood pudding. "BLOOD" hehe I'm still laughing Katie.

-Had my first Irish coffee! (yuuummmmy, perfect on a cold day when you're exploring the Wicklow Mountains)

-Found my favorite drink in the entire world Bulmer's hard cider

-Made a stop at the famous Temple Bar (though much prefered smaller homey Galway pubs)

-Was told Irish fairy stories at "The Brazen Head" (Dublin's oldest pub)

-Boated to the Aran Islands with new Aussie friends.

-Took down a Baby Guinness (little shot of Baileys + Kahlua)

-Ate lots and LOTS of brown bread

-Appreciated live Irish music

-Bought way too many hand-knitted goods for a Floridian

-Played fetch with a friendly Aran Island dog and my new Scottish turned French beekeeper man friend.

-Met future Irish husband... yes he owns those cows. What a man, is all I can say.

-Hiked The Burren

-Peered over a cliff's edge

-Are grandma's carrot cake and apple pie.

-Saw where Bono lives

-Finished eat night with an ice cream cone.

-Witnessed sunrise over Galway Bay

-Had best heart-to-heart ever with my bus driver, Paul.

-SMILED

-Ate biscuits and drank tea out of a van seaside on the Irish coast.

-Accidentally claimed the wrong hostel bedroom, and only realized after I'd taken a shower and was dripping wet.

-Bought red Keds... I know I'm obsessed now.

Leaving was painful, but I know I'll be back soon!

Keep Moving!

2010-03-03T00:07:00.000-08:00

In the Dublin airport and I spied a pay-as-you-go computer kiosk. Just wanted to drop a line that Ireland was unbelievable. Off to London, can't wait to fill you all in on all of my adventures!!

The Aran Islands

2010-03-02T02:25:00.000-08:00

Like going back in history, the Aran Islands were a feast for the weary city-dweller's eyes. If you've seen and loved the movie "The Secret of Roan Inish," book a trip to the Aran Islands immediately. One of the few places in Ireland that I felt a true sense of what peaceful, Irish seaport life was like a hundred years ago.

Is the kind of destination where you can buy hand-knitted sweaters from women sitting by the fire in wooden rocking chairs, get a home-cooked meal and baked goods from quaint cottage restaurants that don't even have signs, and explore a wild, untamed coast full of tidepools, cliffs, and small fishing villages.

I could've walked forever (well minus the blistering cold, and the fact that the island is only 4 miles in circumference).

The Aran Islands were really amazing because unlike that the Cliffs of Moher, there weren't any barriers on the cliffs, so you could shimmy yourself right up to the edge and get a peek over. So, of course I did! I know these pictures will make some of you sick, but it was an amazing experience and I was very careful :)

So many stories to tell, but this one in particular was especially endearing. On my tour of the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher I'd met a Scottish turned French beekeeper that took me under his wing. We exchanged contact numbers and parted ways, but who did I find but the man himself on the Aran Islands the next day. He was adorable! Always wanting to explore the tidepools, keep me safe of the cliffs, race me up a lane, or as pictured above play with a local dog! haha I know it sounds too corny and movie-like to be true, but it was adorable!

More Ireland Pics

2010-03-01T17:36:00.000-08:00

Not much time to chat right now, I must get back to studying if I ever want to take another trip this semester. Soo much work to do! But the prospects of Italy are giving me the strength to persevere.

Here are my pictures from the Cliffs of Moher. Amazing! Should certainly be one of our new 7 Wonders of the World :)

The (Brawny) Burren

2010-03-01T10:24:00.000-08:00

Headed out the the Irish countryside for some old fashioned farm fun :)

Katie and I decided to take a tour to the Cliffs of Moher that included various walks and tours around the "The Burren," which is a porous land famous for it's fertility despite being composed mainly of limestone and rocks.

First stop a local farm... hello strapping Irish farmer! Marry me please, is all I wanted to say.

(Billy read this narrative with an open mind, literary license... it's all in good fun hehe)

I'm sure that these beast should not be considered cattle, there's just no way.

So we're hiking through this gorgeous man's land, and the blond exercise barbie look-alike next to me starts slipping down the side of a rocky hill. Hottie McFarmer jumped in to action, scooped her up, and whisked her off to safety. I thought, Well that was a short engagement... I'm nothing to him. He's over me. But alas! Just as I was exiting his mother's cottage, after enjoying some of her homemade carrot cake... and cough and apple pie (they looked too enticing not to try both) I was lamenting to myself that now I was just a slightly plumper slighted American left without the prospects of a hearty Irish husband, or monstrously large cows, when the Irish farmer god reached over, grabbed my arm, and asked if we could have a picture together before I left.

Heart caught in throat.

Did he mean to grab my flabby arm? Surely not when toned and bronzed bimbo over there had been doing "bend-and-snaps" and falling down hills all morning just to get his attention.

"Would you mind?" he asked again.

He called over his brother to take the picture. The man sarcastically said "A camera would help."

I dove into my purse and detected my gleaming silver camera faster than Michael Phelps going for another gold, and got my picture.

It was glorious! Definitely one of those moments when your baffled mind is thinking, Am I really touching this hunk while we're posing for this picture?! Imagine if you'd actually worn make-up today! Fool! This all could've been yours....

My first prize photo. Does not do justice, I assure you. And really, from a second glance at it I'm starting to develop a complex about the size of my head. Am I a descendant of Giada's lineage?!

Galway Bay, what a mesmerizing spell...

2010-02-28T05:15:00.000-08:00

Final bits of Ireland!

2010-02-27T09:32:00.000-08:00

Ok I finally stole some pictures of facebook from my friend Katie, so you all can see the missing Wicklow visit, and see more (much better) shots of the rest of my trip.

(I think you all will start to understand when you see her pictures why my pictures have gotten so much better, and "artsy-fartsy" as Billy so nicely put it last night on skype, yes thank you again for that sweet boyfriend)

Bahaha... I can even write all the nicknames the Irish have for the above monument.

Let me just say, "Stiffy in the Liffy" is the least of them all.

Mmmmm! Scones at "Queen of Tarts!"

Love, love, love Ireland doors!

Quick spot of tea and biscuits, oceanside :)

You are now entering (the lost) Wicklow County

"Guinness Lake"(the name given by our tour guide) or it's real name Loch Tay. But it did look just like you're looking down into a frosty Guinness from out point of view.

Wicklow Adventures!

2010-02-27T09:15:00.000-08:00

Glendalough Monastery

More Loch Tay/"Guinness Lake"

Crystal clear picture thanks to Katie's hunky handy environment photographers (I could find more adjectives for them believe me, they were gorgeous and perfect minus their teeth... haha) We asked them to take a picture of us because they had professional-looking cameras, obviously camera-savvy, and they not only took our picture, but proceeded to use all their special tools cleaning Katie's camera. "You should be ashamed." eeehehehe

Oh Katie how I love you and your poses :)

Below, our Irish Stew at "Food, Fairies, and Folklore." Perfect Irish evening.

More of Katie's Ireland Pics!

2010-02-27T09:00:00.000-08:00

They said we happened to get one of the best days of visibility (weather-wise) that they've ever seen. Usually the entire bay is covered in fog and mist, from our view we could see the Aran Islands and the 12 pins!

Ancient Ireland was obviously not made for hearty girls...

Ahhh... my Irish man and his worry tree. Any time you have a worry you grab a ribbon and tie it on this tree, and poof no worries, it's Ireland!!

Dad this is the thatcher I was telling you about! Please let me go to thatcher school... hehe :)

R.I.P. Bulmers, life and blood of our entire trip. I'm having withdrawals.

Good ones Katie! Galway Bay and Dunguaire Castle.

Ready for Take-Off

2010-02-26T23:19:00.000-08:00

(Take-off post from journal)

I'm almost officially off for Ireland, and judging by the mix of Irish citizens at my airport gate, I'm going to love Ireland. The men are all of the strapping, throw one child over each shoulder and scale a mountainside type; the women, kind and all smiles, are viligant mothers watching over all their little duckies; and the children (ohh my constant creeping of children) plump, juicy, and red-faced, they're the kind of babies whose tummies you just want to bury your face into make raspberries. Already I can foresee, my trip will end in a case of "P.S I Love You" in reverse (minus the death and moving back to the US. I swear that analogy worked much better in my head...)

How could I love a country this much before I'd even set foot on its soil? Was I over-romanticizing it?

Not a chance. The airport only reenforced my certainty about the good times I was going to encounter. Only 20 minutes left before boarding, and the Irish clan had begun a rotating beer-kids-luggage arrangement. Amongst the 5 adults traveling (mind you this was an extended family) each was now taking turns to get in a last frothy before having to board our cramped discount airplane. One would sit atop the 9 suitcase high mountain of luggage they had accumulated, several would be surveying the cyclones of children spinning around the terminal, and the remaining lucky soul would sneak off to the airport bar for a quick one, only to return several minutes later to bump out another elder into the next role. The whole scene was quite humorous, and brought me a happiness that I hadnt felt in months in Paris.

Oh this is going to be a good trip indeed.

2010-02-26T22:37:00.000-08:00

Well look what I found, my hostel has a computer booth! (Only 8 minutes 26 seconds left on my time slot though, so this will be a quickie.)

I made it to Ireland safe and sound, and this morning (bright and early has you can probably judge by the time of this post) I'm off to tour Wicklow, bring on the GREEN!

In order to keep the blogging going I'm writing down all my thoughts in my journal, so all I have to do is transcribe when I get back to Paris!

(oh my gosh only 4 minutes 42 seconds left, I keep getting distracted by all the interesting people at my hostel... that I'm hoping aren't reading over my shoulder at the moment. Must focus and write! ahh it's useless, well at least you know I'm alive. Until I pay for a computer again!)

Until we meet again

2010-02-26T03:00:00.000-08:00

Just when you thought I was back, it's time for you and I to part again. What a tease? Maybe, but this is an extended break is wholly outside of my control. I leave today for a weekend long journey into... well let's just say I'm heading north. A bit of a game, much more fun, don't you think? Anyways, I'm heading north, and the airline company that I'm using only allows me one free carry-on the size of my Longchamp. A week's worth of supplies must fit in my daily purse, goodness. So, after stuffing my Longchamp to the bursting point, I've resorted to multiple layers of clothing. Tube socks, black jeans, wool turtle neck, knit dress, another sweater, my peacoat. I'm a clothing Babushka doll, but at least I'll have room for clean undies! It's winter, no one will notice, right?

Ok, so the hard hitting facts? Earliest next blog, unless by some miracle I find a happy traveler willing to share his/her resources.... Sunday March 8th. I know! But, get this. I will then be blogging to you all from the sweet, noiseless keys of my new Macbook Pro! The wait will more than be worth it, I assure you. I already feel that my new computer will be blog-inspirational. Look forward to blogging on a whole new level, and lots more pictures :)

Ok, so I'm off. Some clues??

You're new 20-year-old is off to further her golden education with a frothy pint, at a local pub. Take in the rolling green scenary. Travel by land, air, and sea. Meet a strapping lad the likes of Braveheart. Hold the blood pudding, corned beef, and cabbage, but I'll most certainly indulge in some stew and brown bread. Learn a jig, be mesmerized by folklore, and try a new accent on for size.

(Hold on, not quite done.)

If that didn't have your travel bug green with envy and ready board the next plane anywhere, next I'm off to meet my sissy in a city of royalty, bridges, Shakespeare, and, well, probably another pint. Benny boy's good and all, but my keen eye will be on the look-out for Darcy. A spot of tea? Indeed I do say that would be lovely. "Shelves in closets, happy thought indeed." Ohh I better sign off before this goes any further...

~~~

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;

the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,

may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

~~~

Lesson Learned

2010-02-25T11:00:00.000-08:00

So close to winter break freedom I can almost hear Celtic lullabies already. (Whoops! Was that a spoiler for blogs to come?!)

So, homeward bound, I slipped on my peacoat, and off I went bee-bopping down the street, Jack Johnson’s « Bubble Toes » streaming through my ears, as I reminisced about my beautiful home. First thing I’m doing when I get back is staking out a plot of sand on Disappearing Island, cranking up some Buffet, and soaking up the sun, regardless of how many baguettes bigger my rear-end becomes. It’s mindless and peaceful, it’s paradise. And just maybe, my good example of responsible consumption in France will earn me a Bud kickback from my dad. Bahaha just kidding… sort of.

I got through the first leg of my journey home sans problem. At Concorde, I switched metro trains to the 1 and got to the platform, and slipped in a surprisingly unpopulated car, just as the door’s buzzers where sounding for take-off.

So many seats, which should I choose??

This had never happened to me on the 1 before, and I took a moment to revel in my brief metro kingdom.

Avoiding the lover splash zone, no I would not like to be slobbered on today (not that any place in Paris is safe from the omnipresent make-out scenes), I chose a folding chair by the metro door.

I continued to get lost in Jack, when suddenly I realized some sort of object was bouncing dangerously close to me in my peripheral vision. It’s taken awhile but Paris has trained me in the art of constant-vigilance without looking alarmed. I quickly rolled my eyes counter-clockwise around the edges of my eyeballs to survey the scene.

Omg. There was a man within striking distance of me flailing his arms and doing what I interpreted to be some version of MJ’s moon-walk. My hand muted my ipod from the inside of my coat pocket, and ripped from my island reverie, I was thrown into fight or flight mode. Now able to fully ascertain what was going on around me, I realized the man was rapping at me. That explains a lot, I thought briefly almost smiling, but being cut short when my mind started to translate the content.

There was a reason this man had picked me, and it was by no means harmless.

My body was tingling with every loaded word he spat at me. He assumed me to be a wealthy Parisian, and he, as he so kindly spelled out for me was not. He was an immigrant.

Whoa, whoa, he's got it all wrong, I'm American! Though... probably best not to explain that either...

And this is where the blog gets tricky. You have to understand that France is undergoing significant political and societal upheaval at the moment, centered on immigration, especially that of Arab nation descendent. You hear it on the streets, in the classroom, and on the news, the controversy is bubbling everywhere. The racism is visible, and this man was battling back against prejudices that he presumed I would have.

I stared straight ahead, purple earphones still in my ears, and pretended like I wasn’t aware of his actions though by this point the people of the entire metro car, and those on either side were shifting their position so as to be closest to the door, or moving to a further car.
I decided there was no getting up for me at this point, best to ignore. I felt that any move on my part would aggravate the situation further.

Mind blank. What was I thinking about before?? Beach?

Before I knew what was happening, the man had dashed by me, made several parting hand gestures, and exited the metro, no doubt off to intimidate some other unsuspecting metro patron.

Note to self: There’s always a reason for an empty car on the 1.

C'est mon anniversaire!

2010-02-24T15:44:00.000-08:00

Could this really be? Am I twenty? Just the sound of it is unnerving.

Do I have to start being mature? Haha, the majority of you just got bitter and me and yelled some colorful words at the computer screen. Ok, do I have to start being less mature? Bah! I’m in my twenties… those four words alone just increased my mother’s heart rate two-fold.

So what better place to celebrate your birthday, than Paris?! Well, that is if it’s your 40th birthday, you’ve got a secret Swiss bank account, and a husband who knows the merits of owning any handbag that’s hard to pronounce. Starving student?? Who am I kidding, it’s still AMAZING!

So being Chrissy, I had the day all mapped out. “How to best celebrate your birthday in Paris.” Hours were maximized, budgeted, and scheduled. Everything short of a spreadsheet, let me assure you. And do you know what I did? I threw it out the window.

Something fundamental changed in me when my alarm when off this February 24th. I don’t know if it was turning a year older, or the quantity of wine I’d consumed the night before, but I made a choice, and that choice was I’d prefer to sleep.

So I did it! Some of you are already disappointed with the blog at this moment. It’s Paris, where’s the action, the glamour?! But that’s just it. My day was free. No worries, no itineraries, just free movement.

After I had gotten my fill of sleep, I made the biggest eggs-baguette-yogurt-coffee breakfast I could fit into my stomach. Fully fueled, I took off for my metro stop, jumped on the 1, and chose a destination in the moment! (Maybe it’s not as exciting to read about as the crack of dawn run to the Eiffel Tour to watch a Parisian sunrise that I’d planned, but the flexibility was relaxing and empowering.)

First stop, Musee d’Orsay! Why not?! There was no time schedule so I walked through the rooms, snapping pictures and enjoying the scene.

What next... some birthday champagne with friends? I think yes.

On to lunch with the girls!

Let me just tell you, an entire blog could've been written on our waiter. Such a European. He couldn't stop falling over himself to wish me happy birthday, tell me how much he loves Americans, a drop inuendos about our obvious future together. "Oh Christina you're sooo buuuutiful."

The best part? He prepared a special surprise for me. Halfway through our meal he came to our table to abruptly let me know he would be making me a surprise. "Oh!" I said shocked, and not quite sure how to react. "Don't worry we will not be trying to make love to you." (I'm only hoping I translated his response wrong, because in retrospect this should've made us really question what we were doing there. However, the temptation of the mystery surprise and a half-full flute of champagne, ensured that we weren't leaving anytime soon.)

Sure enough, a few minutes later out he came with a piece of cake and the number 20 piped in whipped cream. SO adorable. He placed his masterpiece in from of me told me to make a wish, proceeded to kiss me on the cheek for a solid minute, and threw my camera at my friend and instructed her to start taking pictures of us. bahaha, hilarious.

The rest of the day was spent doing my favorite thing, wandering in new parts of Paris and taking pictures.

And just when I thought it was all over, the C's had more plans for me. A dinner party? Bien sur. I'll spare you all the dinner details, and share with you my favorite present. M. C's best friend, who's frequent dinner guest and I've gotten to know quite well, brought me a ... err unique gift. A strong French brandy called "Eau de vie," or "Water of Life." The bottle had been the first thing that his grandfather drank in Normandy after WWII had finished, and he wanted me to have it. Scared? Completely.

And that was my birthday-girl experience in Paris. No clubbing or raging to report, but altogether, certainly memorable :)

My Birthday Eve

2010-02-23T15:50:00.000-08:00

Alright peoples, I’m back. You’re done with me aren’t you? You’re all done with your bloggie that takes off just every time life gets a little difficult. Again.

I swear, I’m a happy person. A few minor break-downs, but on the whole quite satisfied with life. Doesn't it happen to everybody?

So, pre-20th birthday, (that’s right, did ya forget?!) there I was with streaming red eyes and a mascara painted face, the likes of which Lily would create whenever she got a hold of Kathleen’s makeup case, blubbering to my boyfriend about all the worries that had been weighing me down the past week. I’m sure if it weren’t for the chatting option of skype he wouldn’t have understood a word of what I had to say for all my sucking in of air and whimpering. For those of you who don’t know the boy, he’s ideal in these situations, and boy did he step up to the plate Tuesday.

Sometimes I think to myself Why haven’t you run away yet?

I couldn’t have been scarier. Mussed hair, pouring eyes, I was a wreck.

I was taking “It’s my birthday and I'll cry if I want to” to a whole new level.

And believe it or not, one short half hour later, I was fixed. It all seemed so effortless looking back, but truly he works magic. The ease of it all was shocking, it was like he patted me on my head, and said “Next.” Am I that simple? I’d like to think not. If my code is that easy to crack,
I’m going to have to do some self-renovation here…

And now, 20th birthday (in Paris!!) here I come!

"I get by with a little help from my friends" :)

2010-02-22T09:21:00.000-08:00

Megan Meneough loves glitter, I think that’s why we’re best friends. She’s a sparkly person.
Today I received the most impressive display of Megan in a box that I’ve ever witnessed, and it couldn’t have been timed better.

(Thank you Megan, you saved me today, I love you!)

My days in Paris have passed in bipolar patterns. Highs and lows, all twisted within the span of a couple hours. Seriously, if you could see a cumulative chart of my emotions, you’d think I was constantly going into cardiac arrest. I suppose it comes with the turf, but it can be an exhausting price to pay.

Nothing could beat last night. Surrounded by new friends and adopted French family, I almost felt like it was a normal Sunday night. (Nothing compared to Elvis, Truly Blessed, and Uncle Bill’s sausages, but welcomed all the same.)

The C’s threw a Gallette des Rois party for the entire building complete with two giant homemade gallettes des rois, a little bubbly, and endless bite-sized pastries, puffs, éclairs, and flans.

(See, this is why it's impossible to diet in France! >>>>>>>)

There I was in my living room with the tenants of my entire building, and the C’s were showing me off and chatting me up like I was one of their own petit-enfants.

I left two hours into the party, two slices of cake heavier and two flutes of champagne happier, for a Sunday late-night chick-flick date with the girls. Valentine’s Day had finally come out in Europe this weekend, and we’d been planning on seeing it for weeks. This weekend was America on steroids, but I loved it. You just need a little bit of home sometimes. So no matter what commentary you may have on our film choice, it was amazing because it was home.

I finished the night snuggled on my friends’ giant living room couch, which could easily be prescribed as a sleeping aid, because every time I curl up on it I’m out in 5 minutes. (Or is it because every time I sleep on it, I’ve already missed the last metro home, and it’s better alternative than the pee-perfumed metro station? Either way, it’s the best!)

Several hours plus-tard, I’d already started my day, and was sitting in my 8 am class thinking to myself why I ever chose to study business. I’d been frantically copying down symbols and notes off the board, each time racing the professor to finish copying them before he’d swipe his two foot eraser across the mathematical functions and ruin whatever miniscule chance I had of actually passing his course.

I don’t understand this, at all. My face must’ve been starting to scrunch into my panicked, wide-eyed “I don’t understand this” expression because with every symbol, function, and equation the professor would look straight at me, out of all the 60 plus people in my class, and say “It’s eazzy, you get thizzz right?”

This is the point where I’m supposed to say “No.” But I can’t even do that, because that’s how lost I am. I’m still on the “Does that squiggly mean Lambda?” question, I haven’t even gotten to “So what exactly does Lambda represent?”

It had been one of those classes when you’re looking at the clock every ten minutes, eyes brimming with tears, ready to dart out the door as soon as possible. It was deflating. I’d been on such a high the previous night, and this just blew it all to pieces.

What am I going to do?? I will lose all my scholarships if I drop this course.

I felt stupid. I mean really really stupid, for the first time in my life. And it didn’t help that every other problem the professor would chime, “Eazzy right? Not hard. Eazzzy right?”

Why can’t I understand this?

As soon as the 2 hour period was finished I went straight to my metro stop and to my apartment where I knew some leftover gallette des rois was waiting to cheer me up, but when I got to my door I found something even better.

It was a white USPS box, and before I could even read the writing scrawled across it, I knew who had sent it, Megan. (Please, I’d know those loopy, bubbled letters anywhere.)

I threw everything on my bedroom floor, grabbed a pair of scissors, and carefully dissected my package. It was a Valentine’s Day/Birthday surprise, Megan-style. Multiple cards, pink construction paper, confetti, glitter, and a tissue-paper wrapped present fell out.

I hadn’t even opened a single part of the package, but just seeing it all made my heart ache and my eyes water (in a good way). It was the hug I’d been searching for amidst all the perpetually pissed off Parisians. It was a little love from my best friend. It was perfect.

Me in my birthday present jacket, I LOVE IT, and it's a perfect fit!! What an eye Megan :) And really my drawings, especially the elephant (ahhh you know me so well) and front an center on my mirror, I don't even care that I can't see my face anymore, it's worth it! (And btw, I saw the postage you paid on my package, it was trop gentille of you (really, too much!) but I couldn't be HAPPIER!!

2010-02-21T05:55:00.001-08:00

Just went for Paris run #2, and as detestable as running is, it's the BEST way to see a city. How much I've missed zooming under the streets on the metro! Just today I found a park, aquarium, and what I'm sure can only be Brittney Spears' Paris apartment judging by the number of body guards that surrounded it, all with an 8 minute jog of my apartment! I'm loving all my news finds, and I just about doubled my to-do restuarant list within an hour, so no doubt more running ahead.

Oh and I heard about the boating/family dinner plans, and you're all dead to me. How dare you enjoy life without me, I'm very offended.

Party like it's 1999

2010-02-21T03:08:00.000-08:00

What a night! I can hardly breath for exhaustion. Trop de nourriture, trop de alcool, trop de bon temps! Bed by 2AM, yes a solid Saturday night with the grandparents.

(Did I have you going there for a second? No?! You're right, no one who actually parties says "Party like it's 1999," I'd like to think I was close though...)

I often comtemplate to myself "Why am I such a dork?" but I can't help it, I had so much fun!

These dinner parties are a regular occurence at the C's, but nothing about them is mudane and ordinary. Each week the table is layered in brocade table clothes, adorned with silver candlesticks, and topped with full place settings each lined up so precisely you would think the C's dining room had morphed into a 5 star restaurant worthy of French chefs the likes of Alain Ducasse or Guy Martin.

Last night the party consisted of the C's, myself, and two of their good friends. Come 9pm the party was in full swing. M. C. was pouring the apertifs and Mme. C was doing rounds about the salon with a magically refilling platter of assorted crackers and fancy cheese puffs.

"Et Christina, qu'est-ce que tu voudrais?"

I responded that he knew much better what I should prefer, and he should choose a drink to to surprise me. He laughed, and picked up an almost empty bottle of Muscat de Beaumes de Venise.

He handed me my little crystal glass, and bidded me Santé! Just as I was taking my first sip, M. C. informed me that if a young unmarried woman finished a bottle of Muscat de Beaumes de Venise, she'll get married within the year. Slightly choking on my sweet drink, I thought to myself Here he goes again, he and his friend are consantly trying to persuade me to marry and French man and stay here forever! I gave him a bad look and said, "We'll see about that." hahaha

The night progressed and we seated ourselves to dinner. By this point I'd absorbed so many interesting observations I hardly knew how to hold me own in a conversation anymore for fear that I'd forget all the interesting things I'd already learned about their lives.

We began talking about movies, and Mme. C commented on a recent Gerard Depardieu film she'd seen, knowing full well I love Gerard Depardieu (regardless of this beastly stature, and larger than life nose). Mme C's guest commented that she'd met G.D. once on a film set of a movie she'd appeared in, and she found him to be very gentil, and quite the opposite of how the press paint him.

Ok this time I seriously choked. Who are these people?!?!

They hunt (not kidding, the kind on horseback with hounds sniffing out a trail) at Fountainebleu and Versailles, use their finest crystal as if it were Dixie, have boxes at the Opera, eat off of 19th century forks, revamp french countryside chateaux as a hobby, travel the world like a trip to Millenia Mall, and bump elbows with famous worldwide film stars. Ohh the lap of luxury that I have fallen into...

B.I.A.

2010-02-20T05:49:00.000-08:00

No matter how alluring and fabulous Paris can be, there's nothing like the taste of America! Having felt homesick this past week, I made plans to make a pilgrimage to the authentic "Breakfast in America" diner in the heart of the university district of Paris.

All week visions of fat, fluffy pancakes, dripping in syrup and melted butter danced in my head. I couldn't wait for the nostalgic taste of American food, and even better, bottomless cups of coffee (no more wimpy slurps of espresso shots for me, give me a mug with a handle!)

Sure enough, come this morning, the diner proved to be everything it had been talked up to be. Whole grain, fluffy pancakes stuffed with mixed berries, grains, nuts, and the optional chocolate chips, I WAS IN HEAVEN. (Some of you, (Billy Serle) just got turned off by the words whole grain. Ohhh but nothing, NOTHING could've been better. The pancake's warmth and heartiness were precisely what I needed to snap me out of the Paris freeze I'd found myself in.) The planets aligned, the clouds cleared, and Mr. Sun's bright rays made Paris sparkle. I'm not even exaggerating in the least, it was remarkable. This magical breakfast has a power over the weather!? Incroyable. A total must if you're a starving homesick student in Paris who has just found 10 euros in his or her pocket.

bottomless coffee +
2 face-sized berry pancakes + 2 sunny side up eggs + 2 slices of crispy bacon = "Deuces Wild"

= CHRISSY :)

Oh my...

2010-02-19T09:22:00.001-08:00

Just attempted to retrieve a clumpy yogurt snack from downstairs and was meant by a most unorthodox image. M.C legs split, one flying pependicular to the floor in the air, the other firming gripping onto the ground. She's a yogie! An advanced at that, I was immediately put to shame.

All the the chairs, tables, and assorted antiques were pushed against the sides of the apartment, the lights were dimmed, and several mats of varying pastel hues were laid across the floor, she'd created her own yoga studio! In fact, she was the leader, the teacher if you will, because the further I traveled down the stairs, the more split legged rear ends my wide-open eyes were met with.

Needless to say I quickly, and unfortunately noisly, retreated back to my chambre.

But this development is in a word, shocking.

TGIF

2010-02-19T08:28:00.000-08:00

Une journee epouvantable!!! That is, until about lunchtime. "Why Princess?" you may be wondering, "Did you have such a horrible day in Paris? Did you pass out again?" No, but truthfully I'd take vasal vagal anyday to calculace... calculice.... calculatrice. (omg I can't even spell in english anymore... I think you can understand my french though.)

It's bad, it's really really bad. Not only do I not remember a derivation rule of calculus (ahh, finally), but half the time I'm not even sure what my teacher's saying. "Did she say 'Lamba' or 'Log'?? Constraint or constant? Derivation or done?" These accents are killing me...

So, on the verge of emotional turmoil, I did what any girl does when she's feeling down, oh yeah, I shopped. It's not a coincidence that my school is located in the heart of the true Parisian shopping district. They knew, it was a strategic move. And judging by the constant parade of Gucci's, Louis Vuitton's, Prada's, Chloe's, and Herme's strutting through the halls of SciencesPo these girls are no amateurs. Having a slightly smaller entire budget, than the amount they spend in a week, I am not in the same playing field as the rest of my school's female population, but that doesn't mean Paris doesn't have something for me. You do remember my jeans reference in the previous blog, non? Oh yes, the markets!

Off to the atm I went. I punched in my numbers and conveniently averted my eyes when it came to the balance screen, retrieving my card and money and taking off for my shopping adventure. I know it was bad of me. But I really needed it. Early birthday present to self?

It was basics time. 80's french music flowing from my ipod, I made a beeline for the wine store I always drool over, but have never entered. Today would be the day I left the realm of quickie G20 wine, and played with the big-dogs, La derniere goutte (on rue de bourbon, of course).

Next, I needed some old-fashioned pampering, it sounds funny, but I got soap. (Ok, laugh here, but I'm serious) There's nothing that beats homemade, scented soap, the kind that makes you actually want to take a shower, which when you're falling into a black-hole of self-pity is always a good incentive. I found my soap nook, and immersed myself in dozens of irregular blocks of patterned, jagged, flowered, sparkling heaven. All it takes is a quick whiff. If it doesn't immediately make your eyes roll to the back of your head and your mind jump into a shower of its bubbles, it's not your scent. What did I find? "Pulpedelik." Could it be that the citrus-y notes of my purchase reminded me of home? I don't know but I can't wait for bath time... err stand-up 1 square foot of space shower time.

Next, I was off to lunch with friends. It was time to call in the big guns, cheese, crepes, and mulled cider. The last of which was probably not the most appropriate mid-day delight considering I basically fell asleep in State and Religion at 3pm this afternoon.

Last step? Banana man, as per Friday usual. I bargained a bit, rolled my eyes, and forfaited my last coins of money. All of which not before telling him "You're taking all my money, you should really stop doing that," to which he and I both laughed, though perhaps I found it a bit more amusing knowing full well that within the Mary Poppins depths of my Longchamps was a 14 euro bottle of wine, 8 euro bar of soap, and a petit cadeau for a certain May birthday coming up. Regardless, the bargaining is really the fun of it all. Plus, cheap bananas cancel out unaffordable wine, right? You can see where my budget priorities lie.

The luxuries were well worth the splurge though, because, for the moment, I'm relieved. Perhaps I won't be when I see my bank account balance, or when I finally have to face my economic notes from this morning, but for the moment I'm happy. And that's all I care about anymore :)

You're nothin' but a little gator in a big world.

2010-02-18T04:38:00.000-08:00

Increasingly painful jeans and the beignet belt that's taken up residence around my middle section have left me no choice, it's time to gardez la ligne. Let me tell you, that's no easy affirmation when living in the lard kingdom of Paris where suddenly it becomes acceptable to skip nutritional meals and survive on a constant stream of pastries, cheese, and alcohol. No, dieting is not an option. A short of smoking a pack a day, there's only one thing a girl can do in this situation, exercise.

Just the word gets me in a bad mood. I get exhausted just thinking about it. What happened to me, I used to love sports?! Sporty Spice was my idol, stretchy pants, platforms, slicked back pony-tail, and all. And now, I'd rather have a crepe. I'm doomed.

Last night I was innocently scrolling through facebook photos, when I can to my former boss's page and saw the latest photos from 2010 spring lifeguard training. Shocking realization, I will be in a bathing suit in a handful of months. SNAP OUT OF IT.

So this morning, channeling Sporty, I donned my yoga pants and my Gator fleecy, grabbed my ipod, and off I went, just me, Madonna, and the streets of Paris.

And do you what? Paris makes running, almost enjoyable.

It was exhilarating just down the cobbled streets, all I could think to myself was, "I can't believe I'm allowed to do this?! I live in Paris!"

Energized and invigorated, I tore through the Champs de Mers waving at good 'ole Eiffel and continued up to l'Hotel des Invalides. I felt like such a real Parisian (minus the fact that most of them are appaulled at the notion of running, so undignified), like this could really be my city. I even smirked at a few tourists speed walking along in their marshmellow ski jackets(they had nothing on the Gregg Willard power-tour, but they were booking it, obviously on a strict timeline for the day). Not so for me, I've got all the time in the world to explore :)

Jinxed.

2010-02-17T01:59:00.000-08:00

I had to say it. Really, I should've know better. When you tempt fate, it's almost assuredly going to slap you right back in the face. I love the C's antiques, "as long as I don't break anything...again." Again has happened, of course.

I'm beginning to get the sense that there's a stormy cloud hanging over my shoulder, and I haven't the faintest idea of what I did to deserve it. La mal chance has been my constant companion this past month. Drugged out lunatics on the metro, fainting spells, computer meltdowns, one broken bowl, and a total lack of navigation skills. When you add it all up, I don't even want to be near myself. Needless to say, bad luck has struck again.

Wednesday is the only day of the week that I don't have classes, so this morning I took full advantage of my leisure time and slept in, well until 9:30am. (I'm incapable of attaining the unconscious epic sleep state that most people my age glorify, so 9:30 is good for me.)
I reached across my bed and snaked my hand around the floor searching for the cord light switch to the only lamp in my room. Flicking the switch perhaps all too forcefully, the lamp began to swirl on it's base and totter over the edge of the chair it had been residing on.
I snatched the neck of the torch and steadied it, at which instantly the light distinguished.

I grabbed the switch, on/off, on/off... merde.

Well maybe if they had bedside tables in the 1800s I wouldn't be in this problem! This lamp had cauesd problems before. It wasn't sufficiently tall to be a floor lamp, yet placing it on another piece of furniture gave it the most inconvenient proportins. I'd had to form the most ridiculous nightstand out of two chairs lined up together, and angled perfectly to fit under the slanted roof above my bed.

But all that was useless now because all I had was a burnt out antique. I went straight to work disassembling the mechanism and twisting, tighting, and re-assembling all its parts, in hopes that I could remedy the stituation. Much effort exhausted, but to avail.

And now I have to tell the C's. I just can't do it right now, not in the morning. It's not that I'm afraid of what they'll say, I'm just not capable of saying it at this moment. I woke up, knocked over you antique, jiggled all the parts around, and now it doesn't work. Say that in French ten times fast. Oh, I'm capable, just let me have my coffee first. I'll live in the dark for the time being.

2010-02-16T04:30:00.000-08:00

Having used my last pair of clean unmentionables, (haha as I once heard RFD call them) today was without a doubt going to be laundry day. Trying to motivate myself to accomplish my essential chores, which since moving to Paris have become increasingly harder to do, I made a deal with myself that if I got all my laundry and school work done today tomorrow would be strictly fun. But my get-it-all done plan has been followed about as well as I've stuck to my budget thus far.

Since noon, I've been alternating between laundry and the Philosophy of Science with little progress to show. Half-way through my multi-tasking, becoming increasingly distracted by my surroundings, I realized I've never taken you all on a tour of my home.

How rude, I thought to myself as I slammed shut my thick reader and bounced up the creaking stairs to retrieve my camera.

Every inch of the C's apartment is fascinating. Honestly, one could get lost in the dining room alone for several hours and barely notice the time pass by. The room is small, to be sure, but filled with velvet fabrics, brocade patterns, old-fashioned trinkets, 18th century portraits, and an array of mismatched sitting chairs easily dating back to Darcy's era. Nothing about it is comfortable by America standards, but what it lacks in lounging space is more than made up for in it's understated aristocracy asethetic. The room exudes French culture. Dripping in Marie Antoinette, Napoleon Bonaparte, and De Gaulle himself, it simply encapsulates historical France. I rememer the day I arrived in Paris, sitting in this room and sharing a piece of fruit cake with Mme. C, I was awed. Certainly not how I'd choose to decorate my own future home, but there was an old-world elegance about it that I could appreciate. Every piece of furniture, every hanging curtain had a past and a purpose. I wasn't joking when in previous blogs I described the entirity of the apartment's contents to be antiques, down to the very last fourchette (fork).
And the best part about their love for antiques? They use them.
The C's do not invest in antiques to merely put them on a pedestal for admiration. They live with them everyday. There's a nostalgia about their lifestyle, the way they appreciate France's history, that's attractive. (I mean just so long as I don't break anything...again. Long story, the handle had already broken off before, and I didn't have time to right a blog that day hehe M. C loved me just as much as ever.)

Ohhhh... so all those antiques were fine and dandy, until it came time for my unmentionables to dry. Apparently dryers are not actually functional in France. Hmm... well all the men on the street get to know me a little better today.

(Oh please, don't be shocked that I included this picture. You've seen worse when Kathleenie use to use the pool table as her personal laundry station :) hehe)

And anyway, I thought I devised a rather clever drying-contraption, if I do say so myself, and I wanted to show it off.